Darling, I'm afraid I've broken the coffee maker again.
Darling, I'm afraid that all the orange bottles are empty again.
Darling, I'm afraid that sometimes walls remind me
of either the ones you threw me against or the ones I put up around my heart
so that no one can love me ever again.

Darling, I'm afraid that I don't see stars in the sky anymore,
just a lot of eyes staring down at me,
scrutinizing me like interstellar councilmen,
knowing about every disgusting thing that I have done
when I thought it was just me and you and the peeling wallpaper.

Darling, I'm afraid that I am woven around your ribcage
like the beads of a rosary
are wrapped around the fingers of a sinner who has sold their soul
to the devil for forgiveness from God
one too many times.

Darling, I'm afraid I have to pause to talk about your fingers.
I am not wrapped around just one, but all of them.
I was hoping to bind you like a book so I could read you a little better,
but I'm afraid I've just entangled myself in a giant mess
and I'm afraid that you're a little too amused by my demise.

Darling, I'm afraid that guns shoot and so do stars,
I'm afraid that wishbones break and so do bones,
and I'm afraid that feathers float and so do bodies.
Darling, I'm afraid that I'm sorry that I cannot fix you,
because I don't think I can even fix myself.

Darling, I'm afraid I'm just
afraid.

- b.b.

King Arthur the great, a man to be noted,
head of the table, of greatness t'is coated,
slayer of dragons, killer of kings,
***** of brats and fellater of things.

After a triumphant skirmish, which Arthur did lead,
it was decided he'd celebrate in his great hall of mead.

One of his councilmen,  being ever so corny,
decided to throw old Arthur an ****,
he rallied his men,
about a hundred and ten,
and proved to Arthur that they were quite *****,

He yanked Arthur's hair,
thrashed his fine heir,
and while in the process, he was not far from bare.

He spread Arthur's *** and shoved in his large diaphragm,
then threw in his huge **** and yelled "Here comes the leviathan!"

He thrusted and pounded then started to moan,
he ****** on his ******* and continued to bone.

The councilman, not satisfied, pulled out his large knife,
his eyes were bloodshot , his **** was his life.

He stared at Arthur's *** crack, it looked rather thin,
he carved it and sliced it then shoved it back in.

He looked into Arthur's eyes and said he wont waste,
he told all his men to **** with such haste.

Not one hole was spared, his nostrils were bleeding,
he turned at the councilman and asked for a beating.

The councilman nodded and with such a strange grin,
put it in Arthur's mouth, t'is no mere sin.

He slapped it, shook it and cried for power,
the gods must have heard him, his men started to cower.

He screamed and yelled as he let out his gravy,
he licked Arthur's eyes and cried "too bad theirs no baby!"

Arthur's eyes turned red, mad with such rage,
he snapped off his **** and thrashed the old sage.

He ripped out his stomach and had it ****** clean,
he shat on the sack and ****** on his spleen.

He stripped off his shirt and threw him on a bed,
then blasted a load, my word he was dead!

he ******* the mans carcass and licked his curved spine,
he exploded with power and yelled "By God it is time!"

And with a snap of his fingers the man turned to dust,
Arthur then cackled "well he earned my trust".

An hour out to sea, by land, and as early as the sun rises, the thumbs hit the road looking for a way into town, out of town.

Gulls speak in vowels,
melodious as wind carries the sounds
under the pier, through nets being cast
to sea. Glimmer in the fisherman's eye,
staring at the waves that crash below.
Erosion is the fear of councilmen and
the faces plastered on billboards,
but nature isn't a mistake. We have only
wrapped ourselves in a blanket we call
chemistry. A beach turned to glass,
we still wouldn't see the ocean clearly,
and we would still ask why the sky is blue.

Driving down roads, ten miles in between
each town. I've never seen so many thumbs out.
In cities, from which I've seen, a ******* is customary. But not here. A thumb is an absolute,
and a blinker on a car pulling to the side is a
flash of compassion. Ocean from side to side, pastel houses scattered on land beside sea shells
and surf shops.

And the hitchhiker walks,
with a backpack,
and one can make out a peace sign,
and long, sun spotted hair. Someone that
knows the land.
Businesses hang "Going Out of Business" signs,
but that is embellished. That is because the pastel
houses only flourish during seasons. For people
who want a taste of a simpler life. Who call out
to an ocean breeze, with hopes of casting away
a stress level that would change a footprint
on sand into a window to the soul. And here I sit with my feet in the sand, tear running down my
cheek, because men do cry, especially when staring out to sea. I've seen shore, but I would
not ask a local what coastal means to them,
I wouldn't understand.
Where I come from, people hold out their hand.
A thumb is a rarity.

Bootleggers on Sunday evening  ,  a little pink house on Kelleytown Road !  Waiting by the cattle gate , taking money  , calling back to the house via radio ! Waving customers through , one by one , driving by the shack without braking once , trunk wide open , in goes the whiskey , slammed shut , out the back gate , and off they went !  Sheriff Donald didn't seem to have a clue , alcohol sales on late Sunday afternoons ? For forty odd years this house became a legend , Councilmen , Deputies and Mayors knew of it's existence ! Cars from distant counties all over the state , flying up dirt roads leaving dust in their wake ! It was surely without doubt , the entire county convinced that the Sheriff drew a months salary on Sunday evenings !

It's the end of the world friends
fire frolics through foiled mead hall
Did we ever see their scheme at all?

Mortars bellow beyond our brigade
Their flight path pushes them to their graves
To me this sounds more of a serenade
As the mighty soldiers fall to their fates..

Mothers and daughters are on the run
Fathers and sons pick up their swords and guns,
Battle cry hence forth they did
And in the distance sounds the nearest village idiot

Screaming "ITS THE END FRIENDS", shall we never forget?

Villains push through our village defense
Only to be pushed back by our mighty offense
Did we win this war while our world burns in flames
Or did God merely betray our game,
The city councilmen hides in fear
Writing condolences as he crys in tears,
With his quilt he writes four endless words,
"It's the end friends" never less never more

Brutes come to take our place
Plead guilty we did, we sealed our fates
As all the townspeople scream out words of dismay
"ITS THE END FRIENDS!!" Fire was our final delay

through tangled weeds and nettles
a home stood, brick and tile
inside the world seems halted;
it’s been lonely for a while

neighbours, though be plenty
and councilmen, neglect–
for deeds unsigned consider
homes in disarray, a wreck

one man, too lonely, passes;
sees the work that must be done
knocks upon the door to find
the story, though there’s none

next door, he asks another man;
who admits forgotten land
for though they border at the seams–
he knows not, name or hand

so in resilient promise, true
he does set about to work
his time, though he’s not precious with
comes high value, unmatched worth

then as the layers he peels back
expose what’s underneath–
blue painted posts, coat hooks hung
and one, too, for a wreath

uncovering a narrative,
though knowing not what’s right
a young sapling on the nature strip
reveals intention, oversight

and this man, in earnest art
though duty lies not his
hands and feet, and one kind heart
made home not, Home again