The ******* the bike was a mess--
She was nursing her baby, no less.
   The cop gave a citation,
   'Twas a moving violation
To the baby, for riding a breast!

No-Man is an island.
     Desolate.
              Forlorn.
    She had visited often.

No-Man is an island.
     Time waited for her there.
                  Hour after hour.
      She waited too, walked the beach,
           Recollecting shells of old relationships.
                   To her ear she could hear
                          The unforgiving ocean.

No-Man is an island.
        The sea rises; the island is not safe.

No-Man can be a refuge.
         Leave the island.

A FLea and a FLy in a FLute,
Built a FLat where they FLit, resolute.
  They had FLouted a FLaw
  In a FLagrancy law,
But a breath of FLesh air made it moot!

So I finally ran out of rhymes (sad thought).
When I put this with that there were times
   When I thought rhymes were endless,
   But now sounds are friendless.
My limericks now must be mimes!

So I’m mouthing the words; do you hear ‘em?
Be quick! They’re right now disappearin’!
   Evanescent their tone
   With a volume unknown.
Though they fit me so well I  can wear 'em.

But wait! There are rhymes near the bottom.
I can reach ‘em. I’ll stretch out. Yes! I’ve got em!
  Well,  I’ll use them next time,
   There’s no place here for rhyme.
Still, blessed be he who begot em.

You are so dynamic, darling
I fear your flames
might be raging too fiercly.
You are a fireworks display.
The light and noise
can astound, and dazzle
but you spread yourself too thin.
I would rather you focused
on the blindingly beautiful bursts
you show me every so often,
than burn your fuse at both ends
and bury your gorgeous sky flowers
under barrages of bottle rockets.
I understand that your displays
are not crafted for me alone.
But, I know the spark
 buried inside you
and it is that fire than ignites my desire,
but the packs of jumping jacks
you toss at my feet
only serve to distract me
from your far more brilliant offerings.
I know I cant afford the ticket,
but either way, I will watch the show
from the other side of the tracks.
And launch one of my mortars
like a sympathetic shout
whenever I can do so,
without sacrificing my own sound.

In a dream I walked
 through a small town in winter,
snow was drifted all around,
building after building was dark,
 empty window shops, abandoned.
At the heart of a naked strip mall
there was a tiny boutique,
Chinatown style.
Cheap throw away electronics,
plywood guitars, plastic purses
fast-food clothing,
and wall to wall glass cases.
It strikes me now, it was not a shop
but a museum, filled with relics
of the oh-too-recent past.
Homemade cassette mix tapes,
with pink bedazzled stars,
and neat hand written script,
zip disk encylopedias,
mildewed black moleskines,
and much more, the mind
it could not take it all in.

I was wrenched from this museum,
back into the waking world
by a full bladder, and a cold crown.
I slipped on a cap, but I hold it in,
desperately I try to convey
 the frozen tragedy I have witnessed,
with moist unblinking mind's eyes.
The shadowy windswept streets,
the random half broken neon signs,
the peeling sky blue painted storefront,
and the tiny boutique, a dream place,
that could only ever afford
to pay the rent
in the depths of my subconscious.

It strikes me, that I am blessed
to be a tail-end-member,
of Generation X, the last generation
that can remember the corpse
before it died, to have watched it die.
To have lived through this death,
to have watched the desiccation
and to have seen the dead body
***** by heartless robots,
to give birth to a Mummy Earth,
a world without a soul.

Soon I will be forced to go downstairs
and relieve myself,
on the ground outside
For now, I lie on my side,
thumb typing, shoulder aching,
 from supporting my weight,
sore eyes assaulted
by the too-bright-white screen.
I lie here, trying to capture it;
 the feeling of strangled despair.
Not for myself, but for the children
who have inherited a dead cyborg,
devoid of its humanity.
A corpse culture, with perfect teeth,
glistening hair, fair skin,
cloudy eyes, and the faint stench
of moldy leather and spoiled spices.

They do not know what it is like
to feel, to have beauty ripped
from their desperate dream hands,
like children dragged away
from their arrested mother.
They inhabit a foster home
for the spiritually bankrupt,
the true tragedy is
they don't know any better.

I can never come back,
I will not be your ham-hock,
a bone to be squabbled over,
and buried as a trophy,
gnawed and *****.

Its the hound dog moaning,
when it loses the battle
that grinds me up the most.
The avalanches of sadness
heaped up like earth
kicked up by a dog,
who is  searching for the bone
it buried so long ago,
leaving muddy holes
all over my once pristine lawn...
that is what hurts the most.

Its better to be the dog
that loses the fight,
than it is to be the bone.

You are just a girl
that can be replaced with any other
in the whole **** world

You are so irritating
nobody cares about what you say
So stop ******* complaining

you mean nothing to me
you are just here for my entertainment
give me what i wanna see

you cant do this you´ll break your nails
This is more of a manly thing that we do  
cleaning and cooking you´ll never fail

stop with all these disrespectful words
you see society has given us this curse
of inequality to the women who give them birth