There it is again. That sound you've known for so long but can never grow comfortable with. It's resonance is beyond anything describable in this world; by these means. You know it so well yet cannot fathom it. Years pass without your awareness of what this thing, this intrusively disturbing abomination truly is. You effortfully and excruciatingly ponder, analyze and rework your thoughts to no avail. You are virtually incapable—and utterly useless.
As you stand, sit, or lie, pondering your lack of discernment, you stop in your tracks.
You realize something you never have before.
What is it?

your father is a morbid man puddy. .. . but morbid can be good if you accept it...
..how can it be good?idunnoimnotmakinganysense............   ..  ..    .well.   i guess if youre in the right mood or in the right setting.(i pictured people. a woman mainly. with dark hair. and everyone had glasses of red wine and were laughing in a short hysterical way. and i realize these people arent representations of people ive seen act like this, theyre representations of me. i kno that feeling which makes that laugh. when hearing stories or seeing pictures or videos of people dying suddenly or getting tortured and the abuser maybe dismembering himself or herself after or committing an interesting suicide which we love to hear about and the sickening brutality and pain and fear and cringing you feel is instantly replaced with a swift too swift and sharp laughter. and these stories are real, otherwise its just silliness or boys being boys with their sick imaginations and saying it just for attention or to be funny or weird.. and we all might question ourselves slightly but either Time or Exposure to the Wicked World or most likely the validation of our indecencies with everybody else's  because its a whole room laughing lets us feel better about it each time but then more ashamed of our withering virtue until we forget. and something to understand from the remark "but either Time or Exposure to the Wicked World or most likely the validation of our indecencies" ad its there is no difference in this matter between the options 2 and 3 because we are the Wicked World. and all 3 are just things we waste. and if not laughing sharplyand loud and insane maybe some of us are at least being entertained while wailing in a definite cringe or exasperation or i dont kno but it is blended with the jovial air of the room. and people and family members laugh with and comfort and joke with eachother like a pride or a flock or any group of animals showing their young 'here.its ok.its an apple. you can touch it. it wont hurt you. its our food.' but we say "c'mere, the foundation of this world and all its agony will rip you apart, so here, learn how to find joy in it otherwise youll be too effected and will need to be discarded from normal happy people who kno their happiness comes first. because thats how we work as people and as a group. now here, have a drink. we pretend it helps and seek it out against our better judgment because we dont want to exist because weve become nothing in place of the wide range of terrible emotions we should experience when seeing the world for what it is.. ourselves most of all." and i guess that is what i pictured. the average happy people. family people. nice house and aunts and christmas people. and i kno im biased but nothing in this imagery matters. i was supposed to capture just the thoughts which i actually spoke to myself or my dog or whoever but now i have a brick-sized moving picture of my interpretation of happy family americans and other nations and just everybody.  but im no different. deep down anyway. deep down i am selfish and scared and come to the conclusion that the world is too complicated to be fixed and were too dumb to fix it reguardless and more so we are filled with souls which shift too often which we must only watch drift away moment to moment leaving us with many things but definitely a healthy amount of selfishness and, well, psychology i guess. we can figure our race and ourselves out as much as is possible and maybe even be right about some things, but knowing what drives us and feeling compelled are unrelated. too constant of a shift are we to be anything describable in correct terms and too unknown is the future to kno wut form our shift could bring us to. ..this is all absolute nonsense. i started rambling world. u gave me a mouth and i started rambling with it. i am definitely equal to a baby human or animal just shrieking into the world because, well just because its alive. so im a baby with no way of managing my existence other than making sounds because there are ears everywhere and peeing where i lay because its inside of me then it comes out because im unaware of my functions and we all send scattered unfinished nonsense to eachother and they send their own version of it back to the human and we manage to make ourselves sick and destroy our home and we're like an ant colony with no coordination.) and then something about laughter is sometimes a coverup for discomfort, so laughing from something morbid is not good. but then again it is still a laugh, and wut is the point system for laughing goodness and thats it the end jesus christ stop. *******. later. txt me wenever. have fun at ur party. i hope the weathers nice up north and not too cold cuz i kno u hate the cold. and im probably a boring **** saying cheezy things trying to act natural and nice and caring but i have my own agenda and am too unnaware to kno that and therefore will never be able to change for the better because i am a stupid human who thinks they have something figured out about every moment of every day but cant really do anything. cant see myself how others see me and cant feel the right way ong enough to accept it and constantly contradicting my conceptual and moral and spiritual universe and will never realize that 99.9 percent of the time my thoughts are of things like rocks and puffy things and shooting myself in the head and im hungry and **** that ***** and... im such a loser. if i dont start acting and living like a straight shooter my only outcome down the road will be lonelyness, heartbreak. regret. shame. and many other bad things where everything i love is either ded or has abandoned me because i am now a man and there is no such thing as abandoning a man but i am alone and want to die and i do. i **** myself and im ded. and there is no heaven and i have no soul and no one knows im ded and the passerbys and police officers and coroners who kno that im ded dont kno my name. so everyone i ever loved who havent loved me for years will die years down the road with families who love them and i will never cross their minds again. and i will deserve it. and i will pray for satan to devour my flesh and feel a demon inhabit my body along with my terror.

A fleeting whisp of eternal glory,
Developing the reflective protagonist in one's own story.
The heat and sun, describable only as warm,
Reflect youth in spirit, even when age's experience grows worn.

To subsist freely, unencumbered in an unworried state of time,
Already aware that this seasonal pleasure lies predominantly in the mind,
Remain conscious to yourself and your life's plot,
For love will last, while your life will not.

Radiant heat on the toes of my feet,
Tingling sun supplies vibes describable only as upbeat.

An unexplained aura of melodic euphoria,
Supplying the vigor emanating out of nature's own formula.
Summer's enticing gaze lucidifies the bulk of this year's haze,
Incorporating without a doubt the height of our own glory days.

A summer long repose from school and servitude.
Shape your own destiny, practicing all year to maximize the magnitude,
Of a precious few chances to make the most of something great:
The solidarity of choice, a free and open space.
The kind of unique youthful place,
Available only in summer break.

I
who am indescribable to myself
because true
am describable to you
precisely because
to you
I can only be
expressly
untrue.  

Unless that I
is you

‘I need help’

I said as I grasped for words to describe the un describable

‘You’re fine’

My hands slipped off the mountain as I feel into the colorless void

You taught me that I need people who don't like Starbucks in my life.
You taught me to not believe the signs in the city saying 'homemade Italian gelato' until I had tasted homemade Italian gelato.
You taught me not to love until the only thing I can taste in my mouth and in my heart and in my soul was something stronger than any other describable desire.
Well.... I think what all that means is I need you in my life.
I need you to take me to pretty cafés.
Not Starbucks.
And I need to have gelato with you in every parlour in Italy.
Just to compare all the flavours.
But most importantly.
I realise now you want me to love you and hold you in my heart forever.
Because that overwhelming feeling of 'love' that you speak of is pretty similar to the feeling I get when I'm with you.

I'm thousands of miles above the ground,
and far below me, straight down,
umbrellas are blossoming open
and doors are closing
and those who can are staying inside,
to keep out of the thunderstorm
that I'm watching from up here.

(Lightning looks very different
when you're miles above it.)

And up here, where I am,
the sky is a brilliant hue—
I don't think I could describe it with
azure, or sapphire, or ultramarine—
it's really only describable
with moments.

The sky up here is a perfect day in summer
with your two best friends
and a lot of ice cream.
The sky up here is the day after it snows
and the blanket of white on the ground
is still untouched and sparkling
in the sunlight that's returned again.
The sky up here is letting go
of the thing weighing your heart down forever,
and watching it sail away on dandelion seeds
in the minutes right before
the sun blushes red and pink
and bends down to kiss the horizon.

And miles and miles below me,
the thunderstorm is going on.
So I wish I could tell all the people
who are running to get out of the cold rain
to stop, and to dance in it,
and to make the most of even times like this,
because directly above all the clouds
that are blocking their view of it right now,
the sky is still the most amazing
shade of cerulean ever to exist,
and it always is just as vibrant
wether their situation lets them see it or not.

Everything keeps on flooding into this associative mesh,
It all reflects such involved significance
I ache to grip the essence, but settle for metaphors
pining after describable meaning.

Stretch my fingertips far, and further still
try to cradle the lattice
it escapes me, ever extending
Leaves me in a daze,
wooly and jumbled.

Obscurity is thick and difficult
Her true depth shrouded in a coolness
The perfect touch of rugged to rouse baseline beauty
compelling, titillating
Just like the divine bitter edge of dark chocolate
—how it aggrandizes the taste,
stretches it beyond mere sweetness—
she imbues my life with *****, full-bodied awe.
dark, deep
Terrifying
Fantastic.

A moment- She steals away my peace
comfortless, deserted. Cold and abandoned.
Shriveling at sheer confusion
Cant seem to understand this whole thing I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to but it’s all a bit much the compulsive need to know plus innate knowledge that I can’t
A bit cruel

Another-She invites me into warm, multicolored awareness, acceptance
Free of cosmic heaviness
Forgetting the weight of existence and filled with bliss
I’ve got it I’ve just got to do it Just got to
Live my life
Not try so hard to understand it all.

The oscillations make my head spin.

Lets be honest with ourselves for a minute
do you really know what love is?
What it means to be in love?
What its like to fall in love?
Sure you nod your head and think to yourself yeah of course,
who doesn’t?
But the thing is having an idea of love is not knowing
all we do is come up with ideas
nobody really knows
the thing with love is that it's not describable
we do our best but you have to ask yourself and be honest
Do I know what love is?
Have i ever fallen in love?
Am I really in love?
Well I guess those questions then lead to the real question,
what is the difference between love and lust?
Well here’s my idea
there is no such thing as Being in love
no fallen and hit rick bottom no way back kind of love
I believe that you don’t just suddenly find yourself being in love
you don’t fall in love with someone you just met
sure maybe there’s a connection
but don’t mistake that for love at first sight
it’s just more of a feeling
the kind you get when you’re around someone that seems similar to you
or seems similar to someone you know and love
maybe there’s something about them that strikes a chord with you
I believe there is no such thing as fallen
there is no I’ve fallen, I’m there, it’s done, Yay I’m in love!
No you fall and you fall and you fall
and you keep falling
everyday of every second of every moment
every word from his tongue sends you into a daze
every kiss spiraling into a pit of fire
the uncontrollable burning in your belly kind
the kind that warms you completely from the inside out
and every time you get bored no matter where you are
you can’t seem to help but think about him
all the funny things he said and did
every time he said I love you but you didn’t say it back, still he kissed you
when he held you in his arms and didn’t say a word
you laced your hands together loving the comfortable silence
knowing words are not needed to say everything
and nothing at the same time
all the times you cuddled on the couch talking all night
After he left you wrapped your arms around yourself thinking about it
your phone goes off and he’s calling you
butterflies swirl in your stomach as excitement makes your heart pound
you answer with an excited hello and a bright smile
you talked on the phone the rest of the night until you fell asleep
and you fell even harder
it’s when he brings you food and coffee in the middle of the night
because you can’t sleep
so you sit in the grass in your backyard cuddled against him
you don’t mind being alone with him because he makes you feel safe
it’s when you feel a hollow ache in the pit of your belly
craving his presence
when you’ve been around him a million times
yet each time you see him the butterflies come fluttering back
and shivers pleasantly run down your spine
he wraps an arm around you and you know you're still falling
and always will be

Italy's Capri admirably fits the bill as an enchanted island,
Nestled in the Bay of Naples, it's apt to call it wonderland,
It is famous as a coastal resort and a celebrated beauty spot,
Little wonder of it being touristy and a location often sought

The isle is seriously beautiful, sans any blemish in its splendor,
So little room for any shortcoming, chances of which are slender,
Breathtaking views from any angle makes Capri appear so scenic,
Futile to draw comparison to any other isle that is so panoramic

Capri is known as the isle of the sirens in Greek mythology,
It has very little to do though with any aspect of theology,
Long considered a preserve of celebrities and the super-rich,
The small precipitous island is a must-visit travel agent's sales pitch

Accessible only by ferry or hydrofoil from Naples and its surrounds,
The idyllic isle with sheer cliffs and dazzling seascapes visually astounds,
Steep cliffs rise majestically from an almost impossibly blue sea,
That the isle has that tangible deluxe feel, is for all to see

The island has a mythical charm with its jaw-dropping natural beauty,
Stunning landscapes from rocky caves to the horizon's edge lend to the popularity,
Shimmering sea views, secluded grottos lure visitors in droves to be on board,
Amazing cuisine, world-class shopping are bells and whistles; lest you get bored

Blue Grotto is an oceanic cave at the water's edge with an opening to the sea,
Optical effects created by sunlight bouncing on the cave walls, is a sight to see,
Water lit turquoise hues from below, by the sun, creates a magical atmosphere,
Shimmering cobalt-blue light images beckons us to a virtual optical stratosphere

Through the water on the floor of the cave, Roman remains are clearly visible,
Supposedly used as a bathing place by Emperor Tiberius, a reason nigh plausible,
This lagoon was probably a Roman villa with statues decorating the whole floor,
Other entrances to the grotto were created to improve irrigation, per Greek folklore

Capri's standout are three rocky peaks emerging from the azure blue water,
Called the Faraglioni, the limestone stacks are discernible to any spotter,
Formed by erosion, separated by water thro' collapse of solid land mass,
Emerging as steep rocks rising out of the sea, surprisingly not as a morass

La Piazzetta, aka chiazza, is a bustling diminutive square in the heart of Capri,
Table settings of the handful of cafes are meant for one to be carefree,
The colorful clock tower chimes every quarter hour throughout the day,
With thronging crowds at all times, little surprise why the place holds sway

Post ferry drop-off at Marina Grande, a road trip from Capri to Anacapri is a must,
Brace yourselves for a 3-km. stretch of hairpin bends en route in the mini bus,
On the slopes of Mount Solaro and at a higher elevation than Capri,
The more authentic side of the island and less crowded, is Anacapri

Piazza Vittoria in Anacapri town is the bustling bus stop square where one alights,
Sauntering thro' colorful bougainvillea, geranium festooned lanes is sheer delight,
Behold a mix of Neapolitan tailor shops, artisan shoemakers and souvenir shops,
Enjoy the aerial whiff of the town's lemon groves pervading everywhere, nonstop

Museum of Villa San Michele is a building articulating at various levels,
Ancient artifacts, Roman paving, marble columns are sights that revel,
An elevated garden with granite Sphinx and Greek tomb is a perfect setting,
For a sweeping view of the Bay of Naples below, that looks so enchanting

Continuing downhill, the Church of Santa Sofia is the pride of the town,
The adjoining Piazza Armando Diaz bustling with activity is a place of its own,
Locals chatting and reading newspapers presents such a wonderful sight,
Seated on hand painted majolica benches, as if conveying life is so bright

A visit to Capri is incomplete without tasting the famed Caprese salad,
The taste is so exquisite that one tends to break into a ballad,
Tomatoes, milky mozzarella, aromatic basil leaves are the sole ingredients,
A drizzle of sharply flavored olive oil does little to serve as an impediment

Restaurants abound the lanes with crowds' incessant chatter,
Panino Caprese being made in a jiffy is no laughing matter,
So popular is the salad that it can be found on every menu,
Strolling along past excited visitors, makes for the perfect milieu

It is with a heavy heart that you ferry back to mainland at the trip's end,
While enjoying the panoramic stunning views again, as if there's no end,
It is not without reason that Capri's famed "cliff beauty" is so majestic,
The only describable feeling of the experience is that it is "ecstatic"!

The old man is in the wilderness,
His children never borne.
His parents torn.
He lives alone.
And he likes it so.
No one to tell him what to do.
No government to bore him too.
No lost or love...
Little effort, and much fun.
Yet still for this man,
There feels a hole,
Something inescapable,
Yet not quite describable,
Somewhere within him,
Something is missing.
Lacking a vocabulary,
He finds himself lacking.
So he carries on his day
Chopping wood for winter,
Eating fish for dinner,
Beating his dog for pleasure,
And sleeping for leisure,
He lives a simple life,
One away from danger.
A hatchet for protection,
And a musket for intervention.
But slowly the hole grew.
Until it weighted more than he did.
Bigger and stronger than he,
Eating him from inside.
Yet he was a stubborn man,
And he would rather die,
Then ask for help.
Or a neighborly "Hi,"
So his illness went untreated,
And his loneliness grew.
He beat his dog more,
and ate a little less.
Cried at night,
And knew naught why.
Like a black hole it consumed,
Everything it could see,
That hole slowly grew,
From out his heart it bleeds.
One Day,
Their was nothing left.
Just the hole,
In the guise of man.
It did not move,
And it did not breathe.
The dog had already went away...

Oh my ever fragile bird
Do not fret your lovely mind
Your hearts wandering over mine  
Your words are in my head

Do not quiver your brow
Or bite your lip
Over the things we have
Not yet said

                         And how could I ever not need you?

With this connection so rare
Almost in describable
But I'll try my best
If you can bear
                          
               You are the crisp clean breeze of January

                             You are the smell of May at dusk
                                
                              You warm me with your July sun

                                    You fill me with October rush  


And please believe me when I say
We'll walk through a forest on a perfect summer day
Through the warmth, recite the Decemberists
And play me your beautiful tunes

                                                & baby stay
                                       up
                    with
me
                                                
                                  In the wake of

An  
                  early
                                      June
                                                       moon.

there were some hints of hidden plots
but I'm unable to reveal
I found some separated spots
still unable to tell which link is real

and so I try to analyze
what rather should and must be framed
since all I see creates disguise
that's much too complex to be ever named

of course it has been clear to me
that I can never understand
trapped in the wrongest strategy
but this slight insight it could never end

living within recursive strains
and sensing that there is a sense
more valid than just causal chains
but only describable as weird chance

so all foretelling must stay vague
and loosely caught in blurring lines
just guessing back allows to make
out what still must resist to be combined

seems context can produce a part
that hides some future in degrees
of freedom interpreting art
seems the mystic whole is stored in a piece

but there's no way to find out how
to find what is the fitting view
since perspectives change truth right now
and every looking back is always new

breaking habits means crossing lines
to unveil the contexted mess
just writing what my brain combines
still so far beyond my most daring guess

but this is where I cannot get
by words bound to logical thoughts
I treat them in new ways instead
where all I is weakly felt metaphors

and all I see is kept in mind
and stretching out with every verse
but well, of course no one can find
what only contextually occurs

a strange result is feeding doubts
since all is trapped self-reference
that can be clearly talked about
asking how to comprehend any sense

outside the very performed act
but what got written down at last
is a shadowed trace that reflects
translating what cannot be tracked unmasked

with or kept by well defined terms
but ambiguous metaphors
leaving space for views to confirm
spotted patterns that could reflect my course

but each changed context brings the chance
to find new ways of reading how
the world was caught within found sense
constructed just against backgrounds of now

I'm a sinner, since I'm a liar
A hardly describable swirling, sickening, stifling feeling
Seething air in my lungs, and my diaphragm
I holler "I'm fine!" What a lie.

I stare at the white, flawless lambs on my sacrificial alter,
unclear about their place in life.
How was it supposed to know
that it would be scarred by something
supposedly mightier than a sword?

For now it lay half finished
stared at by me, a small girl with curious eyes.
Pessimism stood close behind me,
biting my neck and draining me of
Blood red love and inspiration
Shivery, sleety, snowy, stinging breaths of depression
Caused my ideas to slip between my fingers.

She thought, "Sometimes I wish I could right my wrongs
And fix all the broken hearts and evaporate the tears,
But for now all I think I can do,
Is write poems."

open my chest if you want to see the rod of heaven's river, while it strains in its bed,
where the white roses swim…




The hunger for beauty created canyons of longing for a quantum of moment.
Again leaving is telling me thunder as melodeon, quiver of veins and bones,
while I come to Thy meeting embarrassedly hide life's broken toy, buried in human darkness; Alas you know my pains, tears in blood percolated as black pressed grapes
While I swirled in the whirlpool of “I”-s, seeking for the spark of the of Your sight
Remained deaf for the multitude of “THEM”, and the multitude of “US”
The moon is full, the moonlight feeds me while I listen lullabys of Gabriel
To sleep the thirsty souls; the starmist flirts to my appearance as it wishes to drop its mercy, at the pain caused by human poison.
These words are arguments of the Threshold of the other side where the describable forms and the audible voices disappear, and the tongue knotted in nine knots.
The eye is stopping the sight to store its image in my consciousness.
Behold oh…”I” of the “US” while we rejoice within the White Roses and while we lick the pearly dews at dawn, and we smell the distant Neroli at dusk
While we celebrate life as cosmic minute that lasts for eternity and a day more.

What I hear when you speak today

They say that with the right equipment you could pick up words in space that were spoken years ago they still exist they continue with
Out end when I visit with someone it can be in many ways even in a still photograph you speak obviously of the current moment and
What’s going on in your life but your saying a lot more in both senses in the silence where you’re not speaking and when you are
Speaking there is multiple layers coming forth not just the immediate words that are heard we speak of a seasoned instrument or
Person how they have such a quality the past emerges unbidden in conscious thought loves lost days that were cherished are constantly
Wished for bleeds and blends into our words images of human family and friends and nature’s wonder are never squandered this rich
Texture of reality came and always remains when you start to speak the great instrument of the mind instantly races back over these
Revered regal investments and not heard openly but there glory flows if we could know this truly the word bored would pass from our
Vocabulary our experiences are so rich and varied from outward to inward joys brought and left by life that is what is so rich about
Meditation and mussing with the right keying effect these grand unforgettable pieces of our life history rushes forth into vivid bloom
Day dreaming everything outwardly is one reality while you’re in a spherical unending circle that has no end only twist and turns of
Delight your limitations are determined by how much imagination you expend little children are so precious they live that way every
day then some where there is a cut off place then it is driven underground what a pity never to dream is to be lifeless they proved
That without dreaming in natural sleep it can affect your physical health troubles are part and parcel of this life it is recorded that people
Who faced life and death situations by going back through thoughts and dreams found their way through present dangers this is just a
Few words of encouragement to kick off the New-year know this you’re up to the task you have a store house of treasures that are
Filled with every describable blessing you have ever encountered in this life review them let them melt the cold or hard thorny jungle
That tries to overwhelm tries to take away your gift of life you’re on a journey started by a most powerful benevolent father he
Equipped you to win when in Eden it was disrupted he came and hung between earth and heaven to fix the breach his glory is
Our magic carpet spoken of in fables but in this sense it does exist truth fused with imagination your victory is assured

cooking sauce earlier... bane's theme, thematic of con carne erotica therapeutic digression... the ambivalent chuckling worth if not simply wanton of stereotype, conversely a stenograph, and a dynamism of acquiring an autograph; or how to undermine poetic rhyming: akin to tenacious d's one note song paraphrase divisive of the futility engaging in such a genetic gross-misconduct and apprehensive on up-keeping a cultural initiative brought forth and necessarily worth a replica; in true or a truant sense of Heidegger, an altruism of conjunction, the birds procrastinating or peacocking, whether the scenario if worthy of loathsome to be minded... it's nonetheless there... it's how language is used that concerns us... not what we do with language, but how we use it... the how is more important than the why... thankfully the reality / ontology of language is how rather than why; why is already answered with us being and continuing to be here, it's how we are that we are... persistent in being claimants of a continuum, whether akin to a Schubert or in continuum or in infinituum... ah that natural convenience of the acquisition of status... jargon and char... a heated discussion and nothing but the marring of furthered augmentation toward one's own clarification of ponce. me and my scabby version of events, inflammatory bulging where Oliver Twist suggest: please sir, may i puke on this **** some more?!

sooner be than think,
       and no sooner
                    be more than θink,
to θink
               is as much a piggish
oink when love is concerned,
meaning that φilosoφy
  begets relegation
                 when naturally
nailing the coffin shut in Cymru
is what was waited upon;
        orn the higher tier of Manhattan -
there too the earthenware -
or the calypso fury against the panzer....
the new Iraq against my flavoured jive,
oh i'll dance the culinary stinking socks bit....
like i'd dance the Caleigh in Glasgow
to pride the Irish....
                    Pakistan stems from
a dream: counter Saudi Arabia, or dune,
arable cunning-deform of
                                         cuneiform.
spider-jets.
                                      whe­n was Arabia
the Sheikh Fortune to chuckerfore a: wise said so.
you'd be sooner dead that dealing
the prescribed antics -
                        and death akin to bane's theme:
thespians' ergo medium: a life of puritans,
a life of pure fable.
                 i am still here...
     waiting,
demanding,waiting,
                Rizzo Papa,
Ritz Pulpa Johannus.
                                            thespians' ergo medium:
when thinking doesn't translate into being,
                                it's there,
interim...
                             a tragico-comedic allowance
to shelter a nearing extinguishing of oaf narration....
and a depth thus scolded,
                a depth thus summarised,
a depth with a fatigued enterprise -
                               a churning bechanced by coup after coup:
lazily forgiving a Lazarus undertaking....
hence crescendo Chile...     ore of the smartly dressed
Husky dressed men... alternatively stated: the men
in the quiet describable attire.
                  take a dog for a walk, take the tongue
into a waggling ha ha heap's worth of a dictionary;
    wo fish vocalised their citric concerns
when the loaves in fraction levelling five was brought
for questioning.... or the ***** socks....
                              alternatively dressed *lumberjacks
in hankies and chequers alias chess.
says as much as munchy is talked about
in Tuscany - where munchy is referred to
                    as fibre, or the dietary worth of inedible.

This memory keeps coming back-
us under the dining table,
our knobby knees banging together
as we whisper secrets in each other's ears
and giggle about how sneaky
we think we are being
I don't know how many of us there were-
maybe five-
our prepubescent girl bodies
hunched beneath the wood,
digging our toes into the carpet
We were neighbors,
adventuring friends
the kind of pushed-together pals
that didn't know the nitty-gritty;
the most deepest of secrets about each other
But now we shared one
I can't remember if we all kissed
or just paired up
but I'm pretty sure we never talked about it again
Shelby had said it was just practice
Erin claimed she had already done it with another friend
Let's just try it
I don't mark this moment as the one where I knew
because I didn't
but I'll always remember the way the
giggling sounded in my ear
and how the teasing that came later
stung a little too much
It had nothing to do with s*x
we were innocent children
playing kiss the girl
and my heart was happy to be with them
It wasn't even a crush
It wasn't a describable feeling
but something felt right
I always come back to that memory.

It is so pretentious to build things with the intention of sharing them with another,
to assume that we will find somebody at all.
Most everything is meant to be shared,
to be experienced in tandem;
to be seen with more eyes than you possess yourself;
felt with two hearts.
Sometimes, we are lucky enough to find but an extention of ourselves.
But that sinking, aching feeling when
that discovered extension of yourself cannot be found is unmatched,
only describable in the smallest of words - “missing you”.

Gods and devils are created by humans 
they are the comforters
that little children take everywhere
with them and which they feel
they cannot live their lives without.

A kind of fetish with describable attributes
and predictable thoughts
conjured up by ourselves  
to compensate for being out on a limb  
alone in the great hall of matter  
an anchor to stop us from disintegrating  
a book of word- a work of art 
into which we can meld our dreams  
and feel energised and at ease  

a 'being' to goad us into joys  
and a scapegoat  to blame for all our ills  

a figure reflecting our own individual cravings  
that move parallel and within ourselves
akin to the blood that courses through our beings  
supporting our bones and tissue with its imagined presence                    

Margaret Ann Waddicor 4th April 2014.

everything is fiction. When you tell yourself the story of your life, the story of your day, you edit and rewrite and weave a narrative out of a collection of random experiences and events.          
Your conversations are fiction.
Your friends and loved ones—they are characters you have created.
And your arguments with them are like meetings with an editor—please, they beseech you, you beseech them, rewrite me.

You have a perception of the way things are, and you impose it on your memory, and in this way you think, in the same way that I think, that you are living something that is describable
.
When of course, what we actually live, what we actually experience—with our senses and our nerves—is a vast, absurd, beautiful, ridiculous chaos.

We stand back to back,
our hands clasped,
I star locking into your gaze,
courage pouring into me.
My support gives a squeeze,
My heart and I,
we are ready to take your hand too.
Imprisoned in the cell of my eye,
you are locked up deep within me.
We are  not married,
that isn't necessary,
we are not of a describable relationship,
In this world riddled with titles,
ours is not a single word.
In a resolve I suppose,
my resolve would be,
that I am never letting go of you,
you are my partner,
my equal,
the last of your kind,
endangered yet secure as the last I shall ever have.

Most of the time I feel I was not meant to be human.
Human's are definite; there's a word for them.
I don't think there's a word for me.
I don't think I'm describable or said.
Although, age is just a number,
And no one has written me yet.

I spend my lifetimes chasing the unfathomable
Resonance of nostalgia and melancholy that blends
Into my grandmother's bed, a storage box, a picture
Frame by frame they jumble together sepia toned like
Toys, music, buildings, the time you fell onto concrete
Walks to the schoolyard away from music box cradle songs
Your mother would sing to you before you slept
Wondering about the world, the unknown, the darkness
Overcoming you into the lulled unconscious playground
Spurring up the pain, the reminder, the tug from the beyond
The realm of describable, was it ever even here?

You look at the television, a new series is starting
Wife's making the tea, kettle boils, just waiting in the kitchen
3 minutes in, a face appears, it takes a minute to click
Honey, who's this guy, I've seen him before but it just wont tick

Hot drink in each hand, she steps in, looks, pauses and takes a think
Oh, he was in whats it called, that show with the family on the brink
He tried to ****** the mother to get the payout to feed the kids
No, different guy, he's in Corrie now emptying the bins

Keep watching, it'll come, this confusion that matters to nothing
But it's bugging, so frustrating, his face was definitely in something
What's his name, well I don't know, we'll have to wait until the end
Click on the info button, it'll show up there, I might even have to phone a friend

OK, nobody has mentioned him for a while, what was his name?
Been around the block a bit but not known for his fame
Appeared in The Bill, Birds of a Feather and Celebrity Generation Game
But a face you forget, an accent non describable and tomorrow you'd still forget it again

An every man, he fits in the plan, can take any role and just blend into the background
A speaking part, a bit-part actor, was even in some major films but never talk of the town
And then you look down in Tesco's, his name at last you see on a DVD in the bargain bin, great, its him!

But what was he in?!

JJB