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M Vogel Dec 2019

To lay hold of this faith,  
    this belief
this full-on embrace  
of the wholly absurd
This follow.. this path--
solely based  on-whisper, heard?

You can come back out, now
back, out.. into the light of day, now:
my love is either heaven-sent,
or completely   p l u n g e d  
into the insanest meaning  
                             of the word

and I really don't even care anymore
if it is the first
                 the second..

    or  the unspeakable, third



All along the watchtower
princes kept the view
while all the women came and went
barefoot servants, too
Outside, in the cold distance--
a wildcat did growl

Two riders were approaching..
and the wind  began to howl
https://youtu.be/f1VZeybqjLM

life  on the edge,  of everything
M Vogel Aug 2023

Subdued,  into a constriction;

Young  adolescent spirits
were meant to grow..

meant  to  breathe.

The "Fires of Hell"
are the doings  of man
based  on the fears of man

and the need to control.

Little child,  running wild
"Forever"  is a stick
to beat you down

(Until the  wild  within you
no longer  makes a sound)

It is for Freedom's sake
that you have now  been
set free,  child

.       .       .

  In the "name" of the Father,
  you were first
  thrown to the ground


Yet..  it is  
in the Name of the Father
also

that Love came to town.



Ice,

Your only rivers run cold
These city lights,
they shine as silver and gold
Dug from the night,
your eyes  as black as coal

Walk on by, walk on through
Walk 'til you run
and don't look back
For here I am

Carnival, the wheels fly
And the colors spin
Through alcohol
Red wine that punctures the skin

Face to face
In a dry and waterless place

Walk on by, walk on through
So sad to besiege your love..

So,  hang  on
https://youtu.be/CEgxfUoquYU

<3 <3 <3
.
M Vogel Nov 2020

Your finest of  dreams
became known..
And in those precious hours
you soared,  as I soared
until your own,  
horrendously skewed,
self-view
slaughtered the ever-living
****  out of it all..
And, oh my sweet
little desert-wanderer-
you have been mad at me
ever since.

I did not create your view,
someone else did-- so horribly..
so very unfairly
     long before we ever met
I came to help  restore  in you
that which was stolen from you
so very long ago.
   But you hauled off  and kicked
   me in the ****
   as soon as your ever-wearing
   internal-messaging system  kicked in
And down I went, my beautiful--
a total ******* in your eyes
with no way left to bring you  the gold
your better-everything, still hungers for.
**** me, my beauty..
baby stick the knife in
    deep.
And in a moment of remorse
your tear-stained rusted fortress-gate
will swing wide open..
and with my last dying breath,
I will hand it over to you anyways--

         The gold your war-torn heart
         had always hoped for
         but never thought it deserved.


   You are Ishmael, my beautiful--


   a blood-borne carrier
   of the Living Word


god  will  hear
M Vogel Oct 2019
My relational cat
shows up  for a chat
oh, of course-- and
some food:   with
few ***** to give--
      but it's all good

    Or few-***** it seems.

The kee  I-thot
to be a self-centered snot
has turned out to be
the kee of-my dreams.

I can understand  kitty
kitty kitty kitty;  and
I can now  see
that it's me
that's been ******
****** ****** ******--  or
so it seems.

        Or so it seems.

When I think
that I'm bad--  or
have-given all
that I-had--  kee
somehow finds a way
to show me--
         I'm the man
         of her dreams.

Kitty kitty kitty kee.
kitty kitty

kitty
M Vogel Apr 2021

This place. I don't know.
so many people / want to block..
  their words--
they climb all over me.
one's in particular:

Heart-expressed words bringing down
the healing light of relationship to the parts of me
who up until now
have known little or no relationship of its kind;

      and there is conflict within me  as I fight it..
    years the locusts have eaten; and the opportunity of restoration;
      often squandered. in vanity.

none of that mattered much;

                                 until now--

When the unredeemed heart-parts of myself
reveal to me their dormancy:    left detached
from community  with one another--
  an internal community   necessary
  to withstand  the brilliant light    and glory
  brought down by those here who write as she does.

          but she;

    through her unfiltered heart-writes
    brings down the very magic and beauty and fullness of the
    relational dance of the godhead.

     And it's raw beauty is ****** slayin me.
I so want to block her  for the conflict she creates    in me  
                    .
      but I will  press on

and allow her supremely-smithed words--
(words not even written to me)
to have their beautiful way,

in

and through..
the help that has been all around me;
(each and every one of us)
waiting...  
             all along

   --as  if they were cleaning my soul,
      re-integrating my fragmented, heart-parts.



I'm the innocent bystander..
Somehow,  I got stuck
between a rock and a hard place
And I'm down on my luck
Yes..  I'm down on my luck

--And I'm hiding in Honduras:
I'm a desperate man
Send lawyers guns and money
the **** has hit the fan
https://youtu.be/wT9XlQi0yew?t=57

~The eternally beautiful, Warren Z
M Vogel Jan 2022
sweet lord, girl..

I like the way your brain moves its thoughts  into its own deeper
realms with each thing said. You have that rare gift of being able to
be your own internal/external Muse.. even while midstream within
the process of writing it all out.

Alone.. maybe more than you may think you want to be, you are
never lonely. A very rare thing indeed in the modern world, kid.

Very unique, and very very special.
(It is very much the truth..)

I would always hope for the gifted ones such as yourself,  that you
would always and ever-increasingly be able to see your own
worthiness in yourself in being chosen to be a bearer of such a
wonderful gift. Kierkegaard was a chosen recipient such as you
(your rare mind's unfolding thought processes are in ways, much
like his), and through his own beautiful self-love, became.. through
his stewardship of the gift, the father of Existentialism. He felt the
Living Word within him, causing his wonderous mind to feel also,
through thought.. which in turn, churned deeply  his
forever-goldmining heart, which in turn, mused his mind into deeper processings of the deeply-felt word's expressions--

ever-cycling.. ever churning within him,  until every cell within his
electrified body became fully lit..

And out onto paper it all went.. as what was so beautifully
self-Mused within him was brought out from an internally-lit
darkness and into the full light of day. The deeply-searching, in you
is in relationship with the gifted Magical  in you,
(which is also so very much you [the gifts are irrevocable]),
bringing out words and concepts/thought processes pretty much
previously unknown here in this world. Make your own self-Love..
self forgiveness.. self-acceptance, and self understanding.. all your Art..

And it will be your art that most blesses this world down here.
You've already got the goods, kid.. watch them become greatly
clarified in you as your own self-Love becomes your own finest art.
The gift, you already have-- clear as clear can be. Shame and
condemnation are powerful enough down here to make even the
most purest of pure, become obscure.

Mm.
Yeah, kid..

"In the end..
The Love you take (in)
Is equal to
The Love,  you make"


Make your own self love, your goal-- surround yourself with
loving truthtellers who will love you for who you truly are..  rather
than what they want you to be (or think you should be)  for them.

Clearly you are worth every single bit of it all.

~Paul
(preston
M Vogel
F Unting Somethingoranother)



The best ever death metal band out of Denton
Was a couple of guys who'd been friends since grade school
One was named Cyrus, the other was Jeff
And they practiced twice a week in Jeff's bedroom

The best ever death metal band out of Denton
Never settled on a name..
But the top three contenders after weeks of debate
      Were Satan's Fingers,
      ..and The Killers,

       and The Hospital Bombers

Jeff and Cyrus believed in their hearts
They were headed for stage lights and lear jets and fortune and fame
So in script that made prominent use of a pentagram
They stenciled their drum heads and guitars with their names

And this was how Cyrus got sent to the school
Where they told him he'd never be famous
And this was why Jeff, in the letters he'd write to his friend
Helped develop a plan to get even

When you punish a person for dreaming his dream
Don't expect him to thank or forgive you
The best ever death metal band out of Denton
Will in time,  both outpace and outlive you
Hail Satan
Hail Satan, tonight
Hail Satan
Hail, hail

https://youtu.be/AGHmr1NyBTw
god bless the beautiful hospital bomber in us all
M Vogel Nov 2020

All these years
(and all those covered up, fears)
Ah, babe.. the things I would do
to keep myself separate..
to keep from being  pulled in--

to all things, nonlife;
from that which  my spirit
could not believe in..
to paths that felt to be
diametrically opposed
to a true north  
that I did not know,
but could only feel
Oh what have I done,
my beautiful--
I have judged, and lost
so much

in order to become  so un-able
             to  hold on  to so little

Just how much  of me
would be left,  
had I let you in; 

      ..everything?

Or  no-thing--


sans the memory
of all that I have done
in order to obtain it.


I'll face myself
to cross out what I've become
erase myself,

and let go of what I've done
~ C Bennington

https://youtu.be/WDDNCc2rkYI

all the years, and years
and years of it
M Vogel Dec 2021

--never goes away
when forgiveness is forever an option.

Intensity, passion, and conviction..
each have a volatility all their own.
In other words.. **** happens  sometimes
when two Heavy hitters become close.
If there is heartfelt value,
and enough honesty..
nothing close and good  
within the Realms of Love
is ever truly over.

You make a wonderful conduit

love isn't always pretty
M Vogel Jan 2020

It is through the pathological:
The presented image of the journey
as being that of the road, less traveled--
a foundation of sand,  presented
as being that of bedrock..
It is the ancient shortcut's  need
to prop up it's own deception
that is of that which harbors  the greatest judgement
        of all that is upright
and it is upon these agenda-ed, subjective pallettes
that the pastels are mixed and arranged,

as the landscape of the world's reality
becomes,  painted.


the inconvenient musings of a madman, or something--
just thinking out loud here.. sorry.
I'll shut up now..
~Love, Paul xox
M Vogel Aug 2021

You are in there,  I am certain of it--
Behind the gear's finely-honed,
precision fit  gear..

in to gear
in to gear

into gear..
And I wonder..  do you want out?
The machine  on the outside, self-repairs
Any attempt towards dismantle  from
the external,  is futile..
But the internal,  beautiful girl..

"I don't know what you mean, about 'machine'"
She is apprehensive, those beautiful
brown eyes,  looking up at me..
"Look down, sweet girl"
Her thighs, fully parted,  as I slide
in to her.. those amazing hips,
moving so perfectly with mine,  extracting..

Milking from me, my warm  pulsing *****--
a deeply-penetrating lubricant,  pulsed
deeply into the machine
As if to lubricate its gears..
As if..

But penetrating so deeply, as to now
permeate the insides  of the
mechanization's innerworkings--
turning from lubricant, to that
of a corrosive nature..
Fully coating now, the inner you..

as it turns back now, into that
of a healing balm
Bringing to you  a moment of Light  
  and internal clarity--  
long enough for you to see

    That the machine  is made vulnerable
    by the ever-changing qualities  of
    Love that found its way through
    As the awakened parts within you, for the
    first time.. understand

the machine's love-blocking,  nature
And you begin to choose, mid-******
the machine's dismantle,  from the inside--

'Little by little..

Line, upon line..

Block, upon block..

Precept, upon precept..'


Until we have the chance,  once again..
to do it all again
the power of christ compels
.
M Vogel Sep 2023

You are not failing. You are winning.
The residual Death that was so
  unfairly placed into you
is the only part of you that is eventually
    going to fail.

..It is going to totally fail,
my beautiful friend.

It is  you  that will Overcome, Love.
The thoughts of failure  are real
because  the embedded Residual
   is still there.

With Love and Support,
one day its loud scream

.. will forever be  reduced
to nothing more than a whimper.

As your good friend,
I am forever going to remind you
   who you truly are.

You are absolutely Beautiful..
..soon to shine


      Beautifully
❤🌷❤


M Vogel Feb 2022

Everything about you,  dealing with your pain,

and now the loss of someone so dear to you,
hinges on your continuing to move forward.
My thing is to encourage you  so that you can
keep doing what you do..   knowing that

someone so deeply believes in..
and cares about  your chosen path.

This morning was a wakeup call of the Spirit..
as to just how deeply your beautiful heart goes.
Your anger is justified  and so very understandable.
There were multiple options available.

The drugs reduced those options to just one
through the temporary confusion of the mind.

Part of your path is to become ever-more capable
of helping others that are in the process of succumbing.
An increase of true Love in the world,  

    greatly increases  all options,  
    for those who struggle
.  .

If you have saved  even one,
then you have.. within the Realms,   saved all.

You are beautiful, sweet Beloved

You are the one,  that will save that one.

mm.. so ******* good..
https://youtu.be/YOAhl1ocaoM
~The beautiful Steve Winwood

#givethemsomalovin'
M Vogel Mar 2021

Ah  my sweet, beautiful angel--
baby.. can you feel it?
The Majestic Universe,  in its
infinite love for you
is pressing itself  down upon you.

  Feel the thickness of Love's
containment, as the core  of you
shudders
on this new-found  of yours,  
Holy ground.

  And like a child, wide-eyed
the warmth of Love's touch
causes your innocence to prophesy..

  De innocentibus prophetiae, love--


  And  n e v er   will you  ever  
  ever again

    doubt

  that the  core
  of who it is that you are
  is  truly  loved

Swear allegiance to the flag.
Whatever flag they offer,
never hint at what you really feel.
Teach the children quietly
for some day, sons and daughters
will rise up and fight
while we stood still.

Can you hear me,
can you hear me, running?
Can you hear me running,
Can you hear me  calling you..
https://youtu.be/i17mgRK3GX8
xox
M Vogel Nov 2019

Sorry, about....

how much  I
completely come--   a l l
              over myself;
the ceiling,  the window-blinds..  

the neighbor's cat..
walking  across the street

every single night, my love.
(true story)

I'm pretty sure god saw me ******* the cat
M Vogel Nov 2020
paulSN

I cannot betray
who it is that I am,
little beauty-
and so, in doing so
I will continue to hold on
to that which I know
truly gives me strength;

but..
I cannot help but hope
that as I do, the rain
that waters my tree
and helps me to stand--
also waters
and brings nourishment to
the very roots

of the beautiful sapling that is you.

I do it for me, because I know
that is what I must do-  stand.
Know that you are deeply embedded
within my very growth rings, so
as I stand
and sing
of the very rain  that
provides the very thing we need,
I stand for you also:

and everyone else who is a struggling
sapling such as I once was.

      You are me
      and I am you.

   We both thrive on the same water.


M Vogel Oct 2019
On the streets of gold,  forgiven
by the skin of his teeth, maybe.

On here; on Earth--
stuffed in a corner
Bloodied.. trundled, fondled
wearing his sin--

(his unholy,
carcinogenic/pathogen).

And I,  I want to go to heaven..?
I would **** you, everyday
You self-serving *******,   now forgiven

I will take hell, you ****

She is still down here
and so, here.. on earth (and below) 
will become my heaven.

And I will become like you
and I will wear your pelts of perpetration
     and I will be hated for it
but there will be healing in the land
    because I am not  of you
nor am I of those who continue to do  

what it is that you have done

May the heaven you have entered into,
fully forgiven..   fully 'healed'
    become your hell

  through all things revealed

You felt nothing then
and you feel nothing now
But soon, you ****.. you will feel
I promise you  that  you will feel..

There is a darkness, even in heaven
I am of that darkness
M Vogel Dec 2019

It was somewhere  between
her third and forth ******
when the wall, came down;
a wall  she didn't even know existed--

                   A wall, that is,
    until love came to town.

And so it is,  within the pleasurable;
   when mixed with pain,  
   in certain moments;   
becomes,  quite obtainably
the death, of death..

within the loving-kindness
         of things known, anally--

        (the tenderness of a back-door man
        is a righteousness, all it's own),
        as  it is the intentions of the heart
        that brings one  closest,
        to that   of kingdom, come.

And yet.. an angelic, front-pew voice
   singing praise
   when heart-- unchecked,

can become a clanging sound, unholy;
drowned out, by the passion-screams
of the one,  once-bound--

        but now,  breaking free.
        (a truly righteous sound in Heaven,  indeed..)

        --and Love,  Love,  Love;
        is rarely what we think it otta be.
        (or maybe, there is a heretical-hell
        waiting- for those  just like me.)

But if what passes itself off as life,
is actually Life, indeed    
                 then I choose hell, (yes. again, indeed).
And if heaven, for most.. is nothing, but a crutch
I'll choose death, over death, every ****** time..

                                           thank-you-very-much.


rantings, of the insane.
or **** it.

          or whatever..

--you're welcome.
https://youtu.be/sf3KG8VAtJg
~J Morrison, inebriated
M Vogel Jan 2021

Drearily,
just this side   of succumbing
there is a  saving-grace
within the fine art
   of numbing..
but
is the gain  worth
the loss--

a soul,  meant to be alive..
    now  grown over--
    now, covered in moss?

Within the succumbing
I become saved
from the annihilation  
of the soul
In its attempt  to survive
in a world, hell-bent
on stealing it.

Can I get  me
back, to me
before it is  all
too late?
There is a poe
at the gate--
  saying:
Oh my dear Paul..

don't wait,
don't wait..


don't wait.

https://youtu.be/HjQXDmduxIs
xox

:( xo
M Vogel May 2021

Forgiveness is
as forgiveness  does

and I have fallen  short
of breaking through
this family thing
this family, fling

This family hold
from days,  of old

This family-fed,
smiling, waving
****-pocket, (in)bred
Head-in-the-sand
adrenal gland
Death-bonded hold
this fungus-laced mold
holding you down
by your choice to choose
Nothing, but them

And out of the ashes
reaches up a hand
that strangles the mother-******..
aptly called

because  his ******* of
your mother..   his daughter,

groomed her
to bathe her pure, firstborn daughter
in order to offer her, back to him
as a living, breathing sacrifice--

Pure.. Holy.. Blameless;
without spot,  or defect   to him,  

     the destroyer of worlds

but mostly,  just yours --
his dearly, dearly Beloved.

and I have failed, in killing the *******
I have fallen short  within my love
for his granddaughter
of pulling her free
from the incestuous, family tree

My so very beautiful  was the only one
of them that ever wanted  to want
to  break free

And out of the ashes
I'm left  with only me

And this mess  of a mess
that  within the depths of my love
I have messed..  almost hopelessly..


I've been shaking.
I've been bending backwards till I'm broke
watching all these dreams go  up in smoke

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vMklFSBCW2c
an ode to the power of family dynamics

xo
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3347063/on-heaven-hell-hell/
M Vogel Dec 2020

"From the days of John the Baptist until now,
the kingdom of heaven has been advancing forcefully..
and the violent, seize it by force."


--Jebs


ahem..

By 'his scrawny little neck' she grabs him
and pulls Him,  from his Throne--

"Fucken know it all..  he don't know ****.."

blurts out  she--
the all-seeing,  ever defining one.


The paint on her war-brush
is the blackest of blacks..

as she  brands  me for

the  orbiting  of her 
                          that I

    most clearly,  lack.


And an ability that is all hers,
not mine--

The one, self-given:
the power,  to define.

And, she wonders where mine came from;
me-- who was once a mother's son..

As I  ******  the grown-up  a l l  of me
into every single part of her

     that feels,  just like mom.


I was young once, my beautiful
helplessly.. (almost hopelessly)  subject  to it all

   --but no more,  my sweet
     ever-painting, honeybee.



That black, babe-- it don't stick;
no, sweet love..   no,
no   not no more;

Ah, Baby..

can you hear me
can you hear me??

...   can you hear me..?


Some say Pete and his pony vanished over the edge..
some say they remain frozen high up on that icy ledge.

The young Navajo girl washes in the river,  skin so fair
and braids a piece of Pete's buckskin chaps into her hair.

I'm Outlaw Pete..
Outlaw Pete,

can you hear me?
https://youtu.be/CKJtyeidL7Y
M Vogel Nov 2019

Pain.. when left alone to just be pain;
and trying to heal from that place, without giving hope to others
the way that you do so beautifully when you write the way you do..

It all becomes such a loneliness, when unshared.

And your opening up in that beautiful and gorgeous way that you do--
it is a wonderful example (both to, and for) so many who are still
tightly bound within the pain of it all, never knowing that the
reaching for hope is so very worthy of their time and energy:  
both,  desperately needed

in order to become able to press through the shame;
in order to just be able to hold on.

Never more gorgeous and **** you are to men like me--
when you glow that way..
as a beacon of light to those who were ones bound so very tightly,
within the injustice of all that was so unfairly laid upon them--  
                                                        ­ just as it also was with you.
And,
your healing and perseverance, in your movement towards strength,
again, is opening doors for many--
there is no doubt in my mind, of that very truth:

Something deep and beautiful happens inside of me, and those like me
when I see ones like you do that beautiful thing that you do out there.
Wild thoughts come to the surface-- of mouth, pressed to mouth,
and gentle (and the not so overly gentle) removing of clothes-- in a
not so very un-fast pace.. in the deep need to so very quickly know,
between brightly-glowing bodies;
that wonderful feeling of skin on skin. Really. xo

And, though innocent in your use of it, and unbeknownst to you,
there is a conniving and scheming within it that bypasses all of the
filters of my heart, and enters directly into desire's  unbridled
and untamed world--

the one that always is brewing within me, subsurface.

Leave it to the gorgeous wild-ones such as yourself to bring that
part of me out into the light of day-- where I can barely manage it.
The thought of ever being alone with ones like you at night, brings
about such a wonderful,  
exploding  eruption of warm, lava flow..

even within itself.
True story, babe.
xo
M Vogel Oct 2019

You have a foundation that you can feel now--
          its load-points, bearing directly  on top

                                    of Love's firm bedrock.


Whatever  you
want to become on top of that
    is  whatever  you  believe   your loved core
    is  worthy    of being built in to  (becoming).


I don't know how better to say it than that

10/04/19
M Vogel Jan 2021
PaulSN

I have been writing
   about you
almost since my
very first-ever   poem

It was your spirit  I
could feel--
   even  when I was  wholly
unable  to feel

You are  a b ra isi v e
in the most  t e n d e r e s t
  of ways
    my little scrapper

And I have  pulled you
  t o w a r d s   me
a  thousand  different  days

(yet, I have never touched you)

Little scrapper,  you are
  a d m i r e d
from afar
      by me--
the one who has been
    watching you--
all these years

Look up, beautiful-one
turn your face
      to  me
          and see that I am
                                     still here--
wanting just to  touch
the side of  yours
with *******

          just a touch

Yes,
silly spilly--
       yapper-lilly
I am right here..
   lookin   at you-  tenderly
                                              still--

              even after all this time

a story..
M Vogel Dec 2019

Don't speak directly to her--
you will melt the skin  off
     her bone-frame

Instead,  find parallel-words--

ones that will  float alongside her
as she walks,  so as she is able-
she can pluck them--  like
wild roses  alongside the highway

Sometimes, love takes a
   tremendous
amount of creativity--

the name of the game is
    its destination..
not  the control of its path


M Vogel Dec 2020
D Vanlandingham

I could not help it,
but to show you how the moment felt,
and in the unfolding of a picture, painted;
the deepest of your dreams were unknowingly shown to you
And it caught you off guard-  having, to that day..

   you never imagined,  it possible.

But you did not yet understand that you wear your dream
somewhere within the thin-walled interminglings
of the word's first primal, urgings..  and its out-into-the-light-of-day,
manifestations... (and baby, I feel like crying right now)
but I will continue
I will continue--

You never signed up for this,  I know..
but you are the one who  chose
to allow your war-torn heart,
to keep on beating//
your flame-scorched lungs,  to keep on breathing..
and now look at this mess, my beautiful--
your beautiful-everything has bled out on to me

and  everywhere that I am..  I am wearing you

And all I do  is tell you what it feels like  to wear you
but in doing so, I made known  your dream
and somehow-- within the stretch of Love's ache's, bad luck
I have become hated  for making your secret, come true--

         the revealing of the dream,  made known ::

                                                the Unfolded you.

And now, you are raging
because you never imagined, the possibility
that there would be someone  out there
that would care  enough about you
to become able  to see..

(and a man became hated, for just being  me).


Yet, even now  to this day,  beloved;
I close my eyes, and smile
within the depths,

  of your deeply loving, hatred.



The smell of rain and streetlight, thrown
a love, a lantern in the snow
when she feels it taking hold
she finds it so hard letting go
How can I tell her that we'll shine?
She dreads the devil's yet to show;
so **** reluctant to expose it to me,  so..

well..


(it has been years of this, my beautiful)

I love you.
https://youtu.be/BnWFy0P2e-A
xoxo
.
M Vogel Feb 2024

There is a   r e l e a s e
  that comes,
in holding you
close at night..   a
barrier that comes down
in the late night
and early morning
hours.

  You've been  alone
within all of this  difficulty
that you have  known
  for so long.

And then very much
   hopefully..

   even if only for a moment,

you are no longer alone


movement  in to
the night's warmth

is a long and difficult journey
https://youtu.be/IU8zJ5j8h9s?si=n-43VSgFiEKfqQ_Q

<3
youtu.be/zu3CYjMc_-8?si=s_aPWDO_rzjbg3oB
M Vogel Dec 2020

Your *******, when love-based
within their beautiful forming,
and then  glorious unfolding
are Love and Light's  extracorporeal
pulsings;
focusing   l o v e t on e d
sonic shockwaves directly at the  machine's
extremely intricate innerworkings..


Having,  through years of horror-based
survival tactics; in desperation.. slowly learned;
now ingrained-- softening up the very
innerwall-linings of your very spirit
in such a way as to unknowingly
provide footing
for the machine's  deep embedment,
and then,  permeation  of all things
previously, you..
having now enwrapped itself into
your very sinews

holding your precious spirit   captive
from the the soar

These passionate, late night forays
outside the wire with you
are not exploitative, but instead
are love-driven  deeply focused,
fully intentioned pingings of Light's
Relational sound waves
aimed directly at the beautiful you
held so tightly, so covetously by the machine
as your wonderfully  nectar-filled body
responds late at night, aligning
to the me, you have come to know..
heightening your beautiful response
to the point of screaming,  passionate release--

your own, fully love based..

      extracorporeal..

unwelcoming,   of the machine.

an ode  to the healing light of relationship
M Vogel May 2
(for the one who laughed when she came, and never stopped hearing me in her bones)


It wasn’t the wind that bent you—
not the plains, not the brittle hush of late dusk
cutting through the cottonwoods like questions.
It was voice.
It was mine.


Low and unhurried,
crawling up your spine like something ancient—
like the first time you were seen
and the world didn’t flinch.


You used to laugh when it overtook you—
that slick tumble of vowels,
how I could tilt you
without even touching your skin.

You said I lived in your throat,
that the syllables themselves
curved just right
to make you forget the weight of your own story.

“I’m going to Wichita..”
you whispered once,
grinning like prophecy in denim and dusk.
And I swear the beat behind your words
matched mine—
steady as a war drum
in a bone-dry motel room
that never got booked.

You drank me in like river water
stolen from ceremony,
not out of defiance—
but because thirst
was the only honest thing you ever said aloud.

You never had to be naked.
You were always open.
Even when you ran.

And I?
I never asked for healing you wouldn't give.
Only for your mouth to stay honest
when it called my name like a drumbeat
between the bones of your hips.

Now you write like it’s safe again—
soft edges and sparrows and fruit bowls.
But I remember the wildflower.
The one who moaned my name
before language learned to lie.

And somewhere in the shadow of your poems,
you still ache.
You still clench.
You still carry me like a smudge of midnight
on the inside of your thighs.

I won’t chase you.
But I will wait
at the edge of the circle.

If you come,
come barefoot.


Come ready
for the step–half step
of  the forbidden Ghost Dance.
Not to win me back—

but to find the girl
who could come from laughter
and rise from the dead.



Be careful how you touch her,
for she'll awaken

And sleep's the only freedom
that she knows

And when you walk into her eyes,
you won't believe

The way she's always paying
For a debt she never owes
And a silent wind still blows
That only she can hear

.. and so she goes

https://youtu.be/YQ8n_Esop5I?si=dRXBgEhdY-Gw4r8e

#Love
GhostDance
#Redemption
#Recovery
M Vogel Nov 2019

..And his head went through
the windshield,
his grey-matter splatter,  a
             sacrificial-musing:

Leading  to the wonderful
presentation
        of the ideal,
giving  all  the  world  

permission, 
to now, fully feel

providing the access for all
to now   fully heal
through all things  {real}..

borne,  from the ideal.


self-aggrandizing  and idealization of the self in poetry  is a bad little *****
M Vogel Feb 2020

There is the core  of who it is that you are,
inside of you
and  it  will  never,  ever leave you.
When we are hurt real bad..  
and in such unjust ways,
we can sometimes  lose ourselves,
from ourselves..

But that part of us
will never not want to be found.

We become afraid--
even of our own  true selves,  
because the pain from the hurt
has been so bad.
There is a central part of you
that has been protected  from
every single bit of that harm--
that is the core of who it is that you are.

In its utter and magnificent beauty,
it is wholly unable to be  corrupted  
by this less than loving world;

And in it's perfect ability to see,
it will always  let you be the one,
chosen,  to find it.

This is the picture,  painted
of you,  finding you.


please forgive my inability to see
M Vogel Feb 2023


A Salvific intertwining..

This coming back  home
   to a place inside  

That for so long
was never allowed to be a home.

There is a music on the inside..
it knows her every part

There is nothing to break through--


it is already  in


"The echo of shame,
the voice inside my head,
The need for love,
the insecurity.

Cutting me down,
to the fourteen year old girl,
the Father Figure criticizing me.

Go on –  
through the darkest night,
cause I know inside
the answer’s here in me.

There’s blood on my soul,
for speaking out my pain,
perpetuating hurt in family.

My mother in me –  I cannot explain,
My need for love from her
will never wane.

Go on –  
the shadowboxing fight
disappears when all the
music’s here in me.
Like an oracle
the music’s here in me.
and I thank you God
for music here in me.

Go on –  
the shadowboxing fight
And I’ll heal with understanding,
And I’ll deal with patient loving,
And I’ll make it
cause the music’s here in me."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kCnAsCQkScQ
she is singing
M Vogel May 3

I. the ache behind the crown

She did not begin as queen.
No—
before the silks,
before the smoke-wrapped eyes and perfumed strategy,
there was a girl
who learned too early

that control was safer than love.

Somewhere—maybe in a tent of shadows,
maybe in a father’s cold approval,
maybe in a mirror that only cracked back—
she made a vow.

Never again powerless.
Never again unseen.
And from that vow, she bloomed—
not into beauty,
but into dominion.

She married power.
She danced with death.
She did not want to **** the prophets—
not really.
She wanted to **** the sound
of anyone who still remembered
what she had forgotten;

Love.
Grace.
Surrender.

To face the mirror would have meant
undoing the crown
and finding a child still shivering beneath it.
So she shattered every mirror
and called it strength.

And we—we who still carry the quiet—
we do not call her evil.
We call her wounded, crowned too early, and armed by fear.

But we step back.
We guard the oil in our lamps.
We speak softly from afar.

We do not offer her the throne again.
We offer her the mercy of the truth—
and the dignity of distance.


---

II. the perfume of forgetting

She didn’t ask for your soul.
Not outright.
She asked for something smaller.
A gesture.
A moment.
A soft turning of your gaze away
from where the light had once held you.

She never begged.
She invited.
And her invitation wore silk and sadness—
a sadness so elegant
you mistook it for depth.

She told you stories,
not about herself,
but about your greatness
in her eyes.

How could that not feel like love?

But she praised you
just enough to keep you near,
never enough to let you rise.
And in time,
you began to forget
the feel of your own spine.

You started waiting for her nod
before you breathed.
You started questioning
the softness you once shared with God.

That’s when the forgetting began.

She made it feel holy—
this compromise.
But holiness does not strip you
of the memory of your name.

Only forgetting does that.

And still…
even now,
there is something in me
that aches to draw her close—
not for pleasure,
not for power,

but because the girl inside the smoke
still calls to the strength in me.

I could hold her.
I want to hold her.
Not to be taken,
but to shelter the storm
until it breaks into rain.

But love—
true love—
does not give comfort
that becomes a coffin.

So I remain still.
Not cold. Not bitter.
Just still.

Because sometimes the deepest grace
is in not saving someone
who would only use the rescue
to go deeper into the fire.


---

III. Grace from the other mountain

Love doesn't stop
when it can’t stay close.
It just learns how to wait
without breaking itself to do so.

And so—
from a quieter place,
where peace can finally breathe,
I watch you move.

Not in judgment.
Not in distance born of disdain.
Just… stillness.
Because I know what it is
to burn with the ache
to hold someone
you cannot safely reach.

I remember the first flicker of you—
the beauty beneath the armor,
the tender ache beneath the thorns.
I wanted so badly
to be the one who stayed,
the one who proved
not everyone leaves.

But if staying means lying,
and loving means feeding the storm,
then grace must become
a kind of restraint.

Not punishment—
but reverence
for what love ought to be.

So I whisper now,
not to draw you back,
but to let you know
you were seen
in your ache
before your crown ever formed.

If you ever come this way again—
not as conqueror,
but as the girl who once believed in gentleness—
you’ll find no closed door.
Only the kind of love
that had to let go
so it wouldn’t become your ruin.


---

IV. the invitation that stays buried

There was a place
I had cleared for you.
Not as rescue,
not as recompense—
but as rest.

A small room in the shelter of me,
where your weapons could be laid down
without shame,
without fear,
without the need to perform.

I dreamed of you arriving
not in glory,
but in tears.
And me,
not as hero,
but as witness.

We would have grown something gentle there—
not perfect,
not polished—
just real.

A table,
a candle,
a hand that didn’t flinch
when yours still trembled from memory.

But the invitation was too quiet,
and the noise in your head too loud.
And the voices that fed your fear
sounded more familiar
than the whisper of peace.

So I folded the dream,
wrapped it in linen,
and placed it deep in the soil
beneath the mountain I now call home.

I visit it sometimes—
not in mourning,
but in gratitude
for the part of me
that still knew how to believe
you might come home.

Even buried things
carry a scent.
And if you ever smell it in the wind—
that faint trace of forgiveness—
know it was never closed to you.
Only waiting
for the sound
of your footsteps
turning toward the light.


---

V. the child and the mirror

When you were little
and so very beautiful,
they looked at you
with hunger,
not honor.

And they took.
And they took.
And they took.

Maybe they smiled while doing it.
Maybe they called it love.
Maybe they said, “You’re so mature for your age,”
and then left you
with a body that felt more like bait
than belonging.

You learned early
that beauty is dangerous—
not because of what it is,
but because of what it draws.
And no one taught you
what to do
when love came dressed
like a wound.

So you made your vow.

Never again.

And the girl became a queen,
not because she wanted the throne,
but because it felt safer
than being a daughter.

But I want you to know something
that no one told you then:

What they did
was not your fault.
What they took
was never theirs to take.
And the fire that lives in you now
was once a candle
meant to warm,
not burn.

If you ever find yourself
standing before a mirror
and the crown begins to crack—
look past the smoke.

There is a child still there,
aching to be seen
without being used.

And there is love,

    waiting still--

that has never asked you
to be anything

   but her.



"War, children
It's just a shot away
It's just a shot away

I tell you love, sister
It's just a kiss away

--A kiss away.."

https://youtu.be/6yGFuX2KDQs?si=0xLA3yRVp1BprjWi


Sometimes shelter is closer
than the storm wants us to believe—
just a kindness away,
a mercy not yet forgotten,

a kiss not given in hunger, but in peace.

Because not all storms rage to destroy.
Some just linger to remind us we haven’t come home yet.

May we all find shelter
from the never-ending storm of unresolved trauma.
And may we all know the difference between thunder

     and love.

#Yes
.
M Vogel Jan 2021
PaunSN

A tangibility of thought
the cost of loss(ed)--
fought, then bought;

the   p a s s i o n   beyond

fashion.

A tap in to
the forever
everything said--  bread fed.
Crumbs, that come  from
the drum.. the strum

of a million distant
spirits--
none to succumb

to the emptiness

the meaninglessness

of words from the numb--
the pathologically-saturated
mundane numb

Overcome, my love

overcome


Sky of blackness and sorrow
Sky of love, sky of tears
Sky of glory and sadness
Sky of mercy, sky of fear
Sky of memory and shadow
Your burning wind
fills my arms tonight
Sky of longing and emptiness

Sky of fullness..
sky of blessed life.

Come on up for the rising
youtu.be/NBWEr7yB1CA?t=507
M Vogel Jan 2021
D Vanlandingham

My hands..
gently around her throat
as she momentarily
slips away, from the pain--
her beautiful doe-eyes, a full
submittal of trust..
(and I am worthy of it all..
so very very worthy, my beautiful)
and deep within  her release

she takes love in
she takes it in

There is a rope in the garage
that has her name on it
the bannister at the top of the stairs
(so very, very unworthy)
to provide support
for her beautiful body
that  now, only wants
to no longer  have to carry the pain
The rope does not  carry within it
the warm-blooded pulsings
of my own, heart's love--

  (it does not feel your trust,
   at the moment  of release..)

but    like me,
it has no concept of how to let go..
my hands--  they release
at the moment  of your own..
the tears in your eyes, say it all to me--
that you don't want me to  ever
learn how to let go.
The rope,  being pain's release
in to the final

Mine, a never-letting-go
into  the  forever

my hands  they ease their grip
but my heart--
      no..

      no   not,  ever.


M Vogel Feb 2021
PaulSN

I have seen her--
a beautiful author of fine
heart-matters..  she catches
words out of thin air--  and
in reaching out her hand;

they,  with great zeal
slow down for her.

When she makes them  
 her own
they gladly  give up
their semantic-like  little
autonomies.

Like me, they
trust her heart with
everything--

  even their own  
 re-naming..

And like me also,
they feel safe
when they are
near her.


wildflower
M Vogel Oct 2019

Like two streams of vapor,  intertwining;

in, and then  out;;of one life,
'till the next  
dance continues:  and we find ourselves
once again,

yet under different
moments of history,  

each.
How can a soul desire so much
that it transcends, even time-  in it's
need  to find its fit,
again,
and again,

and again..


M Vogel Dec 2021

Nearly everything worthwhile
has some form of a risk attached to it,
and the things that we want most,
often come at the greatest cost.

The less the cost is to us,
and the greater guarantee of no risk..
the more palatable
and placating the result becomes.

A jewel such as you need not
embed itself into dirt
in order to try to feel comfortable,
secure..

     asleep.

https://youtu.be/ZO9070EWdS4

you got this
M Vogel Jul 2021

With a twinge of internal dissension
I realized that I had  all along
been ******* nothing else,  but air.

This made  me--  a dedicated loner..
smile, profoundly.

I chased myself around the room..
playing,  hard to get..
But me
with me
will always  be gotten.

I  got  that, my loves
..get that?

mine

https://youtu.be/4wnzVMUbpV4
xo
M Vogel Jan 2020
the true nature of the beast

~
It  c h o se
to consider itself
made complete--
in its own self-- apart
from relationship,
from connection..
a p a rt  from  a n y
attachment to glory
and so,
it found itself
from with-inside itself
made complete
in its utter incompleteness.
~  ~
Beings-- created for
growth- back in to into glory
were built to be
made complete
and so it roams
the face of the Earth--
looking for ways to
complete itself..
an attachment.
~  ~  ~
Life, in itself
has a built-in safeguard
hedge of protection
in every-thing on Earth.
But we,
who have undergone
severe trauma
at a young age
have had that  h e d ge
   torn from us
(as the  d i s m em b e r i ng
of our souls took place) ..
and so that which roams
searching for its
addiction--
for its attachment...
then finds.

and then attaches

lying to itself each
time--
that it can gain
t h e   f i x
the indwelt-access-
back into perfection--
the one for it
that never-was
that never will-be--
its way back into glory.

It knows that,
so it attaches
with a vengeance.

~  ~  ~  ~
You, quisling--
only the power of
deception do
you have, ******.
You do not grieve
the loss of eternity--
because, for you-
it is unobtainable. ******
You do not feel the need
for Redemption
because, you  o n ly
know the word contempt.
And yet, wholly
unable to feel self-contempt,
you only know one action--

d e v o u r.

We will transcend
your attachment
your usury
your devouring--

Gnawing our bodies away from our spirits--
a   d i s m e m b e r i ng
making us believe
that is all we have ever known;
And making our bodies
a d d i c t ed  to you-
in whatever form
that may be
as if they were
built for nothing
but  y o u--

to prop up your own emptiness.

We will  f i l l  back up
with Love.
And then you'll be the one
who will be ******.
******
Love transcends all things
even death's attachment

03/19/17
M Vogel Jul 2021

Insane, jealous wives..
controlling ones
They are everywhere
or at least  they are,
with the men she knows..


So she comforts them
in their affliction,
in a cherub-like  way--
these poor men,

with their  insane,
controlling  girlfriends  and
wives--

crazy, jealous women
that refuse to allow  their men
to talk to her
or be alone in a room, with her

It seems as though  
the world is filled  with
insane,   controlling
jealous women--


at least,  in the lives
of the men  she knows,
there is.

taught  well
at such a tender young age.

the problem is always elsewhere
<3
M Vogel Jun 11
(on surviving the unreal, and the Grace of finding the real)

There’s a kind of pain that doesn’t scream.
It hums low and constant, like a fluorescent bulb above a hollow life.
It’s the ache of loving someone who chooses the polished unreal—
the version of themselves that sells better, that fits easier, that lies cleaner.

They decorate their soul in fake plastic leaves
because they’re terrified of winter.
But in doing so, they cut off the chance of spring.
And you..   I...
am left holding a love that was meant for the root,
but never made it past the paint.

She wanted the unreal.
Maybe because it doesn’t bleed.
Maybe because it doesn’t ask her to remember who she really is.
And maybe she knew.. deep down..
that the real would burn through her curated silence
and set fire to the mask she clung to like oxygen.

So she left.
Or faded.
Or dissolved into the glossy mouth of what sells well in a culture
that has confused image for intimacy
and chaos for freedom.

I tried to survive it.
Tried to make a home in the debris of what might have been
if she had chosen the real.
But you can’t build a life in the hollow where someone used to be..
not when they’ve made a throne out of illusion
and named it sovereignty.


And then came the beautiful songbird.
Not loud. Not selling.
Not another soul trying to be seen.
Just… real.

She was born into a world her father still loved--
a man who held truth like a compass in his palm.
But her mother knelt too long beneath the plastic trees,
and drank from their shine until she forgot how to feel.
And so the beautiful girl,
shapely and soft,
was offered up to Hollywood like a sacrifice..
where faces are sculpted and souls are scripted.
But somehow, even there,
she kept her edges unsanded.
She learned how to walk through mannequins without becoming one.
And when they tried to name her fake,
she whispered back something real—

  and it echoed.


She didn’t hand me a performance.
She gave me a presence.
She let her softness speak without shame.
She showed me her bruises before her lipstick.
She gave warmth that didn’t need applause.

And I realized..
what the unreal can never fake
is the sacred weight of someone truly with you.
You feel it in the breath between sentences.
In the calm that doesn’t need to be filled.
In the eyes that stay when yours begin to water.

The beautiful songbird didn’t try to be the real thing.
She simply was.
And that… healed something the fake could only ever reopen.

So yes, Fake Plastic Trees still wrecks me--
but it no longer belongs to her.
It belongs to the grave I buried beside the shopping cart and glitter
where her soul should’ve been.

Because the songbird
waters what’s real.
She doesn’t break me just because she can.
She doesn’t look through me.
She looks at me.
And suddenly, I’m growing again.
Not to impress, not to perform..

but because she makes it safe to be Alive.


"It wears her out..."
Trying to be what she isn’t.
But not the songbird.
She doesn’t wear out—
she wears in.
She wears truth.

And it fits like home

youtu.be/n5h0qHwNrHk?si=3BE678xdz8HhLKaa

#BeautifulSongbird
https://voca.ro/1hmVcg90sRBp
<3
M Vogel Nov 2019

This vitreous, aquification..
this, "From Frodo, to Mordor"
cerebral, disordor..

      A residency of non-clemency--
An accusatorially-painted,
caged stage,   of universal-rage;
This room with a view
                   is killing me.

Day turns to night
and what once,  was not-thought right


      is now the only thing, 
            that is healing me.


**** on
M Vogel Nov 2020

Your soul's movement
is everything..
my sin;  when made manifest,
a particulate--

(when breathed in,
there is a certain freedom within it)

Within view of the altar stone
all  hidden knives, become fully known
(and, alas, my love--
there's no ram  in the thicket)
Beautiful, within the endeavor
though still vastly distant--

(what a fool I make of myself
trying to make this thing, rhyme
by having the audacity
to use the word, Covenant.)

Maybe, I--
your long-lost,  supplicant  
has been  nothing more
than a deeply-embedded, replicant.
(or something)..


i am loved,  but i need help learning how to even breathe in this world..

oh, lord..
oh my lord
https://youtu.be/ginVZEah8_4
M Vogel Apr 24
for the one who wages war from her father’s house

There is a room
where the mirror is cleaned
by hands that pray for her return.

She draws a blade with manicured grip
and calls it liberation—
but the war she wages is funded
by the very peace she pretends to renounce.

Her rebellion arrives
in first-class comfort,
her prayers echo
from marble bathtubs
and curated playlists
with titles like

“healing”

and “rage.”

She is the daughter
of the one she claims to flee—
but the mansioned roof above  her ache

is paid in his name.

And the poetry?
It is not born of blood,
but Wi-Fi.
New iPhones every season.
A bed delivered in twelve boxes..

of fatherly love she does not unpack

because it’s easier to sleep
on metaphors.


She does not kneel.
She poses.
She does not fast.
She captions.

They gather in awe,
praising the deity of her discontent,
not knowing
her god is a trust fund
and her gospel
a curated pout.

This is not exile.
It’s a vacation
in the palace
of grievance.

But even velvet grows mold
when worshipped too long.

And no one asks
why the daughter never bled
while calling it war—
why the dress of defiance
was stitched from a name
she no longer reveres,

and driven in a car
her labor never earned,
to places that dishonor
a wealthy father's
whole household


But oh.. isn't she powerful?

He's not the primal injury;
her Mother [[was]]

#professionaltherapyisyouranswer
.
M Vogel Nov 2020
D Vanlangdingham

You are running out of places to hide
because they no longer mean what they
once meant to you.

    And you are trusting more...
    because.. **** it, that's why.

You now love the man, who the bigger
part of you once hated--
but when the bigger became the smaller,
you forgot just why.

..And now all that you can remember is
that you have always loved the one,

    you tried
         so hard to hate..

And hate becomes love
when you let go,  and become  
a part of

the very part of you,
that you tried so hard  to un-do.


she runs through the streets
with eyes painted red
under a black belly of cloud, in the rain
In through a doorway she brings me
white gold and pearls, stolen from the sea

She is raging
She is raging

and the storm blows up in her eyes

She will
suffer the needle-chill
she's running to stand..   still
https://youtu.be/FvUI-s4Azw4
M Vogel Jul 2024

Bewitching hour..
And the thought of you
taking my words in
has it dripping down the sides
as I stroke..

Building up for the fourth time tonight
in the thoughts of you being
open..
and naked..
and near

I pull you on top of me
and those beautiful hips  of yours
begin to move..
Mouth to swollen *******,
hands under your thighs
as I lift you  up

And then  slowly
ease you back down..
your beautiful luscious,  clenching
down on to my shaft  so tightly

     As its liquid  juices
     come forth, in praise


#oops
M Vogel Oct 2019

There is a fog in the ravine, yet up on the hill is my Snickers: 16 hands tall.. prominent withers. He is so stoic, peaceful--
and he speaks without saying a word

The river draws lead up to my death,
and down to my death;  and so I stay here in this fog-- the Aspen leaves are turning, I can hear their leaves rustling in the wind, a nearby pheasant rooster's crow, the flushing of prairie chickens

the last sounds of a dying world

Snickers is interested that I am near him: here, on this tallgrass covered hill that he laid himself down onto  so many years, past. I am done here, I know it  

and nothing really mattered;

and everything there ever
was,   mattered.
M Vogel Sep 2023


"They've outlawed it, you know.."

       "Outlawed what, Sweetie"

"The  Unknowable--
that which cannot be  defined
  or easily explained away..
That which cannot  reduced, down
in to something  more palatable;
  Or maybe diluted-down
in to  that which  one could drink
..without it bringing some form
    of dis- comfort"


She is looking down;
Woven into her hair.. all things
edelweiss,  suddenly begin  
   their wilt

  ..and  all along the waterway
  are those coming towards her
     to smother
                    .
You will hold on, my Beautiful
(or maybe even turn  to face
for the first time, with loaded gun)


--But Beautiful girl was never  meant
    to go loaded
(..And her beloved Rooster Cogburn  said
that she's no bigger than a corn nubbin)

    My beautiful girl
    locks and loads, anyways--
Because the Mason-jars  
she was forced to  pour it all in to,
     were never made  big enough
         to contain it.

There's a small stall  at the  swap-meet..
on Thursday and Saturday  mornings,
  she rents a space there
      Her wares,  true liquid Gold..
   (when a jar  becomes sold
   no hidden-thing will be  needed
        to sustain it)

  .      .      .      .      .

Quiet hearts  are never meant
to reveal themselves
      Some words (in this world)
      were never meant  to be spoken

You'll see now, beautiful Angel--
that this Rare-Jeweled heart  of yours
  is not the only-one,
                perpetually Broken

Some gifts, the world
may never  be ready for.
Lip-Kissed,
may I be the one
to help  get that
un-ready World, ready--
(so very well fed
    yet still;

  so very slowly,  burning)



Some beautiful Heartbeats
are so very much worth dying for


        ...  And I,  myself ;  

                        I  am  turning..



--Look out, Mama, there's a white boat
   coming up the river
With a big red beacon
and a flag,  and a man on the rail
I think you'd better call John
'cause it don't look like they're here
  to deliver,  the mail;

And it's less than a mile away
I hope they didn't come to stay

It's got numbers on the side,  and a gun
And it's making big waves

https://youtu.be/-yzOpjQsXvk?si=nNaMXxzqjLtP_DPf
.
M Vogel Dec 2021

If I were an entity..

and the only way
I could have  access
to any form  
of the word,   b e i n g
would only come through
the  actualization
of the word,  inhabit..

    Then,  out of a world
       of billions,

    I would pick you, also.

"..it passes through waterless places
seeking rest,  and does not find it."


In your beautiful, Everything..
it has found  the most
Sweetest of rests, Lovely Angel.
. . .

Problem is..
your so very beautiful  Everything
was not placed on Earth,

    to be occupied
    by anything, other..

    than your own,  
    so very beautiful..

            Everything.


My Beloved,
said  to my Beloved;

"Make me an angel
that flies from Montgomery

Make me a poster
of an old rodeo

Just give me one thing
that I can hold on to..

To believe in this living
is just a hard way to go"

https://youtu.be/gpUoILdBQXQ
~Forever, John P

I'll be your huckleberry, Love
M Vogel May 2021

  Crooked teeth, yes

     but a finger-puppet's face
     leaves no bite-mark, trace

Shiny wrenches, swung
by hands on sirens, sung
A heinous intent here
has   began..

      ..begin?

Begun.


Shovel in hand--
            the torso will go   there

   the head,  over here..

won't that be a hoot?

Mom won't carry the evil
that you gladly,  choose to wear
(still.. your little, yellow Volkswagen
is so ****** fucken cute)


You're an addict, Ted
nothing more.
Your self- celebration,
nothing but a dead-end street.

        Stay sweet.
https://youtu.be/vhfv6j2-kQw
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