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.








.

Finally,  the sparrow hung out with me.

The flashy oriole too.

I was digging in dirt, i was cursing " this fucking sucks." then i fell over the wheel barrow.

Then i heard a skinny robin say " this one is cool, he digs in dirt, and sticks his face in it too."   they kept me company, and my bird call was " this fucking sucks sucks fuck fuck sucka fuck."  but then it became cool outside, and my back wasnt sore,  i heard the sparrow say " this guy sucks suck sucks"  and i had bird friends no more.

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.)

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,
To the only scary scene,
In another world,
A man it seems,
In a  silky spectral suit
of asphyxiating white,
Back to the color
Of a skeleton 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 cast such a doom,
and such a fear,
It stung me still,
And held me dear,
Paralyzed,
Drawing me near,
Just looking into where i will be ending,
Into its 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,
Grateful,
For holding down blades of cold wet lawn.

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,
YOUR RELIGION IS SWEAT IN THE EYE,
we should be calling the waiter seaside,
YES I AM TO DIE,
FOR YOUR LIGHT,
IS  GLARE--
BRINGING SQUINTING DARKNESS TO MY MIND,
AND THAT ARBITRAIRE STARE FROM GLARE,
CAN BE X, Y, OR Z, I DO NOT CARE,
PEARLS, GIRLS, AND SMOKING CURLS,
MY DESTINY WAS TO DIE, AND WHY?
THE ARBITIRAIRE BEAUTY OF PEARLS,
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.

Keith Collard
Keith Collard
Oct 11, 2014

Come join me, young ladies,
I am a prince, tall, dark, and handsome,
shouldn't you be able to dance,
dancing like the candelabra,
in my mighty fine mansion,
and my gorgeous girls,
unlike his, my mansion is tall dark and handsome,
the feather will be out of your hand,
dusting and sweeping shall be dancing,
no more waiting,
you will have waiters answering,
yet they shall be silent,
for you have the tongue,
revenge for all that sweeping and dusting,
taking you from sleeping and lusting,
my mansion will babysit,
and give your children instruction,
you deserve leisure,
and so shall your reflection,
be slender as the curtains gusting,
mansion mirrors will be your husband,
you shall hold your husband ransom,
make him jealous of my tall-dark-handsome mansion.
here your dresses will always fit you,
empty shadows will sit and dip you,
your echo's will gossip for your seduction,
and I will babysit,
tis my duty, to give your children instruction.
and when I have your babies,
no need to be ladies,
mock the waiters, drink wine,
the candlelight-- become hazy
" More wine my lady?"
" So cute and so shady."

but I warn, if you go to the balustrade,
by chance,
no moon, no day,
for the sun does not dance,
and the moon has a cratered face,
leave the balcony, return inside,
for drinking and dancing,
you will have control,
and only waiters will be answering,
forever in my tall, dark, and handsome mansion.

 
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