Boston    1982 -   
Keith Collard is an American writer much to the anger of others.

Gemini well after I die.

Keith Collard is an American writer much to the anger of others.

Gemini well after I die.

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Jul 10      Jul 10

A Dimension Of Suicide

I find it mysteriously sad,
watching my footprints in grass
Begin to fade,
With the upward bending of each returning blade.
My path is gone,
Aside from what I am standing on,
But what if.... where I see tufts in lawn,
My mirrored footprints pushing up and lasting long,
Into my world he pushes in,
A happy man with a stronger print.

As I wake  with a worldly dream still inside my head,
I try to store it in the window beside my bed.
Reaching to touch a star and feeling the cold of glass instead,
I realize so close a world
since waking--has long been dead.

A silverscreen of car headlight beams,
gliding my walls conveys a supernatural theme,
Faster and faster,
'till the motion stills a scene,
In another world,
A man it seems?
Or a silky spectral suit
of asphyxiating white--
back to the color
of skeletons from dirt exhumed.
With an unbecoming
oblivion colored tie,
So flawlessly destroying
Edges onto spectral light.
And this suit would animate,
Gasping, trying to adjust,
The imperceptable knot,
Destroying, his tailored cumulus.

This tie stung with such a prelude,
it would only be akin,
to only one other view.
the wasp coming down the spider's tunnel,
and knowing your home is now your tomb,
stung, helpless,
waiting for the eggs to hatch,
and then consumed.

And in my portal was the wasp,
and with eight foreign eyes,
I saw,
in my own home,
buried and eaten alive no matter how hard I fought.

Just looking into where I will be ending,
In destroying digestion,
I was already dissolving,
In darkness ensphered
looking out its lining
into a more abysmal atmosphere.

I woke...
And touched a star on a cold window drawn,
To quickly make this dream be gone,
I ran barefoot outside,
To stand till dawn--
For holding down blades of cold wet lawn.
--Keith Collard

My little Catholics,
so you will always remember,
the clock ticks "never" and "ever,"
in the dark waiting hall,
beyond the hearth's flaring ember,
in that dark lonely hall,
both ways of 'father's echoing lever,
"ever" to be in hell, "never" to be heaven,
the only forgetting,
in that lonely stone hall,
is "never to be in heaven,"
then the ember re -installs,
back down to that hot setting,
the only other time to tell,
"never to be in heaven"
"toc" ...forever in hell"
and my little studious Catholics,
as the hearth reflects up and down stone wall,
your art, inventions, money, woman you recall,
"tic" never to be in heaven,
and that is not all,
are you not forgetting,
the other time, that the end of time will tell,
"never to be in heaven"
vacillates back to "ever in hell"
and in between the ember re installing,
your God defying life you are recalling,
that fire beyond the hearth, like no other on earth,
it is birth of death, and death at birth,
never to be in heaven,
is maddening enough,
to make you drink hot coals to quench your thirst,
then the chime less and timeless time will tell,
discarded from God,
into the coals-- feet first,
never to be in heaven, ever to be hell.
So my little studious Catholics,
Think of the Catechism

Been homeless for awhile now,
april is hard,
april is always hard,
been april for awhile now,
wish I never met her,
no adapting,
no predicting her weather,
when the sun comes through
I am the sweating winter fool,
and when she goes away,
such a dream was May,

Dreaming of May for awhile now,
forever dreaming,
forever is always hard,
dreaming is April,
everything is so close,
like the winter locker with summer clothes,
and when you lose something,
only April knows,
like patience,
and endurance,
been April for months now,
hard months forever in April,
been coughing awhile now,

  cold and painful is April rain,
Been homeless for awhile,
April is always hard,
Been having glimpses of May,
They are cold and painful,
They forever remind me,
There is no adapting,
April is the month of dreaming.

I used to sing that song " Im the man,Im the man ,Im the man."

But then my girl would hit me with a frying pan, frying pan, frying pan.

Now i lip sync so she cant understand, understand, understand.

For all she knows im saying yes m'am yes m'am yes m'am...but under my breath im the man im the man im the man.

I love you
Still die for you
Could never even be mad at you,
But my love,
If you ever become president
I will have to assasinate you.
And just to still be a gentleman,
After I follow through,
My forehead will have a hollow too.
As crazy as it sounds,
It is Hitler and Ava,
But the other way around,
You would raise my son,
But lower more in the ground
For people that do not know,
I allow her the control,
For me the prom is cheap,
It takes wars to pay for her prom clothes.
But if she does not let you wear fur,
You must assasinate her,
My love has a good heart,
But that is Pandoras part,
Our club is called The Gods Head,
And it can only be comprised of men.

You must die--whilst alive--to leave your cage. I once had a talking parrot--who lied--saying his luxury confinement was "quite ok."  On an african hunt for the diamond carrot, is where i stole him back to Bombay.
Then before returning on consignment--my pet parrot wished with me a parley.
      "Can you bring me back any messages--and tell them i am quite alright"--when i told this to a crying parrot--he quickly died on sight.
I told this to my pet when i returned--and he cried and did the same.  I sadly tossed him in the rubbish--but then i realized what the message contained--because he got up and flew away.

( lol, i was watching a self help speaker on tv last night, and he told a old indian parable, thought it would be catchy as a poem.)

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Nov 23, 2014

No care in the world,
war, death, or girl,
isn't it so arbitraire,
the beauty of a pearl--
or the color of her hair?
my mother died yesterday,
and I did not care.
Algerian cafes are nice,
but only with the glare,
that comes from the sea,
sending me so inwardly,
if x happens, or z,
it doesn't matter to me,
I don't see his face in the sand,
I know priests must make a living,
and dunes makes up this prison,
that is fine, but I rather parley
with wine--seaside  at the café--
why must religion,
always come from a prison,
maybe if it was out there,
he could walk on water
because of the glare,
and I can see the arbitraire
golden blond of her hair,
instead she cries,
that I am going to die,
and you messieurs,
might as well be x or y,
and religion arbitraire as  pearls,
can I have a smoke?
maybe I'l see him in the curls,
x or y, I still lose my life,
shooting a man with a knife,
now I am tiring,
I do not know why I kept firing,
it was so hot that day,
I was squinting, I could barely see,
oh her skin when she exits water,
I only wanted to get back to Marie,
drink wine with bagets,
under the river lining sycamore trees,
now messieurs, I ask you to leave,
for I am to die,
because for my mother I did not cry,
and you despair for me,
we should be calling the waiter seaside,
I will miss her seaside,
I hope, the crowd cheers my death,
and the guillotine shines,
and blinds me back for good,
to the darkness of my mind.

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