The finite yet infinite atom obeys
a decision made by a ?
wherein lies reason to be
existing for one nano second sliver of time
and not the next

we cannot see this ?
because our journey is locked
forever in the same meaning
of everything and yet in nothing.

The attributes we render to swirls
and circles
cannot explain the swirls and circles
themselves
so they cannot be attributes

The majesty of ?
comes together
to prove that he does not exist
when we  ?

Author Notes
Don't ask me  to explain. I don't know.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ag

In the infinite zero gravity of nothingness
comes a symmetrical cylindrical formation
alpha and omega baptised
circumferences spirally downwards
into abyss
breaching cataclysms of illusion
reducing giants into mirages of magical
creatures harvesting the mind
and all its hallucinations of depth and dreams.

Once in a while the outer skin
is breached and broken
and the telescope seeks inward resilience
as the topsy turvy weightless objects
roll and tumble
in precise formations
cascading through tunnels
of energetic figurines
appearing and disappearing
seamlessly into reality and out of it.

So it is with us
creatures trapped
in prisms of dimensional space
unable to comprehend
metaphysical existence within a sphere
of a simple lifespan.

we move from point to point
mere dots of insipid reason
ruled by simplicity.

Author Notes
The binary digits are just 1 and 0. Zero is nothing and 1 complements it and gives it value. All of the digital world revolves around this mathematical understanding. Without the 1 or the 0 the entire world becomes a useless unexplained theory ( or so I think).

The matrix revolves around this simple theorem. There is a nothingness and there is a 1 or an I ! Within this context , all of the action takes place. You cannot have just the I because you have to have the 0 to make sense of reality.

I see this as a philosophical spiritual understanding of existence and compare this equation of Everything/Nothing, On/Off, This/That, Alpha/Omega,Beginning/Ending as different understanding of the basic theory of existence.

My poem plays on the the infallibility of the 1 and the 0 together. Metaphorized as a spiralling staircase descending into nothingness it goes up and down at the same time in a perpetuating cyclical, cylindrical form. Infinity does the same thing.

We are all 1s ( I's) and the 0 or O completes us a 10.

We are the Matrix.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

It is  a numbered  milestone
through days of skirting
dozens of poems, getting under writers skins
seeking pearls of inspiration to polish
and grow in my own writing. Diving deep
was not easy, especially when the weight of the poem
soaked in sadness, soulful, the words rolling off
so many wonderful writers, putting their souls down
in verses and visuals deeply human, some disturbing
I loved them all.

The delightful ones were misty mornings and magic
encounters with snow and icicles
driven by sheer sharp focus in the beauty
it abounds in. How satisfying it was
to sit back and wander with in the bright glow
imagery that each poet crafted from a single sight
Amazing and enriching.

The sparks of humour that flew from some
kept the heat of the day and the chill of the night
under wraps, just me giggling and happy
at the strange and exotic way some things were said.

Then again the rumbles of war and hate
sounded through some verses. drums cussing the air
bugles blowing, feet stomping rhymes and rhythms
that tore the battlegrounds with blood and bone
and bayonets ripping gut and muscle
from enemy lines. Bravo to our heroes
who wrote with such marching orders.
They were soldiers in command.

So many young mothers spoke of haunted
youth and broken dreams that wrenched their
love and hollow echoes in their bruised bodies.
That was sad. I could hold out a hand to them all.
The medals were theirs to clasp and cuddle
even as they fought their way to being whole again.

In sections where god and angels dwelt in
heavenly abode was pleasant. Like a safe house, I felt at home
in these poems, sheltered and warm, sharing what little belief
lay in me to be part of a choir of poets singing
in harmonious song.

I watched as contests came and closed. There were so many.
Each one had a purpose, some were exotic. others
mundane, some silly, some inspiring, some space fillers.
a few testing their wings, some falling by the wayside,
some rising to the majestic occasion with rigid rules
but  all defining a purpose.
I wondered why some contests even existed
seeking absolute control over topics and braving
icy, polar winds of meaninglessness.

The newcomers were always a treat. I read through dozens
of newcomers work, searching for the one poem that
would sparkle in a dump of words. The one that would magically rise
and smoulder in its pain and agony or lilt with seduction
and sensuality. There were many new poets testing the waters
unknowing of the talent they possessed, waiting for someone to read
and comment on their masterpieces.

Finally, I wrote my hundredth poem summing
up all of the little bits and pieces that make
this a worthwhile past-time.

Author Notes

This is my 100th poem on this site. Its been fun writing and commenting and reading and enjoying the works of so many poets. Perhaps no other site has this many poets putting their work on display.

Its been a pleasure being here.

Two hundredth poem - here I come!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

racing with the heartbeat
along the black striped road
pumping pedals, dreaming
entrances exits lanes bylanes
timing out and in
thinking cap on
music keeping pace
i am home

here in the small city
coffee smells like coffee
people smile like people
trees look greener
the church stands out
lakes glisten with shivering skins
children play happily
i park in the park

i am here
sojourn into nights
at break of dawn
i will return to point B
fulfilled with 250 miles
of ecstasy.

the poems rise from the mist
of bygone memories
and words tumble waterfalls
of lust and longing
where is she?

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 4 days ago

emptiness looking for tenants
a library with no books
being read
but full of people talking.

the starfish dancing
in whirlpools of fire
slabs of light underbelly

spineless me
reading landfall
lurking in other poet minds
watching metaphors
like meteors
bounce off innocent images

some ******* will graffiti
the walls and windows
we will need to decipher those squiggles
as art

guessing. guessing

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

Thirty years from now
no one will know the colour
of your eyes the car your drove
and the sound of your voice
or the house you lived in
Even the times you swore
you denied bread
to the outstretched arms
milk to the baby
wine to the wise
and love to the unloved.

Unless

you make a mark of man
in the footsteps to the temple
where lives an invisible being
resplendent in mercy
forgiving
and infallible to all
and accept
that your own universe
was crafted by this creator
with your name
scrawled in calligraphy
on a special page with your name
and number embossed
b?
d?
who am I?
What should I do?
to leave behind the best of Me?

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

through the fog
the headlights of awareness
search for eyes approaching
maybe brown and bursting
dark skin hues
of continents unknown

i stand here
counting galaxies
in an endless sky
where your numbers
come up 33 times
through mystical forces
draw me down to earth
where i once planted a seed
to grow, reach and search
beyond  all arcs of reason
and bring back meaning.

illusion still remains
undeciphered in the thirst
of waiting.

where are you?
who are you?

Author Notes

Mystical and metaphysical. The number 33 seems to pop up at unexpected places, dreams and people and I don't understand what that really means or why it is so. Someone will comment.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 16 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11571008-33-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.vDtOeybV.dpuf

Swing on the wild side if you must
Mingle with masters,  pare down your craft
Let not the magic in you, wrinkle  or rust
Apply and polish  that draft!

Learn what it is to shape your style
Follow your dreams to completion
Take in those experiences, stay for awhile
Writing is never -exhaustion!.

Take all advice, others may offer you
Build up your daily reserve
Pick all the apples,  poets may proffer you
Write whatever you deserve

Make it a habit to test out your words
Dance within visuals of fun
Try as you might for all that you write
Today  the writings begun.!

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Gold plated taps
dispense gold plated water
baths with gold plated soap suds?
yet producing the same
**** of green back arrogance
and shine.

The blue black lambhorgini
controlled by road signs and speed limits
but the ego driving the wheel
cannot understand
four wheels and an engine
bursting its brain in the undercarriage
collecting accident  cold hard stares

All those lovely women
don't love you - lover
its the cars and the feeling
the shades of pink and purple
that drive their own ecstacies
up the wall of your waiting

Tonight
you will sleep alone
wondering where your woman went?
Don't ask  me. I don't know.
a ******* from a man-eating tiger.

Author Notes
OK.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ag

We are but streams of atoms
saturated with strange beliefs
rituals and rants, circuses of  meaningless blather

yet we follow trodden footpaths
to the same end
once gone, gone for good.

all the crap that comes with afterlife
all the books and mementos gone too
'gone for good'

so this is life
live it in abundance
dance where you must
become a borderline personality
write meaningless drivel
so what

religion exists because people exist
did god make man or man make god?

bury me with no mantra or magic
or shoot me into space
once again into the stream of atoms
of nothingness.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Around the pool of chandelier light the movers and shakers gathered
in tight knots, unwilling to untangle from the policy books
intent on pushing fences further out into the Caspian Sea
across the Black Sea and encircling the whole Artic Circle
from latitude whatever to wherever.

The chief fence maker arrived with a pair of pliers
and rolls of barbed wire twenty thousand posts
and a battalion of unnamed soldiers all hiding
behind masks of make-up

" Now listen, people, roll out that spikey wire starting from here
to eternity and keep going around the globe until you return
five hundred years to meet the beginning with the end!"

A few bald heads bowed but wary of  cross-hairs
hiding along the ceiling behind sharpshooting
shapeshifters.
They knew instinctively, that unbowed head may be bowled
over and transported to Siberia in a meat wagon
for permanent freezing with the mastodons.

"Go Now, do not turn back, ever, or you will become
a pillar of salt."
The band played The Last Post
as the last post rolled out.

Peace began as soon as the war ended
and the fences were built around the entire
Northern Hemisphere.  

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

In the  sculptors dawn when the sun breaks the mountains into rays
and my head swings like a pendulum cut loose
from its bearings of the night before

I am burdened  by the slow tongue and bruised buds
of the binged night drowning.
home is  solace.

What is it that brings pigs of desire
to straddle boundaries of destruction, laughing
at spirits.

that let lose will wander loose in a melee of like minded
pub crawlers, unable to draw from brink
of  no return

Creativity is an excuse
done, wobbling and ill–mouthed ranting
rambling unsteady.

What is it?
that brings us on our knees
in supplication for more.

Trapped in a cage that goes round and round
unable to change course
we stay within its liquidating comfort
until destroyed.
Author Notes

Many have been to this desolate place and many have returned broken. Is there a way to break free?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

sushi?
no
combination fried rice?
no
nasi goreng?
no
casserole?
no
shepherds pie?
no
are we getting closer?
maybe
tacos? that must be it?
no
yep. i think i know
shrimps, hot dogs and buffalo wings?
nope. too far away
curry?
closer!
jalapenos, habaneros, chilli?
yep. as hot
but tastes and temperaments
from all mixed.

food channel addict, chef?
nope.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11608284-all-mixed-up-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.Syfk2KZn.dp­uf

Amandla!

Locked  in  societies cages  where the sunlight streaked in with
black and white uniforms with bars and batons
to hold them in place
shackled to their destines
to die in policies polluted by skin and colour
these people fought against
The oppressors determination to reduce
An entire nation to subservience
Until one man swam against the apartheid  tide
To a prison of meaning.

At last in the wide open spaces
Where freedom grew  with the flowers
With chains of people dancing in the streets
Of  hope in the future

Alas the high  tide turned against
Them and those at the front row who lead
The back row to brutality soon found
The dancing invited the shackles again
And they all locked themselves in the same suffering
As before, one by one.

Except no one  they could  blame somebody else
but his own black brother.

The light was eternal
several trillion big bangs away
backed up by several other trillions before
the light has travelled to its current hubble
announcing itself in fragments of time travel

yet the words in genesis struggle to
contain these questions in its complexity
born in a blackhole the signature remains on the rim
while the density dissolves internally-forever.

walking through wormholes
is of course possible. One has to
create one and stitch the two together
to create the footpath that will
bend forward and connect through your own mind
into an ecstasy created in a vortex of time
too complex to understand.

mind is matter, no two ways about it.
raptured in space-time mind is collectively
the entire universe embedded in each living thing.

The Creator as defined in Genesis will only give
                                you
enough Mind to understand the immeasurable
Mind that he himself controls.
You have a minuscule fragment of this power.

Author Notes

Philosophy. Alpha and Omega.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Beneath the barricades of lotus fronds
and flowers, lurks beauty, brains
all watching  the goddess of shadows
seeking respite from the burning sun
and banter of imagery that clings
delicately to the fabric of questions
seeking anonymity.

Once in a while the curtains draw
and a  face appears. smiling, seeking
showing a glimpse of magical moments
tempting, teasing, wonderful
carved in a flash of inner beauty
that straddles the page
and withdraws back into the
folds of wonder.

" I bet the suspense is killing you!"
Who am I?" She said sweetly.

I searched through all the pages of poetry
and people columns, ears to the ground
surging through swords and diamantes,
villanelles and wonders
swords and acrostics, aquatics
and wooded forests near tempered lakes
picnics and parks
and I watched the sunset settle
in a twilight sky of burgundy
and roses. All.

I did not find you heart beating
against my chest
or my words echoing its hypnotic
trance against your ears!

Anonymous  it will be.

Remember the wine that was stirred
with cherry red words
in a highball glass that looked back at us lazily
with one eye winking seduction?

Remember Paris and London
where the pages turned slowly and the tourist
buses zipped past the Champs D Elysee
and London Tower and Soho
framed in  a window of opportunity
never undressed before?

Remember the postcards with glossy
pigeons and castles and 'nights' in shining amour
that balanced long lances and ladies
and charged on steeds of grey metal four poster beds
that creaked and groaned under the weight
of  many escapades?

Remember that we are poets who play with words
rousing and rustic, that embark on the imagination
and course through the heart searching
for ventricles and valleys that glisten and glow
with newly discovered meanings
each time we lift the skirt of its greater
idiom and chuckle with laughter
at being caught out?

Author Notes

Just another poem for DML who makes the nicest comments and meets me on a level playing field - all the time.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ag

The words fall into place, the race to get the rhythm of the lonely night
in sight, as we saunter down the velvet images of life
one by one, we gather beads of memories
and string them in a ring, surrounding the flight of sight
and sounds  jangling with verses and decibels
of dreams that we master in a magical essay of lines.

The sense follows, dense meaning as we write with a crutch
of pain, polish  and much for all that we demolish will
stand, oh so grand, when finished, be replenished
carving the content with careful intent
into substances of delight  insight!

Once more the anthem that I sing, will bring
us closer together in any sort of weather
wind, rain or shine, cold damp or distress.
hold, lo and behold, even as we carve symphonies
of stanzas and bonanzas of poems with some skill
that you cherish, flourish and thrill.

Lets write with the might and that inbuilt body of
words that soar like the birds o'er ocean and sky
and deep down into chasms of despair and doom
the sadness and the gladness, the pain and the gain
all within the sin, and the song the lust and the bust
that are tools that we use, we cannot refuse to
play in this way, every day until done with the fun
of a poem each day- any which way.

Begin.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a day ago

Housed in a walking stick
the King stuck a feather duster at the top
fancied his fourth wife and tickled his fifth.

Ten mutton chops later
a gourd of red blood wine
two scoops of brain cutlets
he was feeling better.

With a bowl of imported shrimp in hand
battered and buttered
with chilly powder ,a chilli *****
he was getting excited at the prospect
of knocking his seventh wife
but a flagging spirit ruined his *******
and he commanded the courtyard maidens
to dance like Queen of Sheba
on the High Priests entrails
as the music beat a violent end
to heads rolling in the dusty desert sands.

Done.
He counted the bowed heads
and picked the odd number out
to even his court ****.

The cradle of all creation was found ten yards
away in fossilised rock after five years of
guessing it must be around here.

Author Notes
Parody of procreation.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Big bang dust that created fifteen billion years ago
still courses
through our ash wednesdays.
nothing escapes the recycling of resources
or theories of our origin.
From a spark in the universe travelling through time
to today where you stand as  a conglomerates of atoms
molecules and mind, fused
into one pulsing, vibrating being.
A recycling bin of beauty

Look around you and dust walks in cooperate entities
managing themselves, often unknowing
of a beginning or an ending
back into the same billions of years of making.

Did Christ come before the first spark
or after the initial fireball that burst and blossomed
into infinity? question and ponder
the implications of being everywhere
nowhere.

Today
is a reminder
of how we began with the universe.

Author Notes
Ash Wednesdays began with the Big Bang. Is there any other way to explain creation? Try me?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The walls caved in
and the glassy eyes vacant
saw things few could understand

Walking miles between fences closing
both inside and out
barbed wire dreams of no escape
desolate slow time
wasting away in wonder
at a blade of grass
a distant ghost in a strange dream
and smiling at god knows what

each one was happy
in that cage
where the mind was free
body trapped
Death was in no hurry
to claim them yet.

We all live in asylums.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The machine can only tell the truth
spit receipts( sometimes out on the street)
calculate how much your worth
and make you blush
if your bank account is below expectations.

Each time I stand before the Master
punching secret numbers
searching my memory bank for the last figures
I left behind
I am apprehensive and afraid
the ATM may punch back at me.

There is a long Q at the back of me
and the people that know their value
often shuffle the most.
Its us poor guys that must endure the pain
of exposure.

One of these days I going to tell
the teller in the ATM that my value
is more than just dollars and sense!
Thank you. I'm out of the q now with
twenty bucks. Phew!
Author Notes

These days I am writing poems of ordinary things. Bus Tickets, ATMs, Cellphones, Railway Tracks, Mr and Mrs Ordinary and all things that keep us attached to life and living. There's more around us than what we care to notice.

As a past time, I sit on a street bench and watch people as they go about their daily lives. The odd one deserves a poem. Thank you.

My last series covered Revolutions and Power. This series will cover Ordinary.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

We packaged our dreams in spiked boots and razor sharp axes
willing to chip the mountain away to get to the top
of things that bothered us for a while
as we lazed in the summer sun
and wished for winters comfort
and high mountains and snow and ice and sherpas
tugging our dreams upwards
into a blue everest
where other dreams gathered
under colourful flags and photographs.

Our guides knew their goddess well
her whims and fancies
and bells tinkling as she allowed them
to climb upon her back
still tugging our dreams and us
our limited oxygen and pickaxes
and walking ropes.

Off in a line we went
holding on tactfully to our practised steps
and foot by foot we planned to conquer
the mountain of our ambitions
and write ourselves into the record books
as adventurers of conquests.

The goddess gently sneezed
and a gap in the long line of climbers
disappeared forever.
caught in the fist of avalanche fury
our dreams became dust.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

Snaking through the cities roads into highways
that connect people from all suburbs
to a central spinal cord of lanes that
take you up and away from slum to slum.

The upmarket stores are full of bright lights
and little else that is elegant
its a cosmetic upbringing, mirage that
rises over the city's mist and clogs up the minds
magic as it swerves and rustles up the
the energies of other super cities
where commerce and hard labour have
equally sculpted a life of crime and distance.

Watch out for the airport which swings
in between the mountain of rubble
and municipal mania and parthenium ****
what finds every possible nook and cranny
to manifest itself. The politicians mumble and jumble
their way through manifestos and gimmicks
that endorse themselves as saviours of greed.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Rushing and racing to  dead end driveways full of people
the cars and carts jostle for space on a thin highway
above another highway taking people fleeing from
one part of the city to another, unafraid
of speed, policemen and political rallies
that spring up with orchids blooms and svelte
women in jasmine pink and brocade dreams
of stardom on every giant poster that
speaks a commercial language of
love and lust and night queens in dingy cubicles
selling tanned and creamed bodies
to the almighty dollar.

Come night and the city lights sparkle necklaces
of pearls and petulant lips beckoning you
into the paradise clubs where masseurs knead
you wallet and your wads of fat flesh in a satisfying
slumber of sorts.

Watch out for the snake eyed policeman
who has a forked tongue and licks the wisps
of air, for sent of bribe and drugs that could be planted
on your person. He cares a **** if you spend
a lifetime in prison arguing your lost case
forever.

Nothing will change in a day or year
or eternity as long as the city covers all its
people with a corruption of senses.

Author Notes
Its all true.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Each morning as the clock winds us up
we leave with little entrails of bruised feeling
blood and guts, words of cosmetic endearment
that leaves so little to hang on to.

Yet we follow what society has sculpted us into
machines with robot brains and numb feelings
that is a desert of emotionless sand dunes
the rippling and carving winds shifting grain by grain

from one non- event to another, just working.
When was the last time we explored a magical night
unaware of the chains of cumbersome domestic duties
and found ourselves alone in ecstasy?

If we count the years we grew from a flourishing
herb garden of delicate scents into a barren backyard
of weeds and thorn and thistle shrubbery we will
understand all that we should have done-but didn't.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11610868-Barren-Backyard-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.gjmSMfRM­.dpuf

Behind the wide-eyed chiselled face
The wings I couldn't see
The words she spoke were wisdom
Devoid of vanity

I liked the way she laughed and wondered
At every nuance  made
The way she studied every sentence
My senses full pervade

I looked out for her notes
And happy morning quotes
Wondering if her day was blest
Her nights were  satin prest?

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

the entire universe entered through this
umbilical chord
strumming in tune
its lifeblood housed
in place now.

cut
when the cry woke you
to life
and now
you cover the connection
afraid
to show you could exist
only through this orifice

the central forces
deposited
in you as you strode
into your leg and life span
from birth to death
unconnected
yet connected with being reminded.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

Black and controlled  in the corner
eyes piercing the arc of reason
talons out twitching
staring emphatically back
into my own terrified corner
she continued to stare past me now
at something I could not see

She  rose into morning sky
tinted with the dawn of day
flew past the electric imagination
fear of a  silent pocket where
talons retreated into sheaths
eyes glassed over with glory

The Chief stood majestically
as dancers pounded in the pow wow
invoking Black Eagle to return
to its sublime nesting. Magnificent
mighty omen shared a dream
I never expected.

Still the visit binding brilliant memories
of what it all means
to be part of a strange magnetic
spectacle haunts my day
with wonder!

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Slice the city into two parts
rub  salt into open wounds
break down the armoury, shell out the sickles
and spikes and bamboo arrows dipped
in poison berries ripe as raspberry juice
and arm the tribes with tentacles
that search for other tribes
lurking in the shadows of the camouflaged blackness
pull 'em out and punish them in broad daylight
take an arm a leg -cut a tongue loose
so words uttered will sound like jungle anecdotes
in a litany of lies.

I will come swinging
with a mascara maiden
and two henchmen trained as axemen
intent on cutting policies of power
into shreds of excuses to remain seated
on a throne of oiled skulls and feather dusters

Take heed, brother
I buy guns for a slot of land infested with rhino
and elephants and diamonds
as big as hippos dipped in strange ****** rhythms
a thousand years old brewing quietly.

We own this land
The white man came in and took it
"He got the land we got the bible"

We must take it back somehow
and sacrifice all of ourselves
in due process.

Slice the land into two chunky pieces
You take one
my mistress takes the other.

22%. take it or leave it
wanna  car?
payback is on the 10th of every month

*** is this identity?
is this you man?
you look drawn with charcoal anger
black as sin, beady eyed.

go away
take the money
i'll come around on 9th
just to remind you to pay next day

now leave
customers are waiting.

these losers

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 7 days ago

Power holstered on a hip the slang
slips and hisses like a snake,
sharp venom fingers fiddling with handcuffs
he roars like a lion
when confronted with energetic excuses.

soon he will slide
behind turbo charged expressions to keep
the world clean of crims.
what he may add
to this sterile law is a hard fist
of dollar bills taken
from alleyways of shame.
hiya, brother!

we see him steering through
traffic lanes and troubles
enjoying everyone scampering
away from his lordships chariot
winning batmans race.
bring him down to the dust.

all for a chrome plated medal
a starched salute
a piece of paper that sings
of power invested in a holster.

outside of the uniform
he feeds his pet pom
pellets of crunchy biscuits.

Author Notes

Cop.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 7 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11592757-blue-stripes-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.GhZAMgon.dpuf

mangled jangled in the space of race
he looked purple shadowed with wide eyes
and wonder

unafraid of escape he
still stayed locked in a love affair
need and greed
lust and bust

time ticked painlessly
wrinkles grew rich
obscurity haven

until at last
a resurrection.

Now he creates art
and happiness
riding into the sunset of verses
where sense and nonsense
merge in a mystical aura.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 days ago

Blue before birth
to spark red and flushed
slapped straight to life
the organs begin to burst into beauty
thumping pumping until rhythmic
flows combine in combination with
senses to create an exquisite form
of life
you.

Take charge of the day
moment by moment
grow and flourish
in the bow of beauty and life
and spread you wings
on the the thermals of each moment
lift high, soar,sweep down and settle
where the your flock rests
waiting for you to arrive
to take part in the ritual
Take Part now

Clambering and clawing
Grasping hooks, crannies
a crown of thorns
flowering purple red blood
bright fluorescent

she wore her designer nails
to the summer ball
strapless and holding up
her rounded dignity
spoken in a plunging neckline

She flowered
was deflowered
that twilight under a silver orb
whispering ocean fronts

dropped off at her starlight home
sealed that memory
with a bougainvillea kiss
of immense sensuality
and down the drive
thinking how beautiful she was
in making memories.

years later
I still remember the look
of that velvet sky
and the nails that scoured
a language on my back.

Author Notes
Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

I climbed the high mountains
of her body  tip by fingertip
and slithered down valleys moist and melting
under slow slides
along smooth beautiful buttons
until I stopped and caressed sighs that
slipped and silked
into memories of magic.

The alphabets I read were sheer poetry
unspoken and unvoiced
of its own beauty
as I ran the rose red petals across
pink and petulant lips to be kissed
and cuddled as we joined forces
as strong and sensitive
as our closed eyes.

As we lay back looking into nothing
but our own darkness, sensing a pulse,
a rapid heartbeat, a stifled sob of satisfaction
did I realise that we were made to feel with our fingers
and speak with our haunting skins and kisses
our own beauties hidden within and open
to the touchtone sensations
of our minds.

This was the way it was meant to be
my love. It will be.
We hold our secrets inside ourselves.

I climbed the high mountains
of her body  tip by fingertip
and slithered down valleys moist and melting
under slow slides
along smooth beautiful buttons
until I stopped and caressed sighs that
slipped and silked
into memories of magic.

The alphabets I read were sheer poetry
unspoken and unvoiced
of its own beauty
as I ran the rose red petals across
pink and petulant lips to be kissed
and cuddled as we joined forces
as strong and sensitive
as our closed eyes.

As we lay back looking into nothing
but our own darkness, sensing a pulse,
a rapid heartbeat, a stifled sob of satisfaction
did I realise that we were made to feel with our fingers
and speak with our haunting skins and kisses
our own beauties hidden within and open
to the touchtone sensations
of our minds.

This was the way it was meant to be
my love. It will be.
We hold our secrets inside ourselves.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

the genius mind trapped in a useless body
grew suspicious of growth around him
and he descended into a rat hole-keyboard
at the ready, about to stamp his signature tunes
into all the world's PCs. He did.

They scrambled to find this broken code
found a rat trapped in a dark underground cage
of inhibitions. quietly hacking into everyone's fancy.

why did you do this? the grey haired judge asked
brimming over his glasses with curiosity.
I hate the world. He mumbled.

Ten years. Go live midst the wounded
discover and share pain, return when you
know love, and see with your eyes
hear the words spoken and be prepared
to use your skills to repair broken code

be among the people.be healed again.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 21 days ago

Carrying an in-built GPS
Dancing to the suns direction

*** with pollen, honey
Its a way of life. You try

Jumping on a super fat slug
wiggling her body parts, laying

millions of little wonders
soaked in nectary hexagons.

That's my privilege
perversely pollinating

thousands and a queen mother
all in a days taking.

You watching. Cannot even dream
such luxury and for safekeeping

an arsenal exists on my reverse.
for those who question integrity.

Author Notes

Couldn't b said better.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Tyres and fires burning
circles of rubber
Rolled down  black tongued roads
Heading to  city centre
Where  others meet
To greet the mighty ruler
With sword and soldiers dressed
In fibreglass shields, green helmets
truncheons with spikes backed water cannons
snipers on rooftops searching for vipers
to drill bullet holes

The tyres rolled in and rounded in a circle
Cutting off escape routes and
Dividing believers and  non-believers
Piled high, pulled tight with pitchfork  patience

The leaders orders more tyres.
Anything from cars, buses and bicycles
that could hold up the  chains of freedom.
Last desperate attempt - not to escape but die
In the ring of fire -soon lit
Underneath the tyres
Which created bursting black flames and bluegrey smoke
Rising above the rants of leaders and shooters
and crackling. Sparks that dulled the day
And lit the night with sparklers of power.

The paratroopers soon retreated into barracks
and the rioters took hold of the city keys,
And over broken glass and burnt buildings
settled in for the long haul to freedom.

The pawns moved on the chess board
  knights moved in the night,
The queen was cornered
and checkmate came when the hollow president
flew  the palace with his coterie of
ear chewers and shoe polishers!

The tyres burned slowly
the fires  burned down slowly.
Freedom came at dawn on the 21 st day
when the rubber factory churned out again
many new models of tyres with tougher treads.

The circle begins again today.
Author Notes

The Revolution continues. All common day gadgets that could burn and blister the new agenda is rolled down the road into the city centre where the
protesters gather to set fire to ambitious policies, unpopular with the people.

The fires from tyres will rage all night and day.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

There were capital letters
shouting at me from every corner
of the page where I huddled
at the last knockout blow:
YOU ARE NUTS!

Love has a funny way of expressing itself
it lurks silently in photographs,
one-liners, red faces, swear words
and internet roses gripping and clipping
memories and magic into tight little *****
of lust and longing
less spoken more said
and peeks out of its quiet hiding place
now and again. That's love?
Its never sudden but slow and casual
and funny and faint and building
block by block until it feels complete.

At last when the windows are installed
we can look in or out
and feel secure by the four walls
that were built by bricks of words
that sat tightly embracing each other
to keep us safe in its cocoon.

I think everyone wants to hear it
spoken softly or shouted.
As for me
I like them like the knock-out blow
in CAPITALS!
I LOVE YOU.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11567359-Capitals--by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.5mDyY9ne.dpuf

Jostling on the sidewalks of a  busy street
I was absorbing every face for a stand out feature
to invest in chapter 23 of my new novel.

None appeared, look as I might
the world was busy today and people
were moving with their minds safely tucked
in deep folds of thoughts, lost within themselves,
unable to let anyone else peer into their prisons
or open a small window for me to look in.

Then he appeared before a huge glass window
this reflection
this plain face all wrinkled and worn
with walking the streets, looking for ecstasy
and pain and joy and thrill and eyes wide open
hoping to catch a glimpse of his best character
to embed in his novel.

I looked long and hard, sketching these features with my mind
looking deep in this soul, watching those eyes
move this way and that,
his hands in his pockets
hair tousled, shirt buttons undone
and his heart filled with hope.

In that split second
I saw me!
And walked away to continue writing
Chapter 24.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 12 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11576667-Caricature-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.gqRWhQzQ.dpuf

on this sea of social turbulence
skin dictates
the price of the ticket
rotating rainbows-no more whites
red is distinct
black is forbidden fruit
cast into the ghettos of the decaying mind
banished from the beauty of eden. why?

we all came from a pinpoint in evolution
in clusters we migrated
to the corners of the globe
seeking multi-verses of origin
yet we create hierarchies of skintone. why?

the gaps in our thinking
are like holes in a doughnut
spiraling galaxies of hate
into whirlpools of ignorance.why?

cast into the seed core
is a colorless quantum of choice
the difference -your destiny. think.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 17 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11673701-Castaway-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.alhKPVLX.dpuf

on this sea of social turbulence
skin dictates
the price of the ticket
rotating rainbows-no more whites
red is distinct
black is forbidden fruit
cast into the ghettos of the decaying mind
banished from the beauty of eden. why?

we all came from a pinpoint in evolution
in clusters we migrated
to the corners of the globe
seeking multi-verses of origin
yet we create hierarchies of skintone. why?

the gaps in our thinking
are like holes in a doughnut
spiraling galaxies of hate
into whirlpools of ignorance.why?

cast into the seed core
is a colorless quantum of choice
the difference -your destiny. think.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

It was early days when I first started writing
with countless mistakes and moments of haste-
afraid even to disclose why I did that.

An accidental discovery by Dad
and the grin on his scholarly face
set me free  from this ******* of words.

Soon the brown paper bags
and napkins became
castles of creativity
and my nights became ticketless travels
to faraway places
where roads  connected  no communities
or pilgrims of patience.

At twenty I was sixty
and now at the far end I'm twenty again
-everything in reverse.

The poetic soup that simmered in my head
is only now being served in paper cups
with a sprinkling of  salt and pepper reality.

This was a fun journey all along.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 6 days ago

We may have lost ourselves in a world of wonder
and not with each other.
The problem is knowing that connections
need energy to survive
and love needs an equal portion
of love to be regenerated.

Now we must catch up
somehow
rebuild those fragile bridges
that kept us going
even if there were torrents of time
and temperaments that frayed the edges
of our dreams
and spilled over into our daily lives
driving the wedges of distance between us.

No matter what
Lets renew that kiss
and cuddle and hold hands
where the frogs croaked in ecstasy
at our courtship
and the lilies just then blossomed
parting lips to meet up

Catchin' up will
bring s back together.

The giant beast sat straddling two highways
legs apart and thin cobwebs of power for miles down
a street as far as the telescope could see,
at each interval a bulb burst bright  dangling
in the dark where street lights cast a yellow pool
around the thin pole
reticulated at each junction.

So do powerful men
cast shadows instead of light
across the nations pools of people discussing
dreams of freedom with electricity and water
and food and clothing

The presidents palace came alive at dinner
at dusk under glass chandeliers
suited and booted, gold plated walking stick,
just two kilo-meters from the seething slum.
Diners and hangers-on stood to toast the success
of themselves and the power they ****** out of electric
dams and bridges and diamonds from the dust
of backs of workers toiling
in the pitiless depths of mines
straddling another highway
where the rows of buckets, mud and slime
and grit mingled with the sweat and pain of daily work
for a two dollar night.

Oppression depression counterbalance.

Sipping champagne while the workers
squelched in grime
did not make a difference to the people in power
as all they wanted was to keep the lights on
in the national interest of greed.

Will someone pull the plug please
will someone pull the plug
will someone pull
will someone
Will?
Nothing left of it?

You didn't say you loved men with suits
dressed as barflys, buzzing around the counter
for that one last drink. Home a memory slushed
in ice cubes and excuses.

You didn't say either, you needed a sunday church- goer
dressed in a grey suit of psalms and canticles
and ropes of revelation wonders
which would send you scampering to the pages
of eternal life, wisdom and penitence.

You didn't say that you wanted a one-eyed wonder
with the other eye permanently fixed
on butts and guts, ***** and tubes
and one night stands in a circus tent
of  innuendos.

You did say, however, that you wanted
a quiet life, of roses and candlelight dinners
and wine chilling in a bucket of excuses
of fun and frolic and fame
and when I married you,
you danced the night off
in satin, confetti and cake and whatever
and I admired your mother
in her wonderful
up
lifting
dress.

I married right.

Author Notes

Joking.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 23 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11561722-Ceremony-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.UDj0xs1j.dpuf

the eye sees
mathematics-coordinates computed
chance takes over
38-24-36
that's me -a ******
seeking shape in all its forms
flesh and bone structure
salt swamps silicon valleys
the lapping of tongues
with no specific language
just a flicker
its worth it all.

are you done, darling?
forever is where i've just arrived
unkempt brazen ****** animal

are you into **** gyms
don't stretch, break -a-bone
half yourself into acrobatic circuses
******* of delight.Remember boundaries
we are decent people.

touch me here
words stand up-ready?

our volcanoes
are locked up in traditional
cages, awaiting escape
flutter free.

Is this where geometric shape
take its chance.

How much? Travelers Cheques
are a decade old
I have a flight to catch!
Whats your name?
Ok! Forget it?

Author Notes

'I just took my mind back from the gutter for this cumpetition"
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Oh he's lovely, bedecked in ornaments from the $2 shop
resplendent in gold and silver brocade
high up and mounted, majestic
barely balancing his bank accounts.
I like the looks of him. Nice teeth,
nice shape-oh momma, what a good choice
you made for me. I know you love me.
You are wonderful parents.

See, that fat bellied politician approaching
He is looking at the ladoos and the ladies
Thank god I can hide behind my veil of virginity
( I met this politician before- or did I?)
He makes a namaste-and reaches for the jelly-babies

I like the shanks, Papa, the look
the pulse races. my body quivers
What a lovely creature he is.

Oh Yes. He has his mouth open
and He sees me here.

The priest arrives pompously, people
what a thin priest?
He lacks the ladoo to marry
me to the horse!

Sorry Grandma.
I don't want the man.

Begin the bonfire.

Author Notes

In good humour. Must go with link. Cheers.

http://media-cache ak0.pinimg.com/736x/d2/37/c4/d237c4aa6f167fd382ea3d7aa9007cdf.jpg.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 11 days ago