Sometimes I call to just blab
Alot of the time it's about nothing.
It's not really that I don't like to talk about how I feel.
It just takes it to another level
That we have this type of relationship.
That we can laugh & vibe about anything.
It's real because it gives a different type of importance.
A different type of love.
Something that doesn't have to be serious all the time.
I can dial you up or pop up and rest between your legs & just blab.
Blab & know that your really listening.
Blab because that's who we are.
Blab because there isn't any pride to it at all,
The world spins a bit slower

1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always ***,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every ***** and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?

4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is *****, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my *****-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my
feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and
poke-****.

6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the ******* of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know
it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and
am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

8
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the ****** floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-*****,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in
fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain’d by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.

9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-****’d game,
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her
feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d
feet,
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they ***** with spray.

12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

13
The ***** holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The ***** that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish’d and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown i

Even as the sun with purple-coloured face
Had ta’en his last leave of the weeping morn,
Rose-cheeked Adonis hied him to the chase;
Hunting he loved, but love he laughed to scorn.
Sick-thoughted Venus makes amain unto him,
And like a bold-faced suitor ‘gins to woo him.

“Thrice fairer than myself,” thus she began
“The fields chief flower, sweet above compare,
Stain to all nymphs, more lovely than a man,
More white and red than doves or roses are;
Nature that made thee with herself at strife
Saith that the world hath ending with thy life.

“Vouchsafe, thou wonder, to alight thy steed,
And rein his proud head to the saddle-bow;
If thou wilt deign this favour, for thy meed
A thousand honey secrets shalt thou know.
Here come and sit where never serpent hisses,
And being set, I’ll smother thee with kisses.

“And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety,
But rather famish them amid their plenty,
Making them red and pale with fresh variety:
Ten kisses short as one, one long as twenty.
A summer’s day will seem an hour but short,
Being wasted in such time-beguiling sport.”

With this she seizeth on his sweating palm,
The precedent of pith and livelihood,
And, trembling in her passion, calls it balm,
Earth’s sovereign salve to do a goddess good.
Being so enraged, desire doth lend her force
Courageously to pluck him from his horse.

Over one arm the ***** courser’s rein,
Under her other was the tender boy,
Who blushed and pouted in a dull disdain,
With leaden appetite, unapt to toy;
She red and hot as coals of glowing fire,
He red for shame, but frosty in desire.

The studded bridle on a ragged bough
Nimbly she fastens—O, how quick is love!
The steed is stalled up, and even now
To tie the rider she begins to prove.
Backward she pushed him, as she would be ******,
And governed him in strength, though not in lust.

So soon was she along as he was down,
Each leaning on their elbows and their hips;
Now doth she stroke his cheek, now doth he frown
And ‘gins to chide, but soon she stops his lips,
And, kissing, speaks with lustful language broken:
“If thou wilt chide, thy lips shall never open”.

He burns with bashful shame; she with her tears
Doth quench the maiden burning of his cheeks;
Then with her windy sighs and golden hairs
To fan and blow them dry again she seeks.
He saith she is immodest, blames her miss;
What follows more she murders with a kiss.

Even as an empty eagle, sharp by fast,
Tires with her beak on feathers, flesh, and bone,
Shaking her wings, devouring all in haste,
Till either gorge be stuffed or prey be gone;
Even so she kissed his brow, his cheek, his chin,
And where she ends she doth anew begin.

Forced to content, but never to obey,
Panting he lies, and breatheth in her face;
She feedeth on the steam as on a prey,
And calls it heavenly moisture, air of grace,
Wishing her cheeks were gardens full of flowers,
So they were dewed with such distilling showers.

Look how a bird lies tangled in a net,
So fastened in her arms Adonis lies;
Pure shame and awed resistance made him fret,
Which bred more beauty in his angry eyes.
Rain added to a river that is rank
Perforce will force it overflow the bank.

Still she entreats, and prettily entreats,
For to a pretty ear she tunes her tale;
Still is he sullen, still he lours and frets,
‘Twixt crimson shame and anger ashy-pale.
Being red, she loves him best; and being white,
Her best is bettered with a more delight.

Look how he can, she cannot choose but love;
And by her fair immortal hand she swears
From his soft ***** never to remove
Till he take truce with her contending tears,
Which long have rained, making her cheeks all wet;
And one sweet kiss shall pay this countless debt.

Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
Like a dive-dapper peering through a wave
Who, being looked on, ducks as quickly in;
So offers he to give what she did crave;
But when her lips were ready for his pay,
He winks, and turns his lips another way.

Never did passenger in summer’s heat
More thirst for drink than she for this good turn.
Her help she sees, but help she cannot get;
She bathes in water, yet her fire must burn.
“O pity,” ‘gan she cry “flint-hearted boy,
’Tis but a kiss I beg; why art thou coy?

“I have been wooed as I entreat thee now
Even by the stern and direful god of war,
Whose sinewy neck in battle ne’er did bow,
Who conquers where he comes in every jar;
Yet hath he been my captive and my slave,
And begged for that which thou unasked shalt have.

“Over my altars hath he hung his lance,
His battered shield, his uncontrolled crest,
And for my sake hath learned to sport and dance,
To toy, to wanton, dally, smile, and jest,
Scorning his churlish drum and ensign red,
Making my arms his field, his tent my bed.

“Thus he that overruled I overswayed,
Leading him prisoner in a red-rose chain;
Strong-tempered steel his stronger strength obeyed,
Yet was he servile to my coy disdain.
O be not proud, nor brag not of thy might,
For mast’ring her that foiled the god of fight.

“Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,
—Though mine be not so fair, yet are they red—
The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.
What seest thou in the ground? Hold up thy head;
Look in mine eyeballs, there thy beauty lies;
Then why not lips on lips, since eyes in eyes?

“Art thou ashamed to kiss? Then wink again,
And I will wink; so shall the day seem night.
Love keeps his revels where there are but twain;
Be bold to play, our sport is not in sight:
These blue-veined violets whereon we lean
Never can blab, nor know not what we mean.

“The tender spring upon thy tempting lip
Shows thee unripe; yet mayst thou well be tasted.
Make use of time, let not advantage slip:
Beauty within itself should not be wasted.
Fair flowers that are not gathered in their prime
Rot and consume themselves in little time.

“Were I hard-favoured, foul, or wrinkled-old,
Ill-nurtured, crooked, churlish, harsh in voice,
O’erworn, despised, rheumatic, and cold,
Thick-sighted, barren, lean, and lacking juice,
Then mightst thou pause, for then I were not for thee;
But having no defects, why dost abhor me?

“Thou canst not see one wrinkle in my brow,
Mine eyes are grey and bright and quick in turning,
My beauty as the spring doth yearly grow,
My flesh is soft and plump, my marrow burning;
My smooth moist hand, were it with thy hand felt,
Would in thy palm dissolve or seem to melt.

“Bid me discourse, I will enchant thine ear,
Or like a fairy trip upon the green,
Or like a nymph, with long dishevelled hair,
Dance on the sands, and yet no footing seen.
Love is a spirit all compact of fire,
Not gross to sink, but light, and will aspire.

“Witness this primrose bank whereon I lie:
These forceless flowers like sturdy trees support me;
Two strengthless doves will draw me through the sky
From morn till night, even where I list to sport me.
Is love so light, sweet boy, and may it be
That thou should think it heavy unto thee?

“Is thine own heart to thine own face affected?
Can thy right hand seize love upon thy left?
Then woo thyself, be of thyself rejected,
Steal thine own freedom, and complain on theft.
Narcissus so himself himself forsook,
And died to kiss his shadow in the brook.

“Torches are made to light, jewels to wear,
Dainties to taste, fresh beauty for the use,
Herbs for their smell, and sappy plants to bear;
Things growing to themselves are growth’s abuse.
Seeds spring from seeds, and beauty breedeth beauty;
Thou wast begot: to get it is thy duty.

“Upon the earth’s increase why shouldst thou feed,
Unless the earth with thy increase be fed?
By law of nature thou art bound to breed,
That thine may live when thou thyself art dead;
And so in spite of death thou dost survive,
In that thy likeness still is left alive.”

By this, the lovesick queen began to sweat,
For where they lay the shadow had forsook them,
And Titan, tired in the midday heat,
With burning eye did hotly overlook them,
Wishing Adonis had his team to guide,
So he were like him, and by Venus’ side.

And now Adonis, with a lazy sprite,
And with a heavy, dark, disliking eye,
His louring brows o’erwhelming his fair sight,
Like misty vapours when they blot the sky,
Souring his cheeks, cries “Fie, no more of love!
The sun doth burn my face; I must remove.”

“Ay me,” quoth Venus “young, and so unkind!
What bare excuses mak’st thou to be gone!
I’ll sigh celestial breath, whose gentle wind
Shall cool the heat of this descending sun.
I’ll make a shadow for thee of my hairs;
If they burn too, I’ll quench them with my tears.

“The sun that shines from heaven shines but warm,
And lo, I lie between that sun and thee;
The heat I have from thence doth little harm:
Thine eye darts forth the fire that burneth me;
And were I not immortal, life were done
Between this heavenly and earthly sun.

“Art thou obdurate, flinty, hard as steel?
Nay, more than flint, for stone at rain relenteth.
Art thou a woman’s son, and canst not feel
What ’tis to love, how want of love tormenteth?
O, had thy mother borne so hard a mind
She had not brought forth thee, but died unkind.

“What am I that thou shouldst contemn me this?
Or what great danger dwells upon my suit?
What were thy lips the worse for one poor kiss?
Speak, fair; but speak fair words, or else be mute.
Give me one kiss, I’ll give it thee again,
And one for int’rest, if thou wilt have twain.

“Fie, lifeless picture, cold and senseless stone,
Well-painted idol, image dull and dead,
Statue contenting but the eye alone,
Thing like a man, but of no woman bred!
Thou art no man, though of a man’s complexion,
For men will kiss even by their own direction.”

This said, impatience chokes her pleading tongue,
And swelling passion doth provoke a pause;
Red cheeks and fiery eyes blaze forth her wrong:
Being judge in love, she cannot right her cause;
And now she weeps, and now she fain would speak,
And now her sobs do her intendments break.

Sometime she shakes her head, and then his hand;
Now gazeth she on him, now on the ground;
Sometime her arms infold him like a band;
She would, he will not in her arms be bound;
And when from thence he struggles to be gone,
She locks her lily fingers one in one.

“Fondling,” she saith “since I have hemmed thee here
Within the circuit of this ivory pale,
I’ll be a park, and thou shalt be my deer:
Feed where thou wilt, on mountain or in dale;
Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry,
Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.

“Within this limit is relief enough,
Sweet bottom-grass and high delightful plain,
Round rising hillocks, brakes obscure and rough,
To shelter thee from tempest and from rain:
Then be my deer, since I am such a park;
No dog shall rouse thee, though a thousand bark.”

At this Adonis smiles as in disdain,
That in each cheek appears a pretty dimple.
Love made those hollows, if himself were slain,
He might be buried in a tomb so simple,
Foreknowing well, if there he came to lie,
Why, there Love lived, and there he could not die.

These lovely caves, these round enchanting pits,
Opened their mouths to swallow Venus’ liking.
Being mad before, how doth she now for wits?
Struck dead at first, what needs a second striking?
Poor queen of love, in thine own law forlorn,
To love a cheek that smiles at thee in scorn!

Now which way shall she turn? What shall she say?
Her words are done, her woes the more increasing.
The time is spent, her object will away,
And from her twining arms doth urge releasing.
“Pity!” she cries “Some favour, some remorse!”
Away he springs, and hasteth to his horse.

But lo, from forth a copse that neighbours by
A breeding jennet, *****, young, and proud,
Adonis’ trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts, and neighs aloud.
The strong-necked steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven’s thunder;
The iron bit he crusheth ‘tween his teeth,
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-pricked; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compassed crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send;
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime he trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say ‘Lo, thus my strength is tried,
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair ******* that is standing by.’

What recketh he his rider’s angry stir,
His flattering ‘Holla’ or his ‘Stand, I say’?
What cares he now for curb or pricking spur,
For rich caparisons or trappings gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
For nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look when a painter would surpass the life
In limning out a well-proportioned steed,
His art with nature’s workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace, and bone.

Round-hoofed, short-jointed, fetlocks **** and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide;
Look what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometime he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a base he now prepares,
And whe’er he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feathered wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind:
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love, and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail that, like a falling plume,
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent;
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he was enraged,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuaged.

His testy master goeth about to take him,
When, lo, the unbacked *******, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there.
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Outstripping crows that strive to overfly them.

All swoll’n with chafing, down Adonis sits,
Banning his boist’rous and unruly beast;
And now the happy season once more fits
That lovesick Love by pleading may be blest;
For lovers say the heart hath treble wrong
When it is barred the aidance of the tongue.

An oven that is stopped, or river stayed,
Burneth more hotly, swelleth with more rage;
So of concealed sorrow may be said.
Free vent of words love’s fire doth assuage;
But when the heart’s attorney once is mute,
The client breaks, as desperate in his suit.

He sees her coming, and begins to glow,
Even as a dying coal revives with wind,
And with his bonnet hides his angry brow,
Looks on the dull earth with disturbed mind,
Taking no notice that she is so nigh,
For all askance he holds her in his eye.

O what a sight it was wistly to view
How she came stealing to the wayward boy!
To note the fighting conflict of her hue,
How white and red each other did destroy!
But now her cheek was pale, and by-and-by
It flashed forth fire, as lightning from the sky.

Now was she just before him as he sat,
And like a lowly lover down she kneels;
With one fair hand she heaveth up his hat,
Her other tender hand his fair cheek feels.
His tend’rer cheek receives her soft hand’s print
As apt as new-fall’n snow takes any dint.

O what a war of looks was then between them,
Her eyes petitioners to his eyes suing!
His eyes saw her eyes as they had not seen them;
Her eyes wooed still, his eyes disdained the wooing;
And all this dumb-play had his acts made plain
With tears which chorus-like her eyes did rain.

Full gently now she takes him by the hand,
A lily prisoned in a gaol of snow,
Or ivory in an alabaster band;
So white a friend engirts so white a foe.
This beauteous combat, wilful and unwilling,
Showed like two silver doves that sit a-billing.

Once more the engine of her thoughts began:
“O fairest mover on this mortal round,
Would t

It’s the Wholly Babble!
Obfuscation for the rabble;
Its plagiarized bunk
Delivered in hunks
And carefully rigged
To put lipstick on the pig
That means, at least,
A good living for priests.

So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.

In the Wholly Babble!
Godly, revered people
You can search and find
Many murderously unkind.
Despicable tales galore
Talking snakes and gore;
****** and genocide,
Infanticide and fratricide.

So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.

Miracles are plenty there
To believe every word here
To tempt you with their glory
In the convoluted story
Of two people and two kids
Who did the son wed
When one got married?
From where was she carried?

Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.

And the saddest thing is
An ‘us and them’ myth is
The idea used to create
An established cause for hate.
It’s your God against mine
Yours is evil, mine is fine.
Now isn’t that a fright
To keep you up at night?

So, let’s take a collection
Everyone pays the tab
For a few thousand years
Of indecipherable blab.
Let’s make up stories
That never appeared
And discuss the length
Of God-On-High’s beard.

How sweet and pleasant grows the way
Through summer time again
While Landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass and grain

We hear it in the weeding time
When knee deep waves the corn
We hear it in the summers prime
Through meadows night and morn

And now I hear it in the grass
That grows as sweet again
And let a minutes notice pass
And now tis in the grain

Tis like a fancy everywhere
A sort of living doubt
We know tis something but it neer
Will blab the secret out

If heard in close or meadow plots
It flies if we pursue
But follows if we notice not
The close and meadow through

Boys know the note of many a bird
In their birdnesting bounds
But when the landrails noise is heard
They wonder at the sounds

They look in every tuft of grass
Thats in their rambles met
They peep in every bush they pass
And none the wiser get

And still they hear the craiking sound
And still they wonder why
It surely cant be under ground
Nor is it in the sky

And yet tis heard in every vale
An undiscovered song
And makes a pleasant wonder tale
For all the summer long

The shepherd whistles through his hands
And starts with many a whoop
His busy dog across the lands
In hopes to fright it up

Tis still a minutes length or more
Till dogs are off and gone
Then sings and louder than before
But keeps the secret on

Yet accident will often meet
The nest within its way
And weeders when they **** the wheat
Discover where they lay

And mowers on the meadow lea
Chance on their noisy guest
And wonder what the bird can be
That lays without a nest

In simple holes that birds will rake
When dusting on the ground
They drop their eggs of curious make
Deep blotched and nearly round

A mystery still to men and boys
Who know not where they lay
And guess it but a summer noise
Among the meadow hay

some hot ugly between nothing
and nothing goes life
its arms perspiring longways
and shortways
its blab
and
meter

smoking with a short
jeer between its legs
hurt in the dark grass of Spring
is all around it(and

Something is large

and

Something is small

inside it
there are many insides
)and there is a wet
girl around a dry glass
long fingers apart the nape
of its sloping droop
the earth comes undone

and there is a girl
and there is a hot blab
and there is the great red reeling rictus

of a far drop from a near pier(

   )it can see and can you see

The how longshort of the hot blab ugly
between the red reeling jeer of the some
ugly life there is a goes

Took a nap HP
Just woketh up,
Now it's pop-its time
To thrown them on the sidewalk.....
To be a child again.....
Wait?
Am I still five?

It's almost the fourth of July lollll......

Persia,
The land of God,
Where God stayed in person,
As he traversed desert sand dunes to Irag,
To have a look at rivers Euphrates and Tigris,
When Adam had just finished playing the first human ***,
With Eve, the non ****** companion he gave him,
He then meted out to them eternal nemesis
Out of his anger and selfish jealous,
Other-wise what was wrong,
For Adam to have a ****,
With the unclothed eve,
Any answer please,
Or no please,
Persia,

Persia Now is Nuked,
A nuclearized oil exporter,
She has a Koran, oil-wells and Nuclear,
She also has no-nonsense masculine Arabic culture,
****** grounds in which mushrooms the messy Islamic soup,
Blessed and Glorified by my good ****** brother; Barrack Obama,
Who was once God and sent the inverse of angel Michael to Laden Osama,
To impregnant the ****** mother of death that sired laden’s demise,
Game in which Obama dwarfs Netanyahu a global dweeb,
Left on a wrong inglenook in a dwaal at Jerusalem fire,
Biasly blessing the Israeli Nuclear and Hydrogen bombs,
As security of the world, and condemning Iran,
Calling their Kosher Nuclears a threat,
To the israelized world security,
But his Gaza **** is not,
His refuge camps
Are not

Blessed are the Nuclear stuffs of Persia,
They are blessings of Allah to those that are guided,
Maunderings of the jackanapes like Netanyahu is not news,
For he has more nuclear in Jerusalem, hydrogen bombs too he has,
Then arming Persia must a usual game of violence not anything of his sort,
For  they are Koran, the nuclear, the oil wells, and the woman,
That will frame up the Islamic state to stable counterzionism,
To stave mania of European Jews for settlerism
To eat what they deserve un¬¬-rapaciously,
To at least breed homespun respect,
For those that differ with them
In faith and skin
Like afro-persians


Persia,
Your nuclear stuffs,
Are blessed and glorified,
For they are counter-apartheid,
To the Zionist apartheid in Palestine,
They are acts that resemble the acts in the past,
By those that oppressed, colonize, imperialize for settlerism,
For a line in Shakespeare’s king Lear has some blessings for you;
The un-armed (Arabs) provokes (Israeli) enemy’s attack,
Thus reality of equal nuclear mighty and strength
Will nurse thought for de-imperialism
Sense of respect and discipline,
By those who belong to God,
To those who don’t,

Who Bombed Charlie Hebdo?
And what of the Yankee Twin Towers?
Was it Al Qaeda or the Israelis, can I blab or not?
O, there were also Nuclear stuffs in De Klerk’s White South Africa,
But when blackness came to corridors of power, the nukes followed color,
What of what I was dreaming yester night? About Netanyahu,
He ployed for the European hatred against Islamic statesmen,
He bombed Charlie Hebdo, masquerading as an Arab,
For European war on Islamic state to intensify,
Then it intensified, but God only knew,
The truth; Islamic statesman are only mouthy,
But foolish in war and offense,
They didn’t bomb
Charlie Hebdo,

Boris Nemetsov,
A Russian speaking Jew,
Was shot dead in Moscow,
(RIP) Boris, for the human soul must die,
Death and grave is the kismet for us the living,
But why were you weak as a post hatch cackling hen,
To make noise and preen around as a jade in the land of fox,
The African sisal fox that ate all the Crimean chicken,
Noise of a hen cannot fetter fox’s appetite,
Noise of a hen cannot shake culture,
Of Nuclear power in Iran and Korea N,
Why live in Russia, but you love Israeli?
I don’t need the answer dudes,
But always oppression
the oppressor always
it kills,

Alexander  Khamala Opicho
Lodwar ,  Kenya

captured in the psych ward, fear of being kidnapped by demons




today ron got out of bed and went to the cafe for a morning coffee and spoke to them

about his latest patient, who was in the psych ward because he feared being kidnapped

by demons who are flying around his head, you see a few nights before he was admitted

to the psych ward, he tied himself up claiming the demons have him, and if he told people

about the demons, his next door neighbour will snarl at him with his coffee saying your not a cool

kid buddy and the reason why he told them there, because they won’t blab, and nobody outside

will know about the 21 year old paranoid schizophrenic he has in his psych ward, and ron left the

cafe and headed to the hdu to give the morning medications out and he gave it to patty roe, and

charlie chaplin and when he came to the 21 year old he stopped to have a little talk saying

how was your sleep last night and then he said my name is olly hammond, and i was being threatened

outside a nightclub in the city and that gave olly horrible kidnapping thoughts thinking he would be

kidnapped by them, but really they were roughing him up, but olly knew nothing of that, and the thugs said i might

kidnap olly in a minute and illy heard it, and ran off yelling, the demons have got me, the demons have got me

and ron was not really proud of the drug they chose for olly but gave him a dose of the drug for the morning

and then after handing all the medications out, he went to do research on his computer about trying to find

the right drug for olly, because this drug he was on was making olly feel nautious, and definitely made him

very paranoid, but the nurses didn’t share ron’s enthusiasm about putting him on another drug, because

sometimes it’s good to tackle the problem by digging the whole root rather than just the bush, and ron said

yeah i agree with that, but while he is on this medication he will be violent to himself or another patient or

even one of us, i know olly is only young but he can **** a man, because nobody really looked after him

much as a kid, and the nurses said ok, but really putting him on another medication could **** him by making

him very slow and ron said, yeah, but he thinks demons are kidnapping him, and if anyone makes fun of him

olly will become very violent toward himself or others, and then as ron was talking he noticed afexor, which

was made for depression, but as ron was reading it, it can help paranoid schizophrenics if they are monitored

properly and then 15 minutes before lunch, ron went to olly’s room to say, we are taking you off the drug your on

and putting you on afexor because it can get rid of the paranoyer in your head, and let’s put this bluntly, get rid of

these demons who are threatening to kidnap you, and olly asked when do i start this new medication and ron said, how about tonight

and because you have only been on medication for 4 days, we can’t see why we can’t not give you any more doses

of that medication, and ron left and then went in to deliver the lunches to everyone and patty roe and charlie chaplin

and olly and 12 more patients all came out, but olly started yelling because his meal looked like **** and tore strips off

charlie chaplin because he told him to shut up and ron took olly to his room to talk to him and then ron brought his

lunch in and olly used his hand to throw his lunch all over his room and ron gave olly a ****** to calm down and

then went back to his office to work on this affexor experiment and olly slept right through to dinner and he didn’t like that either

and ron said, olly, you must eat something or you’ll starve and then the nurses force fed a tube into his stomach, and olly

screamed saying ******* ******* ******* ******* ******* YA FUCKEN ****** and ron gave him his

first two tablets of affexor and it might have calmed him down, and as ron clocked off and bought fish and chips and

went home to retire on the couch, at 3 am, the nurses rang ron up saying the new medication is giving him a rash all over

his body, and this is making him very hard to settle down, and ron said, ok, try him on melleril, 3 tablets, tomorrow, and we’ll

scrap the affexor, and the nurses apologised for getting him up, and ron said, don’t worry about it, i want olly well as well

and the next morning ron went to his usual cafe for breakfast and then went to the HDU, to hand out the morning medications

and when ron came up to olly, he copped a serve saying, that medication you put me on gave a fucken rash, and then olly said

next time you think about a wonder drug, can you please think about the fucken side effects and ron gave him 1 tablet of melleril in the

morning and when it came to the nighttime medications he gave him 2 tablets of melleril, and so far so good, and after he gave the 9 o’clock supper

ron went home and heated up some soup and watched TV, and fell asleep on the couch, and the next day, melleril was a wonder drug

but it’s only early days, will this drug stop olly’s demon kidnapping, thinking everyone is going to bash or kidnap him when noone is after him.

There can be certain potions
needled in the clock
for the body's fall from grace,
to untorture and to plead for.
These I have known
and would sell all my furniture
and books and assorted goods
to avoid, and more, more.

But the other pain
I would sell my life to avoid
the pain that begins in the crib
with its bars or perhaps
with your first breath
when the planets drill
your future into you
for better of worse
as you marry life
and the love that gets doled out
or doesn't.

I find now, swallowing one teaspoon
of pain, that it drops downward
to the past where it mixes
with last year's cupful
and downward into a decade's quart
and downward into a lifetime's ocean.
I alternate treading water
and deadman's float.

The teaspoon ought to be hearable
if it didn't mix into the reruns
and thus enlarge into what it is not,
a sea pest's sting turning promptly
into the shark's neat biting off
of a leg because the soul
wears a magnifying glass.
Kicking the heart
with pain's big boots running up and down
the intestines like a motorcycle racer.

Yet one does get out of bed
and start over, plunge into the day
and put on a hopeful look
and does not allow fear to build a wall
between you and an old friend
or a new friend and reach out your hand,
shutting down the thought that
an axe may cut it off unexpectedly.
One learns not to blab about all this
except to yourself or the typewriter keys
who tell no one until they get brave
and crawl off onto the printed page.

I'm getting bored with it,
I tell the typewriter,
this constantly walking around
in wet shoes and then, surprise!
Somehow DECEASED keeps getting
stamped in red over the word HOPE.
And I who keep falling thankfully
into each new pillow of belief,
finding my Mercy Street,
kissing it and tenderly gift-wrapping my love,
am beginning to wonder just what
the planets had in mind on November 9th, 1928.
The pillows are ripped away,
the hand guillotined,
dog **** thrown into the middle of a laugh,
a hornets' nest building into the hi-fi speaker
and leaving me in silence,
where, without music,
I become a cracked orphan.

Well,
one gets out of bed
and the planets don't always hiss
or muck up the day, each day.
As for the pain and its multiplying teaspoon,
perhaps it is a medicine
that will cure the soul
of its greed for love
next Thursday.

I don't think my therapist
Understood
That I truly cared
And loved her

I'm too simple
Too good

She left
With a week's warning
Never to be heard
Or seen again

I hope she repents

She was my companion
And friend

I'm a good man
I'm a loving man

I love women
And yes
I can use a *******

It feels good

I don't have
Any female friends

My therapist
Was cruel
And selfish

From my therapist
I learned never
To trust human beings

How can I forgive you

You could have said
You would miss meeting with me
Or that the times were
Meaningful to you

Shame on you
For what you did

You will be put on trial
For neglect

For neglecting to care

You'll just leave
Me alone
Sitting over there

My female friend
Never came

You went on about hope
Easy for you
To blab about Hope

With your rich family

You will know
Great suffering
In this country

You will live
During the Third World War
Like I will

You will know suffering

I just wanted to meet
Once a week

Now I'm going to have
To go see another therapist
For what you did

Deceiver, Deceiver
One who deceives

The bombs fall
Where they fall
The suffering comes
To us all

Burn bright, burn bright
Burn in the middle of the night

A ruined home
At dawn's early light

******* America
******* America

A prideful, wicked, and corrupt land
Let it be judged for its sins
This is God's plan

You laughed at me
At times
I did not get as aroused
As I used to

You said, I won't write that
I wouldn't want anyone to see

I mentioned that was momentary
And that I had bought my flashlight
To ****** into

I'm a man
And considered using
A *******

I didn't know
Who I was
When I talked to you

Telling you about
Wearing *******

About being kind and loving

You are wicked
One who listens
And leaves

******* you
******* you

I'm a man
I'm a man

I don't wear women's clothes!
I'm not gay

I like women

Somebody understand me

I'm a man
And I love women

And I ****** into my flashlight

And I thought about
What it would be like
To be a woman

To be different

I thought about my identity
I tried to express

I told you all these things

******* you

You sadist
And hedonist

I bent over against the bed
And ****** it

I'm not gay!
I don't pleasure men

And the men who love
Other men
Well that is wonderful for them

You don't understand
I'm a man, I love women
I'm kind and caring

I want to pleasure a woman
I want to **** a woman

My ***** is normal
It is 6 inches

I'll show you
I'll show this flashlight
And ******* ****** into it

Men prove themselves
With feats of strength
And martial arts

While gentlemen
With good minds

Sit alone in their rooms
And *******
And cry!

There are no women
No women who want
A kind man

No women who want me

And I liked talking to you
You were kind
And caring

I trusted you
I enjoyed meeting
Once a week

Karma will come
And it won't be fun
When you suffer
Under an angry God's sun!

I'm not angry
I miss talking to you
You were my friend

I'm tired now
If I ever just walk off
Into the wilderness

It was because
I despise deceivers

I trusted you
You should have given me
More warning

Now an angry God
Will make you pay
And you should burn
Burn brightly on judgement day

Well, we all deserved damnation
But it's okay

Dear Jesus help me
Forgive the deceiver today

It's life that does
The killing

And nothing is ever fair

And I feel deformed
And trapped

And I'm standing over there

And I think I have
Alot of problems

And I don't know why

And sometimes I'll just cry

I look up at the sky

I hate that my left side
Is stronger than my right

And I'm tired of trying
Why do I even bother
Why do I even fight

And my head is on the right side
Of my body

Not in the middle
Where it is supposed to be

I guess it *****
To be me

And I walk here
And walk there
People blab and blab
But few really care

And I lift weights
Go to phsyical therapy
But nothing changes for me

My left back still
A bit larger than my right

And I don't know
Whether to
Laugh or cry

I certainly can
Be a lonely
And miserable guy

(A Choreopoem after Ntozake Shange)

Babbling publicly into your phone
the tragedy’s yours, and yours alone:
messages from your dysfunctional city
inflicted in Afro-eccentricity.

Turn off your phone and spare us the drama.
Look for change from the Lord (not Obama)…
Quit twitching your neckline, stop making that face
there’s nothing you merit because of your race;
no right to entitlement. Take it to God—
we hope He will change you, but spare the rod.

And we pray He does change you, put “yes” in your can;
and that change that’s left over (from Savior to man)
might enlighten your heritage, lighten your load
help you calculate more or less what you are owed
in dollars or dignity (afro-semantics)
while twittering radically militant antics.

A debt unforgiven: this claim someone owes you
some change in a can that black history shows you
your hopeful presumption is scant reparation
for ghetto entitlement fouling our nation.

Go harvest your madness and reap what you’ve sown
now that tares have sprung up as you blab on your phone
now that reapers are ready—the data-plan paid
and our melanin levels beginning to fade…

I’ll shout from your rooftop until you’ve heard
and the crackers get fed to the mockingbird.

You can explain trigonometry to a zebra,
You can blab till blue in the cheeks,
But that doesn’t at all determine,
Whether a zebra will learn trigonometry.

A piece of irony:
We expect Zebras to be black and white,
Because their appearance says so,
But what about their feelings,
Who they are as Zebras?

Luscious, rare, and totally majestic,
But most of all,
Slept on…
Like most beautiful things, a pity indeed,
But that’s nature.

You find yourself mesmerized by them,
Yet you never truly grasp their beauty.
I ponder one small thought:
What do we really know about zebras?

We know what we are told,
We know what we see,
We know what we read,
But somehow,
These zebras,
They just… unapologetically exist,
In ways that never remain consistent.

Lions hunt zebras,
and rip them a part,
Because lions assume that these zebras,
Are merely the inferior species,
Ready to be preyed upon,
Simply because they’re less dominant,
In a world of carnivorous predators.

Amazon heats her burning waste,

she’s tickling time with paint squint eyes.

With a sinkhole grip of uncertain hold;

she just babble talk babble, babble just blah,

blah and blab.

She dropped the room flat cold -

down so down.

Stole the show, priced the surprise;

little to show and much too nosey,

mind your business, it’s all go go.

2010 Barry Comer

I wish that maybe you weren’t so afraid.

Those were the only words I could conjure from my mouth last night, when I should have been pleading for you to take my hand.

I am not talking cheesy wedding bells and frilly dress nonsense.

Just take my **** hand and let me show you why I love you.

There are no strings attached with me, and don’t you dare tell me that you that you cannot see how loyal I am to you. I should have pleaded my case right then and there, but I am now, and I want you to listen to me.

Writing a love poem is hard now a days. It seems like everything has been said and done in almost every conceivable way.

I don’t want to spell you hand-me-down words.

I want to spoon feed you the lust from my soul as if it were a book that had never been written. Let the words I write for you spread across the decades for all to serenade a doll like you.

I want you to cherish our romance.

I see you for what you are and I see that there is potential for me to hopelessly fall. I may be a tad bit reckless with the way that I toss about my words for you like a lust struck conundrum, but try to see me for what I am.

My hands are reaching for your heart.

Let me in.

I’ve been knocking on that door of yours for days now, and I just want to know if I’m going to get my fair shake at this. I cannot sit here and blab my trap about how or why I’m so different, but I know you can see it in my eyes. I will lose the rest of my hope in this world, if I do not get my fair shake at this.

Take my hand please. I’ll gladly get down on my knees and explain to you why graveling doesn’t suit me, but at this point, I’ll do anything to make this a reality.

I want to show you that chivalry isn’t dead, and that I would do just about anything to be able buy you a 15 cent Coke and take you to the drive in movie in my thunderbird.

This is the heat of summer, this is it.

I’m here.

So spare yourself the conscious scrutiny of my demise, and give me a chance.

You won’t be sorry.

So I have anger issues,
at least I'm not punching through walls

(Although I'm training myself to do so, shhh, don't tell)
I don't want to tell any one that would actually do something of my problems.

They'll just start an interrogation
and that's the last thing I need
(I don't want to hurt them, they think they are helping)

So I guess I'll keep writing messed up poetry
that no one reads because it makes no sense.

And who wants to hear a demented person blab on?

As these muscles clench and unclench all day
trying so hard not to lash out at those I care about
(but why should I care? They don't care about me and they'll leave anyways)

A boxing class would be a great idea right now...
Rather hurt a huge bag of sand then destroy a school laptop.

I'm fiery, impulsive.
I talk too much,
I think too much
and sometimes not at all.
I complain a lot,
and I cry and laugh,
I blab a lot,
overreact.
Hyperbolise,
and overanalyse
and take things wrong
and get offended,
I don't trust,
I hate, I love
with fiery passion,
I've hot blood.

The sea's not always calm,
please captain, take me,
I might be too much,
but try not to let me go.

My life, my rules,
I may be cool,
I am not a fool.
They say I am funny,
And as sweet as honey.
I may be a kooky,
But, I am not definitely cocky.
I am impressed by humility,generosity and kindness,
I stay clear of other people's bitterness or smallness.
I believe in me,
I never blab about,
My income,
My love life,
What I will do next.
If I am successful,
I am also grateful,
And I am strong enough to let go,
But wise enough to heal and grow,
I lead my life my way.

There shall be a feast
Vultures flying around
Picking on your brains
But no, that's just not enough for them
No, it's not enough

There shall be a feast
Jackals running around
Looking for carcass
But no, it's nowhere to be found
Nowhere to be found

There shall be a feast
People blab about
So many fears to be fed
And it's perfectly enough
Oh, perfectly enough

There shall be a feast
A monk thinking out loud
With no hunger and no guilt
He enjoys the sunlight
Shining on his veins

I mean to make the killing fields
make them look like a walk in the park
when I have finished in rhetorical spite
many will be on the cold cold slabs

I mean to hurt you
I mean to crush you
I'll show you a cad
as I put you on the slab

I mean to break your soul
tear you another *******
you can beg and blab
but you are going on the slab

You can't run from one like me
for I promise I will find thee
I mean to collect and tag
as I put you on the slab

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

By NeonSolaris

© 2013 NeonSolaris (All rights reserved)

Della holds
tightly in
her stubby

nail bitten
8 fingers
a buttered

slice of toast
taking bites
now and then

then dips it
in the boiled
egg yoke deep

her mother
watches her
Downs daughter

with those kind
Mongoloid
bright blue eyes

how'd you sleep?
My eyes closed
Della says

sleep all night?
Yes all night
did you dream?

Had nightmare
what about?
Froggy's touch

what about
Froggy's touch?
I pretend

I'm asleep
why pretend?
If he thinks

I'm asleep
he won't touch
over much

he touches?
Touches me
tickles you?

Not always
but sometimes?
Della nods

eats her toast
her mother
looks at her

the wide mouth
the broad tongue
touches me

secret place
secret place?
Where abouts?

Della dips
the soldier
of sliced toast

in the yoke
of yellow
prods it down

and then out
and licks it
where abouts

does he touch?
Mother asks
secret place

Froggy says
mustn't tell
where abouts

Loadingdoes he touch?
Froggy said
cousin's can

where abouts
did he touch?
Mother asks

once again
Della stares
at her plate

of boiled egg
and sliced toast
thinking of

Froggy's touch
and promise
she had made

not to blab
(Froggy's word)
about it

the secret
touching place
it's nowhere

Della says
dreamed of it
in my sleep

are you sure?
Mother asks
Della nods

and dips toast
in the yoke
of the egg

thinking on
Froggy's touch
up her leg.

To listen to the guy
Blab about money
Each and every day

And because
It was always more
And more

Life turned
Into a total bore
5 days a week
From 9 to 5

Seemed like
Money
Was a drug
For this guy
To stay alive

He could have retired
A long time ago
But he spent
And wasted
So much you know

And so he'll
Work and work
Until the work is done

What a miserable
Existence
And not much fun

Standing on the promenade searching for a peek
watching the waves breaking on the pebbled beach
some boys did see her for sure, the other day
flipping her tail cocky, looking so happy and gay

That mermaid, sure we will run her to ground
so the press can be more then blasted confound
and when we hook her up for all to see
they will see how easy it is to **** a sweet sea creature it be

Oh wicked is this show time for a renegade mermaid
so what if they blab with saline pleas
chop them up and send them back
to our poor mothers crying in the deep blue sea

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

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He thumps in your chest
Never stops to rest
Beat and beat
From head to feet
Keeps you going
Keeps blood flowing
Pumps life in you
'Til your life is through

Despite his cause
He recieves no applause
For he's to blame
For all our pain
But is that true
If only we knew
The anatomical heart
Isn't the one tearing us apart

He does his job
Doesn't blab his gob
And yet we gloat
On our scapegoat
We point our flaws
Against all laws
And he is the defendant
Still we are so dependant

He says, "I'm full of reason.
I've comitted no treason.
If you feel drained,
Accuse the brain.
She always gets away with it.
It makes me want to have a fit.
She toys with your emotions.
I've created no commotion."

Feeling comes from our mind
So next time try to be kind
Because the atomical heart
Is an important body part
And you wouldn't want to beat it down
Then one day find that it has drowned
In your false accusations
Made by your frustrations

Talk,talk 'til you're blue in the face,you're talking yourself out of the human race,it's all blab,blah and babble de blah,I wish you'd stay silent you make me go argh.
You talk through your nose 'cause your tongue's all talked out and when your nose gets blocked up you talk off the top of your spout,you make me want to shout,'shut the hell up and go far away',you just talk and you talk and you'll talk off the end of this day and when you fall,
I'm sure there's even more you will think of to say.
You give me a headache an earache, I can't take any more so please talk yourself right out of the door.
Have a walk
do not talk
please go back home
leave me with some silence
please leave me alone.

i am sitting hot

gladly sweating i see

a centillion

of shimmering

dash off the bodies

of cars marching distantly further i am

(hear) the muzzled snort of
some angry guys
who are wont to go but i am

smelling the disgruntled curiosity
of heads

               out

their windows downup looking at i
taste the blush of blundering eve vastly
squatting slowly

its haunches on the hunched roar of a
"shitload" of yelping aluminum throats (iam)

tasting the shavings of eyes

that peer looking up the long line laying
shimmering with a centillianth
of summer  

they gawk hard up the
road to where there is neat lights blinking lights (neatly

up the road there is the hot blab of summer and the ***** of a

                suicide
                            )

Shhhh

Yes I probably should just keep my mouth shut
about this
about you
about *us
About that hell breach of trust;

About the evil you probably should've not done
to me
and to her
and I heard, to another
To each one of us, the "one you love" eh?

I wonder into how many
broken. little. pieces.
your childish empty heart split
That you could lend each one of us
one part of it

Shhhh

Yes I probably should just keep my mouth shut
but I've had enough
I am tired
of catching nosy stares
and of being the kind little martyr

The respect,
the hope, that small trust
that was left
All gone
All drowned into disgust

It ain't a bitter feeling
not even bittersweet
darling, say
it's just a one deep sigh
after one tiresome and foolish afternoon play

But
Shhhh
don't worry kid
Though I realize all this time I have done so,
I'd still be keeping my mouth shut

About you
About us
About that ****, breach of trust
Yes I'm keeping my mouth shut
but I'm letting this verse do all the blab

This is my apocalyptic demise
To your surprise with no cries just good byes
The end of my life, the surrendering to pain
I have nothing left to gain but going more insane
So in vain you will start to feel my agony
Except now I won't be there for you to blab to me
Don't rip off the scab because your the blame
Don't convince yourself you're not because that is the aim

In the conversation you had with your sisters and friends
over coffee and chitchat,
you described me as perfect, a gentleman
adorned with a cloak of eccentricity,
Tagged along by a shadow who has has never been
in the dark or seen anything but the light.
At this time, your accent lifts as you described me.
"Perfect gentlemen don't exist", everyone retorted.
So you go on and on about
this and about that
And this too and that.
Till even the least enthusiastic
Buys a ticket to watch me.

So I perform. I perform. Only this time
I wear no mask on the stage of enticement.
I laugh out loud and carry the bottles.
I sing out loud even when my voice is muffled.
I play along, like a skilled ocarinist.
I blab about life in the slums and the impending economic crunches,
i brag about my dreams and the few nights I don't snore.

In the same conversation I had with myself,
Sitting to a bottle, a moleskin and pen all by myself,

I tell myself how much of me hasn't changed,
How my thoughts never changed
Despite my unkempt beard and bad breath.

I tell myself how the-same I am,
Only this time, I'm wearing a different shirt
stained at the pocket with oil from yesterday's tofu fries.

my almost body does
through nearly hands which
deep reeds–the naked bottoms of rivers;

wide spans eagerly of ***
wist twisting
the curv'd blade
of their
hot in June mouth's
(legs arms)

occaissionly
sweating
swept in
the resin
of warm rain;

(a universe is here between
the hairless bulb of every fertile's
crescent )

a dangerous slenderly perhaps
of open lips
reeling furiously
with starlight

(outside summer is a hot blab
on the pavement can be heard
the clip-clap of a horse goes
lathered in tremendous dew)

a crocus riding
the small spring hour
of a lady

in tooo many clothes