I am camille for real I'm awesome

Watching the ballerina
tying her ballet shoes
preparing for Swan Lake
you remembered

that time in London
when Judy was away
for the week in Italy
and you were held

by the black dog
its teeth holding
onto your soul
going to the coffee bar

in Leicester Square
sitting there
gazing out the window
watching the people

feeling the dark mood
deepen
waiting for time
for the ballet to begin

at Covent Garden
then you are there
sitting in your seat
surrounded by others

well dressed
high talk
posh tones
and you thought

you saw Judy
in the faces
that were there
even one

of the ballerinas
seemed to be her
the same hair
the figure similar

and when the lights lowered
and darkness held you
you thought of her
beside you

her perfume
her soft voice
but some other dame
sat there some brunette

some thin *****
dressed in blue
and yellow
then the music began

the Tchaikovsky
the black dog biting
and Judy in Italy
and you stuck there

at the ballet
some other time
some other year
and you watched

as the ballerina
having tied on
her shoes
stood and prepared

and stared
as you sat
thinking back
mixing it

with that depression dog
of black.

i am well rehearsed
in the art
of making my dad feel better.
on the days when he sits in his chair
his mustache drooping,
his hair seemingly greying before my eyes,
staring at the floor
emptily,
i know how to make him
smile.
i'll contort my face into silly expressions
whinneeeee
and wheeeddlleeee
and joke
until i tease that smile
out of him.
sometimes when he's unlocking the door
i'll hug him
just for no reason.
he needs
all the hugs he can get
mom robbed him
of four different sized hugs
that are due
every single day
but he gets
once a month
if he is lucky
he has four
child-shaped holes
in his heart
and one
mom-shaped one
i try
to squeeze them shut
with my arms.

Here, where the lonely hooting owl
Sends forth his midnight moans,
Fierce wolves shall o’er my carcase growl,
Or buzzards pick my bones.
No fellow-man shall learn my fate,
Or where my ashes lie;
Unless by beasts drawn round their bait,
Or by the ravens’ cry.
Yes! I’ve resolved the deed to do,
And this the place to do it:
This heart I’ll rush a dagger through,
Though I in hell should rue it!
Hell! What is hell to one like me
Who pleasures never know;
By friends consigned to misery,
By hope deserted too?
To ease me of this power to think,
That through my ***** raves,
I’ll headlong leap from hell’s high brink,
And wallow in its waves.
Though devils yell, and burning chains
May waken long regret;
Their frightful screams, and piercing pains,
Will help me to forget.
Yes! I’m prepared, through endless night,
To take that fiery berth!
Think not with tales of hell to fright
Me, who am ****’d on earth!
Sweet steel! come forth from our your sheath,
And glist’ning, speak your powers;
Rip up the organs of my breath,
And draw my blood in showers!
I strike! It quivers in that heart
Which drives me to this end;
I draw and kiss the ****** dart,
My last—my only friend!

May many more manuscripts
find their way to your hands,
your pen,
that slightly chewed pencil sharpened down
to its end.
            Let emails fill and grace and glide into,
            and over, your mailbox,
            all for you to wake up in
            sheer ecstasy’s shock,
            because you’ve just found out
            there’s work to be done.
                        Allow this doing to be your undone;
                        go out conscious and naked into
                        the hazy summer’s sun
                        and dance, for goodness sake,
                        dance woman! as if a newborn
                        locked away in your womb depended on it.

that rain in your skull
is the wish.
a tingle of snow blind clarity
an inch of
beach.

you loom wet
in fretful foam, epibenthic
I'm swinging
from the ledge of your
up close
so  far,
far
away

someday you’ll love me and that will be some day

and
that will be always
twirling in pure joy
delirious our
phantoms !

wringing a gram of wheat
from the loaf of our blood...
charming every halo's master
to skin a thief
of  reason
with a song
about
tight
lips

telling secrets to a lover
sinking ships
that have

no name

You are my apple king
i love you to your core
I love your rounded apple cheeks
And your tender age of four
Your dark shining eyes
Like little apple pips
The cheeky grin that you let slip
from your sweet rosey lips

You like the female breeds
Pink ladies, granny smiths
The sweetness of a braebern
Is what you're content with

Straight from the tree
Or from the shelf
Or from a bowl or box
Three a day
You munch and crunch
My little British ***!

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head!
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;
Exult O shores, and ring O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.