Clouds blowing through your smog induced brain,
Sipping on beer while you medicate your pain,
Everybody's gone but you haven't even noticed,
Easy come, easy go, to you its all the same.

A danger to yourself? I'm yet to ascertain,
Talking to a bench while people eye you with disdain,
You have a problem - I'm not telling you to abstain but,
Wake up pal, smell the air and see the sun again.

A simple life is something we all crave,
It gets easier dependant on how you behave,
But you're popping pills making yourself ill on a thoughtless roller coaster,
And lying to yourself saying you're going through a phase.

The world has passed you by in your comatosed state,
You watch, but don't feel for reasons you can't explain,
You want to live life but can't handle your own mind,
So you dumb it back down and fly home to space.

Have fun on your 'travels' while you cement your own fate,
Thanks for giving me this lesson to recommunicate,  
You can get dealt a **** hand that foils all your plans,
But essentially your whole life is custom made.

stone's throw and the water's current, clouds shifting in the valley of the sky above
screams could be heard near
no,
it was more of a giddy falsetto, shouts that sounded too drunk,
it was an all too familiar sound for james an all too familiar person

"look at my wings! im a fairy! im coming home to the beloved land! wait for me fairy sisters!"

he went to the clear to see if he was hallucinating he wasn't
it really was her;
sophia
nine months since they broke up; that tearful separation

for a minute he just stood there at the far end of the river watching his ex girl friend spread her arms and glide near the banks in the bridge chanting and giggling

god, did he miss her voice and her laugh

she was just like how he remembered her, her timeless free spirited soul still intact as if she took her childhood with her as she grew up, clenched tightly in her fists

the moonlight kissed her milky pale skin, bathing it in a dusty sort of blue.
she was all by herself and he could tell that something was off;
like she was only half there, like her soul vacated her vessel and she was talking to someone not there

she seemed disoriented and james wondered if she was getting bad again,

the worry kicking in as soon as he thought about all those nights,
those times they got high and drank too much and drugged themselves, injecting poison they craved into their veins, letting cigarette ashes fall to their feet, tiptoeing about as if by a marionette's force trailing along the synchronized beating of their hearts
his mind and being time travelling, to the motel room they stayed at that summer bursting with heated afternoons and passionate air, the sheets that smelled of their love making, the wooden floor they sat on as he strummed the strings of his beloved guitar, singing to his muse, the balcony where they laid in each other's arms, in awe of the world around, cicadas chirping
their adventures and misadventures where she pretended to be a superhero and had him as her sidekick the times they pretended to be spies on quest and missions-she introduced and dragged him into her colorful magical realm.
she had dog eared, coffee stained colored books piled in the trunk of her car with words and sentences blacked out, renewed into greater poetry. he could've put a bookmark between pages of one of those books, and they could've dived right into it, staying in a chasm of a sappy, lovesick, sensual poem. they could've gone on a quest of slaying monsters and stopping time for eternity. he couldve stopped them from drowning

they were looking for heaven not knowing that heaven is not a places on earth

all he did was pull down the anchor and let her sink as he kept afloat. sure their connection was real and pure. they comfortably had both of their minds and spirits bare around each other they were two kites flying in a parallel motion but the wind dragged them down hurling them recklessly

they were rarely under substances, almost never under the influence of vices. it filled them up like birthday balloons and their love was the needle that caused them to pop. it had reached the point where they were trapped in a psychedelic haze holding on to each other to stay lucid

the drugs took their toll on them resulting to violence, abusive fights
he loved her so much that he built her a house of bricks and cement to protect her from the big bad wolf not knowing that ****** and ******* turned him into a wolf and he huffed and puffed til he blew her down blew her dead

he felt his heart hit the flat line as her heart stopped for seconds in the ambulance that night he felt everything warp into everything he's ever known everything he's ever had, ever los. he felt the drugs warp into her as if she was the side effect instead of the addiction. the drugs gave them the illusion of being alive while remaining two lifeless, misguided souls.

miraculously they were able to revive her back to life but comatosed with only monitors and tubes sustaining her "life".
that night he dreamt of being with her and holding her hand for the last time as they made a pact, the promise; that they would both get better, get help, get rehab, have blood in their bloodstreams again and have normal functioning lives. they parted with a promise and a someday; that someday they'd meet again when things were right and the stars have aligned maybe, maybe. they kissed and touched in one another's presence before they parted in different directions, for freedom for the better it was a dream within reality. he knew she dreamt it too, that they were stars weaved in the same dream.

he walked closer, to where she was, still seemingly trapped in a trance mindlessly but she alarmingly tethered too close to the water, flailing her arms inviting the wind to knock her down and be part of the river, be the tides the rocks skipped. he had to do something

" sophia!" he screamed, her name echoing past the trees and the trailer houses. it was enough or her to look at him with those eyes, the same eyes that said it all before. recognition fleeted for a second before it went blank but she stopped tethering and perched herself on the bridge

he gave her a lift and took her home to the dorm she was newly staying at for the semester (it was hard to get it out of her from her drunken slurs almost like he had to pull her back from space) and on his drive back with a cigarette perched on his lips he thought about the way he laid her down, passed out and how he stayed for a bit longer, letting his fingers linger across her hair spun from golden silk and the lopsided smile that hung in her face while she slept.

he wondered most of all if she really got better, if the dark was behind her and if she was truly beyond it. he really wanted to believe the pictures that lined the walls,pictures of her smiling, with her friends, her family months after the promise.

she did look better, her skin baring a hint of plumpness and had a healthy glow replacing the sagging hollow that lived in it all those months. after the episode he witnessed (she did reek of ***** and had bloodshot eyes and was shaking not to mention the trance she was in), he didn't know if she was only good at keeping up the "better" facade. but he had his fingers crossed

he was about to let himself out, an ache growling in his stomach as they were to be separated again but he guessed it was the closest they would ever be.

"tell james i love him. always"

his head swiveled back to her and she was still tucked asleep. he could've sworn she said it, he couldn't be hearing things-after being eight months clean of substance usage.

he felt the familiar burn of the cigarette, and he threw it out of the window leaving the remnants of the nicotine inside him. he hated himself for lighting one up and keeping a half pack all this time. this was his first successful relapse and it was all because of her. like a ship tied down to an anchor;he was still tied to her, invisible ropes weighing him back to her ghost



she would always be his downfall

I will not write about you.
I will not write about how you send me to
Places I have not been to in quite a while
With words that revive the comatosed
Butterflies in my stomach

Nor will I write about how your hand behind
My back sends goosebumps to my heart
Up and down like strumming guitar strings
A song I would not want to end

I will not write about how you caress my thigh
Making me wish the hands of time would stop
For a moment, so that yours would still be on me

How your chin is like a puzzle piece
That finds its way perfectly upon my
Shoulder as we ride up the escalator

I will not mention how many times I have wished it
Was not "you and me", but "us"

No, I will not write about all of that.
I will not write about you.
I will never write about you.

I smile more often than usual when your around.  
Comatosed by the feeling that you give,
A sweet sensation.
The strength to nurture my soul with just one look.
But the feeling,
That dreadful feeling,  
Can pour right out of me like a glass of wine.
Watching butterflies fly,
Between two bushes in love like you and I.
Im possessed by your love.

Chapter One.

Taste the crap fully.
The corn eyes comatosed....
stuck
In between the folds of mash potato like obedience.
Fuckery makes hate great again.
The horrible rift established by
Religiously intolerant thetoric.
Reacting becomes classic.
Suffocation slowly creeps in and becomes expected.
The silence becomes tragic,
as the first amendment is shredded  into nothingness.
And soon the corn eyes begins to multiply,
as stinking crap blinds the dreams of its corn fed yellow eyes.
Remember, fake news like corn never sits well in the tummy.
Comes out at the other end.
Brown chunky oatmeal,
with corn eyes wide open looking stuck upon the mountains and mountains
of left over **** traffic coming to a sudden halt.
Where is lady liberty?
My original democracy loving tv dinner Mommy.
Who knows....
This is the diary of zombie corn eyes.

Next Week....
Chapter Two.
When a new jacking off tax becomes a liability for those professionals tryimg to make money off their favorite part time hobby.

(C) copyright 2020

Aba would
have been there
Ole
had he known

would not
have left you so
facing death alone
that first time

bedded in that
hospital ward
that late evening

had they drawn
the curtains by then
Ole?

Was it still dull
that end
despite the light?

Who found you
and were they
there in time
that first time around?

Did you murmur
make moan
make sound?

Aba would
have given his life
for yours any day
given his limbs
his eyes
his speech
but too late
he didn't know
until they phoned
when they managed
to reach

remember Ole
you are loved
not forgotten

Aba and family
made it
the second time
around
but you
were comatosed
and made no sign
or sound.

Laid to rest,
stone in place,
legend chiselled
and name
and words
and such,
flowers
in place.

Laid to rest-
but not,
my son,
for us,
the memories too strong,
too recent ,
to put to sleep or rest.

Waves of it rush
against the shores of self,
digging in deep,
pushing heart
and sense aside,
raising the ghostly
images to sight.

Who spoke last?
Who conversed
in final hours?
How dark the ward.
I helped you
best I could.

Unknowing,
promised
of the morrow returning,
but then too late,
just the comatosed you
to greet, the last
drawn out day of demise.

Laid to rest,
stone in place,
words chiselled,
ashes encased,
buried, flowers,
prayers said.

You,
my son,
stoic by nature,
warrior to the core;
why does
the sun rise?
What was
it all for?

The Catholic priest came
and gave last rites;
you were comatosed,
though I expect you heard;
they say one does,
even then, shalom, amen.

We held your hands
most of that last day,
one of us staying,
whilst the other
(went for drink or such)
went silently away,
but too long or much.

Puffed up hand and arm,
your eyes closed;
tubes and wires
coming out
here and there;
all those machines
keeping you alive,
pumping away,
softly noisy.

We never gave up
you'd survive,
watched and held
and talked until
the last eased out breath.

A lonely place,
some say, is death.

We were there,
breaking up
at your departure;
didn't want you to go;
but you fought until end,
stoic, silent, Seneca like,
our son, and these hearts,
which no time
or words or prayers
or creed( at this time)
can mend.

Upon a bed of newspapers lay a creased red cotton shirt.
No fixed abode
Dirt appears on dirt
Grind teeth.
Got any change said man with can in hand.
Card and blanket with dog curled underneath.
Comatosed body rigid from a fix.
Brandished **** and theif.
Patchwork multicoloured polyester tents adorn a high end shop.

Comatosed with open gaze insinuating
Morphine daydreams,
With bristling hairs along arms
Before she had the chance to shave
and the folicles deactivated;
It is her womb she has devoted
For the public eye;
How it slowly rots, from incarnadine
-as the historical pictures aside her show-
To it's current viridian swelter;
Like an ugly robust bruise too tough to die.

Rupturing outward a torridness
Of legs and crooked fingers stuck to half-grip,
Scanning southly one notes globules of goosebumps
Haunting up her thighs,
Pricking cloudward and shivering implying that,atleast,
For a second whilst living she was aware of this—
Her impending fate.

Red,red,red lips
bud close to form a cute,poppish image,
Honouring those photographers who come and go—
Her tiny hands are posited to corner her tiny *******
As not to stir any further controversy.
The lady in the jar awaits the usuals,while blind
to her own doing so,

Mind overrun and on display like a faulty calculator
Via that dull, happy, gaze.

She smells up the room of exquisite perfume and
Quixotic trees and fields and roads and too much more to mention...

The fee these stranger's would scavage from their pockets
Just to be awarded a chance to touch
The fair lady’s skin and determine a better verdict
As to whether or not she meant all that much to the world
at all.

That last time
we talked, my son,
the very last,
unknown to us,

never ventured
on profound subjects,
(as they do in films
or heroic novels)

we conversed
on the mundane:
how did you sleep?
What was the food like?

or trying to explain
the puffed up limbs
and pain( having
complained to the nurse

about your visual state)
when you did you pass
***** last? and some
such usual things.

You were tired
your eyes were closing,
and unknown
to either of us,

you were probably dying
for the first time, then,
without priest
or prayer or amen.

What was it like
that first time?
Revived, they
called us in,

while they set you up
to machines and monitors
and wires and tubes
and all such things.

You were comatosed,
eyes closed, lying there,
hands at your sides,
puffy and discoloured.

Did you hear us talk?
Did you know
we were there?
We held your hands

at the end, my son,
wanted you to stay,
wanted you
to be with us,

but death took you quickly,
far and away.

Raise a glass and drink up til the bottle is done;
Here's to addictions unconquered
Here's to suicides attached to names not known well enough to grieve for
Here's to the burden one passes onto another when one gets too comfortable
Here's to those who cared when no one else did
Here's to those adolescent walks in the dark chasing shadows
Here's to us speaking til we fell asleep mid sentences
Here's to the lovers who kicked us out the house then kicked us in the head for leaving
Here's to walking in circles with each step painless for the first time in forever & staring out into nothing astounded
Here's to smoking for the first time in months and thinking back to one night years before and the self-inflicted concussions that followed
Here's to the faces we can't look at anymore without our chests caving inward & hating ourselves
Here's to the fascia tissue unzipped & exposed and cringed at & regretted & better left forgotten the next morning
Here's to our sorries telepathically sent & unsent
Here's to forgiveness reached in silence
Here's to time healing nothing but changing everything
Here's to first kisses and final goodbyes
Here's to when she wore his dress for the first time and he her boots
Every vice has it's versa and every versa it's vice, right? right. so
Here's to holding hands with another for another first with heart pounding and surrounding eyes staring or going out of their way not to stare the closer they'd get
Here's to saying **** everyone & everything else when you know beyond a doubt what's right is right
Here's to ugly faces made pretty up-close and seeing pretty faces turn ugly
Here's to spending those last pennies on the first pack of cigarettes in years and looking into foodbanks & catshelters incase nothing got better
Here's to laughing hysterically after getting told you were cheated on, knowing you won't be the paranoid ******* for breaking up again and the hangover-like realisation two days later when the worthlessness settled in
Here's to those lonely walks home covered in blood & punching busstops & ******* in the middle of the street undisturbed by a single soul in-passing
Here's to that hour writhing in a floored mattress screaming the same name over & over again to no answer
Here's to things not working out as planned and it being upto you for that to be for a reason,
Here's to being comatosed & frostbit in pisssoaked jeans as crying family waited for the ambulance to arrive
(surely, I'm not the only one who was supposed to die at thirteen but didn't?)
Here's to the writers who changed how we wrote, the gentle man obsessed with mud turnt muck & thunderstorms & ******* and the pretty French boy and the boundless reclusive femcel before her time
Here's to the men & women we could never become
Here's to love stated but no longer felt, and vice versa and vice versa.

And
Here's to this, the final top up of the night! -too drunk or too tired? either or- and what a night it's been, considering the weight of all those nights before;

Here's to all those loves that never worked out & all those suicidal nights alone trembling with fear of the following day & the next, all leading to you and I sharing this wonderful day together.
Honestly? I wouldn't trade it for the world

I said once this place was where dreams came to die,
So why am I happy here?

I can see the years etched into these peoples faces,
On line for every life they should have lived but didn’t.
Creased skin coating arthritic bone;
Comatosed souls in caracasses.

Defiant if not alive.

Because there’s not an eye that doesn’t glisten with mischief in this prison.
Solidarity and laughter while we peel back the skin on our knuckles and chip away bone.

As though the blue plasters can patch up the damage from years where it didn’t trickle down.

Maybe I was comatosed,
I heard not a thing,
those raindrops,
well they must have partied on the ground,
the garden just a sodden plot,
I never heard their footsteps tripping.

Prediction of heavy weather,
for two hot nights strung out in a row,
a little bit like garden garlands,
But,
I saw no flashing lights last night,
preceding night just one or two,

no noise did disturb me,
the lights were all out,
behind my eyes,
was peaceful,
on my pillow,
it took on the role of ear plugs,
as into sleep I slipped.
I'll never know what I have missed,
I slept through everything.
Sleep came and kissed my eyes and ears goodnight,
and that's just what I had.
(C) Livvi

It's the beauty of rain
That washes away my pain
As it showers down
My heartache drowns
Quitening the anger
That causes havoc in my soul
My emotions comatosed
I feel no more

Poem-Without you

Heart shattered
Brain smattered
Insides drowned in fear
Can’t breathe
Won’t believe
Can not persevere

Insides raw
I’m too flawed
A waste of space in time
Devil waiting
Instigating
I will surely die

Nails exposed
Comatosed
Blinded by the light
Breath drowning
Soul frowning
Can not find the fight

Dreams dark
Torn out heart
Can not find my breath
Veins thick
Stomach sick
Dreaming of my death

Autumn Story
By Sheila Haskins


The story’s in the breeze drifting through the trees
In yellow and red leaves falling on my head
Feeling mellow; it’s like a drug, like a bug, a disease
Can’t get enough of mornings such as these
I yearn to be outside to wish the trees well
Soon they’ll have a different story for me to tell
Comatosed as days fly by; I pray that Autumn lingers
I cry as the swallows fly; I miss the birds the most
Bees humming no more, golden leaves dying on the floor
There is good in every season, always a reason to be glad
Even though my heart is feeling pain as Autumn bleeds
As she recedes I want to welcome winters’ thrill
Be the first to know the touch of her icy fingers
Winter with all her vagaries as yet a mystery
As Autumn slowly fades into history
Winter may compensate with her frosted glory
She can excite us, and invite us
And that my friend is

Yet

...........

Another Story

O SEERS

A common man is mostly interested in living a happy peaceful life.

Fed up he is with this, never  ending,  continuous day to day strife

Over worked he is and drained off, by the taxes he has to pay.

But the poor man,  in any such matter, sadly doesn't have a say.

Taxed heavily,  directly and indirectly by these taxes, crushed he is.

The helpless elders, after slogging all life long,  cannot live in peace.

Unfortunately the government or  religious heads bothered aren't about his life or him.

Scope of his happiness has  diminished; it's rather dying ! almost dim.

Request I these politicians, so called religious leaders to look within ;

Karma,  does not leave anyone, we all pay back have to,  for every sin.

Therefore peep within,  awaken your almost  comatosed conscience.

Stir up, fight the devil,  let us people; the  common man live in peace with confidence.

Armin Dutia Motashaw