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Butterfly

A gray, decaying cocoon
lies snug up against
a Sunday plate-glass window.
All that can be seen
is the jeans-covered ****
of some homeless person.
Charity blankets never
cover everything at once.
At the edges
of the chrysalis is
a banner from some parade,
wrapped like a royal-blue
winding cloth.
What emerges as
the sun floats high, could
hardly be called a butterfly.
It is the old man who
sits, nodding, by a square
of cardboard, hand out for change.
His unfurled banner lies, catching
breezes nearby.
His old gray blanket bleeds
his stink into the street.
He waits for the hour
when he can can bind himself
to his bottle, squirming back
into his corner.
I see these people every day.  They become background noise in a silent agony.
It needs to just leave me alone.
Let me sleep.
Leave me with thoughts of love.
Not thoughts of panic.

Welcome to my Panic Room.
Where instead of sleep,
Thoughts of terror come into play.
And I can feel the swelling of my throat;
As if I were allergic to the tragedy.
My heart beats as if it were a horse race.

Welcome to my Panic Room.
Where a bed lay in the center.
One I wish to sleep upon and dream of fearing nothing.
Yet I sit in the corner;
All curled up to protect myself from the monster that's coming.
Only to realize, every time,
The monster is inside me.
 Jul 2015 Haydn Swan
Olivia Kent
My ******* are calling to my knees.
They're very close you see.
My jeans control my belly.
My hair is going zebra.
My eyes were sharper than a spear.
Now they see you when you're near.
My teeth are made of ivory, if only for the image.
Crumbling into the sea,but as I said I can't see them them break.
Even the mirror is quaking.
I am just a shocking sight
Thank god for a electric brain.
Sparks still fly as dangerous razors.
Although the body's getting fat.
Not much I can do about that.
All downhill from here.
Thrilling.
(c)Livvi
 Jul 2015 Haydn Swan
Olivia Kent
Don't cry baby.
Your daddies gone off hunting.
He wants to get a trophy.
Just so you can see.
What a clever boy he's been!

Introduction to a child of everything that's  mean.
Daddy tell your little kid.
Of all the vile things you did.
Bet you can't, bet feel ashamed.
Of taking part in cruel sport and labelling it a game.

"Son, daddy fox is called a dog.
Mummy fox a *****.
Baby foxes little cubs soppy as a kitten"
A spot of education..
Hell  hounds have a job to do, apparently.
Together, language of us common folk will paint the sky bright blue.
"Jackanory".
***** story.
Written by the Tories.
For fox sake keep the ban.
Speak out loud while we still can!
(c)Livvi
 Jul 2015 Haydn Swan
Olivia Kent
Silent graveyard.
Grass untended by the keeper.
Standing there
At the end of the six foot run.
See her crying.
Whatever the weather.
Always there.
Sense her smile.
She's was the chosen one
Young attentive woman.
Was once forever.
Now she's gone.
Ancient vase brimming with sun blanched paper flowers.
She wears a hat.
It's pink,
Faded with a garland of flowers ringing, it's skull.
Almost a summer coronet.
She sits now.
Legs crossed, she's musing.
The pen of the phantom.
Her image presented.
In mystical words.
Sometimes in pictures.
The woman is in a world of her own.
Her pen plays in time, with the motivation of the clock hands.
Turning slowly.
Each minute she watches.
Watching for the movement.
Unheard, save the quarterly chimes.
Darkness descends.
The ghost writer twists her pencil around on a whet stone.
Tomorrow shall surely come
She shall write some more.
Now the clock dictates,
Time for her to visit her cold night casket.
To wait for tomorrow's quaint wicker basket.
She knows it's coming.
She can rest in peace anticipating.
The visitor stands.
She's deep in thought.
Leaves behind a present she bought.
Brought grandma a case of colours.
Pencils, pens and ink.
Pretty pictures.
Wonderful words.
It helps her to grieve.
Finding the words her dear Nanny did leave.
Missives from a heart of gold.
(c)Livvi
 Jul 2015 Haydn Swan
erica court
i smile for now;

we hang out for awhile

just on the couch

        no white forests, no cute chocolate boxed romances

        no notes, all smiles and all pearly white teeth

                                with less words and letting hours elongate        

                silent stares, you let me know you've fallen

                        in love with        my        lips

and         for one, i think i        am just fine with        that

        before yesterday becomes the same as tomorrow

                i think i'm okay with you and i

                                        for now;
sorry i havent posted in foreverrr
Watching the washing machine go round!
Makes me think
I don't need anyone, but a little love makes things better
well more bareable than before it was before
come up
run now don't beat yourself up
try, try, try but all things remain the same
or do they
does he need to know
what is is in your brain
that will be your guilty wish
wish I told you
did not really want to hold back
but what the did
so sitting now
watching this washing machine
and sitting on this.
Most Surreal poem yet   enjoy if you can P@ul.
might one day ask you what am I sitting on!
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