When I pen, what really is the intent.
To answer a question or delve in sophistry;
to express the self or churn a story?

Most likely,
a surgical act to extract the knives lodged in the chest.
A walk to meet a lover, when the legs do not answer.
A savage, deafening scream that only I can hear.
An arduously extracted knife, pushed back through the chest.

The pen is my voice hoarse, a pitch I cannot reach.
It is total silence, less the pummelling waves.
It is my eyes closed, where logic makes sense.
But it is no map, but a maze, where I lose my hands.

*It is across my back, a different dimension.
Where the right is sullied with nothing available.
It is wrought and taut in every direction.
A lost heart, a lost soul, a lost art, a lost woe.

This M is a ****, treat it with needle and thread.
This K is a sigh, cage its noise and beware.
This C is a life, what burdens will he bear?
This I is a lie, why should anyone care.

I give and I write. One and the same.
A grave and thimble to protect my faith.
A loathing and swelling to numb the brain.
A mangled lie, as always, I go away.

She exists,
rooted in beauty.
The leading role —
her rightful seat.
A grey fragility
with red honours.
The leading role,
if not for kindness deep.

Her fingers —
gaunt and frail.
By will she guides,
by charming coax;
persuades the Sun
for those beneath.
By will she guides
the giants to lead.

The stage grips
with its demands.
She gifts herself
in gracious yield.
Reds all shared
with those who'll take.
She gifts herself
until nothing's left.

A lowly shrub
for towers to have.
An oblivious actor,
afraid to dream.
Bruised grey bark
but tall within.
An oblivious actor,
in hand — a single script.

Has it arrived?
Why, why hasn't it?
The hands that run this place
***** and test my spirit.

Oh but I am patient,
but stand not to suffer.
These bullies,
they will hear from darling Mother.

Mother will not be charmed
by this, this
hair on my chin.
How will she hope to recognize
her little Monkey kin?

Where is the razor promised?
She will be here quite soon.
I scraped and clawed barbarously, but
my nails aren't meant to prune.

Equanimity.
Little Monkey, breathe.
Allay the palpitations
and the grinding of your teeth.

Count. 1, 2, 9, 4.
In.
Or was it 1, 2, 4, 9?
Out.
Oh, Mother says it's not vital.
I'm sure she wouldn't mind.

Wipe your chin off of blood.
Good.
And bite your nails off too.
You are, no, I - am patient -
until the debt is due.

-

Like that kid, what was he called?
John? Jim? An arrant name I'm sure.
He hissed and said he'd tell on me,
for eating green manure.

He ran -
that poor little Penguin.
What Mother bestowed to Monkey,
his did not bequeath to him.

A splintered piece of fence in hand
- why is the razor not here yet -
A fall, a squeal, he could not defend.
Cowgirl, concede, plead, then stab.

Prying open a chicken's beak
was cleaner than plucking out his tongue.
This Jack? Joe? This brown-eyed snitch,
thought he'd won because he's young.

I ejected into his open mouth - no loss,
to assure my secret stayed unleashed -
and I never quite liked brown manure,
unlike Mother's eyes - a jade-green finish.

The Penguin family - an unexpected crowd.
All of them - mother, father, and two other browns.
They all screamed and the father lunged, but -
penguins can never beat Monkey on ground.

Each one felled by fence's tip.
1, 2... well the father was elephant-big.
And the others combined would make one more.
So two Elephants by Monkey's score.

-

My fingers with nails freshly removed,
evoke an image of that wooden stake.
Dripping and wafting - suspicious acerbity...
...I think she's here! 1, 2, 9, 8...

Blood-grimed hands no longer throbbing,
for it's all right now, dear Mother's coming.
She will kiss you and speak with her peridot eyes,
sing lullabies and... Where is my Mother!?

You bullies promised me Mother was coming.
Liars! Are you hiding her from me? Mommy!!
Monkey was good and waited meekly for you.
You thieves and brown-eyes, what did you do?!
And where are you taking me, if not to see her?
No I don't want to sleep, I want a moment with her!
Count your debts
- all of you -
for I have a patient nature.
You will all pay - when I get my promised razor.

It starts with a frown,
she and I ー a discovery.
Every exchange after, found
with more frowns and
peeking teeth.

Strange, this feeling ー
you desiderate
and envy,
but it finds you only
if you'll look away.

It latches and bubbles:
Of cool raindrops on concrete pavements,
bare feet and no umbrellas allowed.

So like the rain, I dive.

Inimitable; Intrepid.
What is poison
if the antidote is held?
Why fear the fall
when such heights are reached?





But dear Assuagement of the dive,
meet the pavement of life.

The miasmic tension
and
polar principles
and
frangible hearts
reduced to glass shards-
and feet still bare.


The once melodic hums
now tearing sounds
that pierce and vilify
reason.

The once curious frowns
now baring fangs
that warp and end
beauty.

If only I knew...


Oh dear poisonous nectar,
please,

cure and claim my fate.

unprepared;
unforeseen;
red blossoms from her head.

disarray;
disbelief;
his wails fail to persuade.

denying;
lamenting;
not one goodbye is made.

descending-
ruthlessly;
the edge of sundown dictates.

"Finally decided to do your hair for once."
"Chris, thank you, but let's focus on the dance."
"With this awful song?.. 2, 3, and hup!"
"We walked the aisle to this.. do try to keep up."
"Now now Jayne, that was probably ages ago."
"Oh, then explain why first anniversary's tomorrow."
"Ahem, now lunge, slowly, 4, embrace me."
"Can I ask one question? Why the hell did we marry?"
"That's two - you really should work on your spending."
"Sniff, and you should spend much more on washing."
"Judge Michel looks concerned, would you stop being upset."
"But I'm the one smiling, with great hair I might add."
"Steady, and land.. Yes speaking of which, why now?"
"I'm leaving you for Michel.. do not forget to bow."

An old matron came by the billet dead in the night.
My stares did not seem to distract her; how curious -
how her gown remained at rest as she pulled nearer;
that she knew her purpose, dignified, almost vicious.

Then right across from me, she draped upon a seat;
her gown gently quivered like the bell of a jellyfish.
Now I observed her face, the frown she wore, and lost count
of all the thin shadows the starlight chose to stitch.

Her nose then descended to usher two full moons bright,
that pierced my breath and froze time in that moment.
The clock slurred and slept, and left me pining for its ticks,
while I heard her speak, clear white but also solemn.

"Why do you judge?" An unforgiving probe, more so
for it was confusing and wrought topfull with questions.
"Surely it is to make a choice" - I exhaled it like a criminal,
"So I make fewer mistakes" - an unmistakable confession.

A pause, no reaction. Yet I heard a chaotic disapproval
drumming when I swallowed - surely my heart's doing.
Her head crept forth, and polluted, "What did you mean
when you say, 'My wings, they do not branch - they ruin'?"