Love's a loaded craps game, played
by ****** people, lads who dream
a sweet and willing cavalcade
of perfect mates who can't exist
(though in the yahoo's mind they must,
or how would any man get kssed
or be excused the wolfish lust
of ****** people, cads who dream?)

love between poets: “who will be between the sheets next week
when I’m gone,” she lets sigh-escape,
as she watches the backyard paradise parading landscape
of animals before the bay, perfect day sure to come,
her new pets obeying the early morn sunrising awakening call
to rise, everyone playing~parading, before her royal summons,
no coincidence, finger-of-god, two by two

this while I’m kissing her neck,
my arm around her *******,
and the he-intent on slip sliding down
to the small of her back,
obeying his innate,
worship worshiping and giving up,
all he’s got intense intently contentedly

unfazed, unphased,
non-nonplussed,
he’s been interrogated before,
heart is pure he answers:

next weekend when you are back in situ,
thousands of miles away, airplane housed for hours,
writing poems of love from the lost and found,
recalling this exact moment,
how I worshipped your presence,
and these words:

You will be with me in every breath,
our sheets will radioactively emit
ions and molecules of our scent combined,
and present as present  your perfume can be,
elicited, elixir, you and me combinant

she turns from the bay-view,
the animals who now mutually
worship her adoration,
watching, focused on us as observers,
she lifts me up and smiles,
replying

“oh my lover you’re the cad of cads,
king of the baddest poet-lads,
the gist of what is wrong with the best of men,
her, pressing me hard to her chestnut hair chest,
she, falling down into my eyes

take me back to bed, liar,
let me add to my aroma,
to ensue, to ensure you will miss
the best love
you had partly, insufficiently, and unhinged
completely

I’m your lassie, you my lad,
my king of cads, my lover poet,
thief of my poems and my secret speech spells,
escalating senses of one’s imaginings”

and,
along came the rest
of what was freely given,
for love between poets
man and
a woman,
is a someone, somewhere,
sometime summertime
thing

I will still smell you in my
heart, and send to you ballistic missives,
words to explode your tear ducts
when you rest in sheets that met me,
when you’ll know me by my odors,
cry out loud so that you’ll scare our animals,
no matter how many tides wash away our residue,
you will never unknow and be forever unprepared
for my return,

even though we will be each, a thousand unwritten poems away...

Sometimes I wish I didn't feel
I wish my heart was made of stone
That I was immune to all this ****
Of being on my own
My world is full of cockwombles
Fuckwits & ***** trumpets
**** burglars & **** puddles
**** stains & **** nuggets!
And those are just the few
That I've had the joy of meeting
I'd like to dare the rest to meet
Somewhere - however fleeting
Stand up and be counted
You liars, cheats and cads
You wazzocks & jebends
I'll grab you by the ******
Because I've simply had enough
Of being treated like a tool
Of believing all the **** you spout
Like some poor pathetic fool
I cannot shake the feeling
That the stupidity I feel
Is down to the betrayal
Of all the lies that you conceal
So I'm giving up compassion
To empathy goodbye
And to trusting blindly what I'm told
Farewell & fuckety bye!

(C) Pixievic 2016

He swooshes down the mountain
Carving a series of humongous S letters,
Gracefully, brilliantly,
Gliding down the pure white *****.
Admittedly, the snow is hallucinogenic, an
Alphabet soup & smorgasbord;
A diabolic concoction I find irresistible.
He snaps to a dead halt before me, with
Flair & flourish like an Argentine tango dancer.
He is wearing a bright red Mad Bomber Hat . . .
(Mad Bomber Hat...$39.95  ‎Adwww.llbeanbusiness.com/‎1-855-371- 2754. Outerwear & Fleece-Top Gifts & Incentives - 20% Off Volume Discounts)
Forgive the poet, a simple refusnik, refusing to die in the gutter. Forgive me for making poetry pay, for once. $Ka-ching! $Ka-ching!
One had to have a shitload of
Self-confidence to wear a hat like that, my
Va-jay-jay getting creamy,
His smile fluttering my clitoral funny bone.
Confidence & humor: for me always a
Lethal combination.
Back in Providence they call me a
Rhode Island Pizza Queen; a
Certified cat litter-box for cads & scoundrels.
The Mad Bomber squats:
He is 50% Rhett Butler, 30% Joey Gallo,
& the other 40%, Cosmo Kramer, (duh?)
Adding up to a deadly duo that gets me every time:
Confidence & Humor snags my guinea ***.
First it’s coffee & Sambuca at the Lodge.
Two hours later I blow him in the shower
At The Green Mountain Inn.
The next morning, we say goodbye in the parking lot.
He promises to call me from Boston, but
Of course, I never hear from him again.
That sums up my MO with men,
Explains how I **** up when picking men.
Every time, again & again, like a
Third generation imbecile, deranged & demented,
Doing the same thing over & over, yet
Expecting a different outcome.
Woe is ******* me!
Another neurotic, myopic, ganglia misfire;
A behaviorist might point out there must be some kind of
Reinforcement going on, seeing I keep
Coming back, going back for more,
Like a lab rat still pushing the lever
Long after the food pellets are gone.
Oh yes! Call me Angie the
Out of control downhill racer.
It’s bipolar moguls & roller coasters,
Another Six Flags ski weekend,
A Stowe, Vermont Coney Island of the Mind for
Angelina Delvecchio, shimmy,
Shimmy Cocoa Pops.

I couldn't tell you the future, but I can't even remember my past
How do we know the differences, we strive to make, will grow and last?
I couldn't tell you that I understood because you wouldn't believe me anyway
And I couldn't tell you my opinion because you'd have so many other things to say

Some say my opinion doesn't matter,
While others say we need the free speech!
Some say my goals are all that matter,
Others say they're too hard to reach
I couldn't tell you the truth,
Because it's buried so far in the ground
All I can be is confused by the opinions that are floating around

These facts are not facts,
These truths are not truths,
And they should not matter at all to you.
But....
They do.
And you never know how they appeal to you or why they do,
But no matter how much you hate them you want to know what others think of you...
But do yours matter to them?
That's a horse of a different color.
If theirs matter to you,
Wouldn't yours matter to them too?

Maybe nothing matters.
I'm afraid I couldn't say.

That's why it's up to you
To find your own way.

Don't listen to the liars, and the cheats, and the cads,
Don't listen to your mothers, your brothers, or dads.
Just live your truth and speak your mind
Remember opinions aren't facts but they're no less kind
What is my truth?
What do I stand for?
I couldn't tell you
Simply because I don't have a truth.

The happy mask, the happy face
The only one with love and grace
The lonely heart, that empty place
Still had no room for sour distaste

To put up an act they asked of him
To delve in hate and partake in sin
'If you don't dance to our squalid tune;
darkness looms, there's danger soon.'

His soul was pure and spotless clean
He'd never go where they had been
But he couldn't lose, he couldn't win
He was giving up, he was giving in

The curtains then came crashing down
The forewarned pitch dark all around
Those cruel cads, those savage hounds
Ended the broken story of the broken clown

Brave souls set out from the world that they knew,
A dangerous trip with death for more than a few.
Enduring hardship as they travelled the sea
Seeking their fortune and a better life there to be.
Single adventurers, families , all ages and types,
Possessions all stowed, they come risking their lives.
Decisions to sail were as varied as men,
Moving onto the now and leaving the then.
Not knowing before them what would unfold,
Stories and legends of many were told.
Some coming with love and wanting to teach
Of God and religion seeing heathens to reach.
Others not so, more evil of heart,
Finding men and their money so easy to part.
Fleeing the gallows of home they did run
Making a life with violence and gun.
Heroes were few but ******* abound
As they eked out a living and laid claim to their ground.
Pioneers and the lawless, fortune seekers and cads
The harlots, the clergy, all lasses and lads.
They came and they stayed. My country did grow.
Canada was born. And with pride now I glow.

Echo, Wood nymph of folklore
Punished by Goddess Hera
Hated, there was no choice
Fated, deprived of her voice
Repeating words you hear
Punishment for a puppeteer
You fell in love
so you thought
With Narcissus
But he got caught
Looking at his own reflection
Turned him into a flower
Not his finest hour
Leaving Echo lonely and sad

For all the cads that
Never met a mirror they didn’t like
Who’s self-absorbed refection
Removes any trace of reflection
A thought can be misleading
Even if informed by a feeling
Don’t think
Because you think it it’s true
Consider others point of view
Don’t think because I disagree
There’s something wrong with me
Don’t always refer to you
Your grandiose style
Is just a grandiose denial
And while you deny that it’s true
Only an echo believes in you
Must I echo your words
How utterly absurd
This I can’t do
Even if it displeases you
Nothing moves you
Except for the powerless, you occasionally feel
Let’s you know you’re real
And yes
The rage is real
Hidden so well
That no one can tell
As you covertly hide from yourself
Your histrionics are first rate
Always out of date
A recording from the past
You’d think, you’d have worn out the grooves
Of the characters you cast

At last
There’s never an end
To the people I meet

All the friends you absorbed
Into the persona that’s you
Each has a name
But there nameless to you
I say
I know where you got that from
You say
There’s nothing new under the sun
I say
What about originality
You say
Plausible deniability
I say
I really, really need to get away
I say
Then, why do you stay?

I’m in search of my voice
I left it behind
In another time
I need it
Have you seen it
It could be
Anywhere
Under the couch
In the closet
Under the bed

You’re looking in the wrong places
The world’s a reflection
Of the spaces
Between the thoughts
Of your stasis.

It’s true
I’m never alone when I’m with you
Like living in a zoo
Forgive my sarcasm
Lack of enthusiasm
That’s what it feels like
Being with you.
First, you’re uncle Fester
Then you’re Grandma Ester
Who are you really
You don’t know
Do You

You never looked that far
Skin deep
Go that deep
Take a look
What do you see
It isn’t me

I’m not the object of your hatred
I’m not your scapegoat
Forgive the diatribe
For I am a scribe
Looking for her voice.
I am Echo no more