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 Sep 2013 Arman
a m a n d a
[it all matters]

i seek a chain
made of silver
with three black orbs
and a bird facing the sky
to wrap around my chest
fall between my *******
clasp around my waist
and the back of my neck
to remind me
of my shape

all day
as i move
i am conscious
of a bead here
a tug there
and i am reminded
that i am a
woman
and
     i
           feel
power*    

i stand tall
       i feel sure
          i use my grace                      
and i wield my weapons                  

have you not seen
the plumage of
the birds of the sky?
colors
    textures            
and sounds
m e s m e r i z e

attract
or distract              
hide
         or reveal

have you not seen
the cuttlefish?
the intelligent
           mollusk
and  
       master of disguise
hiding in the sea?
beauty
and mystery
abound
oh    
that
i knew
     the ways    of
the cuttlefish        
what wonders
i would create*                        

female /human/
a fairly blank
canvas
unadorned in
color
but for eyes
hair  and
skin
no spectacular showing
     of plumage      
no mysterious                  
change in texture
                    or majestic wing    

some humans
are aware
of this
(seemingly)
                   overlooked
pomp and          
              circumstance
i want more bird                              
             i want more cuttlefish

so i seek a chain
made of silver
to remind me
of my shape

i seek paint of
many colors
to adorn my
feet and hands
i change the color of
my hair with
the wind

i line my eyes in black
i paint my lips
if i need warpaint
i shall have it

if i desire to blend in
then i shall
where can i shine?
where can i glow?
where can i
pattern          
myself  
like a leopard?

now
i am powerful
because
i am me
now i fit better into
nature because
i am of nature
i am as human as i can get

/i am all animals and all things/
roaring and silent
swift and slow
beautiful and plain
because i am human
i can choose it
because i am human
i create it
because i am human
i am claiming it
*and you are my witness
 Aug 2013 Arman
a m a n d a
[i would hold onto something if i were you]

so...
just hurtled down
the QEW
120 km/h
for 2 hours
in pieces of metal slapped
together - real close to other
people doing the same
(i find it worrisome that no
one finds this strange)

cuz, you know
i needed some alone time
aha...aha...ha...ha
in my shiny metal tomb
eyes wide in the dark
(you know, trying to avoid
   obstacles and ****?)
music ******* B O O M I N G
  it's not right
until the bass
          sits in my throat
   and i get a shiver up my back
now we're ready to hurtle through space
       deaf to the outside world

in addition,
  i decided to commit 1% brain power
            to drinking coffee
  i don't know, say 3% to navigating
                 2% to wondering why my left eye was
                 ******* hurting
.5% to wondering if I really had roaming turned off
      
at one point,  *99%
  to figuring out why the *mirage looming ahead
       looked like a battleship - my mind racing -
how could this be - the shapes
the lights - i squint - look for water
                   turns out it was a ******* restaurant
with all kinds of lights outlining edges...but it
really ramped up my concern
in terms of reality there
(for a moment)

i've got some
serious mind-racing
word-related issues
as of late
so this little vision quest
on the QEW
i can't even begin to unravel
in a single paltry
word splash

if i try...
to simplify

i'm a little concerned
that the reason of
my being...the nature
of this crybaby,
ambien-mice-feeding
lunatic
(i'll get to that in a sec)
boils down to:

cooked carrots, high school band, art,
Nancy Drew, and
Star Trek the Next Generation

-

uh...about the mouse
believe me
i freak the **** out
if a mouse is running around
in a goddman house
jesus h - it has to go
but
it was decided the mouse
was to be caught
on a sticky mouse trappy trap
with a piece of cheese

i arrived home
to a very alive mouse
very very stuck
in a sickening way...
but problem solved...yes?

oh no, my friend...problem times two
i did not like to see the mouse in this state.
and i sure as hell wasn't gonna
throw it in the garbage like some kind of animal!
(the gross beady eyed little thing...
but the tail is the worst)

i laid down on the floor
and looked at it
and it wanted the ******* cheese.
so i fed it some.
yeah, that's right.
i fed the ******* mouse some ******* cheese

i mean christ, can't the poor
thing have a last meal?
i mean it just happened to
get into my house.

i laid on the kitchen floor a long time...
looking at that mouse,
feeding it cheese.
and then i was trying to think of how
to **** it fast (cuz you know, i **** **** all the time?)
and i couldn't think of anything...
until brilliance behold - i could drug the **** thing!

if i can take a whole ******* ambien,
then surely a mouse cannot
without consequences plenty
so if i crush one up,
with a mortar and pestle,
yeah, that's right...
a mortar and ******* pestle
*******

all i have to do is sprinkle
some ambien on the cheese
and boom
night night
ambien cheese dream

all i'm gonna say is
that things did not go
as planned
ambien face
      mouse
snow
 Aug 2013 Arman
Sven Stears
I wanted to eat you alive with my heart,
Disseminate my love for you,
soul coughing a Heimlich dance routine
that struggled to keep us one.

You were to busy ignoring the coward
that kept me alive
to see the bravery fighting chance
and drawing curtains against fate

There was feeling in these young bones
where the medicine was make believe,
all sugar coated fiery tales to drive us to the well,
wishers of hope forgot that love is an effort.

Liars will tell you that there is just one,
and that one and one is one, and I too,
will lie to you but only to keep the placebos
sweet jesus if you knew the truth.

There's a colourful cobweb
I tangled round us
And yeah, I'd take the floor away,
if it would keep you falling for me.

There is not a thing I wouldn't do
to keep the demons from your door
And the wolves in docile dream states
Nodding yes to your every request.

But Memory lane is no place to build a future,
Lets move past all the haunted houses
and build the home from more than cards
glued together with coffee stains.

Fits of laughter and pits of passion
litter landscapes of love in foreign places
where speaking in tongues
becomes common language.

Blissfully aware of our ignorance
We turned a blind eye to status chorus,
breathing freeform jazz into
independent harmonies,

Shards of Shotgun Showers
Add bass to blissful dreams,
A sense of the real, reeling us in,
A foundation shaken in eternal sin,

As the sax plays us out,
its a standing ovulation,
that keeps us on course,
encores are for failures, and things that... stop.
 Aug 2013 Arman
Diane
Alleyways
 Aug 2013 Arman
Diane
the shadows delighted to capture
her supple form and cast it
against the light
in lithe velocity
willowy limbs climb walls and streets
and in that way she belonged to them
 Aug 2013 Arman
David Lewis Paget
I was sitting, deep in my study
Under a single desktop light,
Listening to the patter of rain
As I wrote, late in the night.
The other sound was the scrape of the nib
As it traced ink over the page,
A setting on out of the mood within
As I traced McMurtrey’s rage.

I often would write at night back then
For the house was dark and still,
With none of the interruptions that
The day would seek to fill,
So the world outside would fade from view
As the Moon came out to shine,
Then I could re-visit the world I knew
In the latest storyline.

Each tale I told from a birds-eye view
As I watched from my secret place,
A god’s perspective of what I knew
Of despair, or a saving grace,
My characters hung from puppet strings
That I dangled down from my pen,
And I teased and taunted with sufferings
In the way that I did, back then.

I never would share with the world outside
What happened within these walls,
Or open up to their prying eyes
My visions of haunted halls,
For that would take them into the light,
Out here where the world is real,
And men could see what a cruel pen
A storyteller reveals.

The night that I sat there, pondering
How to make McMurtrey fail,
He’d been obsessed with the girl Mei Ling
She was like his Holy Grail,
The storm outside was gathering
And the thunder brought more rain,
When after a lightning flash, I heard
A tap on the window pane.

It made me start, I must admit
My skin had begun to crawl,
I very slowly swivelled my chair
Around, aside to the wall,
I pulled the curtains apart just then
And I peered out into the night,
But the face that stared in back at me
Was stark in the pale moonlight.

I heard him say, vaguely, ‘Let me in!’
As the lightning flashed once more,
Despite myself, I got to my feet
Unlocking the outer door,
He strode on into the study, stood
In a stance, most threatening,
‘I’ve come in search of my lady love,
As you well would know - Mei Ling!’

The room had shimmered and shifted then
And it faded from my sight,
We stood in the Hall of Gordonstall
And I thought, ‘This isn’t right.’
The hall was hung with the tapestries
They’d brought from an old Crusade,
But nothing was real, I knew it then,
They were things that my pen had made.

‘Mei Ling’s betrothed to a Mandarin
And she wears his dragon ring,
The last I heard she was headed out
On her way back to Beijing.’
‘Then you’d better pull out your pen, old man,
Ensure that the lady stayed,
Or you’ll never get out of your mind again
While this storyline’s delayed.’

I wander the Hall of Gordonstall
And I see no way outside,
I hadn’t written the doorways in
And the walls are high and wide,
I need someone from the real world
To knock at my study door,
But I fear that I’ve lost myself inside,
As I pace the flagstone floor.

David Lewis Paget
 Aug 2013 Arman
Jasmine Martin
the ravages of time have gnawed
at the stone wall dividing car park and garden
creating small crevasses
                        those now give shelter to small beings
                                 like the snail that is grateful
to hide
                                                it has found its way
                                                        into the depths of the wall
        unnoticed by predators
                             considering it a tasty meal and
                uncrushed by careless hurried feet
that frequently are
oblivious to the path underneath
many a snail has thus passed away
this one however has found
a transient refuge
its only predator now
is time
for soon it must choose
and either come out and
face the perils of life
or starve hiding in the wall

(You will never know if you lay low)


© Jasmine, Bude, July 2010
 Aug 2013 Arman
Nat Lipstadt
August 20th, 2011

Pink and white hothouse lilies
parfume the atmosphere
of our summer retreat,
the shelter upon our island redoubt.

Their scent, a scentry,
posted to guard against
the oranges and reds,
the piano notes of fall,
the ivory whites of winter,
the iconic colors of the
seasons of responsibilities.

Lock the doors.

Preserves of
oranges, peach and lemon,
summer fruits,
preserve my calm!

Mingle well
with the other summer's fruited sweets,
cherries, black berries, caramel,
all, ally thyself with salt air
and do thy fragrant work!

Ferry away, banish,
the wardens of the
workweek jail, like only
summer garden colors
and sun-rays can.    

Still yourself,
be calmed, becalmed,
there is no breeze,
tis but mid-August
and the grill still awaits
your further command.

Long days and humid nights
bid you drink red rosés,
and summer lemoncellos,
chilled to accompany
the sweet summer corn
covered in salty butter.
drink the jus of the
summer sea's bounty,
saltwater berries, seasonal delights.

But you know better.

Stepping outside,
you are tree felled,
senses red alerted
by hints, whiffs
of the odor of change,
a piano refrain.

Acorns in August?

Can't be, won't allow it,
that slight chill, dispatch it,
won't let go yet of
sun tanned lotion notions,  
and legalized
summer laziness.  

Beneath my flip~flops,
acorn shells irritatingly crunch,
uninvited guests,
they are the peas I feel
under the mattress and bed,
contaminating my head,
while I lay  cloaked beneath,
my summer weight comforter.

Too late.

Back to school flyers
litter the driveway and infest
the Sunday papers.
I am defeated,
my senses tingle,
at the sight of these
changeover secretions.  

Sap of the maples is acoming,
the Paul Revere warning
of Redcoated leaves soon to
invade my bay's sandy shores.

Come my friends,
be courageous
and of good faith.

One more time, unto the breach!
One more time, unto the beach!

Tho our armor of golden tan
will of necessity rust red by cold bitters,
the summer of our poetry,
recorded, will forever live.

Even tho summer's demise
draws near, its death most glorious and not in vain,
when we lay spent and slain
after our approaching defeat,
apres the Battle of
Labor Day,
We still have our body,
Our poems, summer crafted,
The cello and the piano
Reminding those few left to listen.
<•>
mid august suicidal
August 12, 2017

to the facts:
suicidal thoughts come as regular as a
teenager pimple

weekends summer sun burns the skin,
the inner gloom,
so that I just make from the
Monday to Friday bookends
of grey cloud doom, barely opened eyes

the acorns peas under the bed's mattress,
my summer-brain pod irritants
are
freshly arrived, fully ensconced,
antibiotic resistant sob's,  
the colored newsprint of hateful
back to school flyers still haunt and clog
the sinking sunking sinking
waste disposal

the newest indignity,
the emails proclaiming
end-of-summer better hurry
drink up those three cases of pink rose wine
down in the chilling basement

not a bad idea in *** actuality

nothing kills like suicide and
nothing kills suicidal thoughts
like a three week drunk
starting now

the truth burden just got harder;
Adagio for Strings, Opus 11,
whispers stay thy hand


~~~
 Aug 2013 Arman
Terry Collett
At school
Moorcraft said
about joining
the boy scouts with him

(the only scouts
you were interested in
were those who rode
ahead of the cavalry

in western films
and who got themselves
scalped by Injuns)
but he went on

about how they taught you
to tie knots
and light fires
with two sticks

of wood
and how to sing songs
around a camp fire
and be a good kid

and do Bob a Job
for old ladies
and he went on about it
quite a bit

and so you said
ok pick me up later
and so after teatime
of bread and jam

and a mug of tea
and biscuit
you went with Moorcraft
to the church hall

where the scouts met
and this tall scouts master
in short trousers
and hairy legs

and glasses
took you off
to join the rest
and introduced you both

and some kid
showed you how
to tie these knots
and climb ropes

and how to set up
a tent and make camp
and so on
until some kid

pushed you off
the ropes
and you pushed him back
and he punched you

on the shoulder
and you hit him
on the jaw
and then you were both

on the floor
and the good kids
were saying oh and gosh
and crowding round

until the scout master came
and asked what
was going on
and that good scouts

didn’t fight
and threw you out
of the hall
leaving Moorcraft behind

tying knots
and climbing ropes
but you didn’t  
give a fig at all

and Moorcraft still in there
not knowing why
and you walked home alone
under an evening sky.
 Aug 2013 Arman
Jamie Lee
One day I sat amongst a chair,
bored in my training class,
I decided to drink some coffee,
to wake up my ***.

I began to doze off,
dreaming of the beautiful stars,
do you see that I asked,
way up above so far?

My eyes played tricks on me,
cause they weren't so far,
in fact my face was dipped in it,
now isn't that bizarre?

There must've been floaters,
taking shape in the cup,
cause my face was dipped in,
when I woke up.
Written on 2007-10-15 // Copyright ©2013 Jamie Johnson.
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