only the moon knew her darkest secrets, the depth of her thought was the deepest, up all night, its something she does frequent, she's an angel from heaven, that fell for a demon, a beautiful image, turned into a broken spirit, constant arguments and disagreements,
her smile held pain, but she stuck to concealment, because her friends and the world were incoherent, I got to see her smile one day, ever since then, nothing has been the same,
she no longer puts that same smile on her face, she once felt grace, but it turned to disgrace, the beauty she holds is inexplainable, the purity in her soul is gold, yet unattainable, because she no longer holds trust,
what she thought was love, turned into lust,,an addicting drug, that having is a must, the magical feeling, turned into dust, she misses the memories, kisses, and hugs, now she confides in her own sorrow, asking god for a better tomorrow, he gives her a light to follow, but her own pride is hard to swallow, A beautiful intelligent female, who felt love through the most intimate detail,
at school she was the most diligent female, filled in amazing aspects, and assets, but she continues to feel the absence, and still doesnt comprehend the circumstances,
for his actions, of dissatisfaction,
still to this day hasnt changed her reaction, the biggest heart break shes ever dealt with, it was minor to him, but her heart really felt it, like a beautiful ice sculpture, she melted,
and there I was the person to who she vented, staring deep into her dark brown eyes, i saw what nobody else saw, deep deep inside, she was wise at mind, i searched more within, as the sun rised, a beautiful lonely girl, that told me under the stars and moonlight,
"hold me close and never let go."
i was there to carefully listen,
she opened up like a book.
after she looked up to me and said i was different, that i just might be what her heart was missin,
her eyes and smile once again glistened, i told her,
"look at the stars, look how they shine for you, until the stars in the sky shine no more, i'll always be there, until the end of time for you."

All americans amply adore adult affairs, as all anarchist adapt alchemy adding astrological anatomy. Again and again advertisements allows affliction adopting and adapting behind ****** beliefs. Besides being boggled, beware big bangs become beginnings. Build beneficial bridges, contemptible courts create credit consuming countries, cops copout. Complement compassion conspire, contact & contest causes constant curiosity can cure cancer, disease & disability. Deep diving dare devils dive deep daring devils designing diabolical deeds daily. Every eclipse emits energy. Employ empathy, empower education, embrace emotion, eliminate elitism. Freedom from forever fetching, fined forgotten fundamentals fully focusing, frantic fools fizzle fast. Gas guzzling gluttons gathering garbage gardens generate generational genes. Gods gilt grows. However hustling hope hype has harmed humanity’s harvest, harboring hateful habits ignorance infects into idiots, idealist imagine, illumination increases imaging. Just join James, Jerusalem’s jackpot, jailhouse jokers, Jesus jumping Joseph just justify Kriss Kringle, knowledge, kings killing kids, ku klux **** kingdoms knowing life & logic loosely. Love loud, live & let live less lords linger, least let light lead loyal lunatics merely mortal magic. Media’s morbid makeover makes morning mindless midnight’s mayhem’s marketplace microwave midfields mixing m16 man made misery muffling many muzzled masses. Newly named narcissistic nations nationalize nc-17 nonsense needing normal numerals natural numbers not nuclear Nazis overseeing oblong objectives orbiting our original origin. Organize outlaws outlanders outcasts overall people pathetically pleased pill popping pissants. Permute perseverance provide physical philosophy preceding prime power, push. Quit quarreling, question quadrants, quests quench qualifying qualities. Realist realize realities rigged, reborn rebels raid reason rejecting rusted routines reducing royalty redoing realities redundant reflection. Reaching scared stars secretes surface scientific simplicity. State symbolism segregates sense spelling spellbound Satanism. Temples trapping truth’s timeline, television tames tons teaching troubling tall tails, turbojeted tanks takeoff targeting trailblazing teachers. Ugly unlawful union undone. Ultimate universal u-turn unites us using unearthed UFOs. Unknown variables vast vacuum, visibly violent volcanoes, vented virus vaults, vanishing voyagers, weather warnings with world wide war warming weapons waking who would watch wandering why x-axis yields yin & yang yet yankees yell yearly. Ziggurats, zodiacs, zen & zion zipped, zombie zoos zigzaging zero zones

The old lady planted roses near the corner by the driveway
She never planted roses by the door
I remember once she told me, "Bees come out to get the nectar"
And a bee sting can be deadly or quite sore
Instead, she planted herbs along the walkway to her cottage
You'd pass by, the scent was rather nice
Rubbing rosemary and lemon grass and sage against your trousers
Sometimes you would even walk by twice

She had hollyhocks and primrose, a classic English garden
Lots of fragrant trees and bushes there as well
There were cedars by the windows and hyacinth close by
If she even had a lawn, you couldn't tell
There were irises and tulips, daffodils and more
And great bushes of white lavender abound
Not only was the lawn gone, with the bushes and the trees
I bet from inside you'd nary hear a sound

Around the back the same thing, exactly as the front
Herbs and plant life, and I'd say maybe more
Than all the plants in Englands  Kew Gardens have to see
And more lilacs by the walkway by the door
The vents from down the basement blew through cedars and the lilacs
Sending warming scents around the clustered yard
There were windows to the basement, blocked by flowers and the trees
And to see in was really rather hard

The one day I remember when I came out to the house
Is one I know I'll not forget
For walking down the pathway with a policeman on each side
Was the old lady with a look of deep regret
It seems the scented flowers and the bushes and the trees
Provided scents to hide the smells from deep inside
The air was vented out directly through the flowers
The house was just a grow op in disguise

Silver screen athletes
quitting soccer teams
to join homophobic friends
(redneck quasi outdoors-men)
who just want to **** animals

angst must be vented
lest it boil inside
and form a much darker concoction.

I beat the horse
'till I couldn't get it wrong
even then
the faceless desks of power
endorse eugenics,
pharmaceuticals,
and high profile lawyers  
sentencing me to a life's term
teaching Sophocles
to an uninterested fifteen year old
too busy stroking a Ritalin limp ****
to star censored ladies on Vegas stripper cards.

And he said "Watch your language"
when I said "What the ****?"

Thought are not suppose to be bottled.So I pour my *** down the sink when I think, it runs down,and I **** away the world afflictions, cause its bigger than my shrink.Hard to blink cause my addiction is I stare into space tryna find my place.To be libra, even with the ying yang cause its constant battle in my cerebral.
Dealin with neglectful people,resultin with me to project hate towards the one I call fam.
****!
I should crucify my hands cause its writtin so much sin from heart.Its truely hard to be positive cause im always dwellin in the dark.
I feel thats what my only option is.
Haunted by the future, dreamin bout the past,tryin to recover, and exhume feelings to rid of that never last.Cause I dont want  stained names writtin on my heart cast growin pains maken me nuts, groin pains.
I want no part of that!
Sometimes I wanna die of a broken heart attack.Beating too seperate pulses on the screen, watch  it get flatlined and silent like my hopes and dreams.
pshhh **** this self esteem!
I been bullied at young,laugh at cause I was fat and dumb,always askin for theyre pizza crust nd crumbs.Always picked last and never won not once.
But I aint done,lost my father, young and I wasnt a good son.Im his off spring that sprung with mean gene son.Him a Drug addict, im the pain addict,I inject the hate habbits an cry in my own attic.
Hopin for a dragon tails, or some
Harry potter magic.
At night I see father & son commercials on the tv screen, I cringe, cause I remember thinking one day thatll be me.To have some  sorta memory of the dAy that we meet.But it never came to pass or be. No sir-ree!  he was notorious, but all he gave me was a  missed calls and birthday wishes never granted, and dead dreams.And a ache, that came with me when I left the nursery the day I was born.
Breathless, a severe asthmatic. Abnia child,who eventually  grew wild,while with no father to tell him to sit down! Im AdHd I cant keep calm! Ima a pessimisst with thoughts in my
Mind that storms from night till dawn.
All about christ,with nails as the  pen in my palms.Reading the psalms,to keep strong but im still weak ,a lefty doin right is wrong.
Still keep my heart on my arm I still flex  nd rep love till packed solid like abs and pecs. But just give a nine or tech, to shoot bullet notes.The ology of knowing me, is a study of a SOB.. Shortness of breath...


Lost in direction I need a pointer,
And eyes cause im walkin wrong,
No seein
Not believing


-Deep Thought

Above the forest of the parakeets,
A parakeet of parakeets prevails,
A pip of life amid a mort of tails.

(The rudiments of tropics are around,
Aloe of ivory, pear of rusty rind.)
His lids are white because his eyes are blind.

He is not paradise of parakeets,
Of his gold ether, golden alguazil,
Except because he broods there and is still.

Panache upon panache, his tails deploy
Upward and outward, in green-vented forms,
His tip a drop of water full of storms.

But though the turbulent tinges undulate
As his pure intellect applies its laws,
He moves not on his coppery, keen claws.

He munches a dry shell while he exerts
His will, yet never ceases, perfect ****,
To flare, in the sun-pallor of his rock.

Poetry is the voice chattering in my head...
Never lets up... It is the voice for when I'm afraid...
Conjured up from deep looping thoughts...
Vented out through written words when the voice could not.
Necessity forged by the mind and heart.
Feelings and emotions that the core wouldn't carelessly discard.
Poetry is an outlet of sorts, tentatively I can afford.
In this realm, the pen be my sword.
Poetry is everything... Beauty spanning multiple universes...
All we do is try to have it harnessed and channelled into individual artful verses...


An outlet, escape, my hole in the wall,
where I can hide from the Hell in my heart.
You're learning to walk, I'm just trying to crawl
beneath the flak; as it once tore me apart.
I've got my demons, how about you?
Faceless legions strung through my soul;
with ink and paper, they often bleed through
From lines and verses, I regain some control.
So, if you're asking me what poetry means
I won't say much, but I'll show you my scars.
Words and rhymes slash stitches and seams,
but in my unraveling, I see shooting stars.


My escape from the world
A distraction from myself
Instead of a mark on my body
I place a mark upon paper
I watch the ink flow from the pen
Happy that it's black
And not red
It bleeds into the crinkled paper
Mapping out the story
The story of my life so far
I don't think
I just write
Emptying my mind
My messed up mind
But the mess will never truly be gone
Just temporary relief
This is my relief


Poetry doesn't mean something,
Poetry is telling somebody who knows the truth, a lie and making them believe you anyways.


The air I breathe, the life I lead, everything I believe, poetry
The truest, permanent written form, at its finest
Even if it doesn't rhyme, every word is still the dearest
It's my relief from anxiety, my calm when I'm panicking
It's a sight for sore eyes when I wake up with a hangover and a headache
The only way I can express myself, show my deepest heartache
The only happiness I have when I'm depressed, my only friend when I'm lonely
My poetry and yours, day in and day out, is like oxygen to me
I can't breathe without poetry


A poet sees rivers where veins
run, caged birds where hearts
beat against ribs, stellar explo-
sions in place of emotion.
To be a poet means to breathe
through your eyes, to find life
in the weeds suffocating your
lungs, to build an ocean
of metaphors and memories,
never knowing which is which.


Poetry is art in itself
It is our passion that is slowly dying out throughout humanity
Because humanity is slowly forgetting what makes us human
What we survive on and die for everyday
But not us poets...
Our poetry is the chain to what we are
What we fought for all these years
What we die for trying to protect
For poetry is our mortality
Poetry is our life.

On the white screen dance the stringed dots
Mind spilled codes of hieroglyphic thoughts
Slowly they emerge handholding lines
Not always yielding intended designs.
Something was brewing inside the head
Coaxing to weave and take it ahead
The drunken horses so wildly gallop
There is no leash to make them stop.
Nerves are taut and they won't relax
Till all is vented they reach the ******
It was thus fated the moment it was sown
What's to be grown could never be known.
As the fever wanes arrives the new child
It may be adored or it may be defiled
The canvas is washed clean as in the rain
Something is brewing to be vented again.

King Minos,
Spited by the God of Oceans,
Hesitated but a while
Before poor Pasiphae's bull-headed son
Was penned inside the labyrinth,
And then, as if to throw away the key,
Inventor Daedalus and his dear son
Were for their work a prison tower fee'd.
But they grew wings, for as we know,
An inventor's work is never done...
If only Icarus had listened
And kept a proper place below the sun,
Breugel's painting would have lost
Its distant splashy focal point;
The plowman and the shepherd would
Have stood alone above a perfect sea.

Old Minos never had a chance,
And though the cunning Hunter,
(He, who found the man who
Made a string crawl curving
Through a shell behind an ant),
Had won... decided to disrobe
And take a dip...a foolish act
To choose when Daedalus
Would serve a hot revenge.

Daedalus, who knew the score,
Burned wood to make the water soar;
In vengeance vented spiteful wrath,
And cooked old Minos in his bath.

lovers forgo their faces
       defacing in the act
mammering their information to unreadable smudges
  they slur in kinetic fluctuation
experimenting material forms fray
     each    the others face is vented away
     betray being human
  no separated being
and then...

     to return in the tender moments following
             a bumbling landfall
then they are athletes
     enamoured and praising of the other
     flushed and radiating
having rushed the life from their breath
they heave in its return

Later     in a **** trip down to the night kitchen
they forgo they faces in a foxes forage
hers ; over-lit by the fridge light
          face thrown into a mask by extreme shaddows
his ; beyond this light in the dark
they are bodies
sneak children
the raider and the lookout

after many years make the familiar relation
her face disappears into a hand mirror
and his is pulled out
into a middle distance beyond the dresser
durred in thought and waiting for 'go'
to the restaurant tonite
or that career social that neither wishes to attend

                                        - fell shy of Eden

In Lisbon, we blended
ended the day with spectacular culinary
Shopped and hopped side to side

In Dublin, we vented
as the whisky and Guinness was **** good
Shipped the hire car to Galway

In Italy, we invented
dropped coins in fountains of love we already held
From Florence, to Milan, to Rome, to Bologna

In Paris, I rented
alone in protests and hippies at Place De La Republique
Dreamt of you as they skated

In Romania, I persisted
up on the icy Tranfagarasan highway traps
I saw a bear and it had your eyes

In Stockholm, we insisted
As the Vasa sunk on tables of *****
Pecked on the trains and shied away.

In London, we protested
It was an ordinary day and the flowers didn't bloom
The Thames was gloomy and stale

In Oslo, we transmitted
The reindeer meal and cranberry was a disaster
The gloom followed us to southern skies

In Copenhagen, you were sorted
Smiled and amused by the Tivoli gardens
The night became day and the wind withered

In Amsterdam, we did what we did
Stored the memories on the reclaimed lands
Free-spirited in love and in eternity

Critical mass approaching in stoical exploding of feelings peeling off with the old flesh.

I'll cry myself to sleep if not just to keep the memory alive, thriving in the spite of a dual life fighting itself for its rites to righteousness, where the opposition is also right, in purifying infighting, for a light so bright, that my fragile eyes shall burn in its embrace, a sound of truth so profound, that my ears numb in the pound of drums as i look on blindly and deaf, pointing at the cliffs you want so much.

tonight i
lost it a little
and it's not even night
it's morning
just to be clear

start over...

this MORNING
i
lost it a little
and i don't know
how to be better

i talked at a white shining light
on my computer
i vented
at a webcam
for thirty minutes
and i looked myself in the face
and tried to tell me it'd be alright
but the words choked me
and i couldn't
get them out

and im not trying to be an overdramatic
*******
a whiner
or a ****** kid
i just have abandonment issues
and cutting
and wantingtodietoomuch
issues
and i feel like everyone is biding their time
waiting
to leave me
and i feel like
i can't sew up the child-sized holes
in my dad's heart

and it's ******* father's day
and i can't even do that
i can't ******* replace
the nine other kids
that should be here
i can't make up for that
i am just
one person
one daughter
and i cannot make my daddy
better
and i
hate
it

happy
*******
father's day

Alone in a blank meadow
even that night hadn't grown any shadow

Certainly I had seen
the mystic moonlight was falling on the purples of the valleys, dancing  with the sweet summer breeze


Certainly I had seen,
Her smile on the dark side of the moon,
how did she unclosed herself in an unclogged sky!
how did her glimmer attract the arbitary!
did you see her streaming  beauty anytime?

I am not a poet at all,
So I could not write an ode about her beauty,
Yeah, finally dreams were coming slowly from the wide open sky_

Slowly and Slowly,
I was mingling with her shimmering
even I could not bear her long
wild and mad looks,
such a heavy unfolded glee,
Oh! very smashing shines spreading beyond  the valley,
That only be vented by the poetess Shelley....


@Musfiq us shaleheen

My thoughts are everywhere
I can't think straight
I can't calm them down
I can't be okay
I'm depressed
I'm not enough
I can't sleep
I'm wide awake for
Days, weeks, months
One person is not a remedy
For me it's a disaster.
You let a person in and they use you
They humiliate you
And you're left victim
No matter how much you tell yourself
You aren't a victim you are
A victim of this life
Of this system
Who's to say when he shuts his phone off
It's not to hide things?
Who's to say he has anything to hide at all?
But the constant anxiety that he will be the death of me hurts
Love is happy it should be
And I love our love it makes me the happiest
But I can't help but feel like the odds are against me
I wish I had some kind of shield to save from the pain
I don't want to be hurt again
But I won't hurt again either
Dear god let me find peace
I'm not crazy just ******* shattered

Cash, card and mobile, please.*
Had his hood on and made a tough

Face of some sorts as he flashed
What looked like a blade, only

Smaller. Sorry, mate. My phone
Is in my hotel room, my money is

All somewhere between my kidneys
And liver, but I have these two

Fists, and I'm losing my girlfriend as
We speak, so PLEASE come closer

With that pathetic excuse for a knife,  
So I can use it to pick what's left of

Your heart from my teeth after
My anger is vented.

I don't care if it's Islington;
Did you hear about the Viking at

Stamford Bridge? I'm back. Don't
Ever mug a Norwegian.

Don't ever try to mug a Norwegian.
Don't ever try to mug a Norwegian

Poet. I still have £200 in
My pocket. And a tongue as sharp

As anything I've ever been
Threatened with. Boy.

If this world had a face, it’d be bound tight and beset,
If there’s good in this place, I’ve not found sight of it yet.
Past all the blood and the hurt, and ravaged sounds of regret,
There must be good in this world, but I haven’t fount it yet.

All that ought to run deep, all that ought to come through,
That which taught men of decency all that they do,
Has been lost on the masses and torn from all trace,
So the greenest of grass is now scorned and replaced.

Those I’m forced to call friend – are a tax on my time,
With each talk I pretend an’ with each laugh I could cry,
Those of blood get me down – another taunt or a test,
There must be good in this town, but it hasn’t warmed to me yet.

With un-pleaseables I talk, in that cold name of love,
By any reasonable chalk I’ve done more than too much,
With unappeasables I stride, as I toss away time,
To their agreeable pride, I have lost all of mine.

Pour elixirs in ears, with no trace of intent,
Just a duty of peer-ship and misplaced compliments,
And all they want to hear’s their re-vented hot air,
And they’ll only keep near those with plenty to serve.

If I gave you your praise, and ten pounds of my flesh,
And waved you on your way to sounds of high address,
If I bundled and bound all the scraps of my soul,
And put them in your hand with a map you could own,
If I gave you my freedom, my voice and my keep,
Would you take of your leave and leave me to my sleep?
If I gave you my will and my weakness and wants,
Could the lands lonely chill turn from bleakness to warmth?
If I covered my face – could I finally rest?
If there’s good in this place, why was I to be left?

If I gathered all grit from the dregs of this hole,
And fashioned a gift from my old beggars bowl,
If I took all the soot and the silt of my years,
And tailored a trinket with blood, spit and tears,
If I capped it and crowned it with carvings of coin,
Could I buy passage to grounds past the hard ones I toil?
Where I’m no longer a ghost in the guise of a man,
Or bare the breathless ill-boast that I’ve lied all I can,
Where I’m no more a mark to be treaded upon,
A downpour-bound spark or a silent-said song,
Where I’m long past purveyors an’ the prospecting proud,
All the tall self-surveyors that are laughably loud.
Where these meek-minded masses are ploughed-up and purged,
And all new greener grasses feel they’d never been there?

For now people are a crowd, a winter I can’t leave behind,
And the street is just a sound, a splinter in my weary mind.
Through the fixed filter of rain, I try to keep my bearings right,
And all the tints within the frame come only by steel burning lights.

They free and they halt and they warn and they tempt,
A beaming assault on the swarms we call men.
And the laughing and loathing the swarm has within,
Wraps up my home and what warmth could have been.
It rattles and ruptures and rips it apart,
And battles for blood – all the blood of my heart.
And just as the coldness draws me into sleep,
A new day unfolds and the empty heart beats.
Yes just as the coldness draws me into peace,
A new day unfolds to the dawning of beeps.

Why must this alarm come and shake what was still?
Why can’t you be calm? You the big waking world.

I have a mind who’s only friend’s a ravaged voice of sure regret,
Which chimes of kindnesses to end this savage choice of pure neglect,
Must be an unknown soul around, although they haven’t shown up  yet,
For all I know just hold and drown – and still I haven’t blown up yet,
If we could see then we could learn, our little lives need not be Hell,
If there be good within this world, why does it hide itself so well?

The day a lightning struck my home in September 2010
I read in it signs of bad time grave misfortune’s ill omen
Early morn it fell the night though didn’t hint of a bad weather
Jolting us further a bereaved family my father had died that year.

Spitting fire it chipped a chunk of attic struck dead an arecanut tree
Blew the TV dead lights and fans fled it vented such awesome energy
What had we done to deserve such a deal why befell us the curse
Redoing the roof replacing dead wares it was taxing on our purse.

They say it’s too bad when god goes as mad as to strike your home with lightning
You must have sinned to incur his wrath more misfortune it probably would bring
So we brought a priest for peace and worship we had to appease the deity
In our quest to strike a deal with god’s will was forgotten the arecanut tree.

The house was mended things returned to shape we brokered a peace with god
It all looked fine the mishap forgotten no calamity struck our abode
As a relic of that time stands the arecanut tree without a leaf on its head
Mutely it bears the brunt of god’s fury so is the way it is made.

One autumn morn there was a tapping sound on that tree’s hollowed dead bark
As I peeped through the window I saw a woodpecker its beak was busy at work
So many times I had thought to cut off the tree for it could never grow its root
The bird has got a nest for little ones’ rest god’s will has borne a sweet fruit.

Sitting in her chair
Wanting out of there,
The Notorious Natalie
Plotted quite frantically.

Mind absorbed in many plots,
Its a wonder she didn't develop brain clots.
Hearing her quarry coming down the hall,
She wheeled herself closer to the wall.

She spoke so low with all due sobriety,
"Here goes the plan in all its entirety."
Giving a wink, tossing a mickey,
Choosing her time, being quite picky.

Catching sight of that sanctimonious nurse,
She vented her rage, let out a curse.
Flew through the air, and let out a yell.
Poor old Nurse Agnes sure did quell.

Natalie's plan, to take the nurse down,
Ended badly with her on the ground.
The belts snapped her back and she hit the floor.
The ice pick she had flew into the door.

And even now that she's forgetful
Natalie's heart is still regretful.
Avoiding plots of ice picks and death,
Focusing mainly on keeping her breath.

i keep looking at people become serious diarists, like Paulo Coelho writing the alchemist, which can be an odd experience... i've got ants in my pants and i'm a dog's bone away from playing dead, sitting in mantra of: load off visiting Singapore and never getting the hangover joke of Bangkok... sinus gaping pore? it's all ******* feathery anyway... flusters of rouge should fantasy come to life.

learn to cackle, thus said: invoke a magpie, to learn laugher -
ha ha (etc.), as can easily be turned into a cackle,
only magpies cackle and even funnier,
applicability of diacritical markings,
as if stealing letters of silver spoons...
Scōtlānd: meiné skoot,
overt
           lá                           -nd...
spacing for the macron -
          and hence the acute without spacing...
                          truth to the tooth
and elsewhere bone-shattering governing the rattle
of the ribs... a canary's song least that of worth
with a woad's pigmentation...
               or said ivory to turqouise...
azure, and vented in lavender...
           but the cackle came
with *Scōtlānd: learn the linguistic
arithmetic! the macron und umlaut
synonym... if applying it learn it,
if not applying it: learn Bulgarian,
Oristice the peacocking accents...
        turquoise though:
Eurydice... Orestes... synonym of acne...
so few do, in that the diacritical indication
is a higher-tier arithmetic...
            such that the less implied is
governed by the impeding peacock variation
that suggests Da, in all prevailing -isms,
                   as saying raw, to a Tartar
over a horse limb steak galloping toward Ukraine...
         but here we are: adorning tartan
of chequers and navy that mingles blue & purple...
                       and here we are abiding to
the Faroe Isle recluse...   spelled aisle    said
i'll...      and that i dare not wallow in it much further...
haggis neeps and tatties... wanking over
a cow's testicular dangly... truant to all truth...
        and all truth to the truant rodins....
  thus to laugh excessively is to cackle like a magpie,
   and hark a phlegmish soar with the raven...
                and end all tragedies without
a Hebraic definition of ha as
      the: direct article... for good manners suggest
that no clue be justified in cradling the sigma
of either the zenith of the Babylonian tower
or the spiral of condescending might twirling into
an imploding tornado over Egypt and all things
                  extravagantly Pythagorean...
  or as Balaam said: i rode a donkey out of Yerusalem:
sprechen yiddish.            
               three years among them...
  and i can say with much demand: Scōtlānd...
scootlaand...     if i ever learned to cleanse,
i also learned to adapt... a circumstance of thinking
myself adequately counter-inept to share
   the Baltic with Lapland skiers, as synonymous
and congregational in being translated into Ęglish
          for what already is: a truancy when cultural
criticism isn't enough... because the culture makes
one truant from engaging with it... because there
is no culture to be critical of...
                   a hermit foretold and with clasped hands
   gave alms, and later: with a slow clapping
          made hands orate what the tongue made shoelace-
                                                       ­         (op+. -spaghetti)       .

Standing beneath black skies' hush,
cold rains' fall a stimulating touch
bringing rise to forbearance
forcing stormcells to pressured positions
above our expanse.
These words escape to nothing.

Thick air mixed in
with each vowel of smoke,
straining to glimpse beyond
those choked fragments.
I caught your shadow
skirting the edge of visions
and slipping past my bounds.
You were cloaked in millennia,
time soaked from downpours
seemingly lost of origins,
be they long past
or still forecast,
you were,
falling drops rolling
from silken hair
still bruised in memory,
forgoing present presentation
to reacquaint opportunity
with overlooked encounters.

Soaked to soul,
the ripples spread quick
stepping to the plane of...

...wait,
where are you...

when are we...

...will you be?..

...or have we been
lost in relativity
and escaping in
each word I breathe.
Comprehension critical,
compassionate clouds constantly
reminding of drowning you out,
professing this changing view
in hallowed hurricane whispers.

An angel you became,
living upon these grounds
your plague, living on,
earthly existence anathema,
each second foreword
another progression of
decreeing beating heart
a final concerto, Ava Maria
your soliloquy, serenading
dreams in a missing tongue,
with dying tone
and a pulse set out for loan.
Loneliness my investment,
appreciating until the light was blinding,
pain breaking anthems,
scaling back to feed off
what was left.

I missed our true nature until it was reflex,
illumination only brief glimpses of a passed future,
grief developing to timelines sutures,
bleeding blending was
and has,
with will be still the memory
I'm forced to foresee.

Broken in neutrality,
droplets still caressing the shadow
skirting the corner of my eye.
Your life was short,
I let us die far too young.
Consider it your sacrifice,
the reason for the crying clouds
whose pain soothes these brainstorms
vented through cigarette breaks
wasted pouring words
to howling winds.

Am I feeling better now?
Estranged and Deranged, not a single person sitting there to call my name

Am I feeling better now?
Alone in my chest, in my home, in my art, I express from the bottom of my heart, there's a draught letting in the emotional winds

Feeling any better now?
Not much else left to say as  I spill it all out with the pen on the page, chronically feeling on the edge, if this is a window I've jumped off the ledge.

Feel much better now, now it's all vented out, all I've ranted about, no time for self-doubt. I've got a life to live and too much to give to give out, on a single whim.

I guess that's the thing, behind the façade,  I'm still him, still that guy, still the one, still the same, still the same... As the guy I was when we first dated, when we first kissed, hoping that we'll come back from this.

Guess I still have to grow up..

When we left, the anger was courageous
Tears shrugged off their ducts and ran a river  
And so....it was an adopted day. Lopsided
Out of kilter, hard boiled, the reflux swallowed

Spite spat out its tabloid journal and spanked me
A chancer on a long haul flight of emotion. A broken limb
A ball of 'Nastiness' bit into my flesh. Stamping dishonesty
A clear winter blue sky......guarding its frosty secret

The guns shot their bullets, cracking the air between us
Hitting the eye of the bull.  The red rag waved at a tangent
Calling in all favours.  Bystanders gorged.  Rubber necked
As your heart parted company with your soul and bounced

When you undid the latch, the safety catch broke and hit the floor
Purged. Vented. Filling the air with blemishes. The stars fell
Short of their place in the universe; befriended and hung out
With blackened bark as debris hit. Now minus will only equal minus
                                                           ­                                                              .......equal minus

This morning, I stepped on a landmine.
I tried using a twig to clean each line,
I spent a while, a very very long time,
Using a twig to depoop the very bottom
Of my shoe, & my dog thought, (Got'em.)
So as he's laughing at my bad situation
I used my noggin and vented frustration.
Found his brush & he stopped rollin'
As I scraped away what was holdin'
Fast to my left shoe. The moment; golden.

Long car trips
Crowded with junk
And cramping legs
Flashing light streaming through the window
Into the muggy car air,
A trapped fly banging on the glass,
Low rumbling like gravel thunder
And bursts of shaking
Rattling teeth and seatbelts
When you roll over stones
Wisps of vented air
Curling around your naked toes,
And sweaty, rumpled clothes.
Skin sticking to fake leather seats
The slight sifting sick in your belly
Sitting fat like a toad,
And hoping the stuff in the back
Isn't shaking or breaking apart
From the crunching washboard gravel,
And drowsy eyes, tired from endless trees
Slowly drift until you arrive in the dark

Vi ses igen
                  du rækker din hånd gennem drømmenes masker
Vi ses igen
                  du står i en rude på tiende sal
Vi ses igen
                  passerer hinanden på hældende trapper
Vi ses igen
                  sover tilfældigt i det samme tog
Jeg ser dig igen på den mørke plads
                              månen hælder sølv i dit hår
Du ser mig vente for grønt
                                som om jeg vented på nogen
Ses igen     blikkene standser i mængden
Ses igen      i en tilsneet have
Ses igen      i en opbrudt gade

i just miss the way we used to speak,
sitting on your fire escape,
we vented our little hearts away,
figuring out a way out of the destruction we faced.
the hardships we endured weren’t just,
we were too young to experience those things.
so they’d tell us, but hey, remember when i used to sleepover your place?
despite needing space, you used to tell me anyway that I was your safe place.
it was as if we represented our own homes,
not reflecting it, just avoiding the conflict,
all we knew at the time was feeling like we belonged.
all along, i wanted someone to lean on when the obstacles grew too difficult to face.
when i found you,
i learned just how that felt.
now, we’re growing old,
connection is wearing thin,
but i’m still thinking of you to maintain faith.
you help me through things i can’t make out,
and for that, i’m forever grateful to have you,
to have had that one special connection.
days are passing by,
time is ticking, and it feels longer without you here with me.
you moved away four years ago,
but it feels like i lost track of where that person I’ve known my whole life went.
distance could be the reason for our connection not being the same,
but, the harder i try to remember the reason why,
the more pain it brings.
these tears I cry out are temporary calls for help through times I need you here with me to stay.
hopefully one day, our days will come back to us as they should,
we will reunite and rekindle our once special connection,
making each other feel like nothing has changed.
in the mean time, i can replay the memories we’ve made,
with you by my side reminds me of the feeling of getting through anything.
because you were my safe place, the one I depended on when people pushed me away when I had nowhere else to go.
when i cry at night,
the thought of you next to me bring the tears I cry to water for the trees, and those cries turn to sounds of peace,
you are my safe place.

Can you not sense the undercurrent
an anger mutating over the nation.
That period before costs do excel
a deep dissatisfaction vented.
Massive job cuts told to restain
with warnings of future pain.

That inability to have any input
manipulated and being controlled.
Vote them in with their big promises
as politicians do what they want.
Despair as your finances disappear
truth a word you never hear.



This is a tale not only of one country
ever the widening divide.
The few continue reaping the rewards
the majority paying the cost.
The average guy is always bled dry
the wealthy staying that way being sly.

The undercurrent is beginning to vibrate
the population has had enough.
Those with plenty taking toomuch
from those with little to give.
The burden of debt has to be shared
or frustrations will be aired.
The Foureyed Poet.

To be
Or not
Is get
-ting caught
In webs
Of thought
An I'm
At such
A loss
It seems
That some
-One else
Is boss
Yet proof
Is not
In the
Right sauce
It lies
With those
Who say
They're not
A hard
-ened heart
Or a
Cold part
And yet
To save
Their soul
From harm
They don't
Turn down
My thoughts
Which weave
Like yarn
Yet break
Like thread
Nor do
They de
-ny my
Strange but
Strong ties
To all
Things fra
-gile and
Too wild
For I
Am not
From where
They are
But they
See this
As met
-aphor
When it's
Quite ve
-ry lit
-eral
The last
Or the
Ori
-ginal
So let
Me just
Leave you
With this
You came
From your
Mother-
I came
From a
Place called
A word
That is
Not in-
Vented
Yet.

You wanna talk balance, huh?
You got a lecture to give,
and I’m not allowed to pour a drink
to get me through? Well ****,
if this ain’t ridiculous,
but I’ll listen. Nothing else to do
up here in the snow and the solitude and the shining.

You say things started alright,
and I nod, sip something unreal,
and say yes, my dear,
yes, perhaps I broke his arm
but I’ve vented the pressure
out of the boiler now.
And ain’t it a **** shame
that I don’t talk to Al any more?
‘Cept to sneer about the history
of a place that’s too far away to push
him back to drink.

So sure, tell me I’m unravelling,
and I’ll call you a *****
and you’ll lock yourself up in the room.
Give him the key, I’ll show him
that the **** in 217 is far worse
than a broken arm and a ruined career,
because this will take me away.

Who’s the other one inside me,
worming into a space
that I thought was mine?
Two in one body, a ******’ perfect
discount deal on everything
that can destroy a family;
check one, a son with a broken
arm and a fractured mind,
check two, a ***** for a wife,
and check three, me
the head of it all,
proclamation, divination, damnation
of the foundation of this stutter
looking over, overlooking,
a broken record skipping to the part
where I **** the pressure,
**** the boiler.

I’ll see you in the next one.
Fin.
.

I forget I've lost a friend...
The times we vented, laughed and weeped, you heard me..
Watched me grow into who I am
But not who I'll be..
Time froze that morning.
I'm still going to see you again, I know you'll walk through that door
But I guess that was it, you ain't here no more
Part of me died that morning.
The part I was when near you
The part I loved to brag about
The part I loved full stop
Puts me at ease to know it's just for now not forever
Till next time Brett...

This morning when I woke up
I realised something really sad
Don't ask what it is
That doesnt matter,
Basically I did something
But I didn't do it right
There wasn't much to lose
But that's not the point
For here I had a chance
And I casually gave it away,
And three months later suddenly
In my bed as I lay,
I awakened to the reality of how
Downright stupid I was.
Lying in bed for the past two hours now
Desperately counseling, consoling myself,
Looking for some closure,
Now trying to find a remedy on this page
Hoping as the words are vented out
Comfort will slowly get space to seep in,
And I'll be able to start with this already delayed day,
Because right now I just want to forever sleep in.

A certain Mr. Frederick
seems unable to prevent his ****
from creeping up into his words
that end up sounding much like turds
vented on **** sites popular galore -
ON HP WE DON'T WANT HIM ANYMORE!