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The perfect man is but ordinary,
He cries and laughs like all the rest.
He doesn't have the perfect body
yet the masks he wear are just the best.

He smiles even when he's unhappy
and treats every gal as a friend.
He carries every talk so cheerfully.
His personality is one you'll commend.

But there's one secret he's kept long
that only his girlfriend has known.
A dark trait embedded in his soul
for how deceitful this man has grown.

To this girl, he does a lot of lying
and he doesn't feel guilt or remorse.
He just loves to hear her crying.
His lies to her are such a curse.

He goes out at night to party
and the girl knows not where he goes.
She drops 20 calls, so worried
but he ignores her like she's a ghost.

Still, the perfect man is lucky
for his friends believe he is all-good.
In their eyes, he is mistake-free
and wouldn't do harm even if he could.

To a realization, the girl arrived,
and thought no perfect man exists.
For if there is, then a perfect lie
can make her broken when she believes.
I am always alone
Never with another
I built this wall on my own
Trying to run for cover
I keep away from outside
I live in constant fear
So I cower and hide
Life is dropping bombs out there
When the smoke clears, I walked among the debris
I see the mother's tears
Her hungry child on her knee
I asked her why she's crying
In this Land of the Free?
Sad eyes looked to me replying
"Is it free? It is hard to see...
My child is hungry
She has no food
No one will help me
Why should I brighten my mood?!"
"Run" she said, "Back to solitude...
Because Life is dropping bombs out here
And God forbid one falls on you "
 Jan 2013 Thomas Gagliardi
John
I wish I could bring all the lights
Down for you to see in real life
And I wish I could take you
To the grounds of the truth
But the truth is that I can't say
Everything I want but I won't play
That game because deep down I'm scared
To scare you away

I won't be around forever
I know that's true
I just want to spend
Every single dollar and moment on and with you
But that's wrong, I wasn't supposed to catch feelings
So close, so soon, I'm just wheeling
Through time and time and space
I've never been here, I've never seen this place
Actually quite drunk. Just feelings spilt from my heart to everyone.
Hello again, and welcome to tonight’s program


A wonderful show it is, for you that is…


A beautiful imbalance of provocative wonders


Simmered together in an elixir of intoxication


The modern day alchemist roams the night for the eyes of sensuality



The midnight occupiers of the everlasting void



A world you understand but can’t comprehend



A life you comprehend but don’t understand



The unsaid pleasures of private fantasy



The untold fantasy of malevolent pleasures





Please come in



Don’t be shy



We’re all here



Waiting for you



Yes this way



Keep walking till you see the door



Yes



This is the door



The door for you



16



Room 16



It’s unlocked



It’s ok



Please



Walk in



This is your door



This is your mind


This is your door to your mind


Room 16





Where were you when you were 16?



Do you remember that one night that changed everything?

That one girl?

That one boy?

Finding yourself….did it happen?



Did you feel misunderstood?

Or

Did you misunderstand others?



I remember only too well.



The stories I faced

The ridicule I endured



“You need to be punished” said the stepfather-person, “But since you think you are old enough to make your own decisions, here’s one for you.  Now it’s either you or your cat.  I can either gut you or gut your cat…decide now, Which of you doesn’t get gutted?”



I look up at my little cat, squeezed underneath his massive arm


I didn’t put it past him that he would hurt me in an unimaginable way


I point to myself, saying that I didn’t want to be gutted.


“Wow.”  The stepfather-person says, “You must not love your own pets.  Some person you’ll turn out to be.”


He tosses the cat to the ground and leaves to his room.


The next day the cat is gone.



What cruel manifestations we are of all our sins


What dark creatures we are, yet we are terrified of the monsters underneath our bed


The monsters in the other room
The monster that sits at your dinner table
The monster that beats your mother
The monster that kicks you into a bookshelf
The monster that strangles you
The monsters


The monsters we all have the potential to become



But do we?



I’d like to think that some of us can become angels instead

Not monster or demons

But some do

In fact

Many of us do

Many of us become the monsters we covet.

What are you?


This has been tonight’s program.  We’d like to thank the academy and all who made this possible:  Quarters, Jimi Hendrix, Ronald Dahl, Marilynn Monroe, Bret Easten Ellis, watches, Eastern Promises, A history of Violence, Daniel Day Lewis, Rebecca Hall, Cocteau Twins, tomatoes, graphic novels, There will be blood,  red gel pens, gold frames and all the little people.

Thank you and please visit us again.
Not really a poem, but a writing exercise I developed.  I treat it as monologue directed to an unknown audience/reader.
 Jan 2013 Thomas Gagliardi
Lee
He told me he was leaving,
to be gone for good and no longer tired.
He told me the decision was final
chrystallized
in the floating mush of his brain.
He told me he would leave in the middle of the night
unknown, unseen
like a thief
or an abused lover.
He said he had been thinking of it for a long time now
that finally something had made up his mind.
I asked him.
What.
What could make him want to leave,
want to leave this sleepy fishing village
settled endlessly in a saltwater fog;
a thick constant fog
that burned the lungs
and made cars rust in real motion.
He stopped.
He thought of how to say it
moving his eyes back and forth
as if bouncing the words he would speak between them
contemplating ping pong.
He took in a deep breath
of the briney breeze
and looked up at the cold sky
above my head.
" It happened three days ago
when I woke up in the dark
just a little before the day broke golden and grey
over the village
and as I saw light faint on the horizon
I stepped out onto my porch
with a hot drink steaming in the cold air
and watched the sun break the line of hills
and saw the dew glimmering on the leaves and bushes
and smelled the salty water
evaporate off the broken streets
and heard the first songs
of unseen and unknown birds
and listened to the waves crash in the distance
and tasted the ground that surrounded me
as it filled my nostrils
and as this beautiful scene unfolded before me
this tired foggy damp wonderful scene
that I've seen a thousand times before.
As it all broke open before my eyes
filled with all too familiar memories
I thought to myself
I have to get the **** out of here
I have to leave forever before this place rusts me dead and shut
I have to get the **** out of here

and I will"
Then he stood
and closed the book
that had laid open on his lap this entire endeavor
the pages flapped together in the wind
like the book was a cat disturbed from his khaki covered lap
and he bid me farewell
never making eye contact
or gesturing.
"Maybe I'll see you in another life
or sleepy town"
and he
my grandfather
was gone forever.
Elle sits in mid act
of dressing. The floor
is ******* buttocks,
scrawny ****, he had
said some short while

ago. Sensations still
there, stirred up, half
fulfilled, wanting more
on her part. But he’s
gone off to smoke or

bath or set paint to his
canvas or paper. She
knows he likes his red
heads, the real thing,
not a dyed for the show

of it type. ***** gives
the game away, he’d say,
laughing, pointing. He’s a
weird type even if he
sets well paint to art.

To complete the act of
dressing, forget the ******
aspect, dress and be off.
Mother used to say, save
your virginity like a precious

pearl, don’t throw before
swine and give away after
a good meal and too much
wine. Mother, Elle thinks,
knew little of *** except

the one act from which I
came, then closed up shop
and set her legs to be
crossed when men were on
the scene. She puts on her slip

and necklace, the one he gave
her, the one with red stones.
He has painted her a number
of times, brushed her onto
canvas, eased her down with

artistic determination. Sold
to others to peer at, to lust
after, to have framed, placed
on some cold wall. She sits
half-dressed, musing, slow

******* the red stones, like
drops of blood. He’ll not want
her that time of month, not
with her pains and messy flood.
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