Some people would say that I am a fantasist, an idealist or a romanticist. They would be right.
But its not innocent; I've seen love in all its powers; its glory, its sacrifice, its understanding, its passion, its beauty, its happily ever afters, its successes, and also in its suffering, its misery, its hardship, its jealousy, its insecurity, its possession, its cruelty and most of all its longing. Love is illogical. The amount of love you have for yourself, will attract that same love from someone else. Its hard work or its easy. Its equilibrium or its imbalance.

Everyone in your life in whatever form of relationship holds this love for you, and you for them. You become a mirror image for whatever you desire in life from others. What you lack, you hope they will fill the void, making you whole. Or sometimes where you lack, they take a look around, sniff the air and make themselves cosy in the cavern of your longing. Sometimes just sometimes, you find the jigsaw puzzle piece to fit the void.

This is what I believe about love.

Love is sacrificing yourself for another, but not all of you until you are deplete of reason, choice or circumstance.
Love is making the effort. Actions speak louder than words.
Love is giving til you want to punch yourself in the face, because it seems too much, and then getting over it because you learnt from it afterwards.
Love is breaking past that barrier, taking down those walls, even if its brick by tiresome brick.
Love is travelling 4 hours to see someone to make them smile, to let them know that you care.
Love is attuning your inner spirit. Taking pride in yourself. Taking care of yourself.
Love is loving yourself.
Love is cartwheels, fairytales, hand-me-down stories and a rollercoaster ride.
Love is 22 cut out love hearts, each with a 'I love you because....' hanging from your living room ceiling.
Love is listening. Really listening to one another, and talking like adults.
Love is loving someone, way after they have gone and made their own lives away from you, just because.
Love is letting someone go, for the last time, giving up and slamming the deadbolt on that door, so they can, never, come, back.
Love is letting go of control, negotiation and acceptance.
Love is forgiveness. Internal, and external. Even if they are not there, even if they continue to try to destroy you. Understand, everyone has their own demons to deal with, and theirs aren't yours, you're purely a emotional punching bag. You accept that or you don't, your choice.
Love is understanding that you are not part of their life, unless they make you part of it, then you have a say, but you still might not get anywhere.
Love is saying sorry and meaning the **** out of it.
Love is giving a second chance.
Love is sitting up with someone in the midnight hours, holding them while they cry themselves out of their pain and living nightmares.
Love is believing in what you want, and respecting someone for what they want, despite your misgivings about it.
Love is being honest, in every which way.
Love is a cup of tea in the morning.
Love is your hand cupped on my cheek, so I know you're there.
Love is play fights, pillow wrestling, hide & seek and treasure hunts.
Love is laughing til you cry and your belly hurts.
Love is knowing when I have had enough, really don't want you here, nowhere ******* near me, and holding me anyway, because you know I really do, but can't help myself.
Love is creating trust. Breaking down boundaries and letting someone in.
Love is chinese whispers, bbqs, outdoor fairy lights and midnight fire pits.
Love is a mutual appreciation of the same music.
Love is mutual appreciation of each other. Mutual understanding.
Love is fighting for those you love, against the world if need be.
Love is giving, sometimes until you are spent and weary.
Love IS kind.
Love is acceptance.
Love is being a best friend, a role model, a partner in crime, and a creator of mutual dreams.
Love is wiping away the snot, the blood and the tears. Placing magic kisses on scrapes, scratches and bruises.
Love is believing.
Love is holding someone til they're ok with letting you go.
Love is packing up the car early in the morning with a tent and walking boots and driving off in the sunrise.
Love is teaching someone how to ride a bike, understand a question, try a rope swing or do roly polys down the hills
Love is letting them get it wrong, so they know how to get it right.
Love is giving your life to something you believe in.
Love is not giving a flying **** and jumping off the cliff. Recklessness abandonment.
Love is an adventure of mass proportions.
Love is unconditional - if you place conditions on love, you are limiting yourself in every avenue of your life. Place conditions on other things - respect, commitment and trust.
Love is passion; passion til it overflows into all avenues of your life, til it reaches your happy place, and puts a smile on your ****** goofy face.


Love with all your heart.
For no reason.
Forget the rest.

Blah Blah Blah!

In a blaze of anger I exploded.
His personal torment,
He created for himself.

I told the world a pack of truth.
About the sheep in lupine garb.
Dressed not in a sauce of mint.

Inedible,
Toxic to the end.

Darling, your good friends left.
Go curl up and die.

My friendship expelled at last.
My heart is fixed.

Go have a blast,
Poetic fantasist.

Straight from the heart of ex romantic.
For I am not to be destroyed.

Annoyed once by his drunken rants.
His narcissism.

The fairy tale he decried.
The one so truly self absorbed.

Stuck in syndrome,
Peter Pan.

Expelled his faeces.
Only way that I know how.

Wrote my heart out.
Demon exorcised.

Care not,
should I be cursed.

Now i'm gone.
Guess what,
I'm fine!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

confined to four blank walls my whole life
my soul untethered, my hands chained to walls
escaping through my own mind time after time
wondering what the outside world must look like
I’ve always been a dreamer, a romantic, a fantasist
I try to escape, I fail, I try again
my legs are ****** and my abdomen scarred
there are marks of defeat on my face
and a fire burning in my eyes
for no life is truly lived if it is not lived free
and no death is truly death, if it sets you free

so burn me to ashes and turn me to flame
then scatter me across the globe
may tulips grow from my empty eye sockets
and roses between my ribs
may apple trees grow from my fingers
and old ferns from my neck
sprinkle me in the deepest river
and toss me in the valleys of snow
empty me into the soil and let me grow
and once that is done, I will finally be able to see
the world I’ve always dreamt of coming to me
in death I will find my living
and in death I will find my peace
*light me on fire
and set me free

Distraction! The skirting board is alive.
Last year's grit at the back of a desk;
you have a story to write,
a good friend to deceive, phone calls
to make to indifferent ears.
Dirt accumulates, black algae
in the carpet, and nothing on your mind.

There is an ****** in the sidelines,
it will have to wait – a soap opera,
a bath of salt, a supply of coffee:
catalyst for the morning,
some razor blade, a brand new face.
“A necessity!”she drools, a fragrant potion,
whilst children cry and die in Gaza.

The cigarette falters in its promise,
the fantasist friend, last year's prophet;
you have a life to live
but that can wait another year.
Love sits in your mouth, fat accumulation;
tasteless reprieve from hunger, a motion-
anything to escape stillness, immediacy.

Men in drag lift their skirts to the screen,
the fool is on the hill, the billboard; a dream
of fame litters your focus, your self-hood.
There is a pyramid built for better people,
all these old institutions – indefatigable ladder!
The rings of tea caramelise on the table,
married to the places you have been before.

Elusive enterprise – unfulfilled spark,
you suffocate in oxygen, heat lost to air,
embrace yesterday's comfort, tomorrow's snare.
Take another day inside this indistinguishable prison.
The walls are glass. Eligible, you vote for Hope.
For the drug of the future, a disbursed present
for minimum wage, accepting slave; your eventual grave.

(Hive Wired)

As wires round the world get lighter and thinner
the autoscroll feeds you fourty-nine homicides
from desktops at noon to plasma at dinner
the auto-cue commits sixty-five more crimes.

Mad and red in the face, you picture yourself
pace by pace, walking the span of the kitchen
but the network fail to mention the other seven billion
who kept living their life devoid of such sinning.

Typhoonous winds and hurricane fever
head out the window, yell for your kingdom,
yell so we hear you ’til you’re hoarse and unkempt.
yell 'til your sad old neighbour get’s hell bent.

Step back to the desk and slam on your keyboard
tell all that you know that there’s more to life
than watching the ’strife of idiocy’ part two thousand
and something, there’s more to this world

than serving a system; there’s more to a system
than the buds at the top, the roots don’t need trimming
the buds must be stopped from dying and rotting
and killing the crop. Still glum? Relax in your favourite shop!

With a roof overhead and your screen polished down
forget the anger, the strife, and fantasist who yelled.
tip-tap the day away, earn and pay away that frown
forget how lonely you are and buy some new health.

Tip-tap-a-tip-tap-a-tip-tap away the evening and next day
Now you live vicariously through social media
you cannot stop networking, lonelier… lonelier.
Connections you make get quicker, and quicker.

You pick and you carve a residual image.
‘Life is the greatest’ on appearance
the best fools fool themselves, it’s addictive
post after post you build up a rhythm.

Second life, third face, prosodical features:
hive mind rewired you’re speechlessly grinning
Staring at screens you’re now silent at dinner,
your diary entries get sparser and sparser

you forget appearances are a farcical demeanour
sixth chord diminutive, false life fever: your square
-eyed and ill groomed head sits on a hunchback miser,
the hive mind keeps ticking you keep getting wiser.

A fantasist in her own
She built her best and her worst,

Staying awake by the fire
She wrote tales of her cursed fights,

Lost in profound thoughts,
She found her peace she never got,

So you like to listen with ears that gander..
To the miraculous sound dance upon the veranda
Through a ferocious pound of advanced verbal stamina
Banging out precocious power like political propaganda
Whilst Sanding down atrocious Towers of satirical working man hours
Miles of hanging around with flowers that gave us powers and led us to pipeline dreams
We thought we was Mario and Luigi it seems...
Cross pollination from a hybrid nation
Brought up on Nintendos and playstations
To then sort out endo and thc equations
Buttercups and Daisy chains utter such hazy frames for stutter much wavy brains that pucker up for glazey games...
A beautiful mistress coming with cuticle dizziness can be fruitful in optical misgiving ness
Goddess awareness was always the fairest nest
yet the one I always invest in is high hats and snares
Always there to ingest a rhymes saps and wears
More playful than a caress of sly ******* stares...
Apples and peaches of bums with succulent pears
Meet battle sound features on drums of reluctant fears
Whilst Cattle bound Creatures hum decedent sneers
And Snapple drowned preachers hear irrelevant prayers

Bionic biopics from ironic orifices
Leave subsonic tonics drawn for moronic sonnets...iconic comics form sardonic harmonics for all the polyphonics with bees in their bonnets
As the Flutterbuys scuttle buy you and I as I utter why do the good girls always make me cry
Yet the bad girls get me high
As they wind and grind
with nature's sweet sunset vibes
it's always a pleasure I treasure to take this fair weather  ride
Whereas the good girls just make me sigh and I wonder why I cry when they say goodbye
maybe good isn't something for the likes of you and I
these are the wonders of why try in an age of Wi-Fi
So we'll stick to our fly by drive by guise of rampage rides through each other's insides..

So come and gather at the miraculous sound dance on the veranda
Go run and gather up haphazardous fondants for a poetic stanza
The sun can hammer us with glamorous fragments for a consciousness Bonanza


A break in the pores is a take from the draws  as something is coming to you from a cause
A screed and a scrape off the times the mind's been in need of a gauze
From the marks she adores from her kitty cat claws
From crimes that hear a applause for the kind of sports only a blind horse could  report
So Don't be mortified or horrified for being glorified through a poet's eyes
it means you've fortified the tortured side of a fantasist sky
which is now where you lie as it's hard to deny you've been immortalized….
  Ooh yes see..that is your prize

Insanity
Is how it shall be
Now that normality
Has departed,
Long gone
And uncharted

That line in the sand
It did expand
It swallowed whole
Every unstable soul
Every extremist
Every fanatical fantasist

Our morals drowning
In a sea of demons
An ocean of dystopian dreams,
Where we now lust and embrace
Such ludicrous extremes,
Vivid vivisections
Of intricate intersections

This alternative in place
Wears a mask on it's face
A disguise of lies
With a desire to despise
A parade of a pompous parody
To control through chaos
And manipulate humanity

Careful how you tread
And from whose hand you are fed
What you seek as innocence
Is ***** under the influence
Drugged and deranged
Compassion exchanged
On the stock market floated
And for all of this ,
This life of inadequacy
We stood in lines and voted

There is a man with a grave in his head
and he wanders from town to town,
singing songs of crows and death and God.
Some say he is an undertaker,
some say he is a vessel of the devil,
but they all agree that he means them harm.
There is a man with blood on his name.

A child of six finds him by the mercat cross
with a stare that chills his brittle bones.
The sun rises up with a limp
and casts his shadow long and gaunt
and fragile and black.
He offers out a smile
but it grimaces
and forms a dark, crooked sneer.
There will be death here by noon.

Church bells and raised voices
gather above the rooftops
and descend as black rain,
like tar, sticky and oily.
They have made their choice.
Weapons are gathered
and war songs penned
and faces painted blue and red.
There will be death within the hour.

A confrontation of silence and conflagration.
He sits there, still, momentarily lost
in the warning call of a fantasist
with a pen too small for his ideas.
The crowd before him swells even further,
nervous anger and shaking knives.
He stands up quick,
and the villagers twitch as a single entity.
He holds up one bony finger.
One body.
One is all he needs.
There is a bloodbath.

He sits alone surrounded by people,
blood forming patterns in the grass and gravel,
like Point de Venise.
He clicks an impressed tut
and takes his belongings off his cart.
It is too small today.
He will have to make several trips.
And all the while,
hour after hour,
day after day,
that smile will never leave his scarred face.

Whenever I got serious, and told you that I just want us,

nothing else now matters and only you can flatter or shatter

everything that is mine.


You stayed like you are mine,

until no other guy gave you any sign

of interest

without another thought, you broke my trust,

it was unjust, felt like it was out of lust.


Was it all my fantasy, couldn’t you behave with a little decency?

When we started, when our hearts and sorrows parted,

you told me that you would never change,

that it would never get this strange,

or is it some kind of revenge?


It didn’t have to end like this,

3 years ago, being together was the only bliss,

and oh my! that kiss.


Can I say that I still love you,

One day, you will forget everything and say, Fantasist? Who?


Even then I will be within you somewhere,

my voice will faint and words will blare,

that’s when you will care.


My thoughts and words will blend,

but at that time, we will end.

why even attack,
slyly creep under
or even parasitical nibble
at a figurine
that in 100 years will                 (
gain impetus akin
to an Alexander the Great...                ?
a joke of a surname...                                      )
when you have
all the grey
areas of an erwin lambert
to mind...
    the joke that was ******
that became the mythological
romance akin to Attila...
   the congested mouth of
human history,
lacerated, cancerous,
tooth-rot
and a tongue of gangrene,
nothing, but theatre,
surviving;
give it 100 years...
  and no sooner the moths
that might agitate the flame...
but all they grey-mass-in-between...
ihre vater,  die "wenigscherz"...
how these children
sum up the evil
in one but man...
     peddlestooled into the lime
from the cameo...
    dictator helpless before
dictatorial mass of bureucrats...
hier! hier ihre eisenvorhang!
        break the rank
of the patron of bureucrats
(herr Kant)...
                      and place
the sztylet of Brutus,
with a semi-patricide scorn into...
a nail within
the hanging frame of
           a dandy crux...
  a feeling akin to:
    castrating a pedegree Alsatian:
shining teeth...
   pumped teeth...
impersonal the gnashing...
most of the time i imagine
myself reincarnated
in a theatre of a castrated
rottweiler...
    making stretched-clown-masks
from strangers' skins
of childrens' faces...
just for kicks...
   mind you...
   apparently the N.S.A.
  has all the personal data briefing
whether or not...
i'm jihadi material...
           or just a fantasist /
fetishist...
     good to know that even I,
do not have knowledge,
of a minority report;
    must have whisked passed me
on a feline whim of
teasing a whisker before
a fetish for: leisuring a Mexican
in cleaning a dilemma's worth
of a paw;
prepare th mince...
an obese exhibit with
Alzheimer's...
      during warfare,
war dogs & dogs require
the most contaminated meats,
to add to their expected
ferociousness...
      ha ha...
         the Nazis didn't insaminate
their subjects with
feline *****?
              why is Frankenstein
so pale...
    and transgenderism, so, norm?

Mauve fantasist of walls
Seeks "clarity" as
loud concrete lies
rupture his skin.

There stands our Novel Chamberlain
Xenophobic uber-prat with top dog pretensions
a weak chine coward showing profile unrefined
goggles dark, black shirted.shameless bully craves attentions
parody of a man mired in semblance exuding puerile ignorance fine
insipid pale republican Tonton Macoute compensating his limitations

There stands our novel Chamberlain
a oaf with mildew loaf, the  ubiquitous Brown shirt warrior
he's here, there pontificating absurd prose worthy of disdain
cringing vocabulary, warped voyeuristic styles, he straddles Parlio
emitting odious **** of a mentally deranged finding shelter in de rain
basking in mock praises from acolytes and accounts in his alter-egos

There stands our Nonentity Chamberlain
the charlatan of all poetic sides and raconteur un- magnifique
he's eaten in Laos, slept i Siberia, climbed the Laurent and lion slain
been all over the world, bedded women from China to Mozambique
he is a trialist, finalist, racialist, specialist, a fantasist, all but not plain
as he sits in ***** drawers in a dingy room masking his life oblique

There stands our 'no-mark' Chamberlain
dark shades and black T-shirt a poser fantasizing he is a G-man
look behind the facade and see the under-endowed troll insane
a coward, a nasty, witless, brain addled yob and **** fresh in a can
show me the confident wholesome being who does like this knave
a fake con artist, buffoon, with the pretentious guise so much in frame



,

I am neither this nor that,
Neither here or there.
I do not talk too fast nor
loud.

My ego rides on me like
a rug. It needs vacuuming.
Today was a pretty dusty
day with lists and conversation

written with the accouterments
of my old age.
I am a fantasist.
It shows in my mistaken
choice of you.

You cannot hear me.  I am too loud.

Whatever I have to say is not
a flower or a song.

I am the avatar of she who
left.  The husk of intelligence.

If there are questions that
are unanswered  ask another.
I have the memory of a
conversation, an admonishment,
a loving reminder from someone
who was wrong.

And the reclining apneic
experience to

sleep. To say

my

prayers to the God of my
understanding


Caroline Shank
4.17.2024

They only understand at the basic level
the complexities of reasoning are not theirs
as are finesse and being cultured or witticisms
they think in pictures as a child with an abacus to count

being charitable enough to be  polite
rather say I have nothing but contempt for them
he glibly said I will never forgive aware this is up to God
the low thinkers and the preachers all buy into another buzzword

basic understanding of low mentality
sees the jokey assertion that a character has gone black
meaning a fair complexion fares in dark tones as if that matters
to a wholesome adult well aware any outer pigmentation is irrelevant

ignorants comprehends neither wit irony or sarcasm
a fascinating study forever amusing to the cultured brigades
who rather than educate them merely toy with them indulgently
for they know that to the dumb witless they always see the Emperor's new coat

from Plato Republic to the fantasist socialist grandpa
we see how manipulation of the underclasses plays out
spin the sound bites and tell lies for they're too dumb for truths
praise their ignorance and tell them Duchess Camilla and the Prince have horse faces
these twits are always ripe for the taking, its in their gene pools

i haven't "weaponised" my drinking to turn it
into writing, proper, for some time,

there's this riddle in Latin,
because i won't be looking for the words
in Hebrew, so i'll unravel
the saying in Latin,

working from ehyeh asher ehyeh,
i am that i am: toward...
i am who is...

        but god is the Holocaust
is... ego sum quod (that) /
         ut (as) - ego sum

  not who he is...
   transgender bereavement...
   since trans-racialist affairs happened prior,
Cat Stevens had a Greek Cyprus father
and a Swedish mother...

Napoleon Napoleon: best new soundtrack
for a movie...

****... i'll really need a classical
education... ego sum qui es...
i've been sleeping
i can't weaponise alcohol like i used to
to write...

maybe i've also lived a little and can't catch
the surf of loner writer bollocking,
i have all the house to myself but
it's like: i don't want to push the nuke button,
the red red red red...

there's a dancing fly on my table in
a timid stake of the last remaining light,
i almost think that i've given half of myself
up... better evening than for most
spent in Plato's cave without Homer's
spine...

since Homer's courage for adventure is
almost as crippling to inherit as
Moses' Genesis... crippling for the modern man,
modern, current man, seemingly claustrophobic,
who knows, maybe i'll unwind
and use this amber droplets to unwind,

i'll cite some common reference point,
by now i know there is no "collateral"....
i can drink and smoke some marijuana
and have 20 walls with roof included
to bounce my ego about like it's a match of
squash... i'm used to the darkness - des rocs...

i haven't missed the beauty spots...
today i failed at living a day...
i waited for cat food delivery...
i waited for a plumber...
but i was armed for cycling in the night...
as sun disappears come these days
gone come 4pm...
   i cycled like a serpent constipated by
puff and wind and wizards of feathers
to the proximity of Canary Wharf...
via the bus route 5 towards Canning Town
then back through the muck
towards Barking: demographic check...
stinks of India around here...
but at least it doesn't smell of pickled cabbage
best associated with Germans and Polacks...

mitigating 0-return flow of information...
i can't weaponise words with alcohol,
i thought i could... reading a snippet of:
I, Maximus, of Gloucester, Olson,
my new favourite poet...
but the world is shook-up Stevens and
no... clearly, i don't won't to find myself
happy, somewhat interested in how:

the world with it's buckle i will remain
with my scythe... for the burdens of
harvest are still to yield...

i knew my "unprofessional" scribbles would
suffer should i meet a ms mrs "right"...
and now Hawaii is like a Treasure Island
Black Dot Pirate tattoo, forewarning...

it's still funny to me...
the Hebrews do this magic trick of not speaking
the name of their deity...
while the Muslims hail it appropriate
within the confines of: from what i heard, last?
decapitating the heads of unborn foetuses...
propaganda or... am i going to be the last
surviving horror movie fanatic
fantasist that: membrane of: surely until it
reaches me... but until then:
nothing has happened!              bogus...

kick and scream into the brilliance of the light
of ignorance... as long as someone knows...
as long as someone has experienced
the dark bulging interior of shaking-up
human relations...

call it a grandson of pickles...
Reyla loves pickles...
it bothers me it doesn't bother me...
it bothers the supposed bothered me...
like i might be a pastor's son
with juicy snippets of bad ***...
i started my idea come 9pm... it's almost 10pm...
and i'm almost finished my escapade...
so are the cats...
no angry ***** dishes to boot...

i was born to scale the heights of
salvaging hours of upkeep as a bus driver...
that's all i ever wanted to be...
but it's hard... to do the whole...
Leibniz-librarian anti-Newton push of genius
dynamic... but i like this war...
Newton and the push of intellect-spectacular
into the public domain... contrastic
the reclusive Leibniz...

last time i heard about the current
Nobel prize winner... she was writing something
of what Knausgaard's ambitions would
never achieve...
like prize Homer or the Quran or the Bible
now... in the climate of selling to
the literate-doubly-illiterate...
leprechauns and goats...
      similis of the chin and stroking the beard
for good luck...

       luck           vs.           fate.....

by definition luck is choice...
and fate is will...

i wouldn't say, ignore the world, def(l)ect it,
there's no Cicero in me and any mind
worth of rhetoric...

if we had free will... we wouldn't be calling
out circumstances of hierarchies in
the mind of the mad animal that's man
and not the cat....
we're not free without the cages
we found ourselves, to be trapped in...

i was rereading Nietzsche today at 9am
today...
aphorisms are sometimes better than poems...
now i'll get blind drunk and dunk a blind
pit stop to strap smoking a doodie
to help me count sleep: shleep...

it still bothers me...
why did he say: i am that i am...
instead of saying: i am who is                   (?)
i'm tired of Scandinavian influences of literature...
and i'm tired of translatable new-Englishnessness
of this Molotov-multicultural
load, of, *******, *******!

come 11pm i'll be jacked up ready for sleep
come me, rewatching season 1 of BILLIONS...
only because a poet scrutinises an actor
and an actor is not: a poet, a *******,
a priest, a politician... yet still...
between serious dictatorial weight-gain lifters
of the Chinese and Russian civilization-state
authority and western:

oops-e oops-ah... ******* about?
     under the dictation of a veil
of thespian-journalism?! you, *******... kidding me?

PROFANITY AS THE JUNCTION
OF ALL TRUTHS...
to strut with words as oaths
O **** me... i have the entire house to myself,
Edie, there's no mother no daughter
and there's... sand, time, to begrudge you...
you above a tilting hind, broken leg...

the tired ******* are asking: for this matter
to be either stalled or, resolved...
because the Apocalypse is being stalled...
and by double the definition,
smoked, halted...

           but there's this irrational very rational
love of, love of everything that comes
matching up purple with pink...

     who the **** speaks of the Chinese these days?
the ******* Taiwanese?
the Hong Kongish shrapnel brigadiers?!

news news... north east west south...
oh, i heard it's new hot **** getting streamed....
i'll make sure this writing evaporates when
i smoke a soak of a doodie
when i do...

no Olson-Project in Ezra Pound's sight...
i'm in love, i think i'm in love...
who needs to be,
i love regardless, that i'm stupid...

i love cycling at night...
i have a small ****... but big hands...
i have a small ****... but big hands...
    she swallows...
      a litany, some are words best
constricted to be contained to sentences...

i'll smoke one and entertain
kaleidoscopes...
green and with a frenzy of luminescent
purple teasing blue...
so many serious people:

adjectives of burning surprises
key, word, BOMB BOMB BOMB...
life almost perfect, sober,
on Kauai... so remotely... "it".