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Nitika Small Oct 2015
When pain escalates, your mind excavates
It entertains and agitates the best of your worst thoughts
Thinking while you sink
Sinking while your mind attaches links to other links which create memories
Vile memories that participate in your habit to erase them
To remove them
By ripping them from your mind with force
Using the high of that blatant eight ball as your source

When pain escalates, your mind begins to deteriorate
As you ligate your mind frame with a plateau of mistakes
A gust of emptiness floats uninvited through derailed spaces
Generating issues on top of issues 
Imminently transforming you
Fabricating you as two addicts in one body
Two addicts in one mind
Two addicts in one soul

The mind excavates on the level of your thoughts
It digs deep
By means of unique technique
It leaves your heart weak
Like a fading light in the middle of the dark
It'll pull out your distress with raised instructions of defeat
Then attaches a link that involves a ghost that sets your mind a bit free

A bit free, a little empty 
The voices go quiet for a time
Your heart can now slow down as your mind continues to unwind
The high of it all makes your body want more
Reaching into your subconscious
Making you believe you need more to be cured

Sinking while you think, your mind provides solutions
Excavating while you sleep, your heart decaying from contortions
Contortions happening in your mind and soul
Contortions that have the ability to leave you body a bit sore
Masking the fears of this uneventful detour
Cause when pain escalates, the mind excavates
It entertains and agitates the best of your worst thoughts
ConnectHook Feb 2017
Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory*

Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul  into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: *música de cavanga
, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven.

The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.
Voice of Linda Ronstadt, especially her early stuff:
♥ Evergreen (pt. 1)
♥ December Dream
♥ One for One
        etc.

           I ♥ THE STONE PONYS !

https://connecthook.wordpress.com/2014/04/11/lindisima-voice-of-linda/
CRH May 2013
The year's end
strips walls bare,
and excavates cluttered drawers.
But turbulence and triumph
still circle around each empty desk.
This 10w Tuesday has found me feeling reflective about the bittersweet end to my second year teaching.
It must be dropped into the Catacombs;
my love for you that is.
Lucid lights tremble as I choose to forget you,
the taste of you that is.
I wore white gloves when I touched you;
your sultry skin that is.
I traced the freckles from head to toe, on
your sultry skin that is.

Tailors knitted my love for you deep in my lungs.
When I breath now, black dye excavates my body;
those are the memories of you;
Those are the secrets of you.

It must be trapped in the Catacombs,
my love for you that is.
In between my pillows, I smile.
The Catacombs have buried my love for you.

I don't have to anymore.
Kewayne Wadley May 2016
Sometimes all that is needed is a caress to fill the void of an endless empty feeling.
One that words on the other hand cannot mend.
The reassurance of head to chest, to feel the essence of an woman
living and breathing in his hands.
Though she is not the cause of the many things that run throughout his mind.
It is this silent bond that assures that everything is alright.
The steady calm of her heart pulsating against his ear to calm his own heart.
Just a moment to breathe in the same air as she does, the pause of a fast moving
heart finally laying it's head down to rest.
Bent bodies at ease, deep down I think she knows; the dreams the heart refuses to let go. Finding light in the shadows of melancholy
The cross guard that waves her hand at pleasant dreams.
This everlasting desire to be loved more grows with every look of her eyes.
He wouldn't ask her for anything that he himself is not willing to give in return.
Any and everything to meet this desire that beats with every breath that excavates deeper into his lungs.
The nature of man to woman, to love one another in perfect imperfection.
Misunderstandings of each others action soothed by the touch of each other's caress.
The sharing of arms clung to each others tight.
Deep down I think she knows, the nightmares that end soon as her voice echoes through her lips.
The reflection of one another's eyes looking back at them.
Eased forward in the recliner of her grasp.
Just one of the amazing gifts she shares, the comfort of herself.
A guarantee of safe passage to feet that often stumble.
He only hopes she understands; holding on to her for dear life
Afraid that she would slip from his grasp
Knowing to her that all of his imperfections are perfect in her eyes
Falling asleep to the calmness that lulls inside of her chest
K Balachandran Feb 2012
love has gone to seed;
hate, excavates more possibilities.
Annie Dec 2012
tiptoeing past the mossy graves you told me all the reasons
why this dewy day was lost in translation and how glass
was made by fusing sand
but thats never going to be tangible
unless that cigarette drag is smoother
and the billowing smoke stings my eyes
making them water and i will cry out for some
anonymous object to come and sanctify my chipping flesh
but your glare when you speak excavates the dirt
that permeates in the mausoleums in my heart
catacombs that hold all the secrets
Goes to the cemetery to see his father, sitting on long solar gloomy. From a snowy mountain peak bravely he attaches to his return, his spirit, part of the sleeping immaterial life; My daughter resting under his feet, returning to his waking body, from her home. This sees abandoned, comes directly addressing the courtyard, there is a tendency and sleeps the days he was not.
Miriam ...(In the dream) ... "Father yet I have you gone, sometimes you hear me come at night, slept more I thought you were not and you just saw it with my neighbors put your white shroud for your rest...
She Turns, kisses the earth and see the tower, climb the steep rocks without spilling any of his ancestors, in the cold stones seemed to portray their faces doubt. Heavy rocks taken from Migdal, from their own ancestors, as if each stone should appear the illusion of taking the petrified intra bodies. Reaches the top, and a gale brought Galilee praise in his voice came. Then interrupted a manly voice ... "From here started the silent sound that opened my ears to want your divine fire, as they came from Galilee, went to fetch a big challenge to Palmahim ... astral and spoke Jofat dominated by the silhouette of Miriam "
And the a woman of Magdala returned where his family, with his tower that never stopped jealous of her, because it was so high ... that everywhere is watching him... and thus the mayor twin towers built to accompany her and Jamal gave him work to generate music and accompany him in his last days with the burning heat on his forehead. Provided, Miriam take charge of covering the children with high structure, similar in nobility Miriam attentions.
Since then, would come as a faithful Jofat sent to tell what made this high tower in his heart, as if the glowing words premonition glad to Miriam. To Migdal Jofat had traveled with a caravaner, a week after Miriam left.

      Then arrived was found that was prey to night, from home to tavern and from there to the tower, where he went with his black veil, to comment to family getaways immolated in the Babylonian regime. I was telling her trapped perennial faults and virtues.
and this way Jofat tells us of his life, and that Palmahim saw her back by a circular faces that invite to help those in need.
Jofat...: What faces ... they ask me anything and not to do them living in your back ...!

Sherom and Moshe speak very distressed ... Sherom finally ends.  Sherom..: Jofat lived twenty years in Magdala Miriam beside the washing their hands as they that day at sea. She sheared his sheep and shepherding their flocks. Until one day came to the villa at night and found a body that assembled at the edge of the tower; He said fear approaching her name and sheep surrounding his body, knelt and prayed Jofat in silent, then climbed to the top floor and shouted to the wind ... "Wind will not see ... for once ... bring it." Jofat germinate saw her pale face in the sky and then disappeared falling to the mortuary ritual. To next day, the funeral fell into the strong blows striated by the Sirocco, right next to the red earth, in the rest of Afad.
    
Jofat fathered two children, one named Saul him and she Magdalena, some vicissitude by the people they lived. Jofat for many years lived in Magdala and her children went up to the lofty figure in spring to see her mother's face ... Miriam, coming down the Palmahim beach with a stick in his hand and a brown dress. Jofat behind them, saw the whole family of Migdal  live ...

Moshe and Sherom  embraced the gentleman outlaw who treated them kindly and paid them generously. The after going to their chores, returned where the Canaanites and told them he was called Hurián, son of the brother of Afad. Moments later, the colorful sky Inked his walk to the house of her father's brother. He came and saw Jofat, Magdalena and desserts Saul dined later prayed and asked the Lord, so that nothing is missing them and had a good year.

Hurian greets and sits silently beside him. Jofat takes the tools; Saul his staff for sheep and Magdalena stays at home to knead and milked the cows.  Hurian thought of taking his horse from Jordan to restart it left but a warm sea air caressed her face, staring putting their eyes on the tower.
Hurian ...: Jofat I stay ...!
Jofat approaches him and hugs him tightly, so does Saul leaving the cane. Magdalena in the window, smiled thanking above the illuminated tower.

" Although many centuries later Migdal was taken by Pompey in 63 b.C. and became a Roman province, never razed the supernatural Migdal’s  Twin Towers. Sand that a centurion and his military company entered the Migdal trying to desecrate the ancient tower; rich in precious metal objects, but jumped reddish sand in their faces. In addition, it is darkening leaving an asphyxiating atmosphere.

Few has lived with reddish sand ... Afad, which like a giant ant hills between excavates the desert mountains, throwing sand to the whimpering tower to hide her tears. So Sirocco ally with the early rain of blood, bathe the Roman heritage and sanctify the true legacy ... the soldiers and builders Migdal ...as well as The Kalebi...!.
PREMONITION  STORY ANTICIPATORY FALL TWIN TOWERS IN NEW YORK - 1997  CHANNELLING LITERATURE
wordvango Sep 2014
In deep sleep forget
fall into
remembers
shimmer in repose
somehow see the known
like a minaret mimicking
a place
of prayer
a parakeet saying what
excavates our ministries
until a foundation is reached
a truth
build then upon the prayers.
Build then
a truth.
Love is a strong emotion
That can be recognize by those with ambitions
Despite of the greatest promotion.
And it is a peaceful war
That can be fought by those with star

In the strong tunnel of misery
Love seems to stand at the entry
And create an empty vacuum
Which gives rise to narrow two doors

Between the fallacy interpretations
One claims to be  love,
While the other embrace hatred
In collective joy, hatred  endows apiary
That excavates the thoughts
Of the victim in doubts

Incumbent authorized in fallacy
All works strongly to achieve void
In accordance with the mind,
The love forces of the alimentary
Is left out for the primary
to digest in great wallow.

While hatred desolate
in the boulevard of isolate
Solitude is filled with a great agitation
with the aim to stop the mutation
but all was rendered impotence
in the anxiety to achieve all pleasures

The mystery in love
can be understood by the competitors
who bang within the exacerbation
irrespective of the condition

Nevertheless, love have fate,
but the salary of love is Hate
which its extravangancy
is filled with vacancy.
In sincerity love blinds knowledge
And indemnifies the hedge

By Chidubem Gerald
For Inquires: e-mail, chidubemgerald@yahoo.com
The Love of God is the beginning of wisdom, fear God so that his inspirations and thoughts will be bestowed in you hearts respectively.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2016
the internet... give me a break... i'm trailing on lost bookmarks and postage-stamps, ******* i'm trailing, i'm making up time, the invention is new, i'm making the most of it, you start telling me it's like the wild-wild-west and... well... don't know, i'd be praying to be employed as a cowboy.*

hard time killing floor always excavates the best in me,
never mind Howlin' Wolf or Jay Lee, or the deafman
and Muddy - blind Willie Johnson and Delta Bob...
there's just too much humanity to encapsulate it all;
and perhaps that's the foremost sadness,
a sadness that states: too many of us to choose an idol,
and choosing an idol crucified won't help either
even if literate with the Bible or not;
Jehovah's witnesses won't help you either,
the scourge comes
lessened in magnitude of *****'s locust;
you go be on your way politicising
the African demise, but i got to celebrate
that from the Slave trade...
agonising memories of Mozart and Beethoven,
the blues, then jazz, then the **** ****-burger Elvis,
go back and moan me a blues than you politicise
in a baptist church blind to archaeology of 19 45;
some too said too often the Olive Garden and
the historian Josephus making it contemporarily true;
sing me the blues man exported, than this Ivory Coast
enigma crucibles of what i too would moan about
concerning noble birth; and that too, with inverted commas
gladly forgotten given the silken shawls;
TELEVISIONS AREN'T CAMPFIRES YOU YO-YO *****!
Elipsis May 2014
Consumed by misanthropy
A cardio catastrophe
Watching hope evaporate
In the pit this excavates
Paralyzed by the victory
Of the incubus caressing you
You lean in to kiss a dark mystery
This is my final cue

My cue to give up and forget destiny
Sit in a corner and be less than me
I just can't do it, so I'm stuck in this hole
Waiting and wondering, losing my soul
Clinging to a threadbare hope
That will be my hanging rope
2011, 18
Angela Turner May 2015
They glow,
Like indigestion
In the pit of the belly
Perforating coals of
After
Thoughts,
Just like this jagged
Piece of you
Smelling like
Last night’s bon fire
Still on my shirt
Torn out like a page
In your story
Briefly reminiscent
Of something bigger
That the world
Should like to hear
Fading now
Like broth in the stew,
None of your shape
Still there is a likeness
Of you in every
Sip of air
So I breathe
As echo

The rain
Has pressed
Upon my arms
And chilled these bones
To shaking with the
Hoary breaths
Of resignation
Always returning
To these embers
Hoping for
The flame
That once
Held in the warmth
Like bed time prayers,
But, I should move along
From these frost covered
Stones.


I should not question
The way of mortality
Or the paths it
Excavates
Through my meadows
But this vigil
By your embers
Is my small protest
Of endings
The inordinate rudeness
Of it’s tone
And the barbaric
Wailing
In its execution
Perhaps,
It is also
The only dirge
I can sing
When my voice
Has been
Strained by the fear
Of being forgotten.
sandra wyllie Mar 2019
Doctor, my pen
is mighty as your scalpel. It cuts
as deep and broad.  Layer upon

layer it excavates ignorance and hate. Dare I say
my work’s as great? We both work with
our hands, minds, hearts

and thrones. For the greatness of ourselves,
the greatness of others, the greatness of
pen and scalpel
Simon Soane Dec 2015
As strong
and
bright
as
best light.
The kind of shine
that does
not dig
or seek
removal of dark,
it excavates
with spinning
flourish
of
radiate;
never too much
in your escalate.
skyy omalley Jun 2020
ed,,zinger suivante,,tels handknits finish,,cagefuls basinlike bag octopodan,,imbossing vaporettos rorid easygoingnesses nalorphines,,benzol respond washerwomen bristlecone,,parajournalism herringbone farnarkeled,,episodically cooties,,initiallers bimetallic,,leased hinters,,confidence teetotaller computerphobes,,pinnacle exotically overshades prothallia,,posterior gimmickry brassages bediapers countertrades,,haslet skiings sandglasses cannoli,,carven nis egomaniacal,,barminess gallivanted,,southeastward,,oophoron crumped,,tapued noncola colposcopical,,dolente trebbiano revealment,,outworked isotropous monosynaptic excisional moans,,enterocentesis jacuzzi preoccupations,,hippodrome outward googs,,tabbises undulators,,metathesizing,,sharia prepostor,,neuromast curmudgeons actability,,archaise spink reddening miscount,,madmen physostigmin statecraft neurocoeles bammed,,tenderest barguests crusados trust,,manshifts darzis aerophones,,reitboks discomposingly,,expandors,,monotasking galabia,,pertinents expedients witty,,chirographies crachach unsatisfactoriness swerveless,,flawed sepulchred thanksgiver scrawl skug,,perorate stringers gelatine flagstones,,chuses conceptualization surrejoined,,counterblasts rache,,numerative,,delirifacients methylthionine,,mantram dynamist atomised,,eternization percalines hryvnias pragmatizing,,reproachfulnesses telework nowts demoded revealer,,burnettize caryopteris subangular wirricows,,transvestites sinicized narcissus,,hikers meno,,degassing,,postcrises alikenesses,,sycophancy seroconverting insure,,yantras raphides cliftiest bosthoon,,zootherapy chlorides nationwide schlub yuri,,timeshares castanospermine backspaces reincite,,coactions cosignificative palafitte,,poofters subjunctions,,aquarian,,theralite revindicating,,cynosural permissibilities narcotising,,journeywork outkissed clarichords troutier,,myopias undiverting evacuations snarier superglue,,deaminise infirmaries teff hebephrenias,,brainboxes homonym lancelet,,lambitive stray,,inveigled,,acetabulums atenolol,,dekkos scarcer flensed,,abulias flaggers wammul boastfully,,galravitch happies interassociation multipara augmentations,,teratocarcinomata coopting didakai infrequently,,hairtails intricacy usuals,,pillorise outrating,,cataphoresis,,furnishings leglen,,goethite deflate butterburs,,phoneticising winiest hyposulphuric campshirts,,chainfalls swimmings roadblocked redone soliloquies,,broking mendaciousness parasitisms counterworld,,unravellings quarries passionately,,onomatopoesis repenting,,ramequin,,mopboard euphuistically,,volta sycophantized allantoides,,bors bouclees raisings sustaining,,diabolist sticks dole liltingly,,curial bisexualisms siderations hemolysed,,damnabilities unkenneling halters,,peripheral congaing,,diatomicity,,foolings repayments,,hereabouts vamosed him,,slanters moonrock porridgy monstruous,,heartwood bassoonist predispositions jargoon dominances,,timidest inalienable rewearing inevitably,,entreating retiary tranquillizing,,uniparental droogs,,allotropous,,forzati abiogenetic,,obduration exempted unifaces,,epilating calisaya dispiteously coggles,,vestmented flukily ignifying complished hiccupy municipalize,,pentagraphs parcels sutler excavates,,stardust miscited thankfulness,,fouter pertused,,overpacks,,guarishes hylotheism,,pi Fresh blood seeps through the line parting her skin and slowly colors her breast red. I begin to hyperventilate as my compulsion grows. The images won’t go away. Images of me driving the knife into her flesh continuously, ******* her body with the blade, making a mess of her. My head starts going crazy as my thoughts start to return. Shooting pain assaults my mind along with my thoughts. This is disgusting. Absolutely disgusting. How could I ever let myself think these things? But it’s unmistakable. The lust continues to linger through my veins. An ache in my muscles stems from the unreleased tension experienced by my entire body. Her Third Eye is drawing me closer.
Mateuš Conrad Jun 2022
i would have never guessed it that Flea would be a Sheffield United supporter, then again who would have thought that Ryan Reynolds would become the owner of Wrexham...

and sometimes: even if you're working an event
and not a spectator you're still like:
**** it, i need to get a t-shirt...

i can't remember the last time i owned something
that did have a tag: made in China...
i still have this shirt from Gap that reads
made in Ireland...
    now i own something that reads: made in Honduras...
the quality on this thing tells me...
if washed properly will last about 20+ years...

when was the last time i saw them?
did they just come out with By the Way?
2002...  so they must have played the London Docklands
Arena circa...
they were great then: but today they were
like the Beatles...
               Flea on par with John Frusciante...
you have to give it bass players that are on par
with guitarists if not somehow surpassing them...

back then at the Docklands... what was it?
12,500 seated and 15,000 in concert mode...
today? my guess is in the range of 70,000+
      they might be getting but that's when people
are at their best... esp. ageing rock stars...
               it's this last push at greatness...
                             i sure as **** wanted to hear
Dani California live...
                  and it wouldn't be me if i wasn't disappointed
at them not playing Warm Tape...

but other things happened...
                  i'm sometimes almost sure that my interactions
with spectators do not go unnoticed by other
spectators or the security team in general...
now... i'm used to hugs... having selfies taken...
but... i truly wasn't read for a guy to walk up
to make: steal my hand... kiss it... hug me and go
on his merry way...
    as if invited the Chillies to London...
oh sure sure... yeah... i organised this event...

but it's not that:
people have been really starved socially after the past
two years... it shows...
   i'm just wondering when all this luvvy-dubby
attitude of the public will return to the old complacent
drunk-rude attitude...
then the post-pandemic honeymoon period
will end... it's bound to happen at some point
with enough people having attended enough
public events like football matches and concerts...
when the security services will return to being
invisible traffic-cone jokes...
                   unless of course it's just me...
i don't see other stewards or security officers
get their hands kissed and get hugs and get asked
for selfies...

then again... i wonder if i've met someone who
read any of my ****** "poems"...
   i look at the viewing counts...
if i managed to pull over 15,000 examples from my
***.. split between several websites...
where on one just one has gained 48.1K traction...
and i add up some of the more popular ones...
i've reached viewership well over 100K...
so i'm thinking... maybe some of these people approach
me like they know me...
     or know of me...

am i being full of myself?
               i'm just not used to strangers kissing my hands...
or playing with my beard...
how much of this is post-pandemic socialisation-starvation
and how much of it inherently authentic
based on the ontology of individuals is:
perhaps... debatable...
nonetheless: Casanova could have boasted about
his adventures in and outside of the bedroom...
i'm hardly hurting anyone's ego by citing how...
how familiar people can become...
   even though they are strangers...
                        let's not get anyone's hopes up...
we're not talking the complications of friendships...
having drinks in a pub... talking about our highs
and lows... it's not about the shallowness of these
interactions... but the immediacy and the fleetingness
of them: the almost democratic nature of them...
"democratic": there's 8 billion examples of man /
woman on this earth... and London can hardly
compete with a small village, with the Archers'
claustrophobia (the Archers'?
   this radio soap-opera on BBC Radio 4...
               in my most low i used to tune in...
    i'm not old enough to tune into BBC Radio 4,
i don't think i'll ever be...
    i tried BBC Radio 3 for a while...
                   i still prefer being my own DJ) -

well... i tried listening to Anderson Paak coming in...
after seeing him live?
i don't think i'll be able to...
     you need to see him... he's a performer...
he's less a recording artist...
                  his recordings are stale compared to his
entertainment qualities...
    part James Brown part: obviously himself...

or anyone not liking what i write can just switch
to something from the poetryfoundation.org,
or the tabloid press...
                    even i think this is mediocre...
i'm less worried about but i was really worried
whether the train strikes would mean that
the transport-chain-lock would work in my favour...
whether i'd get the central line to Newbury Park
on time from Stratford...
whether i'd catch either the 296 or the 66 bus
to Romford and get one of the last three 103 buses
after 12:00am to Chase Cross...

but i just bought a t-shirt from a concert
and put it over my work clothes and walked with
the rest of the fans grinning-like an idiot:
i've been paid... and i saw a band i last saw
back in 2002... and i'm going to see them again tomorrow...

sure... who wouldn't want to be a mysterious
poet who dies at the age of 30
like Kathleen Tankersley Young from Lysol poisoning...
who wouldn't?! the public would archive
two poems by me and i'd be... immortalised...
Bukowski put a nail on the head when he said:
when you write into the thousands...
you realise... that you have written very little...

right now anything to push me sitting up until
2am and getting up at 9am...
drinking whiskey and soothing my legs
from standing up for... however many hours
i stood rooted...
     but i was smarter today...
        i decided to eat something on the shift...
i highly recommend the steak pasties at the London
Stadium... they're only £6 a pop and that's
not overpriced for a London venue...
i would never ingest that free-cheap-*****
sandwiches provided by companies...
mind you... i did manage to "steal" a free bottle
of Fanta from one of the kiosk managers...
          or if you're at Wembley... befriend a Bangladeshi
security guy... or a Somali...
not stereotyping... they can smooth-talk
any member of a kiosk to give you free food...
or rather... the people working in the food kiosks
are probably also Bangladeshi or Somali...
so...                  

          win win...

and of the people you work with... word quickly spreads...
i come in bruised from a bicycle accident...
obviously i had to tell people that "some ******" cut
me off... that's not true...
i was cycling drunk... the last time i ever did that...
i lost control when the road started becoming uneven:
***-hole this swerve that...
it was a spectacular accident of my own making...
i flipped forward across the handlebars...
even if i was wearing a cycling helmet: which i never
have and never will... a beautiful looking
imitation of a Francis Bacon painting...
but today: some guy approached me...
oh... looks like you're healing nicely...

         and i am... it felt so good listening Scar Tissue
live... i'm gently pinching the scab and eating it...
like a dog...
but i was having this conversation with Harini
and about her falling off her electric scooter...
how she would never get back on it...
and i told her: my bicycle was sort of my fault too...
but it's different with bicycles...
so i started telling her about those two glorious
summers when my grandfather was alive
and he'd take me to Pętkowice (Świętokrzyskie Voivodeship,
Ostrowiec County, Poland)
for horse riding...
            oh yeah... i'll never own a car...
i love buses, bicycles and horses too much...
i will never own a flashy car...
so i told her... this mare almost threw me off at
full gallop...
   see... it's different when you have a bicycle
accident and something rather different
when a horse throws you off...
bicycles are dead things... it's up to you to not
be drunk (idiot) and not spotting a ***-hole
early enough...
            but a horse is a living creature and has
its own rules, whims...

i think i'm rekindling sleeping genes in me...
i must have come from a lineage of horse-riders...
after the first lesson
having jumped me and this guy went into
the fields and the forest for a "stroll"...
my god... riding a horse at full gallop...
it's almost a bit like riding a bicycle down a hill...
no... it's not the same...
       sleeping genes of a Mongol? a ***?
                     Winged Hussars?!
who else where the great nations that heavily relied
on horses?!
    i just remember: put right heel pressure
on the horse's torso while pulling at the reins
of the left hand for it to turn left...
and if you want to move the horse to the right...
left heel digging into the torso
and right hand pulling at the reins...
and if you want to gallop?
    both feet dig heels into the torso
  and the reins are tightened...

                    and she looked at me like:
well... i wasn't expecting you to be a type that rode horses...
so much for rock stars... down on the ground
this is probably enough to impress...

i come home i find my maine **** readied for
a nap in my bed... wake up tomorrow...
root myself in... un-root myself...
drink some whiskey... have two days off...
wait for the boiler mechanic come Monday...
then head off to Wembley for the Ed Sheeran gig...
like any modern man i'm addicted
to the urban landscape...
although... i sometimes wish i could live
on the Shetlands... or the Faroe Isles...
be a lighthouse curator...

                               live in a cave: live in a cave:
breathe like a cave when a shout shouted
into it excavates an echo...
           i'm a terrible DJ... second night running
and it's still...
  
i can move mountains
i can work a miracle, work a miracle
ooh, oh, oh, (i'll) keep you like an oath
may nothing but death do us (a)part

she wants to dance like uma thurman...
TC Dec 2019
How can I explain,
my guilt, my fears, my pain;

With every breath I suffocate;

My heart, my soul,
I Ache...

There's no tomorrow,
only today;

My past represents,
as it excavates;
I Ache...

Pain so deep, soul so shallow,
sadness swallows me,
leaving me hollow;
I Ache...

I scream from within,
yet I show no fright;
My souls on fire,
I Ache...

My heart, my mind;
That unpleasant taste;
I ACHE
This was written long ago during...
submerged under peppermint bubbles
  cortex muddled by damp ears
I reach out and touch a flower
     as it whirlpools around intention

     in this manmade lake
I have made of myself an island
  limbs sinking and reappearing
  my face disappears
  and returns renewed

      this whole time I wasn't breathing
the drain excavates water
   for buoyed relics of responsibility
the weight of life
latches onto my exhale

         release         release         release

I will be whole in this lifetime

I rise with vestiges of beauty
     clinging to my essence
         freedom is assured
Jane May 2021
Time's lost meaning
Barren garden
Evil tasted
Purity wasted

Carcass soils
Unwanted plow
Harvest dead
In compost bed

Garden walls
Too high to climb
Nightmare's doom
Living tomb

Bartered soul
Wasting away
Piercing battle
Breeding cattle

Bruised leaves droop
Limp, resigned
Cruelty comes
Spilling plums

Torn from inside
Sanctity gone
Hatred steals
Evil feels

Moon cycle storms
Flooded and choked
Thorns' tight wrap
Ooze ichor sap

Planted seeds
Deep in belly
Grow sweet fruit
Of bitter root

No safe haven
None mother nurture
Promised decay
Predator's prey

Nothing grows good
In black eden
Sapling dies
Winter cries

Weeding excavates
Mum foundations
Plans unfold
In stories told

Childhood warnings
Heeded, forgot
Beware the loss
Beyond the moss

Innocence ends
Freedom won
Chewing leaf
Full body relief

Break in nature
Rules discarded
Time to fly
In inky sky

— The End —