Weather Advisory: A long one*

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Be not fooled,
by the evening-tide,
be not deceived
by the quietude,
tis not a reprieve
of day before dark.

Be guarded,
for the easy transformation,
a tranquil shedding
of the day's husk,
into the faded light of dusk,
just one of nature's machinations
to delay the inevitable.

Evening-tide,
a colored compilation
of a few mischievous hours,
when sunlight is invaded by
streaks of pink, azure and gold,    
just before the
palette is plunged
into a stainless steel can
of gothic black,
skyied glory rendered into
common house paint.

Evening-tide,
an alleged easy calm
surfeits some souls,
supposed easy passage from  
the day's contusions to
a relaxation from humankind's regulations and rules,
but not for me.

Evening-tide,
when appetites unsated, simmer,
the in between hours when
humans transform themselves,
from day laborers to creatures
desiring, aroused, hungry  
for night time pleasures,
searching with false courage for
boundary lines to sever.

Evening-tide,
it was at evening-tide that
David espied, desired and
stole Bathsheba for his own,
with a King's arrogance
rent a kingdom,
murdered for profit,
birthed an Heir,
a prince, who wrote,
by evening-tide:

I have seen all the works
that are done under the sun; and,
behold, all is vanity
and vexation of spirit.

Evening-tide,
fear closes my throat,
confusion reappears,
a low grade flu infects
deemed persistent, incurable,
revisits, medicine resistant,
my insights, my speech,
to blind and bind  

Am I Gloucester,
blinded, but faculties
possessing vision,
the future to clarify?

No, no, it is to a king,
Lear,
to whom I am
son and cousin,
kith and kin

Sunset visions of
ultimate demise
ours eyes behold,
but plainly put,
at Evening-tide,
our dementia -
a precursor,
a periodic but hostile guest
in the hostel of our memories,
cracks and fractures us,
spirit first, body second.  

We are bound helpless
by a knotted tongue,
slow dying malingerer,
inside a head of ill repute,
unable to locate our knowing,
and every word selected,
a battle galactic, oft lost

Evening-tide,
I am cold,
and the issued command
is bring an umbrella
to warm and cover.  
What an old fool am I,
tis not blanket or a
Bathsheba I seek,
but at Evening-tide,
Babel's nefarious treasury of words
unlocked, for tis closed,                    
the gatekeepers,
drunk and absent,
drunk on absinthe,
and creme de mentia
and I have no key

Evening-tide, prithee,
I beg of thee,
consideration please,
check this hideous amusement,
that makes this
King's speech confused,
odor of smokeless cordite ignited
where the synapses have burnt,
injured, beyond repair
injured, by mine own aging.  

Reverse the diagnosis
of the panel of wordsmiths:
Alas, weep and be comforted...

Evening-tide,
a reverie of colored tears,
downward sloping,
arrive to tingle my tongue,
warming comfort for an *****
willing but unable,
a wounded soldier,
a veteran of poetry,
now prone and pained
beyond repair,
beyond healing,
immunized to the
heat and solder,
drugs and salves,
that heretofore
might have closed
the cracks of rack and ruin

Evening-tide,
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and
all the king's men couldn't
put Humpty together again^

Evening-tide,
my hair, the color of old age.
Irony, my skin yet smooth,
unwrinkled, not in need of the
toxins that are employed
to fill crevasses on
the outer banks of age of comedy

Alas, the toxins natural from within
have seeped from their
latent resting place and have
contaminated the groundwater
that lubricated my mind,  
from siege engines poured,
a contamination of
mine own making.  
After a life long battle,
my Jericho walls have fallen.

Lear and I faint recall the love
of our beloved Cordelia,
but try as we might
her name escapes our grasp,
******* by bite of aging's asp.

We grow drunk by night
on a drink not of choice,
unhappy fury,
the residue within
the imprisoned poison
of our polluted tears,
that come only after our
misspoken and misshapen
guttural croaks
of our Eveningtide prayers
are both
unintelligible and unrequited

written two years ago and a bit, but suits still....

Weather Advisory: A long poem pouring ahead

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Be not fooled,
by the evening-tide,
be not deceived
by the quietude,
tis not a reprieve
of day before dark.

Be guarded,
for the easy transformation,
a tranquil shedding
of the day's husk,
into the faded light of dusk,
just one of nature's machinations
to delay the inevitable.

Evening-tide,
a colored compilation
of a few mischievous hours,
when sunlight is invaded by
streaks of pink, azure and gold,    
just before the
palette is plunged
into a stainless steel can
of gothic black,
skyied glory rendered into
common house paint.

Evening-tide,
an alleged easy calm
surfeits some souls,
supposed easy passage from  
the day's contusions to
a relaxation from humankind's regulations and rules,
but not for me.

Evening-tide,
when appetites unsated, simmer,
the in between hours when
humans transform themselves,
from day laborers to creatures
desiring, aroused, hungry  
for night time pleasures,
searching with false courage for
boundary lines to sever.

Evening-tide,
it was at evening-tide that
David espied, desired and
stole Bathsheba for his own,
with a King's arrogance
rent a kingdom,
murdered for profit,
birthed an Heir,
a prince, who wrote,
by evening-tide:

I have seen all the works
that are done under the sun; and,
behold, all is vanity
and vexation of spirit.

Evening-tide,
fear closes my throat,
confusion reappears,
a low grade flu infects
deemed persistent, incurable,
revisits, medicine resistant,
my insights, my speech,
to blind and bind  

Am I Gloucester,
blinded, but faculties
possessing vision,
the future to clarify?

No, no, it is to a king,
Lear,
to whom I am
son and cousin,
kith and kin

Sunset visions of
ultimate demise
ours eyes behold,
but plainly put,
at Evening-tide,
our dementia -
a precursor,
a periodic but hostile guest
in the hostel of our memories,
cracks and fractures us,
spirit first, body second.  

We are bound helpless
by a knotted tongue,
slow dying malingerer,
inside a head of ill repute,
unable to locate our knowing,
and every word selected,
a battle galactic, oft lost

Evening-tide,
I am cold,
and the issued command
is bring an umbrella
to warm and cover.  
What an old fool am I,
tis not blanket or a
Bathsheba I seek,
but at Evening-tide,
Babel's nefarious treasury of words
unlocked, for tis closed,                    
the gatekeepers,
drunk and absent,
drunk on absinthe,
and creme de mentia
and I have no key

Evening-tide, prithee,
I beg of thee,
consideration please,
check this hideous amusement,
that makes this
King's speech confused,
odor of smokeless cordite ignited
where the synapses have burnt,
injured, beyond repair
injured, by mine own aging.  

Reverse the diagnosis
of the panel of wordsmiths:
Alas, weep and be comforted...

Evening-tide,
a reverie of colored tears,
downward sloping,
arrive to tingle my tongue,
warming comfort for an *****
willing but unable,
a wounded soldier,
a veteran of poetry,
now prone and pained
beyond repair,
beyond healing,
immunized to the
heat and solder,
drugs and salves,
that heretofore
might have closed
the cracks of rack and ruin

Evening-tide,
Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.
All the king's horses and
all the king's men couldn't
put Humpty together again^

Evening-tide,
my hair, the color of old age.
Irony, my skin yet smooth,
unwrinkled, not in need of the
toxins that are employed
to fill crevasses on
the outer banks of age of comedy

Alas, the toxins natural from within
have seeped from their
latent resting place and have
contaminated the groundwater
that lubricated my mind,  
from siege engines poured,
a contamination of
mine own making.  
After a life long battle,
my Jericho walls have fallen.

Lear and I faint recall the love
of our beloved Cordelia,
but try as we might
her name escapes our grasp,
******* by bite of aging's asp.

We grow drunk by night
on a drink not of choice,
unhappy fury,
the residue within
the imprisoned poison
of our polluted tears,
that come only after our
misspoken and misshapen
guttural croaks
of our Eveningtide prayers
are both
unintelligible and unrequited

I pried open my subconscious mind
I simply couldn't function outside
I felt like a green alien that everyone avoided
And the government spied on
In hopes of catching me before I did anything distorted.

A few years back I popped this recreational pill that promised unending happiness for a night, but instead it brought me back to the experiences that  shaped me into who I am
The memories that are the very sources of my deep disturbance.

That was the beginning of my journey into my subconscious mind
It seems to me that my deep inward explorations have only brought on more pain and suffering
Because I realized what jerks my parents are.
I saw them attempt to change many times.
They always failed.
I got sick with the idea that I would never be able to escape this psychological torment.
And yet I journeyed even deeper into my mind.

In a visual well
I cracked open my skull
And all of these parasites scrambled forth in thousands
How long had they lived in there?
I found ghosts and I found demons
I found little people who claimed to be heathens
I found drought
I found evil
I found a daredevil who had no concept of death
But even deeper yet,
I found a single girl
Needing love, needing rest
A girl who tried in everything to do her best
And at times rebelled to get the attention she needed
But most of her acts for attention got her beat.
I few knocks to the noggin will surely do
So the terror-some memories become few.

Now I'm just focusing on healing these visceral contusions
Because I refuse to fail at change
This may take years,
This may take my whole entire life
But I will see positive continuous change all through my days
And maybe that will settle my internal craze
All through life I promise to do good through every phase.
I couldn't live with myself any other way.

Everywhere I go I hang my home on the wall
You can’t really see it but I know it’s there
It could be framed by red, blue or maybe white
But what I know to be necessary is not about how you care

A smokey virus of tangible helplessness
Follows a long period of being in the know
It may take a week or possibly an additional day
Then I will know what direction to blow

The ditch continues in the alley behind the latest
So many have flooded it with aspiration
I don’t recognize the latest color
But I know the sound from a long ago consideration

You can’t imagine what it is that a day will bring
Unless you you’ve lived long enough to turn to experience
In the fear of repeating what was abandoned long ago
You think maybe it’s a search that ended with your last romance

Even though I always thought it would be the perfect scenario
An adult situation is really just tick tock watch the clock
I could try it out just to see what happens while I pleasure someone
But pride can’t live like that so that’s not a door where I’ll knock

Sometimes I walk backwards into the bathroom because it makes me smile
Or maybe argue with someone over who was at the window first
You can’t really know what makes a man happy any more than a woman
What seems simple is in fact a front for a death row march into a used curse

If I make you wait long enough for you to marry another man would you do it?
Would you wait that long and tell him you love him but in fact see my face?
You may have to do it because one day I may not even recognize who you are
When the final word of approval evaporates then the flowers will die in the vase

My country does not believe in equality.
It buys excuses for elitism and misogyny.
It covers up its greed and its brutality
And makes up ugly labels for decency.

My country sings its songs about freedom
But often denies it to those who need some.
It celebrates our heritage with beer and ***
And marches to the beat of a fascist drum.

My country was founded by nice words
Some of the finest man has ever heard.
Then shows the intelligence of a cattle herd;
And the social conscience of rotted bean curd.

My country labors under some illusions
That contribute to a national delusion
That fame will ultimately cure all contusions
And eradicate the effects of collusion.

My country thinks pretty people are sacrosanct
So, they let the beautiful load up their piggy bank.
We see reverence for the most egregious crank,
And have many of our countrymen to thank.

My country isn’t very good at followup.
It adopted the behavior of an untrained pup.
As long as it has its favorite pablum to sup
It will drink any poison that’s in their cup.

My country is this way, has been for too long
And if you disagree with the words of my song
Write your own treatise to try to prove me wrong.
For now I will keep on banging this protest gong.

if we were to assign emotions to colors -
passion would be where magenta and orange kiss the horizon at sunset,
joy would be the yellow of my socks every easter sunday that i can remember,
and melancholy would be just another shade of blue.

i told him,
i am not done with you yet.
three weeks post breakup,
we shouldn't feel as unfinished as we do.
like, in the ridiculously complicated narrative of he and i,
the author got up one day,
scribbled a quick ending,
and then set the novel on fire.

i read an article in an obscure magazine
about Shelley Jackson,
an artist
who got thousands of people
to tattoo a singular word
from a story onto themselves,
and then sent them back to their scattered existences.

maybe that is what this is,
another scattered story.
another vaporized narrative.

i can feel it in the air,
but not pull the phrases together.
it's like trying to hold onto smoke.
our story slips through my fingers and gets in my eyes.

if we were to assign emotions to colors -
my ribcage would look like a Jackson *******.
my head would be a paintball arena.

i am so full of indigos,
and mustards,
and crimsons,
that Van Gogh, himself, would dip into my palette
and claim to have never seen such beautiful sadness before.

i don't know if it hurts because it still matters,
or if it matters that it still hurts.

i feel the frenzied ache of creation in my gut.
i am not a painter,
but my mirror is showing me
the immaculate collection of brushstrokes
i have become.

a few weeks ago,
i was approached by an artist who offered to paint my bruises.
to collect my contusions with watercolors.

what a beautiful intention,
to immortalize the growing pains,
memorialize the bumps along the way,
to make something permanent
of these perpetual transitions.

if we were to assign emotions to colors -
my pride would be gold-plated and rusting from use, like my grandfather's watch,
courage would be the pure green of every bud that has dared to grow through concrete,
and love?
love would be prismatic,
like spilled oil on asphalt.

a rainbow one moment,
vanished the next.

"Buried in the Sand" by Terry O’Leary

A beggar clump adorns a dump, his pencil box in hand -
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned.

He’s fallen down in Shantytown, his knees too weak to stand,
With no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.

The Bowery blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
And Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

"A Rebuttal" by Marshalg**

So Hood lied low, despite the show ensueing without help,
One would have thought a British sort would spring forth with a yelp!

Would spring ***** to help deflect contusions which occurred
When beggar Clump adorned the dump confusing all deferred.

Whilst sister Ant, attired in scant, ran forth on spindly legs
And brother Frog with shaggy dog said "****" and drank the dregs.

It all became too much, as such, a meelee did ensue,
So all called HALT and as one did BOLT...to the local for a brew!

Phew...that was FUN & hard work!
M.

ya well
it's fiery hell
not living well
right at home
buried bones
torture
de joured
some fine imaginings
of the most clever
scorns

right on
it serves me swells
all i need is here well
mountains move
uncovered veils
holy grails
deep wells
forever winds
love captions
hearts sing
fuller sails

what you see
the delusions
contusions
devastating confusions
freely came
and leave their
tracement as scape sets
behind and glorious
stories

are just as free
no longer welcomed
as the lie
as aberrance
malevolent bees
upsettings trees
have left already

with refreshments
and mints being roses
the windy holy
way of love
as breezes
readily come
as kisses
to hearts toes and noses

cheaper illusions
have other preferences here
then just as free
readily go

we all love in our own way, in the way we can. sometimes that love is loud and bright and WOW WOW WOW. but sometimes its not. its quiet like making that drive. like looking me straight in the eyes. like giving you the left earbud. like mwah mwah let me kiss your neck. and on the days i don’t feel like sinking, i know i should love you better. like stop running. stop your tears. stop your lies. sometimes it'll tell its own lies, the best lies you've ever heard. it loves like contusions and strained voices. like bahama mama blues and my vampire eyes. love like the first time I saw you cry. like a Sunday afternoon, Tuesday night, or Friday morning. love like we have the answers. or maybe we don’t. i mean an unconventional love is better than no love at all.

By my standards,
he is a ten.

I'm sure you're
laughing right now--
"ooohhhh, she think's
he's a TEN"--
but that's not
what I mean.

What I am trying to say is that,
on a scale from one to ten,
one being indicative of
experiencing little to no pain
and ten being indicative of
experiencing a pain whose presence
is capable of knocking the wind
straight out of me--
a pain that I do not
dare to fathom
for fear of prolonging it--
he was a hurricane.

My hurricane.

The eye of the storm,
his aloof ignorance
paralleled against the
violently cyclonic nature
of this heartache--
cacophonic in its impact
and blasphemous in
every context of the word
Love.

I don't think
getting caught in the rain
has ever hurt quite this much.

Yet,
I surrender to this hurt
the way the sea surrenders
to the Almighty Poseidon;
the way my feet surrender
to the rocks
tied round my ankles;
the way my soul surrenders
to its contusions
(so is a casualty
of a broken heart).

Still,
I imagine what it would be
like to kiss him
when I wake up in
the middle of the night,
lucid dreaming and
shivering against the bed sheets
(must be hypothermia,
I think;
the coldness of his
absence settling among the
loneliest parts of me).

I try to remind myself
that he was never
any happy ending of mine--
just an ending.
And something tells me
kissing him would feel
a little less
like thimbles
and a little more
like sewing needles.

After all,
he always did have
a way of silencing me,
my lips stitched together
into the most morbid
of embroideries.

Because god forbid
you dare question
a tempest--
even when he has
left you
to stew in your
own ruin--
for fear of provoking
his stormy wrath.

Part of me has
always been
afraid of him,
you know.  
Looking back now,
that should have been
my first indication
that I had been entertaining
an abusive relationship.

No,
he never laid a hand
on me.

But
I was terrified that
there would come a day
when he would eventually snap.

I can envision it--
ribs crack like lightning;
bruises congealing beneath
my eyes like grape jelly;
fingerprints seared
across my cheek;
my head held underwater
until I've stopped
breathing altogether.

Of course, there exists
more than one way
to destroy a person,
though he will claim
that he has done nothing
to wrong me.

Surely,
he would tell me that
I am just reading
too much into things.

S'pose it's your turn then,
darling.

Trace the brailed veins
of my shattered heart,
and feel all the ways
you have broken me so.

Let your eyes flit
across the expanse
of these water-logged stanzas--
and tell me,
does the poetry not speak
for itself?

Or does my drowning not suffice?

Broken heartbeats feel like broken bones.
This soul stripped bare, so naked and alone.
High hopes turned into severed ropes...
Severed ties, bad excuses, and alibis.
Massive contusions and mass confusion...
You're a walking weapon of mass destruction...
A master of illusion.
Intrusion.
Delusion.
Deception.

And so this soul stripped bare,
so naked and alone still sleeps solo.

And for now, I'm ok with that.

Because sometimes broken heartbeats feel like broken bones.

You say freedom of speech
But not for me as things be
I breath heavy with scenes
See things as a minority

As a young Latino male
I see lots of myself in jail
Traps are set and on sell
Equal blood color is spilled

Martial law across the hall
Racial wars coming along
Rest in peace to Trayvon
Another young man gone

Contributions are all illusions
Spreading through confusion
Relations between contusions
Love for those who abuse them

One of my best friends is black
One of my best friends is white
One of my friends is masculine
One of my friends is feminine
One of which was a criminal
One of which was a clinical
Both of my friends are humans
Finding out life is so typical  

Two of my jewels were blue
Two of my girls shared hue
Two of my schools loved me
Two of my enemies cut me
Two of my mothers cried
Two of my brothers died
Both of which had big futures
Before hate took their lives

Three of my peers are my equal
Three of my peers make new evil
Three of my tears stained the paper
Three of my years were endangered
Three of my hearts broke in time
Three of my guardians declined
All three rose up against me
And began to belittle my mind

Replies depend on the victims
And the symptoms felt in them
To fight back or stop living
To keep going or be bed ridden

Is the valley to deep to dip in
Are the times increasing division
Humans beings have hurt vision
Blind to a philosophy holistic

The clocks are going tic tic
I've been called a young ****
My friends ancestry exist
My friends ignorance is bliss

He holds onto passive racism
He doesn't notice the shifting
He says, "I have black friends
But... ," Just to avoid friction

So you say freedoms of speech
But you don't really know me
As a majority with a minority
How can you experience things
That your culture brought to me
Left my people ***** and hurting
And I'm not from genes of slavery

So think before you speak.

Ya know .....

I'm down with … Problem Solvers … !!!
Not those … who use … Revolvers … !!!!!

By this I mean …. " Evolvers " … !!!!!

"Logical" … Thinkers … !!!
who … Don't Wear … BLINKERS … !!!

"Evolved" … like … " Incas " … !!!  
who … "Peruse" … The View …
"From" …. "Machupicchu" … hues …
to blues now seen ….
in …. " New Age " …. crews …. !!!!!

NOT SO … Evolved … !!!!!

NOPE …. would seem …. NOT …. !!!!!!!

"Problems" …. up top ….
"Evolution" …. dropped ….
for …. " Dropping Bombs " ….  !!!

"Inhumane" …. wrongs ….
as wrongs ……. move on …….
and become … " More Strong " … !!!!!

I Evolve … to belong …
where wrongs … " ABSCOND " … !!!!!
because what …. " Evolves " ….
are thoughts that … " Revolve " …
On ….. " Cerebral Planes " ….

Do you get what i'm … saying … ?!?

Higher levels of … " Being "
where there is … " No Ceiling "

A place where … " Believing "
that ….. " HIGHER ACHIEVING "
is something …. " ALL PEOPLE "
are seeing ….. Each Evening ….. !!!!!

and … Each Day … " Receiving "
"Within" … " ALL THEIR " … Teachings … !!!!!

"Darwinism" ….. Removed ….. !!!
and ….. " Eugenics " ….. Too ….. !!!!!

Instead …. STRONGER Movements …. !!!!!
are things I be …. " Choosing " ….
to be a ….. " Good Student " …..  !!!
who … " Evolves " …
with … MORE … " Prudence "
than … " Ignorant " … Tutors … !!!!!!

See … Evolution of … " words "
I put into …… " VERSE "
"Evolve' … where things … " Work "
Even if … they may … " HURT " … !!!!!

because of their … " Clarity "
Revolving round … " REALITY "

Reality …… where …… " VANITY "
Denies … so many ….. " CHARITY "

The type … where people
.…… RISE ABOVE …….  
These acts of … "Evil" …
and show …. " LOVE " …. !!!!!

Instead of …. All This ….

" Self-absorbed " …. stuff …. !!!

It's clear some have … " evolved "
just far … enough …
for them to …. " Absolve "
their acts of …. " LUST " …. !!!!!

LUST … for … Each Other …
ahead of their … Mothers … !!?!!

LUST … for … " Destruction " … !!!!!
of our …. Fellow Brothers ….
when we … NEED … " Constructions "
that … BUILD …and DON"T … "smother"

A way to …. " AGREE " ….
and … EVOLVE to be …

……. " FREE " ……. !!!!!

and find ……. " UNITY "
that bypasses … hatred …
in … Vapid Type Racists … !!!
with … " **** Type Beliefs " … !!!!

They NOW … have … " Evolved "
"Beyond" … their … White Sheets

It seems that …. Their Offspring
Now … " RUN " … companies … ?!?

where  colours are … " Mixed "
"Dissolving" … to … "FIT" …
in with …. " These Racists " …. !!!!!

NO ….
"Evolving" …. THERE …. !!!

because most … are … " Scared " … !!!!!
to evolve …. to that …. place ….
where they're … NOT AFRAID … !!!!!

to fear …. " Retributions "
for YES …. " Contributing "
to such …. " Revolutions "
that are …. " Evolutions "
to finding …. " SOLUTIONS "
that … INSPIRE … " Movements "

for …. " EQUALITY CALLS "
that … Benefit …… ALL …… !!!!!!

The Rich … and … The Poor
cos' … that gap … FOR SURE …

" Evolves " … to … Ensure …  
That …. We Can't …. " IGNORE "
These things ….. " ANYMORE " ….. !!!!!!

"Dissolving" …. The Void ….
where we have … " Unemployed "
Might Help … some … " Evolve "
from …. trying to …. " ROB " …. !!!

But that …. " Evolution " ….
is … Needed … " In Boardrooms "  

Don't get it … " Confused " … ???
to …. " EVOLVE " ….

THEY NEED …. TOO …. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Greed Driven" …. Villains …. !!!!!
who clearly … Aren't … " Pilgrims "
who live by a …. " Faith " ….
that … FEEDS … " Empty Plates "

They'd say that … "They Do !"
but … is that … " The Truth "

I don't have an answer ….  ?!?
That Question's … for … YOU … !?!

Those now …. " EVOLVED "
to think past … "Themselves"

who … do not … INVOLVE … !!!
"Pursuit" … of … Mass Wealth …
as part of the …. " Well " ….
…….. where their ………  
" BETTERMENT "  … Dwells … !!!!!

Knowledge of …. " Self "
that … " Uplifts " … The Mental

A form of …. " Self Help "
that … TRULY … is … CENTRAL
to …. " Human Infusion " ….
of what should be … loosened … !!!

Our hold of …. " Confusion "
that leads to …. " Contusions "
Persecutions …. " Exclusions "
and movements so … " GRUESOME "
that they seem …. " INHUMAN " …. !!!!!!!

The words i'm … NOW … Choosing
DO NOT FEED …. illusions …. !!! ….

" Upliftments' "…. BRUISING …. !!!
has left … MANY … Losing …

A hope for …. " Inclusion "
and some …. " Distribution "
of more than … Sweet Talk ...
from tongues shaped like … FORKS … !!!!!
that … KEEP … Fuelling Wars … !!!!!!

So ….
Here's My …. " Conclusion "

It's time for … " SOLUTIONS "
that … STOP … " Destitution "
and REMOVE … what's polluting …
Humanities' …. movements ….
towards some …. " Improvements "

where LESS … are … "colluding"
to seeing … MORE SHOOTINGS … ?!?!?

INSTEAD ….. " Resolutions "
that … Provide … " Solutions "
that … REJECT … Revolvers …
…… " Suicide Bombers " …… !!!!!!!!

and … Moods that are … " Sombre "

May see … " Problem Solvers "

be the ones who we choose …..

to … INSPIRE …

….. " Evolvers " …..

written in her voice...

When did sixteen
lose its sheen,
become so complicated?

when did the monsoon season
of transposition from girl to woman
begin, and when does it end?

when can I make my electrons
do their magic at my bidding,
like making my mum,
see me as I see myself?

don't know the answers,
don't know what made this girl think,
these equations had solutions

and when did sixteen,
become so complicated?

do I ask too much to make this straight,
I am one of just a billion teen girls
            with the same name,
knowing this doesn't help me
solve my mysteries unique, makes it somewhat worse,
how, was being sixteen,
young, but not never old enough
always a balloon misdirection, free floating, so confusing?

when I close my eyes
hear my private poetry ghost
insisting, listening to what I can't confess, even
to my diary, so I tell an
electronic stranger

(which is crazy, dangerous)

leaves me somehow relieved,
it seems impossible but he reads me,
even sees me, in my words
sees, and just, listens with every-word-attention

now he sees me as I want to be seen,
and I wonder, is he for real,
touchable, human skin and bone?

living in my skyscraper city,
I am surrounded,
pegged in a place where
sadly, where there is no dusk,
the lights too bright and 24 on,
and pressures of all kinds..make me
desire simple low lights,
that have quiet country lanes...with clears signs, known destinations

no more life exams please
especially, those that for me, were chose,
please, no goals parentally prescreened,
all, the nice and the mean,
let them meet me with pleasured randomness

so I can decide what seventeen will bring

my poem ghost sees me
far away, in other cities,
where my spirit
may have  lived once before,
in other bodies, other times,
where I heard the walls exclaim,
where once I prayed for sun
instead, brought thunderstorms,
monsoons of a different kind...
even with their knowledge past and forethought,
still I don't understand

when did sixteen,
lose its sheen, rain,
become so complicated?

algebra insufficient,
calculus trajectories,
don't intersect and
the future fortune tellers
seem to have better answers,
ones I like, they,
even tell me questions
didn't know to ask

what am I good at?

when will I be certain of
the difference tween love and  
sixteen emotional contusions that
bruise but don't scar?

when will my body speak,
informing me this trial of
the growing pain is over, done?

all these complications,
none that I chose,
do not patronize,
they are hard,
all I seek is the simplicity,
not the sympathy,
of knowing
when will
come the resolutions?

*when I turn seventeen?

I got a bad feeling about this.
Will I have to take a step back to take a step forward?
It's all so redundant.
I'm losing all sense of control, things are just spiraling down before my very eyes.
Moving out of the darkness, into the shadows of the past.
Trading one dark place for another.
No place to go.
People are fading away.
There are no simple solutions, just mindless delusions.
Lost in my confusions.
My heart is full of invisible contusions.
You can't see, my pain strapped away inside.
Sometimes I wonder, how many times do I lie?
To speak the truth, I have to say I'm a bit shy.
Though your ears I can't penetrate.
Inside, my heart grows cold and full of hate.
It's all in vain.
I've been lost in this bloodstain.
I just can't get over it.
That loss of life inside me.
This pain, that you refuse to see.
Maybe I'm just acidic, and each day this darkness grows unhindered,
a poison of bitterness and sorrow.
I just can't continue to trust that there is always tomorrow.
I'm vexed and forgotten, left here sullen and rotten.
I'm absolutely terrified that I'm losing myself and this other entity is taking control,
I'm no longer whole.
My soul is no longer my soul.
All I need is you to help me, but in reality you're no longer there.
It's just not fair.
This bleeding heart was mine to share.
But you are no longer there.
Stitch it up in solemn silence.
Alone, I'll find my peace of mind.
Alone, I may grow unkind...
All by myself to myself to find.
I just can't bare to leave you behind.

handrail, wall, ceiling, stair
tumbled down the whole flight
by mistaking the door
for the staircase as the door
for the bathroom
as doom loomed near
nothing had been more clear
I've been falling down stairs
my whole life
bruising, aquiring contusions,
bleeding, clotting, bones snapping,
regrowing,
I'll be okay, I'll be okay
if I can just manage to crawl
back up to the party
to the... party
to the...
to...


**blackout

"a canvas, which reflects
sunlight in rays unseen
before submitting itself to a life of color"

Razelle McCarrick
--------------------------------------------------
From­ memory she painted me,
Tho we had never met.
She painted my biography
On an easel of paper, brushes of pencil,
Exposed, bereft, inexorably delighted
At being dissolved in words that were not mine.

My annotated notes herein ascribed
To her revelations of my secreted stories,
Were written as I gazed upon the multi-blues of
California's beaches, neckline decorated with
Strands of white pearled beaches
Opposite contusions, bruises of
Orange terra cotta roofs, a burnt coral,
Colors that demanded attention, preservation,
Salutations, all hail the penetrating gaze of
Razelle, betrayer and savior.

His moniker was a borrowed line,
Still crazy after all these years,
How could this unknown girl of twenty two
Clear capture, undress me in the poetry of her canvas,
The instant and constant self-examination,
The rapture when transcending the fears
Instilled from birth of how I ought to be,
Which sixty two years on, the wrestling never ends.

Color me flesh ****,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting for another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was prior writ.

N.M.L.

--------------------------------------------------­-----

Razelle McCarrick · Sep 21, 2010
Biography of a Man
Someone wrote a biography of a man. Said he liked to write poetry and spend time in nature. But there are many things its readers will never know about. The streams of thought, the analysis, confusion, the Sadness, sprinkles of joy, the Transcension. A strange man he was..sweetly strange, but strangely bitter. At odds with the halves of himself..or perhaps thirds. But who will know? Someone wrote a biography of a man, but didn't say he was crazy. Or that he had a sharp mathematical mind and tried to add up the components of life to find it wasn't an equation in the first place. It was omitted that he was not merely a man, but of some other kind, often missing his home and his people, though he didn't know who they were. They didn't say when he became deaf, that he still played his favorite songs because he could feel them all the same and see them in colors. And no one knew that he refused to write in pen, but pencil only because one day his work would be rubbed away by the sands of time, just like his body. Someone wrote a biography of a man, but there was no account of what he did on a beautiful day, like the time he sat by a stream pondering his life and rewrote the biography of a man.

i tried forgetting you so hard
my liver's collapsing
& i've got these bruises & cuts -
contusions & concussions -
from my aggravation, concentrated
on the wrong people in crowded places
but we all need ventilation.
so i spilled out abuse
on whoever was willing to take it,
combining fists with faces -
call it distraction or entertainment,
whichever way you phrase it,
i won't remember...i was wasted -
i was swimming in liquid sentiments
the backstroke of the blind
as i'm blacking out my mind,
turning off the lights
on the portion of my life
you partially defined.

I wore black and he wore blue;


We were really just a walking bruise.

And so I have lost you, and I have lost you fairly
Yet we gained a piece of each other
The end, those honest hours shared
A glimpse, a touch, a taste, of a temporary reality
A beautiful thing, made more precious by impermanence

Yet, something that we felt, since that first time
How can it be explained,
Chemistry paints too primitive a picture
To occupy, so much of the other,
When circumstance and situation should not have allowed

Existing on borrowed time,
As we found new ways to give time contusions
Almost always effortless despite obstacles, and stretched ethics
All or nothing, is everything anyone deserves
In our all, we may have found everything

Nothing is fairer, than something

Take your pills, go to therapy,
Take your pills. go to therapy
“get better”
Take your pills, go to therapy,
Tell yourself you’re getting better

“You’re getting sick again ariana, we will raise your dose”

Take your pills, go to therapy

“Am i getting any better, am i healthier? do i look sick?”

Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy

“Why are you doing this to yourself Ariana?”

Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy

help
“how do i get the maggot thoughts that crawl into my head and tell me i’m inadequate, trifling?”

“It’s all circumstantial, and that is what we need to mend and patch”

Give me your mental diagnosis-diagnonsense
Go ahead, tell me what you’ve espied when you sat oneself down and perched your virtuoso intellect in my head

“oh yes, you comprehend
you understand
Everything.
You know me deeper than i know my self”

“We are getting somewhere, we are moving forward you are progressing!”

Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy

You must be pleased as punch you’re finally fixing me
dismally i disinform you, i lied

Why you may inquire? Not one can understand ones speculations or thoughts unless they are legitimately situated in my chamber of a lugubrious trench filled with distasteful maggots which leave dolorous contusions-bruises and thoughts that leave me questioning reality, questioning my essence, questioning myself

Take your pills, go to therapy
Take your pills, go to therapy

If i were in deed reviving from the sorrow i would no longer have these god awful scars and bruises

You can’t tell me i am not out of ones tree
when
you
scarcely
know
me  
At times I’m not sure if i even know me____________________­___

A chestnut falls from a chestnut tree. It falls onto the chest or knee of the free.

Please, awaken to the sight for sore eyes. Sounds nice! Beautiful chesty women all around in the night.

Quite the light we got lit for our cigarette. Yet, the Winchester's barrel, bangs a different drum-set.
Best we forget the fright.

Master the art of illusions. Assuming delusions that give birth to contusions.

So, this poem is cheesy, cause Chester the Cheetah thinks so? Do YOU know?

Blow it.

Because of you, everything I touch,
Bleeds and turns to dust
I want to **** you first,
Because a broken blade singes, feels good with a ******

Against my wrist.

Your German tongue, I can't bare
Not a single word without a snare
Your Aryan sly,
Your black gutted soul.

Go away, I say
Go away,

You come as swiftly as you stay,
You bruited, withered man
I tried to burry you in the sand
With the Pacific ocean, we found sacred

Ah, to crush your brittle skull with my fair hands

The empty vessel that lies,
My brother's fears, my mother's tears
My sister's sorrow
Her disposition that fallows

Go away, I say
Go away, you shadow of a man

Your skin is already cankered
Your hair thin and gray
Spitting tobacco out the window
Passing by your old church


Your God you hold so sacred,
Hates what he sees naked.
How ironic,
As you fill your stomach, with gin and tonics


Your only son,  drenched in your malice
His confused identity, at your callus
Your worst fear, your biggest secret
I see what you left behind, in his tender cries

Your drunk is merely a symptom.

My mother's wisdom
Trying to gather strength to circulate the essence
Of her household kingdom,
Yet, destroyed at the presence

You left her, pavement scratched.

Busted blood vessels, continuous contusions
Led to the comfort of capsules
Trying to mend the thrash
Laying in front of her children on the hard, wooden floors

You demon of destruction
With death in your demise,

How your lover's family feels
As you dragged her heals
Into her watery grave
For you, it's not a worry; you think your God will save

Now it is time.
Take your pride,
The evil you hide.
As your golden ticket to hell

Alas, you’re dead
No fragmented memories shrouding my brain
No more drugs, no more pain
FREE, of the demented ways

I am the murderer now