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There’s a monster in my gut
I can feel him breathing evermore
Those subtle, green-eyed  snarls
From which emits a midnight slick
Of intoxicating oil
Every and each lonesome eve
He rings the dinner bell, reverberating hunger
Through the acid of my walls, ascending up my spine
No matter how my door is braced
His entrance my meal spoils
But don’t misunderstand me now
Although he is a monster
He has gentlemanly hands
That raise his glass for one last speech
Toasting dreams gone black and foiled
I want to draw a sugar fish
Atop of your cheekbone
So it can swim along with tears
And land on your birthstone
I wish to sketch an elephant
Amongst your dainty teeth
So you will never dare forget
That tongue that’s underneath
I need to paint a teakettle
Between your knobby knees
For every time it whistles
You will meet a gentle breeze
But instead your hand picked up a pen
Then turned it to my palm
At once I knew you didn’t need
My brushstrokes to feel strong
I'm saving this prayer
Stashing my hope away
In a safe place
Between blessed
And desperation

I'm saving this prayer
Fearing that if I use it
At the wrong time
It will fall upon
Deaf ears

I'm saving this prayer
For a time Lord
When I know you're listening
Because, right now
I'm in a scary place
Between blessed

and desperation
And if I use  this prayer before I reach
Desperation
Well, Lord, I don't have a plan B
This prayer Is all I have left
You Lord are all I have left
And it seems
You've hidden yourself
In a safe place
Between blessed
An desperation
The undertaker’s blues
have nothing to do with a proximity
to death. An occupation is just that.  

Unwavering with his
probes and mysterious poisons,
He may even be mystified by the lilac flesh,
so whispery-cold and delicate now.
And yet depression
burrows into his psyche,
searches for the richest soil in which to plant itself.
Its roots spread  
like sharp serpentine veins growing
from an evil heart.

Maybe,
New and severely altered thoughts
make a man stop
and think. Maybe he will worry
as to how our bodies become
so soulless
immediately following death.

Solitudinous man,
questioning…
The true definition of death?
Does it really require wrenching that final,
most prized,
breath from men that still
have noble things to lie for?

I’ve seen my own father
ask these same questions
Of colleagues—
the living cadavers.
Those so void of concern,
that which departs a soul upon
our otherwise useless caverns.
"Son can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet
And I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Billy Joel lyrics from
"Piano Man"*
~~~~~~~~~~~~

when I was very young
I wore Levi jeans and white
Hanes cotton T shirts
my mother bot me,
my feet, Ked clad, red
from the kid's "department" store
on Central Avenue,
the Main Street of my small town

when I was a young lad,
I wore workingman's cargo jeans and
white Hanes cotton T shirts
under red plaid
wooly shirts, itchy affairs,
that I bot for myself
in a real Army Navy store,
desert colored suede boots,
laced up high,
upon my feet

when I was of middling years,
my jeans were khaki pants,
Gap supplied,
and my Gap T shirts,
faded like me,
a non-descript color,
made in a gap of pale pastel colors
from Bangladesh or Vietnam,
pale pastel, like me

so as I slide~decline into
my nursing home years,
I wear unbranded jeans and
white cotton no name T shirts
with matching white disposable slippers,
that the Purchasing Department
bot for me, cause they know,
I like,

a younger man's clothes and
the memories that play all day
lost in day dreaming of a life
well dressed

2:01am
don't you see, he said,
nothing will feel right again.

these things you have done,
may erase any sympathy you gleaned
from the past,
as awe full as it was.

sbm.
 Aug 2014 Jack Gladstone
Impulzez
The falling leaves of fallen hearts
We have greatness in what we feel
Time alone will reveal its presence
Time can also break a waiting heart
November is a passionate fellow
But passion isn't about crushing lips
And hugs and kisses, sensual feelings
Nor climaxing the zenith of soughs
Passion is a balance of what we feel
Don't feel and want to so eagerly feel 
Did no one ever kiss you so tenderly
Don't press them so tightly
Make them moist and air free
Slow sweetness starts passion
Passion hurts when its rushed
Gush! My Sweet November 
Great November victors passions
For it always ascends in elevating
Love is not a power struggle
Its more than mere kissing
Victory is sometimes found in surrender
The slower vengeance ripens
The sweeter when plucked
You're are my Sweet November
I love you from here to the moon and beyond
Really slowly
Sweet November Vol 1.
Look me in the eyes while you taste me
your head moving in shallow dips
I feel your tongue descending slowly
a prelude to your throat and lips

your eyes begin to water
your mouth now fully wet
breaths only come in gasps
as I delve in deeper yet

"That's a good girl"
"Show me what your mouth is for"
your lips curl in an obstructed half-smile, eyes pleading for air
but the sounds coming from your throat, say so much more

I grab your hair by the fistfull
firmly holding your head in place
I watch your face become  flushed-red
With each pump of hips and waist


You always look like you belong
below on bended knee
you blush then smile so innocently
As you swallow what's left of me

your eyes look to me for approval
I feel their lustful burn
my smile says "you've been a good girl
and soon, very soon, it'll be your turn"
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