Last night communing with the,
much more than anything,
but still not quite,
echoing in worlds beyond this one,
if it pierces,
empties out carefully
What is it that is never quite,
intact or playfully,
ask the sages to reconsider,
paths to the sun,

Wonderful it will be to reach,
apexed or transcedent,
finger tips dusty or removed,
which is the endpoint subtracted,
faces that are familiar,
but are no more,
bottle green,
they are everything but sad,
dowsed in caffeine again,
heart is drowning in,
stolen courage,
the day passes away,
lost and fragmented.

You grip my throat sporadically, erratically – not often.
And trickle in through passages and pores I can’t defend.
Treacle through fingers.
But you avoid me too, and I hate it just as much.

I wait for your hand to loosen,
I breathe cool air,
Then I feel your absence.

Your gloopy venom is addictive.
I tasted you once, and now my tongue yearns,
And eats itself –
It flickers and twists and spits its serpentine-self out. In vain.
A vague, dull shadowy lustre remains,
Undulating under baited breath,
For another foul injection.

In reality I fear you. I despise you. I hate you.
If you’d only never return,
I could spit you out forever,
And tongue sweeter, healthier, more benign stuff.
No more swilling,
No more idiosyncratic sways upon social norms,
High Society and empty smiles that stifle natural intentions.

You are a disease, and far from untreated.
You are the last drag, the last hit,
The very last dose that no one actually wants.

I rebuke myself wholeheartedly
At even entertaining the idea of having you in my company. Yet there you are –

In every message, in every ransacked draw,
In every turned out rucksack, every old coat pocket,
Every ***** shirt, every unstitched button,
In every visitor’s news, every car back-seat,
Every dusty notebook, every empty fruit-bowl,
Every old, long-unseen smile, every dowsed fire,
Every man woman and child I sit across the table from.

There you are. Somehow. In some form.
Turning my sweat cold like cheap wine,
In what is otherwise an already disturbingly depressing
Struggle to maintain some kind of equilibrium or serenity,
Let alone with your smug mug cropping up scornfully uninvited.

You ****** me before I recognise you.
Helping yourself to the food on my plate with a wink,
While I do nothing as if handcuffed, and chained at the soul.
Then I move to eat.
Hand to fork.
Fork to mouth.
And it tastes of you.
It reeks of you.
And if I were anything but human,
I’d spit you out onto the kitchen floor,
Stamp on the bile you’ve stolen from me,
Burn you with kerosene,
And wage a third world war on the very concept of you ever existing.

But I am a human.
And moments later you have me
‘******* and thinking of death’
As coy and Marvellian as you like.

I indulge in full-knowing paralysis,
Lapping up your unvanquished honeyed venom,
With a voraciousness that redefines Lovesick –
Giving it a whole new meaning
Going beyond the epitome of disgust.

Enslaved, you have me smash myself against the ceiling.
And eat myself over again from within.
Consuming me like the fire I found you in.

You have me rage and conspire against those I don’t know.
But I will conspire against you one-day.
You have me hate others, but I will forever hate you.
You have me search my soul and grate it upon street corners
And the pavement of city-centres,
While you gleefully, whimsically **** my past
Or polish vain, rose-tinted hopes that without you
I’d know were futile and unjust –
Until I ruin them myself, knowing all the while
That you are the author of my unnecessary devastations.

But I will smash your green demonic skull into obsolescence
In some back-alley where none will find your
Bubbling frothing corpse.
You will be utterly repudiated even by the rats.
And the flies will drop you,
Iota
By
Iota,
Onto the tracks at Dalston to be rendered into absolute oblivion.
And I will go, a man unshackled, about my business –
Whether it be of importance or not,
It will be with a conscience cleansed.

But for now, vile sham of an emotion that you are,
I do your inglorious bidding.
Zombified and putrid, my actions smell of you.
They reek of you.

You intoxicate what should be left alone
And endured with silence and rapidity.
Yet you elongate these private, personal trails torturously,
In some sensational Cold War.

It goes without saying,
The world would be well rid of you.
Yet godlike, you endure the ages
Just as we endure you.

Perhaps Keats was too afraid to admit it –
You are the original
La Belle Dame Sans Merci.
Pluto’s daughter in persistent disguise.
To be seen presently
‘******* and thinking of death’.

Her eyes are the stained glass broken from confession.
Her withered hair buried beneath dirt gravel.
Her forbidden mind fosters slobs of crazy.
Her mind is a battlefield of Trojan takeover.
Her bare feet remember sacred ground of tainted memories.
Her ears embrace the screech of still weather.
Her grapefruit mouth juiced with venom is tasteless.
her sharp egg shelled fingertips woven from braids of straw.
Her body is the Earthquake ruptured by the vibrations of collision.
Her thoughts trespass gated abandonment
Her firework pen exploding with gunpowder secrets.
Her gunpowder secrets deterring the sanity.
Her cracked lips cobweb from silenced words.
Her puppet stringed smile puts on a show to the audienced world.
Her soul has been toyed with by the cynical Fates.
Her echo without direction is a heartbroken drum line.
Her armor has been dowsed with sharp, penetrating words.
Her skin has painted stories interior to her porcelain frame.
Her soulless story can be dry swallowed by rocks.
Her tears bleed of whispered screams.

Adrift on her very first voyage
With the sea coursing in through her bow
Lay the cruise ship, the S.S. Lumbago
There was scarcely a chance for her now
But Ahoy! On the western horizon
In a flurry of yellow and green
That ender of blight and a damsel’s delight
And he’s always on cue for his scene

It’s Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
It’s got seating for seventy people
And the service is well above par
There’s an adequate medical unit
And a modest but elegant bar
What more could a man ever dream of
In a Luxury Budgerigar?
Well…

The forests of England were burning
So the foxes escaped to the city
The badgers had taken to looting
And the squirrels had formed a committee
But who should arise from a manhole
With a confident gleam in his eye?
That destroyer of woes with a spring in his toes
And he’s quick with a witty reply…

Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar!
With adjustable hose pipe attachment
It’s got wheels like a feathery car
The forests were dowsed and the fauna re-housed
With a three day retreat at a spa
It’s a thing to admire and surely acquire
The Luxury Budgerigar!
But…

Susan was stricken with sorrow
Twas her darkest, most fearful hour
A spider had wrestled her out of her bath
And set up his home in the shower
But who should jump out of the wardrobe
With an innocent look on his face?
That singer of shanties, remover of *******
And first in an obstacle race

Sir Patrick Stewart!
And his Luxury Budgerigar
With a sucker for spiders and beetles
That deposits them into a jar
There’s a tiny wee restaurant to feed them
It was given a Michelin star
A remarkable thing with retractable wings
Is a Luxury Budgerigar

So if you should be in a pet shop
And you see just the critter for you
Please heed this advice: make a note of the price
Then proceed to the back of the queue
When you ask for your preference of creature
Should it whistle, slither or waddle
Do as Sir Patrick Stewart did
And opt for the Luxury model

Golden sun sets on the concert house;
The hellish day, it’s now been dowsed.
Asphalt night and onyx skies,
Crowds and crowds of endless size.

Yet it rises on the wooden stage;
Burning, scorching, lunar rage.
Curtains of lapis suspended,
For a show that’s highly splendid.

The bands, they take up their instruments,
Checking function with much diligence.
The azure slides, the crowd’s boisterous,
Let’s send them home filled and joyous!

Strum and strike, music sounds and hikes.
Mystically does it flow, no break or pause.
Number after number, avalanche of applause.
Now they’re screaming and whistling! Yikes!

The night wears on, and sapphires glisten,
In skies of turquoise and warm transition.
Marmalade sunrise, it goes on and on!
But nowhere in the hall is there a yawn.

The crowds recede like biped cattle,
An endless, drunken, random rabble.
The next noon, the hall’s still defiled.
Music echoes in their heads, meanwhile.

I was born in terrorism.
I grew up in earthquakes, tsunamis and rebels:
in shouting blond girls with red eyes and pixel
smiles.

I was born in blurred faces and mute
voices pulling at my
eyes until I dripped the clotted
tears of a thousand soldiers, or refugees,
or children.

I was atomized, crunched
into small seeds and scattered
across a desert field.
Someday a flower would grow there,
budded from the bones
of my being and  
flowered into a fiery,
empty marigold-- dripping
gold and embers across a thirsty desert,
where the shout
of the civilians was distant
enough to ignore.

I was sodomized,
conceived in the roar--
of the rumbling wave- crashing over-
pulsing through her thrashing cave.

I watched my flower whither
and blister with the deliberate count
down and the glare of the
floodlights-- dowsed in water and soil--
or some semblance of the two.  

I was born in the blood
of my mother and died in the
womb of the world.

(If there's spelling mistakes I'm sorry , I don't read over things )

Its 8:00 pm. The streets are speckled with cars and airport buses bringing people to and frow, but whether that be to the airport or a nearby hotel is beyond my knowledge, only a flirtation of an idea that's briefly allowed to waltz around my head.

There's only a handful of people on this bus, most people usually drive cars around here. Or is it perhaps a bus doesn't come at a convenient time for them? Or is it that they live in a remote part of the city where buses simply don't venture? Or can it be that theses people are perhaps not old enough to drive and those that are seemingly can't, or wont.  

The bright lights in the bus sting your eyes in comparison to the dark December night, days get shorter and nights so much longer, and colder. Surely the eyes of the drivers passing by must sting from the lights of the bus? Almost like you check your phone in the middle of the night and remember that you never turned the brightness settings down and as a result when you go to check your phone it feels like someones dowsed your delicate eyes with acid and you put your hand over your eyed and reenact a scene from an old 'Dracula' movie as you cry, "The light! It burns!" Ah, I'm morbid.

I remember getting onto the bus. The greeting wasn't something I'd choose to remember. I was met by a round, middle aged man in his fourtys accompanied by a face that could only be described like he was constantly ******* on a lemon. He was bald and had deep, sunken in eyes that were turning a beetroot shade around the bottom. Alcohol? maybe. The own self knowledge that this day would never end ? possible.  The knowledge that this job was, sooner or later, going go lead him to a deep state of depression and eventually he'll get fired for telling an elderly lady in not-so-nice terms to get off "his bus"? Could happen.  The addition of all of the above? Most likely, no offence to any other of you bus drivers.

Oh, his fake gold company name tag told me that 'Gerald' had been the name his parents had written on his birth certificate all those year ago.
The noise of persistent and agonising coughing bleeds through the sound of my headphones and I look up to see the cause of my disruption. The sound seems go be coming from an elderly woman sitting across row from me. At first, as the natural thing for you to presume would be that she has a cold, or perhaps a dry throat, to which you'd be the good citizen and ask if she was alright and offer her your water, but upon further inspection of the situation, I've come to the wrong conclusion.

Her skins crying out for the oxygen its been deprived of for years. All thats left of it now is not something left to be envied, I've seem white towels with brown tea stains on it with less discolouration on that of the skin hang upon her old face.  

The burgundy lipstick she decided to support today was no use in trying to conceal the lines that had taken shape on her  lips, sadly.
Behind those lips I can only imagine what horrific delights might rear their ugly head. I imagine a once pearly, perfect set of teeth now nothing but yellowed decay married with the horrible mix of sugar free gum to try and remove the smell. I wouldn't say it works very well either.

Lastly, her eyes. Something we all have a dreamy tendency to stare at. Hers were grey, almost like that of an artist's 2H pencil. Around her eyes, yellow rimmed the grey scene. The contrast of this and the streak of a one shade purple colour on her eyelids was all to much to bear and I broke my gaze from hers. She was beautiful once.

Beside me was a young mother of 9 and 20 years holding her child. Perhaps he found the rhythmic journey of the bus's adventure soothing and for that I was grateful. Its late and irritated children are the last thing anyone needs on their Tuesday night. She looks tired, but that's to be expected. Whoever said raising children was easy and involved sleep? But what would I know, I don't have children of my own. She didn't wear a wedding ring. Perhaps its of more convenience for her not to wear it. Or maybe she isn't  married. Or maybe she isn't romantically involved with someone. Was she once?

The bus stops outside a middle class looking estate and an impatient looking business man with a a bag carrying his laptop and a very expensive pair of shoes walks out and just before he steps off the bus he turns to the driver and thanks him for his service.
He didn't mean it.

All is quiet and I start to feel tired. My head bounces off the pole standing costumers use when the buses are packed and it doesn't appear that seats even exist. My headphones are in and I look out the window to see the sea, peaceful and graceful on this cold December night, greeting me, almost with open arms.

The lights of the cars rush by like multicoloured fireworks, so close you could almost hold one in the palm of your hand.

And as the night gets longer and the journey seems that ever bit more endlessly scenic I find myself questioning.

Questioning what I'd just been witness to.
Questioning this December.
Questioning this bus.
Questioning this night.

Then the main question swam afloat.

In years to come, when I might once step onto this very same bus again, who will I be?

And then it was my turn to depart.

Ich fühle mich wie wir in einem früheren Leben erfüllt
(I feel like we met in a former life)
Auch…where are my manners
English, right
I feel like we met not in this life
But before
And by “met” I mean loved

I have no idea how

We share common things
Und our eyes meet whenever we think the other isn’t looking

Maybe I’m going crazy under ******’s hand
I don’t feel like I’m in the right state of mind
But I feel like we’ve loved
Once upon a time



Have I met you before
Because you seem super familiar
I think you were my neighbor before I moved
Because I remember the pretty girl
Next door with brown hair
We played in my back yard and pretended to be aliens
Then made macaroni art
That’s us….on a hill….holding hands
You fell and got a boo boo on your elbow
And I put a dinosaur band-aide on it
We road bikes to the park and we swinged
Remember my best friend Johnny? His birthday party?
Well you were there and I got cake in your hair and you cried…
I gave you a gift on valentines day
It was a flower I put in a purple box
my mom planted in my yard
And later she yelled at me and put me in the corner for digging it up
I shared my dairy queen milkshake with you
Even though It was chocolate and that’s my favorite flavor
And I was really surprised because you said that was your favorite too
Do you remember…
No…?
Oh okay sorry.
You can come over and play with some of my toys if you want
I like your shoes…

I met her in a past life,
In February, new grass reaching through snow
This funeral only reminds me of
Vibrations in my spine when she’d leave
Symphony strings come in
Crushing all my Ambien
Recreating Adam and Eve

I could feel my disgusting old heart pulse
When I became her.
When she took over me.

I remember
Watching life go by like movies
Ich erinnere mich (I remember)
Dancing in ballrooms to records
I remember
Young bodies in ***. Minds dowsed in ecstasy
I remember you

Our dying won’t stop euphoria like this
It’ll just be put on hold for a while
Emotions becoming a straight beaming line
Because I’ll meet her again
All we’ll do is change the date and time

Trapped inside a mongrel's mind,
  twisted, turning, lurid, divine
Aimlessly wandering halls, dimly lit
by candles on the walls
  where spiders like to sit
where I come across a case
  wooden and dusty
filled with books neatly spaced
  the spines filled with foreign words
and stood up by tigers
     either mis-colored or rusty

Examining the books with gentle care
when something caught my eye's corner
with a glance to the left and with great rise
was the grand spiral stair, where
  splayed meekly on the rise of the walls
was the blood of men and a statue of great size
A serpent, fangs dowsed in rustic red blood
and tail curled around with eyes beading above
seemed to smile with a large bulge along its golden belly
With shudder I wondered what beast sated the statues hunger

My feet, frozen in wonder of serpents message
did not venture forward as my eyes read the ****** paint
For, as my eyes gazed at the dried blood, I noticed sound so faint
Drip. Drop. Drip. Down the rail of the grand old stair
  dripped water onto the marble floor, puddling there
And in the pool of the water, a message did reflect
The symbols were foriegn, yet I read them anyway
How, I couldn't suspect and who could say
Even as I muttered the words I backed away in respect

*This is the easy way to heaven,
                    or so say the men where holywater's bestowed
 But this is where the Serpent herds his devon,
                    You may climb the stairs, but down his throat you'll go

The stench of battery acid in the morning
The slippery lubricant of littered snakeskin on the floor
Trash that once found liberation, salvation in the motion of its use
Now limp, lifeless, devoid
Abandoned without muscle.

The shadow of our wicked forms, braced against the balcony edge
Nerves alight, take fire. The steepest bet, a wager of the deranged sense
And that smell. It hangs in the air, still
Engulfs you as the animal sense is heightened. Without reason, all is pleasure,
All is primitive.

Out on the veranda, Diana dances. Part impulse, part stimulant. Her dimples stretching wider, farther apart as continents. Her hips convulsing
Man with the long hair, "You burn you burn"
Oh mother, we were created equally. Together in one cruel, carbonate mass of malcontent motives, of wicked intent. Selfishness attracts selfishness.

We are but a refrigerator door full of strange magnets, gleaming. Your southern fingers,
Dancing a slow tango down my spine. Your grip, lowering, sweaty and deliberate
Oh viper.
The texture of freshly cut grass and ***** crusted over bare toes. All smells of peppermint,
Bitter citrus flower.

Woke up in the morning, dowsed in kerosene
Rose petals sticking to the roof of my mouth
"There is no heaven, no hell," he said. Only us.

The Twin Souls speak to me,
During the desert suns and
Tranquil moons,
In its greatest oracle,
They tell me
‘Save yourselves or
Remain unsaved’.

They took me to Egypt,
On the magic carpet that
Was dowsed in my room-
Some may call it a rug-
But for the Twins,
They flew during majestic
Nights
Seamless heights.

Nights I look back,
On how my twin was created,
How our paths had crossed
And how lucky
Even blessed we’d been.

Days I look forward,
With my twin and I
Drenched in Kelly Green in our ceremony of
accomplishments
Or seduced by the sun,
Escaping Methodist systems,
And enchanted by esques’ in the forest

Other nights,
My twin was gone,
An empty burden I felt
Swell my chest.

On those nights,
I prayed to the Souls to which
They promised
to keep us together

Some times the Twins advise me,
‘Do not set yourself on fire
to keep others warm’
And
‘Other people are not medicine’-
That is, except for the Twin Souls.

I taught my twin
Lessons of life,
And she taught me
Lessons of gratitude.

I must admit,
We were both a bit
Damseled,
A bit Distressed
[Still dressed to impress]

When time has run out,
Hope is lost,
Spirits are killed,
Demons are in disguise,
And hell breaks loose

I pray to the Twin Souls,
To hold us eternally whole
In the wake of the full moon

Because my TWIN SOUL,
Will never escape
The Encased LOVE and PURSUITS
Of my HEART
For she is a true work of
Art.

We stare at each other while in an
Under-rehearsed waltz around the coffee table
Keeping us an armwidth apart.
Stiff as oak, we resist the breeze from the window,
Tensing with the smallest tremors in our roots.

Touching our fingers will let the dominos fall-
Your jeans taking off my socks ripping off your shirt pulling
On my bra straps- I walk toward the couch,
You, the window.

I start to wonder how your hair looks hung to dry, sweaty,
Over an ached and trembling brow
When you hang your hat on the chair.

You tell me the evening weather is pleasant
While my thoughts are in our hands, clenching,
Longing for skin and breath in grasp.
My eyes light a wildfire on your neck.

Every step is flint stone and steel wool.
Can I take off your coat
Welds the air between us stiff, baking
And begging to be dowsed.
The floor ripples under your extended palm.

**** my heart, inject me with purple darts
painted by Da Vinci  murdered by a work of art
breaking bars,
jammed my hands through broken shards.
****** by eternity,
the monster that came back from shaking mars.
doomed and colossus, middle of the mosh pit
I live for the funerals and party with the Gothics.

Tasting the hatred, who knew love was the flavor
cries as time flies, spits in the night sky
boiling our emotions, our love drowned in the tide.
dowsed in turpentine, serpents hiss down our spines,
lasers set to ****, ideas are nautiluss
the precious rapture precedes to rage on our kind.

The sun becomes the hottest
when power becomes modest.
reality for the fiction
more gifts for the gifted
everyday lost until the power levels shifted
weird, lost, and strange
most recognized of misfits.
killing off the normal to become different
one more guest to become a witness.

You slipped right through my fingers
(I never really had you any way)

I could swear up and down you don't care for me. It makes things so much easier.

Flashback to you kissing my freckled cheek while I'm asleep. Telling me words I've save for later. I'll turn them over and over in my head like worry stones.

Flashforward to you sitting with me in a crowded place. "We're just friends," you say evenly. I try my best not to squirm. Because we were never just anything.

I knew I'd pay the price for this. But who was I to give up a body that fit so well into mine?

You dowsed my ribs in gasoline when you first spoke words of your affection. You consistently threw lit matches at me.

Now you recoil and Jesus Christ, how do I begin to put myself out?

Do I even want to?

You show me a match you've saved for later. I don't know if able to reconstruct myself for the hell of it just to watch it burn later

Don't think I wasn't destructive before you. I am, and I will be infinitely. I am thinking of how my smoke built up in your lungs. Exhale now. Doing what's best for all involved parties.

"Do you know what it was like being around you, knowing I couldn't hold you?"

In that moment I'm certain somewhere in another life I would have loved you. Because all I ever wanted was the kind of romance I could write about it. The kind of sadness and longing that settles behind your ribs. If it had been a book I would've dog eared us and wept. But this is my life, real life and I can't just this back on the shelf.

If every poet wants to be loved why do they need every feeling but love everything that is essential becomes contradictory find every word in the dictionary to send our message fully infused With the subsequent substance with a enveloping past that you give power to with each glance a symbiotic connection hungry for attention a powerful grip with feelings of strong misguided blinded moral film that covers your skin irresistible until you come back to your writing and you realize what you just wrote dig deep down and see your true depth in a paradox of perspectives thoughts bounce off waves of reflecting inception overloading my cornea flood of images I spill into text what's the imprint that was left try so hard to fit in thinking they're excluding you when it turns out I'm really excluding you corrupted excess of expression poisoning cycle of nervous thought of my inner dialogue separate me from a clear view with the greifing fog try to hide try to distract but never dodge three the highs and lows even and odds I always see the effect just hopelessly blind to the cause shocking withdrawls lost in the in flames dowsed a brave heart with callouses made of cowardice after everything a poet really does just want to be loved....

A simple fire,

Dowsed in the flammable decisions of a simple man,

Even the act of putting his words onto paper gives him the narcissistic relief of being closer called an artist, to himself, by himself,

He sees faces daily that are like ghosts now to the simple man whose mind meanders and thoughts get foggy,

Hours go by like seconds in his catatonic state,
Everything he does is a simple man’s choice where input is minimized and outcomes are swiftly forgotten,

Where memories from years ago bleed into what happened yesterday or the day before,
Each experience becomes an island,
Waking up with no connections,
Just an oceans worth of uncertainty,

Like a composer who hears the music of his orchestra for the first time and, oblivious, leads them into crescendo with a simple man’s insincere talents,

Absent, in many things, he tries to live as comfortably as he can with routine becoming a safety blanket that itches like hell in the middle of the night but still he manages to sleep most of his days away,

Every regret for everything he could be doing but isn’t,
Everything he shouldn’t be doing but is,
Lives on his scalp and the insides of his decaying cheeks,

Maybe it’s all just the summer heat getting to him.

Theres a sickness inside
a false idea
that wants to be nursed
by the same hands thats wretched me from the truth
the truth
is my home

I could be locked into a room with mothers warm linen
clutching you around me
but theres the wild
as it was never strained from me
and it makes me want to overthrow
the comfort
the security of what is that was never materialized
I want free-free-free-dom
I can accept the discomfort
like wet clothes
holding me like a heavy hostage as I roam
I want freedom, I want mobility
because deep inside of me, I know the truth, without it needing to be performed
so much so that it haunts me
every time you kiss me
even in my dreams
dowsed in the warmth
struck with the urge to pull back from a burning flame
as it encircles around my soft flesh
my hard peircing soul
wants to run from the devils gold
so dont you l-l-l-ove me
love me love me
love me
I am free
but the bars of my heart strings push you aside
like a werewolf
my instinctual nature has me tied
in the wilderness
I go back and forth
on the roads that will bring me further from you
when I feel my dreams
consuming all that I see

Slowly the day is dowsed by night
as the clumsy sun trips over the horizon
and is gone from sight

The swallows morph into their darker side
and screeching fill the twilight skies
in fear all creatures retreat and hide

Silence falls heavy covered in soot
none stir except for the owl’s mournful hoot

Dig a deep hole
                   bury me
                         shallow grave
                             I will not die
                             my soul
                           not a slave
                       little tree
                    grows
                mighty
             and brave
           roots barely cover
         with earth and with snow
          torrential flood rains
            an cold winds that blow
                as Little tree pains that
                         her roots they still grow
                            unending rootstocks
                           take ahold of our root
                      grow firmest oak trees
                   out beyond stars
               out past the seas
          down we be sleeping
               veins they be seeping
                   joy we be reaping
               our secrets lay keeping
             a love ever deepening
           a dowsed
              river vein
                 my roots not be waned
                  I bend
              stretch my limbs out,
              
            twisting and turning
               wood not for burning
                     far as earth goes
                       roots wrap around
                           all that is found
                        Dig a deep hole
                  back to the sky
                out to the sea
                    tears death does cry
                           dig a deep hole
                              cannot bury me
                        infinite stars
                past galaxies
           protect you from wind
             my trunk will not break
                   shelter
                     cover from sun
                    roads that we take
                 Dig a deep hole
              as far as above
            lay me inside
     find eternal love.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

Theres a sickness inside
a false idea
that wants to be nursed
by the same hands thats wretched me from the truth
the truth
is my home

I could be locked into a room with mothers warm linen
clutching you around me
but theres the wild
as it was never strained from me
and it makes me want to overthrow
the comfort
the security of what is that was never materialized
I want free-free-free-dom
I can accept the discomfort
like wet clothes
holding me like a heavy hostage as I roam
I want freedom, I want mobility
because deep inside of me, I know the truth, without it needing to be performed
so much so that it haunts me
every time you kiss me
even in my dreams
dowsed in the warmth
struck with the urge to pull back from a burning flame
as it encircles around my soft flesh
my hard peircing soul
wants to run from the devils gold
so dont you l-l-l-ove me
love me love me
love me
I am free
but the bars of my heart strings push you aside
like a werewolf
my instinctual nature has me tied
in the wilderness
I go back and forth
on the roads that will bring me further from you
when I feel my dreams
consuming all that I see

An angel with an arched back.
It's wings spread out like an owl's.
She turns to gaze at me.
Fluttering eyelids.

Her hand runs over her pale skin.
Her white wings flutter with every touch she makes.
Her dead eyes creep to gaze at me.
Beckoning me.

My throat feels clogged.
I walk closer.
My hands are shaking.
I still, walk closer.

She reaches her hand out to me.
I take it without hesitation.
An angel in love with a human?
It's mad, isn't it?

I kiss her hand and she smiles.
Her eyes are still dead.
She runs her fingers up and down my throat.
I sputter white petals all over her.

She's dowsed in white petals.
They're stuck in her midnight hair.
She smiles at me, her eyes finally glistening.
I smile back.

An angel in love with a human.
It's mad, isn't it?
Yes, it's mad.
But aren't we all a little mad sometimes?

We’re all waiting for that someday somebody that will make our skin feel like liquid gold and make flowers grow out of our ears. There’s a the Milky Way in our neurons that we’d be left to discover on sleepy afternoons in October when the leaves are still look like ripe peaches and the sun sets at 6 o'clock. In the spring we’d lay out in a field of wild flowers with syncopated voices filling the atmosphere and feel weeds growing beneath us until they found our heart beats. We’d feel our blood run quiet and warm and even our teeth would feel soft and our knees would be smiling. We’d lay there in the swelling silence of yes and inhale the floating flower seeds in the wind. We’d cough up bluebells and brambles for weeks. I’d make a map of all your freckles and connect all those cities with rivers of arteries until I could carry you around in my pocket in all your perfect symmetry. We’d laugh at the sun and squint at the moon. There's something too shadowed about it and it'd make me feel nauseated, but your feet would make the ground feel more solid and I’d find solace in the ridges of your fingerprints. We’d be all kinetics and soft, milky shower steam. Until one day your hands would start to turn dead blue and your body would grow gnarled and small. The doctor would find that one of the brambles got caught in the left vertical of your heart. You rot from the inside out. I’d sell purified salt and the world would feel dowsed in ***** lake water until it didn’t and I moved on because that’s what people do. Or someone would say “I never thought you’d end up with someone like her” and I’d laugh and say “me neither” and you’d kiss me. But you wouldn’t stop thinking about it until you ****** the brunette on the third floor and let her borrow my lingerie. You’d say “I’m sorry, I love you” and I’d burn the lingerie and then **** your best friend on our bed and we’d both end up shattered shells in a desert. We’d drown in ethanol. Or you’d get angry and hit me one day and apologize and I’d say it’s alright and try to fix you and end up spending a decade losing myself until I became a hollow porcelain bird on the shelf in your living room and our children would have to glue me back together. Or I'd realize you weren’t very intelligent and thought too much about nothing and that glow was really just sweat. I’d tell you’d I’d changed and we just didn’t want the same things, but really I’d just realized I was in love with a poem I made up and you were really quite a bore and saw the world in varying shades of brown. All those flowers in my ears would wilt and my skin would be a the moldy green of oxidized bronze. The day dream always ends in a corner with gaping hole in the floor and toes on the precipice.

helios shone on her
golden glories of girlhood
ripe flesh, rose-lipped grins
lingering odor of peonies
dowsed in foolish desire

god of greed, god of fire
god pondering feeling, lidded ire
deigned loner, prowling defiler
holier spire of gospel denier

leering siren song
fingers wed poison
groping seeds of peril
lips feed on endings edge
howling elegies, rendered sorrow
peregrine prisoner of noose region
wife of ego, gowned in gliding gore
renewed weeping, fowl whispers
singeing inferno flooding idle hope worn

I take my tea with drops of melancholy.

A cigarette between my exhausted fingers.

I remember the day you wished that I was dead and you're the only one who saved me from the jaws of the hungry wolves.

I was a cowedly sheep stained with hatred and dowsed with remorse, waiting for anger to burn me up.

I had no idea I was living with the beast.


My soul is an inch away from non-existence.

The soles of my feet are decaying and I'm weak.

The fire is gone and I wonder what you'll do with my remaining ashes.


I will remain sinful and insane.

I still will remain regretful and tired.

I remain sculpting better strangers than my own loved ones.

Yes, I will remain living with the beast.

No, I won't come to you any more as my saviour, feeding me bowls of guilt.

the world advances one funeral at a time
death seeps in slow and sly for us
hovering above you like a hand above a fly
death spells out the world bit by bit

so dance like thunder in the rain
let shade turn the water black with pain
with the vile filth that pours out of our rapacious cracked lips like hate
pooling and festering as we sit ignominious in a pool of our own putrid regurgitate

and this is our "modern" ravaged world
shiny, sleek, innovative exoskeleton
like the corpse of a dragonfly
we lay dead and glinting in the desolation of our wrath
life devoured but soul gleaming
rot within full of rot and rot

do we not weep
for our animal kin, hunted and banished from a world that is theirs as it is ours
take their home take their skin
mass murderers of the diverse
and for what I ask.
to innovate? to invent? to create?

HOW
when we infect everything we touch with disease      fear      hopelessness      greed
the mercy of divine gods could not touch upon that which we have destroyed

the life has slipped between the fractured bones we have stripped clean
peck away, rip ruthlessly, repeatedly
for we have nothing left and still we keep poisoning earth, unscrupulous, with excrement

we are all scribbled onto her **** list
for our contribution of
entangling her in nets, hanging her with plastic, caging her, ****** her, beating her, felling down her wooden limbs
then watching as they fall proud to the barren soil, it's provisions reaped and plundered
she will watch
as we, engulfed in her furious flames, burn back into the ashes she forged us from

there will be nothing by the time we realise
the sheer magnitude of our mistake
come our imminent demise
Mother Earth shall weep waves

the walls of water shall rise high
and bare no remorse as they crash tremendously terrible and wash away our sins and our souls
the water will crush our bodies just as we fracked the earths skull
it will drown us just as we suffocated her in oil and putrid waste
just as we choked her with smog and fumes and smoke
just as we chained her up and whipped her till she bled out into the core of her eternal soul
our empirical greed deserves a modern death and that she will deliver

we tilled her dry, ***** her
fertility disappeared as quick as a full belly
ghost of green haunts the brown naked carcass that once hosted sprouting life
we dowsed our own crop in ******* **** and waste and we wonder why the worst of us go hungry
she has the right to grasp us in the sharp clutch of hunger
to stew us in a vat of our own emaciated decay and death
but she needn't bother as we shall demolish ourselves as we did our planet

finally we vengeful children will know too late what it means to **** outside your own front door

KG

What a feeling
To feel nothing
Not empty
Parts. Wires. Still there.
Missing a spark
A current

See this
My party trick
Dowsed in wine
Throw myself
Rattling wires

Social un-pleasantries
A scandal of youth
I, unaffected and unaffecting
Nod along
Shout along
Expel words I don't mean
I try on their night

Attempt to make my
Blood slow
Skin still
And wait for electricity

Her is




                          some




    some drowsy

myst of being;            a





palpable drift




of



white white white sleeeeeeeep,




from the curt
lips of
dark waters                    



with tense sheen
of dull light



she fits
she slips


1 pill somnambulant


through drunk
through dowsed
coils in scarlet




laying
laying
laying



(in xanadu


           where




k  u   b  la          kh        a              n


a



                ­ s



                  t



                              a




t­               ely




p lea s ur edom edid de c
                                            
                                                r
                                               

                                 e
                                     


                                                e

Do not worry about our march to freedom,
with two steps forward and one step back,
do not worry about the pace that we lack.
Do not be disappointed by the hurdles we face,
as we jump one, another’s put in place.
For we will get there come what may.

Do not be angry about the words that are said,
as we dispel one lie, another is brought,
do not be angry about the myths that are taught.
Do not be daunted by the struggles that lie ahead,
as one fire is dowsed, another is fed.
For we will get there I’m sure some day.

Do not be disheartened by the mountain to climb,
as we climb higher and turn the tide,
do not be disheartened if we slip and slide.
Do not be weary of the journey still to go,
As we walk fast, they walk slow.
For we will get there come what may.

Marching in rhythm to corporate rhyme
Waiting in lines
While the fire inside is dowsed
Burning holes in your pockets right in front of your eyes
Brainwashed by punk
That's got the wrong name on the packet
Companies making money off rage they've tamed
Worshiping a group who haven't been the same since they tasted fame  
I hope it's as sweet as being spoon fed
Scared to take a risk
Because that doesn't sell

The Reds won by turning capitalism and democracy against us The frenzied shortsighted pursuit of individualism enraptured by its own grandiosity Obese in arrogance and false piety Among our weakest links the myth of liberty in the guise of protection against our own From My Cold Dead Hands they will eulogize the depths of our hypocrisies tucked into the gaping cracks of a marbled column tombstone that reads We the People a hollow echo from a dead philosophers guilded mirror reflecting delusions of equality while his window glimpsed the reality of People bound as chattle An era of monsters championed as heritage by a devolved theater of gross absurdity enraptured by a sycophantic maelstrom swirling a wretched mass of vitriolic grievance creeping its facists tendrils through our halls our homes and our hearts So much bluster about essential freedoms now a **** in the wind from a constituency of the ignorant dead eyed before the altar of Exceptionalism A manifestion of the truly unexceptional by a bizarre cult of personality devoid of that very essence Whiny and bloated convinced its oily opulence is somehow self evident justification for its own cavernous gluttony Heavy the privileged jowels spew hatred and lies slathered in corruption shouted as truth through the arcanity of scripture among those who would not know the forest from the trees from the rot in their minds as long as it says so on the TV vomiting endless propaganda of imagined shadow forces flooding the country with fictionalized caramel colored criminals Willingly blind barrelling into a fog of twisted fantasy failing to realize that the narcos envisioned pale by comparison of heinous intention or deed to the very real NARCs embraced Lockstep and jackboot heel in tow behind a tide of Nationalism that is anything but A contrived patriotism cannibalizing its own mythology whittling the bones of history to alternate facts devoured by fat children as so much sugary cereal bored reading the Constitution from the back of a whitewashed cardboard box ******* about a return to values and integrity they never possessed with their fingers crossed Cowing to the blackened whims of spineless parasitic wraiths picking at the shades of fallen titans Packs of roving dipshits trumpeting ideals their grandfathers died to eradicate Prancing about sporting the finest camo and tac gear in a perverse sashay Their measure of civic duty reduced to how much red white and blue crowds their shitstained boxers dowsed in cheap beer and sad rivulets of encrusted ***** trickled in a shame for which they have yet to fully account or atone Fools leading the foolish to oblivion are we God bless the USA for surely no creature under heaven would