at the chevron hospital to settle nerves opal squeaky teeth and mint clear nose of mint
at the chevron hospital the doctor comes to check my winter tongue
my eyes are soggy bark
a cloth is being wrung
a sightless worm is having a seizure in a washing machine filled with teeth, a sightless worm is having a seizure in a moist cavern clicking carbonation, wringing over saliva   to hiss, not saying a word
just ringing mouths
blinking at the chevron hospital through tangled

help, my eyes are soggy bark a cloth is being wrung a sightless worm is having a seizure and my nerves opal to mint and clear me

You often told me that
I was your Queen of Silk
and Maid of Lavender Island
and I would tell you that
you were my King of Chevron
with kisses as sweet as
Cyanide
infused with a bout of
Ethanol
and sweet Cherry *******.

You kissed me once
and I prayed that I would die
for I would love to die
wrapped in the taste of
your bad habits
and
King of Chevron sway.

FIRE! FIRE! BE GONE ****** FIRE, I HATE...

O heavens, I'm sorry... I- hmm. Look, it was only four years and a handful of months ago that we met first. Me taking a thoughtful step from the step of my back door.
That face so delectable and now so distasteful. You broke me, woman, you broke me.
I pondered for so long, the demise of our world. The inevitable freezing of a seemingly indestructible cosmos. The cascade of hellfire from heavens unknown. Oh and the uncivilized beasts from the sky. Wise beyond our years, dangerous in theirs.
You broke me you broke me, ***** of my dreams, you broke me.
Step away from mine, the ****** hands of murderers and devils. Take in yours the safety you dreamed.
For I am but a tyrant in your ethereal presence.
                                                        
These walls close too fast for such a man... I'm no such thing though.
Brother, oh brother quit being dead, incorrigible fool. Rise from your own heaven of concrete and leaden death. Stupid man.
She. She did this. Taking to your arms each night, returning with your scent. WE ARE ANIMALS YOU FOOL! Did you assume..? Never mind.
But still you lay, dead, foolish.
Gasoline, oh gee golly gosh the smell of gasoline. Sweet petroleum of these masters of ours. ExxonMobil, Shell Oil, BP (oh BP you fastidious harlot), BG, Premier and Chevron. I pray you all burn like my dear poor friend/fiend here. I pray to a non-existent God, of course.
Oh sweet embers, the fire, thee fire. *******, the fire. I hate what you have made of me.

A beastly man, bearded and uncouth. My tooth, my tooth.
My tooth it pains me on a daily basis. My gums are that of a ninety year old **** smoker. Black, rotting, stinking. Parallels of my life, I suppose. Teeth,  dreadful, dying, dead, deathlike, decaying, Dickensian, dark, damp, d... d- **** it. Years of poor hygiene, years I focused my full attention on my love, my life, my sweet innocent beautiful flower of the wild world and the wooded wonderland of Whinfell.

Now you have gone, I feel empty. No, I shall cease to make such mistakes in my off handed ramblings. I shall seek my thesaurus...
My dear love, now that you have deserted my soul and destroyed my world and very reason for living. I feel ever so depleted, hollow, cavernous and wanting. Sweet sweet child, I pray to my non-conformist God, that of imagination and speculation. The veritable Frankenstein of philosophical and spiritual distortion; I pray he guides you safely through these stormy nights and past the cliffs of disturbed memories. I pray he holds you close to his chest and reveres your silken thighs without touch.

**** ME, PLEASE GOD ****. ME.
The embers of my kin simmer to a pedestrian crackle. The cackle the cackle, my voice is a cackle and I hate it. Dried remnants and burned ones too. I can't help but smile as I remember running through the fields behind my home, where the thieves and the addicts roamed. Child like fascination of the lurid creatures dwelling within the brothel I called home. Whorish women, my curse, the bane of my something or other. Feeble mind of mine, it continues to let me down. Not too dissimilar to the bunches of balloons that decorated the cars of the local garage, waiting to be sold to prospective family-men and business men and men and men and men. Sweet men. The balloons, of course! I would sit on the deserted field and from a  distance observe the close of trading and the ceremonial cutting of ******* strings that freed the multicolored harlots of the sky, back into the sky. Only to be destroyed by winds, birds, planes, storms and the pressures of the atmosphere. Weak willed *******, the lot of them.

But you dear brother, of no relation. You were kind hearted and I point to where your charred heart lay.
You held me close and called me Elizabeth. Matriarchal dream of mine. You broke the seal of new technology, purchased from store upon the corner.  Multiple windows on my windows, each one a prospective client. You lucky friend, I choose you.
We were madly in lust. Madly in... lust. I cannot bear to bring the 'L' word from my cowardice lips. Lips that pleasure, lips that weave, oh lips you kissed daily. Masculine frame, strong father figure of which I am vacant. Let me lay with you once more, in my pretty dress and high heels. Let me pretend for a day that I am no man. That I, that I am your lady. Let me, let me, please let me sit with my legs crossed and hair dancing in the cool breeze and breath of yours.
Too many years I herd the pleasure through papyrus walls. Mother wailing and cheering for the lord. Grunting and creaking with the pleasure she felt. I enjoyed it so much. For that reason and many others beside, I chose a life.

Life so frail, life so pure
Stepping slowly
From the step of my back door
Closing behind me
and turning the key
I shall be home to you
As your lady.

Please do not govern for I am impure of mind.
Life's little scar ingrained in my skull.
Each and every maddening creature has led me, the narcissist, to this here concrete hell.
In which I shall say my final words,
and breath my final wheezing breath
For I have killed two men and a perfect woman today
And Long may they rest.

Control
     My Mouth
>          My Voice
     Chevron
Piece

Steady
   My Pace
>         My Walk
     Confidence
  Talks

T
  O
     O
          M
       U
    C
H

every other time
i have defined myself by aiming at what i want to be
and then moving towards that.
i have sketched definitions in murky biro
on rumpled pages of my notebooks
and then taken my aim.
i have written long-winded histories
describing the stories i want to unfold
the way i would want others to speak
as they told the story of how i was when i walked in.
i have used evocative words:
"creator" "badass" "gypsy"
to describe what i am, in some cases -
my race and the race
that i run, but also
the way that i want to be, and the navigation of
the path that i want to find.
but now there is no defining
no definition will do
because this is not me sculpting myself again
out of lumps of clay that i pushed back last time
and now am causing to reform.
i'm not even made of clay anymore;
i am not malleable, but stripped raw -
pulled down to the most basic of essences,
and yet i do not know
what that is.
perhaps in time i'll find out,
but for the moment
i don't even know how to try.

1

Sunrise, late winter
skunk smell
turkey flock
playful otter, too.

The white heron
a great blue,
white phase,
in the abandoned ****** pond.

Purple clematis
its long-awned achenes
in globose heads
spidery, fiery, extravagant fruit!

To identify or classify
birds by
the complexity or beauty
of their songs.

And so
what is over that
ridge or hill
a sink-hole, a sand dune, a steep bluff.

2

What must I do. Organize
the heretofore unorganized. The rabble
of unemployed child abusers.
Molesters of their intimates.

Are there dysfunctional bird families?
Simply put, they do not survive.
We have hope
that everyone alive is essential,

consequential. We classify
and specify.
The commonplace and everyday
is sanctified.

What happens everyday?
Morning is quiet, everyone at work.
Home writing, watching birds.
Afternoon, kids come back from school.

Evening, watch tv.
Scotch and Star Trek.
Captain Picard's problems eclipse
ours who stayed behind.

3

Pray to Allah
and maybe he will spare you
when he sets the world
on fire.

Where or with who
will I be on that day?
And how many people and adventures
will I find in the wind storm and rubble?

I may live, but will it matter
whether or not I help anyone else to live?
This is no Last Judgement.
Those who have learned or who still know how to live

will survive.
Nobody will go to hell, they will just die.
There is no limbo either.
Anyone who didn't find a way to be immortal is just dead.

So, what am I trying to do.
Organize the unemployed, the welfare mothers
and alcoholics
into a flying chevron of purposeful explorers?

4

The doctor's conscious, organized,
naive attempt to do good,
his legacy, versus the randomness
of the road and the war zone.

There his legacy is his rectitude and natural
rough compassion for the damaged people
he encounters. The difference
between planning a legacy

as if you knew enough to control events
and letting the legacy arise
from events themselves, controlling,
insofar as you are able, only

your own actions and reactions.
The doctor's leadership role such as it was
grew out of not his material possessions
like the car

but his mission, his personal quest
to find the young doctors he had naively trained
and sent into the war zone
where all died.

5

July-a cold city
not as great or as gritty
as I thought, summer theater left
the shoe shine bereft of customers

eyes cold as a bureaucrat's
except for our soles
and their leather. Sweat-soaked
girls, the beautiful ones left town.

Emotionless as a bus.
Sparrows, no chickadees.
All that's important happens indoors.
Exercise to philosophies.

You get what you see.
The panhandlers ask
just once, won't risk
friendship, justice.

No sale today
in the finite city
where, for the shoe shine,
pedestrians are infinite, times two shoes.

6

Faith = wait + trust.
But don't anticipate.
Popper prohibits prediction.
Niebuhr expects destruction.

I believe in God
doesn't mean there's a sketch
of a man in my head. It must mean
all will be well in the end.

Satisfied with snow
or summer. And now
with dying old or younger.
Gold or paper clips. Gulps or sips.

In the final resting place
in the city of the dead
are there all night card games
and sometimes open swims?

Each inch, square, or cube of Earth
brim with grasses and sedges, dragonflies and spiders, sparrows and
      eagles.
The tiger lily and the water lily and the lily of the valley, the calla lily.
When a ******* a bicycle smiles, that is a smile.

Our Town

This is a reminisce exclusively dealing with childhood so let’s skip about the hood
Were any of you standing in the alley at Rudows Friday night with a raffle trying to win a pony?
I never won but by the picture she shared Donna had a horse to ride thanks to her shutter bugging
We have a photo journal of sorts that preserve our precious memories and I thought Reed handled it
I guess he holds the distinction for Pana news Photography and over the years has done a fine job
Can’t forget George’s how about Mr. murry from murry’s TV skating at Price skating rink I bet every one
Got one of those famous rides home Mr. Price and his wife would have that little truck full almost
Dragging the bottom and I swear it didn’t matter where you lived you had a free ride home. That was
Pana sorry girls will leave you out a moment but Whities pool hall any one for cut throat or a little game
In the back, or watch his son the pool shark clean out a sucker who tried to beat Greg. I could never get
My head around and miss prim and proper school teacher misses white is mother and wife all those
Years if she went there she was dressed like Jackie Onassis dark sunglasses London fog rain coat and
Head scarf remember those I don’t care there are two killer women one in a silk colorful head scarf and
A long haired beauty in a cow boy hat I guess it would look better in jeans. Can’t leave this out on that
Note a long skip out of our town into our country Colorado Springs at a chevron gas station sorry here I
Go boy talking this vision picture Raquel Welch I can’t believe I didn’t miss spell her name I got from
School what was important then add Sophia Loren blue jeans so tight if she gave you change and
Dropped a coin and hit those pants any where dude, do some serious ducking because its ricochet time
That sounds French how appropriate those French think of everything even the speech therapist at
Lincoln school wa la one heart attack at a time please even this flash light I use to type in the dark is
Getting hot back to this vision now finish with a Dolly Parton top without going to a weird extreme then
Long black raven hair and don’t dare ask me what did she sound like who was listening my Cherokee
Eyes probably were clear back past my ears. Then the most gorgeous cooperies skin I want to know how
In the red man’s crap did they lose, First Colorado and then the rest of the war? Well I had my own set
Of problems the girl in the my car would have been a little up tight if I would have hailed her a cab it was
A long way back to Pana and I don’t think this was a liberal section of Colorado Springs where her
Husband over in the gas station would let his wife date. By this time I didn’t look to bad and I started
My life long effort of mastering the use of words but on the inside I was pretty much a dufus I will take
An out the stars were not lined up I couldn’t even figure out some way if only the gas tank would run
Down the gutter you no a never filled tank well two things my jaw was tired of laying on the ground and
Wearing a gas hose and nozzle for a necktie I didn’t think I could pull it off literally sorry after that
Recounting this fool isn’t going back to our town as the hippie mixed with a beatnik would say I’m gone.

If I met myself in a gas station in ten years
it would be in Laramie Wyoming
The fog forming a translucent lavender blanket
Drops of hail hit the gravel
like shots raining down on school campuses

Like the V shaped pattern
of wake lines
behind a boat
the angle
between us
has stretched out far
The two arms of a chevron
have been forced
to let go
and I dream of the vertex
all of the time
When you are not the woman
of anyone’s dreams
Fridays become best
for cleaning
and folding
clothes
from three months ago
They become best
for dreaming
incognito
of serving
a man’s conscience
in bed for breakfast
It is the type of silence
that has carved the ******
back into my body
It’s left the fingers
searching
for what stifles
the neck
I comfort
my *******
pressing hard
on the button
below the belly
Until I am a sour fox
without blood
And what good is that rug
than to wipe your feet on
Stationary
I’m dead and
Swaying
like a rocking chair
in my bed
And for the love of god,
I cannot soothe
the cry after I
******

On Wednesday the Supreme Court ruled in the Star Athletica v. Varsity Brandscase, which centered on the issue of copyrighting the chevron, stripe, and other patterns of cheerleading uniforms. To laypeople, this was the case that gave the world the justices’ unforgettable banter about fashion and style. “The clothes on the hanger do nothing. The clothes on the woman do everything. And that is, I think, what fashion is about,” said Justice Stephen Breyer during an argument with Justice Elena Kagan, who responded, “That’s so romantic.” But, to those inside the fashion world, this was a landmark that has potential to resonate in the industry for years to come. Not only is the suit the first time the Supreme Court has ever heard a case centering on apparel design copyrights, but the 6–2 ruling in favor of Varsity Brands allows elements of a garment’s design to be protected by copyright law. In the Court’s syllabus, it declares: “The Copyright Act of 1976 makes ‘pictorial, graphic, or sculptural features’ of the ‘design of a useful article’ eligible for copyright protection as artistic works if those features ‘can be identified separately from, and are capable of existing independently of, the utilitarian aspects of the article.’ ”

To help translate the government legalese, Vogue spoke with Joseph Mueller, a lawyer at Dewey Pegno & Kramarsky LLP, a litigation boutique that regularly handles copyright disputes. Mueller wrote, “The Court decided that copyright law can sometimes protect aesthetic elements of designs for cheerleader uniforms. This sounds straightforward, but a little background shows why this case was complicated. Copyright law protects certain types of artistic and creative expressions. On the other end of the intellectual-property spectrum is patent law, which protects innovations based on their usefulness and novelty. This case dealt with a tricky middle ground: Copyright law can protect aesthetic features of a ‘design for a useful article’—but only if they are distinct enough from the article’s useful or functional aspect.”

But how to define what’s useful and what’s not in a garment? Would you call Craig Green’s many ties and knots functional or decorative? What about Julien Dossena’s linked squares at Paco Rabanne? “There is tons of gray area,” Mueller wrote. “The Court articulated a rule that sounds neat and tidy, but we won’t know precisely how much protection it actually gives designers until other courts apply these principles to other cases.”

In short, this ruling isn’t a blanket statement protecting all designers from knockoffs and copying, but rather it opens the door for making the case that certain parts of design can be protected by copyright. That’s important, especially considering that Congress has discussed expanding copyright protections for fashion designers but has not yet made it into law.

Still, the impact this decision could have on high fashion is great. Not only does it provide luxury houses some ground to defend themselves against fast fashion retailers who churn out replicas of runway designs before the originals hit stores, but it also has the potential to discourage designers from borrowing motifs from their peers or from the past. “Designers have relied mostly on trademarks to protect themselves, but now they can argue that more conceptual, less obvious aspects of their designs should be protected by copyright too,” wrote Mueller. “As with many Supreme Court opinions, it will take some time to know what the practical effect of this decision will be. But there’s no question that it’s a big shift. You can expect to see designers relying on copyright law more often to challenge what they perceive to be knock-offs.”Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses

I found you between touches on screens
through swiping on pocket machines
and I met you in the long shadow of sunset
you smoked a cigar and I a cigarette

We put the stars in our eyes
and found ufos and Russian spies
and gave ourselves to the not knowing
but knowing this wanting to keep going

So at one am we kissed at Chevron
with a smirking cashier looking on
and I did so without a second thought
because, honestly, how could I not?

It's 64 in cross roads, real feel 68.

My first recollection of the sea
was not the water but the sky.

How could it be that if I could
walk the waves I'd reach the clouds.

It was an illusion of which I had
no idea how to explain or even ask.

And why, if it was tilted towards
the coast, did the surf spill in?

There was a lot about the ocean that
left me wondering and then the beach.

Where was it, and why did we have to
drive so far in a Morris Minor to see it?

Or why did my father bring a shovel
and three bags to bring home the sand?

We had a grainy garden which the snails
avoided because of the saline grit.

'Good for the aeration of the soil,' he told
our neighbour, who was leaning on the fence.

When it rained heavily for days on end we
had puddles, small lakes and tiny Atlantics.

I don't ever recall going back. The Morris
Minor rusted; they blamed the sea for it.

It became a chicken house, they entered by
the boot floor that the stolen sand had rotted.

OIK 603 was the license number, it was green
with orange indicator wings on the door posts.

There were six of us, all as pale as the white
chevron in the centre of the Irish Tricolour.

Late at night,
My blue smoke floated
Away; running from solid things
Like jars, that would hold me.
The red pulsing sky
Throbbed meaningless tremors
Before being swallowed by the midnight blue.
The chevron path
Of my blue smoke
Is haunted by antique kings.

The dark second floor passageway
celebrates its one blessed feature,
a sash window, tarnished panes,
pixels, lit in colours beyond RGB.

An ordered scene of chevron gables,
an art deco arrangement, apex
clasping serpentine rust red pantiles,
pitched protection for the action below.

Steam escaping kitchen windows,
conveying today's menu,
while shining expectant plates await.

A clustered community,
mutering togetherness,
jealousies beneath the breath.

of tossing the chevron throw pillow
from my bed to the floor
even on nights I’m sleeping alone

I stretch across the entire Queen size mattress
press my body against the cool white of my other pillow
pretending it could be some body, your body
perhaps, sometimes finding myself

thankful that it is not. In my mind
we have already dated –
showered together, read books, cooked dinner.
I’ve eaten macaroons with your mother
taught your sister how to knit.

In my mind I’ve already imagined
you let my dogs leash drag on the ground,
I get jealous of your best friend,
you think Bukowski was a feminist.


We’ve broken up, blocked each other’s numbers.
I already made a spotify playlist of heart break,
have already tired of the songs.

So when you come after midnight,
and toss my throw pillow to make room for yourself on the bed
I already know where it will land on the floor beneath my window.
I’ve already practiced picking it up
to place it back on the bed in the morning.

When all the world is a giant burden,

Banerji sir, my colleague, a true SST Allen.

“Maan ki bat Modi ke Sath; rest other shun,”,

Says always my friend Banarji, never stun

Or stagger or startle, never remains barren.

Best friend who teaches Dhruvi and others Balkan,

Or India with psychology, without an apron.

Kenil, Hari, Bhavin, Shivani had some unban;

With Favourite dish of Dada, a fish; talks on Patan,

Sings hymns, buzzes about Mahakali one.

Says, “Your age is less than my profession.”

Scolds us, “Worst batch of year” – a Pun?

He is Bangali babu, wears dhoti, kurta even,

Talks about SST, and about doors wide open.

He is a Brahman, takes plausible action,

Wearing a chevron, is our Divine’s lion.

Meshwa, Diya, and Pitambar are clearly won,

With Aryan, Harsh, Nupur, Dishal and billion.

Let it be Shakespeare or Keats or Byron

He is through with all, has a great fortune.

Appreciates my Monorhyme and region

Never keeps quiet, but is pure bullion.

Dear to my students, Esha, Jeet or Rohan.

Prosper a lot is my wish, Oh! Aaron!

I've been hearing a lot of people talking smack about the officers.
They say were a bunch of stuck up, privileged, *******.
That ain't far from the truth for the officers of other factions.
Not for us though.
Because in the Army,
ranks are earned,
not given.
They are earned through empty casings and spent mags,
through broken bones and shattered hopes.
Through the finished ammo belts and used grenades.
When you're promoted,
its not a ceremony,
its a declaration.
A declaration that you fought through the carnage,
the bodies and the mayhem.
You, of all the soldiers in your unit,
are a badass.
Even if you maybe aren't right in the head.
The chevron on your shoulder is a reminder.
Whether its a good one, or a bad one,
that's your choice

If I was asked to put
the world right, here
is what I would do.

I would remove the
equator, it should not
have been put there.

It’s as insignificant as
Egalite, in the French
trilogy of 1789, or the

white peace chevron
on Irelands flag between
the green and the orange.

Cork stops, the Atlantic
Ocean flooding our planet,
I would give Ireland an award.

Finally, I would ban the use
of le, la, une and un, in the
French language, ils sont sexistes.



                                  


Ps.

Bon Matin Tout Monde (without the LE)

That time I was helpless and broken hearted
crying my eyes out the side of the highway at Chevron
of all places.

I think about how you drove out to pick me and all my
pieces up.
That was nice.

No one else would have ever done that,
just you. I hope that I remembered
to thank you between the tears.

Every now and then I think about that time and
how that's probably the nicest thing that anyone has
ever done for me...

As geese
In chevron
Flow through
Sky

Let me be
In each moment
In each beat of wings

And depart

Without a trace

Bottles of alcohol squat on the counter, and cigarette butts
like yellow dead June bugs on the floor.
Bottles of shimmering reasons to not care about a hangover,
to leave prom early and rejoice in your parent’s absence.
Glistening necks, elegant glass nubs with no cap
tipped up into mouths screaming proud and hoarse,
We are STUPID! And CONTAGIOUS!
our ***** voices breaking under the radio sound
to a loud song whose generation no longer cares.
But we do, dumb boys and girls in a truck, rolling around town
like Haylee’s bottle of Jack Daniels in the trunk—
aimless, optimistic, and looking for reasons, so
buy a pack at the Chevron and let’s go smoke!
That’s enough, after all, isn’t it?
Reason enough to crack the windows, find a Carlyss backroad,
waste away midnight and half a tank of gas.
Still, as I drive on, a 90s rock station stimulating rotation of the spliff,
that smell puts my mind out of guitar solos and into placid hallways,
Smells Like a night in my dad’s apartment,
the stubbly couch with the nicotine blanket,
the Marlboro tone in the air, concrete crumbs and a lighter’s grating chrrt.
Divorce sounds like alcohol—
a word that burns, something sterilizing and for adults only.
But I don’t care, it’s my turn on the spliff,
and the backseat of my truck sounds more Alive
than the old horror movie rentals he would put on.
And why should I worry about what sobriety means
when we’ve been planning this night for months now?
All stocked up on Bacardi and Smirnoff Ice, Captain Morgan’s, Svedka, Mike’s Hard,
Swisher Sweets wrapped up in the **** bag—
We shoot our ***, soldiers eager to start the war,
that war against a domestic unknown enemy,
an enemy dangerous and subversive, like sober-minded aspirations.
And while Zack rolls the blunt, while Jack finds his Camel pack,
while you ask for a hit of Haylee’s cigarette,
I fill a glass with water, my intention to hydrate
exactly as genuine as my intention to forget about it.

Besides Galloping out of
Gallipoli what else has
has Mr. Macron to say on
behalf of La France today?

One thing though, the
historical competition
between The French and
their closest southern neighbour,

has always been a neck and
neck race. Cars, cuisine, wine,
tourism, fashion, architecture,
but the frogs are first at surrendering!

Alone.
In a pick up truck.
Isolated from every one that matters to him.
Parked outside of a Chevron station.
Alchol is strong it becomes part of him.
Family members cutting him off.
Hope is only there in my mom.
She is the last hope.
My mom did realize how bad he had been suffering.
My mom was everything to my uncle.
Crying and screaming my mom found that Uncle Mattie was found dead in his truck.
The power of love is strong, it will never die. When you are committed to someone you could be there last hope.
My mom was everything to Uncle Mattie.

shades on
looking cool
covering up my red eyes
tears staining my cheeks
yet I sit in the Chevron parking lot talking to people as if nothing is wrong
casually scrolling through my phone, asking people about their plans
as if I care
yeah, I smoked a cigarette today
or at least a couple drags
I thought that it could replace you
but no such luck so I gave it up
I wish for death, but death by smoking takes too long
now you feel gone and I need something to take your place

Sur les tuiles où se hasarde
Le chat guettant l'oiseau qui boit,
De mon balcon une mansarde
Entre deux tuyaux s'aperçoit.

Pour la parer d'un faux bien-être,
Si je mentais comme un auteur,
Je pourrais faire à sa fenêtre
Un cadre de pois de senteur,

Et vous y montrer Rigolette
Riant à son petit miroir,
Dont le tain rayé ne reflète
Que la moitié de son oeil noir ;

Ou, la robe encor sans agrafe,
Gorge et cheveux au vent, Margot
Arrosant avec sa carafe
Son jardin planté dans un *** ;

Ou bien quelque jeune poète
Qui scande ses vers sibyllins,
En contemplant la silhouette
De Montmartre et de ses moulins.

Par malheur, ma mansarde est vraie ;
Il n'y grimpe aucun liseron,
Et la vitre y fait voir sa taie,
Sous l'ais verdi d'un vieux chevron.

Pour la grisette et pour l'artiste,
Pour le veuf et pour le garçon,
Une mansarde est toujours triste :
Le grenier n'est beau qu'en chanson.

Jadis, sous le comble dont l'angle
Penchait les fronts pour le baiser,
L'amour, content d'un lit de sangle,
Avec Suzon venait causer.

Mais pour ouater notre joie,
Il faut des murs capitonnés,
Des flots de dentelle et de soie,
Des lits par Monbro festonnés.

Un soir, n'étant pas revenue,
Margot s'attarde au mont Breda,
Et Rigolette entretenue
N'arrose plus son réséda.

Voilà longtemps que le poète,
Las de prendre la rime au vol,
S'est fait reporter de gazette,
Quittant le ciel pour l'entresol.

Et l'on ne voit contre la vitre
Qu'une vieille au maigre profil,
Devant Minet, qu'elle chapitre,
Tirant sans cesse un bout de fil.

Like the dead, I stood
In the dark and storm.
My blood flowed through,
In chevron, the cold soil.

On that night,
I rued the days,
That, as the broken heart,
Perished in the dark through.

How would I know,
That you remember...

But you too like me, stood there,
In the dark and the rain.
A tear drop, which fell with the blue,
On your red face.

And the warm embers were next.

am i here, in these
chevron evergreen stockings
with little grips all along them?

I find a lightness
in my strides,an almost
floating feeling

I cheated death.
It seems;
my body left behind,

I possess
spirit autonomy

freed from the corporeal
I was forced to reside...

Just a Preacher's son from Barnstable in Devon
on the outskirts where the country roads have no chevron
had a gal called Mary who sang in a choir in Avon
The years went and mama and papa grew old and passed on
Bid farewell to Mary packed my bags and moved on

To London I came a large bustling town that is a top one
Got a job found a place settle in and life was right on
Made friends had a laugh and learnt to talk like Klingons
Went to a party and couldn't tell the girls apart what a rave on
Met Simone with short hair who said I don't do weave-ons

We danced and drank and soon she became my favourite one
Says come home with me we'll have a blast with the lights on
But see that chick over there in yellow she's such a turn on
I'll go get her to come with us and we'll have a *******
Hey Sim! I spluttered, hold on a mo what has brought this on

I'm just a Preacher's son from Barnstable in Devon
I'm green round the gills new in town and not very right-on
She's my lover she said, let's go, get our ******* skates on
Me turning green, papa's rolling and mama screaming 'hold on'
I married your father for forty years never ever such a carry-on

It's a new world now, it's London and everything is full on
But cut me some slack I am just a Preacher's son from Devon
Even if the dogs do this in Devon I never saw, they never let on
Oh said Simone, take a hike, you're a Tory with a small one
Well said I, my work is done, I can leave now, I will move on!

the tar -
the tip., slides in as the fingernails grow slowly outwards from the body
sun hits the vinyl siding of the houses across the street
raking sharp light across them like cliff faces in famous photographs
whose colors were only seen by ansel adams himself
chevron patterned blankets are folded over themselves in rosaceous limp hillsides

window . split

And me,the

Circle tap tap

The best thing my time never had

The past is where it's at

And I would love to go back,

Feel that electric lightning zap

But I'll save a space for his timeless laugh

Tap circle tap

I acted like a total brat

But he loved that I was fat

Gave my stomach many pats

I wish I never wasted his time

Tap tap circle

What I did was quite brutal

And my apologies would be futile

I wished he'd better himself

And now I see it wasn't too late for him

Just in time*

Tap tap tap circle

This world is ****** up

But I'll learn to be enough

Maybe if I had two holes in each ear

I would learn how to correctly hear

The st-st-stutter

And the way I was never good at being

The queen of Chevron

Innocence was lost when I couldn't breathe

In the hues of red hills

And I can't hide the way I can't deal

With never mending burnt bridges and heal

With the mistakes I breathe life into

The bigger picture isn't on any wall,

I spend my time looking back and stall

You can't change what you destroyed

So pick better people to surround yourself with

And the voices fill my head with filth

Just love myself and find that

Tap tap tap circle circle

Burning through
Archaic sentiment
.....But burning
And an appreciation
An appropriate passion
For what is not gold
But the tint of Calx
rusted root
Or the rust of a tin can
Planted in soil
For generations
And the dangerous space
That leads the Copperhead
Ahead of Chevron tiled slither
A scent of foreboding fortune mixed with feces and intent
But comes to some
The smell of cucumbers
To some plain foul
As flared and frightened nostrils
Take it in
And exhale no art
Poetry
Music
Stroke
Of mimic
The raw colors of the world
The value of salt
As it adds to the human condition
Or reflects
Truly the grimy
And honest
Often *******
Often Jesus Christ
Cornerstone, of humanity
The weary and brutal
Sidewalks
Filled with ******* seekers
Rattling keychains
That hang from pockets
Spilling Velcro unicorns
In colorful plastic

Burning through ..
and these things around me
Spill
A pilgrimage of sorts
To the Buk
And his awareness :
....Need to find art ...
To seek it in the ally’s
Or the eye of the convict
Where some might see
Only concrete and grey

It is where they attach
the white chevron from
their tricolour when a
surrender is pronounced.