I lost cuntrol when I was nine years old.
Mother took my hand off my crotch yet left my brother to the confinement of his cock;
Girls good, boys bad, and oh no sweetheart your beauty is your only power.
And I’d blush; not in the way she’d hoped through the sweep of a brush but rather when my teacher left her hand lingering on my back as she bent over to tick the formula of the female form and cross out what the chimes of the church commanded.
I looked at the curve of the x she used to mark the spot and sighed.

Teach me. Teach me your ways so I can breathe in the sweet blossom of your hair as I rest in the bossom of your heart, its smells like lavender. Lavender.
Lavender sweet dreams honey and I will see you there tonight.

It was then I began my perpetual low earth orbit from dream to dream and departed from what mother said that day when I asked the question that makes mothers quake as they smooth out the creases in their dresses and tuck their unravelled hair behind bitten ears.
Making love. We made love only to make you, darling.
Mother smiled sweetly and turned her back on me as her mind traced back to that morning when she made mad passionate love with the milkman when daddy wasn’t looking. I am still waiting for my little sister.

If practice makes me perfect then meet man, mother.
I used his rocket to launch myself into space where I spelt her name out in the stars and jumped over the moon to Venus. I felt the warmth from her skin like the sun that keeps me alive. Alive. Alive.
Warm me, darling, just with the nestle in my vessel in my veins in my sugar coated spaceship.
We found sticks and made smores and we floated together, with my hand tracing your V in that three-dimensional galaxy between your legs we fell in love. No void existed between our celestial bodies as gravity pulled me into your arms.

He came as I came back from space thinking of nothing but the soft shape of her hips and the trail of her spine that led me back to earth.
There’s man with his grey socks still on his feet, dark matter on the sheets and a wrapper on the floor.
Rubbish I thought, but in the sky…
That night my mother asked me why I am smiling.
I said I have become an astronaut in orbit with a woman who I love in space.
She cried shes lost it.
I smiled, nodded yes, I've lost it to her.

I lost cuntrol when the earth, heavens and waters fell in love and sailed and soured as we danced on the tree tops of your garden, with waves crashing beneath us leaving salt shimmering particles like diamonds on your feet.
You were my alphabet soup that filled me with too many words, the thrill of the prize at the bottom of the cereal packet and the noble intentions of stopping the Titanic from sinking with the touch of button.
We had love at first sight like David and Jonathen, Ruth and Naomi who boarded the ark as my back arched in passionate throws below deck, as Noa held Emzaras hand smiling.
Adding a letter to her name on Transgender Tuesdays was just an afterthought.
Opening her drawers to pack up her boxers and bind her breasts Noa smiled as the clock cocked Tuesday.
She entered her escapism; what the Bible calls a natural disaster, I just call natural.

I lost cuntrol when I re-arranged the stars like pick and mix, so I could always find my way back to you. When you said I love you I wondered whether I’d had too many dolly mixtures and where jelly babies came from.
Sugar rimmed your lips like salt on a martini and left me drunk with desire as I licked around your edges. You slipped a haribo ring on my finger and I gave you my loveheart.

I lost cuntrol one day when my lover Alice said eat me. She showed me Dinah who hide beneath her skirt and I followed curiously.
I didn’t ask her to say please but that’s another story.

After her lesson I was told the Sputnik satellite was man-made and I laughed.
Oh no, women have been launching rockets with complete cuntrol between their legs for years, leaving the earths atmosphere and dreaming of everything else but dirty Dick’s dick.
During countdown they think of shopping lists, whether they’ve burnt off enough calories for wine with their girlfriends, and sometimes, sometimes, of her.
Do good girls go gay?
In space, my mother said, in space.

Fay sat with Benedict
on the grass outside
Banks House. He wore
his faded blue jeans,

white tee shirt; she
wore a lemon dress
(one he liked) with
small white flowers.

It was warm, a summery
sun was in the sky,
trains moved over
the railway bridge

just over the way.
She talked of a nun
at her school, who
was strict and carried

a ruler around to hit
the hands of girls who
spoke out of turn.
Benedict sat cleaning up

his six-shooter toy gun,
wiping his handkerchief
over the silvery barrel.
Girls live in fear of her,

Fay said, she creeps behind
them and pokes her
finger into their flesh.
Have a teacher at my school

who pokes with a pencil,
Benedict said, digs it right in,
especially when he’s making
a point about something.

Fay’s eyes caught the sun’s light;
he thought he could see angel’s
playing there. She caught me
over my knuckles last week, Fay said.

Did you tell your parents? he asked.
God no, she said. Daddy would
have beaten me for sure; upsetting
nuns and such. O, he said, he loved

the way her fair hair shone in sunlight,
the way she moved her lips to form words.
He put his gun back in the holster
(the one his old man had given him)

around his shoulder. She spoke of
the mass and the priest who came.
Benedict didn’t know what the heck
the mass was, but he just listened to

her talk, watched her lips make words
like some potter makes bowls.
He studied her hands as she spoke,
how they gestured along with the words;

small hands, thin fingers. He couldn’t
understand how anyone could want
to slam a ruler over such thin knuckles.
She spoke of the Host and that it was Jesus

in the form of bread. He was stumped,
but listened on, taking in her every word,
the sound of the word, the way she
shaped it, the way her tongue seemed

to hold then throw out the word.
Then she stopped and pulled off her
yellow cardigan because of the heat.
He saw on her upper arm, a fading

green bruise, like damaged fruit gone off.
She put the cardigan on the grass,
and talked on about confessions,
about the confessional, how dark it was,

how the priest was hardly
visible through the metal mesh.
Benedict half listened; too concerned
about her bruised fruit flesh.

Isn't it exhausting,
living with so much hatred?
Not being able to let go
and forgive someone who once meant everything to you?
Doesn't it burn your skin and seer through your bones?
Eat you away?
Or have you changed too much
from the man I once new?
Now your heart has become numb.

Bus full of people breathing inside a small space
Face to face, eyes cast down and explore
A small girl that hides behind bangs
Long thin legs
Tightly fit close
That are shear and expose
Insecurities
And people whisper
People point
But I remember what Teresa told me

A small man gets fired up
But can’t fight, he wobbles drunk
He wants to prove he is big and bad
That the girl who left him
Didn’t have his heart in hand
That he doesn’t bleed
He doesn’t hurt
He punches the next guy he sees
He makes him blue
Makes him bleed
And I remember what Teresa said
Two lovers hold each other tight
Teary eyes on a star lit night
Warm bodies fight the chill
Each wondering if they will
Be able to hold hands like this
Forever or if
Fingers fold into fists
As bitterness steals a kiss
Because the two girls don’t know why
People say they should die
They have always only loved each other
And I remember what Teresa told me

my female cicada found way to lay eggs inside of my nasal cavity.. the larvae are pupating and ravishing in the inside of my frontal lobe. maddening me.
and a swarm swims out every time that i sneeze. and i ask them to please kill me with their disease. but they chew through my hyde (and who knew that id find the hard way that these family insects could tease til they torture the swallowed man, hollowed inside, empty wallowing, died) molested and nested piece of me rest in peace..
                         -they duplicate in 3's.

Life is more than just time
It's more of poem with less of a rhyme.

Sky blue, trees brown, grass green....
You know what I mean?
Maybe it's not coming out right...trying to explain the meaning of life
But like.....who's knows what it is?
I do.
And the answer is:

This space is just for experience.
30 to 90 years of just feeling it.
Doing the things that you need to do,
and giving things back instead of just stealing shit.

You walk through the world just learning.
I sit in class just yearning,
"I need to be out there and I want to see."
My thought wheels keep turning.
And I try to be more than just one...
Because we weren't put on this world just for fun.
No.
We are here for a reason.

But even that's hard to believe because we're suffering treason.
High.
Like the kids these days.
Playing with fire
"You snaze, you laze."

But I digress.
Now, what was I talking about? Oh yeah,
PRESS!
Printing these stories about celebrities who quite frankly,
Just don't mean shit to me.
I mean, shouldn't we be focusing on something else for a change?
How about how the earth's climate has changed?

There are animals who are dying,
Their kind is shrinking.
Oh, and the water level is rising...
And we are still sinking.

Looks like no one is gonna build us a boat
So we all might have to hold onto our breath
And float on...like that band said.
"To be or not to be." Like that man said.
Right? Because our generation is so "stupid"
We have nothing to show because we don't do shit?

Well you just wait and see.
And for that you'll need patience and tenacity.
How about another subject? cause we have plenty of time.
A few years i'd say, but no...that won't fit in the rhyme.
So how about the mind?
It's a brilliant thing.
It controls us all like an ancient king.

Like for example, King Tut.
And i'd go on but you know what?
I just remembered I was talking about life, am I right?
It's already dark out, and as it turns out, I don't have all night.
So i'm going to leave you with this little piece.
And out of everything this is what i'd like you to take with you, please,
People don't get through it easy
L-I-F-E.

But we are strong.
I mean, we're on top...right where we belong.
So really just...do what you gotta do.
I know the advice may be disappointing
But it's all that you'll need, dude.
As long as you do the things that you need
You have nothing to worry about and you will succeed.

So i guess life really ain't much
We talk and maybe think of it as such
But
You know what, forget all the rhymes.
Maybe life really is just...nothing but time.

Sometimes I wonder
what life would be like
for Catholic Christians if
Jesus had been a gay man who
was in Jerusalem's hottest band and
played the guitar and dyed his long brown
hair and pierced an ear or two and then I don't
know if I should be ashamed of the picture
that that puts in my head.

I will start with a hello.

A handshake, an introduction, a beginning.
Then it will grow,
from an exchange of names
to playing mind games and discussing our fames.

You've always been the talker,
the initiator, the instigator.
And I; the listener, the adviser and friend
to give you a silent prod in the right direction
when the sidewalk comes to an end.

I take no form; no shape, no size.
I'm not the truth, nor the lies.
I am not a human, or a living creature.
I have no body parts, or any features.

But I can think, sure I can.
And I can act as any other man.
The reason why I still exist
is not meant to be a mystery
buried deep inside your inner abyss.

In fact, it lingers right in front of you
and dances before your eyes.
It isn't meant to be shocking news;
or an unforeseen surprise.

Even if you can't see me,
I'm always here as company;
the guest that never leaves.

And even if I wanted
to pick up my shoes,
get up and move,
my nonexistent feet
would stop me in my tracks
and I'd be heading back to your street
fast, fast, fast.

I'd be back before the count of two;
and if you wonder why,
ask yourself this:
why is it that we've never parted,
or even said goodbye?

Here is my answer to you:
We are bonded together by super glue,
joined by the brain, the heart and soul, too.
If that sounds confusing, I'll give you another clue;
you live in me, just like I live in you.

I am poetry;
metaphors and similes,
dotted i's and crossed t's.
So fill my cup with the wine of your words,
swallow me whole and be free as the birds
flying through the endless sky
as clouds and airplanes pass you by.

Stanzas and rhymes will flow down your throat
like that of a current, which carries a boat
and takes it to its destination;
the end goal, the aspiration.

They'll travel down with ballads marked in cursive,
with scribbled sonnets and haikus and verses.
Then when they finally reach the heart,
you'll know that it's no longer just words but art.
Because your poems are colours that brighten the walls
by splashing blank canvases and bathroom stalls.

I am poetry;
the pencil and the paper.
But you are the hand, the thinker, the maker.
So paint the world a picture
through your beautiful literature
because your words are your wand
so show us the magic and create the bond
between the fixed and the broken,
the sleeping and the woken,
the written and the spoken.

Pick me up and let me scrawl
down your words and then install
them into the minds of everyone
and they'll be stunned by the
brightness of your sun.

You'll shine with radiance and glory
so keep on telling your story
because your words are your life,
your victories and your strife.

You are the creator, the teacher, the reverend;
but this time, I will subside
because you are the guide,
and your words are your legend.