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732 · Jan 2015
tail-lights for eyes
mark john junor Jan 2015
she has tail-lights for eyes
see her leaving all the time
but you cant wait to try her on
just for a good time
till you see
there is more to that reality
no home
no warm place to go back to
she has tail-lights for eyes
see her fading away all the the time
into the darkness that is your pasts
732 · May 2014
two insane birds
mark john junor May 2014
he hungers for the fruit of the vine
he thirsts for the supper of the earth
his blue skies face crumbles
when he sees the dead field
fragments of his bravery litter the sand
while he sits in the harvest field
moaning in the tilled earth
fingers entwined in the roots of dead growth
the bounty of the earth is gone
leaving only this desolate dirt
his lament loud and wild
reaches her
and she is compelled to join him there
naked to the whip of the sun
leashed to the soil with thin golden chains
where they both lay mourning
like two insane birds
prisoners of the open sky
longing for the freedom of dirt
732 · Mar 2015
paris dreams
mark john junor Mar 2015
her paris dreams had become jersey jaded
but she held onto the romance at heart
after all you can take the dreams out of the girl
but you'll never stop the girl from being a dreamer
and its the beautiful things in the world
that were close to her heart
and it was the beauty inside her that counted
and she was a field of stars in the night
she was a dreamer and a lover
she was summer and joy
she had paris dreams that were as big as the sky
she had paris dreams as warm as her heart
alive with every breath her dreams lived for her
and she for them
her paris dreams will never really die
they are sunshine
even jaded they are beautiful
731 · Dec 2015
a heaven struggling
mark john junor Dec 2015
the shifting pattern of smoky sunshine
in the leaves brightly green in the light overhead
make a soft sound in the edge of a warm breeze
breath it in and taste its freshness
with your minds eye

my hand moves in the blades of grass
they turn aside with ease and leave behind
a trace of memory in fingertips

my eyes slowly wander the littered lawn
each piece of paper and plastic holds its own shadow
each tell a tale
of carnival sounds and laughing couples
of city place unkempt and sour with graffiti
shell of nature walled in and fenced
trapped by mankinds vision of an island of green
within these walls of concrete
and curtailed from leaving the borders of this place
only its birds fly free

there where the rose bush struggles for life
by the heavy stone wall
in its dirt shadow i lay down
close my eyes open my heart
to the rhythm of its living
this place seems eternal
a island of green in the vast sea of grey concrete
this place is a heaven struggling to be
a valley of beauty in among mountains of cold steel
i see it all behind my closed eyes
iv seen it all in a dream
730 · Apr 2013
her dark dreamland
mark john junor Apr 2013
her naked self is in her thoughts
as she lingers on my shoulder
that perfumed ideal dances in the dim light
with a madness of lust
she will be bound to the fractured movement
she will be mastered by the faster slow tides of ******
its love she seeks in the darkness of its eye
its warmth she sees in the burning cold

uncertainty and fear is what lures her
follow that mindless beast to its lair
and open herself with abandon
to its demon intent and its filthy seed
surrender is the victory
in this reverse of shadows mindgame
its her naked self in her thoughts

i suffer at the thought of her pain
but she smiles and leads me on into
that shadowland where
the monsters feeding is the pleasure
the beast suckling on the tender is the prize

this face is a stranger to me
this woman is a monster unto herself
this woman is a dark dreamland
this woman i love
asks me to take her there again and again
beyond the light of reason
beyond her naked self of her thoughts
some i like right up till i hit that "save as public" publish button...like this one, now that iv read the **** thing i wish i had left it the the stack with the rest of the junk.
730 · Dec 2015
to the magical mind
mark john junor Dec 2015
my empty hands sprawled
the healers of magical minds watch intently
as i rush to speak all my madness thoughts
as i spill the visions and voices that come to me in the night
they pour out onto the madhouse floor
stained like blood red wine
sharp taste to the minds electric eye
wrap tin foil around your fingers when you type
lest the alien signature machine sees you in a dream

the healers of a magical mind
tell you of reality that you cannot see
they give you small pills to make it all better
to soak up all the fears
your magic mind speaks inside your ear
tells you not to swallow the pills
that they make your face look funny in the mirror
that they control you with secret machines
in magazines

sit on the bare floor
straight jacket wrapped warmly around you like loving arms
and watch the cursed moon rise neath the clouds
sing in a whisper to the voices in your head
your eyes wide open
to the magical mind
729 · Oct 2013
middle of the night road
mark john junor Oct 2013
as she walked slowly
down the middle of the night road
she tears off pieces of herself
and scatters them face-up on the cool pavement
they stare up at the spinning stars grinning

she mutters the song with
a small rough broken english voice
guttural it echoes softly
off the closed storefronts
and sounds like Christmas if ya think about it
her reflection swings slow through the motions
each pane of glass tinted with
the tidal forces of tears and rumors
each day has seen it much discussed
tread like jackboot in the fragile hall

like a bird in flight
you can see in slow motion the beauty
of its flight
you  can sense the brilliance of its craftsmanship
somewhere its creator is laughing himself sick

she reaches an impasse
and turns casting pieces like hemlock prizes
into eating the parts of the night
she can no longer stand
so the silence dissapears
and the warm space between dark and light
becomes cold once again
versions of herself
scatter to shopping mall parking lots
all over the world
and all the carts are taken down
like disassembled dreams
like laughter halved
like a smile too close to tears
brave knights fallen
728 · Nov 2015
a rain waters mile
mark john junor Nov 2015
the sound of approaching horsemen
thunders in the dry spaces of my mind
they are so loud i cannot stand it
deep waters run swift
and the thoughts that run there are bittersweet
humble me kneeling before that open gaze
before that terrible birthright
a mask of soft steel
eyes encroaching on my steadfast heart
with a terrible pounding of horses
that leaves no space for thought
leaves no breath to the dreams of my soul
lay gasping on a cold winters shore
knowing the sea and its treacherous waves
i walk the rain waters mile just to hear your voice again
i swim the deep places of the heart just to kiss your lips again
this is the place where i hold your soft hand in mine
sing to you in a whisper
songs of finding a hearts treasure
songs of getting lost in warmth and beautiful eyes
help me find you again
in the deep rushing thundering approach
of these wild and free horses
727 · Sep 2014
summers end
mark john junor Sep 2014
summers end is here
greet the drowsy break of day
with your brightest smiles
greet the sunshine with the love
it brings out in your heart
its lovely here neath shady tree
sit here with me
taste the beautiful breeze
that carries carnival wonders of summers day
that carries the promise of beautiful tomorrows everyday
come with me and lets go dance in the sun
let me live in that smile your bring
let us both live in summer's fast day
summers end is here
want to spend it with you
my dear one
726 · Sep 2013
narrow bird
mark john junor Sep 2013
theres an unabridged sorrow to her voice
an open and silent feeling behind the
winter feilds of her eyes
their tilled rich soils
plowed under to a uniform dark dead brown
as her hand rushes through her wheat hair
like a skyth
she sends you to her fathers farm
on the north road on the grand island

her picture on the shelf in her
childhood room
smiles with a green toad
another picture of her lesbian lover
one of me

juxtapose the tread of the man
come to wrench the breath from
the bird at nightfall
his ***** hands are silent
and his thick red jacket a muffed rustling
as the gasping goes on and on
the terrible need for ceasing the desire to flee
his hands slowly stop their motion
and he steps away
you are left in the room
with this now silent dead creature
this signifigant kiosk in the chapter of your travel
this strange night
he brings you his wife
and the two of you drive back to town
i will never forget that
small creature in that room
its silent death a reproach
to us all
scythe...ah well....im paid to be pretty not spell it right LOL
725 · May 2018
fails to seduce
mark john junor May 2018
flowers grow in the holes
of her ever more romantic dreamin's
she fills in the picture with pastel hero's
their colors fade then fire as her passions run
vivid at a moment's of his heartfelt embrace
faded as his wicked smile fails to ******
she is drawn to the artistic brief time in hand
fascinated by the workings of the mysterious mind
how create rainbows from the dusty nuance expressed
create love from an abundance of words delicately devoted
cede to the child hand within us
the joy and discovery
making gentle rain from the hard snow
of making yesterdays into an epiphany of beauty lost
how to be the source and author of true loves song

while she is taming the mare
he trims the overgrowth
while she entertains with tea and crumpets
he is chopping the wood
while she dances within loves light
he chips away at the stone hearth
these are no lovers
just strangers embraced

her inner field of flowers
a swath of rose red bordered by summer greens
ever an insurrection against winters hand
saving every sprout and budding leaf
single-handedly stemmed the tide
as Autumn steals away with all of the summers life
he is her part-time hero
obsessed with his grand gesture
dismissive of the intangible cold touch
she paints him in pastel
but his is a life of watercolor running in the rain
a minister of hammers
the only spark within is that
of the violence of the iron wrought anvil
no heartstring to gather up
to weave a life from

she will mourn his leaving
caught up in the divinity
always found in yesterday's sorrows
bound in the confines of her heart
he will always be the part-time hero
he will never leave
in the loss of yesterday's sorrows
723 · Dec 2013
rough madhouse
mark john junor Dec 2013
the hour speaks its tune and the world dances to it
in perpetual movement hand in hand to the eye
through the nameless ages of silent symphony
i wait for its rapid step to pass
on the way through the halls of time

a fool and his mothers milk of
answers for all occasions from the most fashionable of sources
like the distant days enlightenment from a bubble gum wrapper
time slows to a walk as it dawns upon the teacher that all who learn
have not the same measure of thought to consequence

my only thought as this caravan of the soulless passes
is of the eyes peering from 'neith the ragged tarp
the filthy lenses of their vision
carpets my senses with the intensity of the truly mad
not a shed tear blemishes their near perfect in unison laughter
what manner of beast birthed this nightmare of the perverse
what corner of rough madhouse could
be the home to such

the old hour limps through to its finality
and its tune is renewed with the freshly birthed hour
the old hour is buried in the ashes of the new hours burning desires
as seen in her now awake eye
she reaches for me
and pulls me slowly down into her viper kiss
i willing surrender to its poison tastes
for she is young
and willing

the fool having exhausted his mothers milk
of quick fix answers
lays down his defences
and is overrun
weeping the whole time
for his lost paradise
for his lost chance to be the star of his one man show
723 · Aug 2013
the dark room
mark john junor Aug 2013
the room of stained
walls filthy with crumbling decay
edifice of the polite world diseased and addicted
a tribute to the troubled world
and its manyfold ways of not seeing
what is in plain sight
what is plainly wrong

a child hungry and cold
on the street corner
big city america

grand celebration of small voices filled with regret
people who have always been unheard
speaking in ever louder voices
but they remain silent compared to the
great machines of money and power
the grand design of greater comforts and better packaging

things have changed
it has gotten better
a generation tried to stop a war
and tried to find lasting peace
but gave birth to social reform
and social openness
a rational discussion of things
an altered course
from the altered minds

but more needs to happen
there is still a child on a street corner
cold and hungry
homeless shelters are money makers
for the new social support business
the war on drugs is the cash cow
for the drug rehab and prison industry
these are things that must change

america is a process

the room of stained
walls filthy with crumbling decay
edifice of the polite world diseased and addicted
a tribute to the troubled world
and its manyfold ways of not seeing
what is in plain sight
what is plainly wrong
i should have a place to live
and enough to eat
we all should
dedicated to lenore and occupy denver
723 · May 2014
spilled wine
mark john junor May 2014
the wine had been spilled
its red stained the floorboards
its tattered remains hung on the air
a stale scent of wasted wines
and the echoes of a lovers spat
shouts in the sultry tropical night
and two sets of footprints leaving the concrete into the sand
two sets to the shore

the book turned face down
some french novelist from some ages ago
his light phrase danced upon the ear with pleasing turns
his notions gave her pause in the humid day
pat dry the damp on her brow
as the rich tones reached deeper than
some romantic notion and ****** song of the eye
some deep and dire need answered
by his romantic words
and the touch of her perfumed hand
on the door **** of the hearts secrets places
just that light touch is all
after all its a long day in the tropical sun
and theres the cooking to be done

i asked of her
if she would have loved me if she had known me
if we had been children together
if she could have cared for me
when i lived a dark man
in a dark place
she said but of course
she said that we shall be as children here in our ages
and i would have brought you light in that dark place
as i shall love thee just as dearly
you are the grapes of my wine
i am drunk on your taste in my soul

two sets of prints lead out to the shore
came together out in the wash of moonlight
on sandy shore
and lay as one in the forgiving light
and lay as one in the night
like spilled wine
intoxicating the soul
722 · Feb 2014
nevermore cried i
mark john junor Feb 2014
the touch screen reflects my face
past the lines of text and blurred definitions
that they speak
the soft tapping on the screen as i
type each letter into the still and vast void of the page
like footsteps of intrepid adventurer as he
walks alone into a vast white desert
walks alone and unafraid into the
dense resistance of the day
as it seeks to distract
but our fair haired hero is undaunted
brandishing his blade leaps forth
and proclaims the conquest of this page
sets the standard of his queen upon
the bold words he has laid
and stands so proud and cocksure
till i hit the delete button
and he is nevermore
so cried some dumb bird
so cried i
for poor old edgar allen poe...nevermore....such an unhappy fellow nevermore.
722 · Aug 2023
watch for signs of sunrise
mark john junor Aug 2023
I lay in the shroud of shadows
while the steady rain soaks my bones
the liquid becomes my eyes
the sound becomes my soul

I lay on a bed of last falls leaves
they crumble at the touch
but give a sense of comfort from the hard ground
and cling to me like dreams and wishes unfulfilled

I lay under the scant cover of this ancient tree
and watch for signs of sunrise in the cloud-locked sky
and whisper invocations of some deity unnamed

I lay in a shroud of shadows
waiting to see
what cannot be seen
waiting to feel what I have never felt
take this misery from my eye
721 · Jun 2014
the rain had
mark john junor Jun 2014
her untainted eye waits
as the edge of light is eclipsed
darkness fills the motel room
sound from the next room muffled but pure
unintended they fill this room with angers not our own
we just sit in our darkness breathing
she undresses and sits on the floor
i crawl out of bed and curl up next to her
the tv comes to life like an apparition
its pulsing flickers like heartbeats
slowing till we slept

my soiled hand sketches a history only wished
a desire for what could have been
bare my hearts fissure
and it lay in the slow rain
wet and weakly beating

she had shades of sorrow clinging to her eyes
her smile sang reassurances
but her distracted fumbling spoke to me
the silken mirror of adoration softened her words
as her image was coated with the happy thought ideal

her worries consume her lip
chewed slowly over the timeless evening
till only the pulp of my head remained
woodenly walking my way in her dark paradise
till the rain had
slowed
721 · Oct 2021
"two brothers"
mark john junor Oct 2021
It isn't the quality of the words that measure truth
it's the men we all see with such clear eyes
Two brothers trapped in a pitched battle
echoes of their roots displayed in a contest of wills
two brothers follow the same dream
two brothers dance the same songs
We can never stop being who we are
we can grow thriving under a perfect sun
but our roots forever spread from the single source
our birthplace and home
Two brothers trapped in a pitched battle
find peace at last in each others truth
we are the same inside the dream
we are fellow travelers
whose nature it is to find hope and love
in the cloudiest of days
721 · Sep 2014
kara
mark john junor Sep 2014
summer had slipped away
but the days still had sunshine clinging to the fading trees
and 'neath one such white picket fence copper colored oak
she lay in the cool cool shade
with the magic of her momentary grace
with the delicate beauty of her face
and gave me back all my summer days
wrapped up in one of her smiles

we ran hand in hand in winter fishing town
we had been laughing sweetly over some nonesuch thing
and our joy was a beauty to behold
could have warmed the world with the love laughter shared
with the heat of the hearts beating
with the magic of her momentary grace
all the delicate and lovely beauty of her face

winters eve
found her in my arms
never could have known just what
wonderful things the world can hold
till you find yourself in the gift of loves tender kiss
could have warmed the world
with all i found in her tender eyes
we made our way back to our white picket fence oak
now bare with winters hand
stood neath her spread branches
kissing in the moonlight
her momentary grace
and all her sweet beautiful face
could warm the world with her heart
even on winters eve
(for my friend Kara, whom could warm the world)
720 · Apr 2016
talking lovin' dreaming
mark john junor Apr 2016
all things in my life
comes back to this love
comes back to this moment your hand in mine
warmth in your eyes
comes back to all the hours in
each other's arms talking lovin' dreaming
talking lovin' dreaming
so my love wont you tell me
tell me why would you worry 'bout that girl
tell me why she is even in our world
all things in my life are you
everything i know and love is you
i am sure that we have something that
nobody else will ever know
something the world will never be
i know that cause i see the way you look at me
i know how it is to be in your arms
all things in my life come back to this love
that we live everyday
so my love why would you worry about that girl
tell me why she is even in our world
in your arms talking lovin' dreaming
talking lovin' dreaming
718 · Mar 2014
Grande
mark john junor Mar 2014
great poems and death defying
feats of magic and wonder
of the romantic knight as they laugh and play
at this obscure bus stop
'neath the shady oak
spent years in the moments
cigarettes and dancing jester jig
for the smile of her laughter
this poorboy knight and his patch of dust
regales her with grande tales and epic poems
by the verge of the boston post road
waiting for the ramshackle bus
its steam engine labours creaking along
to bear us like king and queen
to our palatial kingdom behind the gas 'n go
(("Grande means "large" or "great" in
many of the Romance languages..." Source: wikipedia))
718 · Jul 2013
crippled song
mark john junor Jul 2013
There is a muted conversation
In broken english  from the recesses of  the  dark room but the intent is clear

Overnighters all eyes and hands
grasping at the tattered remains of
reason they struggle against
the methods of maddness
this world makes custom
for each of us

Her smiles
are near to my heart
but her fingets too close to my wallet

The heavy hitters
step to the plate but
remain mute when they given
a chance to save the day for
this set of innocence

The crippled man limps
slowly to his last meal
while vultures pick his pockets clean

Im in trouble here
Im stuck inside a mobile with the tampa  bay blues
LOL...will post a real poem for ya asap
717 · Jun 2013
footfalls in the dusk
mark john junor Jun 2013
racing a vanishing sun
his running shoes tap up dust clouds from
the hardpack sand
entranced by such a strange sky
enchanted by her dreamy voice
whispering distractions
in his minds ear
like her immoral thoughts
or her tunnel visions of nevermind illusions

like a distance runner in a cascade of tropical rain
focus on each stride
each care placed footfall
ponder the sand and coral in the shade of a tree
ponder the depth and breadth of a soul
wonder at thouse who live out their lives never having
known love

footfalls in the dusk
and the distance between his todays has grown narrow
as the gap between his sense of reality and the image his reflection lies to him with
footfalls in the dusk
echo with slight delay
as if he were being chased by a shadow
and he thinks to himself
"how true dat"..."how true dat"
his small brown pet keeps pace
but exhaustion is written in its threadbare bones
and it looks at me with such fear
as they sweat past at slow run
racing a vanished sun
and the strange skies
azure with dust clouds and deep with dreams

he feels alone
but he has become too accustom to
the pace and while he is burnt out but cannot cease
she may return someday
with her long brown hair flowing in a florida coastal breeze
so he keeps running slowly up the roads
running slowly in the shadows of a hasty sun
that was too quick to flee into the night
f%&k-nuts; i rhymed in this one...ill come back and fix it later, so dont worry, i wont go compleatly ape-s@%t on it and hack out a bunch of lines like she would have
717 · Mar 2014
bread of the mind
mark john junor Mar 2014
she breaks the bread of her mind
and hand feeds it to her child
its young eyes look at her with
questions unanswerable

the bitter food of her deviant thought
helps sculpt its newborn mind
to the tattered doctrines of her own dark past
to the illness that her heart breeds
this should not be....should not be

years unfold like the passing clouds
silent spectators of the hidden things
that were behind that door
behind the closed shades of that home
the child did not grow
only festered like the weeping of an open wound
this should not be...what is to be done...who will stop this

the worlds days flutter past
the windows without pause
to their endless flight

as the child now sits alone with its tainted self
in the thick air of its room
listening to the sounds of angers in
another world across the hall
a world it cannot understand
a world that should be filled with loves but is only a battlefield

as we see this child now in our hearts eye
we too cry out with
what dark things our empathy beholds
feel helpless in the face of such

as we see this child in our hearts eye
it reaches down and breaks the bitter bread of its mind
and hand feeds it to the plastic doll that it calls
child
716 · Mar 2015
the devil and delight
mark john junor Mar 2015
fire in her eyes
the belly of the beast in her mind
trapped between day and night
trapped between the devil and delight

what madness she asks
every madness she replies
trapped between day and night
trapped between the devil and delight

her lover is a mental game
her lust is a puzzle trap
every turn she takes brings her closer to the end
closer to the truth that she is alone
trapped between day and night
trapped between the devil and delight

what to choose what is fun what is right
the devil has his perks
so can delight
what to choose what is right
trapped between day and night
trapped between the devil and delight
716 · Apr 2014
witchita honey
mark john junor Apr 2014
her viking fishnet and lace looks
smash me in the face as she saunters into the room
shes perfect to the sheen of her paint by numbers lipgloss
rough to the stiletto razor blade cutting carpet
as she walks over to and melts into the chair next to me
witchita honey on the miami shore
got that deep tan and 'pensive jewels to prove
shes no snow bunny

she laughs at something like shes so entertained
she unloads her wares all over the table
and plays with the chrome handled pistol
while flicking her bick
she likes to be on fire and dangerous
witchita honey on the miami shore
in a barely there bikini
shes perfections mounted on high heels
moving through the endless party
like she was born to be
witchita honey whatcha' gonna do
whitchta honey do you even know who you are

she knows its gotta be funny even when its not
cause it cant stop being a good time
cause the endless party will leave you in the dust
if you aint too hip to cry
she pauses in her two ****** binge
looks me dead in the eye
and down in there i see a tear
down in there i see a lost girl
push past the noise i know you aint no fool
baby take my hand
ill get ya out here
leave it all behind witchita
leave it all behind
its hard to write 'beautiful love poems' all the time..especially when i'm stressed out or something...this piece isn't as dark as i can get...shes a friend...and shes a really nice girl
716 · May 2013
confounded
mark john junor May 2013
these battered days

kept in an old tin cup

like the mutterings of defining moments

spycraft used by gutter punk girls

and the long hours of pestilence

inquire as to the day

but i am hobbled by the lack

of words



and my vision is

jacked up by impurity's in my dope

and

this is not a rig...its a railroad spike

she leans in to steal some

and i ****** it back

then just to confound her

i hand her all my dope

take it

ill get more

and i kiss her
mark john junor Sep 2013
habitat for angry things
his face is a contortionists *******
his fists flex through three hundred versions
of ready but are rendered immaculate by
the thought that binds him to this difficult maze
that there's got to be a way out
there is a light at the end of the tunnel

he suffers from smaller and smaller
versions of self esteem
and as that window slowly closes
his innermost thought is
that someone somewhere holds the key
that somehow at the last possible possum of a second
she will jump out of yonder shrubbery
and save the day
so rather than show the ever watching world
his apparent weaknesses
he will wait for her

reality is playing dead today
and all the goth girls say in
horrible unison
that your cute and all but
i don't date outside my species
could ***** Mae have been less cruel
she wont be coming to save anyone
not even herself

habitat for angry things
his face contorts with the simple pleasures of destruction
and dances with glee over the graves of the once defeated
but in the small hidden room of his soul
he sits in his discomfort chair
and works the meat of his sorrows
with a weeping
a terrible weeping
that fills the cathedral of his hearts broken dream

like a photograph folded in upon itself
one image is the end
one the beginning
but  only the blade separates

and that sound of weeping
that awful sound of weeping
that goes on for hours
that goes on for years
benith it is the sound of creatures
that defy
that are unspeakable
sharp little monsters of thought and feeling
that are contortions of rage
etched forever into his soul

he is buried there in the quiet cemetery
with his rages and sorrows replete
with his soul intact
forever to be in that small dark room
working the meat of his regrets
never to know the solace of her hand
never to know the freedom of forgiveness
it is in his hand
in smaller and smaller versions
715 · Jan 2016
raindrops on a summer day
mark john junor Jan 2016
pale as a whispered winter wind
she sat in the amber glow of the streetlight
with her cascading delicate blonde hair disheveled
her blue eyes distant
gaze out the window to the fierce winter night
between theatrical sobs spins out the tale
of her sorrows
pointing with a trembling hand at the
windswept streets
the story of a perfect love frail but pure
the story of beautiful ways and warm embraces
but along the way she had lost him
and all track of her intimate dreams
now she paints seascapes grey and foreboding
now she sketches raindrops on a summer day
714 · Jan 2014
fru..freaking fru
mark john junor Jan 2014
bourne the weight of the day
with the faded strength of yesterdays hopes and dreams
but it suffices to carry me forward
i light a candle
curse the darkness
stand against all the things
which try to lay me low
i have come this far
**** if im going to let anyone knock me down
im not hurcules
im stronger
im not superman
im faster
i belive in me
i have people eho love me
and belive in me too
thats enough to get me through anything
this life can toss my way
and if anyone reading this needs superman
you got my freakin number
peace the **** out my friends
:-)
713 · Apr 2015
a bare toothy grin
mark john junor Apr 2015
gone are the days
when frail old men appeared in the looking glass
to be full of song and wine
they sit back now and spin their tales
on the summer night breeze with knitting needles
and crayola crayons
mischief in their eyes for the season is upon them
no better place to reap ruin than midsummer night
no better time than now
polyester suits now march in unison
cheap shoes clicking on the hardscrabble
a bare toothy grin echoes the moonlight
these once frail old men are a force to be reckoned with after all
they march on through the pine forest of night
into the creeping dawn
they knit madly and draw with crayons recklessly
in a crescendo of insanity's come to fruition
these looking glass souls with cheap shoes and ties
these johnny-come-lately wind up madmen
gone are the days when you could dismiss them
they have come to own the night
when they hold court over all the world
in the looking glass
713 · Oct 2014
better butterfly's
mark john junor Oct 2014
she builds better butterfly's from the dust on rusting pipes
they fly in the starry sky while i cry
in a panic she paints them into a panoramic
but butterfly's recognize their own limited size
so they build their own chicken coop in my soup
713 · Apr 2015
the brightest stars
mark john junor Apr 2015
feel your heart race
like a busy dreamer caught up in
such a perfectly beautiful dream
like a soul boxer making his last stand
throwing fruitful punches at the star strewn skies

watch as the brightest stars fall
watch as the words you labored so hard to write
are taken from their context
poor boy don't you know words serve
whatever mouth willin' to speak them

and to that end you can sucker punch the dawn
but itll hit back with blue skies and summer breeze
feel your heart race
keep pace with your wildest dreams
falling like the brightest stars
711 · Jan 2014
shadow games
mark john junor Jan 2014
as a breeze caresses
i think of her
and the words she wrote
'a crush on you'
in the quiet place of my backyard
the sunlight playing a shadow game
with the leaves
her hand holds mine
means more to me in this hour
than the words of scholars and
the laurels of the ivory towers
if i could return such simple and comforting love
if i could gift this woman with such
beauty as she has given me this hour
all these miles mean nothing
the hours and days just smoke and mirrors
feel me now holding you
in tender embrace
giving you my sweet what you have given me
simple true pure love
while the rest of the world
plays shadow games with the leavings
711 · Aug 2014
she dreams
mark john junor Aug 2014
she gathered up the fragile flowers
carried them softly as a child
in the stillness of late summer air
with a gentle song rolling slowly through her heart
a memories palace where her heart often goes
a beautiful place where love could have thrived
where she sits by the cool waters of the coin fountain
tossing golden dreams into the wishing well
dreams of him
dreams of laughter's that once were
dreams of his strength wrapping her
chill frightened fluttering heart
making everything ok
just for one moment to have it all be ok
like a leaf falling from a tree
for one bitter free second as it flys free
as it kisses the summer skies
and lives its own dream
before falling into obscurity
she dreams she is living that moment
with him
in his arms

and he dreams of the moment in her eyes
where she saw him
and they breathed as one
without all these angry tears
without all these useless words
as one soul together
as one heart beating slowly to the
song of moonlight kissing the stars
711 · Nov 2015
empty room disease
mark john junor Nov 2015
this whole empty room thing
will be the death of me
cant stand another day of the echoing darkness
mocking my every word
spoken softly with tired lips
bleed me slow of ideas
watch it all circle the drain

this whole empty room thing
all the people said it would be so good for me
all the people thought what a vacation
from all those dark and ***** deeds
all those love poems full of poison

this empty room disease
crawling in my heart
have i given up
has the world forgotten me
there will be no rescue
there will be no sunshine day to come
no sweetest smile to save me

this empty room
silent all these years
filled with words i cant take back
filled with faces leaving
full of faces leaving
leaving
710 · Sep 2013
everlasting joys
mark john junor Sep 2013
the days when i could have
imagined that i had
any other road
any other ending
than here
the streetlights distant glow
leaves well defined shadows
in the warm darkness
its taste of thousands of places iv been
people who's faces familiar but obscured
echo along its silent patterns
in the thick grass
all around insects and wildlife fill this space
i grieve in with random but sharp and clear sounds
this narrow ledge
leans slowly down into the greasy black soil
which binds itself to my skin
i become entangled in filth
and trying to dry wash my hands i only serve to spread its
empire across my field
i slowly cease the struggle
and succumb  to stillness
surrender to my sorrow
the night folds itself around me
i may be alone with this terrible grief
but the night obscures and in that provides
its own tender comfort
it cannot take her place
but the night can offer the solitude
with which my heart may paint masterpieces with her face
with which my soul can make love to her soul
in the distant miles
in the cold reality of denied hope
were it that i could undo any of these things
that have brought me to this dark encounter
none would bridge the gap
none would suffice
i will grieve
then i will seek the crossroads
the place where he takes your fare
and carries you forth
to everlasting joys
710 · Dec 2013
sorrow
mark john junor Dec 2013
sorrow makes its way in
like an old friend bearing his treasured gifts
the photograph and letter
that you cannot bear to part with
he settles into your empty room
and sits with you in his silent way
while you grind your soul
slowly over the past and what you have lost there
he gently takes your hand and leads your heart
deeper into the rapture
of longing for what you cannot have
for that which is lost beyond redemption
she lay beneath headstone
in small Massachusetts town
fall leaves and now snow lay quiet blanket
on her resting soul
sadness bring you here in dream
from the miles where you lay
to stand unabashed weeping
in the cold dark of night
sorrow betrays you
but you cannot care
it consumes you
until you are blind to all else
until you are withered
lay down next to her and take your rest
none will blame
none see
but your old friend
sorrow
710 · Dec 2013
her magical mind
mark john junor Dec 2013
the plight obscene to her
as the denied
she stands in the corner shouting into
the nearness of the unyeilding wall
that its unfair
nighttime cannot fend fot itself
the disease of light will infect its borders
and spread across the skys pallet
the deformity called sight will
allow others to see
her sad face
sitting in a broken shopping cart
with her white party dress torn
her makeup a puddle of tears
they will all be able to see
she isnt the engine of perfection anymore
that she isnt factory fresh and polished
its unfair that night
must suffer the inglorious day
that it must be blighted by light
unfair i tell you
she cries into the paint
standing in her humble corners
dire straights and desperate measures
on her magical mind
i weep now in my own desperate box
for my former lover
abandon to her side road circus
i foolishly run to her and spend the night
making love to her
trying to heal us both
but it is folly to retread broken footsteps
on a path forgotten as the loves
we once shared
she asks me to cease writing
for she sees it as the pen has poisoned her bed
i weakly surrender
we sleep
i dream of
mark john junor May 2013
wet streets after the rain
wet thoughts after the lingering
she cavorts in your limbs like a animal unleashed
like a army of fingers seeking to overthrow
like a thought seeking to master

she stumbles on the doorstep
of seeing
hesitates at the verge of meeting the other
half of her own need
leaving herself empty
leaving herself incomplete
leaving the taste on her lips but no meat to the bone
leaving visions of soul formed in stone
unable to move beyond
cold in the sunlight

rain is
the sound
the face in the dark room
the surrender of the primal need to speak
any words that are not capitulation
not redaction of proud sworn oath

she lingers in the mornings bathroom
grazing at the edge of a farmland
places where such dreams are grown
but she dare not partake
she cannot think she would suffice

leaving a soul formed in stone
unable to move beyond
cold in the sunlight
a poignant symbol
an emblem of meaningless loss

(part 3)
rain
and the thoughts
i can break free and spill to the page
like lesser beasts escaping the wood on fire
and i see the time rapidly growing thin
a starving creature
the hours flee
room to room
crying out that doom draws near
rain
and its wet touch chills more than skin
it brings rancid thought to breaking open
and spreading across
the once sweet fruit
and within that moment
rain frees me from feeling
all the things that i drowning in
fills me
slow with blue waters
slows the race
fills me
slower with memory
rain
the thoughts that escape me now
are tempered
by the blade of waters burning touch
rain
glowing on the the seeking bones marrow
growing on the feeding of this hunger
it vaults into the stars
and its quickening heartbeat
forces free more than words emotion begins to follow
like the priests coming to worship at the temple of death
they bring life to face itself in its endings
words new to my eye spill forth
rain
like bright diamonds like tears
rain rain
rain
709 · Aug 2013
small birds
mark john junor Aug 2013
the essence of its cage bound in place by shadow
and sour the milk of reason with her poison eye         
she sends him a picture of her                                                          
join me here                                                    
                      
the polluted mind demands focus
he is pure now                                                          
the dawn is unfiltered              
and the scary voices are hushed by the awe                                          
the racing thoughts are soaked by the rain
and shivering hunched in the brick box                      
he awaits the power that              
perseveres through adverse and favorable alike                                      
he centers himself
but the voices creep back in on one by one
as the unfiltered dawn returns      
he runs outside trying to catch the author                
of the noise in his head                                          
make him cease this carnival of insanity                                                        
­this roadshow of the mad mad mind

he sleeps the hot silent day
in the brick box with the steel door
its safe there
the voices cant find him

as dusk settles like a layer of grey dust on the small
glass window set in the brick
his eyes come open like frightened small birds
desperate for escape from this narrow cage of a mind

they talk in quiet whispers            
better not let anyone know                                            
better not let anyone see                        
but you cant help laughing at the faces they make            
when the 'real' people arn't looking      
the things they do when the 'real' people wont know      

mud foot bare
in the greasy sun
fast load trace its birth in dust
the night is always full of echoes
so he only comes round in the day
where he can kiss the faded wall art
and wipe the tears away from his former years
with the music
the long and pure symphony of the souls
a simple phrase on the piano
how many souls like this are lost among us                                  
hidden by the natural appearance                        
he leans in and plants a soft kiss
on the image of her lips
reference to  (and poem dedicated to) stephen donaldson...great writer
708 · Jul 2014
the pettyjean
mark john junor Jul 2014
her tender thoughts
meant to ease my mind
only obscured what was already hard to see
but her kindness was not lost on me
an angel of the mercy
she held back the night till i had passed the worst of it
held my hand with warmth till the break of day
we wintered there high above the treeline
in the deep snows of high mountain pass
and when spring came at long last
kept my word
rode her down to the pettyjean
saw her to safety

long months passed without a word
till one late summer day
high up on the mountain side came cross her
in a picturesque meadow sitting in splendor
like a portrait of perfections
like a sad goddess come to earthbound tears
didn't need to speak a word
gave her a safe place to be
held back the night till the worst of it had passed
wrapped her in golden and silver thread
held her hand with all the love and hope my heart could hold
for her tears burned my soul
and i could not bear to see them flowin
stayed there all that night
and deep into the hardest winter since '63

with small smiles running cross her sweet face
she thanked me for my kindness
bid me fare thee well once more
it had come to her in a dream
that this love of hers would return to her
hurt her no more and be hers forevermore
so into the deep snow i took her
back on down the mountainside to the pettyjean once again
watched as the boat carried her away
nobody to hold her hand through the worst of it
nobody to keep her safe in the darkest of night
just my hopes to guide her
just my unrequited loves to keep her golden

sittin here in the darkest of the night
with nothing but the wind to speak to
say all the things i could have should have said
explain the things in the way of knowin
what could have been
in this valley of silver and gold
came to me in a dream
that this should have been
and will be again in that wonderful place called someday
when we will laugh again
when the night passes and wake to smiling face once again
just as the dream slipped away i saw her
one last time coming up the pettyjean
bright with joys
happy once more
coming home
708 · Nov 2013
rift in the tidal waters
mark john junor Nov 2013
the clouds have a rift
that bleeds sunlight
down on the thought machine
that grinds a steady pace
of meat upon which the bearded wisemen must chew
only they can interpret the bones cast
like oracles of old
only they can see the fates
so i rise and step carefully through the empty door
thinking that it once held such promise
the morning is rampant with people
and id rather not speak till
i have a grasp on what im not thinking
so i retreat to the filthy carpet of her hole

the muttering continues into the night
and no matter how many times i step to the hall
he just stands there and speaks to  the window
open and blowing soft
he tells the night
that hes not frightened anymore
he will do that till dawn
then he will crawl to his screaming bed and try to sleep
nothing prepared him for the slow torture test that hes been dealt
keep on keeping on till you cant keep on no more

she walks in and shakes off the rain
scattering droplets of her passing
she looks at me with open questions
but the closed fist of her mouth speaks louder
than any words she could muster
they strike my mind with painful reality's that
have never seen the light of day
she just made them up to justify
and i make it clear that i wont stand for it
as i lay here and absorb her verbal fantasy's
wish sometimes i could be like him
and just whisper the world away
dream away the words

in the hallway of the building
on the vast ***** white tiles
she absorbs the nights festivity's
with the jaundiced casual hand of a lifelong soul thief
with the barrenness of a wasteland for a heart
i look upon her with growing need to
simply let loose and walk away
this is no place for me
for i am alone
a white is black get back you yiccky yack
707 · Apr 2014
without a penny
mark john junor Apr 2014
the dawn exploded with a roll of thunder
and her frightened face is all i saw in the flash of lightening
i reached out to her with my voice
trying to reassure but it sounded hollow
as the tread of armed men became apparent
in the fog to the east
i grabbed up her and our meager provisions and we fled
deep into the forest
where we came to the cabin of the hideous man
we knew he would shelter us from any storm blowin'
long as we could provide news of the wider world

so long into the night as she cooked
i regaled him with tales both real and invented of the
glory's and and great defeats
as i treated his wounds and gave him advices to mend
morning found a strange tale of its own
standing on the porch with a hawking gun in hand
he was a man of the far west
he had come from the dry dust
he had come from the bitter cold
and now he lay his burdens on the hideous mans doorstep

he had come looking for a crew to take with
to the high mountain pass
there in the wicked snows lay a treasure
there in the harsh night lay a tomb
the hideous man pointed to me and said
here is a young man with a strong back
and not a prayer to be had for love nor money
take him and the woman too

so we set off into the cursed darkness seeking
as all men must a better life in the promise of jems and jewels
she followed me or the stranger i could no longer tell
she was no stranger to leavings
and she would leave me high and dry at the drop of a thousand hats
she was no angel
i was no saint

we made our way to the high mountains
and there labored for many days and months
from that spring
till near christmas day
without nearing our treasures
fell to fighting with one another
over every spilled crumb
over every mislaid word

no better and now bitter she left us both there
in the cold of the midnight sun
for the face of some young jim
and his riverboat card games

i finally surrendered too
to the clear thought that we had been had
there was no treasure to be found
so i stole his hawking gun and made for the river trying
to find my wayward girl
but fell in with dark men who
wanted price for the riverboat ride
the kinda coin the hawking gun could fetch
so they murdered me in my sleep
and i slipped to the tomb without a name or a grubstake

now lay me up in the dark waters
now sing me a summer meadow
by the riverside
buried there a poorboys grave of a single wood board
carved with the words
that riches are a fools game
if you have come seeking treasures
seek thee elsewhere cause this boy died here without a penny
707 · Mar 2016
a little sunshine
mark john junor Mar 2016
implications of nightfall creep in the broken window
i sit leaning against the graffiti strewn wall
the city lights spread out below me like a carpet
over the rolling hills
spiderweb of streetlights leads the mind on a merry chase
all those homes down there each containing love and warmth
all those places in the heart known as safe

an appealing silence haunts this place
leaves the listener with images of all that has transpired here
illustrates the meanings of the scrawled
words on the wall before me
two lovers had been here and left behind a casual love note
spraypainted  in a hue of green
tepid words of a quickly lived love affair
a passing summer romance
now abandon in the chill fall air

i can picture the girl lingering here
in a sullen twilight
retracing her past
wishing

there are abandon places in our world
where abandon people linger
places where they can let down the pretty face defense
where they can set aside the mask
and perchance to hope a little sunshine
will grace them for even a moment
will give them
a way to go on
705 · Sep 2017
put on hold
mark john junor Sep 2017
On hold, I'm on hold
if I may be so bold
I hate being on hold....
    feels like you are being so cold
    leaving me on hold....
On hold, I'm on hold
my beard has grown mold
while I'm on hold
    Sold my living soul
    to get off being on hold
Now I'm feeling bold
worth my weight in gold
poke you in the eye scold you for your lie
    Tale all told
    of me being on hold
    rhyme and reason rolled into your sneezing
    while I'm on hold
then my provider be dammed sixfold
cutting off my call in a stranglehold
On hold, I was on hold
goes beyond the threshold
lost my foothold
gotta callback to be
put on hold, on hold, on hold
705 · Jul 2014
stealer and a wagon wheel
mark john junor Jul 2014
aware of the hard tangle
i decided id better be off just cutting losses
picked up what she had left of me
what the vultures hadn't picked clean
and walked into the forevermore
but it felt good to have nothing left to steal
nobody questions your deal

found myself a stranger in a strange land
and nothing but a humble song to guide
nothing but the smile to provide
learn yourself the difference real quick
tween what you got and the next friendly face
and how long the two last
gone like a sparkle in the sun
but it felt good to have nothing left to steal
nobody questions your deal

gonna write me a new song to sing
one that wont lead me into the darker thinkin
one that speaks to the real road ya gotta travel
one that has lovers with loves to share
and all thouse who care
cause the real treasure is the smile uncovered
in the hands of a soul who really wants to know your name
i got nothing left of the old me
but it feels good to have nothing left to steal
nobody gonna question my deal
703 · May 2013
shelbi and wholigan515
mark john junor May 2013
and there in the lace filled lights
there in the rose hips
and paper flowers
she built a world of her own
and a few friends
and she was a soft summer breeze
that always guided you home
she was a plate of cookies
and a soft feather comforter
wrapped round you like a hug

it was with her that i learned
how to make life a home
for more just yourself
but all those you love
that there are things more important
than appearances
than what some other person thinks
its the people who love you
thats who matter

all her yesterdays (the lace girl)
she fumbles with the dollars
that i spared up from from friends
and mumbles a thanks

her white dress
long faded to grey
but it still has its lace edge
just like her
i remember when i first met her...
in her pale shadows


of the room she shared with a cat
the lamp was covered with a lace cloth older than i am
the window leaked cold breezes
but they were defeated by her warm comforter
that she wraps round you as you enter her world
hug away all your darkest thoughts
leaving you to talk for
hours it seems on the meaning
of clouds shaped like bunny's
and bunny's made marshmallows
and what it meant to be 'chill'

do what is right for you and thouse you love
cherish the people you care for
and cherish every moment of laughter and joy with friends
and family
its what makes life worth living
edit: amended title
703 · May 2016
a yearling heart
mark john junor May 2016
effortlessly we cut a rug in the beautiful moonlight
it was one of those perfect nights you never forget
among the starlight scattered and spinning on the dance floor
the sweet remains of our lovely night dancing
we wandered the soft side of night
in eachother's arms
it was like having a yearling heart all over again
it was like being in love for the first time all over again
with my head nestled on her bare shoulder
like discovering what it was
like being with a woman the first time
a long beautiful moment that lasted forever in my yearling heart
that wrote a lifetimes love affair just in
those precious moments in her arms
such is the intoxicating beauty that is my lover
such is the occult magic of womanhood
that i thirst so much for
that i adore so deeply
that is the root of all love poems
the beauty of a woman's heart
we wandered the soft side of night
in eachother's arms
dancing embraced  in eachother's love
forever more
702 · Dec 2013
this vile creature
mark john junor Dec 2013
thief of my calm
this ******* liar loneliness
crawls around this cluttered room
casting pieces of desperation at my heart
and fragments of memory's at my head
thief of my night
it steals away under the bed
waiting for me to try vainly to sleep
while i toss and turn the thief
will come out and haunt me
with thoughts of long lost lovers
with memory's of happier days
the theifs hunger is insatiable
his appetite for the creating of dark souls knows no mercy
i fling my eyes wide and clean the room
trying to leave him no safe place to set shadows
but as i fall exhausted to the chair
the thief's hand slips from underneath and
spills the scent of her perfume to my senses
and i can almost feel her soft skin against my cheek
i cannot bear it
she is gone
and i am left here with
this monster loneliness
this hated vile creature sadness
leave me be
i beg of you
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