And then they can't write anymore. They turn their faces dangling  hthreads. They are no fight and no three musketeer. There is no buddy system when you're playing for one, and your keyboard is pocked with burn marks from writing and falling asleep and writing and falling asleep; Apple and H have been missing and the Space Bar, V, and B are on their way out. The positives have become absolutelies. The women abandoned the children and their children, and dinosaurs have eaten the rest. Rest with the wicked and the wind and the women you black-tip reef shark of **** and dross and wickedness(x2), you scratch 'n' sniff barracuda for poor kitchen sink, outhouse, washer/dryer, and wet bar maintenance for a low-cost of ninety-nine dollars and nine cents; the joke is better when the numbers are written out in ink. It **** across teenagers better- that is what I mean. Nineteen year olds specifically, passion possessed, beautiful creators of 2008 and 2009. I should be about  ready to shuffle my feet, curl up my gray socks, and shepherd a Wheaties Box, donning a frog costume, with a homemade iron-on Jesus patch. It was in a box with some pogs and Michael Jordan Valentine's Day cards that I wrote to everyone that fit the profile for my Mother, at least until I turned nineteen. The magical age where even the catholic girls have found out that they're already going to hell-

-

I relive the natures of so many marauders from unclassifiable ***** that I can still taste in my mouth. Sometimes it's a fever other times it's my initials scribbled along the walls. Inquire and we'll dine, lie supine, intertwine; you can teach me about cooperative.

While you were once the queen in the body's sore sorts and blisters from insatiable bear. I'm ready to **** a lion. I'm attracted to your spine and the positions that we've lied in. The pleasure is square it's the shapes in between, non-existantly spinning me into despair. We have seen over one hundred thousand movies, we've had *** in a jacuzzi. You were the fabulous muse so bemuse me again, it's enough of shaving one leg to feel closer to you. There are a million effing elements that won' t seem to align. I'm sick and you're outstanding. We're supposed to be- I can't shut my eyes without seeing you smile, the shape of your mouth and the color of your hair.

I'm twisted up. My elbows shun me and I collapse even when I try to gather myself for walking. It's been years since I've heard
you talking. There must be a scientific law, just a clause that affirms I wasn't supposed to have purposely been given this, "*******."

My chits expired and I'm well over on my phone plan. You're the one that got me addicted to cologne, am I going extinct because I can't seem to hold anything down? The therapy hasn't worked, your therapist is a schmoozer, he's on a tract of trying to use her. Corroborating these lines of language that's died, it's so slow he sees someone himself.

Recently I learned a cure using cigarettes, Led Zeppelin, and liquid morphine, it rearranges my endorphins. I've tried very hard to support it, I've even been a good sport when I realize it's still ******* silent and you haven't called or wrote, or sent or shown me anything. Your poison is heavy. Isn't it time for me to **** the lion and go back home. When you go I'll go, when the shapes of our shadows and the dusts of our ghosts decide to go. When your face is placed on my nape and the house lights low, and I can breathe, and know that my world's other half brings all time to a slow crawl. There is some magic that can keep abright a dying star.

Those restless nights.
Lay in bed, brain lit abright.
Mind off wondering late into the night.

Drifting off in theory, fantasy, and psychological harakiri.
Mind aimlessly adrift, throughout the cosmic rift.
The trivialities of unseen realities.
The complacent within societies debasement.
General hipocrisy of rampant misology.
Apostasy!

Before you know it, the dawning light.
Yet another sleepless, restless night.

The song of mourning entertains the night

A tranquil moon fills the Ashen sky abright

The song of loss flows into the darkened stars

Smiling faces attempt to forget old scars

The song of grief breaks into the mind

A single tear shed for the one who would never be found

The glistening sun rises in the morning

But only the song of silence is heard

Kiss the stars fly by night
With yellow beams with zoom abright
The seas of oceans void forth right
Where wings will buzz, lamp in twilight
Small and quick to watch you glide
Into the black you fade and hide
But still you show a beam of light
Fire fly, fire fly.. Fly tonight

it was a picture i didn't want,
that is what she gave and that is what i got

the scared children huddled together
in the middle of the shabby bridge
as the angel hovered wingedly behind them

a forever that comes stuck just in time
dressed in white and angel abright


it is all so suspended
implying they cross
and safely cross

well in that one way it's just so sad
that hell is real
and time so irreversible

and in another way it's just the way it has to be
when i see you from the ugly side
and i see you so uglified on the ugly side

getting excited at $40 CAD profit on a baseball card trade
a 5% gross profit $CAD
not so much now

you're just something
gathered in bits and pieces
by stray gleaners in strawless fields of straw
that or the unnecessity on the otherwise empty shelf

the events of the day are so embarrassing these days
some man in a wheelchair in the middle of the safeway parking lot
smelling up the hot sun,
stuck in the middle of the safeway parking lot,
he says, "yes, he needs help" when asked,
"he needs to be wheeled to the shade", he softly moans

but he does all the heavy wheeling as I push
when he gasps for spare change, he will get the $5 USD,
then leave his uneaten take out that someone else he met in the parking lot bought him.
he will keep the $5 USD.

stinking in the hot sun
looked as if he had been good looking once
making his money in the parking lot

Excited to make the $40 CAD,
not at all net of any uncharged packaging, shipping
or taxes,
Excited to make the $40 CAD
can always be counted to be

comfortable with trudeau,
uncomfortable with anyone vocal about their discomfort with trudeau

and to know the correct placement of commas, semicolons, and periods
never using the exclamation point
or regarding unhappiness,
other than his own

but we can't recross the creaky bridge
or get the $5 USD back
or ever care about $40 CAD
we can't uncross the creaky bridge

as sad as it is
that is the way hell has to be
the way you have to be

the palm of mine you hold
swear to never let go
for adeep pit  i shall fall in
apit with no stears
and forever i will be gone in your life

swear that the judges shall not separate us
but let he who takes life separate us on the cross roads
promise that the tree of our affection willnot be cut down by ahomo spiens
please swear

for no human knows what the future holds
dont promise abright future
but promise ahappy now
please swear to never let go
BY CLEVER.N

To truly have sentient validations or to believe in thoughts that might mystify or make eccentric dreams a reality

Services and demeanor and clouded judgement of the askance world of armistice eternal

    may take a turn

More over false identities proven from one's mirrored look at self identity

Senses degrade, eternity splays the convictions of the absurd you once believed after they were heard

and frail thoughts turn and turn as they burn

Acceptance of well fought ideals breathe life both quickly and slowly into you

What wise distances' once imposed now narrowly escape a belligerence at the door

Look abright full of colors directed at the sun and yourself

into severe torrents of endurance and hate you find the realms

All worlds seek haste and make for hopes of a divine perception

Yet alone we find our souls enduring until vanity and deliverance

take hold of perceptions