My abraded knee

is bleeding, I keep looking --


So beautiful red!

There are times I turn to the river,

when life roils and churns like the rapids,

and I remember what the river has always

known when it heaves and ebbs, and runs

swiftly by, carrying broken branches just

as abraded stones appear as polished gems

Upon his glottal’s larynx spreads a lingual deformity. Isolation as a result from tuggo disaffiliates. Misshapen promontory in the direction of upper-body inflammation. Not only above torso alone, location;head/injury;mouth/main informative;tongue.
The boy’s tongue was permanently horned. A horn of 18 inches shy, where taste buds formulate, he owned a lone spike. He wasn’t abraded by the unfoldment of onlookers around. His irregular attachment was a main confidant. Criticized, he was not welcomed by towns near. Citizen’s were baffled and disgusted, ridiculing him daily, he did not impale with grieve over appearance. Enmity he wanted and craved. Among the works of flesh, square inch niches, repugnance revealed. Revenge, revenge. Vindictive spirit shelled so timely and calm. Remaining this state of sumptuous integrity made him stronger each go about. These goes were so stimulus, adding to the *** of hatred. Deep into the tundra’s most vile he intruded. Went so every month or few, for weeks at a time. For this sheet of rigid earth so contiguous to the town made the worried weary, the skeptical seared, and the nautical not so knitted with directional sense. This was his consummation of gathering. The place of being a being. The dry winter amid eight months was restricted, so the moment a due mustn’t be bothered. He had his reason of validness for course. A rich succulent from the bearings of plant life on cliffs. Repelling an obstacle such as was ludicrous for even one born the ever so adequate and society defined norm. Now having a tongue with a horn, some sought might as well die to be reborn. He had to, to stay alive. The liquid, which sit so treacherous, was the mold to mouth medicine. To speak at all it must be attained. Not only a curdling death trap waiting to swallow, the boy had to get a plentiful amount for the hard hitting winters collied. His tongue could swell like the storms, loud crimson on the esophagus. To die of asphyxiation was his dodge of ultimatum.
While passing by a local television in a thrift shop-
“Today’s Newscast: Blizzards, moving in at speeds of 94 mph. Predicted to cover like a blanket for 12 months. Ice Age relative people, this one is gonna be big! Stay indoors at night, the barometric’s indicate that from 9PM to 4AM temperatures as low as 28- will stouten for the next year. Once again people, stay indoors at these hours, get your needs when available. Back to you Ronda with the quintuplets birth today!”
Plucked and grit witted he stood. He felt the trepidation of abhorrence swaying in orbit around him. How to emanate from this delay? At least five clones of self did not exist for him. Merriment struct pro, while the cons derived from which they know. Exultation when despondent, how greatly that gift could gab. Despoilment of that, he weighed options out. To altercate thick snow or simply, let it go. Afraid to die unrivaled, the off cutting is wisest. Since his first second to now he’s flourished with his horn. Obliteration to the occulted manifestation mannered as an antique replica of anyone catching him by twice by day. Remove it, remove it, remove if you want life in your years that follow. Remove it, ever so. Remove it, cut and sew. Cut and sew. Remove.
This plateau poisoned place stay calm, anticipating climate of tempest bold reaches, anyone who was anyone was not so. Negative degrees. How could he retaliate the opposite, while acquiring a surgeon field hay day buck builder? Eruption turns the wave of cons. An only equal precision, deciding, tonight is the night. To assemble the tools, publicly was questionable, no more, through. He will emerge to the lands and people a new man, sustained, and hornless. No more. From scratch he will vender what’s needed. Wood was chiseled under the last moon viewed for three sixty three days ahead. Uprooted vines of old pine will hold the bark tight. Breath revealing around the outsides of his appendage. Like a fork in the road, which way can you go, for him air strides both. Scuffling fearful towards the pike of the tundra, he is where wanted by none. A be all end all as you could alleviate ones slightest sympathy, the courage it takes, ****** immense. His sweat was not seen, but there it consists. One hand grappled around his earthly dagger, tongue positioned in an outward arrangement. Travail glowing all over him as an aura unlanguid with no disruption veering. Abound now, without great weight on his shoulders, he’s lived. Ascending keen eyes towards the blood bath around his feet, going both ways around the fork and road. After relinquishing his steady gavel, the checking of his pulse is counted. 5, 6, 7, 8, seconds, still life to live. For the very first ritual to come, placed in his mouth, the tongue. The rigid roof so unfamiliar and new he bestowed in his joy of such a common flank. The tundra felt warm as he inside let over pour. Once more a milder gasp as he vociferates to the last moon for the year. On his peak, and favored place of being, he let out his tongue. Sharp inclement so hawkish and frosted he felt. The lilliputian of no pain, heeded by first snow to wane.

Runaway,
Feel the pain
Taste the rain
For me.

Catch each drop to wash away
All the moments that we kissed.
You were always sorry,
I was never amused.

Read it through
Drink this
Forget my name,
Please.

Drain your thoughts to your ears,
Let them spill this liquid that thrills
Wait, let me spill my guts to you
So that you can fall harder.

Punch the wall
Bruise your hand
Make marks
For her to see.

Caress her porcelain skin
With your black and blue hands
Abraded and rough, maybe it's enough
But now she thinks you're brave.

Bleeding blisters
Metallic taste
Waste of space
That pretty face.

Tear it to pieces that you can't read
Strokes of wet red for all to see
Just lay back down in the ground
And try to sleep.

Everything I write, everything I draw; delete

The things I create, I cannot complete

Is it being insecure or being lazy?                                                            ­                                                                 ­     

I don't know how to be a productive lady                    

I feel stupid                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                                  

Since I can't anything executed

My work lives in the recycling bin

It's close in resemblance to a din

The backspace key is faded

My soul is abraded

I hate that I can't articulate

Does anyone else relate?

At least this poem is finished but it has no real end                                                              ­                                

I hope it shows what I intend

his voice beguiles me, weakening me
in whispered warmth of breath, fingers
trace trembled want of hungry lips

tasting me...

Closing my eyes; I arch into need of
his touch, his voice of seduction breathes
against skin, teasing me

licking my tremors...

I moan in ache, my ripple upon his tongue,
my essence rises lingering within his mouth;
roughly kissing me and I kneel before him,
taking him in slowly suckling; tasting him tip
to pearls licking his veined pendulum swirling
in warmth, vigorously in out

loving his shudder...

he whispers as his fingers tenderly tweak ******
softly, inebriating my senses; aroused horniness,
entering my paradise, firmness weaves flesh in
breathless swells, igniting our twine; like tongue
licking heat of mouth

pulsing in wetness...

searing between open thighs, I ache for his plunge
engraving me, knotted within his arch; deluged in
fluidities flush as lips brush, tongue trails taut nips,
I blush beneath his fiery breath, still teasing

rocked to my foundation...

unraveling me in utter passion, our bodies aching;
assuaging yearn, calming quivers in wet want;
shuddering each abraded ******, loving its aftertaste
in trembled release enlivening; our lust still entwined

within wet ecstasy...

White mares skipping high
Fleeting bows of flight
A delicate sway and tender—
Of nymph water bearers.

Grip to the pole— start bending your toes
Gritty witty Pointes—  slide sailing your stockings
Don't be weary— you all weigh like babies.

When everyone curves below,—
I might cry low
The tug of veins,— Twisting my equity
All for a share of artistry—
That shakes dynamic scaling
How can I fly with this?

A flock of gnasgabs— Forming on the floor
Say, I was bewildered—
By such floating nerves
I suppose, my anchors would stumble!

Muscles shifted miniscules to humongous
I learned the arc's way
How swans scoop to ponds,— and paddle
To split stems without abraded rock scrapes
The pricked would never ill still again— For the element of wind,—is a frolicking mentor of mine.

What shape is imposed?
Is to be trained to sketch enough?—
Or to smother crust on feet?
A little pinch on my nose—
They told me— "Be toned, and not be a cylinder, or you'll be getting misfits."
If groom is to groan,— Then unwinding is not an option.

Stale eyelids, protrude lips;—
With undetermined purple ankles
Presenting, the queue of peacocks—
Crafted by coned imagery!
"Smile darlings, smile.."
"Grant them a magical show!"

A single blow, I think I would fall,—
Or a slip— Brought by fragility
A collapsed bud of covert slim blossoming
What sot titles be lurking—
On this lumpy staging?
I see the curtains closing..

Raggle-taggle pearls, no—
Just piercing prisms
Attach with vessel tubes— providing life
Rates and beats,— I am awake—
While their pupils start bowing—
In a forum with wheezing closed fists
I cannot nod for this; so too, I replied
—"Let brittle vases be a harbinger for naive pottery makers."

"Spin and spin around— Oh stop, I'm not a music box!
I love dancing,— but don't treat me like a doll!"

I escaped, from dry flower fields
Now, I am a deviant— of their snotter lying— of absolute bloom
A standard of fixed chains and keys
No more attending to an epithet of perfection,— For I will be the motion of my own tides and breeze.

I  battle to Ballet,— For 'tis as knight with armored strength— of fenced rivals 'til to bleed
I risk for Ballet,— Like cliff dancing, even on edges— I am steady,—
And tough to dive in lakes and oceans
I fall for Ballet,— How Alice fall to the Wonderland— discovering mysteries in every dooorway
I compose to Ballet,— As I dwell in the well of written poems and tunes,—
I inherit to move..

The wishful dandelions,—
Sprawling with honeybees and butterflies,— of me running with ribbons in Spring time
I feel my hair is brushing,—
As I blew these dandelions,— Sending letters to other gardens—
"Dark, Bright, Tiny, or Huge— Anyone can wear a Tulle,— Come and fly, as we're all free and beautiful like dandelions.."

Greenfield Village

Henry Ford looms large
The length of River Rouge
Lower and Middle and Upper and Rouge River proper
Abraded by scars
Mouth cankered and scowling
Zug Island wrenched
To a permanent sneer behind
The kid gloved hand of his beloved Fairlane
Wandering Potemkin near the end
Head an empty lot webbed
In figure eights of snowy plaque.
We walked down the lane
From Firestone Farm
Past stubble field
Late one winter afternoon
Searching for the rope swing
In the old chestnut tree
Ordered hung there perhaps
By the old man himself.
I raced twilight
Edges dissolving
Sent you higher and higher
Prayed you would catch a glimpse
Of abiding light that silvers
The edge the world.

the sleeper...

riled in slumber
         her face fevered
     cussed about the terrain
                                     of a floral breeding
  bedding patterns and the print
                                        bunched in struggles
in smudges
                     an amateur trial with sisters makeup
     primal cosmetics
            make a mock
                    daubed
                                ceremony for slumber

dusty and museum are her dollworks
        an amphitheatre audience
                                 overlooming her berth
    flaunting the gallery shelves
                sustained expressionist menace
Roman eyes and Victorian ridicule
stuffed suffering with Ugly Duckling down
****** sawdust and your sullied label
they bray and they brawl
         and they sluice their gull gall
    a sick drizzle
       over the sleepers form

   from the exterior
  wild wails the weather
its being
     drubbing
  peers fragile
at the windowpane
a raid on this vulnerable sleeper
impounded in bedroom aloft
raised to meet the jet stream

she is fumbled in dreams...

  abraded adolescent swells
judder out figments
  a bleed of vandals
     siling her muted childhood
       parading the playground
          berating old
         once loved playthings
       adopting no sympathy
    adapting in favour
      of the wild riding will
        of the direful pre familiar

into the woods...

a ***** charmed breath
       dressed smartly as boy
stoppers her pathway
       insisting a gentleman's assistance
frustrates her recitations
      of grandmothers doting
           stern teachings
         like fragile pottery
            come to harm
         broken into teeth
the quick blood beating
       this nocturnal forest
     busy in heat
      bonding death
       to refract the hustling moon

a company of wolves
    fill out the clearing
not a spell too soon
their howls reverberate
             jeering
mocking their new glut
sifting followers
      from the raggle-taggle array of fools
the foolish dreamers
          rounded up
amongst them she stands
red dressed and nervous
one hand clasping
                  and sexing the other

fortified
a great jaw operates here
an excited irresponsible mastication
committed to this fairytale

...agitation in her sleep

outside the bedroom window
speckles of white clouds
upon the ending sky
the vanity of my blue eyes
along her dark naked flesh
the sounds of late summer echoing
through our candled rooms
the curtains parted
the air heavy with moisture
our clothes strewn about
the hardwood floor again
a sheen of sweat
traced upon our entwined bodies
our souls abraded with
the delirium of love

Roses are red
Red as the whistling howl of fiery winds
As we stumbled into a crowd
Of rusty desert sandstone boulders
Sitting parched and abraded by time.

We'd baked all day
Surviving bouts of blowing sand
And so we crouched as thermal refugees
In the scant shadow of the boulders
Hopeful for an extra hour of life
Before the wind and sand and heat
Would claim us to our last drop.

Red.
Our skin too was red
Burnt like paper set alight
That never really catches flame
But is consumed by a glowing linear ember
Under the relentless sun.

Somehow we remained there
Against hot red sandstone
Saying nary a word
Greedy for the moisture
That would escape on our breath
Moving only to track the patch of shadow
As it moved methodically around the boulders.

When finally the murderous sun
Gave up and slunk away
The sky turned deep red with twilight.
The only words anyone spoke
When someone said
"Roses are Red"
But nobody had a tendril of energy
Left to extend beyond pure survival
To do anything with it.

she became invisible to
his eyes because he was out
looking, for a light that shined
just as bright as the gem that
turned his somber nights into
a radiant daybreak that paints
his skies with royalty. he turned
moth to flame for a fair-haired girl
with cobalt spheres; a face that
was there when she wanted him.
she became nourishment for
his soul because on those somber
evenings, he always sought out
for her; a daydream of a damsel
with ebony abraded into her bones
because she hid from the limelight
when she had wildfires running in
her veins glowing; a face that
was there when he wanted her.
but she captured his heart because
it knew that even the sun can’t
wash the moon out against the blue
unless it decides to disappear

Dour duty may seem cruel
To novices, but rasped
To callouses by some hair shirt,
Skin glories in its clasp.  

A rougher kiss is sweetest bliss
To scourged and toughened hides,
Until abraded to a scar
Where stunted dullness bides.

there'll be
no saving it
not any
the entire orb
overloaded
toxins too many
coadsorb
supersaturated
then abraded
gone far too bye
alas too late
to buy time back
no turnaround
11th hour saving
or magical miracle
in denial of why
our planets health
status - critical

we did
what we did
yes we did
mine
blast
pollute
shift axis
misuse & abuse
bleed her dry

it is mans(kind)
turn for him
be to wither
carbon nation
in degradation
rock stars erosion
chemical illusions
a weathering of time

Mother earth
will rejuvenate
do (the) over time
yielding to years
millions (billions?)
once more
but...only....if... then...
sans **** sapiens
a non negotiable must

torpid audience enervate
we (manunkind)
made the earth
into 'progresses' *****
pimped her out
for a TV dinner
a 100 inch flat screen
a remote control life
instant gratification
homologating toxic emissions
no ratification
given by nature
override permissions
ego over easy
(supersize default position)
greed gone greasy


not today
not tomorrow
not next year
not
100 years from now
but in a time
long after you
long after me
when we and
our offspring
(& theirs & theirs...)
long dead too
earth will reset herself
hostile to human life
yes **** sapiens
lease on this fractured land
will for sure expire
but the planet will regenerate
and survive
destructions fire

©J.C.

mother earth will have the last laugh...

i remember of the artless days before i had met you and how whenever i went, i'd see a horizon star sewn;
how i could delve into utopian reveries and feel indulged, and how every kiss was a profound violet in bloom. (and how i was repulsed by boys who smoked--despise you for that)
then you came around. it was like every motion and resonance around me flatlined, all flesh faltered into corpses,
but in that virus abraded imagery, there was you:
a flaming grandeur of all that appeals.
you could have titled yourself a heavenly entity between a solely-all greyscale and i would have still believed--
i'd see your face in enthralling outlines before i went to sleep and whenever i spoke, your name gritted the back of my teeth, my bloodstream was fluxes with you written all over it.
went retrograde about it three times and it never passed. you named it cupid's love but i knew better. first blossom of spring and the archers drew their bows, i never saw you again.
i refused to go through the reversal phase; clung to the image of your lips, eyes, the color-enhancing visages that altered my retina, and decided that you were a better victimless ****** than any hit of codeine.
i never did go back.
i see stars but do not see chronology behind them, sleep but never rest, laugh but never with rapture, and anything even barely emphemeral feels like a century.
i'll always pray for heaven to let me back in: whether into culprits' hands or not.

I throw up
to you
tonight

skin

lost

looking for someone
to cover

and protect
keep warm

ai got u
covered

ai got u
contained


ai got u
inside

ahm skin
I have all of you
in me

think macrophage
think semi
conductance

I am conducting
what

I am conducting
what

breaks beats
ka

thump

the whale of time
slides against me
while I type

cells abraded drift along
I am there too

singing ahm always singing
aginst

this unlettered gut

this superior knowledge
that
knows
this aint
according to the rules
poetry

I reach for the rule book
it's stupefying
sense

reject
sanity

reject
order

refect
wearing your undershirt
inside out

they are not all here
just us gast
ones

just us
crast
ones

*****
in a couplet

hungry
in a rhyme

desperately
killing

in a ******
fever

until I wake up
sordid

out somehow
to a chaparral

and a tumble
to tomorrow
that *****

she haunts
today
like Thursday



Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis

Lately I've alienated the amicable bit of my being.
It's like looking, like seeing through shriveled shades.
I've abraded my non-brooding gregarious being.
I've leaned on pretension and obscene half-hearted concession.
It's a lesson I'm learning that's burning holes in my midnight blanket.
I thank god I can say I don't die everyday.
That I say that I pray that I'm thankful.

I have watched leaves die,
fall to the earth to be crunched underfoot,
trees left naked, waiting
for another season to dress them
only for the leaves to die again, ad nauseum.
And, yet, it is always winter
in my heart and my steps heavy
like trudging through snow.
But there is never any snow
--never a winter wonderland--
just cold shivers, a resistance
to moving on.

Can a thing have a ghost
if it was never a living, breathing thing?
I am haunted by us,
not just by you, but the equation of you and I.
I am besieged by specters,
not just traces of your skin on mine or
the taste of your lips on my tongue or
the sound of your laughter around every corner,
but even by my own laughter chasing yours.
My own smile is a ghost, now;
as is my sense of peace.
I can see your smile in the sunrise, still;
see our own faces replace those
of people holding hands and embracing
as if I am the ghost,
some cosmic ****** peeping in our own life.
And all too frequently I am on my knees
screaming into dark days,
except they all feel like dark days
and even darker nights.
I shout out to whatever power is listening
to just bring you back to me
or exorcise me of these ghosts.
Shouting so loudly, so earnestly
that my throat goes hoarse
and I can't speak for days.

I’m covered in bruises and scars.
I’m not supposed to talk about it, but
I’ve started my own fight club
beating myself up over what
could have been done differently.
Could I have just tried even harder?
Could I have given more than my everything?
Could I have done anything to save us?
I have a new black eye.

Deep down, I know there is no finger to point;
we are not an earthquake, there is no finding fault.
It was not my fault.
It was not your fault.
It was no one’s fault.
We were a thrift store puzzle.
A used thing. An abraded thing.
Pieces were missing, torn,
some just didn’t fit.
Our picture would never be complete
and that’s just how it is, sometimes.
Neither of us are to blame—I know this.

Yet, I still can’t shake the what-ifs,
the spirit of our good times.
I am cursed.
But even if there was a number to call,
some sort of agency or team to come to my rescue,
where would these ghostbusters even aim
their proton guns and how much of me
would they take with them?
Do I really want all the memories of us erased?
Would a spotless mind pour sunshine onto my winter?

If only Doc Brown would drive up in his DeLorean,
I wouldn’t question the impossibility of his offer.
Despair pairs well with improbable hope.
I would certainly take that ride, risk
getting struck by lightning,
slamming into a wall at 88mph,
going back in time over and over, if need be
all so I could learn how
to fix an us that couldn’t be repaired.

Plug it into the amplifier,
Record the data.
It's easy.
I wish it really was.

EEG labs are bland,
Boring -
But mostly
Anxiety-inducing
Stressing
Centers for science.

My dream was broken at one of these,
As I came in each day,
Expecting to do great research work
And learn -
Work with data first hand!

That's not how things play out.
I was left without guidance -
Or at least not the guidance I resonate with.

I graduated university bright-eyed and hoping,
Just hoping,
That I could make something of myself.
This is how I felt when I started as well.

I had a dream of helping people.
It feels like I can't get there now.
I walk into the lab
And the others,
My "colleagues"
Speak down to me.
As if I don't have a degree,
As if I am not trying so ******* hard
To do something here.

I want to be part of a project,
I do.
I want to work with data,
I do.
I want this experience to move
On to my PhD
And do my own research
And help people -
I really ******* do.

But this topic is as sticky
As the gel that glues
Electrodes to the participants
Abraded scalp.
I feel trapped,
Not able to convey this to the supervisors -
I could be judged,
I could possibly be looked down on even more.

So,
I re-read the training protocols
And try to get the one more sign-off
To run appointments.
And fail again,
But then try again.

What else am I supposed to do without guidance?
My professors at UIC saw something in me,
I wish the researchers I work with now did.
I wish I saw something in me as well.