Eyes of pale celadon
refulgent in the dusk
lips of skin so thin they grin
around the tips of tusk

Jagged saw-like teeth
beneath a sagging beastly jaw
the putrid reek of flesh and cheek
he's gobbled - nights before

His pointed nose will point his toes
when he snuffs you shuffling by
the fright enough will be so tough
your legs will lignify!

And once he's done he'll click his tongue
his mood enhanced by food
he'll walk home late and ululate
his deepest gratitude

In explosive light and fire
The shadows danced around her smile.
But I fashioned crutches with my power;
Left crutch-marks in the lonely sand.
And miles grew between our hands.

I fell down in my quiet place
And worked the garden every hour.
But couldn't grow a single thing
No birds sang or sheltered in my land:
Just miles grew between our hands.

They call it depression, but it's an addiction to something that's not there-
It's an expression that we wear; it's repressed need-worn mentally.

And torn entities are born, but big men scorn with forlorn identities.
Ungentle mouths sending free telegrams to stop everything stop.

Want masquerading as need.
An embedded seed we tried to prune one day, but grew instead.
Weedy tendrils that push out my head.

Bleeding temperamentally internally eventually until it grows aware:
Despite hiding it or changing it, we carry on:
Recognizing our own ambiguity in another person's stare.

A choice along one direction leads
to consequential choices based on quasi-essential needs.
And countless more directions;
some more pointless than they seem.
Each with unique-essential implications;
all random in their themes.

And when faced with new directions,
we all enjoy equating means.
There are sub-directions and sudden choices;
some with supplicatory pleas.
Yes, implication's long duration is an invisible machine.
A meta-physical motivation to a person and their genes.

Personally, my own choices corresponded
to these unlimited extremes.
To these tiny little time-transporters
that fit us into teams.
And I thought I'd reached a choice;
was on its corresponding way.
I followed down its passageways and subdomains
for consequential days.

And from the way that we all network,
I have come to the belief
that our decisions implicate
the parts that aggregate beneath.
Yes, every person has these combinations
aggregate throughout their lives.
And by the afore-mentioned complications,
They (eventually) divide to warring sides.

On one side is destruction;
On the other, love resides.
If you make the wrong decision
then these forces, they collide.
To catastrophic implications
and such damage done inside.

But if you're able to pause for just a moment
and hold them side-by-side.
You will find the sort of peace
that only finds those who have died.

And suddenly life becomes so simple;
no more chances need be applied.
Just one choice and two directions
Lie in front of your own eyes.
You feel quite amazing in
proportion to this fantastic new sensation.
As one choice takes you to destruction;
the other leads you to salvation.
It's the truest self-realization
and it's there for you to take it.
There's a chance of your damnation...
but, see, only you can make it.

The caricature of a drip.
Defining in it the sum of a short existence. A life.
Wet and alive and pendulously hanging.
I stare up from the caged depths, my eyes eagerly alive
as it drips down in a cascading spiral
less destructively than I have dripped.
A drip to know and to watch like the T.V. (that's never off).
To see the freedom in its fall.
But once dripped, dies alone. Ripped out.
Disconnected from the unsurviving cloud.
Unpoured, it seems, I murmer out loud.

I watch another drip. My reflection watches back, I'm sure.
I wish for it to break, so I can close my eyes
and hold, for a moment, a friend. A life.  
And to feel the dependence of the drip's lullaby.

Does nothing more than a drip make sense?
I gasp as they escort my back.
And does it listen when I tell it of my life
before it drips out of me like freedom in fashionable attire?
Redder than the red-lipped mouth of a liar
concerned with "family matters" and saying "sign here".
Lies that drip out of them like foolish wars.
Or the painted affections for a newborn child.
Oh such terribly dreadful dripful lies they are.

Down. Down. Down.

I'll fall down the endless corridor away from them all.
And drip beneath the cementum cracks of the floor.
I'll hide with my drip.
I'll drip with my drip.
I'll sip it a bit. Bitter, but I sleep better, I think as I slip away.

Drip. Drip. Drip.
Even after I'm gone.

Dusken the night
with the blood of day,
In fading sight
lay full your range.

The force of light
against your stay,
All pith of might
has fled away.

Within our eyes
your shadows grip,
Our heart's appease
towards you play.

Our fleeting life
all heaven knows,
That in your clutch
no memory shows.

I don't expect to understand
I don't like expectation
I understand I don't expect to get such information.

The shadows left the house today.

I felt them move away; like when you feel the sun across your neck in summer.

I've moved forward from those days of faded colors caught by long green weeds around the house in failing light.

And just as waves crash down upon the sandy shores of my childhood dreams, I came to the extent of the world.

And opened the door.

Through choking depths of unseen sights
Turns a fabled fish mid swim
And he feasts on any beast he likes
Does the mighty briny king
Forgotten to the world of men
Just a story on the lips
Of fishing folk that love to send
A shiver through the ships.

Foolish bird that won't sing.
A rumbling little thunder becomes on the wind.
A worker in full swing.
Clinging gracefully to every flower that he finds there to cling.
Weary bird, anymore not caring for threat.
And those long brown wings weigh heavier yet.
Not looking.
Not singing.
The boy cries, "Just sting him, sting him! Sting him to death!"
Poor bird with poisoned veins lays still in his rest.
His eyes slowly closing he remembers his nest.
And his mother singing proudly deep from her breast.

An impression of my footprints in the snow
And roads to walk before I fall
I wonder where my footprints go
and were they even there at all

I heard a call; a call I know
My heart has bled me not to leave
Lulled by the silence; held below
By shadows you would not conceive

In drab of night I'll say hello
And hold you close into my chest
I know I owe you all I know
But know I never loved you less

I rejoice in feeling ungraceful,
for grace is such a silly thing to bear.
I do not still the waded waters of my stay:
I lay unevenly and sing loud.
And try to leave reminders everywhere.

I step closer to the edge out where I play
and peer longingly into the raging seas.
When I die, listen to the voice of morning.
And you will hear me blowing ungracefully
as wind through the trees.

Ephemeral isn't beautiful unless it's beautiful and beautiful.
And beautiful isn't this unless it's this.
And beautiful.
And Literature is the water in the ocean,
as the ocean gathers sunshine for Grandfather, who is beautiful.
Grandfather is the man in the ocean who was there.

Those who gather literature this autumn in the ocean
are not beautiful and are not men or ephemeral men
nor are they there in the ocean with Grandfather,
but are beautiful for Grandfather - but fleeting.
This lollipop is fleeting but also not a toy.
It's a lollipop.
It's this.
This is not a toy lollipop,
but was a lollipop when Grandfather was a boy and beautiful.

I hate when I’m trying to be handsome,
and a more handsome man stands next to me and handsomes harder than I can.

''Surely you can handsome somewhere else,'' I say in a handsome passion, to the man dressed in ridiculously good fashion.

But he just stands there, handsoming harder than I could dare.
Even if I were wearing some Prada underwear.

So I turn up my nose and ''hmmph'' out aloud,
then handsome off to a less handsomeable crowd.

''Oh, what a success I've found,'' I say in a handsome murmer,
before handsoming away to be handsome further.

1: Jump out of an aircraft. Remember: don't forget to shout religious phrases learned from movies in order to mask motive. Works best when performed in the ****.

2: Get shot in the head. Cut carefully along dotted lines and glue pheasant cut-out to front of face. Warning: may not work in countries outside the UK or in built-up areas. Works best when performed in the ****.

3: Paralysis. Drink five bottles of whiskey or ***** (or five of each) and the decision to dart into oncoming traffic makes more and more sense. The knack to this one is pretending that the screaming vehicle  coming towards you is your favorite grandmother offering you cookies (or other cliche snack item). Adds a complex psychological element when performed in the **** which will also aid to mask motive.

Through dark paths I shalt be light
Though night is here I shalt be day
As thrown down what once I lifted up
Now giveth away the summer of mine love
For now is not what I am but what I was
Though far above beds of fevered death I be
Weep not for what you wish I loved
Or for the clumsy average of mine stay
But smile for what is lost to others gained
For I sang upon the world and heard in force
The cost of blessed thought, and danced upon
The ground we lost before the best was fought.

Life is a pasquinade
A palimpsest on a page
experience repeated
and recycled.
Reasoning fails
except to see patterns
that fade.
Like the afterlines
of a plastic bag
carried on the wind.

Little hands.
Like mother.
And a cheeky smile
Like me.
I'm so proud to be
Your father.
No-one means
So much to me.

Life started; my ear to your heart.
I heard life growing, but you grew up too fast.
Knowing so many things--
You decorated your parents in the sweet laughter you brought
and still bring.

I feel connected to you through the rhythm of your heart.
You fought to start -- sought your own part in life,
though you couldn't do it unsupported.
Your requited love has grown, and plays on our souls in the happiness we've known.

You dance. You sing.
You've arrived. Alive and kicking.

My everything.  

My reward: little socks, conversations with playful teddy bears, square blocks, and good food eaten in highchairs. Knocks on the head each day.
Your love of monsters and animals, and the funny things you have said
and still say.

Kisses. Hugs. Pokes in the ribs. Tears and giggles.
The fear of closed doors, but a big fan of pigs!  

Little hands. Curly hair.
I think about you everywhere.

Your first walk. The shock of unknowing.
Our open arms and your gradual growth into them,
and growth into knowing.

Now, safe and warm, blankets and toys -- I watch you sleep flawlessly unspoiled.  

I watch and need this growing piece of me; my future seed. This all-seeing, bright eyed and innocent being -- I see so many parts of me in him.

Little socks -- and lots and lots of tickles and curly golden locks and you're the best thing I've ever seen.

It is you, dear boy, I understand.
I love to hold your little hands.
And make you laugh, and hear you talk;
That way you can't say ''box''.
But most of all I just love you.
You and your little socks.

I don't think I could be loved.
Loved any less do I think I could be.
Or forget to love you because you.
Very much mean love just to me.
Every moment and every moment is a piece of love like a string.
You, and only you know what I mean.
Only you brought me to bring love like a gift.
Under the stars of the heavens it seems.

I hate you and the way you ruin people that love you and how well you lie without blinking and I hate how miserably you fail at trying and the way you try but trying isn't changing unless you change what you've been trying to change and you're just no good at trying only good at hating and breaking beautiful things and taking things that make you want to just ******* take your life and break it by tearing out the seams of this waking curse of a dream inside the nightmare where you belong in an un-followed hearse lovingly dead to the ongoing muttering of persons who hated you and to whom you must have hated too you stupid fool how we hate what you do and who you are and I hate that you are dying and untruthful and I hate what you did and what you didn't do and I hate that you spread hatred and dam sweet rivers and leave trails of love in broken pieces but the happy people don't mind it and tell you to forgive yourself with big sloppy smiles and don't see the dark clouds inside you and you hate them all too don't you yes each slop-filled one of them and I have a feeling that you hate my writing this down for people to see but not as much as I hate that you're me.

Is the body a part of death or death a part of the body?
Or, do death and the body only exist inside our minds?

Are we one part of a whole?
Or, the whole of one part?

Is life meant to be lived or lived to be meant?
Or, do both life and meaning only exist inside our minds?

Is the mind separate from our body or together?
Or, are we altogether bodies which are separate from our minds.

Is it reason which gives us intelligence or intelligence which gives us reason?

My least favorite animal would be:
Humans - but especially me.
I’d greet the end of the human race.
And point a gun toward my face.
And pull the trigger - so you’d know -
I’m capable of doing so.
I’d hang myself from a dead ol’ tree,
So that would be the end of me.
I’d blow myself up for no reward,
I’d burn alive or swallow a sword.
You see, I thought the sloth was the dumbest beast.
The most pointless animal, at the very least.
As slowly clinging to a tree,
most die in lifeless apathy.
(Because the rush of finding food,
Is pushed back by the urge to move).
But even sloths make habitats
for little creatures on their backs,
Yes, hardly useful - but more so than I -
So for a sloth to live, I’d gladly die.

The stupidity of human kind
Is that we’re all too dumb and blind.
We’re not important – not a bit –
just good at trying to reason it;
It’s really hard to not be scared
of losing everything life has shared.tu
Dying – that’s what frightens most,
That final eviction from life’s post.
While some believe their worth is measured.
Their souls live on, in heaven, treasured.
Reality is just a curse.
And humanity is by far the worst.
There is no superior tinker -
apparent to the deeper thinker -
That not a God could there exist,
When children die and he resists.
Not a very loving sell:
“love me back or burn in hell.”
life is meaningless, as It seems to me,
pondering in one-of-billions of galaxies.
On an average rocky planet that orbits a star,
And hosts the most evil creatures by far.

We skip the parts that disagree.
With our personal philosophies.
Life is governed by the tax
of being born and paying back
to the corporation we are chained,
and most are happy – they don’t complain.
They work, have kids, and all the rest.
They convince themselves they’re not depressed.
Through trying to see good in other folk.
Or putting faith in some fancy joke.
I hate this world. And all its greed.
There is no good in any deed.
Even goodness has a price attached:
The “You scratch mine, I’ll scratch yours back.”
But beauty is not too hard to find,
for those of us who are inclined,
To run from what has boxed our brains,
To flee the greed, to throw the chains,
and look up into outer space,
and know that we are out of place.
One day our atoms will journey there,
and be free as petals in the autumn air.

Islamist Extremists. Boat Capsized.
Obama and Nelson Mandela. Celebrity Lies.
Plane Crash. Forest Fires.
Missing Girl. Handgun-buyers.
Amazon Lawsuit. ANT-MAN. Low Supplies!

Walmart Empty Shelves. Chinese Food Scandal.
Microsoft Layoffs. Heat and Gasoline. Oil.
Mad Max! Comic Book Convention Drama.
Breast Lumps and Swelling.

Television. Veteran's Hospitals.
Israel and Gaza Fight On.
Beachgoers Hit by Lightning.
Baseball Drinking Songs.

Sci-fi, Wi-fi, Ebola, and Libya.
Ukraine. Venezuela. Marriage. Liver failure.
Allen Webster. USA. RACE CARS.
Global Catastrophe Down to Warming of the Earth.

Dinosaurs Had Feathers. MH17. Profits.
Desert Bakery. Syria. We Must be Mad.
Philippines: 100 Million People on an Island.
Salmonella Lawsuit. Cheeseburger Diet.
Twinkies Never Going Bad.
Putin, Palin, and the Tour de France.

Fracking. Cats and Dogs.

I built a prison in my head
To house the trouble deep inside
And sentenced certain things to life
In dark confinement gagged and tied.

Kept on a level far below
Are aches and pain that never show
Still further down I keep the lies
In dark confinement from the light.

And sometimes I see just their i's
That look up to me high above
And painfully I realize
They are my biggest threat to love.

There was a reason I did what I did for a reason.
A reason the reason was there for a reason.
A reason for stopping. A reason. A thing.
And a reason to stop thinking reasons for things.
But the thing might still reason to thingstop and stop.
All this reasoning and then when the reason is got.
All the reasons for things I'll stop reasoningstop.
And just thingdrop my reasons.

The reasoning lot.

Like dropping a pink *** of soil
or jumping through a wave.
Breaking.
But unlike the sea rose,
which died on top of the fridge,
I have salty tears I don't know what to do with.
It can only come back as a name,
not a thing,
in the memory of your breaking smile
and not of the shoreline.

We wait for signals, hope and pray, but they're everywhere and every way. So maybe we're just used to them and, unaware, we look away.
But pass right by them every day.

Be still and watch the golden sun's
late fire drape the snowy frost.

In loving embers stirring low
that light the heart of tender dusk.

In snowy arms we walk back home
and feel a warmth that's never lost.

Sometimes it's better to be alone where no one can hurt you.
Sometimes it's better to be together to undo each other's beauty.

Does nothing matter?
Is matter nothing but dancing shattered galaxies pushing and shoving each other?

And on Earth, is it worth thinking?
That I'm just a piece of eternal dirt thinking that I'm just a piece of dirt thinking?

We're all just stars, tasting humanity for an instant.
In all its fallacies, we're systems of suns that love ****** without resistance.

With the assistance of Christian values and armed pistols.
Harmful as ignorance is blissful, we're still missing the deal.

We're still ******* away the real position to feel. We're still wishing down the same ol' wishing wells
and hoping to Christ they're real.

Worse than guns, it's the waste of freedom -- It's unequal -- to **** the hungry from a distance is still evil.

I fly atomically and everything else is informal.
What's normal? Where's God when things get so awful?

He's epidermal - like an antigermal lotion. A magic potion to nurture the thought that we're important.

We're all just stars, answering a call to be Human.
Let the cold bars that hold the others down remain open till my life is dormant.

And our heads are still cluttered and cloth covered.
Filled with an age-old confusion straight from ol' Mohammed's cupboard.

They fool us with cooked messages from book passages that preach love.
Scare us into being apparatuses of a God above.

That's why society is shattered. It's what's wrong with the world.
The perennial infancy of thought that's forced unto our boys and girls.

Such unclarity, that's baked into our childrens' recipe. It's insanity to think that we don't just turn back into energy.

I'm not religiously inspired to forgive,
nor have the insidious desire to live to inspire religious permittance.

I prefer a future purpose undiscovered.
A death dimension still covered from religions' crazy buffer.

I think I'm the remainder left over;
A complex number in an equation you found to solve.
You treat me like a stranger: holding me through
the pain of peering in at you from the outside where it's cold.

I spied you there
old friend
with new color to your cheek

I hid - for courage fled - you see
naughty thing
so proud and naked in plain sight

Do you remember me?
Placed in past love
loved, but past love now long past

Once open
to my comings
now forgotten and closed off.

Do you want to live forever?
said the Gardener to me,
tending to a creeping thought
and watering the sea.

I replied, no, but thanks, you see,
I'd rather be a tree.
And spread my branches out
to
shelter creatures underneath.

A tree? A tree? He whispered tentatively.
Why, I can't remember what it be.
That word. That thought. That memory.
He shook his head and shrugged at me.

(So I scratched a crude drawing in the dirt
and The Gardener squatted there pondering at it a while,
robes lifted up above bony knees)

But I do that too, said he, jumping up quite suddenly.
Pardon me, but I just see no need - No need to be a tree!
Just beg a princely role of me
and I shall fill your fantasy!
I said, thanks, but well, you see..
I'd rather be a tree.

He paused for quite a while.
Then said okay, a little hesitantly.
Then said that he would not be that okay
until he sees these silly things called trees.
And until he sees the purpose of the thing it is
that means so wonderfully much to me
to
want to be a tree.

So he turned me to a tree and put me in a park.
Where couples came and families
and cuddling lovers in the dark.
And colored birds were friends to me
and I sheltered all of them beneath.
And spread new life through little seeds
and quenched the world its need to breathe.
And in the autumn dropped my leaves
to feed the insects in the weeds.
I stretched my roots in luscious ground and saw such beauty all around.
I was
old and happy as only a tree
could ever wish or hope
to be.
And then one day I saw a face, quite out of place, was watching me.

And he said..

You are very naturally a tree
and have done so extraordinarily well in green
that I will leave you be to live your dream.
And as he walked away, it seemed
he smiled happily back at me.

The wind blows
in the trees
and It exists - this I know -
because science
can show wind
is just atmospheric flow.
Condense it to a liquid
and separate it to gas
and see atoms of wind
through a microscope's glass.

Ignorance bows people
to their knees
and He exists - this they know -
because men
wrote a book
a long time ago.
condense it to faith
and separate it from reason
and blissfully accuse
anything different of treason.

Is it I or them, that fate has forced
to shadow in my lifeless eyes
for truth has bitterness to pay
and flame light flares along its path

when right and wrong are undiscerned
and creatures stir within their cage
when parents clip the wings of birds
and suffer them their broken ways

there lives between uncertain wrongs
an urge to end the war outside
to flee from all you say is true
and debts that cost too much to pay

yet finding manifested strong
the time to read between the lies
we spindle back the fraying cord
that blindly leads us to the grave

I've sauntered to the blackened gates
and laughed out at the red inside
that fails pride and injures truth
and falls down where it cannot rise

I struggle to last for the sake of the boy
But there's only so much I can take in
Your abuse drives me to loneliness; obscures my joy
In the hours I want to awaken.
Your alcoholic breath smells of curses and lies
You're addicted to unforgiveness.
And over-medication is of no surprise,
as the demise of us is expected.

The absence in the trees
is like a whisper,
and I remember old words that fell
like little leaves.

And tomorrow I hope I will listen
and walk back with you through the
wisdom of your hidden meanings.
Trying to make sense of your leanings
and all I was missing.

Because the absence of you
just leaves me,
and the memories of trees
that we played in as children.
And of parents who always
believed in forgiveness

A voice is calling
in less than a shout
It's more than a root
and less of a sprout

It's less of an in
and more of an out
but more than a roar
or expressing a doubt

It's a voice that's about
what's within and without
but more than what's in
and less of what's out.

Waves surround us
cradle our new bodies
in warm currents
bring us to foreign shores
deliver us to a waiting world

We learn to swim
soon our feet touch the floor
we look and judge the ocean
making our own waves
and our waves make more

In time the waves recede
carrying those who need to leave
resting their minds
washing the beaches clean
for new waves to find

When I give you my time, I'm giving you a portion of my life that I will never get back so don't waste it.

Don't, when I give you my life, waste a portion of I. I'm giving you back my time so that it will never get waste.

Who will remember me when I pass?
What am I to the nations?
Does the dust pray to the ground from its past to save it from damnation?
Will forever really seem so long
or as short as life has been?
Was I created to sing the world my song?
Who will remember me?

Open your mind to wonder.
Don't close it with belief.
For the spell it puts you under makes it difficult to leave.

The road to self deception, paved with preconceived conception, makes an evolutionary blunder that much harder to believe.

But in the natural ways we suffer and the things we have achieved, I don't think we should be misplaced -- mistaking all things as perceived.

And the self-redeeming peace that lives in uttered pleas for buttered ease -- like praying for forgiveness for the feeling of appease.
Or kneeling-bound to beg facedown for children with a sickness.
(Although prayer doesn't prove to cure disease or wickedness, it seems.)  

So if you ever get a chance to wander and start to see the world with wonder, don't let it slip into neglect.

Nor impose upon another what you chose when you were younger.
Don't abuse your self-respect.

Instead, just seek to be free
and find the wonder in-between.