dead bodies while alive poor Porphyria
strangled by her own hair
which could be no Fairy tale ,
jabberwocky, listens
as does that famous semicolon concise;
By Ezra Pound.
  creepy
innocence or infamous
we all get to sooner.
On to Popeye
"Farm Implements......"
title and poem supplied by Ashbury,
hang  an albatross but don't shoot it
Mr. Coleridge,
it will hang around your neck.

on a demented chorus
I began
I entitled
soberly
of moon and body
speaking of green
or ales
I have not imbibed
in  the last 1 hours
but I hear tweets
from mockingbirds
chasing gliding swooping
down from the nests
I guess
i threaten.
So, this message mis-titled
a chorus mis-guided
sails into the air
as a chirp chases me,
hiding,
I need a beer.

Backtracking towards the Light
oh! Fakir,
brilliant shiny Bright
Neophyte hypnosis, take me In..

oh! Beloved,
fragile tendrils of my desire
heartfully hear me, hear Me..
my heartfelt Prayers,
I do not fear to tread into the highest vapours.

Clandestine Clementine!
not One Breath but Three
times itself, squared.

Blaspheme!
not forsaken, dripping drapes
blindsided, blindly onwards...
not forsaken Sight!
Hear me, Hear Me..
Bless'ed be my Name!

I don't get bigotry, never have.

I don't get born again Christians,
Weren't they born once already?
I don't get do nothing Tea Party Republicans,
Who as it turns out are mostly the same
Born Again people.

I don't get any fake *** politicians,
They aren't people they're a product.
Manufactured and packaged to please
the tastes of the gullible public.

I don't get why super rich people would
want to go to Washington and take
(For them) a low paying job in Congress
and then sit on their hands and do nothing?
With their money they could go buy a lush
Island in the sun and lay about and really
do nothing while drinking a ice cold beer.
Which sounds like lots more fun.  

I don't get bad wars fought for bad reasons.

I don't get people that **** other people
of the same religion for no discernible reason.
While yelling "God Is Good or Great!" or what ever.
I don't get why they'd think "God" would even
appreciate that.

But then, I don't get people that **** people.
Or insanity, religious insanity is even worse.

I don't get still using oil to power things
while we know **** well there are good
viable alternatives.

I don't get the rabid Right To Lifers,
who want to dictate to all woman
their "One And Only Solution".

I guess I don't get why
People tell you they love you,
Then later change their minds.

I don't get kids killing kids
on school yards with guns.
Or the fools that do not lock
up their guns that their kids
find and use to **** other kids
on school yards.

I don't get why so many people
want things to stand still,
just because they can't keep up.

I don't get those folks that swear
that global warming is not a reality,
while every day the oceans rise
a little more.

I don't get why we little people let the
one per centers run our country and lives.

I don't get why we allow Big Business
to out source millions of jobs to other lands
when people here at home are unemployed.

I get "Humanitarian Aid" but why do we send
billions of dollars to countries that hate us?

I don't get why we need a dozen TV channels
of 24 hour news, (Some of which distort the truth
to fit their political leanings) news repeated and
repeated until we are scared and numb and
don't know truth from pure old *******.

I don't get where honest "News Men" like
Mr. Cronkite and his breed, guys that made
sure of their facts and would only dispense
the truth, went and why there are no more
of them?

I don't get why Bush and Cheney are not
in the slammer for their many lies and
outright Treason! Starting wars that never
end and shouting WMDs when none existed.

The simple answer to all this,
"these things that I do not get", is,
"It's all ******* and It's Bad For Ya' ."

the memory of his large, thin hand on my back brought me to the

ghost of his breath entering my mouth...

these realities kick start my heart so i roll out of bed.

longing is unsettled skin and a crossed leg that won't stop hopping.

looking for familiarity in different hands, different *****...

hoping to feel that same flame lick up my thighs.

searching for green in the bluest of eyes~

Have you seen the revolution?
did it quiver your repulsion?
sitting there in feigned rejection,
laughing at his resurrection.
Gone is word of insurrection,
take it now to your affection,
entertain his sweet deception
while he plays with his *******.

the blue is a prim,
and pretty room, draped
with musical games
of chance,
for settling here.

harp strings
relay the vital net,
after Shakespeare.
the visitors leave,

lord Byron wrote
of hours of idleness,
the letters below,
and all the while
you have no love for me,
worrying over the empty barn.

sbm.

the dresser, will be dressed,
if not with work, something
else.

it is ready, will be sent, despite
undecided minds, impropriety.

will be sent despite blood
from bulbs, stranded fingers,
picked, plucked at rags, thead.

and filaments.

it seems the work is cupboards.

cabinet makers.

sbm.

spoke to me in welsh,
i answered him in english,
gave him 10p change
eventually.

taught me to say,
four pound fifty, so
we shook hands.
i showed him my accent.

laughing, told me to
go to the devil, while
i blessed him in his
native tongue.

from Mostyn, been
to a funeral.

sbm.

It's optional
Like the fading of skies
Early, wild, or remorseful.
All the impalpable space in the lights
Scaled in weighty gilt and curls
The locks and gold of sun,
early as it sets on a moiety of moor grey
Brushed by shadows of agonised poplars
on a spiral land of sheer pistachio blanket.

Muffled by lyres played from the trumpets of
convolvuluses, behind spears of the brain-
an imagery commence to carouse
into planet deep.

A promenade atop the tulle of skies,
an optional way to live.
Saunter and fall onto slopes, shudder, meditate
and hit a bee coffin pebble on the temple
Where there are options to live, to bleed.
Like the lurid sunrise sifting on
yellow-green nuts, and dandruffs combed
like granulated sugar
Oh the taste of chemistry
on the shea butter candles.

It's sanguine and optional,
your farewells on laden calendars of poems
A promenade- back into sea of spears and flames
A cadaver veined in pink,
bearing plethora of methanol
down pulverising bone.