so I brought my writer wife
(prominently pregnant)
to the hospital
and on her bed, she screamed:
"weren't" "hasn't" "couldn't" "shan't"
"aint" "hadn't" "you're" "isn't"
"aren't" "didn't" "wasn't"
"who's?" "what's?" "he's" "she's"

The doctors were confounded
and they turned to me and they said:
"What the hell is she doing?"

And I replied with double speed
and a violent sense of urgency:
*"Don't you know?
She's having contractions -
she's a writer"

Why do we feign such rapturous delight,
in pretence to others that all is alright,
what if the soul is quietly suppressed,
cloaked in darkness, hidden and repressed,

Are we ashamed to drape the veil,
to retreat into darkness and embrace the pale,
truth can be found from deep in a frown,
so why wear the clothes and tears of a clown.

© H V Swan

Silently lie in the grass,
On the hill above the lights.
Steal a kiss,
In between ,
Each drag on this cigarette.
And
Let's
Take bets on which is more
Dangerous.

I think, often. Maybe too often.
I think you're scared of me.
I think you're skeptical of the good in things.
And up until you met me, I know you've had every reason to be.

I think we're all monsters, and that humanity is history's great facade.
I think we're all scrambling to find salvation.
And I think I've found mine in pen strokes dedicated to you.

I think, I think, I think...
And with you no longer by my side, I always will think.

Look and you will see the tragedy that is bestowed upon us,
Children of the universe.
It eats away at our hearts like acid
Yet we grin and we grit our teeth.
Our spirits are roaring with the ache of insecurity.
We are the children of the universe.
Our thoughts are a twisted garden of vines
And no trespassing is permitted.
Our minds are guarded mighty and high.
We rise every morning and put on a smile,
Ready to show the face that we have chosen for others to know.
Our exterior is cool and prepared.
We conceal the flowers that bloom from our minds
And pull them out as though they are weeds.
We sacrifice our identities to satisfy society.
Every word we speak is one that is cautiously selected.
Our insecurity has its hands on our throats
And is slowly suffocating us.
We are all dying under the weight of hiding our truths.
We are the children of the universe.
When will we say how we feel?

every man has his island,
his hiding places projected out loud
with blood power,
vernacular dreams &
ventriloquist voices.
among other things, madness -
an optical illusion
what you see is what you are
or seeing is believing
insideman and outsidemen
undifferentiated
the room has one view
on patched windows
indesire cutting deserted canyons
for the self-acclaimed King
(indesire wants nothing but to be,
to make room for islands in reality)

“be good, otherwise Haruka will come
to take you away, my child”
(what’s in a name
Haruka is “from far away”)
but children very rarely draw lines
caught in the furious chaotic circles of the world
now that every action has a reaction
reality principle is just a skin
holding the inside out & the outside in.

everyman has his island
of vexed fantasies
look into your eyes from outside in
before you see that fire
or anything else,
see this
-the beautiful war-