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 Apr 2017
Gidgette
Some dead things just won't lay down
We keep walking
Long after we've died
Wreaking havoc upon the living
Drowning
what little of ourselves that remains alive in
Vintage
Tears and shame
Throwing up on sidewalks
Homewrecking
Bringing the occasional young stranger home
To get that little drip of pleasure
From his heartbreak at dawn
But apparently
This kind of "self help"
Isn't working
Apparently
Tomatoe juice with celery sticks
Massages
And people behind desks in
Ugly polyester suits with framed papers on their walls and a prescription or two
Is now
Rehab for the dead
 Apr 2017
Gidgette
I let a stranger in,
to ******* bitter fruit
I silenced his gun,
Told him to shoot
Gave him my body
Wrapped him in my vine
Kept my dark heart
It's black, but it's mine
We danced our skin dance
Till we saw the sun rise
I feel no shame
No need for more lies
I'll do as I will
An it harm none
I've been set free
My will,
Be done~A
 Apr 2017
phil roberts
I dreamed that I knew you
But that was only a dream

I once met a man
In a pub full of gangstas and dealers
And fools like me
Who thrived on the adrenaline and the anarchy
This young man returned my buddy's keys
Not the place to leave them on the bar
So we got talking, as you would
And this young black guy was impressive
He was obviously intelligent and articulate
As straight forward and easy going
As the place allowed
We got on pretty well
Saw each other and said hi a few times
Chatted at the bar occasionally
Then I didn't see him for a while
Until I saw his picture in the papers
He had shot and killed a man
For machete-ing his younger brother
It just goes to show
We never really know

                             By Phil Roberts
 Mar 2017
L B
The right winter
for dope and ice
for walks along the river route
home

The right winter
for arctic pin-***** wind
holes in boots
turquoise dress coat
far too thin
for walks along the river

But The Merrimack couldn’t find her way
when fabric moguls migrated south
Fascinated by nylon nasties
they traded their silks and cottons
for those petro-polyesterdays

While she—
could no more manufacture life
than mint their money
So, they blamed her
Pronounced her—“Dead”
Decried her “*****”

Now—
She wanders sadly under bridges
stopping to eddy in an overhang of birches
In dank canals, I found her sleeping
angered only at the falls

Poor outcast!
with current edge she splinters light
from cities sadder still
retching her oily stench 
        past Plum Island
into the sea— into me

What’re a few warm tears
falling from someplace on a bridge
to the icy waters of the Merrimack?
Rivers get lost in the ocean don’t they?

Let them find each other there
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/240872280040374240/

I never knew anything about Jack Kerouac, and only today, learned that he breathed his last on my 20th birthday in 1969, just as I came to his sad hometown of Lowell, Massachusetts to endure a baptism of my own.
 Mar 2017
Sylvia Frances Chan
i wish to reveal a most precious thing
as Spring has begun
my dearest Daddy’s Birthday is done

he is not a man of celebrations
i want to disclose this personal’s manifest

as his blueprint, i am really beatific
i am very fortunate to be able to recollect
all and everything

to be your beloved daughter
is one most precious and delightful evidence

such a coziest feel to have you in my presence
you embody all that is calm and peaceful
no other impervious Daddy then you, my handsome sensitive

your BirthDay, dearest Daddy is never nebulous
the reputations you left us are all fabulous

you told me tales, they are in fact realities
you are one of a kind, your mind so sublime
you constantly cared and loved me, i am your prime

i love to tell superlatives about you
you deserve the most, dearest Daddy,

i am very proud of you, of your humor and your visions
your cartoons, drawings, and your fascinating paintings
you conjured magic in all your writings

C.C. was your weekly talkings
Charlie was your weekly walkings
in the world of Charlie Chan

i am very fond of you, my very talented Daddy
i know your world too, owned by you as a stage performer….
i remember everything, every detail hidden in my mind

i wish to reveal the most precious thing
last night i went to your place, i was wondering
you were not there, i started sobbing….

© Sylvia Frances Chan
21st March 2017
May he rest in Peace. May he have a Happy BirthDAY in Heaven on the 21st March on Tuesday....
He died too young too soon, my greatest grief on that day.
The Lord gives, the Lord takes at His Time....
 Mar 2017
Gidgette
We are but scorched women
Giving away pieces of our worn,
Paper hearts
Only to watch them burn with daydreams never lived
Crying tears of soot
Leaving trails of black
on once rosey cheeks
Our kisses, but ash
Painted red smiles
our masks
Souls of ebony,
traced with scarlet
We sing unheard songs
of glowing embers
Falling on deaf ears
Hearts not to be held
or touched
Ash falls apart with the softest breath

Scorched Women
For all we with scorched hearts.<3
 Mar 2017
Gidgette
Music, the wind
I was a wave, upon the ocean
A leaf, free,
and floating untethered from the branch
In those instances, no longer mortal
I WAS every emotion contained in flesh
A bird, fearless
in a hurricane
I made love with every note,
every melodie
Crescendo, was *******
The music caressed every part of me
from the inside out
Kissed my toes,
as a long lost Love
Cradled my soul,
like I was a newly born child
To dance,
for me, was heaven
and hell
It is living and dying,
in an ethreal universe
where only beauty exists

For you, my friend;)
I wrote this at the request of a very dear friend. He asked what The Dance made me feel like. How I felt when I danced.
 Mar 2017
Isabelle
All the things I have done for you
All the love I am feeling for you
All of me I have given you
All my life I offered you

But
Still
You
LEFT

All the fights
All the “I love yous”
All the tears
All the laughs

All
Into
NOTHING

All the kisses
All the memories
All the plans
All of us

ALL
Ends
Two words
**GAME OVER..
Love is never a game.
 Mar 2017
Ma Cherie
Why is poetry so easy to write
when you're really really sad?
Boy when the tears they come again
my muse he will be glad,

Becuz today I'm not that way at all,
well I'm feeling only happy,
so the muse he's gone elusive still,
an my writing rather sappy,

But I will write again I'm sure,
still I pray he let me be,
I want to be a poet true,
though one who's heart is free.
.

Ma Cherie © 2017
Writers block ;/ ugh! Still moving my house and like going crazy lol hope you are all well! Muah!
❤❤❤
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