And before I extended my claws onto your hearth,
I dwelled within a secret passion: I brushed up on sneaking and marking the spot for my next apocalyptic arson
And yet I could never spout the rage that fuels my husk of a being onto your haven
Your abode stinks;
The reek of naïve youth and ***** lust at night
And yet I could never expunge the puny shred of mercy embedded on my aortic psyche
You win this round
For now,
my claws will try to cut the life you absorb from the air that pervades your hearth
Before they turn to fingers, before my wrath subsides in mortal disbelief of its own vulnerable
                                      humanity
I shall incite fresh fear and death inspired odes within me once again

And on a fateful humid night,
I shall let myself perspire at the sight of infant wreckage burning with fervor and life
Your abode in flames of red and azure
And if you burn,
Apologies.
I merely hope your ashes will spark the flame bright for at least a little while
Ahh...such sweltering warmth

Fire Watcher.
Spark Guarder.
You smell of ash and the past.


Yea, burning your brother's shirt on the side of the street.
Stamping the spare sparks away with the soles of your feet.
Doesn't it hurt?
Sending souls beyond into the mist?
Turning the flesh into Flagships adrift?
Burning to be with the burnt.
Returning the souls to the earth.

Watching tiny flames ride skeletal monorails to work,
  wearing a brother's shirt,
    clutching father's overcoat...
      fan, release, stoke.
When we become tinder, Fire Watcher guides the cinders.
Tender eyes and mute mouth.
Ember skies and waking owls.
The wolf is allowed to howl again.

Spark Guarder waits for it all to go out.
Forgiveness in flame.

you should know by now
that every question
is loaded
and every flame
is lit by lies

I'm standing in the dark
and I think I like it here
where the reality is reduced to ashes
but the memory burns bright as ever

you should know by now
that every answer is a spark
and I
am simply melting to pieces

soft glow
burning
burning
burning low

you – master
fire starter
blowing
coaxing
rousing to life

the forgotten inferno
of me, My, MINE
the releasing of light
shine
shine
shine

stinking rag piles
human effluent
with no
sewer to
sanitise.

I am the purge.
pocket of
gasoline
a spark in
the night.

screams call the victory
of
sweet vapours
over
living ****.

I breathe it in,
off my fingers,
as I leave.

You caused a wildfire in my chest but
ever since you started dreaming about
somebody else
I've been coughing up ashes

daylight never reveals
the truth of things
wait till night
and cordite flaring
of a match's strike
then reach into the shadow

herman harding showed me his truck today
in the muggy high school parking lot
in the sweltering sun
that could easily set my still temperament ablaze.
"she calls it the **** wagon."
he told me.
"she calls mine the firestarter."
i told him; he gave me a look.
"surprised?" i asked.

"so what do you think?"

"it's a battered wife."

"what the hell does that mean?"

"all bruised and broken down,
probably only runs because
you give it gas."

"it's a hand-me-down, okay?
so am i giving you a ride home,
or what?"

i crawled in the **** wagon.
"i should be getting my license soon."

"that's nice."
herman seemed uneasy.

"yep, i'll be driving by next school year."

"that's nice."

the truck had green seats
and a yellow dashboard.
obviously replaced.

approaching the highway,
i opened the glove compartment-
insurance information.
"you're telling me you bought insurance
for this *******?"

"why should you care?"

"i'm just wondering,
seems like a waste of money."

almost home,
i flip down the sun visor-
down flutter a couple of pictures of her
that shouldn't have been taken.
i flip the sun visor back up,
take a look at the photos,
and deposit them in the glovebox.
"tell me, herman:
do you like getting hand-me-downs?"

"get out of the truck."

Searching space and time.
Sparks igniting dry tinder.
To forge new future.

firestarter and match,
pitching endlessly to become more
smoke, then intense crimson flames,
aglow in my heart.
brick and stone edifices form a
fortress around abodes
leaving habitats adrift
and alone
(I DON'T GIVE A **** ABOUT MY PHONE)
passing and switching faces -- an
entourage that follows but yet
the girl is alone.
alas, fire ablaze, uncontrollable but
sometimes tame
marking the forest trail and
spreading the damage, sprout and then destroy
like a fiery divine being
destruction of the old path and
a clean sweep of the
trees that once seemed so formidable
the flame spreads with a staunch
persistence, to maybe prove that
yeah, the water is weaker
like a conquistador who
pillages countries leaving them
penniless
the flame continues
no concern about the consequence or
destruction, set on being set and
ever aglow, what puts the fierce fire
out anyways?

Yea of course writing ideas unstoppably
burst asunder at the most inconvenient
opportunities such as driving Miss Daisy,
taking a shower, or using the bathroom.
Accursed ambition becoming a prolific
scrivener (case in point Stephen King)

Woolworth ridding, oddly lumbering
lackadaisically shoehorning out this
being from a self made gully. The jury
yet to decree if attempting to extricate
muss elf from tangled web of decades
old setbacks via literary output successful.

Every morning, noon and night, this chap
blunders, flounder, (like a phish out of water),
yet plod his shipshape reclusive quiet-natured
person along the boulevard of broken dreams.

Oft times, huff hind aye muss elf entering The
Dead Zone (bordering a Pet Sematary). Earlier,
a previous saunter found me surmounting
The Green Mile. Attendant in regard to these
Bag Of Bones, and Desperation to acquire

telephone contact with Cell phone quickens
pace despite Insomnia. No matter unexpected
Sleeping Beauties warrant kisses, my determination,
motivation, and slight trepidation occasionally breeds
(The Dark Half), doomsday facet heftily jackknifing lust.

Occasionally, a feeble goading simply under minds
any corporeal aim to restore endeavor to experience
Joyland. IT (creative juices within spur meeting Rose
Red and her restorative powers. Onward atheistic
soldier goes this chap. No matter tipping point (vis
a vis hungry fatigued body clamors for Needful Things.

Revival (for food and sleep) frequently appears grim.
Downcast state of body, mind and spirit reinforced
by mirage. The Dark Tower looms ahead! Adjacent
to ominous evil looking structure silhouette casted
of a Black House. The initial ambition to ward off
abysmal results summon forth creative literary juices.

Simultaneously a migraine headache pounding pitted LIX.
They hammer horrifically, ferociously, and diabolically.
Shades of shad rock Under The Dome. Ma noggin
aches like The Tommyknockers! Every attempt to locate
a royal crowning coeval counterpart jinxed with laborious
ill luck. Hell in a hand basket plight usually generates
nostalgia for destiny to Carrie be back to Ole Virginny.

Sage advice from Christine, Delores Claiborne, or The
Colorado Kid, yours truly blithely heeded. As a result
(The Outsider within this paperback writer wannabe)
sports defeat written all over face. Concomitant figurative
futility gussies and kickstarts leaving invisible pockmarks.

Ordinary Dreamcatcher fate invariably finds aptly named
Writer Errs Block. Need to back track arises (figuratively)
along vista. The roads have no name. They command
stubborn respect. Near impossible mission manifested
to transcend mental hindrance. This more difficult than
playing Gerald's Game. Hence sigh embrace The Shining

opportunity to avoid Misery. Doctor Sleep would undoubtedly
encourage braving, challenging self confronting The Eyes
Of The Dragon. Such a risky pursuit could force facing pitbull
Cujo. No matter gamble foisted prospect fraught frightfully
being burned at the stake by a Firestarter. Voluntary action

brings small hairs to tingle. Hunchback, sans severely curved
spine straightens. This (The Stand) ding pose offered supreme
vision as promised by The Talisman. Tidbits by me alias
Mr. Mercedes reddit carefully Just in case The Girl Who Loved
Tom Gordon chanced to stumble upon this redoubt versus
her hours spent staring at a blinking cursor. Metaphorical
po' wet ick feet took me where they would.

I need to cool off my flame cause it might burn some people and I don't need to be a firestarter

I am the mountain man.
I am the shifting sands.
I am the laughter through gritted teeth,
I am the squint of concentration,
I am the missing piece and the stone that won't roll.
I am the Zeit Ghost.
I am the Underwerewolf.
I am the Pseudonami.
I am not what you say I am, until I say: "I Am."
I am the Red Sun Samurai.
I am the Locomotive Provocateur.
I am the bones of kings and slaves.
I am the breath of the wind in the trees.
I am the Electrocuted Interlocutor.
I am the whip of the matador.
I am sunken cities in the swamp.

I am Firestarter.
         Spark Guarder.
I am the assembly line whereby the machine reproduces.
I am capitulated capitalism.
I am the captain of the sky ship to
                                                        Ghost Country.

I am a natural amphetamine
         a synthetic homeopathic
         a cure for the sad
            curation for the lost
            death for the solid and unchanging.

I am the mask of roots.
I am a treehouse full of books.
I am the sword in the daytime.
I am the Day Waker, the Cloud Shaker
the Continent Unmaker, the Deep Laker
the childhood of broken dreams and unbreakable boulders.

Half-slumbering in your living room.
One eye on your joy, the other searching
for answers to the unanswerable question of:

where did it go?

Fully alive, pacing the gravestones
kisses to flowers in the new moon
and a pocketful of reality checks.

Helping you let go of everything
                                        Holding you back.

Hoping you'll hold onto me.

I'm obsessive and compulsive
I understand why no one wants to get close to me anymore
I am a mess and find the ugly in the most beautiful things
And I drag happiness through the mud so it looks more like
How I feel all the time
I am firestarter
I burn through people like they are cigarettes
I'm a smoker
I inhale all of my sorrows and exhale "I'm fine" with a smile and tears in my eyes

I revisit that night and
I don't know why
I don't know why it took so long for you
to get there for one thing
I parked
Which took some time
But I found a spot
I won't be towed
And I walked to the hotel entrance
and waited
far too long
I took out a cigarette
And I bet I smoked the whole thing.

You never showed up which was strange.
Did I start to smoke another?
I thought that I was being polite
waiting on the curbside
Eventually R. and his girlfriend showed up
Super late
But polite which was no longer something to
expect from anyone anymore I found

They collected me and we went up to the
Penthouse
And there you were
Did you race like a daemon
breaking those presumptuous,
Certainly useless
Laws pertaining to Physics
just to get up Fairfax Avenue?
You ran to get to a party
that you were only invited to
because of me?
Without me.
This is not normal is it?

Your excuse upon my arrival was ******.
Idiotic.
I walked away.

On the balcony
I stood with you and R. again
We had avoided one another
throughout the night
yet always collided back
like opposing atoms.
Was that my doing?
I really think that that one was
your trick.

One of you had a joint
And I thought to myself
O *******
Thank God
It went around once
maybe twice
And then became a two-step
Without me
(Again!)
Back and forth between you two.

I was
standing there quietly waiting
like it was a game of jump rope
Watching for the moment
when the rope would let me in
My turn would come up eventually cuz
I'm standing right here.

I think one of you
R. probably
Handed me the joint
now dead
A stiff speck of rolling paper stuck between
*******
And the two of you
turned and walked away from me
Without a care
Brothers-in-arms

Well this isn't that sort of party.
Boots on the ground.
Blood in the sand.
Pack on your back.
Gun raised.
The stench of iron and salty offal.
Heroes in The Battle of Normandy.
I am not an Axis soldier and i know that you are not Allies

This Chateau is modeled after one
in the Loire
so the legend has it.
And this is a totally different thing altogether.

Wasn't your father, a fireman and you, his firestarter?
Didn't you watch him
put out your flames on the local tv news
while you lay on the carpet chin in hands, full color?

Did I follow you both back inside?
I think that I didn't
I hope that I didn't
How do you follow that?
I know that I walked to the balcony's edge
And settled into watching the rings to my right
The smoke rings from the cigarette
of the Marlboro Man
perching above Sunset Blvd.
what have I done?
how has it come to this so fast?

I may have joined in
Blowing rings from up above
I made O's very well in those days
One after another
One inside another
The billboard too
We're strange amigos we
Our rings float away unfurling
into thinner mists
While the white and red lights of cars
down below us
Rush into the sparkling night air
East
West
Somewhere other than here
My circles disappear above my head
His circles too.

Did he seem to you like a happy cowboy?
Rugged and determined
Those unsentimental eyes
Narrowing fearlessly at a blank manifest destiny
O
O
O
O
It's endless but I can keep up.

Looking at him from were I stand
I know that I will need
some of what he's got
to get through this
situation.
I thought that I had it on me.
I thought that I had packed it.
But somehow it's taken its leave or
Gone Missing.

He's not even real
This eminence to my right
Just wood and paper and
a mechanism making steam look like a plume of carcinogens
O
O
O
O
Yet I look at him a bit jealously regardless
Funny to feel that way about a billboard
Maybe cuz he's kind of a man
Maybe it's his hat
But it's true nevertheless
His rough hew cardboard evokes

the self determination at all costs
here above Sunset.

I will leave this penthouse
with its sick yellowy light
Dash into the elevator again
Make my escape
Light another and
Blow those rings.
Messaging
Mayday
Signaling my location
Above ground Terra Firma
Not underwater in depths that
cannot support life
R.'s been dead now almost twenty years
By his own hand.

Tomorrow I will try again
I hinted to myself
barely believing
I still have my lighter and what cigarettes are left in the pack.

which I can prov-olone huck curd
(within Trump con feta ration) – as cheesy poem!

Yea of course writing ideas unstoppably
burst asunder at the most inconvenient
opportunities such as driving Miss Daisy,
taking a shower, or using the bathroom.
Accursed ambition becoming a prolific
wordsmith (case in point Stephen King)
Woolworth riding, oddly lumbering
lackadaisical shoehorning out this
being from a self made gully. The jury
yet to decree if attempting to extricate

muss elf from tangled web of decades
old setbacks via literary output successful.
Every morning, noon and night, this chap
blunders, flounders, (like a phish out of water),
yet plod his shipshape reclusive quiet-natured
person along the boulevard of broken dreams.
Oft times, huff hind aye muss elf entering The
Dead Zone (bordering a Pet Sematary). Earlier,
a previous saunter found me surmounting
The Green Mile. Attendant in regard to these

Bag Of Bones, and Desperation to acquire
telephone contact with Cell phone quickens
pace despite Insomnia. No matter unexpected
Sleeping Beauties warrant kisses, my determination,
motivation, and slight trepidation occasionally breeds
(The Dark Half), doomsday facet deftly jackknifing lust.
Occasionally, a feeble goading simply under minds
any corporeal aim to restore endeavor to experience
Joyland. IT (creative juices within) spur meeting Rose
Red and her restorative powers. Onward atheistic

soldier goes this chap. No matter tipping point (vis
a vis hungry fatigued body clamors for Needful Things.
Revival (for food and sleep) frequently appears grim.
Downcast state of body, mind and spirit reinforced
by mirage. The Dark Tower looms ahead! Adjacent
to ominous evil looking structure silhouette casted
of a Black House. The initial ambition to ward off
abysmal results summon forth creative literary juices.
Simultaneously a migraine headache pounding pitted LIX.
They hammer horrifically, ferociously, and diabolically.

Shades of shad rock Under The Dome. Ma noggin
Aches like The Tommyknockers! Every attempt to locate
a royal crowning coeval counterpart jinxed with laborious
ill luck. Hell in a handbasket plight usually generates
nostalgia for destiny to Carrie be back to Old Virginny.
Sage advice from Christine, Delores Claiborne, or The
Colorado Kid, yours truly blithely heeded. As a result
(The Outsider within this paperback writer wannabe)
sports defeat written all over face. Concomitant figurative
futility gussies and kickstarts leaving invisible pockmarks.

Ordinary Dreamcatcher fate invariably finds aptly named
Writer Errs Block. Need to back track arises (figuratively)
along vista. The roads have no name. They command
stubborn respect. Near impossible mission manifested
To transcend mental hindrance. This more difficult than
playing Gerald's Game. Hence sigh embrace The Shining
opportunity to avoid Misery. Doctor Sleep would undoubtedly
encourage braving, challenging self confronting The Eyes
Of The Dragon. Such a risky pursuit could force facing pitbull
Cujo. No matter gamble foisted prospect fraught frightfully

being burned at the stake by a Firestarter. Voluntary action
brings small hairs to tingle. Hunchback, sans severely curved
spine straightens. This (The Stand) ding pose offered supreme
vision as promised by The Talisman. Tidbits by me alias
Mr. Mercedes carefully just in case The Girl Who Loved
Tom Gordon chanced to stumble upon this redoubt versus
her hours spent staring at a blinking cursor. Metaphorical
po' wet tick feet took me where they would into the Shining
and happy place called Willoughby located within the outer
limits of the twilight zone.

I'm shining like Stephen King,
while you’re a firestarter,
a fast furnace exploding,
growing, and blowing
up in a biggest bang
that I have ever seen.

Tell me something about it,
cause I’ve got a brief case of misery
sprinkled with just a bit of psychotic,
as violent as Carrie’s and Cujo’s rabid rage.

No regulators here in the dead zone,
just a long walk trying to get home
with more stuff that's been bothering me,

wondering if it’s time for me to take a stand,
to get my brothers and sisters to understand
there won't be any rest in the pet cemetery,
and there's no place to sleep in Salem's lot
unless you’re dying here beside me,
while I’m losing my blaze,
ending my graveyard shift workday.

I'm an outsider, tired bag of bones,
but I keep doing my roadwork,
watching that dark tower rise as I drive.
Maybe someday death will catch me if it can,
but for now, I’m a pretty fast running man.

See the highway that they painted like the grassland
on that road I roll full of desperation for elevation,
one more green mile left, but I’m getting thinner.
Mr. Mercedes will be too late to make it to dinner.

I am alone my mental cell,
the institute where Doctor Sleep
will not come. Perhaps, you'll stand by me
enjoying all the four seasons that we see
with my dark half drawing three
talismans like the Colorado Kid,
my dear Duma and strange Christine.

Though, it’s insomnia that keeps me from sleep,
with the hopeful heart of Atlantis,
I pray they finally grant me peace,
and little quiet space to read
some more works from Stephen King.

melting cheese on the train tracks
or hunting for a kangaroo
perhaps dissimilar to also compare
a pumpernickel to a windmill

but let the cheese ooze when
i write a slogan machine

= is love in the algebra of pronoun
equations
while ≠ is hate

therefore i ≠ you
is unlike i = you...
at least that's how i get all fuzzy
because i finally reached the reality
of calling both sensations
a fuzz in the fuzzy brain
antics
i really want to scratch my brain
i want to thread it with
needle junctions
to where i am looking out across
the Pacific to find you
dearest plump plumb of an ***
dog in the mirror
dog in the mirror
ravaging from behind...

which sort of reminds me of the Q
above homosexuality
i understand **** eroticism
in literature
and how **** this ring finger
feels and looks
and i'm all weather-jovial in this Scandinavia
land of Denmark and England
and how glorious to see Europe
congregate in Germany
rather than Belgium in swim no swagger
Judas attire of suits
this congregation of a people
i could definitely feed off feeling on Kauai
let alone in my bedroom shack
in the Grim London to a Reaper: ask -
posit a question:
to ask for something or to ask for nothing

currently it's Turkey 1 and Gruzia 1:
that's Georgia
Gruz: i: a
              not ja?

йa
           as much as я

carnival central in my head with
NFOMO: no fear of missing out:
got the acronyms all wong in wok
i mean: acronyms are without
vowels

with exception to USA the grand central
#genesis of acronyms
but not from this Federalist
this post-Republican anti-Democrat
i believe in a coherency of the compactness
of individuals
now with this ring i'm freed from
the ******* of Satan the soloist
and in God's honest ****
i do to my wife
what i would never do to a *******
hail Mary Hail Mary

i paid for my infidelity a labor of
£130 for an hour massaging her
i needed touch
but i needed to give touch
and not receive it
that's how dishonest i can be
flamboyant rude boy ginger
yes i cheated: on my wife that's not my wife
just yet
i have a project ahead of me
four women
my mother
not my grandmother or my great grandmother
not my father's mother
who i have to image of
instead i have
Edie Reyla Lydia
instead i have
Edie Reyla Lydia...
Puerto Rico on the sun flaring up
with teenage angst
with **** firestarter
with my woman my exlusivity
so much good that did me
going to the brothel like that
i was thinking about a Thai massage
parlor but i thought the world
is tense and relaxed at the same time
people are congregating in Germany
in the political arena of football
because the Coliseum is
both Parliament and Church...
the inseparable dynamic of High Secularism...
the Coliseum is both
Parliament and Church...

       ROM EWIG!
HAGELZEIT!
        zeit heil! really? that's how you salute
in Sardaukar Mongolian
i'm pretty sure we've been through
this already: the dampening
are you ******* twice over staff sergeants
all protruding like that
like i'm your suckling octopus baby
wrap or what?! ha ha...

in the **** of god
this goodness of ***
now i see
now i don't want to leave
the singing blessings
i don't want to leave:
take your homosexual liberalism
and leave my CIS non-conformist
stance of: just about right
when it comes to the existential imprint
of lagging 18 years behind
the **** librarian me *******
my imaginary mother
this is not a tiger in a bed photograph
to liken mole to cougar
but once i had the opportunity
of holding a rabbit in my hands:
a blind little beggar without a hop
but then i remember what
humanism layered onto the brutality
of nature looks like
as all children squeak ferociously: UNFAIR...

i also saw two kestrels or perhaps
hawks circling
above me
and then i realized: what good of nature
with man's indentation to make
shape-shifting deconstruction
post-modern very acutely parallel to paradox:
heightened a narrative
for the dead-ends of nature's ability to evolve
as there are dead-end avenues
the ant will not change into anything
beyond the zenith of adaptability as ant
and man can only gesticulate
with a blind man's wand to conjure footsteps
echo and footprints
like diamonds in water and in sheen
of metal in the Lung of Sunlight

            i believe in the biochemistry
i once articulate aloof by denoting
it a meaning, love...

           das biochemie ist liebe!
this metabolism this eradication of thought
and spirit like breath
likened breath for breath
how distance
sour **** sour **** bad taste in the mouth
but that's maybe because you drooled
from the excess in your mouth
O perhaps i was wrong
this Godly **** with Wife
this antithesis erotica just plain Vanilla Sam and Sally
Sam and Sally having a romp
don't understand perhaps
that decade in my 20s spent pasturing
in Celibacy La La

        or perhaps me and English women
are incompatible: period: periodically...
perhaps too much Afro Boosters required:
i see the future as mixed race
for a time
before the splinters come out again
and there's bleeding from beneath the fingernails
like drowning men aching
to breathe grabbing at the razor's edge...

but at least now i don't have a voyeuristic downer
but like i explained to mother:
atheism, liberalism, anti-communism
anti Pan-Slavic
whatever
i wish i could tell you it's love: blah blah
and this high meaning: blah blah...
but it has truly, simply come down to the metabolism
of emotions
and the dispersing of thoughts
thoughts regardless if articulated to the gravity
of words
all better for some frightened onlooker: a reader:
but between you and me:
this is biochemistry
and i'm not afraid to say there's no "god" behind
it and i accept that my body is responsive
to: he said: she said none of us
thought to ought it for correction...

love is biochemistry but science doesn't have
to be anti-religious
but complimentary to it
after all sport has somehow stood alone
from what the sober poll, politics:

the Coliseum is the Parliament and the Church...
shame on anyone writing
anything these days and not working
in a Coliseum... or Coliseums...

Rome Eternal...
                    Rzym: WIECZNY!
ROMA ÆTERNA!
    ROMA ÆTERNA!
                    ROMA ÆTERNA!

i think that's the only tattoo i'd get:
on my wrist...
although one further would be a hummingbird
on my neck just below my ear
in homage to the god
or at least get that tattoo: ROMA ÆTERNA!
where all Holocaust survivors received
their "bar code" of a number...

Huitzilopochtli... proper **** LIFE scenario
should she see me next...
and a driving license... my my...
what plans for the next months
caged on Kauai
otherwise: not caged in London?
you can't be IN Kauai
like you can't be ON London: how can you?

6pm the rumbling of a hunger
sure: there is a stomach
and there's also food
but i don't really require digesting something
right now: more like i've been
presented with an *** and either
i'm eating that out or
i'm ******* it... regardless...
eating a non-edible
like *** is cartilage: my Carthage -

          is not from a symposium denoting
who isn't going to say that:
Cato didn't say so:                    again...

et hoc mihi: ad hoc tu es! amica mea cor meum!
it seems to me that:
for that you are: my love! my heart!

cheese! jeez! so much stinking cheese
of ***: raucous *** sounds
like freakish pigeons on hyperventilation
suppression machines of
******-torture
like there was never any age
difference to speak of when these two
got together.

Though reading horror stories
gearing up as strawberry spring fest
full throttle danse (macabre),
an only every now and again predilection
genre crazy wave
washing over me like
a killer tsunami,
harboring pier rill less night surf
(subsequently fueling figurative
hair razing close shave

critical desperation) to save
thine scrawny ****,
(a derriere laughing stock,
and hence cheeky of me to rave),
what you put
in a Margarita,
those rare occasions satiated, when
hung over insomnia heavily bulging,
rheumy myopic blood shot eyes
nonetheless lock into

vital opening sentence determining,
whether adroit kingly author
nimbly setting the stage and pave
ving what thenceforth, pro
misses tubby a cell out ace
in the hole captive audience
skeleton crew exhuming a grave
grim reaper they crave
(me, this apt pupil), doth brace
himself by all counts once

a bad little kid deserving, well...now...
just a bag of bones,
who fiendishly cackles
analogous to screeching
linkedin deafening banshee
when leaning in (Sheryl Sandberg like),
whereat after opening sentence,
an instantaneous big bang
possessive gnarly hand
forcibly grabs my attention

presaging and frightening
yours truly (juiced in case
ye did not know),
where within the bazaar
of bad dreams epic,
which seems like forever,
when I finally erase
and exorcise the bogeyman who,
regally, masterfully, immediately,
dramatically got woven

lady chattery teeth and all
withering wicked warp and woof
establishing (proof positive),
an excellently crafted
Chiral Mad heavily shades
of night are falling
gussying haunting place,
where the color of evil permeates
every cerebral space
with darkness, said

sub rosa prime evil punctuates
the mind of this dream catcher,
whence after four past midnight
the reaper's image appears
sending adrenaline rush,
surreal augmented moving pictures,
viz flight or fight
courtesy third eye blind
did, when firestarter alarm didst grind
passage of time manifesting dark forces

blaze zing atavistic fear itself lined
up battleground formation
from the borderlands of my mind
this even before turning
the first page where the eyes
of drag'n my afterlife
glowed with radiant shining
where suspense didst wind.

crafted when Wallace and Gromit
returned from their trip to the moon,
which I can prov-olone huck curd
(within Trump con feta ration) –
as cheesy poem crafted whey back
when the following Gouda eye idea
occurred while milking the cows.

Yea of course writing ideas unstoppably
burst asunder at the most inconvenient
opportunities such as driving Miss Daisy,
taking a shower, or using the bathroom.
Accursed ambition becoming a prolific
wordsmith (case in point Stephen King)
Woolworth riding, oddly lumbering
lackadaisical shoehorning out this
being from a self made gully. The jury
yet to decree if attempting to extricate

muss elf from tangled web of decades
old setbacks via literary output successful.
Every morning, noon and night, this chap
blunders, flounders, (like a phish out of water),
yet plod his shipshape reclusive quiet-natured
person along the boulevard of broken dreams.
Oft times, huff hind aye muss elf entering The
Dead Zone (bordering a Pet Sematary). Earlier,
a previous saunter found me surmounting
The Green Mile. Attendant in regard to these

Bag Of Bones, and Desperation to acquire
telephone contact with Cell phone quickens
pace despite Insomnia. No matter unexpected
Sleeping Beauties warrant kisses, my determination,
motivation, and slight trepidation occasionally breeds
(The Dark Half), doomsday facet deftly jackknifing lust.
Occasionally, a feeble goading simply under minds
any corporeal aim to restore endeavor to experience
Joyland. IT (creative juices within) spur meeting Rose
Red and her restorative powers. Onward atheistic

soldier goes this chap. No matter tipping point (vis
a vis hungry fatigued body clamors for Needful Things.
Revival (for food and sleep) frequently appears grim.
Downcast state of body, mind and spirit reinforced
by mirage. The Dark Tower looms ahead! Adjacent
to ominous evil looking structure silhouette casted
of a Black House. The initial ambition to ward off
abysmal results summon forth creative literary juices.
Simultaneously a migraine headache pounding pitted
courtesy spluttering, nauseating, and foaming LIX spittle.
They hammer horrifically, ferociously, and diabolically.

Shades of shad rock Under The Dome. Ma noggin
Aches like The Tommyknockers! Every attempt to locate
a royal crowning coeval counterpart jinxed with laborious
ill luck. Hell in a handbasket plight usually generates
nostalgia for destiny to Carrie be back to Old Virginny.
Sage advice from Christine, Delores Claiborne, or The
Colorado Kid, yours truly blithely heeded. As a result
(The Outsider within this paperback writer wannabe)
sports defeat written all over face. Concomitant figurative
futility gussies and kickstarts leaving invisible pockmarks.

Ordinary Dreamcatcher fate invariably finds aptly named
Writer Errs Block. Need to back track arises (figuratively)
along vista. The roads have no name. They command
stubborn respect. Near impossible mission manifested
To transcend mental hindrance. This more difficult than
playing Gerald's Game. Hence sigh embrace The Shining
opportunity to avoid Misery. Doctor Sleep would undoubtedly
encourage braving, challenging self confronting The Eyes
Of The Dragon. Such a risky pursuit could force facing pitbull
Cujo. No matter gamble foisted prospect fraught frightfully

being burned at the stake by a Firestarter. Voluntary action
brings small hairs to tingle. Hunchback, sans severely curved
spine straightens. This (The Stand) ding pose offered supreme
vision as promised by The Talisman. Tidbits by me alias
Mr. Mercedes carefully just in case The Girl Who Loved
Tom Gordon chanced to stumble upon this redoubt versus
her hours spent staring at a blinking cursor. Metaphorical
po' wet tick feet took me where they would into the Shining
and happy place called Willoughby located within the outer
limits of the twilight zone.