Breanna Winn is fictional--
a composite character. She
follows the decaying poems of
unnoticed flies and rough
cut diamonds ****
in the rubber grooves of
adolescent sneakers.

Ignoring
and ignored all at once
scraping and grinding
each step of pressurized,
carbon against concrete
we walk down neighborhood
sidewalk with fossilized
fly pebbles
stuck in heel.  

Anthropomorphous dogs
walking people in woods,
forest, and dense city
jungles filled with Lord
of forgotten
flies swarming the air
and paving the ground.

Breanna silently,
carefully, narrates the life
of a drifting, morphing
black clad super-org
tribe.

Force is mechanically
easy to solve
like a heart squeezed
in a surgeon's gloved
hand deep in cracked chest

Rib cages dried bones
in High Plains of Reno
or was it White Sands of Nevada?

Nuclear blast equations
of forgotten love ancient hate
and modern little cheats among
the billion of us Forced
over seconds to leave
deep craters

How strange the integration
happens to give same the area
but different under curved ***!

Do we like long hot shafts
or voluminous D-cups?
H-bomb holes or a Grand Canyon?
A quick poke or grinding strokes
watered down over centuries?

The math's the same
sung in Smithery
in Bessie lilt
about a little sugar
in our bowl
about a hot dog
between our rolls

"Stop your foolin'
and drop somethin'
in my bowl"

God Brought A Beach Towel

  Written By: Breanna Womble



...

I’m starting to understand
The slight of hand
That it takes to see this world as an ocean
                                                So vast and deep
                                  With secrets to keep-
I spread love on like tanning lotion
                                        
(..) I forgot how the sun feels from this perspective
As my heart beats quick with/          
                             as if it’s,
                                                                         /To keep up with lost time.
I know now I hold the full Collective
all the while I stay and destroy the retina’s in my eyes.
                               This time around,
                                    Loving me is the new objective-
gazing at new found patience with what follows sunrise
                                                                      And left these sands of time-
                                                                      One grain left to fall amongst the Hour,
All this chaos I hold inside of me-
                                           In-spite of trees that Fear let tower

Ahead of me is too far gone
twin flames too, burned away...
Lake Eerie drowned our fire quickly/
                                                           a parted heart of two;
half-hearted sunsets shadowed days,
To the boy I thought I knew.



Do you suffocate with silence?
Do the sun-rays burn your eyes?

All this technicolor vision Love,
Colorblind through cobalt eyes’


(..) I know now of not tomorrow,
                                                          But sea, to my dismay;


                                                        
Salt lake kisses from Oklahoma/


                                                      ...Taste like soulmates in PA.




~Breanna Womble

You-
                        Lover of a thousand arms
                        lift me high above myself,
You-
        strong enough to find the strength in a lowered gate;
eternally holds lock and key inside of me.

And it’s You-
               keeper of mind;

       teaching one to know better at no benefit of his own;
                      how decisively deceptive of you/

                     so open and juxtaposed in my sight
             You, who calls my soul to love free;

You-
man of numbers;

          placing them in the stars so they project on every clock;
                               together ticking eternity;

           man who thinks more of others than he does himself;
                carefully crafting out the finest versions of me/

                 though think our thoughts are on opposition -
                  
                                                You.
How dare you?

        We have plotted forever without knowing it;
                     this whole entire universe and

                 You.

Can you query your deep decadence?

                    Healing my wounds from a far-
            time nor space measures a soul so boundless

                          You...carrier of divine grace

It Is You-
                       an auspicious gift from the Gods-
                       how precious is the powers that Be..

Does it surprise You?

                Millennia’s have past /
                                 circling back around,
                        I have found-

               who tastes like an eternal sweetness,
               one who bears both dark and light
                                      
                                     chooses only-
                                             You;
            give rise to the sun and nightfall to the moon
                    
             Keeper of dreams-

                              are apart of every. sole. reason/
      
                                                         ­      to wake up

  and love …

                                              You.


~Breanna Womble

This is the story of Felix Riley
An Irishman from County Cork
Conceived during the great famine
And delivered by the stalk
He was one of ten; 6 brothers, 3 sisters
All of whom he cherished
Both of his parents passed away
From starvation and cholera they perished.
His father was a peasant farmer
From the port town of Kinsale
Working every single day
To bring home bread and ale
He died in the summer of 47
A year that many did
His wife Breanna heartbroken
But from the kids she hid
Not long after, she died too
Taking with her 3 little chislers
Poor Felix Riley was left solitary
When split from his brothers and sisters
He learned to fend for himself
And then met his lovely wife Bria
He never saw his kin to that day
And probably wont again, he'd fear
Like his father he worked and worked
To bring home food for their little one
And one day hoped he could earn enough
To buy a table to eat it on
He worked every hour he physically could
Almost every one god sent
But every week when he got his envelope
The money was already spent
Never disheartened he loved his wife
And his little daughter too
He remained optimistic in any weather
And through tough times powered through
Alas his determination was futile
In the face of the aftermath of the blight
He died at a tender age of 26
After putting up a hearty fight

His story is one of over a million
Who's stories are somewhat hidden
From the books and lessons given in schools
Their telling is almost forbidden.

My lost love Breanna, I limp home to you because my car's beat up
& mangled as my ribs are pulled & my 2 swinging ***** are jangled

Night

The night time comes like fire
Burning her with flames
She lays in bed just waiting
Until the light of day
The demons dancing around her in every sleepy thought
She can't escape the memories
In the back of her mind they haunt
Dark is for demons that waltz in her bed
Dark are the thoughts that are dancing in her head
Dark doesn't describe the feelings of terror
Like looking at yourself in a half broken mirror
Piece by piece, falling apart
She didn't deserve this, She has such a big heart
But the scars that cover it make a light that shines bright
Sometimes you can even see it shining in her eyes
For every dark day, comes a much brighter sky
Just stay strong my darling, the sun will always rise.

Breanna Dixon

Know what you want
Know who u are, don’t u ever waste any time; little things like this will keep u by the finish line.
Time on this earth goes so fast, so quick, like when raindrops fall from the sky,
Love yourself immensely, and intensely
This will be your battle cry.
Hold your ground and find your purpose your dignity, morality, your hue;
This is the formula to living life anew.
Be kind, be courageous, and always understand
Life isn’t always given, and will never come as a demand/
Please, my dear child, believe me when I say;
Love will always be the hardest when not known when to walk away,
But love yourself, be yourself, have faith in you
This is the key for others to learn to love you too/
And at the end of the day
All the sorry in the world will never mend or keep,
The contempt you aim to feel when u lay down to sleep-
And please if they ask, don’t u ever dare,
Because hollowed out lovers are everywhere.

~Breanna Womble
4.24.18

A guy can count, when he runs, on his biggest right-foot toe, just as
I counted on you camper-crammer Breanna, 15 little boyfriends ago
when you chirped like a meadow crow in an '05 red Dodge Shadow  
before folding 2 **** lips over in a corporate, ****-lip-folding show
for bread, dinero, gelt, mula, cash & seventy other words for dough
On the porch I was wildly horrified from this haunted-house fear as
Grandma struck me with cheer over her **** so sharp & **** so near
to my rock-hard-pronghorn projectile & manly, wedding-tackle gear
“At the bottom of the finest menu is offered wren mignon, captain”
a crew man proffered, before his wife got pimped by Peter Lawford
A million dead love-birds littered my dream-life & dream- girlfriend
after I epoxied her pate beyond the apex of the fore-crown's top end
Last month we ate turkeys from pointy beaks to wrinkly **** holes
while our wife crones were fingered like ****** Mao finger bowls
Breanna, I fear you, to be near you and to hear you when you boil a
chicken in the kitchen, when you turn on me with merciless *******'
to precipitate the most tremorous of Parkinsonian, lard-*** twitchin'
Breanna, I fear you, to hear you near you when you boil a wren like
a California chicken kitchen cook who sews ***** by hem-stitchin'
in dawning hours when plane Earth's keen on night-to-day switchin'
I wouldn't let you down like I put the window down, like I put your
mother down, or when I peeled your fish-net hose that wrap around
your creamy thighs that ruin our seedy *******/constructed lives
to make us want left states to turn right or men high up to fall down

When peace is declared, my mistress will put away her war nuggets
for good, because as she aches for a half foot of timber I will slip to
her my thrill-hammering, impregnating, baby-broth-squirting wood.

I sit here in complete silence
Nothing to see but green painted walls
The stories spreading around school
About how the green office is only for the
CRAZIES
I hear whispers but its nothing new
Every time I turn the corner is a whole
New false story i’ve never heard before
Funny how people just love to destroy others
Such an amazing world
Right? WRONG.
This is the last place i'd ever like to be
I know I’ve never been to hell
but it could just not possibly be
any worse than being here
This is just hell x10
So many false stories out there
In this cruel world that can and will
be the death of me, No these horrible
People will be the death of me
Funny how I'm told never to give up
But guess what IT ISN’T THAT EASY
When you've lost all your fight you'll understand
and you'll see everything just as i see
Poems at least help me express a few things
But trust me this isn't even the least
There is so much more to be said
But will i say it, No.
I remember when I was happy and very kind
But thats been stolen from me and I have no where
Else to turn besides my wrists
I understand it doesn’t sound so great but
I helps me take some of the pain away
Some pain taken away will each day will get me
though most of the pain I get loaded with each and everyday.

-Breanna J

There are things that we so desire;

Fragments of once could be’s left sizzling next to the wake of an open fire

A sore and unruly rest for those who bare no need to transpose,

A romantics lust for love is as sheer as the daydreamers dream I suppose.

We don’t confide the things that yearn in the hollowed depths of our soul;

That in which age and mature vastly inside us, for that they’ll never know-

And when given the chance one might never give in-

Because vulnerability is best when it’s bared in  hidden.

You can look in the eyes of another and see their truth revealed;

Their words yet still cascade fabrication of a world never revealed

We hide, we squander, in life’s most precious things,

But behind our synthetic candor; we all know why the caged bird sings



~Breanna Womble

2:01am

I would never punch you in the mouth to stop you from talking or perform a hysterectomy on you because you fed my mother to sharks. Bowie went full-blown Satanical at the end of his life. His soul shall be shredded. Whatever you set down in the yard Chico will *** on. A baby is a small per-son who gestates inside a  woman. These thing of a basic nature, I know intuitively & innately.

I write in free-form, like Lenny Bruce who is dead. Folks need their
dogmatical & orthodoxical structures adored, like our criminal Fed.

You look exactly like me since we began to look exactly like each other. I'm having a good time with this parts-washer! Me too. Look how washed my parts are. They really are shiny. May I touch them? Surely. Your **** are smooth and unassuming. No they're not.

Our sink is a composting toilet & our bed pan is a casserole dish, &
we pig out on red Purina kitty kibble that's shaped like sea tuna fish

The Orient has become Occidentalized. Cancer is on the rise throughout East Asia. Teach me Breanna the difference betwixt godhood & mortality. Teach me Breanna the indifferences between ungodliness & immortality.

At airports the T.S.A. catches terrorists nationwide at an average of 4 terrorists per minute. That's an impressive 240 terrorists per hour and 87,600 terrorists per year! If each terrorist crashed 2 planes into landmark buildings that would be 175,200 landmarks damaged or destroyed annually!

Remembrance is the pitfalls of things we wish to not understand
When the towers come falling and all is lost in demand
The fragments and pieces of parts we wish to not see
I’m lying in a 6 ft ditch of denial and mistrust this can’t all be me.
There’s people looking down, people praying up and I’m silent in the words I failed to say
I’m frozen but thawed with the life I let wither away
We’ve got hours
We’ve got time
At least that’s what they say...
Tomorrow is not enough
Let’s live for today
...


~Breanna Womble
August 14th

I wrung your neck like a gay biker on acid could if he were on T.V.
or like a Gypsy might, cold from linearity in a Czechoslovakian sea
This churning emotional turmoil nearly killed my neighbor in 1998
when he was ******* ugly ******* in a hobo shack on Pontiac Lake
It's been a lousily-bad day because a thief stole my front bike wheel
& I am bleeding like a Russian prince on day 1 of this ****** cycle
& I learned that Tito Jackson was not the ****** brother of Michael
Wayne Cochran is dead, & soon he will be buried on an island with
dead X-princess Diana, so Wayne's dead corpse'll have to be ferried
by ferry, because this cadaver is too fat, by swimmers, to be carried
Medically, in this Haitian climate, my 4 **** lips are soft & vibrant
I could pull my fancy Ocean City taffy across your puffy, ready lips
or crack ribs that float above Tongan-girdled hips while I yuck it up
with nips, spooks & 4 ***** in junks that will be sunk like drunken
ships on bloodless, gutless, rudderless, maiden-headed maiden trips
I always make delicious pie crust with top-quality-white-pig-fat lard
& later, so ******* won't steal it, I smear pig **** on my E.B.T. card
I check my manly genitals, I check them a lot, to make sure that my
impressively-large ****, that everybody loves, has not been shot off
Play dead David Cassidy's song, “Sitting on a Pile of Pig Parts” for
those here, who've been to jail, but who've never done it up the rear
I told David, “You might cram walnuts up your **** and blame me
for the coffee crop failure in Spain, before Susan Dey goes insane.”
Many years ago a turnip farmer bought an *** to pull his turnip cart
because he supplied the turnips to the produce department at Kmart
1 day when his wife was turnin' tricks with the lot lizard Kara Jean,
who was the most relentless ****** the farmer had ever seen, a new
Kmart caught fire & was completely destroyed & everyone was sad
I kissed a married twosome of ****-divers last week, 1's a tall ****
school marm, all legs & lipstick, & the other is at her ****-*** peak
Halifax hospital's awful, awfully happy to give normal, ***-abiding
*****, 6 Thanksgiving Day *** ****** with Tom turkey drum-sticks
Consider my wealth as it is considerable even what you'll not see &
I'll pay for stuff that is too big to steal, that is too big to steal for me
Put your head on my shoulder, hem-stitch it on for good, for I'm the
nuclear life of elite human power forcing you to act like you should
Awakening dead kills a head-achingly wakeful state that men dread
You took back your fake teen love suddenly like a godless heathen,
to focus on a lonely guy you camped in the forest with called Ethan
1 day Missy, you're goin' to find a dead whale on your porch with a
letter that says: "Dear Miss Breanna, I mailed to you a dead whale."
Remember what has been said, after your only Richard #22 is dead,
Breanna #21 my pretty pet, will suffer from biting, post-petty regret
Like a ***** ****** with runny genital ******, a ***** ***** gave to
me, runny genital ****** I didn't need that hurt #6 ***** after I peed
1 moment, you are eating peanuts with a homosexual on a bridge &
the very next moment, you are tossing the ****-****** off the bridge
We will play grab-*** when our ***** are up for grabs, after picking
off scabs where snipers stood, on a roof, as pink powder puffs ****
Let us play grab-*** where our ***** are up for grabs, after scraping
off scabs as snipers would from the roof as powder-pink puffs puke
Witch, I've moved on, my sub-zero, hypothermical, steel-brassiered
witch ***, so hoist up your lard ***, waddle out & ******' get over it!
Do not fault me for stiffening my tip's nip into a scary pose because
I picked strips of ****** paw prints 'cross Laredo's landscape of my
prairie rose, without trimming the glued-on nails of my 7 hairy toes
Sixty streets we could pave with a ****** in my blender circling me
for days, chilling with 8 Mile 'Troit *****-homies who call me Dave
I want my ******* to be much larger, but not as big as a tow boat or
a barge or the Titanic, or the Love Boat or a warehouse garage door
To enhance 2 ***** I'd made drawings in 1 sittin' for Vietnam vets,
who said that the V.C. can be defeated in 10 years, L.B.J. permittin'
My passions are: 10 daily epilepic seizures, pimping my ** *******,
telling lies about Hillary, Honduran flag abuse, hobbling & limping
because I am incapacitated & loyal, after burnin' out #12 heater coil

Breanna, I fear you, to be near you and to hear you when you boil a
chicken in the kitchen, when you turn on me with merciless *******'
to precipitate the most tremorous of Parkinsonian, lard-*** twitchin'

The setting, Easter 1899, a large dog suppresses a **** in the middle
of the night, Polacks are eating grapes in the dim moon light, a war
is fought by Saigon girls whose betel-nut-red teeth are ready to bite Inbreeding has hurt my folks a lot like 5 slugs hurt John Lennon on
the night that he was shot, after smoking a hefty garbage bag of ***
Breanna, when we talk it is like 732 trillion huge propane cylinders
exploding in Pottsville, West Pittsburgh & in the Irish County Cork
that could destroy 78 sailors, having unhelmeted ******* at the port
Like 4 pine trees crying in the night, I am the barking, needling sort
who's 60 feet tall, hobbling on stilts, not low-to-the-ground or short
& then I will disappear, like piny pines do durin' emergently-severe
toilet-paper shortages brought on by mouldily-black groat porridges

A guy can count, when he runs, on his biggest right-foot toe, just as
I counted on you camper-crammer Breanna, 15 little boyfriends ago

Breanna, when we talk it is like 732 trillion huge propane cylinders
exploding in Pottsville, West Pittsburgh & in the Irish County Cork
that could destroy 78 sailors, having unhelmeted ******* at the port

The setting, Easter 1899, a large dog suppresses a **** in the middle
of the night, Polacks are eating grapes in the dim moon light, a war
is fought by Saigon girls whose betel-nut-red teeth are ready to bite Inbreeding has hurt my folks a lot like 5 slugs hurt John Lennon on
the night that he was shot, after smoking a hefty garbage bag of ***
Breanna, when we talk it is like 732 trillion huge propane cylinders
exploding in Pottsville, West Pittsburgh & in the Irish County Cork
that could destroy 78 sailors, having unhelmeted ******* at the port
Like 4 pine trees crying in the night, I am the barking, needling sort
who's 60 feet tall, hobbling on stilts, not low-to-the-ground or short
& then I will disappear, like piny pines do durin' emergently-severe
toilet-paper shortages brought on by mouldily-black groat porridges
We'll name our baby Anna, if that does not make you bitter, & feed
her parsnips & pies on Sunday while she plays in unused kitty litter
By myself, I am again, jangling 'round with my jingly bits, so I say,
“Climb down off my pimpled ***, with those 3 milky, pinkish ****!”

"Hi Breanna!"

The setting, Easter 1899, a large dog suppresses a **** in the middle
of the night, Polacks are eating grapes in the dim moon light, a war
is fought by Saigon girls whose betel-nut-red teeth are ready to bite


Breanna, when we talk it is like 732 trillion huge propane cylinders
exploding in New York, Camden, Pittsburgh & in the County Cork

A 75-yr.-old Canadian billionaire & his 70-yr.-old wife were hanged with bull ropes near the swimming pool of their 6-million-dollar mansion on Dec. 15. The cops called it a ******/suicide till the family objected. It's being treated now as a double ******.

Breanna, I fear you, to hear you near you when you boil a wren like
a California chicken kitchen cook who sews ***** by hem-stitchin'
in dawning hours when plane Earth's keen on night-to-day switchin'

You're not alone when the police are beating the **** out of you. They can never take that from us: our commonality, our soul connection, the fact that we're both in love with me. And then you called me bad names and stuck a pin through the back of a voodoo doll of me, and then you had a cigarette, and then you suffered a pain from where the horse made contact with your floppy lips south of Lima, Peru...This morning I awoke to wrens singing and boy, did I opine: "What a perfect morning this would be if only I had a box of wren poison strychnine." Oh, there you are...lonely, in a horse-renting mood ...and we'll shave nothing and tattoo nowhere...I'll bring Thuy and we'll have a big party with rice & fish heads! And Thuy will look around for others who look like her and she'll not find them and I'll take her hand and explain that Breanna is sad because she's from Hollywood. My back is getting better. We can go riding soon... maybe even on horses...