Day 4: Here is my heart

Day 1: I left my heart at the bar but you mistook it for finger food

Day 2: Nibbled and chewed, I gave you a gun to stop its thrashing
            but you shot at my feet and I danced to your beat

Day 3: broken and bruised I tried to leave but I was stuck on your leash
            part of my heart on my sleeve, the rest in your stomach
            you were the master of me. The master of puppets

Day 4: ready for a long awaited rest
            I've painted a target over my chest
            please, shoot straight
            you can keep what you ate

The well of my soul might be full
but the cogs by which I once drew forth water rusted long ago
I  twist, contort,
strain and force
but the rivers ran their course
and as much as I ***** my eye
I can never cry

Dancing on the stage bathed in ultra violet
is a dripping young honey making me ultra-violent.
My three stooges become scrooges using ***** useless excuses
to not be Zeus's and noose the spruce for their collusive abuses.
I leave the troupe, loop back, snoop, try to ******
induce some juice, a little loose chartreuse

The girl looks down from the platform, eyes vacant and hollow
Ten years of this storm full of snake-pits and sorrow
No glow but the glint of a nose speckled with snow
Her heartbeat allegro slows, lower tempo - adagio

For she's hooked to the pole by an IV of ******* and circumstance
I regret holding the cash and stealing her glance.
It falls from my hand, not that thats exculpatory
and when I next catch her eyes, it's merely to say, 'sorry'

Woke to a grocery list.
Goes like this;
Duty, Death.

I'm bound to the round sound of the guitar
and I'm deep underground sleeping down with the drowned
now the lights of the town seem extraordinarily far
wound around my crown, sleep drips down from the stars

but I think it's the dope, smoke dances in my lungs
or the drink that gropes both my liver and my tongue
one long blink - begin to float roam the unknown with the young

and opening my eyes I'm awake from the sleep
the dopamine has died my aches on me creep
its time to climb but the slopes are steep
put on my tie and climb in the jeep
put my mind to the pile of files that are heaped
run with these self proclaimed wolves who are sheep
just thinking of home, the release of the deep

Treating my feet to the beat I leap from my seat
despite the sleet, take my heat to the streets
the concrete is freeing
from:
the deceit which we deal in
the obsolete (which I'm fleeing)
the people we're mistreating
which we repeat and repeat and
it's all self defeating
when the elite just replete
despite our attempts to delete
or just maybe deplete...

so I retreat to the sweet beat of the blues
as the pavement meets and greets my shoes
down the lanes and avenues
just hoping for something nice on the news

whirling til I wheeze; I scream flowers
they grow from my eyes in great forests
both block the sights and sounds of god
and I look for him elsewhere

drinking til I drop; I bellow oceans
sinking, weighted, the sea drinks me
but God wasn't in death
and I looked for him elsewhere

laughing til I cry; I yell joy
swinging, weightless, in a park
the playground yells joy back to me
and god spoke in the creaks of the rusty chains
because he had been looking for me

People, places and things
have become things we collect
things replace people
and it has the wrong effect
things, places, things
has the wrong ring
- its clearly incorrect -
people aren't objects despite our dialect
nor merely nouns now to be subject
at least I object
we're both Proper and imperfect
both Collective and dissected
both Abstracted and connected
More than nouns we are the now
thats what I think anyhow

look at all the Leonard Cohens writing poems
filling their prose with death morose
this isn't a poem for your pleasure
x simply marks there IS a treasure

Staring across the bar, it was love at first sight
- eyes so wide- I think I gave her a fright
She thought it was a *** look
thought she could read me like a textbook
wary of my advance
refusing me a chance
avoiding my glance
I put down my glass
and,
in a stance
weakened by my lovestruck trance,
simply asked for a dance

Does the true artist run out of paint before pain?

one for each time I never said I loved you

This resident hedonist
is feeding false promises, premises,
had precedents
lacks presence
get off our premises president
our countries bloodied and blemished
supposed genius turned menace
made a promising entrance
now with vehemence, menaces
subverts his messages, sentences
burn our nemesis' edifice
don't hide in the crevices
its prescience

so we must discuss
why this lust and thrusts
weren't just for us

saw your flush and smelled his musk
now this tusk is stuck deep in my guts
Our trust is rusting
I'm just adjusting
injustice gusting
injustice huffing an puffing
don't mean to be brusque
but we are dust

no. poetry can be swirling
across the keyboard like a Rachmaninov
order from chaos
no meaning or rhyme
no rhythm all the time
idolising Bukowski
ending abruptly

I've been sitting in this city waiting for these brackish blue waves to take me anywhere but here
sold my surfboard when I was twelve but my swim shorts are somewhere
and, sink or swim, I'll get to the sea

I've been stuttering sentences since this synthesis of our senses

Mixing my own tears with the sky's, we weep together

Snatching ghosts of the nights from the mouths of men,
I am the watcher on the walls.

Holding your hand through the valley of the shadow of death,
I fear no evil.

From hellish waste to emerald isle
From sad to smile, I'm worth your while,

Speak every time you stand - do not forget yourself.

Do not let one moment go by that doesn't remind you that your heart beats a hundred thousand times a day and that's enough gallons of blood...

to make every one of you oceans

punch numbers in my calculator
kick off my day with a double black
thump my feet to the sound of my cars bass
  boot up my laptop
    before shooting a few hoops after school
what am i fighting for

No, said I, the rock on which you thought to build your love.
Don't dash yourself on me.

Why's it so hard to write a ten word poem?

Its her
and its a:
*******
its a:
Lost Breath
its a:
Weak Knee
its a:
Barely Stifled Smile
its her
and its just started
luv ya x

opening my chakra
feeling a little less darker
a couple of drinks is my marker
but its always just the starter

at the brink and then I'm past it
it was fun while it lasted
now I hand over to my master
from the poodle to the mastiff

screaming who wants war
blocked from the liquor store
my mind wants more
but my liver isn't sure

back to waking up at noon
soaked in bile like some cartoon
know that by the time I see the moon
I'll be singing the same tune

spliff blazing, room hazing
eyes fading, legs failing
arms flailing, mind derailing

but darkling
you, darling

are a clarity,
a singularity
in this 4am city

I was too late.
She'd already been kissed by the sun.

She said sure
but I've never done this before
then she got on her knees and she lied even more

an i for an a makes the whole world bland

Don't reach too far nor climb to high
there is little there for you up in the sky

Death sits beside me on the park bench.
Its four o'clock on some idle Tuesday.
Scythe lying on the armrest,
I hope I'm not dying today.

Love dragged me down to the river
Me: kicking, screaming curses
Love: steady hand without quiver

Love held me under the rippled surface
silent bubbles translated my biblical verses
and I questioned it's purpose

But the one thing without indecision
was me and her in unison
and I rose from my baptism

her:
thin
gangly even but, frankly, perfect
perfect skin
Eve
or a cherub at the inn
(do or don't believe)
Original
with no original sin
and therein
I saw the angel in evangelism

If you have all the egoism of a child and none of the innocence
try bringing your body back from the wild and pen it behind a fence
Instead, pen the page with your ink
-its your new sweat and blood-
Don't stop to think
let it come out in a flood
and throw in the kitchen sink
trust me. This growing bud can't get enough drink
once your words have been spoken
you may feel empty and broken,
your soul ****** up the plant's phloem
and that is when you have written a poem

love's leaves leave lovers, leaving limp, languid, limbs. Loathed. Lonely

sons die as the sun drowns on the horizon in its daily execution
love's leaves leave lovers
each unique snowflake turns the same ***** brown
spring breaks the spring step

Like a rose petal falling off its stalk on February the 15th

So i have this little room behind my ribcage
swamped deep
in fathers hugs
and mothers smiles
and an uncle teaching me to fish
a brother teaching me loyalty
and a sister screaming fashion tips from the top of her lungs
'but SAAAM black tutus ARE the craze right now'

Its a mess - as its meant to be
I can't file or discard
grandma sneaking me a hot chocolate after I've been put to bed
or grandpa eating my vegetables while mum and dad were distracted
(peas were the worst)

So you must understand that this room isn't just for you

I love you

but I love my mum, dad, uncle, sis, brother, uncle and grandparents
I love Angus for carrying me home and putting me to bed with bourbon smelling ***** staining my shoes and shirt at 4am in the morning
I love Ms. Wells from third grade
Heck, I love my dealer - they have their place in the mess

If you can handle that,
the door is unlocked,
come in and throw a memory on the pile

Poetry is like a *****
in its wobbly, dangly freeness
(This poems not the cleanest so stop reading if you're a little squeamish)

Some have it, some don't
some use it, some won't
some like it awkward with a twist at the end
like a shakespearean couplet but on the person it depends

for others its merely secondary
(oh but always necessary)
to the holder - their Mars or Venus
So, as god is my witness,
poetry is a *****

I used to 'slippy slide' on my bathroom floor
I would slather the tiles in water and soap
and push myself from wall to wall

the closest I have come to this in 15 years
was when I slipped on my own alcohol induced *****
at two in the morning on Monday 15th (I just woke up from this)

this isn't a poem for you
It was just a really good night
and that's poetry to me

Hera puts on a new set of armour
donning hairnet, yellow washing gloves and an apron
She washes the dishes with fervour
but wonders why she didn't marry Poseidon

For old Zeus was built like thunder
and she used to feel that electricity
but she know as she reaches for the plunger
that his heart feels no pity

I once new a man from Calcutta
Who had an incredible stutter
Ok thats not true
I thought I'd try to stop you feeling blue
Sorry for filling your feed with clutter

Rage against the sadness
***** it if your poetry is badness
Hello! Poetry isn't for your complaints!
beep boop beep boop paints

Just remember - When the situation is dire,
(and this is from the king of the mire)
'What matters most is how well you walk through the fire'

When I was a kid I didn't know my right from left
so I always woke up on the right side of the bed.
But my innocence soon left and was replaced by pain
and all I want is to be all right once again

Yes I want a ******* poem without fallacy
A poem full of fantasy
a fabulously woven fabric without a faux facade

our poems need some faeces not facelifts
fanciful fairies dancing fandangos
NOT followers of this current fad
who have fastened Poetry... with fatality

****! I'm fine with fate. But I want to be fascinated
by a farfetched farcical fable about a fat farmer farting
something that isn't churned out from this fake factory

So, to start off here is a funny poem with a **** joke:
I call my ****, 'the truth', because people can't handle it.

Death sits atop his hill,
giving his lips a lick
looking for someone to ****
regretting forgetting his chapstick

Stop.
Hello. I'm Sam.
And I'd just like to say
that I hope your day
was as good as mine.
#this is what poetry can do

The wind sails over the waters surface,
quietly,
but surely.