The cannot hands

Of voluptuous calms

Who wish a difference

To inverted comas

Caress a careless charm

I've been practicing lucid dreaming for a while now, and I think I've almost got it down.

(If you didn't know, lucid dreaming is kind of like dreaming, but with the lights on. It's very cool.)

The way it works -- or at least, in the method I'm using -- is by first establishing a "totem." I use the jade elephant you gave me for my birthday three days before it happened.

What you do is you alter your totem in a unique way so that it really stands out to you, incase you ever come across it in your dreams; this way hopefully it will jump-shock your mind into consciousness, allowing you to take the wheel.

I wrote your initials on the back. DN.

And I know you'd probably be thinking "why would you ever waste time perfecting a skill that will never have any practical use?"

You always were the practical one. But hear me out.

When I dream, it is the only time I get to see you.

You know, you've been gone for almost a year this Tuesday, and this jade elephant is all I have left. This jade elephant, and your initials. This Jade elephant, and DN.

I miss you, man.

And I don't really know how comas work, but if you can hear me, just know that I've almost got it down.

Soon, it'll be just like the old days.
I promise.

Along a narrow, vacant street at 2 a.m.



Underneath the threatening lights of peril



An act of ******* was taking place between



A beautiful cigarette and the orifice of my lips





Halloween had not yet dawned upon us



Yet as I walk Jack-O-Lanterns smile at me



Displaying minor quakes of bloodthirsty evil



While a serum of scorn soaks my tongue





With a heartless trick of ice, cold malice



Summoning the entire town to its kneecaps



Devils regurgitate lullabies resembling the sound



Of nails ****** a chalkboard sparing no mercy





Arousing the hopeless romantics



To awaken a graveyard



And **** the corpses until they're



Resurrected from their comas





As the nymphomaniacs ice



Their frozen flesh with *****



Painting an ocean of abstract thoughts



Across the edges of their frames of mind





Do morticians make up the majority



Of necrophilia related crimes?



Maybe so but, I bet they had never felt



A ****** so dry and so cold





Yet still the thrill of chills tickle these criminal's spines



While they measure their screams careful not to awaken



The beautifully disgusting corpses that lie before them



They turn their heads only to find a pair of scarlet eyes





Gawking at them from within a cowardly shield of fear



Darkness was it's home, Mother to all its desires



In my opinion it was just a phase; A massacre encaged

I personally
Love food comas;
And cookie periods,
And gumbo
Exclamation marks!
The're the best!
And semicolon pies,
Oh man...
And peach cobbler
Parenthesis,
They're perfect
With scoops
Of delicious vanilla
Question marks
With a drizzle
Of caramel
Quotation marks,
Oh no!
I'm going
Into an
Anaphylactic shock
From the forward slash
And back slash
Layered lasagna,  
I'm going comatose!
Quick! make me some alphabet soup!
© okpoet

Remember when following twinkling lights down sparkling hallways that life is but a dream
and here is the essence and truth of the whole thing ripping at the seams,
spilling out through bell peels and peeking out from bows of holly.
Once a year reality shows a bit of leg.
So enjoy it thoroughly through rounds of eggnog and sugar comas,
through cellophane and paper napkins,
through pointless conversations omitting drug references and financial statuses.
Just put some snow down someones back,
and if it isn't available,
good ol' ice does fine.
Forget that in a few days and a few minutes the world will close up again and deny it's divine nature.
Add a bit more weight to show that it happened,
to prove that it happened for the next few months.

Pequeño por fuera, enorme por dentro
cazador de nacido, mañoso aprendido
de orejas grandes y cola parada.

El mejor amigo, mi mejor amigo
distraído, te llamaba el instinto
me querías y yo te quiero

Solo espero que estés en un cielo
donde vivan grillos y conejos
donde comas como tanto te gustaba
donde juegues hasta no poder, donde duermas
como nunca, donde puedas darte un baños de sol
donde el agua no te falte y tengas amigos con quien compartir.

Si no hay cielo para perros
ven a mi corazón
que aquí te quiero.

Ojala pudiera haber estado ahí
para cuidarte y acariciarte,
rascarte la panza y pasear contigo.

The material objects
Shaped like global projects
Not for manufacturing
But for hassling and crackling
Like lightning and spiking
The mind with a nail
That flies through the air
As the red runs through hair
It leaks unto the face and reeks
As it's covered with white sheets
Pray deep, and live sweet
No way you'll get over this
The ship is sailing, and leaving a blip
Isn't what's written in the script
Criminals are staring licking lips
Even if the mind remains infinite
The body is super finite and timid
Primitive is a definitive
Description of the gifts
And the derivative flows
From the mouth of gold and souls
Which were sold and outgrown
But kept in a small room
Without a bit of sun to groom
The seed which needs to feed
On the principles of the weak
Desperation within these times
Lead me to be confined between
The power of the lack of minds

The flights are so carefully and unanimously chartered
In the end it's the poor and uninformed who are martyred
Nothing but cattle to be led towards the slaughter
The carvers are waving their hands as they swarm us

All I hear are screams
Passing through the dreams
Into the realms of the sickening
Men dribbling magazines
Into darkened hands and things
While straddling the fencing
Their hands start shaking
As the body follows quaking
Falling from the shrieking
Of the thunderous blows
Impacting the whole globe
Earthquakes, hurricanes, and snow
Blizzards leaving us as gizzards
Our sons are molesters and
Our daughters are strippers
Wondering where this'll get us?
Further from the better
Deeper into comas and
Commas can't break the fact
That we're under attack
From those whom hold a badge
And those whom hold a strap
Underarm wishing due harm
Pressing onto triggers
While avoiding the alarms
Silent killers voicing their opinions
As fortune tellers hold their charms
Wailing "you're too close to sun"
As the youth run to grab their guns

The flights are so carefully and unanimously chartered
In the end it's the poor and uninformed who are martyred
Nothing but cattle to be led towards the slaughter
The carvers are waving their hands as they swarm us

Insanity is what's referred to as
The common suffering man
Media wants you to cram
Misinformation into your head
With dread you step and
Inch into the abyss
Never to remiss on the strips
Of truth locked in consciousness
The involuntary thought processes
Destruct free will in segments
From 60 minutes to 30 seconds
Intentions are clandestine
Yet you feel you're destined
To earn respect when they'll spit
On your grave, after they dissect
And get off on the fact
That they ripped away your mask
And put you off track because
They feared the soul you had
You want to have it back
But they're not having that
The suits in the dark rooms
Would rather mentally doom
The fool, and save bullets for troops
To shoot, tracing blood under boots
The plan is so smooth
Because you play by their rules
From fast cars to ****** jewels
The thorny crown is on you

———"that familiar boiling yolk of a sunrise—comas richer than russian dark chocolate— & saturn smoking a cigar while playing chess with gravity... i have been here before."

ocean dove, pardon my excuses for not writing as of late; been busy fulfilling a prophecy that can't even look me in the eye and ask me to change.  in the june wreckage of two thousand and sixteen;  i retired my tongue with the dormant volcanoes  before the world could end in my mouth.  and yet my poetry informs me that there are some wounds too sophisticated to even flower into scars—kind of like how my words will never feel like honey again, (but vinegar nonetheless.)

how cruel of me it was; to condemn you to a death without one final cigarette slow dancing with your lungs.  i miss the shadows of you most: the belt of venus caged like a wild animal in your eyes, your rusty guitar silky voice dripping off the haunted house we called home, countless a.m. drives kicking up filthy moonlight in the rearview mirror, but most of all—the way you said 'i love you' like it was nothing dressed up in something fashionable.

it is now the june of two thousand and nineteen. this wreckage sat on a throne and filled into the moon's shoes. a crown crawled it's way home to my head and kissed me with knowledge drenched in your name.  this queen started from lesson no. 1: broken instruments, will preach broken sounds—  and how lovely it has been, planting a world war in my soul only to raise eden in it's stead.  i will miss your company, but your ghost is no longer a requirement for me to be complete.

i have learned to stop loving falsehoods.  i have learned to start loving the leftovers of who i am becoming.  we would have been star crossed lovers had you not tried to swallow that bottle of pills that famous night where we fought like madonnas— but it looks like you got to death's fortune cookie before i did.

"and one day, you will have lived long enough to taste your grief turn bittersweet too"———

I'm raw my flow  consumes dextrose
Tell peta  I do the most
Loud sounds I'm out in the public
Friends with  Lions we close like cousins
I'm cooking ..in a gourmet kitchen
Chicken is my opposition
Sweet and sour
Predator I'm not a scavenger no coward
Blood falls I need a shower
Drip drop dew mornings
Don't sleep on me like comas
Consuming beats down to the bone
I sip the marrow for a bonus

I am clean like an infants first wash no rap sheet
Walking thru the market
Like shouldn't food be free
Didn't God give us the same control he gave Adam and eve
I am sorry my mind at times goes on a spree
A spree of thoughts
My brain is heavy plus it kicks bass drum
My thoughts run miles
I need pennies for my thoughts
Must be properly endowed

Watch what you eat fool check your food
Fool check your spoon
Food poison
Nasty now you vomiting fluids flowing a fountain
To that server you should have watched how you spoke
Face timing yourself
Seeing your mouth move
Saliva crashing into the coast of your tooth
Yuck images social products
Dislike that dislike you
Keep it true
Tom sawyer and Huck
Instafriends
On instagram
Madoff money instascam


The Poets Lounge go to www.youhavetolisten.com
Every Tuesday 6pm-8pm

Underneath the face of a sad clown lies a little wicked small town
Just a speck on the map
You may just be passing through but soon the fever will catch up to you
Feel the ripple effect
Here you won't make a best friend, but a sister you never had
She'll guide you through the flowers and offer lots of laughs
But even at her most serene there's a sinister current underneath
A flexing of power
And soon you'll start looking towards the ground, where you'll start tripping too much to be coincidence
An as you look up the danger stops
She'll look right through you as if you were air and she'll say, 'Take my hand'
Soon she'll invite you to parties of mutual bodies, who happen to favor clumsy fools like you
But they'll treat you like a guest of honor, when really their accolades are insults with armor
They've nothing better to do but make up a coded language and test it on you
How did I get here?
How can I disappear?
But as you start to evaporate she'll throw you another inquiry
She's reading off your flaws with smiling jaws
Taunting you with mistruths
You look away hurt, and she seizes the moment to write the jab on a napkin
Something to share with the cronies for later
Ha-Ha, how cleverly subtle you are!
Friendship is makeshift here, my dear
The hippies don't play instruments anymore
The company she keeps would dispose of her in a second
But she's not worried, she has you as her bullet shield
The body-snatchers with mommy issues save face quite gracefully here
They all say they'd leave, but they burn a free ticket
A mafia with no honor
You'll have seen more life in comas than this town
Little coffins with hearsay mouths where hearts should be
Small town breeds fair-weather ghosts and cold abodes
But it sure is a great place to be if you're training on how to play dead

I hate Alcohol

The burn down my throat
The immediate feeling of impending *****
The way it makes my face all rosy

I hate Cigarettes

The taste of the tar filming my lungs
The heat at the back of my mouth
The cough that stays longer then the flame’s invitation

I hate You

The weeks of silence during your antisocial comas
The love proclamations left unsaid
The line that you’ve so carefully scalded  between us


It’s 9:27 PM on a night that feels like Fire

I am Drunk already
I am Chain Smoking your brand of cigarettes
I am Praying for anything at all from you

I hate that.

someone told me i wear mourning like a fur coat
beautifully, grotesquely, i bear the weight of it all
i paint my face and it should be with ash
but i am not native
i have no roots to sink my heaviness towards
the heaviness of a burden i don’t deserve to carry
the night i heard i held myself tightly, arms wrapped around my torso
my mouth gaped open
i turned on the shower as hot as i could stand it
i hope it felt cathartic when you set yourself on fire
set your home on fire
you said sorry as you went
you were always apologizing
some people lay in comas for years
miracles happen, they say
and they do
i wonder who waited 4 ******* days for a miracle before giving up on you
my therapist helped me set up a self-care routine to keep panic attacks at bay
it involved lighting a candle so i just slit my wrist instead
i could take the pain but fire feels cheap
i wonder if you screamed
the day after i found out
i walked to my mother’s coffee shop,
sat down outside,
and choked on sobs until the dam burst
i put on my sunglasses and went home
i made the last 10 minutes of psychology class
we were discussing grief
the professor explained the stages
he mentioned denial
i said i didn’t believe that was always the case
that night i laid in bed drinking chocolate milk from the carton
i watched American beauty,
alternating between touching myself and screaming into a pillow
i dreamt about the slutty insinuation of a used match
i dreamt about fathers and plastic bags
it’s 2:30 am i am sitting alone in a ball room with a man who told me he needs a machine to sleep
he is telling me that he is happy he lost the highs and lows
he can’t fall in love but he is happy
i told him my mania makes me
he smiles indulgently, he is the cat
(i spent the day buying imported lingerie
French silk and canary yellow lace)
when we danced he put his knee between mine and crushed my ******* to his chest
i wonder if he felt the way blackberry brandy made my words syrupy and dark
pooling at the base of my throat
he said life only gets weirder from here
i am waiting for him to get his keys. i am alone at 3 am in a ballroom. i am seeing burning houses. i am tasting blackberries. i am hearing you whisper “collide”. i am wearing my mourning like a fur coat and in it i am small and vulnerable and beautiful in a contained way
in it i can stay within the confines of 2011 and i can feel you peel back layers of longing to hit a pit of bitter love
this was never a poem about you
you’re sorry
Thomas Forsyth 1/19/92-5/29/14

I saw you.

Squeezed between sentences,
In semi colons and calibre comas,
On page twenty six.

Smudging word after word
With vagueness,
And I lost track of the story.

Couldn't find a full stop,
Couldn't find you.

Help me.

i am a very talented typing cat
all though i know how to use capital letters and punctuation marks
i cant stand them i have decided to take over the world through lack of both
if you cant use comas then lets eat grandma will **** everybody
leaving me the only one left
but what happens when somebody says something that kills the cats
i am beginning to see why we use grammar
yet i still refuse
i wish i could explain to you why my predicament is so brain racking
but what if i did take over the world with lack of grammar
but then again what if i took over the world through extensive use of grammar
causing everybodys brain to take over their body
wait arent brains already in control
so what if the lack of grammar caused the brain to only focus on my lack of proper english
and now you see why english teachers say they arent payed enough
so maybe if i used an extensive amount of grammar then people would be required to go back to school
just because a cat is smarter than they
and then the outcome would be a financial crisis causing more people to be poor
and goods to become more expensive
maybe i can take over the world with extensive grammar usage

now i just need to figure out how to get people to read my work

please excuse my spelling and grammar i may be a very intelligent cat
but i too am lazy

you ask me what i remember from the time those photographs
were taken and i will tell you:
nothing.

i do not remember the bittersweet wounds
i carved into so-called flesh, no
i do not recall the sleepless nights spent
wailing for mother to come back with arms
outstretched apologies rolling off the tongue, no
i do not remember the bones that ached
the swollen jaws
the inhale-exhale-inhale-hoping it would be
my last, no
i do not recall the fleeting lovers, the restlessness disguised as
wanderlust, no
i do not remember bonding with strangers in our
ignorant comas  nor do i recall
telling you you mattered to me
when you so clearly did not, no
i do not recall the lagging thud-thud of my
failing freight train heartbeat
i do not recall the passing days that handcuffed me to the
pride of being functional
i do not recall the futile retracing of my
weary footsteps
nor the devastating  discovery of the melted snow
i do not remember the betrayal nor the heartbreak
that trampled over me when you left
nor do i recall telling you i was sorry
when i so clearly was not.

you ask me what i remember from the time those photographs
were taken and i will tell you:
i was empty.
i remember nothing.

Our love grew through parallel circuits and electric currents,
data entries in microprocessors,
and copper and silver wires.
Who says love has to be a series of
physical advances,
but instead
a product of the neurons in your brain.
We can get high off of love,
dive into dopamine induced comas
as we listen to the static over each other's microphones.
We'll dream about growing old together
laugh at our younger selves
and how many times we had to
confess our love for one another
before hanging up the phone.
Then I wake up and realize
maybe I was never meant to
see the stars in your eyes
or bask in the light of your presence
but wallow in the glow of an LCD screen.
Countless nights and early mornings
spent in 320p.

Morning.
Temporary ceasefire with insomnia,
Marked by cheerful birds.

Morning.
Start of hostilities with drowsiness,
Combating alertness ceaselessly.

Morning.
Opening salvo with heavy caffeine support,
Awakening the senses with hot beverages.

Morning.
Food, an uncertain ally.
Alertness or comas—it’s sometimes close.

Morning.
Battle lines redrawn,
But war continues perpetually.

To the doctors in the room
   I'm a mental cased, half-crazed Insomniac
      on three days of possibly self inflicted mind space
         who can't decide on medically induced comas or Prozac
To the supervisors in the room
   I'm a potential hazard, a walking disaster
      bird-brained enough to end as scrambled gizzards
         who potentially could be as useful as worthless shinplaster
To the women in the room
   I'm a useless ***, nearly morbid
      too tired to mow the lawn in the mid-morning sun
          and too lazy to help with laundry, cooking, or raising kids
To the friends in the room
   I'm a constant joke, a hilarious prank
      mumbling non-sense with little need to be provoked
         laughing hysterically as they watch as my mind goes blank
To the voices in the room
   I'm a genius, an exasperated visionary
       I've have debated the complexities of owning a *****
          and the movements of my thumb is extremely revolutionary

We dine off of  hearts
goaded from the sea.

Hearts drawn to dead promise
and
cold hooks.

The gills
taste metallic
and the flesh is sweet
with mercury.

The haul is yanked overboard,
and the tuna fly
like angels of vengeance
to our dinner tables
where wine
condenses the poisoned bodies
into forkfulls
of pleasure.

The meat is sweeter
than anything we have ever tasted,
we hope that it puts us to sleep.

Not wanting to ****
or cherish
the bones of each other's bodies
has led us to gorge
on these fish,
these harbingers
of comas
that we are too awake
to realize
are the dreams of the stars
filtered through the
diamond-studded
rollers of the Pacific.

The blue and cold Pacific
it pumps out
the fuel for restaurants.

Restaurants
where we gnash our teeth silently
against oily meat.

Restaurants
where I have a drink
and you have a drink
and we have our fill
on vicarious oceans
that decay in the parties
of our bellies.

Tonight we will sleep
because we are drunk
with poisoned meat.

Robbed meat.

Catastrophic
is the grinder of your mouth.

A goaded heart
is an atomic bomb
and we have our fills on them.

Until we no longer want to ****.

The mercury
courses.

The waiter
dashes back and forth.

The cook
slices and dices.

The fishers haul in a line
ten-ton lines of bycatch.

All for a single forkful
of the most sugary
thing
two people can share
when their bodies
are useless
and wheezing for the oxygen
of a purified love.

I have heard "I love you"
In words like "don't forget your umbrella"
And "be careful on those steps"
And I'd like to tell you that I love you
In all those words and more
But you don't hear me when I try
So my voice has dropped in decimals
From screaming over the noise in your head
To whispering the words when you're asleep.
I've heard you can talk to the people in comas,
So maybe in your slumber you will hear me.
Be careful out there darling.

D.N.A RESULTS by Kristie Townsend (23.07.07)


patiently I wait for the pain to stop
for blackness to overwhelm my fractious senses
for death to soothe my destroyed emotions
for eternal silence to end my indifferent pretenses

but even drug induced comas
or the gift of life, twice
leaving my children, or those whom proclaim to care
are enough of an incentive for me to wish to remain here

I lost my daddy, Eric, Mr T
I betrayed myself, I fell apart
I believed the DNA results would set me free
instead they broke my fragile heart

But the universe and life unfolds as indeed it should
although not always as I would like or desire
and one day, when I look back
Im sure Ill be glad that It wasnt my time to expire

Corro lejos de ti, me ahogo entre las comas intencionales.
Entre los párrafos llenos de excusas sin razón pero buscando con desesperación.
La perdición.
Lección con sanción.
Error tras error.
        Y sobra la noción.

Dentro de la nada        y rodeada de nada.
       Nada. Pero asfixia.

Corro lejos de ti, hacia el miedo.
Hasta luego (en el mejor de los casos, en el peor de mis casos)

Toma tus memorias, nuestras memorias, y guárdalas en una caja.
Que nadie la abra. Que nunca la olvides pero que no la recuerdes.
Y si puedes: toma mis ojos, póntelos, y       veme.
Entiéndeme,
pero no me perdones.

I thought I found myself
really felt happy
it was a first
since prepubescence
it all ended last night--
as if it had even started
my friends will all laugh at me
and they'll swear I'm a **** up
and it's true--
this miserable **** up
writing what you read right now
can do nothing right
absolutely nothing--
the worst of it all
is that I thought
I was
for once
I knew all the while
something was deeply wrong
if I did not pry into it all
I doubt I would hurt this much
but I dwell
I dwell
and continue to hurt
and hurt
I hurt
you don't care
no one does
so, I'll drink myself into comas
during adulthood
and eventually become a decent writer
and some people will like what I do
everyone but me
because through life,
I'll always be this miserable
**** up
nothing will ever change that
why would it?

life is a *****
but she is beautiful
she is wonderful
she makes you yearn for her
but the *****, life,
will never yearn for you
because you-- too
are a miserable **** up

Tryptophan, Turkey comas
On a stuffed stomach,
Chock full of dreams
Button bursting insight

So much food
So much family
So much joy
So much to be thankful for

Thankful
Not to be dead,
To be enjoying life
Here on Earth

Thankful
Not to be poor,
To be able afford
The comforts in life

Thankful
Not to be alone,
To have friends and family
Helping to guide me

Stuffed
Sprawled on the couch
Realizing how much I have
Realizing it could all be
Gone within a blink.
Thankfully, I’m here
Thankfully

I’m alright.

He is the air I breathe
Everything I see
Everything I feel
Everything I smell
He is inside my skin
He is rotting in my bones.
And I can feel him giving me
Leukemia.
He is an Intracerebral
Hemorrhage making
me go blind and
see blood when
I close my eyes.
Which is why
I’m always confused
and drowsy.  
It would explain my headaches
and seizures.
It would explain my
comas trapped inside
my mind still trapped in his grip.

His hollow eyes
and sunken cheeks
How skinny his face
Is. How he’s the
only thing that
scares me anymore.
Because when he
pulled me out of class
when he pulled me out
of my head. He took
whatever freedom I
had gained. He kept
me trapped inside a cage.

But I’ve begun to think.
Maybe I too am
poisonous. Maybe I
too rot inside of
peoples minds giving
them all four types of Intracranial
Hemorrhages.
Maybe I too make
people go blind at the
thought of my proximity.

And I wonder
what damage he’s
experiencing.

Las palabras eran balas que disparaba con los dedos.
Acariciaba las teclas de la máquina de escribir con delicadeza y pasión.
Vertía sus emociones, sus desgracias, sus alegrías, sus dolores, todas en una blanca hoja de papel.
La tinta nunca dejaba de correr.
Mayúsculas y minúsculas.
Puntos, comas y acentos.
Letras, números y símbolos.
Un teclado completo para experimentar.
Combinaciones de letras, de palabras, de sentimientos, de ideas.
Un libro o un poema.
Una canción o una novela.
Un ensayo o un sólo verso.
El escribía y tecleaba, y tecleaba y escribía.
Escribía para sí.
Escribía para todos.
Escribía para ella, sobre todo.
Y tecleaba y escribía.
Y sus dedos no cansaban.
Su lírica no dormía.
La prosa que antes sostenía.
El epíteto que añoraba.
Y sus lágrimas palabras.
Y su sangre tinta en verso.
El latir de su corazón marca el ritmo del tecleo.
Y escribía y tecleaba.
Mente llena de problemas, de ideas, de emociones, de fantasía.
La realidad se torna inefable.
Las palabras aún fluyen.
Los sentimientos se escabullen y se esconden en una rima.
Ella se disfraza en papel de apología.
Y tecleaba y escribía, y escribía y tecleaba.

Las rimas de tus tacones
son técnicamente perfectas;
la métrica con que te acercas
hace explotar emociones.

Con versos de tu sonrisa
cada sílaba en ti se matiza;
afloran odas de luz y vida,
algo que en ti no se olvida.

Tus estrofas de caricias
perfectamente acentuadas;
hacen comas pausadas
en el compás de tus delicias .

Te busco la estructura
remate perfecta en tu cintura.
Creo que sin mayor problema
encontré...!! que eres un poema!!

Natures timepiece resets
mental alarm clocks and
washes away the hassles
of the daily grind.
Woken up by a well blended
mixture of clamor and quietude
with various birds chirping,
running water,
crackling embers,
wombats mating
and groans made by the
chemically inconvenienced
from a site nearby.
Insects fly overhead an
unorthodox patterns
as you unzip the door
of your mesh enclosure
and step out into the
inhospitable environment.
Pressed coffee to chase
the bacon and eggs
as you gourmandize
that over the fire,
cast iron skillet
morning breakfast.  
Commence to mysterious exploits
without one second of the day to waste
down heavily wooded trails
in search for introspection
and tranquility.
Uncultivated areas where
diligent stalwarts build dams,
antlers gallop through the
pulp and sapling
while woodland creatures,
whimsical and carefree,
play and sing songs
of the jovial jungle
until the birds of the wild
pounce upon their prey
as they become a tasting menu item
for the predatory aggressors
in the vicious circle
of nature's goodness.
Sun droplets peek
behind the seedlings
and you take a breath of fresh air
as you decrease depression
and obliterate anxiety.
Compass navigates
as you hike through
the rocky regions of the greenery
where you settle down to
eat your sandwich,
sip your thermos of soup,
wild berries for dessert
and wash it down with
a refreshing drink from
the natural flowing rivers
where ducklings defecate
and fish ****.
Perched up on a rock
in the highlands,
still on this quest for
self meditation,
you survey the terrain
and observe a family tipping
an overweighted, unbalanced
canoe on the river,
rambunctious ruffians
going white water rafting
in the vast rapids and
drink firewater with the natives
until they puke from overindulgence,
a lovely couple not in sync
with their oar rowing skills
on the lake,
children burn bugs
with magnifying glasses and
sneaking smores before
healthy campfire dinners arrive.
Day breaks into dusk and
dusk into night
with vivid colors and lucid dreams.
Scowling eyes peer through
the woodsy inhabitant
with curious and suspicious
idiosyncrasies as you trekked
through the wilderness
towards the bivouac
to start the nightly campfire,
submerge in repellent
and prepare your opulent hobo banquet. Twisting the cap off the first of twelve,
vital force fills to the brim
with reflection and clarity
of existentialism.
The birds have it good.
The wombats have it good.
The stalwarts have it good.
The antlers have it good.
The predatory aggressors have it good.
The families, the ruffians, that lovely couple, the children, even the burnt bugs have it good.
But you.....
you are like the woodland creatures,
you too play and sing songs,
twisting off cap after cap
until the Monday morning
manpower surfaces to the top,
like a volcanic eruption of plutonic rock
and the predatory aggressors
of labor force swoop down
and devour you without mercy
or an ounce of hesitation.
Under the silver moonlit night,
***** of fire burn brightly
in the purple hazed skies,
through the whistling treetops,
the forest ghouls dance like
demons and politicians
(essentially the same thing),
hallucinations of shadow people
appearing and disappearing
through the flames of the fire
stare wide eyed with painted faces.
Surrounded by a midden of empty bottles, you're wet brain slips
in and out of alcohol induced comas
and a beer blanket softly nestles you in
as you hold a lit cigarette in one hand
and half a bottle of Dutch milk
in the other like teddy bear,
your eyes fall into sedation....
Jolted awake like a thunderbolt,
eyes go from closed to open immediately
and chemically inconvenienced
state of being groans in
agonizing pains
just like the ones you heard
the morning before.

I'm tired and always cold
Almost finished a family size box of Cheerios...food comas.
Lack of motivation because it's so gloomy and cold outside.
So, it seems like a better idea to stay in my warm solitude, rather than being productive and having a life.
But this too shall pass shortly,
It's just depression seasonally.

i will meet you there
between spaces and comas
and stretched ink across false words
with pencil scribbles here and there
amongst colourful highlights across
feelings that you felt through
the darkest nights and suffocating weep
when you are broken by life
as you hide away from the face
of the world

i will meet you there
where dreams exist
and i exist for you
even for a while
and i will tell you
that everything will be fine
even though
i will be gone
by the time i finish it

TALLAHASSEE CONTAINS ALLAH to whom I'm truly true blue
as He is the Just, the King, the Watchful, the Father of me & of you
Like 9 dogs eatin' tuna fish I cried for your thigh to comfort me like
the jack breadfruit that comforted Bounty Lieutenant William Bligh
whilst he abstained from Tahitian maidens who were cunningly shy
My big, beautiful mouth that frets & sasses makes me intellectually
superior to everyone except the most idiotic of ******* dumb *****
whose apple cider vinegar becomes unsulfured blackstrap molasses
Remember again old cross firemen, Jesus burned for your arson sin
2,000 years before I wrapped your fat *** around your chinless chin
through hellish dew of frosty equanimity with Gail Fisher as Peggy,
Mannix shaved his dangling loose hairy stems above gay legs leggy
so that he might wiggle folklorical jigs like Haitians do with reggae
Gay-***-whackin' Hillary Clinton humps *** to a disco-***-humpin'
beat from her *** crooked-pants-suited *** to her lezzy-***-toed feet
stuck in turds as Bill sodomizes a mule, **** Hillary can be bought
stuck in pig **** as Billy rapes another, shaky Hillary can be bought
with Kleenex 'cause her honker has 5 pounds of unsought nose snot
that added nothin' to the virulent ****** that I ain't not never caught
On clean teen carpet she munched, slurped & lapped sink drain-like
forcing me to slap her shitless so that she could be a real, sane ****
whose despicable antics I am not morally outraged by, nor annoyed
as this repugnant behavior is directed medically by faux cushingoid
which accounts for her likeness to the puffy-faced star Alison Lloyd
who had something criminally criminal to do when she wasn't doin'
something grimy to fill her cravenously-craven-criminalistical void
that toys with emotions that are not immune to being toyed with on
the weekends that were made for Michelob on my blue hemorrhoid
that toys with emotions that aren't afraid of being toyed with on gay
weekends that were made for Michelob dumped on my hemorrhoid
only 'cause it is something to do when you are not doing something
that could have ended early the cowboyin'-guy-life of William Boyd
whose hoppin,' in the hoppin'-along biz, derived from a secosteroid
Vegetable-hating vegans love pagans & meat-eaters secrete beavers
& Yukio & Yoko Mishima beat to death with a bat old Tom Seavers
after he frittered away his ball-batting career as a raunchy, gay dude
to the tune of 4 original Beatles crooning the god-awful "Hey Jude"
while fat priests ****** nuns & nudists in nudist colonies pray ****
for chapel cameras of the ******* Channel's dude ranch, Play Dude
where the rudest nudists & naturalists, nudely & naturally stay rude
without caring to distinguish betwixt fake night & serious day food
that could throw a self-effacing exhibitionist into a filthy, gay mood
with prelude payload which equates to slaves getting their pay sued
by orthognathical charlatans who worship devil-lovin' Ben Franklin
in his guise as Frenchy Chucky de Gaulle who could send tank men
for forensical strikes targetin' ****** on rivers whereat men bank sin
with a plugged-up ******* called Peter Hamilton, feet or Nam again
in quokka flesh minus 22% over a pig sty or a bacon-oiled ham pen
Even though He maintained amazing Bible-understanding abilities,
Pittsburgh's wall-to-wall ******* gave Jesus the Hill District jiggers
Despite His God given Holy Christian Bible-understandin' abilities,
Pittsburgh's loo-to-loo ******* gave Jesus shaky, Hill District jitters
that ache way too late & shake for a sexily-religious girl who titters
over dead Zhanna Friske's Russian lickspittles & ******* pig-sitters
gettin' one passed normal lesbians with tattoos of sickly zoo critters
that clearly show pederasts of The New York Times ******* shitless
after chalking Marxistical New York Times sources ******* shitless
in Bethlehem stables stabling new stud muffin horses shoed witless
where hippy people with greasy long hair were quite apt to be livin'
clawing about what's issue based vs. character drivel, I mean driven
Ol' Walker McDonald was my very special friend until he ***** me
under a nice fig tree beyond the bitchiest beach of the Sargasso Sea
where he wouldn't quit ****** me despite my sexiest desperate plea
I hollered a lot in a ******-nutty masculine voice but he did not care
about rotten figs that matted my Ellen-degenerated, lezzy-short hair
I told everyone in North Vietnam & Laos that he couldn't he trusted
'cause the 21,798 times he ***** me made me thoroughly disgusted
like there were gigantical nests of bugs up my *** heavily encrusted
in cracks where ****-crop-dusting planes can't dive swoop in dusted
before flying into my inner-sanctum room like old Corrie ten Boom
whose bee-busy life, after her crapping-out death, has yet to resume
in order to beat senseless neo-brutalistical V.A. nursing home abuse
that kills the blood-coagulatin' screams of a cursing gnome papoose
draped across the *** of a ***-rail engineer takin' it up the caboose
to make his gay meaning known to stragglers too lucid to be obtuse
Don't ****** me I'm your amigo, oh yeah I forgot in your final spin
that a plucky slice'd paralyze you forever good on any hot spinal fin
****** ****** at ****** mall: Who's the baddest ****** of them all?
Is it Ringo, or dead George/John, or false/fake ******, Beatle Faul?
I cannot wear no slutty dress because I got a sass-*** dose of P.M.S.
I can't ***** in my slutty dress while I got a bad-*** dose of P.M.S.
My boyfriend's a ***** queer who has been ripped up his ***'s rear
In city pig files they record my criminal-*****-bone record in miles
Here amongst the thoroughly hypnotized, I spank your lard **** red
while you flee with free fleas that fly with flies that are too-well fed
while you flee with 3 free fleas that fly with flies that are overly fed
The traveling mermaid porked & beaned me in the moldy sea green
as P.B.S.'s Fred Rogers fits into a death list of ***, dead codgers we
ruefully mourn the murders of Jack the Ripper's ******-red lodgers
who overtly related homosexually to lesbian heterosex bed-dodgers
on mountain picnics in Pennsylvania where they are fed odd chores
There ain't nothing grim in threading tawny-titted Hawaiian women
before drug-induced comas or with food cramps got from swimmin' Demon Hillary, I Would ****** Everybody Just to Make You Smile
Is this wrong? No, murdering everybody is Scratch's most beautiful
way to say: "I loathe you Bill" in his hottest court of Luciferian trial
A raunchy **** bussed my *** with cerebral palsy quicker than Ajax
scrubbed the crapped-out Admiral William Halsey. I'd mount 1 trull
plain or crunchy too but not when she humps like a Harlem *******
We told everybody deaf 'bout "us" but everybody but "us" was deaf
to our mutant deafness save Harland Sanders & Burger Chef & Jeff
Swallow this sea-warped poker chip to see what can happen while I
moodily tap out Florida flame red maple trees to drain all the sap in
Anita O'Day never curled the nether tufts of Melvin Howard Tormé
because she was a limpless gimp who saw sike-a-***** as girly gay
in the throes of scissor lovin' between Blobert Rake & Huddy Bolly
whose fine, rug-burned legs queered their sapphical, sexoholic folly
that in 1966 farted greasy Earth's real cheeses to slickly **** breezes
as 99 rescue inhalers asphyxiated fatalistically-asthmatical wheezes
I love the ocean. Do you feel the aloof sea spray on your face? That
ain't sea spray. That's a gay *** peeing down on you from the roof.
I like my ******* on caffeine-free diets as they're better controlled I
think, than apes on caffeine-big diets who **** ******* cherry pink
for sea-lovers in iron linkage to twist apart a chewed-on master link
soaked in a tub 93% bigger than a beef washer's blood-washed sink
Let us forgive my unkind words but the dog turds I tracked in aren't
my dog's turds 'cause your ***'s really pretty like that of an angel's
dead cousin, so you must not cream on creamy donuts by the dozen
I will not talk of you in the old past as long as you are able to ****
really fast. The way to hell is lousy with sinners as each part of you
could provide several dinners. Our cherries are nicer than the sweet
cherries in pies. I wish that our 4 eye sockets had 4 cherry-red eyes.
You're so tiny that you stand 'neath my knee at a distance so nice to
bruise my better kidney. Shut up a lot, I told you before. I ain't got a
mistress who did not chronically snore. I could slather your body in
peanut butter from scalp to *** belly like would that jack-*** Kojak
Savalas brother called Telly. How many times have I warned you to
shut up? 3,345 trillion 9 hundred thousand 128? Enough is enough!
I scratched your back while you were reverently praying, just like a
Catholical priest, which is the chief role I'm now piously portraying
Part of me wants to **** you the other doesn't when I was me & you
were so wasn't, when your ****** were floral with dandelions, ever
more gay than those that were Paul Ryan's. After January we'll ****
bleached whales on the beach while I castigate old adulteresses in a
sermon I preach beneath the flickering grand dragon wizard's torch.
God has blessed us with elbows & knees & sharp teeth, only to bite
whoever's sporting deliciously-moist quims that we strive to please
Kicking the **** out of constipation is my preferred realization with prunes, olive oil & herbs from rich soil, for once I'm well you'll see
healthful regularity overtaking me. I'll make your cheery cherry pop
by threading your pretty Barbie bobbin so fast that I can hardly stop
from attaching psychedelical fixations to conundrums psycholytical
No one asleep had ever downed a pickle 'cause the racer who hit 45
wet spots was the women-pleasing racer large Richard **** Trickle
No one awake had ever drowned a pickle because the racer who hit
damp spots was the ****-racing racer, big-stick Richard **** Trickle
No one awake had ever got ******-cell sickle with the racer who hit
87 damp spots, the ***-****-racing racer, ***** Richard **** Trickle
who found that **** babes with keen intellects were tricky to tickle
as ****'ll be doin' Marianne Faithfull with big-ribbed-****** ******
in his British Marxian way with obligatory sledge hammer & sickle
to spread her ******* for shire horse hung Beatle Jimmy Nicol
as Albert Hofmann's 102-year-old L.S.D. schlort is a thrill pickle in
a Swiss lab bobbing dead in *****, unable to pork, **** & ***** all
while Bert Hofmann's 102-year-ol' L.S.D. ******* is a dill pickle in
a Swiss lab bobbin' in *****, unable to poke, sock, cram & stick all
because of contact with a toxical/allergical rose bushy thorn prickle
Some of me's puerile, the other section's a rash, over my nasty belly
is mama, below is a wacky, pinkish ******, while I pile onward real
love from 11 p.m. till the pole star's there, 8 degrees from starboard
several acres from where the **** wipes for my liquor bar are stored
You're brave & you're wise, with my camera I'll capture your thighs
I long for blonde hair of which you've plenty. I want to kiss all of it
before you turn 20. Our Russian passion will pass a fever pitch like
convicts on a chain gang diggin' a ditch. You whistle alluringly like
Lauren Bacall. I wonder, can you do it pulling from Bogart's straw?
Let's eat cookies while we sleep in my million-dollar Blue Bird bus
because I have expensive chocolate chip cookies just for the 2 of us
Tell me the truth, I am dyin' to know. Will you be able to stop when
we go go go? It's very important that you're careful so you don't get
knocked up by a drunken sailor or a window washer or a blind man
with a tin cup. Your pocked *** is really low slung like a green pine
ladder's 1st broken rung. I bang you in the murky morning too early
for lunch 'cause you ain't ½ as **** as Alice from The Brady Bunch
whose meat-hacking with butcher Sam included a knock-out punch
Turn up the gas, I want no damp cell, no moist damsel in **** hell
whose ill virginity is wiped clean by my hellishly-wild *** machine
I love you tall, I love you short in a barrel, beneath a port. You are a
broad. I know it's true. Live up to the crooked contract or I will sue.
Richard F. Burton, extinguish *** Taylor's fiery *** that lit abruptly
in the Golfo de México from B.P.'s unmothered-crack-head-****-gas
I took harmful advice to seize a 1-upped leg man ****-deep in knees