Part I


the plateau. the truest of them all. coast line. night spells and even controlled by the dream of meeting again. the ribbon of darker than light in your crown. No region overlooked. Third picnic table to the drive at Half Moon Bay, meet me there, decant my speech there. the table by the restroom block. While the tide is in show me your oyster garden, 3:00p.m. at half-light here in the evilest torments that have been shed.---------------door locked.  The moors. Cow herds and lymph nodes, rancorous afternoon West light and bending roads, the cliffs, a sister, the need to jump. There is nothing as serious as this. There is nothing nor no one that could ever, or would ever on this side come between. Who needs sleep or jokes or snow or rivers or bombs or to turn or be a rat or a fly or ceiling fan or a gurney or a cadaver or piece of cloth or a bed spread or a couch or a game or the flint of a lighter or the bell of a dress; the bell of your dress, yes, perhaps. Having been crushed like orange cigarette light in a pool of Spanish tongues. I feel the heave, the pull; not a yawn but a wired, thread-like twist about my core. Up around the neck it makes the first cut, through the eyes out and into the nostrils down over the left arm, on the inside of the bicep, contorting my length, feigning sleep, and then cutting over my stomach, around and around multiples of times- pulled at the hips and under the groin, across each leg and in-between each nerve, capillary, artery, hair, dot, dimple, muscle, to the toes and in-between them. Wiry dream-like and nervous nightmarish, hellacious plateaus of leapers. Penguin heads and more penguin heads. Startling torment. The evilest of the vile mind. The dance of despair: if feet contorted and bound could move. The beach off Belmont. The hills and the reasons I stared. Caveat after caveat at the heads of letters, on the heads of crowns, and the wrists, and on the palms. Being pulled and signed, and moved away so greatly and so heavily at once in a moment, that even if it were a year or a set of many months it would always be a moment too taking away to be considered an expanse, and it would be too hellacious to be presumptuous. It could only be a shadow over my right shoulder as I write the letters over and again. One after another. Internally I ask if I would even grant a convo with Keats or Yeats or Plath or Hughes? Does mine come close? Does it matter the bellies reddish and cerise giving of pain? Does it have to have many names?


"This is the only Earth," I would say with the bouquet of lilies spread out on the table. Are lilies only for funerals, I would never make or risk or wish this metaphor, even play it like the drawn out notes of a melody unwritten and un-played: my black box and latched, corner of the room saxophone. Top-floor, end of the hall two-room never-ending story, I'm the left side of the bed Chicago and I see pink walls, bathrooms, the two masonite paintings, the Chanel books, the bookshelves, the white desk, the white dresser, you on the left side of the bed in such sentimental woe, **** carpet and tilted blinds, and still the moors and the whispering in the driver's seat in afternoon pasture. Sunset, sunrise, nighttime and bike room writing in other places, apartments, rooms where I inked out fingertips, blights, and moods; nothing ever being so bleak, so eerily woe-like or stoic. Nothing has ever made me so serious.

Put it on the rib, in a t-shirt. Make it a hand and guide it up a set of two skinny legs under a short-sheeted bed in small room and literary Belmont, address included. Trash cans set out morning and night, deck-readied cigarette smoking. Sliding glass door and kitchen fright. Low-lit living room white couch, kaleidoscope, and zoetrope. Spin me right round baby right round. I am my own revenge of toxic night. Attack the skin, the soul, the eyes, the mind, and the lids. The finger lids and their tips. Rot it out. Blearing wild and deafening blow after blow: left side of the bed the both of us, whilst stirs the intrepid hate and ousts each ******* tongue I can bellow and blow.

Last resort lake note in snow bank and my river speak and forest walk. Wrapped in blocks and boxes, Christmas packaging and giant over-sized red ribbons and bows. Shall I mention the bassinet, the stroller, the yard, several rings of gold and silver, several necklaces of black and thread? I draw dagger from box, jagged ended and paper-wrapped in white and amber: lit in candle light and black room shadow-kept and sleeping partisan unforgettable forever. Do I mention Hawaii, my mother dying, invisible ligatures and the unveiling of the sweat and horror? Villainous and frightening, the breath as a bleat or heart-beat and matchstick stirring slightly every friends' woe and tantrum of their spirit.

Lobster-legged, waiting, sifting through the sea shore at the sea line, the bright tyrannosaurs in mahogany, in maple, and in twine over throw rose meadow over-looks, honey-brimming and warehouse built terrariums in the underbelly of the ravine, twist and turn: road bending, hollowing, in and out and in and out, forever, the everlasting and too fastidious driving towards; and it's but what .2 miles? I sign my name but I'll never get out. I am mocked and musing at tortoise speed. Headless while improvising. Purring at any example of continue or extremity or coolness of mind, meddling, or temptation. I rock, bellowing. Talk, sending shivers up my spine. I'm cramped, and one thousand fore-words and after words that split like a million large chunks of spit, grime, and *****; **** and more ****. I might even be standing now. I could be a candle, in England, a kingdom, in Palo Alto, a rook in St. Petersburg. Mottled by giants or sleepless nights, I could be the Eiffel Tower or the Statue of Liberty, a heated marble flower or the figure dying to be carved out. I'm veering off highways, I'm belittling myself: this heathen of the unforgettable, the bog man and bow-tied vagrant of dross falsification and dross despair. I am at the sea shore, tide-righted and tongue-tide, bilingual, and multi-inhibited by sweat, spit, quaffs of sea salt, lake water, and the like. Rotten wergild ridden- stitched of a poor man's ringworm and his tattered top hat and knee-holed trousers. I'm at the sea shore, with the cucumbers dying, the rain coming in sideways, the drifts and the sandbars twisting and turning. I'm at the sea shore with the light house bruise-bending the sweet ships of victory out backwards into the backwaters of a mislead moonlight; guitars playing, beeps disappearing, pianos swept like black coffees on green walled night clubs, arenose and eroding, grainy and distraught, bleeding and well, just bleeding.






I'm at the sea shore, the coastline calling. I've got rocks in my pockets, ******* and two lines left in the letter. I’m at the sea shore, my mouth is a ghost. I've seen nothing but darkness. I'm at the seashore, second picnic table, bench facing the squat and gobble, the tin roof and riled weir near the roadside. .2 and I'm still here with my bouquet wading and waiting. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. My inches are growing shorter by the second, cold, whet by the sunset, its moon men, their heavy claws and bi-laws overthrowing and throwing me out. The thorns stick. The tyrannosaurs scream. I'm at the sea shore, plateau, left bedside to write three more letters. Sign my name and there's nobody here.

I'm at the sea shore: here are my lips, my palms (both of them facing up), here are my legs (twine and all), my torso, and my head shooting sideways. I'm at the seashore and this is my grave, this is my purposeful calotype, my hide and go seek, my show and tell, my forever. .2 and forever and never ending. I was just one dream away come and keep me. I'm at the sea shore come and see me and seam me. I'm without nothing, the sky has drifted, the sea is leaving, my seat is a matchbox and I'm all wound up. The snow settling, the ice box and its glory taken for granted. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. The room with its white sets of furniture, the lilies, the Chanel, the masonite paintings, the bed, your ribbon of darker on light, the throw rug **** carpet, pink walled sister's room, and the couch at the top of the stairs. I'm at the sea shore, my windows opened wide, my skin thrown with threat, rhinoceri, reddish bruises bent of cerise staled sunsets. I'm at the sea shore and there's nobody here. I'm at the plateau and there isn't a single ship. There are the rocks below and I'm counting. My caveats all implored and my goodbyes written. I'm in my bed and the sleep never set in. I'm name dropping God and there's nobody there. I'm in a chair with my hands on a keyboard, listening to Danish throb-rock, horse-riding into candle light on a wicked wedding of wild words and teary-eyed gazes and gazers. Bent by the rocking and the torment, the wild and the weird, the horror and everything horrifying. There is this shadow looking over my shoulder. I'm all alone but I feel like you're here.



Part II




I wake up in Panama. The axe there. Sleeping on the floors in the guest bedroom, the floor of the garden shed, the choir closet, the rut of dirt at the end of the flower bed; just a towel, grayish-blue, alone, lawnmower at my side, and sky blue setting all around. I was a family man. No I just taste bits of dirt watching a quiet and contrary feeling of cool limestone wrap over and about my arms and my legs. Lungs battered by snapping tongues, and ancient conversations; I think it was the Malaysian Express. Mom quieted. Sister quieted. Father wept. And is still weeping. Never have I heard such horrifying and un-kindly words.-----------------------It's going to take giant steel cavernous explorations of the nose, brain cell after brain cell quartered, giant ******* quaffs of alcohol, harboring false lanterns and even worse chemicals. Inhalations and more inhalations. I'm going to need to leap, flight, drop into bodies of waters from air planes and swallow capsules of psychotropics, sedatives beyond recalcitrance. I'm requiring shock treatments and shock values. Periodic elements and galvanized steel drums. Malevolence and more malevolence. Forest walks, and why am I still in Panama. I don't want to talk, to sleep, to dream, to play stale-mating games of chess, checkers, Monopoly, or anything Risk involving. I can't sleep, eat, treaty or retreat. I'm wickeded by temptations of grandeur and threats of anomaly, widening only in proverb and swept only by opposing endeavors. Horrified, enveloped, pictured and persuaded by the evilest of haunts, spirits, and match head weeping women. I can't even open my mouth without hearing voices anymore. The colors are beginning to be enormous and I still can't swim. I couldn't drown with my ears open if I kept my nose dry and my mouth full of a plane ticket and first class beanstalk to elysian fields. It's pervasive and I'm purveyed. It's unquantifiable. It's the epitomizing and the epitome. I have my epaulets set for turbulent battles though I still can't fend off night. Speak and I might remember. Hear and it's second rite. Sea attacks, oceans roaring, lakes swallowing me whole. Grand bodies of waters and faces and arms appendages, crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and more crowns and I'm still shaking, and I'm still just a button. And I still can't sleep. And I'm still waiting.

It is night. The moon ripening, peeling back his face. Writhing. Seamed by the beauty of the nocturne, his ways made by sun, sky, and stars. Rolled and rampant. Moved across the plateau of the air, and its even and coolly majestic wanton shades of twilight. It heads off mountains, is swept as the plains of beauty, their faces in wild and feral growths. Bent and bolded, indelible and facing off Roman Empires too gladly well in inked and whet tips of bolder hands to soothe them forth.-----------Here in their grand and grandiose furnaces of the heart, whipped tails and tall fables fettered and tarnished in gold’s and lime. Here with their mothers' doting. Here with their Jimi Hendrix and poor poetry and stand-up downtrodden wergild and retardation. I don't give a ****. I could weep for the ***** if they even had hair half as fine as my own. I am real now. Limited by nothing. Served by no worship or warship. My flotilla serves tostadas at full-price. So now we have a game going.-----------------------------------------------------------­------------------------  My cowlick is not Sinatra's and it certainly doesn't beat women. As a matter of factotum and of writ and bylaw. I'm running down words more quickly than the stanza's of Longfellow. I'm moving subtexts like Eliot. I'm rampant and gaining speed. Methamphetamine and five star meats. Alfalfa and pea tendrils. Loves and the lovers I fall over and apart on. Heroes and my fortune over told and ever telling. Moving in arc light and keeping a warm glow.

the fish line caves. the shimmy and the shake. Bluegrass music and big wafting bell tones. snakes and the river, hands on the heads, through the hair; I look straight at the Pacific. I hate plastic flowers, those inanimate stems and machine-processed flesh tones. Waltzing the state divide. I am hooked on the intrepid doom of startling ego. I let it rake into my spine. It's hooves are heavy and singe and bind like manacles all over me. My first, my last, my favorite lover. I'm stalemating in the bathtub. Harnessing Crystal Lite and making rose gardens out of CD inserts and leaf covers. I'm fascinated by magic and gods. Guns and hunters. Thieving and mold, and laundry, and stereotypes, and great stereos, and boom-boxes, and the hi-fi nightlife of Chicago, roasting on a pith and meaty flame, built like a horror story five feet tall and laced with ruggedness and small needles. My skin is a chromium orchid and the grizzly subtext of a Nick Cave tune. I've allowed myself to be over-amplified, to mistake in falsetto and vice versa. To writhe on the heavy metallic reverberations of an altercated palpitation. The heart is the lonely hunted. First the waterproof matchsticks, then the water, the bowie knife, crass grasses and hard-necked pitch-hitters and phony friends; for doing lunch in the park on a frozen pond, I play like I invented blonde and really none of my **** even smells like gold.--------------------- There are the tales of false worship. I heard a street vendor sell a story about Ovid that was worse than local politics. As far as intermittent and esoteric histories go I'm the king of the present, second stage act in the shadow of the sideshow. Tonight I'm greeting the characters with Vaseline. For their love of music and their love of philosophy. For their twilight choirs and their skinny women who wear black antler masks and PVC and polyurethane body suits standing in inner-city gardens chanting. For their chanting. The pacific. For the fish line caves. For the buzzing and the kazoos. For the alfalfa and the three fathers of blue, red, and yellow. For the state of the nation. But still mostly working for the state of equality, more than a room for one’s own.-------------------------------------------------------------­------"Rice milk for all of you." " Kensington and whittled spirits."
(Doppelganger enters stage left)MAN: Prism state, flash of the golden arc. Beastly flowers and teeming woodlands. Heir to the throes and heir to the throng.----------------------------------------------------------­--------------- The sheep meadow press in the house of affection. The terns on my hem or the hide in my beak; all across the steel girder and whipping ******* the windows facing out. The mystery gaze that seers the diplopic eye. Still its opening shunned. I put a cage over it and carry it like a child through Haight-Ashbury. At times I hint that I'm bored, but there is no letting of blood or rattle of hope. When you live with a risk you begin at times to identify with the routes. Above the regional converse, the two on two or the two on four. At times for reasons of sadness but usually its just exhaustion. At times before the come and go gets to you, but usually that is wrong and they get to you first. Lathering up in a small cerulean piece of sky at the end turnabout of a dirt road

I swam in your ocean, Anna.
I drank the salt of your skin
until it gave me hallowed sickness.

I told you,
I was never good at staying anyone's friend.
I spent three weeks convincing you I'd try.
When I didn't succeed, why did you act surprised?

You keep shifting shape.
And that isn't fair.

I got tangled in your weeds, Anna.
I struggled and howled,
you talked with warmth, ran fingers in my hair.

I told you,
I wouldn't live past thirty-five,
you said,
I wouldn't make it to twenty-five,
I told you,
I was evil,
you told me,
you were eviler.
I told you,
I was evilest,
you said,
**** superlatives.

I saw you drown yourself in yourself, Anna.
Wallowing in the cold wind
of one demented abecedarian.

You keep shifting shape.
And that isn't fair.

I told you,
to keep your feet moving,
you said,
I needed to stop talking,
I told you,
I was ready to marry you,
you said,
I would never escape my
ex-girl collection,
I told you,
Anna, if I can't have you
you're going to destroy you,
you said,
you'd like to see you try.

Let your waves crash against me,
let your wind carve,
I will say I love you,
until one of us dies.

Once upon a time.
In a land far far away.
Their existed a rhyme,
About the greatest game ever played.
This is the said rhyme 
preserved from the acclaim the game has gained.
Passed on to generations about the game at it’s prime. 

A game that should be reclaimed from the fame its gained at the present time.
This game came from the brain of a person
who aimed to have the time of his life. 

Town ball was for all. In any season: spring, summer, winter, or fall.
Town ball was a ball for all: no despair, grief,  or strife, could spawn.
The rules were simple
Hit ball: bases touch all. 

Teams were never full. 
And the field could sprawl.
Everything was in play just like everyone could play.
No obstacle was in the way, no direction out of play.
Yet, according to the natural law of capitalistic America,
An evolution began to make money.
**** you Jean-Baptiste Pierre Antoine de Monet!!
You may have nothing to do with baseball, 

But you spawned the evilest idea of them all. 

That evolution is caused by natural law, 

and the evolution of baseball is the downfall of all that is America.
Baseball was at one time a game of fun; 

good times shared with one another under the sun. 

Eventually they agreed to decree the official rules, 

And it was not Abner Doubleday who would have the last say in history,
for that story is a myth that we should flee from like fools.
Instead it was Alexander Cartwright who penned the knickerbocker rules.
These rules spread to the rest of the clubs,
and eventually it was coined the New York game. 

No longer could anyone play but only the ones who could slug.
If you wanted to win, it would be a sin,
to put in the has been who brought the game shame.
This game spread during the civil war. 

In down time to escape they played for fun instead of being bored.
The game spread like never before,
and soon the game covered the entire eastern shore.
The N.A.A.B.B.P was formed and by 1867 four hundred teams were born,
and in 1870 the Chicago Cubs actually won!
They actually were good before 1908,
heck some people might even say they were great. 

I don’t mean to taint their slate or bait your hate.
I just wish to point out that its been some time since that date,
and you Cub fans still must await.
Meanwhile these gentleman clubs would compete in the heat,
for they wanted to prove they were the ones to beat. 

Yet promoters wanted money so they charged the food you eat.
Then they fenced in the meet.
No longer could you watch the teams compete from the street.
If you wanted to know who would defeat you must enter with a receipt
to show that you payed for your seat.
There you would meet, eat, and greet,
and keep track of the game on your score sheet
Eventually the wood frames turned to concrete

in order to hold more people inside their games.
And the players started to earn fame.
And eventually everyone knew their name.
No longer was the game a game for games sake,
instead it was meant to entertain the fame-craved.
All that matter was the money made at the gate,
and since then the game has never been the same.
Before players would score more and their would be less of a bore.
Fielders caught with their fingers the stingers thrown,
but for catchers that was absurd.

Before, fans would abhor to the idea of a fielder with a glove adorned,
but eventually the planted seed, grew steadily, and the fielders glove was born.
At first their was no web extended between the finger and thumb.
Because that would make it so easy to catch it would be just dumb. 

Yet, somehow the web spread and eventually it won. 

Now any *** could catch between finger and thumb
and the hand would not become numb.
This lead the dead ball era dread at the start of nineteen hundred.
And ego went to Owen Wilson’s head as he lead the league with triples.
Thirty six triples the record was set
and will never be broken it has been said.
But instead its embed into the unread
record book for others to go ahead and try to break with dread.
There were several reasons that lead to the dead ball.
First of all, the same ball was used until it started to unravel.
Second, was that you would draw a strike for every foul ball,
And lastly was the spit ball which would dance to any squall.
All these reasons made the pitchers un-hittable. 

And batters seeing their batting average fall
would take a bar crawl and bawl.
But then a savior came to us all. 

This man hit the ball so far that it would fall somewhere past Senegal.
The claims were esteemed that this man was best of them all. 

Yet, he was traded for money to fund a curtain call. 

This man’s name was George “the Babe” Herman Ruth. 

A pitcher turned outfielder because he was a great hitter is the truth.
The great bambino or Sultan of Swat,
nothing could stop him when he was hot. 

And he hit the dead ball era out of the park and it was forever lost. 

He had more home run’s as an individual, than any team,

Except for the Phillies who were good it seems.

Babe was the hit man

Pitcher he was no longer

The same change came

With this emphasis:
Babe Ruth symbolized what was

the rest of the game. 


They said pitch no more.
Sluggers are what fans adore
outfields became small. 


Power was the talk

Every team must have a guy
who hits with power. 


George “babe” Herman Ruth
and Lou Gehrig, the Yankee’s
became the very best.

Then the depression came and rained on the parade of the baseball game.
Yet, families with radio’s would listen to the games as a sort of hope. 

To escape from the world that they known. 

To escape to a game that reminded them of better days.
Then WWII came and stole away the players. 

Baseball’s talent level was now in multiple layers. 

and because of lack of talent Ted Williams batted over .400 percent
and Joe Dimaggio hit the ball again and again. 

for 56 consecutive games he hit the ball back to where it was sent.
Yet, eventually the players would return and baseball would mend. 

But not before the ladies got their own league. 

and men it did intrigue.
Is this for real?
Or a joke?
They would laugh.

Then they would choke. 

When they saw that this wasn’t just an act.
The girls continued,
“Everyone used to be able to play the good old town ball game!
“This is no longer town ball,” the men said, “the present game is not the same,
Instead its now played for money and fame.”

Oh how the good old days always change.

“Give us money” the women exclaimed,
“We’ll take your fortune we’ll take your fame!”

Some men said, “you complain! Its not the same,
you have to be good to play this game,
you can have your separate league if you need,
But this game of fame is only for white men of age!”

Oh how problems never change
Instead they always stay the same.
Yet, it wouldn’t be long
Before the trumpet would sing its song. 

That segregation would possibly end. 

Not for women but for African Americans. 

Segregation had always gone on. 

***** leagues rose up, but finally segregation’s time was gone 

due to a man named Jackie Robinson. 

And in 1947 he broke through with the Brooklyn Dodgers.
Because his team was convinced they’d make more money by Lou Durocher
Yet it came with its troubles because Not everyone on the team was happy 
And some fans were just down right ******.
Some teams such as our beloved St.Louis Cardinals even threatened to strike. 

They were not going to play if Jackie played because they had that much dislike. 

But Jackie and the Dodgers pushed through all the hate that spewed. 

Other players, managers, and fans  were rude, crude and would start feuds. 
Then they would brood every time Jackie’s name the roster would include.
But after awhile people would conclude that he was actually very good.
And after review others would start to include rather than seclude,

But this integration was long over due.
30 years till segregation could be totally subdued.
The lessons we learn are hard ones that is true. 

And it takes awhile for an entire nations perspective to take a different mood.
Now with baseball integrated the game be televised. 

This allows the money in the game to rise. 

The league now expands west; 

New markets they must test.
But hey! the players want some of this. 

They want to start a free agency. 

But this is the last thing the owners need! 

But the players want to be able to move between teams.

The players want money. Oh how things never change.
But the players got what want. 

They now can negotiate and the owners this does haunt. 

The game now is wrapped inside this twisted shame of money. 

Thats all any body wants so they find ways to scheme. 

Thus steroids came to the scene. 

Players now could be payed more if they played well. 

This meant that to hit the ball far, big muscles they would have to build.
In order to get that edge over everyone else. 

These players used steroids to get their help. 

Yet that was not cool with the public 
Because steroids put you at risk. 

They are dangerous at best,
and the league didn’t want to run the risk. 

Plus what about records that have stood the time test?
Are they going be broken now and no longer exist?

All because someone drugs themselves to have a bigger biceps and chest?
Someone please lay this all to rest! 

Baseball today is such a shame. 

Its boring with all of the commercial and pitcher change breaks. 

Something needs to change. 

Because its been turned into a sideshow. 

Thats the only reason why kids even go. 

To see the park, get hot dogs,
and baseballs that when put in the dark they glow. 

Then when you get home. 

you ask them what they remember about the game 

and they say, “I don’t know”. 

This game used to be interesting. 

But now I find my channels flipping. 

Even Golf is more fun to watch. 

at least they hit that ball a lot!
Baseball should but I doubt ever will, 

Get rid of all the pitchers it has to refill. 

No more pitching changes; That would increase the thrill!

Maybe players could hit the ball if wasn’t coming 100 mph every throw. 

and instead of pure talent pitchers had to use strategy,
of when to and not to throw 

That 100mph hour fastball.
Get rid of the sideshow. 

Then maybe kids would go. 

Maybe then we’d go back to being enthralled. 

Back when Baseball was actually Baseball. 

But I doubt it will because money is what matters now.
Sideshows make money so its always going to be allowed.
But I’d like to disavow
I’d like to dropout. 

I never really watched it much in the first place. 

but now I know of a better game.
Oh and one final thing to say. 

We should just go back to town ball. 

That game sounds so much cooler than baseball. 

You could really make some unique obstacles

Put in a fountain or maybe even a wall.
It just sounds like a lot of fun. 

I plan to play it this summer some. 

Everyone will be welcome. 

And we’ll have fun under the sun. 

And it won’t really matter who will win. 

Because its about having fun, building character,
and growing relationships
The end.

There’s a Devil of a night each year, the night of Mr. Haim!
When the devilish and ghoulie ones come out to play their monster’s game.
And why some would seek to trick or treat on this scary day of dead?
Careful now cause gremlins, trolls …sprites and wolves, will offer up their dread!
Quiet, shush, I hear a pack of creepy-crawly boots…

Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo!
And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.

That crafty-smith of horns and hooves is spying on these kiddies,
As Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo are hunting strays to do their dastardly-ditties.
Quiet, shush, I hear a pack of creepy-crawly boots,
And their costumes, oh-so-foul, the evilest of suits!
And there she is, that little girl who can’t keep up, in a tasty mushroom ensemble.
And the skeleton bones clink in her path to give her quite a tomble!

Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo!
And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
The skeleton bones clink.

And Sammy Haim, that smithy-devil, a ***** hoof -igniting ghoul’s desire,
He’s howling out, demanding now, “Put that child to the fire!”
And little does he know, no little bit, not even a small clue,
Neither Ra’atan-Zu nor Boogedy-Boo intend on giving him his due!
For once a year on Halloween they get one night to spaz,
Get down and *****, wild and crazy and play a little jazz!
That little mushroom of a girl will play a tiny fiddle,
Ra’atan-Zu and the Boogedy-Boo, a jazzy duet with child in middle!'

Ra’atan-Zu, Boogedy-Boo and a little girl too as they get down actin’ a spaz! Playin’ all night, howling to the moon and kickin’ out some wicked jazz!

And the skeleton bones, clink…
And the skeleton bones, clink…
  The skeleton bones clink.

"Stop It!" shouted the man
who was dressed in a ***** pin stripe suit,
eye glasses half askew on his nose,
ski-***** haircut sported since his youth.

My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the hundredth time I felt it's sting.

I stood there, patiently and quiet
caressing my double bass violin
my secret seventh grade lover;
she had **** curves and a deep, soothing voice.

I stood there, impatiently and quiet
waiting for Mr. Heidrich to finish the lesson
focused on the third seat violinist
whom played without feeling, again.

I stood there, overbearingly anxious
tapping on the shoulder of my wooden BFF
my rendition of the William Tell Overture
A performance worthy of a Grammy!

The man in the ***** pin stripe suit,
turned and looked at me, scornfully
his half-bald head turned beet red
body shook violently like an earthquake!

The energy released from his gullet
would have made Mount Vesuvius jealous
fiery vocals of curse and rage
would have made the evilest of demons run for cover!

My face turned blank, shoulders shrugged
not fearing this man's belligerent outburst
because I was used to it;
it was the 101st time I felt it's sting.

I was very cautious
I knew if I wasn't what it would cost us
I made sure the bedroom was perfect
I wanted MY romantic affect
I hung the plastic, then the curtains
Bed exactly in the middle, I had to be certain
Lit a few candles
Then sliped on my dress, and my sandals

I cruise the street
For my baby to meet
I pick him up at the corner
My heart beats faster, my body warmer
We go back to my house
Where we start to mess about
I lead you to my bedroom
We'll be making love soon

To my bed you are shackled
You have no idea of my feeling of hackles
Straddling you, and ridding you like a horse
All the wail your loving it of course

With you still in me, I bring out my toys
They are only for my collection of boys

They are bright and shiny
I will not treat you kindly
They are so sharp they can split a hair
And in their refection you just stare
You can't believe what you see
As the look on my face is pure glee

You body starts to convulse and thrash
Then with my blades I start to slash
I plunge my toy in
With the evilest grin
I love the squirting gushing sound
It's all so profound

I have loved all my men
That's why I let no one chase  them
Forever in death they are mine
I'm one of a kind

I slash him to ribbons
It's as fun as the dickens
He's still alive
And feels every vibe
Covered in blood
Our bodies fit like a glove

I slowly climb off top
And lop of his part
Blood sprays the room
Death will be here soon

I'm so happy I made it romantic
And taped up the plastic
I'm the Black Spider
I **** all I desire

“If you are mean with me, I’ll be meaner with you”
When you do something “wrong” or the evilest thing towards someone, they take revenge of that
Instead of take advantage of that situation and person and trying to be better than those, than them.
They need, they have the desire to be more devilish.

It’s pathetic. Mediocre.

People seem to be angels, the purest souls. Even the ones who are good human beings.
But we all have a demon burning inside of us, yelling to escape, to be free.
But that chaos which people have is major.
They sell you an angelical aura, the best moral, and the darkness inside of them is unexpected.
Even the one who can be “an angel” is and could be the malevolent ******.

One Reaps what he sews
Working hard to be granted the brighter way.
Such ingredients add up
To a better product.
Something created on a brighter  day...
.Threads are made of strands
of despair's  tears or strands of true love's strands
Sew with the lesser of these two strengths
Your life's fabric rips apart
One must resew the parts
of life's broken cloth
Once sewed with the wrong thread
One must refinish the quilt of life
to mend together one's self
If one doesn't succeed and fails to strengthen a mend
such actions will lead him to a colder day.
Through hard travels, work, and ways in which to obtain the brighter strands
The seamstress inside of you must find the right spool
Though against all odds, to the more evilest of another, you win by making
a true hearten stand.
Against what he stood for. You knocked his energy down.
You earned his golden threads of truth and love.
You go back to your quilt and sew back together the pieces
Warming up the nights as you sleep under a well made
Cover, upon your chilled body, that you earned to
Cover your weakness under and down.

I was very cautious
I knew if I wasn't what it would cost us
I made sure the bedroom was perfect
I wanted MY romantic affect
I hung the plastic, then the curtains
Bed exactly in the middle, I had to be certain
Lit a few candles
Then sliped on my dress, and my sandals

I cruise the street
For my baby to meet
I pick him up at the corner
My heart beats faster, my body warmer
We go back to my house
Where we start to mess about
I lead you to my bedroom
We'll be making love soon

To my bed you are shackled
You have no idea of my feeling of hackles
Straddling you, and ridding you like a horse
All the wail your loving it of course

With you still in me, I bring out my toys
They are only for my collection of boys

They are bright and shiny
I will not treat you kindly
They are so sharp they can split a hair
And in their refection you just stare
You can't believe what you see
As the look on my face is pure glee

You body starts to convulse and thrash
Then with my blades I start to slash
I plunge my toy in
With the evilest grin
I love the squirting gushing sound
It's all so profound

I have loved all my men
That's why I let no one chase them
Forever in death they are mine
I'm one of a kind

I slash him to ribbons
It's as fun as the dickens
He's still alive
And feels every vibe
Covered in blood
Our bodies fit like a glove

I slowly climb off top
And lop of his part
Blood sprays the room
Death will be here soon

I'm so happy I made it romantic
And taped up the plastic
I am the Black Spider
I **** all I desire

She was sad, numb, cold, and just not into my
Not my vibe reality
The first other woman I told her I love
But her warmth, I’d console her
In my image mold her
Hatch ohhh, my evilest plans to control her
But never let go though
Keep letting her grow slow
Until she cared to join me in a stroll
Through the time flow

You are excess of my goodness when am done with my badness
I love you Africa in excess for your excess of problems;
Poverty, wars, warlords, diseases, hunger, famine
And cataclysms evilest eating away your terra firma
Like a desperate Tiger on a capsized boat,
Your riches in history of slavery and heritage of colonialism,
In the excess of your global bleeding that makes me love you more,
Your excessive black ugly humanity in the explosive population
of useless human beings; barely illiterate and blunt in knowledge
Buried deeply in the starkness of crude and vulpine culture,
These bestow to me the synergy to love you O! My dear tarzanic Africa,
Your excessive cult of dictatorships that glitter in aura of democracy,
Sending your sons and daughters to miserable powerlessness,
Devoid of governance in abundance of power and money corruption,
Financing and cementing torture chambers for the voices of reason,
Building my pedestal on which I stand to execute
My cornucopia of love for you dear Africa, an avatar of Satan,
As you are prone and spread eagled in a defenseless stretch
Against  all the ****** condemning your self to ideological turmoil,
I still do love you in supercilious superfluity my dear Africa.

I was very cautious
I knew if I wasn't what it would cost us
I made sure the bedroom was perfect
I wanted MY romantic affect
I hung the plastic, then the curtains
Bed exactly in the middle, I had to be certain
Lit a few candles
Then sliped on my dress, and my sandals

I cruise the street
For my baby to meet
I pick him up at the corner
My heart beats faster, my body warmer
We go back to my house
Where we start to mess about
I lead you to my bedroom
We'll be making love soon

To my bed you are shackled
You have no idea of my feeling of hackles
Straddling you, and ridding you like a horse
All the wail your loving it of course

With you still in me, I bring out my toys
They are only for my collection of boys

They are bright and shiny
I will not treat you kindly
They are so sharp they can split a hair
And in their refection you just stare
You can't believe what you see
As the look on my face is pure glee

You body starts to convulse and thrash
Then with my blades I start to slash
I plunge my toy in
With the evilest grin
I love the squirting gushing sound
It's all so profound

I have loved all my men
That's why I let no one chase them
Forever in death they are mine
I'm one of a kind

I slash him to ribbons
It's as fun as the dickens
He's still alive
And feels every vibe
Covered in blood
Our bodies fit like a glove

I slowly climb off top
And lop of his part
Blood sprays the room
Death will be here soon

I'm so happy I made it romantic
And taped up the plastic
I am the Black Spider
I **** all I desire

How many times I want to do good, but struggle with my sinful nature.
How many times I struggle with other people whom seem to be super bless.
While it seem my whole life is always a struggle , even the most simplest.
Most simplest of things seem to be a struggle like turning on a phone.
While the the most evilest professing to know God has everything so easy.
It seems I get spiritually attack at every turn that I make in this life.
I  desperately want everyone to repent, and go to heaven as well.

I can feel
I can feel
I've felt the sun
I know it's real

I know how to care
how much I do
all for you my dear
all for you

Oh how intense this pain will be
oh how long this hours dread
Please spare me, unknown deity
Forgive all that I've said

Let me slip
into the bottomless void
Let me fall
Please let me avoid

Save me
Don't let me relearn
What I know
Don't let the fire burn

Put it out
with the coldest of waters
replace it with even
the evilest of inner monsters

Just please
I pray
Don't let
Me float too far in stray

Please don't
let me sway

I'm aware my gift lives really
as a hopeless bane from above
so please oh please don't leave me to


*love

The most powerful demons reside in angels,
for angels are crafted in Hell.
Hearts carved from stone and glass,
and a beautiful burned mask to shell.

But Hell is not run by demons,
for demons are not the evilest beings to abound.
Even worse is a being born pure,
lured to darkness by its sweet, silent sound.

Suddenly your eyes awake.
Every day a chance you take.
Tomorrow may never come.
The end of a life with the failing sun.

The echo of the ringing phone echoes, preaches tales of the unknown.
Outside the thunder cries, it's telling lies.
You wished it was.
And your missing hair, highlights your features.
Blatantly beautiful.
Your eyes shine brightly.
Nightly.

Despite your cancer, the evilest of creatures.
You still smile,  your perfection beaming.
The cancer inside is dying to spread.
You will win for as long as you can.
One day you won't awake,
The lord of love your soul shall take.
As he shall catch us all.
(C) LIVVI

surround me with your love and your grace take me away in this embrace hold me close and never let me go i don't want to leave but your but your pushing me away with every word you say the pain gets worse and worse  and this feels like a horrendous curse like i must submerge and hide deep within away from all the pain and all the sin i remember when you were my sanctum i could tell you anything at all but now i can't trust a word you say because you were corrupted by the evilest of them all me.

What infinte pleasure I live in.
Finding joy and delight in my ever twist and turn.
The impurity of the world delights me.
Death and torture have begun to tease me.
Like ******* to a growing child.

What sweet ecstasy the macabre expounds to me.
It seems all I want in the world are tools to make my life harder.
It's to easy to come by happiness in this state.
I was made for this world.
Sent by god to enjoy the evilest of her spoils.

I am a gift to all that is disgusting on earth.
Like a tree I clean the air of agony.
This is done by stuffing my face with it.
Ooh how beautiful blood trully is.
But your to busy feeling joy to admire this.

I pitty the stupidity of the emotionally and mentally sane.
I wonder what lies they were told that make them feel whole.
Do they not see the fire beneath their feet.
Do they not feel the heat burn through their souls.
Or am I blessed with a sadness that helps me feel true emotions.

I am a parasite that spreads disease.
However I spread it only to those in need of me.
I engrave my skin with all my sins.
Then whisper sweet nothings to a dead tree.
Often I spread ink filled with my dreams all over screens.
Oh what a creep I seem to be.

You dream of love.
I dream of lust.
Yet I am called a foul.
In truth only one of these lies from the world we live in can come true.
But you carry on pining for the wrong one.

You still have dreams.
But somehow hate the idea of a neverending sleep.
What a fool you are to wish you can be better.
When you can always wish not to be.
How can you fear the wrath of a deity that won't even let you be.

Do you really live when you fear death.
Or do you breathe bubbles of oxygen in your watery web of lies.
Continuing to tell yourself untruths in order to feel alive.
It's sad how trully depressed you are don't you think.
You won't feel this truth for it's a mirror you refuse to see your ****** through.

I wonder how vulnerable you feel knowing I know to much about you.
You'll probably look me in the eyes and hold back tears.
Even if you do I know and enjoy the thought that I have violated you.
You are putty in my hands.
All because I know you beg for a better person to notice you.

But they won't.
Infact they never do.
You are nothing and everyday you try to forget.
But your inferiority is my truth so I own it.
You are are ugly beyond compare.
So ugly that you cry unprovoked for hours and hours wishing your life would end.

I was very cautious
I knew if I wasn't what it would cost us
I made sure the bedroom was perfect
I wanted MY romantic affect
I hung the plastic, then the curtains
Bed exactly in the middle, I had to be certain
Lit a few candles
Then sliped on my dress, and my sandals

I cruise the street
For my baby to meet
I pick him up at the corner
My heart beats faster, my body warmer
We go back to my house
Where we start to mess about
I lead you to my bedroom
We'll be making love soon

To my bed you are shackled
You have no idea of my feeling of hackles
Straddling you, and ridding you like a horse
All the wail your loving it of course

With you still in me, I bring out my toys
They are only for my collection of boys

They are bright and shiny
I will not treat you kindly
They are so sharp they can split a hair
And in their refection you just stare
You can't believe what you see
As the look on my face is pure glee

You body starts to convulse and thrash
Then with my blades I start to slash
I plunge my toy in
With the evilest grin
I love the squirting gushing sound
It's all so profound

I have loved all my men
That's why I let no one chase  them
Forever in death they are mine
I'm one of a kind

I slash him to ribbons
It's as fun as the dickens
He's still alive
And feels every vibe
Covered in blood
Our bodies fit like a glove

I slowly climb off top
And lop of his part
Blood sprays the room
Death will be here soon

I'm so happy I made it romantic
And taped up the plastic
I'm the Black Spider
I **** all I desire

They dance 'round a fire
In the moonlit night sky,
When the air's still and heavy
And a thunderstorm nigh.

Their hexes are hexed
With the evilest intent,
With their unearthly cackle
From hell's fires sent.

Burn them all, light the pyres!
When the sun is the storm;
When the hexes they hex
Cannot take the right form.

Next time when they dance
In the moonlit night sky,
We'll burn them to ashes,
When thunder is nigh.

Dark days came around the corner,
Little angel had wind kissing her forehead
Metal leaves fall and dented the ground
Gentle steps feathered the clouds

Don't be in a hurry, my child!
Your mom didn't finished your dinner, yet...
Don't wave any of the cars down,
You don't know what evil might lurk inside...

You were destined to end this nonsense,
You were brave enough to call for help,
I hope angels will wipe your tears,
And in heaven you won't know about fears.

You did wave down a car,
As you found the evilest monster of all
He was holding the steering wheel of your life
With his putred hands reeking of  metal rust…

The pain in our hearts is so great
As we know we could have helped you, perhaps
The lesson learned is, don't hesitate a second more
When you know that your actions might count!

Your cells are blended with the sky,
Your tears are blended with the rain,
The green grass whispers your name,
Of a brave angel that had to die..

Why is God killing me
So willingly?
He’s filling me
With a ***** disease
Brought by biting fleas
Who do as they please
Until I’m on my knees
Begging for release

Sneezing wheezing
My phlegm is breezing
Through air that’s freezing
Trying to teach me
To act more pleasing
Can I kick this sickness
Brought by wickedness?
Or will it punch me
Into lunch meat?

To be in His vicinity
Is to have divinity
So why does He get rid of me?
Could it be the viscosity
Of all my atrocities?
Or the viciousness
Of my wishes wished?
Or my visceral
Scissor hold
On growing old?
Despite my reverence
I fear his benevolence
Involves my severance

The difference between dying and trying
Has me in bed crying
Fever frying
Medicine buying
From salesmen lying
Saying add pills
Of Advil
And mad will
To not be ill
My plague remains still
On Sisyphus’ hill

Can God cure me
Of this absurdity?
Almost certainly
But by hurting me
I learn to see
He uses pain to teach
The one thing that’ll reach
Through the ******* I preach

My gut round
Shuts down
Lust found
That must drown
In a dust cloud
Of an allergic assault
To an absurdist result
Of catching a cold
To examine my soul

He gives a heart attack
To the heart I lack
As part of the pack
Ignoring God’s path
And finding His wrath
Once He chooses me
To lose and bleed
The flu He feeds
To pull the weeds
That ghouls breed

So cough medication selection
Becomes a time for self reflection
At least until my health inspection
Shows no feverish detections
Of the feeblest direction
When the evilest infection
Is joining Satan’s section

I can reminisce about hearing the quote, "Some infinities are bigger than other infinities." Now in the present day I'm more near to the understanding. In this certain moment my mind is cluttered with a certain category of infinities. ***, relationships, appearance, conversation, dating, personalization, and self-esteem. This experience of profanity has my attention in a bind. Or would be call this profanity? I haven't the slightest idea. I have this attraction, I have this intense desire. And I have a particular longing and needing. But my emotions are always different; never the same. At a point, my desire for sexuality has never been higher. And at a different point, it could never go lower. He revealed to me his entire being, which to me was never intended. We live in a world of confusion. The land of the unknown. We fear what we do not know. Do we know anything about this? Do we know what the other is thinking? Or what they mean? Or their intentions, actions, or thoughts? I believe against that. We will never know. Only once in the greatest while do we put someone else into prospective. WE care only for ourselves and what we want. No is starting to mean yes. *** is starting to mean marriage. Relationships are starting to mean appearance, or self-esteem. Conversations is starting to mean personalization. Ideas are different. Opinions are different. Goals are different. And in the end, minds and lives are never to be in comparison. Respect is coming out to have no connection whatsoever to responsibility. Changes are dramatic. Society is the evilest of all evil. Minds are tuned, and so are stomachs. This world has to so greatly. Differentiation is something some wish to be a necessity. Real generalizations, and to practice realism without assumptions would be the greatest glory. These thoughts are probably irrelevant to the most abstract minds. Minimization and magnification are used repeatedly; maybe even without recognition. What shall I do to speak my mind without judgement; and be the change I wish to see? To see a different way of seeing. To display examples of the contrast in minds. I have an answer to this, "What shall I do," question. It would be to learn that some infinities are bigger than other infinities.

Light gave itself to the blind
(forming the tones of a rainbow
in front of their souls)
but they did not know it
and being scared and scarred
by many a sound or touch
in their eternal night
forced on them in simplest
evilest waves of rain
(and choruses of thunder)
they rejected the perspective
forever in their halls of shadow
each one separately dwelling
on cold stones of time
with wheel spinning round
the world as explicitly
as the moon and the sun

Then when the Light left
in search for open shores
they felt a backstab on the
top of their spines (a gentle
pich that span their believes
out of line with the dark
in their hearts) but it was
just the closing starless night
(and it was far too late )
that brought false order
back to its unworthy place
(where it was then and now
and will be unchallenged
alone)

O how hard life can be, some days it dopes not pay to wake up.
But even in the days of evil, Christ is still in control of everything.
Nothing happens anywhere without Christ knowing in advance.
That it is going to happen top someone, for he is God alone.
So remember this the next time, that you are having a evil day.
Trust him, because he truly does love you and want only good for you.
Because even on a evilest of day, it is still far better then a day in h3ll.
For a day in hell is without love and without our Savior the Christ.

The most beautiful and colorful
frogs are the most poisonous ones.

The most elegant flower
has the most numerous
thorns.

The prettiest smiles
hide the most evilest grins.

*So be careful who you bump into

She came to me every day,

Always asked me one question,

“mirror, mirror on the wall,

who’s the fairest of them all”

I was not the kind to hurt

her precious feelings

But all I could say was the bitter,

word of innocence but truth is bitter

Every day I said it was her

But the truth made me say, it was snow

And then she became what I call

The evilest of them all

But after failed attempts,

She did not get what she desired,

She was so angry she shattered me

And my pieces fell like million bee

And ever since that day

Each of my tiny piece

Is stored in every mirror on the wall,

To show the truth, to you all

O how hard life can be, some days it dopes not pay to wake up.
But even in the days of evil, Christ is still in control of everything.
Nothing happens anywhere without Christ knowing in advance.
That it is going to happen top someone, for he is God alone.
So remember this the next time, that you are having a evil day.
Trust him, because he truly does love you and want only good for you.
Because even on a evilest of day, it is still far better then a day in h3ll.
For a day in hell is without love and without our Savior the Christ.