There's an air of stale tobacco;
But nobody here's been smoking,
And a feeling of wilted flowers,
But no one has yet to die.
And the air moves all on it's own;
With a trace of smooth monotony,
Changeless, beneath the sky;
All our mouths are dry and cottony.

There's words you would not speak,
Though the bells might be hovering,
Soundless, for a wedding,
They're waiting to keep,
Invitations, sent on the breeze,
And the guests; fabrications of movement,
In a church, with an empty steeple:
My life is moments, such as these

Filled with plastic, mannequin people.

Upon some past and distant day
I thought I heard love’s music play
Saw Dante’s angels rise and fall
and Babel crumbling through it all.
Communication was breaking down
in country, continent and town
and whither did the angels fly
when tongues of fire passed us by?


Sweet mercy’s heralds on the wing
I thought I stopped to hear them sing
new colours gave they to us all
strange languages and ways withal.
I knew my brethren nevermore
nor what the diversity was for
Save to set one man against the next
and have mankind forever vexed....


Strange ways we walk, strange tales we weave
the more our children to deceive
perpetuating moral lies
through generations of poisoned eyes
who only see that black is white
on a lesser scale, with no grace or might;
that dark or different walks alone
and language is slingshot to be thrown.


and whither did the angels fly
when tongues of fire passed us by,
when divided waters joined again,
when came the end to Noah’s rain?
Can it be we are alone
so quick to cast judgmental stone,
so slow to see, in each other’s face,
the beating wings of love and grace?

if some electric joy could paint us
here in the vivid shards of wasted glass,
or create a beauty that's never been drunk
we'd question our surreal imaginations,
drugged by passion's symbolic chisel;
the blue aesthetic of an angel's dust,
of abstract life more sensed than performed;
the psychedelic absurdities in bolder strokes:
I'd sing your **** genius sculpted through every world.

I sit surrounded by the carnage of the day’s efforts:
Words dismembered, metaphors bled dry.
I flap my wings in discomfiture at each glaring new
Example of mechanical fallowness;
Words hung out on clotheslines of manipulated
Speech patterns, wherever they could squeeze in-
Between the wet, moldy socks and twisted, bedraggled underwear.
I am a trained chicken at best, trying to force something out
At least partly digestible. As I peck out the sterile notes
One by one, on my red toy piano,
An automaton digs thru my internal filebanks, the flux of
Catapulted words continually bouncing over the chickenwire;
Escaping to flap heavily upward towards the trees:
And there to look down beady-eyed at the
Flopping, feathery decapitated blight.
For good reason, I hail from a long line of extinct dinosaurs.
Clucking with irritation, I see someone else has
Already laid all the good eggs, the golden eggs;
I can only scratch out some maggots and hope they hatch.

Hold your breath until you're blue,
The sun keeps burning,
Towards the night when it's burnt out.

It won't matter what you do,
The world keeps turning,
Towards the day it has spun out.

Makes me wonder through and through,
And I keep yearning,
Towards a time when I don't doubt.

The merry sounds are all around,
Grab a cup, to the brim if you will,
Cheery greetings of new friends found.
And let your ears drink their fill.

The mind is lost to fetching measure,
Marvelous melody born from skill,
I find it is the simple pleasure,
That draws me to night's thrill.

A nine-eleven call goes out at midnight,
It's serious: A writer of poems
At such and such street, has a word
Stuck in his throat.
Stuck in his craw; he can't get it out.
He can neither finish the poem or even
Make a lick of sense right now.
What to do?
The medical experts confer over the two-way:
I've seen this condition before, one says, wary,
I think I would use the jaws of life.
That takes too long, said another.
I have a carpenters saw in my bag
I keep on hand for just such occurrences.
Though rare, it does happen.
We will just remove the head, push the word
Out of the way and reattach the head.
Believe me it is much faster in the long run
Otherwise it could progress on to
Editors re-writes, poetry readings,
Deadlines, and who wants all that?
Poets really just want to write.
The others are in agreement.
Now they'll be able to get right to work
Without hesitating, which is the kiss of death
In crisis situations.
In asylums, they employ lobotomies
To the same result.
For the rest of us, there are the interminable
Religious sermons and services.

He passes by,
Sigh,
Brown, yellowy hair,
Jigjag outlines like fallen leaves
Adorn his clothes,
In his eyes autumn blue skies shine,
Tussled hair brushes his face from the wind
And he makes me smile.

He passes by,
A smile on his face,
A ruby red stripe on purple bluish cheeks,
Ebony brown hair and pale blue eyes like the winter sun.
He holds his hands to his face,
Breathing the breathe of life into them,
And he makes me warm.

He passes by,
Thistle green eyes and bruising body,
Coiled like a spring day, come undone, sprung.
Like the fresh flowers along the lane
And adorn the hedges.
And he makes me love.

He passes by,
He smiles at me,
I sit there in the summer sun,
All these years I have loved him,
But Time passes on.

Oh Son of Time,
You are so youthfully beautiful,
But how quickly yet gracefully,
You grow old.

procrastinating is my hobby,
ask
someone if you don't believe me ,
baby i lay around  
as i please
&
work at my own leisure,
incredibly you fail
to understand i am me

and

i love more then like the way that i am-  gorgeous courageous
coco golden skin,  

painfully
i know you feel the threat of  

my  momentous  appeal  
keeps  
you you & yeah you --  mystified.

guaranteed  your days are filled
with shock and frustration,

haa haa hee

how very exciting to me seeing your not as experienced as  I,

unlicensed  to tame what i'd never give
freely,

repetitiously you've played the game,
failure must be a sweet pill sallowed whole huh?  

adequately i compel my strengths --  my naivety makes
my appeal that more interesting,

call me uniquely imperfections
rarely made in to what  many can never comprehend,

my life is my dialogue to my very own daily soap opera

la di da da--  it's more then my  sultry walk
as i pass you on bye.

in this corrupted jungle
you have to win or be inhibited by  
what others  may call taboos,

whew  weee your so serious,

chasing prey only to tease--  lingering doubts?
catch me--  i bet you can't.

innocently the line's been crossed

yet
speak not of what should be!

only--  this--

is what you'll know ; procrastinating is my hobby!
I Am The Lioness!

(some may be lost on what i wrote&say; but ok lol)

Always Me Ayeshah