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The boys of summer
Grew beautiful and stronger
Sprang into spring
Like a springtime flower
They bloomed and they blossomed
Perfectly awesome
Pure and true
My boys they grew
Only God, He knew
How could it be
with a mother like me
Jaded and strewn
Brought into my life of ruins
But God He knew
All I needed was two
To help me heal
My wounds did seal
All burdens and darkness
Turned into brightness
I found true love
Not as a wife
But a mother instead
John Destalo
some songs are
not electric

they are lonely
meant only for

your soul
meant to be

your secret
never shared

you can dance
to it if

you want to
just not with

a partner
it has to be

just your body
feeling itself

lost in its
own space
he panted heavily
muscles twitching in his naked body
running frenzied, without looking back,
he shouted, “He is after me.... my life”
a rip roaring cry....!

the traffic halted
pedestrians stopped
people from shops came out
women through curtained windows peeped
children stopped their play

“so drunk”.... a man murmured
“A crack”.... someone shouted
“coming right after an ****”
sneered, an oldie...
“pity on him...! Take him to an asylum”
one gentleman suggested.
he needs help, majority opined
‘nab this plague’, the moral police quipped

what is he running from...?

an Assailant....?
corona virus....?
his own phantom...?
two sane men staying,
at a corner wondered.
they had masks on their face

“must be a health worker”..!
one of them said...
“yes, the subtle nuances of an agonized mind”
the other agreed!

as the scene on the road,
had grown into a high voltage drama,
dissensions grew and multiplied!
The shovel pierces the ground
The sweat drips from my face
Darkness is closing in
The prying away, the lifting
I dig in silence
The grave deepens
Strange ritual
Why don’t we build pyres
for cats....

I am drenched in sweat
The dirt under my nails irks me
My knees are caked
I lay in my hammock
And message my friend
“Bob is in a better place now”
We say this in a few different ways
Until she goes silent

She is three thousand miles away
Receiving cancer treatments
And her cat Bob just died
I cannot fix this world
I can only dig graves
in the bedroom, on the landing, windows are open
every time over confinement.

in the bathroom, breeze taps a pull-cord, slides opinion
between voodoo and idle genies stored in gem-jars.

night’s stare is cold. thorough.
I wonder what he sees. how he draws me.

reflection is kind - throws time to shadow.
licks clean my memories - labours won and lost.

I watch her- my left-handed explorer of self -
her small o of silence is mirrored,

and all the things I want to tell her - die on my tongue.
I return to a warm embrace of moments ago.
I'm an old chew toy in a basket full
some are just bones
or knotted rope
some squeak
others plush
but we all hope
the master will choose us
to play with and lay with
my tag ripped off, I'm nothing new
just something reliable and easy to do
"Many a physics graduate student has gnashed her teeth in frustration over the mathematics of general relativity. Perhaps she should try envisioning a flat, boundless desert, with rocks of various sizes scattered across its surface, whose mass creates dips of various depths in the sand. A sturdy canopy looms over that desert, stretched tightly over a skeleton of tent poles linked by bars, matching the rises and dips in the sand beneath it. The desert is all the matter and energy in the universe, while the canopy is the geometry of space-time. The poles and bars are the equations of general relativity, connecting the stuff of the universe with the shape of the universe. As Halpern writes: “Mass and energy warp space-time, telling it where and how to curve. The shape of space-time, in turn, governs how things move within it.”
My mass and my energy are both warped, so the where's and the how's and the eyes of my curves are the poles and the bars of behind which I relentlessly cease to exist, only to seize what lies beyond the constraints of time and space, as eye wait for the bus to stop in the No Standing zone
The Bus Poet
I’m not a genius but sometimes
words come out through me
     and say what I can not say
holding firmness inside a rhythm
that presses certainty
        though my bias taints me
it also grounds my lofty
for I find home in  all the lovely
in as well with grotesque malitions
       the burn of disagreement being
a fire of purification
       to love, for what the f... matters
    my view is just as ridiculous and
  if I see through to out of my bother
        my love expands, and the room became
that much bigger, with a larger crowd
  of lov-ed families
I’m learning to become adept
at not looking at everything
through a microscope in depth
embracing the moment
when my body sings
the praises of his silken touch
his charms and wicked demands
knowing full well that insomuch
I’m wearing his words as pearls
which is exactly how I like it
To the northeast and beyond
On the very edges of the glistening shores
A shattered forest of stump and splinter
Cracked and smoldering, as if for all time
Yet that disastrous event which stripped the land
Has yet to ever occur

There is no record of wildfire
No meteor shower from the summer night sky
No overturned lantern or lightning strike
Nothing has ever happened here
For as long as things have been recorded
And our generations have run

But still the forest smokes
The ground tucked in below a blanket of ash
The few remaining trees are sickly and charred
Yet never do they fall or die
And never do new trees sprout
Despite the fertile ground rich in minerals

No it was not long ago
That the forest burned and the earth was scarred
Nor was it recently so
We know truly that it was ages from now
In an unspeakable sector of posterity
A forgotten year that is yet to be

In the far distant future this forest burns
And the land is laid bare before us
The event echoes back to us
A warning a premonition
Of dread and fearful things to come
But alas it is only a premonition
I long for the majestic
sunset of your hair,
windblown, dancing across my cheek…
The burnt orange and lavender…
I want to consume every drop.
I’m thirsty for your
footsteps near my bed, parched with
desire for your presence—your essence.
How long until you wet my
tongue, and quench this fire?
I stalk slumber like a shadow…
my only release from the
hunger and yearning for your
moist lips, like peaches
pressed against mine.
I need an editor
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