~for Marion~

all poets are junkyard scavenger connoisseurs

who wear suits to Manhattan faculty afternoon tea parties,

broken-in jeans to Brooklyn midnite poetry slams,

regalers, tall tale storytellers, subway words pickpockets

of the  extra-ordinary,

claiming innovations but from all saints stolen,

insights inside other's waste,

refusing to acknowledge the true owner's title

by fusing other's refuse.

the original recyclers,

junkyard dog liars,

willful sufferers of the plague of overhearing,

exceptional excerpters of the gems of coal dust noise,

"Connoisseur of old thoughts
Bound in new gilt bindings"*


them's me.


~

12:37am may eighth

Match, match forward and go, you heroic sons of America
Reconnoiter into the strongholds of boko haram,
And restore our captive girls from the foul  custody,
Lawlessly held hostage by the connoisseurs of terror,
Go on and recover poor souls from ribald of religion
Impishly created by Moslem from the satanic verses,
Regulating foray of terror on the poor of the poor
******, mahyeming, looting and executing massacres,
Match on and on yee angels of democracy,
Don’t stop in any haste or in any wonder,
To help in the sham flabbergastations,
About  the  Igbos who fought the Biafra,
And the Yorubas who federally defended,
Under the aegis of Obasanjo the Sandhurst
General, where are they all to save the girls
Of Nigeria from the Islamist terror
Excuted by  boko haram the handmaid of evil.

We're very much alike.

Poetry is our inspiration,
we were born writers.
People call us BBQ sauce snobs
wine connoisseurs
and brothers.

But he likes to dance
at night--
in the headlights
when the air pierces the skin.
His deep dark pockets
are an oblivion of cigarettes
and full minis of Jack.
Remind's me of Harpo.

He walks like a snake slithers--
body swaying
and a gleaming mischievous twinkle
in his eye.

We both enjoy crisp, autumn days,
but he prefers them cloudy--
dark.
He says it brings out the color
in the reds and orange leaves jumping off the trees to twist in the breeze.
Listening to stand-up is our solace,
though he says Hicks is god.
I say Carlin

His shadow reminds me of a demon--
the long lost son of Medusa.  

He's not afraid to say what he thinks,
cause he knows he's right.
Sometimes I believe him--
he speaks with such nonchalant confidence.
There's always a needle on his words
swiftly flitting and flickering
like a flame he's flicking off his tongue.
And if his words hurt breaking the skin?
"Don't be such a *****" he'll snarl
before turning the charm back on
with a giggle and ironic wink.

He likes to collect
the faults in others
cause his thinks his **** don't stink.
He keeps reminding me of mine.
He enjoys needling
people.

We've known each other
for a long while.
Seems like longer....
but that's cause my roommate is me.

and the difference between
a higher tier whiskey
and a lower tier whiskey?

higher tier: pale amber...
lower tier:
   tickling caramel bourbon...

and yes:
i like my alcohol with
a story of its own,
one of exploring
the palette...

yes... glen moray:
there's certainly
butter-scotch in it...
but the lemongrass?
not with every glass,
which is why
i find connoisseurs
suspect...

          not from one
glass,
and certainly not
from a sniffing around...

unlike *****
drank properly:
shoved into a freezer
and then drank
smoothly like
a gômme syrop...

whiskey:
the profanity of
sipping it straight...
or mixing it like
some British WWI
colonel
with some soda water...

on ice...
one minute delay...
culls the bite
of any excess Smokey
Fitzpaddy left...

neck on the guillotine!
oh but i have drank
to the brain-drain
body numbing
stages of youth's exploits...
famously
Edinburgh's snakebite:

half a cider, half a lagger
topped with blackcurrant
concentrate...

what?! not lagger?
what then... lager,
i.e. lay-ger?
          digger not dye-ger
of diger?
           no via
no why as to why:
        it's dein-ger
for danger
  and hop-hop for
the dagger of Brutus?

et tu: tutti ******* frutti...
hop-hop:
Easter bunny softy,
as i...
               et tu:
as an epitaph with
no grave...

         and however
many maxims...
said puppet in
the fiddly tongue-tied
aspect of death's
philosopher stone:
the Hindu wild-eyed
traffic of reincarnation...

epitaph contra
            maxims:
life's load
   and a foot dent
on the earth like:
the one that they won't
take a photograph
of: as they did
of the one on the moon...

pointless going
to Mars...
not taking random
earth objects
to the moon...
  to see:
funny-whacky
gravity do don't:
sample some
clock-ticking
on the father
to the daughters of
the tides,
the rains...
   and all:
   and they minded
the egoist...
while they shoved
the whole universe
in their minds with
cthulhu receptors:

             and...
well... it wasn't exactly
1990s television static...
or... what the sight
of Belzeebub looks like...

the whole lagger
not lager "debate"?
i don't even want to bring
diacritical marks into
this...
         and i won't!

first prize: silver sputnik
of brunswick...

               now all i'm missing
is a banjo... and a toothpick...
as ever this medium:

concentrates upon the motto:

          sequor lepus albus.

based on a you-tube video: milo yiannopoulos vs. hysterical feminists; 1 17 2016.

i've never hard long relationships,
the last one i had was a long long time ago,
she said: i enjoy pain -
maybe - but i did also:
i unsheathed my ***** and put on
a c-ring on my helmet:
yes, circumcision does ease
the florals of afro lips
              and you find the cut off skin
in the ******* all the more appealing
all the more necessary to fight for,
oh wait: or so you thought.
hijab blah blah: take away from man
and we're constantly in feminine mourning:
akin to Darwinism's motto:
     there's a reason for everything; everything!
and there is! that's the universal suggestion,
adapt, create a reason for such adaptation -
god in mind (without prayer and laments
at funerals or judges' commentary) -
        ha ha how about we make Poles the
scapegoats, ******?
                well: now i really feel special,
are we supposed to say: yes good lord,
aye aye sir, kiss the ******* of Brooklyn
queens?
                 but you know what's funny...
bird songs...
             birds have an aesthete -
sure, they **** me off when spring comes
and the window is open and it
starts to feel like Africa at noon (i admire
the colonial powers of England:
how did they manage all this ****** heat?!) -
i'd spend a day there and then say:
**** it, get me back to the Scandinavian
refrigerator, can't stand this, ******, heat!
look at me: piglet albino!
                some say white some say
black, some say auburn some say chocolate
some say emerald, some say copper,
  some say pink, some say piglet -
some say 'you squinting, or something?'
try: white boy does a Buddha on marijuana -
people think Buddha is ******...
****** racists...
     one Czech who travelled to Mongolia
told me a secret: the Mongolians don't like
marijuana -
                    the Czech? met him at U.C.L.,
called Jacob - oh sure, grand guy,
                     so if you suddenly interpret
Buddha as ******, get serious:
      look looky at the squint -
then on the page the cipher: renmimbi
and 100 yen -
                        tugged by a ******* yack.
****** complex but then in Latin
simplicity:
                      chow mein -
or chewed a rubber tire and hence came
locomotion: a jaw in a pickle jar,
at every cannibalistic gathering of connoisseurs;
burying my great-grandmother i was
attacked for my expression of guilt:
when the priest started his litany i started
laughing... laughing a funeral, ha!
but it's this you-tube (hyphenation does not
exist in logos - anti plural, hmm:
or to use shorthand off words, i.e. images
to convey less wording and optical adventure
on the sly: hyphen! here boy! tear these
superstitions apart: like in the medieval
period charms and spells and Merlin,
so too the Mc and the i-) -
but enough about the funeral, that video i
referenced first:
                   a throng of crows sounds more
beautiful than humanity talking over each other...
it just hit me! like a bulldozer -
      we are actually so divergent from a unifying
causality, having conquered all natural
predatory forces, that when we're actually
accountable for being collected and told to
say freely what we want, we sound so
****** disgusting - i listened to this video
until i heard that a 10 second silence was required...
        the same we give to those who passed
in war: that's the difference between Western
Europe and Eastern Europe:
the division lies with the idea of remembering:
western europe has the first world war covered,
eastern europe has the second world war covered -
hence the ****** poppy parade;
       and how could i completely integrate into
such a society? what, be fake? relinquish my
bilingual ontology and hollow out, ethnically
cleanse myself? sure, i speak the tongue:
but i treat English as rooted in all things Germanic,
given my baptismal name: Conrad - hell, what
could possibly go wrong.
          i, will, not, assimilate, into, this, *******,
culture, like, some, ******.
                end off!
it would mean: oh you're be happy here,
but forget the 8 years you spent in Poland and
developed a psyche -
i hate it when people force a soul on people
without the capacity to develop it...
  ******* freak saints with their autistic children:
if the thing in question is unresponsive
         toward developing the mere notion of a soul /
a self: why does the church implement this
****** sin against abortion? if i were an agony uncle
i'd tell the girl: think about that scene in
the film Prometheus (2012)...
       i don't get how something that can't even
create the mere idea of a soul actually have a soul...
limited instinct, sure: but a soul?
     hence Santa Clause: or where all innocent
idiots go - provided by Satan's Clause, which in
jurisprudence suggests Disney as the patriarch.
still, with so many eloquent minds about
in history and as in now,
put them together and they sound so ****** ugly:
humanity can create the abundant leaning tower
of Pisa (or let's just call it the ρoμbυs of Pisa) -
we can't recreate a congregation of sparrows' song
nor a lion's roar in a **** way: like grrr -
            what i said above?
we have the power of the atom bomb, and we
decided to champion science, but in the case of
application? we're lazy! we create these sadomasochistic
saints who never bothered to do research into
what might happen - shoot me,
       if we exclude the mere notion of god
and do as Marquis de Sade did and champion nature
(who, by the way, was actually a militant atheist)
        we can't avoid the economic barbarity of nature:
it's inherent cruelty -
                    and this is the modern curse
of outrightly censoring a certain part of human
history as if "it didn't happen".
  it did happen, no wonder i have a plot of land
near Cracow reserved for Jew snow (ashes) -
    it's almost as if to say: because the black plague
didn't happen in the region: here's the holocaust!
      and you'd think this might bring me closer
together with an Egyptian... n'ah.
       as i once said - *oni pyramidy, a my kominy
they the pyramids, we the chimneys.
            maybe the Yiddish evolved in Germany
had something against the Polish Jews?
                            maybe...
who knows...
                 civil wars are known to happen -
maybe that was a subversive version of a civil war,
given that Israel didn't exist, you could have
the Jews of Manhattan ******* at the Moscow
Jews and it all became expressed in Poland...
         they did have a saying, those Polish Jews
back when the money was there -
   nasze kamienice, wasze ulice
(our houses, your streets) -
            as my grandfather used to say:
they fought the war with the rifles bent,
shooting into the sky or into their foreheads
like any Jehovah's witness stance to war was deemed
appropriate to join the cult.
         now i can say, kinda proudly,
sure, your houses our streets -
                           nasze szubienice (our gallows):
or was the free Palestine movement slowly
dying?                  all i know that by the time
we reach 2099 - things will look drastically anti
1999 with that party culture -
      someone just decided to cut off the *******
of a great poker player - America is these days
castrato - Castrato America! Castrato America!
they blame immigration, i blame them
bribing "saint" John Paul II for ******* displacing
me...
            i lived in a city where there was
more than just football taking place: water-polo
for ****'s sake! my father played it!
             Olympic diversity: not this inbreeding
****** of sport coverage:
television, a.k.a. the box? more like a zoo cell.
             the busy market place where i was born?
just banks, no shops, just banks.
  they tell you **** on the internet isn't real:
then t.v. is desperate,
and no teenager commits suicide from a weak
grammatical membrane to invert naked words
into clothed words: red (noun) etc.
and let me add: where are the editors in this place
and are any necessary? no -
what's troubling to the west / capitalism is how
socialism has resurfaced -
          it's not called social media for nothing -
sure the model is capitalising on opinions and conversation,
but how ugly this socialism now looks;
       my grandfather? he's living in a safety net
of actually having a pension -
                   he retired more than 10 years ago,
way prior to reaching 70...
              this is Poland, the so-called "acid satellite"
states of the Soviets...
    where the **** will your old be with "sir" philip
green and the 0-hours contract?
                                                      nowhere!      
oh i would go back: had i not lived here most of
my life and built a greater capacity for the language
beyond a large majority of natives:
  oh look, here comes the Rotherham Pocahontas.

I once scurried through a jungle of tomes
From the languid turf of hazy hagglers
To the esoteric sphere of cryptic connoisseurs
The jagged rhythm pulsating with a staccato of pebbles
Not a placid clime but a wonky wilderness
Where your eyes rove for honey of rising cadence
Only to decelerate
From an alien territory to a corny scenery
The voyage of discovery must continue...
As sojourners of change


Onuchi Mark © 2010

Have we all become mere automata
guided by the ring of pings and notifs?
The spray of lather from a sea of data
carrying with it wrung celebrity whiffs
have stung us with a certain aphasia...

The written thought was a lifetime ago
long abandoned by the times and all--
where once there was soundness to follow
nonsense amassed like a rising cymbal
whose crash sent reason to the gallows.

The news of the day presents a delectable entree
of a hodgepodge of this, that, and nothing much.
Wherefore we find our tongues compelled to say
something about the aftertaste or to prejudge
as if we were connoisseurs--it must've hid faraway.

Are we perhaps amusing ourselves to death?
I am by no means a Luddite to such a degree,
but I believe we have bombarded and blessed
ourselves a little too much to see...
only time will tell us reason's final breath.

Huddled within boundaries highlighted by the craftier. Stubbornly, yet unwillingly willing, escorted to the connoisseurs of morality. Structured, consistent, but reembodied into randomness, the more the merrier.
Spoiled, unripened, famished and fat.
Pleasant, fresh, fit, chubby and… adolescent.
In the name of manipulation, and its ***** messengers, we honour the catalogued pious. To Venus; the untrue, the shameful, the blasphemous. We serve peace and love, abandon the lies of Gods, join your cherished sisters below.

I did not know that poetry has rules.
‘Tis not a craft for ordinary fools.
Those, that form and meter never master,
Are ever doomed; they are the poetasters.
As opera singers, out of tune, do make
Discerning listeners do a double-take,
And chefs, who sprinkle salt instead of sweet,
Serve meals that connoisseurs would never eat;
A writer with a wretched poet’s curse
Will never craft a great Heroic Verse.

So as I count my syllables and feet,
And wonder if my metaphors will meet,
I pray that hypermetrics are okay,
(For I have used a few of them today,)
I’ll leave the verdict, reader, up to you,
Affirm that to my mission, I’ve been true,
Or if the ending to my verse bathetic
Christen me a poet most pathetic.
Heroic Lines in Couplets, I intended;
Judge me, reader, now this verse has ended.

Phil Lindsey 12/24/15

Why is it that drinkers of wine

All fancy themselves connoisseurs;

As they sniff, swirl, sip and spit-

They’re all Robert Parkers I’m sure.


They talk about bouquet and fragrance,

hints of chocolate they find in the wine.

I sip on the wine and I’m puzzled

as I never find chocolate in mine.



My brother’s a beer connoisseur

Pour ten different beers in good light.

Though he may drink them all to be sure,

He distinguishes each upon sight



“There are different shadings of gold

and some give you more head than others.”

-Who would ever imagine that beer

would have something in common with lovers.



So go have your new Beaujolais

You Francophile drinkers of wine

I’m sure Orson Welles would have told you

They’re selling it way before time.



Back at the bar named McCullagh’s

They’re playing pool in the back room

Uncle Jimmy is schooling some suckers

It happens once in a blue moon.

-from Venice: a tipsy gentleman
bursts into song for his escort girl

If I only could admire your feet, forever,
I would pray to live on
and live on - pray, forever.

     I know I am not the only one.
     So glad to follow this tranquil lot,
     these fine and happy admirers,
     who bow to pay your offertory.

To join this choir,
these humble connoisseurs
who yield to your glory.

     I stumbled, hit the bottom,
     today lost all that I possessed.
     My head, my mind, my soul -
     so incredibly clear now,
     ready to follow, eager to bow
     for the urge of my heart.

To join this song,
sung in eloquent silence,
turning to the mystery of your feet.

     This moment is eternity,
     far away my petty desires.
     It is perfect time, the only time,
     never started, never ends.

If I only could admire your feet, forever,
I would pray to live on
and live on - pray, forever.

     No sound, no sight, no smell, no taste -
     this channel opened in my heart.
     No boat, no lapping waves,
     no misty vapours shining in the night -
     just the clarity of clarity:
     a foothold for us all.

Inspired by Allen Ginsberg’s Love Returned.

Tonight, there will be no merging onto
The wireless info web highway-
She returns, with smiles,
From thousands of miles,
To honor unresolved promise.
No longer anonymous, humming
My love song to someone in particular.

I weave my way across the margins,
Through a web of puddles and pebbles,
As puzzle pieces of sensual treble resonate,
Drizzle amiably down on my burgundy umbrella.

And she evolves, a silent tempest
That swells in the warmth of the night.

Is it the unaffected loyalty,
Or the sweetness of her smell?
The strength of her autonomy,
Or the completeness of our honesty?

As we peel away protective layers,
I hope that we remain,
Two connoisseurs of romance,
Who continue to slow dance.

Staying learned and childlike,
Earnest and mild, like
Students of truth.
From the thoughtful naiveté
Of maturing youth,
I offer my blessings to her.

It’s fitting that she, lovely
As a coveted Viyella,
Seems free of material expectations,
Or ring-around-the-rosy words.

So all that’s left to do-
Make our cozy escape, and find rest
Inside this departing Acela.
Calmed by the self-propelled motion
Of our northbound locomotive,
I consider a future inside fifty-two sunsets,
And finally set my sights upon
A sound, stone bridge.

It’s as though her auburn words,
Along with the acute angles of her smile,
Are anticipating my every beat.

I wonder if she knows that
Her eyes, a mélange of the
Steel blue Merrimack, below
A tall granite overpass, loom
Over these familiar train tracks,
A painted Methuen sunset.

Insomniacs ? give it up.

Early birds ? poetry nerds. Holla .

If you feel me. write a line.

Espresso connoisseurs  take it to the head.

blink back at the cursor.

and fire of a line.

what has our intelligence done for us
other than soften our instinct
slow down our reflex
made us into habitual
connoisseurs of convenience
curators of insta-gratification  
creatures of know it all
without the need
to understand anything
the universe just
a night sky out of reach
just a spattering of stars dot the sky
all the cosmos overhead
and we are too consumed
by the blue screens that feed
the narcissism of our egos
to look up in awe and wonder
to question the arrogance
of our intelligence
to see how little we know
about the things we know
as we have killed the view of heaven
with the artificial light of our pollution
facts blurred with faith
and we ignore all the fiction
that causes so much friction
that we allow our children...
that we force our children...
to ****** other children
boys feeling like men
poisoned by patriotism and pride
in such a rush to die
for the words of freedom
never stopping to question
the definition of the repetition
and redundancy of war
never stopping to question
the repetition
and redundancy of war
never stopping to question
the redundancy
never stopping
the redundancy
the redundancy of war
as we will not question the intelligence
that infects us with
the sovereignty to be exalted
by our own cruelty
how else could we excuse
our history that keeps repeating
keeps its transcripts written
in the death and blood of the innocent
mislead by prejudice and hate
taught by fear and ignorance
all brought to us
by what we call intelligence

why were we given these hearts
this muscle beating below our ribs
what good is it
if only driven
by the intellect of our minds
our self indulgent intelligence
why have hearts at all
if we never stop to listen
listen to the message
of its beating
its pounding on our ribs
if we never stop to accept the wisdom
it sings in ever silent word
words that need no definition
need no ink or blood
written down in a declaration
of its reason to be living
it needs not our intelligence to survive
our intellect to live
it has its own wisdom
the wisdom of love
and in our grand intelligence
we are too blind to see
too deaf to hear
too unwilling to feel the truth
of how useless any intelligence is
without the wisdom of love

if i had an art museum,
it would have a blue roof
and white walls, and
it would be filled with
nothing but mirrors.

one by one,
people would walk in,
expecting to see a dali,
da vinci, or van gogh
along the hallway.

but instead, they would
spend the day becoming
connoisseurs of their own
curves, freckles, and
wavering footsteps.

and i'd sit in a corner
with a notepad in hand
and an unseen smile.
people sometimes forget
that they too are art.

Unknown musicians paying their dues
Grill smoke , multicolored blankets , children
riding seesaws , lollygagging on swings , curing my blues
Laughter and celebration ,the smell of Brunswick
stew and barbecue filling the Sunday air
A fews hours with zero cares , a sweet smile and
auburn hair , a beach towel for two , we gaze into
cobalt sky blue
Searching for angels , faces and Presidents
Feeding the nuthatches , the thrushes and the ravens
We're the hot dog and hamburger mavens , we're the connoisseurs of plum wine , brie , swiss and shortbread biscuit , sweet tea picnic table caramel corn cravings  
Holding each other tight in sleepy , piedmont sunshine
Savoring this memory forever* .

Talk - it's cheap and full of sheep.
Air moving, mouthing, making
words to distract and bamboozle,
meaning is used to confuse you.

Colour - superfluous and intangent.
It divides just as much / as it unifies,
the masses and controls our thoughts,
trick of the light, a tailored emotion.

Taste - individuality in isolation.
Eating. Engulfing, endlessly entropic.
Consumers call connoisseurs canon,
Sordid selfish sense, seldom shared.

A child's mind is an artist's easel,
catchy scenes and characters
make art gallery exhibits,
connoisseurs and critics wonder.

In time, colors fade.
forms of drawing remain,
child crosses the road with easel on breast,
real and surreal co-exist.

Parent, adult and child play in our psyche,
when child loses heart in enjoyment
parent frowns
and the adult acts as conscience..

9th March 2017

Brothers and sisters of ink and blood.
Storytellers, poets, connoisseurs of love.
The downhearted, broken. Betrothed and betrayed.
Lend me your ear, your heart, and your page.

My quill has run dry, but yours still runs free.
My imagination is dim, though you still believe.
I said hello, poetry. Goodbye tainted thoughts.
But it takes more than words to break such locks.

So, write me a sonnet, haiku, or a ballad.
A lymeric, lyric, even elegies are valid.
Deliver your song of keyboard clicks,
Tell of your lover, your pain, politics.

Grant me this wish,
Fulfill this desire.
I am freezing cold,
and your words are on fire.

Affecting inner senses partial to pleasant ,seeking new ways to change  the now neutral palette
Separating  perceptions with even greater lucidity ,unknown to many while delving deeply into others
Fractional feelings while faint help to form strong bonds, temperatures  rising ,possibly burning only to stimulate
Bases are building blocks, solid but receptive to adding on for further employing frameworks forming futures

Acclimation is leading to a  degradation ,instead of frolicking in the flexibility of our  changing taste
Manners and motions becoming redundant , left feeling flippant and unfocused ,never noticing a cause or effect
simple mannerisms becoming so pale , worlds revolving while we get stale ,losing the appreciation in the haste
Basic known as bland ,begging for release to uplift and simply please ,waiting with something new to detect

Attractions don't have to be delusions ,needing to mix our sensations in order to define further conclusions
Variety is the spice of life, but often we block or stand blind, never allowing life to simply function or flow
Becoming connoisseurs or simply following recipes of others ,making adjustments ,trying to be not caught in illusions
Minor matters require sprinkles,simply a subtle hint ,long stewing or tougher cuts more & deeper flavor for a better show

Lifes plot becoming a larger *** ,attracting scents ,sights,temperatures, bounty is ever present if we take the time to realize
Do they say he was savoring the sodium when referring to the "Old salt" is she a jalapeno? while a seductress
Favored reactions gradually being based on past actions ,flavored so with sentiments, or helping hands of others we that may idealize
Pleasures as piquant ,good taste is not without savour , making the way from tasteless, new life's vitality can be brought by a waitress :) R.C.

By: Cedric McClester

When it came to the Southern Wall
The story he told was tall
Cuz’ he would say at least twice a day
That Mexico was gonna pay
Which he now wants taxpayers to do
Finance his wall, but who knew?
What they can’t climb over
They’ll just tunnel on through

He’s talking about restoring order
Down at the Southern border
Where a crisis doesn’t exists
But regardless he’ll still insist
With a false sense of urgency
That it’s a national emergency
When clearly this is the case
It’s appealing only to his base

How quickly they tend to forget
What was supposed to be a Mexican debt
Has now come full bloom
He thinks we should assume
The fiscal responsibility
For a wall that doesn’t have to be
There to keep people out
Whose safety and lives are in doubt

What never dawned
To his base that was conned
No matter how absurd
They believe his every word
As Fox News connoisseurs
They’re the people that he adores
Because ignorance is bliss
It doesn’t matter that they’re all remiss
















Cedric McClester © 2019.  All rights reserved.

I decrease in this winter worship of you
Nights of dark wine
Stain my lip
You had left your blood on my tongue
I tasted it
And had thought to drink more
My desire beyond the fruit  
In the iron  
  
A skin like  
Delicacy  
The nature of my ways
Taken and broken  
The ****** burst  
Dripped to white sheets  
And was counted
  
I would like to feel like white again
Would dwell in that cerebral cloud
For an eternity  
Would walk  
Bare foot placed with serene forward  
Calm  
The grace of youth  
The mercy of not having to  
  
Remember  
Need  
Want  
Know
  
Have any doubt  
About what one touch  
One taste of you again passing  
My connoisseurs lip
Might do to me
  
The Earth collided and cooled  
In the time it took for you to leave me
  
Minutiae  
Details like hot stones
Linger  
When held in my hand  
Warm calm and its effects
  
But the calx
Of anything worthwhile  
Still dries red  
And owns little residual value
By any apothecaries standards  
Worth his salt  
  
You flake away
Fly into the wind
The scatterings a mess
And leaves only a spirits agent  
To show prophetic map
To nowhere sacred
  
Well hidden under etched statuary  
Of dark wings
And angelic gaze veiled and obscured
Rounded mound holds the body of my faith  
  
But the most of me still exists  
Outside of this  
And roams the red droplets  
Eluding to destination  
A map charted on cotton  
So long ago
And far away
That my memory has become a maze
  
A prized labyrinth  
Of memoria
And nocturnal emissions  
  
I so often wake from my dreams  
spent
  
But my virtue does not lay
Within my dreams
She lies at the feet
Of where you once stood
And spread your arms to shadow me

Your arms hover no longer
Your swing does not fly shade
Like swift ghosts
Across my face
While iron lingers on my tongue

I begin to shake with capability
The woman of me slinks back into my soul
And kisses the forehead of my girlhood

There wasn't supposed to be a clock shop there.

Deep inside the lane and away from the bustle
the door quietly opened to the world of time.

World of Time, yes, that was the name of the shop
though it resembled more a curio shop
with the man at the counter as antique
as the time long flown away.

I want a clock to gift to somebody,
said I, amid the chiming and ticking
that if listened to for long, I was sure
would lull even the alert into sleep.

Thanks for stepping in, said the man,
with a hint of smile passing across his face,
nobody cares for time anymore, it's banished,
but for the connoisseurs still enchanted by
the melodious rhyme of swinging pendulum,
a midnight music, half listened in dream.

There's the clock chiming hourly music,
the man pointed, big but worth having,
obviously a misfit in the shrinking space,
but I say, don't compress all into small,
like say, he smiled, love and heart.

He set the music on
and slowly everything melted
from before my eyes...

I was carried home from the pavement
and some days later I returned.

World of Time, an old man recollected,
was wound up long time back.