My words don’t have arms big enough to hold these great and growing feelings.
They stay in my insides
Crowding out
Grinding down the subtleties
That reside near the edges in the used to be,
that cushiony soft berm.

It was comfortable in here once

The Room for Interpretation,

now lost,
now over-full,
balloon-bright and tumbling one voice and many into and out of supremacy.

These great and growing feelings
and my insufficient words
that fall from me one-by-one into place,
the thudding truth in basic blue.

try gathering up the marbles with akua naru's the journey aflame, heidegger's ponderings ii - vi, and the sight of lost virginity in trees or at least their mortality to blossom reduced to skeleton... or lungs' alveoli.

there's an acute difference between hip-hop and rap...
hip-hop has the decency to acknowledge the sax...
sure the beat of rap is there: on-and-off,
but hip-hop has the table manners to spin
out a continuum from jazz, it has Darwinistic traits
to engage in a continuum...
rap is like rock when starting off from
scratch and not from pauper blues...
do you want words like kid, yeah,
   and other belittling babushka doll
verbiage? this is me, raw,
          god, the plight of constantly stating
authenticity... art and plagiarism
and that constant need to avoid the latter,
much claimed, much too little deviated from,
even on the altar of pains
from hernia (in my unconscious,
as a baby i had that: intestines out bulging),
acne beyond my teenage years: newspapers
say that it's dying out...
            my mother faked falling down
the stairs today...
               it's called bypassing the n.h.s. queue
off the medical bureaucrat that's the general
practitioner who chicken scratches prescription
and as all medical professionals: has
hands worthy of a butcher's, the only thing tangible
to the eyes as to the ear is the signature,
and that's everyone's Picasso moment.
         hip-hop? i can do drive-by shooting with
that ****, talk ******, talk:
      right now i'm surfing on concrete.
wait... orcs... what's female with that vinyl?
        niggerette? sure, Solomon swine talk
with Sheba from Ethiopia or wherever she was from.
  and the *german said that cultural politics is
the last remembered barbarism...
           some learn english and turn to identity pride
as if they didn't come out of an ant's exoskeleton
stating the menu: all mushy cushiony inside, boyo.
   2011 and we're still ******* that torpedo
that's the chainsaw crazy bulletin of: haircuts you
shouldn't endorse.
            so she faked it, ****, we all know that women
always began lying and men told too many truths,
at least women got a monopoly on what's to come
in d.n.a. tattoos... men ******* into science rather
than fatherhood... gamble here, gamble there...
      this paramedic didn't look the part,
esp. when he started talking, he wanted to shed off
his official attire of paramedic green...
   my mother? the lowercase blood pressure too
high from acting,
                            i don't bother about mine,
i'm drinking while she's in the hospital wanting a
c.t.i. scan... selfish or selfless? i have no antidote
for death's dynamic this afternoon,
   i just wish i was given the precursor insight into
all of this fake... wait... that's really personal...
anyway, this paramedic really hid his inner,
he bred parrots prior to... bombshell: breeding
snakes... pythons 5ft long, 400 or so in his aquariums...
i don't know where exaggerations begin or end,
but i asked him: poor eyesight, snakes.
yep, he taught his serpents to gulp up dead rats,
apparently 25K a year...
apparently snouting out of the shell doesn't
equal pecking out of it... t-rex in the sky
flying high... plop... out comes a ****** for lizard
and mr. birdie...
                    that's one way to appreciate lacks
to what's mammalian and tapeworm,
   hence that desire in woman to 'take this **** out of me!
take this **** out of me!' i understand the panic
                (Prometheus movie style),
    out comes a lizard in an egg, out comes a crow
out from an egg, and here we are, stomach-to-stomach
connect: needless to say, after 9 months parasitically born:
i can understand the panic, it's like being *****
for 9 months and eating strange combinations of foods:
doughnuts and cucumbers...
           i really don't understand this religious
implant that there's a person behind a forming-foetus
when there's still the diaper to come,
the weak bladder and the weak **** not yet formed,
the baby teeth to fall out... all of these physical
foundations and only then, the thought,
     and then after many more years and exposure
to democracy: a debate concerning a soul...
           and of course your interaction with the ****
thing to mould the insides...
             well, that's one side of the tale...
we all know that the other if filled with
conformity, pleasantries and babyshowers: what's
the great mystery there?
   ****... all i wanted to say is that birds are neo-lizards,
where the foetus and the ****** plop out
       from the female, and all that's left to do is sit
on an armchair and **** into it...
                    even i concede the point about
things being too stressful and too weird...
               but that's also about finding your cool...
               and thankfully... akua naru's album is as good
as it had to be... thankfully i can apply the rule-of-thumb
usually reserved for prog-rock albums...
that's an hour of my attention ****, gone,
   the better part of a magic trick entrapped in realism...
hardly that thing we know today: 3 minutes snap!
    3 minutes snap!      breaking points for the top 40
chart successes... i count listening to an entire album
a success primo:
   (concerning my mother? something happened prior,
it was as authentic as was required to get past
n.h.s. bureaucracy) -
            people get so panicky these days,
and not a single islamic extremist in sight...
odd: i take it that mortality is worth being considered
a boiled egg being juggled among hot coal...
   well, hip-hop isn't rap for the sole reason: jazzmatazz.

attention...
smear neon lipstick
all over my cushiony lips
I'll eat it like Crayola crayons
pose whorishly for the camera
be saccharinely
tell you I love you
when I know it's a lie
why?
for attention
always want to be the center of it
I'm a fiend
for
ATTENTION
give it to me I'll eat it up
and love every bite of it

Teacher, you freed me.
Bit by bit I became willing to talk about I,
Myself, perched on a toilet seat pushing the soft
cushiony fabric into a tight oval to
commemorate the virgins of the midwest.
I can only hope the tenants won't mind.
I am not familiar with their particulars.

I am autumn
I am the changing colors
The chilly weather attracting sweaters
I am the dying flowers, closing up till another spring that life welcomes
I am autumn
I am crunchy cushiony pile of fun
I am the pumkins baking in the oven for Thanksgiving
And the decoration for Hallows eve
I am Autumn
Sometimes more beautiful than Spring

Her voice resonated through my mind, cushiony like cotton.
oh if only I hadn’t forgotten.
Her words would ruthlessly tare through my flesh like a dagger.
I try to tip-toe, but inconveniently stagger.
When will she become too perfidious for her throne?
if she were to atone for her sins, how would I know she had grown?
I will sedate.
my emotions for you will try and dissipate.
Now because of you I will never follow fate.

Boasting coffins thick and cushiony as wombs,
Pay last respects; their waxen image so
Still, reprimands against motion – their tombs.
Pirouette darkly against the moon, on we go.*
Penny Leavitt, 2013

She walked and talked the boards – a gravelly
Voice chasing the arts among the vagaries of
Melody and meter and the colors of balloons.

Penelope Marguerite – seven syllables to sway
The boldest of characters in the most honored
Stories to be seen and heard on stage.

The little Shorewood house – known to groups,
Nay herds of neighborhood critters and their
Off-spring – where Penny dwells.

“I hear the pulse of you,” she wrote, “solemn-
Sweet pipes of the *****” – and abruptly shook
Herself up and got on with it.

That unmistakable pony-tail in strands of gray
Marched with precision through grocery aisles –
Cat food in cart and lottery ticket in hand.

In the class notebook, she penned with care
The tales of a teenaged temptress, “sauntering
Sexily, swinging svelte lissome *****.”

Co-poets often thought her lost – she travelling
Unannounced to Montreal or Chicago – but
She bore the title of grandmother proudly.

Penny gave her heart to whoever needed it –
Not that she lost it – as snippets of amazement
And humility took their places elsewhere.

“This is what grandmas hope for," she wished
For the face of nature to reveal its magical
qualities to her grandson.

Age and its surprises were not immune to
Penny’s pen; she was an uncanny student of
The human story.

“We pass those who have gone before us;”
She wrote. “We become the lassoed souls
Of a younger, more agile dream.”

Pope said to act well our parts; there all the
Honour lies – Penny did so, and then some –
“We hold our faltering shadows high.”

There once was a poet named Benny,
Who could write a limerick like any.
It might have a word,
Unique or absurd,
But could not match those of our Penny!



© Lewis Bosworth, April 2017

Truth is the word
That we’ve always
embroidered
Onto my pillow

But instead
It’s that I’ve never had
Enough knowhow
To sew my

Secrets anywhere
Except the
Soft, pin-cushiony
Pink of my lips

It is always you
With truth shears in
The hand you’re always
Extending

That sets them
Free
To fly and
Find light

Your work on
Our tapestry
With little fingers
And quiet tenderness

That many
Will never
Feel

Your vision
Of our bigger picture
Unravels before me

Making more sense
With Every stitch

When I leave my
Heart
In places so
Cold

You help me
Pull strings
To drag me back
To myself

You remind me
That my fabric is
Fragile and
Precious,

But never to fear
Cutting away
What no longer
Fits

Being Raggedy Ann
Always comes with
Its share
Of loose threads

And I’m forever
Thankful

That you
Tie them,
Hands un-judging

In knots
As intricate
And beautiful
As your soul.

or themes were  them or I don't even remember
anymore the drunken high wavering feelings dizzying
exact places nor time,  of where I was on that date or whom I might
have said to a flirt or grabbed a thigh bravely or slapped a cushiony
cue ball banking the eight ball with skill winning
a hundred dollar bill buying the whole ******* bar a drink
and
a *******,
just know that was me when, then. I had less problems younger
stouter energetic time left on my tab,
a deadly eye a smirk of confidence, that youthly
obsession with being tough. I banked the eight ball last week while breaking and still am aching a week later. Now.

My brain is a wondrous thing. It's calm ocean waves drifting sparkles of valuable shells to the shore and tsunami storms crashing down houses and flooding eyes, soft cushiony fabric to dig your face into and sharp daggers to bleed from, a rocking cot and a resting graveyard. I am neither happy or sad. I can neither have pain or pleasure as a tattoo upon my undecieding soul. I do not live by what I feel but where those feelings take me. Moments are fleeting and identities are scarce. I am confused in a beautiful way, scattered in a gifted way, like colourful stained marbles across tile floors. I am the rage of light at day and the blooming darkening shine at night. But black and white I cannot be. My colours lie as a mess in the middle, my canvas life, my pallet the directions, my paintbrush the weapon, the creator. Many masks slip off, labels start to peel, and face paint washes away in the rain dance that is life. That is me. I am a wonder. I am unfitting jigsaws of all the things that make me think, and alive, waiting to be discovered and reborn, reshaped once again. Stardust and black holes consume my thoughts and both fill and drain my heart dry, but empty I can never be. For my soul is the universe, most unexplored, but never ending. I am a masterpiece.

They surround me,
Them those dark demons.
Smothering me in fear,
Covering me in dread.

As the button switches,
The golden sword swiftly glides toward them.
The demons scatter out of its way,
Hope as I will the power will stay.

The electrical surge,
The sword goes black.
The demons return,
With feel of evil in place.

I hide within the cushiony shield,
Then rest till the demons do die.

I wish I were a bird
On the top of the world
Flickering my wings
Funding cushiony twigs
I wish I were a butterfly
On the sweetest petals I lie
******* the nectar
As I freely chatter
I wish I were a fish
Pedalling my fins
With fresh bubbles
And immortal fervour
I wish I were that innocuous kid
Rampageosly messing up barefeet
Denying distinctions via poor and rich
Indicating candid camaraderie
Towards his pals in poverty
Life would be pretty on the upswing...

the way the light brushes the white of a wall
at mid day when the sun is highest
and the smell of your home most familiar
the way he accepts my palm unyielding
stiff backed, and expectant
not wavering or wincing backward
soft furr tousled, and shiny grey in the
fingers of light through the window
the way your pillows feel in the morning
arms escapsule the cushiony fluff
and the scent of last nights smiles
the silence of your own space
serenity in the quiet against the warmth of your own skin
reminiscing along with swirling cloud like
memories while you watch your cat snooze
serenly on a windowsill..

(i only dream of imps)
sweaty, high-handed, they reek of brandy
although i know what they desire i bury my fists in stiff pockets
all the simple things i believe to be made up of are really technicolor and abstruse
(i only dream of this)
every night they spit viruses down my throat
bite jibes in my deepest cushiony parts
chew gold rings like stale cheerios
swathing me
in sticky mud-like paint
thin and sour
(i only dream of hell)
grafted unholiness in pits of ink
tumultuous
sore heat seething from flowery bits
greedy imp hands handling soft pillow bodies
acid breath inflating pink fleshy lungs like round dollar store balloons
(i rarely dream of clouds)
when i do they are rotting clumps of loose soil
left untended by my perverse imps
holding petals to their fever pitted cores
redressing me in noxious defamation
(i'll dream again soon)

Doing cushiony cushy jobs. Sharing best practices. Dreaming of finding a decent travel agency. Having dreams of mushroom clouds rising above dumpsters. Showing the V sign with both legs upwards. Leaving office feet first. Staying in office feet first. Letting things slide to hell, while remaining unseen through the thin veneer of incompetence.

Fear is strange. As a concept it motivates you, a driving force, as an emotion is paralyses you. The fear of being unable to move in itself makes your muscles work. Flexing. Clenching. The need to run. Escape. But you can't. You can't move. There's a war going on between mind and muscle, and in this conflict I am the only casualty.

I've always been running, never bothering to throw breadcrumbs behind, but I never knew what I was running from.

One morning, she grabbed me in her sleep, as if I was the only solid thing in the room, maybe in the world...

I never asked what she was dreaming about. I didn't reach out to her. Fear.

The day she slammed the car door behind her as she got out. It was embarrassing how annoyed I was. How absolutely, blindly ******* I was about it. I feel so bad about it now, looking back I feel bad about a lot of the **** we did, or I did, the pointless cruelty of it.

As I lie on the grass I feel the bladed reaching beneath my shirt. Itching. Every single blade of grass is blocking every single pore of my skin, as if insects are nesting. The air curves around my limbs, as if to accommodate for hers.

She must have felt it and a part of her must have felt more alive because of it. Isn't that such a cliche? Feeling more alive because you're dying. If you can see all of time folding in front of you, hear your past crash into the back of you... Would you break or put your foot down?

Her dress was that kind of orange colour that makes you feel slight sick if you stare at it for too long. It was funny the way the blood stains formed in circles. Perfect. Circles. Like a penny... It was still neat apart from a small tear at the hip...

She must have felt the ripple of the air across her skin as she stood there. It must have been like a blanket. Soft and cushiony. She could have wrapped herself in it. Protected herself.

Maybe she really did feel protected, by the air, from the fall. Maybe that's all anyone wants to feel. I don't think so, I stood there...

It was so black. Hard and hatefully black. I couldn't look down for long. It made me feel too small for the world. Everything grew around me, the pit spread out like a sheet beneath me, the air rippling, my skin itching.

It swallowed her. How could she stand there and not be altered by it? How could she walk away as the same person? Who would she be?

I move around the flat like a blind man. I don't know where the edges of anything are anymore. I don't know where the edges of my body start. The rooms are huge, so huge that even the silence echoes.

I feel inexplicably and overwhelmingly bored. People tell me how sorry they are but I've heard it all ready. People send cards with nice things written in them but I've read them all before. Every smell is the same. The perfume that lingers on her scarf is the same. I'll never be surprised again by the smell of something new. I will never smell anything except the last whispers of her.

All food tastes the same. All girls look the same. I stay the same. I look in the mirror and I can't believe how I still look like me. I can't understand why my heart is still covered by skin and bone and muscle when it's been ripped.... Ripped... Ripped out...

They told me that the platform was crowded, as they pushed styrofoam cups of **** brown water into my hands. 'Good' I say...

I've said the wrong thing again. You would think it would be people saying the wrong thing to me but it isn't. My mouth doesn't work in relation to my brain anymore. There's a delay, a time difference...

As I stand there, my heart eats itself, my lungs clench, my muscles twitch and the urge to take one more tiny step takes over my veins like a virus.

The speakers are broken but the woman's determined, in case it was an accident, in case she didn't know,

'High speed trains through this station.'

In some point of your life,
Which has been pain of your living.
It can be at any point of your life...

A sudden refresh of all yoursef,
Pops up as a regular coincidence.

Suddenly, all the weight of painful
Memories, thoughts, feelings are gone.
As well as potent satistafaction,
Becomes the field of your experience.

You feel like you are returned to
First home of humans, Garden of Eden.
Even you are looking to the
Boringly plains of detesting
White walls of your home
Or in the middle of the tedious lesson.

You feel like you are in the heaven.
Vast skies of azure,
Vast plains of shamrock.
Or the forest of complex Red pine...

Between the leaves a light ball shines.

It feels like a dream,
But concentration to atmosphere is
So high that it is
More factual than a dream.

Purple azure skies,
Candy red sun sets as a single god,
In rainbow of oranges and yellows.

Or you may be in the space,
Gazing thousands of
Little glittering color
In the vast darkness.

A nearby yellow star shines
As well as reveals thousands of
Spheres in vast colors,
Each of them an infinite heaven
With infinite liveliness.

Than you realize that all pain is gone.
You are refreshed, calm, in pleasure
In the highest forms.

Than you also realize that,
All of these is just a dream.
Imagined stuff being creation of you.

Even you attempt to leave
Beacuse of its fakeness,
You find the hardship in leaving.
Because it is the music
You are dying for hearing it.

Know that it doesn't come form
Your cushiony headphones.

Remember, that's the thing
You are striving for.
The complete well being of
All yourself, all your senses!

But the case is
We have big flows of energy
In our complex pathways of
Neural circuits and spiritual fields,
Avoiding the strenght of good
To hold us in good.

Because we laboured ourselves to
Live painful and weak lives
Just sake of survival.
So our brains are more able to
Suffer than satistfy,
More capable to experience and be
Bad rather than good.

What's avoiding this is the
Unconditional stabilization of
The experience of the good.

Owingly,
Even when the whole world is hellish;
You are the shine of the heaven,
Refreshing heights of elegance, content

Than you ask, how to do this.
I say; become that wholly,
Unconditionally,
Without any negative and bad.

If you still ask the same question,
Follow me! Just follow me!
Continuously, unconditionally!
This is all you need.

As the result, you will feel the
Depths of positive flow of love,
Heights of infinite continuous pleasure,
Taste of sweetest sweet without sweet.
In all of your life, unconditionally.
Even when everything is
Going painfully, badly, wrongly.

I call it the nectar!

Snoring wildly on the emerald carpets
With lush and frantic hue
Cushiony petals are dancing puppets
Destination never has gone through
Crops bearing golden yields
Threshed with ardent love and devotion
There.. farmer's friends crawling deep
Displacing under fine fragmentation
Endless barriers..Endless notes
Endless beauty...Endless codes..

Soft, cuddly, cushiony here is where I am. Clear of clutter, problems, working, organizing, fixing.

Here.

I am safe. Away from everything and everyone. I am here.

Blissful, peaceful, resting nest. Wherever I am, I am here.

Tomorrow is so far away and yesterday is sleeping. Even today is on vacation while I am here.

I just don't want to go there.

Can't I stay here?

honey tangy nectar.
coat-your-mouth
gives crunch drip

oblique emerald tears
firmy cushiony give
speckled red, burnished orange

creviced crimson deep
garish grooves
bite-jarring grind

acrobatic twirling
diplomatic fingers
whittled down
to the core.

Are we grateful for our bubble?
The constant flow of comfort? The solidified love? The cushiony warmth of meaningful kisses? The lack of peril? The apparent feeling?
No. We lust after more agency.
We dart for the furthest ends of the edge. And when we fall off with a weak ‘pop’
We crave out beginnings in that gooey bubble.
Lacking in the nest’s feathers we don’t have the means to craft wings to fly us home.
In an attempt to cry out, lacking in belonging we are too far gone to even find our voice.

Summer nights and sunkissed days take me away,
Cushiony feelings oh so warm I can't complain,
Slow ocean walks take you in with a smile and a gaze,
Your velvety kisses make me want to stay.

Running through a field full of flowers of all different kinds,
I never count the seconds because I’m lost in time,
Like my tan from the sun, you’ve made your mark; now you’re always on my mind,
You're my box of treasure, something I need to hide.

Bike rides in the forest,
Deep stares at the bright blue sky,
If I can be honest,
You're the best kind of high.