By: Cedric McClester

You lying ***,
You so and so,
You didn’t know,
That she would go?
As if the general
Didn’t tell you though,
You’re claiming ignorance
And putting on a show

You lying ***,
You so and so
Keep it up
And your nose will grow
Just like the puppet
Pinocchio
You’re trying to reach
A new plateau

You lying ***,
You so and so,
You paint a picture
But you’re no Van Gogh
You’re gonna fall
Like a domino
See you belong
In a minstrel show

You lying ***,
You so and so,
You hired her
Don’t cha think
We know?
That you’re duplicitous
As world leaders know, yo
Like Canada's Justin Trudeau




Cedric McClester,  Copyright © 2018.  All rights reserved.

My lucid sleeping has drawn the gaze
Of these dream demons that scheme against me.
This time of night, even the monsters have slinked away
Back inside their closet.

You have not known fear, rational or otherwise,
Until you lie powerless to the paralysis
That the dream demon wields so elegantly against me.
Like gripped by a vice, my body is held stiff.

My eyes wide open, or so my mind is led to believe
By the amorphous foe playing tricks with my deepest grief.
Contorting memories into the present moment,
A bedroom near identical to my own.

Hospital white walls, and the same clothes strewn about.
A faceless lady lay next to me, curved in shadows. My hand
Reaches out, but hovers just shy, as if set in stone.
Why can’t I move? One more attempt proves of little use.

The faint rustling of hands through silverware drawers echoes
Off a cold kitchen floor, bouncing off hallway walls, and
Slipping through my ajar bedroom door. Little hairs
Render salute, as the sound crawls like ivy up my spine.

Just then, I am stabbed by six figures seven times and burned
Alive, but yet I do not die. Oh how I struggle to move
An inch or two, but this formless force denies. I demand
The demon speak to me, but before the thought can make its move
The loop repeats. I never die, but I always bleed.

Primo Sonno, the traditional First Sleep that was common before the Industrial Revolution, it occurred between nightfall and midnight after which the sleeper arose to interpret dreams, pray, write...

The cherry liquor puts me down
around the time the snowfall arrives,
when the blackish hem of night
is snugged over the last lacy orange light.

I have jamais vu - I see the familiar,
& feel nothing, an iron-browed stranger
gazing out at the dim flake-fall,
the urban hush that sweeps away the scrawl.

At midnight I wake to an insistent horn
deep in the street pockets. I dreamt
of people with guns following me,
gluey-eyed, marching quay to quay.

In the dark, I almost remember her.
In the dark, my stomach is filled with acid.
Shadows hiss in the bleary mirror,
a cold breeze scrapes a little nearer.

there was this part of a story
where a noah's ark was carved
along with all the animals
and given to the orphan girl

a little boy got mad,
destroyed the ark, the animals,
threw them down and watch them break

i can't remember which book,
maybe Heidi or the Secret Garden

just that part of the book

i can't ever hate you enough
i wrote your name
your city
your country
your employer
your most accurate description:

a loser
just a terrible person
who helps himself to everything
including the complete destruction of someone else's happiness
to make yourself feel important
you are that kind of man

i guess that's how weak they make them
in canada

i hope you drink yourself to death
and drown terrified in your own *****
i hate you that much