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Dean Sep 2014
You tell me that I'm in need of something, and it's something I want.
and you're back on your back but there's no shame, not locking the door.
You got a need to please, it's got you down on your knees,
screaming ****** for your pills and your child support.

But tell me why all of her
lovers talk of other
worlds because of her ploy

Give the world to feel like you're no one, and you wonder what for.
Salivation is the only salvation, between you and the floor.
Karma, ******, birds and bees,
saving up the pennies freed by the lock on your jaw.

But tell me why all of her
lovers talk of other
worlds because of her ploy.

The chairman of the board is a no one, 'cause you're queen of his world.
Takes a number just to spread you out longways, makes pretend he's a girl.
Some sultry needs, alarmed, diseased,
not lawful, but at least it's not what mum bargained for.

tell me why all of her
lovers talk of other
worlds because of her ploy

And when I've got some coin,
will you tell me how much it will take to make you love me some more?
Dean Sep 2014
Those with clumsy fingers, clumsy minds. They took a while. We all started the same but it all separated out soon enough, the good ones that squared up to you and made you smile

In summer the bonfires dotted the shore so that we knew we were not alone. There was a stable for fire, a chomping machine. They held the fire for us all to see, like it was their slave. The licks would jostle about for awhile, till they found their technique and mastered it. Made a fire that twisted and turned, until one day it could be knotted around itself,  there was no telling where it began or where it stopped. This was a complex fire that grew only more intricate, and always upwards. Its secrets were only known by the few, but a warmth that was felt by the many.
Ahhh...an urge for days without progression, when it would reach a halt and be enough, but it never did stop.
Long stretches it felt the same, cause day by day it was deceptive, there was always a routine, always that feeling that it all had been said, nothing was really that new. But days like that only last so long. Sooner or later it all comes to the fore...when the wind changes and the last of those things swinging from the branches depart in as much the same way as they came.
But the good ones, we always knew the good ones. Yeah. It doesn’t roll like that anymore. That fire that twists and turns at eats you up will take you away to those places You will trip in a wild daze relish a full, bloated stomachs and won’t want for nothing no more
Dean Sep 2014
He talks about his days they’re almost over
The headstone is a truth told entirely in lies
Soldiers on for the sake of nostalgia
Counts his smarts like the lines on a dial

Fakes it like a real man
Caught by the feeling, meets the ceiling as a ghost

Monuments to skin those days are over
A healthy dose of same ain’t enough to keep it down
No one left to blame, by the time it hits the ground

Working against the blood flow,
I thought I’d know me a bit by now
But we’re all stuck in limbo

Frontin’ its own occasion
Wading out with lead boots, down the line
Get me off that straight and narrow
Call to arms that magistrate, its a crime

Working against the blood flow,
I thought I’d know me a bit by now
But we’re all stuck in limbo..
Dean Sep 2014
not exactly a poem, sorry.

The turnkey was the fumbling sort, the sort that could be taken advantage of, Carver never thought about it more than a passing fancy. The kind of thought that was dangerous, it wasn’t a ten-year stretch after all. Popping the old guard and making a break could work, would work.  A couple of years is nothing in this joint, they told him, once you get a few connections in the yard, get on a baseball team, two years is a breeze. You might even miss it all. Carver was hesitant to heed the trappings of these old relics, they were just counting the days to nothing. He knew that very well might’ve been their prerogative, but for him there would always be that something. A lonesome post-office box, containing the culmination of his life’s worth. They didn’t know about it, none of them knew, his brother, his slick-*** lawyer, not even those rats, those ******* rats that got him in here. At the time he resolved that he would part with that secret of his post office box for no less than his life. Whatever dissent had marked him as the fall-guy passed him by. Complacence led Carver here but it would never happen again. No more concessions next time.

Cellblock B wasn’t devoid of small charms. The periodic mewing of this crooner or that, with what seemed like a common intonation amongst them, all tapping from a collective unconscious. The window with a view of the yard, although mostly obscured by another cell block, was still something. Lately he had been privy to comparative bliss, his erstwhile roommate having to nurse off in the infirmary the sepsis resulting from a shiv wound after an ill-judged altercation in the mess hall. The daily motions had long since become routine, Carver thought that in many respects, this was not too dissimilar from his army days. Avoiding the unsavoury types was the key to surviving both.    

Conversations which abounded lacked privacy and tended toward the trivial, but listening in did occupy a sizeable chunk of Carver’s day. Someone, Carver was fairly sure it was Fuzzin two cells down was wondering why he was growing more hair in his right underarm compared to the left, and was resolute in uncovering the mystery. Sal in the cell to the left was perpetually reciting his conquests, ****** or otherwise, to anyone that would listen. “I was in Maine for a year and a half. Lobstering up there. I mean, what else is there to do. In Maine....” A collective murmur took the cellblock suddenly, stirring Carver out of his reverie. Sal dutifully motioned and whispered “cell inspection”, Carver did the same for his neighbour. The deputy warden for cellblock B was a short rotund man Williams, who as appearances go, looked like he should be better acquainted with ledgers and stock tickets than prison walls, but was a lax sort, permitting what modest allowances someone in his position had the leeway to do. I have heard harmonicas and guitars chiming after meals regularly, unheard of in any other cellblock. Thomson’s mattress was tossed down the way...of course every now and then a few examples had to be made to appease the warden, Thomson’s codeine addiction not doing him any favours by way of effective concealment. I exhaled a sigh, not so much in condolence as boredom, as even the strewn mattress and its assorted artefacts was becoming as familiar as the yellowed walls and the evening chill.

It was the 14th and Carver was due for a visitation. 9:30a.m. and already in the throes of being worked up, he was sure to be getting worked upon soon enough. Carver cracked his knuckles against the edge of the table in the visitation room, an apparent thick black line bisecting the table with ‘hands behind the line’ mirrored on each side. “Hello Maurice.” Carver winced, knowing that she was purposely diving into ways to put him ill at ease, commencing with the upperhand, by calling him Maurice the name he hates, not Maury. “How’s life treating you?” The smirk barely contained in the pinstriped pencil skirt, her hips less so.  “Yeah okay, it’s okay. Great to see you here.” And he meant it. Not that her presence normally roused anything like that sort of sentiment, their domestic life was a burned out cinder even before he was busted.  But there was a particular warmth in her notes, just an untouched civility foreign in place like this, tending to be drawn out from the inmates one gesture at a time, often for good. Carver thought to 8 months prior, camped at opposite ends of the house, their wares might as well have been labelled ‘his’ and ‘hers’. Evenings were carefully orchestrated, where arcs in their lines of vision only merged for the briefest of instances and only as a measure to avoid any dreaded physical contact. The prospect of *** was a joke, Carver well aware that she was ******* at least the grocer and his broker, but felt better for it. One less unfulfilled expectation he had to relieve. “I’d ask how you’re dealing with the weather, but I guess you’re keeping pretty warm these days.” She half-stifled an involuntary scoff, “You know I don’t need to hear this now, Sam is due for the dentist at 2.30 and I want to get him all washed and ready, I’m not here for your games.” “So who is it today? Talbot? Someone from the club?” Carver questioned without a hint of animosity. She breathed a defeated sigh, “You know I’m not going to talk to you about this here.” Carver jolted, the seat raised an inch or two on the linoleum, “I’m just asking if you’re ******* around, and you don’t give me a straight answer so what do I have to assume huh?” The guard was giving allowance more than he had any obligation to, but Carver’s voice was raised enough to disturb a few of the surrounding groups. He moved his way over, “Hey, what’s the ruckus here Carver, keep it down okay. What’s this box up here, move your hands back, c’mon, you know the rules. Diane piped up, “It’s just a taint, sir.” The guard prodded it with his baton, quizzically. “hmm oh yes? I thought those were seasonal, okay just keep it down.”

Carver motioned to the box, “Why did you need to bring that here? I don’t need you parading my taint around. You know I’m trying to get parole in three months? What have you done with it?” “It’s just a taint.” “Yeah, but what’s with all this purple and green stuff here? All these spiky bits, I don’t remember that.” “Well, two months ago you asked for the taint and I’ve got it here, so what else do you want from me.” Carver listened to her speak but looked passed, to the frosted glass, wishing that a window was all that really kept him between here and there. “Christ, I’ve had enough of this, I come all the way down here, spend fourty minutes caught in that dratted excuse of a highway, and you won’t even thank me for bringing your stinking taint along. AND, just last week you were all taint-this and taint-that, why do I bother.” She flung around just slow enough for Carver to observe her figure it in all its majesty. A drop in his stomach, as she moved off with authority. “Wait!” He flung himself towards her. “Please...I’m sorry....please....just...leave the taint.” “Here just take your **** taint, I hope you’re thinking of it when Sam and Eliza are eating that canned **** and asking what their father is doing so I can be sure that I’m explaining what a worthless **** you are and be accurate about it.” The words fell on heedless ears, Carver and his taint. The taint and Carver.

Fuzzin was moving back to the cellblock alongside Carver, “Buddy, your wife has some ***, you better hope my parole don’t come through before yours.... say...what’s in the box.”
Dean Sep 2014
I believe in being shallow, in dog eat dog, i believe in contradiction, we are in a contradicting world, a contradicting universe. I want to believe in truth, but the truth is we’ll never I mean  ...I’ll never get to know the truth. I know I’ll always be about what isn't than about what is. I’ll always try to touch the void, but avoid the touch. I’ll always see things wrong and wont see fit to correct myself. I’ll always chastise myself for being there in that frame of mind, but not do anything to correct it. I’ll always have something better to do. I’ll always believe that evil is nothing, that a word is nothing more than to convey an idea, and that some of  our ideas amount to puerile . But some ideas mean something, to us, but what does that mean? What does that mean??! I believe that significance is so ******* rare. That if it is real it is rare, it is nothing. What are we I need to know, I need to see. A hot mess of molecules, yes but why? Why can’t I know that? Could all the maths in the world figure that out? Could any machine, any number of equations or satisfactory ingenuity figure it out before I die? Is it beyond our menial capacity? Why is my understanding of what is and the boundaries of what isn't so ill defined. Entitled to never know enough but to think about it. Be a reductionist. Some autofellatio. Will alienation help me deal with this fantasy? With this void of voids? Here’s no magic in people, but magic in a person? I had to do something...to do something, but is inaction any more meaningful than action? Is just that thought a self-fulfilled conduit to inaction, or is it the right thought? The right thought? What is that right thought that I need? Was is my goal? Smashing through a crash course on reality and making a hot mess of it. Beguiled by a sense of urgency.  


If only I could find the time I want to ****

— The End —