I have no right to be jealous,
Of you and that perfect woman.
She is definitely yours,
And you are hers of course.

I have no right to be jealous,
If you brushed your fingers through her hair.
You look at her divinely in the eyes,
And mine are misty for my heart cries.

I have no right to be jealous,
If you kiss her ever so softly.
You whisper her words of caress,
I'm locking my soul in self-made fortress.

I have no right to be jealous,
When you speak her name gently.
Drawling each syllable with care,
I wish to have that girl's name to be fair.

I have no right to be jealous,
When you give her the whole universe.
You offer her the most simple "I love you",
I yearn to reply freely "me too".

This is the game, set and matching end-piece to what is known as:

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/385266/poetry-round-find-your-self-within/

by way of an introduction....

T'is season to move forward,
back to old acquaintances renewed,
sand, water and salty sun,
three lifelong friends who,
Auld Lang Syne,
never ever forget me

I get drunk on their eternity,
their celestial beauty,
and they, upon my tarnished earthly being,
muse and are bemused

unreservedly and never judgingly,
share shards of inspiration unstintingly,
we share, never measuring
this captain's humanity, his human efficacy,
by mystical formulae of reads or hearts

grains of sand, water wave droplets and sun rays,
and his beloved words, derived there from,
all only know one measure...
immeasurable
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/699991/adieu-my-crew-my-crew/
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Pilgrimage (Reunion)


at last to begin,
to begin the 'at last,'
this reunion occurs
this first day of June
where on my
body's flesh colored calendar,
X red-marked,
deeper than any real cut of despair


this morn, leave for familiar parts,
embarking 100 steps to that
Adirondack chair,
my name, my self,
(oh god at long last)
so often, long lovingly
revealed unto you


the garden's sundial welcomes me,
Prince, Guardian, of the gate to the green,
the green steppe way to bay and beach,
a brief song of "ring around the irises,"
blooming around him,
he issues,
to celebrate his own glory recalled,
his own purpled prosed long ago one ecrivez'd,
by having the third mate
ring the greened worn,
bronzed ship bell
upon conclusion of
his raising of the gate


shorts and T white hair shirt,
costume de rigueur
of this Peconic pilgrimage,
turban and baseball uncapped,
stepping humbly
toward that worn wood throne
where carved are
the initials of
my poetic friends,
and his vast modest,
Concordia of poetic essays


Those odd disordered
collection of aleph bets
that have been prepared for this hour,
are sun dappled,
breeze caressed,
wave watched,
a fresh redressing after a
dum hiems,
a long dark winter


all rise up welcoming with voices
tremulous yet oratory,
sing with a love so spectacular ,
Handel's Messiah Hallelujah Chorus,
au naturel


the armies of ants declare this a
Truce Day,
parading before me in formation,
the rabbits race
in elegant uniforms,
white tailed bemedaled, dress grays,
announcing their  showoff arrival
with a new across-the-lawn
land speed record


the dear **** deer,
familiar families and generational,
look upon this human and
grumble while chewing our shrubbery,
an act of sherwooded lawn high robbery
but perforce acknowledging our entrance,
by uttering a Balaam blessing/curse,
a neutralized
"****, they're back"


the seagulls on the dock,
sovereign state observers from
Montauk and the far island city,
sent by the mother winds superior,
observers and reporters to nature everywhere,
Summer Season of Man Has Begun


a few white wakes disturb the water's composure,
the early low arc'd sun has not peaked in strength,
at 10:00am, the temp just breaches 60 Fahrenheit,
the beach sand untrod, no unlasting human impressions,
no children's red pails yet to them decorate,
amidst the sea life's detritus and smooth licked pebbles


Enough.


each tree ring and grass blade demands a verse,
an all my own tributary accolade,
this too much to accommodate


a year ago I issued an invitation,
do so again for my word is my bond
my responsibilities, my *******,


there are chairs for all
on my righted round and my motet left,
here, there are
no Americans,
no Canadians,
no Aussies or Brits,
or Indians and Fillipinos,
no African or Asians present,
East nor West,
None Invited here,
Only Poets


even those hardy pioneer
West Coasters, a proud lot,
and my Southern family drawling,
and perhaps lessening the mourning
just a touch, a minute modicum,
all sit quiet in the admixture
of poets come to celebrate
the blessing to have been tasked,
to write from and of places we visit
in the cerebral,
and to imbibe each other's words


Three Hundred and Sixty Four Days ago,
I wrote :

We sit together in spirit, if not in body,
You join me in the Poet's Nook,
A few frayed and weathered Adirondack chairs
Overlooking the Peconic Bay,
Where inspiration glazes over the water,
And we drown happily in a sea of words...

I am exhausted.
So many gems (poets)
to decorate
My body, my soul

I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out,
none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.

Once again, in your debt

Again,
I await your beckoning wave of hello,
greet you in your mellifluous native tongue,
iced drinks at the ready,
the opening ceremony already started,
when all are seats taken
we commence officially,
with a blessed

*"Now, let us begin"

My married life
has a new ghost fix du jour—
a show called Haunted Collector
where John Zaffis pulls *****
historical do-dads out of haunted
domiciles, lines them up in bell jars
every harrowing episode.
His basement must be bursting
under the floorboards with EVP
chatter, ephemeral dead men
making residual trips down the hall
for midnight tuna-fish.

Last night we went down to Louisiana
in Deep South Paranormal
where a cast of drawling ghost hunters
cat-called the departed with backwater
truisms about cats and frissons.
Two bearded ZZ Top-types rattle
and shout through the Longleaf sawmill,
suffocated, chipped and abandoned.

But interestingly, our typecast yokels
take a new tactic beyond respect,
sympathy and confrontation. They play
their guitar for the undead, unleash
a melody, tempting the cryptic spirits
to step over the trimmers and chippers
and into the laser grids of square
lights, K2 meters, thermal camera frames,
the obelisk.

The peepings of ghosts have ceased
to ***** me. The proliferation
of paranormal pollsters
are crotchety and terrified,
modeling and grandstanding
the character American,
heirs of TV Kings and monsters,
castle builders, suffocating,
chipping away and abandoning
our very real screaming human
American creature.

Today is Tuesday, November 19th, 2013. And I want to talk about you. I want to talk about the clenching and fizzing in my stomach right now as I imagine wrapping you up in my arms and having you close again. I want to talk about the ache in my chest when I think about how it's been ninety days since I last kissed you, since the day I saw you cry as I let you slowly drop from my arms, then hands, then fingertips, and drove away, looking out the window to see you let your head fall into your hands. It's been ninety days since I sat on the floor of the airport and felt my entire being rebelling against getting on that plane and recrossing the thousands of miles that separate us. I want to talk about how I tuck those thoughts away and instead smile as I think of giving you piggyback rides through the park, and kissing in front of churches, and diving into cold pools, and touching you softly as we lay unclothed in your bed, and laughing so hard at your jokes that I'm sure I'm making a fool of myself.

I want to talk about you. I want to talk about you and me. I want to talk about you with me. I want to talk about how you say things that stop me in my tracks and make me reevaluate the truth. I know you, but I can never quite predict your opinions or reactions. You surprise me in this really heart stopping, sometimes refreshing, sometimes eerie way.

I want to talk about how beautiful you are, god, let me please talk about this. Your mind is an intricate, thrumming place that I love to get inside and peek in its dusty corners. I'll try not to leave fingerprints, but I hope you'll forgive me if I do. I think I'm the first person to see some of these places, and I respect them with a reverence. And your heart, your heart... it's an open space that fluctuates and adjusts around me. I know it's learning how to make me fit, but considering that, I'm very comfortable here. It's not a maze, not a grand palace, but not run down either. It's warm in here, slightly musty in the back rooms but in a nice way, while the front is breezy. It's cryptic at first, it's easy to question where one is when first entering. But it has an essence so very you that it's impossible to lose your way completely. I've wandered enough to memorize some of the walls and walk around with a timid freedom. I don't think I would ever dare stride through with arrogance, but I hope to gain confidence the more I explore. Your outside is just as breathtaking. Sometimes I look at the pictures of us together and I stare at your face like it's a puzzle I can solve, because you are indeed the prettiest girl I have ever seen and it astonishes me that yes - you are real. You have this smile that I try to coax out as much as possible, and eyes that are pleasant and warm. Have I told you how much I've always loved brown eyes? It's a colour that suits your irises, that suits you. The image I get when I imagine looking into your eyes is that of wrapped up in soft blankets in a field at dusk. You have beautiful hair that you love to complain about, but I am forever adoring of how it sticks every which way and makes you look - yeah, I'm going to say it - pretty **** cool. Your body is fit and perfect and I'll tell you again, I am so, so jealous. Shadows reach around you to try and feel your shape, rain trickles across your smooth skin to try and kiss as much as it can reach. And when your body tangles with mine, it's magic. You are warm and soft and my fingertips can't help but want to trace a map over you, pressing into their favorite places and trailing across your frame as lightly as a sigh. Your voice, if I had to pick, is the thing that best represents you. Its most frequent setting is this strong, hardy tone that gets your point across with as much bluntness as the words you choose. When you're sleepy it becomes soft and drawling and muffled. When you have to act professional, it heightens and becomes cheery and sweet. When you're touched, it turns lovely and breathy and exquisitely feminine. You are embodied by these sides of you, and there's more I'm yet to hear and learn from it. All of it is beautiful in a way so uniquely you that I smile just in Knowing.

I want to talk about knowing you. I've always wanted just to know you, from the day we met. That was the prevailing thought: How to Know You. Now every day I am given glimpses into you, and every day I'll know a little more, and I couldn't be happier.

I want to talk about you. I want to talk about how much I love you. I love you the way lights love to pool on the sidewalk. I love you the way ink loves the abstract. I love you the way sand loves seashells. I love you the way trees love sunlight. I love you the way airplanes love the sky. I love you with a ferocity and a tenderness and an affection it halts the motion of the world for moments at a time. You bring words and metaphors to mind in a way no inspiration could, and the next second you stop all thought dead and leave my head buzzing pleasantly empty. I used to refuse to write of love; now my hands know of little else. You've changed me, profoundly, intensely. What did I spend my thoughts on before? Now, I just want to talk about you.

Tobacco smoke drifts up to the dim ceiling
From half a dozen pipes and cigarettes,
Curling in endless shapes, in blue rings wheeling,
As formless as our talk. Phil, drawling, bets
Cornell will win the relay in a walk,
While Bob and Mac discuss the Giants' chances;
Deep in a morris-chair, Bill scowls at "Falk",
John gives large views about the last few dances.

And so it goes -- an idle speech and aimless,
A few chance phrases; yet I see behind
The empty words the gleam of a beauty tameless,
Friendship and peace and fire to strike men blind,
Till the whole world seems small and bright to hold --
Of all our youth this hour is pure gold.

Hours. Back. Tideless extreme. Gaunt. Happy face, good luck, forever ago. A go-go. Breakfast. Preference. Slip stream mock tidal bliss. Humpback seal stardom, infinite provocative immortal. Catches me. In between the teeth. Cool, Mach 3. Sumptuous extravagant human meat, flesh game. The flesh game. Heroes air-freight. Wash cloth. Hot breaths. 'ths' and plastic bag I-280 North ***** and sudatorium.

Pick a pepper.
Cow Palace.
Moth ***** and mouth *****.
Tea bags and sore throats.
Presumptuous candid                                            story-telling anomalies, trite

/masterful caustic limping brick-pedaling life-goers in major metropolis wearing leather sandals, whistling\

Whistling deep cavernous chasm bellowing hollowing, in out in out arithmetic.
        
                                                                                        Sand gathers boulders.

Women gather warmer wethers. The weathered. That ton. One of the asinine                                        

                                                        and aesthete.

Curious. Before
clause. The story god.
                                                        The kick of Achilles

                 and the Satan prance. Bleat of the squeeze.
                                        Course set. Picking up the pieces and going spelunking. French maid syndrome. Wan. Wielding the anatomical dollar of the "this-just-didn't-work" childhood.

                                                                                                Wears gloves. Has colds.

Breaks molds, and reads fortune cookies.

Limps                            lifeless, heavy as a Tuesday and digging its own grave. It owns gray. It

makes
meals
and carries them through broken towns,
over smoky ridges,
helping out and just- helping.

The line wakes it.                                        One traffic light.   Three thousand three hundred lakes.

Steals a cell phone. Goes quiet for days in the forest.

Kills a wild pig. Bares a feral hog.

Opens up a can of sour condensed milk and still makes caramels. The open fire. The children gasping and favoring the brave. The score is limitless.



Hours go by.

                                                        ...    ­                                      ...

                      ­                    ...

                                        ­                                            ...

Mites dig into the skins, and the shins of the subtle. The men come back. The palm fronds make excellent roofs. Raised. Reared. Canned food makes abhorrent constipation forest dwelling; syndrome. And excrement. The crowns carry over.

The bejeweled mid-rim equator

                                                               ­                                                 providence.


Ki­ng and queen.
Prince and princess. Knees bend and over and over. Mirthy trammeled lots. Egg white clouds scurry through towns scurrying through. The bastion wall. A romance connecting. Two lovers. The lot. A burrow in the ground. Short-haired hares: run, jump, skip. Life settles. No one comes back. The skin starts to itch. Gratitude is and is not. Worry steps in. The chimes glow through the rorschach tree tops. Fires and combustion. Great oversized bells. Who hears the ringing?

The canopy overcome with splinters, the eyebrows are furnaces that never spit out the light.

Spectacular plight. Unbelievable nights. Feeling fowl in the palms of another                                                        
                                                                        land where weirs and wilds
and roaring waterfalls
                                                decorated with cowards collecting honey
                                                                                                              combs
through hair-strainers, so brave    soo brave, to brave, to hunter-gatherer
African mission-syndrome types in white long coats and sometimes and dangerously called doctors. Do not stop for lines. Do not stop for lions. Or

                        when stuck in the cauldron of the c t a         & cia

do not weave heavily through traffic, railing divorce into the cellular phone of man        . NO ZHE DOES NOT. NO.

No one eats, anymore.
The pleasure is moved.
The happy have landed.
The girl of my dreams is foretelling, foretold. She climbs into a lunchbox and heads to work. She digs her nails into her skirt and chimes for dinner.

All is sentimental and elementary. No one is everyone. There is something human in the air.

Something cumin in the water. I love in French in English. In Germanic.

I'm in the water. Feet stuck in the mud. Hands flailing, I'm naked contemplating making shark moves, one hand flat-out, vertical, putting on a show for ducks and swallows.

The women return. The girls come back. Catastrophe and the merriment of the seven deadly fellows.

I run around Sue
and move back.                         I come to the coast to see what's the matter. It's blue. A cinder blanketed snow home. An igloo. An ice tale of curiosity, of  

                two cities, twisted cities. Mad dragons and weirder wizards that rear silver and portage the weirs of Elk Grove, thru the elk homes
humming bizarre cantatas, making Raspberry jellish and relishing

inthelast
lightsofthemorning

of an

interruption. The wanton exercise. The carnivorous machismo.
We work out with our quirks out and lead with the flaws. A tailored finite saw. A ringing through the air. Who can hear the ringing?                

Makes the men to swine, to mew muses. And get choosy on cabooses while

saving Moose.

                                                  maybe like Salvatore Dali would have done

He would halve none of it and brim over with it all.
Make cape flight from coastal waters. Riding the thermal winds of

North Africa, Tomato, and Japan;                              

BEARDEDfrogOFprinceGENEALOGYneededTOO     ...  ...  ... ....  .. . . ... ..

To sew buttons. To bring the water from the well. The shrimp from the levy. We all go to war on Sundays. We hate on Tuesdays,





but the women never come with the water.


                         [now you're supposed to ask if they keep it for themselves]

sad-leis         'end nose.'

I can't but we can. You don't and I hate you for it.

I smell you on socks

                                                          ­                          .On pillowcases and bullet casings. I'm hot and hard to handle. I lay down in front of forklifts trying to bulldoze shopping malls. I am too and too sentimental. I have a 25¢ ring from a vending machine. I love it. I love you. I go to the bottom room. Blue carpet. **** carpet. Tilted blinds. I find the moors and the heaven. I put my books and a sweater in a sack and I start moving. No ones ever seen me move like this. It's like I had revolution for breakfast. I sip a small glass of orange juice. Orange colored juice. I'm off like a stereo and walking through and through up into a story. I'm making life easy with my purple crayon. I draw a canyon and a boat too. The boat can't float so I draw myself an ocean, a coastline. I call out for my friends and no one is there, so I draw friends. I draw the seashore, the plateau. I make other ships. I shift in my seat, it's uncomfortable so I make it leather. I write a letter but it flies away with a pigeon. I'm stuck on a peninsula, crying. On the front step of a friend's tenement and I'm sobbing. I'm waiting for the waif and she's not coming. I think her over with coffee all alone in a diner, and eventually I have to leave. I trail like an autumn sun, splashing bits of earth with my tepid light. I plash in the sea and still I'm very alone. I run my fingers through my hair and find a find a crown to make myself king. I'm heir to my own home, but it's not good enough. It never was. I grow curiouser and curiouser. I don't know what to do, I'm without. I'm without use. Eight months on top of six years, on top of the second floor of a third floor building, it's hot, and I'm locked out, I'm fighting off weakness and indecision. I'm starving and I haven't eaten in days. I'm confused and the ******* seems the rite. I've got no one to call and I start swimming. I start swimming in circles. I get verbal. I start crawling and drawling and soon I'm weeping in a brutal drawl. And I can't hear you. And all I have is the coastline and the ocean, a plateau,

a yacht club full of empty vessels. A flotilla of friends but there's


eh                                                            ­                        eve             nobody home.

And I see you. I meet you. I mean to meet you. But I can't. I can't move or be moved. I can't speak or be made to speak. I am gripped by your love and yet wrapped in fear. In the rapture of fear. Its rancor grips me. So I stand up. I'm halved and naked and half naked. In the sea. And I see you.

And I seem you, to me. I seam you to me.

vertigo hallway
I make my
way down
tilt-a-whirl dark
hallways
eyes of persons
in paintings
following
my trek
through the dark.

and I hear it--
I've gone
in search
of its source
as it
sounds in the blackness of
dead time
and I see
no mouth making
any noise

as I spiral through ennui
I reach a threshold
disoriented & lost, now,
I die with the dark
and yet,
I still hear them
through the snaps
and crackles
and drafts
of a quiet nightly home
clearer than a bell,
I hear
whispers
from the dark

I'm telling you -
almost like a
shadow
leaning up-close
to my ear
faintly drawling,
in some unutterable
alien muffled tongue

maddened by noise
I continue
Determined to
source this phenomena
I always end in the same
room
and as a
metal gate
rolls shut behind
I finally realize.

What year is it in Mississippi?
Sometimes it’s hard to tell,
You’d think in the 21st century,
We’d be able to tell time well.

Talking slow and taking it slow is okay
At least for most of the time
But there’s a big difference in drawling what you say,
And never reaching your prime

What year is it in Mississippi?
I don’t think it has its own zone.
Surely it’s impossible for the entire state
To have their watches on loan.

What year is it in Mississippi?
They seem so hopelessly behind,
Most other states quickly recognize
That her flag is hatred-lined.

What year is it in Mississippi?
Sorry, but I have to ask,
First in everything bad, and last in anything good,
To even tie with another state seems an impossible task.

Because when you act like you’re still in the past,
You’re going to keep being last.
And passed.
And bashed.
And masked.
And trashed.

No one thinks it’s hopeless yet
Or that the whole state is obscene,
I just hate to break it to Mississippi
That it is 2015.

Watch this thought walk up the wall.
Watch the creepy crawly creature creeping higher.
His waste trails after him, sullying the paint.
Before long the whole room reeks.
Watch him watch you now as he sits on the ceiling.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
watching your thoughts walk circles around the room?
You used to entertain yourself with lofty notions.
You used to write to some of the thoughts down.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.

Watch this thought form a cocoon.  
Watch the sleepy drawling creature sleeping soundly.
He is gestating, growing, becoming while you just sit there.
Before long he’ll be something more than you.
Watch him and listen to the sounds of change.
Is this really how you want to spend your day:
in envy of a creature who’s life barely lasts the whole thing?
You used to entertain yourself with clever colleagues.
You used to fool around with funny friends.
Now look at you looking at some sickly creature,
and trying to find something to say.

Watch this thought hatch from its slumber.
Watch the bouncing, buzzing beasty birthed.
His wings spread out and he flies down from the ceiling.
Before long he makes out of the open window.
You ask yourself: is this really how I just spent my day:
imagining a life instead of living my own?
I used to write poems, and I thought they were profound.
I used to tell myself that they might mean something to you.
Now, look at you looking at me looking at nothing in particular,
and try to find something to say.

12/30/2018

The eloquence of listless years is lost on heady overweening heels that submerge reality in a cavernous of oblique light shrouding the dark mysteries to come. Axiomatic but refractory we swim and tread danger and peril because the unsaid screams for awakening as the roosters outfox the owls and completely change history based on evil skullduggery that awaits the gainsay of titans compromised in security but elevated over the doldrums of quotidian thought. It is my solemn forbearance and consistent steadfast prayer for alacrity and industry to conquer the dudgeons of incurred opprobrium to clinch a beatific convivial festivity for a time-informed claque of leaders that delight in simplicity but dissemble their true disguise in open shark-infested waters. Salvage the impositions of the many and cull the best to anoint their favor on uncertainties improbable but likely as the discerning will master reality rather than be the dross of yesteryear. We swarm with importunate guilds of serfdom to surrender their edifice to the chiselers that operate and extravagate beyond bounds established by parochial priggishness that is a flagging patriotic insistence on drenched graft dank with the mildew of balkanization but not entirely as reproachable as some relics of the ancient law detest with misguided guile and paranoiac sophistry that is a precarious canker of otiose tastes drawling on with misinformed skepticism. The hounding gray in the pallor of alpenglow light ennobles the concatenations of wistful dread but at the same time esoteric flavor that enriches the emblazoned gallantry of the few to become the mainstay of all relevant considerations. Wish upon a coruscating menagerie of miscegenated aboriginal languages that have always abided in the shadows but exist in brevity among the elite coteries that coddle the world in its infancy away from the artifice of exegesis and the importunate placations of swarthy umbrageous shadows that exist apart from the factitious apartheid of race and gender. We must stand united as brethren enduring the tribulations of human vicissitude to abhor the diseased rhetoric of pandered puritanism amalgamated with aleatory financial alarmism calculated to swindle the dilapidation of penury that burns as a smoldering conflagration of concerted ignorance leading to ochlocratic determinism rather than a whispered percolated pedigree that drowns sorrows but simultaneously strands the pariahs of time in insular self-reflection unbecoming of an age that demands an importunate, ubiquitous and outspoken corporate altruism not superintended by a bloviated and tumescent dysnomy of congregated botched bureaucracies that encroach with a daunting donkey commandeered by headless horsemen who are only known by pennames and cognomens that flinch at the demise of their undeserved anonymity. We use valor as an instrument to prevent a scuttled vessel of a seaworthy humanity slinking along a very balmy coast as we await future instructions at the apropos time for a simpatico relegation of commercial collectivism. We expect instead a demassified world to enliven the dialectic of epistemology itself and renew covenants long ago moribund in their ragged and wretched desuetude that they may be vanquished as vestigial habiliments to the tatters of sloppy abnegation leading to a swollen piety that dares not to pretend but simultaneously believes so much in its pilloried hubris that it provides erasure for the secular enlightenment of a messianic time. Squalor and riddled eccentricity drive a brackish but saccharine attempt to homogenize the pastures that we graze upon but look no further than a bequeathed divine providence of smirks rather than the jibes of sneering ostentation. Whisper you fame rather than declaim against the arraignments of a scuttled pettifoggery of miscegenated justice that embroils foreign wineskins for domestic turmoil rather than the demotic enlightenment of the abrogation of inequitable laws that preserve the totemic dissolution of society rather than the prized ameliorative enlightenment of science informed by faith and faith beckoning the clerisy to seek supernal wisdom and furtive swank to reconnoiter the righteous and jettison renegades imploring for a piebald blinkered apostasy on a rudimentary subconscious level but never realizing their effrontery is gravid in a heedless ignorance interpolated by menacing secular hobgoblins that ransack barren treasure and cherish it as a trinket for a chrysocracy that is specious rather than veridical. Barnstorm for justice but appoint the abeyance of foolhardy prescience so that the enigmas of time can beckon their own deliverance through a culmination of waggish flickers rather than the kowtowed toadies of a quidnunc reality divorced from proper temperance outmoded but thriving among those that disavow newfangled foudroyant spectacles. Always and with alacrity indulge the gladiatorial sportsmanship of a zeitgeist beyond contention as the paragon for livid dreams and lurid imaginations to drive the mutiny against plebeian ears and purblind eyes. Live for the eternal present with providence and forswear the vestigial fossils of flippant eras domineered by dragooning fictitious sentiments buttressed by castles built against the encroachment of the imaginary foes of vassal states that submerged the world in a fideism that rejects too many axioms of modernity to vie for preponderance. The government is not irreproachable, but it is a primeval reflection of the propensities of an aggregated society flippant against choice wisdom of the ageless Constitution that is peremptory proof of the divine providence of sempiternal liberty. People that chide against liberty because they fear precarious cankers that endanger from a distance because of their swollen specters need to uphold a commitment to a wistful remembrance of tragedy but a sturdy ruddy optimism to perdure and prosper on this greenest of worlds for both the greenhorn and the expert alike. Never kowtow before the altar of avarice and always pilfer resourceful contemplation in the respite of quiet times that engage our best faculties to awaken rather than slumber. Recruit the collective imagination to superintend chaos and the leviathan becomes tamed because it requires human synergy in both prosperous times and desperate measures to foment the earth with the brontides of due warning simultaneously murky and misleading but always reflective of an irenic pasture of withering sheep and abundant shepherds. Regal promises have always loitered in the penumbras of the elite but now is the time for absolution rather than scattershot contumely. We believe in the federal way and the state farm system and we don’t believe in foreign monoliths becoming the pasquinade of slippery hebetude that ensnares the immobilized futilitarianism of ignorant creeds and divisive claptrap. Barnstorm together for God and liberty as those two principles-however squandered they might be by listless speculation that doesn’t hinge upon the concerted subaudition of the deeply fathomed sources glistening with profundity- will clinch a victory for the beatific future of a guided humanity rather than the guileless intemperance of choleric fools who wage conflagration against only their own plodding ignorance rather than reaching with outstretched hands and tenacious grasps to invent the future according to the helical perfection of the past. May God rule forever on earth! A prosperous earth! An Earth filled with pleasure and an Earth that approximates heaven more closely every day. Amen  



12/31/2018

Riddled by bewildering supernal designs of an ineffable splendor that drapes reality in iridescent cloaks of rigorous and strenuous limber we trounce through the effigies of a profaned pasquinade to gallop through the doldrums of time for the allocated investment in the refined human condition to exacerbate the declension of foes but link the Abrahamic faiths with taciturn reflections and wizened countenances beckoning a newfangled harmonious destiny. Livid are the naysayers who proffer gainsay with insouciance and flippant sorcery to denigrate sacrosanct axioms with persnickety maxims that are only auriferous when viewed through a refracted entropy of disdainful speculative mutiny against propriety in values and stances. I sidle through a refractory zeitgeist despised for my aureate temerities against the chided condemnation of those who flout so-called gobbledygook because they lack stringent acuity and pale to the polish of ennobled grace that anoints favor and felicity on the laurels of an age very intransigent against latitudinarian capriciousness that will one day ransack the world of its flickered graft and its paltry obsessions with quondam gaucheries. A house divided against itself will flounder because of titanic pressures of oblique balkanization that is opaque only to the hounded ignorance of wishful but labile people who wage acerbic gambles against the delegated authors of an aborning covenant for irenic reconciliation in a blinkered piebald world. I like to saunter in private with my insistent lucubrations because I know the majestic gestures of jest are more bountiful in their fecund harvest than any circumlocution of blunt poetasters who calumniate the verve of self-made upstart grandeur that I brandish at every opportune occasion to pilfer my due inheritance from the coffers of a self-fulfilling fatalism divorced from solipsistic monisms and the denigrations of the futilitarian quest to deprive sustenance in the exercise of deft skepticism disempowering the perspicacity of miserly mendicants who treasure their science but pale in their trepidatious momentary twinges of faith that are insincere and unctuous abominations against a steadfast God that wallops our misery with the lurched progress of human amelioration wrought by the succor of alien wizardry beyond even the most quixotic imaginations of people who in their prolixity miss the pithy glib sacraments of a terse and burlesque pragmatism. I simper because I know about carbon emissions statistics with hearty gusto and a convivial banquet of amalgamated personalities and wraiths that emanate from the ether of the 12th dimension of reality: transdimensional interspecies sentience. I wrangle on the outskirts of a bustled city embroiled in a relegated civil war entangling plebeians and plutocrats but not engorging any coffers in a zugzwang destined for pejorative scuffles rather than synergistic revivals of the human fraternity, a consensus about intellectual meliorism that will fossick with due efficiency cognitive resources frittered away in the respite of laziness and the abeyance of prospective diligence to conquer rather than waylay with furtive gambits of appeasement. Everyone need to leapfrog beyond the quotidian plane by indulging the oneiromancies of self-efficacy aggrandized by presidential favors and collective efforts to unite the 16th version of reality with the penultimate version of reality. For the ultimate version of reality is corporeal death upon which we are transplanted unto an ethereal dimension beyond contemplation without the horological diminishment of wizened age.  We trudge in the miserly conditions imposed by pharaohs of pettifoggery that swindles with blustery graft and strident intimidation of the audacity of hopes and dreams to foment the requisite fin de seicle zeitgeist that deserves more of a heyday with the revivalism of nostalgic entertainment against the opprobrium of inferior tastes facile in formulaic conformity but deficient in its nutritive enrichment of beatific festivities that traverse the earth at lightspeed because of the vehement energy of foudroyant amazement is beyond contagious when conveyed through the dexterous vehicles of more centralized rather than skeletonized organization. The bonhomie of a copacetic future demands the interpolation of scrupulous adherence to authoritative dictums but the laissez-faire demagoguery of titans trouncing the ragamuffins of cacestogenous upbringing in a miserly husbandry that stunts the stilted imaginations of formalism rather than bequeathing a seminal insemination of a future hybridized race mechanized but humanized simultaneously to accomplish what would once seem impossible that now looms considerable with the democratization of the furtive at a faucet’s trickling pace to empower the future to heed the past and the pastors to revere the eschatology of final conditions rather than a favoritism for aboriginal barbarisms created by the snare of hobgoblin phantasms that exist only to make us tremulous rather than swanky. May God bless this great green earth with many decades of prosperity to come and heap plaudits on the intellectuals fighting the fight against simpleton groupthink. Have a very festive New Year!

You spoke for hours,
Drawling on as I sat across from you.
I stared blankly at my shoelaces,
And I could hear the weightless words.

I rubbed my tired eyes --
The same eyes you never knew weren't blue.
In the black fog I saw your true actions,
Speaking louder than your weightless words.

I have been drawling alot these past weeks.
I couldn't ever get that look in your eyes in my pictures,

but tonight, at ten forty four...
I did,
it wasn't the perfect you,
but,
I did it,
I drew for two hours,
and I got it.

Art,
you saved me.

I dreamed a dream far behind where things where different and love was blind .I dreamed of flowers blooming in autumn , i dreamed of things that where out of sight , i held my pen in my hand and held my tears from dropping ,i started writing what my dreams hided . Oh lord, a deep sorrow in my heart a sorrow that would break the unbroken heart. My ego stopped my drawling eyes, my shaky hands stopped me from writing. I layed  down on ground ,looked up the sky searching for a star hoping that one day i will fulfill my dream and lay down by your side. And at last till this day i am still dreaming to reach this star that will freeze my fire from melting again.

We watch movies and repeatedly listen to songs
Drawling on and on about the perfect, most passionate love.
Soulmates;
But if I loved the way I want,
The way they do in the movies,
Boom box outside your window,
Traveling across the world at the drop of a hat,
Grabbing your hand and dragging you out at night and early morning to watch stars and sunrises,
The grand gestures.
People would look at me like I was crazy.
It would get old;
To have someone who's eyes have glassed over with a rose colored shade.

You wouldn't live me.
You wouldn't experience me.

No.

You'd rather sit on your *** and watch me, portayed in bits and pieces,
On your TV screen.

Articulate Throwback (Amazing Rap that Doesn't Get Enough Respect)
Fielding an eclipsed Jack the Ripper Sun
Yielding dismissal garish, begotten The Matrix smokin’ gun
Wielding a firebrand skittish
Skills levied an intolerable tax by quisling quoted British
Stunting on heyday levity marksman of primes
Flogged for flagrant dragons sinking nickels and dimes aimed beatific sublime
Flowing like centripetal orbit  galvanized by riddled spirits dashed in secondary impetus of reason over rhyme
Littoral swank partial to Taylor Series of dedications Speak Now peaks livid with fumiducts of crippled sheep blandished for reach
Apologies invited always welcome for a kitsch debased by universal theaters yet united for Payable on Death singing the deceit of receipts impeached
Islanders flooding suicides punning that a sunken treasure is barbs smuggling
Otiose on ribald corsairs blinkered by the rhombos of speculation thunder itself about lightning starts wondering
Where a City by the Bay shining on a Hill of travesties of decay tanks for domesticated Negros that flashbangs got to slay
To the wistful shaken house music garnishing the prey of prayer on heavy pulls of quotable 415 hay-day
The wrinkled stray dog never  far from *****
Slapsticks against the tribunes awaiting for meteoric functions of a recessive allele of a dominant comet
Ludacris flickers dancing in dormant revelry because On Top, Just Let Go..I am honest and On It
To the milk of harvested stars glaring at tankers and garish broken FaceMash scars teetotalers scatter with Thursday crashing into glass shards
Black fame is a white epiphany of infamy designated by name
Of the craven coltish spinsters who market the crackling whiplash of sanity apportioned to the regaled insufflation of blame
Streaky on a jejune Diggity hapless hop of Kumbayas etched by Trailer Park’s scalding flop
Glorifying a Gangester heir to titanic humbled beginnings chockablock divested to Kennedy’s dead Candy Shop
Impressive rags of riches of counterfeit tags blundering with lazy LASER Tag of sharks too bellicose to earn a pitfall pittance of swag
Trippin’ by tripwires too flippant to be flippin’ on known graves sidesplitters of treecheese yaggots grimaced on madcaps of bottlecaps swimming in ether of money too happy for House of Pain rags of gag orders intrepid because some blood is Bad
****** drapes of tapestries too woven on Ducking Badger duck tape
Pretending not even a slightest twinge of celebrity faked is a tantamount affliction to Kobe’s escape
Time to rig the 7/11 notoriety of a caper drawl in Cape Town Blue Sky Action can barely offer scrape
Let them eat cake and heads roll like Nicholas Cage clairvoyant in mystique quaking like a Quaker parody rank-and-file rancid graveyard creep
Cuz the best in the Business evokes singes of Dre grazed persistence a Space Rover rather than a broken-down drive-by Vegas Cheap Holyfield Jeep
Forgeries in trigonometric time gone haywire because ******* of fools is delicious neutered ballistic wrong with elemental statistic
Armed to the Teeth because twinges of righteousness is strongly established because it elevates truces well-predicted
Reckon the self-aware hive jetsetting with Jive warbles of departure yet to arrive
“Talk” of those fewer in knowledge yet living an invented diatribe
Lil Dicky mumbling his churlish codling vendetta
Too petty on the game like a turgid Mariah Carey Christmas Sweater evaporating on benzo bleats because exaggeration is a measuring stick more prone to delusion than the vapid version of Eddie  Vedder
Ripping through seamstresses of time a delope from impoverished cesspool grime
Certainly not swinging with sockdolagers like Musk as UPS owns insider angles about BitCoin riches scoffing at #11 Sublime
I owe respect to an upstart prescience scowling hatched never against fragile egg-shell minds
He’s the predecessor to the Walter White of cesspool inveterate rivets in hulking pretense of a measured stick lying like Tony  Hawk on the grind drawling on videogame addicts lost to numbers like Wall Street bet on fractions divisible like Scarface on cardinal crime
Blip on the WHIP cackles of clever pasquinade owned by sizzurp of Red Wings demolished like Draper balking at the West Coast ****** of East Coast royalty etiolating on Life After Death because of a teased script of March 26th shining bright like nine-inch nails longer than an exaggerated Dicky loving pollution more than Sina Loa loves bricks
Mad respect to juggernaut Michigan flow, but when you henpeck a rooster fewer regaled Ravens start to sing like Tomorrow’s sung by Sheryl Crow
So attack the kenspeckel hiding like sobriety itching to revel
Even the greats are grating despite prestige owned like Steppenwolf inventing Heavy Metal
Yet the raspy dengonin certainly a curtain call for the moribund smooth competition genius but not square to my elevated level
Time to brush aside, politics is a Velvet Morning rather than an Everest scaffold of glaciers divide
Flourishing Eden of a Seattle worthy of treason on rollercoasters yet to ride
The contumely of charlatans berating brassage is a Lie Boring in Federal Way united against prejudices scowling because Qwersy Mencia is too fraught to enjoy the jeers of a tattered Pride
Past-Tense Quinn in his Chauvin Blue Suit is Queer on The Bends
For a better radio the shatter of the quaff is Damon on the mendlatch for the rights of heroism among men
Applesauce is scary when the cooks are too chary for emoluments of cherry-picked vanity inoculated because hackneyed hacksaws aren’t that scary
To a Rush Hour acclaim that owes a Martian a fair-share of the inviolable degrees above freezing that guarantees the Hang Seng
The cretaceous dinosaur livid in the Fields of Dreams lives to the honor of the author rather a subsidiary prosperity rooting for the same exact team
Credit belongs not to slot-machine jibes of Navy throngs because the sealed pedigree of a Potemkin stonewall ravaged an Atlanta March that Richard Sherman found himself wrong
Ripostes of wavered glory serenade Field’s Medal accolades jaunty with brimstone repartee for persecution of Sing-Sang jailed avuncular Dana Carvey
Crumpled in missives etched decisively by Popcorn paparazzi Lee Harvey Oswald Part Three dinging Reagan’s Drugs because belittled Batman and Robin Harvey Dent is on a defalcation spree
Limited by the gambit of orbit I flex space measured only by perception hourglasses mistake for Dewey Decimal ministry
Because mountebanks of the tramontane canard unscrewed by Donkey’s without the triumph of vindicated colts spew the unwarranted without the warrant of upright parlance
Deflecting the useless caricature of Jezebels they barely even know dancing with fisticuffs choleric with jaundiced illuminati chants of an age bracing for the venom of viper’s of gratuitous pretense in violence because the whittled conscience scourges footloose profligacy in dementia that owns probability rather than certainty but doesn’t stand a chance
A billowing toxic fume of a Trojan Horse of galloped complicity of headless horsemen too scared to even pinprick the average Brett Hume huffs like mad wolverines dancing with Buccaneers for the fidelity of bridled brides with a tailored or sloppy groom
Cowering behind plashy starlets dashed for authenticity too soon
The Red Robin Hood ****** of silhouettes of Caste system indecency is reduced to reductivism in peddled paranoia of Randall Graves confronting his deepest specious tomb
To rogue slipshod miracles of denuded ice for Christopher Reeves Wally World White in Simple Jack owleries of confiscated light they caper encaged Caspergers ergotamine flavored favor uptight
Glaring prince dashing Rusty with ***** for Hummers glazed with donut torus hummus swift with reverend repartee
Sunken sleepless abyss ghosts haunt for quaffs evanescent in backbone bliss incurring parted sight for nebbich sprees
Calculated by persnickety prattle brazen with bravado promontory sparked on the flames of an overhyped hysteria ablaze
Raisins aren’t the determinant of a blinkered starstruck page gilded to amaze
Formidable reform conserved against blasphemies of ****
Withstands the immutable geotaxis of inevitable backfires in limited scourges of scorn
Time to sacrifice the badge earn the primacy of trimleggers making a dash rushing for hourglass sand prominent in fiat flash
In a second a trampoline against a specious marvel is a sour remorse of a crusade turning into protection not found in autumn ash
With autarky righteous rain boogies against bogeys of golfers livid with sensational inane
Lunacy predicated on sensational maudlin labors of Genesis 3:16 birth pain
Incurred upon the toil of the lugubrious heights of teachers that defy tribes and stripes
Soldiering for God without even the slightest nefarious mercenary spite
Because Ledgers cannot be mistaken for legends because petty battles Abandoned Pools named were avoided for Nobel Prizes of moonshot fame never King Kong because 24k magic called the Hang Seng  game enter stage right
The thematic liberation of the freewheeler isn’t a combustion of truckers Ruckers allergic to chattered shame
But the time honored Sevendust defies blisters because a brave heroism leaps into legacy vaunted by cheery repute in winning hegemony against rigged fraud in frigid feral tames
I march to an inaugural chance without a chance of quick inauguration because Junetao is a duck-duck-go childish flicker against Amsterdam Vallon besides the church with a touching spectacle of solidarity beyond temporal Anacondas of deserved blame
An ally to the kitsch the prosperity of Nas is afforded to optimism never so fulgurant because of a bewitched Tik Tok twitch
As the true flock regards the true shepherd the guardian of wonder and the captain avoiding Yellow Submarines because Stayin’ Alive is a prophecy not a febrile contagion of germs pitching tents for flukes insistent on incident rather than honorable to Canada Dry on Strike for better than a bubble gum mumble rap of Lil Pump’s pruned humps for a ******* ghost rider rather than a profaned itch
But the camel survives because the needle doesn’t thrive in a world where God is always Stayin’ Alive to strike a pose for the voguest Jive
“The Seduction” lives and the corruption limps with glib bribery fibs because 2 Timothy 1:7 in autarky is a generous rhyme that  gives and gives
In endless crusade to beat like David the ***** of a poker miracle that stars in a showcase of a life of splendor eternal rather than a cursory kamikaze reckless fib
Its time for  abundance of life to be lived fully to truly find riches in the best possible life winsome in discretion to quake and yet remain immune to a Walgreens of Stonewall myth
Cast not the first stone against the immaculate Giant because everybody is shaking to Bond and Saint Joseph’s guarded wordsmith

All within.
Shout your spells from the river: Spirit drawling; stand beside your sinner, or let him choke.
Let her first ask if her soul will wither.
It's okay if you hate me for this
Pull emeralds and ivory from my wrist
Now turn your cheek and make believe I don't exist.

I look at my broken purple-tipped fingers, holding a cigarette drawling with ash
cupped around the ghost of a brown beer bottle, the smell permeates my fingers

painted purple with polish named with "no more film"

No more film. Huh. That's not a question.
I click the shutter, but nothing's there to capture the permanence. To project onto.

Nothing will be lacquered with a gloss
a painting of time with a smooth finish.

There might be a flash, but still nothing.

I might have disposables, they're costly to purchase, costly to develop. Same-o. Same-o.
They cost around ten dollars to develop, that's cheap, but expensive, in large quantities.

you and me
we barter like kings
and haggle away
deplorable things
wage wars, set siege
whatever it brings
and care not until
our epitaph sings

you sit swaddled in morality
wide-eyed with ideology
and conversational felonies
beneath a narcissist cowl

I sit asunder thunder rolling
let my thoughts get lost while strolling
meanwhile you are stalling, drawling
your self-inflicted toothless scowl

you and me
we barter like kings
we wear our wealth
in copper rings
until tomorrow's
daylight stings
the whites of our eyes;
the stumps of our wings.

I see the flower growing
no water just blood flowing
My brothers all distracted
no brains to counteract with..

The violence is appalling
reminders of the drawling
Are constantly broadcasted
incased in shiny plastic..

Beautiful and shiesty
the flower nurtured so
By every evil soul
delivering the blows..

If clarity is water..
most are dehydrated
If wisdom was a homie
most are very unaquanted..

And then I realized-
I am not suffering.
The I is not constant.
The sick father, that is
Constant. The drawling
Pain of humanity, that
Is constant. Those of us,
The Bukowski's, are merely
Those conscious of the
Continuous and everlasting
Stream of human
Suffering.

If your voice were rain,
it would fall on my ready lips
so I could taste your drawling syllables,
and press my hot breath against
the mirror of your easy vowels.

If your eyes were two street lights
In the pregnant sleep of midnight.
They would be practically unchanged.
Though I would miss
the fringe of butterfly lashes
and the steady planes of your face.

If your legs were two rolling mountains,
I would climb up,
to sit safely in the valley of your thighs.
And with curls of your beard
and old, earthen magic
I could build a cozy mountain home.
Preferably with a wrap around porch
to admire the view.

If you were mine,
I would read you this poem.

i think i should let you know
that you wouldn't just make an ugly girl
you'd make an ugly anything
because your mind
is ugly
and that every time i hear your voice
your drawling,
depressing,
slur
i want to throw my brain
out a window
into a vat of lava
i know this is all so sudden
but you **** me off
an' ****

today i cut off some of my hair with a pink razor

and now i keep finding half-inch strands

all in my shirt
and on my wrists
and even once on this page

and ever since i've been
waiting
for that new freeing
feeling

the one you're supposed
to get
when you're listening to soft
music

and you're not sure what your
hair will look like
when it dries

and that sun ––

that sun is peeling through the
leaves just to meet your gaze

then blind you.

i've been waiting,
and waiting,
and waiting.

yet all i feel is this
silly complacence and a
slight mourning for all the
time i've wasted.

and through these former pages
i can see the indentions
of the pressure
my hands have pressed
into these former pages

and i wonder what it was
that caused me to apply
so much force

to a 5cent yellow mechanical
pencil

that can do no more than
breathe sentience into my
thoughts,

my drawling thoughts,

and remind me that i've been
wearing gym shorts and a
grey t-shirt with the logo of
a bar i've never even been
to before

for about three days now.

i guess

i'm expecting the wrong things
to fill me up.

There's a radio on
Blending into the drone of the car.
Outside, it is silent.
Silent trees, silent night.
Inside, there is weight.
All around, may as well be outer space.
Dark, there's stars.  I'm an astronaut
Gazing through the thick paned glass.
Inside, where there's weight, I feel completely
Filled.
And so separate from what's out there.
Not just the stars, the trees, the noise,
But the people, the laughs, the bounce.
Tomorrow, I'll be buoyant again.
Eyes wide,
Limbs nimble,
A-glow.
Tonight, though, I am heavy
Heavy in my hips and head and heart and ribs
Every breath wraps me in an embrace of air
I feel my stomach hug back.
My eyelids steal kisses
My legs melt.
Inside (of me) there's weight
Soft, sweet, lulling, drawling
Weight.

I'm with drawling from Coke
And you
My heart has knives stabbing through it from every possible angle somewhat resembling multiple isosceles triangles
My body shakes at-7 degrees fahrenheit
My stomach has a feeling like cockroaches and worms are crawling around, playing tennis in my intestines.
I think that sleep deprivation is what has caused me to dream about you while I'm awake
I vomited up blue emotions along with green bile because I haven't eaten in three days
I'm SORRY I blacked out and opened my wrist to a gaping cut
I guess that all the blood was meant to full force me back to reality
The Reality that your gone
I promise I want to live but it's hard when all it has been doing is raining inside my brain
I bite my finger nails and spit out anxiety
I need help before I shrink down into what he made me feel

The ocean, consume me.
I hear your call to me like a mother cow to her calf,
A low drawling echo that grows with the hour.
Or the calf to its mother,
you call me home
to suckle on my breast where in it my heart beats.
Drum, drum.
Be still the drums.
Laying deep in dark abyss.
The drums, the drums.
I smell the salty air
It haunts my passage, staining my dress
with crusted, crystallised foam.
Will this heart ne'er be clean?
To be filthied by shame, now unworthy to him
by the sea and what it has done to me.
I wait for you.
You growing pains, you. You wisdom teeth pushing through.
The dust settles in my candle light.
The little white flecks fall together like prancing dandelion seeds
as fragile as children who have been wasted in your hands like white gold,
thrown away.
What they could have been had they fallen to my hands.
Rosey and blue-eyed with marjoram soft hair.
So I wait, breath now freezing with the in and out
steadying as the tide rises.
It calls me to consume me.
Dare I step to it? Submerse my feet within the waves.
One more hour, one more day - tick, tock, tick, tock.
But what if this hour he comes my way?
Descending from heaven, knocking at my gate.
The crash of the ocean against my hull.
Wait, wait, for my life and forever, I will wait.
The ocean, consume me.

It
is
done

then to dine on steak, drink sassafras? or
to go but wanting not to leave
and
to pass the baton on

it
is
done
though I've not gone

this is just the practice run
the unloaded gun lays on the
ironing board
the television blaring
daring me to do it now,
but there's a programme I must see
on the BBC or ITV or one of several channels in-between
a feature that I should have seen but never did.

The bleak in me or the weak in me
I'm never sure which one
tells me not to switch the TV on
and to do the deed and go into the self destruct,
get ****** I say,
not too often,
but as often as I need.

and so to lighten up I
read a copy of Punch,
a magazine,
I have a hunch I've read this one before
nevertheless it closes the door on depression
and lets a little light creep in.

Sin do tell when you ring the bell
and holler out unclean
so I can wash the feet of virgins
feed street urchins and
touch the robe.

the drawling days
nature
and her funny ways,
I have to laugh at times
and at those times
it's not so bad.

Oh what a racket what a row,
that blunders in and breaks my precious quiet.
Over field it storms to the hills brown
and tares asunder silence with its riot.
Oh what a monster what sound
to cover all the singing of the birds.
Such a noise we should not allowed
to breach the lovely silence of the world.
Oh what a horrid drawling grown
it rumbles through the earth and makes it quake.
How I wish this noise would let alone,
all I want is peace for goodness sake.

I think I'll go to bed
Wherein every things for certain
Wherein I'll lay down mine head
Whilst drawling the deathly curtain....

The quiet whispers taunt me.
In the night beneath the umbral waves
The humble haze still haunts me.
Through daunting ways these gauntly wraiths
Yet flaunt the ways they wont me
To nightly pangs of hunger,
Reins, and tormenting unending.
Belike the blaze of spectral flames
Will burn my soul as kindling
Til naught remains but rotted frames;
To this my will is dwindling.

The ghastly echoes call me.
From my slumber come the rumbling of
A hunger that befalls me.
Amidst the stomach grumbling come the
Numbing screams, appalling
Dreams, they seem to plead with me,
Indeed, beseech me, drawling
In tongues unknown to me. Their bleat
Is strangely so familiar.
But one would tone above the rest
That said: "Behold! A killer!"

Aloud phantasms sing
Their eerie verses full of curses.
Terse, yet maddening.
Severe at first, yes, but the worst,
Perverse, the last conceived
Verse that's heard as they rehearse
Coerce a lasting bleed
From eyes and ears and nose. Behold
Those bursts of plasm brings
The fiends that thirst as they traverse
Headfirst through fathomed greed.

My bonds begin to break.
As all these raunchy melodies
Beset me, here I shake.
Conniptions, fits, and predilection
Of sadistic traits.
No longer can they be restrained,
The bloodlust must be slaked.
Among the graves of wanton slaves
Where staunch stench radiates
I wake to see nightmarish scenes
So garishly ornate.

Hailed by an astral choir.
Their incantations of damnation
Hasten my desire
To sever, ****, obliterate,
And purge through blood and fire
The filth, the waste, that permeates
This place that earns my ire.
A desecrated wretch, her fated
Death be made entire.
Raze her face with razor blades,
Exsaguinate the liar.

The blood moon's macabre glow
Bids me to forbidden deeds
And beckons me below.
A severed head and crimson red
Flora form a show
With shredded flesh. Lecherousness
This foetid mess invokes.
I taste the blood...Oh, what a rush!
By lust I feel possessed!
The litanies have conjured me
To binge on blood and death.

She is prone to bouts of hysteria.
She smokes on her front porch, eyes fixed on the drawling, dipping sun,
kicking at clumps of her wisterias.
She is getting hysterical. She is waiting for a miracle.
It finally arrives. She signs for it, waves off the deliveryman who offers to help bring it inside.
“Never mind,” she mutters to herself, to her future self, lugs it in, box and all, across the threshold,
old cigarette tossed forgotten by the road.
She unpacks it, checks for cracks, dusts it off, brushes down the Styrofoam packs.
“Hmm,” she hums, thumbs brushing across her forearms. Her fingers drum against the table.
Finally, she sets it on her mantle. She tilts her head left and right –
Maybe it’s the light. Maybe it’s the angle.
It’s the furniture, she decides. It doesn’t match, it clashes terribly. There’s really nothing she can do about it, there isn’t anything to be done.
She picks it up once again, looks it over, sighing deeply. She never keeps her receipts, never really returns anything, but with this – she’ll admit that she’s sincerely disappointed.
And she’s disjointed, she wants a Camel. She is certain the enamel of her two front teeth has started chipping, and then suddenly her miracle is slipping, tipping down out of her hands,
and there’s no way she can stop it
dropping down onto her tile, cracking out in violent pinwheels
smashing cleanly into a pile of useless shards on hard ceramic
and she can feel the teardrops starting; she doesn’t think that she can stand it –
because her miracle was precious;
because she thinks she would have kept it.