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Leah Ward Dec 2012
There once was fellow
Of whom I was rather fond,
But there was such an idiosyncrasy,
That he cheerfully donned.
It was adding this boy was drawn to,
But not just numbers,
Such as two plus two,
But syllables, like bill·a·bles.

His lips would murmur
As mine would speak,
But I'd stand attentive,
Tongue in cheek.
Every syllable I would say
Would be counted
In every single way.
"Could I have a glass of water?"
"That one was eight"
"Come on," I said
"You're ruining our date."

I grew weary of having
To deal with
The incessant word adding;
And so I decided the thing to do,
Was to take it up
With my obnoxious beau.  
"What is it with the counting and computing of all my confab
It's neither dashing nor is it longer dazzling
In fact, It has turned to be rather drab."
His face contorted to the most cruel of expressions,
As his mouth went to conference one of its many confessions:
"You know babe,
Well first order is first,
That was thirty-six,
And nervously dispersed.
And secondly I must say,
When it comes to alliteration,
You tend to get a bit carried away."
"That's preposterous!" I plustered, providently provoked,
I do not choose clusters of complementary chords,
To do so would make me choke!"
As these words left my mouth as I spoke,
My beloved's face grew rather amused,
And my face flushed a fluorescent fuchsia,
When I realized his reckoned ruse.  

And so it may seem that the other
May be wrapped up in some insidious blunder,
Yet please do consider,
That you yourself can be guilty of some other habit,
In which you do plunder.
My name is Caspar Benson. I live in London, England and I have just turned fifteen. I am not here to relieve myself to you as one would a biography, I only invest a small portion of myself and the reason is so that I may get an answer to my own most unorthodox problems.

I am possessed with the uncanny tenure of seeing dead people. Even in the most tranquil of surroundings it seems that I play host to a whole plethora of ghostly incantation. They frequent my company at the most in-opurtune moments and can be overbearing and troublesome to say the least. I wonder if you might think of this as a gift from God? Could it be a holy career prospect, am I the gate keeper for representing those whom have passed a voice in the real world? Well, I hope not.

Is it by coincidence that I am named Caspar? Did my parents know something that I didn't or can I place the choice of this moniker down to simply bad taste. Caspar. That friendly ball of cotton wool that floats before unreal characters, the laughable entity that is the comical outlook of death.

Do you see a representation of a ghost as perhaps “Spielberg” might?

I see a very different picture. Not the allure of my friendly name-sake but a portrait of death in a more repugnant tone: Ghoulish, abhorrent and uncensored. They sport no cosmetic improvement or Hollywood make-up artist to embellish their looks. As they died, they stand before me.

I often heard voices and have learnt well not to mention these facts for fear of being presented (at regular intervals) to the psychiatrists office. Indeed this was more than enough to secure my silence.

Can you imagine, the small frightened child lying in bed at night listening to footsteps crossing my bedroom floor, uninvited whispers in the darkness or maybe just the shock of objects levitating around my room? It is perhaps more surprising that I am not shackled in a straight jacket or left to bound around a padded cell. The torture of having to bare this without being able to confide it for want of being treated like a nut case is far from God given.

My first actual glimpse of these ethereal beings came on my tenth birthday. I was rather enjoying my party and as I was obliged to blow out the ten candles that adorned the top of my cake. This was witnessed by my parents, a few school friends and a whole host of paranormal gate-crashers. I also had the company of a rather newly departed couple who had apparently ended their days under the wheels of a drunk drivers vehicle. All in all though I think that I handled the task quite well considering. It wasn't actually a blowing out of the flames on the candles, it was more like a tsunami of ***** that extinguished them. This didn't go down very well with my parents or school chums, although I do believe their were a few spiritual sniggers in the background.

I have since learned to curb my initial reactions to these visitations to a more admirable and controlled response. Let us just say that the day was a problematic one and leave it at that. Although I did get to have a lovely chat with the impending nut doctor but thought better than to tell her the real story.

I have heard the most unusual and explicit conversations, stuff that would excite any budding writer of horror and gore but I had never actually conversed with any of my unearthly visitors. In the early days I was only privy to hearing them and I believe that I have felt them as they have careered past me and on many occasion through me but I have not had a proper dialogue. That is until now.

I had never heard of the term “Spirit Guide” until recently, I didn't actually know what one was but I do now. I have read (mainly from Google) about them and everyone one on the planet seems to be an expert except me, although now I know that they mostly all spinning a yarn for gullible persons to believe. I was never overwhelmed by a Navajo Indian nor a Swashbuckling Pirate guide and I definitely never swooned around in a spiralling stupor.

No! She just casually approached me and said hello. It took me some time to actually realise that she was dead and something I found very hard to digest. However this actuality was helped along enormously, when just to prove a point she disappeared in front of me and materialised instantly behind me. Without a doubt the most surreal confab I have ever experienced.

Her name is Gloria, she is seventeen, or perhaps I should say she was seventeen at the time of her death but apart from the fact that she is deceased, she is the most stunning girl I have ever met. No greyish ghostly apparition, just a fun and loving corpse to be around.

Over the past few months we have become very close in fact I would use the words love as a most positive account of the feelings we have for each other. When we touch, yes we can touch and we have on very consistent occasions. Our relationship has at time been one of an intimate nature. I am not afraid to say that I love a ***** and she is without a doubt my special spectre. The fact that no-one else can see her is a nothing to me but I have had to refrain from holding her hand or cuddling her in company. I do get some of the strangest looks from people, I suppose one can understand this. We have discussed this and at time it makes sense that I should pretend that she isn't there but it kills me to have to ignore her. It doesn't do to talk to an invisible being with your parents or friends present believe me.

The dilemma we had was where do we go from here? It isn't something one can really ask about is it? I do not know about any Agony Aunt column that would really be applicable in this instance. I wonder what the reply would be if I did confide in my mother or father. I do believe it would be an Institution for me and perhaps a Exorcist for her. Many young couples can have many troubles with loving someone within the wrong ethnicity or religious persuasion although I have never heard say of any difficulty that portrays the one we are suffering from.

The only option I have it seems for a happy life with my beloved is death, not a nasty death though I want to be in the same physical shape as I was when I lived. Blades leave scars so poison was the way to go. As my life ebbs away I know my folks will think that I died alone but my Gloria is with me every step of the way and it is in her arms that I lay, dead to the world but more alive in my demise than I ever was in my short lifetime.

While others get old and infirm and eventually laid to rest, we will still be young and in love.
July 2014
JHT Jan 2015
Hereabouts was inearthed the grief of an infatuate;
Beneath the moonlight and clinged by deception;
Thou, one and only sol in the murkiness;

Pour spilled, imbrued the prediction away from the windfall;
Thou, who laughed there then shivered forsakenly?
presumed a northwind that never ******* here;

Was life span soundless as the unnaturalness of the ambiguity?
conversed without confab, forsaken the anguish each one raindrops;
Hasten the broken heart in the wake of thee;

When silhouette remains anonymous, hence thou stand synonymous;
thence it's tiring to imitate its fascination;
how afflicts sweet taste of hyperbole from a guileless lip;

Thou laud me, when thou stare me in emptiness;
Thou palter me, when thou don't seek about my beauty;
Thou vanished, when thou don't see amore anymore...
Eric Braun May 2019
I got dizzy sick rolling down hills in the mist
In the heart of a city desperate to exist
I understood that longing gaze of the abyss
An endless summer, well, when will it quit?

A stitch in time between two uneven seams
A finger in the socket of Tesla's dead dream
Come dance in the current of electric memes
Talk me out of my money with sweet polysemes

Dawn's hair was a sunbeam, she dyed it fire
It wouldn't fall straight, time is a spire
Out of sync with fate and strung like a lyre
She was an apex of innocence and desire

She left with a preacher all doom and gloom
I came with a stripper in a darkened black room
She said I'm a good kisser, I assume it's true
You can laugh at me if you want to

This dancer's a waterfall, turning all slowly
Trying to show me how intimacy's lonely
Piercings on her back like the ones Anna showed me
Lost time swirling in whirlpools below me

I tried to be gentle but I just turned out weak
Cursed by my angels, Hope and Release
My mediocre mind, my consistent hobgoblin
She said "Don't fall in love," that won't be a problem

Haylee got angry at the skip in each heartbeat
Anxiety burning in every breath of our sleep
She held every moment of the life I never had
Then released them like butterflies in our confab

My tongue tied, un-nimble, into infinity symbols
Swirling in the kiss of strangers so simple
Peeking thru needle's eyes into heaven's riddle
Wound up with Thumbelina living in a thimble

Tumbling down a faucet stream, twisting with ripples
Her hair caught in my mouth, it tickles a little
Her eyes scream with thoughts of playing my fiddle
But I feel the life released from my middle

My heartbeat's compulsive, my shivers convulsive
Her tatoo at an angle, her complexion olive
I called it a nice moment but I hope it lasts
A thousand memories trapped in my gasp

A thousand nows
just
out
of
my
grasp
Mohd Arshad Feb 2014
Are the words meant to carve
On them the filthy mind
Or the pent-up wrath?
Then fling them over
Our loved one, so close!

They are fragrant flowers.
They are precious diamonds.
They are holy scriptures.
They the soul of our confab.

Only unhealthy brains
Turn out to be sculptors.
Words are worthwhile.
They are what they are for.
Mohd Arshad Feb 5
Reading is polishing a rusted mind.

Reading is an adventurous journey.

Reading is a memorable confab because all words speak to me.

Going into a mind is like entering a holy place and reading scriptures there.
Mohd Arshad Aug 2018
The lake is silent;
But its beauty keep speaking;
Amazing confab!
Ryan O'Leary Mar 22
St Patrick was conman,
a shyster, and a rogue.

He almost  pulled a fast one,
on the folks of Tear na Nogue

He tried to sell the locals,
what he described as ****,

But t’was grown in Clonakilty
from greyhound cabbage seed.

Then he took it further, by
ridding the land of snakes,

A bag of eels is what he'd caught
Down by Killarney’s lakes.

It’s a land of saints and scholars
Where nobody mentions thieves

And the Shamrock’s just a porky
That hardly anyone here believes

But they say he visited Blarney
Where he honed his gift of the gab

From there on in t’was easy going
He'd mastered the art "confab"

He used three leaves to explain the trinity
Because he thought the natives were tick

To each he gave an Irish name
of Sheamus and Tadgh and ****.

— The End —