The marchers make their way today
through town to Cardiff Bay
with whistles, shouts and banners up
for sweet old Mary Jane
they're marching for her freedom
all ages, colours, creeds
have come in joyful spirits
to help us free the **** 

The rich, the poor, the movers and shakers
the blowback kings and part-time partakers
the rollers, the tokers, the bongers and such
the teenage goth stoners who've had way too much
skin up as they march while making their point
and meet up with new friends while sharing a joint.

Then down at the bay side
when the bands start to play
they'll **** in the sunshine
till the end of the day.

Just One Question

You will have to forgive me for this one I’m going to be selfish pointed unreasonable contrary right down
Hateful if you want to put it that way least it’s going to be short I appreciate as well as anyone else the
Accomplishments of great people in our world and history Hemmingway won a Pulitzer for Old Man and
The Sea and many others in all fields of endeavor and in your lives you achieve happiness and joy from
Many areas but my one question backed by the one who has all authority to make this statement what
Will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and then loses his eternal soul that is my question
are you doing
What is required to make it through the Pearly gates I don’t mean to be smart on this point but I’m not
Asking for your wishful thinking you know all the questions in life that we answer some willingly and
Some grudgingly but this one above all else needs to be asked and it needs to be given the gravest
Thought the bible says there is a way that seems right into man but the end is destruction maybe Christ
Said what will a man give for his soul any way the truth is there is the biggest scrabble game known to
Man and it is the very fact whatever you do don’t think on eternal verities you know the scene when
Someone is flipping out and a helpful person slaps their face let this be that but do it to yourself you will
Be getting the attention of all of our worst enemies this Godless heathen outer life that gyrates to every
Hell bound action is making a bill that the soul will have to pay forever I said it before the pain and
Suffering we will accept as deserving but to not to be loved that will be the greatest hell that we will
Suffer today we don’t realize that it his love that makes life worth living we know so much about God
Generally speaking but the intimate real God we barely know His hell is listening for the distinct and only
Voice that matters and that is you as lost sheep He waits as an earthy parent who let his child go on an
Outing that was known to be dangerous but freedom demanded no less and for a great many love won’t
Be enough as already is shown by the Christ less graves that are strewn across the landscape I know
Because my sister is one of them I begged her the last time I was home and then she died I endured
Her truthfulness at her funeral they played only worldly songs of defiance my only comfort she wasn’t a
Hypocrite she wouldn’t live for him but died having to bear the burden of sin and it punishments her self
I told the story in Night Thoughts how I stood by a young nineteen year old mother’s desk she had a
Fifteen month old little boy it was two in the morning by eleven the next morning he would be
Motherless I being human knew nothing of this unfolding tragedy but the Christ within caused me to sob
Uncontrollably for forty five minutes or so I was getting the blowback of his undying love and her voice
Was dying away as it was carried to the beyond of the lost it’s happened more than once to me don’t
Let my tears be for you when your greatest love waits in vain for you to say please rescue me

An Optimist’s Guide to Falling in Love With a Woman


have a very minor fender ******, you’ll never get a persons digits any easier, consider it a bonus first date, a stress test interview, when humans on their worst/best behavior, their true nature revealed and tough exteriors melt when gallantly take full responsibility, details to be discussed over dinner

risks: she’ll  will never ever let you drive her, even after, no...never ever after, the issue is closed, ‘twas your fault and is non-discussable

critique her order standing behind her at McDonald’s. blowback assured! charm resistance and openness will be tested, but you claim pure concern for her well being, even after offering to pay  a dollar for every calorie ingested if she only switches to a plant-based burger

risks: hamburger grease soul staining, no love stain stick remover handy and everybody knows mixed marriages really never work tween bronco busting cowgirls and city tree huggers

you take a spill, nose in the phone crossing street, she lifts you up with wonder woman strength and gentility, you sputter with half-feigned indignation for you’ve embarrassedly first sight-fallen in love, all your words and everything else is failing and flailing as she tends to the cut, drives you to her office where she stitches you up, while cracking jokes that are truly funny

risks: she is a Dallas Cowboy fan, or worse, someone else got there first, and you need life long therapy

she’s in seat 10C, Miami to NYC, pretending very poorly to not be reading this very story-poem you’re creating, but doing so VERY poorly because she is editing, making suggestions, punching you in the arm excitedly, asking if you want to share a cab home, for she reveals that she too, secretly dips the quill in ink and needs an expert opinion, yours for sure since you’re SO good looking too!

risks: the weather diverts the plane to Baltimore where you live together happily after-ever, cause you’re both tired of life in cities with 3-13 perennial losing NFL teams and it is exquisitely equidistant from your annoying relatives
and ex’s




Baltimore Washington International Airport
4:29 pm Dec. 2nd

I'm writing sideways
So I can use these lines
As a windscreen
From the blowback
From ratting
The universe out

I think we're a hernia
Erupted from some other place
A bent band
erupting in matter
of fact
I'm right

So there

Unsupposed
to be
we are

Do we live
on the friction's...
Are we...

Aye there's the rub




Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis

I braced for the sound, the inevitable blast that would deafen my ears and jolt my nerves
they came streaming out in my words
every syllable sounded like rounds from the chamber
as i released my anger
I hate who I become
when you spit your venom and load my gun
the magazine full of thoughts of discontent
shells of spite and resent
your words push your fingers to pull my trigger
itching dangerously close to setting off my uncontrollable rage
I try putting my mouth on safe
holding the rounds at bay
yet they pour out one after another
we're poison for each other
I'm sick, weak in the knees as these words continue to  release each time your words pull that trigger and squeeze
the blowback nearly knocks me off my feet
I hear the distinct buzz of being too close to the boom
in the center of the room
my fingers pointing at you to blame, you're the reason I explode
I'm too weak, these words too heavy to reload
I hate who I've become
when you fill my thoughts with this ammo and turn me into this gun

~for Philip Larkin~

Soundless dark of wakeful night
panic thrills the heart
and chokes the mind
with dread of dying
of lying dead -
white marble stone dead -
passed
beyond self
to nothingness
and nowhere.

Just energy burst free,
blowback
to the godless Universe
body to ashes
atoms,
and nothing more.

© M.L.Emmett

I'm bleeding
On the outside
While scarring
On the inside,
Calloused heart
Like the hands of a farmer
No longer
Finding blisters
From the need,
Every encounter
That left me
Nursing wounds
A defenseless soul
In a harsh urban world,
Trying to love
Without blowback,
But a back draft
Always waited
Behind doors
That burned
With desires
On short fuses,
A shower of sparks;
Short lived fireworks
Of temporary emotions,
To which I could only relate to
In words,
Words that couldn't hold their own
Against the fires
Of the ******
Lonely spirits
In this crowded world...

APAD13 - 151 © okpoet

She is more than just when she is here or when she is away
she is night in a world where it could never be day;

The force of the world, the force of the blowback when the earth would sway
Warning the burn to stay away,
Small fires on fire
burning lives on a pyre

the raven above, the condemned below
She shouldn't have whispered
she ought to know-
the ink on the page is blurry, though
a journey in its depths
A world knee-deep in thick India ink
now sunk up to its breast

And before the drowning came the will to swim
and before the fall, the flight
An eternity trapped in flesh captured in the rim
torture and prison between love and plight

And, oh, what a treacherous night,
for when the wind blows,
it blows without reach,
nor wane nor warn
to the furthest beach

Where the moons kiss the stars
closed care on opened scars
The wheels are turning in no direction
unaware that they are part of cars
So to the human; the universe
a play millions of times rehearsed
and while they speak of beings more well-versed
we bury our young in cloths and parties, cold, terse-

Terse is the judge when its judgement is
by the sun or the sky or the problem kids
What not to see is all what more to say
no use to wipe the ink away

and so the book is thrown
Jostled down the stairs and out and into the hands of people with and without care

The way the wind so shakes the shack
a brick on the bay, a structure of that
which begins and ends
with laughter and then with death to old friends

The story that lived, the story that died; the one which failed to record who had survived
The end was there on a ghastly ship
the crew amongst which floated gauntly

and though they were brave,
their souls were concave,
And the depths below them read as their new heights

New heights for souls injured in injurious fights
the plight of such was love and light,
and she was not the day, for she was the night

-n.a.

Heart attacks, en masse
I wear a mask when I relapse-
*******! The laugh track’s scratched.
Tied a knot out of my tongue, instead of the cherry stem.




It’s so sad... how when I fall apart,
It’s like I needed that; the blowback,
From a shot through the mouth into a brainstem.
The hole that starts in my nose ‘cause I snort things that erode-
The soul, and leave my bones to hold a fetal pose.
My brain recites such delicate prose,
Whispered to me by the specter of your notes.
A voice I no longer know…




Where’d you go?
My head’s a black hole.
This grey matter’s decomposed.
I’m scared to death, talking 'bout
“Ruh-rohs” and “Hell nos!”
Trying to outrun your ghost
but, I’m stuck inside smoke Os...
Scattered across the ozone,
Riddled with “I don’t knows”

I want to exorcise my heart,
But I don’t want to be alone.

-SLuR

I thought it was written in the smoke
That extinguished all our jokes
Filling air as we both choke
On the firing line

And when it was seven until
I headed out west for the hill
And I threw up those pills
Without saying goodbye

But still I will always return
Like I want to get burned
In a love I’ve unearned
For the rest of our time

I thought it was written on the wall
That had cushioned my fall
From the blowback assault
From the one wanting you

And when I gave up on the bridge
I remembered your kiss
And I swore off that *****
As I stumbled away

my father had a
sense of humor,
and high hopes
for his first born son.

almost named me
Short ‘n Sweet,
cause that is how
most like life.

thot about calling me,
*******,
cause that is what
most deserve to be told.

but he didn’t want
no blowback, so he he
stuck me with this name,
Mark Upright.

all I gotta say is this
and it’s short & sweet:

Dad, take note,

*******,

my *******,

for you, see it,

marked upright.

Snow on the mountain top nose no course of action
An inhale with nuance assures such satisfaction
While blowback will cancel one an’ alls reaction

by "ooznozz"

honest to god or no god... this was supposed to be merely about a comparison of two bicycles... a road-bike viking... bought for £125 years ago... the chain was all rusty... the wheels were deflated... and a trek marlin 5... bought for £495... which... comes to think of it... only just now... seems like a waste of money... tired rubber... 3 punctures of the wheels... and it only took me 3 months of testing it... for the tyres to be: worth jack-****... double-sure on the condoms should the Irish come knocking

perhaps w. h. auden was right when saying that:
all the Hitlers of the world write at night...
i like writing at night... i like the fascination
with being up while in the vicinity everyone's
is off to the land of Nod...
perhaps w. h. auden was right:
perhaps all the dejected pederasts write
while basking in the sun... cowering into
shadows... i know a little about w. h. auden...
it only took me the time to read
harold norse's memoir: " of a ******* angel...
a dejected old queen...
oh... but between w. h. auden... pretty rhymes...
i still don't know what's keeping
walt whitman afloat...
well... since so few women write books
worth reading: perhaps they write the most
honest poems...
it's not out of some misogyny that i don't read
literature by women...
i'm a massive fan of Pashtun poetry:
Afghan women and their landays:
their little horror debacle...
but no woman is going to write herself into:
naked... revealing... child-like...
she has too much mystique to sacrifice:
to give up...
she's not going to write from anywhere
other than the posit of the ideal:
whether it's the ideal of who she thinks she is:
or the ideal she's looking for...
two made it... Bukowski made the money...
i know... he wasn't a woman...
and Sylvia Plath... perhaps that Sexton Lady...
it's not even cute: it's exasperating...
it's a drowning man searching for a razor blade's
edge to save himself from drowning...
even i: given enough time...
am... bothersome... meeting up with...
the Titans translated into:
pillars or... hardly salt... just the pedagogic
blockade... it would be easier to revise
perspectives with a Copernican:
he moved the earth while stopping the sun...
that would be easier... than to shift: Shake-a-Pear
into a heap of recyclables..
- i hate myself when i start borrowing
either katakana or Hangul...
how i admire these writing systems...
vowels disappear... integrated into consonants
that have no leg to stand on... beside the N...
how two consonants: lost in phonetics...
but necessarily distinguished in writing
are so hard to find...
B'AH C'AH... vowel catcher hatch: indicator for:
B'AH: not Bay...
              self-evident truth from where i'm
originally from... no! b'ah!
irksome throughout the day:
a second time i'm quitting smoking...
i'm not going to quit it...
a cigarette at the end of the day...
some wine...
i wish i could still play video-games...
no... wait... i don't...
the solitary bat flying around my eucalyptus tree
chasing moths and other lesser creatures...
me strapped to the moment
watching the win caress the eucalyptus tree:
it's almost as if someone let me off my leash
from a monastery...
like acid poured into my ears:
flaky high-follower count debates...
i don't think the sort of people clued into reading
a book... detached from a comment section:
sure... well-read... well-read people...
eclectic minds... regurgitating journalistic endeavours...
since journalists are paid
and poets aren't: you don't rhyme... ******!
don't expect payment when not boxed: with rhyme...
last time i heard... Horace didn't bother either:
authentically: if i'm not going to have a conversation...
poetic soliloquy...

my soliloquy... someone else's voyeurism...
dad rock... budka suflera - noc...
robert plant - morning dew... darkness darkness....

well of course i will read ****-****** literature:
i'm not a big fan of nuns...
women and their curtain dressing...
i want to love them as much as i don't
want to understand... keep me as target of my
own demise in a man orientated world...

- the beauty of a machine that works well...
i'm still flabbergasted... i just saw a gingerbread
cookie of a man run into a cave,
shout... and leave no traces of an echo...
ooh! the sort of face most associated
with Kenyan macaques...
who... project a ****** expression of fear
onto that, which... gives them fear...

Kenya... i was there for the ivory beauties...
the adventure of finding shade...
the cheap brandy... and feeding the macaque
monkeys some sugar sachets...
while entertaining myself on the balcony
with: inanimate things...
twitchy eye: tree! i saw you move!

it's a bicycle it's not a road-taxed mechanisation:
i very much like things i can use
to their full potential: whereby i invest in
creating my own momentum...
slim: slimmer... slimmest...
now that i have a clenched chest
of pirate rage having done some press-ups
in awkward positions: more yoga
than... not as many stomach crunches...
i like the idea of a tender stomach...
all the limbs can be orchestrated to:
well oiled... best of the best juiced...
but the stomach... area...
i like it tender...
to imitate the whole of woman... sketched
in braille...
cat grooming... which originally prompted me
when she stuck up her *** into my face
and i started whizz-kid searching
for an outlet...
i promised myself i'd be back
on scout's honour: prompt...
looks like i haven't been so honest
with either her or myself...
my moustache has grown to the point
where my lips are hiding... tender: slim...
my neck has disappeared...
i've started to drink and become pensive
and therefore: started to imitated playing
a violin while fiddling with a beard...

but i did trim my ***** so they might appear...
like a laurel bush...
or a lemon tree...
maybe i'll get my libido spontaneity back
when i have to tend to grooming the cats...
it's the closest prospect of "translation"
i'll arrive at... since: with cats...
no muzzle... not leash... no kink...
no latex... come to "think" of it...
thank god i don't get enough of "it"...
give me a spectacle of one: done proper...
every half-a-decade...
i couldn't stomach it everyday...
it's enough that i have everyday for
the joys of... taking a ****... drinking some milk...
debating corn....

it's not corn is: or was... ever to be debated...
seriously... perhaps corn-meal:
not corn-flour that's readily available for
a thickening "enzyme"...
that **** the h'americans eat...
yellow-bread... Hans and Saucer...

strict regulations of language formality...
debatable speak...
wait... from began with Horace
and ends with giuseppe belli sonnets:

a le madre, se sa, li strilli e 'r piaggne
je pareno ronno dde tordinone.
le madre ar monno so ttutte compaggne...

       to mum, the gruntings of this ***-mad ******
surpass the sweet songs of a west end name...
the mothers of this world are all the same.

it's a dialectical approach concerning two bicycles...
one... a cheap road bicycle viking: vibrant green...
sturdy frame: no need for...
lost the word... rephrasing...
what's the word... not punctures...
giddy-giddy...up... down?
RESORY...

unlike a wide-girth of the mountain bike's
handlebars...
the road-cycle narrows around me exfoliating my
back muscles...
sure... the front brakes are a bit squeaky...
but... unlike the £495 pristine: sold for a....
the wider trim of wheels....
i have never ridden a better bicycle worth
only £125... this viking contra the trek marlin 5...

get used to the idea of THONG...
of the wheel...
the frame is much smaller... "slim"...
but i still encourage myself as riding faster...
bicycles and prostitutes...
i don't care much for...
paying too much...
last time i heard: there's not "cheaper"
as there's no "dearest"... when it comes to coughing up
for ***...
the supposedly cheapest will showcase
her tongue... she's motivate you...
provided you're sober...
giddy-up showcase girl...

after having skimmed some Rousseau...
i thought Kierkegaard was good:
indolent i...
there's no cat sleeping in my bed:
thank god... i'm not feeling having a bed-fellow...
to suckle me into: oyster-mush...
floral patterns...

also... thank god for the olympics:
the plethora of bodies...
the swimmers have the sexiest bodies...
not the sprinters...
lacerated lungs...
not the heavyweight lifters:
******* Turkish dwarfs from the nether kingdom
of the Caucasian: procrastinating
crustaceans....

        look at them!
see any ***-side-aside... keep up with
the Springboks? Aqua-****-with:
mensch... oh the "cardinal" is real...
the Isrealis should know..
not much room for intellect
when the body is concerned...
FAIL... double... FAIL: thrice...
there's not THRICE when filing is mentioned...

a £125 worth of a VIKING road-bike...
is worth more than a £495 Trek marlin 5 mountain bike...
how? the product wasn't made
at a time where... NOT MADE IN CHINA
was a thing...
perhaps the Chinese teamed up with project:
SLACK...

but there's this "debate":
i'd rather.... not listen to music...
hence... listen... to the bicycle not giving me grief...
streaking a palette of irksome sounds...
glitches... chasers...
creases in the otherwise well-oiled-up...
rubric of cogs and: generalised machinery...
i "forgot" to become a self-made d.j.
riding this glorious machinery...
why? it's so silent....
it works so well...
so much for advertising hell:

when a machine works so... pristinely...
that... you: can sacrifice listening to music...
as a way to digest the mundane...
passing of traffic...
so well oiled... of sure... the front breaks
squeak a little...
but you can refrain from auxiliary help
of the time: occupied by cycling:
because there's a solid frame....
and the classic handlebars allow your
hands the sort of "yoga" not associated
with the timidity of mountain-bike heirs: HIRSCH...

when you want to appreciate a well-crafted bicycle...
you want to listen to the traffic...
you can't hear your bicycle...
you're dying to **** a Turkish *******...

when journalism dies...
oh i'm pretty sure... no man alone...
the Phoenicians invented what the Canaanites
suggested: the humble patriarch Abraham...
Carmenta...
              St. Cyril...
SEJONG...
it wasn't sr. isaac pitman...
last time i heard it was... Marcus Tiro:
of the Cicero household...

*** & bicycles... it's one thing...
altogether another...
alpha + beta orbiters...
journalists get paid for being...
restaurant critics...
poets get paid for... load of *******:
and half the expected rhyme...
i like what i'm supposed to pay for...
Turkish prostitutes...
like Turkish barbers...
i get the best trim of ***** refocusing on my face...
i get the best blowback...

the English girls: all nuns!
all nuns! just prior to...
Pakistani paedophiles making them...
"available": no... rotten fruit at this point...
my life's complicated enough...
aim small: miss small...
heart's a pebble...

in the guise of: walking abortion:
walking around with a scrutiny of:
the eunuchs of king solomon's harem:
daddy: issues...
all those maxims... all those maxims::
but no foreseeable light of a
king david's psalms...

any man can claim wisdom:
when he has all the world is to arrive at....
no wonder that...
Solomon felt this sort of "grief"...
from David unto Solomon:
this tender prayer...

there's no need to avert the freedom
granted unto women:
i must allow myself
to love what i better not understand....
grow a beard: fiddle with it
pretending it to be a violin...
crease the concerns for traffic...
if it's not a horse: treat it as a bicycle...

i have a heart: enough of a heart:
to... drown a stone...
if not a stone then i'll suffocate
a mountain... however peacocking worded:
i'll drown a ******* mountain
in a puddle! then... i'll call it...
a lob-sided phenomenon of...
"ugly" tarmac!

waiting patiently for my resurrection
as flames lick wildly at my flesh
someone once said to me, solemnly,
"through the fire we're born again,"
only in a baptism of holy white serpents,
can i cleanse my skin of your hands

it was my turn i suppose
to be broken down to my atoms,
shattered like cosmic debris in the sickening dark,
as it had once been waylie's or even poor valerie's,
bitten too ravenously to be veiled as love,
too hot to be satiated with your ice cold gun

your threats terrify me because i know your mind
but do you know i'll go down fighting?
an endless barrage of ominous phone calls
or tailing from strange cars
will never break my resilience nor
will the fear of blowback from foreign men

i can still taste the liquor and feel the cold on my skin
from the river by downtown, filled with bodies and vile sins
i can feel you biting my ******* and choking me with your-
you haunt my nightmares, ravaging my thighs
black bruises and torn skin - proof that i'm not dreaming
dreams you killed us both wake me up screaming

you were the final straw, the match
as my world went up in flames
but i will bloom again from the ashes
i am stronger than they all say

~profits of prophets
lining riches; a queue to fill
their pockets

spear head spirit
not so sharp as a liars tongue
words a knife, and the loudest
cocky tones just a blaring empty gun

you shoot for fun,
fun to shoot shots if the target hit
the blowback becomes being denied
                        ~he'd call her *****

that's rich,
not to hold onto the fact of a reach
but of which you regret a miss
to have not gained a miss, and *****
wet kiss. Wet are the eyes of calling it quits
freeing mind from criminal advances—acquit

but I could sound a little preachy
on fruits of the spirit; quite peachy
joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness,
faithfulness, self-control

to say you know, or no to the subject matter
of my poem. must of been on the nose; you smelt
the suppose in this prose

and I suppose that makes this the end of my
random poem