SMOKE of the fields in spring is one,
Smoke of the leaves in autumn another.
Smoke of a steel-mill roof or a battleship funnel,
They all go up in a line with a smokestack,
Or they twist ... in the slow twist ... of the wind.
  
If the north wind comes they run to the south.
If the west wind comes they run to the east.
  By this sign
  all smokes
  know each other.
Smoke of the fields in spring and leaves in autumn,
Smoke of the finished steel, chilled and blue,
By the oath of work they swear: "I know you."
  
Hunted and hissed from the center
Deep down long ago when God made us over,
Deep down are the cinders we came from-
You and I and our heads of smoke.
  
Some of the smokes God dropped on the job
Cross on the sky and count our years
And sing in the secrets of our numbers;
Sing their dawns and sing their evenings,
Sing an old log-fire song:
  
You may put the damper up,
You may put the damper down,
The smoke goes up the chimney just the same.
  
Smoke of a city sunset skyline,
Smoke of a country dusk horizon-
  They cross on the sky and count our years.
  
Smoke of a brick-red dust
  Winds on a spiral
  Out of the stacks
For a hidden and glimpsing moon.
This, said the bar-iron shed to the blooming mill,
This is the slang of coal and steel.
The day-gang hands it to the night-gang,
The night-gang hands it back.
  
Stammer at the slang of this-
Let us understand half of it.
  In the rolling mills and sheet mills,
  In the harr and boom of the blast fires,
  The smoke changes its shadow
  And men change their shadow;
  A ******, a ***, a bohunk changes.
  
  A bar of steel-it is only
Smoke at the heart of it, smoke and the blood of a man.
A runner of fire ran in it, ran out, ran somewhere else,
And left-smoke and the blood of a man
And the finished steel, chilled and blue.
  
So fire runs in, runs out, runs somewhere else again,
And the bar of steel is a gun, a wheel, a nail, a shovel,
A rudder under the sea, a steering-gear in the sky;
And always dark in the heart and through it,
  Smoke and the blood of a man.
Pittsburg, Youngstown, Gary-they make their steel with men.
  
In the blood of men and the ink of chimneys
The smoke nights write their oaths:
Smoke into steel and blood into steel;
Homestead, Braddock, Birmingham, they make their steel with men.
Smoke and blood is the mix of steel.
  
  The birdmen drone
  in the blue; it is steel
  a motor sings and zooms.
  
Steel barb-wire around The Works.
Steel guns in the holsters of the guards at the gates of The Works.
Steel ore-boats bring the loads clawed from the earth by steel, lifted and lugged by arms of steel, sung on its way by the clanking clam-shells.
The runners now, the handlers now, are steel; they dig and clutch and haul; they hoist their automatic knuckles from job to job; they are steel making steel.
Fire and dust and air fight in the furnaces; the pour is timed, the billets wriggle; the clinkers are dumped:
Liners on the sea, skyscrapers on the land; diving steel in the sea, climbing steel in the sky.
  
Finders in the dark, you Steve with a dinner bucket, you Steve clumping in the dusk on the sidewalks with an evening paper for the woman and kids, you Steve with your head wondering where we all end up-
Finders in the dark, Steve: I hook my arm in cinder sleeves; we go down the street together; it is all the same to us; you Steve and the rest of us end on the same stars; we all wear a hat in hell together, in hell or heaven.
  
Smoke nights now, Steve.
Smoke, smoke, lost in the sieves of yesterday;
Dumped again to the scoops and hooks today.
Smoke like the clocks and whistles, always.
  Smoke nights now.
  To-morrow something else.
  
Luck moons come and go:
Five men swim in a *** of red steel.
Their bones are kneaded into the bread of steel:
Their bones are knocked into coils and anvils
And the ******* plungers of sea-fighting turbines.
Look for them in the woven frame of a wireless station.
So ghosts hide in steel like heavy-armed men in mirrors.
Peepers, skulkers-they shadow-dance in laughing tombs.
They are always there and they never answer.
  
One of them said: "I like my job, the company is good to me, America is a wonderful country."
One: "Jesus, my bones ache; the company is a liar; this is a free country, like hell."
One: "I got a girl, a peach; we save up and go on a farm and raise pigs and be the boss ourselves."
And the others were roughneck singers a long ways from home.
Look for them back of a steel vault door.
  
They laugh at the cost.
They lift the birdmen into the blue.
It is steel a motor sings and zooms.
  
In the subway plugs and drums,
In the slow hydraulic drills, in gumbo or gravel,
Under dynamo shafts in the webs of armature spiders,
They shadow-dance and laugh at the cost.
  
The ovens light a red dome.
Spools of fire wind and wind.
Quadrangles of crimson sputter.
The lashes of dying maroon let down.
Fire and wind wash out the ****.
Forever the **** gets washed in fire and wind.
The anthem learned by the steel is:
  Do this or go hungry.
Look for our rust on a plow.
Listen to us in a threshing-engine razz.
Look at our job in the running wagon wheat.
  
Fire and wind wash at the ****.
Box-cars, clocks, steam-shovels, churns, pistons, boilers, scissors-
Oh, the sleeping **** from the mountains, the ****-heavy pig-iron will go down many roads.
Men will stab and shoot with it, and make butter and tunnel rivers, and mow hay in swaths, and slit hogs and skin beeves, and steer airplanes across North America, Europe, Asia, round the world.
  
Hacked from a hard rock country, broken and baked in mills and smelters, the rusty dust waits
Till the clean hard weave of its atoms cripples and blunts the drills chewing a hole in it.
The steel of its plinths and flanges is reckoned, O God, in one-millionth of an inch.
  
Once when I saw the curves of fire, the rough scarf women dancing,
Dancing out of the flues and smoke-stacks-flying hair of fire, flying feet upside down;
Buckets and baskets of fire exploding and chortling, fire running wild out of the steady and fastened ovens;
Sparks cracking a harr-harr-huff from a solar-plexus of rock-ribs of the earth taking a laugh for themselves;
Ears and noses of fire, gibbering gorilla arms of fire, gold mud-pies, gold bird-wings, red jackets riding purple mules, scarlet autocrats tumbling from the humps of camels, assassinated czars straddling vermillion balloons;
I saw then the fires flash one by one: good-by: then smoke, smoke;
And in the screens the great sisters of night and cool stars, sitting women arranging their hair,
Waiting in the sky, waiting with slow easy eyes, waiting and half-murmuring:
  "Since you know all
  and I know nothing,
  tell me what I dreamed last night."
  
Pearl cobwebs in the windy rain,
in only a flicker of wind,
are caught and lost and never known again.
  
A pool of moonshine comes and waits,
but never waits long: the wind picks up
loose gold like this and is gone.
  
A bar of steel sleeps and looks slant-eyed
on the pearl cobwebs, the pools of moonshine;
sleeps slant-eyed a million years,
sleeps with a coat of rust, a vest of moths,
a shirt of gathering sod and loam.
  
The wind never bothers ... a bar of steel.
The wind picks only .. pearl cobwebs .. pools of moonshine.

My Arwen lies over Belegaer
Beyond the Straight Road, lies my Evenstar
Across the Endless Sea, in Aman she lies
She wouldn't stay here just to love, but to die

I remember her here, here in Endor
When the beacons of Gondor burned bright.
I remember her here, once beside me
In the days before the long night

In Imladris fair, as Estel I was raised
In ignorance there, I spent by blissful days
I lived, and I learned, and yet never yearned
For she from whom I now feel so spurned

I've had my Éowyns, but none quite compare
To She, my lady, so radiant, so fair
At Cerin Amroth we pledged our love
To all, ourselves, and the Ainur above

But the Darkness again spread
Morgoth's mission again led
The Fellowship was wrought
The battles all fought

The Age of the Firstborn was ended
The Age of the Hildor ascended
Our world together was split
And really, that was just it

She could stay here, forever, be mortal
But ever so closely lay Mithlond ,the portal
To a life without end, I can blame her hardly
I guess Barahir's tale was never to be

What’s this? You say she’s not yet set sail?
But how can I stop her? Our parting was so stale!

Sure Elrond's presence and Galadriel's glare
May have done oh so much to damper our parting
But as she goes afar I know I can't go there
And her expressed frigidity, that wound is still smarting

What should I do for her I adore?
Run to the Grey Havens and stop the White Ship?
But so much I must do, right here in Gondor,
A King I can become, as my Queen give me the slip

And the spirits are howling,
The white tree is burning?!
My power, my people
BUT I CAN'T STOP THIS YEARNING

Oh what shall I do? TO ERU ABOVE
I have so much work, but I so miss my Love
The tears, they are welling, the Ship has set sail
In all my adventures, in truth I have failed!

For what am I worth? No King has Returned
And without Hope is Gondor, and the Stewards have burned
Denthar departed, the mighty horn split
The mighty White City left here to sit

I could let it fall into disarray,
Again a Ranger, I could slip away
To die like the Ents, forever, no Wife
Is there nothing to save me from this strife?

A new dawn is rising, a new age begun
My hopes might still clear
with the new rising Sun

I see its my duty, as Arathorn's son… what Isildur started, I must see done
but still I mourn my loss… that beautiful star, which now like all others, I must admire from afar.

~D. B. Guy
09/02/2007

From beach to beach to beach, glimmering shimmers of sand laden waves lap lazily at your feet. The seaweed masquerade of the crab clumsily dancing amongst the foam is paradoxically poignant but apt.
Sighs of relief as the soothing sensation of the sea on hot blistered feet capture the essence of the moment. The simple pleasures of the beach; sand ridden toes and remarkably veined geodes; the golden grains and barnacle encrusted rocks provide a unique treasure indeed.
And then comes the gentle pitter-patter of a sunshower- putting a literal damper on things- but uniquely completing the picturesque scene.

I sat under a paper umbrella of the reddest hue autumn
and like an apple
I waited for you to pick me ripe
bite, smell my neck
and remember.
I sat on bench of grey weather boards
waiting to be thrown down upon them-
wanting to be pinned down upon them.
Feet on a rug of discarded
leaves, just like me.
discarded but beautiful.
still just a season long
season woman,
can you love me winter long?
Ill meet you on the snowy bench.
white puffs of apologises will float from my mouth.
my toes will shake and the fence we loved for being red
we'll love for being white.
Red will now slither to my ears and you will say things I can't hear.
And the stars will paint the sky too dark so we
can see that winter sparkles.
Spring is full of other lovers, this bench-
lovers that are not you and I.
And the playground is full of candy wrappers and mothers sneakers.
The trees are majestically green stretching and yawning and showing off.
The children bouncing, whining, crying,  finding.
Spring is full of lovers but not us
so she gives my heart to summer
and glass doesn't melt so the places where I like to feel your sweat
are the places where they like to touch my body.
summer makes us reckless and the bench, our bench is being held together by the squirrels claws and the sparrows talons... they wait for us to scatter.
hot you kiss my dampness, damper.
hot you kiss my pain and sorrow. boiling all the past good voyage.
our fence has lost some posts as,
the children love to climb and kick
it will hold on, still.
but it won't hold-out and won't hold-in which is what fences are meant to do.
at least they should... they should choose.
Autumn, yes it's autumn ours. We are autumn lovers
with leaves of the book skittering beneath the empty slide.
We are autumn, smell like the burning leaves of who we were.
Smelling like the fresh cut wood, ready to have her rings counted
Autumn lover, hold my hand and tell me you are afraid.
Autumn lover, holding color golden like a circle round.
Hurry, before she blows me past the red fence,
Hurry before our secrets get caught by the wind and dance around the playground.
Hurry Autumn lover,
Hurry to remember that you loved me, once.*

Shannon April Alice
11/2/14

(1)

This is the sea, then, this great abeyance.
How the sun's poultice draws on my inflammation.

Electrifyingly-colored sherbets, scooped from the freeze
By pale girls, travel the air in scorched hands.

Why is it so quiet, what are they hiding?
I have two legs, and I move smilingly..

A sandy damper kills the vibrations;
It stretches for miles, the shrunk voices

Waving and crutchless, half their old size.
The lines of the eye, scalded by these bald surfaces,

Boomerang like anchored elastics, hurting the owner.
Is it any wonder he puts on dark glasses?

Is it any wonder he affects a black cassock?
Here he comes now, among the mackerel gatherers

Who wall up their backs against him.
They are handling the black and green lozenges like the parts of a body.

The sea, that crystallized these,
Creeps away, many-snaked, with a long hiss of distress.

                (2)

This black boot has no mercy for anybody.
Why should it, it is the hearse of a dad foot,

The high, dead, toeless foot of this priest
Who plumbs the well of his book,

The bent print bulging before him like scenery.
Obscene bikinis hid in the dunes,

******* and hips a confectioner's sugar
Of little crystals, titillating the light,

While a green pool opens its eye,
Sick with what it has swallowed----

Limbs, images, shrieks.  Behind the concrete bunkers
Two lovers unstick themselves.

O white sea-crockery,
What cupped sighs, what salt in the throat....

And the onlooker, trembling,
Drawn like a long material

Through a still virulence,
And a ****, hairy as privates.

                (3)

On the balconies of the hotel, things are glittering.
Things, things----

Tubular steel wheelchairs, aluminum crutches.
Such salt-sweetness.  Why should I walk

Beyond the breakwater, spotty with barnacles?
I am not a nurse, white and attendant,

I am not a smile.
These children are after something, with hooks and cries,

And my heart too small to bandage their terrible faults.
This is the side of a man:  his red ribs,

The nerves bursting like trees, and this is the surgeon:
One mirrory eye----

A facet of knowledge.
On a striped mattress in one room

An old man is vanishing.
There is no help in his weeping wife.

Where are the eye-stones, yellow and valuable,
And the tongue, sapphire of ash.

                (4)

A wedding-cake face in a paper frill.
How superior he is now.

It is like possessing a saint.
The nurses in their wing-caps are no longer so beautiful;

They are browning, like touched gardenias.
The bed is rolled from the wall.

This is what it is to be complete.  It is horrible.
Is he wearing pajamas or an evening suit

Under the glued sheet from which his powdery beak
Rises so whitely unbuffeted?

They propped his jaw with a book until it stiffened
And folded his hands, that were shaking:  goodbye, goodbye.

Now the washed sheets fly in the sun,
The pillow cases are sweetening.

It is a blessing, it is a blessing:
The long coffin of soap-colored oak,

The curious bearers and the raw date
Engraving itself in silver with marvelous calm.

                (5)

The gray sky lowers, the hills like a green sea
Run fold upon fold far off, concealing their hollows,

The hollows in which rock the thoughts of the wife----
Blunt, practical boats

Full of dresses and hats and china and married daughters.
In the parlor of the stone house

One curtain is flickering from the open window,
Flickering and pouring, a pitiful candle.

This is the tongue of the dead man:  remember, remember.
How far he is now, his actions

Around him like living room furniture, like a décor.
As the pallors gather----

The pallors of hands and neighborly faces,
The elate pallors of flying iris.

They are flying off into nothing:  remember us.
The empty benches of memory look over stones,

Marble facades with blue veins, and jelly-glassfuls of daffodils.
It is so beautiful up here:  it is a stopping place.

                (6)

The natural fatness of these lime leaves!----
Pollarded green *****, the trees march to church.

The voice of the priest, in thin air,
Meets the corpse at the gate,

Addressing it, while the hills roll the notes of the dead bell;
A glittler of wheat and crude earth.

What is the name of that color?----
Old blood of caked walls the sun heals,

Old blood of limb stumps, burnt hearts.
The widow with her black pocketbook and three daughters,

Necessary among the flowers,
Enfolds her lace like fine linen,

Not to be spread again.
While a sky, wormy with put-by smiles,

Passes cloud after cloud.
And the bride flowers expend a freshness,

And the soul is a bride
In a still place, and the groom is red and forgetful, he is featureless.

                (7)

Behind the glass of this car
The world purrs, shut-off and gentle.

And I am dark-suited and still, a member of the party,
Gliding up in low gear behind the cart.

And the priest is a vessel,
A tarred fabric, sorry and dull,

Following the coffin on its flowery cart like a beautiful woman,
A crest of *******, eyelids and lips

Storming the hilltop.
Then, from the barred yard, the children

Smell the melt of shoe-blacking,
Their faces turning, wordless and slow,

Their eyes opening
On a wonderful thing----

Six round black hats in the grass and a lozenge of wood,
And a naked mouth, red and awkward.

For a minute the sky pours into the hole like plasma.
There is no hope, it is given up.

She was so, what's the word I'm looking for?
  not *****, some would say submissive.
There is no way she was that, more *******.
But she never let it show, she'd have a way of
controlling the situation to make you think you
        were in charge...

How could I explain it? more like your in a desert,
         thirsty and see a fountain in the distance.
Running towards it your strength disperses,
  and you believe what you see even though your
            swallowing the passing of time.

Even as you choke, you still believe you've
quenched your, I mean her thirst.
          If she was poker, she'd have the winning
hand every time...

So back to the moment at hand, she was so dam
         rough, I had scratches that looked like I'd
had a sleepover at Elm Street.
I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it...
I liked it when she made me trickle.


That itch while at work, as my back
was healing, it turned me on knowing
that she still lingered even though we
weren't near.
       She had this suffocation issue,
but it was kinker than just naked...
        

It was in a summer dress,
                    and only in the summer.
Like she was seasonal?
I'd lift her dress up. she was pantiless.
           But before that, my hands were even
within her thighs, she was damper than
the grand canyon dry around the edges,
       but between she flowed...

There was no finesse it was all or nothing,
     no gentle hands, deep and hard were her ways.
She knew what she liked. But like a drug,
Its strength diminishes over time,
and the thrill was now near non-existent.  
And a frustrated woman isn't one to be trifled with.

So we got others involved, ones that had
the same suffocating view on life.
Constricted on the normality of ***.
The first one, ***. It was embarrassing.
  We'd guest they were more inquisitive
         than had done it before.

We'd had them sign a waiver on the obligation
of what it entailed. A few drinks later,
Ok, more than a few and it was a melting ***
         of flesh, we were all over each other.
      She strangled my other half one-handed
constricting her flow of air, the other fingers
in her mouth being ****** erotically.

I'd never thought of how ****** this would be,
it didn't matter that it was a woman,
the fact she was arching so much.
All because of another stifling her breath.
                    I had my fun though I was deep
in the other,  **** deep as she didn't want to
be penetrated in her flower, she likes her petals clean??
   My other half could see me over the other'ss shoulder.

Enjoying the fact of both woman were in my bed,
              I was getting close, and then it changed.
She saw that I was about to pleasured by another.
Her hands clasped around our new acquaintance.
For such a petite figure she had a grasp like a clamp.

I felt her clench around my external offering,
           and the smile off my other, it was suffocatingly  
pleasurable. All three of us slumped at the same time.
The bedsheet was drizzly with the fulfillment
  of all three of us. I'd never experienced such a
moment, it was unexplainably fulfilling.

We rested for a moment, and then as I pulled myself
from this sweaty gathering, I needed to ***.
I know wow how romantic, But you open a valve,
waters going to pour eventually.
   Walking back to the bed all smiles.
     She looked at me with fear, but with a hint of
excitement.
                    
"She's dead,

                            "What dead tired?

  "No you ****-wit, as in you just pleasured
yourself up a corpse you necrophilic *****...

I laughed, as I jumped into bed thinking she
was hoaxing me. But she wasn't moving.
  Holy crap that was an ****** to die for??
  She looked at me sheepishly, no not really I got
kind of confused, she was strangling me and i
was so turned on.

But then I saw you about to lift off, and I didn't
like the fact that it was in another and not me.
So I tightened my grip, I heard her throat crunch
under the pressure, and she came,
either in exhilaration or that she'd just died...
Is it wrong that it was a multiple's!!

I've had doubles with you but that,
                                               I'm still twitching.
Oh' not to the fact that there was a dead blonde
in our bed. But the fact she had a multiple with a dead
woman on top. I brushed that thought away as we
had more concerning things,

I said to her,

"Do we phone the police,
             she signed the waiver?

"Do we phone the police!

  She said in a sarcastic manner raising her brow,
  
I could never do that dam thing, she was like
a **** trekky when she did that Mmm..
        I'd live long and **** the **** out her in
that cosplay outfit, pity I broke the ears last time.

Crap, I'm getting distracted.

I  could see where she was ******* from,
       why the hell does the dead woman have
***** *******,  whoops my toothpick just
became a great redwood again.

Are you getting stiff off seeing a dead woman's
******* you freak? They are kind of just there,
As she lent across and licked them.
         Oh, there cold, she looked at me
in her I'm ***** look.  We shouldn't waste an
opportunity really, as she opened her legs
and maneuvered her so she could scissor her.

What you waiting for, put your piece in her gob,
her mouth cold against it, but moist enough
that I face ****** her till we both got close
            kissing each other and ******* at the same
time, wow that was intense,
                                        we both sheepishly smiled.

We both got in the shower, the bed damp still from
                  when all three were breathing but her
head slumped to the side and you could see it dripping
out her mouth as if she was sleeping and  drooling
                       on the pillow.. that's gross.

After we were all cleaned up, we had to decide
what to do, the police wasn't an option.
   We'd watched enough dexters to know that
cutting her up was going to be way too messy..
And last time I got a paper cut I fainted.

Grabbing some cling film out the cupboard I started
To wrap her up, beforehand we went to the store
and brought 15 liters of bleach. I used a kitchen
a utensil  with a short straw-like funnel and proceed
to bleach the inside of her ****.. and gave here a detol
mouth wash, we put the rest in the bath and put
her in there, she hadn't started decomposing and
rigor mortis wasn't overly making her stiff like a plank
so she easily sank to the bottom.

After lunch we let the water out, god she looked clean.
But her eyes had become white, like ghost white
staring at me, like she'd known what we did to her.
I tried closing her eyelids but they wouldn't shut,
so I used a permanent marker to color them in..
   What was I thinking, now she looks ****** possessed.
Drying off was like a ritual we were gentle and making
sure her hair was brushed nicely.


Then with the 6 boxes of cling film, we wrapped
her up nice and tightly.
Crossing her arms over her chest seemed like
a nice thing to do. You never realize when
someone says dead weight, just how heavy that is.
We did that nursery rhyme as we threw her in the boot,

A leg and a wing to see the king and yeet...
    I gave her a 7.5 for landing. As we drove off
we took the map out, using sat-nav was a no, no
as we could have our steps traced back.
   There was an old coal mine just twenty minutes
away, what was cool was that there was an opening
that was so deep but not many knew about it.

I know how convenient is that. We parked up and
we knew we'd have to be quick so I slung her over
my shoulder, walking along I got really damp?

"Babe, what the hell is going on?
                     "Is she peeing on me?

I started to gag, but then the bleach smell hit!
       Phew! she was leaking bleach all over my jeans.
Thank **** for that, I knew these were going
to be burnt later anyway and had a spare pair in
the boot just in case. What I come prepared.

As we got to the opening a couple was standing there
throwing a rolled-up rug down the hole?
we both just looked at each other, what's up?
                              Nothing
What's up with you?
                     Nothing!
We just smiled and dropped our cling film roll
down the same hole. they pulled a knife we pulled
a baseball bat out.

Look, we know what we've both done,
   and if we walk away now you, we,
well neither of us will get hurt or have to throw the
others down that hole. How about the saying.
You didn't see it, so it didn't happen,?

They walked off, we walked off calmly.
That went a lot better than I thought as I laughed.
But just as we got to the car we heard a twig snap
right behind us, out of instinct I swung hard
catching him square in the temple.
as he fell he landing on his accomplice.
She was screaming Oh'my god help me..

My other half leaned over her, foot on her wrist
pulling the knife out her hand.. What were you
going to do with this then.

            "*******, she yelled.

No how about I mouth *******,
and with that, she raised the knife up
and shoved it into the hilt of her mouth.
God, i love this woman.
   As she lay there gurgling..
I mean the noise was nasty..
  So she just trod on her throat and silence.

We looked at each other, and started kissing,
    and before you knew it we had steamy windows
handprints visible to what had perspired in here.
As we got redressed and the tension now reduced
we dragged these two both to the hole.
I mean  my girl just grabbed his feet and like
luggage threw him in. She's so awesome.

You do realize we got from accidental murders
to nearly serial killers now.
And you know what it was such a turn on.
     I must admit we were both turned on by death.
We found their car and drove both down the country
lanes making sure that cameras were nowhere near.
We burnt it out, but not before doing donuts in a field
to make it look like joyriders had stolen it..

After that, we had plenty more lovers, false addresses
to entice, and snare our next lover into false security.
We got tech-savvy as well, in the car we had a scrambler
that blocked their mobiles. most didn't even notice
they lost signal, some did and were over-cautious
                   If they didn't come then unlucky them.

But we remembered that everything was to happen
in the bedroom. Gosh that coal mine is now a mosh pit
of broken voices, that crunch just as we orgasmed.
  That never got old, as everyone was different some
***, others ****** them selfs, that was new and gross.
But luckily we had mattress protectors on and plenty
more in the cupboard. To date, we must have made
love and silenced at least 12 over the last few years.

Only in the summer though,
  and the dresses, god she looks so hot...

Got to go through as our new friend
just turned up in guess what in a summer dress
of all things.
           We just looked at each other and smiled.

Chasing each moment,
as a pendulum swings on and on.
Dancing in the flight
of a sensitive mystery.
When the light switches on,
I stand there frozen.
An emotive string flows
through me and throughout.
The laws of unrequitement
damper all the smiles.
The flaws of each entity,
tear my soul thin as ice.
I know what must be done,
but can't bring myself
to let go.

An open letter to those who have dealt or tried or whichever with me during my depression and/or anxiety.

I wish I could stop. I hear that a lot. "Just stop." As if it were a switch I can turn on and off at my own will. If I could, I would've disabled that switch the minute I learned what the on was designed to do. If only I could stop if only I could

"Think positive" I hear that the most. I didn't think of that, nor did the twenty something people before you. As if I haven't dived into the deep end of positive affirmations for the riptide of negativity to pull me 20 times under. For every positive thought, my brain's defense brings up 20 reasons that the positivity isn't real or won't last, or my favorite, why do you even deserve to be positive.

I don't forget all the times you've said "people have it so much worse." I am so ungrateful for the roof over my head and the food I get to eat or the daily drinks I use to muffle the voices inside. I hate the privilege of having my friends and loved ones look at me through foggy lenses and lend me their advice. It comes from the bottom of your heart but it doesn't come from experience.

Oh and how can I forget how I'm acting like this out of attention. I promise if I wanted the attention, I would get it in a manner much more humorous instead of a pitiful pit stop of a parade I feel some of you think I am. I am not trying to guilt you or appeal to your pathos. I much prefer to evoke your happiness with jokes that mask the constant desire to not even exist.

Then it comes down to the people I've bared my mascara streamed, tear soaked, bare souled self to. I'm talking to you. The one who I know won't understand but I at least expect to be there. Because I know that when you only deal with it once a month it isn't a problem, take some asprin and put a ****** in and it's over before you know it. God forbid this curse drowns me for a week or two or three. I'm sorry to put a damper on your life. The one where you chant the positives and get on with it. You have the choice to leave. I don't.

I don't surrender to this illness. "I'm not a vicitm" I repeat constantly. I'm not trying to make up excuses as to why it's okay to act like this. I fight every day for a little breathing space, and sometimes I am consistently losing battles in this civil war for my own mind. I apologize that you bear the burdens of being on the front row sidelines of this imax screening of my life.

You see, when the anxiety is over, and the food I haven't eaten for a week is molded now, depression takes stage. Right on cue. A constant back to back showing for boys and girls, it's fun for the whole family. But even like the longest movies of our life, there are intermissions. I sometimes get to step outside the theatre and am reminded that it's still sunny outside, that there is a fresh breeze. I can hear my own thoughts for a moment and they aren't trying to **** me. I am reminded that I have people I love and who love me, despite every reason I have that they don't. I hold onto that feeling and submerge myself so when the next riptide pulls me under, I can somehow find myself at the surface.

Sometimes I resurface with new or stronger allies, and sometimes I lose them in the battle. Casualties of war. Those hurt the worst. The people I love the most, leaving me to find the surface alone. It's enough reason to start the next showing. Like that, I return to my stage, my battlefield, my diving board until the next intermission.

Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
We braced the chill and last shared voices in November
When with reasons unknown you suddenly lost your temper
And in faceless avenue unseen you put it all in a damper


Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
Two minds steep in years hoping to revive a dying ember
Angling wisely for the solace of light in a peaceful chamber
Rising for noble ideals each a worthy conscientious member


Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
I stoke flames and called out doves in days before September
Not for glory or gain but in delight to fly a friend wishes tender
Homage to a smile Lisa, like that made by da Vinci the painter


Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
Now its time to seek the Sun afar in the land of greens and timber
soothing words that shows the grace and give of a friend keeper
Remains aloof to a joyless onerous mind that will only get sadder

Please remember to remember not to forget to remember
Empty pride rousing clouded mind makes it fittingly simpler
Strength and clarity to atone chimes only wit now't sinister
A truer pilgrim seeks pardon and deftly shames attitudes insular
To the wise what cost affinity in the garland of true harmony



Copyright. LaurenceA31stJuly2018.Allrightsreserved.

Dream of the Melbourne Cup by Banjo Paterson
Bring me a quart of colonial beer
And some doughy damper to make good cheer,

One for the man bunkered down in the trenches
sent in by his country as a henchman.
He's laying in the mud, praying for safety,
losing less blood than what's shed daily.
In this hazy hell, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine seeps in, easing the beaten.
And in no man's land, a man cries for mercy
but his cries are cut off by the hands of Murphy.
Early in the morning, he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, heading back to base camp.
There's a damper in the room, sunken like the marsh.
Friends have fallen, it's clearly marked.
And his heart aches but they can't be dead.
Nah, he sees them every time he lays down his head.
From time to time, he jolts up out of breath,
but he never felt more alive, when he was close to death.

It's not a sob story, no it's just old glory

Two for the man bunkered down by the park bench,
clutching a cup, praying for penance.
He's laying on cement, waiting for change,
and trying to stay dry from the god-**** rain.
In this day and age, a drug buzz is needed.
Morphine tabs, tap in the defeated.
Lungs splitting, teeth gritting, he's wishing for mercy.
Two times the dose, he curses out Murphy.
Early in the morning he packs his bags.
Rucksack on his back, he heads back to PADs.
He grabs a tray, sits alone, and says grace
because there's no space open for the "nutcase".
Arm's race to golden gates, he dragged a debt.
He carried his country as heavy as regret.
He carries his friends, they dangle from his neck.
But the thing about memories is that you can't forget.

It's not a sob story, it's just old glory

© Matthew Harlovic

there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed   and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.

the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,

passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.

the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.

salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.

sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.

nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.

apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.

rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.

so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.

the abrupt confusion of people
when confronted by unconditional kindness
is addictively amusing and,
quite the damper.

how tragic we are,
capable of selfless service
meeting it only with suspicion and,
disbelief.

You cant have it, you live it.

You cant find it, you grow it.

You cant take it, its endless.

You cant give it, its given.

No valve, no damper to slow the flow,

Open with the strength of a fire hose with no nozzle to aim,

It floods everything.

Drown in the expansiveness of love,

The most sweet surrender.

There is no safe place
No where to hide
No where that feels safe inside
There is no safe place
You can’t run away
When it’s your own mind that drives you insane
There is no safe place
When the panic penetrates your soul
When there is no where left to go
There is no safe place


They follow me everywhere, whatever they are. They whisper things in my ears; evil nasty things in the breathy voice that only belongs to dying men. They scare me; telling me to **** people for no reason, planting evil thoughts like that in my head, I hate them. They tell me to hurt myself badly; they tell me how much better the world would be without me. They told me once that I was insane. I questioned them, why would I be insane? You’re talking to the voices, they cackled at me. Only one thing came to mind in response to that, *******. Why do they have to be so evil, so scary? Are they the voices of the Devil? Is this like in a T.V. show when you have a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other? If it is, then where’s the angel’s voice? Maybe the devil already owns my soul, Maybe I sold it to him in a past life. Or maybe I’m just insane. Yeah…they are right. I am insane. I should be locked in an insane asylum somewhere and never let out. But the government banned those years ago…Guess that puts a damper on that idea.
Did I mention? They aren’t just voices. Oh no, no, no. They have shapes. They are people. Evil, malicious people. I call them the devil’s people. They only find me at night, after all the voices of dying men have gone to sleep. That’s when the people come. They come every night, whether they stay for a moment or remain long enough to move towards me, bringing forth the suffocating smell of sulfur and death. Sometimes they’re small, harmless. They took on the form of a baby once. He was lying on the floor one second and was gone the next. He hasn’t come back since. There are a lot of them that come once and never return, but some come again and again. There’s a man, a rather large man. I have never seen his face, only the shining knife in his hand. Sometimes he’ll move from my open door to my bed where he’ll lean over me, knife in hand, whispering, you’ve been a bad boy. A very, very bad boy. The knife will rise up, pausing in the air for suspense and plummet down towards my heart. But it always disappears just as it grazes my sweat-drenched skin. I can’t help but fear for my life when I see him. If these people or spirits or whatever are real, then I can’t figure out why they haven’t harmed me yet. But then again, they’re probably just hallucinations. The voices speak truth, at least some times.
The man’s presence is definitely the most threatening, but it’s not the most frightening. The little girl is the only one who has disturbed me so badly that I had to flee from my room. There is something about her that is just not right. She always appears kneeling on the floor, face held in hands, and sobbing heavily. She wears a white dress that flows around her as she shakes and her undoubtedly once golden curls hang lifelessly behind her shoulders, appearing more gray than golden. She never does anything but sit there on the floor crying. She cries so much that I have at times feared that water will seep through my floor and drip into whoever’s apartment is beneath mine. Her tiny hands always clutch her face, I’ve no idea what she looks like, and I’ve never seen her face. On her pudgy arms there are numerous bruises, cuts and scars. I thought at first they were self inflicted, but they were too numerous and the wounds seemed far too severe for a young child to have done. Perhaps she was abused. That would make more sense, but why anyone would ever want to harm a girl that was once so beautiful. I’ll never understand.
When I see her kneeling on my floor, it’s almost as if she radiates the extreme pain that she is forced to carry for all eternity. She ***** the life out of you; she makes everything seem so pointless, like no matter what you will end up battered and bruised just as she is. The sorrow she brings upon you is enough to make you jump out the window even if your life was going just fine, no not just fine, if your life was perfect, she would still make you jump. Every time I see her, it feels as if she takes a little more of me away. The fear, the depression is so intense that the feeling will never leave you. It may hide in your subconscious mind, but it will never ******* leave!

My apartment is a whole different world at night than it was during the day. During the day, all they could do was talk to me, make me go insane. (Even more so than I already am) But those are just voices. They can hurt sometimes, oh how they hurt you so bad sometimes. But pictures are worth a thousand words. The figures will scare the **** out of you. They could easily turn even the strongest of men into blithering idiots.
I was dreading whoever was coming to visit me tonight already as I splashed cold water onto my face. I could already tell that tonight was going to be hell. My day hadn’t gone well. The voices had been speaking to me constantly. They wouldn’t stop. They all spoke at once, yelling over each other, fighting for my attention. The one that was loudest was shrieking, Insanity! Insanity! You’re a mad man! Lock yourself in the closet before you ****…before you ****….My heart would take off at amazing speeds after those words, but I gave it no more consideration than the others received. That doesn’t mean it didn’t send chills down my spine though. It definitely did that.
Before you ****…The voice echoed once more in my mind as I wiped my face off with the towel. I immediately glanced at the mirror to see if maybe someone was standing behind me. I saw nothing but myself. I saw my grayish eyes staring right through me. I saw the heavy wrinkles and dark circles around my eyes. I haven’t slept a whole night through in years, no matter how many sleeping pills I take. They always come….No matter what.
No doubt about it, they would come soon. I climbed into my bed and wrapped the sheets around me. They smelled of freshly washed linen. They were soft on my skin and a comfort to my heart. It feels so much safer when you’re completely covered with pillows and blankets. Maybe if I fell asleep before they could get here I would be safe…Yeah then I’ll be safe. Just relax I told myself, relax and rest, the sun hasn’t even gone down yet. You’re safe. At least I am for now.

I woke up trembling from the cold. I was afraid I would be able to see my breath soon enough. I reached down towards my feet only to realize that all my sheets had fallen on the floor. That couldn’t be good. Goose bumps crept all over my body as I dared myself not to look down. But of course, curiosity got the better of me. That was when I saw her. She was kneeling on the floor cradling her head in her hands. I stared only long enough to see her shake violent and gasp for breath through her tears.
I couldn’t look any longer. I rolled over and faced the wall. My heart was going a mile a minute. I could feel the blood pulsing in my temples; I could hear it in my ears. I was shaking uncontrollably, not from the cold but from shear terror. If she would only just leave…Why does she have to torture me? Can I not sleep a single night in peace? Why me? Why me? Is there anywhere I’m safe? Anywhere I can sleep in peace? Undisturbed? That would be lovely. But I gotta be realistic here, it just isn’t gonna happen. Hasn’t happened since I was five years old.
Wait…? What exactly am I afraid of here? She’s simply a little girl. She’s sad but only a little girl. She probably just wants help right? She’s not gonna hurt me. She isn’t like that man. I took my eyes away from the wall and turned towards her once more. What I saw made my heart drop through the floor.
She was still sitting there. Sobbing into her hands. But this time I saw blood. It was on her dress. I realized that tears were streaming down my face, flowing like a river. I felt empty, like the depression had taken my mind over completely. I was simply a body, nothing more. All I could bring myself to do was stare at the heartbreaking sight. Whether it was the fear that wouldn’t let me move or the sadness of it all, I’ll never know. But I kept watching.
Her body stopped shaking so violently and her sobbing ceased for a moment. I was breathless. She had never stopped before. She sat there for a while and I stared, afraid to move, afraid to blink. A drop of blood fell from between her fingers and landed on her silky dress. I took a sharp breath in and whimpered like a frightened puppy. She was bleeding; I’d never noticed that before. She’d never stopped crying before. And here she was simply sitting there holding her face.
Until she heard me. She whipped her head in the direction of the sound like a hunting wolf would at the snap of a twig. I swear that on that moment whatever sanity was left in me completely vanished. I was drenched in sweat and my head throbbed with every frantic beat of my heart. I might as well have been holding a pistol to my temple in a game of Russian roulette.
Her face had undoubtedly been beautiful at one point. But now, I wouldn’t even recognize her as human. Her lips were the grey color of a rotting corpse and were chapped so badly I’m surprised the blood wasn’t leaking from them. There was plenty of blood but no from her mouth. It was dripping off both sides of her face, coming from her eyes. She was crying blood. But even more disturbing than that were the eyes themselves. They had rolled so far back into her head that you could only see the whites of her eyes and the blood vessels in them. She was not human. Maybe she had been but she no longer was.
Choking noises came from her throat as she gasped for breath. Her delicate chest heaving up and down with such effort. I could do nothing to help her, only stare in disbelief. She was dying. An innocent child dying before my eyes and there was nothing I could do about it. Dying? She’s already dead isn’t she? I couldn’t sort it out, was she really there dying or was she a ghost or even more disturbing was she just a hallucination that my own mind created? I couldn’t answer my questions, I could only stare.
I watched as her whole body began to shake uncontrollably as if she were having a seizure. Her eyes rolled even further back so that I could see the thick red veins creeping up her eyes like snakes. Tears were pouring down my face.  I couldn’t watch yet, I couldn’t not watch. I was compelled like a small child peeking through their fingers at the scariest part of the movie. For a moment she became still. My heart pounded against my ribs, threatening to burst through my chest. Her body fell to the floor like someone who was shot with a .38. Her body was limp and lifeless. But her eyes were not. They darted back and forth making the veins slither just like snakes. She began gasping for breath again as she mutter the words, “Help me.” Her neck was thrown violently back and the subtle crack of the bones rung over and over again in my ears. Her body was twisting itself in ways any human being could never dream of doing. Her limbs bent at awkward angles, her body was literally twisting around and her head dangling as if it were merely attached by a string. She lay there writhing on the floor like a dying beast. My heart was going at an unbelievable rate; I was almost to the point of suffering a heart attack. Less and less air cam into my lungs with every breath I took. The last thing I remember seeing was her face. Blood creeping out the corners of her eyes, the deep brown, almost black eyes filled with such fright and desperation. Those eyes I will never forget.

My head was throbbing. I was no longer on my bed, I was on something hard. I tried to move but could not. My wrist and ankles were tethered down. I opened my eyes but for a second and saw the bright light that was coming from above. Men were all around me. I knew not what they were doing. All I knew was that the Men in the White Coats had finally come for me. Come to lock me in the rubber room where I belong.

Fulde hænder og hænderne fulde
Fuglehænder og hændernes fugle
Tankespind fra hjernen, hver gang dine
Beskidte hænder får mig til at gispe
Af ængstelse efter berøring fra andre
Himlen lyser mørkerødt, men indeni
Er min lunge kollapset. Sort.
Skænker dig ikke en tanke når jeg
Mærker himlende fornemmelser,
Som tager mig langt væk fra dig
Trækker vejret dybt og sukker -
Søde tanker mod de dybblå
Have, og strømmende bølger
Himlen brænder og dyrene skriger
For at sætte dig fri; fra mig

Dømmende blikke og blikkende dømmes
Deres øjne følger mig når jeg går ned
Nedenom og hjem, ned af gaden
Nedværdige kommentarer snurrer.
Månen lyser himlen op, men kroppen
Damper mørke skyer på boulevarden.
Spejder og søger, efter svar på vores
Problemstillinger, af nederste skuffe,
Min yndlings dig, mit hjerteskud på
Øverste del af himlen. Ses kun i kort tid.
Vandrende på vejen leder jeg efter
Det vi begyndte med at have. Kærlighed
Du elskede mig ind til benet, men mit
Skind bedragede, min eneste dig, du
Skal forgudes, tilbedes og elskes.

we think we understand gravity
we think it is weak
we assume some apples will fall

in fields of much less colour
the sound is flatter
the leaves are damper

gravity hangs too heavy on some
heavier than we think on some
or admit on some

it is natural to reduce it
we all know a guy who says
some apples just fall ka-plunk

and that's gravity   get over it!
knowing we can't actually
get over it

not really!
I know a guy who thinks
gravity works in multiple dimensions

and we can only account
for part of its strength
so the rest remains felt but unseen

That would explain the dimmer light
the clenched off drowning of sound;
that would explain this half-lit world!

the blurred nerves  in the going of motion…
I have adjusted accordingly.
I have a skeleton crew

to keep things ticking over
so I can take the weight
of all those other places.

I went to a brand new town
Spread out across the desert like a prom queens legs

The place has one restraunt
The place has one gas station

I made a mental note to look em' all in the eyes.
The guy at the counter was human enough

His nametag said MIKE
Mike, your *** is mine

What'll it be boy
**** people who call me boy

Just this
bottle of water

That'll be a dollar, son
**** people who call me son

I pull out a dollar
well...a dollar that looked something like a Colt Python 357.

That put a damper on ol' mikes day
I bet that **** fool ****** himself

I wonder If he noticed the sunlight flickering off  guns mother-of-pearl handle
I sure did

Take all the money. Please just don't **** me
I don't want the money, Mike

He whimpered when I said his name
******* always do that

What do you want then.........
Mike, I want to **** you

Sure enough he had to have a reason
The worst ******' word in the world

Why

and its nemesis

Because

You want to **** me just because?
because why?

Right there I knew Mike would never get it
He would never understand...poor old mike

Your about to get a wake up call Mike
Your about to be free as **** and not know what to do with yourself

Mike stands there with his hands up shaking
At home his wife is talking on the phone to her sister about going up there on vacation

Mike says
Please I have a wife and kids

Please don't **** me
Please Please dear God don't **** me

Mikes daughter was making him a fathers day card with a glue stick and glitter
Mikes son was licking the **** of some girl. Parkeed out by the Big Red Rock.

Mike Listens
Mike wants to live

Listen Mike
I say cool calm and collected

Your about to get it mike
Mike imagines his wife reading his obituary

You are about to lose your own soul Mike
You know...gain the whole world

Your about to be free Mike
You are one of the lucky ones

No need to thank me once you've gone Mike
You just enjoy it

For a second Mike looked like he understood
like he mighta got it

Let that which is given
Become lost

Let that which is gained
Become lost

Let this ******* pig, ****, trash, ****-stained-matress of a life
Be put out with the Monday trash

Mike knew he was in for it
Done for

I asked mike if he wanted to die like a man
I looked him hard in the eyes

He said he sure did
I asked him if he was ready to do the work of the universe

The work of god
Yes I am

I hand mike the gun
and the first bullet takes me through the right eye

So slow I can feel the optic nerve sever
before I die

before I die
I see mike standing over me

Looking down at me
this giant bleeding hole in my head

Mike says thank you
I tell him...Hey Dont Mention It

After he empties the rest of the rounds into my head
Mike walks out into the desert

He walks to my car
Fills it with gas

and gets inside
right there on the seat where I left the

box of shells for him to find
reloading

key turn
engine crank

and the car pulls slowly onto the street
the car drives down the desert road

****, it sure feels good to be free

I daydream of dreaming
a dream:
comfortable and surreal.
In it, an antique shop full of character
and the scent of mothballs and dust.
A haphazard maze of dark lit corners
pulls me to its depths,
where nestled in the back,
is a perfectly imperfect piano.
Ironic how the blatantly splintered key
is the most out of tune, no?
In this dream within a daydream,
I sit on a squeaking stool,
foot on a loose damper,
and play all that I know.
In this dream to be,
I know not,
or recognize what I play,
but know it's home
and find peace in knowing.
The name Chopin
would be the faintest
of underlying memories,
but the first upon waking.
All we are is what we are not,
and were I dreaming this dream,
that notion would live in my being;
in the pockets of my marrow
and in the pit of my throat.
No Steinway could produce
such a twang so unimaginably beautiful.
Only the physically appealing use the word ugly,
and only the true understand the word beauty.
In my dream to be,
I watch myself,
but feel the keys
as they disintegrate
after violently being yanked from slumber.
Would I dream,
I would gasp and reach in wake,
grasping nothing,
and yearn again
to live without
vivid self awareness.
Yet when conscious,
I seek lucidity,
despite the comfort
found in effortlessness.
So snap me out of it.
Slap the porcelain saucer
that is my cheek,
for I am no Poe,
and this no "dream within a dream"
but a waltz
with the idea of serendipity.

NO!
I DON’T WANT MAGIC!
I CRY
HU HU HU
AI AI AI U U U
IT’S TOO MUCH
REALLY!

Sometimes  good enough
also
a slice of Toasted bread

Put also some
Peanut Butter
Cheese n Hot Sambal
and a pickle on top

Oh what a CRISPY NIBBLE
to enjoy then
Before the breeze -
After the rain

Maybe also an Apple?
And a Nut?

Sun shines Bright
on the ICY
New harvested snow
See me Touch ?

MMM
WHAT A BITE  WHAT A BITE

yes I like it

Gimme Physics
Satisfy my  pie-crust
make it Equally  
Robust

You know
My trajectory
is not that Bizarre or FAR
I NEED NO BALLISTICS
R UGETTN ME now
SLOWLY?

CRAZY?
MAYBE?

SUCH IS A
PROPELLIN NOZZULE
RIFILIN IN A BARREL

OH NO
not A JOKE
Really!  ... neither A BAD BLOOD
BUT ITS GETTIN HARD

Holding these GOLDEN TIES  
I MEAN
AHAHA

AM I  MEAN ?
hihihiooo

When it’s time to say  GOODBYE
or  When it’s time to say
There he GOES AGAIiiiiiN

WHAT’S THE DIFFERENCE ANYWAY?

THE SAILING BOAT?
YEAH ?
I KNOW…
YEAH. SURE IT FALLS!
I MEAN
DOWN THE HORIZON?
OF COURSE

SURE I BELIEVE YOU
SURE THE WORLD IS STRAIGHT
SURE IT IS AS YOU SAY ME TRUE

BUT
MIRACLE MIRACLE
show me A MIRACLE
BUT
MAGIC O MAGIC
Show me A
UHM PUNCH OUCH!
SEE!
IT simply Blows US UP! (( AGAIN!

BEFORE U could HUNCH n PUNCH
BEFORE you would put
a DAMPER ON
and Your
Enchanting APPEARANCE inside
BEFORE I could RIDICULE You
yeah only by Yellin’ at you

STOP YOUR TOXIC YOLO N ****!

FASTEN IT WITH A FAKE LOCK

OH WHAT A LOSS OF FIGHT
OH WHAT a delusive JOKE YO

at least tie IT REAL TIGHT
because
LIARS LIE
LIKE A Burning EYE AIII!
N invent CRY ME A RIVER EYE

AUCH it's HOT ….I TOLD YOU!

BEAUTIFUL is ANY Nature once TRUE
Don’t WHINE -  what can YOU DO?
AT LEAST I LOVE YOU!

ITS NOT TOO BAD REALLY: Being a LIZARD
AND let it STAY THIS WAY as is
for a while
AS A SIGH FOR NOW

A SHY SIGH IN THE SKY ! 

SOUNDIN ALREADY SO BEAUTIFUL 

SHYNESS COMES FROM MY SIDE
SIGHNESS FROM YOURS 

Don't WORRY IT’S COOL-  WE’RE A TEAM
YOU JUST NEED TO MAKE IT SOUND A BIT GRUMPY

AND WE LET iT disappear THIS WAY
OH YEAH!
such is A SIGH IN THE SKY
OH YEAH
THE SHY N A SICKENIN CRYING SONG
OF YOU AND I
LIKE I LIKE I
LAI LAI LAI AI AI AI HU HU HU U U U

I have discovered that my blocked nose
is not the reason I can’t smell roses.
The smell has been cut out of the genus
for the sanity of sensors on cargo airplanes.
What then, about my children and their’s,
when they discover old books for themselves
and ask questions about the smell of flowers?
About poetry, and the Nineteenth century?
How would I tell the tale of family Plantagenet,
with flags as dead as Lancaster and York?

This tragedy seems so terribly unfair when roses
are so much prettier than instruments on planes,
every petal a miniature piece of God’s own skin.

I need to walk down to the roadside florist if I can
get out of this sweaty blanket into this chilly weather
and find one of these ****** roses so I can dismember
its petals one by one. I must disembowel this litany if I can
she loves me, she loves me not, she wants me extinct
bred out of this world for convenience,
just like the forgotten smell of those roses.

The tragedy to be told is that women are not supposed
to be the main course in your life, the glorious bouquet of roses
that you set the table around. They are more like condiments
to an existence already charmed, but if the ketchup has gone rotten
it tends to put a damper on how everything tastes and everything smells,
I can’t smell the flowers and there are too many forks.

Old pictures paint false delusions I wonder why no one has ever captured mine?
Tears are nothing to empty hearts, guess it pays to be a ******* than a dreamers second chance.
I buried my thoughts in a shallow grave.
Only to unearth my soul upon this page.

The lit cigarette and yet another empty bottle of *****.
We fumble in desires bound by shackles formed by a ever present need.
Tonight she lusts for another yet settles for me.

Her empty room is better than a cluttered prison of your own creation.
Her taste of strawberry doesn't damper my burn, contact of the flesh isn't a connection of soul.
Simply a reflex of addiction and mine knows no end.

The furnace burns through the night yet can't kindle this flame.
Some **** is better left dead!
Her poison knows no antidote I simply revel in this decay.

Remorse is for the weak the cigarettes light glows from her presence from the edge of the bed.
She looks at the shadows on the wall casts from the cities night.
As she wonders does he want as she?

There are many forms of emptiness, and far too little definitions of being alone.

She lingers in thought for only a second, and then she is gone.

"Tiss that time of year,
the field rodents run,
the big machines hum,
the snakes slither,
gofers go deeper,
all to avoid the whirling blades,
dust clouds rise and damper the sun,
scavenger birds look for eatable pieces.
Harvest time busy the crops to gather.

An unfamiliar imbalance has sunken into the very being of my existence
Sluggish and slow, the twenty-four hour days repeat themselves
and I feel the imbalance continue to grow...

Creativity and emotions bubble to the surface of my mind
whirlwinds of interlacing thoughts and ideas yet to be formed into stories
worlds exist within my mind,
slowly evolving, growing, living, breathing on their own

But tethered am I to the world of imbalance
where red skies and black ground damper the life within
concrete creations and false purposes that provides printed success

Tethered am I to the world of imbalance
where greedy pigs squeal and splash until they get their way
evolved to wear suits, and leave the squalor to the poor

Tethered am I to the world of imbalance
where a false savior excused future sins
but offers no solace to those whom the sinners wronged

But,
against a darkness wearing my own face
against tyrants who control my life
against every defeat wrought by my mistakes

I still stand, a legacy of lessons at my back, and an immeasurable amount of teachers ahead

Despite the mud in which I travel so slowly through
my feet carry me forward, the weight of my world on my shoulders
This is my journey, an epic told by whimsical poems
my face is not one of a crowd
but a symbol at the forefront of the army that is my passion
soldiers brought to life by the stroke of a key that fight for me

Words are my weapon and I will not be silenced.

c.d.l.
8/20/13

Cracks creep
Snakes on the wall
Into the darkest patches
Where the light fails

From my bed, I can see
The shadows of the lizards
And the damp
In the trees

I can see the corners of the bed posts
And the humming of wasps
They have a nest near by
Fierce

I can taste the corners of the world
From my bed
I can feel the cracks
Creeping

I can hate the very deepest darkest split
In the paint
And vow to get it fixed
Someday

Or I could sleep
But that’s no good when there’s
Dirt on your shoes
And there’re no flowers this time of the year

I can see around corners
From my bed
But the snakes creep higher
And the trees become damper
And the sky sinks down down deep in the ground

And it comes back up, around all the corners
Clutching diamonds.

I am a pillar of hate and greed, I steal what I want and I take what I need.
I assist with false hopes as I plant my seed, For I am a pillar of hate and greed.

Those cross imbeciles try to ruin my path, Though I cut them down with all of my wrath.
So this is to my friends and family and staff, If you **** with me you shall feel my wrath.

Don't confuse my games with self-righteous pride, It's behind these words I solemnly hide.
I take my wounds and move in stride, Though, again I stress, I do not live with pride.

From the base of jealousy it grows deleterious, As limp-minded city-folk pointlessly grow envious.
Futile lifestyles spending time so serious, When they're only growing more and more ****** envious.

The sound of a nation all heard in harmony, As they are broken in hope drowning deep in gluttony.
Cries left in silence though felt in agony, A colony of gluttony as our history's a piece of me.

With the thought of a loved one nothing less than a must, I've drowned in my pity, suffocated in lust.
Left alone in the damp, cold, dark to rust, Left alone to think, to dream in lust.

Through dried skin and sorrow and tattle-toned cloth, Comes the smell of a damper, more cattle-toned sloth. Cooking up and dying until stewed into broth, Everything's a chore for a dead-lazy sloth.

I am a pillar of hate and greed, I steal what I want and I take what I need.
I assist with false hopes as I plant my seed, For I am a pillar of hate and greed.

I want your fingers to kiss my skin, like a pianists kiss the keys

I want your lips to explore mine like music explores the air

I want your body to press against mine like the musicians foot against the pedal

I want us to work together like string and damper

I want to feel your presence like a song stuck on my head

I want to be your everything like music is so me.

We cannot fix the world until we fix ourselves,
cut the flower from the stem, but nothing else.
Try again, start from scratch,
or maybe even back track.

Is there hope in a once dead flower,
even in it's finest hour?

I once believed in an inevitable failure,
my doom and gloom lifestyle,
put a damper on my life.
But after pondering for a long while,
I realized we have the power to fight.

We also have the power to retreat,
to hide from the evil before us.
But we also have the power to stand,
but instead,
we take a seat.

We cry from underneath,
the foot of our government.
We beg them for peace,
but we do not demand it.

Until we demand change,
until we demand bi-partisan negotiation,
we will be lifeless bodies with no voice.

You have me
           between
a polished rock
     and a hard place
like up against
the fridge
         or perhaps the wall
and if these swamplands
get any damper
I might
have to change
         the protocol
The humidity is rising
hot and wet, today, they say
it's best to proceed carefully
lest the steam fogs
up the way
Soon these swamps
will give way to jungle
for the heat is just too deep
I'm trying to fight it off
roasting slowly in my sleep
The calefaction is just too much
it drives me to distraction
like a fire in the brush
igniting lust for satisfaction
As for me
             I'm going swimming
in the nearest
lake or creek
my skin is
already dripping
so bring your love
                  to fix the leak

This rainforest of longing
    could break me at the seams
but when you show me your bare essence
the butter turns to cream
Oh ****
I am so between that hard place
and the rock we talked about
It's making me quite crazy
But let there be no doubt:
I need this tender conflagration            
even if my head
          stays in a spin
This frenzied circle
will go on and on
until the first blush
of skin
       on skin

Can't we just put a cork,
up there.
To stop the bleeding,
and ickyness,
and maybe even the
cramps.

It is a hassle and just puts such a damper on my life.
Makes things mundane and awful,
I can't wait for it to be over,
and for the exhaustion to
end.

The fatigue, irritability, and-
did I mention the cramps?
Where's the pay off here?
What do I get for suffering through this
on a monthly basis,
since 13!?
Silver-lining, my ***!

The perks seem to be seriously lacking here,
so where is the cork or some midol
to ease the pain,
maybe even a heating pad...?
5 more days,
the countdown
has begun.