The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The reader became the book; and summer night
Was like the conscious being of the book.
The house was quiet and the world was calm.
The words were spoken as if there was no book,
Except that the reader leaned above the page,
Wanted to lean, wanted much most to be
The scholar to whom the book is true, to whom
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
The house was quiet because it had to be.
The quiet was part of the meaning, part of the mind:
The access of perfection to the page.
And the world was calm. The truth in a calm world,
In which there is no other meaning, itself
Is calm, itself is summer and night, itself
Is the reader leaning late and reading there.

A white mist drifts across the shrouds,
A wild moon in this wintry sky
Gleams like an angry lion’s eye
Out of a mane of tawny clouds.

The muffled steersman at the wheel
Is but a shadow in the gloom;—
And in the throbbing engine-room
Leap the long rods of polished steel.

The shattered storm has left its trace
Upon this huge and heaving dome,
For the thin threads of yellow foam
Float on the waves like ravelled lace.

How do you tell your mother that you've been cutting since July 20 2015?
The one who loved you.
The one who told you it was just a phase when you came out as bi.
The one who walked you across then street when you where to small to see from a car.
The one who has been completely oblivious as you sobbed in your bed room.
The one who asked if you cutt when you drew a picture of a broken angel.
The one who you have been lying to for 9 months.
How do you tell her when your afraid she will dissapointed in you?

Winter wind makes it's way down this Virginia mountainside
creating the hum of bending trees
dogs bark at moving deer
light slowly leaves
as it nears closing time at this country store
wood burning stoves are stoked
and the small mountain town of Pine Grove
settles in for a cold night

One last visitor arrives
his quiet stride moves with the wind
I'm greeted with that childish grin
that never leaves the Birdman
he is James Dean cool
John Wayne tough
and Jimmy Stewart kind
his visits are like a good bottle of wine
always ending too soon

He winks and says; 'Goodnight brother'
then walks into the darkness
the Birdman left us this night
riding the wind to the kingdom he knew awaited him

This is supposed to be a poem,
Ill get round to it..

how I'm ch
                    ock
                            ing. on. it.

her beauty leaves me

         b _  a _  r __  e

<<<<<<suffocated>>>>>>>>>

f ^ igh^  ting for some. will.  to....

          in~~~~~hale

Person for sale

Able to:

Breathe quietly
Talk when needed
Wear acceptable clothes on work days
Use transport facilities in a timely fashion

Willing to:

Spend time with people
They don’t like
Set aside any feelings of
Boredom
Restlessness
Apathy
Disinterest
Disillusionment
Malais­e
Fatigue
Stress

And feign:

Interest
Enthusiasm
Concern
Delight
Contentment
Joie de vivre
Passion
Commitment

Willing to:

Sit stoically
In front of a square screen
Sending typed messages back and forth
Quietly count the days, months and years
As they tick by
Cover unsightly grey hairs
With unnatural dyes (at personal expense)
Spend hours in the same rooms with the same people
Use communal toilet facilities
Sit on trains
Day after day
Use caffeine and sugar
As the acceptable drug of choice

Prepared to scream out in silence
When it all gets too much

Person
For
Sale

hey butch
who ya kiddin'
you ain't no cowboy
no how
stick with ice hockey
now step aside
takes a lot more
slip it in a trollop
my grandpa shot better
hung 'em up to dry
in our back yard
on tremont street
under nevada sky
I learnt a noose knot
to catch my lizards
sold that snake
food with other gizards
I ******* caribou
and run them to a gallop
I knock off mafia heads
I take out cutters
florida boys don't scare me none
don't believe me
come and get me
find out for yourselves