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 Jun 2013 jpl
Brycical
Verbal Storm
 Jun 2013 jpl
Brycical
**** my pants,
they're somewhere on the lawn,
wet, muddy and torn--
*but it's my mouth that's on fire
burning frustration spewing forth
exhaling cigarettes filled with chili powder
louder and louder the guttural smoky screams
sting her eyes with salt
choking the beating heart
blackening confusodium slowly strangles once red veins
to her overloaded gray cloudy brain as only violent crashes
of lightening briefly flash the way out
as my booming thunder voice shouts a hurricane
rattling her exhausted body
as i beg with prayers for it to stop!
 May 2013 jpl
T. S. Eliot
Mistah Kurtz—he dead.

      A penny for the Old Guy

      I

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats’ feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death’s other Kingdom
Remember us—if at all—not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.

      II

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death’s dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind’s singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death’s dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat’s coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer—

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom

      III

This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man’s hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death’s other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.

      IV

The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We ***** together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death’s twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.

      V

Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o’clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow
                                Life is very long

Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow
                                For Thine is the Kingdom

For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.
 May 2013 jpl
Rachel Mary
beautiful
but set in stone
perfect
yet all alone

a shining star
but small and thin
cuts and scars
cover her skin

the magic thoughts
she once did think
now   *a filthy corpse

to the ground *she'll sink
 Apr 2013 jpl
Rachel Mary
and the saddest thing
must be
the moon
and it's rage
for it sees all problems
it knows  of all plight
but it is stuck
inside the night
 Apr 2013 jpl
Rachel Mary
perhaps this is why some people
do not smile
or laugh
or sing
perhaps this is the feeling
of  adulthood
because this is not
depression
and i am not
depressed
i am just sad
quite often
and i rarely feel
**impressed
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