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 Jan 10 thyreez-thy
badwords
I wrote a short HePo series, an amalgamation of poetry and narrative. I tried to make a journey out of it for the reader in the classic Choose Your Own Adventure style in the sense that the onus was on the reader to continue the narrative instead of simply imploring the reader to turn the page.

This is the 'Director's Cut' for those without copious free-time to invest in internet sleuthing. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it:

Chapter One:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930049/1-hades-lament/

Chapter Two:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930058/2-no-where/

Chapter Three:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930062/3-death/

Chapter Four:
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4930078/4-a-day-goes-by/

Epilogue:
https://kiloblitz.net/2024/12/09/life-of-nowhere/
https://hellopoetry.com/collection/135790/nowheretown/

The CYOA elements have be removed and this is more of a traditional narrative now. I hope everyone had fun exploring Nowheretown.
 Jan 10 thyreez-thy
badwords
It's hell out there; you open a pack,
Flip the first one—luck on the line.
The enemy waits, prepared to attack.
Smoke it last, if you’ve survived time.

I’ve been saving mine, the pack intact,
Twenties dwindled, now just one.
The crypt lies bare, fate’s lonely pact,
A single smoke, a superstitious sun.

Like these cigarettes, I too stand alone,
A thousand cuts, each loss its own toll.
We share this space, a makeshift home,
Chasing luck to fill the hole.
~ for Jules
of the molecules of the water they will
swim in, that flow by my citybounded
abode in a tidal estuary
heading fir dispersal and aspersions
into the Great Atlantic Ocean
which I will visit
come the spring,
and are etched yet then
within the relentless
waves of the those very same atoms, upchurning and upspitting
white foam which will
very lively likely contain
new poems, perhaps,
perhaps even,
those writ by fish
in their dreams,
for who actually knows
the original origins
of the dreams
we drink daily,
not I,
who finds them
when the wet smoke of
fog of evaporated
water
kisses my lips!

P. S. perhaps I have written poems
authored by the very same fish
you held in your grasp once upon
a time in a photo)
For Thyreez,
because she aspires


<>
most of us, no,
almost all of us,
collectors, of those little things,
real, substantive,
kept in that drawer,
reminders of collected moments,
of places people, successes, tragedies,
lumped together because,
just because
they constitute the pinpricks,
the meddles, safety pins, needles
of our lives, some treasures,
and a few collectibles of
black trimmed saddies

I have such a drawer,
admixture of single cufflinks, spare buttons,
Aaa batteries that might still work,
expired credit cards, charging cords for
devices long ago discarded,
a whole class of items I call
you never know when

some slides, pics from prehistoric times
when we never dreamed of magic phones
as life’s mini storage units

even I had
a lipstick kiss napkin,
just in case, when was required a
need a brevity taste of
a sad time-in-‘n-out
and back again
to feel human

but the mission critical
little things
do not fit in a drawer,
for they are the action’s & visions
we seize and keep in shadowy unseen
but inserted
grey cells

the taste, aroma, of that first cup of coffee
made by whoever was up first,
brought and placed on the nightstand
with a nudge, that failing, a very wet
kiss and a foot-beneath-blanket-squeeze,

the feel~touch of a particular locket,
the never-to be-removed-ever,
till it was
placed perhaps in someone else’s
drawer, shoebox, attic, or lost
in a ‘can’t be foundering place’

we probably have all three;
the drawer, the memory triggers,
the lost items that cannot be
lost, or forgot nor found

and I think and add all these,
I realize that this script
is
one such of the places,
where we put things,
we might need someday,
or maybe never but,

you never know when!
Since I was a little kid
There was something
Deeply disturbing about
The attic at my parent's
It was chilling cold there
It made unnatural noises
And it felt like the walls
Were always watching

One night when I was 17
And home alone, I woke up
To what sounded like nails
Scratching the wooden panels
So at the top of my teenager
Stupidity, I took an old pistol
And went to check out what
Was going on there

I went upstairs, gun drawn
Just to have my jaw dropped as
I saw this slim and tall shadow
Standing in front of the fireplace
I stood there in utter shock for
What seemed like a lifetime
Until I gathered the courage
To ask: 'who are you?'

The shadow replied with
A deep and inhuman voice:
'I'm the demon that your
Grandfather brought with him
From the Great War in the east
From him, I passed down to your
Father and now the time has
Come for me to dwell in you'

In an adrenaline rush, I ran
Downstairs as fast as I could
Slammed my beedroom door
Locked it and barricaded it
But the demon wouldn't quit
He tried to break in, frantically
Pounding and screaming:
'Let me in, let me in'
This is the most terrifying nightmare I ever had. My therapist said this is my subconscious telling me I want to be different from my father and his father... but I don't know. To this day, I'm not entirely sure it wasn't real.
 Jan 8 thyreez-thy
Khoisan
The
surface is scorched
Satan
ran out of coal
it
fled
in
a
Zeppelin
through
a
wormhole
.
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