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I want to be a tree... reaching high up into your heaven... rooting deep into your heart...
 Sep 2012 Arson Nick
ju
all grown up
 Sep 2012 Arson Nick
ju
I'd heard horror stories in the playground, seen embarrassment and tears.
Shared in secrets that were passed around like candy.

Not for me.
All the messing about and the working it out. I didn't want Bad *** by misadventure.

Like you said.

I waited. Not as long as the good girls, but longer than my mates.

You were worth it.

I was a bundle of nerve endings and inexperience but it was perfect, you were brilliant.
Just the thought of you sends shivers down my spine.

My best kept secret.

I wonder about you, at times. About your life, what you do, if you're happy or feeling blue.

Your children: Would I know them in the street? I guess now they're all grown up.

Just like me.
tweaked then re-posted. cheers :-)
 Sep 2012 Arson Nick
Amir
i used to burn all my bridges
and let other people
regret it for me.

now I just let things slip away
like pennies in deep waters
and it's passionless
and it's dull.

i watched a
seagull catch a fish
out of chicago's river.

fish about
half the size of the bird,
   dancing head to beak.
    i stood on the bridge
and waited for the ****
to choke.
he didn't.

my pyrex measuring cup
says patent pending
on the side of it.
what the **** are
they waiting for?

what
the ****
          am i
waiting for?

life's no good when
you're comfortable.
happy or miserable,
  if you're used to it,
          you're ******.

it's only living
        just after the
globes been shook.
just before it all settles.
There was a little boy named Andy...
He was only nine years old when he died...
They buried him under a willow tree...
His father was so sad that he went insane...
One night he went to his son's grave...
Dug him out quickly...
And carried him home on his shoulder...

He then made him a dummy...
Turned him into a wooden dummy...
Painted a stiff smile on his dead face...
Put his play outfit on him...
Sat him in his favourite chair...
In the living room...
Put some music on...

He has gone home...
He has gone home...

He sang so loud that he got tired and fell asleep...
In his dream he saw his son dancing...
Bouncing around...
Singing out loud...

When he woke up his dummy son had disappeared...
He was not in sight...
He sought for him all night long but he could not find him...
He did not know...
While he was asleep deep in his agony...
Somebedy broke into his house and stole his dummy son...
Sold it to a russian ventriloquist for a few pennies...

He cried all night long...
He went back to his son's empty grave...
Crying...singing his sad song of loss and loneliness and agony...
When he went back home...
He found his dummy son sitting in his favourite chair...
With two bleeding hearts beating on his lap...
The hearts of the man who took him away....and the russian ventriloquist...

His father blurted out his happiness....
Held his son's cold wooden body tight....
Stroking his grinning dead face gently...
His son sat back still...
He stood still...
He was just a dummy...
Just a wooden dummy...
Love?**
A word any more loaded would surely have its vessel of destruction  firmly planted against the vulnerable flesh of my soul.
A tool only to be managed by the most skilled of marksmen.  
Naturally every man feels a sense of entitlement when it comes to venturing into the grand shadow that love casts.  
The sad reality being few ever make it out of the dark.  
Somewhere beyond the gloom of our contemporary road less traveled by is the Utopian bliss of beauty and contempt.
Perfection?
No.
Never perfection, but the closest our society will ever achieve.
Beauty...
Real beauty...
Is the ability to love imperfections, and embrace them as truth.
Honesty is the true happiness.
to be honest with one's self is to be true to his fellow man.
We are as we are for reasons beyond our control, yet destiny can be persuaded by selfless acts of love and truth.
Give me your tired, your weak, and your poor, and I will show you your casualties of war.
Not a war fought on any foreign front, but an internal struggle of love for another which will always strike swiftly and blunt.
The sky betrayed an aura of foreboding
Not that I expected anything to happen
And perhaps it was just the impending storm
But the air itself seemed to dance

As every molecule vibrated visibly
And meticulusly
Towards some unseen end
And to be sure
It wasnt just the storm
But the sand upon the shore
Galloped away from the whisking waves
To a percieved safety
Flawed though it may be
That is what they percieved

Those lonely grains of sand
And that shrouded musky air
Fleeing from winter's lips
Revealing teeth, but in the bare
If not but for the few
Grains of sand and dancing air
Whom escaped winters grasp
Would this tale be told
And dark winter, upon its lips
Wears a dream of spring
Out of the cold
 Jan 2011 Arson Nick
Amir
we're all shape shifters.

we
         put on weight
and
         give off heat.
we
         spit on the sidewalk
and
         **** up air.

*******
                  do we **** up air.
like they stopped making it,
                           or something.

and when we sweat
it evaporates into rain.

in the
             composting
           blast furnace
              of our guts
we
         reduce and deconstruct.
we
         take the good
and
         turn the rest into ****.

and we apply this same
learned approach

to our fellow
shape shifters.
2011
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