The Great Outdoors

Doors open every which way
and it's impossible to escape you
since you are behind everyone of them.

The overflowing cascade
that is your hair
the splendor of the sun at noon
that is your smile
and the ever present flawless work of art
that is your body.
The gorgeous landscape of your chest
needless to say how much I love the view.
The great outdoors lives
and breathes within you.

Let me take you indoors
so I could breathe you at dawn
take off the weight of all those weary kisses
and slowly nourish me in your lips.
Let me spend an eternity
attached to your hips.
Let our anatomies condense into one another
creating record setting heat.
Let me taste the warmth of your mouth
and feel the cold of your feet.

Your implacable thighs,
your indomitable abdomen
the pearls of your eyes,

your button nose and pillow cheeks.
The softness of your hands
as your fingers run all over me.

The flirtatious ways of your walk
inhaling your fresh essence in the air
with your aura by my side
knocking down the door to my lair
and awake from my self-imposed hibernation
to dedicate this loving prose in ode
to Mother Nature's greatest creation.

Like an impatient Great White
I can still sense your flesh when I can't see
devouring everything in sight
and this hunger towards you it leads
because my waters are yours
I can smell your thick blood
algae, seaweed or other life forms
are not nearly enough
to keep me from craving you
and fulfilling this unfulfilling love
to find a way to repress
what my flinching body has become
from the Savannah to the Sahara
I can't suffice this longing
night, afternoon or morning
for your great outdoors.

foam floral caps, work of wet hydrangea,        

                          or pulse of caucasian lilacs in a sky-relieved frieze.        

                                   cambric pennons swag reconsidering      

                                          margins of wimpling burn,      

                                        wherein the stars…twiring stars,    

                                    the declining stars, moon and planets        

                                                            tur­ned--



                                      purchase light with morning-hands:        

                                         ­         green-bedizened;      

                                              amber trammeling bud.      

                                          absolve qualm suffusing tyre,      

                                             violet’s violent leniency--        

                                            a­nd feel, o’bask! in velvet      

                                                   ­ flume of veins,        

                                          as beams of conspiracy raise      

                                                  to­ post and lintel,      

                                         crutching a young god’s legs--



                                      and feel, o’supplicate!  bathe in      

                                                day’s anatomies,      

                                   til greave deposit in lacunary sleeves,    

                                   and a genuflecting sun bow eternally--

This not quite the underground, but still a strange corridor-
Scurrying in skirts and argyle and
Two-piece research paper suits.
They get together in the new Underground, they
Smoke old memories and sit in a stoner semicircle
To listen to old attendance records.

Humming the anecdotal lark, a man with a  prim tie
Rises and steps into the middle to slam. Over the deafening
Hookah comes David Copperfield.
Hello Voltaire, have you brought your
Reading glasses? The secret anatomies
Held in the inked atomies

Are all we come for. Let us in on this electric
Canvas. Let us paint out plots of plots that
All of us have known,
Around and underneath, and speak out our
Crayon set opinions, to tell the dim-eyed boys and girls
About in detail later. Ooh, say eight o’clock?

this is now your

        a
         r
          m

      and all the fingers now mashed for
   love is an ellipsis
    
    and these are now her
       l o i n s
        and there
        a flower untouched
         by the somersault
          of summer
           and *** only a folly
            of fools
             there is only this.
               poetry of the senses
                that when we both
                 die, i have gone,
                  and she is still
                   alive.

Enslave me for I wish not be free
Do what you wish and ravage me

Relinquish my freedom my only treasure
I'll trade it all to drown in this pleasure

I succumb to all of your fantasies
Create art from lust with our anatomies

By Larry Ladd



Oh, I would have a lot of fun
If I were a number 1.
Still, I eat that second hero.
My profile is a number 0.
I cinch my belt to hide my weight.
I only look like a number 8.
At “Attention!” I straighten my spine.
I only manage a number 9.
They say “At ease.” I’m in a fix.
My **** drops down to a number 6.
Oh, I would have a lot of fun
If I were a number 1.



My ego wants to be a capital I,
But I guess I’m not that sort of guy.
My gut droops over my belt, you see,
So I look more like a capital P.
Say, I would not mind a capital R.
Then I could be an adult film star.
But that’s not likely, what’s to do?
**** I look like a capital Q.
So I’ll stay dressed because I know
I really am a capital O.

with my discarded faith
faithful friends, will you confess
to which you would tear your shadow:
to know there never was a god
or to know your prayers transmit as white noise*

faithful i know they will remain
as for friends, well, i do not really know
so i never asked, nor ever will  

still, it awes me of the human condition
to worship and seek portents of blessings
whose arrival the faithful rationalize
as happening on some holy time table and line
instead of the chance and probabilities
like let’s say of winning the lotto mega jackpot  

i have read persons proclaim
after having missed the bus or plane
that afterwards fell to a ravine or mountain
of how divine was the intervention  

i wanted to shake their hands
they must have been so special
to be saved, blessed and loved
while hundreds were ******.

without a muse i stand
staring below my well
with the coin in my hand
a gathering gravity of sweat

with parched throat and sun bitten skin
the waters stir a delicate invite:
to wash away the gathered dust and ashes,
dilute even minute traces of yesterdays
from soiling each new day,
immerse out the cold of last night
where, in her deep dark
i stripped and whipped passion
free of my longing and desires

synapse and nerves, signals  
fire fingertips to claim
the points of a star
to burn with friction
between pen and paper  

but since desire craves
no longer nor again
for warmth and affection,
slender fingers transform  
into a fist trapping
black holes and deaths of suns
for the rhythm of wrist.

against the motto: write little; do it well -
sure, let's fill galoshes with frogs and slugs and
seawater - fry a pancake, eat a leotard -
play chess using our toes -
do all those things, but never get a brimful's
worth of insight into waterfalls
or volcanoes interrupting the goody-two-shoes'
lives in the market sq. of Pompeii -
let's do that, let's do that, write sparingly,
let's not gesticulate at the void like
what's missing at the para-Olympics -
two blind men boxing, lights out already?
throw a torso into the swimming pool!
misery... and the funniest comedy - you
could almost get tired, but it doesn't tire,
you were expecting a mile long walk -
now you're running a ******* marathon,
hyphen (or the hanging pause) -
just yesterday, a minor virus on word,
font turned into Vendetta from Times New Roman,
and this ******... ¶... everywhere, each line
a new paragraph, who's he?
Mr. ¶ or Mr. Pillow-Crow - piquant like
a radish in pickle acidity - before
writing the invoice a good 10 minutes trying
to make Mr. ¶ disappear - long ago it was
like so:

¶xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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¶xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
**­xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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but it changed into

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         xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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(cheaper print charges, could allow more blank space)

nah, forget writing well but very little,
learn the trombone or the viola instead,
write a lot, write a lot to make mistakes,
become Jack the Decathlon inquirer,
all the trades, master at none,
splash in a rainbow, some thunder and
some sleet, give it a proper variation juggle
and wait for the chuckles brigade -
now instead of writing about reading
we're writing about giving advice,
i'm not, pronoun usage can be misleading,
i'm giving myself self-assurance,
yeah, in a car accident, whiplash,
i'm gonna bank about 2 thousand quid in insurance,
and i'm working it out from the citation
of Alexander Dumas, Athos - "the best advice
is to not give advice", and boy did that morph
from " " into ' ', i.e. my own -
the best plan is to not have a plan -
while they write their systematisation and
skeletal fiction with unsurprising anatomies
i'm writing and i'm like... huh? i didn't plan this!
well, no shame in that, no beetroot face,
unlike squeezing a wet **** on a rush-hour
commute home on the tube -
write a lot, so you can write ****** pieces,
write a lot, so you can become a simile of a missing person,
write a lot, so they don't find you (no paranoia intended,
not really about some obscure government organisation),
write a lot, just so you can write mistakes,
don't become a prim-bow-tie perfectionist.

You told stories of the UV index when it resembled the color blue,
of animal anatomies, the size of Earth, forgetting your manners.

I told you a story of maggots swarming at the flesh of swine.
I told you a story of a violent child finding maturity, maybe.
I told you a story of the post-apocalyptic world while walking through a pond.
They all seemed appropriate at the time.

Then I hated you for the ***** that was on the rug you left me to
clean, from too much red and too many tears that you left me to appease.  

We wrote and we compromised.
Looking back we never knew why.
I could hear you whisper when you thought I couldn’t.

We had wins and losses in the reds and whites.
You spoke like you knew the ins and outs of the alpha and the omega.

Your lucky number was nowhere near that number four
but both implied perfection. I was an unfortunate first.
I studied too hard for things that wouldn’t be graded,

like which strings pulled at what, and grassy trails promising return.

You complained about the snow,
so I removed myself quickly.
Everything you left me with would just have to suffice.

I abandoned the thought
Of fleeting
When I came to my
Senses
All I could
Hear,
Feel,
Smell,
See,
Taste;
Was you
And the way you
Pulled me close
My nerves
Held on edge
Waiting for the right time
To devour
Your stimuli
And our anatomies
Collided
Into a single burst of
Entropy

and though it aches
with a certain sweetness i indulge
when a flame has lost its glow and warmth
of what is stolen, or replaced,
i do not know-
i cannot find the shape for words
nor the proper name for the silence
for the fate of friendship
forged from strangeness
when time comes for the harvest
of what was found that has been bound
in this lifetime to be lost

i remind myself of what i know:
of the fate of things,
the price that must be paid
in the barter and trade
for the joys and sorrows of living
yet even as the pieces fit and shape
the balance struck between the scales
i could not find aything as i go on
not knowing if regret was born
with a different voice and face

The succulence of words
whispered, is like a breeze
swishing through luxuriant
blades of thick green grass
brushing against unadorned
anatomies dancing amidst
life's simple pleasures

lay not in the grasses- for the listing of the world(s)


wash the backs of your knees

prethunderstorm, arm-deep into the buoyant ions
wet molars      slipping backwards         drying out
girls running track
(in and around buildings)
>throwing up everyday

acid backs of teeth decaying me.
like the mold on the white windowsill-
out in open airs
the film you think might be just
dirt.
like the unexplained black things under your fingernail anatomies

like grabbing the wrong towel

putting on a clean t-shirt
a necklace clasp caught in the back of your hair.      cutting it

gentle and godless
head-damp in the big nowhere
like an out-patient gun   waiting to send its children home





/

“it is not your job to interpret tears.”

There are ones that seem to fix everything.
Ones that gently shift the quiet tightening of your stomach to your chest all the way up to the microscopic peaks of your eyelashes
So the tears that follow might dilute the smile splayed so comfortably across your eager lips.
You decipher your interpretation of the human psyche through a screen
and make sense of the way we work with a language consisting of the perfect combination of camera and conversation
And stories
People
Stories about people
Movies about stories about people
Because what could possibly be more captivating
More beautifully unattainable than capturing that amazingly horribly complicated and endless plethora of confusing entities we labelled “emotions" caught inside the specks of dust brought to life by the light of a projection beam

In smiles exchanged through eyelines coupled with passing glances
Things that we know but yet somehow choose to forget
Things we hold familiar yet still at a safe distance too close to call far
Things that define us under the word “human” in an improbable world where the only certainty is knowing that we will never fully understand the sheer tremendous mass of what it really means to be alive.
What it really means to hurt.
What it means to know that there is unimaginable pain hidden away in bastions of solitude we never have enough energy to track down
Or place paper flag pins on just to remember where they were last seen.

But in these moments of utterly unmitigated bewilderment as to what the **** is happening inside our heads,
There is that same recognisable sense of comfort we can find in a bed
shared with someone else whose story we haven’t yet read
Shadowed by waves of apprehension tangled with fear and sheer joy at being reminded of what it is like to feel the unabashed velocity of every single one of your heartbeats again
dulled only by the confines of your sacred home of flesh and bone.

We gather without question
in darkened rooms only lit momentarily with hushed flickers
and the soft kiss of a silent stream of light carrying the burden of a story on it’s back
We sit the same way in synchronised straightforward stares
because sometimes we find it impossible to turn and face what it is we are most afraid of knowing
So within 3 walls and a never-ending silver plane of infinite realities
Some communicate with hesitant hands
clumsily clashing amid every popcorn induced action
And lingering touches in places we know all too well but are terrified of letting the other into
Memorise the way it felt to have shoulders happily heavy with holding a head up high for 90 minutes
and the fading imprint of their fingers as they grazed the small space of your lower back while you both exited stage left
Eyes dizzy and dreamy with what they had just witnessed
Thoughts shared and thoughts kept secret
Locked away for safe keeping because there are some revelations that have to deepen before they can be divulged to the company still beside you
already wondering when the next time will be before the credits have even concluded
“We should do this again sometime.”

And sometimes it’s easier to watch other people doing what we don’t do best
To see carefully constructed characters holding broken mirrors to our shattered internal anatomies
To see them go through things we ache to be reminded of
Or things we could never have considered imagining for the sake of understanding
We will continue to watch these people succeed within limits we can only dream of
But with every scene we see ourselves in
With every subdued smile and uncontrolled laugh
will come more hope
With every subtle tear and inconspicuous frown
will come more wisdom
As we continue to teach ourselves with the help of those who have made it their vocation to teach life through a language of moving pictures
To show us how to dissect the pieces of our world we don’t know how to disassemble  

We will keep trying to make sense of where exactly it is we come in the grand scheme of the ever-changing eclectic cosmos

I start my search in a cinema.

plum night
plum veil
plum skin taut under teeth,
snap-
flesh then nourishment,
consumed with red precision
besides the night inked sea.
Relinquishing the philosophies
and the heavy, coexisted before
in flaw, misguided and resistant,
now surely
melodic intertwined anatomies
crafting the mid-morning mosaic.

This manifest with
shifting shades:
festive touch
and horrific liberation;
indirect and permissible
eye.
unnerving
undeviating
unconditional
unraveling
p­lum.

our skies appear to be so gloomy
like they're always going to turn into a storm
a storm that will swipe the hopeless thoughts away
i used to look at life differently
i used to not look at life at all
but now i see clearly
the splattered like paint that are our eyes and clouds
the merged shapes and lines that are our houses and anatomies
i know now that all this will pass by like a blur
like it always does
my father tries to spend as much time with my little brothers
when i refuse to, he says
when they've grown up, i'll miss their little selves
oh, i can't guarantee i will
but i do think that he does this
because i've grown up
and he's left to miss my little self
because the people i don't recognize at reunions always tell me how big i am now
and he smiles the same smile every time at them that they seem to understand
and then he shoots me a very different one i've yet to understand

At the edge of the wood
And draw maps of what we believe
Our anatomies will look like
Before and after the war

It's a room of gold lights
he is drawing lush nectar
the fear is drawing his blood
the admiration is enslaving
the fingertips are tracing
every inch,
through the cloudy nights.
The ears are savouring
each whisper,
they are savouring anatomies
perhaps the creator's
greatest mights,
Perishment is consuming him
he desires yet he doesn't
for what good is fulfilment
if it didn't birth from yearning.

From inter-lunar dreams
Of the illumined sea
Through the wind flowing folds
A storm is poured
Waves wake sounds
A loud whirlwind harmony
Solid as crystal
A sphere within sphere
With a thousand motions
Of self destroying swiftness
The secrets
Of Earths deep Heart
Her melancholy ruins
The anatomies of the unknown
Like my words, they are no more
Filling your empty annihilation love
Its nature is its own divine control..

Gypsy

From inter-lunar dreams
Of the illumined sea
Through the wind flowing folds
A storm is poured
And waves wake sounds
A loud whirlwind harmony
Solid as crystal
A sphere within sphere
With a thousand motions
Of self destroying swiftness
The secrets
Of Earth's deep heart
Her melancholy ruins
The anatomies of the unknown
Like my words, they are no more
Filling your empty annihilation love
Its nature is its own divine control

Gypsy