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Some people can't keep their opinions to themselves.
Have you ever noticed what an a$$hole
that girl in the bathroom mirror is?
.
.
A song for this:
Twiggy Twiggy by [re:jazz]
Once upon a time, there was this country called America.
It was a place of dreams and imaginations.
Where anyone in the world could go.
Anyone could be an American.
You can't become Indian, or Italian, French, Irish, Russian, Chinese,
Japanese, etc., etc., etc. by moving there and assimilating.
You'll never be one of them.
But, once upon a time, America was the Golden Ring.
That ring is out of reach now. It's rusted and broken.
And the merry-go-round keeps spinning.
And the occupants keep flying off in all directions.
~ for the poet by the same name,
Melan,
a name derived from the Greek "melas"
meaning "black" or "dark"~
<>
oft have we warned you, be wary,
every phrase, a provication,
a cribbed script from a message,
a poem, even a pen name, says,
marke me man, the notion of the

Melancholoy of Innocence
a burr buried in my head's bed,
a sleep robber, a pseudo~scholar,
so intriguing this grand challenging
notion...
of the purity of melancholoy's essence


my oldest friend from an early age,
before I knew the word to grasp~capture it,
in my youthful
tristesse grave,
what rendered my soul so vulnerable
to an emotion that had no direct visible cause,
but powered me with a puzzling
strange insight of keen visibilty,
that filtered a glow about all, about what
my eyes saw, my heart felt
...

nearly now, the better part of a century,
I recall the first days of exploration,
of a world, that
dished out equal portions of
ecstasy and misery,
and well taught me the value
of silence
of observation,
and how to record
a memory so that so many, so many decades later,
is crisp with its original fraglity
that overwhelmed way back when
I was but a toddler


a world that was cruel,
a lesson, that came very early,
but made me quiet but not surly,
observant of the human quirks and their potential,
the people surrounding acting in an up dated version
of a Bible Tale
..

where guilt and innocence were precise and clear,
and there was no middling muddle,
to confuse, or be abused,
to obfuscate or obscure


lines of demarcation in black clearly drawn,
so it was soon gone, the innocence,
that was gifted to us all at birth,
and though I mourned its loss,
very quick came the silent thought of
,
well, that's no surprise!

that melancholy matures, extends and distends,
now and then, even shocks,
by the newness of returning old sadness,
and the ceativity of its constant reintroduction,
accompanied by a startled,

well, that's no surprise!

and here the shocker though,
acts of human kindness are not so far and few between,
just perhaps, less well advertised,
so when spotted. self similar words emerge,
even happy shouted
,
well, that's a surprise!
3/29/25
Stunted, the same, by
          highs
            and
           lows
           alike.
A jubilant parade inside
           some nights.
Silver linings? Ticking timebombs! Infinite splinters!
No good time left unexploded.
Rusted blood iron and red wine
filling my eyes.
          Tired of feeling "weird."
          Tired of knowing I'm being.

I wish I wanted anything in a way that didn't
                              scare me.
I wish I could love anything in ways that
                            couldn't hurt--
                           --inward or out--

                    I wish...
                    I think...
If I sit on this bench...for a long time,
and keep perfectly still...but make subtle
                    eye contact
          with some of the crows...
they'll accept me as one of them?

                    Teach me to fly
                    Or, at least, hide
                       in plain sight.
        A new vocabulary for my quiet
              when it starts to get mean.

Entangled, alike, by
          lows
          and
          highs,
         the same.
Convenient jailbreak for a Name--
               --Say it.
Chewing paper? Eat the playbook. Shred this formula.
No good night goes unpunished.
Rusted blood in my mouth, and red wine--
crying outside
                    Tired of being fragile
                    Tired of knowing I know.

                   And how 'bout the crows?

                   I'm good for a laugh, they suppose.
The pond by your father's place always froze over
The ice always reaching no matter whether the weather was freezing or not.
The silence on either side of the window panes killed you, you said.
You told me the patterns on the glass reminded you of bleeding.

You used to have donkeys, and they always loved you.
Bringing them pears and soft touches behind ears.

I was a boy, still, but it all made sense.
The way that your mouth moved
when whispering memories to me.
I remember that Spring that we fell through the ice.
Jangled nerve endings felt stabbing. Cold knives.
Wet hair. Lucky to make it out.

The last time you saw me you told me, "You're bleeding..."
I smiled and spat once and said I was fine.
I'd tripped on your driveway whilst walking to see you
and busted my lips on your mailbox.
You wiped one ring finger, stilled my moving mouth.
It was only a little. (Blood, that is.)

You wiped it again on my shirt.
You ***!

I wish we'd drawn pictures in the snow with it.

The Winter has claimed me, I think, since then.
Blizzards well up in the corners of my eyes from time to time.
Snowbanks form on my brows when I furrow.
I furrow a lot now.

The bees in the tree at the edge of your father's place
Stung up your back and neck that Summer. Remember?
Calamine smile, you had me pull out the stingers.
Your dad's debit card, wiped across your back.
"Declined," I said.
You laughed.
And the pond, in my memory, still looks iced over
Even though that was July.
Right after my birthday.

Last month, saw the sign, said your father had sold
          his place. Our place.
             He misses you too.

I wish you here now.

We're all getting old, but I can't let myself grow.
I'm not any smarter, I'm just clothed in cold
And I forgot how to feel the way we did then.

I'd like another plunge, through thin ice, I think.
Anyway, I hate the Summer time.
The heat's too mean.
You know that about me.
 Apr 8 CJ Sutherland
Jim
You are the Sun and the Moon to me,
  The tallest tree,
   The stars and the sea,
    The highest mountain,
     The whitest beach,
      The deepest valley,
       The sweetest dream,
        The tastiest confection,
         The finest wine,
           My best friend.
So hot, you burn me, so airless and frigid, I freeze,
  So high, you’re beyond my grasp,
   Too far away to ever reach, so vast and deep, I’d drown if immersed,
     Impossible to surmount alone,
      There, blinded by the glare, dehydrated by the salty air, burnt by the brutal sun,
       Where I’m forever in the shadows,
        Which will forever be unreal,
         Which rots my teeth and shocks my blood,
          Which I can’t afford,
           Who turned their back.
Another bottle down,
Hoping it can distort truth
Maybe if the mirror’s fogged, it can’t reflect
Can’t show him the middle-aged wreck.

Another chug of warm swill,
Hops molded, no bubbles, flat
Looking at baby pictures and a bag of teeth
Mummy left them, he feels the pain in his jaw
Maybe with another swig, he’ll be rid of it all.

Father watches from his sick bed,
Colostomy bag overflowing,
The excrement covers the scent of shame
As eyes barely raise to see his progeny

No he’s clicking the button to call the morphine
Drips entering to send him to a new dream,
Unable to stand the sight of his kindred,
As the boy that became a man, indigent.

Bryan takes another swig of clotted wine
A Merlot collecting dust upon his desk,
The keyboard is crusted over, white film, flaky
As he tends to his perversions, hoping a spark can awaken

On here he can be anyone,
But his lungs fail to inflate fully
And the liver shrivels to a freeze-dried remnant,
It’s only been minutes, but he shakes
Begging with forgiveness
Needing something to wash down the pittance
One more swig’ll do her!
Another drink to soothe.

As father watches on,
Glazed eyes and singing Aussie songs
He’s ******* post the catheter bag
Flowing yellow rivers down his bedside

Dreams fill his head,
Hoping Bryan dies,
So he could mend and heal,
Watching as he sips forever,
With jaundiced, glassed-over eyes.

If he could write it,
Or murmur sound
He’d say he was disappointed
But all he does is frown

While Bryan,
Consumed with trauma
Caught in his self-made prisons
Drowns in a sea of sick
And cheap bourbon.

Forever a child in a man’s husk
Daddy’s little burden.
Wrote this about a story I read about a man who drank himself to death and how he neglected his elderly father's care, in which in return, the father didn't bother getting his son help.

I hope we can find peace and treat each other a little kinder, especially with our families.
anymore.

by any name,

I don’t pass your lips.

~

call me brandy,

call me Tennessee,

called me yours,

calling you out.

~

it’s too hot outside

to play dominos, Romeo,

if you can’t find a piece

to match my dots,

don’t call me anymore.
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