Throw me to the wolves

See if I don't come back
Leading the pack

Don't you know me
Better than that?

Resilience

Never forget
I'm the girl who loves you

I'm strong and true
I'll come out growling

Barring my teeth for the world to see

I dare you
Just try and hurt me

You won't succeed
I'm swinging and biting

Just try and push me down
I'll stare at the ground

Mesmerized by the sound
Of me clawing your eyes out

I got some fight left in me
Resilience

You'll see....
Tread carefully
My claws are at the ready

I got my whole pack behind me
Literally
Ready to snap necks and chew flesh

The Girl Who Loved You is here to stay
Standing strong
Despite what you say

Resilience
Everyday

Leading this pack of wolves
Never astray

It's only now
After a party
After making new friends
Looking at the wall of windows
The veiw being an industrial park
Eating stale ramen
The typical college experience
It's only now
After having to be the most normal
Do I have to grip the reality
That I'm not struggling with trying to be
The man I always wanted
But I'm struggling with the man
Who got everything his heart desired
Barring the obvious
Always barring the obvious

it's scary what people want to hear,
i feel, nothing at all, to be honest,
whenever i think of fame
i feel all famous people speaking the words:
don't become even by our standards moderates...
szlafrok: bathrobe -
              szuja: lizard-like-homeless person -
then again chattering ratty too -
does that mean: if i write i'll
get a penny for a structure where a brick is
worth just as much to the letter, the word
           or the line or the paragraph?
                  cukier: sugar...
   for every brick i'll get a penny's worth?
      writing discourages you from dreaming...
only the most adapted
                   who get encouraged by
   advertisement and who fake writing will ever get
the technicolour coat of Joseph...
         writing erodes your perspective of dreams,
it actually censors your ability to do so...
    i hear them, make novels from their body-language...
        and get an itch... nothing finicky... just
barring without baritone...
      poet's alphabet st. - barring without baritone...
antinomy of anecdote... false impression memorisation,
nothing rubric bound nothing alphabetical,
         nothing Pythagorean...
      antinomy... and there was me thinking of
antimony...                  there's no cascade of the sound
encoding of b or of a...
    there's the alphabet... and then there's
the dictionary... na na mmm, ma ma nun..
                    so cool with it, fit-bit....
      or should i claim you a toyo-bot?
           a ******* Hamleys' jack-in-the-box
     chuckles?
            either way... it's all a strategic **** -
or a macaque - or mà-cá-qé!
         herald the surgeon!
             grave a in the first syllable?
a delay... let's term yhwh as surd invocations -
           mà! (and yes, exclamation marks
are part of the necessary progress -
   unless you'd prefer anti-German anti-compound
allocation of a word to be turned into syllable mince...)
         mà! alternatively that's non-ambiguous -
what's ambiguous is the second syllable...
   mà!... cà!     màcà!        it's almost like holding-off
*******...          màcà!
      and then there's the qé!        or for optical reasons
as well as for reasons for the priestly monopoly
written as macaque - my-khaki-haka...
  (haka is a dance in rugby by the new zealanders,
   and khaki is diarrhea brown, diluted brown) -
   it's almost Spanish in a sense, huh?!
   well, because it's not exactly queue -
  or: que(h)? i.e. qweh?
well yes, it's a monkey, a tiny little bonsai
of a gorilla... cute... funny... loves tea-bags
and sugar... great company on a hot Kenyan night,
gets pestered with slingshots by the courtesan
   "bodyguards" of a tourist hanky-panky free whiskey...
  the time those kenyan entertainer girls
came up to me i sorta wished to play the
white-guy-****-history-joke...
stood my ground, went to sleep on one of the lounge
chairs one night... could have been stolen by pirates...
and i kinda wished it, but it didn't happen...
   still, the application of diacritical marks to
define syllables... the grave mark above vowels is
a bit like "holding back"...
         for some reason i first wrote mà-cá-qé...
but i realised... the avalanche only comes with
the acute marking above eh!....
        grave markings means restriction, a holding back...
and by this i mean that when the acute stress is
added, no number of optically adequate spellings
can erase it...
     in this case qé for what's encoded as -que -
   and still the four surds appear whether invited or
uninvited - softened laugh, eh? as in the asphyxiating
form of breathing, and then relaxed: ha ha ha ha!
       then again, i'm wrong,
they call them macaque: ma-ca-qac....
         so as a good revisionist does:
                grave and acute without a macron:
      má-cà-qàc - ma-cac-cac - not ma... ca-que!
   macaque!          Fawlty Towers and Mánuèl...
i know... nothing - hairspray romance,
and a horse called dragonfly...
   macaqué! olé!              
                          mácáquè -
    for the love of u - or parabola...
                 truth be told? i'll never know!
why? because no one taught us the rules of how
or when to apply such demands!
   let alone semicolons or commas...
                   macaque - barbarism sentenced to:
ma       ca              qak
                or simply my kayak...
**** me... it's still a monkey whether you like it or
not taking a **** and calling that chocy part of
its inverted intestines' toad-stool.
  let's just call it a mácàq monkey... because
the -ue suffix is just getting unbearable, like
an umbrella unfolded in one's **** -
   and applying diacritics to a suffix of pure-vowels
is beyond missing an ******, and making
rationale (the part where you miss stating an olé -
the part where rational is elongated into rationál
or the non-diacritical addition of -e)....
and then they worried why people never punctuated
correctly... maybe because people never applied
diacritical marks that they went beyond,
and didn't punctuate correctly?
                       humpty-dumpty hmm hmm:
                   eggs St. Benedict's, and a falafel Sunday!
me? trying to invoke a vocab that transcends
the ******* cool, however condescending i can be,
without trying or eating rye bread to boot,
    and then wear a balaclava calling it a Gucci neckwear,
drinking rather than throwing Molotovs.

Late nights in your car, listening to turnover and drinking coffee.
For the longest time I was that girl in the Paramore shirt and converse.
Eventually you asked me my name and to be friends.
Friends didn't last long due to the fact that we clicked instantly.
From music to mannerisms we were in sync.
When I think of you, I smell coffee and cigarettes.  
I feel warm knowing I'll always have your jacket and arms to keep me warm.
I'm always cold because I know we're both terrified to lose each other.
But when I started to drift from you for the first time, you didn't say anything because you didn't want to be over-barring.
After a while you caved and finally told me you missed me.
But what I miss, is the way it feels when you hugged me and i breathed in your scent.
When you touch me, I have no thoughts, all I hear is complete silence.
I'm always nervous but more calm than ever with you.
You know my struggles and have seen my scars but still tell me its okay and I'm beautiful anyways.
I like the way your eyes light up when you talk about the new sextape single; your smile is contagious.
You say I make you jealous when I talk about all the boys who've touched me,
But no one is more jealous than me when I think about all the girls you've held and told THEM that you LOVED THEM.
I don't think I can handle us being "friends" much longer.
Every time I'm with you I go to grab your hand but never reach it because I'm scared for your hand to slip out of mine.
I never thought of my future because I'd rather be dead, but if you're with me, being alive doesn't sound too bad.

Gotta find a new way
To scribble the pencil on paper
To draw letters and words
Sentences and paragraphs
Chapters and books
Because there's just too much going on
In my mind
It's like a cement mixer filled with rock and mud
Turning 'round and 'round
Mixing that **** into concrete
You can put your hands on the spread product
And the imprint will dry in the block
Forever for to contrast the size of your hand today
With the size of your hand in 25 years
(Barring a catastrophe that demolishes the concrete)

Always hoped my mind would be a deep well into which could be thrown a cavalcade of essentials,
Knowledge, wisdom
Intellect
I've kept my mind open for them
And yet they weigh me down
They make me feel awful, like being squeezed across the chest by the not particularly strong arms of an aging circus  sideshow barker

Take what you will
Lighten my load
For Gods sake take the fear
Of being happy without feeling this ominous depression

This is the point where I rail against how unfair it is that in Colorado and a few other enlightened states marijuana is given due credit for it's medicinal propensities while 10 hours away in Oklahoma you can still be thrown in jail for possessing even a small amount.

People, scoff if you will
I need medicinal marijuana
I know that nothing else is going to bring me a modicum of joy such as it has for so many years

And I know it's wrong to be more excited about hooking up than in communing with God, meditating and contemplating on His Holy Name.
It's wrong
It's got to be a sin, obsessing about ***
While my desire for God wanes and
Flutters like a flag at a losing race
I'm sorry I feel this way
But I do
O Jesus I trust total honesty
Means a lot more to you
Than puttin' on the show
Pasting phony smiles
and lying, making out like their love for Someone they've never seen is consuming them with the same passion had it been a new boyfriend or a special girlfriend with flesh and blood and sinew and tendon and breathing heart and beating lung
Speaking words
Emitting odors
Skin to pinch
Glorious laughter in your ears
Guffawing at your stupid jokes, she likes you!
Mikey liked you, dear, I know that means a lot
Maybe ask them if they want to go see God with you
But if they don't you'll be disappointed
And if you're as depressed as I am
You'll stay home and hope they'll decide to hang with you

Because there's too much information
There are too many idiots walking the terra of this country
Too much misunderstanding
Too much pressure
Too much unloving intolerance
Too many headaches
Too much wringing of the hands.
Mister, you wouldn't recognize Jesus on the street if He personally placed your hand in His side
You don't want to know him, do you?
The Truth is a terrifying concept
Don't get too close to it, get burned by the light
You can't handle the truth, afraid you'll see it in the mirror
So you hoist the beam from both your eyes
Because someone said if you did that you could judge rightfully
But you didn't get that the beam wasn't a literal object , that it in fact could not be removed
None but the Christ Ever had the right to judge you
He judges from love, always seeing the value in the man, long past forgiven all sins
But they'll run from Him
I think he'll giggle, knowing they'll eventually come around
Maybe he'll have to show them
But for right now I don't see Him
My faith may be weak
But I need some ******* relief
I have a feeling He wouldn't mind
If nothing else He'd be pleased that it made me feel like living again

Scuse me while I load a bowl
Let me get a few tokes
Then you come back
And I guarantee you'll notice
A much friendlier, social man

Enough-
Its enough having these corporations run our nation while the infiltration of money making keeps destroying world peace aspirations-
Its like Satan and his manipulation keep telling me that success lies in the accumulation-
And the accumulation of that money making is what makes life exhilarating?
And the exhilaration of materialization keep growing as a representation of America’s successful creation-
And soon it becomes discrimination-
Upper class elevation vs. lower class stipulations-
The poor patient vs. Rich patience-
The barring margin of APR regulations-
Keep our nation rotating-Gaining speed and evaluating-
The appreciation of desperation is all for corporate gaming-
The memorization and commercialization keep our nation deprecating from the rest of the worlds visualizations-
Our accreditation creates frustration-
Segregation and integration by the new world organization-
Integration to a peaceful appropriation is questioned by this American administration-
AND I QUESTION IT?

When I Grow Up
I wanna sing a Heavily song
No, I want to write a letter a mile long
Listen to Jazz with wine for zen
Play in the grass with a breezy wind

When I Grow Up
I wanna hug my mother
Hold her tight to show I love her
wash her feet to give her ease
kiss her hands for BARRING this SEED

When I Grow Up
I want to LET GO
use my wings to fly coast to coast
filled the world with love and laughter
live out my dreams even if it's a disaster

WHEN I GROW UP

On September 27, 2017, a Partnership between Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus Lines on the Northeast Corridor will come to an end
The key word is “Independence” of both that will begin
Interline tickets barring both bus carrier names will no longer remain
It will be individual tickets only barring the issuance of the bus company name
Before on the Northeast Corridor having both Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus lines combined together
The term individuality will be two carriers being the other
Peter Pan Bus Lines is run by the Picknelly family
The company was once part of the Trailways Organization
When Peter Pan started doing runs South coming through New York City nobody really knew who Peter Pan Bus Lines was
It wasn’t until Peter Pan and Greyhound formed an agreement and that is how Peter Pan became passenger known
Peter Pan and Greyhound will operate as a separate entity
Peter Pan Bus Lines is a bus company being an away we go
Then there’s Greyhound who started the partnership show
But it has become a time to move on
Peter Pan and Greyhound are bus operations that are still strong
Now this is something travelling bus customers will have to get used to
But it will be a matter of time they will get through
The highway will always keep both bus carriers connected
There could be select in what passengers will elect
But bus travel in general I don’t think will have that much effect
Two enterprises having histories of their own
What’s in a name has always been shown
A partnership that will change
The names of Peter Pan Bus Lines and Greyhound Bus Lines that will always remain.

Barring a robin
nothing sacred
at the vacant church

- fr

Ego Eccentric, Collective hysteria
A mind of madness,Compassionately cruel
Do or die
Black or white
Comprised carefully of duality
We are presented a human life
The thinker thinks but will never know
Think as much as you can
As much as you'd like
Ahh a thinker,
For he is one far and few between
He cringes at the tabloids
Glamorized ****** flashes
upon the big screens
Fear mothered slave state
Is where he sighs home
A pattern to repeat
An average man's prison
One of which
He's carefully constructed himself
Barring his own windows
Processing his own food
And his own paperwork
Jail keeper sounds
The morning alarm
"Wake your body!"
Mind stays in slumber
"It's time to make money"
Yet no real wealth
Another day on repeat
Constructing his "self"
Identifying carefully
With devised roles.
The play begins
"Curtain call!"
"Places everyone!"
The lights dim
Going back to pretending again
-KaitValentine

Just for a time
I thought it might be nice
To hold onto something fleeting
Something outside my might

Like, a few notes played over ivory keys
Plastic and pristine as they still seem
Can make something change for a day or so
There's something to be said about the whole
Being more
Than the sum

Old grounds
Older groundskeeper
Feeble and perturbed
A victim of himself
And his age

Mental anomaly still feels fine
Tiny little levers getting flipped around
Creating new demons to exorcise
But barring sudden
Static shock
It might as well happen

Can't change
Won't change

It would happen anyway

****

I haven't felt too happy, as of late
Questioning just how long to wait
Before dropping off the map
A whole new life tempts and attracts
Closer and closer

Drifting into the unknown
****, the magic only comes around once
Barring me out
Leaving me stuck
Bricked up the ways in which I've come
To each new dead end
Hungry for change
But unwilling to amend

And I don't know why this world keeps turning
Tried and true
As I keep burning through
Exhausting words, and things to prove

The iron in my blood has grown too heavy
The only sensation
I have
is anxiety:
the about-to-jump uneasiness of limb
without the adrenaline.
The lump in your throat
almost heartburn like heart ache
but aches have faded to numbness.
I'm dumb.
And founded on this quiet existence
of waiting for the next hill to climb.
Wryly smiling
at the slightest hint of a plateau
and shattering its mirage.
A barrage is barring the beatings of a heart
that I've often questioned existentially
in nights as dark as my thoughts
and equally as empty.
Every relief
stands in cold contrast
to all my other anxieties-
building up their mounds
to amounts unspeakable
in the crowded, concentrated ball
which has made it's way to my throat.
It's heavy.

I write such pretty words
About the ones I've sort of loved
I used to think I'd be like Joni Mitchell
And love all the beautiful men
With their beautiful voices
And their beautiful souls
I've gotta get me a singer in the park, dancer in the dark
A ***** word thief to mirror my own heart
Funny how life goes exactly how you don't plan it
Or if you were prepared for that
It will go according to plan but taste like splenda
Sticky, fakesweet
Me, I'm riding steady on the latter
Sometimes getting sadder
And barring that time when I was sixteen
All the loving never felt like love
Not all the way
I don't mean to degrade those salty days
I've got a headful of memories that I'd never trade
I don't know what I'm thinking when I say the love I make could be better
Maybe because I've never been made stupid, never really been played
Which is to say that I've never actually gone all the way
Never settled or sacrificed anything I couldn't get back
Most of me is always tucked away
Escaping only in blinding bursts that leave everyone involved a little scared
I don't remember how to temper myself
In relation to anyone else
But I remember every time I've realized that something wasn't what I wanted
I'm **** good at falling out of it
And writing lots of stupid poems about it
I've watched too many people rip each other apart with it
Felt it start to rip at me
Of course I'll never let that happen
I'm the first to advocate divorce
But some days I get really worried that I'm not capable of anything more
It's not that I'm broken
I just have really,
Really
Good boundaries
Maybe I'm lying, scared and selfish
Going against my own mind
I know I've felt bliss
Once I felt infinite
But that was a different me, all soft and made of clay
This me, pushing out these particular words, well
I've never been in love
I'm always a little bit in love

They say a picture is worth a thousand words and I'm looking to make murals in your likeness
Something that would reflect how truly beautiful your soul is to me

Maybe a watercolour based painting or would pastel-coloured chalk do?

Should I focus on the brightest hues and play down darker tones?
                                                          ­           But your darker side is the part of you I love most.

Let's play with the lighting;
                                               shadows and rays make one more aware

I'd love to create a backdrop, possibly a place you feel most vulnerable and bared
                             The limitless possibilities, the mediums and the inspiration you bring me

Perhaps barring your soul is a tad too blasé?
               Let's dig deeper and find something more suitable for your mural

                                                          ­                                                                 ­        How about an impression?
                                                     ­                                                                 ­                     How I feel about you?

Oh my, that is personal...
                                                     ­   yet entirely too brilliant to ignore!

I could just go on and make a mural that much clearly expresses how I feel about you
The way you talk, the way you walk;

                                                          ­      That particular smile and glint in your eyes
                                                            ­              when something intrigues you
                                                             ­                 and you're up to no good.


Ah, the marvelous mystery I have yet to uncover that is you!
                                                            ­         But the fun is no doubt in trying to capture your essence

Ah, here I go prattling on and on about mysteries and emotions,
I'll get to work and I'll set up my drafts and display them to you...
                                                          ­                The Mural will be breathtaking.

but of course, not as fascinating as you.

We are encased in bars of blue,
That hold us in this enclosed space,
And beneath us this infernal chain,
Forever holding us in our place.
We strived to move between these bars,
But our shackles wore our skin to bone.
And we dared to move through the nearest walls,
Into places we thought unknown,
And now we travel to and fro,
Between our cells in large tin cans,
Scraping against these prison bars,
Dividing us into different lands.
The final frontier of our plight,
The barring cage that hangs above,
We slipped through the cracks,
And into a new world we dove.
Freedom was not behind our cage,
In the vast expanse beyond,
But similar prisons that are empty now,
Much like ours of which we are so fond.
Now look between these prisons scattered,
Where our Warden has forsook,
Endless lengths from our night sky,
Into which we can helplessly look,
And we see nothing,
And we find nothing,
For there is
Nothing.

I had a guest to dinner,
It was a Nietzch ghost.
The ghost brought with him five volumes,
A stranger barring gifts in the night.
In civility i poured him tea and examined these books.
The first book was a Book of Contradictions.
A book that called for morality and peace,
But it was laid in the path of genocide and hate.
A disheartening tale of the Gott that grew to the point of oppression.
The second book was titled the Tot of Gott.
A book of the slaying of the oppressor.
The fall of the mighty by the disenfranchised man,
In its effort to cover all, the controller spread himself to the point of destruction.
The third book was the Book of Cosmic Emptiness.
A book of a speck, a book of existential glory.
It showed however grand our perspective,
We are small and empty.
The fourth book was a Book of Mirrors.
In it i saw everything and nothing.
The world around me was so clear,
But i knew nothing of myself.
The final book was the most perplexing.
Unlike the book of mirrors it was empty as the “o”.
Page after page of emptiness, lonely of words,
Save the corner of the last page which said “Your Tale”
I looked up and the ghost smiled,
A bizarre smile of accomplishment.
It took Its tea and softly rose, for the door.
It never said a word but why would it.
I wonder what my tale will be.

Madame Blaine isn't happy.

Every night his apparitions appear
and they're getting darer by the day
(sorry, by the night).

Her fault she didn't tell him to go
the first few days on the southern window
rather she felt bad as he stood out there
thought it better to offer him chair.

His hesitation stoked her kindness
not much she would lose if sat face to face
recapitulating life they were together
barring the first few spent talking the weather.

Once in the room he gave her his ears
(or so it seemed)
as she talked of loneliness with hint of tears
blinking and nodding an occasional sigh
but not once offering a courtesy of reply.

He would sit unobtrusive in the gentlest manner
till his proposal last night dropped the sky on her
(sorry, the ceiling)
the first words he spoke shattered her peace

May I Diane, offer you a kiss?

She fumbled to decide an aye or a nay
silence was all her voice could say
the apparition rose to grab the moment
reading in her muteness a loud consent.

Since then she is wondering if she can boast
of having been kissed by one now a ghost
or hide within her as an indelible shame
an indulgence that could earn her bad name.

when in the world’s leading democracy
a new president starts his office with

     making life more expensive for average home owners
     signing orders threatening the health of millions
     restricting the publications of researchers
     denying global warming
     encouraging coal and oil companies
     forbidding federal employees to talk to the media
     going on fantasy trips about “alternative facts"
          to justify his ridiculous lies
     blaming the media when asking questions and checking facts
     barring leading media companies from press conferences
     waffling about his Russian connections
     refusing to release his tax returns
     ordering to build walls to keep out all those aliens,
          like the old Chinese did, to little avail
     issuing poorly formulated presidential orders
          causing confusion and harm and even deaths
     banning even green card holders from entering the country
     filling his cabinet with all the alligators from the swamps
          he promised to clean during his campaign
          people who know how to avoid paying taxes and beating the     system
          but have no clue how to govern now that they ARE the system
          and think they can run the USA with its 350 million citizens
          as Trump&Cronies;, USA, Inc.,
          like their private family businesses, for profit
courting kings and monarchs & wannabe sultans in the near east
     'democratic dictators' in the far southeast
      and wannabe czars in russia
but hesitating to confirm ties to old allies
     in Europe, NATO, and the Far East
suggesting that having undeclared secret meetings
     is quite OK with his campaign team members
     his son and son-in-law

[ctd. fron line 2...] it is high time to seriously ask
what concept
    if any
of democracy he has in mind

Relax.
I know your instincts are screaming to fight.
This is a mistake.
You will only hurt yourself.
Just relax.

You are frightened, confused, and angry.
This is only natural.
You will tell yourself to not feel these things.
This is a mistake.
Feel them, own them.
They are yours.
It is only natural.
You are being dragged backwards through a hedge.

You say,"Stop it!
The branches are tearing my shirt!
This is my favorite shirt!"
This is a mistake.
**** your shirt.
Tear it into bandanas,
sell them on Etsy.
Just buy more shirts.
Pack of four. $9.99. Wal-Mart.
Tell a stranger a story
about the scars the hedge gave you.
Maybe he'll trade you
a shirt for a good story.

But you say,"My pants!
The hedge is covering my favorite pants in grass stains!"
Stop that.
This is a mistake.
Cover your pants in new and interesting stains.
Paint in them.
Spill food on them.
Comfort a dying animal,
let it bleed on them.
Do too much *******,
**** yourself.
Get bored, cut them into daisy dukes.
Try wearing a skirt, a sarong, a loincloth, the wind.
Calm down,
they're just pants.

"But what if I break the hedge!
The Homeowner's Association will **** me!"
This is also a mistake.
**** the Homeowner's Association.
You did not choose the hedge.
The hedge did not choose you.
And once you're on the other side,
you won't to answer to them.
No one will find you, and
you don't have to come back.
Unless you want to.
But that is your decision.
Yours and the hedge's,
no one else.
Remember that.

"But who is dragging me through this hedge?
What kind of hedge is it?
Why is this happening to me?"
These are the wrong questions.
You are being dragged backwards to through a hedge.
That is all that matters.
Concern yourself only with what matters.
Making it through.
Landing on your feet, or
barring that, getting back up.
Seeing what's on the other side.

So you ask,"what is on the other side?
What if I hate it?
What if it's a parking lot?
What if it's all sticky?
What if everything's on fire?
What if it's just more hedges?"
Relax.
You're looking at it all wrong.
Maybe your friends are all there.
Maybe it is all sticky.
Maybe it's a combination liquor store,
ice-creamery,
minigolf course,
and you can pour whiskey on your face,
and eat Rocky Road,
and finally get a hole-in-one on that ******* windmill.?
Maybe it's the way home.
You're still looking at it wrong.
This, too, is a mistake.

You were dragged backwards through a hedge.
Dragged.
Backwards.
And you made it.
While you were worrying
you didn't notice you already made it through.
So now you're here,
on the other side.
Now it's your call.
You can do as you wish.
Watch the sunset.
Or dive into a new hedge, maybe
headfirst this time.
Or walk home.
Or make a new home.
It's your choice.

And really, who's going to stop you?
Some puny ******* bush?

we have been deceived.
corralled like tepid sheep,
fattened beef
waiting beyond
the doors of the slaughterhouse.

as pigs lick their lips,
a daemon’s death dirge drifts
listless across the
Atlantic, an erratic dichotomy
corroding rationality—
this executive edict
barring refugees.

caught without a compass,
a flotilla of ships weathering
the elements.
for forty days
and forty nights,
we’ve been lead
two-by-two
by elephants
and donkeys.

demagogues commandeered
the lighthouse, directing
our ark across
scattered rocks.
an armada
of shattered splinters,
remnants of water-logged vessels
we’d hoped to sail to utopia.

caught in the webs
we wove, droves
of drones spewing
bombs across Aleppo.

as spittle collects
on spluttering orange lips,
will we
pause
for but a moment?

collect
our thoughts.
reflect.
history is a shattered
mirror and we’ve pricked
our fingers trying
to piece the image
back together.

there’s a hunger
for blood
refracting in our eyes.
a misanthropy
that smarts and stings.

a recalcitrant population
coerced by a television
rhetorician’s clever
devices, devised
to separate and segregate
during this crisis
caused by our missiles.

there is no moral arc
to the universe. hope,
Hedges wrote, is mania
if it remains vapid
and refuses to address
the depravity of our
physical reality.

we’ve already lost.
just ask the children
barely clinging to life,
covered in the debris
of their former homes.

all that’s left for us
is to bash the fascists.
smash every illusory border
in our heads and hearts.
burn down the walls
they try to build
around us.

overturn the tables
of the oligarchs,
stuff Molotov cocktails
down their bloated throats.
open revolt is our only hope.
we’ll build a sanctuary
in this City Beautiful.

"New Plymouth"  

I
I, as a young woman, stand still
Like a ghost column in a Mausoleum  
Adjacent to the New Plymouth spit.  

I breathe in the invisible sugars of salt
And the stubborn incoherences
Of the sea washing green over layette white.  

The rocks are blunt teeth,
Fat and round like an old Frisco seal,
A Cerberus jaw barring me off

From fatal self-destruction.
What a laugh!
These flippants, these peacekeepers  

Have no idea, nor do
The gargantuan ships,
Walking on water like Jesus' feet.  

The sky is so pure and clean  
it's sectile, no clouds  
nor disturbances to be inhaled.  

II  
  

I hang like a death wish on the hotel's lintel;  
Outside copse's foliage joggle
And I think cold.  
  

The air is sullen and austere,
It knows what it's doing to me.
The air that kills, kills, kills.  
  

The radio stubbornly blubbers
More sheepish than a baby,
Confabulating the local rugby.  
  

I collapse like a sack of black potatoes.
I feel weirder than Pluto.  

I am an alien, an alien to the bulbous women
  
And silver lined suited men.  
The grand annunciation
"I hope you enjoy your stay"  
  
Makes my organs twist and puffer.  
It hurts, it hurts, it hurts!
This place cries for my demise.  
  
III
It's a rural community.  
Mothers in ghastly flannel and baby spew
swallow gossip like Communion tablets.  

The precious circulate the carousel,
Scoffing hot dogs like prepubescent piglets,
Sausages sliding like fat worms

And burning like hearts in an oven.  
The sizzling steam disintegrates
Like clouds of Statismospores

Spreading positively into ether.  
The sun beats like a muscle
Burning, burning, burning

My laundry-washed white.
I’m vulnerable.  
I was once pure and sweet like an Aryan,  

Now I am dying, dying, dying
From fat smiles curled like a snail
With grey fatty hooks under my eyes.  




IV  


Tiny bluestocking girls like me  
All congregate in the Library .
At last I am by myself.  

I still don’t feel at peace.  
My thoughts are frightening
When I am at my writing.  

They are even worse,
In fact deathly,
If I do not write.  

This climate of strange spacemen,  
This culture of monstrous noses
Has driven many women mad,  

Not excluding a woman like me.  
I’m bored to death, literally.
Now, now, I say,  

Carrying my golden bags of poetry,
“I love what will destroy me,
And hate what will heal me”.  


October 5th 2013

Silky luminescent oxidizing velvet and induced feelings
You see a calm pond, while a maelstrom seeps into the molecules
Divide and conquer
To arms
And then the quiet in which I realize love always needed space
Be it light years inbetween our atoms or the space bars barring [you and I]

She is a small glass vase
With beautiful flowers painted
Hastily on
Only the outside barring paint
She is strong enough
To hold tight
Whatever treasure you put inside
She is beautiful
And perfect to the eye
But if you look closely
You can see
The spiderweb cracks
Where she was dropped
The cracks that scarred but never broke her
The cracks that never heal

She is a canvas
Of pure white
Painted over and over again
To create the perfect image
The one that pleases all
With only few specks
Of her true canvas showing through

She is a treasure chest
Covered in gems and paint
But the beauty of the box
Cannot begin to compare
With the gold within
The gold that is hidden
By the steel lock
That if you force
Will clamp much tighter
But with the perfect key
Will open with ease
To let your eyes
Veiw the rare gift
That is her treasure within

Seeing him sit across me wasn't awkward
In this life we all moved forward
He was protected by the mist no one saw through
won't talk to him
it will only add fire to the fuel.
His eyes were the green pools of curiosity,
under the ocean, trapped in weeds.

She won't seem to make eye contact...
Won't allow brown and green meld,
if only for a second.
Green and brown...
Like summer leading into autumn;
my soul flowing into hers.
I can feel it, or atleast
imagine it.

He's looking at me,
but why?
I'd like to look back,but
these ghostly inhibitions
keep me from wandering.
Too many memories
barring my imagination

I can sense some anguish
emanating from her soul;
a lack of control.
Pains aplenty? Scars,surreal?
Just what is this discomfort I feel?
I can see battlefields in her eyes--
Maybe...talking,I could try?

Carry yourself to the farthest ocean
for I cannot bear your soul so close to mine
so that we may never see the same stars,
I'd wish you close, only to walk away
Heaven, send me an angel
to quell my demons
come crashing down
I shall look back with eyes filled with tears
won't open myself to show my fears*

Her everything is exactly what I need
to pull myself away from these depths I'm drowning.
Her hands could be my wings,
and I could fly to cleaner heights,
were we are perched upon brighter horizons

Twenty five thousand Sunsets
Give or take, one more, one less.
(barring disease or accident,)
From birth to final rest

Twenty five Thousand Sunsets
from first cry to final moan.
A pittance of Eternity
We’re born and we die alone.

Twenty five thousand Sunsets
to laugh, to love, to sin.
To bow our heads in wonder
at how splendid the day has been.

Even my body
holds me
hostage-
Ribcage cell
barring
manic heart...

when walls won't
fall-
stoic fake brick facades
cling to
well-worn dive bar
foundations,

'Tis the bitter
finally cuts through-
slices past the
evergreen potency
of man-made
strength-

bellicose, forcing
its way in;
open up and
swallow-
tonic permeating
soulless through,
anchors to bottom
& crumbles youth.