How will one's feet dance to the rhythms if the gongs have ceased to pump the veins?

Are the hues of the palette enough for a leonardeschi art to transcend?

When your mezzo-soprano fails to hit, will your story still get heard?

Will a cyclist still pedal to savor the orange horizons without his friends?

Who will listen when the wrinkled fingers lay on the dusty piano?

Do these words still tell of a poet who once penned in flames?

My freckle flecked love
      stirs the speckled paintbrush soft, dousing it's hairs so that,
    as I pull it back,
all the bristles bend
     seamlessly, and when I let go
they ping forwards,
      smattering
a scattering of stars,
         onto snowy canvas.

Your love rains down
                                       from the shower head.

Sharp needles of fire
                                                                ­                  dousing cold feet.

                                   It feels like daggers,

                                               and wouldn't be so,

if I hadn't lingered for so long,
                                                                           in my frigid hesitancy.

In the dour ages
Of drafty cells and draftier castles,
Of dragons breathing without the frame of fables,
Saint and king unfisted obstruction's knuckles
By no miracle or majestic means,

But by such abuses
As smack of spite and the overscrupulous
Twisting of thumbscrews: one soul tied in sinews,
One white horse drowned, and all the unconquered pinnacles
Of God's city and Babylon's

Must wait, while here Suso's
Hand hones his tack and needles,
Scouraging to sores his own red sluices
For the relish of heaven, relentless, dousing with prickles
Of horsehair and lice his ***** *****;
While there irate Cyrus
Squanders a summer and the brawn of his heroes
To rebuke the horse-swallowing River Gyndes:
He split it into three hundred and sixty trickles
A girl could wade without wetting her shins.

Still, latter-day sages,
Smiling at this behavior, subjugating their enemies
Neatly, nicely, by disbelief or bridges,
Never grip, as the grandsires did, that devil who chuckles
From grain of the marrow and the river-bed grains.

Eggs, eggs, toss them high in the air
Catch em, and gargle, and mash them, and swear
Eat them with shells, eat them with sauce
Eat them with bags, eat them with moss

Eggs, eggs, between sandwich bread
That's what the wise elderly miller had said
Before came the bomb and he had dropped dead
Before being poisoned by a surplus of lead

And then came a centipede, long and sanguine
And bit a small child, so recently weaned
Off the protein derived from his mother's fine eggs
So he had to start munching on his mother's fine legs

"Be warned" said the Miller, his hair all askew
While dousing his wounds with mountains of glue
A tapeworm emerged, and looked toward the sky
Feeling envy toward all the birds that could fly

But the Miller was quicker, even in old age
He smacked the worm soundly, in a manner enraged
Bruised from the damage, and covered in glue
The worm turned away from the sky that was blue

Never with pelicans would he fly with delight
Never with owls would he soar through the night
For all Darwin's cruelty, an injustice rings
Tapeworms simply have no need for wings

So he bit the old Miller, and laid ten thousand eggs
They hatched and devoured his liver and legs
And as the man writhed, waiting to die
He vomited upward, up toward the sky

The tapeworm went flying, up toward the clouds
The air felt exhilarating, the rushing wind loud
For once in his life, he soared with the birds
Then in came a swallow, and bit off a third

His body, segmented, fell in parts to the ground
Tears seeped from his eyes, his face in a frown
From the ground he gazed up into the ominous fog
Before being lapped up by an unlucky dog

The End

There is the latent hum of some probably-industrial sumthin-or-another in the distance. Sounds like a ferry at dock, or the Townsite mills characteristic hum of eternity as it once acted as the forever-whitenoise of my past life in Powell River.

Sasha has gone to see her friend a floor down. I sit candidly at her desk typing these words on her MacBook Pro.. her dorm is an ambient water of a place, but with every passing night I spend in it, it becomes harder and harder to fall asleep. The bed feels like wood board or padded cement now. Sasha rolls around in her sleep, occasionally choking on her tonsils and gagging a prolonged operatic note of snores. It's not like she can help it.. often, she talks about removing her tonsils as if it's something she can do with a spare moment between classes.

The dorm was easier for me to inhabit when I imagined her living quaintly and quietly without my constant everywhereness.. on her first night alone in bed, she slept like a baby and the overheating, I'm sure, was less to bear in my absence as there wasn't a ******* furnace spurning mammalian blood to every antipode of my body for the sake of staying alive.. just her capillaries attending to the night-shift and leaving no feedback loop between our ***-drenched thermostats. There was a feeling of otherness to it that I could warm my soul with as if I were people-watching at a mall filled with everyone I've ever encountered in the matrix.

She's beautiful. Sasha, I mean. Superstitious despite her attempts to claim otherwise, but of a massive intelligence often unspoken and endowed with a linguistic nature that can speak regardless of words. Highly suspicious of some perceived bond between Anya and I that can't seem to be severed, and playfully dousing suspicions of general infidelity into many of our brink-night conversations.. I can't say I do much to remedy her paranoia as I always kick it back with consistent jokes of having '30 girlfriends' or 'that was what the girl I ****** the other night said as well! Trippy.'

These are obvious jokes. I would never cheat on her and it's a pain to have her imagine I would.

Christ be honest, I can never find the time to write anymore because I keep pretending I'm busy. I keep glassing my eyes apart with coffee and **** and feeling the inner sting to write and write and write until my fingers are bruised and my entire demeanour is nothing more than an existence in pure, floating consciousness of sleet-covered panic attack self-immoliating itself in a Wal-Mart parking lot just to say hiya, Good God, how's the cloud of idolatry today? Fleeting? Empty? Shat? I'm starting to think you have the shorter end of the stick cuz I'm pretty sure I've found the Kingdom of Heaven and it's all a bunch of beautiful panic remedy exacterbated by SSRI psychedelic depersonalization with a life-wish disguised as a death-wish to push the envelope for mails sake, cuz I've got a message for the human race and all it says is 'humanity is not a RACE chill the **** OUT and become the human pace for the sake of nil planet without a plan you aren't a ******* poster-boy you're a poser' all very stone-cold thoughts in a volcano.. all very valid but pointless semantic gestures towards Finnegans Wake and the sequel I'd like to write called Finnegans Nap.

The other day, I stole a book from the university library.

I had a freelance article I had to start and preferably finish that same day, and Sasha had decided to skip psychology for Charles Bukowski so we scouted a quiet space on the windowsill overlooking the perpetual busk of student body.. I plugged my laptop in and sourly gazed at the flakey subjects I had to choose from until I noticed we were right next to a giant section entirely dedicated to the study of the Beat Generation. I picked out the closest book, and dove up on some academic diatribe about the implementation of Timex making watches an affordable commodity during the post-war boom, causing economy to become totalitarian in its accuracy and thus mental hegemony. It worked its way into stating that Jack Kerouac's On the Road was a blatant and concise rebellion against this form of timekeeping in its hedonic, careless flow that was not marked by 6 o'clock or on-the-dot redundancy.. the subject matter being so dense and alluring, I turned to Sasha and said, 'I have to steal this book.'

She chuckled a little, being a chronic kleptomaniac herself, and retorted, 'are you sure you can do that? They have these sensor things that go off when you leave.. they'd catch you probably.' In my mind, I was needing to exorcise myself of Judaeo-Christian morality so as to guarantee a survival and thriving intellectual feed regardless of red-tape or monetary symbolism.. I saw myself adapting to a hedonic habit of robbery for the sake of food and freedom or some such half-witted excuse like that, and took Sasha's warning as a challenge to transcend my typical moral comfort zone.

Glassy-eyed, I asked Google how I'd go about bypassing the security scanners and, lo and behold, within 5 minutes I had my answer and was already digging through the books binding with my house-key to remove the magnetic strip hidden in the spine. After 10 minutes of exhilaration and anxiety at potentially being caught, the strip was out and jammed between two loose wood-boards in the window sill. I told Sasha we should try to leave.

As I neared the scanner, I let go of consequence in remembrance of my mortality, the blank expressions on our faces probably hinting at some form of degenerate nervousness had someone decided to analyze us aaaaaand yet.. we made it through as safe as a bird through an open window then out the other side.

the snake—
alluring notions held in its eyes
tongue twitching with noxious desire
arrogance held in a sauntered slink
vile venom dousing budding souls
—lends itself to this nature

oft on bus seated next,
every one of your senses
adjusting, modulating,
to her unpredictable
solar flaring

you don't ever risk
that first missing
           misstep,
your entirety is
sun bursted
        (un)/consumed
in unhappy joy of her
consuming presence

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you laugh
years later
re the topic of
your first shaky
foot in the mouth
a classic misstep
first bow shot,
opening one liner

and each storied retelling  
is nature!s
snow and rain
refilling
the love of your
groundwater table
welling up

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you love her scent
the silly hats she wears,
her short skirts arouse,
that last open button
a misstep invitation,
angry it incenses,
her every solitary everything is
incense,
pervading a daily
co-riding
passenger's
oxygen? starved soul

~~~~~~~~~

her umbrella is a wet
selfie stick
accidentally opening and dousing
an un random next door
seatmate

just another unlucky misstep for
someone sitting next store,
oil on the fire of
happily ever after

two selfies are last seen as
one
un selfishly
toweling each other off and
on
with wet kisses

~~~~~~~~~~~

you eavesdrop on her
earbud music,
weep internally you do with
crazed jealously

The Temptations
are so unfairly
singing to her
"Ain't to Proud to Beg"
and neither are you

you heart is misstepping
to every beat,
your fingers
thrumming,
you idiot, not quietly enough
humming
in the next seat

the first,
will not be
the last

smile exchanged

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

poem writing on the tablet,
amidst the groaning awful
no moving
city traffic

overheated bus
combustible with
winter snow dampness,
wet dog sweat smelling people clothes

all you want to do is get home
shower off
the daily dirt

the poetry writing pastime
is the place
where you put yourself
to better to pass over
your sour surroundings

her finger rattlesnakes,
misstepping over,
noisily invading,
the invisible boundary
constructed to hold up the
eye-averting
Keep Out sign
to momentary,
too neighborly
strangers

her red painted
pointer finger
smudge prints on your tablet,
accompanied with
bespoke words
"try this"

that smudge suggestion
won't come off

insisting on crediting
a shared authorship,
you ask for her
email and cell,
so you can share
her
forever

co jointed tangled
bus and bed sheet first efforts
on writing, all about
what you play~argue
what should your entitled poem
be titled

you think

endless short love story bus poems

but she prefers,
with red fingers persuading

the first misstep is the best

both see the merit
in each other

I always think about how you feel about me.
I'm probably wrong, it's no surprise.
You're always raving about your knights in rusty armour,
Emerging victorious from their battles to save you.
Slaying the dragons,
Dousing flames,
Or simply, serenely clutching you underneath your cotton fort.
It's all flowing through, garnishing my preemptive thoughts of your saviour.

It's alright though.
You, thinking you're some wretched old witch living in the dark depths of the forest,
Always told me that "love" is something that can be immersed in without your actual presence.
Striving to see that person smile and glow,
Even if you yourself are not really any part of it.
I've accepted that,
But I still don't know what this thing...this enigmatic entity, Love, quite is.

Your knight, however, seems to be fulfilling his duty.
Quite well, at that.
Good for him!
It makes me happy to see you both happy.
(I always laugh when those around me laugh, even if I have no idea what's going on...hahaha, it's great)
He always visits you in your dark cave,
Where you think nobody will find you,
And he surmounts the guardian of your threshold.
While I'm peering through the brush,
Making sure things go right.
Because I'm paranoid like that.

After all of your embracing in his arms,
And dousing all the flames of horror around you,
You seem to be in bliss.
That's good.
A shooting star glosses by, but you're too busy with him to notice.
Or maybe you did notice.

I'm getting sleepy, and you might be too.
So might he.
But being the knight he is, he'll probably wait for you to doze off,
Then adore your lovely face as you've faded off into the blackness.
How I wish to witness such a magical sight.
How luc-

Crack!
Oh dear, I've stepped on a stick.
How silly of me.

He's noticed and sets you down carefully.

I sit and wait patiently, as he takes hold of his sword and approaches the brush.
Should I break for it, or wait for his reaction?
Surely he values the protection of his loved one more than a random creature in the brush
That, of course, threatens the safety of the princess.

He's closer.

I slowly rise to my feet and walk out of the brush,
The canopy's shade couvering my identity.
The moonlight glistening upon his blade.

I stare into his eyes, for he only sees a black figure within the shaded area.
He has determination and a sense of loyalty in his eyes.
Good, I can check that off.

He lifts his sword, holding it firmly with both his hands.

Little does he know, that his loved one's guardian is standing before him.
Perhaps she hasn't accepted it, or even noticed,
But I'm still there.
Always...there.
On the sidelines, admiring the beauty and radiance of the fairy,
Being caressed by a seemingly brighter knight.

His sword is moving downwards...

I wounder if she'll ever notice.

...closer...

It's okay though.
I'm sure she'll be fine without me.

A smile made its way across my face, embracing my cheeks.

Whoosh.

A sound like a machete moving seamlessly through silk was made in the night.



She shivered mildly in her sleep.

With a blistered heart
From unnumbered breaks,
A cloud of unshed tears
From untold betrayals,
I reenter the world
After an eternity or more
Of self imposed asylum
From a world of superficial bliss.

A world unchanged!
A cruel untended garden
Of deceptive beauty
And unkind thorny roses.
Lovelorn shadows,
Masquerading venomous claws
With beauteous flamboyance
And undesirable attraction.

Lethargic feelings,
Dousing my desires
With drowsing memoirs
Of countless emotional abuse,
Causing momentary spasms
In cerebral regions
Parading nocuous images
In the plenitude of projected beauty.

Scarred beyond immediate cure,
I recede from said world-
Too adverse for tender hearts
Back to hibernating moods
To nurse evergreen cuts
Cuts so deep, so lethal
Only the indolent strides of time
Can attempt to stitch!

Awaiting prophetic moments
Moments with mirage qualities
When in-love I can fall again
When a damsel I can trust again
When my heart can beat again
For one with pure intentions
Not putrefied by Hollywood mentors
But virtuous in biblical ways...


© Raphael Uzor

Monsoon Rhapsody



I am rain on a summer day
Drenching drowsy, lifeless buds
Stirring them to a dancing wakefulness
Washing leaves dull and dry with dust
Dousing fire in a desert ringed inferno

I am the drizzle on a pale moon night
Easing into the heart with music
The melange of water humming with the wind
The splash of puddles in fields of barley
Gently filling thirsty river beds craving for a flow

I am showers before monsoons
Impregnating the air with soothing droplets
The hint of life in an oasis of colours
Breathing moist on a farmer's bronzed skin
Tingling the world with shimmering emerald

I am sawan, the monsoons
Winding my way through a chorus of clouds
Thundering my presence into the sea of renewal
Cascading on sandy shores that glisten with light
Whisking away waves of gold with jubilant darkness

I drape the land in arrays of greens
Scent the soil in my fragrance
Dance with the rhapsodic dance of the peacock
Wreathe petals into flowers that vine
And curve in the soil of growth.

It's hard to forget you
And not just because I remember the way you made me feel (happy)
But because I remember everything
about you.
I remember the way you pulled me up into your treehouse and showed me your childhood, littered with cigarettes and beer bottles.
And the way your hands shook when you would touch me;
As if they were bottles of spray paint and my body was a blank wall.
I remember the way you would ramble on about nothing
Because you were afraid I'd get bored in the silence.
Yet talking with you was effortless; like how you once started a bonfire with gasoline: instant.
I remember the way your eyes always told different stories than your mouth
And how they looked when we sat by the river playing with cattails.
I remember the energy I felt when you made me break a window in the abandoned house
And the nostalgic sadness I felt when I broke the empty bottle of liquor in the same room
Alone.
Because I can't forget the nothingness in your eyes when you ended things
Or your steady hands that I was no longer allowed to reach out for.
I can't forget how you uncharacteristically said so little,
Dousing the flame I was trying so hard to keep alive.
Or how you so easily walked away
as though everything I ever remembered about you
Was really someone else.
I can't forget how you crushed my heart in between your hands until it turned to dust.
And now all I can do is spend my days writing your name in the ashes in cursive

I'm tired of beauty
incessantly meddling in my affairs

luring me to venture outside myself
revealing hidden radiance within

disguising life's dismal undercurrent
reducing it to a superficial veneer

randomly appearing by surprise
stubbornly eliciting a smile

performing alchemy on the mundane
dousing my awareness in the elixir of life

beauty...
the pulchritude of spirit...that's all it is...

Eyes burn
gritty paper, sand
tears pool
a room puddles
buckets, oceans pour over
dousing flickering flames
drowning
some letting go
dying
others left
wading

Authors Note- this is something I have never done and this may is just a one time thing, this is a poem I wrote about an anime but taking the persona of a character and writing in her point of view
(I put it in the point of view of Yuno Gasai from Mirai Nikki)

Deus ex machina
god of time and space
why do you ruin my life?
why create a game, survival, pain and strife?
the future is clear but just 10 minutes ahead
make a wrong move and you will end up dead.
what kind of god are you?
merciless and cruel.
watching us amused,
my mind just isn't right
you've made me so confused.
Blood drips from my dart, my ax, my knife,
this isn't what I wanted,
"A more exiting life".

My phone is part of my soul now
the dying defeated take their final bow.
creating the ultimate test
searching, killing all the rest.
First, Second, Third, all the way to twelve,
some going crazy, taking out themselves.

Two of us are left, the love of my life and I,
who is going to strike first?
which one of us will die?
I plunged the dagger deep to my heart
so Yukiteru can live
there's nothing more for me to say or do, I've managed as much as I can give.
final words leave my lips as my soul fades into black,
its ok Yuki, I'll find a way back.

I look at you and close my eyes, a tear runs down my face
thank you sweet death take me away, help me leave this forsaken place.
my body goes limp and you lay me gently on the floor
that one small open wound, it no longer feels sore.
it was always yours, right from the start,
my cold, unbeating, dead, loving heart.

you're god now, nothing can go wrong,
all you need to do for me is pretend to stay strong.
my death was painful but it was quick
like wind blowing out a dancing flaming candle, dousing the wick

blood and guts and brain and gore,
the worst is over, there is no more.
rain falls down and washes away all memories
I remember though as it starts to pour.
I'm gone now my dear, so far away,
I thought we'd meet in the sky but it seems there's no way.

too long I've been gone and its starting up again,
that game I lost, way back then.
you're slowly coming closer to your deathbed,
im not sure its true, but that's what murumuru said.
will we be together? can that dream come true?
or have we both moved on and there is no "me and you".

look love, there we are again,
I stabbed out my heart but on paper with a pen.
there is no real blood, only ink
that is where we met. that's the missing link.
if we'd have never met there would never be a game,
life would go on normally, life would be the same.
friends we could be, but for our future sake that's all,
I don't want to die again.
I must break the space-time wall.
I don't want you to see me fall anymore.
I don't want another dead end.
I don't want to see yours either.
but I cant help these feelings for you,
maybe its best to let fate run its course again in the cycle,
I'll regret it later but that's ok because I was meant to die,
and now the game begins again.

I hope you can forgive me for trapping us like this,
but you don't know anything about that now do you?
let it start for the eighty second time,
I'll keep us going forever.

maybe this will be the time when we can finally go see the stars together,
like I promised you so long ago.
like I promised you that last time I saw us for the first time.

I spoke to a wasp today. And he told me his story. He spoke to me about his childhood, and watching his own family being murdered. It was a bright and warm Friday evening. His father had ventured out and flew among the humans that lived in the home of his home. The smell of liquor permeated the air, as did the barbeque that was nearly too done. He drew close to the man of the home, just to watch and observe the scene. The man didn't like it too much. So he swatted him. It didn't hurt him, however, but it did confuse him. And in his confusion he landed upon the man and planted his stinger within him. The man slammed his hand down, cursing as the wasp's father's guts bled out. There was nothing the wasp could do but watch. The woman of the house asked if the man was ok. The man cursed once more and slammed his glass on the ground. The woman became upset and demanded to know why. The man had no answer. He merely just grabbed a gas can, took another ...swig of liquor, and walked up to the wasp's home and began dousing it in gasoline. The woman freaked out, afraid of what was about to happen. The man merely cursed at her as well and shoved her to the ground. When she tried to get back up he kicked her in the face. The blood poured. The wasp's home was now soaked in a lethal liquid. The man had a sinister grin as he glanced at his crying and bleeding woman lying on the ground, and he laughed as he lit a match and threw it on the wasp home. The nest went up in flames, and shortly after the home of the man did too. The little wasp escaped, unable to save the lives of his screaming family being burnt alive. The man merely laughed; the woman lay crying; the nest burnt to ashes; the house burnt down. So now the little wasp is all grown up. And when I asked what he wants to do with his life, all he replied was, "I want to sting people...because it seems that is all every creature is meant to do." ♥

The Entertainer

Warmth soothes my soul on this beautiful July morning.
A stark contrast to the dream I had the previous night that was the complete opposite of charming.
A violent storm tore apart my home leaving me in shambles, perhaps it’s a warning,
because the dread left behind in the pit of my stomach is concerning.
Tomorrow is my sons 8th birthday party, I fear it will be boring.
The last thing I want is for my sons’ friends to be unimpressed and fill my son’s ears with negative talking.
It may take a few stiff drinks but I’ll do my best to be charming.
A happy, gracious host can influence the guests into returning.
For my son Austin, that enough will be rewarding.
I have a man coming over soon who will provide me with details on what services he can provide to make sure all the kids view the party as being entertaining.
I hope and pray that he’s good at performing.
This is the first birthday I’ve had to plan on my own, so I’m sure I’m in store for some learning.
I’m hesitate whether or not I should pick up my video camera and begin recording.
I may record a complete failure or an event that proves to be rewarding.
Either way the children will be roaring
with either boos or cheers.

Food wise, I plan on keeping it simple.
Pepperoni pizza and pop to keep all the kids civil.
Two piñatas filled to the brim with candy for all the kids to lust over sinful,
while I watch from a dark corner letting out a giggle.
Still I need more fun things for the kids to do so that’s where the entertainer comes in.
To get a better price I might try to sooth him over with some gin.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

I answer the door to discover the middle-aged man smiling rather creepily at me.
He supports a trimmed beard along with a beer belly that sticks out rather beastly.
I have a sick feeling in my gut that something is off about him to a certain degree.
Having him makes me feel uncomfortable, I’m not sure if I trust his websites satisfaction guarantee.

He goes to speak, his breath reeking of cigarettes and alcohol.
His clothes are weathered, torn, smell something putrid and in need of a dousing of Lysol.
His eyes are bloodshot; it appears he has had a long night.
His presence here in front of my home fills my heart with fright.

He hands me his business card and tells me his name is Chester Pennyworth, entertainer.
It’s not in my nature to be a complainer,
but I wouldn’t hire this man even if he was my next-door neighbor.
I’m certainly not willing to pay the hefty fee for his retainer.

He hands me a booklet explaining all of the services he provides for children’s birthday parties.
I believe the only talent he actually contains is passing along genital ******.
I close the book as fast as he opens it and tell him I’m not interested in his services.
He snatches the book back from out of my hands laughing rather manically since I just deemed him purposeless.
I thank him for stopping by and for his time trying to be merciful,
but the frown that quickly appears on his face tells me he’s taking it personal.

I politely ask him to leave wanting to slam my front door hard behind him.
Chester then closes his eyes and begins to sing a hymn.
I forcefully ask him again to leave, he’s wasting valuable time I could be spending at the gym.
His eyes shoot open deranged; my soul instantly feels grim.
This man needs to depart from my presence now!
Him working my party, I simply disallow.

I go to push the man out of the door in an attempt to get him to leave.
He grabs my arm and squeezes my wrist hard, not the outcome I had hoped to achieve.
The forces me back into the house and with his free hand closes the front door behind him.
The outcome of this encounter for myself is starting to look grim.
He’s a large man, much stronger than I am.
Now I’m at his mercy, ****.

Now squarely in the middle of the living room, he squeezes my wrist even harder forcing me to my knees.
I look up at him as he admires down at me looking pleased.
He tells me I look good for being a middle-aged mom and am quite the **** tease.
I beg him to let me go and promise to hire him if he does so, in hopes he agrees.

With his free hand, the man drops his pants exposing he average sized ****.
He demands me to milk him dry and to end the small talk.
Hesitate, but with no other options, I slowly take all of him in my mouth.
I bob my head back and forth ******* him off while in my mind I pretend that I’m on vacation down south.
His manhood taste terrible, like he hasn’t showered in weeks.
I hold back gags as he pulls out of my mouth and slaps my cheeks.

He then shoves himself back into my mouth and I continue to ****.
I’m tempted to bite down and cause him misery but with the tight hold he has on my wrist, I’m afraid he would shatter it in retaliation, so I’m stuck.
*** starved, it doesn’t take long for his **** to fill up with cream and begin to throb in my mouth.
Excited, he moans and whispers that he’s going to keep this day as his Sabaoth.
He quickly blows his load down my throat and lets out a smile of pleasure.
It seems my mouth was quite the treasure.
I ask him if we are even and tell him I’ll let bygones be bygones.
He immediately frowns and tells me no, he’s going to put me where I belong.

He tells me to get back up to my feet and leads me into my bedroom.
He lies me on the bed, strips me naked and tells me he’s sure I have a nice womb,
but tells me my womb is not what he’s interested in.
He begins rubbing his hand over my leg commenting on my delicious smooth skin.
He licks his lips and tells me he bets I will make a tasty meal.
Panic cripples my heart as I plead with him to work with me and make a deal.
I have a young son who will be home from his friend’s house soon.
I don’t want him to walk in on us like this, I rather have in walk in on a cartoon.

The man, not caring what I have to say, climbs unto the bed and sits on my chest.
He places his right and above my left eye and tells me my son will soon be addressed.
Without warning, he slams ******* into my eye sock and rips out my left eye.
A loud piercing scream escapes from my mouth, God I want to die.

The sick, depraved lunatic smiles at me and shows me my eyeball.
I’m too busy screaming out in pain to be appalled.
He tells me the eyeball is the most delicious part of the human body and can’t wait to eat mine.
He reassures he won’t harm my son, that he will be fine.
He then sticks ******* into my right eye and rips it out as well.
The world as I know it goes black as I’m left in one terrible place to ******* dwell.
----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------

The front door of the home squeaks open as a young boy enters, the son,
freshly back from his friend’s house where he just got done having a lot of fun.
The smell of cooking food enters his nostrils pleasantly, rumbling his stomach as he is hungry.
He’s a boy whom enjoys his food even though his mother warns him eating too much will cause him to become chubby.

He drops his overnight bag on the floor and yells out, “mom I’m home!”
She doesn’t answer, she always answers!  Something is not sitting right up in Little Austin’s dome.
He walks towards the kitchen then stops immediately in his tracks.
There is a strange, unrecognizable man cooking, wearing ***** slacks.
The man turns around and smiles, “Austin you’re home!
Dinner is almost done, please take a seat next to Jerome.”

Austin sees a puppet sitting in a chair at the kitchen table and takes a seat in the chair next to him unsure of the whereabouts of his beloved mother.
He’s not sure who this man is, a stranger or possibly his long-lost father?
“Where is my mother,” he finally asks.
The man flashes Austin a warm smile that disguises his true ugly identify like a mask.

“Your mother will be here shorty, she had to run and pick up a few last-minute things for your birthday party tomorrow.
She asked me to stay here and keep an eye on dinner you know.
My name is Walter and I will be providing entertainment at your party tomorrow.
Your mother only hired me for an hour although
so, you and your friends will have to make the most of that hour.
Dinner is ready Austin, o don’t look so sour.”

The man sits a plate of meat down in front of Austin then joins him at the table to eat.
The man tells Austin to take a bite and try it, it’s delicious meat.
Austin takes a bite and discovers the meat is rich with flavor and very tasty.
He cleans his plate rather hasty.

“Good stuff isn’t it Austin,” asks the man.
“Yes, what kind of meat was it?”
“Human meat Austin.”
Austin giggles thinking it’s a joke, “No really what kind of meat was it?”

The man drops his voice to a sinister low level and repeats, “Human meat Austin,
Your mother’s meat to be straight forward.
She did make one tasty meal.

Austin, visibly shaken by this revelation feels his heart sink in his chest.
He begins violently shaking and falls to the ground quite traumatized as you guessed.
He curls up into a ball and begins whispering to himself, “it isn’t true, it isn’t true.”
He didn’t want to accept the truth but deep down he knew,
his mother’s meat was just fed to him by a lunatic.
He now needs to act to save himself and act quick.

“You want desert Austin?  This is the best part.”
The man picks Austin up, sits him back at the table and tells him to have some manners and a heart.
The man places a dish in the middle of the table then removes the lid,
exposing two eye ***** ready to be eaten, his mothers.”

Screams echo around the house as Austin loses his composure and makes a break for the front door.
The man grabs Austin and tells him he still has to see his mother one final time in all her glory and gore.
“She’s still alive,” he whispers into his ear.
“It’s the only way to keep her meat fresh.”

“No, no, no, no Austin trembles uncontrollably as the man drags him into his mother’s bedroom.
A heart wrenching, ear drum piercing, earth spin stopping scream shatters the sound barrier as the boy comes face to face with what’s left of his mother.
Two ****** holes remain of what use to be her beautiful blue eyes.
Her tongue has been removed, leaving her unable to speak.
Her legs are missing from the knees down.
Her breathing is faint; death is nigh for her.

Tears fall relentlessly from Austin’s eyes as the man handcuffs him to his mother, forcing him to spend quality time with her mangled body.
-----------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------

The front door of the home slowly squeaks open as Dr. James Allen Burke enters the house.
His appearance here will surly cause a rouse.
Walter is sitting in a recliner in the living room, his eyes make contact with Dr. Burke’s.
Walter has been expecting him since he himself is one of the doctors failed works.

“Good evening Doctor, it sure is lovely to see you again.
Please tell me, your walking into the den of a mad man with a solid plan.”

“Walter, what have you done now?
I was supposed to help you control your urges, that was my vow!”

“Is that why you cut into my brain time after time, to help me doctor?
Because if you ask me, experimenting on my brain means you have no honor.
You’ve tried time and time again to get my brain right but each time you failed.
It’s about time I think that the police find out about your experiments and to a cross you should be nailed.
Do you want the public to know about your current experiment with your mother?
If you want my silence, turn around, exit the house and no longer ****
with me!”

“Walter, when I discovered you fifteen years ago, the police were ready to hang you.
You were lucky I was able to convince them to allow me to help tighten your screws.
You were found near death after being poisoned by your best friend Pete,
who was found with a bullet hole in his head from a bullet that was traced back to a gun owned by you that was found next to your body lying on the street.
You threatened to ****** your ex-girlfriend.
You threatened to ****** your son.
I’ve been performing procedure after procedure on you to fix your brain,
but all my attempts over the years, I’m afraid have been in vain.”

“I guess I should have been allowed to die in peace on that street instead of being revived doctor!”

“I’m sorry I failed you Walter, but I can no longer allow you to carry on with your rampage of destruction.
The crimes you have committed under my watch are too much for my soul to bear.”

“So you are here to **** me doctor, is that it?”

Doctor Burke, unfazed by his failed experiments aggressive nature towards him, smiles and nods as a gun shoot rings out.
A bullet, shot from a gun carried by Amanda who’s now standing behind Walter, hits Walter square in the head putting an end to the failed experiments fallout.

“Thank you Amanda for helping me…”

“Thank me later Doctor, there is something you need to see this instant.”

Doctor Burke and Amanda walk into the bedroom to the horrific sight of Austin handcuffed to his mutilated mother shaking and crying uncontrollably on the floor.
Doctor Burke takes in a deep breath greatly disturbed at the sight, he can’t even begin to enjoy the fact that Walter isn’t around to cause chaos and destruction anymore.

“Doc, the Woman is somehow still alive we need to put her down.
What do we do with the child?”

Doctor Burke takes the gun from Amanda and tells her he will do what must be done.
They need to clean up their mess to avoid and cops discovering their dark ***** deeds placing them on the run.
Doctor Burke points the gun at Austin’s head and pulls the trigger placing a bullet right between his eyes.
He had no chance on growing up and living a normal life, I’m not going to lie.
He would have been traumatized for life and unable to function in the real world.
Placing a bullet in between his eyes is a mercy **** and hope now his soul can be at peace.

Doctor Burke shifts the gun over to the mother and pulls the trigger,
also placing a bullet right between the dark holes of what use to be her eyes.
He looks over at Amanda and speaks,
“Let’s clean this mess up and cover our tracks.”

He wants none of it
The unrelenting fame
Paparazzi's lights
Never out of sight
The crushing weight
Of a well-known name


He wants none of it
The life-******* fame
Endless demands
From legions of fans
Happiness funneling
Right down the drain


He wants none of it
The soul-deadening fame
Prestige a cruel mistress
All joys turned to business
Dousing his spirit
To extinguish its flame


No, he craves anonymity
For stardom to cease
To be happy with less
Freed from the stress
True glory found
In a life lived in peace

Kissed the heatwave goodbye at last,
All waving as she left,
While armies of black clouds amassed across the pinkish sky,
Manipulated by light tricks in the heavy glow,
Diminutive raindrops thickened as we danced,
Worshiping the shower of cooling joy,
We danced in celebration, in appeasment of Thor,
The world becoming more content,
The blazing fireball came and went,
Bedecked with paste of glory breeze,
Kissing all around,
The rain came dousing baking souls,
Chased heat into submission with electric fireballs,
Dots and dashes,
Nova flashes,
Thunder roared as lions purr,
Bodies relieved to breathe again,
Headache of oppressed airs' hatred,
Dissipated at last,
Sleep weighed heavily on the eyes of the sufferers,
'Til now at last with cooler skies and night wishes,
With rest they're truly blessed!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

“Looking for a walking buddy”
The invitation looms as I scroll through pages of personal ads
Filled with sensitive insight, too intimate for idle voyeurs browsing.

The computer’s hypnotic glow, dousing my cheeks in pale light, coaxes me to search
To rummage through human advertisements and peruse desperate expositions
Behavior quite unlike the pastimes that others might imagine me participating in
Behavior quite unlike the nightly activities I usually partake in
Such as sleeping

Won’t I give up this useless quest for nothing in particular,
And surrender my body to the ruthless aches creeping into my muscles and joints?
I’ll wait for assurance that my grazing has meaning–
I’ll linger to assign significance to this arbitrary curiosity, even into the early morning
Eventually, I’ll resolve to the conclusion that there is somewhere an assembly of people squinting in thought, trying to justify this same bizarre inquisition

We the people, hunched over luminous monitors, “looking for something more”
We who have specific and lewd requests for the opposite ***
We nosing congregation, mysteriously drawn to the Strictly Platonic section of the personals
Should try our luck with a walking buddy
And wander away.

Now pack your luck up in handbags
hurry hard through your back door
                      These nights
Are colder than they ever were
dousing fires on 13th floors
When flame-lit streets frost over,
you can see a little more,
and the dancing sidewalk shadows let you pass

Now cross your arms and your fingers
clear the cobwebs from your head
                      You're off
And running on your rabbit's feet
clutching clovers to your chest
10,000 lucky pennies
for a Greyhound ride out west
when you get there, count to 7 and exhale

You had torrents and storms in your hair
Grey dewy eyes that whipped windy stares
And at the beginning I didn’t feel the cold weather you brought around with you.

you flickered like the hesitant cheap matchstick
That resides in between the fingers of the adolescent that doesn’t yet understand
Friction

Caused by two opposing forces for a reason
For an end product, to commit treason
But not according to your abundant manual of
Do’s and don’ts that mention in the title you’re exempt

under the weight of  so much paper thin equality
chapters damp with words that stank of expectations
I found a home under the printed lines of I love you, the running ink dousing me with a blackened perspective on what it was you really wanted for me

To give but not receive
to be free to talk but not to breathe
but everyone knows
you require both to form a voice

and without that


my fingers would slowly snap to the beat that my bones would crack
To the rhythm of your whiplash tongue
Which would flush waves against the shores that were my shrinking figure
The small women you requested at the doorstep of our relationship
Has finally shrunk to fit through the keyhole

in the shape of your accessory

                            Which is obviously necessary to put up with me.

Despite all my efforts:
of scrubbing off the oils
settling on my skin,
of dousing heavy colognes
to cover away the perfume,
of covering in ice water
to mask away the warmth,
and persistent use of alcohol
to sanitize germs left behind,
through every physical method
practical and possible,
I could not easily erase
the trace of your hand.

the pyre of my soul
incinerates my interior
as I watch our flames burn
relentlessly from my lips
like the words that removed
love from around my heart

who would have believed
your whispers would burn
like the sun; singeing my
entirety with venomous
blisters flung with displeasure

bafflement sears...

there's no more emotions,
forgiveness is shamefaced
a misdirection of affections
your misunderstanding
leaves me naked in this
moment, heated in affront
this second fore, nothing
matters anymore

inner abashed turmoil...

roils like a cauldron upon
a campfire, its embered particles
I breathe and ingest for naught
in whimpering gasps
wanting to desecrate that
smirk rising upon your
handsome features; a look
I once found to be endearing
once in awhile

that you took away, too...

your total disdain; dousing
our flame of eternal love of
all that beheld us in God's
light; which, now leaves me
awash in bile, dazed, open-mouth
stares from dimming eyes
is all that looks upon my beauty
with such pain; makes me want
to scream, take me
want me, love me as once
before

re-ignite our flame...

those thoughtful embers are
undirected words drenched upon
an uncaring mind, directing
my soul and heart towards
the moon and the burn of stars
that light up the sky of my
heart and mind as if I could
have altered the course
of your bitterness, until
I can no longer sigh in want
of your love

thoughts of me gone asunder...

filling my lungs with silent
animosity towards all that you
stand for, my only want now
is for you to stay away from me,
allowing me to live in solitude
inside the hunger that pours
like stinging tears from my eyes,
let me be without changing
the sound of love still singing
within my heart

These days I long for
the times we drank for hours
getting dolled to the nines
in between shots and dance
moves. Weaving our way
in and around bodies
dark and in shadows,
prowling. We were the big
cats, the ones they keep
in cages for tourists to gawk at.
The ones they fling whole
carcasses towards, to be devoured.
Soul searching eyes and manes
longer than the Nile. Stopping
grown men in their paths with
a single glance. I dream of
the nights we could have talked
our way out of cop cars and into
furry handcuffs with a twist
of the tongue. We would twirl
boys around like tops, wrapped
in dorm room sheets. Winking
and taking them out in the morning
like black bags of trash, one after
the other. Blowing smoke out
our windows and giggling, our
own secret language. Setting fire
to our own bridges and dousing
the flames in tears and liqour.
We were the biggest game,
hunters being hunted, dying
to be laid out like skinned rugs
and ravaged like last meals.
In the end, like lazy zoo lions
we were left with nothing but
the shadows of the Queens
of the Jungle we used to be.
Licking our wounds
and cleaning our paws
in the sunlight as the world
goes on without us.

And again you fall up.
Fall up into your own head.
Your tangled strings of thoughts
Slither and snake around themselves and choke
Themselves out with a pressure twisted
Tighter than boy-scout knots
Ebbing around painful snaps of rubber band nerves
Looping around the tennis ball of your brain
And as you fall your foot snags on the ringed
End of a threading needle and as you kick it deeper
Into your soft red pin cushion mind
You are hanging with your legs pointed up
With your fingers just barely *******
The edge of that whiskey bottle
The needle breaks.
And you fall down into that drink
Dousing your brain with boiling hot liquid
Hoping that your knotted thoughts will
Melt into spaghetti, soft and loose
Barely circling the fork of your brain
And finally unravel the pressure of
Being the only person who falls both ways.