Autumn has slowly left
Winter just jostled in
Rusty leaves reminders.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 20 days ago

Ok-God, I've landed here 3 suitcases
full of charred memories
nights in the ***** house, late night revelries,
poems soaked in syrup, roses that never got delivered
woman that kicked my
donkey to thy kingdom come
gfs that became ex-gfs over the weekend
all those naughty books and movies stacked high
and an old pen that wrote English Literature
full of lies.

I followed your words
thankfully only the 75, they said, you said.
Once I knew the other millions were written by mean men
in beards and with two mistresses each
out the window the books went
and real life in the real world of real
people began. Oh, its been fun!

Imagine Sir,
just before that last tequila
squirming at the bottom of the bottle
I was dancing with this bombshell
and it exploded in my face:
Go to hell! she hissed, fangs out and wobbling
So here I am master with the only baggage I have
and one slim green gideons bible
never, never, ever opened.

Nobody, nobody ever told me, sir
you yourself had
4 suitcases of the same stuff.

'Welcome home, son, take the back row please
there are others with larger suitcases upfront.
Don't ever go back and tell 'em
heaven is made of these people.
Enjoy your stay!'

Author Notes

Have just been to the devils workshop!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a day ago

Chester knew his mistress
the one with the copper burnished fingers
and slow delicate smile, longing eyes,
soft skin and smell like violets in
sizzling summer heat.

He  curled up in his cardboard box
and kept his ears open to all sounds
around the pool and table
aware but asleep

Call his name and he will leap to life
eyes of glass, melting in a soft head
full of affection fur flying for a cuddle
little tail wagging welcome attention.

Chester knew his way with the world
his wisdom perfect and plenty.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 18 days ago

the church bells peeled a rhythmic ringing
tinnitus
sending us listeners racing back
into a guilty crime like daze.
the mass begins in twenty painful moments

better rush in the rustle of sunday wear
bible bolstered underarm
front pew glances at the priest
who had a back view glare at late comers.

Mama said the sins of your fathers
will visit if you
miss a mass
canned hellfire will get you
and st peter will tick mark your presence
after communion.

I listened

when I stopped
God became god
and the church bells peeled
the same way

only the new pizzas came
with canned chilli peppers!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

It was only a line, a flash, a blurb
but it lit a lifeline to
mangrove minds, chandeliers in the street,
peacock feathers,
art ****** sunsets trapped
in bleeding orange and emails
of honesty.

Who was this vibrant artist
waddling colours of purple passion
aubergine temples of trust
murals of majestic visions
nights of bright lights
and poems from the streets of dawn
bohemian Queen
painting ecstasies in double entredres
whispering apologies
collecting little bits of jigsaw life
making sense of sublimation
unafraid to speak the truth

She must be special.
in the selfie of the moment
she opened a window
to let me peer in and
I stayed well past the
unreasonable hour. Fascinated.
Author Notes

The Artist. Have met her many times before.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The other side of joy is pain, the dark shadow that lurks
As joy resonates its fullness and draws you into its embrace.

Joy flourishes in abundance unknowing of the meanings
while pain waits patiently to bring you down when not watching

So is Love, that soars above all other reason and rests in clouds
of ecstasy, mindful of the elation and splendour and euphoria

aware that pain stands nearby, watching and waiting ever for slight
tumble that he may walk in and toss his horns about your wonder

and unsettle you as much as he can. But Pain also makes Joy
feel better, more fulfilled and last longer and more understanding.

So it is with life and love and longing all sides of the coin
that we toss high into the air to clasp and cuddle, waiting anxiously

to see what surrenders. Heads or Tails? No matter. The other side
stays underneath waiting passively for the next toss.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11561422-Coin-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.HeNufYzd.dpuf

Come , come into the daybreak of the dawn rising
from the mists of the mind and its sacred numbers
clasped in the twilight  womb of knowing,
punctuated itself into a sob of joy.

Reach, reach the long dusty road we have traveled on
and walked the miles searching for respite
from hours of loneliness and pain
distant lands beat like drumbeats in the desert
of the journey we took
to find shade in the sweetness of oases
as we trudged along under scorching sun
seeking each others hand for comfort.

Maybe we've reached, maybe not
its hard to finish a journey with no end
or no beginning-bathed in hope
standing still at the horizon of meaning
we understand what it is that put us on this
pathway to pages of poetry

Read, read, whatever message you can get
from this cryptic verse. packed with sounds
and movement of changing moods
acting out the step by step
conclusion to a bright beginning.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

It all looked clean, crisp, picturesque postcard promise
The river reflecting skyblue shimmers
Mists rising wisps of secrets
Trees and plants glossy, full bellied, nutritious happy
The birds practising new song and twitching wings
of fancy in the bright 440 volt sunshine
Filtering through
the senses to settle softly.

All was really not that clean and crisp.
The photographer could not zoom in
On a dead kea choked on a 1080 trap
Dropping from the sky like a manna treat
Four fish gobbling pellets pulled upstream
Mouth agape as poison shut the fluttering gills
Two other magpies lost their raucous tone
Deprived by early morning bait
Possums slept softly high up in the tress
With last nights buds bursting in their full bellies

The photographer could not see beauty and ugliness
Together.
The lens could not question the crystalline view
The click was not from gun
digital film rolled irrespective
And his dream of a pristine forest
with no pustules told one side of the story.

The other side
Balanced the books
And tore the heart of the very creatures
That spoke beauty with being there.

The picture was captioned;
Clean and Green.
Was it?
A picture speaks a thousand words
Sprinkled with three hundred lies and lives.
Author Notes

This poem accompanied a lush photograph of forest with a little stream flowing through. In the same area where the photograph was taken, helicopters bombed the forest with 1080 poison pellets to knock off the possums which were eating through the fresh shoots and leaves.

The end result was more than the possums going to thy kingdom come.

There are serious environmental undertones in this poem.

http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid;=11260667
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 18 days ago

I'm not brave, never was and never will be
any scars I have are hidden in deep dungeons
somewhere in the vast open spaces of my mind
They are too deep to dig out and analyse. Even try.
There are no medals blistering my breast pocket

No  name shouted from pulpit or podium
No one cheering  academic prowess
scars of poverty or pain or orphan splendour
at tender twelve Christmases
all those scars buried under the skin, and swept out of sight
on the watching life. There were many watchers.

Not brave pushing boundaries
I learnt my  visual language off
graffitied walls and bart simpson.

No I was not brave, when I arrived here
with a shirt on my back and a two dollar back pocket
bus ticket. Come on you got to be joking,
for switching countries, continents and communities
to earn a square meal.

See what I mean? I'm not brave, riding morning evening traffic
with ten thousand automissiles coming at me daily
I'm not brave when I scoff a whole chocolate
cake without counting the calories or checking that waistline
or watching Dr Oz rave on about nuts fruits ***** and berries.
Its on the rare occasion I get brave and take notes!

No Im not brave at all. I'm a coward that hides behind brave people
who have 9-5 jobs, wear white skins to work, white collars
and smile behind white sparkling teeth with red ties
dripping in  ****** racist jibes of inequality.
No I'm not brave being 65 and hiding 65 thousand racist comments
under scars covered by moisturisers
white shirts and dark glasses
in the searing heat of society.

I am brave when it comes to using
words that hide behind lace-like feathery
curtains of verses and rhythms
that sing along to everything I write.

Author Notes

A critical look at society and how it functions between the layers of immigrants. Look under the skin to understand why we write poems, like we do. The harsher the social climate the more rugged are the desert rats it produces. History is full of such examples. This hierarchy will never change.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Both seamless in their searching
the inside and outside
my mind is bitter and bold
should I or should I not?
perpetually.

Seamless it only seems
Vegan or Bogan
this decision rages
milk or cocktails tonight
Is she shapely and ****
or sad and drooping
the curtain of watching shuts
abruptly
the mind sizzles with answers
nobody watches

Should I go now or stay
should I write now or tomorrow
should I enter or not? what

Should I call or not
Chocolates or frocklettes
dinner or dancing
is he/she -man or woman?
whats this?
why am I always in indecision
at war within myself.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 22 days ago

There was always chaos. In life, love and magic
unbroken universes, existed before
new universes formed in the trillion trillion split second.
That idea alone is chaotic. Philosophy begins
first line: Its only from chaos all reason springs
and so we lurch forward assured that
we are still bumbling idiots oozing metaphors
and other cunning devices to write
chaotic stuff, adding to the confusion of thought
increasing the confusion, blasting the fusion
splitting the atom, our brains, *****
and guts explaining why things are so confusing
are they?
doubt swallows me up when I see
a scientist scratching his head for answers.
inside he must be organised
outside chaotic and nonplussed?
Come on, it’s a slant in all of us.
We are confused human beings
Except (hmmmmm) when it comes to ***
we know what fits where and why
and we grind endlessly just as
the entire universe grinds timelessly
in an eternal clock.( ****?)
Like light and darkness
two sides of a day, we too
are organised chaotically.
Now where was that folder with my best poems?
See what I mean?
Its only from chaos that all reason springs.


© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

In the stillness of simplicity your heart still beats.
If you listen carefully you can hear the muscles moving
and the blood coursing through your veins
even getting past the rich waterfalls that journey
ceaselessly up and down your being
for as long as you live.

If you listen to yourself,
search the insides of bone and bristle
deep within those compact spaces
there is respite and rest and wonder
at the magnificent shell within which
you carry your presence.

If you stop for a moment
and look through all the mirrors of your mind
you will  see reflections of a past to present
and glimpses of a  future. Profound.
There are connections everywhere
to the entire human race
to the unfolding universe
to the vastness of space and time
and the emptiness
within which everything exists.

You will come face to face
with who you are.

Sit still, listen and learn.

The deep throb of silence filters the thoughts
that rise to the surface, like delicate air bubbles
bursting and boiling in spherical silvery orbs
of sustained thought.

At first, the fear of being alone overtakes
the humdrum of daily life
all too soon, the silence invades the clutter
of the noise and the heart beats
like a butterfly, as the mind descends
deep inside into cavernous labyrinths
seeking those little nagging thoughts
that elevate stress platforms of impatience.

There is a serene solitude
and all of life flashes before me
in hyperstring  neural networks of memories
which bubble to the surface
of unconscious thought
and dissipate into nothingness.

I am alone.

Author Notes

Contemplation-6. Another key.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

around the ring of fire
continents burn
in the blistering logic
of claims to islands and air spaces,
waters lapping on wrong shores
cultures and creeds
unearthed from a hazy past

The crew-cut dictator
still stands at attention
at a starving army decorated like peacocks
for a world watching

rockets out of fuel and fire
damp squids plonking in nearby oceans
decorated with plastic medals
sycophants
saluting goose steppers
with polished ironies
and propaganda to hold power
within themselves

the bonfire burns bright
as people perish without bread

crew-cut is unable to see them die
myopic vision and overseas education
he will also have to die one day
with porcelain soldiers
guarding his tombstone.

sad. anyone crying?
**** the ones that don't.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

Lisping along  in the bravado nights
of banquet halls bursting with chandeliers
red carpets and butterfly maidens
serving delicacies of ordered neatness
tested in kitchens of manicured chefs
waiting in breathless expectation
of acceptance from a guest list
of the countrys best men and women

the chief gobbler looked at the lovely wife
of the chief guest
and gently slurped his birds nest soup
as the waitresses on wings flitted by
watching in delight
as his ******* showed clearly at the thoughts
raging in his bald head.

He wanted this woman?

and they all approved willingly
that someone must lose his head
to the heavyweights lust
and for the upkeep of the national pride

before he picked up his chopsticks
and gold embossed napkin
he flicked it twice
and the chief gobbler was whisked
behind a red bleeding curtain

and his wife was taken
on a candlewick bedspread
of green and gold
draped with the crescent moon
and scimitar.

ask no more questions
on where we are
or lose your tongue forever!

Author Notes
Despotic and dangerous.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

Skirting through the hundreds of pages
with poets squishing eternal love
crushing stray moonbeams
you arose like a whirlwind, spiralling
broken dreams of life
filled the pages with laughter's echo
refreshing as  a  warm velvet wordgame.

I was enamored of this style
this big eyed beauty that dared
scale unimaginable heights
of flirtatious sentences
beckoned the eagle in its skirting.

Sometimes most wanted
hidden under layers of unknowns
yet we dared to breach the bond of anonymity
to find impeccable treasures
awaiting discovery

Blooms now
a union of immediate searching
to discover the hidden histories
underneath the façade.
We peel layer by layer
in no hurry
to reach the core of the sun.

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

The infinite dot in the noosphere
hung in  non-gravity  space
between timeless universes
burst into bloom within blooms of galaxies
threaded together with hyperstrings
with no points to ponder on.

how did the mind form itself
from this precision
into a zoosphere?
we will never know or fathom how all things
came to be in our time
and atomic coordinates of god
man and object with a functional
meaning to be here.

look deep within yourself
and know that answers don't exist
for all the questions we have accumulated
for complexity and the biosphere.

instead verge on simplicity
as the creative force
that cobwebs all things
in a network of mindful physics
for the Now!

Author Notes

Thanks to Tielhard De Chardin for putting these thoughts into my head!
I am on a cosmic journey to ask some questions. So the writing will border on concepts that swirl around in a small head! That's all it is. Don't be afraid.
This is just a summer phase! It will pass and I will return to moonbeams and roses.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

If you stand here
at the cross-roads
going left or right.

which one do you take?
take one first
turn around and look back
what have you walked past?

Return if the road is strewn
with endless rubble of broken dreams
and disasters.

Take the other other one
what do you see
The same?

know that every road
was built the same way

Don't ever make the mistake again
Never ever reach a cross-road.
Build your road before you start your
journey!

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11596380-crossroads-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.xHSZTFRJ.dpuf­

The weight of the wisdom we seek eludes
us as we stagger into dark dens of knowledge
suffused and selected, stored in gigantic libraries
of the mind by those
who know
yet wont divulge the details to those
who wait
arms outstretched
for the yearning.

In between lie wannabes
who seek the sun of comments
to glorify themselves as a birth right
unwilling to accept the acid pen
or pain of knowing how falsehoods
lie like wounds exposed to inspection.

Writing poetry in plain language is better
than compromised with complexity.
Just the words and visuals singing on the same note
should suffice to stir the minds magic
to ecstasy.

The crush of wisdom dispels us from climbing
over the boundaries of decency
to sizzle a comment with depressing ease.
You can hear the ego deflate and flatten
akin to a robust balloon descending
to earth like a flightless fancy
with no wingpower.

Not every poem straddles and sparks
in sheer finery
Lots and lots of them refuse to take off
and surrender to the minds star burst
of meaning.

In a days reading maybe
of a hundred, just one line would light up
a dark sky like a comet racing across the page
leaving behind its fairy dust
for us to ponder upon. One diamond
in the dust of lifeless energies
is worth mining for!

Its easy to toggle between keys and numbers
shifting relationships
saying the same thing over and over again
balancing between copy/paste
until the formula comes right. Sometimes.

Print is easy too
Ctrl+ P- sometimes an imprint can occur
not often does it work if the partner is smarter
she might just get a new keyboard
or a whole new faster bandwidth
and move on
at times it can be messy
if you catch a bug
or get bugged too.

If we design love based on a set of keys
the result may become
an out of tune romance
that needs to be rebooted often.

Otherwise you may just have to put up with
an old fashioned typewriter.

Author Notes
IT is happening.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

I am a cube in a dark chocolate bar
seasoned with a milky white
continent of courses
collision of cultures
chili and chill wind season
in overcoats of global ambitions.
Born in the barracks of colonial masters
who took their women from tribal backwaters
of empire. These beauties succeeded
in conquering their Masters
in the art of warfare in bed and beyond.

say what you will
I carry the cost of all completion
and show the combination of colours
on my skin
burnt in the sun of these wars and conquests
all six of us soldiers.

we took his language and her complete
abandonment to beauty grew in the night
of knowing the white ruled the rainbow
and hard liquor while the dark bred the boldness
or so. (Mama said)

we, as children of different cultures
in a  potpourri of pertinence
got licked, kicked, bruised and burped
cooked and laid as chocolates always do.
But we grew in mamas wonder of the world
at large, while Dad knew all the blends of single malt
maidens from the highlands of his birth.

as happy children, aware of hard work and toil
we rose faster than the fumes of spirits
and set about travelling the shores of net profits
and university empires instead.

Mama laughed when we told her
of the worlds and wonders we had conquered
and how the colour of our skin spoke for us.

Dad knew all about peg measures
and pork chops, fork, spoon  and gunpowder conquests
as hollow as his casks of wine
and maturing as slow as his wisdom.
Mama only knew the meaning of knowledge
with no degrees.

God bless them both
as they sit around a table
in that great place in the beyond
and discuss chocolate bars
skin and colourful wrapping
of all six cubes!

I am Anglo-Indian.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

Wow!
Eyes closed mouth open
I love dark chocolate!

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 22 days ago

The horizons dark horse looms across the skyline
shadows gather under silent storms
grey skies lower their mantle
time chips the day into pieces of patience

I wait for the doorbell to break the silence into action
alone, just writing and writing
thoughts in a flurry, everyone gone
Quietude has a soft  language stirs the past

journeys milestones flow past
and I see moments of relish slip and slurp
even as I savour the best for last

my mind is moving from poetry to prose again
and the story takes on an urgency
of raging fires, lost loves, longed-for newness.

Full circle.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 5 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11690072-dark-horse-looms-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.wZ9BzJB­3.dpuf

hidden in the eyelashes
silk and silicone implants
weeds grew in abundance
weedkiller did not work
nor did steam cleaning. washing
down ever

the lies surfaced
through soft tissue face
and the eyes of glass glittered
in abject rage.

done
i was by the justice system
seeking solace in its open arms
winners walk away with
victories of deceit.

stood alone in the dock
waiting for the sunshine
to emerge unscathed
from this battlefield
of deception.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 3 days ago

Between the coming of day
and the resting of night
lies life to take control
and grow within
the short space provided.

What will we do if
the roles reversed and there was perpetual
darkness
or permanent light?

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

what was more important
the horse or the house
on a horse I could ride away
in house I'm there to stay
Id need to look after the horse
but not the house
Yet I need to look after the house
and the horse

One is all about the insides
the other about the outsides
Its funny how we need to look after the insides
to make the outsides so much happier.

I'm asking you to help me decide
I love both equally, want both
don't want to go without one or the other

The last one I owned I sold away
and on leaving the paddock gate
he never bothered to look back
to say even 'thank you.'
I was the ***!

The house still stands
meaningless without the horse!

Author Notes

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

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11627056-Decison-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.URXOmsDF.dpuf

The smell of dettol permeates way down the street
even as I approach the  clinic in terror
death stalks every step and my pulse races
with the knowledge of impending doom.

Try as I might, to stay calm and in control, bugs don't think-
they eat their fill first
and talk with high temperatures and tantrums
coughs and splutters
chills and tingles and tantrums, probably knowing
that murderous pills on their way.

dettol has a distinct sensation, it matches sterile
spongy clean sop and maternity wards
yet I know if you smelt dettol in the deep woods
you would question every dark spot on a leaf
the bark the tree!  the wind and the root.
That's how it got associated with death.

I could never overcome that smell
at times it felt safe, at other times it felt like
alarm bells were ringing of an approaching enemy
facing a firing squad. How could they fire us
to the next world with a smell?
But that's what it always felt like. But today
I need to get my flu sorted out.
Dettol wont do the killing fields any good.

Its hard to have a love/hate relationship with a smell.
Dettol and Women! They are alike! That's it. Yeah.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11613999-dettol-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.J5CFBwXf.dpuf

Im done and dusted
packed away in a shoebox
of transparent memories

what was last night about?
delicate dreams in filigree flight
crisp as lettuce
crunchy to the core
yet adding that joie-de-vivre
to the seduction of senses

I'm truly done and dusted
as I stagger into todays
escapades of poetic fancy
unable to filter the diamonds
from the dust of dreams.

tomorrow may be
better when the serenity sails in
to calm the raging forest fire
of expression.

Author Notes

Escapism in its truest form,unable to keep pace with the thrill of creating newer poems with sensory effects. Does it work?I don't know. You decide
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

The night closes down its comfort zone
drowning in the dusk of musk scented sleep
alone with wild energies seeking solace
in strange arms, unknown banter
as we leave behind the dancing day
busy footsteps in a race to finish at five

heading home, the day trails behind
heavy footsteps locked inside a casket
of memories for tomorrow, will surely
bring its cold chill and diary notes
to keep us pushing on.

Yet the evening has its own secrets
wine and wishes, sip by sip, as we unwind
our stories of a stressful day, people we met
spoke to in brisk tones, carried briefcases
of lecture notes, and walked the corridors
of learning, always mindful of the clock
and learners grasping at straws as I,
deliver the technological wonders that
unfold in young brains, still unable to grasp
how society heaves and sighs with wanting more.

Someday soon I will leave this job
walk in the wilderness of the country side
smell fresh earth and newly mowed lawns
watch sunrise and sunset and cows
grazing blissfully unaware of my presence.

Age has its own miracles meeting new goddesses
from distant lands, who see deep into the simmering
beauty of what I create in words and visuals
and who give  all the praise and glory tenfold
with unselfish sharing and caring.My heart beats for them.

I wish, I wish for those young and folly days
when I wandered a strange wilderness
writing and reading and sharing and knowing
that life itself was engineered to be like this evening
of velvet smoothness and silky toned romances
that few knew drove me to write like this endlessly

Back to the night which has just waved goodbye
to the last lingering twilight for today and pulled
its subtle robe of shadows and faint lights around itself
and enclosed me in its delicate grasp of wonder.

I see my lover, far far away, as if, she were here,
reading and feeling and knowing that she is my muse
and all the temples that I build with my words and visuals
are solely for her enjoyment.She draws me in a circle.

Good night, my love. I will rise with you
at the dawn of the next day!

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

six dots
random sequence
one never falls in love'by chance
two make sense
three is for free
four
no more please
five-high?
six
the first of the devils visit
another six-age
another six
delve deep for explanations

dont dice with death they said
holding a six shooter
to my head
the russian roullete worked

i speak from the other world
where eternity has no chance.
I took it.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11670077-Dice-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.OZOFc736.dpuf

The centric force subjugates  all things digitally
a belief transmits with impunity unspoken
transmuted into faith nothing  impossible

reproduction splintered into pixels
**** into poetry
poetry into ****

we stumble from satisfaction to satisfaction
communicate in digits
connected by dots and dashes
transmit ideas through light
controlled by digits
until at last shaped in the world of
electronic precision
we fuse into the new religion
god replaced by binaries
unholy alliances
that work well in the mechanism
of subterfuge faces reality dismembered
touch and sensory stimuli
burnished through copper cauldrons
undersea cables reaching each other
mind to mind untouchables, harijans of fancy
split second relationships
walk on into the wilderness
where your body frazzles in passwords false protections
numbers in a mechanical clock
that runs on nano seconds
vanish in the nothingness of unreality

we remember others
only for their photoshopped faces
and eyes of wondrous invitation
a blank soul beckoning
for rejuvenation, thirsting for real feelings
real places and real emotions

welcome to the new religion
digitheism.

escape the trap
return to wonder.
You are either one
or zilch. Take your pick.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a day ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11695729-Digitheism-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.FWLt61f5.dpuf­

breaking waves splintered
fragments of hope across
faceless emoticons
messages of no meaning
name those apps
show those abs
smile incandescently
attract the bees
lay honey traps in a vast network
take control.aim digital

big brother watches
every stroke digital

did god create man
or man create god?

the internet created
the sinternet
we are subscribers
we have all subscribed
with our souls

the underground junkies
of a social world
connected permanently with cables
leading into hell.

Author Notes

nestled in the fist of fury
followers following followers
machine numbers generated
to the size of egos

the devils henchman lurks
saturated by cryptic code
destruction embedded
in his fused brain

waiting

to puncture your alterego
and spill your conscience
into a crucible of sacrifices
on the altar of recognition

indecent pictures
bloated for primetime consumption
on the sidewalks of galley slaves
surfing social media
with oars of phony cosmetic
happiness. where do you stand?

welcome to a world of make-believe.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 27 days ago

bend blend  isps
dollar dogs selling
dots and dashes
swollen checks
moving tech
managing bytes
bits of signals
captivating conscience
insufferable desire
fleece skin off bone
burst in the turbo jangle
of just reason

wheres the world
facebook fallacy
the twitter tornado
linkedin longing

communication dig
dangers of disaster
lurking in fields of
phantom moments

real people with unreal
expectations.

we are trapped
in this whirlpool
of wonder tech.
digitheism approaches
rapidly.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 24 days ago

life on a desktop
wound in cables
chased by errant mice
unreasoning keyboards
follow my grammatical errors
dramatic mirrors
that reflect shining
on a faceless society.

where are the gentlemen
that doff hats
wish the world good weather forecasts
and carry singe roses
clasped by pearly white teeth?

not possible from inside
a cabin caged
like a prized animal
punching numbers
dishing dirt
conquering the world
in imaginary victories
of body and soul.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 25 days ago

The numbers generate ecstasy
even as the cliff hangers succumb
to decipher the drop from high citadels
to lower domains

magic numbers that evolve
and translate into feedback feedforward
the impulse designates time
follows through to understanding

social media
ROI? whats that
innocence offered
for momentary meetings
in cyberspace

a face
instant  tactile recognition
few profiles last longer than milliseconds
the ones that do stay forever.

i met my soulmate
on one such platform.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 8 days ago

Just gone into the blue sky cascading
down below into oblivion where
the water is cold, yet ready to douse the fireball
spiralling downwards to outstretched arms.

Think. Before you board.
You. With the warped vision
of life and death and agony.

Nothing will save you from the hell
you have created taking your own brother
and sister into your short circuit
of  idealisms bent and bruised
in the cunning radicalism
of your masters mania.

Just as the stars burn for ever
You too will burn in that endless dynamo
of time unmourned , ungrieved, forgotten quickly.

The waters will not wash away your sins.
You have been baptised in a cauldron of hate.
Go alone. Leave others.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Beat in the blues the musky smell of smoke slithering
in and out of nostrils- dragon like dancing
to the ceiling and the drums bop, hard as muscle
women gyrate to the pulse of passion
sounds embrace lovers heading into the mist of night.

Between the banter  snorters ****** in coke
and cannabis wasted in the aisles of wonder
glancing at the lights flickering in the rooftops
of their eyes, seeking angels of mercy to take
them deep into the oblivion of emptiness.

The midnight gong sounds shattered as we
huddle in the days of the darkness of unreason
wallowing in the madness of the music
and breaking every rule that kept us trapped
in the cages of  that society .

As I look back now, leafing through the years
I cut through the morass of tradition and broke free
from the shackles of sensibility and found my feet
in a wild, wild world where nothing mattered
I am now rested at the journeys end
waiting for the skyline to blow up in flames.

Author Notes

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

We've had those silly quarrels
swear words and senseless arguments
one-up-man-ship wins'
those holier than thou attitudes,
yet we moved forward in the same direction
not turning back to see the detritus
the wads of pain and bad mantras
that littered the roadway behind us.

Life was good
The problems made it better
because we worked together
for solutions.

Now you want to walk away for good?

Don't walk away.
listen instead
the silence will envelope you
in sadness after I am gone.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 days ago

Doozles dream in a weird state
usually backward thinking forward
the script is  mirrored upside down
with female counterparts imported
in containers made of woollen blankets.

You find doozles in poems
defying punctuation and form
shapeless sponges of stray thought
that form and splinter at will
when not watching!

So thats how I doozle you
with these clever verses and lines
that often read well but mean nothing.

I could also dazzle you
with other devices like strong muscular
rhyme and bongo drum rhythms
but theres not much fun
in letting the mind go free
into a vast uncontrolled space
where doozles wander about
waiting to be be plucked and packed
into four meaningless verses of fun

Author Notes

fantasy.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

is that hemlock with your words
numb and nice wisdom demolished
one sip
gone into Hades
where flatlines collect
irrespective of  consequence.

is that your tail
behind my back
checking out my misdemeanors
collecting the wild oats
that I sowed
in silicon valleys?

don't mistrust me
i paid the price of hell
to be here in this paradise
fishing for jonah
and
the great whale.

come let us lay together
in this poetic swamp
encapsulate
our doubts in tupperware
tightness, move on into
no explanations required.

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

the clutter of words taking wing
beneath the wide arms  of dense green oak.

the deciphering symbols now begin
as  parts of the mystery fall into place

one by one,  each piece reflects in a mirror
so similar to what I held up to catch the sky
and reason, fragments that collided in mystical shape
and formed into spirals seeking fresh answers

the dreams that haunted our togetherness for so long
and I languished in every stroke  of your poetic pen

now falls the silver cross and the lining in these clouds
that have twisted and turned me inside out

yet I've built a crucible of hope from endless hyperstrings
and pieces of magnificent beauty that I first saw

in your writing and significantly  stayed magnetised
by the unfolding of your life into my own searching.

I will stand here forever, watching, even as the sun dances
into  dark of night and my feelings grow a new pathway.

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11580728-DreamCatcher...-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.3aDaqvOh­.dpuf

Bruised and beaten in the salt swamped oceans
burnt to crackled skin, unbarked, floating
highways in the waters racing, warm
blanket of currents, tossed in the tide
of reaching places, far off shores
infested by man -eating sharks
piranha fish,  electric eels, the boat of misery
finds its channel to freedom
on some strange islet that leads
to unkempt land.

Not wanted in their own country
scratching for existence
watching nirvana on Channel 52
each scampers in the dead of night
to find a home in other unwanted countries
abandoned on the beach of mercy.

The war on poverty will rage
around polished tables of policies
and the rich will get richer
while the poor get  children.

We are driftwood dressed in a society
with new bark-like skins.

Author Notes

immigrants.Watch as the world disintegrates into driftwood.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ago

The wind whistles past the songs delicate trumpet haze
sizzling between words of wonder, awed at love
and its any splendored languages, cruise control
step down hard, the pulse races, I reach for your hand.

Oh my God, your hair is free and floating in the liquid light
of this great summer day
Are your eyes always blue? They sparkle deeper today.

Your hand is warm and griping tight. Message?
Yes. I slow down, pull over, park.
Hands around you I pull you closer to the kiss
Hmmmmm. Cannot let you go now!

What is it in the way you look dreamy
snuggle  in this sequence?
There must be a much deeper connection
with our lives entangled in some distant past?
That's the mystery that baffles us!

We kiss again and drive into a future
of unknown territories.

Stay with me Love.

The trumpet tones down into dulcet soul.

What are you thinking?

Author Notes

Optional
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 20 days ago

Silence kills the poetry in me
just as much as create it.
I must  hear the softness whistle through the words,
of my love, even as the leaves rustle,
just as much as I long for those delicate pauses
that stir  each heartbeat with a shiver.

What a thing love is,
it draws you into this big circle of knowing
giving flight and fancy to the smallest word
magnifying whispers into raging fires
and warming in the sunshine of acceptance.

No matter which way we turn
the desperation to close the distance
is an urge that compels
us into an ever tightening embrace.

Everything swirls with pleasant beauty.

Author Notes

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

stand in the marketplace right between the throng
think of only right and not what is wrong
search the horizon for those seven virgins
watch for others who may barge in

stay close to killing as many as you can
your god desires that you be his best  fan
tighten the belt around on your waist
its a one second blast, make no more haste

when you reach nirvana that we promised you
take all you can, my brother, your vows renew
what you do will make your masters  so proud
thats why, we now in secret  do shroud

the Book you worship is your one way joy ride
just pull the cord and to heaven you glide
we'll watch you from a distance afar
make sure you are safe, with heaven ajar

once gone, my brother, we'll look for a start
for another sucker with a dream to depart
this earthly kingdom for heavens reward
you be the leader to take it all forward

the land that we want, will for ever be ours
you get a tombstone dressed up in flowers
don't worry no more for the people you ****
its written in blood, that its all gods will!

Author Notes

Chilling?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 2 months ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11578863-Explosion-by-Marshall-Gass-noguest#sthash.bQt5XuMb.dpuf

That's the way it is. Try as we might we still falter forwards
into an abyss, where the ground below deceives us
to understand that we can stand upright-but cannot!

The deception is translated into life too.
At one time the complexities purge us clean
and again, without even questioning we spring headlong
into  an unclean state of mind.

We write and writhe in a  godless void
because it is a safe place to be unnoticed
and unknown. A much better way to reduce us
into complete humility. Lose the voice
and still that wisdom. Speak less, listen more.

That's how we must be as we race to a finish
taking with us all our internal struggles
and external dominance imposed suddenly
on us by a society intent
on keeping us within its crushing embrace.

The answer lies wholly in contemplation
and subdued understanding of the unfolding
universe. The moment of birth and death
inextricably intertwined, until we leave
noiselessly into that unknown space
where we all belong.

Author Notes

Philosophy.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

The skill through which you maneuvered
between skyscrapers of lust and longing
through dense forests of future dreams
through intertwined hands and hearts
and picnic pantomimes and love letters
dinners and dances
were all a mirage being built up
to elude the truth manacled in the mystery
of what you really wanted.

When you left you sliced a part of me
wrapped it all up in pain
and vanished into the thick night of excuses

How foolish I was to believe that you would
return to claim the territory you conquered
and cherished for so long, defeating contenders
to their kingdom through wily ways.You laid waste
a landscape of emotions and vanished into the mythical
realm of external attractions.

You have won. I lost
my sanity for a short while until I awoke
one morning to find that you really won nothing
but an artificial heart with no heavyweight
knockouts.

Good luck. I am free.

Author Notes
Bile and beauty co-exist. Figure.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month ag

Its that time of year again when the fires rage
for romantic nights and warm sensations wrapping
around you like a mink blanket. The candles
flicker a heartshaped flame and the table embroidery
clean and white like our new beginnings.

I just want to to hold your hand and read your eyes
glow in its sparkle and soak in its warmth.
What more can I ask for?

As Valentines Day counts down to its private
messages,  I like
to start my own message build up
for that special day when our bodies and souls
will melt into moments of complete
splendour.

We are one already.
Heres a dozen rose kisses to confirm it!

Author Notes

A dozen rose kisses for you!
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

As endless as the clock that ticked
in tune to our heartbeat,
you reflected, the beginning of time
like the universe of our love,
for thirty five  long exhilarating years.

I collected stardust from your stars
you collected memories for both of us.

Even as the children arrived bearing gifts
of beautiful smiles and late night restlessness,
we still turned to each other to put the nightlights
down and count our blessings above the hustle and bustle.

Wrapped in the finery of love and longing,
thirty five years later
the song we played at our wedding
never stopped playing.

As I watched you
and you watched me
God watched over all of us
keeping the fires alight
for us for ever. That  is love.
Yet we have just started out......

Author Notes

True love has no boundaries or fences and never dies down. True love burns
forever and is made better by all the ups and downs. Love that lasts for one day at a time, eventually adds up to a lifetime.
Happy Anniversary. Read this again when you touch your 50th. It will mean a whole lot more!

© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 9 days ago

- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11589902-Flame---Fire......-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.imOlt1hC.dpuf­