Timeless rain, come carelessly, come
scour the furrows in the land.
You are most cathartic for the sky
and drop from fumbling hands.

Drumroll, drumroll - smiling, insist
yourself in grass and wood and fences
marked as Private. You are young snow
but with ambition. A stormcloud’s
in my head and you should know that
the world is drenched and wailing.

Italic drumroll...
imperial cavalcade with Roman horns, eagle standards raised;

♪ ♫♪♫ ♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪♪♫♫♪

ALL HAIL !
Ye screen-fed sacrificial citizens, seething simpletons and volatile voters:
attend now, with republican fervor, tempered by democratic zeal, to the golden-tongued orator of our epoch, gallant guardian of American greatness, avatar of avarice, the Jeffersonian gentleman, anointed autocrat and Sultan of Swell, windswept Wazir of Wonderful, emissary of towering eminence in empire, The Anti H-Rod: Donald J. TRUMP !

(Plebeians look up from their circus-bread for a second—)

And may Our Sovereign Savior & Almighty God also bless his worthy opponent and adversary HILLARY ("H-Rod")

(Patricians murmur, nod; a few salute*)

There's a turning point on my tongue when I realize who you really are.

You appear to me in macaroni art, in fingerpaintings, in cracked iPhone screens.

I dream you in refrigerator word magnets / I read you in my favorite novel from age 13 and cry about it.

Your self-portrait is etched in my bottom-bowl bulimia at 2:07 AM. And guess what?

(I'm not entirely convinced that you didn't come crafted from the sea, slimy and sultry and green trails or tails surfacing to hold hands and jigsaw your human form.)

At night, I see lines of caterpillars leading from your belly button to be your matter. Excuse me? I am going through your life with a fine-toothed comb and knitting an afghan out of your DNA.

Drumroll, please! / I've got it -

You are 47 Autumns. You Are exactly as You Were.

The first rays of watery light
The birds strike up a chorus
And the flowers tilt their faces towards the sky.
Little cherubs in their cots
Roll plump fists over sleepy eyes.
Dreams pack their bags ready to depart
And stars blow kisses towards
An iminent exit.
The world holds its breath
In eager anticipation.
The sun, in all its blazing glory
Announces the dawning of a new day
A day full of hope
A day full of love
A day full
A day.
All that's missing is the drum roll

The magic in your eyes,
The "make my knees weak" smile,
The "my heart skipped a beat" moment.
The "world stopped turning" for a while.
That electric feeling,
when our elbows touch,
That comforting lie,
"I've missed you so much"
The heat of the moment,
When my hand wraps around your waist,
and I pull you close,
with the other hand on your face,
The "drumroll" leading,
to the firework kiss,
The warm embrace after,
that always makes me wish,
That if clocks could be broken,
Then so would be time,
And I wouldn't have to hurry,
In this paradise of mine,
and all these heavens,
that begin with a hello,
All disappear,
and time begins to slow,
and I try my hardest not to show you,
but no matter how hard I try,
The hell in hello,
is when you say goodbye.

Your pacing pulse beats a drumroll in anticipation of the unknown
Yet your soul remains silent in cries as an unborn
Singing lullabies in cries up to the highest note
Still you stand placid,as the calm of the eye in a storm

Mutely you hope the transition to your dreams
Is eternal separation from the real
You rather find harmony in nyctophilia in the night because,
Daily the sun's illumination reminds you of the light you miss in your life


Your salty pillow know who you are.

BUT you built a home in your mind..now you wore a smile,descended the heavens when you fed your subconscious with eternal light. It all sources of your smile.

Now your pillow is dry.

it usually starts with a canvas of white,
frowned upon,
but later, the canvas endears
     and makes anyone the flag-bearing
idiot to ensure that everyone: keeps marching,
    rather than procrastinating -
on and on and on...
    it's not out of defeatism -
                           regardless -
can you imagine Hamlet meeting Macbeth?
    i do, pretty much all the time,
that's why i am not: matrimonial.
    i can't think of having a woman and then
think of providing her a kettle, or
an ironing board...
                           'tis music, that gratifies the soul...
there's no: more more more! in music,
there's either eloquence... or silence...
such as the pleb-kindred musings
of someone who inherited a soul in
a different tongue, and the same inheritor,
dragging such fakery into the abyss...
on a navy pattern patent of St. Andrews:
Aphrodite sat and whispered -
that her heart stopped beating.
  punctuation marks, eye... worth a measure
unparalleled in man to ditto in
a millimetre, centimetre, kilometre...
and so forth...
but diacritical marks! a hot bagel conundrum!
are punctuation marks kindred of
diacritical marks?
to my suspicion, they are...
    Cow Gate... Edinburgh, where the filth
throngs in abandoned churches...
and everyone gesticulates: to a haggis
we'll just juggle... pardon pairing
ol' mctweed - we'll just juggle.
thankfully the anglicans didn't anticipate
anything having worth beyond a comma
with what went above a letter, rather than
in-between words;
    maybe the semicolon is a clue,
as to why it wasn't translated into
               diacritics? the Greeks are utilising
the "squared" version of punctuation...
why aren't you?
    borrowing from German i see...
let's take a word from German and hyphen!
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
               what's the word?
  don't know... any skilled cobbler would
tell you: hoof! you cranky ol' *****!
and when did it matter to be "hateful" of women?
well... when someone mattered in saying:
that man desires to pass on his genes.
****! was i ever so vain as to claim a need
for passing my genes toward a chronology?
then again... what's the most important
logical compound that saturates and signifies
existentialism? etymology...
why? well... etymology is an incubator module...
it constricts the eyes to see what's
fervent in claiming building blocks...
the rest is bound to the neanderthal wall
called: Israel here... Palestine with balaclava
over there...
        you gonna count matchsticks with
a neanderthal before you create a campfire?
flint-stones away! bazooka that array
of fireworks! soundtrack provided by
Handel!
    so can i sop? Darwinism has exhausted
itself... but etymology hasn't...
we know that by proximity-resemblance
we turned to ape to shake, the narcissus...
and a thousand ape-**** tantrums later
we're mobilised reason...
         fair enough...
i still think ape is not worth a question
about concerning diapers...
how did the **** and bladder muscles
devolve, for the tongue to evolve...
my goodness!
       a trinity, holy! and glorified on
the groundwork of leeches succumbing to penance
and dieting!
        we gave away the prowess of
       a sturdy ****, to invite a strengthening
of the tongue, and subsequent amusement:
homosexuality... kangaroo fight-talk.
      but it got me going,
watching 20 useful idiots, and etymology.
some words aren't really bound to etymology,
as one can say: diacritical marks ensure
  that words (not sentences) are prescribed
ciphers of punctuational demand... or rhythm.
       the title? the diacritical mark used?
      Denmark in polish: Dania.
  England in polish: Anglia.
                  Germany in polish: Niemcy.
   Dane in polish: Duńczyk.
an englishman (anglo) in polish: anglik
  a german in polish: niemiec.
  orthography is orthodoxy, a strict authority,
orthography stresses when an when
diacritical marks ought to be used,
so it all looks pretty, and well dressed...
what's the synonym of orthography translated
into post-syllable punctuation?
       a dependency to create fakes...
we create these punctuation marks by faking
a breath... or keeping one under water...
   ... = just an ambiguity of trailing whereby
neither . nor , nor ; nor : really matter.
       they are though, indicators in how
one could write a whole book whereby
punctuation marks don't exist,
               or at least a chapter, like Joyce,
and everything would turn out
to be a drumroll crescendo of applause...
but then again, insert but one diacritical mark
into a body of Joyce's Ulysses or Finnegan's Wake...
and the whole thing disintegrates...
  just one diacritical mark on a letter,
and as sure as ****... the whole poncy
artifice of not using punctuation marks is
double exposure as to not have used
diacritical marks, and exposed the world
to Australian, American, Canadian,
New Zealander, Irvine Scōtish and Velsh...
      sure, what's the big deal?
the very subtle way of saying ethnic cleansing...
     no, not a leftist sorta: oh deary me
type of Mary Poppins...
      it's crass, because it's lazy...
and the fact that English creates so much
diacritical diversity, is because it doesn't use
it when encoding... which makes it perfect!
for emoticons and acronyms,
   and all manner of linguistic mayhem!
it was only about syllables mate... to be honest,
it only took a comma above a letter to
say whether it needed pinching a higher-tier
of a sound that originated in a ch sound...
never mind you eroding your memory
to say cheap vs. Chopin...
         and there goes bilbo baggins...
                             in a shopping trolley.

Love captures smiles
deep within eyes,
within hearts

reflections spiral
as mirrors expand views.

Sparrow sing
as footsteps dance
at doorways ajar.  

love dictates
in breeze as bells toll

in steno-like heartbeats
eyelids fluttering in drumroll
in moments unfold like wind.

Love inside dreamscape
regenerates, awakens
Oneness is realized.

You wallow in your soberless prison,
Clouds of misrey surround you like cobwebs in a long forgotton castle,
Your thoughts play the role of Judas better today than they did yesterday,
You try to escape from you self imposed exile like a fly from a spiders web, But you're trapped, like a curious ****** by her first kiss.
The drumroll of battle sounds in your head,
Today, the boot must go on the other foot.
(Breezy)

Trusting you like this
Feels like sharing one breath;
The drumroll before the kiss.
Your exhale becoming my inhale.
Your forehead on mine.
Our eyelashes grazing each other.

Our proximity is electric and charged,
but innocent and patient.
Only taking what we are given,and
Worshipping every broken piece like the
Promises we made that beautiful day in November.

I know we aren’t together,
But this can’t just be friends.
My heart is a canteen,
carrying the entire ocean.
It’s salty, and the tide is always high.
The waves are where ships go to wreck.
But when you saw it in its entirety, you recognized its depth.

And you called it amazing.
You said you would cherish it always.
I want the lifeguard to reel you in and lock you out,
I do not trust my current, you will be torn out to sea.
But you said you’d always protect me.
And the absurdity of that makes me want to believe you.

Stewing in his cave
Never alone said the bad one
He wept at his life, incomplete
Over a hill in the distance went the sun
Resting headaches on the bloodred horizon

Awaken the bad one
Stop dreaming bad one
Far away
Never alone said the bad one

Caressing the distance with his watery eyes
Peeling the scars with his gritted teeth
Warming the bones
Never alone
Oh
Never alone
Said the bad one

Where have they gone?
A flicker behind him
A memory
An unquenchable thirst
Chasing a the end of a dying drumroll

Never alone said the bad one

Children’s voices crying out
and laughing loud and clear
Like an orchestra of sound
for everyone to hear

The bass starts first, parental leave
gives go ahead to play
The marching beat as kids go forth
and out into the day

A trumpet hail for company
is raised from door to door
The flute returns, the oboe too
accompanied by more

The fun begins on strings and swings
go back and forth with speed
All cares and woes are flung away
percussion takes the lead

A drumroll raises up the stakes
a dangerous new move
Chromatic scales, gymnastic fails
the cymbal’s sharp reprove

The roundabout reveals the chorus
repeating the refrain
The highs, the lows and all between
All voices sing again

The seesaw conversation starts
bassoons begin up high
The oboes and an English horn
ascend into the sky

A far away note penetrates
the happy symphony
A lone voice trills with increased speed
and calls out ‘Time for Tea’

As kids go home the conductor
Bows and takes his leave
The park is left in quietness
notes floating in the breeze

What do you know
Didn’t work out for you and Joe
What can I say
Did I mention he was gay
Still, what about you and Di
Brought a tear to a glass eye
It was your mum who asked the question
What’s a Bi ,,,,,
Had to laugh, my oh my
Still, these things are sent to try us
Sorry about Gus, and the bus
Just not fare, oops sorry, meant fair
Your mother tells me you’ve met the one
Drumroll please, he’s Japanese
Strange name though, Harry
Okay just got an update, Hara Kari
What are you doing with these guys, never mind Di
Your mum says its been a week with the Greek
I’m over the moon
Spoke too soon
Fell off his horse
Was it wooden
I’m hearing you’re in Finland with some geyser called Stan
Already I’m thinking, poor man
Okay, your mum’s going on about a bear
Now Stan’s no longer there
It’s a nightmare
Where will it end
What, you’ve found a friend
Setting a new trend
Well, now I feel at ease
You’re kidding, deadly disease
Your mum says you want to try again
O.M.G, have you gone insane
I’m heading for the hills
Taking pills
Throwing myself under a train
Missed the bus
Playing Russian roulette
Oh no, I've just realised
This is how it all begun
You've won.

the new year came
darkness in its wake
mars took careful aim
sanity took a break

first plague, then war,
black clouds 'n thunder
we've stopped keeping score
of bodies wrought asunder,

gone is modest shame
conscience limping lame
life is but a game
all to take a claim

It is cool, dry and very early
on this crisp September morn.
The General’s orders were quite succinct:
This man must die at dawn.

We’ve erected here a gallows
On the street for all to see:
This man will die a traitor’s death
For what he calls” Liberty”

With the Parson in attendance
He is brought here, grave and pale,
This spy posed as a teacher
His name is Nathan Hale.

I placed the noose around his neck
The knot was tightly wound
The condemned was then allowed to speak
before the drums would sound.

“The cause for which i am dying for i did not take up in an idle moment
i was born it as are all my countrymen
if the belief in man’s right to freedom is held on any other place on earth
i have not heard of it
i am proud to have lived in a country where freedom is a reality
living it has been my privlege to fight for it
in death i shall hold it forever
if i were to be born a thousand times i would choose no other life
but service to American freedom
i have only one sorrow
i only regret that i have but one life to loose for my country”

At that, I heard the drumroll sound.
My captain gave a nod.
I pushed the brave young traitor
to his meeting with his God.

We left him hanging several days,
As a lesson to the town
Of the fate awaiting traitors
Who take arms against the crown.

At dusk last night we cut him down
When no one was around
And laid him in an unmarked grave
which never will  be found.

In the dim light of the street lamps
On a warm fall night
We spoke until we were spinning
On the wonder
Of how this hasn’t happened yet
Laughing until our faces hurt
Over everything and nothing at all
Passing back and forth
Stories of past adventures
And perhaps we’ve told them before
But this time seems different
There’s a spark in the air
Or maybe a gentle breeze
Either way we inch closer
Until we’re inches apart
Knowing this can’t happen
But enjoying the drumroll
Remembering
That we’re in the company of others
We sigh secretly
Not here
Not now
But maybe someday

Eventide had blushed listless. Its once slick pink lips chapped filmy white until faded darkness claimed the screen. Crouching shelf clouds growl. The distinction between cloud and breath is long lost.

Bedroom-jailed for pre-teen misdeeds, I break out to watch the sky. My slack-jawed shutter yawns wide enough for a grateful, lithe-graceful, exit. I land dully on dust-crusted, dinner roll earth, too dry to crunch. Each damp footfall collects another coating of soft, fine flour, congealing into ghostly pedicure foam. Outside is airless, closer than my detention. There is no freshing comfort here.

As the prescient cumulus towers, the earth and I expect. We are storm-primed, desperate for the great release. We sit torrent-wired, tongues out to taste the fat rain drops. Our tardy Robin Hood will come to steal the pressing moisture from the air and send it groundward. We are alert for his redistribution. His deeds will turn flour puffs to glueing paste, and free wheezing chests in sweet, wet, relief. Low thunder is our drumroll with intermittent cymbal crashes. We wait for the splashes in slick, fuggy, discomfort.

The earth is waiting to breathe, and so am I.

I escape !
The eyes close,
My brain, a barn on fire
Burning; numb the sore
Sweat, tracing it's track
Swoop, the drool flows
Heaviness in the head,
Flash, ran the fly across
Light sways tumultuous,
Drumroll; a fleeting close
Lucid acid dreams,
Sweet almonds,
Thought of you.

And suddenly nothing.

does the air smell fresh at the root
of all histories where rhythm and heart beat
still merged as a pulse from the core
of the earth and the sun is closer
to the heart of all things
life giving and dangerous
warm and eternal in the face
of a fly with a universe inside
does your heart sing when the foot
kisses the dirt that nourished your tree
do you swirl with the drumroll and
discover your right to be free?

There is something within me
A light that no one can see
But everyone can feel
It burns immortal inside me
It fills and takes form of my body
Its light shining through my pores
Its warmth pulsing out through me
As if a drumroll to who I'm yet to be
As if the beating of a heart in time with my own
There is someone within me

Light is dripping from the ceiling
(looks like you don’t really care):
If you stay with me this evening,
I will be your teddybear.
I will tuck you in at night,
Make you feel that it’s alright.

Drumroll, bass, guitar and fiddle
(you’re as quiet as they get):
If you care to die a little,

I will be your cigarette.
At your lips I’ll burn and fly,
All in ashes, to the sky.

Men are smashed, somebody fainted
(you just look completely fine):
If, perhaps, you’d like to get it,
I will be your glass of wine.
Cheer you up when you are sad,
Tip your tongue with viscous red.

Now it’s closing time, the last call
(seems that you would like to leave):
If you fancy cheeky rascals,
I will be your rebel chief.
I will play both Stark and Blaine,
Conquer countries in your name.

Half-transparent, slim, and curly,
You have almost fled my sight:
If you need to get up early,
I will be your taxi ride.
Safely drop you by your door
Not expecting something more.

Make a list
Set things right
Be like your father
Smoking green to appease
Smoking green to please
Smoking every single tree
Apples falling drumroll deeds