What would you call the home which sits,
simple, in reverence of fiction, sits in reverence,
on two knees and a nose sniffing pubic bones?
What would you call a thing which makes,
a thing which creates meaning, much less,
than it sucks the meaning away?

The past ushers futures inside that my parents
made, and their parents made, and their parents,
it seems I'm younger than I think. B o r n,
i n t o a w o r l d o f d e t r i t u s . b o r n,
into a
worldoftrash.

Happy. Happy. Happy.
My body will carry use
once I am dead. I
think I taste the dirt.

Happiness in head.
It's hanging in the air, the piece of you, above the hole in the carpet.
     The hole that was burned there out of anger. Contained by the voice in the back of your mind that pleaded to not allow the fire to spread. The smoke entered through your nose and when it was exhaled, took out of you something you don't remember you lost.
     Adolescent dementia is your diagnosis. You ebb and flow emotions that correlate little to the situations around you. Your eyes refract the scene around you and interprets it as inverted and skewed. You have an ocean in your mind. Stirred by the restlessness of the moon, your tides find a way to hurt you. Water crashes against the back of your eyes until you finally spring a leak.
     You're in math class.
     Pull yourself together.
     You love to walk, because the sloshing in your head now seems to be the fault of your arms gently swaying at your sides. You get lost a lot, no sense of direction. People wonder why you always hit the edges of the desks when you pass. They think you're high. Your bloodshot eyes betray you. You look down when you walk with a destination in mind. Any distraction magnetically pulls you towards it. You reel back and cast your eyes far into the scene of which you stare. Anything around you is now null. You are at two places at once. No. You've simply left your physical body to wonder a minute, you are tethered to yourself by the notion that you have no time to waste gazing listlessly-
     "Get out of the street little girl! Who holds your body captive?! Why are you blind to see oncoming traffic?!"
     You were wondering what it looked like to see a car moving towards you. You proceed home. There is calming music in your ears. You view the world in time with your pace, which is in time with the song. You step and the earth underneath your foot thanks you. It says no one has stepped there before. You're the first the conquer that patch of land.
     You hear this in your head.
     The song's instrumental cacophony ensues to interrupt your acquisition. The world as you see it dissolves into a blur of colors so vivid, you do not know their name. Its transported you far from the road home. You see smoke. It looks like pure light but it behaves like the noxious admittance from your mother's cigarette. You reach out your hand to manipulate it around your fingers.
     It's wet.
     You're outside your house now. Two steps away from your carport. You stand in pouring rain. Water is slipping off the roof onto your outstretched hand. You think for a moment that you do not want to go inside.
     You lock the door behind you as you enter.
This is me, stuck in my rut with the same dizzy dream.
he took love's arrow out
of the quiver launching it
at she who he did revere
with deep devotion
trump - hide and run for headline cover before armageddon

arc de triomphe interesting facts

if zee al chemist trump doth win go hide in the bunker
to save your ass
brace yourself as this don holed
confabulates that gold iz brass
and conjures prestidigitation
like spinning false hoods in2 truth - crass
-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -    
a synonym force head fabricator -
will threaten democracy, thus be afraid
as this pompous voice quotes
from hiz playbook, which = a charade
the hard core truths, he
(who i liken to the plague) doth evade
-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -    
and dreams up fault of Barack Obama
for extinction of dinosaurs,
crucifixion of Jesus Christ
down fall of the Roman Empire,
or far tethered Fred Flintsone ca fetching an escapade
-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -  
yea...this rip pub lick'n presidential contender
evinces a psyche frayed
building and monopolizing castles in the sky -
nonexistent as a grade
-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -    
school fib - or donning role
as play ground bully teaming with ivan
the terrible to dominate the greensward
in the above fiction, but...man
that loose canon dressing his
-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -  
"make america great again" gag line - whar i ran
and mid eastern countries will rise
as one cheering him as star of global hit parade
despite any raging oppositional pandaemonium
birth er ring a conflagration
-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -  
kenya believe the world acquiesces
to thine projected masquerade
blocking im grate shunning crowds -
which number of people rival in size  
taller (if stack one atop thee other)
-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -  
than the trump tower casino or high rise
with his signature - hm...mebbe funds provided
by drug lords, the swedish house mafia
or terrorist ties???
-     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -     -    
whom security details silence by tossing a hand grenade
sham on you Potemkin village people for quaffing draughts
from elixir purportedly to transform visage with trademark
swept back, wavy and coiffed hirsute.
Martin Narrod Feb 2016
I'm the moon, one that shines
I breathe the seams on the Earth's faulty lines.
I'm not crossed, I'm alright
I met a girl that makes summer seem trite.

There were none so divine, it could take midnight
And turn the world daylight. I'm the moon, one that shines
She is the black queen in the checkmate that's mine.

I reap the hours
And the sleep is still coming.
I count the days down until the minutes stop running.
I am the king, she's my bride, I conquer worlds while
We we conquer all time.

She is the night, I'm to come, we climb the wind
On the hurricane's lungs, count of 3, piggies hide
These bad wolves have come to eat you alive.

There are some so divine, that hours laugh
And the sun forgets to rise.
That is her, so alive. I am the moon
That brings the oceans to life.

— The End —