Breeze, just ******* away
As I lay scattered along your pathway
As dry as the leaves, fallen from trees
Worthy no more, as I have lost my sheen
No more connected to the branches
Relegated to the heap of waste
Only I can burn, to give you some light and warmth

A song comes out of the speeding bhogis,
Seeta is the one rendering the song.
She chants that her husband has long been dead.

Seeta has two sons, just like her ballads.
One –
Gives rhythm to her song.
Other –
Rubs a gentleman out of his siesta
And asks for a little money.

The bhogis gain momentum (Ignores the station master who shows red to stop the pacing male phallus)

Long away –
A girl lies down, lower than the rails.
**** me, **** me, she bangs her head.
I will, I will, the rails swell the train song in her ears.

Though long away,
Though have not heard the girl,
As if she has heard something -
Seeta stops singing.
And her children dash out.

Two hobos enter in –
As if to sell sizzling peanuts.

Just as to give the body a bath –
Seemingly not pleased just with the rails –
The male train jumps off,
Into the wide sea.
(Whose ****** is the sea, the breeze hums a song)

A thousand crows flutters from –
One’s previous birth,
To –
Another’s next birth.

Seeta, having forgotten all her songs –
Looks out for her kids.

Will arrive shortly, will arrive shortly :
Weary, irked and bored -
Time waits at a station.

(I did remember Rupesh Paul, who drew a simile between the rails and the *** worker’s nights, Anitha Thampi, who wrote about female trains, Latheesh Mohan, who noted down how the train stretches its back, Vishnu Prasad and his poem on the phallus, Prasanna Aryans usage: ****, says the wheel and ****-**** , says the rail et al , while writing this poem)

(Translated by Sherin Catherine)

Relaxing in the front yard
Peering up at the sky
Mesmerized by the sound of the leaves dancing in the breeze
Watching the clouds sashay by
The shapes they made entertained my cerebellum.
The warm summer sun bakes the smell of lilac into the air
My best friend relaxes beside me, mimicking my every move.
living in our minds
Not a single care
This was ours
Our moment
Our time
The grass was frigid and plush beneath our backs
The sweet breeze kissed our faces
This was one of my favorite places.

All I see is up
The pink flower stretches to forever at the sky
I stare wishing to be among the clouds
Its anterior filters the sun’s warmth upon my soft arms
I sit upon the dark, sodden, summer earth
I am all to myself. Alone.
At home under their stems
So benign am I encased by the pink flower

The pink flower trembles under slight hand of a summer breeze
Honeyed are its petals,
But dangerous is its center
Pricking my delicate fingers
If I am not careful
Yet I watch a dragonfly land on it with grace           
Fragile insect legs grip tightly at the miniature pointed peaks

Wind caresses wisps of hair around my petite face
I am like a fairy
Not knowing the wonders of the world
Only the kingdom of the pink flower
Moisture sweetens the air
Drenching it with the breath of nature
Almost as if a mother is breathing comfort into my small body

I crave a dance
Not a hug,
Not a kiss or a delicate touch
But a dance
A red dress and a gentleman to take my hand
On a shinning dancefloor
On a trip outside the dimensions of this world
Where flying needs no wings
Where music feels like the gentle wind
I'd swirl and swirl
With my red dress flowing like the petals of a rose
Carried by the swift breeze
Till it come back
To you

Swirling morning mist, draws abstract patterns of love
moving sprightly,  between golden rays of sun,
prattling  breeze and other manifestations winter presents,
green grass on the meadow looks like a dew studded carpet
pussyfooting rabbits, lick dew drops in a hurry and run back
to the warmth of their burrows, to sleep for some more time.

Sun, the nourisher eternal of the world , don't hide anymore
come out, peep above the crowd of sleepy grey old clouds,
looking grumpy, ill mannered and winter arrogant to the core,
don't like their attitude a bit, come out blow your trumpet of warmth
make the drooping wet birds, dry, fly up to the sky with a happy cry
sing songs of joy, warm the hearts,drive the winter gloom out.

I’ve sat on a bare-damp chair.
out on the North deck
where the moss blurs the lines
between itself and algae and lichen
and me.  Me, who wouldn’t know such a line
if it were less blurred...I’m not so sharp as all that.


I set my glasses down on a stone table.
Beside the cold-soon tea.
I watch the wind coming, first through the reeds.
And then shifting the banana leaves.
And soon the birch curtain crowding out my
writing place.  My righting place.

The labyrinth is hosting some flowers.  A dragonfly alights on an altar of crystal
and stone and birch branch.  And offerings.  
The dragonflies seems to (me to) re-write spider lines
or maybe ley lines.  A frog just leaped from a tree past my feet.
I’ve lost my word lines, my throughline.
This frog is now in the leaves by the ivy under the bees.
Looking so green.  Leaf droppings dropping on its head.
It’s green head.  Like an emerald in a mountain’s side.

Now a rustle.  Just beyond.  But not that far.  Like feet away.  But beyond.
Another distance.  Another limit.  Another world.  A bank-robbery escape-mode
Squirrel is making off with what it made off with from the free-to-all and undefended
(and legal, too) pear tree in the far yard.  It leaped upon the birch trunk and then, startled to find me unstartlingly well...just here.  And unstartled.  Paused to set its claws in bark.
It teeth gripping as fifth grip the rind of an unripe pear, its size, if I might compare,
the size of its head without the ears, without the hair.  This unrepentant squirrel leaped                  from
     here
to
     there
all of which was over there but just there so basically here.  (Just not here here, more there.)  It found its place to contemplate me.  To observe.  It made no offer.  But of itself.  Which, really, is all that we can do.  It chuffed a few times but it seemed to me that this was more to do with why-not-give-this-a-try-but-I-don’t-know-why.  It’s belly flush to gray birch bark.  It’s tail extended, and caught by a breeze that the leaves were not informed of.  A deceiving breeze.
Soon - which wasn’t soon, it was minutes - the squirrel scrambled up the birch and branch-to-branched its way to overhead and then out of sight.  I may have smelled of peanuts as I’d just emptied a jar.  I may have been the deceiver.  I may be the lone believer that I might know at all.

The frog hasn’t yet moved.


Something is buzz-whistling.  In the grass?  The trees?  The soil?  The sound rises and the tone
shifts.  The pitch lifts.  I cannot say if it is insect.  I cannot say if it is amphibian.  I cannot say if it is electric and thus man and thus unwelcome.  Cicada?  Frogs?  A hummingbird just fooled me into thinking I knew something about speed.  Something about color.  Something about birds.
Something about Nature.  Something about need.  Something about life.  Something about something about my self.  A partial-second lesson.  The teacher came and went.  The teachings stayed behind in mind.  I have so much work to do.

The far birch, placed in the yard for a long-ago dog
seems to offer up a peach harvest this year.
(At least when my glasses are off.)
The landscaper says that all the birches are yellowing this summer
this year this near to the midsummer and this far from the far flung
and far colder cold slumber of December and November and October.

The blue spruce has a still-for-the-first-time-this-season small flock
of oriole.  Or sunset-breasted, warbler wren throated tipped somethings.
I count seven.  Or six.  No, eight.  Wait.  Nine.  Uh, now eight.
Oh, there’s one!  Oh, no matter.  There’s some.
Too flighty and flittery each blur-glance I’ve had all year.  And I've tried each time
to secure them (sharply) in my lens.

The ducks converse as they arrive at the pond’s far edge.  About to traverse the
turtle-hiding waters, the en-flowered pond’s surface, the distance between heard and seen.
I reach for my glasses.  The birch leaves in yellow have fallen and lied.  Belied to believed.
There are no birds in the tree.  That I can see.  That I care to see.  Autumn come early.

A hawk glides past my edge-of-can’t-quite-see.  It’s loping-like arc its own pleasure...to me.
And, I imagine, it.  The meadow is blushing in purple, ironweed.  The jewelweed, too is a star-field of twinkling orange.  A constellation by day.  A bowl by the winter-blooming something (jasmine?) is concentrically coming awake as drip drip drippings are drop drop dropping.  A yellow-spiked caterpillar treks through the detritus of the unkempt bits of the beside-the-garden which isn’t so much a garden as a place I once planted and once planned.  A spider fast-ropes down to investigate and, as it happens, to pester.  The caterpillar twists and tumbles.  Righting itself, it plods on in its stretch-curl way as the spider ascends to the invisible upper home in its way.  The frog hasn’t moved but I notice and note its **** has two bumps.  Like its bulbous eyes in its front which, as I notice and note is spear-shaped as is its hind.  I wonder at defenses.  It is still.  It still is still.  It’s stillness is still stilling.  Until...I move on.  My fastest is not footed but mindful.  Not mindful but of mind.  I am of a mind to move the mind along.  The caterpillar closes the distance.  What a distance to it it must be.  It’s face is black as an undersea shadow.  It has spikier spikes of black here and there.  Likely in some pattern but my mind has moved and so, here and there it will be.  My story.  My pattern.  My refusal to change.

The mushrooms where the spider met the yellow fellow, though.  Sesame-seeded.  Decorated.  Pimpled.  Bejeweled.  A tawny cup beside a stone behind the frog.  Soft mustard-dotted.  But now!  A new frog where the old new frog had been.  This one a leopard toad.  I think.  (I shouldn’t think.)  Browns upon browns with stripes and blots and dots.  Tans and browns.  At the end of the birch twig is now the first frog.  The green-headed bumpy-butted one.  The leopard in tiger lily patches watches the caterpillar (a different one?) clamber though the unswept unkempt.  

The frog, beside me in ceramic keeps time for the timeless.  The throat bellowing.  As though feeding a fire somewhere where Earth is turned to plow.  We all make our own ends, don’t we?

like the ocean on a bright sunny day,
like the winter sky devoid of the blockade of clouds.

it's the feeling of the cool breeze
and the rain,
falling to the earth
on a hot summer day
and the hot breath
that you exhale onto
the cool glass,
melting it into tiny water droplets.

and the sound of the deep bass
of the drums
in slow motion
as the sound waves reverberates
in the air and
travels to my eardrums.

it's the sensation of
the sharp-icy touch
of your skin on mine,
like icy sophistication that
later warms into me,
as i cool to your being.

Underwater light faceted
in the enormous aquamarine
set in bronzed stones.
A pale green mist lifts from the pool
follows the lantern lit pathways
back to the dark and shady places
edging to the olive grove
and the blackness
of the wych elms
and the limes
enclosing the garden
like impenetrable walls.

Here, on a very warm night
with a honeysuckle, jasmine breeze
heady, rich and almost liquid
You can stand on the sun-filled stones
stretch and hold
the heart-breaking sweetness
of the night.

Sitting alone under a darkened sky
Oft leads to meandering thoughts
Of things both blithely blissful
And bitterly biting.

Like the time we held hands
On a road trip across the country
That ended in sour silence
And restrained rhetorical retorts.

Like the time we warmly watched
The sun set over an orange ocean,
Only to go home feeling colder
Than the biting breeze that rose with dusk.

Like the time I said "I love you"
To your goofy grinning face
And in the same breath, "Goodbye"
To your vanishing visage.

Two sides of the same coin--
That's just life.
I guess this is why it's called
Bittersweet.

Is life a story, is life magick dreaming to love?

I gazed up. “Standing below the elephantine magnolia,
the ground still bore Tuscany ochre from autumns last kiss.”
My eyes solivagant orbs fed on spring’s dews in mourning
──jewellery clinging opulently to her naked form.
Dawn chilled the breeze caressing her body as abscission
demanded she undressed her emerald gown of leaves.
Magenta and cream blooms sprang “loudly” seducing
─ blushing mauve crowned centres,
a population of endless figurines perched motionless on aching
naked branches.
Solomon’s seal burned white within me drunk impending suns arrows, opulent words of silver Verbus diablio kissed in a cauldron
of Magnolia words, a banquet for mortals that seek loves gold.

A lone spider echoed silence bearing the sigil of Jupiter’s
vermillion and white spun striations luffing on the breeze
warming. “Magnolia dressed the day ardent in perfumed
── glorious plumes that each set sail across waking skies.”
Ablaze I am luscious dreams wrapped in sweet nectar,
travelling limbic memories breathing deeply, held captive,
wanton within her labyrinths of silk caresses, petals whispering,
sweet love as she engulfs my last resolve.

In raptures white velvet gown my hem sweeps over gold russet
and brittle autumns words forged in winters need for warmth──mind leaves crunching beneath life’s changing seasons,
stitched I cling enamoured to mortal honeymoon summered fields.
I am the female of sapphire tears twisting, glittering melting ice shards, bequeathed of pained black stars travelled on passionate magick fires, breathed on melodious Roma nights.

Rested among the branches a mantel crucified- drunk once more,
a bloom held silent in time weeping, exploding fragrant in a coloured soul, a luffing flower creature to life──crowned

──to sun hope thorns.

©ASPAR (A Sol Poet Arnay Rumens)

Tall, slender
Silhouetted against the sky
Rustled by a light breeze
Green fronds wave
At Mina birds swooping by.
Mina bird, Mina bird
What do you see,
Perched up on top of
That tall palm tree?

Slender, strong
Swaying in the breeze
Little songbirds find food
In the pock-marked, gray trunk
Of the tall palm trees.
Oh, what made those marks
So many, and deep
Into which tasty bugs
Like to creep?

Strong, flexible
With a heavy top
From which coconuts
With smiling faces
Like to drop.
Plop! Plop! Plop!
Watch your head!
Sir Isaac Newton
Would be dead.

Feel the wind blow its breeze through my face
a wispy cloudy haze
a wispy cloudy haze
suns heat warmed my soul in
my soul my soul
the tinge is turning as this colour fades
from there to here and here to there
a wispy cloudy haze
on a wispy cloudy day

With every breeze rattling branches scratch out a shout,
Gusts of cloud’s breath arouse the lumbering orchestra,
Wind is the baton in the invisible conductor’s hand,
Choirs of leaves rub out hymns composed of rustling joy.

T’was the woodlands softly chanted the new-born earth’s first song,
The sighs of sylvan movement hum and thrum, scrape and scruff,
Harmonizing with the gargling river’s current chorus,
Nature’s opera, now whispering, now roaring, ever most alive.

Wind whistling through mountain passes, another fair refrain,
While songbirds supplement with their master melodies,
A lullaby to rock sleepless, anxious men to reverent rest,
To teach consistent music opposite their chaotic, chronic noise.

Collab with JP

Unshadowed trees offer me no protection
from what I am,
From what I was.
I'm blinded but still trying to see
Meanings in what's painted by the breeze

Tired branches depicting  imperfection
Framing Life-drained mildew-stained leaves
Roots still bleeding way too far
Sketching something alive only in memories

In some way the shadows are returning,
I'm feeling the zephyr once again.
These leaves are almost green.
Once they were but now is what's been

I can only recreate by burning
Smelling like a soul that's spent
Only smoke and destruction seen
Gloomy canvas of a life at end

Let me close my eyes
Let me fall away, drifting.
Think all this is almost concluded.
Maybe I'm just deluded?

Let me scribble my last goodbye
And leave as part of this imaging
Where melancholy is favoured
And happiness secluded

Summertime sands scorch in between our bare toes,
the waves soak them cold and moist like a dog nose.
Let's build a strange castle in the shape of a heart.
Adore it, attempt to perfect it, pose for pictures.
We like to dig our fingers deep into its center.
If we press too hard, it crumbles, and we have to fix it better.
But we like to dig our fingers deep into its center.
We press too hard, it crumbles, and we can't fix it better.
It's getting late, the sun is low, the breeze chills our bones.
Tide is climbing back to us, and we've got to go home.
We've left our sweaters with our mothers
who disappeared like our shoes.
Pygmalions sans Venus blessing,
making love building blues.

The night has been commissioned
to awaken in me
the ubiquitous longing for your touch.
The mindlessness consumes me
when I wander from dream to dream,
fantasizing the ever after
that’ll mysteriously become present
once you touch.

The exuberant charm in every swipe
of the breeze broadens a smile,
reminding me of the endless passion
for good humor and intense delight
that you decree in large measures
whilst I quail in love.    

It is diabolical, this game you play
of keeping in shadows
while I wither,
in the unremitting glare of the sun
that keeps me on the banks of the dark lake
leaving me with only
a few drops to wet my hand.

I will implore to have an end
to this ceaseless battle of restraint and abandon,
But am only left with a tremulous belief,
it is all not false what I see,
in the glorious mist that night casts,
I do not only sleep.

Alone I sigh, alone I cry
Alone my lonely feelings fly
And so I chose to be lonely no longer
When the winter wind blows chill my veins
I will no longer feel the pain
Shadows come and steal away
The breath I breathe in the light of day
I step through my window clear
The eyes that haven't shed a tear
Into my world I retreat
To the safety I create
The gentle breeze blows butterflies
Carrying the swallows song neatly to my ears
The fawn walks slowly at my side
Through the pink dreamscape of the cherry trees
The blossoms smile at me now and
bend their kiss to brush my cheek
The sun so warm and beautiful
Embraces me so tenderly
I find a place where I may rest
and ease my troubled heart
The velvet clover springs about
and cherry blossom confetti showers me
sparkles twinkles all around
If only I could stay right here
not face the world without
but I must open my eyes once more
and force them through this drought
I am strong, or am I weak?
The answer lies in me
As for you...
I'll just simply have to wait and see


© Crystal Erickson   4/25/08

My hooded head casts a shadow
across the overflowing ashtray.
My exhaled smoke is silhouetted on the
handcrafted clay.
In the shape of an oyster,
painted with the colors of
rebellious 21st century youth:
Red. Gold. Green.
With a flare of "originality."
Breeze, light, cold
escorts winter across my
aged face and I see all that my life is:
Tar. Work. Tar. Tar. Sleep.
Work. Tar. Eat. Work. Tar.
Tar. Work. Eat. Work.
Drink coffee.
Tar.
Sleep.
Die.
Is this equation what I am
reduced to?
Simple formula, obsessive compulsive
DREAM.
The exponents of my life,
variables and names:
Tar. to the power of X.
Tar. to the power of M.
But exponents and powers
mean little to drowning men.
Can a man suffocate on
his own routine?
Can a man fashion a noose
from the fibers of his
"adult life?"
Look, Ma!
I'm all growed-up.
I have murdered adventure
and the youth that lives
inside it.
I snapped one too many thin branches,
fell through the thin ice,
and now I am addicted to solid ground.
I will stand on the banks,
watching the children
ice-skate around my ashtray
that overflows with
every "yesterday" and
half-smoked "this one time"
that comprise my
former life.
I am a grown-up now.

I loved you so much my heartbeat shook the heavens,
how dare you tell me I didn't love you hard enough?
This was supposed to be that soft love.
The kind that caresses your face like a light breeze.
It was enough to shake your soul
like it was rocking you to sleep.
I wanted it to soothe you
and leave you breathless
all in the same moment.
I wanted it to be as fierce as an earthquake
that shifts all of the plate tectonics back into place
as if it were fixing a puzzle.
I wanted it to be as loud as a pin drop
in a dead silent room.
I wanted silence with you.
I wanted the screams to echo through your mind
like I was standing in the middle of
mountains and valleys
yelling to God all of the love stories
I wrote about you.
I wanted you to listen with your eyes closed
and your mouth open.
I wanted to feed you gentleness on a silver spoon.
I wanted to love you.
I wanted to be enough.
But your eyes were always as big as flying saucers,
and your heart only ever the size of a needle hole.
My love was never meant for you.

These summer times are what I crave;
Under an open ceiling, a place we can rave.
Those clear skies gave way to stars,
Around a campfire we take back what's ours.
We're out of the way, you'll never find us,
Reclaiming our hearts and souls
in the abandonment that surrounds us.
Just another generation to discover the profoundness.

Wake 'n bake's good to awake
but we don't sleep for dawn's sake.
Soft words linger in the swaying leaves,
Reminiscent of Medina's calm breeze.

This otherworldly stage set a silent scene
as fresh air whispers incantations to my being:
Azure haze of summer vibrancy.

A repertoire of emotions shown
Anger, Fear, Anxiety. All overblown
From above, all are unbeknown
The breeze makes all condone

All compositions flounder to no avail
Ramblings, doing little but unveil
How small one is on the short scale
The breeze swallows all in its gale

Alas, yet here do I sit
Writing to the end of my wit
Accepting that I may be unfit
The breeze still takes my writ

"Good morning, beautiful."
Words like a soft autumn breeze,
caressing, chilling to the touch;
three simple words to form one
complex ecosystem,
teeming with life,
droning with emotion.
I catch a glimpse of a bird,
a distant memory,
a sample of a sound I've heard before,
calming and pleasant.

The courtroom was more stiff than a old man on ******.

Half the room showed up from are small little town for lack of having that strange thing called a life.

The charges were tuff shoplifting caught on videotape.



All hopes looked grim and my best drinking buddy looked like he was heading to that iron bar rehab  

were the promise of no *****, No drugs,  No *** okay maybe Bone was already used to that one

well of course if you find hairy weight lifting fellons attractive and lets face girls who doesnt like Bad boys .

Well maybe then it wasnt all so bad.

No more sleeping on your stomach im just saying.



But enough with the foreplay.

It seemed all hope was lost but never fear cause when your friends with a half insane repeat offender

the **** can only get worse.



I busted through the doors like a half insane teenager going to worship the antichrist Justin Bieber.



Judge I will be repressenting the client .

Sir Are you even a lawyer?

Judge I assure you im a decorated attorney why i have my degree right here .



The naughty woman judge took the paper ever so forcefully from my hands mmm I wonder what she's wearing under that robe hey I dig chicks who are into the whole bedroom clothes in the public thing.

judge may I ask you something?

Looking at me in the way so many women have befor.

Like they dont know if they should use the pepper spray or just give me a swift kick in the no no zone.

The Judge said yes  but be brief ******.



Well have we met befor?

Yes we have ******* I sent you to maple for six months for fruad she replied in that stern

ive gotta gavel and a batman robe voice that just drove the boys wild or usally made them **** themselves like puppies on the new carpet.



Sir this degree looks bogus.

Your honor  why ever would you say that .

Cause its from F.U. Universty.

The strange mall cop in the court laughed  once made the judge shoot him a look like he wasnt getting any desert tonight after dinner im kidding besides he probaly doesnt even like desert

just ***.



Look Mr Gonzo im tired of this crap i hate life i sit on this hard *** seat everyday and if your fool of a client wants a fool  for a lawyer be my guest.



I walked back to sit next to dead man walking better known as Bone.



Gonz what the **** are you doing?

Dude i got this i watched the Lincon lawyer like five times last night this is gonna be a breeze.



The trail began the uptight party downer began speaking in big words talking how it was wrong to steal.

Your honor I ubject.

On what grounds?

Duh stealing is what the whole country is based on hey ever here of the indians look what we did to them.

Took there country forced them on thoose casinos and even made one join

the village people I mean really  Y.M.C.A  is but a cry for help that and a party song for most bars

were really nice old guys buy you drinks for no reason at all.

You mean gay bars you idiot!



The strange man at the other table said.

Sure there gay who wouldnt be happy wearing leather pants dancing  allnight long not that I did

I was just there looking for directions  and getting free drinks.



Order In the court! the judge shouted.



I looked to the strange man they called the prosecutor once sounded like a great name for a pro wrestler with being a lawyer as well no wonder this man was cranky.



Ha Ha your in trouble i said in such a grown up  way  with just a hint of village idiot.



Mr Gonzo one more outburst and im throwing you in jail right with your friend now zip it.

I checked but my pants were already zipped yes i knew she wanted me .





After as few good laughs from the courtroom.

We began speaking of all sorts of boring crap of right wrong  and on the verge of going into a coma.

The strange man called the prosecutor stood up your honor I pressent the evidence that will seal this case air tight.

The rent a cop wheeled out a tv kickass finally we can watch tv

hey i wonder is baywatch on?



Bone put his head in his hands just **** me now.



The prosecutor put in the tape.



The film was in black in white **** i hate student films.

Some man seemed to put  a steak in his pants  what a ******* everyone knows a salami looks more real

in  hung like a elephant freak show way yes size does matter.



After the student film the room was silent yeah must have bored them all to death like me.

What was hollywood thinking silent films were ****  duh we have speakers for a reason.



Mr Gonzo would you like to make a final plea.



Standing befor the room semi sober i took a deep long look around the room

Friends Romans  and Canadians I ask you  is it a crime to want to appear hung like a horse

yeah sure  we all wanna fit in okay maybe something that size would never fit well maybe in some freaky internet **** freak but really.



My client  stands acussed of buying beer and stealing a six dollar steak but  I ask.

Did he  steal or was this video tamppred with.

That SGi **** is everywhere okay and its destroying movies wow 3D movies there the newest thing that have been around since the eightees okay.

yeah I know thats like back in the depresion era.



I took a deep breath and knocked the the tv over ohh im sorry.

Well judge looks like no evidence no case wanna ditch this place go grab a few drinks

maybe find a room you can bring your gavel hey chicks who are into ***** stuff need love to.



The judge looked at me in what i can assume was a state of utter awww.





Later that evening.



See Bone I told you id solve everything .

You ******* idiot you got us both locked up.

Duh now you wont have to spend this whole time alone  sure your gonna be there a few months

and i'll be out in like two weeks but jesus you ungreatful ******* look all im giving up.



Besides everyone knows  i make the best toilet wine around hey one eye Winchel loved my last batch and he normally kills his cell mates.



Look it'll be like a sleep over in a place we cant leave or have any privacy how bad could it be?



Bone thought to himself yeah your write Gonzo

cause after i **** you they'll give me the electric chair for sure.

Yeah see wait a minute.



In the flash of a eye Bone's hand were wrapped around my throat ****** why didnt they let me bring my **** whistle.

As i was being choked to death I really had to wonder about are friendshi[p I swear you go all out for someone yeah ya get em sent up the river but duh it's the thought that counts.



Untill next time kids stay crazy and dont drop the soap

You are the one
I wanna see first in the morning
You are the one
I wanna kiss good night
Everyday
I feel the breeze touches my face
it should be me and you
I want to tell you how I feel
whispering your name
Link to the song: The first kiss of love
https://soundcloud.com/martinavenkova/the-first-kiss-of-love-1