As dawn unfolds today beyond my fractured windowpane,
a breeze beguiles the ashen drapes. Like snakes they slip aside,
revealing wanton worlds that race and run aground, insane,
immersed in scenes obscene that savants strive to mask and hide.

Outside, the twisted streets retreat. Last night they seemed so cruel.
While lamps illumed lithe demons dancing neath the gallows tree,
their lurking shadows shuddered as they breached the vestibule.
Within the gloom strange things abound, I sense and sometimes see.

Perdu in darkened doorways (those which soothe the ones who weep)
men hide their shame in crevices in search of cloaked relief.
The ladies of the evening leave, it’s soon their time to sleep!
The alleyways are silent now but taste of untold grief.

Distraught nomadic drifters (dregs who stray from street to street)
abandon bedtime benches, squat on curbs they call a home,
appeal to passing strangers for a coin or bite to eat.
Rebuffed, they gaze with icy eyes that chill the morning gloam.

Observe with me once more, beyond my fractured windowpane,
the broken boy with crooked smile, the one who's seen the beast.
With tears, he kneels and clasps the cross to exorcise the stain.
The abbey door along the lane enshrouds a pious priest.

At nearby mall, Mike needs a cig, and stealth'ly steals a pack.
The Man, observing, thinks ‘Hey Boy, this caper calls for blood’,
takes aim, then shoots the fated stripling six times in the back.
Come, mourn for Mike and brother Justice, facedown in the mud.

The shanty town has hunkered down engaged in mortal sports
while shattered bodies' broken bones at last repose supine,
and mama (now bereft of child) in anguished pain contorts,
her eyes drip drops of bitter wrath which wither on a vine.

Fatigued and bored, some kids harass the crowded alley now.
To pass the time, Joe smokes a joint and Lizzy snorts a line.
The NRA (which deals with doom) can sometimes help somehow,
though Eric died with Dylan in ‘The Curse of Columbine’.

Marauders scam the marketplace (with billions guaranteed)  
while babes with bloated bellies beg with barren sunken eyes,
and (cut to naught) the down-and-out (like trodden beet roots) bleed.
Life's carousel confronts us all, though few can ring the prize.

Yes, Mr Madoff, private bankster (cruising down the road,
with other Ponzi pushers, waving magic mushroom wands),
adores addiction to the bailout (coffers overflowed),
and jests with all the junkies, while they’re bilking us with bonds.

A timeworn washerwoman totters, stumbling from a tram -
she shuffles to her hovel on a dismal distant hill,
despondent, shuts the shutters, prays then downs her final dram -
a raven quickly picks at crumbs forsaken on her sill.

Jihadist and Crusader warders faithfully guard the gates,
behead impious infidels, else burn them at the stake
(yes, God adores the faithful side, the heathen sides He hates),
with saintly satisfaction reaped begetting pagan ache.

All day the watchers skulk around our fractured windowpanes
inspecting all our secret thoughts, our realms of privacy,
controlling every point of view opinion entertains,
forbidding thoughts one mustn't think, with which they don’t agree.

Our rulers (kings and other things) have often made demands
of populations breathing air on near or distant shores
and when they didn’t yield and kneel, we conquered all their lands
with sticks and stones, then bullets, bombs and battleships in wars.

Come, cast just once a furtive glance… there's something in the far…
from towns to dunes in deserts dry, the welkin belches death
by dint of soulless drones that stalk beneath a straying star
erasing life in random ways with freedom’s dying breath.

But closer lies an island, where the keepers grill their wards.
Impartial trials? A travesty, indeed quite Kafkaesque.
The guiltless gush confessions, born and bred on waterboards.
No sense, no charges nor defense. A verdict? Yes, grotesque!

Now dusk is drawing near outside my fractured windowpane
while mankind wanes like burnt-out suns in fading lurid light;
and scarlet clots of grim deceit and ebon beads of bane
flow, deified, within a corpse, the fruit of human blight.

Mountain leveled
and
valley filled. . . .

What's 'ore?

Life, full of goodness:

where'ore

the heart belches

out

in

* * * * * * * * * *
h i  g h  p  r  a  i  s  e s.
¡  ¡  ¡  ¡  ¡  ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡ ¡

He belches verses of prayer
from the acidity of his gut,
staggering upright
on two toddler feet,
he trails drunkenly
to the fridge,
scarce with only a few dented beers,
a bucketful of ice to feed him,
till the next scroungers pay-check is due.

Cracking open a frozen one,
it hisses a warrior's cry,
loud in the stillness
then dies swiftly,
as he raises the carcass to his split lip
swilling alcoholic entrails
round him gums.

Wincing slightly,
the beer half-empty in his hand,
he twitches a pink eye
in pain
as something rolls
around his jaw,
the made-of-man pinball stage
has begun a game
without him.


Gathering his saliva
into a hard bullet,
he spits the foreign object
onto splintered floorboards,
where his last tooth lands,
a final casualty
of his handsome youth.

Another morning in the life
Of a P.T.D, I slurped my
Juice back all  400 ml, then
Stretched up, fingers
Wiggling as mother picked
Me up.

Snuggles in the morning
Nothing better, to show I'm
Loved. But back to business,
As I turned my dummy to
The opposite side, the taste
Is better every time its turned
Soothing with each ****.

It was nearly breakfast time
A belly is never wrong,
MMmmm...
Toast and jam, I smile
At mummy with my
Cheshire Jam smiled face.
"Silly little man"
As she wipes the smudges
From all over my face.

A case to solve, was my plan,
The missing statue of
SANDMAN BOB tm.
It was here before, but now
Gone, the prized possession
Of hairy dog, as I pat his head
And he licks my face
Yuckkkk....
Doggy that was yuck, he wags
His tail and then he is off.

What a morning so much done,
Time for a nap then detective
Work to be done. I wake to
Dads voice,
"Morning little man"
"How was your nap"
As i give my answer with a
Yawn and a smile, he gives
A cuddle then off to work for
Hours of fun and playing games.

The clues to be seen the trail
To be found, for I'm
"***** Trained Detective"
And no case is to far, as
Long as I can have a nap
And a cuddle, maybe a
Little sip and a gulp, here
On look out of what is to
Be found.

Hairy dog is sleeping in his
bed, I hear a noise I hear a
Sound??
What a strange noise,
"Snoring"
"NO"
"Bottom belches"
"No funny smells"
As I lift up his blanky
Softly so not to wake doggy's sleep,
And their he is safe and sound.

"SANDMAN BOB"
"Playing hide and go seek"

Under hairy dogs nose and bottom,
As he sleeps it does squeak, it
Does beep, I lift it up and under
His paw, to surprise him when
He awakens. A tail shall wiggle
And flop around, but the case was
Solved and a happy smile found.

***** Trained Detective does it
Again, but for now it is nap time,
A new case, a new thing to be
Found. I will see you all again
Soon, But now its snuggles
Time with mummy in bed.
As I close my eyes night, night
I turn my dummy once more,
As sheep float quietly over my head.

Ground smolders and smokes

Luminescent men, humps at the front

**** and poke

The air acrid, the smell of burning stone

On a wall three boys

Gaze, eyes wide, mouths

Marleyesque, dropping

Bewitched as the florescent men

Smooth and calm the steaming earth

Spraying water from a can

To quench its thirst

The seething, black

And exhausted ground

Murmurs in sick response

To its own fragmented curse

A yellow dragon near by

Belches black blood

Oozing from its innards

Through Gothic gargoyle mouth

The lime coloured men shovel

This toxic *****, smear it

Across the gasping earth

That lies, ripped like a jagged

Wound on a dying man

The lime colored men

Mount the yellow dragon

Speed off, leaving

The scorched ground

Burning and hissing,

With sulphurous smoke

A million sizzling angry snakes

The three boys run away in freight

Dropping playthings as they fumble

And tumble in their horrified flight

The black earth cries, bubbles

And consumes their toys

Passes sentence

Makes them L'Enfant Commune

The lost boys

Then there is a quiver

A tedious tremble, a treble;

That played like stretched

Elastic flicked with

Forefinger and thumb

Making the heart numb

Extracting false confessions

A stench of putrid untruth

*** charades of delicate

Ravaged faced youth

A drole de ménage

Slave to the hunger

Of the unknown demand

The French grooming

Of horses, that may charm

The curious but leaves curiosity

Still smouldering in the

Hidden depths of the

Universal mind

Sanumbolists in the

Fullness of a dream of

Ineffable torture consume need

The boys cry out, for the

Earth has stolen a liars tongue

Branded them abominable

With decaying enormities

Detestable, enamelled eyes

Lurk and peer from

Behind gauzed curtains

A corpse of understanding

That inspects the invisible

Images of imbeciles

Parchments dripping in powdered

Crystalline drops smear the pavements

The boys wave their arms

But no-one sees them

There is the rise and fall of cryptic waves

That ebb and flow scorching

A shore of silent sorrows

Lapping feverously at the

Arc of a whirlpool

Whose decreasing concentric

Circles **** the boys down

Into an eternity of hot tears

Leaves them without parents

Gives their brothers and sisters

Into a slavery of barbarous belief

A ferocious language

Banning the boys from all beaches

Provides tyrannical pilgrimages

To black robbed priests

Possessors' of serpents' hearts

The yellow dragon returns

Lemon coloured men spill

From its foaming mouth

The boys hide behind

Dead rose bushes

Ah, but their tenebrous

Trembles creak in the

Blotched and bloodied

Butchers sawdust

A fabulous elegance cradles them

Making the smoking dragon angry

It spews molten bile taken

From the bloated stomachs

Of white beasts

The luminosity of the

Lemon coloured men

Increases to blindness

They wave tattered antediluvian

Bark and scream from

Their dark, deceitful, anchored armchairs

From railed and spiked alters

Spitting bitterest gall

The lemon coloured men

Butcher the fabulous elegance

Leaving the boys naked

Prey to the perfections of

Puerile generosities

That vows to extinguish

Their human desire

Vacant eyes with

Nauseating sight strut

A cruel distortion

Terrifying voices offer

Demonic destruction

The boys weep, but

no-one hears them

A violent paradise

Of popular poses tries,

But fails to caress them

The dragon burns the boys

But no-one smells them

Their terror turns to molten flesh

The lemon coloured men

Spread it over the earth

The beast' heart beats

Joyfully in its bulbous belly

Sacred men smile while

Pitiless priests provide

A comedy

The boys become a hallow

Antique night their left

Legs held up for all

To see

Delirium devours the minds

Of a subjugated people

The deadly hissing of the earth

Like a silken spectre rises

Making scintillating shudders

Through the spiked splinters

Of time

Intelligence is reduced

To the rubble of religious

Intolerance

Lime, yellow, lemon drips

Heated plastic from false eyes

There are cries, sights and sounds

But no-one hears, sees or speaks

No real people are left

Similar boys watch from a wall

Huddle together and weep

Barnacles crunch like fast food under your sneakers,
my gnawed-on boots.

We pass over cat-eyed shards of glass
still spicy with beer bubbles
and still fizzy with teen rebellion;

It molds like an infection here.
In a town nicknamed "Little Norway." ~

This place hoards candy-colored suburbia in its pockets.

Houses like skittles weigh down its pants
and it belches out tourist traps weaker than expired pepsi,

yet it still manages these moments
where I can trot by your gazelle legs
and blast Julie Andrew's confidence.

And I want to heap myself on the oyster shells, say
STOP
Put this moment in a snowglobe,
sigh into it before we move on,
do anything before the wind whips it away.

Etch it into your hand if you have to.

But breeze dimples the water like a golf ball
and rips at the seams of the shore.



Please don't forget me when you leave.

There's a calmness to the air of the trailer park
As the dumpster in the back slides to the right
Underneath is where our Super Hero has his lair
And where adventure starts out every night

For years now it's been the same old routine
Belches as he wobbles to his feet
Throws the remote down on the beer stained couch
Scratches his rear at the same time picking his teeth

Yes, the night belongs to Beer Belly Batman
Who spends his time fighting petty crime
From spitting on the sidewalkers to mouth full of food talkers
Putting them back in their place and back in line

Sure he used to be a top notch crime fighter
Evil forces he always did foil
But after years and years of beating crime up
The beating on him has taken its toll

If the neighbors music is to loud feel free to call him
Nothing he likes better than knocking heads of unruly kids
Hey Punk! Pull Your Pants Up! Is his favorite motto...
Giving Super Hero Wedges like nobody's biz

I don't know about you but this much is true
I always feel a little more safe and sound
And sleep that much better at night
Knowing there's a White Trash Super Hero around

You smile black-eyed as
the city belches blue neon
through its steel-glass canyons;
a cobalt factory of lumen, pulsing
through dendritic labyrinths
of sapphired circuitry.

Diodes of cerulean fire,
spreading with virulent sophistry
amid the glittering obsidian dark,
like pale horses of light that
leap from pane to inky pane,
like a Pentium’s ******;
God’s own seething fireworks
watched in reverse
as they float in through my car window,
strobing blue against your freshly
washed hair.

As she lay in her vulnerability
She remains open to the universe

As she surrender her nakedness
She radiates to the warmth

As she engulfs in the wild
She roams, serving curiosity

As she break in the swinging tides
She soaks in abundance

As she belches the aura of the past
She sums up brilliance

As she looks up to the waning moon
She strokes her mood in tunes

She is a woman, a beauty to be felt
As she smiles out to the shores

She is the womb, an unfurling fertility
As she carries others burdens

She is the ultimate female energy
As she balances the male synergy

She is to be nurtured and loved
As she bears the fruits of earth

She is stunning with her sparkles
As without her we won’t exist

She is a lover, a mother, a sister
As we hold her womanly nature

Note: Inspired by a painting I did of a naked woman lying in repose but -looking out to the shores. What is she? What might she be thinking? *Dedicated to all the women.... the feminine energy.

Pressure puckers &
a migraine blooms
parachute leaves looming
from my mind,
moonscapes of bare rock.
I've been waking up in a tomb again,
mouth mummified &
crusted over with drool as
my body jolts up at 6
6:45
finally 7:
I rise from the dead once more.
Yeats spoke to the Beats & he speaks to me,
feet creaking old floorboards
in a house with no internet.
"Pensive they paced along the faded leaves,
While slowly he whose hand held hers replied:
'Passion has often worn our wandering hearts.'"
I ate artichokes for lunch on pizza &
lost a piece of my soul down
the toilet of the coffee shop bathroom.
I came out of the womb once & I think that was enough.
I cough up brown mucus
& I'm glad I quit smoking.
One of my ribs pokes out
& picks my lunch for me,
pointing rudely,
leaving blood on the gleaming glass.
People around me discuss
the value of places they've never lived
& a homeless man sleeps with his mouth open.
I drink an infinite iced tea
that refills itself whenever I get thirsty &
a prehistoric potted plant
belches dinosaurs back into existence.
I clean my teeth to become
the princess of the salad greens,
eating olives with the tips of my fingers
the way monsters eat eyeballs
in the nightmares of children.
Everyone shakes,
terrified to look at each other
mouths bleeding confetti & glitter.
A remedy to bitterness: simple syrup.
I want to write love letters
to the boy who broke my heart &
still has all the shards.
I found out yesterday
that I'm a woman of hard angles,
that my moon might always be fighting
to whole its halves.
My calves are sore
& I'm glad I quit smoking.
I'm afraid of empty bird cages &
waking up without a tongue.
My lungs do a dance under my rib cage
& shake my skeleton out of my body.
Hot toddy & we drink on Tuesdays.
Any available body will do.
Picasso's blue period never seemed more lifelike
than when I try to jump
head first into the nightlife.
Nothing can be proven true
but I think my respiratory system
is at least not false.
If I believe hard enough,
I can feel my pulse.

Strangers on the subway
Who I never met and never will
Say, "hey, martha", like they're hailing a taxi
And I say, "hey" back, because, I am martha.
The lights go out in the tunnels, because, the conductor thinks it's funny and,
Three murders happened in that time but, no one cared
And the conductor still does it.
That train after 1 am
The grey and green one that smokes and used to have a future,
That was, good at writing or something in high school, but, never made it to college, you know the one.
That train rolls up and its five minutes late, but it's always five minutes late so no one complains,
And I stub my toe on the way in, I forgot to, mind the gap, and
A strange stranger bumps into me,
They say, "watch where you're going sean"
And I say
"Sorry"
Because, I'm sean,
And we all get on and no one says a word, and most of the passengers are rodents
But maybe some are marsupials
I dont know the difference.
And we sit in there for ten minutes maybe, avoiding eye contact like it's the plague,
Excepting, of course, those few that make eye contact the whole ride, like you're interesting or, appetising, or, they're blind and those are actually glass eyes that just happen to be looking your way.
And, when the train starts it lurches, it belches down the cars, because it, doesnt think anyone can hear it because its five meters underground and, no one could hear anything from down there.
And as we sit and we ride the silence turns to music, like the lack of even rustling, or bustling, or conversation to a friend, becomes the sound of collective recognition, often purposefully ignored, that no one on that train is going.
The train moves, but they dont, except to stops around the corner with no corner piece, without landing that gig, or getting the girl, or saving the day
Because in the looming washed out morning,
We're all, nothing more than, strangers, on the subway.

The veil is yellow. Flashes of teeth and skin and widened eyes. Nails dig into the skin when she turns. Jasmine lingers when her rotations warrant a new face, a new man. The tigers stretch their paws and extend their claws. No one reaches to pet them, even though they are hers. And she is the reason we are here. We watch her skin join our dreams, until the sharp "ting ting" of ankle bells disturb the sleep we try with eyes open and mouths gaping. One man belches and blows the perfume in her face, like a kiss when she bends to pick up the coins. They didn't see her. No one saw the moisture under welling eye sockets. They didn't see the scars on her arms and around her neck and wrists. Her own strength gone wrong.

We only see plump lips and hunger. And somehow we always think we brought enough to feed her.

full grown light magnesium burns on the corner bright
now
now that false dude with the habit
has been removed from the bushes where he shagged
and scared little girls
and the punk drug dealer stood
near the bushes in the dark was
removed by what light
that burns like welder's torches
belches the sun at dark onto sly daredevils those
**** buckets
and the users go around to another place now
the young girls play basketball there
safe into the dark hours
and the brightest light saved
another generation
and it only took two deaths
there
to make it happen

A gesture's worth a thousand words,
intimations of the body articulate:
my gas-passing interrogatives,
your inquisitive belches, remember?

At first, such unspoken jokes seemed crude,
though useful. So we refined them,
and from trees at night mock owl-calls homed you in.
Do you remember eyebrows, intelligent as lips?

In time, I developed tics, snarls, an expert shrug,
a professional groan. And I grew to resent
your sighs, your phony, irritated coughing fits,
the critical commentaries of your silences.

These belches
unruly lines
can't say
anything fine
to your
ruly mind

That's fine



Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis

looped layers linger on
terraces as terror takes
form in bandaged brains
chock full of deranged
discernment

****,
climb into the cabinet

find fear washed away
in dead eyes that
shrivel and shrink with
each passing moment

squirm, squirm, squirm

stomach walls suction cup
one another as sludgy
slime slurps between
cracked crevices

bile belches amidst
odd laughter, an onslaught
of imagery, insecurity,
and imagination

not a sound in the world,
but every sound in the world

slip slowly through
diversions from truth
mad man or master?
monster or magician?

a circus of dark circles
comes rolling into town-
come one, come all!

certain death lurks
around every corner,
shrouded in shadows  
between daylight
and dreaming,
daring you to look
away as it steals
whatever it is that's left

makes me grumpy,
no, not because I don't delight
in strings of coloured bulbs
and the flavor of lip chap and hot chocolate sticky,
and the bright eyes of young magickers
but because it seems that whatever the occasion,
any revelry that involves thousands of people
destroys the city, belches post-apocalyptic refuse,
and shoulder-shoves old men, knees small children.
The reason I don't like the Santa Claus Parade
is that once it's over
everything that happened
within the anonymity drug affect of invisible hordes
and the ambulances pulling away
is nobody's fault.
Merry Christmas.

Ragged clothes on the sidewalk, toddlers murmur and cry
cold morning air where abandoned row houses
smell of whiskey, sage, and molded cotton

diesel exhaust belches into light breezes
forests of burning coffee beans mingle
into their hearth, the children, this is their nostalgia

everywhere leavings of life scatter driven by wind
cover unhoused, distressed, makeshift families
they stand shoeless as fortunate people drive past

Glut of humanity smells of wet newspaper
grey gulls picking at grimy cellophane
cardboard litters muddy sidewalks
above the billboard the wealthy jeer at them

sitting by a liquor store with bars on the windows
shut out of row houses with black wrought iron gates
basement stairwells filled with trash

men in alligator boots ready to lunge
into the lives of slick, bright, vacant women
this is the fate of feminine mother love

Thriving in dead landscapes
growing lost opportunity
under skyscrapers where it is always
almost dusk

.
Sequestered points of balance,
metal quick to melt down.
Rhythmic explorations
martyr
it's steely style
for melody.

Scraped,
no friction-
sans no science fiction,
because
the whiteness of reality
always winds up
in the light.

Withering apocalyptic
grape clusters
still clinging
fast to the vine as
Bacchus belches
and staggers
away.

Dissimilar similarities
changing continuous like
wild flowers
in the desert.
(One dies, one will rise...)

Life's dependent on
the rain,
allow fluctuation
in your flow of frustration
on your
yellow brick road
of life.









.

He got on, I think, at the first stop
I hardly noticed him at first.
Another passenger, another journey
Another person trying to get on further in the world
But something caught my eye. Was it his looks?
Perhaps, he was handsome, yes
But the type of handsome in an antique
That must be handled and cared for in sterile fashion.

"Tickets please,"  belches the scratchy tannoy of the carriage
As a red faced man in a deep hue of navy bumbles along the aisle.
He presents him any papers on his person
And looks at me with a stupid grin
His old eyes of the deep trenches at sea, glisten
There’s still life in the old boy yet.
Impatience wins this round. His hands still fumble helplessly
Through the sheets; not frailed though, just tired.

Time passes, he daren't say a word
And looks outside, without a sound. Time doesn't worry him
It's treated him well. Or has it?
As he paws his ginger mane
The grey strands shine in the light
A paper sits unread, unloved beside him
Lights of distant towns blur past
As he stares, unflinching, into the distance.

Grunting and shrieking of rails let us know we're stopping
The muddy blue pools shimmer as he rises.
The blade from Cherryvalley assures us that yes,
Yes. This is Lisburn alright. Getting up, sniffing the air
Where nature is a predator, he heaves his dark blue tote bag
Over his shoulder with a grunt.
Roaming into the darkness of the late winter night
Climbing. Climbing. Gone.

I sometimes look into the windows of the 1802
at the lights; look at my reflection
Where is he now? Is he like a stray
a lone nocturnal animal, finding his way
Or did he give up? Did he finally reach his den?
And what will become of me? Time tells, I suppose
It always does. I ruffle my auburn hair
Oily, not greying. Scruff, not mane. Still tamed.

in god played undeath skips wildly disintegrating
tulips
           sighing from the curtain of stars
hung loose
                    and laughing indescribably
immortal, f
      o
          r
               tuitous   of immobile light: a coma

from within belches the overlong trench of mucous silky
  a
n              d                             festering.    in my mortal stillness
clasp the cold birds of winter, wings magistrating the currents
of first frost and

               L
                i
            E

That smile
That stupid smile
That **** eating grin of yours
Beautiful pearly rounded chompers
Okay, so maybe they are a little yellow
Who’s aren’t?
When one has smoked filterless filters for the last 10 years
What does one expect?

It’s exquisite really.
It brings me to the ground
Mostly from the weak knees that it incites
Nostalgia doesn’t even begin to describe
I’ve seen it in my dreams
It’s been with me for the last decade
It’s something that I will never be able to forget

The largest mouth I ever done seent
3 ounces of liquids in one easy swallow
I could put my foot in there
And there would still be room

Belches and burps
Curses and yells
Loud laughs
Sweet whimpers
All the things that are expelled

Every time a smile appears
A smug smirk
A gushing grin
I smile back
Despite my anger
Or fears
It doesn’t seem to matter how upset you make me
I smile back

The history we share is complex
Predating all the things
All the peoples
All the events
All the places
Spanning such far distances
In space, place, and time

And here we are.
How long have I known that bittersweet smile?
A better question is how long I will continue to be graced with it.
Even if that is shorter than I hope
I’ll still remember.
It’s something I can never forget.

CHEESE!

Prince Charming farts!
It’s a little known fact.
He’s a human after all,
No matter how he acts.
His poise may be excellent
His skin as smooth as gossamer
He will retain his calm
Even if he views a massacre.

Image, to the prince, is everything
He really doesn’t care for truth.
He has refined every gesture
Every moment since his youth.

Prince Charming belches!
But he’s careful with his breath.
To be seen as rude or low class
He feels is worse than death.
You must live up to his standards
Not be déclassé or dense
If you with to enjoy the company
Of the oh so charming prince.

Image, to the prince, is everything
He knows just who to please.
Even whiffs of pepper will not
Make Prince Charming sneeze.

But of course the troubles
Of those not in his class,
No matter how much they cry,
He’ll give them a royal pass.
Because his time is valuable
Where lesser souls are not.
You got to spend time with him.
Be glad for what you’ve got.

Prince Charming is a paragon
As everyone can plainly see.
All must bask in his magnificence
And of course, so does he.

No breath without a shudder,
No thought with my guts stirring like the
brew of an ancient witch.
I feel like I'm dying
Slowly but surely,
Withering away without you.
I had found something that gave me reason
And without this reason my body has little
patience for me
My mind has resumed its onslaught
No matter what I do
there's a constant thrumming
That floods from my shot nerves, flows
through my skin,
Echoes in my lungs
forming into a mad cacophony in My skull.
Tense,
heart lazily pumps blood like that of a
man painfully dying
My eyes are filled with a haze,
seemingly at only half capacity
I am dead without that which gave me life
I either without that which gave me hope
The world is no longer a good place.
It is rather
A cracked, evil wasteland of twisted metal
And concrete,
spires raking deep cuts in the sky
Eviscerated, the ground belches poisonous
gas,
Vomits blistering magma
The rippling heat is enough to
**** a man, but in my sorroi am deathless
Tortured in the flames of a corrupted earth.
That is to say, I have reluctantly returned
to the homeplanet upon which I was born
From which I was rescued
Returnee to the desolate
To die in the desolate
A wretched actor
rather than a free man
A heinous villain instead of the hero
I am the beast of darkness that lives on
the screaming minds of reaved souls
Not
Peace
Not
love
Only agony my constant companion
They tell me to live, the voices,
to come with them into the light
Heathen gods, mad swirling chaos.
I am in hell

Being with you is having a best friend.
Giggles and belches and pillow fights.
We scream out in joy, rolling and tumbling
Across the room.

Rummaging through the fridge,
returning with armfuls of food.
The mess spreads over the whole kitchen,
Eggs cook underneath the pan.

Meals fit for giants scarfed down in seconds,
our bellies grow three times their size.
We sit, and groan, unable to move.
Smiles splashed across our faces.

Legs tangled, heads in odd angles,
Your snore like a baby bear.
We toss and turn as we pull closer,
dreaming of our future plans.

Passionate kisses, soft touches,
We exercise in the one way we know how.
As close to each other as physically possible,
"I love you" 's whispered in ears.

I talk endlessly, and you listen.
You repeat things you've told me time and again,
But I listen.  Happily, for the way your eyes light up
bring happiness to my life, if only for the moment.

I know I am not alone,
I have a best friend,
A lover,
I have you.

Muffled cries echo throughout a hollow chamber..
Ringing with pangs of agony and swallowed anger…

Tears run away from the world on a mad dash in reverse…
Welling up inside the stomach that belches out a curse….

Fists clench and knuckles crack in pure fury and frustration…
Swinging wildly at the world and waiting for the referee’s separation…

But it never comes and the world’s punches just keep landing….
Life’s winning and sometimes I’m barely lucky I’m still standing…

But I keep my head up and stay in the fight no matter what…
Even if I get fed up, discouraged, beat, sliced, and battered up…

I’m gonna hold on and ride this train all the way to the end…
But I’m halfway there and hells comin up around the bend…

Rollin closer with the whistle screachin and wheels turning…
My future is crystal clear an it won’t be preachin a sermon…

But I am what I am... tough as chains an not changing my purpose…
I’m just another man who’s learned to hide the pain on the surface…

I’ll climb the highest mountain as proof that not a thing can hurt me…
And one day I’ll find my fountain of youth and drink til I’m never thirsty..

My dry, swollen lids flicker open
a gust of sulfur and ash dries my tongue
clogs my narrow throat with chalk.
The concrete under my ribs is warm
still vibrating from the detonation
wet with gasoline or oil or...my blood?
My hand reaches to brace myself
I collapse gasping as the pain ignites
my flesh, and all I can see is meat,
a mangled sinewy stump where an elbow
my book-carrying elbow, had been.
Black smoke belches and plumes
the street that was pregnant with screaming
now still as a newborn birthed dead.
Sirens shriek, television crews scuttle
in hopes of burning our blood into film, but
my skull falls back, eyes roll, lashes fall, and
as my skin drains of heat and fluid, I realize
all I wanted was to go to school today.
That's all I wanted.

That's all.

2 AM

The wind drives the rain against the window.
The curtains stir as if brought to life. Trace the
flowers across the walls and the door, the vines
across the chairs and the floor. Turn over and
over again, pretending to sleep or half sleep.

4 AM

A small child weeps and wails. Voices from
the apartment next door. Footfalls and rat's
memories. A bone man enters and exits the room,
his shadow trailing behind like an unwinding
shroud. This is not my home, he says. This is
not my portable TV.

6 AM

Blue grey morning. More wind, more rain.
Faint smell of cigarette smoke on the air. Some-
where a radio plays. Somewhere a spider climbs
into thin air. Somewhere an old woman folds herself
painfully into an armchair.

8 AM

An already weary sun slips the clouds
and brushes the rooftops. Birds fly, cats
flail, dogs trail their masters. A pale
forgotten ghost of a boy drifts half dressed
through the empty rooms of an empty house.

10 AM

All mysteries are now ended, all abominations
shut away. The books are closed and back on
their shelves. The witch in her pointed hat
and patched old cloak switches her machines
off and sits back for the silence.

12 AM

The pencil has snapped, the pen run dry,
the paper curled up. It's raining again,
a hard heavy rain that seems like it may
never let up. The poet's in the bathroom,
standing at the mirror, looking for his soul,
but finding nothing, he belches and yawns.

On this day I rise to the astral plane and break open the void

The strange matter leaks forth from space and takes an unspeakable form

-

My portal grows so rapidly

With the power of the stars combined

Spilling forth the ancient ooze

That for eons has been confined

-

Such power above comprehension

A conjuration beyond human mind

This plague springs from the cosmos

Leaving only emptiness behind

-

The space in between dimensions

Belches out the element of old

Overtaking all terrestrial matter

So precise, unthinking, and cold

Gurgled belches of blood echo through the night
All thanks to a dagger
Hilt-deep in a freak's right cheek
Severed flesh makes a truly stunning sight
Streams of crimson cake the ice
Roars of chilled hatred reach the skies
My blade forever poised to slice