All you had to do was ask,
I've almost left.
You're almost here, ethereal.
It's all in your head,
I'm sorry I'm no longer in your bed.
But can I get your numbers again?
It was only a few words I said,
Sorry that I was mistaken,
Can you banish them from your head?
In the morning I'd make you bacon,
I'd even serve it with toasted bread.
It could be a perfect meal when you awaken,
But that's an If Only, because you're already dead.

By Arcassin Burnham

Ultimately I'd rather be a pawn in your game
Of love and trust but it was more like a game
Of life,
Let them know just how you really feel when
Your not biting off legs and your expensive
Taste for high heels,

I've begged the heavens for you to be one,
But they stand so tall and quiet,

there is no easy way to love you if you leave
me behind.

Originally i would have been a loner in a world
full of wolves that lay their seeds of hate and lust
upon the world,
Gleaming like your the only bright star in the room
of lost souls pleasing everybody through the
struggle,


i feel it in the air tonight , it's everywhere in different
corners of my body, if i say you give me joy,

there is no easy way to love you if you leave
me behind.

Lyrical hearts bleed tears.
and they feel every one fall.

Ma Cherie © 2017

It started with a devious question
And the answer was clear
To all
But a curious faction
Fueled by fear,
With the means to concoct
An Orwellian plot
That rendered hate normal,
Like bible study.

Let the Right say, 'Amen'.

"She should be in jail," said
A lady in the deli
With a red cap
And matching tee.

Her eyes spewed fire;
Mine stayed on the menu.
Bypassing the bologna,
I ordered turkey on rye,
To Go.

I had a revolution to catch.
One I'd missed like the polls
On Election Eve.

Dylan shot nine,
Dead.
Sparing one to spread the news
And start a race riot
Before Obama takes away our guns.

Then Vladimir bombed
A city Gary didn't know
But no one asked Don.

"I like you," said one tyrant
To another.
"But I despise Fidel, CNN and ObamaCare.
They are all dead to me."

We heard the lie.
Of the grand Muslim celebration in Jersey
After the towers fell.

And a million more.
Yet the tide of deaf ears kept growing,
Engulfing US in a tsunami
Of *****-grabbing misogyny
That made Bill blush
And gave Hill another shocking traumatic defeat.

Women from Times Square
To Tokyo rained on his parade
And a speech spawned in 7th grade
Earned an A on FOX
And a wet sticker
Everywhere else.

Let the world say, "Impeach Him!"

~ P
#LyricalAssassination
01/21/2017

It haunts me.
It haunts me.
The way you breathe my name.
Your touch still lingers on my, and oh my I can't believe you stayed sane.
I grow old with the cold, but at least that I know I can find you now.
I breathe you out.
I breathe you out.
I see you now.
I breathe you out.
I breathe you out.
I can win.

Chariots spinning on snake wrapped wheels fly forth through his fiery shins
The horses have sitar faces
Ancestor voices vocalize with ethereal hymns
The imperial rims shall want but have no get
Flung forth into hypnotic dishes of nets
Gasping for water in heightened air

Trickle with spirit and deadly measures
With morality a broken metronome
A boulder smeared with clumps of pulp of mango
Flamingo bends in the fiery knees
Seven arms
Nine heads

Existed from oceans beatings
Lightning of wrathful suns
Tears shed skinned and dappled face of brimming whim

Orangutan spiked fur
Perfumed of jungles’ musk and fleas
Pinkish hand with crevice knuckles
To no king he bends the patella gates

He leads the ravaging conquests
Endless horse and bird
A Danube of feathers
Sterling melting herd
To no king he hands the scepter

He is pouting child
Devil wig and fist
Sprinting in red abyss amidst the hands of slaves
To no king shall he relinquish the ribcage trophy

It is a rotten morning. The
core of hazels in the damp wood, wet
and drowned, lose identity and turn to gutless shapes. Cloyed
the muddy clay traps the dampness in its dips
and depressions, clings to the shoes and
slows the pittance of steps towards the caked
tree where the mud mutters below the uneven branch, the
bark is crusted over, and the one bird calls out once
too often, level with the woodman’s pile. Turning
aside the dropped stone splashes in the well and then he follows.

My heart is with this stone.

As silent energy
it forces crisis after crisis.

It slings brutality across your face,
like ice.

It lords it over life.

“Sweetheart”,
you spoke that world unbearably,
like ****,
as beautifully as evening
when the whimbrel’s seven fluting notes
innumerably measure how the distance
widens between earth and moon.

I might have listened
but my heart is with this stone.

A single pebble
crushes;

do not minimise
destruction.

Pellets hold
the small, squeezed grain of bone –
a startling nakedness erodes
it, scars the air
it lies in;

frail and suffering
hung flowers
that hankered after warmth
ooze still their stilled perfections;

and
the innocent beetle
suffers mortally.

Grandiose, magniloquent,
the pebble forfeits nothing.

We are naked, Anne, and caught.

Inside ourselves a pitiless resilience
remains, bounds up, is shot.

The orchid in the spring
still sees it here:
as cruel as me,
as loving and perennial as you.