i like reading about urban living, primarily by accounts of Frank O'Hara -
no one else, to be honest - where i'm placed i can vocalise
both the vulgarity and the serenity of a Wordsworth -
better had i an art gallery to run,
but my heart is too stony to accept the
chanced frivolous - it's anything beside that,
chanced, basked in, celebration of life -
perhaps i am outdated, and i know i am,
succumb to Kantian idealism, and no strand
of realism - after going to a brothel and learning
a few things, i was told i was a good man -
never did ****, too eager to watch the ******* -
****** tied - and then silencing my ****** -
i guess that's how quasi-country-folk live
these days... i simply prefer the solitude,
not from self-love: but as a way of assurance -
and later assembling - but i learn of the lives
in urban areas, of their little pests and phobias,
of places where people congregate -
and i feel no inclination to do likewise -
i don't even know why i'm travelling to
say something at the Cheltenham festival -
i've got nothing to say...
                               i can create usurpers of older
men, and blind-spot the youth,
        and be incriminated for both actions...
because i can...
                              but there's still O'Hara to mind...
and "all that love he could give in **** pursuit" -
apologies if i don't share that,
  my mentor Spinoza learned as much
in other circumstances -
                         hence the twilight of the man
of contempt and great love -
   as said, paradoxically, frankincense is
a scent appropriated as possessing anti-depressant
properties... yet we speak of: the man of sorrows.
but about my pet peeve, linguistic, obviously:
    the french for hotel - hôtel -
mind you, not trilling the r with mutually respective
   examples of English and French, but nonetheless
harking the r and amputee h in French,
     hôtel - or h'ôtel or h)ôtel - the diacritic mark
above the o is like a bracket, or < (less than) what's
expected in tongue kitted to say:
                                               h'otel - or simply o(h) tel -
        so too garçon - with ç extending into s
   and said: garçon / garson -
                           or with grave markings on a vowel:
that eats all other letters after it: cut-off grave e (è) -
    thus too the circumflex abuses invisible in
Cockney slang, and the eaten up h - via 'appening -
   'n 'appens only ounce -
                                            indeed the fighting took
places above as well as below the 26 symbols -
  in the diacritical realm of stresses and other punctuation
deficiencies - colon over the u for the umlaut,
there the fighting took place -
                      in an urban environment, would i ever
have spotted this? among fast food outlets, neon
and art galleries? probably not -
so akin said: lawlessness above and below the alphabet,
the warring fusion - but so they should have said,
in Mandarin - beyond vowels and consonants,
there are Surd variations of both -
              for aesthetic reasons -
our natural borders -                          and there are also
                    diacritical / exemplified stresses of
both sexes of letters -   some are silenced, some are
pronounced... they never told us that...
               they simply bragged about how naked
English was, and how certain people picked up
all the major eccentric intricacies -
                       to create a bourgeoisie levelling of
what's content with being a noun: intelligence.
there are rules beyond the five vowels and 21 consonants,
in that there's a trans-linguistic appropriation -
some become surds, some become pronounced -
   third limbs, six fingers, or Siamese twins -
                     given the book of revelation, and the phrase:
given power over all tongues - apart from ideogram
languages - and Arabic sidewinders on sand dunes -
you could, technically, incorporate all the particular stresses
onto the English language from all the Latin alphabet
languages... you could, in effect, paint onto all the
English particulars, all the brimful expressions of
diacritical marks being missing: English eccentricities -
you could, in effect, paint, once you have mastered
all the punctuation of pronunciation above the letters,
and below, not unlike (that that) what's already
deemed appropriate between words: i mean actual
letters - attach one diacritical mark to Finnegans' Wake,
and the whole work crumbles... you could effectively paint...
once you mastered the many particular instances of
atypical English deviation - making English, a language
less offensive in a sense that it already is:
for English is offensive in that its universal,
a franca lingua of commerce - and since that is the case:
there must be a status quo lingua - in this case:
English with diacritical marks - expressing all the
obvious deviations - this process, i am gleeful in stating:
will take as much effort as mapping out man's d.n.a.,
that's not pompous, that's actually hopeful,
hopeful in the sense that i spotted this, and someone
will take over in 50 years time, to incorporate
all the public uses of diacritical marks in other Latinißed
languages a pompous: congregation -
nesting on the bare rocks - after all that 16th and 17th century
******* in England and tongue and Empire: doth do, etc.
modernity says? Irvine Welsh's trainspotting Scootish
dialect excess - aye wee and e -
only when all the diacritical propositions are congregated
in the English Eden will we sing hallelujah -
this is a challenge, after all, English with its
Welsh and Scottish, Berkshire and Cornish, Cockney
and Richmond fluffy accents can be feed
this invasion of nuances already expressed:
thus in abstract:                      ABSTRACT

(originally herioglyphs)
        heliographic                     (v. the ideogram -
                                                      or no pyramid to ditto)
        and thus the heliocentric theory -
countered with this, or these the 26 fractions
      of the geocentric notion, England: bellybutton
of the world - as such... helioglyphic - glitches
  or graphics or glyph-on-glyph in that x = y combined with
   x squared and the parabolic curvature and foundation |)
                geographic - geoglyphic -
when then the Greenwich meridian turn into
the Greenwich universal accenting?      English
is fertile ground to apply the many stresses,
                                   sure, make it the universal tongue,
the globalisation vehicle, but dress yourself for that purpose,
accept all the invaders to your schemes invoking the 24/7 global
community... **** up! don't tartan up! **** up!
            with the wigs and the perfumes, and the bowler hats
and the neckties - you did it once... do it again!
                English is fertile ground for incorporating all
the linguistic "anomalies" - sure, little would look ugly if
written litle - soon to the invocation of lyre - or saccharolytic -
    dog's tongue lapping and a thousand slurs later:
                     cha cha cha and kappa and cholesterol
     and cheap and chasing foxes with bloodhounds -
                         and cappuccino - and chisel - chromosome:
                                          cistern (alter. çistern) -
    if something akin to this doesn't happen...
          we're all be playing the Mongolian harmonica,
by default of the 24 hours that are stressed to
be as important as an entire year of patience in waiting
for autumnal grapes and the wine pressed.

Runaways hiding in the abandoned warehouse,

Teenagers stolen, unwitting  spouse,

Gangs and violence all around,

People disappearing without a sound,

Blood and drugs and stolen girlfriends,

Turf wars and kidknappings, is there no end?,

People vanish and are never found,

People hunt them down, like bloodhounds,

A world with knives at every turn,

People who live to watch things burn,

They never think about the consequences of their actions,

Just watch the news for the family's reactions,

Shoot old friends in the head because of a debt,

Slit a strangers throat because you don't like their pet,

Lock ememies in your bathroom; release them for money,

Beat them inch away from death; 'till they're crying for their mummy,

Tie a stranger to a raft and watch them drift out to sea,

When are these people going to wake up and see,

It's time gang members had an epiphany,

You can't lock people up and cover them in wee,

Karma says that bad things happen to bad people like them,

Every mean thing they've done, to them we will condemn,

Relentless bullying towards your colleagues and your peers,

You've had your brutal fun; it's the Day of the Disappeared.

The faint smell of the watery sugar
is barely noticed. The starfruit's fragrance
swept away into faint nothingness
at the hands of the tropical winds of Hawaii.

Hanging onto the tree, the fruit once sour and bitter
undergoes a seemingly emotional transformation.
The sun's sweet-tempered fingers are secretly and appealingly molding it.
It learns to be sweet instead of sour,
our taste buds tingling with the power to taste,
but being held closely like bloodhounds on a leash.

It brings an exotic originality to the table.
The Vietnamese fable, blah-blah-bitty-blah its unknown.
It's skin kissed by golden rays,
and the once green fades
into a sweet banana yellow.

on the inside, it still knows its roots,
it still knows the sliminess of negativity,
and on the inside it holds tan pellets shaped just like tear drops,
embraced within its boogers of its old bitter soul.

Droplets of water drip-drop down
off the waxy fruit, and it lays silently on a freckled
black marble counter. Sweating sickeningly after a cold shower,
its cool glistening skin signals its execution.
Soon enough the executioner arrives,
the sharp shining blade blinding
with bright lines of reflected light.

No, it wasn't nearly as crisp and sugary as an apple,
nor was it even as sweet and citrusy as an orange,
and yet, it was a little bit of both.
The little stars stuck somewhere in-between,
alone in the galaxy of oranges and apples.

Bedlams rest within
these indigo walls;
the new age of senses
like bloodhounds, we scratch
and sniff the streets
for freedom;ambitious
we reach; we attempt
to clasp this distinguished
portrait as an escape route,
but we are met with misfortune
a ghost has traveled these woods
he has; his presence can be tasted
lurking within the breeze
the new age of senses unfolds
an awakening to behold



© 2012 (All rights reserved)

Men are mad dogs,
 women, finessed felines
we'd no sooner claw
    your eyes out
than admit you're right,
we'll undoubtedly,
without hesitation - -
use our feminine wiles,
to get our own way,
and you bloodhounds
   best get used to it
or no ***** for you
    tonight, or any given day

We've got the upper paw...MEow


And, if you're a bird dog
   well, that's a whole other story,
no telling what could happen

=^;^=

My knees always ache when it rains. It feels like thunderstorms down there.
Imbriferous skies quake and pour. In rows of misery below, black umbrellas and grim faces held in raincoat hoods move up and down the hill slopes. Impluvious bodies move as a current – up and then down, up and then down – carving new streams of black into the long grass.
Officers clothed in raincoats and trash bags tug at the leashes of baying bloodhounds, slipping in the mud.
I sit in the spindrift – the icy pinprick of the heavy rain turning my face raw. Splashes of mud freckle my pink cheeks. The rain flogs every black umbrella to a monotonous rhythm. Thunder rolls like a rock avalanche into a mountain creek. Corn stalks and men alike are bent beneath sheets of rain. Flashes of light across the sky smell like Sulphur. The earth a deafening drone, continuous, never-ending, and in that drone swept the black umbrellas and raincoats, one by one, two by two, shifting, streaming, flowing stern-faced and wretched. From the top of the hills they pour, pooling and spreading out into the fields like a black river.
A river of desperate life, searching for the dead.

I got three.
Degrees.
One shy of a phd.

And I'm dusting shelves
At Walgreens.

Too young for ss;
Too old for bs.

And hr.

I fell in the black hole
A million times two.

Maybe the third
Million's the charm?

Ima keep clicking,
*** the fed got bloodhounds
On my cell.

Chasing that 55k
I can't pay.

Or won't...

In solidarity with
The underemployed...

Dusting shelves
At a Walgreens near you.

~ P
(#HRblues)
4/10/2014

Under your door
     While you crept
          Toward the edge
               Of consciousness
I hand delivered a message

Finely creased
Highest quality pulp
Atop which I wrote
"I love you."

I never signed it
It fact
It took me ten years
To climb the stairs

I hope it finds you grumpy
As you always are
When the sun is breaching
Our horizon

And you think
"what is this
Wonderful paper on my
GO AWAY mat?"

Coffee in hand
You unfold oragami love
Smile
Go back to bed

You'll find me though
Fingerprints
Bloodhounds
Private ****

Only to reply
With a knife
to my bare chest
"I hate your guts."

winter ist kommen.

you know what nickname i have among those
that know me well enough? oddly enough it's *Dracula -
my body-clock changed into a nocturnal
creature, while those around me
basked in the sun, i revelled in the moon -
some would claim this to be mere cliche,
and i'd agree with them -
burying a President on the Mount of Kings
in Krakow was a step short and 12 inches
below Napoleon's hope for the Duchy of Warsaw -
perfected xenophobia, once the economic ants
enter the Irish are ****-out-dry and starved in
a potato famine on Titanic with Big BIG dreams of
U.S.A., they only came back to England as the I.R.A.
they really fear the economic migrants -
a Chinese invasion less spectacular than than
the Mongolian invasion and everyone is still
calmly brewing tea... the 5 o'clock shadow, or simply:
brew keeps company of whisperers.
i don't know why the ******* nickname,
at university i was nicknamed banana because
one time, at band camp, i wore a Velvet Underground
t-shirt, and another time, at band camp
i was either goldilocks because of my long hair
or the french braid donned - also known as the hippy for
eating Sharon fruit and pomegranates -
i'm not Morrissey adventurous with **** SCHOOL
rather than Johnny **** THE POLICE -
i kinda liked it - seeing teachers get dissected by
younger generations - why all this negativity surrounding school
fuelling pop music? you played Final Fantasy VII,
exchanged Pokemon cards? no? then what's your *******
problem?
that isn't the point, the point is:
why are Maine **** cats not recognised as the sop buddies
of lore? i swear you to the grave as keeping this fact intact,
Maine ***** are like Bloodhounds - no
matter how many treats you give them, they play sentinels
of the moon with you all they want is company,
they ******* meow meow at your door -
you end up putting on Handel, cushioning them in your
arms on the windowsill listening to, what i would say to
be: if i had children, i'd speak to them in german:
fuchsgesang - wide-eyed diabolical pupils with
a tear from my eye drooping into their crystals -
Maine ***** are the feline equivalent of the bloodhound
canines - they get depressed easily - no matter how many
treat your give them, they still want to be nurtured,
wrapped in diapers of your arms - Ginger Russ weighs in
at 9 kilograms... try keeping him on your arms before
the northern hyenas start cackling simultaneously with
Handel playing in the background.
Maine **** (canine equivalent) = Bloodhound (feline equivalent).
keep him sniffing fresh air and in good company...
the ****** goes to sleep like Speedy Gonzales...
once upon a time... thump... the cat's asleep.
if i'd ever have children i'd wish to speak german to them
for the first time... no other tongue would be given access...
the second Elizabethan Era has ended promptly -
as was its due course - now the degeneracy appears
where art once blossomed...
we're waiting for the Autumn of the second Elizabethan Era...
with winter, new sprouts anticipated... Charles?
oh Charles? please! be the usher impromptu:
beheaded, never built Versailles, killed his wife...
hey! you heard it from a rat, this was written in a sewer,
**** knows what happens in Kensington Palace...
journalism? probably, since around here
all that happens is an obituary.... if you're lucky! ha ha!
otherwise someone else including you toward
an epitaph engraved, most notably: 1974 World Cup -
West-Germany Wins - auf wiedersehen - pronounced:
auf veedersen pet - Liverpool roofers in Munich - yet
everyone knows that all roofers came from Scootlaund.
when philosophy becomes systematic (i.e. wheel rolling
thanks to a limited vocabulary) it does become a thing-in-itself,
that cheats by discussing a thing-in-itself within
its systematisation akin to a thing-in-itself, basically
it cannot find chiral-divergence, or a schizophrenic
to put in a ~mild metaphor - when philosophers systematise
they treat no daily oddities - they encapsulate everyday oddities
with: ground control to Major Tom... ground control to
Major Tom... priority via imagery: forget the bow-tie events
and the fully prim suit buttoned tight - being systematic in
philosophy is not about being dishonest,
it's more about being counter-observant - all the little details
are missing; which is, to be honest, permitted -
if you base your inquiry on all things omni- related,
forget that a Jew would ony write mn and hide the o and i...
too numerous the qualities, but only one accepted tetragrammaton
(square of letters - i.e. not fact, not tool, not hide... but yhwh)...
systematic expression in philosophy, means, outside of it,
missing the daily details that provide the necessary
conjuring of rainbows from water hoses when
watering the flowers in a garden - write systematically
and you **** the particular flavours of the day,
ensuring the sky doesn't all on your head tomorrow
by saying: a priori: the sun too, today, tomorrow, everyday.
reading Kant after watching a ballet made me rethink
my coercion of Kierkegaard, Nietzsche is just too reactionary -
if Kierkegaard took up theatre, i might as well take up
ballet - or any other musically intoxicating form to stage
my coup.

Blood rushing like wild crazed dogs
to the surface of my skin.
Placing a crimson attitude onto my face,
and a trembling hurricane to my voice.

The oxygen runs thin from my atmosphere,
is this real, or is this outer space?
Canines of the blackest exposure make their way
from my head, down my spine, through my extremities, to my feet.

Crushing eyes from around push me outwards
until I can no longer see what I'm running from.
Screeching, mocking barks echo from within
as prey is made of my insides.

Beneath the supernovas of happiness past
alone I await for the chimes of twelve.
I feel the hounds push against my skin once more,
they have not been fed for a while now.

The time has arrived and yet my sanity still has not;
shadows surround me and make it hard to breathe.
Laughter of hyenas, cries of bloodhounds, howls of wolves,
all disturb what is left of me right to the core.

Colourblind, yet with an eyesight set on the brightest hue of fire,
mongrels of most devilish influence impatiently scratch and claw.
Opening their kennels they climb over each other in a frenzy
down the road of scarlet.

Red sky at night, shepherd's delight? Well then, red sky in the morning
is a sign that the herding dogs from Hell shall give no warning.

Wet slush on serrated mountain crest
glimmers like a pearlescent gemstone
untouched by even the brave ones-
sword-wavers, chest-beaters, ski-maniacs,
gemhounds and bloodhounds
and even father sun
has stayed his hand
to drag a finger through that heavenly
mirror-tile's topcoat
for its unmarked face, streakless
and unpocked by avalanche
reveals no disturbance.

They say these are the steepest mountains on earth,
and it would be hard to disagree while looking at them
their upper edge against the equally spotless sky
is a perfect, continuous line
and the slopes, appearing near-vertical
create the illusion
that this miles-long ridge could split hairs like a hand-sharpened razor-
like a colossal, snowy
bowie knife.

Texarkana

Then the gun men come and then
The one in blonde fox
Clutching the Book of Ruin
In his clean white hands
From the barn I could see the star
Of his horse galloped toward us
In the, there was nothing
We could do
Just watch as an ocean of bloodhounds
Flood down the side of the mountain



Cynthia Cruz ---

The call of deaths retreat,
Blanketed in a vast ocean abound,
Calling you closer day by day,
Like snails moving across planes slowly,

Drift my dear love into the mysterious
Presence of pure peace and devotion
Again to sunset to sunder again

KRD--

A quarter till two , a distant siren wails ,
up from the bushes a peeping tom bails
A hushed night interrupted -
by a lone owl ,
Tonight a thief is on the prowl
Silence suddenly crushed by screaming air brakes ,
the thunder hides the sound of a rock through a
window pane , the cries of the homes occupants
are in vain , the Southern railway's aided and abetted burglary once again  
Bloodhounds bray till morning light ,
not a trail in sight ,
The quarry has disappeared once again ,
rode the two a.m. to Montgomery like the
howling wind* ...

When the recusants stand before the porcine boor in fetters ...
As the Fifth Estate is flat lining around us , the Constitution
twisted till it finally shatters ..
The Military in pursuit of its own , bestowal of civil liberties shot
full of machine gun rounds ...
Bloodhounds bay with the scent of dissidents , storm sewers turn into
raging red rivers ...
When martial law pulls the rug from beneath our feet ....
When broken glass covers every downtown street ....
I will pray for something to take you down !
I will long for someone to take you out !

let's just make this quick, of all the cat variants,
maine ***** are the equivalent to bloodhounds,
esp. the males, they're oh so demanding,
a stress for company;
     i've heard that bloodhounds are likewise,
their behaviour stresses a need for company,
how some howl, and howl, when left alone in the house;
hmm.. howl... rhymes with meow...
               and, **** me do male maine ****
cats meow when in the spare case of "despair"
                                              of a dark room, alone;
me? i just became used to my own company,
and reached the "buddhist" elevation
             of not being...   bothered by my thinking:
i just said to myself... thought... i.e.           ought i?

maine **** cats are...
   ******* annoying...
they're company
rapists...
   they're the feline
equivalent of
   bloodhounds...
   they'll scratch at your
door,
   meow in the early
hours of, say 3a.m.
    just so they can sleep
with you...
males esp.,
     and out of pity's
sake, you let them in,
removing the barricades
from the door
  to stop a 9kg cat
pushing the door open
and ****** your
personal space in a bed...
and what happens
after the night is through?
****! what's burning
up on my forehead?!
   later that day you
look into a mirror
and notice a "harry potter"
style scratch on your
forehead...
   a straight-line scratch
from the top of your
forehead, to the brow...
   maine *****, really
are bloodhounds of the feline
kingdgom...
   they're so ****** desperate
for company...
   it's almost like
talking to a kid:
  - leave the night-light on...
- ok...
but with them its more like:
- i need someone to snuggle
  up with...
- ugh... one of those nights
again.

Dreaming in Black

Tonight I am am dreaming
But it's not a dream it's real.
I am black in America.

I drink wine in dark places
I kiss a black woman.
******* her lips
I want to get it on with her.
Even though she looks like
Every woman I have ever had.

I don't have time to spare.
I am black in America.
Death hides behind every door.
The color gunmetal blue
Explodes like fire.

This minute may be my last.
I know I am hunted
Black and hunted.
In the inner city schoolroom.
Baby black faces
look into my eyes.
They ask about
rough hewn slave boats.
Of peaceful villages
by the sea in the African sun.
Of freedom and equal rights.
Of black heroes.

I try to keep them alive
To pass on in future folklaw.
But I know they are unsure
If they exist in this moment.

I drink wine in dark places
I kiss a black woman
******* her lips
I just want to get it on with her.

My blood is in rage
It's hot and boiling.
Their bloodhounds can smell me.
I inow
I will be safe
If I do what they want.
If I don't slip up.
Make a mistake and
then the gunmetal will shine.
In seedy bar lights.
And it's flash will
have the sharp kiss
of oblivion.

I awaken from the dream.
In a panic.
But it's changed me.
It will not go away.
In my heart
I am still
Black in America

I look for you in the bustle of changing seasons--
the promise of eternal life is stashed
in evergreen front-door wreaths,
but outside dims quiet. The winds,
without leaves to stand in their way,
whip and slap winter chill straight to my bones.
old piano melodies whisper the familiar
beat of tradition. Memories and expectations
of what should be the same, and what
should always be, drive my search
for you this season. Choppers on mute
race packs of starving bloodhounds
with their mouths sewn shut.
I am determined to find you.
To sneak up behind you in white dusk
and with blindfolds for hands,
and eyes tattooed red, I'll growl,
Surprise. Merry Christmas.

As I sit beside the door,
a broken man; I weep no more.
I feel a wisp, a breath of air.
The taste of flesh is everywhere.
Looking up, the lights are dim,
a greener chalice, with broken rim,
A sumptuous tale with rings of red,
begins to fill my weary head.
Trees reach within a winding path,
they follow man with broken laugh,
They tell him with a swish of death,
that he has suffered his last breath.
Within a beat of punctured heart
they draw him in to be a start,
To join them where they stand and grow,
and tell men what they still should know.
A forest dark is not a place,
to stray within with lighted face,
On hallows eve the day of days
they are keen to capture sunborne rays.
They make the world a blacker void
to make it thus – a world destroyed,
Where life outside is bleak and grim
and fallen hounds, at just a whim,
Descend within a whirl of fog
and make foul the words a hallows dog.
To all the people looking through,
frosted windows, at dead anew.
They tell a tale of broken men,
with greener chalices and then,
A sumptuous tale with rings of red,
begins to fill each weary head ,
And as they look into the eyes
of greenest demon they surmise,
That weeping will not stop the whim,
of foulest bloodhounds dark and grim
Which then descend in whirl of fog
and make foul the words a hallows dog
And on the ground, with twisted  song  
the fog transpires. Each man is gone.

I'd always thought that my eyes were what I used to see everything around me- Narcissistic much- from the way flowers bow to the moon and look directly at the sun like it has no power... or how bloodhounds sniff seemingly aimless at trees while the tree bark stays tranquil. Though their silence does come at the cost of immobility.

What is it though we would be without movement? Vegetables. as if they don't receive power from the son, as if their roots don't  go on a journey of immersion into the marrow of the earth, and the earth full of nutrition, doesn't provide it with the strength of the floor beneath us. Solid as rock.

Have you ever thought about it like this though? What if they are too busy listening to the tree that gives them life to blabber? They are so focused on hearing that they know not what speaking is.

It is not to their peril that they cannot move, for they live eternally in the silence of receiving from He who gives them life.

The arrogance of man has disintegrated his ability to stop and listen. His confidence in knowing has mystified God's Voice. Made it deep and loud and only heard by a selection of unblemished sheep.

It is this then that I wish for you and I humans alike, intelligent by nature of the tree. Prone to speak for the apple is intertwined with our larynx.

Let's

Tell another story, of the people who tamed their massive wildly lethal mouths, amputated their ears for satellites and sat down and listened. Simply. Sincerely.

I am broken and torn.
Left here on the cold floor...
Blood pouring from my inner wounds.
Killer thoughts like bloodhounds,
Ready to bring it all down,
All I see is red when I stand here...
****, it is so not fair.
Leave me be
Before you see
What holds me together
In my dark place I wither.
Useless from being so alone,
One day I will be gone,
Do I accept these things
Things, pain brings.
Swallow my pain
Staring at my mirrored insanity
Grinning oh so wicked
I am so sickened.
Black with disease
All I do is beg please
Turn your back and walk away
You do it every **** day.
As long as I am here
You do not care.
Throw me away
No longer play
With my shriveled heart
Which falls apart
slides through
Your hands, its true...
I died that day
So far away.
Will I ever return?
Or will my soul yearn
For what I cannot ever
No never ever
Be, whats so deep inside of me.
Locked so tight
My wings will one day take flight
You will have your fight
My pain  is my might...
Over and over I stumble
My chest rumbles
Its all the same
I am the one to blame.
Why do I do this???
Did I miss...
Something along the way?
What can I say...
Here we go again
Do this, it must be a sin...
Save me
From me
I lost touch
With so much
I seem to not be able to get enough
Is it b/c I am so ****** tough?
I am sick of this
Stupid ignorant b/s.
Lead me on
Let the fun begone...
I am done...
Before I come undone.

CENTAUR

Hiding in the hay
me a terrified little boy
& my uncle like a terrified little boy

the voices in his head telling him to be afraid
of all strangers...changes.

He’s been like this
since the day his Dad

(my unknown grandfather)
died.

My Aunt’s voice
searching for us...searching us out.

Her shouts like bloodhounds
hunting us down

her words angry & cruel.

Her angry voice slurring us into:
“DonallSeanie! ”

as if we had fused into one being
a metamorphosis of us.

The hay cooks us
and we swelter in our hidey hole

A chicken sits on top
of my uncle’s cap

as if his mind had
materialised into this shape.

He rocks himself
and rocks me.

“Shhhh...boy...shhhh! ”
comforting both him & me.

“Don’t leave me! ”
he clucks

the words scattered around him
like newly laid eggs.

I settle into his silence.

My Aunt’s threats freezing us
in this terrible heat.

His chest hair
tickles my nose.

The cut on my left big toe
throbs through the open sandal.

My uncle cries in fear.

I wipe away the tear
with the ***** edge of my sleeve.

We escape to
the West field

me riding his shoulders

transformed into
a legendary creature

that only exists in myths
fleeing from the realness

...of reality.