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Plain brain game,
      droopy eyes,
        shaking thighs -

    Why am I back here, again?

      Great laughs -
             ha, ha,
                ha -
          peeing cycles increasing
            to release
            the awkward current
               forming armies
               of goose bumps
           around my thoughts -

     My Friday night
        has just begun -
              but it feels
                like last week's ****;

       Same tickling fear
          tied in a knot,
      as I seal my
                       heart
       with more dishonesty;
        
these distracted strangers
     don't know any better,
                             any better than me, anyway -

      "Love is just a state of mind,
          the heart knows better,"

                             hmph -

     intuition feeling
          a tad under the weather -

       Not good enough,
          I should've known better..
 Feb 2012 John Mahoney
Shelley
Bitterness**
"What an appropriate name," she thought
"for this foul feeling that tastes so akin to bile."

She ran her tongue along the ridges of her hard palate,
hoping that her saliva might creep into every crevice
and cleanse her being of this sharp vindictiveness -
Sour anger that left a trail of puncture-wound footprints across her shrinking heart

Equally corrosive and repulsive as it flowed through her bloodstream
She clenched her fists in an attempt to catch the feeling before it traveled another inch
As physical as it it felt - running through her, running over her -
she eventually came to understand that her ailment was far from physical

When she could no longer stand it, she fell to her knees
And prayed to a God in whom she'd never believed
The intellectual in her pushed Him away with embarrassment
The seven-year-old in her embraced Him like a dearly missed imaginary friend

An internal tug-of-war ensued, but was short lived
The vivacious strength of her young heart
Quickly lost to the tired feebleness of her old mind
She set aside her pride, calling out the suppressed longings of her soul

Much to her surprise, she felt an immediate loosening of ties
Weights lifted; beliefs shifted - everything seemed to fall into place
She let out the deep, deep breath she'd unknowingly held
And recognized a feeling of ease and serenity that had evaded her for months

She realized with a smile that she was grateful for the bile
For without its damage, she never would have met her healer
When she sat down,
I was afraid she was going to ask to pray for me.
“I saw you across the room,
and God just told me to come over here to pray for you,”
She would say,
with a smile,
Wearing Toms,
her big toe peeking through a worn-in hole,
all shiny and full of Jesus Christ.
You know how they are.
Let me tell you, when someone asks to pray for you,
it's literally the worst feeling in the world.
You feel like a useless piece of trash,
and of course you HAVE to oblige.

But instead she just introduced herself,
said that she had seen me around
the coffee shop she worked at,
and wanted to say hi.
Her name was Julia and she had strawberry blonde hair,
she was a senior bio major,
and when I told her I was a freshman,
I detected a subtle lift of surprise in her eyes.
She was from San Diego, which she said was her favorite city.
Talking about it, her face lit up and she was excited.
We have a mutual friend, as she pointed out as well.
But,
she said,
I'll let you get back to your work.
I asked for her name again, the first time she said it,
I was too worried about her offers of prayer,
Julia,
she said again,
but if you forget, you can always ask.
 Feb 2012 John Mahoney
v V v
I wanted to see you where the years were kind,
inescapably etched and displayed like
smooth stones spread out on velvet;
but I wouldn't ask. I rummaged through zippers
and heavy things.

On a cool summer night we heard a hiss of
broken stars across the desert sky
and looked up in time to see one pass over head
like a science fiction rocket ship.
It was a moment with you I will never forget.

It's funny how things are settled or settling
and divided by extremes,
jealousy   -   anger   -   hurt   -  houses  -  
etched stones  -  broken stars,
stuff  you  can't  find  words  for,  
stuff  you  wish  y­ou'd  written  down,
words  that  end  up  on  gravestones.

So leave me  with my imagination and your beauty,
maybe some nostalgia as my muse, add one more thing
for sure, make my children our children
not   half - me - half - devil - children
and maybe I wouldn't have to run,
wouldn't have to start a war.

Maybe I could be happy without
your etched stones.

Maybe all I really need is a broken star.
Sprawled on her twin bed, hungover, this story’s sad and true,
She is an early morning Whippoorwill, I an impotent worm,
The sheets, satin blue; her shower, comforting and warm,
She shakes and shivers the dust from her wings, I rediscover my underwear.

She is an early morning Whippoorwill, I an impotent worm,
Through bloodshot, insomnia riddled eyes, I glance at her,
She shakes and shivers the dust from her wings, I rediscover my underwear,
She straightens her hair, her visage all aglow, unusual at this hour.

Through bloodshot, insomnia riddled eyes, I glance at her,
She stares into her vanity, vainly she catches my gaze,
She straightens her hair, her visage all aglow, unusual at this hour,
Her smile sings Frere Jacques, her lips wet with French kisses.

She leaves for work, I stretch for the package of Reds, our vice in my hand,
The sheets, satin blue; her shower, comforting and warm,
Suddenly an invalid, blind, holding two cigarettes for just one lonesome man,
Sprawled on her twin bed, hungover, this story’s sad and true.
This is a Malaysian form of poetry called a pantoum, the only form of poetry that gets more fun the more times you say it.  There's a repeton joke in there somewhere
I am an Alkonost, my voice moves you in a trance.
Your mind becomes a clouded sky
when you hear my voice singing
through your confidence.

I can see the state of your soul
as I look into your eyes,
watching you bow to the sun
while dreaming of my song,
of love pursued by sighs.

You see a lovely woman
with lips pressed against each second
lying before you,
not my feathers completing a circle
emptying into all you view.

My voice scratches at the window
of your day
and watches you fall
into my existence.
I sing into your fantasies
always in motion
with no resistance.

You sail the high seas,
upon whose waves
you should never turn your back.
I am the mother
who leaves her young there,
you best be careful
when they hatch.

I am an Alkonost,
my song moves you to remember
nothing but me.
Tonight,
my young call to be born,
oh sailor,
do not sail upon
these troubled seas.
The Alkonost is, according to Russian folklore, a creature with the body of a bird but the head of a beautiful woman. It makes sounds that are amazingly beautiful, and those who hear these sounds forget everything they know and want nothing more ever again,[1] rather like the sirens of Greek myth. The alkonost lays her eggs on a beach and then rolls them into the sea. When the alkonost's eggs hatch, a thunderstorm sets in and the sea becomes so rough that it is untravelable. The name of the alkonost came from a Greek demigoddess whose name was Alcyone. In Greek mythology, Alcyone was transformed by the gods into a kingfisher.[2]
 Feb 2012 John Mahoney
Helen
enough of your foolish folly
return to your oyster shell
re~polish your dull exterior
relive the moment before
being wrenched from your
existence. Be glad. Acknowledge
the close confines of which you dwell
Take nourishment from inside
the cage that keeps you warm
Hardened arms that shelter you
from the storm. A closed mouth
that speaks not of freedom
remaining  tight lipped
leaving you guarded but unwarned
Oh, yea pearl uncultured,
unappreciating of the body
that bred, unyielding
such opalescent perfection
once ripped from the flesh
dull will you wink in indescretion
tied to a string alongside other
conquests. Just a trophy
of your latest obsession
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