Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather ****
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And **** his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Cracking his whip in starts of joy
A happy ***** driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight
Wi cheerings from his parents given
Starts neath the joyous smiles of heaven
And sawns wi many an idle stand
Wi bookbag swinging in his hand
And gazes as he passes bye
On every thing that meets his eye
Young lambs seem tempting him to play
Dancing and bleating in his way
Wi trembling tails and pointed ears
They follow him and loose their fears
He smiles upon their sunny faces
And feign woud join their happy races
The birds that sing on bush and tree
Seem chirping for his company
And all in fancys idle whim
Seem keeping holiday but him
He lolls upon each resting stile
To see the fields so sweetly smile
To see the wheat grow green and long
And list the weeders toiling song
Or short note of the changing thrush
Above him in the white thorn bush
That oer the leaning stile bends low
Loaded wi mockery of snow
Mozzld wi many a lushing thread
Of crab tree blossoms delicate red
He often bends wi many a wish
Oer the brig rail to view the fish
Go sturting by in sunny gleams
And chucks in the eye dazzld streams
Crumbs from his pocket oft to watch
The swarming struttle come to catch
Them where they to the bottom sile
Sighing in fancys joy the while
Hes cautiond not to stand so nigh
By rosey milkmaid tripping bye
Where he admires wi fond delight
And longs to be there mute till night
He often ventures thro the day
At truant now and then to play
Rambling about the field and plain
Seeking larks nests in the grain
And picking flowers and boughs of may
To hurd awhile and throw away
Lurking neath bushes from the sight
Of tell tale eyes till schools noon night
Listing each hour for church clocks hum
To know the hour to wander home
That parents may not think him long
Nor dream of his rude doing wrong
Dreading thro the night wi dreaming pain
To meet his masters wand again
Each hedge is loaded thick wi green
And where the hedger late hath been
Tender shoots begin to grow
From the mossy stumps below
While sheep and cow that teaze the grain
will nip them to the root again
They lay their bill and mittens bye
And on to other labours hie
While wood men still on spring intrudes
And thins the shadow solitudes
Wi sharpend axes felling down
The oak trees budding into brown
Where as they crash upon the ground
A crowd of labourers gather round
And mix among the shadows dark
To rip the crackling staining bark
From off the tree and lay when done
The rolls in lares to meet the sun
Depriving yearly where they come
The green wood pecker of its home
That early in the spring began
Far from the sight of troubling man
And bord their round holes in each tree
In fancys sweet security
Till startld wi the woodmans noise
It wakes from all its dreaming joys
The blue bells too that thickly bloom
Where man was never feared to come
And smell smocks that from view retires
**** rustling leaves and bowing briars
And stooping lilys of the valley
That comes wi shades and dews to dally
White beady drops on slender threads
Wi broad hood leaves above their heads
Like white robd maids in summer hours
Neath umberellas shunning showers
These neath the barkmens crushing treads
Oft perish in their blooming beds
Thus stript of boughs and bark in white
Their trunks shine in the mellow light
Beneath the green surviving trees
That wave above them in the breeze
And waking whispers slowly bends
As if they mournd their fallen friends
Each morning now the weeders meet
To cut the thistle from the wheat
And ruin in the sunny hours
Full many wild weeds of their flowers
Corn poppys that in crimson dwell
Calld ‘head achs’ from their sickly smell
And carlock yellow as the sun
That oer the may fields thickly run
And ‘iron ****’ content to share
The meanest spot that spring can spare
Een roads where danger hourly comes
Is not wi out its purple blooms
And leaves wi points like thistles round
Thickset that have no strength to wound
That shrink to childhoods eager hold
Like hair—and with its eye of gold
And scarlet starry points of flowers
Pimpernel dreading nights and showers
Oft calld ‘the shepherds weather glass’
That sleep till suns have dyd the grass
Then wakes and spreads its creeping bloom
Till clouds or threatning shadows come
Then close it shuts to sleep again
Which weeders see and talk of rain
And boys that mark them shut so soon
will call them ‘John go bed at noon
And fumitory too a name
That superstition holds to fame
Whose red and purple mottled flowers
Are cropt by maids in weeding hours
To boil in water milk and way1
For washes on an holiday
To make their beauty fair and sleak
And scour the tan from summers cheek
And simple small forget me not
Eyd wi a pinshead yellow spot
I’th’ middle of its tender blue
That gains from poets notice due
These flowers the toil by crowds destroys
And robs them of their lowly joys
That met the may wi hopes as sweet
As those her suns in gardens meet
And oft the dame will feel inclind
As childhoods memory comes to mind
To turn her hook away and spare
The blooms it lovd to gather there
My wild field catalogue of flowers
Grows in my ryhmes as thick as showers
Tedious and long as they may be
To some, they never weary me
The wood and mead and field of grain
I coud hunt oer and oer again
And talk to every blossom wild
Fond as a parent to a child
And cull them in my childish joy
By swarms and swarms and never cloy
When their lank shades oer morning pearls
Shrink from their lengths to little girls
And like the clock hand pointing one
Is turnd and tells the morning gone
They leave their toils for dinners hour
Beneath some hedges bramble bower
And season sweet their savory meals
Wi joke and tale and merry peals
Of ancient tunes from happy tongues
While linnets join their fitful songs
Perchd oer their heads in frolic play
Among the tufts of motling may
The young girls whisper things of love
And from the old dames hearing move
Oft making ‘love knotts’ in the shade
Of blue green oat or wheaten blade
And trying simple charms and spells
That rural superstition tells
They pull the little blossom threads
From out the knapweeds button heads
And put the husk wi many a smile
In their white bosoms for awhile
Who if they guess aright the swain
That loves sweet fancys trys to gain
Tis said that ere its lain an hour
Twill blossom wi a second flower
And from her white ******* hankerchief
Bloom as they ne’er had lost a leaf
When signs appear that token wet
As they are neath the bushes met
The girls are glad wi hopes of play
And harping of the holiday
A hugh blue bird will often swim
Along the wheat when skys grow dim
Wi clouds—slow as the gales of spring
In motion wi dark shadowd wing
Beneath the coming storm it sails
And lonly chirps the wheat hid quails
That came to live wi spring again
And start when summer browns the grain
They start the young girls joys afloat
Wi ‘wet my foot’ its yearly note
So fancy doth the sound explain
And proves it oft a sign of rain
About the moor ‘**** sheep and cow
The boy or old man wanders now
Hunting all day wi hopful pace
Each thick sown rushy thistly place
For plover eggs while oer them flye
The fearful birds wi teazing cry
Trying to lead their steps astray
And coying him another way
And be the weather chill or warm
Wi brown hats truckd beneath his arm
Holding each prize their search has won
They plod bare headed to the sun
Now dames oft bustle from their wheels
Wi childern scampering at their heels
To watch the bees that hang and swive
In clumps about each thronging hive
And flit and thicken in the light
While the old dame enjoys the sight
And raps the while their warming pans
A spell that superstition plans
To coax them in the garden bounds
As if they lovd the tinkling sounds
And oft one hears the dinning noise
Which dames believe each swarm decoys
Around each village day by day
Mingling in the warmth of may
Sweet scented herbs her skill contrives
To rub the bramble platted hives
Fennels thread leaves and crimpld balm
To scent the new house of the swarm
The thresher dull as winter days
And lost to all that spring displays
Still mid his barn dust forcd to stand
Swings his frail round wi weary hand
While oer his head shades thickly creep
And hides the blinking owl asleep
And bats in cobweb corners bred
Sharing till night their murky bed
The sunshine trickles on the floor
Thro every crevice of the door
And makes his barn where shadows dwell
As irksome as a prisoners cell
And as he seeks his daily meal
As schoolboys from their tasks will steal
ile often stands in fond delay
To see the daisy in his way
And wild weeds flowering on the wall
That will his childish sports recall
Of all the joys that came wi spring
The twirling top the marble ring
The gingling halfpence hussld up
At pitch and toss the eager stoop
To pick up heads, the smuggeld plays
Neath hovels upon sabbath days
When parson he is safe from view
And clerk sings amen in his pew
The sitting down when school was oer
Upon the threshold by his door
Picking from mallows sport to please
Each crumpld seed he calld a cheese
And hunting from the stackyard sod
The stinking hen banes belted pod
By youths vain fancys sweetly fed
Christning them his loaves of bread
He sees while rocking down the street
Wi weary hands and crimpling feet
Young childern at the self same games
And hears the self same simple names
Still floating on each happy tongue
Touchd wi the simple scene so strong
Tears almost start and many a sigh
Regrets the happiness gone bye
And in sweet natures holiday
His heart is sad while all is gay
How lovly now are lanes and balks
For toils and lovers sunday walks
The daisey and the buttercup
For which the laughing childern stoop
A hundred times throughout the day
In their rude ramping summer play
So thickly now the pasture crowds
In gold and silver sheeted clouds
As if the drops in april showers
Had woo’d the sun and swoond to flowers
The brook resumes its summer dresses
Purling neath grass and water cresses
And mint and flag leaf swording high
Their blooms to the unheeding eye
And taper bowbent hanging rushes
And horse tail childerns bottle brushes
And summer tracks about its brink
Is fresh again where cattle drink
And on its sunny bank the swain
Stretches his idle length again
Soon as the sun forgets the day
The moon looks down on the lovly may
And the little star his friend and guide
Travelling together side by side
And the seven stars and charleses wain
Hangs smiling oer green woods agen
The heaven rekindles all alive
Wi light the may bees round the hive
Swarm not so thick in mornings eye
As stars do in the evening skye
All all are nestling in their joys
The flowers and birds and pasture boys
The firetail, long a stranger, comes
To his last summer haunts and homes
To hollow tree and crevisd wall
And in the grass the rails odd call
That featherd spirit stops the swain
To listen to his note again
And school boy still in vain retraces
The secrets of his hiding places
In the black thorns crowded copse
Thro its varied turns and stops
The nightingale its ditty weaves
Hid in a multitude of leaves
The boy stops short to hear the strain
And ’sweet jug jug’ he mocks again
The yellow hammer builds its nest
By banks where sun beams earliest rest
That drys the dews from off the grass
Shading it from all that pass
Save the rude boy wi ferret gaze
That hunts thro evry secret maze
He finds its pencild eggs agen
All streakd wi lines as if a pen
By natures freakish hand was took
To scrawl them over like a book
And from these many mozzling marks
The school boy names them ‘writing larks’
*** barrels twit on bush and tree
Scarse bigger then a bumble bee
And in a white thorns leafy rest
It builds its curious pudding-nest
Wi hole beside as if a mouse
Had built the little barrel house
Toiling full many a lining feather
And bits of grey tree moss together
Amid the noisey rooky park
Beneath the firdales branches dark
The little golden crested wren
Hangs up his glowing nest agen
And sticks it to the furry leaves
As martins theirs beneath the eaves
The old hens leave the roost betimes
And oer the garden pailing climbs
To scrat the gardens fresh turnd soil
And if unwatchd his crops to spoil
Oft cackling from the prison yard
To peck about the houseclose sward
Catching at butterflys and things
Ere they have time to try their wings
The cattle feels the breath of may
And kick and toss their heads in play
The *** beneath his bags of sand
Oft jerks the string from leaders hand
And on the road will eager stoop
To pick the sprouting thistle up
Oft answering on his weary way
Some distant neighbours sobbing bray
Dining the ears of driving boy
As if he felt a fit of joy
Wi in its pinfold circle left
Of all its company bereft
Starvd stock no longer noising round
Lone in the nooks of foddering ground
Each skeleton of lingering stack
By winters tempests beaten black
Nodds upon props or bolt upright
Stands swarthy in the summer light
And oer the green grass seems to lower
Like stump of old time wasted tower
All that in winter lookd for hay
Spread from their batterd haunts away
To pick the grass or lye at lare
Beneath the mild hedge shadows there
Sweet month that gives a welcome call
To toil and nature and to all
Yet one day mid thy many joys
Is dead to all its sport and noise
Old may day where’s thy glorys gone
All fled and left thee every one
Thou comst to thy old haunts and homes
Unnoticd as a stranger comes
No flowers are pluckt to hail the now
Nor cotter seeks a single bough
The maids no more on thy sweet morn
Awake their thresholds to adorn
Wi dewey flowers—May locks new come
And princifeathers cluttering bloom
And blue bells from the woodland moss
And cowslip cucking ***** to toss
Above the garlands swinging hight
Hang in the soft eves sober light
These maid and child did yearly pull
By many a folded apron full
But all is past the merry song
Of maidens hurrying along
To crown at eve the earliest cow
Is gone and dead and silent now
The laugh raisd at the mocking thorn
Tyd to the cows tail last that morn
The kerchief at arms length displayd
Held up by pairs of swain and maid
While others bolted underneath
Bawling loud wi panting breath
‘Duck under water’ as they ran
Alls ended as they ne’er began
While the new thing that took thy place
Wears faded smiles upon its face
And where enclosure has its birth
It spreads a mildew oer her mirth
The herd no longer one by one
Goes plodding on her morning way
And garlands lost and sports nigh gone
Leaves her like thee a common day
Yet summer smiles upon thee still
Wi natures sweet unalterd will
And at thy births unworshipd hours
Fills her green lap wi swarms of flowers
To crown thee still as thou hast been
Of spring and summer months the queen

Everytime she loves , her heartbreaks ,her soul bleeds,the more scars she has ,the more her heart turns black and the flowers in the forest in her garden die, her wings turn black so dark , she begins to not believe in love , she begins to fade away so does her love,her wings turn black and so does her eyes, she flys to her castle and hides away from the sun and never comes out until the sun is gone , no bright colors and her dark black eyes ,her soul bleeding out every time she cries ,this is what happens when she begins to break,everything begans to fade away until All her pain Is gone and everything comes back to life , the flowers start to bloom and her eyes aren't dark but blue like the sky and she begans to stop crying and her heart drys up ,the scars heel but forever there ,her heart turns red and the garden comes back to life, but her belief in love isn't so easy to spark up, her wings aren't dark and either are her eyes , shes at peace and happy again until the end of time .

The river of ink flows dark cozened blue,
Flowing so smoothly from a source made of true.
It carves out a path with many a turn;
O! To see how those ill waters churn.

But the river drys up as the ink feels its age
And the lies begin to fill up the page;
Steeped in sepia, fading to sight
As the river of ink drys up in the light.

So we mourn for the river that told us the truth,
For the source we knew held the fountain of youth,
And we curl up our bones in the dust of our ink
And cry for the truths that taught us to think.

I stare out into a Bob Ross painted sky, drifting in and out of a black and white dream
Watching colors fade away and appear as I open my eyes, the scenes played out in front of me challenge my beliefs
I get lost in the shadows of an evil that seems to dwell, it's trapped too deep inside me to hope for anything
Like a movie playing, I can't seem to tell, which character is the most related to me
I'm an on and off switch trapped in a tornado warning of emotions I can't begin to understand
Stuck between two paralleling lines I can no longer command
I couldn't tell you how fast I'm going or if I'm even really here
And as the paint drys on my life, an unfinished product is my only fear

My first-aid kit drys up in the sun, but everything important still works after I shake out all the love.
The words I need to release next can dance a seizure in your chest.
A prom of the heart.

It feels strange to whisper caving secrets across a desert.
Like how I fear that I'll run out of skin before patience.
How lots has been bleeding since we last spoke.
And how it feels better to rain over an aqua covered Monday, than to drown my lobes into infomercial.

wouldst you in the mist of my confusion
have me become a white mosquito boy
that by a grafted tongue would
mould powerful changes
around bliss and ecstasy
that by garb and candor grafts defying gender roles
causes by his spaces openness
a sexuality, moulding, mounting new and explosive intimacies
and yet my fevered brain
hotter than the hottest summer
wishes to embrace  a white mosquitoe boy
become the cannibal of his dimensions
be subject to his unremarked experiments
Oh, will I become a native of these everyday practices
a white mosquitoe boy
evolving into a public ethic
a dangerously obscure central truth
the ink lies still wet on y confused thinking
while the white mosquitoe boys call me ” Le Mome”
shall I enter their grand boulevards
the ink drys, it speaks
its beautiful wondrous notation
says “YES”, yes it says, it says yes
you don’t become a mosquitoe boy
YOU ARE BORN ONE

Depression watches me.
Waiting for the ****.
Depression tugs me under the waves.
Under the waves of the grey sea.

Depression holds on tight.
Wraps its arms around me.
It wispers in my ears.
Rocks me to sleep every night.

Depression is listening when I cry.
It drys the tears from my cheeks.
It encourages me to sleep.
It tells me when I should die.

Depression stares as I fall over the edge.
Depression talks in my ear.
Says sorry my dear.
I pushed you off the ledge.

And now depression made me dead.

So many pens have run dry,
I miss the reflections of others.

Like a crypt of cobwebbed words
that others visit, reading faded verse.

I reminisce on words that have become
static, hoping again for a breath of new word.

Free Time I'm 3 Mind
Right Now No Rewinds
Im In A Place With A Numbered Race
I Don't See Time
I'm On The Beach In The Sandy C
The Waves Gaze Does Some Something To Me
Colorado Creeks
The Peaks Steep
Its A Warn Snug Hug In A Winter Scene
Trees So Green
Life Is Beautiful Let It Be
Take An 8th To Outer Sprace
SHrooms Will Wake & Help You See
No Window No Screen
The Vaunaruble Honorable
Behind Intolerable Screams
I Don't Ask Why
Although I Question Every Thing
Like Some Will Hearing The Real
Like What Does He Mean
7 Beam Extreme Connecting Wings
With Streems
The Moon It Glows Shows In My Dream
Embers In December
Sniker Doodle Ice Cream
I Turtle Through Threw Black Flames
I Scream Opera In Acid Rain
Green Heart Enlarged With Beings That
Riase
Harmonic Rays
Life Is Just 1 Really Long Day
The Sun & Moon
Please Our Moods
Shift To Okay When We Wake
Mother Earth Father Sky
Hyper Dimensional Presence
Suggest Leverage Where Are We Headed
Orion's Belt Tell It
No Seperation Through My Perception
Idea Is Were Passing Through
To Learn A Few More Lesssions
We Become Creators
& Make Our Own Heaven
Focus On Interactions In The Present
Its A Present
Not Back When
Don't Stress If It Went Unexpected
You'll For Get It
I'm A Light Pole
& My Nights Glow
Vindeseal On A Mountain Peak
In The Theatere Show Riddick
When Ego Egals
Were Awesome We Blossom
Gardens With Silver Grass & Purple Trees
Green Leaves
Mushrooms Stuck In My Teeth
Its 3 Sun Gazing
Amazing I Don't Need To Eat
I Don't Like Sock & Shoes On My Feet
I Don't See Fashion Queens & Kings
Fresh Hygiene & I Mean Neat
My ***** Smell Better Than My Breath
Might Be Mushrooms That Nest In My Cheecks
Lightning All Through This Skin & Flesh
My Current Complete
Light Poles In The Sea Fliker
When I Swimm Passed With My Mermaids
& Tea
Vibrating At My Highest Frequency
In tune With My Key
Universal Downloads I'm All Know
I Don't Suppose That I Read
Oh Then My Ideas Are Wrong
What's That Supposed To Mean
I'm A Consciousness Projecting
A Cognitive
Your A Controlling Opertive Inside Your Idols Jeans
Bianry Beats Healing My DNA
Okay Transcending Our Genes
Energy ***** Are Ways To Make Calls
No Electrical Subliminal Mind Altering
Things
I See A Dream Like Old Filmed On A Beach Black & White Sceene Type In My Minds Eye & The Swings Drys
No Body Sitting Down But It Looks Like The Place To Be, Place Of Peace, A Space To Lay A Quilt Down Eat & Drink, A Safe Place To Sleep  Die Or Even Drown
My Emtions Are Oceans Of Potions
Although I Am Miss Underatood
Its All Good
I'm A Head Of My Time
I Won't Come Down From Ethers
Who I Am Is Not On This Ground
But The Pen Js So My Lyrics
Seriously The Only Thing Coming Down
If I Seem Distant When People Come Close
I'm Still Listing In Side Of Your Soul
My Verbal Emotions Are To Giant Their Silent
When Projected So,
If My Response Seems Of Its Not I Promise Inide I'm Feeling More Than What's Out Side
I Am Deeper Than The Sea Floor
Higher Than The Clouds Depth
I See More Fire On The Mountain Set
I Don't Need A Monk To Confirm & Bow His Head I'm True To Me Till This Owls Dead
Not Dressing Up
No Cap & Gown
No Towel Head
Intentions To Lessen Defesive
& Seperation
If Over My Words Your Ofensded With Verbs
You Sizzle Like Saton
Its Obsersd Cos The Physical Is Just
Communication
I Am Here To Do Me
I Don't Need To Bleed An Explanation
Or Reciece ForgiveNess
Our Mission Is Sacred
Kato Telsa
37 Sages

Lost in the grain
without the sun and moon,
just the darkness and gloom
chilled to the bone in the rain

Without direction
No plans, no desires
just a heart and worn advice
I sit in solemn reflection

If it has not always been this way
Can I walk out the way I came in?
I don't know

I'll wait till the grain drys
and my thoughts are ready for harvest

Lizards sun, drag hours for themselves
On the baked rock face,
With tense hands prepared always
To run, even in the face of bliss.

Hands curve prematurely,
Turn rock face into a more appealing
Rock bodice, and the
Lizards are cast away
By the sudden **** of millennia.
Do not litter the bettered stone
With a dainty snowflake likeness
Sought in the bedragglings of
Their skeletons.
What little ancestry to look back upon.
It's probably better...

No, absolutely it is.
That is the cry of the valley:
Massed voices weighted with spring
And enunciated by winters.

The sunrock bathes for
Whoever knows how long,
In drys
And in humids.
And then one day is crushed
Underfoot by the hulking form,
By the tense little claw of a
Reckoning nomad.
The surroundings look
Sharp at the smart little giant
And pull themselves neatly away from the dust.

My blood boils as I lust for your touch. My skin drys as your liquid like hands that fit perfectly with mine have been absent for some time. I do not expect a return. I do not anticipate a change of heart. Just don't forget about what we could have been, don't forget the way I looked at you, don't forget the hightened heartbeat I sustained while in your presence. To say I miss you would undercut your effect. To say I miss you would need many more words.

As I lay here waiting
Watching
The breeze sends a chill down my spin as it drys the cold sweat
I've done this a thousand times
An each time it's taken a piece of me
I feel empty like a bullet shell I just fired
I've been doing this to long
Far away from home
I've forgotten there voices
Their faces blurry
Your memories replaced by nightmares of dead bodies falling
As I'm lost in thought
I get a message
The target has arrived
I regain focus
And stare down the scope
Searching for you through out the crowd
Found you standing in the open
I can see your heartbeat from outside your chest
I can see you exhale
And wipe off the sweat
You seem nervous
I focus again an take aim
But you don't move
You stand there
Like your begging for me to shoot
You check your time piece growing more anxious
Your just another sacrificial lamb to me
I put my finger on the trigger
Take a deep breath gaining composer
The wind picks up forcing me to change the dial on the scope
As I'm ready to firer
I can hear feet teasing the ground behind me
But before I can react I feel a sharp pain an the world fades to black

Benine benine be nine seven

crap. Betcha two more more mores for
one more chance at that

Aha! We imagined…

… mean pause if then else ifthen else to the tenth,
take it
don't missit, these thinks happen

rare, raw and dripping re

ish itch tar Ishtar and two snakes

while, recall, Moses, lawgiver and guide,
trumping Lycurgis's lawgiver only,

Moses had one for every eye to see or die
and one for every other heel to stomp.

Old Arizona Cowboy Preacher Proverb
Some times… ya'hafta…stomp yer own (goes unsaid)
[dam'd] snakes.
[ever bodies gottem by the plenty]

One of the Robin Clan of whitemanlan
Theodds, down the Hasayampa
Odd fellows, I remember there was a lodge…

… also means, when no point persists in being made despite the el-elucidation,
light's prime directive clarifying

the principal paring of time to the tenth and
you dear reader, if temporary times are

familiar, to you. Like, family,
a truncated simile metaphor word compact,

like jot family, familiar, family spirit,

house gods and goblins and lit-t'le ***-p'le in blue triangular hats,

… selah … be still … listen … listen

no threats of madness, nor vengeance or conviction
no act-use-ations fraying threads

neither curse nor cuse nor demn 'r'here,
life-central,
pretend you can practice real is ation

as you read. Dear reader, you are magi,
you know words hold powers, yours
for the reaaching beyond,

trust me, errors are far fewer than you have been led to believe.
Entire cultures set spelled-out prophecies swirling
into imagined infinity
withnaryaperiodjotortittle with no discernible weakening

of the original thread of thought that has us taking
these chances with madness

Philosopher Poet Sophist Cabalist Prospering-liarist

Hawthorne's Man in Black works for Sam Harris's God's
Master Baiter

--- not off track, side-tracked, to let two-way traffic happen---
---flowing systems, despite inevitable turmoil swirling
---this way and that--- cloud shape oaks framed in
twisting, tugging, pulling-pushing, lifting-dropping,

rocking-rolling, the old man is snoring
clapping and clanging waking the dead

oh, wait. not yet. wink. Swallow the bait.

see these threads, these delicate xylem tunnels,
cellulose cathedrals, when you see re-al close,
and, watch this, oak-speed,
California Black Oak speed and deegree of strain
zingle point
a branch maywillshallcanbe tugging a reaching out
rootical radial fractaling famous form

seen in silhouette
California Black Oaks are the Cumulus Nimbi of trees,
in my tiny bubble
five hundred drys gone by pushing cool away so
there ain't
no mo' mo'nin' dew

Woe, blues is fo' some oth ah time. You see.
We make peace here.

This is is our family farm or fact-or-knoting
Knott's Berry Farm being the birthplace of Boysenberries
has always seemed prophetic to me,

here's why, no wu wu, jus'thefax. done d'done done, now

Henry Boysen.
A chapter. AND nada. Same with Paul Lomasny, as
portrayed by Sal Mineo, in The Longest Day.

Despite the scars he had to show, I haven't found his
cred fact checkible, these days

that means
conspiracy, though spiracy sans con is also rumored

probable, should there be another

anti matter bubble develop in the biome blowing bubbles
from gmos bonding

with swallowed double bubble
and in'n'out doubledoubles

in the guts of children returning from a day with
a de-programmed boomer

relativity plays a roll. Snake eyes. Wanna bet?

And like that she became wet.
******* before she bathed in the storm.
Umbrella left home, by the door.
She wanted to be cleansed.
Clothes thrown to the side.
Where's the fun in being dry.
To rush every moment that craves to be moist.
Splashing in puddle after puddle.
The Infatuation of being free.
The depth of being caught in a portrait just before it drys.
Covered in layer after layer of heavy blue.
A foam of white.
A kiss that quenches every thirst.
Our lips the brush that sops the wetness.
Forever more.
To purposely be caught without an umbrella

My life is like quicksand,
I continuously sink slowly,
Kick and drag myself up high enough just to gulp at air.
Then follows the slow descent.
I'm unsure of what's at the bottom
But my toes have tickled it a few times
Then the beast bellows and laughs,
Sending tsunami waves through the sand;
I roll like a ship about to be taken under by fierce swell.

Sometimes I think the quicksand is encased in my skull...
Sometimes I think the depths of the quicksand settle on the top of my spinal cord.
Sometimes I think I'm numb from the corrosive vibrations of the sludgy water-sand mix:
Jamming my nervous system, rusting it over.

But then the memory of pressure of your hand around my neck
Makes me forget the metaphor of the sand
And the make-believe depression.
And the blood in my nose, that drips and drys and repeats itself daily
Exists because you forced my head against the wall so many times.
Razors are not a comfort they are a fear and I still cough them up from my lungs.

I realise you are not terrifying
I realise that you do not own my life
You do not decide that I am real or fake or suffering.
I realise that you are only a scar
That I am slathering oils and remedies over
In order to make the red fade.
I realise that I am so *******
H A P P Y

One year on;
And I have overcome your disease,
Dislodged your putrid fangs,
Rebuilt myself,
Healed, cured myself...
Found a real person
Who knows how to love me
And teach me to love me.

I seem to write and not compose,
These songs lips and bodies are so fond of,
Things ears listen to and without squinting...
The heart can hear.
But I write and not compose,
So that everything becomes more difficult,
To understand.
And the ink drys but never stains the brain,
With what I want to say...
Or a point I wanted to get across.
It's a price to say,
Everything.
When holding back,
Will make them belt out...
Or hold up the little flames and rise together.
Yet, here I am writing and not composing.
You can not dance to this.
This is not a community.
Only singular thought escapes a scene,
To follow a thread,
Down to the seam,
To reach the hem.
But I still just write, not compose

My mind likes to wonder
Yet so does my feet
I'll lay in my bed all night
and yet I can not fall asleep,
Is this a curse
or is this sign
or blessing in disguise,
I've asked myself so many questions
but I've never received a reply,
A new journey awaits all of us
yet sometimes we shy off in fear,
embrace the universe
it is the shoulder that drys our tears,
with my mind drawing blanks
and my feet that are on fire
I will journey into the unknown
because the unknown is what WE desire.

How can they drain a poem a day, written in ink, destilled emotion,
How can they strain to do poems that take a month to read,
                                                       that is a lot of ink to bleed.
Is it possible to write, adding colour to leaves and sheaves of
words,
hanging them on dried and dead winter branches, STAY!,
with where my imagination rests frozen,
out there in the open,
                        hoping, looking, seeking
the friction of distraction to warm me up,
so my imagination moves,
it needs to move,
or I become frozen,
where there is an ill wind,
where there is a chill wind,
which hardens my heart,
and drys up the ink,
which looks like
my
own
blood
without
Purpose or
without
Prose

P and P


©DWE122013

As I sit here amongst the dark
it can never match the shade of my heart
this ****** world, this ****** pain
Neither can I ever escape
As sound of my sobbing disperses into the night
I know they will never be heard
Not even one ear will even be disturbed
In this moment I can optimize my weakness
And tell you that it will encounter no resistance
I cant hold on the something with no texture
I cant go on knowing none of the answers
The laughter surrounds me
An atmosphere so un-suited
My mind so diluted, and I cant relate to them
They cant relate to me, or even begin to see
Why is it the darkness that I seek
Why all of this social anxiety
I understand myself but I never react
Possibly I cant
But can I establish that
Is it a fact
Or am I just ashamed, that I wont be able to face this pain
That I cant make it go away
And instead of getting help I just make it harder on myself
It can all be traced back the fear
This Fear trapped within, always to remain
And everyday its simply the same
Eating away at my brain
All these minutes I become less sane
So step out of the way
Wouldn’t want this train wreck to touch you
I don’t want to spread my infection
Because they’re will be no resurrection
The ****** razor in my hand
And I will never understand
why I cant just end it
all I can ever do is mend it
with sight of the blood
and my hopes for love
my heart so thrashed
I should just end it at last
Then I could forget the past
And **** the future
There are plenty of other people just like me
To fill the my absentee
Blood drips from my eyes
As I remove my disguise
How do you like it you get to see my real life
As the blood drys to my face
I’m left in the darkness and its cold embrace
Nothing left to conceal
I guess you now know how I really feel

A broken heart
But a toy to someone who was bored
You need to put those pieces back together
Sweet little doll
Sad little soldier
those piece will get lost if not fixed

I will help
I will sew those broken pieces together
Using the faiths string
And I will use gallons of glue
To fix the cracks that cover your sad eyes

Those scars will heal
Just as glue drys and stitches are forgotten
But I cant promise someone wont do it again
Girls play with boys hearts as though they were puppets
Boys play with the girls as though they were dolls
  
                             These hearts arent toys
                       And they arent a easy fix

our relationship has dryed like paint drys on a wall

I see pictures with living eyes,
making statements of their lives
I see statues pass and go,
judge me down from head to toe,
Sends a shiver down my spine,
im so glad that she is mine tonight

apart we are drained of joy like a dry river too deep to walk too empty for boats

and he dictates my life,
i facilitated to prove him right,
standing overhead my dreams,
fills my head with tortured screams
sends a shiver down my spine
im so glad that she is mine tonight

why don't you get me?
but you get yourself,
i'm you inside your mind, you're not special.
Mankind is more than you,
but man doesn't exist - other than yourself.

what a pity,
the city is so pretty.
made by those more busy than your idle hands and plans.

your vision -
solipsism,
you won't listen to me who loves you more than you could ever believe,
but i'm not programmed to project my beliefs on the television screen.

they'll never listen.

more fool you.
you're a fool,
fools gold.
been told,
but you still don't know,  
how we grow and how we've grown.

nevermind, nirvana said.
you were never mine, karma said,
lay me to rest in the restless tempress of your best dress and whatever you say, and whatever you said.

what did you say i don't know and i've no idea what you said.
it's black and white, i fell for you like the domino effect.
what did you expect darling?

oh darling. you should know me by know.
i'm the ghost in the clouds that rains down when the conversation drys out.

fluffy and high,
i'll pass by soon,
and the skies will be blue again.
just like you again

I drain these once were words
Turned to thoughts.
From my pen, to paper
Yet you still refuse to read them.
As my pen ink drys
And tears subside.
Thinking this road,
Has come to an end, for tonight.
I swig my whiskey,  
Stare in my mirror,
Are you going to let them stop you?
All of your fears?
I curse to God, for he's  the only one who cares.
Light a smoke, as it rolls to my eye
The last of my ink, in my pen has died.
These words are no good,
Yet these thoughts, must be read.
I must carry on,
The message in my head.
I grab my worthy pen,
"Let's make history my friend "
Jabbing it's point to my heart
Filling it with my thoughts,
Torn apart.
Now I will write in blood
My thoughts of strength flood
My mind sets free
As my heart still bleeds.
Dying slowly, I smile
Finally you see my style.
Read these words, of once was I
Then burn them with my soul aside
Set them free to the sky
Scattered ashes, say goodbye.

last night on the drive home a street sign waved hello.
the heat has come like a fever
it fries the nightlines in a humid soup
it drys your throat and chokes your eyeballs
oh **** it burns the tiny cuts in your sweaty hands
you've a need to break a melon and drink.
you've a need to roast sugars and tell tall tales of distant frights.
what real horrors lurk there
beneath the surface like smoke?
a dream, a fever, a skittering nightmare
it will come it will pass and we will all freeze.

frail i, in moonlight shall, march
up wisp of spring
into gabled spilt
juice
of curving dawn

orange
whose rind
like the human also
drys

           withers

                            sloughs

Where the winds blow;
where the roads roam;
where the sun drys;
where the waters flow;
where the mountains soar;
where the towns lie;
where the oceans swell;
where seeds grow;
where the rains fall;
where the flowers bloom
You are there!

my chest aches from loneliness, from the lack of her being,
from the absence of her lifting presence.
the presence that rings out my heart, drips the pain away, and drys with the sunshine from her eyes,
the warmth of her deep voice.
I once rode in her car late at night,
my being couldn't contain my happiness.
It was like we hot boxed that car with our beautiful vibes,
her voice resonating with mine as we sang the wrong lyrics,
she took me so high,
I loved it,
I love her still ******.
as we pulled up to my house evey fiber in my being wanted to kiss her,
fill her with my energy
Let her lips water the dying garden in my heart.
I knew her love was not for me, we couldnt be.
so I rapped my arms around her and kissed her head,
the smell of her hair set off an alarm in my brain, one I can never seem to turn off.
and I left the car,
the high wore off,
but my head kept ringing.

Pain is long and deep, it broadens itself, at self-will, running wild

      motivating any artist to dream, poets dream long and before acting with
grandeur and in youth, there’s nothing but dreams,

                                      as lust doesn’t cost a thing    until all that youth drys up

and the ability to stop dreaming isn’t felt, just aging

to achieve harmony in this life, one must struggle for years, especially in poetry, where they can all articulate love, like the Tenor or the Cellist, over composed symphonies. And the ******’s praise them all.

                               my heart is in my hand, because it’s pierced
                               those who have content, are the ones who
                               dared to live in the first place and I’m still hung
                               up on you, because those who’ve lived, seem
                               to have experienced love, my heart is caught
                               providing a helping hand to write any poem.


      People had made love without poetry, because lust is easier.

                              And when awareness kicks in, it will be too late and poets join time to mock them with heavy laughter.


    
                  I grow tired of waiting, fatigued after actions with efforts of affection


Life goes on


No-one likes the lovers lost in love, because it reminds them,
of what they don’t have, wondering if the love is wild and roaring
or if it took their youth to tame. No one likes the lovers lost
in love, because it can devalue any romantic piece, those
lovers in ****** acts, intimately fusing their souls together,
getting to know the ecstasy of illumination and addicted to
sparking awakening in each other. For no one likes anyone
in love, for their souls are free and without void and despair,
so they shun those lovers out, in return those lovers build
a world of their own, forgetting the earth for the rest of
humanity, never to fit in again. Can you love a smile? Can
you love a glance? Holding hands? Would you tame beauty?
For without love, the law means nothing and the poets will
turn out as serial killers. For no one likes people being truly
in love, because it reminds them what’s without.

                          I can read any poem, for such things as love, is not written,
   only expressed in actions, whispered in the ears of night,
                                 spoken by the mouths, who’ve been to the horizon
                                 and back.
Only in love, where it can strip anyone down to the ****, bearing to the world, all their faults, sins, mistakes and regrets, revealing all their secrets and transcend into a saint. A Muse for the world. I don’t know about you, to what I think about those first kisses between yourself and your lover, is conversation  between Angels, closing lips, each other’s breathes felt lightly pressed upon skin, and the Angels sing when the lips are closed, holding hands and finally the delicate souls can meet and begins to feel safe for the first time.
             And everyday sounds, turn into love songs, that we’ve grown to accustom
  to listen to, without knowing their meaning. Living now, like life ends at the end of the day, you can blame fate for falling in love or you could just go out and experience love. It’s a place that we all ache to go, twinge at the sight of it, love involves the energy of any supernova that births beauty on site, creating memories for poets, adding
charm to this present, parenting the future, dragging things up from the heart, when we dared not to and finally for the first time, you shrug your shoulders and let go.

                            As for anyone telling that you have to work for love.
                            Slap them as hard as you can. Than recommend them
                            a good lawyer and a young lover for their spouse.

(knowledge variable)

of desire
is painful and pervading my body
physically, like literally, i can feel
the heat in my legs, the
stinging lightness in my joints
and of course the throbbing in my head,
funny that the stunted, clogged,
wheel and cog of my hog
is frozen solid
and you're turning every corner
to make sure it stays that way for you
but it cannot. everyday
i imagine what it would be like
for desire to meet desire,
and it disgusts me
as you've defined my normal
and scared me shitless into thinking otherwise
through classical conditioning
and punishment of action.
Don't try to kiss me,
for fear of me lashing you
with my tongue, but no not literally, don't
even try it.
Tell me about everything you desire
and I will shove it back in your sick head
and beat the **** out of it,
so the sly fox of desire is a ****** ferret,
****** too many times by a bear, and then killed and eaten.
It's a way of life, you tell me the circle and nature of things as they
are. And you say you're just a bee buzzing, and I think the opposite
you're a bee struggling on its back on the ground,
doused in water, and unable to fly.
And I'm there trying to buzz you back to life,
but I've lost my stinger, and here's the kicker,
yours is ready to sting me, mine, back into drive
but you just want to stay on your back,
even when the water drys.

This cursed tongue is a conflict I've had for awhile now
It twist into snakes
It drys quick
It turns into a river stream
And most days it makes me heave

This cursed tongue is a conflict I've had for awhile now
It quakes when life leaves
It stammers and splutters like crickets
It is silent and Forgetful
And most days it is torture to clean

This cursed tongue is a conflict I've had for awhile now
And most days I'm grateful to have such a cursed tongue
It wraps around my larynx and cuts my speech
It becomes so long it reaches the pits of my stomach making me weak
It hides secrets that no one
Should
Or ever will know

April showers
Bring May flowers.
We go to the garden
and
Clip whats ours.
After it drys,
Before it sours.
We roll it
and
Light it
and
Stay high for hours.