'Halfway Down' - a poem by Chard Deniord**




Halfway down: the sight of a doe
through the trees in the meadow.
I stopped to stare at her staring at me.
The silence arced between us like a wire
in a current that equaled strangeness
over time, and since her stare was wild —
so charged with fear the moment froze
on the line of sky and field, man
and deer — she broke our stillness
in her flight from me. I stood alone
but double then as the man on the path
and the memory of the man she carried
with her beyond the meadow into
the next meadow and the meadow after
that where she returned my image
to the field of her forgetting in which
I roamed like a deer myself, remembering.

Doc, I've been trying to deal with these issues for quite sometime to no avail;
A good friend of mine (you may know him, Elmer Fudd) recommended you.

I fear I will never be able to eat, let alone catch this turbo inspired example of flightless foul;
Stuck in this celluloid world vividly inspired by an Emmy award winning colorist.

I am a proud animal from generations of fine breeding, born in the pristine coyote valley;
I am not stupid, not a fool or buffoon, and so I thought contractually, not one to be laughed at.

And I, always the bad guy, constantly daunted in pursuit by haphazard ACME products;
Expensive, bulky, time consuming, they characteristically fail right before they almost work.

Rocket powered skates, unfortunately, only allow me to kiss the cliff-side really really hard;
Very heavy anvils serve no other purpose than to be dropped on my head repeatedly.

The incredulous manipulations of the impossible by the so clever writers of this farce;
From trains appearing out of nowhere to run me over, to fierce lightning storms in an instant.

Laying there in the release of my own bowels as the uncontrollable result of
500 Megajoules of energy traveling through my body yet again.

I am the twice electrified mass of dribbling spastic protoplasm
Personified proverbially in that lightning does indeed strike twice in the same place!

As the smoke arises from my chard hairy frame and I sweep up my ashes to reassemble later;
I realize Doc, I'm losing my grasp on the reality of ever succeeding, I need your help!

I'm still hungry;

And still I have not caught that **** Road Runner,

******* Warner Brothers!

-----ChawzzyScript

All day I do nothing.
My waving arms and pulsing brain
keep me empty.
What uselessness, me.

Before dark, when cool air rushes
from the bay, I water my garden.

Monday I covered chard seeds
in a dark prayer blanket.
What can tiny stone-like
objects do in the sea
of black fertility, but hide
cold, invalid, and scornful.
Maybe they can dream and
forget this earthly destiny.

All night I toss covers,
as if African hills have twisted
and lifted the
valleys between them.
Is anything worth my awakening?

At dawn I see marvelous unfurlings
conquered darkness
while I slept!

The dog.

How I miss him,

the snuggle parties, when WE lived together.

Black Hole puppy eyes,

howling to share those skeletons,

If dogs could talk,

---huh.

Midnight velvet coat,

chard's of glass when brushed the wrong way.

Would loose this phone number...

but it's that dog...ya know?

The dog I miss,

grocery store trips,

welcome home kiss,

and good night pets.

The way, my daughter loved him too.

Proud to play mommy to your four legged son,

no smile greater, than her smile those days, caused by purpose and warmth.

The simple joy of a child giving a dog a treat.

The simple joy.

This feeling. Can't beat.

That dog ain't going to make it,

just             like              us.

Just the dog. I miss.

His ground shaking roar,

-he sure is the best guard dog, even if the size of a mouse-

mixed with laughter in the morning.

The way he almost made you look human, when he got sick and you'd cry.

At the next party, stories pour out of their round happy faces,

of their Chihuahuas, Pit-bulls, Dachshunds.

Staring into the Coriolis of my beer, lost like these months,

look up and say "I had a dog once.."

Heaven's tears washing us away
I anticipate the blows
Ash plummeting from
The lights sparkle, twinkling in silence
The crash, the burn
My heart melted against the iron, the wood
Sparks grip, clings to my chard lungs
Hope is a bridge
I cross over quickly
Into the blackened hands of humanity

whatever we speak, it's hardly going to
be spoken of.

which means two                   kettles...
mind you: target practise
                    or as i mind
the 2.4
                of said: superman
in Iowa...
do i care to mind?
well, **** me!
   they verse in acronym
i.n.d.i.a. & c.h.i.n.a.
akin to a billion...
i'm tongue tied and heaving,
       *das bōt...
this doesn't help the aesthetic...
with prolonging dies
the excess o...
                  kaiser schweizer min took!
      whatever that means,
they say funny accents in ****
to **** a thought of a zeppelin...
yhwh: or the hollowing-out,
awaiting the god to lift us out...
           Pythagorean umlaut
into a macron joinery...
            depending on your aesthetic...
Kreisler schisser...
                          twins anti avid,
interchange s and z...
                                  Charlotte
and sharpening, shearing and cheering,
and so many excuses...
         the chard and the sh and the charcoal
and the shattering of, of the chatter:
                  cheap and sharp
or the acute variations of śarp & ćeap...
or what the first H represents:
an upper punctuation marking,
above the letter,
              Y or gamma γ vs. Υ (upsilon)
            in latter phrasing comma...
   or what's pinpointed with Y
and what's later replicated in trigonometric W
of sine and cosine, as is Y the tan divergence...
excesses bound to later and latter...
how to differentiate? the lay'ter
from the latté of not mopping up the surd
h and the vocalised h that's asphyxiating
within catching breath asthmatic?
                      people forgot punctuation
in the same way they forgot diacritical markings
but at least they got a pretty picture
and dyslexia, and iconoclasm, and
modern illiteracy;
as said modern conspiracy theory:
far **** away from 1990s cartoon network...
        everything you just said: doesn't
prop a need for me to buy things;
which is why, i guess, you need
a drugs trade that's the alternative
of consumerism.

My love
My soul
She's a dove
Her beauty it stole
Attention
Her soul brang
Compassion
Understanding me would be hard
Cause my souls felt so chard
Her eyes opened my mind
Something I truly couldn't find
It's hard to believe
That's she would retrieve
My broken heart
So torn apart
With fear of the darkness
You brought the light
The light princess
Sent to make things right
It's funny you see
Cause that's only to me
She sees herself quite dark
But the truth is what I see
What she holds on the outside is only bark
When our souls meet I feel the fire
Truly this is how love would conspire
From broken souls mended
Souls no longer pretended
Our hearts and souls
Now ours to grow
Our garden of flow

I.
I held a match
To my hands today.
Matrimony made
Between man and flame;
Incensed skin and molten ash
Show hot displays of
Love ablaze.

II.
Oh bright, blushing,
burning bride;
I walk wounded
For all my days.
Chard hands bare
Witness to
Love of flames.

III.
Oh spreading fire
And torrid pain and
Oceans of passions
In engulfing flames.
A charcoal soul and
Black burnt skin shows
Love's touch, again.

IV.
A monument
To fiery lips
For each hot kiss
Scars my visage with
Inflammatory bliss

In pain your name,
Melted to my lips
Can love, be not, but this?

go and get a life hypocrite boy.
you told me don't cry.  told me don't hurt yourself.
make a girl fall in love, let her settle in your life,
then turn against her without warning.
hows the drink taste now a days?
is it still satisfying as you drown your liver,
and chard your lungs or has it gone bitter?
as I walk with rage in my heart I ask of you
to give me a call when your clean and sober.
quit trying to dig yourself a slow six feet under.
fact is I love you too much to sit and wait.
so please don't expect me to watch you,
willingly **** yourself, i beg of you.

you came slithering in my room
dressed in mysterious shapes

finding dark corners to play in
whispering magical thoughts of illusion

you shake the soft spot of my foundation

I fallowed you down by the lake
where you show me that the water is really green

you caught an odd colored fish
and ripped the meat from its bones

you showed me it was nothing but the skeleton of my dead grandma
lost upon my last fading memory

in the woods we found messages carved into trees

they have been blackened by the souls of dead lovers
hard to read
we try to decode their passion

what destruction lies behind beauty's door?
so mysterious that they were forgotten before ever written

we walked upon these empty roads for days
losing all signs of amity

you stopped where the hills ended and said:
love is a perilous journey of all sun and no rain
when rainbows are destruction to sad faces
how can I ever find happiness?

she kissed my lips then said:
my kisses are like land mines

tick, tick, tick, your heart stops.

my shaking bones fell to the floor
as I watched her vanish into the thick mist

I came upon a bare oak tree
still chard from its last message
I chipped away the ashes and carved
*happiness is only the beginning

A blur of sparklers at night during the summer and getting burned every time.
2. The blue and pink colors of the Texas sky that looks like a ****** painting
3. The almost unbearable warmth that made you want to sleep in the fridge
4. My stepdad would ask me what I wanted for dinner because mom wasn't home and neither of us knew where she was
5. I remember being horrified of the doctors and my stepdad blowing up gloves and drawing faces on them.
6. That everyone that it was weird I liked my marshmallows for smores almost chard
7. I thought my fashion sense was amazing, with my Hannah Montana shirt and glitter perfume.

Steps steep of swindler's confession
A monstrous sleep that Pike's definition
Chard broil eggs on a winter of sleep

When the brothers K. are in
a knife fight in
their own house, we
tend to stay away.

But what if
their struggles spills,
knocking over A. lamp?
A jinn smoke signals the sky,
and a fire catches, spills.

These are row houses, built
side-by-side with adjacent thin walls
and a shared inner courtyard.

Are we ready to douse
the flames? Can we risk
the community?

In the end, we bury
chard remains, blacken flesh
because the only thing left
will be chipped bone,
and broken blade.

We bandage
an orphaned Daughter,
and steady the vacant stare
of a wobbly Son.

There is nothing we can do
for the Brothers k. It's too late
to separate them now.

Maybe if we give them guns,
the killing suicide will be faster
this thing over easier,
and the Community
razed sooner.

No. I don't need Mom's
accusatory glances, nor
Father's displaced fury.

I am morally bankrupted
and save only the house
because the family is messy,
and cheap like all families.

She woke in Oblivion...
Torn to pieces from ages of war, such that was required..

Oblivion was created to hold darkness...

She collected remnants of her scattered soul, wove them together with golden threads.  They where the last remaining parts of her that remained pure...

Chard and bound she rose through the ashes.  Her gold sparkling in the darkness refected where she stood...

Oblivion

She could see the Mecury Sea, familiar to her only through the truths of creation...

Her eyes had been removed and only in her mind did she see him.  His sad lonely silhouette, stood in contrast to the gleaming waves...

Her cold heart hung in her shattered ribs, began to beat.  She knew him...

"Is it he I came here for?" The thought echoed life into Oblivion.

He saw her, and in fear fled into the sea...

In Oblivion echoes don't return, and he again was lost to the world...

She pulled her armor, her weapons and those who she found, and again the God of War rose....

Falling upside down, she rose in ashes of volcanos... Her heart ablaze, deep within a single ash, only required the breath of love to ignite her...

The ashes of her darkness blew off in the passion of love and only gold threads remained.  Remnants of her earthly self called to the spirit and she began to collect herself piece by
piece.  

The Gods had won the war against darkness long long ago, because of her, but her own darkness threatened creation. In a trick, such that gods know she was lured by beauty and torn into pieces.  Diminished and desolved she was spread across Oblivion.

In the time of reconciliation and rebirth she rose to bring back the lost...

He was the last warrior to be collected, as all of the legion would be required to collapse Oblivion...

He still remains there, lost in the Mercury Sea... She would leave none, and when whole will return to set to sea for one last soul...

You peal back his past and and pull it through
sewing his history and his going to be up in a moment
torment and torture, you delight in his pain and his fighting
delighting in the life you are tainting, destroying
watching him straining,he is trying to forget what remaining
and I am stuck painting
sketching
reworking
searching
He wants to forget you,He wants to forget your mean, your mad, the things you stole and the things you have.
He wants to forget your mean and your mad... and all the things you once had.
He wants to forget you.
erase your face from the storybook life we have now
you refuse to let absence in, showing up in the dark
throwing bricks
steeling things from his yard
he is too nice, he is too hurt
I love him more and more and I feel this burn
burn your house
burn your yard
steel your cat
and fuel this urge
burn your mean
burn your fire
burn that look
that old desire
burn that smile that's backed with hate
fight that feeling that turns me irate
sit back down
I refuse
to do anything
that makes me feel like you
Hating what hurts what I love most
Burning hot
cheers lets toast
toast to being more
the high road is hard, I am feeling chard
I remember what matters most
I have him in my heart, he has me and his
when he says my name he does not cringe
He loves me.

I jumped too high...too far
I fell to the ground.
Dusting myself off..the demons of fear attacked.
Putting up my Fists
On Flaming Grounds..

Jack Flash failed to jump his candlestick
Hitting those who tried to drag him under from all sides..
He is trying
With what little strength is left
He grows weary and sick.

He knows not who closest to turn too
As he reached out a hand..they laughed and scolded him
In his face....Blasted flames upon his reaching fingertips

Trust chains' links broken
He begs for another tomorrow
As he brushes the chard burns off of his hips...

"Must you expect everyone to be the same?"
"Must I be cheated from my future?"
:Must I be afraid to ask for help?"
"Because you fail to believe in my truths?"
"I tried to show you, such..I'm Broken."

I walked far behind those leading...
They push me to fore fill what the don't understand
The ways they think I am roaming, aren't
the processes to health aren't worth the costs..so much
truth flows through the cracks...
as I battle those demons, still.. "Trust?"
"For the ones who listen...who don't attack"
"Finally seeing the real..truth..in me"
and then I'll follow..
if rewards find us both..
Equally.

At first, there were bubbles,
which turned into butterflies,
and then the butterflies grew into fireworks,
and everything was perfect.
Evntually though, the fireworks lost their spark and there was only fire.
The flames popped all the bubbles, killed the butterflies, and left my heart chard, and black.
And just like something burnt, I no longer feel anything anymore.

I circle the store at least three times, every time I go.
I can never make up my mind.
Usually Trader Joe will ask me if I'm OK,
Or if he can help me find anything.
Usually I'll lie and say I'm fine,
Squinting intently at the array of fresh greens
But today I asked him..

How can I decide which fruit is the sweetest?
Does it matter where it came from?

Does it matter if an onion is red, or yellow, or "sweet"
If they all will make me cry?

What's the difference between a fig and a date?
How come I can never find either of them?

If swiss chard is so good for you,
Why does it taste so bad going down?

Why do beans make you farty?
How is that a "magic fruit?"

Why is everyone blind to the lie
That carrots make your eyesight better?

Is it toe-may-toe or toe-mat-toe?
Poe-tay-toe or poe-tat-toe?
Does it matter?
Does any of this matter?

He replied, "Ma'am, my name isn't Joe. I don't know. I just work here.. and they definitely don't pay me enough for this."

So I left with an empty bag, and a heavy mind.

you know why i can't be much of
                          an atheistic *******?
to be honest?
i - prefer the voice of
someone like black pigeon speaks
than someone with the pompousness
of someone like t. j. kirk,
i'm not a trekkie either!
but come on, the voice whether with,
or without the image...
i just find atheism boring,
esp. if it's the sort of atheism
that subverts free-will,
   what sort of atheism is the type
focusing on discussion,
but the blatant discard of the mark of cain?
why leave the murderer from
your ranks?
                   i'm not an atheist akin
to witch-chard dork-ings citing
a liking for christmas carols...
     me? i prefer the chant of the templars...
salve regina types...
   i'm just bored of atheists...
they're boring me to the death i wished
instilled by islamic terrorists...
          atheism becomes boring
when it finds itself fathomable
within the confines of poetics,
esp. among the ones critical of cubism,
who also make gain by criticism of
the current "status" of poetry...
atheism seems to leisure,
rather than make critical claims...
i just find it so insolent...
that it almost resembles islam in the kindest
stratum of worthwhile discard...
whether poetry, or whether song,
both are to be avoided by
the guiding principle of the caliphate...
mind you: i'd rather make amends
with the shia muslims of iran,
than these berbers of morocco...
   half the casket filled with decapitated heads...
at least the shia knew the concern
of image, knew the bounty of poetry,
of the persian, came prior to the tusken arab
with their barbaric "leisures"
crafting "law"...
      i cite worth the shia above the sun-amun-ní,
and that's how the matter rests...
i will not care to budge a revisionist fable...
atheism bores me...
  it bores me to ensure i make
my bone into an ashen crude fathom
of form, "relieved" by an epitaph...
mark the pilgrim his
            expected tattoo of the haj...
coming from iran,
  mark him with the gesture,
                     of being a welcome guest!
mark him, or forever serve the "peace"
of convening the wake of
            your supposed istishhad;
i say, mark him!
        make peace among the two:
to better see the one,
  minding you avoid the poly-schism
of christianity...
       mark him!
       lever toward a peace among you!
do not suppose you are freed from
a monotheism, than can suddenly
turn into a polytheism of a poly-schismatic
distaste of arguments, akin to christianity...
mark your shia brother!
          mark him! tell him!
tell him: this is as far as our argument
settles to dust, within the perpetuated falter
of argument's invited...
   mark him! tell him!
      you will not allow a third party schism!
tell him! mark him!
     you will not allow a third party islam,
no islam, beyond the already debatable
shia & sunni... no third party!

Talking is an art,
The more talking done,
The lesser the fear of talking
At all,
Whether alone, in front of close acquaintances,
Or toward individuals unknown
And nonexistent before.
Admittingly, talking can be overdone
Like chard stew,
And talking on top of people…
Well, it cannot be helped,
But no one will receive a Pulitzer for it.
Unless if a “good idea” sounds from one
And ices the agreement cake.
But beware of those ideas you wish to verbally patent
In front of a gathering,
For if you only wish,
You may end up falling into the abyss
Of a silence that traps not your mouth,
But your will to speak, evaporating your words and
Ideas that might have bravely forwarded discussion.
Vanity, thy name is Groupthink:
What talk might arise next
When no talk arose at all?

Go ahead just spin the dial,
You might as well get comfortable; we’ll be here for a while.
Alright, you got seven and I got four,
That means it’s your time to take the floor.
But wait a second.
We need to pick our people,
You can pick anyone you like except the girl that looks rather feeble.
I’m always her.
So you chose the runt with just a father?
His mother probably left you guys because you were such a bother.
But all jokes aside, it’s your turn first,
Are you going to university or college?
Depending on which you choose affects your life’s knowledge.

Wait, were you born with a learning defect?
Spin the dial, if you get lower than five your life isn’t worthwhile.
If you get higher than five,
You’ll most definitely thrive!
The world will be yours to own with all of your smarts!
Again, just don’t get less than five...

So we finally get to start! It’s finally begun,
But first, before all of the fun,
You must pick a job.
So you chose to be a steel worker, eh?
Won’t that make your head throb?
I chose a job that’s not as loud, and gets okay expenses.
I’ve decided to undress for money and commit a couple offences.
Don’t worry I’ll be fine.
Come on… stop it. Don’t look at me like that...
It’s better than living on the streets and being spat at.

It’s time to jump in, and get a move on.
Take your seven and get gone.
Congratulations! You landed on birthday!
Now please, keep your excitement at bay!
You had your fun, now let me go!
I go four and I’m starting to feel myself slow.
I paid for an apartment of five thousand.
Your turn.

You get an eight but you have to stop short!
Time to get married, at least you get support!
You get a loving wife and a happy life!
But wait, does she cheat on you?
Spin the dial for the third time.
If you get less than five she stoops lower than slime.
Five or more, she’s happy with you to the very core.

I spin a six and land on “Car rolls away. Pay fifteen thousand if not insured”
It’s not going too well for me but that’s what happens when you aren’t secured.
I’m not too sure that I’ll have enough money for food.
Do you think I could borrow some money? I’m not trying to be rude,
But if you could spare a few bucks I’ll make it up to you.

So how do you like it so far?
Is it what you expected?
At least the ‘Game of Life’ hasn’t gotten you infected.
Just think of the ones like me,
That try to scrounge for lives on the Earth’s back like a flea.
We try to make a living but it can be hard,
All this work in the fire can leave you chard.

Should we keep going or do you want to stop?
I understand if it’s the “games” you want to swap.
If you want we could play “Rejection”.
Or we can talk about all of the things you have done wrong with “Confession”.

None of these “games” are fun, but they must be played.
We all know that the truth in these “games” can cut deep like a blade.
Do you think I like having to deal with all of these problems?
Do you think I love my life and that it’s awesome?
Because it isn’t.
Thought you don’t care about what I must go through.
You probably just care for your life and you,
But I guess that’s okay.
I’ve got some advice and it may sound a little cliché.
Just hear me out.
Make sure it isn’t yourself you doubt.
Be certain in yourself, enjoy life and have fun.
“The Game of Life” doesn’t wait for anyone.

nursed by the child like plow
the bitter sower to shower
eavery word to be chard

Thinking thrashing thoughtless
Bubbles up, as if from the stinking pit
10 years, 2 years ago
2 nights of drunkenness
Keeps a warm light on past infringements.
So I sat on my delight
My delusion
My hopeful youth,
attending it's thousandth funeral
And hoping to fall in the pit this time
Inebriated and uncaring

He ain't too quaint
That forlorn saint
Sat atop that rain soaked wood
He drags on his cigar, long and good
Flannel shirt and mud smeared Jean
On hard work did he wean
No, he ain't too quaint
That forlorn saint
But the sun sure kissed him hard
And left his skin crack'd and chard
And his fiercest lover yet
Is his own cursed sweat
That runs tenderly on his skin
While he works hard to purge the sin
Of being born a working man