On the third of June, at a minute past two,
where once was a person, a flower now grew.

Five daisies arranged on a large outdoor stage
in front of a ten-acre pasture of sage.

In a changing room, a lily poses.
At the DMV, rows of roses.

The world was much crueler an hour ago.
I'm glad someone decided to give flowers a go.

This level reach of blue is not my sea;
Here are sweet waters, pretty in the sun,
Whose quiet ripples meet obediently
A marked and measured line, one after one.
This is no sea of mine. that humbly laves
Untroubled sands, spread glittering and warm.
I have a need of wilder, crueler waves;
They sicken of the calm, who knew the storm.

So let a love beat over me again,
Loosing its million desperate breakers wide;
Sudden and terrible to rise and wane;
Roaring the heavens apart; a reckless tide
That casts upon the heart, as it recedes,
Splinters and spars and dripping, salty weeds.

they're the worst, and i mean that literally
imagine this, imagine that
everything that terrifies you, from any age that you've been
from the things that barely ***** you to the things that you are deathly afraid of
under one tent, an old worn down halloween coloured carny tent, filled with broken down rides and fallen apart structures and lit only by the moon
all with one intent, all of them working together to reach one goal
to get you, and have their way with you
and you can't fight back, every time you try to, they just get stronger
so you do the one thing you can do at this point
you run
you run faster then you ever have before, and none of this weird *** dream running where you move slowly when you're trying to run
i mean full out sprinting
you run and try to escape
but there's no way out, the holed purple and orange walls of the tent flap in the wind but when you go to touch them, they fill and turn solid
solid concrete below three inches of dirt, and you can't see anything to climb
you run and try to hide
the lesser terrors might try to help you.
trying to convince you that this place is safe, or to let them lead the others off of your trail
but they never tell the truth, they only do one thing
they help the greater terrors find you
so you refuse their help, shooing them away, and you survive for a bit longer
but its always the same, in the end, no matter what you try, every time it ends the same way
they find you, hiding on top of one of the structures, in a little cave, somewhere in one of the rides
and you're tortured
you're tortured worse than you ever thought that a being would do
sometimes your tongue is split into thirds from side to side, and is then cut from front to back
sometimes your limbs and body are twisted and contorted into strange shapes, making you into human art
you foolishly believed that these things might have a heart and not make it as slow and painful as they could
well you're right for the first bit, they do have a heart of sorts
after they're done playing with you
after they're done toying with your body
they don't just let you be, leave you where you are to stay there in agony
no, they **** you
nothing extra, nothing complex
just a stab through the heart, a ripping off of the head, and you're gone
unless they're being crueler
at which point, you have the option of fighting back
or letting them **** you in a gruesome way, hanging you from a rope over an open tank of water with lots of hungry creatures eagerly awaiting your fall

at least, that's what you think they do, you're never asleep long enough to find out
and that's why youre glad that they've only now begun to come and get you while you're awake

"There are no diseases crueler
than the ones we self-inflict"
but I still find myself
thirsting for the bottle
and you still find the beast in your heart
begging to be smothered in smoke

They sneak out to smoke their cigs
between classes
just another insolence, another act of audacity
another fleck of rebellion
a way to express their contempt
a way to say ********
to the government and the educational system
and to the clockwork holding them back
from a death they secretly long for
Because i think at least a few of them know
that it’s still a suicide
even if it’s in slow motion
And every cigarette
is a calming coffin nail

Legally, they are too young
to drink or purchase
their ambrosia and tabacco treasures
Yes they are young, minors
but they’re already afraid of growing too old to die young
soon they'll get withered and wrinkling
and they won't be able to leave a beautiful corpse

Pulling off clear, crinkling cellophane, shiny silver foil
with nimble fingers and
sliding a single cigarette
out of the pack
and slipping it into their lips
It fits so effortlessly, so easy
they've been repeating the same motion for years now
sparking the lighter,
The small flame erupts
promising relief.
The sweet taste of nicotine trickling
down into the back of their throats.
They smile.

Behind stone gargoyle smiles
thunder eyes and rock fists
they hide their heavy hearts
with shrouds of smoke
like small-featured bride faces
behind heavy veils
Holding their precious gaspers
between 2 fingers,
elegantly, the way they saw
james bond and models in glossy magazines do it
There are no children here,
just the lost and the lonely,
the ones who wear such solid masks
They’re all looking for some form of redemption,
but they'll settle for attention
Faith, on the other hand,
is a language they don't speak

Their love for each other
is not sweet and childish
it's a collision of souls,
a necessary train wreck
a desperate tempest
to survive the deadly drone of school
it can't be done alone
regroup, collect, stick together,
collide

Their arguments and apologies
have the tragic tone of ancient rome
empires rising and falling

I hear them bicker
and argue and talk
with echoes of prayers in their voices
please see me, please hear me
please validate my existence

Debating
American Spirit, Malboro, Camel
the intricacies of the taste
they taught themselves to love

To me every joke sounds like a hymn
every nervous pair of hands
the brittle after-math
of broken promises
chaotic thoughts tumbling like dust in the wind

I know they are different
but they are human and young
and perhaps they are like me
Maybe they too
have fears
maybe they too awaken in the dead of night
sweating and confused

I can see them now, drifting in and out of focus
dragging their reluctant shadows
into school and out
Frail bodies running on caffeine and nicotine
pain, boredom, indifference and panic

You can tell they long for solace
in the way they hold their coffee
tenderly, fingers wrapped round
the comforting shape and smell
and kissing their cancer sticks
with faint hopes of necromancy
and rebirth with every puff

***
they take turns objectifying each other,
feigning tenderness when really
they are just new bodies
interlaced for an hour or two
There is no emotion here
they're just kids who've always loved playing
the ***** Doctor game

Mothers
use their name as a cautionary
tale and
they're the kids
our parents warned us about.

I know they've given up on perfection
so they want to be some kind of dazzling cataclysm
a bright, flaming disaster, a lovely wreck
they offer me a drag
but all I can think
is that rebellion isn’t a language
I know how to speak
All I can do is write this poem
which is both a eulogy
and an obituary



                                                     ­           I love them.
I love them because I know each of them is a work in progress,
because I know each is shattered in a sense
because they're just souls searching for a voice.
I love them because I'm starting to see
beyond the archetype-- a true expansiveness.
And I love them because the smell of cigarette smoke
reminds me of afternoons in France,
sitting on the curb of my dying grandfather's home
and watching the passer-by stroll through
the pavements.

I love them because everyone needs a place,
and they know that.

Their parties are an emergency exit.

They're a lighthouse for the lost.

There to language and I are leave they out can no a don't
of do diseases beautiful speak

Their focus
dragging is crueler corpse

Pulling love their write
than off for reluctant this the clear each shadows
into poem
which ones crinkling other
is school is we cellophane not and both self-inflict shiny sweet out
Frail a
but silver and bodies eulogy
and I foil
with childish
it's running an still nimble a on obituary

find fingers collision caffeine ­ myself
thirsting and
sliding of and I for a souls nicotine
pain love the single
a boredom them bottle
and cigarette
out necessary indifference
you of train and ­ still the wreck
a panic

You I find pack
and desperate can love the slipping tempest
to tell them beast it survive they because in into the long
I your their deadly for know heart
begging lips
It drone solace
in each to fits of the of be so school
it way them smothered effortlessly can't they is in so be hold a smoke

They easy
they've done their work sneak been alone
regroup coffee
tenderly in out repeating collect fingers progress to the stick wrapped
smoke same together round
the ­ their motion
collide

Their comforting because cigs
between for arguments shape I classes
just years and and know another now
sparking apologies
have smell
and each insolence the kissing is another lighter tragic
their shattered act
The tone cancer in of small of sticks
with a audacity
another flame ancient faint sense
fleck erupts
promising rome
empires hopes ­ of relief rising of because rebellion
The and necromancy
and they're way sweet falling

I rebirth just to taste hear with souls express of them every
searching their nicotine bicker
and puff
***
they for contempt
a trickling argue take a way
down and turns voice to into talk
with objectifying
say the echoes each ­ **** back of other I you
to of prayers
feigning love the their in tenderness them
government throats their when because and
They voices
please really
they I'm the smile see are starting educational

Behind me just to system
and stone please new see
to gargoyle hear bodies
interlaced ­ the smiles
thunder me
please for beyond clockwork eyes validate
an the holding and my hour archetype-- them rock existence

Debating
American or a back
from fists
they Spirit two
There true a hide Malboro is
expansiveness death their Camel
the no
they heavy intricacies emotion ­ secretly hearts
with of here
they're long shrouds the just I for
Because of taste
they kids love i smoke
like taught who've them think
small-featured themselves always because at bride to loved the least faces
behind love

To playing smell a heavy me
the of few veils
Holding every ***** cigarette of their joke Doctor smoke
them precious sounds game

Mothers
use ­ know
that gaspers
between like their reminds it’s 2 a name me still fingers hymn
every as of a
elegantly nervous a afternoons suicide the pair cautionary
tale in
even way of and
they're France if they hands
the the
it’s saw
james brittle kids
our ­ in bond after-math
of parents sitting slow and broken warned on motion
And models promises
chaotic us the every in thoughts about curb cigarette
is glossy tumbling

I of a magazines like know my calming do
dust they've dying coffin it
There in given grandfather's nail
I on ­ are children know perfection
so and too here they they watching young
to

just are want the drink the different
but to passer-by or lost they be stroll purchase
their and are some through
ambrosia the human kind ­ and lonely and of the tabacco
the young
and dazzling pavements treasures
Yes ones perhaps cataclysm

I they who they bright love are wear are flaming them young such like disaster because minors
but solid me
Maybe a everyone they’re masks
They’re they lovely needs already all too
have wreck
they a afraid looking fears
maybe offer place of for they me
and growing some too a they too form awaken drag
but know old of in all that to redemption the I

Their die
but dead can parties young
soon they'll of think
is are they'll settle night
sweating that an get for and rebellion
emergency withered attention
Faith confused

I isn’t exit

They're and on can a a wrinkling
and the see language
I lighthouse they other them know for won't hand now how the be
is drifting to lost
able a in speak
All

Do you hear those screams, piercing the night? It’s a little annoying sometimes, just when I’m trying to sleep, a shriek tears that delicate fabric of silence, and jolts me awake, once again. I’m not scared of those screams, but there’s something familiar about them, something, about that voice, that dread that cripples my heart-That voice. It belongs to me.                        Sweat rolls down my tiny face, like on a warm summer night, except now every part of me shivers from the cold, on the inside and the outside.

And slowly I start to remember why; why I scream.

The reminder, the memory- It comes. Silently, like a thief tiptoeing into my room. I bear witness unable to move, Still as a rock, I’m smothered by the weight of it, unable to breathe.“Go away”, I try to scream under the weight of a disobedient voice. But it’s no use, the naustalgia is unstoppable.           The coming nightmare whispers silently into my terrified ears, “Shush, enjoy that pain, they say everyone likes it.”And it comes, the pain so painful that death is sweeter. I can’t embrace it, I never will.

 And I’m taken to the past. To the day it all went downhill.

“So many colours!”, I said, as I gaped at the garishly painted wall that I tried to grasp with my gnarly little digits. I was never bored here at the kindergarten, unlike some other muskrats who only bestowed their presence to show off their capabilities to produce saltwater from their eyes and dolphin mating calls from their blackhole-like mouths. Some talent.

It was a sunny summer day and the only thing I didn’t like about it was that every adult complained about the heat -all the time- my mum, my dad and my teachers, everyone. I remember thinking that all these grown-ups were absurd. Sure it was a little hot, but winter was always coming, so it was only fair. Change was constant, but it was such a bright day, why complain at all? I felt exceptionally happy, the whole day was a treat to my imagination laden senses.

Pity, it was such a good day to eat chocolates too.

Another thing I remember about that day was that pesky little boy, who didn't strike me as obnoxious back then, but now I’m retrospect he was really quite a block in the chimney stack. He’d entered class yesterday with the Doraemon pencil that recited generic phrases from the popular kids show, stuffed proudly in his chest pocket. And as he walked to his seat, the sound of his footsteps were punctuated by tiny “oooh’s” and “aaah’s”, as adoring little preschoolers watched the invaluable speaking object reverently. Unable to deal with the sudden adoration prudently, he got ahead of himself as his world fed that ancient balloon- The male ego. He started teaching "art" forms such as scribbling and scratching. And because I was the one sitting next to him, he felt the need to bestow upon me his vast knowledge of the subject. I didn’t really mind this condescension only because the implement he used to teach me was so exquisite. I sat there listening to him till I got bored of him talking about his Daddy and his money.

Then that little bird had started to sing so beautifully, humming at the trees as it sat on our windowsill. Every shrill note out of its little beak sent the "historic" words of that boy deeper and deeper into the dark recesses of my tiny mind. The effect of that simple melody was immediate. I stood up and started to sway slowly to the windowsill. (Even though the things I remember about this make no sense to me now, they are quite an accurate representation of my state of mind at that point.) I loved the little sound that the little birdie made, the memory of it still makes me want to jump and dance. I cooed back to her, “Coo coo(I’m happy too I tried to chirp to her)”. She looked at me quite a while, cocked her head a little to the side and cooed once more before flying off.

She replied!

She understood what I told her and she replied in kind. My wonder making mind went into a mad frenzy. So all the cartoons were true, you could really speak to animals. How I wished, I had a poké-ball! I marched to the teacher in small short joyous steps as she wrote on blackboard and clutched on to the end of her Churidar because my little hands could only go so far.          “Teacher, Teacher”, I squealed in ecstasy, “That birdie spoke to me”          “I’m sure she did, sweetie, now go back to your seat.”, she replied.

Deflated but happy nonetheless, I skipped back to my chair merrily, thinking of little birdies and a magical Pokémon. I remember, I loved how that know-it-all pencilbigmouth kept asking me to tell him what the birdie told me. Even if I hadn’t loved to see him beg,(which I did) it was my little secret, how could I tell him? How would he even start to understand? (Yeah I was being quite the drama queen in my head back then, blame the TV.)

 

 

Here I break apart from my rapture into the past and find that in my subconscious, the memory gets blurry somehow, like the radio running between stations on daddy’s phone, I get snippets of thoughts and feelings as the memory fractures into a thousand pieces.

“Mumma must understand what the birdie said.”
"Pokémon exist."
“Oh! Chocolates! Yay.”
“There’s more, if you want some.”, a gruff voice resounds in my heart.
"More yay."
“Why is he removing his clothes?”
Then suddenly,  I remember the pain- searing hot and burning through me-as clearly as sunlight through trees. Crying and screaming, I tried to escape, but to no avail. There was a big man in front of me now. His lust-crazy eyes, ******* out every piece of my existence. Somehow he was inside me and it hurt, it hurt.

How was he inside me?

Why did it pain so much?

Didn’t he hear my cry?

Stop it.

I couldn’t move, I could do nothing but scream.                                                  He touched me in my softest parts, painfully, pinching me and tearing my skin apart. It was a sea of agony and I was drowning. As I struggled to breathe, the blackness finally took me under. That unconsciousness had saved me and cradled me, lulling me to sleep in its darkness.

It felt like death but crueler, because it let me live.

Looking back I realize, the sun wasn’t bright because it was happy, it was warning me. The day wasn’t bright, it was becoming hotter in foreboding. The bird didn’t tell me it was happy, it told me to fly away, far away.

 

Why are you still making me cry? After all these years, even when you’re asleep behind iron bars. Why are you still here, holding me down in your death clasp.?

Stop it. It hurts.                                                           ­                                                 It hurts.                                                           ­                                                                 ­  I can’t breathe, I’m choking,                                                         ­                          I’m dying.

I’m dyi…..

 

Calm down, I yell at my panicked heart. Slowly inhaling and exhaling, trying to fall back into my dysfunctional sleep, I lay back into my sweat soaked bed and close my eyes. And as the blackness of sleep slowly washes me down under its waves once again, I hear it again, somewhere over the dark horizon.

Stop it! I like this darkness, stop screaming. I sit up once again. I tell myself I’m not afraid of these screams anymore. I ignore the shrieks and the unease growing in me and close my eyes once more. Then I realize that the cries of terror that resound in my ears like a half-forgotten memory, they belong to me.

And once again I start to remember why, why I scream,

And once again the memory comes.

Proceeding in the wake of mankind's scourge,
Spoken are the words of this great demiurge,
At dusk the cowled of the night shall emerge,
And convey a true evil on God's Earth to resurge.  

Unleashed and unfathomed, behold the words of a phantom
Turning cities into craters and the oceans to chasms,
Imagine: a picture perfect world, can it exist,
Without the plague of the human race, lost without a trace in abyss!

Ignorance tragic, the magic of bliss,
Static damage to the rabid on this planet of ****,
An example of this: the progression of time
Deteriorating in abundance, a final judgment for mankind.

Exterminate the population, man, woman and child,
Convictions, the arrival, apocalypse nigh!
None will survive, total disaster, blood stain alabaster
Abstain, refrain, salvation from a heavenly ******* shall be sought in vain.

Unexplainable cataclysm,
The missing piece of the puzzle unseen in catechism,
But it was written somehow and somewhere
And the emergence of its purpose was unclear, deny what you fear!

The end is near, malevolent seraphim invade,
The end is here, a feeble humanity kneels and prays
It was revealed, none prepared and none spared
And act of evil, fitting for the slaughter of a people.

Mephistophelian ascension,
A requiem for the souls of the ruined be sung
For a destruction, beyond all human comprehension.
Alarum with no human intervention!

An apoplectic annihilation, fed lies by inhalation,
Microbial immolation, infected detestation,
Evasive evasion, catastrophic, melancholic
Leaving mankind intoxicated by his own narcotic

Whilst hypnotically induced, the demons invade,
Equestrian quartet lead the massive evil brigade
A battalion of stallions, on fray to slay grace
Laid to waste in the face of the inhuman race.

To keep pace, without a trace, Messiah on Fire
In dire need, erase calumny the Heavenly liar feeds
Desire breeds and hatred grows
Within those a crueler fate chose the pyre to bleed.

An ascension to an unknown throne overthrown,
A crown adorned in thorns be thy Kingdom's scorn
To the Black, I am sworn, prophet to the swarm,
The scores of the forlorn born to battle in the storms

Of Ragnarok, the magma rocks rain from the sky,
The Earth will end in fire, watch the genesis die.
Terrestrial crucifixion, the mortals' last affliction,
Desperation bringing forth a dogmatic dereliction.

Infliction of pain, deadly diction to the slain in vain,
A spoken name, confliction causing friction
An addiction to the wicked, auspicious yet pernicious,
Foreboding a sinister outcome of ecumenical wishes.

The nine months of unbearable displeasure,
Are all of a sudden worth it when you see this treasure.

The feeling of holding her in your arms at last,
The joyous emotion will never dare to pass.

You get to watch her grow, just as you did.
You would give your eternal soul for her, your life you would bid.

Trials and tribulations come with the joys of puberty.
A wider respect for your parent’s patience with you, soon to be.

You want to hug her and spank her, whenever she dares sass.
Quick witted, smart, and more than sometimes stubborn as an ***.

But she comes to you when she needs to cry on a shoulder,
You want her to stay with you and never get any older.

Sometimes you lose your mind over the protesting, angsty screams.
Still the love in your heart makes it burst at the seams.

But soon enough she is out of the house and into school.
Sometimes you feel like your experiencing life’s crueler rule.

You have come to be disheveled when you go through life without her.
You don’t know what to do. But you are still her mother.

Remembering back on the old days, when life was a real mess,
You will always love her, nonetheless.

This is the feeling of maternal love,
Towards your precious gift, sent from up above.

Famine had come to our shores
The poor and weak it claimed.
It was our staple, the potato, which failed.
There was no lack of grain.

The landlords were exporting crops
While they watched their tenants bide.
A crueler death than Cromwell gave
Back when he let God decide.

The Wealthy were the Protestants,
centuries in the ascendant.
The victims, mostly Catholic,
of native Celts descendant.

Starvation is a lingering death.
It is not quick or kind.
Green Grass was, for many,
the last meal on which they dined.


When our neighbor, Kitty Kelly, died,
too proud to take the soup.
We boarded ship for old New York
And left behind our youth.

To you, I owe each sleepless night

Which I pay by every turn and toss

Until morning drags her violet light

To collect my dues, each hour’s loss

This is not something that I resent

I have found delirium to be a pleasure

As the only things dreams can present

Are fleeting moments, a frantic measure

I know we spent at least three days

As slaves to desire, instead of rest

With crimson eyes, a rosy craze

And even passion had confessed-

That she grew exhausted, and so she left

Yet still our bodies found each other

Knowing her absence was no theft

For the true criminal was another

A crueler kind-his name is Time

And it seemed as though a second spent

Brought upon the cathedral’s chime

If only to remind us of our rent

Late again, and again it’s due

But he had taken our every cent

I will never regret giving me for you

For sleepless nights is all it meant

Crystalline gliding.
Clippin' cuticles in cubicles
& itching for a kaleidoscope
dance
with The Phantom
sidling ridged in the ceiling's fold.

Glazed eyes from a friend.
honey crueler.
Polymerization twists coffee sweats with briny tears
& my pores breath the calcification.
Beet red eyes sting like molten hiss
& pollen still buries it's way deep  
into the tree trunk,
Bleeding like a sour calf
just to stroke a
coconut leaf
in the musky village.

I live inside a cantaloupe
so I can't elope with status quo.
Sipping puddles & licking groggy mud spots
so the Queen calls me swamp belly.
She looked like she was carved out of rice.
bitten & frail steps
with gentle linger
teased soft grass
in the concrete canal
where the streets glistened
with mustaches  drenched
in honey brown ale.

His brain is a tickled cauliflower
encased in Papier-mâché,
Lima bean boogers
&
nicotine stained chestnut shells.
Gears torque and crudely animate
his sluggish form and peanut butter
body.
Diabetic eyes,
that bark like a sloth &
lay a thick layer of custard over their
last nerve,
intrigue mine own to stare
into the vague emptiness.

It should have felt like utter ecstasy that final feeling of relief.
My soul being quenched after lifetimes of reincarnation.
Seemingly though never quite reaching Moksha.
Just as a desert always kisses the mirage of water but never tastes it.
The solace of peace that I craved.
My finger still lingers over the send button.
Call it trigger happy, but this is sadness with a nose.
Running after people trying to prove something.
Trying to confirm that I was something worth missing.
Someone worth loving.
Bending backwards like a contortionist.
Doing whatever appeases to be loved even if it was me being sacrificed.
The gods were no crueler than I was to myself.
I was a lamb in a lion’s den.
Crawling under the feet of those who never served me.
A wanderer lost in the desolate space between her mind and heart.
Logic doesn’t speak love into the life that is absent.
I see a hand reaching back the feeling of utter relief.
My soul being quenched after lifetimes of reincarnation.
Seemingly though never quite reaching moksha.

Its Torture.
The cruel
painless kind.
Torture,
like watching her
from the shadows
as she  
Loves her new Lover
while you're
still so alone.
Within my
mind Ive said
a word then
spelled out
in ryhm.
It sounds so perfect
within my
mind,my quivering lips
mouth the
word in silence.
Im afraid to try,
listen to my struggle
and you shall see
why it
is I hardly
speak.
Its the stammer,
the god given
gift which has
held my
opinions hostage.
Prevented me from
approaching her
and telling her
what she secretly
longed
to hear.
Forced me at times
to remain silent
when there was
so much more I
had to say.
This stammer
provides
cruel children
reason enough to be
even crueler.
I speak around certain
words and
communicate
more with the hands.
Kind souls
finish sentences
for me as I fight
for my voice.
Never  knowing that
their attempt
at being helpful
only drives this silent
knife even deeper.
This Stammer has
barricaded what
I need to say
somewhere
within that dead
and maimed space
between
my mind and
my speach.
I'm tunneling my
way out of this
self contained  
prison.
Word by
written word .
Im slowly
finding
a way for
this silent
and crippled
voice
to finally
be heard.

I am closer to believing
than I ever was before
on the crest of this Elation
must I crash upon the shore
And with the Driftwood of acquaintance
light the fire to love once more
I am windblown... I am times.

To be closer to believing
to be just a breath away
On the death of inspiration
I would buy back yesterday
But there's no crueler illusion
There's no sharper coin to pay
as I reach out...it slips away

From the ***** of custom
to the ledges of extremes
don't believe it till you've held it
life is seldom what it seems
But lay your heart upon the table
and in the shuffling of your dreams remember...
who on Earth you are.

I need me
You need you
we want us

But of course you know I love you
for what else am I here for
only you not face to face
but side by side forever more

I need to be here with you
for without you what am I
Just a fool out searching
for some heaven in the sky

Take me to forward lead me on
Through collision and confusion
While there's life beneath the Sun
you are the reason I continue
so near for so long
so close.... yet so far away

I need me
You need you
We want us
to live forever
measure after measure
Of the writing on the wall
that burns so brightly it blinds us all

I need me
you need you
we want us

together on Sundays in the rain
closer than forever
against or with the grain
to ride the storms of Love Again

So be closer to believing though your world is torn apart
For a moment changes all things and to end is but to start
And if your journey is unrewarded may God lift up your heart
You are windblown
but you are mine.

Emerson Lake and Palmer lyrics -
favorite  of Cherie Nolan

I was three years old standing barefoot on the screened in porch in the summer heat
you had a beer in your hand with condensation wetting your skin
I asked and you answered
My first sip of alcohol fascinated my three year old self
Bubbles

I was six and wearing a white dress walking next to a boy in a suit down a church aisle
Eyes fixated on the moment I would grow in my faith
First communion came with excitement to me
I tasted church wine for the first time
Genisis

I was twelve and at Christmas dinner with extended family
table set makeshift bar locked eyes with mine
You poured me a glass of red
a special occasion you said
Acceptance

I was fourteen then fifteen then sixteen
Every week a glass of wine with dinner
A beer in the summer
it complemented the steak
You taught me to drink at home to know my limits
To protect me from going crazy when I left home
Normality

I was eighteen and a two-time college dropout
The wine on the counter and a constant supply of liquor comforting
A stressful day ended with a numbing to my feelings
A glass away from silence in my head
and an easy night of sleep from being mixed with my medications
Routine

I was twenty when I realized a drink would turn into a few
and a few would turn into asleep on the floor
or vomiting and sitting in the shower for hours
I was twenty when I realized it took more to get me tipsy than it used to
that I needed to drink and when I did I wouldn't stop
because what was the point unless you were drunk
I was twenty when I started to jokingly call myself an alcholic
I was twenty when my friends dropped the joking part
I was twenty and tipsy and unable to legally drink and I had already become what everyone else in my family denied being

I blame you
the three year old with a fascination of forbidden things
the six year old who had an intrigue in the taste of communion wine
the twelve year old who accepted the drink from her grandfather's ***** breath every holiday dinner
the teenager who let herself drink at home in the presence of her parents who thought it would help prevent the inevitable
the eighteen year old who learned the hard way life was a much crueler teacher than school and accepted the easy access to numbness
I blame you for the twenty year old I have become

It doesn’t matter how many times people say you did your best,
They never truly know the truth of the situation.
Only you know just how much you weren’t there for mum
In her hours of need.

Dementia is a cruel fate,
And even crueler when living with a narcissist
Who deliberately causes a rift in the family.
Does the guilt ever go away
For those left behind?

Table,

My father and I sat
In our timeless silence
That brewed away beneath the lights
Like a sweat that never breaks.

Sister and the Stranger
Sat flanked by pillars,
With two full glasses of
Blood-lit wine
Simmering warmly like
Lamb's hearts
Dropped into bowls.

Never do I love my sister more
That when she wears that little fishhook
Of a smile,
A grim refusal of her lips to flicker down,
Making mincemeat of photographers,
Men in bad jumpers,
And garrulous psychopaths.
It was crueler than any frown.
Far more efficient.

The Stranger buttered her bread-roll all at once,
(A damning thing to do this afternoon)
And dinner turned to coffee
Without a hitch.
I noticed that the whole evening was
Done in a deliberately cut-glass way -
Two siblings painting themselves
Into the people they never wanted to be,
To make a ******-minded point.

She’s not one of us.
She’s nothing like us.
She’s nothing like mother -
Absolutely nothing like mother!

And as we stood waiting for the car
My sister turned to me and said –
“I thought my expectations of daddy were low.”
She swiped at her flapper-girl haircut,
“Turns out my expectations
Have a basement.”

We only notice class
When we need to shut someone
Out.
We only notice class

When it's all we've got.

Life seemed good
Sitting on the beach
Watching the Sun
Commit suicide
By plummeting deep
Into the waves
Tempting Night
To replace its beauty

I remain on the beach
Look at my watch
It's now 10:30
My mom probably read my note
I haven't heard the sirens
So she must not care
I mean hell
When does my broken family ever care

When they are too busy at work
When they yell at me
For not washing a **** spoon
Or take the credit for my accomplishments
When do I get to be happy
When do I get to stop cutting
Or contemplating what I plan on doing tonight
At this peaceful, calm beach

I'm broken
My reflection in the mirror
Can see all my cracks
And missing pieces
So why can't the rest of the world
Is it the mask I'm tired of wearing
Or the role I play as some happy kid

**** I wish there was somebody
Somebody with me
On this peaceful, calm beach
To glue the pieces missing for so long
Back into place
Hold my hand and tell me
That they ******* care
But it wont happen because I came alone

Brought with me a 45
Two bullets just in case
4 bottles of whiskey
And a knife to help speed things up
Because here on this beach
So dark, peaceful, calm, and lonely
I plan to end it
With happiness obtained with my last breath

See when you come from
A ******* broken home
You don't care for life
You don't care fro anything
And everything is a permanent problem
Even you living under there house
And eating so little or too much
Because their the reason for all the depression

You try your best
To please everyone around you
Hoping your happiness
Will make it easier for you
But instead you give them a reason
Just to push you around even more
So you take that little blade
And slide it across your wrist

You bleed your pain out
Your tired of the cruel words
The even crueler people
Who don't give two ***** about you
So do what I'm doing tonight
Go to the most beautiful place
You have ever been
And take your life away

I know I corrupt everything with my darkness
I corrupt the beauty within life
I'm broken
I break everything I touch
So tonight here on this beach
I take my last breath
And slowly begin
To make this place my grave

Broken, Broken, Broken
Everything around me so badly broken
The still water
Can't even capture my reflection
Because parts of me
Drop endlessly into it
From the places I tried
To patch and keep in place

So **** this life
**** the next one
I just wanted to be happy
So as I finish off the third bottle
I'll tear into my wrist
With the freshly sharpened blade
Load the 45 preparing for the end
Because it's only 11:12

By the end of the night
My wrist will stop bleeding
My blood will mix
With the salty sand and water
Making me one with this beach
Because I don't care for life
Here on this land
The Sea has always been my home

See a broken feeling
Not only comes from a broken home
It comes from
The many woman
You offer your heart too
Hoping it's an elegant enough gift
So you can at least
Be given a chance

But as the numbers rack up
The cracks get deeper
And start connecting
Pieces start falling
And that heart
You once had
Becomes almost nothing
Then nothing at all

See I'm even more broken
Because of her
She said she loved me
She got my hopes up
I thought she was perfect
And maybe that's where it went wrong
I put her on a pedal-stool
But I tried to just make her happy

I didn't need big words
Like a dictionary
Or deep lines
Like an old woman's wrinkles
To tell her or show her
That I ******* loved her
That I was loyal to her
But she broke a broken man even further

Maybe I wasn't enough
Maybe I'll never be enough
So **** it
I'm 5 o'clock drunk at 11:51
It's almost time for me to go
So I'll write another suicide note
Further up the shore
So the tide doesn't wash it away

So how should I write this
Like a regular note
Or make it like a business letter
I guess it doesn't matter
I'm leaving this place
Because I'm tired of being used
And tired of being broken
I already know you're not going to miss me

So maybe one last swig
One more cut
Just to bleed a little faster
It's 11:59 at night
Almost 12 like I wanted
The moon is high
And so is the tide
So I guess it's time to say goodbye

I took too much time
Wasted enough of it
All for what
A bullet to the brain
Yeah I guess I have
******* world
Hope you read and remember my poetry
Learn the kind of guy I wa.....

I

He grimaced while flexing forth,
the Hulk he was channeling, going North,
blonde crew cut, making a spectacle while
                                       wearing glasses
he wore a black tank, with no sleeves,
while the wind teased the leaves with a breeze,
and they fallsaulted (somer is over)
                             across the concrete at his feet,
                             it was all about him on the street,

                                       his handler, his care giver,
                                       watched with a shiver as
                                      as she had him and two
                                      others to deliver to their
                                      destination on foot, crime
fighting would delay the journey
                                                    and she was not sure who would
                end up on the gurney if it all went awry.  

                                              II

Short time later, as they passed by, gone, the other part of the duo
                                                             ­                                            arrived
she walked with swagger, in heels and no stumbles or missed steps,
                                                          ­                                       not quite a stagger,
dressed in black with jet-black hair, she was part ninja,  
part tim-bit monster,
or at least her appetite was,
the box of forty sat on her shoulder and she was delighted
by eating
them one at at time, her confident stride and petite feet,
stuck in almost stiletto heels acting,
very intuitive, see how she feels,
that kind of hero, because if she had to from fifty paces,
she could take out your eye with a honey crueler tim-bit
don't be fooled by
her ambivalent smile, and toss of her hair, those spoke of
caution and beware, as she stuffed another in there,
where she smiled while her eyes twinkled, kept moving her feet,
                   I think she spotted me from fifty paces,
                               away and from my second story window,
                                                it was curtains for me, I closed my eyes and braced for impact,
                                                         ­                                                           which never came,
                                                           ­                                                         as to her shame,
                                                          ­                                                          see even heroes
                                                          ­                                                          don't share
                                                           ­                                                         all the time.


No more heroes walked by that day,
crime rates were down and children were
                                      able to play
                        and be safe, so as my final thought
                      from my view on the second floor,
                          never under estimate anyone,
for real or in fun, and their capacity to bring joy, even without sharing.



©DWE102013

Born and brewing on the road
A choice on me has been bestowed
To grant one side my presence there
Take time to choose; contrast, compare.

Offers, one side, an easy life
Let's sing all day, and play the fife!
The other, it seems, is harder still,
Yet full of life; a forest's trill.

"Come here!" one says, "there's much to do!"
"Have fear!" one says, "it's brutal too!"
"It's crueler there," says one, in rebuttal.
"It's cruel, but fair," one says with a scuttle.

Forever struck, undecided on the road
For which side is better; my humble abode?
Made soon is this choice, for ahead comes upon
Two lights on the hill, like a double edged dawn

Quick like a deer, I unfold into action.
Be part of the woods? Or a slave unto fashion?
To the judgement of others, their eyes on my back?
Or the home of the hunters, to survive their attack?
To the glistening great cities with the smog thickened air?
Or the rolling green trees, all alone in despair?

So towards the lights I will run, on the road I will ride.
For I will always remain with one foot on each side.

Scars Masking My Flesh,
Fate's Talons Are Sharp And Ruthless,
They Aren't Afraid To Make You Bleed

My Heart Deflated,
Dreams Sedated,
I Thought I Made It,
But It Was Just Hallucinated,
Thought I Made It Past The Guns,
But When I Came Up To You, You Held One,
I Started To Run,
But You Shot Me Down,
You Cut My Lips Making A Permanent Frown,  
Now There Is A Surreal Pounding In My Crown,
As You Try To Make Me Accept Your Apology,
You Yelled And Abused,
You Left A Me With Some Bruses,
And A Permanent **** On My Heart,
You Hungry Ghost,
In Ways You Were Crueler Than Most,
You've Added To My Collection If Battle Scars

Hope Slashed My Wrists,
And Sliced My Shoulders,
I Sit Here And Wonder,
When Will This War Ever End*

I'm Terrified,
But I'm Not Leaving,
I'll Fight In This Warful World,
Until I'm No Longer Breathing,
While My Heart Is Lethargically Beating,
I Will Clean The Wound Where I'm Bleeding,
So Don't You Dare,
Try To Defeat Me.....

Every now and then I miss you terribly
What a cruel way my heart remembers
To tell my brain I love you.
And what a crueler way my mouth
Never told you.

My story,
Do I have one?
Of course I do, everyone does.
Some are harsher and crueler
Some are nice and happer
Many are a mix of cruel and happy
And as for me, I have one too
It's sad and happy, a bit of both.
My story.
It starts in the beginning
And ends at the end
It's quirky and troubled
Sunny and long.
But it's also shorter than many
I've lived much in my
Fifteen(almost sixteen) years of life
Not as much as others
But my tapestry is tightly woven
My story
Is a story of
Pain and laughter
Love and indifference
And it is still being written.

Little black dots on the hillside
All fuzzy and free

I come across some, and they look at me
Black eyes questioning, am I a friend or a foe?
So gentle, so simple, never very bold

I know that they will all come to a bitter end
The process has been started and I tend
to notice these things, poor animals, so used
Simply products to us, no one is enthused
about taking better care of them
Most just never think
But watching them now puts me on the brink

They've been branded, ears cut, and even crueler snips
No anesthetic, and when they're gone, they won't be missed

Others will appear in the green grass fields
A never ending supply
Why isn't animal life held dear?

Later at the store, I see them again
Neatly stacked in packages, frozen and then
I know there is no possible way
I cannot be a vegetarian today

How do we speak to each other?

How do words become a universal language?

How do we explain ourselves if we can never speak for each other?


A gentle kiss, quickening, deepening before its lost,

a warm smile but a whispered laugh.

A heart so light but a body so tired.

You unfurl for me, a bud springing open on the morning breeze,

palms open and eyes exploring,

so fragile yet so terrifyingly strong

it blinds me,

it shakes me,

it unearths the roots i worked to bury for myself,

it wounds me to falter before you.


You bare your soul,

a mirror uncovered despite the dust in the air.

it stands before me,

I can see myself stripped before you too.

you allow the light to drip down,

bathe you in vulnerability,

and that is a strength I can only look at in wonder.

inspiring.

admirable.

too brilliant it hurts to be the one to shatter your glass.


You feel me trace

your face,

fingers graze along your lines,

leaving cracks where I touch.

I know i’ll never open myself to you.

I know i’ll never unfurl like you have, because

I’m

frightened.

I don’t know what to expect.

of you.

of me.


I feel the longing warm the glass.

you want me

but i can’t provide.

I can provide for others,

who pierce my skin, eagerly fumble with my clothes,

press against me fiercely to absorb what they need.

but for you i feel too adequate,

too humble,

I know i do not crave your touch,

I feel

in a cavern where i safe-keep my heart, my feelings;

that I can provide only what a friend might offer,

only insight and best wishes.

I cannot feel like perfection bundled in your arms,

because

I feel

my being beat against my walls

screaming that it isn’t my place to be there

in your arms.


I cannot linger in your light,

i don’t want to trail my dark ink,

thick and clotted,

across that golden shine.

I only want comfort for us.

I only want that burst of sunshine

dripping gold and gems and diamonds,

of when we meet and explore the people who were meant to hold us,

embrace us,

coat us and touch us, whisper and laugh and cry before our outstretched

arms to one another.

to be the lovers to us that we desire.

to be the safest

hollow,

to be the safest shelter we could ever find amid a burning field.

the people we were designed to allow to pick apart the cobwebs, the

bruises, the joy and the

darkness we all carry inside.


I want to feel that.

I don’t want to see you break into pieces at my feet.

I don’t want to see shards of something so beautiful.


we want to be worshipped.

to feel we could walk on broken glass so long as

you were there to hold us tight at the end of the road,

to make us smile without even thinking

to make us burst without reasoning to.

to not even need words, explanations to others, gestures,

disguises.

to not even need to think about how we look.

but I don’t think my love will kneel before you and worship the thought

of holding you.

does that make me horrible?

why do I feel like I’m burning?


can you belong to someone while you wait to hopefully,

truly,

openly,

decidedly belong to another? the one you need to belong to.

Is it cruel to wait and play and tease,

knowing this,

or is it crueler still to break them open?

to make them fall away from you, to fear you, to make them taste the sour

tang

of you

instead of dragging them behind you in chains they want to bare.

How do you know all this?

or are you simply deceiving yourself?


where are you?

where am I?

Cold, damp, broken surf washing over my feet.

salted like tears.

Except I know they are mine.

I know you are still that beautiful golden mirror,

I keep

in my cavern

tucked away.

I know you stay behind a dusty, ***** sheet.

but right now I need to turn from this place

and

let

you

go.

free.

please, release yourself from me

and be free.

When I was a kid happiness wasn't a decision, it wasn't something you learned from textbooks or teachers, it was a given. And it wasn't given to you by some magical means you just had it.  But as the years slip by, we find we too are slowly slipping, and more and more we have to try to reach for that something we were not given we simply got. And as our fingers brush bravely along the line between bliss and destruction, the definition of happiness is lost.  We read the news in reverse, so the man with the gun removes bullets from the chests of 20 children and their teachers. And the man returns home and becomes a boy in a time when mistakes were forgiven.  Because it seems as we get older the world gets crueler and if its unbearable now, how will ever survive? Because reading the news in reverse won't make those children alive, but perhaps if we open our eyes we will see.  We will see the reverberating effect of hate but don't let anyone tell you its too late for kindness.  The day Kyle decided the world wasn't ready, we finally were.  According to Newton's third law: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, but  when his body made contact the ripples eventually stopped.  And I guess emotions can't be bound by laws because the ripples of pain in the hearts of people he touched never did.  Its been 57 days, 1 hour and 22 minutes but the seconds keep passing as if nothing ever happened but it did.  So smile like there's no tomorrow because time cannot be borrowed and you can't give it to someone who's gone so make it your own.   So rise and shine.  Make this world a better place, even though we are just particles floating in space, we’re gonna be here awhile.  Because maybe happiness is a decision, but I’ve chosen.

There is a false face behind a false breast
That beats out a tune that was never its own
And the thrum of the notes in the din of the night
Is a scourge to the dreams it is shown.

Wherefore sits he so melancholy? By
baked glass lines of chairs, all written up for
the task which he cannot but perform. Waits
with a cruel mouth; a crueler waist that
hoists him from the waste with watermarked wells
beneath his eyes, his staring eyes. Up there,
how many faces press against him? In
the well of his neck, the silver skin holds
back the mouth for all it might be worth,
to be seen by His appreciative teeth.

There is a false stage where stands a false man
That speaks with a passion that never was known
And the beck and the cry that is elsewhere not heard
Is a tear for the man that has flown.

December's crueler than April.

Survivor stories from my youth,
Donner migrants
Athletes in the Andes
King Rat pragmatist ethic, depiction.

Whose story wins the hearts?
Whose reason causes minds to make
a way appear,
where no way was, yet now, we be
come to the future, from just now,
how come we ask?
Me and thee, alone, I see no other,
thus I read… my life,

my owned experience, true as true
can ever be, on the spectrum,
Perfect proven truth, the idea all
begins with, already

one and a, none, nada mas, only me,
I scan the ever not I
and I see. Only me, most self centered
of things,
the singularity at the core,
whither thought occurred, as what
if we knew, nothing
is a positive, point in re-ality, under
time constraints,
and breathable atmo bubbles,

dust of ever before, the just imagine,
living by faith as defined,

here, by faith, to thine ownself, be true.
Good and faithful,
servile being, you, the submitted mind,
heart-core, gung-**, rock roller,
happy Sisypheanist,
on life's downhill side.

Too true to be simple, loop de loop.

The road is a Mobius strip,
with as many twists as your average
protein molecule,
produced from dirt, ultimately,
formed from former stars's dusts.

Of course, that is, to stay valid,
on course through human events,
opportunities for the whole world

to know, a means, a use of held thoughts,
phenomenal-logos chains holding
weight a minutes needing thinking

through, dia-logos, thought filled words.
----------

The elderly Voltaire enters the frame,
carrying -- or carried on
a stipulation, a term limit, bounding
pre-suppositions… ag-response, control.

A keel and a rudder and a mast and sail,
in our mind we all have imagined,
we could, should necessity demand.

Suppose, I go light on my own  reliance
on artificial knowledge, I lean
on my leading spirits spoken words,
as spoken by my culture's steady state.

Salt, for centuries, served life. Agree,
we know Sodium is real, as a model,
made with representative shapes,
Tinker-Toy structures visible
to current-tech eye-use-enhancers,

scanning instants in the gestalt.
All the uni- units in the universe,
one time tic past last… waiting to go.

------ hours from go, begone, we are
being come
so far, so good, no pain, no sorrow,
at the moment, mindful
practice, right
in that moment, stick and stay and

make it mean something, today,
while it is called today, you may
come along, as you wish,
or feel drawn, as into a vacuous event
horizon claiming,
right, this was the edge, yesterday.