what is it to miss?

is it to sink in
imagined traps
like quicksand
or tar pits?

i can feel the
pulse of artery
inside my ears,
it speeds
when focus is lost
and thoughts return
to almost-forgotten
fragrances, and
awkward night moves.

i long for you
like MSG,
like toblerones at christmas,
like the aging
wish for breath
clear of wheeze
and joints free
of limitation,
like an addict
yearns not for drug
but respite,

like you
used to long for me.

enemies - the needed element to make a warring mind.
How was war imagined,
how, was imagined
easy to imagine,
kwo-, stem of relative and interrogative pronouns. Practically a doublet of why, differentiated in form and use.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=how>

These be ambush thoughts thinking they may be read if any one is patient enough to see beyond the sheer longwindedness
of this character lacking an enemy to war with.
Looking for
Enemies - the needed element to make a warring mind.
How was war imagined,
how,
per se,
was imagined
easy to imagine,
person-if i am able to attribute such qualia to a body
how any unthing is realized is
imaginable as well.
Add a jot or title, a li'l art mark, an art-tickle.
Games teach us how,


how any unthing is realized is
imaginable as well.
Add a jot or title, a li'l art mark, an art-tickle.
Games show us how,
not why.

Why is the quest at the moment. There are rumors of enemies.
The we of me and thee, herenow, we lack emnity.

Hey, sports fan,
where is the frontier, the edge of the maddened crowd
whose
enemies are those who
stand pat, calling the game as game-over, and life a lessoning
as we speak, abundance of known knowns
rotting all around us, putrefying under pressure,
seeping to the surface,
to be burned.
Why,
let us guess---

Disnified pride of pur pose, positional sign-ifiers
of place,
a destination for faiths full pursuants
bemused in bubbling joy,
or shrieks of terror when
the child from the hinterland locks eyes
with Mickey Mouse, and finds no joy, no love, no depth,
but a mask.
The reaction reverberates al(the)way to la Brea,
Peacemaker say,
It's okeh, baby girl, daddy said,
ignor them, they ain't real.
Monsters ling grrrring, then
it's agrin
for now, of course. Here we are. We've arriven,
Happiest Place on Earth,
as imagined realizable by a child in 1917, say,
better yet, 1925, and oh, there were major Wars
being imagined winnable in pressure
application to the spiritual slippage from rite,
the ritual passage of child into adultery at a whim,
so such imagined haps fade.

connect or break connection, on the bus or off the bus

you all
sing
think nothing new under the sun,
teach preach reach out and touch

the face of Java man, eaten, swallowed, and gone to
the believable
history of life,
the accident,
the unplanned, yet
taught as known believable, a pre-dict-ible,
one in ten to the seventy-nine-thousandth power,
yet, if one pays his life time to learn when to bet and when to hold.
Then in this,
the secret journey to the soul,
to the core,
we must assume,
we become
as wise *** (***, the word for a donkey, why would some one prevent you from reading *** Asteriscktical ignorantce,y'axme, stupid AI)
the ***,
as harmless as the serpent from the fire on the island
Ask,
are we of the bovine ilk or pithec-ant-us or
embodied soul-cores
forming, en nue
fitting the mold, the pattern, the plan of projected nexts
built on Locke steps from whence to
whither did we wander?

have we all forgotten the actual question just axt?
Or the answer?
Have we not
gotten what we now
know
we miss,
or was it only I who missed and as the
photons forming the shapes
you see, these breathing commas and such
here
is the point.
You see bits of things.  We see so.
Time and time again thinking less and less.
Least fusion, least pressure, least heat, cool idea ideal or ideology,
twisted idio,
You shape them on patterns.
Ones you imagine formed from
Patterns recalled from some out perienced
time, ere now were ever subjected to the supertwistition
of tongues and interpretsations of unseeable things seers said they
see us seeing.
How come means why, by reason of time.

Palindromiclew, missing el signs missing hahi ai

tia tic, we're in
Ai got this,
whole ball o'wax, thats how we disconfuse the big mess age,
the catas
trophy finale
phase of
world three,
or two, or one, all valid world views,
deepend-enteron discerning spirits,
winds, breezes used to disperse
the heat,
{fans,eh}
evenly in harmony with the heavenly winds,
and the planned six gyros of earth,
guiding the mists that feed the rivers from the seas,
no clouds needed,
save for shade by day.

When all the geo-waves have settled in geo-time,
see,
here is broken:
this old earth is folded and fractured,
surely,
a wreck of a world, yet, as a whole,
we live, we won.
Winds and clouds and continents,
all islands seen from the moon,

which, if the stories hold some truth,
can be manipulated by massminds of mankind, as if, if I am

seeing this
right
each voice might be seeable in one dimension,
or several, four at least,
time, the ever outlier
of sorts
as a flame with fuel source of
flamable fluid upon which
the transcended space
twixt fuel and flame,
floats
seen, merely seen, that emptiness twixt wicked,
mastered flame and
hell's fire spreading on the oiled harbour
protecting our shore
where our little boats lie in anchorite fantasy, asif

we see a way to quench hell per se,
Percy, ah, he lives.
My grandsons know of Percival,
there, here's hoping they get the joke before the yoke.

Riddle me a riddle, son of man.
Is there any hidden thing that shan't be known?
Is here a true place?
Is now a true time?

(to be continued)


squeezing out the lies, the idle words abused,
spreading them thin as the light we see right
through
transcending this at most feared mortal failure
finding
impressions... are from pressing points, dulled by ab
use, tempted uses succumbed to,

didja try to sell your soul for rock and roll?
wadjagit?

My point. out acted, ex-act, en nowd by your creative self,
who never copped,
out or in,
es no mi culpa, all along. I was the voice of resistance,
Job's en core inner held horde of known knowns and
an old key to ever, should the worse he can imagine
best his best laid plans for perfection
in the eyes of God and man.

--- enemy at emnity with me?
--- I see none, save me, as in except me as in me being
--- free from the grasping grip of the reality
--- war is realizable in. You see?
--- I and thee, at this degree of seepeance, as we coagulate
--- we behave as chaos, we be having chaos and entropy as tools

used right, we troubled our house,
which is now known to be the bubble of our being
a child in each popped bubble
of being,
squeezed for the thrill of explosive pus,
gross and good to be rid of, dam the infection,
wipe the blood with the back o'my hand,

I ain't no disgrace. I won that battle with the zit on my gnose.
Wanna piece o'this, this mind of mine,
shelved since,
who knows when, says the old man, with a wink.

We be a lotta beings sorta rolled up. Like a whole ball o'wax
waning into a puddle
as the flame sheds us as bits of light leaving the rest of us
spread over a vast imagination,

resting, willing to burn,
should any wick drain me near the flame once more.

I.
I think you would look brighter with a fresh coat of paint –
a pale blue would suit
your face looks red,
like someone described to you
how you looked in your skimpiest underwear,
like he used to say how much he loved
pushing down on your hips,
melting you into your aqua sheets

II.
the cherry blossoms look promising this time of year
I feel a longing to chop them down
and press them into all the books I own
I promise you that I will comb my hair 100 times in return
I will iron out the stretch marks on my skin –
I won’t pull at it, I promise!
stay vibrant

III.
in the middle of the night,
while I am surrounded by strangers,
home will call and exclaim:
I made fresh scones
and the smell followed me all the way to the top of the tower!
and
I finally took two steps
towards the German shepherd
that terrorizes me on the way
to Christie Pits!
and
he told me my eyes were like
the blue of his favourite childhood jean jacket –
he told me I felt like home.

IV.
my two brothers might have long, swaying limbs when I touch down
mom’s arms might wrap three times around me
she will say,
“I love your peonies growing the length of your spine”
and water them as I lie on my stomach
dad will have feet made of concrete
but his body will still be like palm leaves
I will have to laugh at my own jokes
and ice my own bruised knees
for a while

V.
above all, I wish for the following:
sturdy legs that don’t give out after I’ve walked the length of a strange station
searching for a runaway train
a glimmer from the sweet Parisian rain and the blissful Spanish sun
a new set of lenses with broad castles and rough cliffs and extensive oceans
a jar full of foreign voices, bright smiles, truths
and the fullest heart –
I hope to find me.

I can't breath.
I can't ******* breath.
I feel like I should be freaking out.
Like the
Kicking
Screaming
Lock me up
Because I'm going crazy
Kind of freaking out.
I just feel really calm
And ice cold
And slow
And shaky.
I can't breath though
I CAN'T ******* BREATH.
I can't
brea
th.
Please help me.
I don't know what happened.
I don't know what he gave me.
I don't know why it happened.
I don't know why I did it.
I am an awful person.
I CAN'T ******* BREATH.
It was so slow.
I can't
remem
ber
it
all.
I don't remember when he came back
In the room.
I really don't.
I can't remember
The point where he
I CAN'T ******* BREATH
Got on top of me.
He was just there.
I don't know.
I DON'T REMEMBER.
I was almost asleep.
WHAT DID HE GIVE ME.
I can't remember anything
With any detail.
I ALWAYS REMEMBER DETAILS
I CAN'T BREATH.
I don't remember it all.
I can remember the things he said
And I can remember where he
I CAN'T BREATH.
I CAN'T ******* BREATH.
WHY IS NO ONE COMING TO HELP ME.
started to **** me.
Why did I let him do it.
I DON'T REMEMBER THIS.
I NEED HELP.
I don't remember screaming.
I really don't.
I don't remember them coming in.
I don't remember all of the guys tearing him off me
And throwing him against the wall
And starting to hit him.
And Adam rushing me out to his car.
I don't remember hearing him scream in pain
As I left the room.
I don't remember falling asleep in the back of the car.
I don't.
I ruined my life.
It's all my fault.
I CAN'T BREATH.
SOMEONE ****
ING COME HELP
ME I CAN'T
*******
BREATH.
PLEA
SE.
I don't remember everything.
It just feels like.
I don't ******* know.
It's just so unclear.
There's one thing I do remember.
But I promise
I don't remember when I started to scream.
I just felt like I wanted to die.
I didn't know where anyone was.
WHERE IS EVERYONE.
I don't remember screaming.
PLEASE
******* SOMEONE.


I can remember him covering my mouth.
I CAN'T ******* BREATH.
WHY IS NO ONE HELPING ME.
I
CAN
'T
****
ING
BREA
TH
PLEASE
SOME
ONE
*******
HEL
P
M
E.

En la grana de un prado sanguíneo
o en un bosque de cabezas cercenadas,
la viuda reclama la carne
de un párvulo *******.

Allí donde entonan sus voces
un coro de lamentos disonantes.
Reniega de su apetito
la matriarca del barrio francés

Pues los gritos de Joliet
no inquietan su consciencia,
cosechan en cambio,
un jardín de culposos deleites

Placeres como solo admite,
la maquiavelia de una gioconda
que envuelta en lujosos atavíos
extiende sus garras al inocente
.
Ni hablar del perjurio voraz,
que oculta a la fantasía
la marea virgen del infortunio
y el propio siniestro.

La desesperación de una madre
que devora a sus hijos con el don de Saturno.

Para la que no hay erotismo
sino aquel que evoca
el rigor cadavérico.

Vapores que ascienden
desde el lecho en descomposición,
y alimentan su magia.

Celebran el cruento dolor del infante,
con la mirada de espanto
apenas visible en el carmesí
de sus finas pestañas

Porque es claro como la luna
y tan cierto como la muerte
que en la viuda no hay gozo,
sin el grito que desgarra la noche.

Sin la brea que desciende
sobre el horizonte,
y la angustia que acompaña
la pasión de la masacre.

i came around this neck of town
with a few suppositions about scotland.
Its a little admittedly a little odd willingly picking and packing  up
to sail across the sky
despite the little itch
painted on the inside of my eyelids,
brain, reminding me of people to whom I wont speak again
until they’re once again immediately in front of me.

(which means I’m kind of **** at staying in contact, even with the internet at my disposal.)
but even as technology laces the textures of communication
I constantly find myself in silence,
misplaced somewhere between the pages and the covers,
happily nestled in a place just as cozy as the beds i find myself in these days.

and when you move, there’s obviously going to be a mildly upsetting adjustment period when people ask you out for coffee and small talk.
Which is always weird, being forced through that routine when both parties know it
inevitably takes a little more than a strong cup of coffee and an exchange of pleasantries to get to know somebody.
personally, i prefer the pleasant haze of sunlit leaves
a meander through a forest, the back alleys of trees.
If you want to get to know me, take me out of society.
those coffee spoons and sugar cubes don’t mean anything to me.

when you grow to know me, you’ll see that this beauty’s only used to
sacrifice the loneliness of these panic attack blues.
black jeans, black docs, redbull and a bag of green
help me fly above this city, over the changing loyalties
the mettle of this skeleton’s made of the brittle bones of birds,
my wings are composed of their bitter words, (and that’s just fine)
(because) i’ve a tar pit where my heart is/
and it drips to fill the space that makes an artist’s hearts harden

but behind that internal la brea, I’ve been aptly middle named
because ive got a kinder ray behind
that shines for those who choose to stay.
not only for those who choose to stay, but for those who allow me in as well;
its hard to let a stranger in, should they let your secrets out,
but i’ve got a lockbox for a memory because i don’t remember a lot of things
so rest easy knowing that your words are and will be safe with me.

I know
when I go
to that the place I called
home will still show
on the mail I get
but my heart
was left behind in a haze of partial memory
and leaves I won’t again see green until a tender summer’s eve.

but until then, i have 53c murray place, the locals to my scottish life,
to keep me sane, or at least humane before the leaves have fully changed and
fallen from the trees completely.
when thats happened, i’ll have to leave.  
I’ll have to leave the grey skies and lichen foundation
and a forest full of sympathizers  and former strangers.
i remember standing on the rooftop as the breeze blew below
yelling to the people who will never think to look above the street they know.  
Roger, if heaven has a cell for me too, i’ll rent that **** as a timeshare,
so i can make a pretty profit off the constant loss of my memories and endowed indemnity.
and chrissie, you’ve been a sister to me, a parallel sort of emily
thats going to make leaving this new family
all the more difficult.
and robbie, i’m an old soul, as only you’d know.
classical music in the afternoon to soundtrack an empty flat,
at least i know you’ll follow me soon after i go back.

i remember leaving the flat for the second time, when i was sure i knew my way around,
i saw clouds fit for an easel
and a sun fit for a screen
harboring glory in every pixel.
and during that walk home,
english, french and spanish disappeared,
and i took no notice,
while i go on revising the quiet days i never intend to publish.

i am lost in the wisp of your faltering
the fluttering of concrete entrenched
into stoic rigmarole

to reach out layer by layer
peeling unearthing
a catatonic subdivision of disjoint subdivisions
a limit ordinal
between touch and feeling

where we kiss on the cusp of that silent ocean on the edge of sound
drowned in the nebulous familiarity of
a distant melody
a tired resolve
re  solve the old puzzle  muscle memory's misted amnesia
half the pieces falling out the warn tinderbox

inarticulate drowned severed isomorphisms over
brea(d)thless infinities
self adjoint matted topologies
nestled snugly in the amniotic absolution
of form before being

      hands of matted ice
contorted into perfection
by the sculpting propensities
  of undulations of estrangement,

where we touch in the cusp of self reflections thousand mirrors inverted propensities
                        infinite infinitesimals
  nestled meromorphic partitions
hidden corners in the brevity of dusk
multiplicities fragmenting behind empty veils
(  to be seen is to be made discrete
   to be discrete is to flicker
                                     and disappear
  (inevitably invariable
          inevitable invariability))

we
       stand in a waterfall of gravel
   and drown our voices in the choke of our cellophane hearts

caked
             into fillets of aphasic tundra


  where we whisper our nothings in the desert on the boundary of silence

our words
                         escape us
           like rats from shipwreck


                                      we are
                       disembowelled catharsis
                           intentional and fatuous
                                   retching upon itself

       severed
and free
       and dead

She has Cameras flashing,
Her Fake smiles,
Pushing flyers.
Desperation.

Her Clean Steps,
Stars etched for glory.
She has Rainbow fountains.
Tourists with wasted cash.

There is nothing here.
Yet for me—
She’s the connection to you.
.  
Underneath her
I go, Farther and Farther
The escalator takes me down.
Watching, searching, waiting.

Take my hand,
Together we can walk
Her washed-out fame
The bizzare.

Underneath the California Pines,
On the darkened side walk,
the Roosevelt Sign
lights your face.



No where to go,
Strangers approaching.
Pull me close.

My lips,
Quickly pressed on yours.
The Naïve sweetness.
Your cultured ways.

August 31st.
You Fade with the metro
I fade with the crowd.
I have Hollywood boulevard.

Hiding tears that sting
I rise and rise
Up and up
There she is, wrapped by
The city of Angels.

I run on the highland,
Quickly down La Brea.
Pack this suitcase
I leave her behind.

if our souls touch,
the sun collapses

between us

and light beams
crash down our throats
like victorian chandeliers.

we’re drowning,
drowning
in lemon-thick shells
that are
too inaudible to break.

you never taught me
how to swim
and now i can’t brea–

i'm sure she doesn't
read you robert frost poetry
and i'm sure she doesn't
text you a reminder to look up at the moon at night
she doesn't
call and sing "peach" by the front bottoms into your voicemail
just so when you're having an off day
you can stop and listen to the sound of my voice
1200 miles away.
you say
i miss you
oh my god i can smell you
i want you here
i trust you wholly and entirely
i miss you
i want you so terribly
i love you, baby girl
i'm longing
i would be devastated to lose contact
you say you'll leave her when she gets back home
you try to pretend her head is the top of mine
and she doesn't smell like me
nor taste like me
nor hugs like me
there's only one kind that smells the best-tastes the best-
there's only one kind  of warmth i like best and when its taken from me im left with a sting in my mouth and i'm cold
i miss you i miss you i miss you and i love you still.
YOU SAY
even though your energy surrounds my heart, not having you here physically aches.
you broke up with her.
the next day
i call and she answers your phone
you text and say
don't ever call this number again
i'm serious, brea-ever.
you say, i can't do this long distance, don't forget the things i've said.
and you are selfish, you **** the warmth out of my heart like a leech
we were together for four years and you've known her for a month-she must be so beautiful for you to give this up
but i know she doesn't watch you sleep before you wake up.

rezuma, el noche, con el
humedad. una cosa del estomago
del tierra, esto vida,
esto respiracion como el espacio
intermedio las alas de un halcon. me siento
la marga que tiene todo el nocion de la neblina
dentro de su atomos. esto marga tiene mi oreja
y me susurra sobre las raices muy pequeno y
paulatina de la hierba. sobre como en la brea que
llamamos "el noche" o
"la profundidad" es un parte de nosotros
que rezuma, que no nos gusta, y que
mantene lo que somos.

Our bodies pressed together as we danced the invisible square in the middle of the school hallway. Moving from side to side as the piano's melody infiltrated our ears through the headphones. We swayed slowly, softly, keeping with the pace of slow-quick-quick that was required for the box step. Her arms were around my shoulders, my arms rested on her hips as we swung slowly, softly, going about the hall as if it were a grand ballroom and us its only occupants. I looked her in the eyes, the emotion on my sleeves that were hugging her hips. She looked back, smiling as if she were enjoying herself as much as I was. I couldn't help it, I had to whisper to her, had to break the trance the music had put on us, but had to in such a way that the moment would be filled with no regret, filled with the trueness I had kept in my heart.
"I love you." I say, smiling as if I had no clue of how ugly my smile were, smiling as if I were happy with more than just my grades. Her eyes glistened against the shine of the over-head lights. She smiled her beautiful smile and took me into a euphoria that was so blissful that I imagined I felt heat rising to my face in a blush.
"I love you too."
And with those words spoken, she leans closer, arms running down the broad of my back and hooking there as she lay her head on my chest and slowly rock with me, easing from left to right, slowly making our way in a giant circle in the middle of the hallway. I knew this was it, I knew this was what I had been looking for: a feeling of love to replace the feelings of longing in my heart, the feelings of lonely in my soul.
Left, right, left, right. We swayed in unison, her hips matching mine as our circle broadened with the music of the piano. I kissed her forehead, prompting her to look up at me as if we were sending mutual signals. I lean into her, hands lightly swishing her hips a little further, pushing against her own momentum, and kiss her tender lips like I had never kissed before. This was what her love had done, this is what my longing had done, we were one in the same in a world that only matched stride with cheetahs. We were the difference, we were the exception to the world as we softly went about the hall rocking and rocking, lips matching and not mismatching for long periods of time.
And then the bell rang, stating that it was time to go to class. But we paid it no attention, we stayed where we would remain for only mere seconds before the herd of students could overtake us. She drops the earbud and grabs my hand.
"Please, for me, remember this moment. Remember the moment when two unlikely souls set each other free, the moment when the heavens looked at the both of us with favor and brought us a match in emotion." tears escaped her eyes.
"though it may be my last time seeing you like this, I shall always be here in spirit," She continues, "but don't hasten to bid me farewell, love. Please, take the punishments of this tardy and stay and dance with me. Just sway." and with that, I continue our sway, placing my hands back on the sides of her hips as the students walk around us.
And we swish, hips moving as we make our own music with our foot-falls, matching a rhythm that we both find pleasurous. Rocking and rocking, swaying and swishing. I lean toward her once more, bidding her farewell with just one last kiss. Closing my eyes as our lips connect, right hand coming from her hip to stroke her cheek.
But when I open my eyes, she's no longer there. I'm alone in a hallway as my schoolmates pass around me, strange looks shown evident in each face that passes. The second bell rings and I open the door to class just in time, tears escaping as I look around the room at those who could never understand what I had felt.
A love that was lost isn't a blessing in comparison to the feeling of never being loved, in fact, it is a curse. So I have always remembered my beautiful hummingbird as she was, a free spirit and a free soul, but a part of me that I can never retrieve again.
Is brea liom tu, forever and always.

Brea-
Fru- -sts.
      -its
    .
        .
     .
    E
      K
      O
    M
     S

I was once...
...a pile...of leaves.

© 2014 J.S.P.

I can't breathe.
Words flood my lungs.
I can't brea-
(dead)

i wanted to run away from the reality so bad i fell into the sea of my own thoughts

...

the water is suffocating me

...

i need oxygen

...

i need to brea...

that's me
in another place. i
can only brea-
-the golden air, dappled
in sunlight i
thought would never graze my
eyes again.

Just as my breathing becomes shallow and quicker in pace
announcing my impending ******
caused by your tongue
administering slow circles around my ****
while your palms tightly press into my inner thighs to keep them pushed apart
you lift your mouth an inch away from me
look into my eyes and whisper
fu€k baby
You taste so good against my tongue
I wanna see you ride my co€k

you quickly crawl up my body
grab my hips
and pull me on top of you to straddle your trim waist
my whimpers soon morph into soft moans  
as I run the head of your **** around my slick opening
Teasing you the same way you teased me

baby please
you groan as you bite your lip from taking over

once I feel my wetness coat your entire head
I guide your throbbing **** deep into my pu$sy
slowly

inch.
by.
inch.
I take you in

you pull me down towards your lips
grabbing the back of my neck
to kiss me so I can swallow your needy moans

I remain still once you’re fully inside me
taking a moment to adjust to your size
I push off your chest
and right as I begin to lift up your length
you grab my chin with your thumb and index finger

baby
open your eyes
I wanna watch the way you come apart
as you ride me

you feel that
you feel how hard you make my ****
as it’s inside your wet pus$y

fu€k
you feel so good
I wanna watch you ride me

go slow
go fast
do whatever you want
I’ll like whatever you choose to do
Take.
Your.
Pleasure.
move how you want
make whatever sounds you want
I’m just here to watch you take control

before you can finish your last words
I quickly lift up
then slowly
I push back down on you
while my head falls back
mouth falls open
and I squeeze my pu$sy tight

you place your hands on my hips
that’s it baby
ride my **** however you want
take your pleasure

I keep a slowly agonizing tempo
until you start playing with it
using your hands
shoving me faster down on your ****

you then get impatient and sit up
taking my n!pple into your mouth
******* harshly
I pull on your hair
to move away from the sensitive spot
but push my brea$t closer

you then snake your right hand down
to where we are joined
and start rubbing my swollen cl;t

the motion of your fingers start to match the motion of your tongue
and that’s when I start to feel my entire body clench

that’s it baby
give it to me
right there
*** for me
I wanna feel your pus$y squeeze my **** as you *** in
5
4
3-

let’s just say
I don’t make it to 1

Take it from me, the things you can see
The wonders your eyes will behold
Mother Nature did good in this neighbourhood
It’s a landscape of riches untold

The lochs and the glens, the Munros and Bens
They are stunning you can’t disagree
Rivers Clyde and the Tay and the Forth and the Spey
The Findhorn, the Don and the Dee

All kinds of rocks, have been turned into brochs
Into castles and bothies and cairns
If I had a say I would choose Skara Brea
As a great place to show your wee bairns

From clear waters great *****, great meat from the coos
That both share the rich fertile fields
So too the deer, with venison premiere
And the sheep produce great woollen yields

The fishing’s fantastic, there’s salmon (Atlantic)
Grayling and pike and big charr
I’ve so little doubt there’s superior trout
That I’ll not tell you quite where they are

We think thistles divine and we like the scots pine
The heather is gorgeous in flower
There’s gorse on the ground. Scottish bluebells around
It’s what young haggis prefer to devour

We have eagles and kites and owls through the night
Ptarmigan.  The grouse are widespread
If you don’t fancy that, there’s a breed of wild cat
And lots of our squirrels are red

Both at midnight and noon it’s like Brigadoon
The landscape is magic caressed
Every plant, every hill is possessed of good will
And the nice beasty that lives in Loch Ness

I could tell you more, but I’d just make you snore
But believe me that’s far from it all
If you’re still full of doubt come quick, don’t lose out
‘Cause we might rebuild Hadrian’s Wall

she breathed in tar
and exhaled something marred

inhaling nicotine and exhaling carbon monoxide
looks like she's gonna suicide


- 2 -

she attacc  (herself)
she protecc (her cigarettes)
most of all she defecc (tobacco lobbyists/industry)

and she also a defecc (anxiety disorder)

-3-

looks like denise isn't a very nice niece after all
her aunt said "tar reminds me of fond memories"
denise thought she meant the "la brea tar pits"
now she knows..... it's the Philip Morris/British American Tobacco pits in the alveoli

ravioli ravioli give me the rollie.

if you give me a place to, my body will glow
my fingers will gather The Truth in the snow
and The Water will melt over parts of my soul
and I’ll be renewed and completely made whole

if you give me a place to, my Spirit will sing
I’ll float through my bones and come out of my skin
and The Light will consume all the darkness around
and there will be Life in the form of a Sound

if you give me a place to, I’ll be who I am
I’ll break through the silence and tell you, “I can”
and The Words that I speak will sow Love into you
and I will be stronger and you will be too

his flustered face as I pranced around the forest with my bre asts out and bouncing in the dark, damp wind of the forest: dark green tranced around us and a meekish boy-like smile on his face as he'd grasp my brea sts with his hands and stare at me with his earth-brown eyes, smiles in his eyes and with his eyes, the smell of the forest as I skip and bounce him deeper into this isolated place: wind, breeze, grass rustling and howling: birds leap around us in song, and I let my breas ts dance among the mints, junipers and pines: he laughs and bashfully turns red, wandering along with me in the peace and isolation of the dim, green, and resting forest: my kind of afternoon, all I can think is what a man I prance with, I spin with — near the end of our dance among the woods, he sighs that sigh again: that sigh of satisfaction, of happiness, of love: breathing love into the air around we, the air we breathing of love life boosting: I stoop into the chapel, getting on my knees in the middle of the floor, thanking the maker of Theotokos for this wonderful life and daily mind for we get: have, him, in me, with me: inside me — a smile and a lily pad and an African nymph and a Germanic druid