“You know the worst thing I ever saw?” He asked.

I sighed to myself, took another gulp of beer and fixed him with a look of half-interest. He was drunk. A complete ****-up and a bore when he's drunk. I don't know why I drink with him. That said, he probably thinks the same.

“What's that?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard.”
“Ye-what?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“The homeless. Right.”
“I'll get us another drink.” he says, “then I'll start where I left off.”
“Oh, good.”

He comes back with two bottles. We drink and we start talking about football. We're just about getting by before he raises his palm to his face.
“Aw, ****. I forgot, yeah. The worst thing I ever saw. I never told you.”
“You did. Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah yeah, but that doesn't really say much, does it? You're probably wondering to yourself why that would **** me off so much?”

Not really. He's the type of no-action, all-caring, bleeding heart that sits on his fattening **** every day, 'liking' rhetorical captions over pictures, and signing petitions to axe some ***** politician or other.
“I guess. Shoot.”

He shoots.
“I wanna burn down the churches. Seriously. Stupid ******* religious folk. I bet they go home and post pictures up of themselves, all busy in the soup kitchen, ladling minestrone into some poor *******'s styrofoam bowl.
“They'll never touch them. Always at arm's length. You don't wanna breathe in the pathogens of the anti-people...”
He slurred a little, went to carry on, but took another gulp of beer instead.
“What does that have to do with bedsheets over the benches in the church yard?” I took a gulp myself, this time watching him with a little more interest. Probably just because he looks like he could spew at any moment.
“You're not letting me finish...”
He finishes his beer, gets up, almost bumping into his piano-***-keyboard. He's off to the fridge again. I have a look around while he's out of the room. I can hear him ******* in the kitchen sink.

I've seen the place a million times before but it always has a whole bunch of new **** tacked up on the wall or else bundled in the corner. He's no hoarder, just gets bored and throws out all the stuff he bought the year before.
There's a framed picture of himself on the wall, cradling his Fender as if he's a master of the arts. It's signed, too.
I've seen him play. Probably will tonight. Wouldn't be surprised if he's written a protest song called: bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. The old **** can't even hit an F major with regularity.
He'd decided to put up his vinyl sleeves on the wall like a 17 year old would with an array of **** pop-punk band posters.
Blink and you might think he's the new John Peel or Phil Spector. Stare, and you'll realise he's twice as crazy, yet half as talented and half as interesting to listen to.
His room is like a CV to show to interesting, young indie women. Shame he's hitting forty now,and hasn't been to a club in about 3 months.
Last time we went he just sulked in the corner and got too drunk. He cried in the smoking area about his job before going round and asking attractive girls whether they think he's too old to be out. Most didn't even bother to give an answer. Probably best.

He comes back in with more beer.
“A-anyway...” He says, groaning a little like an old man as he settles back into the chair. “As I was saying...” he sloshes beer on the carpet, rubs it in with the heel of his shoe. He spits on the mark and then rubs again.
“What I was saying was that the church would be a whole lot more useful to the homeless if it was burned down. A condemned building is a whole lot more useful than being looked down on by holier-than-thou, middle-class, white Christians.
“They go home after an hour, bolt the church doors, and then watch TV in their brand new conservatories that they spend several thousands on. Just give the losers a place to shoot up and sleep in safety. That makes sense, right?”
“I guess so.”
I couldn't think of a change of conversation. So I just drank some more and pulled out a cigarette. It's nice to smoke inside for a change.

“It's a ****** ******* awful thing. If people were actually religious, they'd throw open their ******* doors for everyone. It's what Jesus would do, right?”
“Right.”
“He'd have all the **** in his bedsit, piled in like sardines, spreading TB like wildfire.”
“And that's a good thing?”
“Well, it can't be any worse, right? Sleep's important. I learned that the hard way.”

He didn't learn it the hard way. Not really. He's a self-motivated, self-harming insomniac. He spent his teenage years listening to bad music and staying up too late ******* over his French teacher. I should know, I mostly did the same.
He hit the **** pretty hard during college. Never really looked back until recently. ****** him up worse than you'd reckon. He couldn't sleep without the stuff. Man, if you'd have seen the poor guy whenever he couldn't get hold of some for the night. Eesh.

“...you know what I mean though? I'm sick of charity. Those fun-runs you get. A load of women in pink pretending that they care about breast cancer, before posting a million and one pictures up of them in ankle warmers and a kooky hat...”
“**** of the Earth.”
“Yup. Right up there with the women who have 'mummy' as their middle name on Facebook.”
“Yeah.”
“Honestly though, it's the laziest form of charity. Throwing a couple old, mouldy bedsheets out on some bird-**** bench made of wood and ancient farts...”
“It is pretty lazy.” I drank some more.

It was getting late. We swallowed three temazepams each, moved onto the cheap shiraz once we ran out of beer. We leant back in our chairs, barely talking and letting Tame Impala supply the conversation for us.

“You know what?” I ask, pretty much out of nowhere. His eyes have narrowed. He's not sleepy, just ****** on ***** and tranquillizers. He takes a moment.
“Huh?”
“From what you were saying earlier... you know, about the bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, why don't you?”
“Why don't I what?”
“Burn it down.”
“The church?”
“Well, you go on about being lazy and ****. Here's your chance. Help the homeless. Break the locks, pour the petrol, take out a few bottles of wine if you find any...”
“Now?”
“I guess so. Homeless folk are dying of pneumonia out there. Not a second can be wasted.”
“I dunno. I didn't mean I had to do it. I was just saying...”
“I guess they were just saying too.” I felt like I was being a ****, so I changed the subject to women I haven't laid.

I stumbled home leaning on my bicycle all the way. Daylight was just about visible off in the distance. I passed two homeless guys on the way back, gave one of them a fiver, the other one my big mac and the last of my cigarettes (well, leaving a couple for myself).
They said thanks, god bless you, etc, etc. I carried on walking.

I woke up the next afternoon with a mouthful of sand and in desperate need of a hangover ****. I hadn't shaved in about two weeks and there were dark circles under my eyes. I thought about going out to the diner for a full breakfast, but strange people were beyond me.
I ordered a pizza full of meat and grease and garlic sauce instead. I text him to see if he wanted to come over and nurse the hangover with a little ****. Watch a film. Get drunk again. He still smokes it on special occasions, and this ******* of a hangover was pretty **** special.
No reply, and I end up rolling up a joint for myself, smoking it by the window and watching the magpies peck around the grass. It's nice out.

The pizza guy comes. He's holding the pizza up like a map, calls out in a bored sort of voice: “Hello sir. I've got a large Palermo Pizza here, with a side of chicken strips and a can of Dandelion and Burdock?”
I say yes and he hands it over.

I tip him with the coins still left in my wallet from the night before, and he sheepishly says he picked up my post for me as well.
I look down at the pizza I'm holding, and there's a few envelopes that look suspiciously like bills, rival takeaway leaflets, and the local paper. I say thanks, give him the best sort of smile I could, and then close the door.
I turn on the TV. I forgot the England match was on. I turn over to something more interesting. There's nothing, so I switch back over. Before I open up the pizza, I take the paper. A small-town existence, nothing ever happens, but I could do with a new job.

The front page is on fire. A church has been burned down in the early morning. A forty-something man has been arrested and then taken to hospital for severe burns to the face. A load of children's art has been lost, along with countless Bibles, prayer cushions, and vaults of cash.
“****.”
I read through the article. The whole place was gutted. Nothing could be salvaged. Nothing could be redeemed. In the corner of the picture, through the red, green, and blue dots, I could just make out some bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.

Spring sulked this year,
plants wet and swollen shut,
buds reined in
by the season’s late debut,
all drenched by loss.

But life, spirited away in mourning,
cannot remain shut up.

Fingers of grief, deft as hungry lovers,
pry open.
Wet sheets snap in the drying wind.
Trash cans
plundered by dogs
boom across winter worn grass
ironed by sun, spilling
corks, stained red
with last night’s wine,
alive,
sulfurous.

The sharp rains of sorrow cut
through me into places left long
vacant by tears until I,
worn from wearing masks,
in company of shadows,
refuse to bury coals
to keep the blaze
from burning.

Let a fool be a fool
Matthew 7:6
Do not give dogs what is holy; do not throw your pearls before swine.
If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and then turn and tear you to pieces.

I think a lot about the character in some people
The character of a person in
the dictionary sense of the word:
Is not the character in my book: per say:

Writing reflects the character of a person like nothing else.’

The characters in my poems, is never about me
it's about my wiliness to come to term with them:
For the past two years, I took on this character
Who am I, what was I thinking and who told me that I could
have taken on such a huge responsibility:

Friendship is better for business than business is for friendship.*
I have proven this quote to be so true:
I have always appreciated when someone give me something:
I would cherish they gift to the end:

Years ago when I was a teenager,
When things were rough, my cousin and I would
borrowed each other stuff… clothing etc.
I remember my favorite blouse, I lend it to her
I spend almost all my wages just to buy the top
She took forever to return it to me:
So one day I build up the courage to asked her for it
She promises that in a week time she would return it:
a week passed, joined by another and another,
I took it upon myself to go to her house
To bring home my favorite yellow expensive top
There and behold as I walk in her back yard: in the sink
I set my eyes on my yellow silk top: in a pile of *****
Dingy laundry, my heart stop for a moment
green and moldy, lying there,
Crying out to me: rescue me!
I just couldn’t believe my eyes:

She never had respect me or other people belongings:
It has been over thirty years, and I still have the pink
robe my boss had given me after the birth
Of my first daughter, I cherish it,
I appreciated the thought behind her wonderful gift
When someone give us something:
We have to considered how that person care
Enough to get us a little something:
a token of their love

I thinks a lot about the character of some people
How they like to used us, and when you can’t
Come through for them, they sulked
They feed on others sympathy:
Don't help people who won't help themselves:
Just walked away: take it from this character:

I think of friends as trees, growing to and from one another, but you grew all by yourself.
You had scars and scratches on the bark. Your leaves hit the light like no other tree did. Our branches grew out to the same sun.

I think of a garden when i think of you, i think of strong stone pathways, crossing carefully through flowerbeds of secrets, laughter, and long face-time calls. Whenever we walked through that garden together, i counted every step and i watched every flower sprout carefully. I would water them and you would make sure they got enough sunlight, you always insisted on carrying the watering can. I carried the shovel high on my shoulder, it was heavy but i didn’t mind, the shovel was shiny and sharp.  

I remember sharing secrets with the snapdragons, the way we danced next to the daffodils, how we laughed with the lilacs, cried behind the carnations, how we imagined new lives beneath the irises.

I’ll never forget the way your boots squeaked when you threaded through our garden. I always loved the way they sounded, i never told you though. You always say i pay too much attention to things.

We both hated leaving the garden, but we knew we would come back the next day, we always did.

Sometimes people wanted to see our garden.

We didn’t want people in our garden, but we weren’t rude hosts. We showed them the snapdragons, the daffodils, the lilacs, the carnations, and even the irises. He didn’t think the lilacs were the right color purple yet and she didn’t know we even grew carnations and they all insulted the irises.

But we didn’t mind.

They wanted to plant their own seeds in our garden. But it wasn’t theirs.

Our garden had grown. Plant life filled the fields, flowers bloomed bolus petals, fruit was ripening trees were treacherously tall, there was color. I liked blue. Your favorite was green. I liked green.

One day it stormed. It didn’t rain. Rain was good. It stormed. It boomed and it clapped and it roared. I was scared but you weren’t. I wasn’t scared.

Things were different after the storm.

When we came back. The fence had fallen down. Fruits were bruised. Vegetables were browned. Trees had branches snapped off. Flowers were wilted. The soil was flooded. But the stone remained untouched.

You didn’t water the daffodils but i didn’t mind i just stepped on the snapdragons but you didn’t like that.

Flowers started wilting but you couldn’t see it from the outside. We forgot to water them. We said we would remind each other, but we didn’t come back to the garden as much.

And this time we came back you didn’t want to carry the watering can. I even watered them this time. Sometimes you took the shovel, but you dragged it on the ground. It chipped the stone but you said we would fix it later.

We couldn’t fix it. Hell, we didn’t even try.

This time we sulked by the snapdragons, we determined damage next to the daffodils, we loathed the lilacs, we cut the carnations, we still imagined new lives by the irises.

Your boots didn’t squeak the same. I could barely stand it anymore.

By now we both stopped coming to the garden together. You left before I saw you.
I started seeing you in other places. You dressed differently in other places.

Your hair no longer kisses your shoulders. It’s tied back tight.
You wear jeans with patches covering holes in which only I know exist.
Your eyes are locked like the gates.
Your boots don’t even squeak anymore.

I still go to the garden alone
I don’t know if you come anymore
But i never harvest the crops we planted together.
I leave the gate unlocked.

I think of friends as trees, growing to and from one another. But your ax cries bullets. And our trees grow outward to two different suns.

I had just came
out of an AA meeting.
I looked to the
west, and spied a
mother cat with
a litter of kittens.
Little ***** of fluff,
running and jumping in
the tall grass,
unaware of the
danger that lurked.
A large black and white
Tomcat eased his way
up on one of
the kittens.
The tiny one arched its
back and hissed,
trying to be brave.

Male cats **** the
kittens so that
the female will go into
heat sooner,
and then he can
mate again.
He's a born killer,
living to ****.

As I walked towards him,
I thought to
myself, why can't cats
be like penguins?
The father helps raise the
little ones, and they
mate for life.
Why can't nature
have morals?
He was nose to nose
with the baby, when I said,
"Go on, get out of here."
He walked slowly, and then
turned and tried to come
back toward the kitten.
I put my hand on
his side and pushed him.
I stomped my feet and he
sulked away for
the time being.
He'll be back.

It ****** me off
and made me sad.
I thought of Caligula and
Roman empires,
and felines of all breeds.
The *** drive,
human and animal,
has its brutal side.

1693

The Sun retired to a cloud
A Woman’s shawl as big—
And then he sulked in mercury
Upon a scarlet log—
The drops on Nature’s forehead stood
Home flew the loaded bees—
The South unrolled a purple fan
And handed to the trees.

& There he was,
everybody's fool
in mid April.

Half-way to May.
Caught in a Day-dream.
Dreaming of the porch
his baby basket
should have been dumped on.

Now,
livin' a life of
love-lost lustful lies.

The dark prince,
is just another servant.
Until the day
his father dies
and the horned/thorn-ed crown
is handed down.

To the next heir
standing in
the 69 blood line.

It's a classic!
An All-American.
Trust fund-****-story.

Staring, a little black cloud.
That spent more time,

sulking
over
sitting

up on the family's thrown.

So he sulked up
until he grew up.

For
he was too foolish,
& tiny
to sit-in or fit-it.

At first, of course.

Cassie walked down the stairs and imediently ran into pyper "oh dang" she spoke nervously. almost bumping into her. "how are you doing this evening pyper?" she tried to keep her cool. "i'm good." pyper replied. "i went into your room and found your ipod." pyper handed cassie over the pink ipod. "you did?" cassie smiled. "well that was really sweet of you to go out of your way like that." cassie grinned. "what a kind person you are." she added. "yeah, i guess." pyper nodded and sighed. "got any plans for the night?" cassie asked in a friendly tone. "well i was going to go out walking for awhile." pyper sighed. "i'll be back in about a half an hour."
"perfect!" cassie grinned.
"what?" pyper asked in confusion and agravation.
"i'm just saying your perfect, i wish i looked like you. you're like an american dream." cassie lied.
"um, ok? cya around cassie." pyper sulked down the hallway. she looked very tired and sad and her hands were shaking. and she had her hands in the pocket of her leather jacket like she had been cold. "cya around pyper." cassie patted pyper on the back and smiled."
"don't touch me!" pyper snapped.
"alright." cassie backed away cautiously with her hands up.

At approximately the first stroke of sunshine,
on the first day of this year,
I asked for Love.
I cried for it.
Silently prayed and wished and screamed
and sighed for it.

Beneath the glow of a golden golf-ball,
I sat and sniffed
and hoped the wish-granters were listening,
could catch a whiff of my wants
through the throng of a thousand million minds
making meaningful resolutions.

Were they?

Oh,
they were listening.

Love came calling,
crowding and mauling,
pounding at the doors of my heart
until the bell broke.

The warning signal in tatters,
it clattered in
uninvited,
unexpected,
bags in hand and
bursting with energy,
brimful of bridge-building advice.

It dumped its belongings
unceremoniously
in my chest
and went out on the town,
leaving me down on my knees,
clearing up the mess it had made
of a once-orderly woman.

It shone and danced,
spoke of joy and sorrow,
promised better tomorrows and,
like a fool,
I confused better
with ease.

There were days
when the world seemed manufactured for magnificence;
when wants were none,
hands were held,
affections yelled
and smiles seemed never-ending.
Suspending belief, I saw,
with Relief,
that Love was
heavenly.

Well.

If we are to flirt with Heaven....
what of Hell?

It was not as I expected it to be.
The visions,
in a head of romance,
see fires and demons
and dances with death, but
it’s the dance of Life
that’s desperate and mortifying if,
defying Reason and Opportunity,
you sit stiff
on the sidelines
and watch.

There were times,
of course,
when no amount of suppression
could contain the need for ecstatic expression
and the feet were flying,
arms announcing each new beat;
heated faces
framed by stars
formed moments of fantasy,
never before or since
would the world see this spectacle:
so simple.
So stunning.

Then...
that done,
everything I expected
was where I went wandering alone.

Imagination may be the key in artistry
and, in so much as life is art,
it may even set you free, but
to plant such a seed in the needs of relationship
is to skip reality,
lose the opportunity,
a head so far ahead
that what’s actually said is missed,
misconstrued and, eventually,
manipulated,
by a misguided wannabe Mrs,
into marriage and babies
and maybe more than a steady supply
of smiles and happiness.

Oh yes: I went there.
Too many times:
the temptation was always too exempt
from everything I’d tried to teach myself.

So.
A healthy dose of heartache later,
I arrived at pen and paper,
where I prepared to bare it all,
hoping to have a happy epiphany
or three
before committing it to computer screen
for all to see
and sigh about.

HA HA, ** ** and HEE HEE.

Poetic justice,
as always,
prevailed.
Thank prose for plying my punctured personality
with Reason and Rhyme.

They came so clear, so quickly,
that they caught Pain by its private parts,
spun it around,
turned it upside down
and emptied its pockets out
onto the patio floor.

As Hurt skulked and sulked by the door,
elbowing Ego
who was pacing
in a panic,
more than a little engrossed
with guessing when the game would be up
and it would be out on its ear......

As Pain -
poised and preparing to pounce
on its adversary,
ripping it to pieces
with words of sharded glass
and showing little mercy
- realised that Respect had it
by its respective receptacles
and was rearing its head in a way
no lesser emotion could hope to convey,
let alone disobey......

As Thought,
regarding the situation at hand and,
seeing that all was going quite as planned,
continued to concentrate on forming conclusions
about that most worthy opponent,
Life......

As the world whirled
and the cue queued,
almost at bursting point
and ready to take a stand......

Love tipped its hat,
took two paces
and gestured
in the direction of
my hand.

****** and ready to fight,
I saw
for the first time
a faint glow within and,
unfurling my fatigued fingers,
I found my fortune:
a gold coin,
shining and shimmering,
showering light
and understanding
into searching eyes.

Sisters,
it whispered,
with a smile.
Your wish was always granted,
you’d just planted the seed
of your affection
too deep to allow detection.

A grin crept into my gut
and kept on growing.
Sisters,
I repeated,
and defeated Disappointment
with a gentle tickle;
it fought at first
but couldn’t contain the calming caress of Release:
it curled up,
cat-like,
and purred contentedly.

The Love you wanted for
was with you all along,
in the women you walked with
(barefoot, do you remember?);
washed with,
wished with;
cooked with, sang with, smiled with:
all the while,
Love was there.

The women who watched
as tears sprang
un-bid;
who let them fall,
held your hand
in their hearts,
and un-did your despair.

The women who graced you
a permanent place in their thoughts;
who took you for tea
and took time
to be there.

Who cared for your fever,
fed you
and fastened you in,
that you might have a little security,
mid-spin.

The women who,
without warning,
could cause laughter
so heartfelt
it melted the moment
and, in minutes,
could mould misery
back into Joy.

It was never about a boy,
my Love.

And as Love shook
its magnificent, smiling head,
I got ready
to re-think the relationships;
re-examine my readiness
to relinquish Hope;
rest my pen and prepare
to put something to bed,
including myself.

But before I could act,
a deep growl grew
from the gut of the beast:
it stacked all its weight
on my door,
whacked it open,
unhinged it and me,
the coin fell to the floor....
...and I saw
what I’d almost left
undiscovered:
the other side.

Brothers! it cried.
Not the lovers you’d sought,
or the masters you imagined
you ought to bow down to!
Not the dramas
of passing pretenders;
not the lenders of hearts,
who drown you in lust
and then leave you
lost and unclear,
but dear, dear Brothers.

Who ask nothing from you
but affection;
perfection in one sweet-heart smile;
kisses that make no Mrs of you,
but instead grant your skin
the warmth of a day
in their company.

Men of honesty,
nature and pride,
who hide nothing,
having learnt long ago
that the meaning of self
is to be what’s inside,
and to sleep at night
is to face fears in the light of day,
so as to avoid the more frightening prospect
of dust-ridden dreams.

Brothers.

I cried.

My heart sang through the sobbing,
robbing my lungs of breath;
I hung my hopes out
to dry in the sun
and rested my head
in the hands of Relief:
it stroked my hair.
It winked at me
and I smiled with it,
and as I lay there
I thought of you all...

and I thought of you all...

and I thought of you all...

...with Love.

On the wheels, I whirl, I spin, I move
Clouds too whirl, then darkness spins
A lightning bolt, then the deafening sound,
Then it pours,
N the fire flies go dim
I dont amble, I dont whisk
Opening my hand, gawking above, I dont decline
Three winks! Drenched n detached from the me wrenching myself,
I wheel as  "The Lance Armstrong"

Heavy pours invite a stroll
Cats and Dogs pouring down dismay Rats, ROFL!
Oust as Prince Zuko, I stroll
Surrendering myself to  the Zephyr
Same trail but with ****** looks
Hypnotic green, drenched, raise me to the Oblivion
Shimmering in the distant are two dim lights
N I ***** like " The Supertramp"

Beginning of the ultimate inception, I touch
Extending my arms to the cries of sky
Dont know the destination of this alley
Trying to think what 'm anticipating
Though without any charge on my shoulders
Flickering in the near distant are two lights
I hike as " The Aron"

'm I tears, I dont know
Even the silence has sulked
Nothing's in my head
Green n Brown, Pink n Purple hues
Repose the folioles, within
Distant lights are passing by now
I stride as " The me"

To the Aisle,
where birds peep, cheep, chirp, quaver, tweet n warble
From the stroll to the stride
's a short walk of hues n blues
The fringes have passed by
Arena's clear n so 'm I.

Undo my buttons
and let the soul breathe
for the body to freeze
or scorch! I am done
with each attempt to see
with wistful bras
and weeping knickers
Sulked by sore heads
that lay on pvc pillows
And aluminium beds
Mouths that drink blood
chew mud
Lips that never kissed the moonlight
Eyes that never waved to the sunbeam
All talk of love to redeem
this mass of jagged insanity
“La vie est un sommeil,
l'amour en est le rêve."
Undo my buttons
and caress all the scars
it took to believe
I am as dead
as my cigars.

Moving at the speed of slow
comfortable in this minor pace
Approaching my ultimate goal
mesmerized at the escalator's glow
green lit stairs on this moving staircase
taking me up with its mechanical soul

Being coddled my entire life, this is normal
no need to exert any unneeded energy
following the fast track without intent to stop
parents paid for a school that is formal
educated privately into the business synergy
gray suits and fortune await for me at the top

With a screech and a ****, the beast halts
accidents happen, but how do we react?
With my escalator stopped, how do I proceed
Without trial by fire, conflict, or faults
Unprepared and contemplating this life impact
I sulked in anger, blaming others that I won't succeed

I see the goal at the top, but its distance is intimidating
How do I reach for that goal if this escalator is broken?
I've never moved forward one complicated step in my life
The terrain is not difficult and the path isn't winding
Then I heard a voice, (my own thoughts?), softly spoken
'It's a staircase you idiot, take a step, you're hardly in strife'

None of the cuts of meat looked familiar to me. Eve had sent me out for T-bones that afternoon. Her folks were coming by to see the new place in the evening, and, after hearing good things about New Bhaktapur from one of her girlfriends, there was no other place to go.

A thick layer of dust covered the glass display case of boneless and shapeless red sheets. Each piece had been cut thin. There were no rib eyes, no N.Y. strips. Instead, the names of the selections suggested what the customer was to gain: Vitality, Stamina, Wisdom, Charisma, and, of course, ****** Ferocity. Under the glass, the meats sat in braided grass baskets, lined with yesterday's news.

The butcher, a brown-skinned, middle-aged man with a round jaw and soft shoulders, wiped his gloveless hands on his white apron, adding a brighter red to the overlapping splashes of dried blood already present. He reached over the counter to shake my hand.

"No, no. No T-bones," he said. "Not even in the back, no. I not do bones. Not because I don't have a bone saw--though I don't--because why? Right? Why bones? Do you eat bones? your name again? Joosh. Yes, Joosh. Good name. Do you eat bones, Joosh? Of course not. If you did, I tell you get out. You mental. Right? And I'd be right. No bones. I see confusion. No, it's okay. It's okay. No blush. No need. What's the word? Embare--embarrassed, yes, thank you. No need be embarrassed."

The bell chimed. A black-haired boy of six or seven, with round, wet eyes and what I supposed was chocolate about his lips, strolled in, chin up.

"Namaskāra, pāpā," the boy said.

"Namaskāra, baccā. Rāmrō dina ahilēsam'ma?"

"Hō."

"Rāmrō. Kahām̐ āphnō bā'ika hō?"

"Yō nala dvārā bāhira chan."

"Malā'ī ēka pakṣa kē."

"Hō, pāpā."

"Ṭhīka cha, phirtā garna kō lāgi jā'ō ra āphnō kāra khēlna?"

"Ṭhīka cha."

As the boy, chin now lowered, sulked into the back of the store, the butcher turned back to me and said, "My son. Apple of my eye. You have an apple? No? A good woman? You be blessed. A good woman hard to find, harder to keep. Right? What were we saying before?"

"I didn't need to be embarrassed."

"Yes. No need. Let me tell you about meat. All I have--I have beef."

"How can I tell what part of the cow it comes from? The ****, the ****--that stuff."

"You cannot. You choose what you want to be. I can tell you don't need Wise. You already too smart for good--for your own good? For your own good, yes."

"But you know."

"Know what?"

"Where the cuts come from?"

"In a way, yes, but in another truer way, no. Do you describe you in such words?"

"What do you mean?"

" 'Oh my **** hurts.' 'Oh my ***** ache.' 'Stop hitting my upper flank.' Do you say these?"

"Well no."

"No. Why? Why would you? You mental if you did. They awful words. Science words. I do not see myself as science. Do you? No. You don't even need to answer. You got good woman. Love pumps in your heart. You energy, right? You can feel that. If you with the right woman you feel hers too. So why not the same with what you take in? What you eat? Not to scare you, never my intention, I couldn't tell you if the cow I process this morning have spots or no. Is it real Angus? Is it real California? I do not know. This is not how I see, not what I'm looking for."

"What are you looking for?"

"I guess I'm touching for, not looking for so much. Forgive. I do this so long I feel, I know what important, what I need, and what my customer need. You think me fool because I know not the science, I have no bone saw."

"I didn't say that."

"You thought it. I touched that, too."

"I didn't mean to offend."

"You not offend me. You challenge. I like the challenge. I like to show you what enlightenment means. Not a divine moment, not a smart moment but a touch, a touch that knows the truths beyond the limit of your vision, beyond the chains of your English. I feel the Vitality as I cut. I feel the Wisdom, and Charisma. You think silly but will you try?"

"I'll try it."

The butcher wrapped up four thin slices of Vitality in brown paper. He tied the string. "This," he said, bundling up two more slices of ****** Ferocity, "this is for you and your good woman. What is her name?"

"Eve."

"Ah. The mother of the world," he said. "Joosh, my new friend, have a real day."

The bell chimed. A child's bike rested on a hydrant outside. It was overcast but that was fine. I couldn't remember where I parked my car and that was fine, too.

NO. NO SUGAR THANK YOU.

Took the telegram
from the telegram boy.

He looked like an angel.

"STOP!"( stop )it said.
It was from Death.

"Ahhhhh man..!" I said.
"I haven't got time to die!"

I sent a telegram back
quick as a flash.,

" NO STOP!"(stop).

I deleted Death
from my facebook friends.

Death sulked.
Hotfooted it to God..

"Tell himmmm!" Death boo hoo hoo'd.
God called me up.

But I ooops dropped
my mobile down the loo.

Flushed it away.

I hid my soul
behind an ormolu clock

that  hadn't told the right time
for a long time now.

I stuck it to the back
with well masticated chewing gum.

Wrigleys.

The Devil I knew
invited me to tea.

"Is it hot in here or
. . .is it me"

My life struggled like a fly
stuck on flypaper.

"Shall I be mother?"

"One lump or two"
the Devil inquired politely.

"No.  No sugar
thank you!"

I wore my frilly frock,embellished with stones bright
Tying my hair into a pigtail
I came out of my room like a strong gale


'Father!' I called out loud,
Again and again with a merry voice
I lacked patience and many other virtues
But all of it was unseen
For that day was my birthday

Mother came rushing to me
Held me against her *****
In a creaking voice she said to me..
'Ssh,my child.
He is out
He is out to make our country proud'.


I was 11, a child lost in her own dreams
of colors, dolls and things pretty
Never did I understand my mother's message
For I was a child void of the world of war
of blood and death.

The radio played,
My mother cried.

'What is happening?'
I thought.
The surroundings sulked in gloom
I shook my mother's arm
Tears gushing down her face,she looked at me

'General Smith , died a martyr..'
The radio played
'..served his country till his last breath'
it went on playing.

My world of pretty things bright
was no more bright
For the pall of darkness battled and won over all things nice.

Everything echoed in my ears
My father's name was being played over and over again.
They were singing praises of my father
'He was out to make our country proud' they said.

He finally came
Draped in a white sheet
He was there,sleeping.
Many faces unknown crowded my home
Cried they on the occasion of my birthday.

I went up to him and cried
'Wake up Father, its my Birthday.'
Tears rolled down my cheeks.
For he lay there silent,eyes closed.

'Oh' I muttered
and ran down the hallway
Shutting the doors behind me
I buried myself on the pillow
Praying to God for everything to be a nightmare
I wished for nothing but to fall asleep forever.

My world of pretty things bright
was no more bright
For the pall of darkness battled and won over all things nice.

I was 11 and innocent.
A stranger to the world of war,blood and death.

I remember when I found her in porcelain
cracked. she shivered the shell until she pierced
out a tiny foot – a baby’s foot.
five fingers and toes were revealed at a time,
but then came bursting out her head: all-black
eyes, large and quaking. skin as pale as the
egg she split from. but instead of wafty locks,
she had soft brown feathers, flowing from her
widow’s peak to the small of her back.
besides that she was a perfectly normal
child.

i grew her up in town, with the other kids.
i fed her what i knew: seeds and corn and the
occasional peanut butter pinecone.
I made her a nest of blankets every night,
and she sang me songs goodnight and
we always slept soundly and unthinkingly.

she grew up quick though, and soon came the days
when you send your daughter off alone
to school. she was five and I was thirty eight,
and I was the one terrified. most other girls
don’t have feathers, especially this young.
I offered to shave her spine, but she refused.
she crooned that she was born in an egg,
and she didn’t care who knew it.
I was frightened for my beautiful bird-child.

schoolday came, and off she went, dancing her way
to the moaning old bus. it puttered off
in a smoggy wheeze. the sun sulked some miles
before she slowly staggered home, without a
backpack, shirt torn, blood rubbed on her knees.
I asked her what happened, and she never told,
saying it would only make me dark and bitter.
but every morning she still hopped her way
onto that bus, with her bright smile and ******* eyes.

I couldn’t take it. one day I followed
the bus on my bicycle, and visited
her school for the first time. it was large and grey,
like a cynical stone with bunch of windows.
I roared in, asking where she was, attendants
voicelessly pointing in any direction
but the right one. I saw her on the playground,
lanky kids pushing her, bony fingers grabbing,
trying to rip off her telling birthmarks.
she screamed, shouting that she was a child, too.
they asked if children came from eggs, if children
ate only seeds, if children had those things down their back.
she said that this one did. they all laughed.

an angry boy pinched a long chestnut feather
and pulled; she wailed a song of aching.
I jumped in to rip him off but he wouldn’t let go.
the feather stretched longer and longer,
four feet, five! her body bucked and we fell over.
her feathers spread from her spine, wingspan huge
and she glowed a stunning yellow-pink.
her black eyes shimmered, looking at me, apologizing.
I ran to hold her, tears on my cheeks, and she
held out her hand, no. I asked why and she said
goodbyes are too hard this way.
before I could ask what she meant, she sang
I love you
and exploded upwards. her wings stroked lightrays as she
burst higher. she went straight to heavens, and just
when I thought she was out of sight, she spread her feathers
and her silhouette erupted on the sun.
I waved, and saw her white smile glow from her grand shadow.
and off she danced, feet playfully poking at clouds,
with regular birds gliding beside her
and regular children watching below,
her boundless black eyes unjudgingly
gazing at the world running beneath her.

she was my bird-child, and I was her father
for a brief period. I wonder where she is nowadays.
whether she found others like herself,
others who didn’t care. or whether she’s still in the skies,
dancing with the stars, her ten fingers and ten toes
wiggling in the blue, feathers proudly spread, singing.

Walking with you by my side,
Watching the Sun set in beautiful lights,
I sulked every step we took side by side.

You pulled me up close to you,
Looked into my eyes with love,
Kissed me like fire in you.

The taste of your soft sweet lips,
The gaze of your beautiful eyes,
Fills joy in every last inch of my tips.

Greenland's not for sale
Greenland's melting
Green forests burning
Greenback flooding
Greed and fear ablaze
fed and preyed upon by AI
Chosen by the wicked
but snubbed, the King sulked

Man, if there was ever a time
where those two hands mattered
more than just pointing
out the obvious or tracing vague
memories on paper in swoops,
zig-zags, draw-backs, or the capital
cursive "Q" that still eludes me, it's
now. 6:26 A.M., and I haven't slowed
down since 9:20 yesterday
when my girlfriend gallivanted
about her room, her ******* perked
before me.
*******, she looked so good.
We, my friends and I,—the ones
I wrapped in cellophane and tissue
paper two years ago to take
out, reminisce, and put back
whenever I forgot their faces—
got in my boat of a car / bathroom
tile white / and drove through
thick I-80 fog to search South
Side for Santa's front rotor biplane
dropping Christmas joy mustard
gas down molded-brick, soot-caked
chimneys to get people in the mood
for a day or two before the egg nog's
spiced *** negligee stopped feeding
their stocking stuffer lungs and the blisters
that decked the halls like boughs of death.
Then we sat—I, uncomfortably on my car
keys,—by the bar, drinking refills that filled
the IBM-print bill $60 worth of Sprite Pepsi
Huckleberry Lemonade. My one friend
leaned over our cornucopia of unfinished
wings and said that he and the bartender
had been exchanging loaded gun glances.

Neither would ease the trigger,
or even aim well.

She could've been eyeing the waitresses
working the floor like a dart game.
Sharp when your drink's low and feathered
by pathetic tips. We stopped by Lyco. Lynn—
softly steeled—still sung her circular saw blues.
Baby, don't cut me so deep. Just let my girders
meet the street. Let me feel small trees and admire
nice cars signing their makes in last week's thin snow.
We took away two cups of coffee, some Modernist talk,
and a salt & pepper flannel past Market, Maynard,
and slowly spoiling milk to the Mansfield exit.
Over the occasional window defrosting,
we talked premature families, North Carolina
classmates, prison sentences, and that MU
***** who hates my guts. They're out there,
and we're here in this box going seventy-five
and skipping exits like rope.
Double-dutch dual-enrollment college credit
transfers, losing Foundation money talks
****, but can't leave her grudges on the rock
salt steps we sulked up. Hallways with
carpets and our cars parked poolside,
but we chose air conditioning over breast-
strokes. My God, would some lonely preteens
**** for that. Metal detectors to detect
our insecurities and greasy faces full
of acne acne potential. Potential some
didn't use. Potential that went wasted.
Potential that could've gotten them out
of this miserable hole, but instead rented
them out a sad shack on the outskirts—
nowhere near suburbs—of town
where they could inhale
the Ox Yoke's smoke stack laying fog
down to the county line.
Galeton High School, regrettably,
here's to you.

I am not here to fix anything.
It is not my job.
It is not why I am here.

I am here to tell you
That it is okay to not be your best.
There will be mornings
when you will open your eyes and know
right away
Just how bad the day will be.

And that's okay.
You are okay
when you collapse under the stares of people on the street
when you hyperventilate on the subway
and when you consider
an eight hour shift, a 10-page essay, or a judgmental friend
the worst thing that could possibly happen.

Mama never said there'd be days like this:
When every little worry grows
under supernatural lamp light;
because they were her secret.
These little multiplying monsters,
they're everyone's secret.

But I'd like to share mine with you.

Sometimes
I want to be pathetic, laughable, and supremely odd.
Because I've had days
which felt like death
for no reason at all.

I've been yelled at, with marvelous power,
by the man who works at the bodega
down the street
and worried about it for days.

I've launched a string of terrifying mathematical torrents
every night
I couldn't find the 8 hours I was looking for.

I've tortured myself over B minuses,
screamed at slow traffic
cried during Disney movies
sulked over cold pasta
fretted about a stain on my shoe
and hated myself for eating two extra potato chips.

I have buried myself
under a mountain of stress-pebbles,
convinced each one was a boulder.

So it's okay
when you're all alone
and an adult is the last thing you feel like.

When you are sweating, hungry, and sobbing
in front of a half-finished paper
at 4 in the morning,
say to yourself:

"It is okay to feel lost."

There will always be a part of you
hoping for someone to wrap a blanket around you, hand you some tea
and tell you tomorrow will be better.
But they probably won't.
And tomorrow might not be better.
And that's okay.

You will be lost
and worried, and depressed, and exhausted,
but you won't stay that way.
And you won't be alone.

When your small sailboat is tipping and drowning
amid rough seas and sharp winds,
someone will throw you a line,
tie their ship to yours,
and you will float a little easier.

But until they do, remember this:
you are but one of many troubled sailors
searching for simpler skies.
You will reach them.
It has been done, is being done, and will continue to be done every day.

Eventually, when you have left the fog and foam
and thunderclouds behind,
you will be amazed at how far you've come.

So it's okay to feel lost,
to feel little,
to cry and scream and sleep too much
over little things now and again.

But don't give up when you do.
You are always floating forward,
sailing onward,
and this storm is only so large.

Even when you don't want to,
stay afloat.
These waters may be rough,
but you were born to ride their waves.

Her innocent smile is as bright as can be.
Which woefully,unwittingly fell into i diavolis sight.                            
She was truly the  fairest you could ever see.
No wonder she was taken to a world beneath all light.

She ate his fruit that was so sweet.
Then to find out she could not leave.
Disappointment down from her head to her feet.
With all the chills running down from her sleeve.

Dearest young maiden I feel your grief.
And every tear to be sulked like no other.
Thy art to return for thy has strong belief.
The daring buds of May then shall bloom,for happiness then
shall fill your mother.
  
For half the year air is cold followed  by the winters snow.
When shes back the flowers will grow by the hapiness of the summers glow.

My eyes still burn from the tears of gasoline you poured down on me.

How could someone who have given you so much joy every day could suddenly make you want to withdraw them out of your life without any sort of sirens singing around? When our two worlds collided, they were comprised of a confetti of a hundred different things, some were vibrant reds and others atrocious yellows.

From an outrageous exchange of IM’s, being picky with certain kinds of food, talking about weird teachers, sharing an umbrella when the sun’s out and when the skies throw a fit at us, and you being gaga over your bizarre fantasies that I will never understand.

The things that should have been disturbing to me, didn’t even matter. Because it was you. You were the one who mattered.

Do you remember our first conversation?*

You probably don’t. But, I still do. I was the one who approached you first. But then again as time flew by, I’m always the one approaching you first. But I never minded. I never did because I’ve always thought that it was a thing so superficial and minor that it should not have even been a thing. ‘Cause who the ******* hell cares if I talked to you first? All I wanted was to talk with you anyway. I thought it wouldn’t matter to us in the coming years.

There were those days when all I wanted to do was snuggle up close to my laptop screen and talk to you nonstop about anything left on the shelves to pick at. I’d try to tell you things of my own but you’d always manage to twist it around making every thing else about you a little so suddenly. That never failed to leave me feeling all confused and dubious, though. But I forced myself to believe that I just didn’t know how to converse as riveting as you are.

A handful of people around would tell me that I deserved better. That being with you, changed how I spoke and acted in an unpleasant way. But I thought to myself, “Why would I think that? You are so important to me. I would never."

True. Because hey, you mattered to me. But, why did it seem like I never did, even at the faintest bit, to you? What was the matter with me? Was I completely ****** for being just so comfortable with you whenever we’re talking that I even cuss, call you names and point your flaws out? I never meant every offensive thing that got to my head, though. I just crave for your attention all the time. But you still liked me around. You never showed that you even cared about me acting “psychotically”. You probably even liked me being clingy and needy like the girlfriend you never had.

But, this time… I’ll have to do something for myself. I’d have to stop thinking about what is good for you or for the both of us. I have to let go. I have to give up on the future that we picture ourselves embracing together. You have to let yourself be, and in order to do that, you have to leave me out of it. You wouldn’t want me sticking around. I couldn't stand it too, trust me.

You care about yourself more than anyone. I’m not regarding this in a standalone paragraph because it is the perceivable truth. It is in fact a sad truth but, it isn’t sad for you. You should be happy that you are being well-taken cared of. By yourself. I’ll give you a pat on the back for that.

Giving up on someone does not solely entitle the fact that you are letting go of him or her—or for the best of times, in that matter. Giving up on someone also means that you are untying the chains that sulked the bond between the two of you, and finally, becoming free.

Her Light was a gentler thing
Moments of lilac calmness and sunshine in one
Soft brushstrokes laid on creamy white canvas
Melted butter on honeyed steamed buns

Quietly, it would come in the hushed stillness of morning
Creep gently and fold over her skin
She let it sweep across her like velvet water
Until her Light was able to cave in

Through bruised holes of mangled skin pores
Past the dark spots her Shadow had made
Via blackened veins and tarred tissue
Life and Vitality ****** from blood where her Shadow was laid

With her Light, came hope unknown
Like a candle burning weakly inside her chest
And although it struggled against the veil of dark
it was there inside her nonetheless

Her Shadow dreaded when her Light visited
It sulked in a pile and curled itself into a speck 
"Get It out, Girl," It would moan to her in pained agony,
"Its presence will make me a wreck."

But the girl, though she did not say it, loved her Light
And so welcomed It into her eagerly
Despite urgent protests from her weakened Shadow
who fed on what darkness was left thirstily 

And gradually, her Shadow could feel its time dwindling
as her Light began to etch itself deep
and the golden path of the Light was strengthened
by the glowing warmth the girl's lover seeped

Thus her Light would find her insides most fitting
near this heat of the girl's sweet lover
Strong enough to wrap her in and envelop her
and warm the icy crevices left by her Shadow's shady cover

Yet her Shadow despised the boy and his kindling warmth
that acted like a bright magnet for her Light
and so devised a malignant plan on its own
when her Light was gone and out of sight

It resolved to inject itself into the boy
and darken his insides as well
Take what life and Light his pure body had stored 
and rid him of his internal heat shell

It lept from out of the girl's skin
and planted itself tightly in his flesh
It festered deep in the ventricles of his heart for several days
traveled through organs as permeable as mesh

And soon his insides turned frigid
as his heat could not withstand the dark
His once-tender frame hardened into a rough stone
His touch, so smooth, now felt like bark

The girl, whose temperament had improved
after her Shadow abandoned her lightened body,
saw in her lover the same glint in his darkened eyes 
as the ones that used to belong to she 

She found he no longer had any warmth to give
Worse, he recoiled from her kind-intentioned touch
Her lover was as loveless as her evil Shadow
which she now hated very much

And how she cried and wept for his poor, helpless soul
As she knew the Shadow may not leave
Until he decided (with a gun) to end the Shadow's stay on his own
and left her alone to grieve

Perhaps this is how the story ends
But in time, maybe it will be
that the shadowed boy still has some Light of his own
and with effort, it will heal his body.

I was cold and unforgiving when you threw yourself at me,
You gave me everything you had and I said it couldn't be.
I took everything you gave me and laughed straight in your face,
You couldn't be the chosen one, someone has to take second place.
When everything was gone you solemnly sulked away,
but- you'll be back again tomorrow because we do this everyday.
Your break will come around and you'll just want a twix,
but I'll only take your money-for I'm a vending machine and I know all the tricks.

To the boy who makes my skin feel like home again,
You held out your hand and stood there patiently while I warily placed my hand in yours and maybe incidentally some part of my heart too. You so gently removed his imprints off me that I did not even notice till I was standing in front of my mirror, glowing, no longer looking away from my reflection but smiling back at it. Thank you. Thank you for having the thoughtfulness to wipe your fingerprints off before leaving too. You know I never could understand how people use standing alone in the rain as a metaphor for sadness, it's not. It's liberating. And that's how I feel about you. You were the drizzle that set me free.

To the boy who does not make butterflies somersault in my veins,
You were smirking at something clever you said at my expanse and I was looking back at you calmly not the least bothered by the slight blush crawling up to my cheeks.  Because that's what you were to me. My anchor. My calmness. My life jacket. Thank you for teaching me that most hurricanes and people are only looking for ways to self destruct and I need not be the one to put myself in their ways in hopes to save them when I myself have been drowning. Thank you for handing me back the anchor. Now I carry it with me and toss it down whenever I feel the flow is too strong for me. You loved me enough to make me love myself, but not enough for me to be yours more than I was mine. I don't know why they don't teach about self love or how we owe ourselves some kindness too.  But you did. I have not been this shade of love in a long while and I don't ever want to be anything else.


To the boy who makes me smile when I'm with him but does not steal it away when he is gone,
You make me feel things in slow motion like the way a tortoise comes out of its shell, like the blooming of a bud, like a letter hidden among the pages of a history book no one is ever going to bother to read and all the other soft things. Thank you. I'm the love in all those soft things. I've the love i need the most. And so I smile. And I write myself poetry just as much as I write for you. I dance alone when you're gone just as enthusiastically as I do when I'm standing on your feet. I don't understand how I could have ever thought that love was love only when you loved with all the parts of you; saving none for yourselves cause it's not. Love is taking care of yourself and being the sun to your universe but letting him know he is the constellation who you love to read and embrace every night before you fall asleep. Love is hand you want to hold while you're reigning your life.

To the boy who kept his distance while I sulked on the floor but became my backbone when I was teaching myself how to walk,
You told me you fall apart and you think you're done but that's when the work begins. I realised how you don't need people when you're down as much as you do when you're trying to get up after falling down a time too many to count. But you were there. And i needed to understand that not every fragility was breakable. Some relented and preserved. And it's not about how long you stay on the floor but with how much fervor you stand back, again and again after being kicked. Thank you. I'm going to carry my fragile heart like a crown shielded by logic. It's okay to be brilliant and kind. You don't have to rust your shine cause you're blinding someone.


To the boy who makes my skin feel like home again, to the boy who does not make butterflies somersault in my veins, to the boy who makes Me smile when I'm with him but does not steal it away when he is gone, to the boy who was there holding me up when I was trying to be more than I have ever been before

Thank you. ❤

The fridge droned between the sound
of her impaired footsteps across
the 600 grit linoleum floor. She ran
my palms against the cave-like walls.
Eroded paint bubbling like balloons
before bursting, flattening beneath
her touch. She felt the key rack
with more keys than a piano store,
cork board with porcupine thumbtacks,
and the thin edge of the Disney calendar
beside the light switch. Patting the blood
off on her pant leg, she flipped the switch.
With her sleeve, she brushed crushed Oreos
from the table and sat. Scatted about
the stained mahogany was a few National
ENQUIRER subscription cards, used napkins,
and an overdue bank notice. Sliding the chair
back, she sulked to the switch and flipped it
back.

Things she's good at...
Hmmm, let's see.
Talking, and napping, and watching TV,
Whining, and crying, and sighing again.
Again, and again, and over again.

Oh crap, this poem, it's about a princess you see,
But so far I've written it about my kitten, Winnie.

My real princess is Ashley, Ash, so lovely.
But don't make her mad or she might even throw things.
Kidding, I'm kidding! Well, I guess I'm really not.
But back to the point, where we first got caught.

His name was Gage, my good friend of youth.
Immature and reckless, he lost her like ****.
Yeah, that's right, he dated her first..
But with stupidity he lost her, almost like a curse.

Or was it a blessing, a blessing you see.
Not a blessing for him, but a blessing for me.
We met once again, this time a new friend,
His name was Alex, and that's where it ends.

But that's okay, that story is old,
The story of us is about to unfold.
We met before drinks, shots to be exact,
She took so many and convinced her drugging was fact.

Fast forward now, past the times of drunk.
To the time where I, well, I thought and I thunk.
Girl after girl, I'd dated them all.
From Leanne to Lauren, short and tall.

Just over two years of stagnation and pain,
I found that I actually had much left to gain.
Remembering Ashley and the brightness she held,
I randomly reached out and all of a sudden an end came to my hell.

We texted and talked, sexted and sulked,
We found love within each other, something neither of us had felt.
And there it was, almost two years exact to this date.
That I met and fell in love, with my one and only soul mate.

So there it is, the story of my princess,
nothing more, nothing less.
But now, you see, I have two princesses with me.
One's named Ashley and the other Winnie.

I'll love them forever, and long after that,
my beautiful Ashley and calico cat.

under a table,

behind the door

where nothing is cleaned

not even the floor.

there, lies a body,

collected with dust

piled under splinters, cobwebs, and rust.


its breathing, though ceased,

by a soul, never noticed

the family moves on

never wishing to know it.

roaches and rats snigger with glee,

as the body decays,

first a hand, then a knee.


but, a moment's not passed,

when a slam of the door

finds that He has returned,

to take one thing more.

He looks and he scowls,

finding, perhaps, one thing of use...

a leg of the thing

he once had abused,


"Good for a table,

this leg might be!

but its so sickly, and thin,

what use is it to me?"

he examined the leg,

for a minute or less

and finally said,

with no shortage of breath


"what good were you girl? you did nothing for me.

not this house, not this wallet...

not this family!

for you sat and you sulked,

and you fell on the floor,

and it was quite hard to hide

that you looked such a sore.

and you'd cry and you moan,

until finally you stopped,

but even then, you'd not budge

for a sponge or a mop!

what good were you,

to exist in this way?

where you slept in a bed,

for which, i had to pay?

if you left us much sooner,

before we could see

your bruised little leg and dis-located knee,

we might have not stopped you

from growing so vast,

if you had been good,

if you had worked fast!

But, if you had died,

and we knew then

what we do now,

we could have left you

much sooner, you cow!

but since you've survived,

and we've taken your all,

We must do it ourselves,

and bury you whole."


and the girl, as she slumped

on those wooden floorboards,

did not kick or punch,

or demand her own words,


for she knew how He felt,

when he saw such a sight,

her skin and her bones, were,

Oh!

quite a fright...

but she did decide

that she'd mention one thought,

for it left and gone

without once being taught.


And this was who she was

cracks, bones, and skin,

with wishes and hopes,

in loss or win.


for the love of all

she, weekly, would pray,

that she might be able

to love one, someday.

she looked up once more,

to the hand holding her knee,

and she spoke such a truth,

which made her instantly free:


"you knew me not here,

nor when i was born,

and certainly not now,

though, my legs, you have torn.


Look at this body,

my blue skin and bones,

and KNOW there's one thing

you never have known!

that this sunken-in skull,

which longed for a dream,

within it, still lives

some incredible things!


Though leaving this world,

though no good for you,

though, you threw me your scraps,

if you threw just a few,

I'll fly and I'll live

past all of your years,

you have not a soul,

you shed not a tear!


O, timeless I'll be,

despite lack of drink

but look at you, sir,

your head does not think!

Yes!

Look at me now,

while withered

I may be,

and know this you bore,

you never knew me!"

"She just had to say it,
She couldn't keep it to herself,
I knew we were in a rough patch
But this, her ex." I need time to think.
As I sit down on the steps outside
I light, take a drag, and blow

"This can't be my fault, can it?
With all we've been through?
How could she throw this away,
For what, a fling!?" My clouded judgment stews.
The steps become uncomfortable
But I light, take a drag and blow.

"What I should do is bust this door down,
And force her to tell me why.
Why am I not good enough for you?
Why would you throw what we have away!
Tell me why!" And as the stairs began to poke and ****.
I light, take a drag, and blow.

"This is rediculous!" And as I rose from the stoop.
"There's just got to be a reason!
You don't do something like this without a reason!"
Were the words that flooded out of my mouth,
As I pushed our once inviting door open,
And I light, take a drag and blow

"You owe me this, look at me!"
She just continued packing a box
full of our things, our lives, her lies.
So as I flung the box to the ground.
Grabbing her shoulders I screamed "Why!!"
Just light, take a drag, and blow

Her fiery stare was more telling
Than any word that would follow from her lips.
"We haven't been right for years.
You've changed, I've changed."
And I knew there was no more I could do.
Except light, take a drag and blow.

She continued with, "I can't believe you're surprised.
Where do you think I've been going?
You are worse at keeping a wife,
than you are at keeping a job," she sliced.
She was right. I sat down on our former love seat to think
Just light, take a drag and blow.

I helped her pick up the scattered contents,
Of the box I had strewn to the floor.
******* each lie, my ears teary,
I knew this was it. He pulled up at 9.
She left with him at 10, my heart sulked in the corner
I just took a drag and blew.

I knocked on the door,
it was a silent night.
I knocked once more,
there was no one in sight.

The house was locked with the key inside.
I sulked and waited till dawn was to arrive.
Then the birds started chirping
and the hens with their sing
Woke every dozer sleeping, unknown to my sting.

But yet the door remained closed
outside which i strolled
I was sleepy, hungry
And my head spun like a web.
I cursed the person who defened the bell.

It was too late!

I couldnt wait anymore.
I held my head and walked away from the door.
As i did the milk man arrived
and the dear maiden inside
Opened the door to my heavens floor.

She was suprised!  seeing me outside

She began to question me in this mode,
"What on earth was i doing sitting on the road ?"
Now it did not matter to me,
For i was too delighted and at last at ease,
to see my way into a deep bright sleep.