You beat me up
you lock me away
oh what have you done?
Ice cream and walks  plus the sweet talks
you "say" you Love me
you "say" you care
but is it true?
I dare say not
stay away,
stay away from me.
oh what have you done
you ruined my life
so
I'll ruin your's
my life with out you
is oh so great,
oh wait you're to late
If i had it my way,
and you had it your's all i can say is
never more..
savannah  *rawdon

Like a magician,
my suspicions were correct:
you’re an Esmeralda and very rich.

How could I tell, well:
            your stitches are sewn by money,
            the hair you possess falls as if honey,
            your tall cappuccino, three-extra-shots, is mixed with cinnamon,
            don’t get me wrong, you look lovely, but please floss,
            homemade bread is not attractive when lodged in pink, smoker’s gums,
            does your Father know you smoke
            or is choking fun?
            Cancer cannot be undone like your lower than normal blouse,
            so button up and stop with the arousing, ‘cos
            everyone here is doing work not listening
            to your fabulous conversation about Billy and Meg,
            cosy in the thought of love, playground love.

Like a magician,
my suspicions were correct:
you’re an Esmeralda and very rich.

Missing girls possessions
Parents obsessions

Doll, clothes, shoes
the parents mull over
they’ll never recover

She’s being missing two months now
still her parents row
“I want her back, NOW”

Recrimination
protestation
Desperation
DESPAIR

Her mum has a frame
with a snip of her hair
she takes it out
and feels it with care
Its her treasure
nothing else can measure
Remembering

Her dad has her favourite book
he keeps it in a secret nook
often compelled to have a look
Remembering

Every morning they run to the door
to meet the postman
first name terms now “Dan”
“Sorry folks, nothing today”
they go inside and pray

She’s no longer headline news
everybody has their views
about which they opine
often over a glass of wine

The parents separate
Can no longer operate
Both consumed by guilty memories
suspicious of each others queries

they no longer gel
trapped in private hell

They need to mourn
but as long as shes still missing
there’s hope
that’s how they cope

I can’t imagine their sadness
hanging on verge of madness

I love the rain.
Nobody can tell you've been crying.

I would liken you
To a night without stars
Were it not for your eyes.
I would liken you
To a sleep without dreams
Were it not for your songs.

first time my father overheard me listening to
this bit of music he asked me,
"what is it?"
"it's called Love For Three Oranges,"
I informed him.
"boy," he said, "that's getting it
cheap."
he meant ***.
listening to it
I always imagined three oranges
sitting there,
you know how orange they can
get,
so mightily orange.
maybe Prokofiev had meant
what my father
thought.
if so, I preferred it the
other way
the most horrible thing
I could think of
was part of me being
what ******* out of the
end of his
stupid *****.
I will never forgive him
for that,
his trick that I am stuck
with,
I find no nobility in
parenthood.
I say **** the Father
before he makes more
such as
I.
from ONTHEBUS - 1992

it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
it would break the glass in the window
and the radio would sit there on the roof
still playing
and I'd tell my woman,
"Ah, what a marvelous radio!"
the next morning I'd take the window
off the hinges
and carry it down the street
to the glass man
who would put in another pane.
I kept throwing that radio through the window
each time I got drunk
and it would sit there on the roof
still playing-
a magic radio
a radio with guts,
and each morning I'd take the window
back to the glass man.
I don't remember how it ended exactly
though I do remember
we finally moved out.
there was a woman downstairs who worked in
the garden in her bathing suit,
she really dug with that trowel
and she put her behind up in the air
and I used to sit in the window
and watch the sun shine all over that thing
while the music played.

It breaks my heart that women are assaulted in every country
like, I wish I could attribute it to one bad thing
I wish I could blame it on America or the economy or bubonic plague
I wish it only stung like hot coffee on her tongue
I wish **** were an ocean I could drain the water out of
but some people just think others should be put in a brown bag.

Limbs, limbs, limbs. Are we all just body parts
attached by tendons and cursed by muscles that mothball when we
need to cut the eyeball sockets of someone who wants
to mince clavicles, button noses, great big hearty belly giggles?

Every memory is sorry and starry, every piece of her *****
and I just want to blame it on one
******* bad thing, I want something so disgusting to make sense.