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24/M    I couldn’t find what I was looking for in humans, but I found it in between the lines IG devante_393
Nick Moore
Cornwall    Hi, I write about anything, but mostly drawn to esoteric, philosophy and humour.
Sam Moore
Los Angeles    Small queer kid from LA. Sometimes I write. trangst.tumblr.com

Poems

Lice H-P Apr 2017
One day I will depart the train at a station without a name,
Pull emergency cord and take the plunge thru parted doors.
I'll pack no suitcase or bindle, in my head young, free and single,
I will be a living swindle - wherefore art prat poet of before?
New job doing something I've shown no interest in before,
Change my name to 'Neville Moore'.

I'll do a Reginald Perrin, leave red herring threads at Sherring-
ham, then dice-rolled palookaville of new self I shall explore.
When Palookas call me Neville, they won't see this wasted rebel,
But numpty Neville, on the level, who misplaced his wasted days of yore.
Amnesiac clerk stoical over mist-shrouded days of yore.
Only knew my name was Neville Moore.

Neville will moonlight at night-school, pick up a trade that's practical,
In minimalist digs post-dossing on unforeseen saviour's floor.
Time's sandstorm obscures lyrics, John Doe-penned hieroglyphics
- lost soul Lysander's from Norwich. His mind shut like a shoved closed drawer
To Poesy's Pandora's box of ******* in indigo iron drawer
In Norwich. No bones to Neville Moore.

Neville will be a straight arrow, nice chap whose mind is narrow,
Tepid tryer temping at call-centre, lockjaw forevermore.
The blandest of mystery men, what was Neville's name again?
Man with no memories blends in; my dead ringer, stunky, strong-jawed.
Eye-witness testimony of 36 years will gladly be abjured
- done myself good deed poll: Neville Moore.

I'll  abscond so left Lysander might be eternal loose end, the
Inner poltergeist confined to an indigo iron drawer.
Tomorrow I'll do a John Stonehouse bog-snorkelling, a grandiose
loser who fled being infamous in his own dinnerhour, a bore
Unto myself.  I'll abandon ship,  then life will be less of a bore,
Being much more boring Neville Moore.

And I'll meet a girl called Sybil, Palookashire an idyll,
Where a man with no past can just wash up upon the shore.
For if child is father of the man, Neville'll be an upbeat orphan!
Labels torn off the clothes from Oxfam what Memory's Outlaw wore,
Newfoundhometownbound Mister X such clueless clothes wore,
Clean the pockets of Neville Moore.

Sybil won't be the type to probe, at night she'll pop her Zopiclone,
Cuddle up to normal Neville, earnest the embrace of average amour.
We will rent a little bedsit and expend a lotta effort
To make our place seem white-picket-fenced, tho'  we resided on 3rd floor.
Down updrafts of Fate, untempted to faceplant from the 3rd floor
Is plain ol' sane ol' Neville Moore. 

No temptation, but something racing, the unexplained midnight pacing,
And murmurs in Nev's sleep there's reams in an indigo iron drawer.
But in daylight we'll have daughter, from nowhere the name 'Cobania'
(Nev wouldn't dig Nirvana, fin de siecle scream's aural chore,
nihilistening not for Neville in zen of playful household chores).
Shrug-a-lugs of numb Neville Moore.

Neville wouldn't get promotion, Neville doesn't have much gumption.
Frankenstein's **** domesticus by design, Nev's a swollen snore.
Lice would have mocked, 'Call this living?' Lice is dead, would always give in
To windmills' wheeling withering, watched like a raven, set no store
In what life we have worth living, which is what life life has in store
For unquestioning Neville Moore. 

Neville, don't be snarling slave to snafus by another self made,
Be complete now the only piece is the missing piece of the jigsaw.
Radio receives no 'roger', they won't see Cobania as a toddler,
But for famalam, there's succour: lines left in indigo iron drawer.
For Lice did leave literally living will in indigo iron drawer:
Poem entitled Neville Moore.

Nev and Sybil will have ups and downs, in facades cracks gouge frowns;
Castaway's fury in his eyes curdles Florida coleslaw.
I don't need Sybil's mithering, I mean 'Nev' dint, thinking about writing
- did we do Jack Nicholson in 'The Shining', too nuts too soon in Neville Moore?
Polter-Lice rattling in indigo iron liar's den re Neville Moore's 
Writer's shock swan-song for Neville Moore.

And sweet phantom Cobania, I hope she ends up saner
than her Canoe Man old man, sent reeling by subconscious southpaw
Of split personality punch-ups,  one-man-band fight clubs,
punchdrunk on bad self burps, tho' he burped Cobania with awe.
Pneumatically patting doting dad, errant soon so overawed
By humdrum Heaven, Neville Moore's.

Witness protection program to hide me from self-hate's hitman,
But Miltonic Satan's heart held Hell, for killer within is law
Unto himself. Thus phoenix photo album of my alter ego
To ***-end before Year Zero was burnt down, act of soul at war.
Greener grass scorched earth, everyman Eden sacked by selves at war,
Lysander negging out Neville Moore.

His ship's sailed ment'lly down the toilet - can't see the dream, it's ultraviolet!
Sybil wagging her finger with ****** of a fishwives' wappenshaw.
Cobania's cantankerous tween, Nev hears fin de siecle scream
- call the toilet 'Kurt', it's flushing the dream! Behold:  tombstone beneath 
                                                        ­    a sycamore,
Man from nowhere nowhere now beneath suicide's sycamore.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Beneath me to quote Ocean Colour Scene, beneath sycamore willow-leaned,
But day I caught train derailed: no malaise of glory, Anon no more.
Cobania in black with ***** highlights will grieve Daddy on the quiet;
Sybil indignant that the senseless,  existential eyesore
Option all her lost-and-found, found-and-lost, haunted hubbie saw.
Quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

Nev won't see Cobania grow up: she doesn't exist - s' good job!   
Yet I'll miss driving lessons and wedding, even if shaggy dog's dewclaw
Scratched itself out, vestigial scythe: Neville was never alive.
But this 2.4, 2.0 narrative smelted indigo iron drawer.
Cenotaph recast as mask, new visage's vista dark as in a drawer
Now quoth the engraving, 'Neville Moore'.

After Poe's misnomer, well, misnumbered: one short, 17 stanzas  
Ironically encode birthday of old dud cub who overroars
Last-ditch striped leopard, tame un-me. Lord Lucan, he WAS lucky
-  there's freedom in fake ID! But Neville grew sick, sick of me no more
Now as one two selves expire, same sigh of relief 'low sallow sycamore:
Thank **** Lice is nevermore.
My birthday is 17/05.
TOD HOWARD HAWKS Apr 2020
As some you know from reading my brief bio below the pieces I have written and posted for HELLO POETRY, I have spent a good part of my life as a
human-rights advocate. I'd like to share with you a special recollection of mine with you now so you'll know that the way I share my humanity with those who need some kindness is different often from the ways others do.

It was the spring of 1992. I was in New York City to attend a meeting of Columbia College's Board of Directors of which I was a member. I was walking down Broadway toward Tom's Restaurant, one of my haunts when I was an undergraduate. I was going to have breakfast, my all-time favorite meal. As I walked along, I saw ahead of me a tall black man holding a styrofoam cup hoping those who walked by him might drop a quarter or two into his cup. When I got to where this man was standing, I stopped in front of him. My stopping right in front of him surprised him, I'm sure. I stuck out my right arm hoping to shake his, and as I did, I said, "My name is Tod Hawks. What's your name?" This man was incredulous. Finally, after a long, awkward pause, he said "Hechamiah." I said "Hechamiah what." There was another long pause. Finally, Hechamiah said, "Hechamiah Moore." I then said, "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Moore. I'm on my way to have dinner at Tom's Restaurant. Would you like to join me and be my guest?" Mr. Moore was stunned. Another long pause. Finally, Mr. Moore said, "OK." So we began walking together down Broadway toward Tom's Restaurant, and as we walked, we started chatting. I found out Hechamiah was from North Carolina, had married his sweetheart when both were 16, then came to New Jersey
where Hechamiah got a job in some kind of factory. But ten years prior to our meeting, his wife died unexpectedly. Hechamiah told me he just couldn't stand it, so he started drinking and didn't stop. Eventually, he was fired, and for the last eight years had been homeless.

At this point, we reached 112th Street and needed to cross Broadway to enter Tom's Restaurant. We crossed half of Broadway, in the middle of which there was sort of an island where there were a couple of benches. There, Hechamiah just stopped. I asked him, "What's wrong, Mr. Moore?" Hechamiah, after another pause, said to me, "I don't think they want me in there." I paused this time, then I said, "Mr. Moore, there are two reasons why you are going into Tom's with me. First, you are my friend. The second is the United States Constitution." Another pause.  Hechamiah stepped off the island's curb and began to walk across the other half of Broadway. I joined him.

We entered Tom's, first Hechamiah and then I. I saw an empty booth in the rear of the restaurant. I walked ahead of Hechamiah to the booth, then we both took a seat. I could see and feel that Hechamiah was extremely nervous. A lovely middle-aged waitress came over and handed each of us a menu. When she returned a few minutes later, she asked what we would like to order. I told her Mr. Moore was my guest. She looked at Hechamiah and asked him what he wanted. "A cup of Manhattan clam chowder," said Hechamiah. "That's all you want, Mr. Moore?" I said with surprise. He nodded yes. I ordered breakfast.

Hechamiah and I continued chatting. I told him I had been spending the past year traveling around the country seeing and talking to people who were hungry and homeless and hopeless. Politicians, I told him, were interested only in polls and percentages. I was interested in people's pain, so much of which I had experienced, and hoped to help find ways to allay it. I told Hechamiah I had delivered a speech on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, had traveled to the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in the southwest corner of South Dakota--still the poorest place in America, to Houston where several hundred black men slept on folded cardboard boxes that lay on cold cement sidewalks along both sides Prescott Street, 24/7, to Atlanta where I met with Martin Luther King III and former President Carter at the Carter Center, as well as other places and other people.

The waitress had brought us our meals in the interim. We both had finished eating. At that juncture, I said to Hechamiah, "Are you sure you don't want something else to eat, Mr. Moore?" I could see and feel that Hechamiah was becoming increasingly at ease as we shared food and conversation. He said, in fact, he would. When our waitress came by again, Hechamiah was so relaxed that he started to joke with her as he ordered a full meal, and our waitress was so sweet, she just joined in the fun.

Hechamiah finished his meal in short order. It was time to leave Tom's. When we reached the entrance, Hechamiah began to push the door open, but as he had the door just half open, he turned around and said to me, "Mr. Hawks, you are a kind man." I said to Hechamiah, "Mr. Moore, you are a good man." We both stepped onto the sidewalk and shook hands and began to walk in different directions into the darkness, but with our stomachs, and our hearts, much fuller than they had previously been.

Copyright 2020 Tod Howard Hawks
A graduate of Andover and Columbia College, Columbia University, Tod Howard Hawks has been a poet, a novelist, and a human-rights advocate his entire adult life.