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Ken Dec 2016
The laughter of leaves
whisper testament
over cool caverns,
ancient moss
the absurdity of clocks
dashed upon rocks
while they dance,
backlit with sunglow,
at the true speed
of life
daring us to defy
the timeless tapestry
in which all are woven
Do stones large and small
not rustle
like leaves
in the eye of the mountain?
and is the leaf not as solid
as stone, to the aphid?
And what lives between
two lover-friends?
It is no brief candle
measured with ticks
on numbered dials
It moves not with the flash
of a single spark
Nor with the slow glow
of dawn
In gentle illumination
it is a soft gentle kiss
drifting on mist,
and it moves
at the speed of love,
with the rhythm of life

Copyright © 2016 K. Rush
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
I read a text
Meant for a friend,
One you didn't mean
To send.
Our culmination in technology
Has us now concluded.
A landline would've
Kept me dangling,
But pocket dials don't lie.
Curt A Rivard Sr Apr 2013
Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls of all ages
Step right up; his dying time is now near
all his pain, all his screams, do you want to hear?
Welcome... I bid you welcome...
Welcome to my three ring ****** state of mind
inside my evil twisted thoughts you'll see I'm only a one of a kind.
There is no rush that is greater now than the shaking of a corpse's hand, telling them my name and there not getting off my table till I'm done after their hourglass had ran out of sand.
For all my life I was rocked to sleep in the cradle of a nightmare.
Tested and taunted all along the way I told you all before in my chest my heart does not stay to tell my works are original, better look for the linen paper at your funeral.
For I blended embalming fluid and powder in my dipping pens ink well and every morning I unscrew it's cap and take a deep smell, burning vapors now fill my eyes as they begin to weep rolling down my face you'll be able to tell like black magic voodoo I am under my own sick powerful spell.
Tearing your name out of the book of life I doused you with a bucket full of gasoline and told you to now run faster than the gingerbread man as I'm chasing you with a loaded flair gun. Now you’re the burned page and you can never be found.
It was a rainy night after when I put you under the sinking muddy ground so happy now that your gone my head no longer has to hurt with murdering voices in my skull that pound.
Watch me now as I show you all how it is really done
performing for you all a living embalming nightmare.
Turning up the pressure and setting the dials till a pressure pulsating flow
He can’t escape, my number one son has him tied up with strips from his prison sheet and now there shouting code blue over the intercom cause my arson freak is laughing, as he's making a mummy out of you.
Trapped in your cell he holds the key and now you have nowhere to go.
Watch me now pump his neck with liquid silver mercury
till it seeps out his eye sockets and he now no longer sees. Tickling your sponge like the Egyptians did I'm now breaking the bone and then packing your nose with cotton ***** soaked with super glue. How easy it was to do and how beautiful it felt wanting it to trickel out your ears.
Placing my nose close for the death smell it was there for I had smelt. Rigid rigor slowly setting in I can tell, thank you my old friend for the way you had felt.
Now I have to do a reverse fill because your body is holding no pressure, your veins did not swell, O' my God, it's not looking well.
Brain matters now pouring out your nostrils ever so fast and is streaking down your upper lip.
Why me I can see is on your face the answer is coming soon to you and to all your loved ones I will tell.
Shaking my hands clean and collecting it all in a jar, seven layers thick I love playing with all your skin slip :)
Feelings can’t compare, this is the best, now isn’t this fun?
The party isn’t over yet for I have only just begun.
He as a glock three eighty not only did he dress but he also shot it like an old lady. O' don't worry there's always another day for acting like a rat, how about an attack with a baseball bat?
  When I am done for you all today
I'll prove to you that I am bullet and shatter proof cause,
I’m then going to stuff that little ballerina inside it's very own special music box
Peeking and peering through the caskets keyhole
I can see he’s scratching and tearing at the coffins lid
Believing rumors that you have heard, come on for real, are you a kid?
Whispering to you a sweet death lullaby its ok you now can start to cry.
It’s too bad now I gave you a chance, you can beg, you can plead but I now must dip my pen and write this poem with your blood as your body now begins to bleed.
Tears won’t work no matter how hard you try
this is what you get for believing someone’s lie
Members of the audience I thank you all and you all are very welcome
look at him now just like then it was so funny looking inside and seeing no brain. look he's crying again like a baby full of trauma and getting ready to go insane trust I know, you all will never forget my name!
I must now wash away all the evidence and go fetch for you a first son for I am running madder than the craziest plague in the Bible.
You can use all the ****** lambs’ blood you can find to paint a cross over your doorway but that won't stop my sickness because I cannot stop now for this is too much fun.
Hey what can I say...
But I always do say...
Welcome to the show!

(SirCARSr 4-30-13)
Mimi Jan 2012
I wonder how I got here, secluded in a grimy apartment filled with smoke. We drink gin and tonics with mint like it’s the ‘20s; we sit and talk pop culture because we know. Taj has somehow become the effective authority on all of these things, paid to social network and connected to Hollywood; he’s very skilled at playing to people’s wants. My Cadillac sits intent next to me markering in a recent drawing for his newest class. He’s already famous for his graffiti, one day I’ll bet you this extra credit project will be worth money. He drew me a fox for Christmas. Valentines day is coming up. He never tells me he loves me. Jack is watching me watch him out of the corner of his eye while putting on a new remix of an old song. He leans over and asks if I like it and I nod. I feel bubbled up with *** smoke, frozen in time and vaguely uncomfortable. I’d guess this is what it’s like to be “too high.” I want Caddy to notice, but it’s Jack that’s pushing my hair back and telling me to drink more water. It’s sweet. Despite his need to be seen as a womanizer, Jack respects Caddy too much to even try with me, he looks but he doesn’t put on any faces for me. Everyone thinks so hard about how they’re seen.
Jack says his New Year’s resolution is to do less *******, even though no one asked. Everyone hears but no one reacts. I try to keep moving my toes and stop shivering. Across from me Ky and Nate are reading the encyclopedia in open-mouthed awe. In a room full of intellectual up and comers I feel like Hemmingway did when he was my age, how all the minds gravitate to each other and sit in a ***** room by the beach and let the creativity go. Like Mary Shelly and the whole gang writing Frankenstein and Dracula in the same trip.  After a while I think Taj is going to make it, Jack will be a politician and Caddy will be lost and with another woman. Ky and Nate will still be smoking and reading the encyclopedia, all the way down to ‘z’. I am like my mother: attracting the company of smart successful men who pay her selective attention.
The door burst open and the cold air stayed in my pores after it was closed. Rodger invited himself over. It would have been all right but when Rodger is wasted he forgets his manners. In his animated state he managed to kick over Caddy’s favorite smoking piece, insult Jack and look at me a little too hard. His girlfriend had immediately passed out on the couch, but she never smiled or spoke to me anyway. Her head was cradled in the lap of a girl I hadn’t noticed. Her hair was perfect and her eyes shadowed, the liner and mascara smudging its way slowly onto her high cheekbones. She stared at me but didn’t speak. I tried to smile, but didn’t want to give away the champagne sensation covering my skin, still too up to speak. She had already formed her opinion of me, some young ******* the arm of an older boy. She was once in my position, I’m sure of it, we are the same kind of beautiful and empty eyed. That doesn’t stop her from judging, in the total of 15 seconds she looked at me. Her self is tamed and mine is wild still. Unintroduced and unnoticed by the men in the room, we have an understanding and a mutual dislike of each other, only to defend ourselves.
The room takes time to settle, a bowl has been packed for an entitled Rodger, and now that everyone is calm, Cad sits back down and puts his arm around me again. I lean into him, protected and anchored, whereas I had been floating or about to puke a minute ago. I don’t know what I said but Caddy seemed annoyed when he said “Just let it happen, embrace the feeling,” and so I kept quiet for ten minutes or so. The high was infected with guilt. Next time he looked at me-- it could have been an hour—I whispered, “I can’t” and finally he heard me, and stood up.
Cad came back into my vision with a glass of water and turned on Drive, prompting Rodger, Mrs. Rodger and my pretty enemy to leave. Ky and Nate had gone long before I could focus on noticing. Taj left for trivia night down at the bar and no doubt some girl; wrapped up in a cashmere scarf and cardigan he kissed my cheek before he went. Jack also took his graceful leave with the Rodger group to woo some girl who knew exactly what she was doing to herself. He did have a straight nosed charm, Jack. I could not blame this girl, one of many (I am embarrassed for her; I have been like this ******* many occasions).  
Taj had been sent the advanced copy of Drive in blu-ray, so we snuck it from his room and watched it that way (the only way Taj would see movies now, it is the future (for now)). Kavinsky came through Cad’s new speakers the boys had spent half an hour trying to wire earlier in the night. “They’re taking about you boy/but you’re still the same” crooned Lovefoxxx as Ryan Gosling cruised down a street, ****** intense in driving gloves. Gears shifting and motors growling are very ****, I tell Cadillac so into his ear, as he pulls me into his arms and covers me up with a blanket.
The movie was perfect, maybe because it made me feel less dizzy and sickguilty (Cad knew it would) and maybe because Ryan Gosling can wear a white satin jacket. I loved it, hardly noticing when the absent roommate Travis strolled in with Taj and tacos somewhere around 2am.  Colder as Caddy got up for a burrito, left me alone on the couch for the kitchen table. Registering Taj taking his place, playing with my curls and talking Hollywood to me. I’m staring over at Cad in his chair, he makes eye contact once or twice and I blow him a kiss before Taj repositions my head toward the television and my ear back where he can speak into it.
Eventually Cadillac taps Taj on the shoulder and motions for him to get up. With Cad back I can relax and I fall into sleep just as the movie ends. Taj and Trav have gone to their own beds and Cad leans over me, picks me up and takes me to bed knocking my elbow on the doorframe along the way. He apologizes and kisses my head but I am too tired to care. He lays me down on the bed with crimson sheets and takes off my boots but then sternly says, “Mimi, you are not a child.” and so I must get up and undress myself. He wraps me in a duvet missing its cover and his arms. I trust him long enough to fall asleep.

-

Standing in front of the stove it was hot, but I am easily overheated. He came up behind me and said in my ear, “you’re lovely” watching me put the last piece of French toast on the large stack, getting ready to scramble eggs. He kissed my cheek. Then my neck and then my lips, taking me away from my cooking to be pulled against him, for a sweet short minute and went back to the living room with his friends. Jack had mysteriously reappeared in the night; he said he locked himself out of his apartment after leaving to see one of his girls. Taj just sat and blasted Radiohead over the new speakers, shouting something relevant at me. I scramble the eggs and make up plates, two pieces of toast each and a nice healthy pile of eggs. It is gone very quickly and no one says thank you, except for a smile from Caddy and a kiss on the forehead. It’s usually enough for me, knowing he likes to show me off to his friends. I sit down with my cup of coffee and plate, within a few minutes Cad suggests he takes me home. I resentfully take time to finish my coffee. But we are both busy and he is right, so I say goodbye to the boys and gather my things. We drive with the “best MC on the game these days” (so I am told) over the weak speakers of the car. Cad drives with his arm around me always. Cruising into my building’s parking lot I lean over for a kiss on my forehead, nose, lips. He says go, but his hand still sits on my shoulder so I stay for a little longer. “You’ll probably have to let go of me if it’s time for me to go Cad,” I say quietly, with a tentative smile on my face. He grins back and lifts his arm. I slide out of the suicide seat and smile at him, but he’s looking at the radio dials. Then my face. His eyes give him away, softened around the edges with affection. Maybe love, but he’d never say it and I refuse to say it until he does. I try not to think about it much as he drives away to smoke up again with his friends. I wonder if this is how it will always be, but then I realize our kind of “always” is only the next few months. I turned unsteadily and walked up the stairs to my empty room—dark and overheated smelling heavily of sugar and spice candles-- with the geese outside my window for company. I haven’t slept here for days.
ryn Oct 2014
Know that my heart beats for you...
Every crank of the wheel, turn of dials...
Leading to my every breath and every sigh
Wishing every moment would stay a while...

Unaware of themselves hard at work,
The cogs in my mind are constantly spinning...
The gears in my head are lodged in place...
Cogs and gears like clockwork, carelessly turning...

Like a factory of sorts,
They keep churning out ideas.
Conceived notions that only had been
Spawned by my mind's nucleus...

Blinking lights signalling ways,
And means to sweep you into the air,
Then leave you lofted for second....
Without a trace of fear or care.

At that moment, what I'd give to just admire...
You floating against a backdrop of stars.
An image frozen in infinite.
An image free from blemishes or scars.

Then when gravity claims you back,
You'd fall the most graceful of falls...
A fall in the slowest of motion.
A fall led by my loving calls.

Fear not darling for my arms would be there...
To catch you and hold you close in a tight embrace.
Cheek to cheek, chest to chest... You'd then know that,
Cogs and gears spin only for you in this very same place...
Haven't written about love in a while.
K F Feb 2015
Aimlessly through cornfields flying
        quietly and simply listening,
to conversations
to music that's not mine
to laughing and memories being made.

Going no where but not minding.
Numbers fade from importance
         and the dials behind the wheel don't matter.

Only the dirt, the road, the growing dark,
        no destination,
        no worries about going back.
Changing sky, and the people you just met
        but are certain you can't forget.
For three years, out of key with his time,
He strove to resuscitate the dead art
Of poetry; to maintain “the sublime”
In the old sense. Wrong from the start—

No, hardly, but seeing he had been born
In a half savage country, out of date;
Bent resolutely on wringing lilies from the acorn;
Capaneus; trout for factitious bait;

Idmen gar toi panth, hos eni troie
Caught in the unstopped ear;
Giving the rocks small lee-way
The chopped seas held him, therefore, that year.

His true Penelope was Flaubert,
He fished by obstinate isles;
Observed the elegance of Circe’s hair
Rather than the mottoes on sun-dials.

Unaffected by “the march of events,”
He passed from men’s memory in l’an trentuniesme
de son eage;the case presents
No adjunct to the Muses’ diadem.

II
The age demanded an image
Of its accelerated grimace,
Something for the modern stage
Not, at any rate, an Attic grace;

Not, certainly, the obscure reveries
Of the inward gaze;
Better mendacities
Than the classics in paraphrase!

The “age demanded” chiefly a mould in plaster,
Made with no loss of time,
A prose kinema, not, not assuredly, alabaster
Or the “sculpture” of rhyme.

III
The tea-rose tea-gown, etc.
Supplants the mousseline of Cos,
The pianola “replaces”
Sappho’s barbitos.

Christ follows Dionysus,
******* and ambrosial
Made way for macerations;
Caliban casts out Ariel.

All things are a flowing
Sage Heracleitus say;
But a ****** cheapness
Shall outlast our days.

Even the Christian beauty
Defects—after Samothrace;
We see to kalon
Decreed in the market place.

Faun’s flesh is not to us,
Nor the saint’s vision.
We have the press for wafer;
Franchise for circumcision.

All men, in law, are equals.
Free of Pisistratus,
We choose a knave or an ******
To rule over us.

O bright Apollo,
Tin andra, tin heroa, tina theon,
What god, man or hero
Shall I place a tin wreath upon!

IV
These fought in any case,
And some believing,
                                pro domo, in any case…

Some quick to arm,
some for adventure,
some from fear of weakness,
some from fear of censure,
some for love of slaughter, in imagination,
learning later…
some in fear, learning love of slaughter;

Died some, pro patria,
                                non “dulce” not “et decor”…
walked eye-deep in hell
believing old men’s lies, then unbelieving
came home, home to a lie,
home to many deceits,
home to old lies and new infamy;
usury age-old and age-thick
and liars in public places.

Daring as never before, wastage as never before.
Young blood and high blood,
fair cheeks, and fine bodies;

fortitude as never before

frankness as never before,
disillusions as never told in the old days,
hysterias, trench confessions,
laughter out of dead bellies.

V
There died a myriad,
And of the best, among them,
For an old ***** gone in the teeth,
For a botched civilization,

Charm, smiling at the good mouth,
Quick eyes gone under earth’s lid,

For two gross of broken statues,
For a few thousand battered books.
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
Time is measured
By machines, stars,
Dials, seasons
And all sorts
Of unconscious,
Impersonal equations.
When we measure
Time by the comings and goings
Of people,
Then it becomes personal.
Egaeus Thompson Jan 2017
M covered in blood and attempting to roll a cigarette throughout but failing utterly.

M: Blood dries much quicker than you think. It is hell on cotton and wool blends, but once it's dried on the skin, you can either chip it off or just rub it off, so that's cool. (beat) You know, after a while you start to be able to smell if someone is anemic. It's crazy, I know, but when the metallic perfume entertains the thought processes for so long, you tend to notice when something changes...

M realizes he is divulging too much and snaps out of it.


M (contd): I always feel like a greasy kebab at times like this. Maybe it's something in the electric meat shaver thing that just evokes memories of drunken nights and mysterious bruises acting as battle scars, compared between those who saw, and those who pretend they had. (beat) I feel a kind of aggressive nostalgia for those debaucherous days. I would do anything to be still under that one, singular light source, barely being able to stand due to the altered states, blacking out Blake's eyes and standing so close to him, that with the right music we would be sharing a slow dance. The air was thick and Miss Love bleaching her hair in the sink provided the perfect musings of life and love. We stumbled. We laughed. We fell. Now only I stumble. I pretend to smile. And they fall. They all fall. When I am King, you will be first against the wall.

M again realizes he is going too far and dials it back


M (contd): Some people suggest that human meat would taste similar to pork because of the similarity of blood supply and flesh density, blah blah blah. They're wrong. It's more like veal all over, but that really depends on how latent the person is, and where the meat is cut from. And who was the idiot who said the Chianti would pair well with liver?! ******* idiots. Too fatty. I wonder if the new 'Mock The Week' episode is up yet. Torrenting is a crime, I get it, but who pays for anything any more anyway? Imagine going to jail for video piracy! (laughs) God, like sharing a cell with a ****** or gang member or something, and you're there because you don't have Foxtel and you want to watch 'Game of Thrones'.


M finally decides to drop the facade of small talk and just be real*


M (contd): I'm not... normal. People don't often walk the streets covered in their neighbour's families blood. But if I take out my phone and pretend to be talking about how exciting tonight's costume party was, eyelids usually aren't battered. Normal people are too trusting.
Liz Apr 2014
It's annoying 
That I write fullest
As the moon is breaking
At midnight noon
And when the stars
Fleck a paintbrush sky.

Annoying because
I want to be 
dreaming
In beaming
sun dials and
Marshmallow clouds
Which swallow me up 
Into a rosy pearl.

Annoying because,
Just as I do with the words,
I want to escape the day
Which I can't handle and 
ramble 
in happy
Nothing.

But this
form of
Escapism
makes me sleepy 
and the creeping,
Inescapable day
Ever more... difficult
Robby Cale Feb 2010
Look, I just want to move you.
Woo you.
Shake you loose but never lose you.
I want to
Savor the glazed reverent silence
Of your gasping, ungrasped breath.
Sip it down till there's nothing left
Yet still explain all the rest.
See, it's time I unearth some gold.
Nothing here sold.
Just given freely to slurp up,
served up cold.
But I dare not go it alone.
Not when there's so many heplping hands
Beyond my own.
So I first court Eloquence.
She's an easy mark to find,
volubly masticating volumes
while leisurely lathering her tanned,
Leather skin.
Dolloping her monocle-bodied features
In librarian sin.
She says...
"My dear boy.
Berate them NOT
with your false start,
lethargic oddities.
Your penchant,
Melancholic falsities.
You must but grunt through the trudgery
Of your muddy misgivings,
And birth only accessible
Pertinent notions.
Neither precarious nor
Incongruous to the truth!
Robby.
You must simply relinquish your
Intrepid, frenzied paucities!
So I dismiss the diss.
Since
her big scary words are kinda lost to me.
Evidently, though,
I must need a Joe Blow.
An Everyman.
A Streetcorner Clairvoyant.
I turn to
(drum roll)
Raunchiness.
His beer belly **** and **** jokes
And dollar store aftershave suggest
A pleasing 'pull-my-finger' charm
that just might turn the trick.
He licks his lips,
And chides through a buck-tooth,
Spit shine smile.
Sheeeooot, boy,
That there one's easy.
All you gotsta do is
Go down deep
And speak from your gut.
Tell em how you feel..
How you REALLY feel.
Tell em..
shoot, tell em they rub you just right,
You might well feel as ***** as
Your gas gauge after a good pump.
As ***** as a McD's wrapper
Corner-pinch-discarded like
A used diaper hammock.
Yeah! You tell em your as ******
As a receptacle
For used diaper hammocks!
Hells yeah.
Girls will eat that **** up!
And say you're as gay as rainbow gold
As straight as an arrow-head.
As misled as finding your folks are still *** fiends
or as contradictory as ***** like me!
Boy, you are as con-fused as the
Lumpy, stumpy, pimply dimpled teen who finds out
Santa Claus IS real!
And he's hanging out loose
In every single Hustler Magazine!
Now hear me boy.
If they still don't care,
Or they see that you're scared,
Just say you feel as guilty as midnight dials
From parents of Girls-Gone-Wild,
sneering,
"Well shoot, sugar plum.
You sure ain't been feeling
Real secure in awhile."
And as he loosely labels me
As awkward as **** thermometers,
As misunderstood as **** plugs,
I give Raunchiness a dismissive shrug,
And return to the mystery
Of what I've missed from me,
Whatever still may be
My own poetic style.
The skies they were ashen and sober;
  The leaves they were crisped and sere—
  The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
  Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
  In the misty mid region of Weir—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
  In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic.
  Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—
  Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
  As the scoriac rivers that roll—
  As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
  In the ultimate climes of the pole—
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
  In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
  But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—
  Our memories were treacherous and sere—
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year—
  (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber—
  (Though once we had journeyed down here)—
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
  Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now as the night was senescent
  And star-dials pointed to morn—
  As the sun-dials hinted of morn—
At the end of our path a liquescent
  And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
  Arose with a duplicate horn—
Astarte’s bediamonded crescent
  Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said—”She is warmer than Dian:
  She rolls through an ether of sighs—
  She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
  These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
  To point us the path to the skies—
  To the Lethean peace of the skies—
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
  To shine on us with her bright eyes—
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
  With love in her luminous eyes.”

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
  Said—”Sadly this star I mistrust—
  Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—
Oh, hasten!—oh, let us not linger!
  Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must.”
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
  Wings till they trailed in the dust—
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
  Plumes till they trailed in the dust—
  Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied—”This is nothing but dreaming:
  Let us on by this tremulous light!
  Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sibyllic splendor is beaming
  With Hope and in Beauty to-night:—
  See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
  And be sure it will lead us aright—
We safely may trust to a gleaming
  That cannot but guide us aright,
  Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.”

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
  And tempted her out of her gloom—
  And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of a vista,
  But were stopped by the door of a tomb—
  By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said—”What is written, sweet sister,
  On the door of this legended tomb?”
  She replied—”Ulalume—Ulalume—
  ’Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!”

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
  As the leaves that were crisped and sere—
  As the leaves that were withering and sere;
And I cried—”It was surely October
  On this very night of last year
  That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—
  That I brought a dread burden down here!
  On this night of all nights in the year,
  Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—
  This misty mid region of Weir—
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,—
  This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.”
Got Guanxi Jan 2016
The lizard king came alive in the walls of prophets,
A shrine to help follow the subjects of the topic.
I lost my mind, but found it inside the tombs of those left behind.

I left a part of my soul on La Ciegna Boulevard.
The looking glass had the last laugh,
Some smiled.
The sun dials told the time accurately.

The shadows followed me from one side of the city to the other.
All the way to the coast of the continent.
It was here I found the confidence that was lost in the dominance of you.

We broke on through to the other side,
but it was too soon,
and the other side was the same like butterflies.

Cocooned in symmetrical thoughts of the stars in your eyes.
It’s no surprise we both knew it all at that moment.
Our toes exposed naked in the sand and lost in emotion.
Terry Collett Apr 2014
I seem to have inherited
your Che Guevara tee shirt,
red and black,
with the huge
Legends lettering
and portrait,
black on red.

Washed and folded,
I gave it a squeeze,
and held it to my chest
(wanting you back,
my son, and all the rest).

Sometimes I think
we shared the same heroes,
similar, more similar
than I ever thought before,
reflected in the tee shirts
you bought and wore.

I am still making
my way through
your Augusten
Burroughs books,
the humour, insight
and images raised,
have humoured me
at a time I need,
from dark thoughts,
guilts, on my time
and mind, like maggots
they have fed and feed.

I did think
I would talk to you
the following day,
before the coma,
the silence of you
contrasting the ever
sounding machines,
the dials, the lights,
and that, and other
images, keep me
from sleep at nights,
(hence the need
of the sleep
inducing pill).

I seem to have inherited
the black and red
Che Guevara tee shirt
you used to wear,
and when I hold it
against my cheek,
I imagine,
for short moments,
that you are
still there.
ON OLE'S CHE GURVARA TEE HSIRT.
Curt A Rivard Sr Jul 2012
Beside the tree of life I sit alone and write
So many pieces of broken headstones
Wedged in the valley of the branches
Each one stolen from the field behind
Placed into the bark in hopes to show that they were kind
Hard to comprehend the fact I am taken on a higher education
Today is day one and the only crime is my age
I am an old dog who still can learn new tricks
Like a red alert or white meteor flares on a dark night
My Friendly Ghost ring tone wale’s out my phone.
I know it’s time to put all personal feelings and thoughts aside
Without any delay I respond
Heading back to the maze again and so soon
No dragging left hand on wall I know my way out this time
Into the chiller once again and there he laid near another
Pushing you out I’m taking you to a better place
And In matter of minutes I will see your face
Out your zippered pouch you emerged
Onto to the table in the preparation room I laid you
After a detailed look over I then prayed for thee
For I know what is I think to come next
I was given vivid words in complete details prior
Numbed with fear I wanted to see more
Laying out all the instruments and many odd shapes they all were
Saw so much before with the others but this time I’m given a blue apron
Step one was to first watch and then I must do just the same
Tan eye cap with thorns go in and grab hold of the velvet underside
So clear the color blue I saw the lost Atlantis water in you
Mouth now opened and rivets with wire are shot into your firm gums
He held your chin up and I twisted it shut
To a perfect gap I took you so thin the entrance was
In earlier times a silver dollars was the rule
And in your mouth it went to pay the ferry man
Breaking the rigor in the arms is next to follow
Scalpel in his right hand and the neck in the left
Feeling around for the perfect spot of execution
He Suddenly then makes a quick and clean cut
Sinking hooks went in he exposed and pulled out your major one
Then came the elevation and he held it with a stainless steel handle
Strings now are cut and perfect lengths yes they were
Under the massive one I reached in with the angled tweezers
Spun threads I pulled and through the opening underneath
Like tying a child’s shoe he did the first loops
Next came a tiny snip with the special scissors
Then after a wiggling push the valve was in its sheath
Now the torquing of the strings to hold them tight like acting as a hose clamp
Same now is done to the second biggest one
A Thick rubber hose now finds its way and attaches itself to the port of entry
After the precise ratio customized to your specks
The proper mix of a liquid concoction and concentration of flesh color rejuvenator
Now join forces together inside the tornado simulator vat
Dials are set and switches are then flicked to power it up and power it on
Spinning like a sky high typhoon the raging torrent in its attempt
To slow down the decomposing process now only scares your soul away
Clinging for dear life was still no match, many clots there were and many I saw
I had my hand in the helping of you so you could be set free
Out you escaped you’re now free and all the rest I washed away
Like magic right before my eyes
Your pale color is now taking on a new tone
To help the proper flow and to stop things that might grow
Dampened sponges now massage your face and arms
When it came to your hands I shook it first and then told you my name
Blended mix is coming to its end what is then next
Knots are released and oozing they were
A quick packing of gauze slows the red sea’s waves
Drying salts and a squirt of super glue then arrest the flow
Hosing all the magenta away jelly suds are then applied
Washing your strands and then your frail brows
In-between my fingers bubbles did appear
Like a new born infant I treated thee
In hopes that someday that’s how they will treat me
Warming the flow to a comfort zone I gave a quick rinse
Foaming growing lather now upon your face
A five bladed razor in his hand he gave you the perfect shave
My hands are now dunked into the soothing cream
On your smooth as a babies bottom grin it is rubbed
That is all for today lets wrap him up and yes I did tuck him in.

(CARSr. 7-10-12)
chris iannotti Jan 2013
ACT I

DAD: in his late 50's.
TRISTAN: around ten or eleven-years old GLADWIN: in her early 40's.

TRISTAN Dad?

Scene 1
Interior of a cheesy, unkempt motel room. DAD
channel-surfs the cable television, the remote in
his right hand, a cigarette in his left. He's
sitting on the edge of the bed. TRISTAN is on the
bed behind him, crying.

DAD
Yeah bud?

TRISTAN
     Is Mom gonna **** herself?

DAD
     Well, I hope so.

TRISTAN Dad!

DAD
     (Chuckles). What?

TRISTAN
     Stop! I'm scared. What if she does?

DAD
     Why are you worried? I'm not that lucky.

TRISTAN
     (Screaming). C'mon, Dad!

DAD
     What? (Chuckles again, longer this time). I'm not.

TRISTAN
     Dad, stop. What if she really does?

DAD
     Trist, don't be stupid. No one who's really going to
     **** themselves tells you like that. They don't sing it
     out loud. She's whistling Dixie.

TRISTAN
     (Sobbing at this point). Dad, I love Mom.

DAD
     (Pause). I know, and I-
               (DAD'S cellphone rings. He answers
               immediately)
     Hold on, Trist. It's your fat mother.
     Hello? Yeah. Yeah, you have this kid scared to death.
     Would you just tell him you're--What? Alright, Glad.
     Well enough's enough. (Pause). Okay. (Reacting loudly).
     Oh, quit screaming in my ear! Trist, (extends the phone
     to TRISTAN) here.

          spotlight comes up on GLADWIN, who is stageleft,
          lying in bed and on the phone.

GLADWIN
      Trist! Trist? Say goodbye to Mama. I'm going away.

TRISTAN
     Wait! Don't do anything bad, please.

GLADWIN
     I'm gonna swallow my pills, Trist. I'm gonna take them
     all and I won't be around anymore, honey...

TRISTAN
     No! Mom, don't!

GLADWIN
     ...so just say goodbye to Mama and don't ever...

TRISTAN
     Mom! Stop. Please, stop, just don't!

GLADWIN
     ...forget that I love you.

           Spotlight goes out on GLADWIN.

TRISTAN
     No! (Looks at DAD). Dad, she can't!
               (He drops the cellphone)

     Oh my God!
               (Leaping off the bed and fumbling with
               the phone in his hands, he hurries it to
               his ear)

Hello? Mom? Mom?
               (He closes the phone and quickly reopens
               it. He dials GLADWIN'S cellphone)
DAD
     Trist, take it easy. She's fine. Stop calling and go to
     bed.

TRISTAN
     She won't answer! (Breaking down). She won't answer.
     (Lets out a piercing cry). Dad!

               (DAD lights another cigarette and pulls
               TRISTAN onto the bed and under his right
               arm)
DAD
     (Rubbing TRISTAN'S back gently). Go to sleep, babe.
     She'll be there tomorrow morning.

TRISTAN
     But--

DAD
     Ah, ah! What did I just say? Everything will be okay.

TRISTAN
     (Calming, but still anxious). You promise?

DAD
     Promise, kiddo.
It's not a poem. Just a scene. I hope you like it!
Cecil Miller Apr 2015
"You are my friend.
Please do me a favor.
Give Bobby this phone number.
Don't tell him I told you to.
Maybe he'll call before Dr. Mendrokis and his wife get home.
The children are sleeping in their beds.
I don't really care for being alone.
Tell Bobby to call me on the Doctor's phone."

Jill tries to study but it's quiet tonight.
The telephone rings to her delight.
It must be Bobby.

"Hello"

There is a silence, but she can tell someone is on the line.

"Bobby?"

Nobody answers so she hangs up the phone.
Jill Johnson doesn't like
To be alone.

The clock ticks on.
She hears a racket in the kitchen.
It's the ice-maker in the freezer.
She takes a fudgesicle out of the pack,
As she wonders if Bobby will try to call back.

The phone rings.
Jill says,"Hello, Bobby? What do you know?"

"Have you checked the children?"

Jill hangs up the phone.

At the weather, Jill fixes a drink.
They won't notice a little missing brandy, she thinks.
That call was scary.
His voice was dark.
Maybe it was Bobby
Who was just pretending.
Maybe she doesn't like him much, anyway.
He's kind of a ****.

The phone rings again.

"Have you checked the children?"

"This isn't funny, Bobby. Don't call back, anymore."

"Why haven't you checked the children?"

Jill slams down the receiver in a panic.
She dials the police on the rotary as fast as she can.
She's terrified and alone.

The policeman tells her,
If the man calls back,
The call will be traced
If she keeps him on the line.

She sits on the stool by the stairs.
She silently waits.
She's scared.

The phone rings.

"H-Hello..."

"It's me."

"I know."

"Why haven't you checked the children?"

"You, You can see me?"

"Yes."

"I turned the lights down.
I''ll turn them back up if you'd like."

"No."

"You really scared me before,
If that's what you wanted.
Is that what you wanted?"

"No."

"What did you want?"

"Your blood...all over me."

Jill hangs up the the phone,
It rings again.
She answers the phone and screams,
"Leave me alone!"

The policeman then says,
"Your life is in danger.
Soon, police will be there.
Get out of the house...
The call is coming from upstairs!"
This is inspired by the opening sequence to one of the greatest, but most underated suspense movies. When a Stranger Calls, released in 1980. The remake was not very good. Some of the dialogue is from the movie. I really cannot call this an entirely original work. It is an honest homage to one of the greats.
dania Jul 2012
Tangy scent of ginger ale,
Hands stained cotton-pale,
Flames crowd your barren soul,
A childless mother, not completely whole.

Colors burn through your mind,
Words blaring that aren't so kind,
Forever trapped in an endless maze,
Your own father called it a "passing" phase.

Only you know the truth of it all,
You miss the days before the Voice would call,
No matter how long or how good the day,
The Voice always got away.

"Illusions," they called the voices you heard,
But to you they were as vivid as the song of a bird,
Chirping outside your window to greet this fruitful morning,
Soon to be faded by the Voice's scorning.

Dull and gray your nights transform,
Like a passionate magician with no acts to perform,
The last straw pushes your limits too far,
Like a flame engulfing spilled tar.

Bucket of white and paint brush so clean,
You're painting your flaws away before they'll be seen,
A gulp of ginger ale along the way,
White you've been painted and white you will stay.

You find a pair of scissors and snip off your hair,
Leaving your scalp looking erratically bare,
You head to your room for a final glance,
Really, it's because you're hoping to be given one last chance.

"You've been bad," the Voice would state,
In a tone of voice you're starting to hate,
You grab your phone and make some calls,
Then head to the bathroom with the checkered walls.

A few moments later you lay in the bathtub,
Already your fingers feel slightly numb,
You read the instructions and swallow the pill,
Inhale and exhale to get rid of the chill.

Your eyelids grow heavy and your head is sore,
You turn on some music that you adore,
Your chest feels tight and you brace yourself,
Place your phone on the top-right shelf.

Your best friend finds you later that week,
Her fingers start shaking and she's too shocked to speak,
She clutches your phone and as she dials 9-1-1,
She finds your note that writes, "The Voice won."
tomsout001 Mar 2013
Classic style of Born shoes have been known using leather, instead of synthetic man made materials. As you know, leather is a natural moisture wicking agent and helps keep the foot dryer and cooler. Another special feature of Born shoes is the Dryz sock linings that is available in Born shoes sport style.

Most newer laptops have an S-video output built-in. You have probably guessed already that these www.facebook.com toms shoes outlet video outputs send the video signal to your TV. You guessed right. Hours of paddling can be enjoyed in this remote yet easily accessible location surrounded by Prospertown Wildlife Management Area. Neither gas nor electric motors are permitted, but since the lake is not patrolled regularly, a few tend to slip in now and then. Nevertheless, these waters rarely become crowded, even on the hottest summer weekend.

Evening Weddings ?These may be black tie, formal, or informal. But black-tie dress implies that a man is expected to show up in a tuxedo and women should wear a long or short cocktail dress. If the occasion is listed as ormal or informal? the man can wear a dark suit in navy, black, or charcoal grey ?with a beautiful dress shirt, jeweled silk tie, and a pocket square in a color tone to complement the tie.

Reports regarding child labor surface periodically. Children crawling in mines, faces ashen,  body deformed. The agile fingers of famished infants weaving soccer ***** for their more privileged counterparts in the USA. Incredulously, I recognized from a few angled lines at the end of the drive Charlie's ever-present scrap metal pile. Cedar and deciduous trees in the wooded areas were distinguishable from one another in simple, but deftly penciled strokes and swirls. He'd even captured the farm's power sources - tractors with hay wagons, the farm truck, pea-sized draft horses, and two diminutive figures in the front yard..

It should be mentioned that if you move to their playground, you will find there a real criminal wild level. It is the only level where murders happen because a fight for swag is carried there. You try to nap a piece?of property from the jaws, even if it is your own property, but the things for you may be finished badly.

Face and strap color - Another new trend in watch design is with the dials and straps. Watches, both expensive and cheap, are now being made in bold and exciting colors. Just be careful about buying a colored watch if it is going to be your everyday watch.

Having learned under the tutelage of LOSTerminds Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse, it's understandable that the talented (babyandyUSA-March-11) twosome that are Horowitz and Kitsis want to do nothing less than shoot for the stars by crafting and equally compelling world filled with good and evil character, not to mention life and death stakes. Unfortunately, the one thing that really seems to have gotten, well lost this season is the fun. In other words, when you're responsible for writing a show about handsome princes, damsels in distress, witches, fairy-godmothers, etc鈥?it would be nice if an episode could go by that doesn't involve a grisly ****** or loss of limbs..  2013-03-14.
Chris Voss Apr 2013
You broke bread and cracked voices.
Accompanied choruses of songs
you never bothered to learn.
Played God with radio dials and
sought salvation in airwaves,
leaving translation to the speakerbox.
Like a proper disciple-turned-prophet,
the static air took artistic liberties
and ****** up the message.

In all honesty, you wanted
so badly
to believe that this time, together,
you could out-live the reckoning.
That this time you were
something divine.
But tonight you're too sober to speak
and too tired to try.
Once again, you apologize.
She'll cradle your cheeks just so,
with such delicate touch
you're almost convinced it's done lovingly.
                    (You've been trained to speak
                                   between such parentheses.)
You always tell her exactly what she wants to hear
but never what she needs to know.
You both leapt from this bed, aiming for Space,
Hoping for something biblical,
but found, once again, that the sky
is nothing more than a mausoleum of stars.
                              And what
                                     goes
                                                            ­     up
                                                         Must
                                                come
       ­                       down.
From that funeral view
the truth collided into you
quicker than the avenue below.
Now you know what the moon must have felt
when the rockets came promising that
after this, things will never be the same,
then left just as quickly
with their pockets full of rocks.
You know what it's like when they steal part of you
just to put it on display.
It takes this distance
238,900 miles,
from here to the moon,
to leave your Me at ground level
and plummet into the
second person singular.

From depth like this
it's almost as if,
it never really happened to you at all.
moonlit Dec 2013
Stars are invading my vision and everything is blank. All I see is blinding darkness for the next few hours. When I finally wake, I see myself hanging from my rope attached to my ceiling. I gasp in horror. My throat closes up and my eyes betray me when they allow warm tears to form puddles on my sunken-in cheeks as I watch myself sway in horror. I quickly compose myself and the silence I hear is piercing. I wait. I wait. I wait. In the next two hours, I hear someone enter my house. I freeze. I hear keys jingling and the removal of coats. Next I hear voices. Two separate voices. Two familiar voices. My muscles ease up when I realize the foreign people are simply my parents. I hear stairs creaking. (I always hated those stairs. they reverberated booming creaks while I was trying to quickly maneuver my way up them after a deceitful night of sneaking out to see someone who was my very first heartbreak - but that's a different story.) I hear laughter. I hear happiness. I hear desperate calls for my name. I hear silence. I hear frantic knocking on my door. "Open this door right now young lady! We do not have time for your disobedience at the moment!" The door swings open. Sobs. Screams. My mother falls to the floor. I hear my mother calling out for my father, begging him to somehow comfort her.
My father files in. His mouth opens. Tears escape his eyes. He doesn't bother wiping them. Through his cloudy vision, he spots my note of finals words. He reads the first few sentences. "It was my time to go, I felt it in my bones. This was for the best, for I was only making a mess. I was making a mess of my life. I ruined myself. I had to leave. I am very sorry." He only gets that far until he drops the note and frantically dials 911. "Operator! Operator! I just found my daughter, she, she hung herself!"
"Please be patient sir, we'll have someone there right away." And with that he hangs up. He looks at my fragile mother. Then to me. He eyes me up and down before shouting to no one in particular, "Why?" He loses it and breaks down even more. My mother is still sobbing. Her shoulders are shaking. I ache for her. When I was alive I had not known I could have such an effect on people. I'd always considered myself dead, on the inside that is. Now I really was dead. And there's no going back. As much as I wish I could take it back, I cannot. And for that I apologize. I snap out of my thoughts and bring my vision back to my parents. The ambulance is here. They cover me in a white sheet and take me away. My mother tries to go into the ambulance but the paramedics stop her. They drive off. My mother falls onto the street. My father beside her. They are both apologizing. They are apologizing to me. Saying how they should've been there for me. Saying they should have noticed something and helped me. They are apologizing to each other. A day later, my best friend finds out. She sprints into her room and slams her door. Carefully, she selects a razor from her wooden cabinet in the bathroom and drags it across her wrist. "I'm sorry, I should've known. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," she whispers. And with that, she's gone. I have caused all of this. I caused turmoil and pain, I am the reason for my best friend to take her life. I had not known people actually cared about me. I soon realize the severity of my poor judgement. And at that very moment, what was left of my ghostly my soul withered away. I decayed into stardust and floated into space. I am gone.
Elizabeth Kelly Nov 2020
He fancies himself a cowboy
In line at the corner store
Concealed carry snug on his hip
(He secretly hopes someone gives him some lip)
The cashier hands him his change without meeting his gaze
He’s surprised and aroused.
She knows her place.

Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else

He fancies himself a nonconformist.
A free thinker
The sheep will all do what they’re told
And he’ll be ****** before he goes peacefully to slaughter.
It was easy, he figured it out
Demanding proof is just an excuse to hide behind doubt
A warrior,
he wields the flaming sword of truth
His wife asks a question; he breaks her front tooth.

Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else

Somewhere a fat man is checking the math as he’s being served lunch
Picking through numbers, looking for nibbles
He dribbles drool onto his chin,
as he dials his guy in The Caymans
His stomach is rumbling, it’s never enough!
To deepen ones pockets, one first must make cuts.

The determinant cause for the silver mine fire
Will read “Accident: faulty electrical wire; Company denies liability
per signed agreement at hire.”
And the cowboy free thinker won’t laugh at the joke,
he’ll just choke
There will be no survivors

But today, The Cowboy nurses his hate,
while Somewhere a fat man is writing the fate of the cowboy in pen,
pleased to be Great Again.

Selling your soul’s not a deal with the devil
Selling your soul is a deal with yourself
Make the choice over and over
To shake your own hand
And pretend that it’s somebody else
Chris Jun 2010
The space ship that I bought today
Is genuine ex-Milky Way
Titanium panels, gleaming white
Slighly warped by galactic flight
Ten zillion miles on the clock
But brand new dials and air lock
It'll see me good for a squillion more
So, lever down, I shut the door
And press some buttons blue then red
A mighty rumble frightens Ted
My copilot pressed into his seat
As jet fuel and ignition meet
I grip Ted's arm, the countdown starts
I'm glad I brought the ship's spare parts
Then all at once the radio cracks
I turn the volume up to max
What halts the progress of my ship?
"That cardboard box is for the tip.
Now come on out it's time for tea."
...Why does dad rule this galaxy?
For Jack
Savio Apr 2013
Delayed clock
Savio lays underneath unwashed quilts
Grandmother hand made
Savio lays with a woman
“Why are your eyes so Green.”
Savio said to her lips
She had painted them very red
and when they kissed
the lipstick smudged like a charcoal drawing outside in the April rain in Maine
“My eyes flicker green when you kiss me. When you are with me.”
Savio kissed her forehead
It was 1AM
Kansas
Down the street there is a church
the yellowish orange lights are on all night
When Savio buys 3 dollar wine
He walks to the Brick dressed yellowish orange lit Church
Pick up trucks that are thin with metal
rusted at the square gas tank
rusted at the curves of its wheels
rusted at the grill
rusted at the door handles
at the hubcaps
at the bed
at the windshield wipers
at the side view mirrors
at the belt buckles
at the radio dials
at the steering wheels
Flutter by
like children throwing rocks
like Winter
like rain at 7am
Savio sits there
drinking his cold 3 dollar wine
thinking of Mexico
thinking of the magical women he had made love too
kissed
taken out to dinner and lunches and breakfasts
thinking of Long Nights with his brother
Crossing streets with warm bottles of good beer
to Neon lit bars
to bars only lit by cigarettes and tiny radios blasting
Jazz or Rock n' Roll or The Blues or Billie Holiday
Never the news

Savio looked at the woman next to him in his bed
Her eyes were closed
He imagined her closed eye-lids as a moth
With its upright folded gray wings
night
standing underneath the warm breath of a Lamp

Savio liked The Moths
He read about them
He thought of them as the poets
as the painters
as the pianists
as the ballet dancers
as the violinists
of the insects

Savio also liked Boxelder Bugs
they do no harm
they sneak in through the cracks and door openings of homes in winter
They hide underneath sheets of poems
Van Gogh paintings on the walls
Savio woke to a Boxelder Bug on his lips once

The woman that lied with Savio
was beautiful
her clothes were expensive
her body was cruel not to touch
her life was good
Money
***
Beauty
Youth

Savio had none of these
He was handsome
His face was shaded with a few days of hair
His eyes were bright from the many days in the sun as a boy
His eye lashes were long like the docks of rivers from plucking them when he couldnt sleep
Youth was a long time ago for Him
and he sat at parks
watched the kids play
watched Summer
watched April
watched the Roses and the Trees and the Water
grow younger and younger
as He
Stood still as his fingernails grew
and his teeth yellowed by each AM cup of coffee
and each AM cigarette

Savio did not care about Money
he cared about ***, and Beauty, and Youth
yet,
did not wish these upon himself
he
Admired them
like a womans smile
like a Sunrise coasting over a cold morning with white Swans fluttering in the sky
and the Cigarette tastes like purity
and the cigarette has meaning
more meaning than Death
or Life
or being Wise

He admired the woman next to him in bed
he did not feel bad for her
or envy her

He envied on the ease of her sleep
The ease of her happiness
The ease of her
carelessness to beauty
or poetry
or music

He envied the Fools

Savio lied there
Her lips perfectly shaped like clouds
or the designs on a butterfly
or the moon's glow late at night
when the birds are dreaming
when the Dog is fast asleep
when the convict is tired
when the Sun has clocked out
24/7 Sun
like an immigrant

Savio looked at the alarm clock
3AM
the womans Dress and stockings and shoes and Bra and ******* were on the floor
along with her Class Status

Savio has always been poor
He enjoyed it
He liked long days
Reading yesterdays paper that he had found on the road
Counting the numbers of Blue Mini-vans that stop at the red light
He liked going to the park
Climbing a Tree
or sitting at a dock
letting his toes and feet prune
His skin red and the smell of dirt

He liked no Television
He liked his two pairs of pants
His few shirts
His red sweater that his grandmother made him
his pair of shoes
He had a little radio alarm clock
that he had since he was a boy

His father most have stolen it
Given to Savio as a birthday present

His Father was a good man
A bad man facing society
A good man facing his family
He did what he could to get by
He drank

Savio liked to think of himself as a good man
Though he enjoyed the Vices of life
That is why he could never be Religious
Savio was too brave to be told what to do
He was too wild to have his cravings and emotions held down by leather

He liked women
He liked Drinking
He liked cigarettes
He liked Cursing
He liked ***
He liked Humor and Thought about Death
He liked to Fight
He liked to contemplate Life
He liked to contemplate Women
Drinking
Cigarettes
Cursing
***
Humor
Death

Savio
was a good man
He kept to himself
Laughed to himself
walked to bars and parks and highway bridges all to himself

He was a Looker a Searcher a Wonderer a Wanderer

And Life
is a good place to do these things.


Savio got up from his small bed
looked around his small house
opened a small cupboard
grabbed a small coffee mug

Put on his one pair of shoes
Shined them with his old shine shoe case
that his Uncle had given him

He then put on his shirt
it was slightly aged
it was slightly *****
Tho
it was 5AM
and no one would be able too see this

He then put on his jacket
a dark brown swede jacket
it was stained at the shoulder
it was wrinkled
he had spilled gasoline on it last month
and it still had a slight scent of unleaded gasoline
Even though it had rained many times

His pants were strong
They were 5 years old
rough and thick with denim

He felt good
There was no wind being blown
His wine was cold
His eyes were clear
He had a full pack of cigarettes
and a book of matches

This time he walked to the Highway bridge
sometimes on the metal fence
there would be stale roses twisted around the fence

And Savio would pluck them off
dropping them over the highway
onto cars and 18-wheelers headed to Florida

Savio sat at the small cliff
next to the highway bridge
The grass was gold and tall
He took drinks of his wine
slowly the Headlights
turned to Taillights.
As the light made islands on the water,
ethereal bubbles frozen with warmth,
tucking tired beaks beneath wings, pigeons saunter,
into sleep, on tesselated petals, going forth.
That summer aura which sparks from you and thrums
moving dials to a sanguine solstace in me.
Hitting cold skin, the blood rush is autumn;
cathartic capillary trees with loose fingers and red leaves
and in these veins speeds my guttural london estuaries,
to syncopate their tide beats with yours.
Those mediterranean wine filled arteries
will encompass my imperfections to pearls.
From my idealist sonnets hearts you come
fixed on air, a changeable paint that can't run.

Like newborn fern fronds you unfolded your words
cut with castanet syllables peppered in.
Sentences ushered on as pacified herds
breathed out plumes, rippled fire, wind-thinned.
I then learned a beauty untamed, is a beauty rare.
Those eyes indeed are coffee dewdrops pierced by sun.
Those lips are pronounced like unbroken waves that tear,
on the cusp of unspoken words braced for freedom.
Core bright, i see the rose through the street's ornaments.
From the slight rise of your nose to those angular cheekbones,
further a picture of stunning complex arrangement;
identity of locked cogs, in you, are the pieces of home.
Islands on the canal of time; forever moments un-faded.
We aren't seen in a new light without becoming more illuminated.
JL Apr 2013
All of the pencils in the drawer are broken
Friday Night I'm sick of being alone
Hopping off the curb in search of the killer
Sniffing out the house parties
They like the bass loud and it swells
******* us inside past ten parked cars
They freestyle about
Gun fire and blood on concrete
He said I didn't believe him
Cracked out beyond repair
He shows me the scythe and hammer tattoo on his left breast
I laugh with the proletariat
Cheers and some soul passes me the bottle
Cigarette smoke contained by plaster walls
I'm eight days sober
Don't tread on me
Says a ***** blond next to me on the couch
All strung out she is searching
Searching for a bent spoon and needle in the tall grass
Back yard a bonfire
Walking barefoot on broken
Heineken bottles strewn in the shadows
Popping molly and sweating
She called me a hick
Her dopamine receptors
Rubbed flat by heavy grade sandpaper
I called her nothing
I was too busy watching
The rats scurry against the wall
To their safe warm nest
In the insulation
A hand around my wrist
Milk white incubus
With breath like puked whiskey
I escaped through a hole in the couch
I fell between the cracked leather cushions
And slept with the rats in piles of pink
Fiberglass insulation scratching at the flesh
I slip outside through the cracked window
A woman stands at a console
Turning dials that cause the streetlights to dim
And bleed storefront windows fractals of neon
She asks me what else I would like to know about the world.
Someone tells me to get in and the door shuts
A sound like gunfire I perspire sweat with cough
Syrup scent peaking on the dark road to Okeechobee
I should **** myself or run barefoot again through your head
Where the forest floor is warm and the trees are alive always with birdsong
April 6, 2013
4:31 A.M
Love is about giving
Lust is about getting
Francie Lynch Apr 2015
My Koodo
Made a booboo;
The Sony
Made you angry;
My I-Phone
Pulled a *****;
My LG
Didn't help me;
My Nokia
Sent diarrhea;
My Smart Phone
Made me a smart ***
When it pocket-dialed.
It didn't sent
Emoticon smiles.
And now,
You know
The rest of the story.
Poppi Mae Jan 2014
drunk dials at 3:30 AM
all you've wanted
is some fun for the night
but i don't really mind it
you know i'm open minded
and i know you feel the way
that i feel for you
when you're finding it hard to take breaths
and we're close against each other
you say it in a whisper
it doesn't matter if you're sober
all i want is for you to come over
kiss me on my neck
and then on my shoulder
i want the feel of your skin on mine
it's like we've collided into a galaxy
no matter what i say i know you can't be mad at me
let's take a walk through the library
walking in silence
but letting our hearts do the thinking
i gaze into you
and your rancorous heart
transforms into a loving one
with only the capability of loving me
i sit in class and write your name upon my skin
i think about you a lot
and the drunken dial is the only thought i've got
i love you so much but you don't even know it
i've got your number
i want to call you
but i don't want to blow it
tell me i'm your little princess
you could be my prince
we can live forever in a castle
since we met, i've loved you ever since
To Garryowen upon an ***** ground
Two girls are jigging.  Riotously they trip,
With eyes aflame, quick bosoms, hand on hip,
As in the tumult of a witches' round.
Youngsters and youngsters round them prance and bound.
Two solemn babes twirl ponderously, and skip.
The artist's teeth gleam from his bearded lip.
High from the kennel howls a tortured hound.
The music reels and hurtles, and the night
Is full of stinks and cries; a naphtha-light
Flares from a barrow; battered and obtused
With vices, wrinkles, life and work and rags,
Each with her inch of clay, two loitering hags
Look on dispassionate--critical--something 'mused.

*

The gods are dead?  Perhaps they are!  Who knows?
Living at least in Lempriere undeleted,
The wise, the fair, the awful, the jocose,
Are one and all, I like to think, retreated
In some still land of lilacs and the rose.

Once high they sat, and high o'er earthly shows
With sacrificial dance and song were greeted.
Once . . . long ago.  But now, the story goes,
The gods are dead.

It must be true.  The world, a world of prose,
Full-crammed with facts, in science swathed and sheeted,
Nods in a stertorous after-dinner doze!
Plangent and sad, in every wind that blows
Who will may hear the sorry words repeated:--
'The Gods are Dead!'
There's an entire field of math
that investigates how fast
things move, one with respect another.
From hydraulics to ballistics,
to scheduling and logistics,
to expected birth rates -
healthy babies, happy mothers.
You can model how disease
moves through a populace with ease
or with diff'culty, as coefficients vary,
how heat and energies diffuse,
or how quickly I will lose
your rapt attention, if I choose,
choose to carry,
always carry,
  carry on the way I do.
If I carry,
always carry on,
  to interest just a few.
But hey.
A passion's still a passion
no matter what you're drawn to.

And with some level of abstraction,
maybe we could find an action,
a reaction,
  an expansion
that could yield a change or two.
Piece together some firm notion,
quantify that art in motion,
brew that bubbling new potion
that can build a better view.

Because there's got to be some level
where preconceptions start to end.
Where the Bell curve starts to bevel,
where your mind begins to bend.
Where names and labels scatter free;
it doesn't matter what you do.
Where fin'lly I can just be me,
where you can just be you.

Because it all comes back to how we move,
one with respect another,
always acting as behooves
someone with our label's cover.
Father, mother.
Sister, brother.
  Pusher, shover.
   Friend and lover.
Villain, hero.
Dime or zero.
  Caesar, Nero,
or just a guy.
A ****, a bro
a ****, a **
The man who knows
every disguise.
Mathematician,
a physician,
  a scared little boy wishin'
  on a shootin' star swishin'
long across a midnight sky.
Theatrical protagonist.
Can you start to get the jyst?
We've got so many roles to play.
Who do we want to be today?
  Just who looks back behind our eyes?

A Freedom Fighter
Wrong righter
Fire started
Broken hearter
Wallet stealer
Dope dealer
  Narc
  Cop
STOP!
For God's sake,
let it stop.

I've got too many roles to fill.
Just can't chill.
Can't calm down,
can't come around.
I'm so tired,
I'm so wired,
  I'm so scared of gettin' fired.
So much **** piles up.
Please, Barkeep, one more in my cup.
  And crank those ******' dials up.
Make chaotic volume flood,
'til the sound of pounding blood
  in my ears becomes a mud
layered thick around the brain,
until that **** that's so insane,
  becomes labeled as mundane.
Betrayal.  ******.  War.
Ya know, I've seen it all before.
  And I'd expect we'll see some more.
But that's okay.
I can breathe.
I'm listed here as understanding.
It's expected.
Let it go.
I'm listed here as undemanding.

It was for a blessing's name
that Cain betrayed his brother.
So becomes our choice of movement,
one with respect another.
Stationary, if not stable,
names fighting to define
people willing, if not able,
to leave their names' confines.

I know it could be simple
if we put our names to rest,
but like some aggravated pimple
grows my own list to contest.
I'm still a lover unrequited.
Still the guy who's ever-slighted,
I've got my Fightin' Irish side;
got both the drinker and his pride.
I still speak my simple credo,
have a Gemini's libido.
And by chivalry's demand,
will keep on offering my hand,
  knowing full well that you will stand
without assistance,
and insistence
that you don't need help from a man.

It gets out of hand so quickly
trying to cultivate ourselves
into what we think we should be.
We wind up bring off the shelves
more than we bargained for
and in the end,
the labels wind up wrong.
While well-intended
all we ended up with
is a spoiled song.

It started out four hands together
plucking out a little tune.
Silv'ry chords you sent to heaven
on a morning come too soon.
But the motif
stolen by the thief
of our own grand delusions,
Our minds,
just as we trained them,
racing off to draw conclusions...

What was once upon a time
beautiful simplicity
became muddled by the noise
of the entire symphony.
The blowing brass and sawing strings
of complicated history
confuse the senses, turn our tune into
a blurred cacophony.

And so we quit that silly game,
'cause it could never be the same
after we banished every name
except our own.
Then we could be
free from confinement on the "who,"
the "what," the "why" of what we do.
with me just me, and you just you.

So it is shown.
Q.E.D.

— The End —