I hate the dripping dark hollow behind the little wood;
Its tips a cursed maroon with a blood-red heath.
I think I praised and lamented it too soon;
Before seeing its scent; I saw already its stray mystical death.

My crown is torn, outraged by florid winds and scorn;
Like a tangled old roots of the windblown thorn;
I shall feel scanty by my own poetry,
And throw it about, duly, like a static little joke.

I shall let my heart grow dull and illiterate;
I shall not taste joy, no more, in any clear--flowery fate.
I shall seek everything bitter, and not sweet;
Even not pure as the honey of a bee; for it shall be plain.

I shall curve and bend any straightforward light;
I shall harass it, and blind it--as if my ghost’s dead soul is very not here.
Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
Perhaps she is astray in my memory still, and not by my side.

I feel relieved so soon as glanced at her beside me;
She owns still that full lips like a perniciously tasty moon;
She is adorable like the flower of heaven itself;
She strikes me again when away, and tosses me about when near.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud;
Tame me again with thy rain of laugh;
Saint me once more like a fresh young bird;
Come to me now, and return my unheeded love.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud;
And kissing her forehead takes me back to that day;
A day of myths, a day of agile swans and storms;
An ornate time of hatred; a whirl of bitter fate; a dust of sorrow.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud;
And again I was alive in this tale, with a burning heart;
On one eve of tears, a mischief, and a wan poetry;
I caught about shadows in which there was no soul of Maud.

I could only see the stones, lying ghastly about the fireplace;
Ah, Maud, are you but still haunting those whimsical moors?
Their strange murmurs but I cannot hear;
But still they consume me, ah, I am scared;
I wish they would be gone soon, I wish you were but here.

These storms were amusing but peculiar;
They are bizarre, but intelligent and stellar;
And calling thy name out but breathes into me strength;
Ah, but should I be here, and bear away thy image alone?

Ah, and thou wert in but nymphic and lilac dream;
And my heart was still not massaged by the tender storm;
For it meant thee, and hungered but for thee only;
And in the midst of love had it longed, and yearned for thee.

Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
Her with her childish eyes and rounded head of bronze,
With her rapturous steps and wild glittering aroma,
With her atrocious jokes, and a wintry secret touch?

But still she was not anywhere about;
She dissolved like one romantic bough of soda;
And within a rough joke, she would be but gone;
And now the storm returned, but I was wholly on my own.  

Ah, and now the striking storm is mounting the earth;
Should I write alone and chill myself by the green hearth?
For I hath nothing to console and lengthen my parched logs;
I shall wait outside and drift about yon wintry bog.

Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud;
Maud with her heart-shaped face and bare voice aloud;
A voice that soaked my senses and craving throat;
Maud but teased me and left me to that joke.

Where is but Maud, Maud, Maud and Maud;
Maud, the goth princess within my ancient poetry;
Who but remained symmetrical and biblical in her vain torments;
Who but stayed sturdy and silent; amidst her anger, and vain fellows’ arguments.

Listen to me. I am but full of hatred.
I am neither a gentleman nor a well-bred;
I, who is just a son of an infamous parson;
A malleable son; with a bleak aura of a putrid spring.

I, one who crafted ingenious jokes;
But interminable as they always are;
I made Maud sit still as I held my woodwork;
While she perched herself on yon bench, gazing at dispersed starry stars.

Maud the shadow in my pale mirror;
At times she ceased at morns, but retreated at night;
On her brother’s sight she fled in horror;
But on mine her smile turned me bright.

Maud was idle, sparkling, vibrant, and tedious;
Her heart was free and not marred by stupor.
She was the sun on my very bright days;
She made me startled; she always left me curious.

Maud the green of the farm, the red of the moon;
Without her everything would spring not and remain odious;
Everything would be bleak and stayed tedious;
Ah, but still I could not own her, though I was her saviour.

I was a farmer and perhaps still am;
Perhaps that’s why her mother ditched me with shame.
Maud said she had not places like home;
Her house was the mere shallow--and gratuitous throne.

Maud came often down and agitated;
Her mood shadowy, she cried and cried too aggravated;
I caressed her back, and placed my palms on her white knees;
She told me stories whenever no-one else would see.

She wanted not to mount the throne;
She giggled often, at our country escapade;
She loved my cottage, she sweetened my thin grass;
Even those apple trees had then her eyes, which sprayed tough, lonely seas of green.

Maud took to hymn and dear children’s little songs;
She was popular always among the talkative throngs.
She would love to dance and wiggle and turn around;
While village pupils gathered to sing a noble sound.

Ah, but when the mirthless prince arrived;
With white horses and swords of a knight;
Maud was swallowed every morning, all through day and night;
Maud was no more seen by my side.

I thought I was not alive, for dreams were unreal;
If they had been, then they I’d have want’d to ****;
But seeing Maud not gave me fretful chills;
I often woke up tensely, within a midnight’s shrills.

Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
Maud my bumblebee and my delicate little honey.
I kept waiting for her behind the rustic brook;
I fetched my net and fished by my old nook.

Ah, and where is Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
My eyes were still and my chest could no more speak.
I wearily fancied she had been kidnapped faraway;
She would be jailed in a sore realm, and would no more be back here.

Ah, for had she been lost, then I had lost my ultimate pearl;
For there would no more be magic, there would be no more of her;
No-one would so restore my original spring;
Perhaps there would be no spring at all, and I would suffer in summer.

And I would lose anyway--my lyrical, elusive demon;
For Maud had always been elusive herself.
She wore that evil smile and thin laugh;
As I told her tales of fairies that she loved.

As I am fond of magical poetry and dramas;
Maud too used to read them with genuine personas.
She was my epic fanatical little devil;
She liked tropical cold and a faithful Mephistopheles.

I should be Faust, as she once said;
For had I fair hair, yet a bald head;
She said like Faust, I was cleverly amusing;
But to me, like Mephistopheles--she was unusually entertaining.

She danced before me a beautiful ballet;
She was young and keen to levitate as a ballerina;
She crafted me limericks and such fair lines of sonnets;
She made earth my heaven, and my melodies a twin cantata.

Ah, and where is Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
I need my butterfly amongst this wheezy curdling cold.
I need my lover to soothe my chained hysteria;
I need to get out of here, and feed my love with her charms.

Ah, but where is Maud, Maud, Maud, is not she here?
I was then screaming in my solitude, could she but not hear?
I could speak not, no more--sore and wounded by this snowstorm;
I crept sick and weak like a dumb old worm.

She was not even heard of upstairs;
While I was dying here as a roaring beetle.
I hath almost lost all my creative flair;
I felt tormented and neglected and nearly feeble.

Ah, but a story like this is not such a fable;
So at that time I did shun sadness and seek a warm ending;
But indeed, to escape fate the poor were perhaps not able;
And the farmer’s son shall never be a king.

And ‘twas the nobles’ right to be idyllic;
To be deemed far then fairly righteous.
My charms were trivial, and so was then my wit;
My prayers were too parted and despaired; no matter how rigorous.

I kept my work along the countryside;
I toiled all night and behind fierce daylight.
I hoped Maud would see me back one day;
But what I found was to my dismay!

Ah, Maud, for she was now engaged;
To that pathetic creature the cursed morn brought about;
And parties arranged, voices too raised;
The union was now what people had in thought.

Onto my shoulders my head kept sinking;
I killed myself nearly, for my irksome defeat in this rivalry;
A rivalry that failed to transgress vital destiny;
A rivalry I could not even bear to think.

But again, this love had always been everything;
And thus Maud’s union would equal my death;
One night I crept out of my bed;
I had in hand a keychain and a net.

The soldier was infused by sound sleep;
And into Maud’s grand chamber I crept;
Everything was pink and quite neatly kept;
But woke I her not--as I heard her breast breath slowly.

She was tremendous still--in beauty;
Maud in her splendour; so young and free.
Ah, she was free but not free, I fathomed;
I looked at her over and over again.

I looked at her violet bed and comfort net;
Ah, my Maud too ****** and temptingly red.
She was too abundant in her young and chaste soul;
Ah, I could not imagine how she would soon be one else’s.

Long did I stand; ‘till morning streamed back again;
Still I remained unmoved; I stared at my darling in vain.
I jumped startled as the door opened;
And showed me the horror of the Queen!

‘Come, ye’ fool’, she voicelessly instructed;
Her face emotionless as these words emanated;
‘And embrace thy very fate’, to the handcuffs me she directed;
‘For daring look into my dame’s immaculately flawless chamber’.

She pointed thereof--a black gun at my chest;
It would soon burst out and tear my vest;
And even fly me straight to death;
So drifted I, without further haste nor breath.

Those poor soldiers imprisoned me there;
A cellar room at the top of filthy stairs;
I stayed awake only for grief and tears;
And most of the time I laid about sleepless and stared.

I grew skinless as my bones squinted;
And laughed at me with their sordid might;
Flies were about me, bending onto my rotten pies;
And slices of meat left out by sniggering guards.

I hit my head on witnessing Maud’s cold marriage;
‘Twas on a Saturday on the castle’s rain-wetted field.
I heaved myself onto the windowsill and saw;
How the couples were blessed and sent thereby back.

I could not see Maud’s face and fleshy cheeks;
But didst I feel her discarded tears;
Marred and defiled her lovely fits;
Though just those innate, and not out there.

I struck the lifeless paint with my bare palms;
Now the walls were tainted; they smelled like my blood.
Time passed and desire for Maud was never killed;
I’th missed her every day, since then, and perhaps always will.

But my love for Maud was never probable;
I was decent, honest, but indeed not preferable;
I was not even preferable by fate, as thou might see;
Fate who is neither truthful; nor frankly urges us to lie.

I often laid hopeless by the moonbeam;
Until night came and eyesight grew more and more vulnerable.
I waited ‘till it was dark and left to day no more gleam;
Then took my journal of Maud’s jests and read her affable poems.

I turned around--and would disgrace my bed still;
I was plain starved but had no desire to be properly fed;
Of a dream of death I grew instantly pertinacious;
And of my future tomb I grew fonder--and yet rapidly curious.

Ah, but my sweet Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud;
And deliriously she somehow became pregnant;
But remorse said she kept the souls of two;
And fatefully could not make them both perfect!

I indeed plain prayed for Maud’s survival;
I cared not whose sons they might be;
Ah, but the twins were still sinning babies--as I comprehended,
For they were formed not from cells of mine!

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud,
And during those last days she was cautiously ill;
And a drive of cholera had again grown widespread;
But she was not maddened; by it she was not marred.

She was sickened by temper still;
And the prince found dead, she grew more terrifyingly ill;
She had a pure heart, so she flourished not over the beast’s death;
Nonetheless, he remained the father of yon sickly offspring.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud,
I was duly growing perfectly anxious;
She was to give birth--ah, to those little ignoramuses;
And within a little chord in one or days of two--she would do so.

But without a father to care for her notorious sons;
And even I was locked away, and could not do so;
I was terrified, I was horribly undignified;
To learn this stern reality we were so sullenly faced with!

Ah, not now! I could not too believe my ears!
Maud and her children were dead--they’d been stillborn;
Before they left Maud alone to receive her fate;
Her locksmith would not come; he had another due in a nameless town.

By the time he arrived my darling had gone;
Perhaps she was now shimmering in heaven;
Enchanting her children with her enormous spells;
Narrating stories no plain human could ever tell.

Even in heaven my love would perhaps be famous;
Her tenderness would make other angels jealous;
And angered by envy, they would gather and complain to God;
How an earthly soul could be more vivacious than their heavenly were.

Ah, but where is Maud, Maud, Maud;
Maud and her chain of songs that were never to be broken;
Maud and her familiarity with gardens and blue lilies;
Maud and her immaculate pets of birds that still sweetly sing.

Ah, but where is my darling, my darling, my darling;
My eternal ocean, my hustling flowerbed, my immortal;
My poem, my enchanting lyric, my wedding ring;
My novelty, my merited charm, my eternal.

And now she was longing for her grave, as I’d been told;
For I’d been told by the dimmed torches and fuss and mirthless air outside;
By the endless wandering and the prince’s wails and wordless screams.
Ah, my Maud had now migrated from her life--but attained her freedom!

And he was thus unworthy of being in her heaven;
Her heaven where there would be me, her true love;
And thus he would be glad to greet his fires of hell;
He would marry an evil angel there--and make himself again full.

But I’d be with Maud, Maud, Maud and Maud;
I’d be again with my gem, indefatigable little darling;
Whose voice was unsure, whose poems were never known;
But ‘twas enough that they’d been known to me, her secret--ye’ dearest lover.

So took I, that spinning penchant and a circle of strings;
The edges I matched to the chains on my ceilings.
I braced myself for my very own fiery death;
But again, I’d be with Maud and death would no more, aye, be sad.

Thus the above poem was done by my spirit;
But with the same token and awe of genuineness and wit;
I feel tired--I shall close my eyes, and thus enjoy my heaven now;
For my wife and starlings are all waiting for me to-morrow.

It is now nighttime in heaven;
And there is indeed, no place on earth lovelier;
I gaze into my wife with a loving madness;
Her cheeks sweeter still, than any proudest swiftness.

I shall take my vow of marriage tomorrow;
My proud wife sitting in yon angelic chair by my side.
I shall cradle, then, those white little nuptial fairies;
They are Maud’s children’s, but lithe and gracious and bow to me in chaste mercies.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, she is but all mine now;
I am still surprised now, as sitting by this heaven riverside.
One even grander than the one I’d had beside the lake;
Which I often farmed when I had needs to bake.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, she is a ghost but as ever lively;
We are both dead but she boldly remaineth lovely;
I know she is worthier than serene jewels or mundane affairs;
And still she is worthier all the same, than any other terrific palace--or heir.

Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, and this war is but all over now;
Thus let us dream dead of the exciting tomorrow.
We shall see life and our children grow;
We shall witness delight--and miracles none ever knows.

Go to an art museum
Pretend you understand
Nod along with what others are saying
Because otherwise you'll look bland
Though the colors on canvas means nothing to you
Everyone else seems to get it
Your legs grow sore from standing around
You decide to rest for a bit
Oh ****, that bench was actually art!
What a mistake you've made
The staff tensely continue to glare
You wonder how much they get paid
Naked women adorn the walls
And prepubescents giggle
That one creepy painting is definitely staring at you
Uncomfortably, away you wriggle
Though the art museum is a cultured place to go
By the end you're always miserable
At least next time you'll know not to buy 15 dollar coffee
And remember that flash photography is unforgivable

Black dress,
Black lace shawl,
Red cherry violin,
Black frets and strings,
Black bow, white mane or tail,
Tensely poised
To move along the strings
In dances sensuously slow,
Tantalizing strings
To vibrations sublime,
Singing listeners to sway
Eyes closed, adrift, in
Streaming consciousness.

Other movements quick and sharp,
Impossible for any heavy-wielded harp,
Dancing pirouettes of sound,
Jetting needles sharp,
Then  reeling tremulous...
These caterwaulings of a horse's tail
Held tautly on a stick.

A deaf man here beside me,
Only seeing, reads about
The music that I hearing, feel...
Somehow feels the Muse,
Sways to the dancing bow.

She sat on the edge,
quietly waiting,
for the sun to rise,
and chase away the darkness.

She looked to the east,
calmly calculating,
the amount of time,
till she hears birds sing.

She saw a glimpse of light,
slowly brightening,
with every single second,
the world held its breath.

She watched the light grow,
beautifully round,
and it rose above the hill,
not seeming to stop.

She felt the kind heat,
quietly warming,
her tired body,
till she felt alive again.

She knew why she was here,
calmly understanding,
that fate brought her,
and she could change that.

She sat on the edge,
tensely waiting,
she got up rigidly,
this will not be her last sunrise.

Live
inside the execution chamber
a stocky warden
poker-faced and middle-aged
begins
the medieval ritual
with words of cold indifference
addressed towards
Ted's emotionally dead
terrified head.

A warder
grim-faced
stands to one side
arms folded
as two others
begin to buckle
thick leather straps
around Bundy's ankles
wrists and chest
to the chair.

No cold condolences
the electrodes
on top of his head
a black mask
covering his face
until the signal is given
a raised arm
to the executioner
hooded in black
who pushes a lever.

Bundy's body arches
spasmodically convulses
tensely straining
paroxysms
the neck taut
head stretched back
blood oozing
from the nostrils
then slumps
and is pronounced dead.

The warders
remove the crown
and mask
unbuckle the straps
as the chamber empties
and the executioner
doffs the black hood
to reveal
appropriately
a beautiful woman.

his eyes are one of my favorite things about him.
but i can never draw him, much more his eyes.
not even when i try.
i can never capture the way his eyes glow
as soft as a little star when he smiles softly,
or as bright as the sun when he beams.

i can never copy the intensity of his gaze
without my pencil lead breaking or my hand tensely shaking,
in fear of giving injustice to such opened and clear windows
to his beautiful soul.

i can never shade enough to give it the depth similar to reality.
i can never bring out the emotion of his eyes
with my pencils
like the way he does with his heart.
i can never draw the flutter of his eyelids,
the curls of his lashes,
the color of his irises,
or the void of his pupils,
all of which i get entranced and ****** into the blackhole of his soul.

i can never draw him in the simplest way:
his eyes staring at me.
because i can never look into his eyes
or lock gazes with him--
not even with a still portrait.

And again I enter
with cloudy tears
like a hot foggy weight
suspended in my throat
the walls painted a sickly sweet
lilac, the color of slimy facade
envelopes my pathetic form
A muted anger hangs tensely
from my muscles, but I
collapse, solemn raindrops running
slow and warm like blood
Nobody can find me here
I lock the door, and scribble upon
the walls of my home
syrupy words of comfort
to be my only
companion

I.

Tick, tock.
Snakes on the clock. Brains. Skin. Air. Hair. Coils of fabric, and teeth.
Oxygen reeks. Stales. Pales and contracts.
Breathe nonetheless
Pull on a dress. Pull on a vest.  Step outside. Feel the wind.
Oh, the days I’ve spent-
Instantly forget.
Put on my face
Roses in a vase
Feelings cased in the closet
Filling space

Seems sometimes we’re just filling space
What a waste

…

II.

Deep breath
Rose-scent fills her head

This could be it, she said
You’re too pretty for that, he said
Black and white embroidered with red
The cold air stung her lips as she read
This stone is where I’ll lay my head
The ground is made of bones
She’s alone

…

Steps on gravel, sounds awake the night
Jump into the abyss? She might

Memories of childhood fights
Initial dislikes
Periwinkle paint sets and tights
Once, learning to draw a rose
Once, hanging onto a hose, drenching strawberries
With brother in backyard
Family is a golden memory
At least there are pictures

…

Boy
The first one she kissed on the lips.
It was a dare. Fleeting but his eyes dripped sweetness. Twelve years young? She can’t remember. She ****** the same boy, drunk, four years later. He wasn’t the first, though.
And he still seems innocent

…

Hovering tensely
At the half-open door
She’ll never feel loved again.
She said.
Aches. Heavy ferocity ready to tumble. Dread.
Wake-up song every morning in her head.
The ground is made of bones.
She’s alone.
I’ve come this far. Revs up the car. Tears down her cheeks.
Runs over herself repeatedly in the street.

…

Why so gray?
His lips hold secrets
Autumn hay-stack drenched in dryness
Cool but bright, he’s a working man with a voice made of sunshine
Her eyes twinkled hello at his fingertips’ first brush-by
Smiled and walked away
Perhaps another day

…

III.

...

Rain soaks my skin.
I was walking, computer and books weighted on my shoulders,
Lightning crossing my path
Relax
I’m visualizing math

The air is cool. The wind rolled darkness in on its back.
The storm is roaring and strobing the sky
I’d like to derive your kind
and the rhythm of my mind
From the grains of sand left behind

,

And listen to the song of the sea

.

And float in the lingering breeze
As the storm dies down
The night’s dying down
I’m counting for now,, and "you"
Are a ghost of an idea, wispy but fresh but

Unformed
Much like the memory of yesterday’s storm

...

As I was drenched in the shower I could only think about taking pictures of my memories and tearing them into a storm
A catastrophe -
I'd laugh.
I'd call it art.

This storm is ******* beautiful.

If you could fly to the moon, I might follow.  Sailing through the clear darkness for an eternity, I’d reach the moon’s silvery craters and softly land. As I touched down, the powdery dust would eddy up from beneath my tensely arched feet in cloudy plumes --small billows of slow-motion, churning grey.  And in wild tangling curls, my hair would float above me, swirling in the empty blackness, full of stars glittering behind the strands.  
The moon is a cold bright landscape of black and white.  I would run through its pale light, floating slowly over the dusty craters in a clear, quivering, underwater-silence.  And when I reached that line, where smooth dusty darkness begins, and the silver light ends, and the shadow-line drifts from month to month, then I would stop.  I would stand on the dust -bare feet apart- drop back my head, bare my throat to the line that divides me down in half -light and dark, dark and light- daring you, earth and stars reflecting in my eyes.  If you reached, stepped towards me, I would watch you --an image, and a despair, and I’d slip into the moon-night.  You’d be alone, blaming me for my hatred.  Because when it becomes her habit, a girl flinches away, before wondering if, perhaps, that time it wasn’t necessary.

It is getting dark, we walk away
from the couples, who, just like us
have not seen the sun go down

The picnic baskets are empty
You pack up the peels and I
pretend to look past you

pretend not to attract attention
knowing that
our skin is glowing for more

Your body shines
sculpted tensely
like a Greek god

I brush through your hair
The sea moans under the rocks
Our room is still far away

but I can imagine you
hanging out nicely, kneadable
in the grip of my hand

Good evening everybody,
tonight's a very special episode
about a boy not understood
by his peers so sincere
to his emotive-ish veneer.

The irony's so dramatic
to the Viewer of it all.
Tensely suspended anxiety on air
ever known that what's shown
will work itself out on its own.

That's the way it always goes,
but not without comedic conversation,
awkward confrontation, then happy resolution;
thus consealing that joyous feeling
the reward for sympathetic fearing.

Yep, that's the way it goes,
except this is not a show
and my name is not Chris,
so the fly on the wall
will despise or revel in my fall.

ladybum intimidates

wandering in the median

body bent,

hair coarsely pulled in crooked pony tail.

what happened to your face?

were you born that way?

with cupped hands, pleading-

stopping my car at the intersection,

driver’s side window-

my trying to be cold but guiltily relenting

people are watching and

what will they think?

your crazy eyes pierce me desperately

wild emotion and

something once described to me as crocodile tears-

Tensely clutching the steering wheel,

hastily scooping change and used fuses

to pour them into your hands

wishing you away-

some kinda spell of some halfhearted charity.

depart depart leave my pity intact

so that I don’t see myself

in the gaps of your missing teeth.

the guilt you spill

making my heart heavy

like a gull in petroleum.

I still see you from time to time

and resentfully I examine you,

ladybum-

bent body, missing chin and Baba Yaga legs.

thinking you some kind of witch,

avoiding you like

cracks in the sidewalk.

On my way to post a letter
Out my car Windows
I saw a grammar
Make a dash across the road
In an effort to be punctual
To a function at the TAB.
I skidded my car to a full stop,
Lost control in her direction,
Not in time to avoid my space-bar
I dashed over to find
She was in a comma!

Hit with a forward slash
It was a capital offense
I could not escape
Yet I was bold,
Tensely outlined the events
They docked a dot point
off my pen licence
and after bringing me before the keyboard
Sentenced me to a short spell
In a prison pen
(as it was just a lower case).

Entering the ward,
I paged the shift nurse
After her line break
‘- Would she wake?’
As it turns out her back space
Will have question marks
But her chances are greater-than most
Her progress is fontastic
For her age bracket
But her colon was disturbed -

She may have trouble
                                       with
                                                    her
                                                               vowels.

You smile at me like a thousand ages.

Your face is more interesting than Mona Lisa's--
I know it is the very heart of the universe.

I tell you it is enigmatic, your face
How It looks so different from different angles
And the sound of my words bounces around the room
Vibrates the tiny bones in your ear
And you smile tensely
Like the finest string of some celestial instrument.

Drinking coffee at three in the morning
The very heart of the universe beats in song
She takes in medium and exhales melody
She is Kate, she is Kathryn, she is Clarity. A hard worker. A great masterpiece of Time.

And who would ever hurt you?
You, who speaks so softly
You, who just wants to witness the love of humanity
You, with a laugh that life surely came to craft.

And i can't believe it--
You shoot a hand out over the wooden table
For me to hold.

And we are alone,
Here in this yellow kitchen
In my parents' house
Alive
Your bushy brown hair
Your golden brown eyes

An uncompassionate crowd of 20,000
are tensely sitting in a stadium
bloodthirstily waiting for a cruel spectacle
they call a ‘bulllfight’
which is actually a ‘bull-harass-and-****’.
This brutal bloodsport
is celebrated as a national artform
in Spain
so the matadors (bullfighters) strut around proudly
in their suits of golden thread
to loud cheers and excited applause.

The bull, frightened suffering,
is harassed and killed in three stages:

The first stage is called ‘tercio de varas’
‘the lancing third’
when armoured-horse mounted lancers
use a long sharp lance
to spear the bull behind his shoulder muscles
to weaken the bull’s neck muscles
and begin the bull’s loss of blood;

The second stage is called ‘tercio de banderillas’
‘the third of banderillas’
when the matador attacks the bleeding-weakening bull
with banderillas (sharp barbed sticks)
stabbing the banderillas above the shoulder blades of the bull
to anger and agitate
the frightened bull fighting for his life.

The third stage is called ‘tercio de muerte’
‘the third of death’
when the matador baits the bull
with a red cape
then stabs the bull with a steel sword
aiming for his heart
but often missing
leaving the bull suffering multiple stab-wounds
bleeding, slowly miserably dying.

I wonder
when will this barbaric bull-harass-and-****
be banned in all nations?

Scratching nails for your life
Finger nails to a ****** quick
Chest tensely beating
Dropping stomach
Staring and blank
that taste that is so familiar
Deja vu flavored
A distant memory
A comfortable thought
Holes in the ground
And then
we fall

Pieces of clothing spewed the room
The chirping of night insects  faded from her ear
As she tensely counted the rhythmic beating of her heart
Silent wishes painted her hungry face
As her eyes roamed every curve and bump of her endowed friend
The skin fragrance  and female smell was mind intoxicating
She bit her lower lip on time
And swallowed all she wanted to tell her
Her **** was throbbing  as she gathered her courage and blankly muttered "am *****"
A moment of silence almost made her faint
Her friend didn't answer but inched closer and brushed her luscious  lips on her neck
The two hungry mouths crushed over each other as they competed to **** breath away
The two female bodies molded in to one
As the last shred of sanity
Drowned in lustful caress

Her soft hands explored the chest twins and massaged them interchangeably while ******* her friends tounge deep
She could feel the sensual touch of female fingers roving near her honey *** searching for the gory hole
The touch on her **** made her spread her legs wide open and writhe in pleasure as a finger penetrated her already wet *****
She rubbed and bit the ******* in return
She couldn't  hold back back but moan audibly and ask for more
Her friend rubbed her juices all over her plump ***** as her tongue drew a line of saliva from her belly button to her bushy mould
She screamed in ecstasy as the ******* and lips serviced her birth canal
She pinched and bit her *******
As her body convulsed and she cummed uncontrollably
At last her friend finger and tongue found the *****
And an alien feeling enveloped her whole flame she felt  like peeing as her eyelashes twitched successively  
Her heartbeat accelerated as she gushed
She looked at her pecked her passionately and heaved a sign as sleep robbed her senses and together they drifted into sleep with pleausure etched in their beautiful faces

You are like a shadow;
One that’s passed away.
One that is long gone;
A creature of the grave.

You are like a ghost;
Belonging to another dimension;
But owning half of me;
Distracting my entirety.

You are like a spirit;
You caught my mind, my heart, my soul;
You transfixed me that day;
You snatched my love that night.

You are like a witch;
A playful, evil sorcerer;
A stubborn enchanter;
A lovely beast.

You are like the moon;
The love of the universe;
The one you once wanted to have;
The wine of your own being.

You are like the night sky;
I cannot see where you sleep;
Nor touch your edgeless bed;
Nor feel your heartbeat.

You are like the sun;
Once winter comes you’ll die;
Shining with blood and heat;
Dying of your own flesh.

You are like the breeze;
And breezes end too fast;
Stirring me up tensely;
Ending all abruptly.

You are a confusion;
I do not know what held you back.
Still I cannot see today,
though I feel you are here.

You are a depression;
Even today, that I think of you;
And the melancholy Russia;
I can see no-one else but you.

You are a chain;
A lock that holds me still;
A forgotten crush;
A tremor that brings tears.

You are a doubt;
An unfinished love story.
I wish I could write about you;
But all that existed shan’t be true.

let me speak to you about the shadows that lurk in the alleys of your eyes
let me speak to you about the breeze that moves through your hair as gently as a lover's hand

let the words creep into your ears and to your heart- on tiptoe under the moonlight

let it dance around you:swirling and twirling with grace to a series of tensely lovely interludes building up to a ****** that never comes

"*******," this if not alive if not dying of each buzzed ripple
of breath which tensely erupts
into uncoiling fold of morning
over the silent chord of sunrise

seems if not speaking seems
to eternally youth, breaching
the seamless cording of
a short girl's throat–says,

"alright,"

and
        "i
wish you
l o v  e   d

    me."

the portcullis grinds to a halt
the red, leering cyst Solipsism
tints the looking glass

:blustery,
warm afternoon breeze
smoothes out the crinkling
of the wrinkly overcast soul
as a hurried little sheikh,
an aged caucasian woman
blisters past me
on two be-tighted legs
tensely betwixt
solemnity and nervousness;
i wonder why i hurry everywhere

a man with one full human leg
on crutches
in an astronauts effigy
tripods a very deliberate but rickety path
slowly leaps his spider arms
his cyborg motorcyclists helmet
obstructing none but the least aware
from peering at his character
"doting on windmills
every day is a partition
the great event; theatre epic,
"Life!"
presenting everything ever,
filtered and engraved
by humanitis
there's you and who you were,
where you've been,
how you're going to be
and in no personal regard

--Psyche is a selection of the universe,
propped up by consciousness.
it exists in no True sense,
but it is as it does
due processes aside."
--to paraphrase his silent proclaimation

look into the annals and you may deduce
humanity has made a rather good run of things
we no longer stick each others heads on pikes
or burn women who float at a stake

blot out the eternal sunshine
the well-wishing hypocrite of everymind,
who robs us of choice
hovering the carrot of dreams in place
learn to live through the brimstone rain and choking dust
because volcanoes give birth to islands

Small and quiet, fluorescent,
the room holds anonymous faces.
People waiting for flu medicine,
hopes and fears and minor concerns about rashes
that we thought would go away.
Frequent urination
a tremor in your left hand.
A business man closes his eyes and kneads his brow.
He sits tensely in a blue upholstered chair
and smiles at me when he catches me looking.
Ruffling pages in magazines
like a moth's wings.
No mayo, rye bread, a nurse says.
Tapping her lavender acrylics
to music just low enough not to recognize.
Mind on shuffle, dreams achieved and
failed dreams of medical school,
little ones tripping and laughing out of double doors,
lining up to be whisked away in Suburbans or Geos,
carrot sticks uneaten at the bottom of a backpack.
A doctor sets a clipboard in front of her
and words are hastily typed into a computer.
And I wait for her to call my name.

the contrast between you presently
and the you that I knew past tensely
have altered so much willingly
I wonder which side of you is your pose...
can't say anyone really knows...
but can you even say you do?
is anything behind or below your lip's flow true?
forget it and put your walls up
forget it and put your fists up
defenses against those who admire you
will only make you burst into flames
you can pretend there's different levels
of small town fame
but I'll remember you just the same
be careful who you throw dirt to
it'll be that same dirt that buries you

Why does the night cry?
Beneath a char colored marshmallow sky
Perfectly fitting the black-tied blind eyed
Soireed
Night by
Bye and bye

As an angry sky decried
Stratified and moody clouds pass by
They ask you to
Not ask why
Knowing you need to cry
Saw you hunch your shoulders
You were so very tense
You started to roar
Electric fly-by outcry

Then you tensely
Cocked your head to one side
Felt as empty as summer days
Where the light was so bright
You thought you would vanish
In a summer haze
Eminently either a flood or a roar
Helplessly, unpredictably more and more
And nothing more.  
And then-
It happened
It started to pour.

And  
As morning dawned
You understood why.
But it was too late
To reinstate
Bye and bye.

In the most private corner of
the tiny cafeteria, a young
couple shares a meal after school.
In between washing down their burgers
with soda and making out, she speaks.
Babysitting—her newest hobby
(And not just for the money).
On and on she talks about how fulfilling
watching a child is… as if she isn’t one.
He chokes catching her meaning:

“If the ****** breaks, I won’t mind.”

As if having children is just as easy as
pouring invisible tea for a table of dolls.
Premature parenthood—she’s so eager;
he drowns the idea in another mouthful of soda.
Tears end the conversation; though, not
his fault—she checked her watch, tensely.
Mother is an hour late picking up
her daughter from junior high.

past tense, more than I
for tensely, I am current

It was over
Their relationship hit the skids
Long before they got out of it
He was the one who finally vocalized
Tensely, concerned for her pride
He took the blame
And pretended to be in lots of pain
Crying and saying how sorry he was
But they have to admit they’re not in love
And so
On it goes
A couple of days
And then she shows
On his job sites
Front yard middle of the nights
Friends’ houses
Friends’ mommas’ houses
Bar he occasionally goes
If he was somewhere
She was likely to show
And he pretended she wasn’t there
While she sat in some corner chair
Seemingly extremely interested in the menu
Or a poor patron , to serve as her tool
Who just wanted an excuse to move his stool
And after a few months of this
He finally called and said “cut the ****”
But all she heard was the phone ring
And his voice on the other end
And now she’s telling everybody
“Can you believe he is still calling me!?”
And now he’s back at square one
Because she won’t accept he’s really done

Shadows that have waited all day for their moment
Now stalk us as we emerge
Tripping into the night,
And swirling leaves play about our heads
Taunting our weakness.
Our faces were indistinguishable then,
Poorly lit and muffled,
And cloaks roughly woven
Kept tensely drawn until we had crossed
The threshold of light
When they were opened
Cautiously at first
Then defiantly shrugged aside
As if death had suddenly
Lost it's claim on our lives,
For we were more afraid of God
Than the devil in those days
And more in hope of salvation.

Now, on the edge of the city,
We still come
By way of the new pedestrian crossing
The statue and reserved parking,
Under the altar of scaffolding
We contribute a pound
Towards the ten million
Needed for the restoration fund.
And leaving our Bible by the door
We cross the threshold again,
Clutching a more informed guide book
Telling us where we used to kneel and pray.

And for once the video camera
Hangs sulking at our side
So that none may bear testimony
To our being there,
As all the time we pretend
We have no need of miracles in our lives.