If you danced from midnight
to six A.M. who would understand?

The runaway boy
who chucks it all
to live on the Boston Common
on speed and saltines,
******* in the duck pond,
rapping with the street priest,
trading talk like blows,
another missing person,
would understand.

The paralytic's wife
who takes her love to town,
sitting on the bar stool,
downing stingers and peanuts,
singing "That ole Ace down in the hole,"
would understand.

The passengers
from Boston to Paris
watching the movie with dawn
coming up like statues of honey,
having partaken of champagne and steak
while the world turned like a toy globe,
those murderers of the nightgown
would understand.

The amnesiac
who tunes into a new neighborhood,
having misplaced the past,
having thrown out someone else's
credit cards and monogrammed watch,
would understand.

The drunken poet
(a genius by daylight)
who places long-distance calls
at three A.M. and then lets you sit
holding the phone while he vomits
(he calls it "The Night of the Long Knives")
getting his kicks out of the death call,
would understand.

The insomniac
listening to his heart
thumping like a June bug,
listening on his transistor
to Long John Nebel arguing from New York,
lying on his bed like a stone table,
would understand.

The night nurse
with her eyes slit like Venetian blinds,
she of the tubes and the plasma,
listening to the heart monitor,
the death cricket bleeping,
she who calls you "we"
and keeps vigil like a ballistic missile,
would understand.

Once
this king had twelve daughters,
each more beautiful than the other.
They slept together, bed by bed
in a kind of girls' dormitory.
At night the king locked and bolted the door
. How could they possibly escape?
Yet each morning their shoes
were danced to pieces.
Each was as worn as an old jockstrap.
The king sent out a proclamation
that anyone who could discover
where the princesses did their dancing
could take his pick of the litter.
However there was a catch.
If he failed, he would pay with his life.
Well, so it goes.

Many princes tried,
each sitting outside the dormitory,
the door ajar so he could observe
what enchantment came over the shoes.
But each time the twelve dancing princesses
gave the snoopy man a Mickey Finn
and so he was beheaded.
****! Like a basketball.

It so happened that a poor soldier
heard about these strange goings on
and decided to give it a try.
On his way to the castle
he met an old old woman.
Age, for a change, was of some use.
She wasn't stuffed in a nursing home.
She told him not to drink a drop of wine
and gave him a cloak that would make
him invisible when the right time came.
And thus he sat outside the dorm.
The oldest princess brought him some wine
but he fastened a sponge beneath his chin,
looking the opposite of Andy Gump.

The sponge soaked up the wine,
and thus he stayed awake.
He feigned sleep however
and the princesses sprang out of their beds
and fussed around like a Miss America Contest.
Then the eldest went to her bed
and knocked upon it and it sank into the earth.
They descended down the opening
one after the other. They crafty soldier
put on his invisisble cloak and followed.
Yikes, said the youngest daughter,
something just stepped on my dress.
But the oldest thought it just a nail.

Next stood an avenue of trees,
each leaf make of sterling silver.
The soldier took a leaf for proof.
The youngest heard the branch break
and said, Oof! Who goes there?
But the oldest said, Those are
the royal trumpets playing triumphantly.
The next trees were made of diamonds.
He took one that flickered like Tinkerbell
and the youngest said: Wait up! He is here!
But the oldest said: Trumpets, my dear.

Next they came to a lake where lay
twelve boats with twelve enchanted princes
waiting to row them to the underground castle.
The soldier sat in the youngest's boat
and the boat was as heavy as if an icebox
had been added but the prince did not suspect.

Next came the ball where the shoes did duty.
The princesses danced like taxi girls at Roseland
as if those tickets would run right out.
They were painted in kisses with their secret hair
and though the soldier drank from their cups
they drank down their youth with nary a thought.

Cruets of champagne and cups full of rubies.
They danced until morning and the sun came up
naked and angry and so they returned
by the same strange route. The soldier
went forward through the dormitory and into
his waiting chair to feign his druggy sleep.
That morning the soldier, his eyes fiery
like blood in a wound, his purpose brutal
as if facing a battle, hurried with his answer
as if to the Sphinx. The shoes! The shoes!
The soldier told. He brought forth
the silver leaf, the diamond the size of a plum.

He had won. The dancing shoes would dance
no more. The princesses were torn from
their night life like a baby from its pacifier.
Because he was old he picked the eldest.
At the wedding the princesses averted their eyes
and sagged like old sweatshirts.
Now the runaways would run no more and never
again would their hair be tangled into diamonds,
never again their shoes worn down to a laugh,
never the bed falling down into purgatory
to let them climb in after
with their Lucifer kicking.

**** the twin-size mattress,
that cheap indigo color.
Where my best friend’s legs,
her hands and knees,
were entangled in struggle.

**** his barbell body
heavy and cold to the touch.
She had been hunted  
by someone that she trusted.

**** the world that assumed  
she was kissed. Not gripped,
nor crushed under his pressing force.

**** the cinder block walls  
of that college dormitory,
where she stared and refused
to sleep in her own bed
After that night.

**** the catchy tune of breath
rolling over teeth  
that play in her head.
**** her father. He would say
he doesn’t approve of her *******.

So, she chose to stay quiet.
Forgettably quiet.

Sitting on my bed
Gazing out at the view
Laptop in lap
I wonder
Being of mixed race
The truth of my origins
The blood coursing through my veins
Goffle they would say
But iv always believed a man's skin colour doesn't define who he is
Kwabulawayo
A place where he is being killed
Home of the Ndebele
My hometown
Built on the ruins of a Royal town
uMzilikazi ,Leander Starr Jameson ,Lobengula ,Cecil john rhodes
Men of courage
Black and white
Fought struggles
Years before my birth
Mater Dei Hospital
My journeys beginning
My grandfathers end.
Joy and pain
My hearts memories
From Primary
Whitestone
Green fields
Where i spent my childhood
Life's little joys
Clay-yaki
In the rain
Barefoot.
Speargrass
How it stung
Running through the grass
Taller than i was
Forts
Built with shoelaces
Marbles
Fights in the sand
Afternoons spent picking mullberyys
The girls dormitory
Offbounds.
Matrons
Got me the cain
Thursday Nights
Prefects Priveleges
Sports
Cross country
The houses of Tuli, Shangani, Shashe
lifelong friends made
A place frozen in memory
Home of the best years of my life
Tears streaming down
Every Sunday evening
The way back
A boarders sentiment
Lasting 5min till reunited with friends
Tuck shared
Eskimo Hut
The Green Mamba Or Pink Panther
The food hall
Quiet
Till dessert came
Mr Haworth
Everyday
"The queen would be disgusted if she saw u eating"
The tide of his time
Wandering around my childhood
I bumped unintentionally into
Maturity
Starless nights
First kisses
A little bit older i was

She's back at it again. The amount of her friends' impatience towards her psychotic thoughts can never be equated to her very own exhaustion of her entire being. She, for the nth time, wants to leave the world.

She slams the door real hard as she walks out the room, which she shares with her three roommates. She's out of the room as she's out of her mind. She seeks for a space where she can fit herself. The innocent fire exit has no choice but to accept again, the traitor tears, the unending complaints, and even the stomping on the floor and the punching on the wall. From her view on the 12th floor, the busy streets of G. Tolentino and Laong Laan distract her.

"I can't even understand myself, how am I supposed to comprehend this blur?" she's now even fighting with her alter-ego. Everything is a mess. Everything is blurred. She hates herself for being four-eyed. She has no choice but to go back to the room just to get her glasses with 200-175 grade. Now, everything is clear. Not as clear as her life is going, though, but, at least, she can now clearly see the chaos that is the city of Manila.

Her eyes walk through G. Tolentino and the bittersweet memories of the off-campus practicum come rushing through her mind. She would ride the jeepney from G. Tolentino-Laong Laan all the way to Casañas-Dapitan. From there, she would walk three blocks before she could reach the public school where she would teach ninth and tenth graders. She was glad because of the warm welcome of the students, and at the same time, mad, because of the horror of the reality in the public school — the politics among the faculty. She shrugged it off and just continued with what she was supposed to do.

After each shift, she would walk four blocks to reach the one-way street where she could ride the jeepney back to her area. She would alight at Delos Reyes Street so she could rest for a while in her unit. In-campus practicum's at 12:30 P.M. anyway, she thought.

And now she's back at the fire exit at the 12th floor. The rays of the sun almost blind her. She blames herself for abusing her eyes way back in her childhood years. Now, she can't enjoy the wonders of life without her nerdy glasses. She unconsciously moves her left foot away from the shade of the sun because of the trauma from last year. Two painful experiences race through her mind, as if it's a contest on which should be recalled first. Of course, the more painful wins — getting kicked out of an all-ladies dormitory, together with her girlfriend, because of their, obviously, ****** preferences. It still haunts her until now. The 2nd runner-up, on the other hand, is the less painful, and therefore, the consequence of the first painful experience — having to find another dormitory during broad daylight, because of course, nighttime in Manila is utterly dangerous.

Starting from Dos Castillas, they seemed like two meerkats digging a tunnel, finding for a place to live. Apparently, posting on Dorm Hunters in Facebook was not as good as literally going through the fires of all big streets combined — España, Lacson, Dapitan, and P. Noval. She was supposed to prepare for practicum, while her girlfriend was supposed to prepare for thesis, yet there they were, harrowing Manila because it seemed like a big head with strands of hair full of lice. After almost a week of searching for a place, they had finally settled to a totally different one from their previous dormitory.

And now she's back at the fire exit at the 12th floor. She hopes her roommates aren't there, but they are, so she has no choice but to calm down. Boy, was it difficult to calm down! She stares at the sun as it sets, until it is finally out of sight. A tiny object catches her attention —it is an airplane. An airplane which brings her yet again to another memory, and at the same time, encourages her on her dream to travel the world.

It was once again a competition on which should be set forth. Again, the more powerful wins — the memory of someone leaving. Way back in her childhood years, whenever she would see an airplane, she would envision them riding that airplane, and finally going back home. She grew up tired waiting. They eventually came home, but she didn't care anymore whether she would stay or she would leave again. News flash! She left again. And again. And again. Now it doesn't matter to her anymore whether they come home or not. She still loved them either way. She just stopped wondering, asking, questioning, and all the other synonyms of asking why.

The pain of that memory is so strong, she is excited to overcome it immediately with her dream of traveling the world. An imaginary globe appears right in front of her face. Several people of different races talk to her. Oh boy, was she excited! Oh yes, she is! She can't stop giggling from the thought of her travelling and speaking different languages.

With all these memories, she calms down and finally goes back to the room, where her roommates already fell asleep. The sultry from outside of the room gets forgotten because of the air conditioner, which calms her more. She goes up to her bed on the double deck and listens to worship songs to calm herself even more. She falls asleep so easily but her sleep gets interrupted right away. It's 7 'o clock in the evening and her roommates invite her to dinner. They decide to eat at McDonald's in P. Noval. She's still lost from the 'traveling' she did that afternoon. She's still not on her mind the entire dinner, until they return to their room.

She goes out of the room again, but not to stay at the fire exit, but to actually get some fresh air. Unfortunately, there is no fresh air in Manila. She notices how dangerous the streets in Manila are during nighttime. Although it is dangerous as well in daytime, the only difference is there is a sun. Different kinds of poor people are all over the streets of Manila and it haunts the hell out of her. It brings back the horrors and traumas from her past—being prone to accidents and misfortunes. She goes back to the fire exit and indulges herself to another reflection.

She went out to get some fresh air, but she only got her wounds fresh yet again.

She looks again at the view from the 12th floor and realizes how the streets around the campus of her university have been haunting her. She tries to overcome her fears with the good memories. This time, she wins. She, then, releases her emotions by writing everything. In this way, she thinks, she will be able to let go of everything. As soon as she finishes the last part, she runs out of words and decides to end everything —just like that.

A world in colour lies
                semi-distant, semi realised,
A near-forgotten future exsanguinates, yearning
              in the weakened glow, of infinite winter morning.
The voice, the voices, the voiceless, my anger, my age,
                Pan-millennial youth in coming years will fade,
It will carry duvet and pillow from hateful home
                to halfway-house until half way home
It will make all its hearts into the shape of cardboard,
                blemish the fire with chemical ****, **** hard,
It will seek forgiveness at the steps of screen,
                beat asthmatic chests, fingers, ribs and seams,
It will see itself cower in the horrible light of mirror,
               sail to the sun on wings of fakes lashes,
And it will burn, burn not in forgiving hangover sodium,
                but burn in the eye of a guilt yet to come,
And it will drown, drown at the blessing of the water,
               drown at its birth time and time over,
And it will wound, wound in scythe and cushion comfort,
                wound the waking dream in Siamese horror of sorts,
And it will leave strangled in the cords of its university hoody,
                leave alone at night, touch itself and cry.

Bursting rhythm from the panopticon, viewing all aspects
                of itself engulfed in ex-disney coloured acid
                spewing forth from the desired wreck,
Hurtling profound and profane into and beyond
                ******* and love and love and *******,
                *****-tinged snows lubricating seasons onward into each other,
Gut-busting, gut-busting, gut-busting societal downpour to harridan office
                from liquor dormitory, escaping and elevating
                on citalopram or selegiline,
The surgeons and nurses, the poets and builders, ever restless
                at the unbolted door, screaming into their unread palms,
                comparing varying hell to holy water lakes of others,
Sipping the dew from paradise wing, discontent with all
                in purgatory-England whilst licking the knee
                of America and imagined Europe,
Wanking itself dry at the lottery of thought,
                crude reckonings spiralling sugar into salt
                landing on the tongue of want,
Feeling crucified at the Atheist tea party,
                climbing the cross of trend
                supplying own milk and nails,
Unwanting in the chrysalis, ignoring coming candles
                but fantasising a thousand symmetrical suns
                to limited avail and idea.

But idea there will be, birthed, blood-hungry
                gnawing at the heel ‘til bare bone,
And it will rip apart fat riddled arteries,
                Deconstruct, Reconstruct all the bodies and the cites,
And it will write and spell all the words wrong
                realising that what ‘they’ are selling is sign language for the blind,
And it will note of itself as harsh but not unkind,
                reject bribe bread and water be it divided or divined,
And it will say of cartography “No need as of yet,
                I have seen men lost in the lining of a suit,
Crying into their shoes, uncombed, unfettered, unfertilised, without hope,
                after laughing into empty lakes.”
We can each say “My God, my empty sky, my cartoon prophet, my local MP,
                I have seen everything and want none of it,
                I am alone in a narrow shape of time,
                watching us all unfurl to the scent of burning feathers and hair,
                to the sound of punctured veins.”
We watch silent litanies for graceful pardons of filth,
                in “Amen” then nothing,
We watch our age’s world rend lung
                through hollow cheeks and air in our bones,
We watch ourselves into eyes or no eyes at all
                watch ourselves read last lines and then
                watch ourselves realise and whimper
                from ulcerated gut, tongue or pen,
                the everlasting knell…

                “…And it will happen again…”

when you are three you will bring home your first tracks of mud from the garden when you sneak out of the door to play. i will wash the grass stains off your socks and tell you to wait for mummy to come out next time too.

when you are four you will bring home your first macaroni necklace from nursery school and try to eat it raw. i will put it around your neck and we will make pasta together, minus the glue.

when you are five you will bring home tears and your first bleeding knee after falling off your tricycle. i will clean up the wound with antiseptic, put on a smiley face band aid and tell you it is okay to cry.

when you are six you will bring home your first finger painting from kindergarten and a white tee shirt that is streaked with a myriad of colour. i will place it on the laundry pile and we will stain canvas with paint coated fingers for the rest of the afternoon.

when you are seven you will bring home your first report card and babble excitedly about the A you got in art class. i will tell you i knew your teacher would love the tiger you drew that had too many teeth.

when you are eight you will bring home your first best friend and you will ask if you can have a sleepover. i will bake you cookies and put up a tent in the backyard so you can fall asleep under the blanket of stars.

when you are nine you will bring home your first 100 on a test and ask me if perfect is a good score. i will hug you and say that no score can be more perfect than you are.

when you are ten you will bring home your first girl guide badge and tell me you need it sewn on your uniform. i will teach you how to use a needle and thread and see your pride at accomplishing the task on your own.  

when you are eleven you will bring home your first medal from a junior fencing competition and tell me you love the foil but you are scared of the older ones who use epees and sabres (even though one day you will be one of them, too). i will hang the medal on your bedpost and show you my rusting sabre in the storeroom and tell you my stories.

when you are twelve you will bring home your first case of chickenpox from the girl who sits next to you in class. i will make you chicken soup and we will make bad puns about poultry for the next two weeks of quarantine.

when you are thirteen you will bring home your first failure on a test paper. i will sit with you in your room and go through your mistakes and we will learn together, because you are more than a number and i never want you to forget that

when you are fourteen you will bring home your first questions about why the girls in school giggle about boys when the name you doodle in your jotter book is the one of your hauntingly beautiful social studies teacher. i will tell you that love is whatever you believe it to be and who you love is less important than why you love them.

when you are fifteen you will bring home your first can of beer in an effort of rebellion and try to hide it in your room. i will get out the wine and we will share it and i will teach you all there is to know about alcohol and being careful around it, and regale you with stories about the fact that i am a happy drunk.

when you are sixteen you will bring home your first attempts at a resumé and tell me you want to find an internship. i will watch you with pride as you make your own way as part of the working crowd for the very first time and learn more than i could ever teach you on my own.

when you are seventeen you will bring home your first girlfriend and introduce her to me, blushing and stammering. i will smile and ask her if she wants any orange juice from the fridge, and watch you give me a grateful grin.

when you are eighteen you will bring home your first college application and all the relevant documents. we will sit down over the kitchen table and discuss the pros and cons of local and international schools.

when you are nineteen you will bring home a suitcase and some assignments when you come back home during break. i will watch you tuck in to local fare ravenously and listen to you dreamily talk about the girl you share your dormitory with.

when you are twenty you will bring home your first paycheck from a part-time job you’re holding while studying for your degree. i will joke with you on what blue chip stocks to invest it in and we will go out for dinner at a swanky restaurant together.

when you are twenty one you will bring home an engagement ring and ask me if it is too young to ask your dormmate turned lover forever. i will remind you that love has no age and preconceptions have no place in devotion.

when you are twenty two you will bring home everything you need to propose to the love of your life. i will watch her stare at you in shock and fall into your arms and cry, and i will smile at the way your breath leaves your lungs, and you cry along with her.

when you are twenty three you will bring home your first pre-wedding jitters and be fretting about tomorrow’s ceremony. i will reassure you that everything will be perfect- even if it isn’t.

when you are twenty four you will bring home your first spare key to your new place and entrust it to me. i will bring over the dishes you and your wife love every sunday and we will have dinner together, talking, teasing, and laughing till we cry.

when you are twenty five you will bring home your first daughter you have adopted from the orphanage.

and daughter, i hope you will tell her the things i have told you.

the circus train comes to town once a year,
carrying Russian ballerinas & corporate America dropouts.
she brings an irresistible bouquet of
caramel apples & greasepaint, of
cotton candy & mechanical smoke.
the circus is a seductive beast, she'll grab your heart
between her teeth & she won't let go, like a
rabid dog.

when the show begins on opening night,
you'll be sure to grab a front row seat, right in the
Grand Stand, among the soccer moms & their sticky-faced toddlers.
you'll feel the childish delight bubble
in your chest when the music swells, when the elephants march
& the clowns tumble out in garish colors.

after the show, you'll stumble to the three rings with the
toddlers & their tired moms, right to the center ring, don't be
shy when the clown dressed in yellow & black,
like a bumblebee, comes towards you, a devilish grin on
his painted coal black lips.
your knees will tremble, you'll turn as red as his big nose, when he pulls your back to his solid chest, & he begins to juggle right in front of you.

"stick around, after closing" he murmurs in your ear, "that's when the real circus begins."

the circus is painted bright, a swirling mass of
red & blue, with sparks of yellow, ribbons of pink.
even when the show is over, the mystery is still
there, the sweet seduction lingers, like an old lover's fingers can trace circles on your skin in the dead of night.

when the bumblebee clown drags you around town that night,
as if he lives there & not you, you'll go along with him,
your heart racing fast, as fast as the girl dressed in
pink spandex flew from the cannon across the circus ceiling,
how could you have forgotten that?

he'll take you to McDonald's, ask you to pay for the meal, he's broke until Thursday at 2. of course. you split a small
fry and a chocolate shake, by then it's midnight,
he performs some simple magic tricks, balancing a
chair on the edge of his chin, snagging a shining quarter
from your brunette curls, watch out, girl, he's reeling you in,
he's as seductive as the circus.

he will walk you back to your college dorm &
he's sure to mention how it's been years since he has
been inside a dormitory, since clown college, yes it's real.
your roommate is gone & you're not ready to say goodbye
just yet, so you'll sign him in & guide him to your third floor
room.

he marvels at your textbooks & cuddles your teddy bear
brought from home, while you drink him in, solid, squat,
a true Texican, his skin is brown as caramel, & you wander
if he will taste just as sweet. he'll notice your blush, & pull
you close, pinch your hips, nuzzle your neck & kiss you hard,
maybe a bit too hard.

he lays you on your back, & you're naked, you're scared,
vulnerable, you watch him dip his head & kiss you, nibble you in that sweet, sweet forbidden spot. there's a black coal
in your chest, in the pit of your stomach, you're disgusted,
you're curious, you taste the circus firsthand, gagging.

the circus will remain in town for
an entire week, & for an entire week you have a
circus clown as a boyfriend.
you take him on adventures around your college campus,
to your favorite burger spot, to the big water balloon fight
& he'll show you the circus world, you'll hug
an elephant, you'll drink your first beer in Clown Alley,
& you'll watch the show a dozen times.

he'll write you a love letter on your skin, caramel drips on
China porcelain, he'll leave bruises in the shapes of hearts,
& you'll cry when he leaves, it's only been a week, but
it's been a lifetime. he'll hold you tight, too tight, and he'll whisper,

"it's only a year, i'll see you in a year."

when the circus train leaves, the asphalt lot will be
conspicuously empty, except for a trampled clown nose,
much like your aching heart. you'll feel numb & blue,
you'll cling to your phone, the clown promised you
he would call.
you fall asleep cradling your phone to your chest, startle awake when he finally calls you, it's 4 in the morning, you have an early class, but that can wait, his voice is on the other line.

you'll lose a lot more than sleep when you fall in love
with a circus clown, you have to conform to his schedule,
you see, he is the one calling the shots, not you, not we.
you'll start to slip up in your classes, all you do is stare at your phone screen, who cares about supply vs. demand, anyway?

you hitch a ride to see the clown half a year later, you could
hardly stand him being an hour away, & you'll fly into his arms
like a trapeze artist, after the show, he'll carry you like a bride
to his coffin
bed & you're naked again, scared, vulnerable, he's all the way
he's grunting and sweating, and you're cowering, numb.

you leave 15 minutes later, with shaky thighs, you're slightly
nauseated, you try to kiss him goodbye, but he pushes you away,
he's got eyes on the concession stand girl, the one with
raven black hair and a Marilyn Monroe piercing. your heart drops as you get into the car, your friend begs you to talk, but you can't,
you're confused, you're scared, you won't see the clown
for some time to come.

you try to focus on your schoolwork, but your As slip to Ds, you
try to go out with your friends, but they want to talk about
the cute guy in psychology, not about a circus clown miles away.
you forgot to do laundry, all you do is lay in bed, your dorm is
smelling moldy, your roommate starts to stay away. you're
falling, sinking into a blue sea, deep, dark, endless.

when you fall in love with a circus clown, you must know
you're just another Rube from another city, nothing special,
you see, he's got girlfriends in Florida and Las Vegas, that
concession stand girl, too, you're nothing special, girl,
not even close. you gave it all up, your love & your
bleeding heart, to a circus clown, you foolish girl, don't
you know, he'll just play you as hard as he plays in the
circus ring?

I woke up in his bed yet again
Stumbled through the mess of clothes and ***** dishes on the floor
Trying to find my outfit from the night before

I darted out the door
Down the stairs and into my room
My head throbbing like some impending doom

And what does it mean
We're only just friends?
Waking in your bed daily
Seems more than just friendly

If that’s all it is, all my friends really owe me

This plain
Is a dormitory
For flowers ...

THE PROLOGUE.

The Sompnour in his stirrups high he stood,
Upon this Friar his hearte was so wood,                        furious
That like an aspen leaf he quoke* for ire:             quaked, trembled
"Lordings," quoth he, "but one thing I desire;
I you beseech, that of your courtesy,
Since ye have heard this false Friar lie,
As suffer me I may my tale tell
This Friar boasteth that he knoweth hell,
And, God it wot, that is but little wonder,
Friars and fiends be but little asunder.
For, pardie, ye have often time heard tell,
How that a friar ravish'd was to hell
In spirit ones by a visioun,
And, as an angel led him up and down,
To shew him all the paines that there were,
In all the place saw he not a frere;
Of other folk he saw enough in woe.
Unto the angel spake the friar tho;                               then
'Now, Sir,' quoth he, 'have friars such a grace,
That none of them shall come into this place?'
'Yes' quoth the angel; 'many a millioun:'
And unto Satanas he led him down.
'And now hath Satanas,' said he, 'a tail
Broader than of a carrack is the sail.
Hold up thy tail, thou Satanas,' quoth he,
'Shew forth thine erse, and let the friar see
Where is the nest of friars in this place.'
And *less than half a furlong way of space            immediately
Right so as bees swarmen out of a hive,
Out of the devil's erse there gan to drive
A twenty thousand friars on a rout.                       in a crowd
And throughout hell they swarmed all about,
And came again, as fast as they may gon,
And in his erse they creeped every one:
He clapt his tail again, and lay full still.
This friar, when he looked had his fill
Upon the torments of that sorry place,
His spirit God restored of his grace
Into his body again, and he awoke;
But natheless for feare yet he quoke,
So was the devil's erse aye in his mind;
That is his heritage, of very kind                by his very nature
God save you alle, save this cursed Frere;
My prologue will I end in this mannere.

Notes to the Prologue to the Sompnour's Tale

1. Carrack: A great ship of burden used by the Portuguese; the
name is from the Italian, "cargare," to load

2. In less than half a furlong way of space: immediately;
literally, in less time than it takes to walk half a furlong (110
yards).

THE TALE.

Lordings, there is in Yorkshire, as I guess,
A marshy country called Holderness,
In which there went a limitour about
To preach, and eke to beg, it is no doubt.
And so befell that on a day this frere
Had preached at a church in his mannere,
And specially, above every thing,
Excited he the people in his preaching
To trentals,  and to give, for Godde's sake,
Wherewith men mighte holy houses make,
There as divine service is honour'd,
Not there as it is wasted and devour'd,
Nor where it needeth not for to be given,
As to possessioners,  that may liven,
Thanked be God, in wealth and abundance.
"Trentals," said he, "deliver from penance
Their friendes' soules, as well old as young,
Yea, when that they be hastily y-sung, --
Not for to hold a priest jolly and gay,
He singeth not but one mass in a day.
"Deliver out," quoth he, "anon the souls.
Full hard it is, with flesh-hook or with owls                     *awls
To be y-clawed, or to burn or bake:
Now speed you hastily, for Christe's sake."
And when this friar had said all his intent,
With qui *** patre forth his way he went,
When folk in church had giv'n him what them lest;              pleased
He went his way, no longer would he rest,
With scrip and tipped staff, *y-tucked high:      with his robe tucked
In every house he gan to pore and pry,                   up high* peer
And begged meal and cheese, or elles corn.
His fellow had a staff tipped with horn,
A pair of tables all of ivory,                         writing tablets
And a pointel y-polish'd fetisly,                  pencil *daintily
And wrote alway the names, as he stood;
Of all the folk that gave them any good,
Askaunce* that he woulde for them pray.                    see note
"Give us a bushel wheat, or malt, or rey,                          rye
A Godde's kichel, or a trip of cheese,        little cake scrap
Or elles what you list, we may not chese;                       choose
A Godde's halfpenny,  or a mass penny;
Or give us of your brawn, if ye have any;
A dagon of your blanket, leve dame,                            remnant
Our sister dear, -- lo, here I write your name,--
Bacon or beef, or such thing as ye find."
A sturdy harlot went them aye behind,                   manservant
That was their hoste's man, and bare a sack,
And what men gave them, laid it on his back
And when that he was out at door, anon
He *planed away the names every one,                       rubbed out
That he before had written in his tables:
He served them with nifles* and with fables. --             silly tales

"Nay, there thou liest, thou Sompnour," quoth the Frere.
"Peace," quoth our Host, "for Christe's mother dear;
Tell forth thy tale, and spare it not at all."
"So thrive I," quoth this Sompnour, "so I shall." --

So long he went from house to house, till he
Came to a house, where he was wont to be
Refreshed more than in a hundred places
Sick lay the husband man, whose that the place is,
Bed-rid upon a couche low he lay:
"Deus hic,"* quoth he; "O Thomas friend, good day,"       God be here
Said this friar, all courteously and soft.
"Thomas," quoth he, "God yield it you, full oft       reward you for
Have I upon this bench fared full well,
Here have I eaten many a merry meal."
And from the bench he drove away the cat,
And laid adown his potent* and his hat,                       staff
And eke his scrip, and sat himself adown:
His fellow was y-walked into town
Forth with his knave, into that hostelry                       servant
Where as he shope him that night to lie.              shaped, purposed

"O deare master," quoth this sicke man,
"How have ye fared since that March began?
I saw you not this fortenight and more."
"God wot," quoth he, "labour'd have I full sore;
And specially for thy salvation
Have I said many a precious orison,
And for mine other friendes, God them bless.
I have this day been at your church at mess,                      mass
And said sermon after my simple wit,
Not all after the text of Holy Writ;
For it is hard to you, as I suppose,
And therefore will I teach you aye the glose.           gloss, comment
Glosing is a full glorious thing certain,
For letter slayeth, as we clerkes sayn.                       scholars
There have I taught them to be charitable,
And spend their good where it is reasonable.
And there I saw our dame; where is she?"
"Yonder I trow that in the yard she be,"
Saide this man; "and she will come anon."
"Hey master, welcome be ye by Saint John,"
Saide this wife; "how fare ye heartily?"

This friar riseth up full courteously,
And her embraceth *in his armes narrow,                        closely
And kiss'th her sweet, and chirketh as a sparrow
With his lippes: "Dame," quoth he, "right well,
As he that is your servant every deal.                            whit
Thanked be God, that gave you soul and life,
Yet saw I not this day so fair a wife
In all the churche, God so save me,"
"Yea, God amend defaultes, Sir," quoth she;
"Algates welcome be ye, by my fay."                             always
"Grand mercy, Dame; that have I found alway.
But of your greate goodness, by your leave,
I woulde pray you that ye not you grieve,
I will with Thomas speak *a little throw:              a little while
These curates be so negligent and slow
To ***** tenderly a conscience.
In shrift* and preaching is my diligence                     confession
And study in Peter's wordes and in Paul's;
I walk and fishe Christian menne's souls,
To yield our Lord Jesus his proper rent;
To spread his word is alle mine intent."
"Now by your faith, O deare Sir," quoth she,
"Chide him right well, for sainte charity.
He is aye angry as is a pismire,                                   ant
Though that he have all that he can desire,
Though I him wrie at night, and make him warm,                   cover
And ov'r him lay my leg and eke mine arm,
He groaneth as our boar that lies in sty:
Other disport of him right none have I,
I may not please him in no manner case."
"O Thomas, *je vous dis, Thomas, Thomas,                   I tell you
This maketh the fiend, this must be amended.     is the devil's work
Ire is a thing that high God hath defended,                  forbidden
And thereof will I speak a word or two."
"Now, master," quoth the wife, "ere that I go,
What will ye dine? I will go thereabout."
"Now, Dame," quoth he, "je vous dis sans doute,
Had I not of a capon but the liver,
And of your white bread not but a shiver,                   *thin slice
And after that a roasted pigge's head,
(But I would that for me no beast were dead,)
Then had I with you homely suffisance.
I am a man of little sustenance.
My spirit hath its fost'ring in the Bible.
My body is aye so ready and penible                        painstaking
To wake, that my stomach is destroy'd.                           watch
I pray you, Dame, that ye be not annoy'd,
Though I so friendly you my counsel shew;
By God, I would have told it but to few."
"Now, Sir," quoth she, "but one word ere I go;
My child is dead within these weeke's two,
Soon after that ye went out of this town."

"His death saw I by revelatioun,"
Said this friar, "at home in our dortour.               dormitory
I dare well say, that less than half an hour
Mter his death, I saw him borne to bliss
In mine vision, so God me wiss.                                 direct
So did our sexton, and our fermerere,                 infirmary-keeper
That have been true friars fifty year, --
They may now, God be thanked of his love,
Make their jubilee, and walk above.
And up I rose, and all our convent eke,
With many a teare trilling on my cheek,
Withoute noise or clattering of bells,
Te Deum was our song, and nothing else,
Save that to Christ I bade an orison,
Thanking him of my revelation.
For, Sir and Dame, truste me right well,
Our orisons be more effectuel,
And more we see of Christe's secret things,
Than *borel folk, although that they be kings.             laymen
We live in povert', and in abstinence,
And borel folk in riches and dispence
Of meat and drink, and in their foul delight.
We have this worlde's lust* all in despight      * pleasure *contempt
Lazar and Dives lived diversely,
And diverse guerdon hadde they thereby.                         reward
Whoso will pray, he must fast and be clean,
And fat his soul, and keep his body lean
We fare as saith th' apostle; cloth and food                  clothing
Suffice us, although they be not full good.
The cleanness and the fasting of us freres
Maketh that Christ accepteth our prayeres.
Lo, Moses forty days and forty night
Fasted, ere that the high God full of might
Spake with him in the mountain of Sinai:
With empty womb of fasting many a day                          stomach
Received he the lawe, that was writ
With Godde's finger; and Eli, well ye wit,                    know
In Mount Horeb, ere he had any speech
With highe God, that is our live's leech,            *physician, healer
He fasted long, and was in contemplance.
Aaron, that had the temple in governance,
And eke the other priestes every one,
Into the temple when they shoulde gon
To praye for the people, and do service,
They woulde drinken in no manner wise
No drinke, which that might them drunken make,
But t

This large square ceiling hanging above my body
is a blank canvass that needs to be painted
with bold strokes and bright colors,
with smooth orange and ocean blue,
rapid pummeling rhythms dictating tone and mood.

I have a pen in my hand that squirts out black bird ink,
but to me it’s a stone sculpting tool that carves deep inside my imagination,
and scoops up newborn thoughts before they disintegrate
when I wake up from my daydream.

So I climb on top of a cocktail chair with malleable
aluminum legs and I attempt to shape the dry whiteness
into something colorful and beautiful.

I want to create beauty because I don’t enjoy surfing the channels of Comcast digital entertainment
having to paddle through the brainwashing
and the ******* and seaweed that washes up
on my hometown shore.

The waves are all the same across the television screen, I am desensitized and numb to the upper class Anglo-Saxons,
who mind-****** my favorite poets and Hip Hop musicians in the mouth, so that they cannot speak with

honesty
and
compassion.

I don’t wonder anymore why some prominent media-figures choke on the microphone; it’s because they have been force-fed
chicken-****
and injected with
snake venom.

That’s why I don’t take all my time of leisure resting back on a tan cushioned boogie-board, riding a cable channel that will not take me anywhere except for an escape from the loneliness of living alone, away from close family and good friends.

That’s why I prefer to sit below a yellow and red pinwheel umbrella and stretch my toes in the wet sand, I don’t even need a beach towel to lie on, and sometimes I just want to sink into the grainy sand
and
forget about time,
forget about love,
and
forget about my reason for being here.

But back to molding a new form of living; that top white wall takes up the majority of my apartment and I think it deserves to be drawn on, painted on, spread with posters of voluptuous artists and cool brooding actors.

A canvass needs to have flesh, just as a skeleton needs meat and skin. I stack my sandy tan sofa cushions one after the other on top of the cocktail chair and I reach up to brush long and wide strokes of bravery and euphoria.

The bristle-tips flicked up specks of green apple paint and sunk deep blotches of red heart into the ceiling.

I danced on top of the spongy sofa seats while they swayed to and fro, but I didn’t think of falling down, what is the point of thinking about

failure?

That will only impede progress and I’m not merely trying to fabricate an illusion to drape myself with a safety cloak. I wish I could have pranced and jumped on the wavering cushion tower,
but instead I begun to grow a look of seriousness and submerged myself into a pool of
focus
and
concentration.

Nonsensical imagery floated adrift from my mind and the energy pounced onto my fingertips and I started to write and draw, and draw and write. I popped a small remote from my pocket and made the stereo sing opera, followed by jazz, followed by something bluesy.

Those songs carried me into this calming state where nothing mattered except for the now kaleidoscopic landscapes and the spacemen with hypnotic eyes. I wasn’t jacked up on Columbian coffee beans, diet coca-cola caffeine, nor psychedelic highs and lows, I was just going with the current baby.

When the canoe is in in the river and you’re rowing with a chipped paddle and without a life-vest, don’t even try to make an adjustment when the water gets rocky and the water pushes you around like an elementary-school ***** bully.

You keep paddling and you don’t throw a rope onto a branch and feel the scene; go with the flow and travel down-stream,
because where you came from is long gone and there’s no point in wallowing and pleasuring yourself late at

night just

to feel better about your ****** life.

But, I don’t even want to think when I’m in an artsy mood, I just want peace, and if peace won’t come to my doorstep and will not call me back when I left five messages, then **** peace,
I’ll settle for a shot of cheap ***** and a scrunched-up cig.
I stop drawing and painting and writing
for a while and take a nice long gaze
at my chaotic collage and smile until the jester frowns.

In huge messy cursive were the words, “LOVE YOURSELF, DO NOT SHOW YOUR EMOTIONS AT A WHIM.”

I was now beginning to struggle to smile. This wasn’t easy to be so straight with yourself, I’m used to bending my back in the wrong way

                 and not accomplishing anything in the process.

The world is our field
Of endeavor
Not to be used
As dormitory

It was to be a new beginning, a new start for myself.
I was to leave all that behind, and start on something new.
I was to find a haven after leaving such a hell,
And remind myself that I was strong after what I'd been through.

I took a strength in finding new relations in my world,
An escape from what I used to live, the pain that I endured.
I tried to make myself a place, so fate could then unfurl,
And so it seemed that, for a time, I'd made one - I was sure.

And so in months that followed, I offered all I had.
I soon saw how very little I'd changed - I was no better now.
I thought summer had given me that edge I'd need at hand,
But I was just as stupid, and naive; I wondered, how?

I questioned what I hadn't done, or what I still could do,
So that they wouldn't take from me more than I had to give.
Not too long after leaving home, I found out it was true -
Some people never do grow up, despite how long they live.

And yet, the hopeful optimist, eyes bright with certainty,
Continued all these patterns that were aimed to self-destroy.
She grasped on to the skinny straws of soft naivity,
And refused, yet, to believe that she was anybody's toy.

It was her own undoing, all those times that followed suit.
She should have seen it coming, should have seen what lay ahead.
It should have been no great surprise, what her labors had produced,
And yet she cried herself to sleep, in a cold dormitory bed.

She knew not where to turn, she found, for none would understand.
"Grow up," they said, "man up," they said - "welcome to the world."
But it was not so simple! she would scream, at their demands.
She wasn't built for toughness, this rather softhearted girl.

Was it too hard to understand, that it was her instinct,
To look for good in others, no matter how they did her wrong?
Was it too hard yet to justify, that maybe they were linked? -
The people who would ridicule, and how they came along?

Time passed and passed; at times, it dragged; she wondered where it led.
What **** good was it doing her to bear the world's foul weight?
Was this rather beaten path going to drop her on her head?
Was THIS God's woven plan for her - was this her golden fate?

It wasn't until later that she did just as they said.
She stopped performing high demands, stopped believing in that "good."
Unless they'd ever prove it, she would distance them, instead.
For words and actions differ, and she knew they always would.

Leaving such a sheltered home, ****** out into the world,
Had given her a head start into what could have been her end.
She still retains her emphasis on nourishing her pearl,
Which grows from helping others, when they truly need a friend.

It has made her grow, learn, learn to grow, and she has grown to learn.
It is not what we do in life, but on whom it is bestowed.
There will always be so many who will take what they've not earned,
And what you let them take from you becomes not yours alone.

Guard your heart, and guard your mind - their value is unreal.
It is but your decision with whom you share these precious gifts.
Your actions are a letter, and your words may be the seal,
And they both have the ability to form bonds, or form rifts.

It is not for me to say how we should go about these things.
For do we ever really know who truly cares the most?
It is a trial-and-error process, and sometimes, yes, it truly stings.
But you cannot have the parasites if you are not the host.

I have fought my way through many, who so convingly, would "care."
I've picked my way through many fruits, looking for only good.
But this never-ending orchard (sometimes I'd rather not be there),
Is a microscopic labyrinth, which I'd leave, if I so could.

It is a funny thing, it seems, the way we all behave.
Some are content to give and give - it brings the greatest joy.
For others, it is take and take, that they so strongly crave,
And all the "gratitude" they show is nothing but a ploy.

I've been around the bend and back, through friends and enemies.
I try my best to DO my best, no matter what the cost.
I know that some will never change, some things will always be.
And there will be many I've loved, and more that I have lost.

I stand a taller woman, now, knowing what I can give.
A frightened woman, sometimes, knowing not what's coming next.
But prepared for greater battles, I face the life I plan to live,
Hoping to make a difference that others can reflect.

I find myself still standing here, after many darker times.
I'd like to say that it is through, that finally, it's done.
But as I cannot lie to thee, I still commit these crimes.
And now again, I ask myself: have I really overcome?

Perhaps I have, perhaps I've not, perhaps I still yet will.
I cannot see tomorrow, and I cannot repeat today.
Yesterday's a memory, a photograph that's still,
And though I may be frightened, I am not at all afraid.

I have always believed that it is possible to see through the defenses of those who keep secrets tucked into their back pockets like wallets with a little more cash than they are comfortable with, if one is willing to look closely enough. It is apparent in their heavy eyelids, as though the weight of what they are carrying is resting on their eyelashes. It is apparent in the curve of their lips, and the way they are not able to smile to their fullest potential. It is apparent in their hands, and the way they are not able to hold anything, as though their fingers are already full. However, I never realized that it was also possible to notice leaves clutching secrets to their chests like keepsake necklaces passed down by their great-grandmothers until one afternoon when I was walking between two bushes. My feet were carrying me lackadaisically down the sidewalk toward my dormitory when something to my right caught my eye. Among a congregation of green leaves, I noticed one blushing sinner. She sat in the center, as though she was attempting to blend in, but her pink cheeks made her stand out from the rest. When everyone stood in unison, she followed a few seconds behind. When everyone clutched hymns and bibles in their hands, she tied her fingers in knots to appear busy. When everyone partook in communion, she bit her lip quietly. But there was something about the way she held her hands in her lap, with her palms pressed together and her fingers interlocked, and the way she wore her hair behind her shoulders in curls that made me want to get to know her and every secret she kept tucked beneath the belt of her summer dress. But we don’t always get the pleasure of conversing with sinners, and we often are not even willing to have those conversations with ourselves.

Forget the post code lottery
and go for some sort of
Middle England coterie
beware of the railway towns
and all they used to promise
avoid the light industrial towns
the ones that make biscuits
and plastic windows and trap your
children in call centres
the comfort of non-jobs
selling nothing to people who
are nonetheless convinced
they need it
and avoid cities with cathedrals
and universities
they are artifice personified they
have only one aim to debilitate you
with pretense and false hope
and sophistry deep in Middle England and
Do Not Go To Cities With Ports
they are as thieves in the night
forever looking for opportunity
eternally gazing outward beyond
the boundary of shores unwaveringly
scathing of convention and respectable
behaviour
And ignore dormitory towns exurbia and similar
designed only to eat and sleep in
and cut the grass although
the swinging scene
may have its diversions
and then those army towns cowering
below the shambling spectre of
beaten squaddie pubs concrete and
brick boxes with overflowing bottle banks
and what of flower filled market towns
with neat shops and bi-weekly markets
and Friday night louts and teeming
takeaways and broken windows but
you can escape
to a suburban bungalow
lock the gate feed the carp
watch wildlife progammes and
laugh
then running running running
you find
a suitable small mountain village
where you unwittingly
unexpectedly after stroking a
black and white cat
get run over by a drunken postman
in a neat
little red van.

Forty years ago in my current body,
I waited for the call,
From down the college dormitory hall,
When life was fun, the only dreaded words,
"Pick up the pay phone Naaaaaat"

Only could be NYC calling to tell me
The cancer won, come home.
But the call didn't arrive,
Till I after I was degreed
And Ohio gone.

Tho I didn't get the call,
A few years later, I got the shoulder tap,
"You will stay and be the shomer,^
The guardian of your Fathers's body,
The morgue, your home for a night and a day
For t'is Sabbath day, we wait until the evening tide,
When the pros come to take him away."

Then I waited again for the call to come,
Same story, different body.
Five decades a long time to wait.
It came on early Sunday morn just past,
"Leave the bay, leave the beach,
Come home, she's nearly done."

Could be A.S.A.P., could be a day or three
But no question, time to start the prep,
For her, for thee, for the records of history.
She is 98 1/2 which is a
Long distance runner's dream

On a whim, left work early Friday past, in the rain,
Errands need doing, and been months since last
We touched, so squeezed in a visit, matter of luck.

Had not seen her so alive in years,
Tho time had robbed her of speech and pieces of her faculty,
She grasped my iPad, just like her 2 year old great-granddaughter,
Swiped the pictures of her descendants with robust determination,
Comely and fair, hair bouffant wavy, she never seemed
So marvelously contented, on top of her game.

The Vigil

Third day.

Breathing labored, loud, battlefield noises, then
Silence. But you monitor the teeny tiny chest heaves,
Ascertaining that the Divine Spark is still besting his Angel of Death.

But there are these periods of seconds when there is no sound,
Except for the instantaneous pounding in your own chest.

Then the process begins all over again.

Morphine in the refrigerator, when the rattling will begin,
To ease the passage painlessly between.

They say speak to her, she can hear you,
But the evidence is contradictory,
I am not convinced.
When no else is there,
I stroke her head and whisper in her ear,
"It's ok, time to let go, my mother fair."

You think to yourself alone,
This is not poetry,
This is real,
This is an extraordinary
Daily occurrence,
Life or death warfare.

Reflexively, she takes the arm of a granddaughter.
But when I lift her arm,  it is without strength.
Only days before she grasped my arm,
With a fierceness that only the frail possess.

Her nails are painted Neon Pink.

The vigil continues to Day 4
This secret I've kept from y'all
For this is my new normal.

I now await the call.

Snow drifted by. Snow drifted by the large window of the locked ward of the hospital. Yiska watched from the black sofa in the main lounge. White and pure. Cold and white. White as her wedding dress she wore to the church, but he never showed, and she stood at the altar alone. She watched the snowflakes drift. His best man brought a message: he couldn't go through with it. She refused to removed the wedding dress. She wore to bed that night and next day and only after someone injected her to sedate her was it removed and she woke up in the locked ward of the hospital. She wrapped the dressing gown about her. The snow seemed to be getting heavier. The hour was unknown to Yiska, but the night nurse was in her small office, writing notes. Other patients still slept in the dormitory; men in theirs and women in theirs. She could hear their snores or moans. Her wrist was bandaged where she'd slit it a few days before with a knife liberated from the meals wagon which came twice a day with meals. The nurse who stitched her up said it was just as well it was vein and not an artery as it would have been worse. The wound was sore. She sensed it still each time she moved her hand. Benny walked from the men's dormitory across by the night nurse's office and into main lounge. He walked to the window and peered out. How long has it been snowing? He asked. It was already coming down when I came in here a little while ago, she replied, looking at him standing in his nightgown and slippers. Peaceful looking, he said. He turned and gazed at her on the sofa. How's your wrist? She looked at her bandaged wrist. Sore. He looked past her. No one else up yet then. No, thank God. He sat down next to her and pulled the nightgown tight about him, tucking in the ends as he had no belt. Cigarette? He asked. She nodded. He took a packet from his nightgown pocket and offered her one and took one himself and lit both with a plastic lighter. She inhaled deeply; he inhaled half heartedly. Where'd you get the lighter? Same place I got the ciggies: one of the day nurses left them behind by error I assume. Why the slit wrist? Mistake. He raised his eye brows. Only a vein, not artery, apparently. Bit like your hanging attempt, she said, eyeing him through the released smoke from her cigarette. Second attempt, he said, exhaling slowly through his nose. How's your *** life? He smiled at her words. Same as yours, I expect. She inhaled and looked at the drifting snow. I ought to have been on my honeymoon a few months ago, she said, not looking at him, but at the snow flakes drifting by. Had the ******* showed that is. Benny looked at her beside him. She smelt of apples. He caught a glimpse of thigh as she moved her leg and moved the dressing gown. Why'd he not show? Because he's a cowardly *******. Did you notice he wasn't keen? He seemed up for it. But wasn't? No I guess not, she said turning her head and staring at Benny. She sighed and inhaled the cigarette smoke. He smoked deeply and sat and gazed at the snow. She put a hand on his leg. You're the only one here to ask apart from the quacks. He turned and gazed at her. He placed a hand over her hand. Two lonely people drifting in an open boat, he said. On a rough sea, she added. They sat and held hands and looked at the snowflakes passing the window as they smoked. Once the cigarettes had been smoked, they stubbed out the butts in an ashtray. She kissed him on his cheek. He kissed her lips. They parted and sat gazing around the lounge of the locked ward. No where to be alone, she said. Unless, she added, looking at him, we go in the shower room. He looked at her. It can't be locked. No room here locks apart from the doors leading into the ward itself. Who cares, she said, no one will be up yet. He looked towards the passage. What about Florence Nightingale? She won't know or care. She seldom leaves her office, Yiska said. Do we dare? He asked. To eat a peach? Or walk tiptoe on the beach? She said.  She took his hand and led him along through the long corridor to the shower room silently as they could walk. He sensed her hand in his. Warm and soft. They reached the door of the shower room and entered in and closed the door after them. It wasn't very big, but it seemed sufficient room if they set down just right. Turn off the light, she said. He pulled the cord. Dimness surrounded them, light from the corridor let in a vague light to part the darkness. She kissed him and held him close. He embraced her to him tightly. She lay down on the floor of the available space and lifted her legs and pulled him down between her. She kissed him before he could say anything. The space was cramped. He felt hemmed in; he couldn't stretch out his legs, but knelt there, hands on her hips. Pressing on her lips. She sensed the sore wrist, an ache in her back, a cramp in a thigh. Can't do it, he said, too ****** cramped. She nodded and said, we might if we're quick. She wanted to kiss again, but her thigh stiffened and she said, I got to get up, cramp. He tried to lift himself in the small space. Treading by her hip and one foot hovering over her visible ******. He placed the foot on the small space of floor and stood up against the shower door. She pulled herself up by dragging herself up by his arm, her wrist sore as hell, blood seeping through the bandage. She rubbed her thigh vigorously with her other hand. Shall I do that for you? He asked, peeping out at the corridor. No, you'll turn me on more and there's no room, she said, rubbing the thigh, biting her lip. Blood seeped more through the bandage and he lifted her arm up. They kissed. They heard a voice coming down the corridor, the pitter-patter of shoes on the floor. They parted and held their breath. The night nurse walked by to the toilets next door and closed the door behind her.  They stood in the dimness kissing, she rubbing her thigh, he holding her ****** wrist right up high.

"....***** stories make front pages,
Massacres and killings,
Mayhem and ****** ,
A mad man is dealing,
This masked man antics
Is masking the city ,
The mind behind the gore
Is on 30th floor,
In a dormitory with no door,
Only a window,
With which
The nocturnal tenant tends to
Look over.
Watching
The overnight onlookers
Night walkers,
Alley cats,
Insomniacs,
And boulevard hookers..."

"....My eyes lay
On a prominent, candidate
For cannibalistic practices,
My dominant traits
Widows peak,
Vampirical feats,
Long, hollow teeth,
With massive molars,
Used to chewing meat,
Which sit beside my
Sharp Canines.
But my sizable incisors
Scissor inside the side of my
Silent victim
Select venom in him
Bereft of vocalism
Vocal cords torn
I violently vanquish
His speech.
He’s paralyzed from his
Neck to his feet
I throw him over
My shoulder,
Escape the obscene scene
Before I am seen..."

The funding of my own little massacre,
my own precious little war crime. My smoke
is everywhere. My father coughs in his sleep.
My mother gags, hangs her head out the window, sick.

My cheap *** before and after cheap ***.
I chat up some high-waisted pastiche on Alberta.
She tells me collage this and that and looks
so lit up and skinny, it's a dream.

Where I go to brand myself. I have this image
of a spark on my arm sitting stovetop red,
sinking into the skin, losing color as it digs,
turning to grey and then nothing like the drowning
of a comet's tail in atmosphere. My burns look so good
in the pale dormitory bathroom shower light: so baby tulip
and teeth, so how-I've-made-it-through-the-wringer.
Christ, I should be a film, look at me: so bent and bright,
such a cute boxer, such a prize fight.

Block.
a Block.
Blocks.
white cinder overlapping
thoughts like suicide
abide by no principles.
Block
a Block.
Blocks.
Do not block
monsoons.
Do not waive
rollercoasters.
Block
a Block
Blocks.
No fear of boogeyman.
Nor demons.
Nor death.
Only eternity in cell walls.
Block
a Block.
Blocks.

-m.c.

Ah! 'twas so many moon ago
When I met young(ish) Diana
- Known as ***** Di to her friends
Because of her willingness
To gaily **** almost anyone
Provided he was well-hung and sweet-smelling.

Ah! Delightful Bracknell New Town,
Dormitory zone par excellence,
And home to dear little ***** Di,
A paradise where I fully intended
To sleep with her (and much more)
On our very first romantic date.

I felt a bit of slight extravagance
Would ensure a good bunk-up
So I checked out the GFG
For a reasonably priced
Candle-lit Italian restaurant
Within a 10 miles radius.

After a rather tasty nosh-up
We repaired to her proletarian home,
The very first time yours truly
Had ever been in a Council flat,
(and I was a bit anxious about
leaving my Audi A6 Turbo in the street).

As we headed for the bedroom
She asked me conspiratorily
To keep my ******* voice down
As her eleven year old ******* son
Was hopefully fast asleep, doped up
On a generous dose of paracetemol.

O how lustily we two copulated!
Indeed more than merely that;
How I took full advantage of
Her other delightful apertures;
One could safely say that
No holes were barred that night.

We were just in the middle of
Session numero quatro
Involving a vigorous *******
Bit of backdoor love-action,
When the bedroom door opened
And in walked little Reginald.

He said naught but only gaped
To see Mummy in flagrante delicto
(mercifully we were in the good old days
before mobile phones and iPads,
or else our ***** coupling
would have made the rounds of Year 5).

Oft times have I wisely considered
What impression that visual treat
Might have made upon his growing mind:
Was he emotionally scarred to find
His dear Mama was a total slapper
Who liked a bit of uninhibited botty-fun?

I doubt it - but I shall ne'er forget his cry,
So revealing was it of the mores
Of the aspiring lower classes:
*"For Christ's sake who's banging your fat **** this time, Mum,
Can't you keep the noise down, for once?
I've got ******* school in the morning."

12/18/2014

months ago
walking to your dormitory room
i had asked myself
had i really taken this spurned summer
romance and spun it to this
thing that only breathed when you
touched it with a cautious finger?
a figure moves while i sit
in an empty parking lot at night in december.
we have not spoken in two weeks
and i think that is ok.
it is funny how
i’d **** for you turns without hesistation
into i’d **** you
provided the circumstances and whether
they are extraneous.

Yes! Yes! It's a great "Barry Hodges" memories poem involving *** and degredation!*

O Croydon, dormitory town of happy memories
With your delightfully sixties-style Ashcroft Theatre
And your many enchanting concrete underpasses!
O delightful borough so deservedly renowned
As one of the major English centres of wife-swapping,
That quintessentially bourgeous weekend pastime
And surefire antidote to inevitable marital ennui!
O gracious queen of the central south London suburbs
And gay paradise of semi-detached commutersville
O I cannot sing your praises ******* loudly enough
Nor can I deny the charms of your public toilets,
Where I have oft times enjoyed a **** with a gayish stranger!

I see for miles, yet all upon my sight
outside my carriage are the endless seas,
the shifting clouds of fog, the tops of trees
that rock a simple path through poisoned white.
And at their feet, some sodden deep in mire?
Some sunk Atlantis sleeping 'neath the weight?
or but a borough innocent of hate,
Not well in hearts, but dead of hope and fire?
A dormitory town?  Or have you died?
Though built by stone, your pulse is nearly lost;
though faint your breath, your bridge is still uncrossed:
return before you reach the other side...
O land so drowned in dreams beyond a doubt
dissolve your heartfelt fog, or be spat out.

Time, Sun, quadrants of ;
Consist me, skin; Memory,
Rhythm on worn soles, the
Unfed bone machinery
The planets do not care
Their accidents pleasurability
Freshman, wisteria; slipping bookbag
College in degrees

I’m not much of a poet
The constituents of Shakespeare’s thoughts were not replicated unto me
The tantalizing, beautiful linger of Maya Angelou’s words were not instilled in my dialect
I digest what I see from other people
Speak your heart rhyme your words make it seem like its talent
Poetry, battle cry, dormitory
Is that good enough
I’m not much of a poet
I’m not frantic about the poem I’m writing right now
I’m just doing what I feel is right
Speaking my heart rhyming my words pretending to have a talent
I’m not much of a poet
I sometimes create fabrications to make my words sound poetical
But I would be creating another fabrication if I told you; you were not much of poet
Because whoever you are and whatever you write it is right
It may not rhyme or contain bombastic words
But you are a poet
You create a creation that needs attention
You don’t create *******
You are much of a poet

Dear Kristina,
Your name is still tattooed on my left *** cheek.
I remember how it curled your lips
like the cursive script it's written it.
You called me an idiot
every time I made you look at it
My mother said the same thing,
except without the smile.
I guess somebody should have explained to me
the permanace of drunken whims
or ****** friends who giggle too much,
but **** it.
And *******.
I burned your birthday cards and ticket stubs
to bands that haven't sounded good since October 25.
I loved you.
I threw away your black high school track team sweatshirt
and those little ducky magnets with Italian words coming out of their beaks.
I pretended they were funny
just because I knew you felt lame buying them for yourself.
But I'm still
looking for pieces,
thinking in circles,
wasting hours
trying to
dream of
anything
but
you.
See you never,
Michael

Dear Kristina,
You spent a lot of time on your knees for me.
I liked that.
But we started falling apart
when you started standing up.
God gave us with voices that yell in permanant ink.
I forget what straightened your knees
and made you pick up a pen,
but I do remember
how tall you became.
I admire you now.
You learned far earlier than I
that the hardest thing in the world
is to stand up to those we love
and I couldnt deal with change.
You were a handful of quarters
when I had holes in my pockets.
Maybe I let you slip away
but maybe
I never should have put you there in the first place.
It's safe to say I'm over you,
so I feel safe saying
I'm sorry.
Sincerely,
Michael

Dear Kristina,
I lost your address a long time ago.
This letter will never leave the spiral of this diary.
I couldn't remember what you looked like today,
and have forgotten most of the things you ever said
but I still hold on to the things you taught me.
I've worn a ring for many years now,
and though my aging arms
have long embraced another woman,
and waved goodbye this year
to a son standing on the steps of a college dormitory,
your name is still tattooed on my left *** cheek:
living, ******* proof
that no matter how hard we scrub,
the fingerprints of those that touch our souls
can never be erased.
Love,
Michael