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such a feral, taunting creature
   concealed in anxious mind shadow
elusive as the day is too long

its refracted image submerged
   beneath comprehension's surface
defying every attempted grasp

its soothing and alluring voice
   subtly indistinct to my disquiet
like words whispered into a fan
a thousand sunsets could not compare,
to the sun in your eyes and the light on your hair.
a million flowers cannot measure,
the fullness of your beauty for you are my greatest treasure.
3am
and I
forgot
what
it's like
to feel
useless
to the
universe
71 out of 100, mental health warning is high and somehow it feels like a lie
Before the coma of wings and football,
invades my nation's soul.
by the East River will I perambulate
each figure on the walk drawn, that is me,
chatting to the gulls re the river's latest delicacies,
praying the bicyclists, on my body, have mercies,
but I will all the while be silently recording poems,
to tribute the international nation of poets and poetry
Later.
it takes a real proud man to make a girl cry hard. most things a girl can cry off in ten minutes. Tough things. Like giving birth to big *** babies with their big *** heads and ****. But that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the deepest cries. Ones that come from the most hurt-felt part of a woman's soul. Ones that make your eyes close and your stomach sick. Ones that make your whole body freeze, and all you can think is, "i am responsible for this unbearable pain, on such a gentle woman's soul."

i am a master of this art. i have learned the call of the lone woman; almost a swan song, of a dying gentle soul begging to be heard. Begging, for the one who can save her to act before she drowns; to do anything but stand there and stare. Anything but let her die this lonesome death just out of reach of his arms.

i have a recipe for hurt. tested and tried thoroughly over the years, i can now say it is perfected. i can hurt beautiful souls and shatter their wonderful dreams, then so simply turn it around to make it sound like it was their fault. one may say this is a fine delicacy. i say it is the recipe to feed lost souls. ones who will be lost in limbo for all eternity because even in death, their pride was still too big for the afterlife.

there is a special talent i have that is unique for mastering the art of hurt. like x-ray vision it is a power to bring out, in other people, what they don't want anyone to see. i can bring out the worst in a beautiful soul faster than you can look in someone's eyes. i can make monsters of magnificent beings, then call them crazy and be on my way.

Leaving behind a faded tye-dye that's left to hang dry in the sun, knowing that her colours will never shine as bright as they once did, ever again.

.
love has turned to frustration
and little things have begun to collect
like plastic floating in the whirl-pooling currents of the ocean

a small raft built to protect myself
to stay afloat
after treading, nearly drowning in the swirling masses
keeping my nose to the air
to breathe our oxygen

searching for ways to recycle a synthetic past into raw, earthy tones
dreaming of ways to live gently
and soothe a conscience full of unknown, hidden foes

one moments glance at the jungle of hardened polymers shining in the crusted sunlight -
i begin to realize they are not garbage, but gold

to be re-shapeable, to be reusable; is this not better than gold?
to keep firm and true to ones self, while being agile and accommodating, is this not worth much more?

to have a 75 year half-life;
slow, deteriorating, dissolving decomposition.

or to be re-formed. replenished.

you can recycle the past.
i'm wasted on the girl i love
the buzz ended long ago
but i dream of being sober again
because this hangover will certainly **** me

i'm high from her eyes
and her smile it gets me ripped
but some days i get carried away
and the burnout makes me want to quit

so hit me with another round
shot by shot, i'm alone
somebody, please, call a cab
'cause i can't make make it on my own

love poisoning has got the best of me
lay me down before i fall
because love itself is more addicting than coke
and losing it; worse than withdrawl.
tv tucked-in to premature sleep,
t'is elementary that I
I awaken midnightish,
mission most unusual
sherlocked~unaccomplished,
to disembark from the day's
shellacking


glancing out the window,
many of the yellow lit windows
decorating (not littering) my cityscape,
precisely the color of the tastefully ostentatious
but breath taking
canary yellow diamond five carat ring
I will never buy you,
that shall be the ring, always,
She-Lacked

not because I can't
not because it is impossible tho most extra frivolous ridiculous ice cream scoop
upright~downright double silly,
buuuuuut
because
certain things in life off course,
and are truly better for just
the wanting
than
the having.

but not you,
of course.

Of course!
From my eyes to your eyes and back to bed in five
sparkling heartbeats
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate...

circumcised: to purify spiritually

On the eighth day,
from my nativity,
circumcised,
as is the custom of my
wandering tribe.

marked thusly,
perma-identity carded,
thusly begins the path,
a pink-bricked road this one,
not to the Mighty Oz,
no phony curtain pulled aside,
where anyone goes to get
spiritual purification
for a price

Ah, you suspected something else,
something explicit,
not me~style,
give you honey,
road provisions,
come along for the observing his
clickety clackty clock

Ready?

For where we venture there is only
one exit,
And you are so not ready - I am who I am and I am
not ready too...

every line an enunciation,
every stanza an annunciation,
Angel Gabriel, a solo duo, unlike
Beyoncé and Jesus
we be on our way to any kind of purity,
poetry can buy

who knows what awaits us,
could be catholic, universal,
even the uncircumcised
get a chance to enunciate.

let me offer a clarification.

proclamations and sensations,
conditions and exploitations,
brown eyed girls, and surfer boys,
functions and malfunctions too,
abbreviations or adjudications,
conjugations in the congregation,
exhumation, the final excommunication,
I shun none,

I enunciate this:
false starts and junction boxes,
too many so so tired,
when can I lay down my shovel
and cease the decreasing deceasing of the body

this day nears complete,
and soon to eat
the last meal,
and still I ask

when can I lay down my shovel,
when will purity be mine,
my spirit's circumstances
repeat the commercial,
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate...

forgive my abstrusion,
my metaphors always offer perfect laxity,
choose the interpretation that pleases most
and my drift is toward the end of days,
when will my brow be a motif of
anointment and crowning head birth?

This is my Enunciation.

I cannot yet lay down the shovel,
and this writ is as of yet, still uncircumcised -
completely incomplete, it will be finished
when the spirit says
you are the purity,
the trinity of two hands holding two others holding two others holding two others and the chain is perfect because
it is broken perfectly, a forever repetitive respective handle with care
process

Forgive my visionary words that
give little clarity,
so summary due you,
This is my
Pronoun citation
I am
I am circumcised, therefore, I enunciate
on my way to the purity of spirit.
It just happened  on the way to sitting down to supper.
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