they're spotless, no room for human flaws here.
with faultless sense of selves and fragile attributes
are silver stars, whose homes are cold glittered spotlights
pressured, battered and bruised. look away dear, they're "fine"

they're fine, scared and composed until the next plot twist
rarely, ever so rarely - a perfect one slips
a miscalculation on a regular day
phenomena, wasn't supposed to be that way

perfectionism drove them faultlessly insane
when the known consistent road, shatters to eggshells
"ever so rarely", they reason to the mirrors
with guilt mixing in the blood of walking in fear

inner madness unleashing, black swans reappearing
the wrongs, how cruel that it doesn't let them go on
"this is only once in a blue moon", they echo
deep breathes, clutching close, the past's panic they can't let go

The brimstones golden hunger, and leaking thoughts, the creeping delver lingers, haunts. Swelling faith, like flame to moths, truth re echoes like the sting of wasps. Cloaked man, from another land, faultlessly faithful in dying truth. Unhappy sinner, begs for refuge. Stirring again his thin sole shoes.

Razor sharp teeth
swiftly through my neck they glide
For a dark night like this
there is no use in hide

For they will find you
no matter where you confine
The moon is at full size
and the stars have align

Hiding in you closet
an eye you stick for them you peek
to catch a glimpse of the shadows
that for you faultlessly seek

For you fright
and curse below your breath
Their hearing abnormal, but what they want
is more than simply your death

Moments still
seem to go on eternal
****** are these souls
with objectives infernal

As hidden teeth sink in from behind,
With no plea or chance of dispute
Heartless creatures of the under
have recently gained a new recruit

And as fear fades
and hate them you might
But with skin pale and fang sharp
You are destined to roam the night

Inspired by the dream of the founders of city
Collated by planning of leaders and mayor,
Built by the muscle and sweat of believers
A Masterpiece fashioned for pride and for care.

Magnificent structures of bridges and tunnel
Faultlessly conjoined by highways of God,
Dreamt by the forebears of knowledge and passion
Crafted in concrete and sculpted in rod.

Towering edifices scything through city
Asphaltic motorways curving with grace
Estuaries bridged by elegant girders
Created by vision with tears on it’s face.

Fashioned by strength and belief in the promise
Fashioned by fortitude's strong hand as guide,
Crafted by people's belief in tomorrow
A Vision for Auckland and nation with pride.



Marshalg
With the Wellconnected Alliance.
AUCKLAND N.Z.
(Inspired by the animation on a good Mayor’s face)
6pm,14 February 2013


© 2013 Marshal Gebbie

The good dragon, thankless in his task continues faultlessly
Fitness training session is in full swing, mentally also
Preparations for an imprinted idea of a future prevail
******* on the porch is perfectly acceptable

Critter/blob; doctor/judge breed relentlessly
World of possibilities, even the Cosmo
Royal treatment- worship their Holy Grail
To any other sane beast, it’s debatable

Poor warning, little time, taken so depressingly
Peace out now, the path I wish to follow
It’s all good though, you won’t bail
Contentment cultivating Deelectable

Pupils contract, in protection, from the onslaught of light
which peels off colours out of the abyss,
shedding sight, on blackness,
the contours of the dream
are beautiful
and falling.

I, a curious position in space, attempt to relate here,
whilst all is being swallowed, and swirled,
in the belly of the Goddess,
whom engineers
faultlessly,
as we
fall.

Monkeys driven by meaning, are strangling reality,
effulgent as she is, near, unctuous and yielding,
a shame, that vision is not seeing,
and seeing is believing,
and god is dead,
and science
is a net
holding
frailty.

Behind the mist of morning, at the waters edge,
in the brimming beams of sunlight,
the percolating mountains,
the stretch of land,
the capsule of
atmosphere,
here:

Is the unknown, and unknowable, the black truth,
we tremble before, afraid of the death
it pours over our living ******.

Yet what is enlightenment, but the ability
to see in the dark, and what is the dark
but the absolute liberating force,
the annihilating edge,
obliterative.

And what is nothing,
but everything.

I had many dreams.
my voice was too big for anyone to happily endure
and my heart too sad to persist.

One of my teachers told me I was talented
bright, special, full of potential.
When I got home that day,
I changed clothes, and
thunder from my thighs clapped as I sat down.

I would text him all day and night
even in a sleep deprived state.
The only thing on my mind was about my heavily outlined body
like someone had coloured it in with dark permanent marker pen
which could never be erased.

We'd walk together
and it probably seemed as if he was handling a blown up balloon down the path.
I thought of all the internal laughs people would suppress
why someone of his beauty would be with someone as ill-favoured as myself.

He would show me photos of another girl.
She was beautiful.
I could only think of the invasion of infatuation he would have for her
and I would be thrown into a landfill,
unwanted.

Shopping with your best friend
is supposed to be fun, right?
I tried on the same clothes as her;
I looked like a stubbed toe
that needed to be bandaged up forever.
She looked like a perfectly manicured finger
faultlessly shaped to fit
the glove of society.

My favourite people cradled me as I internally sobbed.
I felt like a novelty.

Loving a fat person is *not a ******* novelty.

It’s easy to be happy, we just have to pretend.
(And we have to pretend we are not pretending.)
We are living on a wedge, in a balancing act,
Continually contemplating our emotions.
That’s how we wobble. (And we wobble a lot!)

I want to be a sunflower.
I want to feel like a sunflower feels.
I want to just be there, all dutiful and content.
I want no unhappy thoughts (there are no unhappy thoughts!),
Nor happy thoughts –  just simply be.
Sensitive and responsive and alive,
And nothing else.

They say we are more.  
They say we are more than animal, more than physical.
They say our souls are souls and that we have a deeper essence.
I say we are not.
I say we are animal and that we are precisely physical.
I say we are chemical, electrical, mineral, and vegetable,
And so much more.
I say our souls are not souls and nonetheless we have essence.
We have so much essence!
(However, our essence is physical, not metaphysical.)
There is so much philosophy in not having a philosophy.

Let there be pain where there is pain.
Let goodness be goodness, and evil be evil.
They are all the same.
Let things be beautiful without them being beautiful to you.
Love is not you, as you need it to be.
Love is everywhere and in everything.
Love is in the nature of things.
It is the nature of the Maker of things.
It is not you that creates love, nor love that creates you.
You don’t need love – not the love you need.
What has this love given you?
What has it turned you into?
You don’t have to be something you are not to be you!

You add up the days, you add up the years,
And you grow old. (The adding up makes you old.)
You add up everything you have, everything you are.
Adding is growing, adding is being, you think.
The more you add. the less you are you.
It’s obvious, isn’t it? Isn’t it?
Yet, you keep on adding till you are almost nothing.
You became a doubt, an ellipsis.
If you were to stop adding, stop pretending, you would start growing.
Naturally, organically, faultlessly.
You would grow into you. Not more, not less. Not someone else. You.
Beautiful you. Perfect you. Godly you.

Look at children.
Look at children playing.
Look at children eating ice-cream *****.
Look at them picking flavors.
There is more depth in this picking than in your whole existence!

I want to be a sunflower.
I want to be the sea.
I want to be a single ray of sunlight.
I want to feel the freedom the wind must feel.
I want to feel like the meadows and the valleys feel.
I want to be simple and natural and magnificent.
God is hidden in the simple things –
This is what we should never forget, yet we always do.

It’s easy to be happy, we don’t have to pretend.

The Flautist, fluently flaunted her flute- Music flew faultlessly through the airwaves, flying fluidly above the noise of the blustering city                                                    
THE flautist created a calm fragrance, whose flavor of creativity fell-well onto your soul creating a soul stirring calmness across the city.

She played her flute clean into the night vehemently, over the feverish chaos –
And the people in the park and in the city could hear clearly as they walked in rhythmic tunes/ She flaunted her music like sweet low hanging fruit, Her music dangled beautiful and singly. She alone, Solo-ed notes of delightful serenity-  

  The flautist moved the masses to a state of bliss; Like free kisses flying in the wind landing on ears conquering and engaging spirits, conquering pandemonium with her flute, she blew her flute... SHE BLEW HER FLUTE, and we marched and listened obediently. She blew her flute and we marched magnificently to her concert.

The dolor ruptures volcanoes
in my tiny field of reveries
like a reliable friend
taking jabs at my smile
You record my withering like your favorite tv show
And I am carefully gutted
By your parasite fingertips
as they race my arteries of decay to the finish line
you trace the outline of vacuous shadows
With moldy hope
and the way your miseries slither off the tip of your tongue
Into the swamps of my tomorrows
And I,
Sinking deeper Into a web of poison silk
That you sewed together faultlessly
with fibers of my pride
endurance is a past time
that i used to know
You never fade.
You always stay
and pick the layers
Of my wretched life away

and out of all the things I chose to remember
I remember
   the way she tries not to smile
when my eyes flutter close as I breathe the smell of
her body and
  how she writhes faultlessly like
the sun upon seawater
with subtlety her voice it blooms
inside my chest
still


Her lips stayed quiet most of the time.

She reminded me of mellow white flowers I remember
how I wanted to stay by her feet when I felt low
   her toes, pearls of deep blue waters I thought I remember
shone within her black eyes forever aglow.

Reality and uncle Neville
always seem to disagree.
I guess he can't see the
tree for the tree.

To him,Truth's a transparency
that he cannot see beyond.
He must stay faultlessly opaque.
To the material certainty,
of which he's so fond.

Reality and uncle Neville
always seem to disagree.
I guess he can't see the
you for the he.

The only things that
are real to him,
are those that can be held,
but not felt.
Each alternative truth
is a tree to be felled.

...and then there are these flowers:
flush with fragility and coloring.

What if I could be them...
utterly mortal, yet dazzling?

What if I could bloom
with nothing to prove?

How would it be
to be like them;
perched on the tree
on a shimmering morning
so faultlessly sunny,
with the breeze...
caressing, ladylike...silky?

Can I be them?

What are the credentials
for homecoming?
or is it
a comprehensive lack of them?

Trending like a
dog walker, the disheveled
moon, comes out
from the cocoon, to welcome
the new year.

This was a flash point
of pure sulphur,
to steal the kisses in rose valley
of violence.

And you stand at crossbones
to ****, or get killed.

The leader climbs down
to sin, to predate
the celebration of womb's disaster.

Earth trembles
in anticipation. A merciless
shreak comes out from the
man-of-war.

Your heart ticks like a clock
Darling, that’d make your love time.
All I can hear is your sweet voice talking
As I strain to rhyme.
While you remain youthful,
Your timeless romances have aged me
Seems like it’s been years since you have
Ticked for me solely.
Fleeting seconds filled full with neck kisses,
“aged-just-right” red and your lovely self, faultlessly fictitious.
Something’s changed. Evidently so,
Tell me why it’s different darling…
Where did the time go?

i stare at my half-clothed body in the mirror,
comparing to your red-filtered half-skinned silhouette
in the photograph you sent me ever so faultlessly:
brutalist and surreal, in sharp monochrome definition,
with an expression as cold and unfeeling as concrete...

all bright eyes, wry grins,
and a corrugated abdomen:
yet your arms conceal
your chest and navel,
betraying a baser shame

you need not hide from me,
my laurel-crowned achilles:
in these eyes, you will
forever be god incarnate

emulation comes natural
(i could only ever behold
beauty by plagiarizing it):
so i shave.

not just my face...no, i take the razor
and drag it into the heath of my underarms,
across my chest, the insides of my thighs,
tracing my collarbone and (waist | waste)

i shave till my skin is raw, blotchy red;
till hair no longer bristles against
the strokes of my jaundiced fingers

i want to tear off patroclus
like the ill-fitting bandage he is:
his shame is my own, seborrheic and crawling
(learn to treat the source, not the symptoms;
cull those parasites from their deep-set roots)

god, would you grant me your favor...
if i was youthful as ganymede?
call upon me in your times of need...
if i was faithful as hephaestion?
give me all i have ever longed for...
if i was as narcissus, that conceited beauty,
who was no more egotistical than he was honest?

i clutch the rolls of subcutaneous fat in the shower,
cranking the faucet in hopes of
rendering it out with the heat
like some ****** up confit;
such is the price of my babylon

bloated, the cystic acne on my back
bleeding into my bedsheets,
i realize it is moments like these,
when my woolen throat abrades at my voice
and i want to retch with each inhale;
when torpid tide pools of saliva
lap against my cheeks
and nausea consumes me:

i am at the mercy of my body and its afflictions—
i can only take these sensations, seen and unseen,
silently as they come, moment by moment,
patiently enduring this migraine of the heart.

the only thing that gives me joy
is seeing the water roll down
my body in beautiful thin sheets,
unobstructed by thick forests of hair

a diagnosis would only warrant my weakness,
justify the existence of the black villous mass
beyond mortal comprehension within me—
within us, wretched god—

i resignedly accept that your messages
will find their way to me only in the dark hours;
i know this even as i text you on the bus ride home,
because you never had time for me but i find myself
constantly making time for you,
begging for someone to care the way i do...

oh but there are still debts to be exacted,
reparations to be paid, my bright-eyed misgiver
(and you won't want to be around
when i collect on them)

when you gaze upon my withered husk
on the hospital bed,
permit me my resplendent self-destruction
silence those morphine alarms
trace the morse code scars on my arms
read and heed their silent plea:
do not resuscitate.

You sit on that ***** bus seat,
all seraphic and glowing-
hovering above the filth.
The beauty your body possesses
makes my heart flutter
and my eyes avert-
unable to bear the spotless, striking
quality of your shining form.

But beneath That is what?
Under this gleaming exterior what is there:
If we were to peel back the skin of
your perfectly symmetrical face;
dislodge those glittering green eyes
to look within-

into your true essence;
that thing that,
although invisible,
exists inside your faultlessly proportioned
mass of tissue and bone.

Who are you?
Your name doesn't matter.
Jane, Justine, Charlotte;
**** all that.

what are you other than beauty-
other than a twitter handle,
or your favourite food;
Other than your preference of hot beverage.

I want to know you,
YOU

When you breathe,
what do you feel?

When you sit on this bus, gliding through streets
and past buildings,
are you over-whelmed by the magnitude of it all?

When you step from your little man-made cave in the morning
and above you,
instead of a closed off ceiling,
is the seeming boundlessness of space,
Do you wonder how the **** we can all just keep going on
and not loose our minds at the slightest
glimpse of this stark, partial reality?

Tell me all this,
tell me.

You can't.

You're just a ******* a bus,
and I'm just the guy who falls in love with possibilities.

Your heart ticks like a clock

Darling, that'd make your love time.

All I can hear is your sweet voice talking

As I strain to rhyme.

While you remain youthful,

Your timeless romances have aged me

Seems like it’s been years since you have

Ticked for me solely.

Fleeting seconds filled full with neck kisses,

“aged-just- right” red and your lovely self, faultlessly fictitious.

Something’s changed. Evidently so,

Tell me why it’s different darling…

Where did the time go?

I used to hear a whispered word. Reverently uttered in the quiet of the seconds that exist between minutes. And unspoken dreams dance faultlessly carried on the mist that floats down from the emerald trees that shimmer in the morning sun. Breaking through the clouds and slicing the magical twilight, for a second nature awakes and rejoices to a new song of repentance.

Two for the price of one.
(Slow bus stories)


Credit where it's due
we both knew
this day would come
and we didn't run
away.

Like most men
I wondered when
the scales would tip,
I tripped along the way
but
knew that I'd arrive

you
balanced me
and the pressure
so easily,
faultlessly,
any fool could see
that together we
would survive.

if there are mountains
yet to climb
and time allows
we
shall ascend
as always
I will depend on you
as you shall lean
on me.

Time for one more.

Stepney Green
the golden dream
of Booth,
is salvation truth?
or just another army
on the march?

the memorial to man
pigeon ****
a crushed can,
a beggar underneath
stone feet
looks up to meet
the gaze
of spent and wasted
days

a chipped finger
pointing to the West
and lest the **** crow
first
I wait a second to begin
then try to fit all these
thoughts in,
a jigsaw and an open mind
helps
me to find a way.

Thursday
not a bad day,
not as good as Friday
but a fair day,
a get you up to wish
you'd washed your hair day
Booth looks away
******* probably
what with him being buried
up the road
in Stoke Newington
cemetery

even ghosts would much prefer
to lay at rest beneath a finger
pointing  to the West,
but he's still there,
the beggar,
older and
he could have told you
if he wasn't so cold
you
might have listened
too.