I stare, intently.  He glances momentarily.
With its big calf eyes,
the skin peeling away from its lids
and its hides.
They float by, I gaze quickly at their popped peepers
which are skinned like white grapes,
and they go about their day.
I love them, them and their color palate,
their unique selection.
Bloated and baggy, bubbling up,
it looks so goofy that I cannot stand it.
My mouth gapes at the dazzling gold bands,
the alternating tan lines, the glow-in-the-dark marks,
the cool blues and the light blues alike.

They seem startled and pouty.  But what to do about the ****?
They cannot leap the glass and twirl with us,
dance with me, fly past the current ripping by.
Poor things…how they wish they were wild,
undomesticated and free.  They want to be near us.
I see it in the gestures of their prehensile *****
that smear the glass as they press in,
trying to chart our turbulent patterns.

I wonder in my head how they breathe so easily,
flopping about their blue-tinted box,
drinking deep the LOx
fed in through a tube somewhere
as the world morphs and vibrates between us.
It is full of grey energy.  Like a cloud in a lightning storm.  Ever changing.

Indispensable thou art to mine skeleton's well being, O' Jane doth thou even knoweth thou art mine everything; promise do I Earl, mine pearl of the China divided briny; I seeith thee afar, yet thou art so close, into mine spirit thine ardor is shining. I'm high on thine ***** wilderness, I loveth thine wild untamed way's; thou art undomesticated, not caged, not the average "norm", thou art mine mate, mine consort, not just some woman- THOU ART WORTHY lass, not humankind's slave. O' the day, O' the day, is so much more beautiful, knowing thy loyalty is here to stayeth!!!!



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication- Filipino rose

He texted me seven minutes after I had decided
to start calling my sexuality Coyote, because it was growling
half-way through a book about ***** feminists
and the hair on his chest had undomesticated me in a way that
the thinking part of my brain didn't even believe was possible
but reliving the sound of his laughter as he whispered in my ear
to climb on top made me travel through space and time
to kiss Lilith on the mouth and take Medusa home for one night.

Splendid leaves, all a swirl, spindly, wheeling, driving, curl,
Amid the woods, the leaves unfurl; there stands a wild, happy girl.

No ornament, goal, or mere décor; undomesticated; poor,
Weapons wet with demon gore, stirring, bracing, running, roar.

Sweet, and kind, her sharpened mind; on shelves of books her eyes have dined,
Soothing anger, knots unwind; stinging, stabbing heart resigned.

Born away, aloft, on high; suds and laughs, the fiddler’s sigh,
What’s that, my dear? Of course, I’ll buy; or bake me in a mincemeat pie.

Night and chill, the moon’s dark air, a wind that draws her close ~ I stare,
The woman sighs away our care; upon her lips mine own then dare.

i tried to keep You safe
for so long
i kept my demons tame
but brick by brick
You broke apart Your wall
i stepped back
in a lame attempt
to protect You
but still, i watched from a distance.
Aware my demons consumed me
long ago, as You
removed the last brick
keeping me out
my devil eyed
the gap fit as an entrance
"I like you." You said.
calling my undomesticated darkness
inside, rewarding my patience,
allowing me to finally possess
my Long Desired Angel

We are humans.
We are capable of loving.
And we are able to be loved.

However,
We can't force it.
Rather;
Embrace it.

You are scared of gifting a part of you to someone else.
A piece of your soul you do not get back.
Because you're not supposed to.
Give as much of your caring self to others as you can.

Let people in.
Allow them the chance to know you,
Show them your undomesticated imagination,
Your vivid thoughts.
Your loving heart.
Love as many people as you want to.
Be loved as much as you want to.
Love the way you would want to be.
Allow others to break your guards, stumble over the edges, and fall in love with every possible thing about you.
Because in the blink of an eye,
Your chances will have turned to regrets.
All of the love you wished and hoped to give,
and all the people you chose to love,
Could be gone.
At any
Given
Moment.

I don't wite poetry drunk and think
it's great, or rather: to later
                                       think, it's great

rather, as a genuine outlet,
   worth the dub: ***** poetry
(analyse that,
     Ronnie K., the sentimental
     psychopath),
    since i could be up to no...

(and already the sealed cascade
   of the original intention:
whirlwind spaghetti remnants
worth of: collage);

for Sienkiewicz really
is tedius, in the camp of writers
some dubbed:

a first class, second class writer,
i even managed to dream
that i was reading a contemporary
novel:

         yet somehow the remaining
200 pages of this (circa) 800 page
novel are hanging over me
ungidested, like some farce
of the sword of Democles...

me and my necrophilic taste in
books, or rather:
        catching up to: the dogma
of what youth is pushed in schools
and tested on...

    and I am of the authentic opinion
that Bolesław Pruß is readable,
a 19th century story,
     written in the 19th century...

Siekiewicz's romanticism is
too, inauthentic...
   i could blame the weather,
cold spring mornings,
a seemingly eternal sun throughout
the day...
       but the women
as unrelateable as hot sushi...
a 19th century romanticism
of a late 14th / eartly 15th century
"history":

           and they said Kraszewski
was supposed to be as entertaining
as soaking stale bread in water...

beyond a doubt...
     and without much to think about,
I can't imagine anyone who
writes these snippets (akin) to be
proud, and not ashamed
in some way that could better
translated / attired with the word:

barely satiated...
            I almost wish it sounded
better in my head,
even though it was worth
about a worth of time
   equal to that of a splinter
barely compensating a century
worth of oak, standing dumb
before its majesty.

at least a compensation though,
if I seemingly cannot fathom
"serious" literature
of the living, i also cannot fathom
poetry of the dead...
         the dead can't be excused
the fickleness of the living,
    as the living can't exactly
recreate the rigidness of the dead:
plus the obvious,
painstaking process of:
      the missing typewriter...

not to mention:
      sooner comes cinematic
version of a modern tale...
              and already the undomesticated
reader making books into
bricks...
            
    otherwise the constipated tradition
and literary hoarding of the past,
it almost dwarfs any ambition
when compared to the biblio-monolith
of, say, the Qu'ran...
                      no qualms for
having only read an instruction
manual, and wholeheartedly
   gesticulated at the moon
    and Mecca (or what's left of it)...

"satanic" credo murmurs in
a catholic church:
                         no way forward -
no way back...
      and certainly not down
the exhausted route of becoming
a ***** for secularism...
        somehow and most certainly
"somewhere"
                in an existential limbo...
without a crisis:
           or rather:
     watching about a hundred breakdowns
per day, and not exactly
gesticulating at an exited libido
as compensation for the disorientation
of others...

but there certainly could be worse
outlets than writing drunk...
thankfully sometimes the quiet sober
opinion at 7am,
     where I am, genuinely jealous
of the salat...
          yet unconvertable,
             bound to that infernal
religion that is: on the tip of
the tongue of an English teacher -
humanism.

               no serious literature
of the living, as certainly that of
the "canonised" dead,
   countered with:
      no serious poetry of
     of (ditto): only that of the living
and of the immediately: in transit
id est: with third party remnants...

evidently i was going to
break these "rules" / whims
   by having inherited the remnants
of the Beat movement,
      and invested in gathering
a necessary compedium...
          
    a time when it almost feels like:
your average Joe and John
were not overtly politicised...
        as compensation for
voting apathy,
                  and the unredeemable
post scriptum of nuance...

no, I don't think much of the poetry
I write drunk...
     but I can certainly attest
    that, with it as an outlet -
     I'm far from requiring a punching
bag, bound to some chemical
rainbow of explanations,
    that, for the most part:
                act like placebos;

came the people happy in their
misery...
    came the people gluttonous
in their happiness...
        only that the former
            had the better humour,
since the latter,
   very much akin to their politics:

perhaps sarcasm is the lowest
form of wit,
   but given sarcasm in a subtle
way... without ridicule...
it's still better than snarly
conservative humour...
                         for some reason...
without pointing out the obvious:
having to laugh
at jokes of an angry man...
     turns out a crying clown
is thrice as funny.

They'll belittle you
if you can't read and or write
mean your less human

Kelly McManus