NOTE TO THE READER – Once Apun a Time

This yarn is a flossy fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together, adorned with fur-ther braided tails of human frailty. The looms were loosed, purling frantically this febrile fable...

Some pearls may be found wanting – unwanted or unwonted – piled or hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy...

The threads of this untethered tissue may be fastened, or be forgotten, or else be stranded by the readers and left unravelling in the knotted corners of their minds...

'twill be perchance that some may  laugh or loll in loopy stitches, else be torn or ripped apart, while others might just simply say “ ’tis made of hole cloth”, “sew what” or “cant seam to get the needle point”...,

yes, a proper disentanglement may take you for a spin on twisted twines of any strings you feel might need attaching or detaching…

picking knits, some may think that
       such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land’,
       such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land’’,
       such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land’’…

and this may all be true, if credence be dis-carded…

such is that gooey gossamer which vails the human mind...

and thus was born the teasing title of this fabricated Fantasy...

                                NEVER LAND

An ancient man named Peter Pan, disguised but from the past,
with feathered cap and tunic wrap and sabre’s sailed his last.
Though fully grown, on dust he’s flown and perched upon a mast
atop the Walls around the sprawls, unvisited and vast -
and all the while with bitter smile he’s watching us aghast.

As day begins, a spindle spins, it weaves a wanton web;
like puckered prunes, like midday moons, like yesterday’s celebs,
we scrape and *****, we seldom hope - he watches while we ebb:

The ***** grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -
he quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:
“You’ve tried and toyed, but can’t avoid or shun the pale monsoons,
it’s sink or swim as echoed dim in swinging door saloons”.
The laughingstocks are flinging rocks at ball-and-chained baboons.

While ghetto boys are looting toys preparing for their doom
and Mademoiselles are weaving shells on tapestries with looms,
Cathedral cats and rafter rats are peering in the room,
where ragged strangers stoop for change, for coppers in the gloom,
whose thoughts are more upon the doors of crypts in Christmas bloom,
and gold doubloons and silver spoons that tempt beyond the tomb.

Mid *** shots from vacant lots, that strike and ricochet
a painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
to tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
and indiscreet upon the street she gives her pride away
to any guy who’s passing by with time and cash to pay.
(In concert halls beyond the Walls, unjaded girls ballet,
with flowered thoughts of Camelot and dreams of cabarets.)

Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a ****** titters twice,
and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.

The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.

A *** called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.

The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with ****.
The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
at least imbrue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.

The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.

Old Dan, he’s drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
“I’m feeling pain and crying rain and flailing in the flood
and no god’s there inclined to care I’m always coughing blood.”
The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.

Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
“The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”

A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry ***** -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
then stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

So Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood cling, splattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, *****, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.

The eyes behind the head inclined reflect a universe
of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
of ****** tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
while poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.

A sodden dreg with wooden leg is dancing for a dime
to sacred psalms and other balms, all ticking with the time.
He’s 22, he’s almost through, he’s melted in his prime,
his bane is firm, the canker worm dissolves his brain to slime.
With slanted scales and twisted jails, his life’s his only crime.

A beggar clump beside a dump has pencil box in hand.
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned,
with no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
The backyard blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
and Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

While all night queens carve figurines in gelatine and jade,
behind a door and on the floor a deal is finally made;
the painted girl with flaxen curl has plied again her trade
and now the care within her stare has turned a darker shade.
Her lack of guile and parting smile are cutting like a blade.

Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned,
their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.
With no excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
His eyes despair behind the stare, he’s never had a friend
to talk about his hidden doubt of how the world will end -
to die alone on empty throne and other Fates impend.

And soon the boys chase phantom joys and, presto when they’re gone,
the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features drawn,
no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
- like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, in fairy dust chiffon -
with twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

A boomerang with ebon fang is soaring through the air
to pierce and breach the heart of each and then is called despair.
And as it grows it will oppose and fester everywhere.
And yet the crop that’s at the top will still be unaware.

A lad is stopped by roving cops, who shoot in disregard.
His face is black, he’s on his back, a breeze is breathing hard,
he bleeds and dies, his mama cries, the screaming sky is scarred,
the sheriff and his squad at hand are laughing in the yard.

Now Railroad Bob’s done lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a ****, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.

Bob walks the streets and begs for eats or little jobs for trying
“the answer’s no, you ought to know, no use for you applying,
and don’t be sad, it aint that bad, it’s soon your time for dying.”
The air is thick, his baby’s sick, the cries are multiplying.

Bob’s wife’s in town, she’s broken down, she’s ranting with a fury,
their baby coughs, the doctor scoffs, the snow flies all a’ flurry.
Hard work’s the sin that’s done them in, they skirmish, scrimp and scurry,
and midnight dreams abound with screams. Bob knows he needs to hurry.
It’s getting late, Bob’s tempting fate, his choices cruel and blurry;
he chooses gas, they breathe their last, there’s no more cause to worry.

Per protocols near ivied walls arrayed in sage festoons,
the Countess quips, while giving tips, to crimson caped buffoons:
“To rise from mass to upper class, like twirly bird tycoons,
you stretch the treat you always eat, with tiny tablespoons”

A learned leach begins to teach (with songs upon a liar):
“Within the thrall of Satan’s call to yield to dim desire
lie wicked lies that tantalize the flesh and blood Vampire;
abiding souls with self-control in everyday Hellfire
will rest assured, when once interred, in afterlife’s Empire”.
These words reweave the make believe, while slugs in salt expire,
baptised in tears and rampant fears, all mirrored in the mire.

It’s getting hot on private yachts, though far from desert plains -
“Well, come to think, we’ll have a drink”, Sir Captain Hook ordains.
Beyond the blame and pit of shame, outside the Walled domains,
they pet their pups and raise their cups, take sips of pale champagnes
to touch the tips of languid lips with pearls of purple rains.

Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’)”

Arrayed in shawls with crystal *****, and gazing at the moons,
wiled women tease with melodies and spooky loony tunes
while making toasts to holey ghosts on rainy day lagoons:
“Well, here’s to you and others too, embedded in the dunes,
avoid the stares, avoid the snares, avoid the veiled typhoons
and fend your way as every day, ’gainst heavy heeled dragoons.”

The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.

While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”

With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.

The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches after while”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.

The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
(“the last are first, the rich are cursed” - the leached remain the least)
with crossing signs and ****** wines and consecrated yeast.
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and, bored, he nods to Eden East
but doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.

The sinking sun’s at last undone, the sky glows faintly red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.

Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
sate appetites on foggy nights and days like crystalline.
A migrant feeds on gnats and weeds with fingers far from clean
and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
her baby ***** an arid flux and fades away unseen.

The circus gongs excite the throngs in nighttime Never Land –
they swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
while Acrobats step pitapat across the shifting sands
and Lady Fat adores her cat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the band,
ask crimson Clowns with painted frowns, to lend a mutant hand,
while Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
lure minds entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents sell black tusk contraband
to Sycophants in regiments who overflow the stands,
but No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonely Crowd disbands,
down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their threadbare rags in strands,
and Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.

The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.

The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.

At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.

The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from  Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”

The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...

Prolog:
Foreplay opens with an aphrodisiac dubbed the mind
caressing private chambers with passion, over time
words stimulating nerve-endings for the ideal tease
like the skin dripping of honey from the nectar of bees
exploiting the fragrances of scented oils and balms
or maybe vib’ing lyrics inducing a seductive calm
compelling forces bombard the intellectual’s sanity
as the proximity of the blackhole distorts humanity

Love’s Play:
Costars entwine heated bodies for love’s embrace
as moments become endless as vectors of subspace
sporadic movements take the form of blissful spasms
while the players combine to mold a single plasm
ringing chimes fulfill the awareness with sensations
too diverse to classify for logical deliberations
yet finally, the mountaintop of cliffs can be reached
where there is no retreat and no return from its breach

Epilog:
Aftermath closes basking from the physical exertion
as two kindred spirits epitomize timeless insertion
gazing deeply into the abyss of the partner’s soul
only to find comfort and compassion ruling the role
can this be the earthly heaven that one truly beholds
written in the historic words as the heavens foretold
feelings ignite once again burning deeply within
opening yet another intriguing act, one must attend.

715

The World—feels Dusty
When We stop to Die—
We want the Dew—then—
Honors—taste dry—

Flags—vex a Dying face—
But the least Fan
Stirred by a friend’s Hand—
Cools—like the Rain—

Mine be the Ministry
When they Thirst comes—
And Hybla Balms—
Dews of Thessaly, to fetch—

Hands are for healing,
Alleviating, soothing,
Balms for calming,
Gently restoring,
Curative hands,
From many lands,
To salve and ease,
Free remedies,
Hands for comforting,
Hands are for healing.

He is the inconvenient truth,
And always goes unnoticed.
I guess it's for the better,
I would hate to be ****** into,
His heart he hides,
Under the vacant smiles.

He is the boy who tells white lies,
And balms his good intentions.
I want him to tell me so,
I hate the fact he doesn't.
His mouth just seeps sugar,
What he thinks I want to hear.

He is a constant misconception,
And prides himself on his demeanour.
They think of him as nice, or kind,
I hate the fact I see the latter.
His delusions of how things should be,
Will never cloud my judgement.

For what I hate the most about him,
Is that I know who he really is,
And it's sad,
he wouldn't recognise reflection.

Venus, when her son was lost,
Cried him up and down the coast,
In hamlets, palaces, and parks,
And told the truant by his marks,
Golden curls, and quiver, and bow;—
This befell long ago.
Time and tide are strangely changed,
Men and manners much deranged;
None will now find Cupid latent
By this foolish antique patent.
He came late along the waste,
Shod like a traveller for haste,
With malice dared me to proclaim him,
That the maids and boys might name him.

Boy no more, he wears all coats,
Frocks, and blouses, capes, capôtes,
He bears no bow, or quiver, or wand,
Nor chaplet on his head or hand:
Leave his weeds and heed his eyes,
All the rest he can disguise.
In the pit of his eyes a spark
Would bring back day if it were dark,
And,—if I tell you all my thought,
Though I comprehend it not,—
In those unfathomable orbs
Every function he absorbs;
He doth eat, and drink, and fish, and shoot,
And write, and reason, and compute,
And ride, and run, and have, and hold,
And whine, and flatter, and regret,
And kiss, and couple, and beget,
By those roving eye-***** bold;
Undaunted are their courages,
Right Cossacks in their forages;
Fleeter they than any creature,
They are his steeds and not his feature,
Inquisitive, and fierce, and fasting,
Restless, predatory, hasting,—
And they pounce on other eyes,
As lions on their prey;
And round their circles is writ,
Plainer than the day,
Underneath, within, above,
Love, love, love, love.
He lives in his eyes,
There doth digest, and work, and spin,
And buy, and sell, and lose, and win;
He rolls them with delighted motion,
Joy-tides swell their mimic ocean.
Yet holds he them with tortest rein,
That they may seize and entertain
The glance that to their glance opposes,
Like fiery honey ****** from roses.

He palmistry can understand,
Imbibing virtue by his hand
As if it were a living root;
The pulse of hands will make him mute;
With all his force he gathers balms
Into those wise thrilling palms.

Cupid is a casuist,
A mystic, and a cabalist,
Can your lurking Thought surprise,
And interpret your device;
Mainly versed in occult science,
In magic, and in clairvoyance.
Oft he keeps his fine ear strained,
And reason on her tiptoe pained,
For aery intelligence,
And for strange coincidence.
But it touches his quick heart
When Fate by omens takes his part,
And chance-dropt hints from Nature's sphere
Deeply soothe his anxious ear.

Heralds high before him run,
He has ushers many a one,
Spreads his welcome where he goes,
And touches all things with his rose.
All things wait for and divine him,—
How shall I dare to malign him,
Or accuse the god of sport?—
I must end my true report,
Painting him from head to foot,
In as far as I took note,
Trusting well the matchless power
Of this young-eyed emperor
Will clear his fame from every cloud,
With the bards, and with the crowd.

He is wilful, mutable,
Shy, untamed, inscrutable,
Swifter-fashioned than the fairies,
Substance mixed of pure contraries,
His vice some elder virtue's token,
And his good is evil spoken.
Failing sometimes of his own,
He is headstrong and alone;
He affects the wood and wild,
Like a flower-hunting child,
Buries himself in summer waves,
In trees, with beasts, in mines, and caves,
Loves nature like a horned cow,
Bird, or deer, or cariboo.

Shun him, nymphs, on the fleet horses!
He has a total world of wit,
O how wise are his discourses!
But he is the arch-hypocrite,
And through all science and all art,
Seeks alone his counterpart.
He is a Pundit of the east,
He is an augur and a priest,
And his soul will melt in prayer,
But word and wisdom are a snare;
Corrupted by the present toy,
He follows joy, and only joy.

There is no mask but he will wear,
He invented oaths to swear,
He paints, he carves, he chants, he prays,
And holds all stars in his embrace,
Godlike, —but 'tis for his fine pelf,
The social quintessence of self.
Well, said I, he is hypocrite,
And folly the end of his subtle wit,
He takes a sovran privilege
Not allowed to any liege,
For he does go behind all law,
And right into himself does draw,
For he is sovranly allied.
Heaven's oldest blood flows in his side,
And interchangeably at one
With every king on every throne,
That no God dare say him nay,
Or see the fault, or seen betray;
He has the Muses by the heart,
And the Parcæ all are of his part.

His many signs cannot be told,
He has not one mode, but manifold,
Many fashions and addresses,
Piques, reproaches, hurts, caresses,
Action, service, badinage,
He will preach like a friar,
And jump like Harlequin,
He will read like a crier,
And fight like a Paladin.
Boundless is his memory,
Plans immense his term prolong,
He is not of counted age,
Meaning always to be young.
And his wish is intimacy,
Intimater intimacy,
And a stricter privacy,
The impossible shall yet be done,
And being two shall still be one.
As the wave breaks to foam on shelves,
Then runs into a wave again,
So lovers melt their sundered selves,
Yet melted would be twain.

“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
    Comest to daunt me!
Wrapt not in Eastern balms,
But with thy fleshless palms
Stretched, as if asking alms,
    Why dost thou haunt me?”

Then, from those cavernous eyes
Pale flashes seemed to rise,
As when the Northern skies
    Gleam in December;
And, like the water’s flow
Under December’s snow,
Came a dull voice of woe
    From the heart’s chamber.

“I was a Viking old!
My deeds, though manifold,
No Skald in song has told,
    No Saga taught thee!
Take heed, that in thy verse
Thou dost the tale rehearse,
Else dread a dead man’s curse;
    For this I sought thee.

“Far in the Northern Land,
By the wild Baltic’s strand,
I, with my childish hand,
    Tamed the gerfalcon;
And, with my skates fast-bound,
Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,
That the poor whimpering hound
    Trembled to walk on.

“Oft to his frozen lair
Tracked I the grisly bear,
While from my path the hare
    Fled like a shadow;
Oft through the forest dark
Followed the were-wolf’s bark,
Until the soaring lark
    Sang from the meadow.

“But when I older grew,
Joining a corsair’s crew,
O’er the dark sea I flew
    With the marauders.
Wild was the life we led;
Many the souls that sped,
Many the hearts that bled,
    By our stern orders.

“Many a wassail-bout
Wore the long Winter out;
Often our midnight shout
    Set the ***** crowing,
As we the Berserk’s tale
Measured in cups of ale,
Draining the oaken pail,
    Filled to o’erflowing.

“Once as I told in glee
Tales of the stormy sea,
Soft eyes did gaze on me,
    Burning yet tender;
And as the white stars shine
On the dark Norway pine,
On that dark heart of mine
    Fell their soft splendor.

“I wooed the blue-eyed maid,
Yielding, yet half afraid,
And in the forest’s shade
    Our vows were plighted.
Under its loosened vest
Fluttered her little breast,
Like birds within their nest
    By the hawk frighted.

“Bright in her father’s hall
Shields gleamed upon the wall,
Loud sang the minstrels all,
    Chanting his glory;
When of old Hildebrand
I asked his daughter’s hand,
Mute did the minstrels stand
    To hear my story.

“While the brown ale he quaffed,
Loud then the champion laughed,
And as the wind-gusts waft
    The sea-foam brightly,
So the loud laugh of scorn,
Out of those lips unshorn,
From the deep drinking-horn
    Blew the foam lightly.

“She was a Prince’s child,
I but a Viking wild,
And though she blushed and smiled,
    I was discarded!
Should not the dove so white
Follow the sea-mew’s flight,
Why did they leave that night
    Her nest unguarded?

“Scarce had I put to sea,
Bearing the maid with me,
Fairest of all was she
    Among the Norsemen!
When on the white sea-strand,
Waving his armed hand,
Saw we old Hildebrand,
    With twenty horsemen.

“Then launched they to the blast,
Bent like a reed each mast,
Yet we were gaining fast,
    When the wind failed us;
And with a sudden flaw
Came round the gusty Skaw,
So that our foe we saw
    Laugh as he hailed us.

“And as to catch the gale
Round veered the flapping sail,
‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s hail,
    ‘Death without quarter!’
Mid-ships with iron keel
Struck we her ribs of steel;
Down her black hulk did reel
    Through the black water!

“As with his wings aslant,
Sails the fierce cormorant,
Seeking some rocky haunt,
    With his prey laden,—
So toward the open main,
Beating to sea again,
Through the wild hurricane,
    Bore I the maiden.

“Three weeks we westward bore,
And when the storm was o’er,
Cloud-like we saw the shore
    Stretching to leeward;
There for my lady’s bower
Built I the lofty tower,
Which, to this very hour,
  Stands looking seaward.

“There lived we many years;
Time dried the maiden’s tears;
She had forgot her fears,
    She was a mother;
Death closed her mild blue eyes,
Under that tower she lies;
Ne’er shall the sun arise
    On such another!

“Still grew my ***** then,
Still as a stagnant fen!
Hateful to me were men,
    The sunlight hateful!
In the vast forest here,
Clad in my warlike gear,
Fell I upon my spear,
    Oh, death was grateful!

“Thus, seamed with many scars,
Bursting these prison bars,
Up to its native stars
    My soul ascended!
There from the flowing bowl
Deep drinks the warrior’s soul,
Skoal! to the Northland! skoal!”
    Thus the tale ended.

1531

Above Oblivion’s Tide there is a Pier
And an effaceless “Few” are lifted there—
Nay—lift themselves—Fame has no Arms—
And but one smile—that meagres Balms—

Urns and odours bring away!
  Vapours, sighs, darken the day!
Our dole more deadly looks than dying;
  Balms and gums and heavy cheers,
  Sacred vials fill’d with tears,
And clamours through the wild air flying!

  Come, all sad and solemn shows,
  That are quick-eyed Pleasure’s foes!
  We convènt naught else but woes.

1629

Arrows enamored of his Heart—
Forgot to rankle there
And Venoms he mistook for Balms
disdained to rankle there—

Screaming your name into the winter winds,
the emptiness its own reply
Marked steps leading to a coven grove, faint crescent moonlight on the snow
in the small clearing, round water, clouded starlight watch above
Praying by a frozen forest pond at midnight
The spirits of the trees acknowledge my presence in their circle
I tell them I have come to see the darkest part of night
Turning up my palms, opening my hands and my heart and my mind
A human receiver, channeling the vibrations of the Earth
Sensations directed inwardly outwardly flow into action
Collecting branches and pine needles
Leaving them at your door, the fresh scent of cool mint and sap
Natural balms to sanctify a new reality

Priestess, I am sorry.
I turned my back on the faith. If only for a span,
But for absolute belief, it took me doubt
Doubt burnt down the church
But the spirit still resides in our hearts, Shakti
We felt the flames of the church on fire,
we watched as the edifice we constructed
crashed and burned around us
Invocations of death and pain, I heard and felt the despair from your mouth, my love, a hateful sword ran through me then, and I could only stand still, close my eyes, and die, as it penetrated us
Kali came to wipe the unreal away
What is left?
Benevolent Mother Goddess
Redeemer of My Universe
You are
I am your equal
Duad
Standing together to face the world
Building amphitheaters in the wood to recite inspirations derived from love
Let me bring you flowers
Let me be your hand
Let me be a swan by your side
Never leaving you again
Dependent on no one
Yet interdependent with each others entire universe
Our voices merging together into a song
By you, divine lover, this universe is borne,
my mother, my sister, my friend
You are my woman
In woman is the form of all things
There is no jewel rarer than you

It's Christmas Eve
and here I sit
drinking a drink
and giving a ****.

The mistletoe's hung
way up in the air
on the semi off-chance
that you'll give a care.

With stockings and trimmings
and **-hoes and tree
and candies and dandies
and gifts not for me.

So welcome to Christmas
a wonderful time
with tannins and balms
and lonely red wine.

“You tell that man that I’ve no more desire to speak with him than I would the devil himself!”
“You tell that man that I am very upset that he would come in here and interrupt this afternoon’s bingo game!”
“I mean, honestly!”

The administrator of
the nursing home looked at me nervously.
I looked back,
apologetic,
but undaunted.

“I just need information.”

“I need to know if she has any plans to go back home.”
“I need to know that if she does go home, she’ll have the proper equipment and support system in place, waiting for her when she arrives.”

The administrator walked back
toward the facility’s dining hall,
where the bingo game was in full swing.

(The executive whispered into an ear.)

A pair of elderly, cataract-laden eyes rolled,
then glared at me with a hostility that I could feel,
even all the way over by the nurse's station.

“The lady says that she plans to stay with us.”

I nodded, said my thanks, and walked back out into the cold.

This part of the job is always a bit surreal.

It makes me think of my mother.

She was the director of several nursing homes over the course of my youth.

The smells of these facilities is assaultive.

(Industrial cleaning products,
boiled vegetables,
assorted liniments and balms,
the faintest twinge of ***** in the nostrils.)

To me these places smell like memories
that go for long periods,
unrecalled,
unrecounted.

(School-age summers
spent in supply rooms,
marking supplies,
stacking them neatly,
like troops ready for deployment.)

Often the nursing home
is thought to be a horrendous destination.

I can understand that.

But, she wanted to stay
and I had interrupted the bingo game,
hadn’t I?

Tonight’s supper was roasted chicken,
mashed potatoes,
pickled beets on the side.

(I’d read as I’d entered.)

Maybe her sons and daughters
didn’t want her anymore.
Maybe they’d visit every afternoon at 4.
There was no way I’d ever know again for sure.  

But, I know why this afternoon’s task
made me smile,
stinging at the same time.

Because I’m Cynthia’s son.

*
-JBClaywell
© P&ZPublications 2018

If someone ever gets me a box of those little word magnets you can put on your fridge
I'll be gone for hours whenever I go to get a snack.
I love words.
I love the challenge of saying something meaningful
With a jumbled stack of them all scrambled up.
I love words.
Having them there to swirl around and make strings of
Like a child makes popcorn garlands for the Christmas tree
Comforts me
In a way that pulling them from thin air can't.
It marries my two soothing balms- expression and mindless motion.
If I see them in a friend's house or a store,
I disappear for... sometimes hours, to be frank.
My English teacher had them on the board.
I made myself late for the following class every day
Because I couldn't keep my fingers off those words.
Finding purchase, somehow,
Tactility,
It satisfies a wild craving in my heart
That mere thinking and typing just can't satiate.
It's really absurd.
Once I visited my friend,
And I wandered into her kitchen to get sodas for us both
And she found me there an hour later
Sliding little black and white type words
Along her stainless steal freezer compartment.
She said, "What are you doing?"
And I jumped, pulled back from some focused, faraway place,
And guiltily realized the sodas were warm.
I love words.
I love touching the things I love,
Feeling their existence.
I love limits on words,
I love figuring them out,
Because even with the tiniest amount of them
You CAN say what you need to say,
If only you distill the meaning to its essence.
I just... I really
Love
Words.
If I ever get my hands on those silly little magnets,
I honestly don't think I'll ever make it past the refrigerator door again.
That's why I don't buy them myself.

211

Come slowly—Eden!
Lips unused to Thee—
Bashful—sip thy Jessamines—
As the fainting Bee—

Reaching late his flower,
Round her chamber hums—
Counts his nectars—
Enters—and is lost in Balms.

I stood waiting for her I was told she would come
I stood waiting cold and numb
Numbed by the pain, tablets and lotions
Numbed by the hope of a notion
A notion that said I might find a cure
A cure that would let me lead a life I could finally endure

For my life has been one of repeated pain
Pain from the physical, emotional, where there is no gain
A life that is lived in between, of darkness and then sparkle
A life that is to my own heart no more than a debacle

I was told If I met her she could help me create
My own alchemy, a precious recipe that would make
A remedy that would soothe my soul allow it to rest
Allow my physical body to stop undergoing this continual test

I heard movement come through the blackness
Towards me to meet, a beautiful figure, dazzling and complete
Her beauty was breathtaking her adornment a delight
She illuminated my world at once and reignited my own light

She has a familiarity that my body recognizes, a bejeweled
Being who lights up my world with her smile and surprises
Even me as I watch and stare as she moves through the darkness
With such knowledge and without care

I follow her light down passageways and past keeps
And notice parts of my body awakening like from a sleep
A body that wants to talk to me and say
That authenticity is the alchemy from which you have strayed

Your body has such wisdom its waiting to be read.
This is the alchemy you search for, its that voice in your head
It is an illuminated manuscript  gilded with the finest gold, gold of your own making
your life experience is the beauty you need to hold.

The magic is in your intuition, that you hold deep within yourself
You follow this beautiful lady and yet she is a mirror of your own self
She came because you finally called her and she sits in front of you now
Administering her balms that lingers on your skin, it caresses the pain you feel
and smoothes you from within.

But this is a balm of your own making , made out of all your own pain
It sparkles with the light you have been seeking it is your own beauty,
Hopelessness and pain.

So look no longer for the alchemists hand, behold what you see in the
mirror and be glad that you stand, for you are a beauty to behold, a life
to be treasured, a life that is lived in, a life that can be measured.

You wonder why I dwell in the dark,
You wonder why I never call back,
You wonder why I be a lost sane,
I wonder if I’ll ever see you again,

Evading the city flare,
Evading to the mellow lair,
Evading the caramelised routine,
Evading a contagious whine,

A thing of pity, years and hence,
A sweet  obsession, that only commence,
You wonder if I have lost every sense,
I wonder if I ever made any sense,

You wonder why I invest so much,
You wonder why I run on loss,
You wonder what became of us,
I wonder if it's fantasy or lust,

Come! Come! Sure let's reshape our maps,
What has been and maybe perhaps,
Swoosh! Whoosh! Be undone and done!
How awfully convenient, is it not, hon?!

Exuberant creatures they flatter me often,
Those lofty lot, enticing I find none,
Sure I shall allow an unbiased  trial!
Sheath the heart, her eyes a biased thrill!

Never mention my poached heart,
And we'll get along just fine, love,
And be forever entwined,
In that same old fairytale, concubine!

You wonder why I am a repugnant aristocrat,
You wonder why I am a narcissist in grave dearth,
You wonder why I am a deception to change,
I wonder how passionately I was never your gain...

Of course I am not an island of my own,
Of course I am but a mere fraction of the whole,
Oh! Tempting balms! they embrace me so,
Quite the way you wrapped me Cozy, long ago,

You wonder why I am stuck in a rut,
You wonder why I choose not to be smart,
You wonder why I wait without disgust,
I wonder where my rescue boat is lost….

You wonder why I let the years fly by,
You wonder why I live in the bygone and deny,
You wonder why I never forget your voice,
You wonder why I keep every memory alive,

I wonder if I'll ever see you again,
I wonder if it will all be the same.....

Thank you, my friend;
         for reaching out
into the night
for seeing me through
into morning's light
         a little flash
of my phone light
Thank you, friend
      for letting me know I am seen
for letting me know
       how much I mean
for communicating,
    across the wires
how much I'm dear,
         that I'm desired
This means more sometimes,
       than one could ever know
especially when your very bed
has become an ice floe
especially when the one
who is supposed to warm you
embrace who you are
and enjoy, not ignore you
who is supposed to ignite you
with kisses
keep your body hot  
is next to you, but really not
I can extend my hand
and hope to tease
Instead draw it back,
      shocked by the freeze
For the sheets have become icy
arctic winds howl
my cat could be a seal
or polar bear on the prowl
the breath from your snore
rises up as steam
for it is so **** cold
in this iced-over scene
I'm so sick and tired
of this gelid room
So weary of my heart
being pierced by harpoons
I have tried to work my magic
apply balms to the scars
to prevent the ceiling
from growing icicle shards
And my bedroom is shaken
like some chaotic snow globe
moved by invisible hands
that search and probe
for now I am an ice princess warrior
with my map unfurled
researching ways to flee this frozen world
The kayak is ready
as I set my sights
        on warmer tundras
as I weave my lightening
and spread
          my thunder

Hate is so hard to conquer, every single day
When half of my hate is sent my own way
Love is hard to acquire, when I lack a face
That keeps the pride to tie my own lace

I cannot wake up in the morning
With a valid reason
So, I bide my time adorning
My mind’s acts of treason
The seasons fly

And I will be conquered
Like a fly
Beholden to its scroll of anatomy
Dissecting its brother
And niece

And now I careen
Cajole myself
Into callow hedonism
Shallow as it may be
It is profound in its posture
And depraved at a glance

I will conquer the palms
With every ligament that moves
With every rotten tree groove
While my mother approves
I can only improve
My lonely psalms
The Qabalah balms

In my dream last night
you let me know it's not coming back
In my dream last night
I saw a bag full of lip balms
But I still looked for
the one I had
The one I lost
The one that might come back
But still not coming back
Bare it stays,my chapped lips
Oh my blueberry lip balm
May you never forget
the touch of my finger tips.

There is something intrinsically enchanting about traveling—
Meeting small destinies,
Feeling the flow of life sweep you along—
It’s not all about running away,
Or where you end up,
Or how fast you go—
Rather, it’s about the actual act of
Moving Forward.
You sit in the car, or on the plane, or in the back of someone’s pickup, and you can see the landscape undergo its natural metamorphosis again and again
Into unique multifaceted checkpoints down the list of
Things To Experience:
People to laugh with,
Hands to hold,
Memories to make…
I look out into the alternating horizon and see
‘Opportunity’ spelled out in the clouds.
I look out and can see all the reasons why I should just
Take to the wind,
Flit and float across vast spaces of life—
Set free my spirit of all societal burden for the sake of introspective sentience and honest self-discovery—
I get the appeal;
I have tasted from the goblet that decadent ambrosia,
That flavor by which coats and balms my self-criticizing soul—
Soothing away all the hack marks,
The pocks and nicks and dents that blemish and tarnish the delicate skin protecting my psyche—
I am healed by travel,
By taking life seriously as that journey by which to merely ‘enjoy the ride’,
By making a literal journey out of life,
(Via journeying.)
Ah, even as I drive onward,
Even as I am propelled ever forward along the Devil’s Backbone, and Montezuma’s Castle, chasing the setting sun,
I am already thirsting for more

An art or a sport
Some whisper a ‘crazy obsession’,
And like Golf where age won't cut short
At least our pastime won't lead to depression.

A hook and a line
Much patience, sun balms,
No rush when your world is sublime
With glistening waters and a horizon of wavering palms.

They ask what we do
Long hours surveying the sea,
So little they know for amidst all that blue
Lies the quest that only we see.

That adrenalin rush
A shout or a curse, the rod twitching possessed,
Tranquility broken no semblance of hush
All steely resolve now hard pressed

Arms aching, back breaking
Reel screaming the line pulling so deep,
Fish gaining, strength failing
Maybe this task is too steep.

We win some, we lose some
The joy’s in the chase not the catch,
No matter the outcome no semblance of glum
And for this feeling there’s simply no match.

The violin strings
Turned my fingers red…
Your music was a storm
on a flower bed.

I am
the slave of your seasons –
Are you my spring?
Am I blue and bold?
Are my snows melting?

Touch away my blues
To sweeter greens,
Let your soft summers
Drench my winter scenes.

In my battered soil
Is your flower bed –
For balms and herbs
I you raid.

Coughing up the phlegm
I've come to realize, this big surprise
no longer can I keep it to myself
Stuff like this can grow inside the body
and it's snotty
but you need to know the facts now for yourself.

and if the sputum's yellow,
be assured that it is viral
but can spiral
into something worse
a curse or so they say
so take the time to rest
and yes,
drink water and some juice
and for a boost,
vitamin C, 1000 mgs
just twice a day.

and by all means
take your cold to Walgreen, Eckerts, CVS, or Rite Aid,
where there's medicines that might aid and I might add
many brands that you can choose from~
Robitussin stops your fussin'
Advil Sinus for your highness,
by and far my favored Nyquil night-time
is the stuff I get my snooze from

if you've got a fever and it's green
you're infected, should be seen
do not delay if it is grey
or other colors of the day
because these bugs are nasty
downright mean!

cozy up with Vicks upon your chest
mentholatum tends to clear the passage best
a little dab will also do
beneath the nares it is true
external balms and lotions help you rest.

a clean humidifier by the bed
keeps the moisture in your tissues
and that said
keep a box of Kleenex near
the softest kind will feel most dear
and place your favorite pillow 'neath your head.

It's good to keep some chicken soup on hand
it's value has been known throughout the land
keep the heat on, be a ***** and
and crack the window just a pinch
and try to sleep as much as you can stand.

in time you will recover from this hell
your symptoms will subside and you can tell
but be sure to keep your guard up,
avoid crowds
and don't be hard up,
just insist they keep their distance,
and stay well!

You Can’t Get Me To Lick Your Bones If You’re Never Going To Eat My Phone


I don’t need for the reading of your head
sideways. There’s no book of your gazes in
drugs I fluff myself in front of mirrors to the heavens and become elated, transfixed; I never become ‘indisposed’

you may shift your skin in those clothes I
would never spell nor the words I would never wear across the neck
I will never throw your prose across this
lubricious pottery wheel that governs the

awesome succubus’ coffin of Publisher
Clearing House dactylic feet, I have
a licentious groove and yet I never am
wont for those syllabic toes you push into

the mouth of me. Slippery soot-covered balms of the dancers jocular knot, so I say:
See Spot Run
away from that face of your clock
the beats of your Machiavellian speech

I am understudy to none
In cahoots with only the **** of my soup
kitchen, my idyllic sous chef he takes paradise and irrumates these

suture-battered stars covered in
elementary window wish dust
to poke your fingers with kisses
and undo your shoelaces even

while you you’re weary of becoming
the flat-footed ballerina. There it is
I’ve said it. Beware beware beware beware
when taunting me in your under wares

For I eat lines rare
Petite writhings of flair

Oh Winter, I welcome you,
Your nippy air, your kindling hues,
And the tint they cast on my moods,
Oh Winter, if only you knew,

The simple pleasures your arrival bears-
The precious sleep that only your lullaby brings,
The sudden love for rich food you excite,
And so many other little 'winter things'-

Things like colourful gloves and socks,
And poor unsheltered, chilled pink nose tip,
And age-old pseudo-smoking out cold breath,
And cherry/strawberry/cocoa balms to coat the lips,

Doodling a beloved's name on a frosted window,
And tugging blanket under toes in bed, snugly,
The evening nap feeling more easing than ever,
Followed by heavenly gulps of warm milky coffee.

Oh Winter, despite, as the time of
Separation and Forlornness being ill-famed,
Each time you visit, you touch my senses
And leave them pleasantly tingling and inflamed.

For summer may be bright, sunny and sky-blue,
But you can be an enticing dark, a passionate maroon,
You mischievous cupid hiding under the garb of cosiness,
Refilling hearts with yearnings anew.

Welcome, dear Season of Romance,
Time to commence the routine all over again,
Of you- enthusing me with deep cold-warm sentiments,
And me- writing poems celebrating this eternal game.

Like the *** you transferred
into calcareous soil, not knowing
it would turn the leaves yellow
as they rot.
Under a winter sun
I gave too much
or not enough,
the dirt arid then wet through,
half a glass of stale water
remaining below the roots.

The dark green, the larger ones fell first,
turned yellow on their edges
or from their ribs,
their stems browning until they failed,
to carry the weight,
to nourish the foliage.
The smaller leaves rolled on themselves,
day by day sagging a little more,
light green and brittle,
crumbling.

I moved the plant,
and moved it again,
by the window for some sun,
but with the cold seeping through!
You provided the chemicals,
I moved the plant again,
aware by now that I might be too late
and it may not recover,
not when the sun warms the earth anew,
not when the world rights itself once more.

Though - if the rot has not taken hold
yet of the roots
or of the branches,
and if our balms are enough to save
the trunk with the future stems,
we may once again
see spiking curls grow
and darkening green leaves unfold,
wondrous flowers bloom,
red flamingos standing tall.

He loved Christmas
The cold, the sounds
How the smell of food passed
And trees weigh a thousand pounds

He smiled at the little children and the Santas
And waved at the moms
He paid his dues to the Church
And donated home made balms

He was a simple man
He loved to paint
He went home and smiled
His little home was very quaint

He went to the basement
Got out his brush and started to go
The body next to him was still
He loved the sight of blood on the snow

Educate our hearts before we speak our minds.
For it is we who keep our shadow company,
not our shadow ours.
I try to catch the latest news,
Lest otherwise,
I become rolled over by it.

And I heard the hiss
Of venomous spinners,
“We must arm ourselves to the teeth...
**** them all! Bomb them all!”
Such comely pundits,
coated in makeup and gloss,
to read incendiary scripts from teleprompters,
to incite and heap bricks of lead
to tip their side of the scales of Justice.

Smoke speaks before fire,
then soon after comes the flame,
and then the wind of sentiment
to fan the inferno.

But who will speak low and soft of love?
Where are the healing eyes
and empathetic ears of poets past
who dipped their feather pens in compassion
and caressed messages, as
balms for our wounds?

Why do we taint the inherent scripture of mankind
with rhetoric and reaction
by those who seek to study the chaff
and not the wheat of a communal harvest?

Our great leaders have gone softly
into their nights…
battle weary
and brittle by war.

So if a bomb explodes at the Café I plan to visit today –
who will avenge my death
and who to see to the seeds I'd sewn
for compassion and peace?

Pray not these men and women on prime media payroll
and those of privileged wealth
and inherited power
who climb the backs of soft singing nightingales
to cackle the message of crows.
I’m none of these.

I was born of the womb,
and crawled to a walk, and thereon
through forests, and mountains, and shores,
shared with all things visible.

My heart rises and falls and races with beauty
and aches with darkness.
I fade, feeling the color run from my hair
and the suppleness of my skin
to dry and wither.

I watch my children quiver
like green leaves on the lithe limbs of youth –
fearing their fall,
but adoring their verdant energy.

All man is by nature equal
before the rise of knowledge –
and as the kingdom rises within each human being,
who will he take for a sage
and who for a fool?

Lo' we must focus the light in our hearts
before we speak from our darkening minds.
For it is we who keep our shadow company,
not our shadow ours.

Scalade skyward pile,
Of defensible tile,
Bituminous seams mossy gaps.

Board aloft to defray,
Fletched missiles array,
Groomed on as lethal a trap.

Scalade meet the stone,
Long from our home,
As generals command the intrusion.

To Kings do we kneel,
Ere slay with cold steel,
Pass lightning and bring this conclusion.

Trod darkest parade,
Woods endless scalade,
Blistering gleams of the pitch.

One knight in Queen’s arms,
Keen maid’s airy balms,
Do graces scar memory per stitch.

The moonlight deprived
those couples of an Asian slum
as if herded together in a plastic drum
who lived in a roofless brick- less shove
much like a Mal- functioning, Primes-stove.
It also deprived those, whose
tin- sheet- roof bore gaping cracks
as the results of heavy monsoon downpours
as the result of
unruly monkey- like clouds’
aqua- missile- attacks.
These youngsters were robbed by the silvery -  mask –clad
bullies of the moonlight
who shackled them in their homes and held them tight.
It robbed them of the throbbing- pillows of arms
of caressing balms, of cuddles, of charms, of lullaby- songs.

As a giggling newlywed bride pointing index- finger at sky, said
" I am scared of the full moon,
as I proceeded the other day  to hug my man
he stared from above , like a mischievous goon. "
It denied privacy to the folks
who sobbed in embrace together in pain.
Their elder son was, in a religious frenzy stabbed
and the middle was crushed under a streaming train.

It denied the anonymity to the bald tooth-less woman
who was caught sipping coke from the fridge
and who, by her grandson was whisked
from the kitchen Store- room
--- which she shared in her late husband- built- house,
with a jumbo mouse--
and asked to sleep on the fan- less Veranda.
Where she lay reminiscing the crate- fulls she stuffed,
-- as she smiled and coughed--
into her fridge,
in her youth
of Cokes and Miranda !

Honored companion:
When you return,
let us go down to yon forest,
as our hearts have yearned.
I know a girl of the green
bright balms and flowering hair;
when spring comes to the valley,
she will wait for you there.

As hunter shoots the stag,
so huntress strikes the lad's heart;
leaves crunch beneath their boots,
in crisp handhold they won't part.
Grass drinks the gold dew flood,
orange sun never wants to wane;
but far beyond the verdant wood,
a martial voice calls out your name.

So grasp your sword by hardened hilt,
and with pike upon your shoulder,
live not for the joys of life;
live but to grow older.
Then mount the hills with me,
cast aside your roving bow;
for ours is a life of misery,
and in summer we must go.

The bone corset strengthens backbone,
offers the fine figure encased in rustled sewn midnight skies.

Tap and swish and sway, the heat increases,
drawing near
arms extended.

A babys' grip surrounds the scrolled neck,
feathers graze in awe, wonder, delight, and tension ignite.

You look so tenderly at carved perfection,
a specter you were before it,
your soul combines with reddened varnish.

Enmeshed you two make the nether gates open,
Welcoming, sweet, harmonic balms.

Rosin soaked fingers,
the testament of your decadent affairs.
You breathe, it sighs, moan before her and hear her cry.

Futile it is to control the sirens song,
inhale the vibrations artfully wrenched from the f-holes.
Holdfast to the bow,
lest you be lost in between the spaces of spun string.