Part One
Nascent Craving

The insular heart unsealed; pearled eyes
Breach parapets of stone— periled shield,
The sweetest ****—
A threatening wonder and irrefragable synergy,
Nervous routes of cognition  
In this nascent, amorous craving.
Locked and abased,
Dissonance lends pathos — euphoric and onerous,
Disconsolate cries curb sublimation,
The regnant bleed diffusing — fervid lust
Fondled, tactile surfaces in throbbing anticipation.

Sullen, aft a veil of laughter,
Visceral aftermath, out of
The ardent ash,
Burns a thirst;
Insuperable numbness and ache.
Efflorescent intimacy,
Table for two
Enraptured in new alliance,
Élan vital (psyche);
Urgent dialect petitions
Equivocation, jocularity blending
Provocation with indecision,
Noted lilt of descending inhibition.

Adrift, the incessant Now;
As occasion inexorably diminished;
Resonant simpatico tending,
Numinous amity;
Heard conversant, cognitive idioms—
Lassitude, time-eaten pangs of the unhinged heart,
Wounds axiomatic,
In disquieting synergy,
Nibbling, the circumference—
Misery’s permeating truth;
None immune, all trundle incongruously past,
Facing intrepid savages.

Licitly felt, reverberations of Amor
Whence the heart behaves;
Measured cadence, pulse elevating—
Treasured lover, contemplative muse;
Undulating clasp, inflated bone of absence;
Incarnation — a woman,
Beyond prosaic;
Ineffable adoration pours in certitudes of verse,
Elenita, enclothed —virtue unvarnished;
Reservoir intrinsic, poised advocate of the innocent:
The crooked lines of insolence,
Brazen culture of neglected youth.
Perceptive blue stare, sensitized tears—
Plaintively, evincing her injustice ago.

Part Two
Tendered Senses

Siren silence, eruptive blush, ampler between phrases
In dulcet tones — stirring discourse;
Foments rebellion, the strife beneath— his ****,
Out of its vast reserve,
Penetrate the narrowed ambit, vaguely announced.
Groping hands, migrating the sensual member
Stern faces grimacing— mirror in abrasion,
Under the blind surf of consent;
Burrowing ambiguity, emerging torsion,
Plunge, enlisted and content in the sea;
Subsumed in the nonverbal cue,
Persuasion’s plea,
Quelled in the post cerebral assent.

Piercing eyes parallel crystalline waters of Lake Tahoe.

An untouched portion of his awareness remains aloof,
Palpable in the subsequential quiet,
Obsequious and febrile, they sinned on sofas;
Peregrine predilections quenched and viscid—
Serenely requited, the room breathes her presence,
Limp, figures *******, mantled in adolescent torpor.

Erudition in bloom, trust undoubted,
Illuminating, satiating; tempest calm—
Under canvas
Terrain soaked and sodden,
Postliminary — rains of invalidation.
Allowance and permission
Recalibrate, salivate, shortly only—
Initiate, obliged consecration, appraising
Curvatures of the spine,
Stuns him obeisant, her femenine pulchritude,
Propinquity inciting vigor,
Emergent allure, the updriven
Tower of wood sprung from the blanket.

Suffused in ether, purring streams of remembrance
Vaginal honeyed dew, sung into
Orchids, remnants of remember;
Drenched down the cynosure of devotion;
Succulent view, diaphanous pantied bottom;
Halcyon mist, saporous wine — compliance of the will,
Freed fires wander,
Pliable rind, twin plums dripping,
Abject confession, dispatching doubt
In tendered senses,
Pivotal tree, lavender Jacaranda holds the key,
Unfurled, cindered vulnerability.

Half-denuded skin invites confessional savor
Acutely bubbled rear, fleshly furnished denim;
Sultry visit, San Ramon Valley in the fall,
Strewed limbs splendid, flowing filmy;
Imagination yields—
Bursting silk congealed
Across deft thighs, ambrosial thong draping ankles,
Grazing ascension, the curvaceous trajectory
Nose inflamed with fragrance,
Inhaling, climb of acquiescence,
The ****** weal, amid the globed fruit,
Focal intention — ploughed lance thrusting,
Absconding, the ancillary perfume of essence.

Perceiving avid validation,
Swimmingly, amid the monstrous gaze.
  
Humid skies simper dank, set swell the incense of Eros,
Surge of poetry engorged
The flame levened shaft,
Nimble ******* flounce, spill the harboring mouth;
Moist hands merging, unfettered,
Weave in supplication,
Vicinity voicing, enmeshed diversion;
Supple and spherical behind
Posterior arch, milky-skin against the lip—
Ripeness jostling their complacency;
Lapped the mooring, ridden decisively;
Recapitulating— spumed forth, bellied over hips warmth.
Abandon the dirge of self-pity
Late under ego’s trance.
  
Part Three
Present Tenses

Tempting trespass across sacred gardens,
Flowering, scandal set luminous: attachment—
Consensual, their corresponsive fear;
Protean manifestations— evocative, perpetual
Unutterable contention in a fictive resolve,
Deliberating the merits of their widely disparate tastes in coffee,
Amorously touring wine, let’s drowse through the gnarled vine.
Sundry deficiencies pale, once contrasted;
The beatific vision—
Material substance unaccompanied,
Imperceptible, tear-streamed cheeks in synch,
Ventral kiss, peak of carnal perfection,
Reminiscence— flesh violent with Love.

Fiction knew to meander the innominate rift,
A tincture of irony soften misdeeds
Immense as the sea.
Insolvent beast stippled with sapience—
Unmasked, the fabric of delusion;
Dependence smothering the disciplined heart
Resentment put up for release.

Waste of residual years
Fate’s apportion, scars bleakly observed;
Chastened by heartache, engulfing fervor
Too faint to recapture.
Vague glimpses dry—
Hypervigilant his defenses,
Veritable suspensions, embers lit linger;
Slender walls of solidity, the horizoned self,
Faith and reason in concert — stone levels of elucidation.

Fractured bones of distance, emanate a rigid salience,
Another ponderous night of absence—
Lingering, cauldron of dearth as indifference ushers,
The quotidian coil of contrition.
Tearful pallor, sequestered —ciphering time and solitude;
The unkissed mouth, his restive brow;
Suspend in the approximate span.
                      
After Lucid alliterations are spoken
Devoid of her face, his lover’s nudge—
The man nurtures his hurt.
Anxious as seldom unscarred,  
Venus’s susurrations,
In present tenses,
Kissed by her serenades of integration—
Notwithstanding metaphysic intrusion,
No chain stays unbroken,
Postponed drifts of deferment left unspoken,
Reverberations of amor.

© 2013 W. S. Warner

When I wiggle, wiggle wiggle,
People giggle, giggle, giggle.
In the middle, middle, middle,
I'm not so little, little, little.
When I jump, jump, jump,
My big old ****, ****, ****,
My rear end ****, ****, ****,
Goes bump, bump, bump.

Once skinny as a rail
I’m more like a whale.
Because of what I did
Ever since I was a kid.
Any old kind of candy
To me was simply dandy.
Follow me around and
I’d eat it by the pound.

Mom would bake, bake, bake.
By belly would shake, shake shake.
I couldn’t flounce, flounce, flounce
My gut would bounce, bounce, bounce.
Now I’m round, round, round,
To the ground, ground, ground.
I eat just like a pig, pig, pig,
That’s why I’m so big, big, big.

Once skinny as a rail
I’m more like a whale.
Because of what I did
Ever since I was a kid.
Any old kind of candy
To me was simply dandy.
Follow me around and
I’d eat it by the pound.

When some say diet, diet, diet,
I reply to them quiet, quiet, quiet.
Every time I try it, try it, try it.
My body doesn’t buy it, buy it, buy it.
So i just live for lunch, lunch, lunch.
I love to eat a bunch, bunch, bunch,
And I have a basic hunch, hunch, hunch,
The same will go for brunch, brunch, brunch!

shackled to a notion
rubbing through wrists
in rusted remains
of beautifully easy

it's a slow bleed
through insults slung
in fear the unmaliciois
only noticed in hindsight

calling the innocent a *****
doesn't breed hate from love
the duke-yeilding cowardly lion
flings back like a monkey


##

breaststroking a marathon in tears
wading through pain I never caused
pelted with double-barrelled denial
THIS IS NOT WEAKNESS

there is no waver on my solid ground
torn flesh and compound fractures
cannot break harder than history

still, gavel strikes
in sucker punched cracked ribs
that look like a past that ain't mine

###

keep hacking off pieces
maybe I'll fit into those pretty boxes
your liars left as gifts
nasty reminders that trust has sharp teeth

maybe that's just you
biting back any hand that gets too close
pandering in placating platitudes
ain't my bag

flattery fails to flounce from unfettered friends


####

can't be beat into submission
with unspoken broken rules
can't run from a truth in plain view

this is what it looks like
to believe what you know over
what you've lived

I'm not running
I'm not biting back
I'm not going anywhere

then again, why would I
I'm not the one afraid to love you




https://soundcloud.com/user-166761247/a-fourth-in-time-to-cracked-selections-of-music

There’s a lagoon in my head separated from the fierce ocean of confidence by a low sandbank.
The sand dawdles to diminish its size, with melancholy waves halting its ruckus,
Water was never that loquacious, only cooing hastily on the salty air
Quaint grains of mushy rutabaga make it hard to finagle,
Because the sirens beautiful song entices me to sink
So I flounce hysterically, unable to calm my mind.

Her fair face freckled with sand gleams with odes of despair,
Adding to the mournful steps of the receding tide.
Waters once at a healthy level, wisp the fresh sea foam away.
Jagged rocks now poke out from the depths,
The vibrancy of her seaweed hair messy and curly, shrivels.

The timid sand portrays such reserve in its frantic company,
The waves crash on cue with such force,
Predictability is only her turquoise concealment
Ephemeral brine absorbed by desire,
Encapsulated by the beige powder,
That cannot dissolve.

I flounce across the midnight way
Not one to return anyone's gaze
As I cut through the winter haze
And stumble through the open gate

That leads into an open hall
Where people laugh
Screech
Squawk
Cackle
As pools of yellow hit the walls

I sidle into a cushioned bench
Nobody dares to turn their head
So I fixate on a drink coaster instead
Then order cider from the serving *****

The jungle animals make noises beside me
Screech!
Squawk!
Roar!
Hiss!
My chest tightens and nerves snap inside me

I sidle out of the cushioned bench
Nobody dares to turn their head
No words of farewell or good fortune were said
As I escape the malt-y, acidic stench

Down, hill, down dale, up street, as I pale
My addled head throws me to and fro
Through the winter haze I go
Till I'm home again
And realise
That once again I have failed.

Ever since I can remember, Barbara has been coming to our home
With her poofy hair and her powdered cheeks, all in a cloud of pink perfume.
She would speak in the fragile, broken voice of a woman well beyond her years,
And Mother would beckon her cheerfully to sit at the table in our dining room.

With whatever coffee was in the *** and whatever Danish found,  
Mother would prepare the table and invite my older sister and I to gather round.
From noon to three they’d gab and chat and flip through the catalogues
That Barbara the Avon Lady had brought.

My sister and I would thumb through glossy, vibrant pages
Of blushes and eye shadows, eyeliners and mascaras.
But I, I would thumb quickly and tire even faster
At the conversation of the table that awaited me, inevitably, after.

With feigned interest, I would sit there a bit
And watch as my older sister would, more patiently, fake it.

I’d grab a cookie and then leave
Mother with her checkbook and her bitter black coffee,
Barbara with her perfume cloud and cheeks all porcelain powdery,
And my sister, with her blonde hair, which was just like mine,
But which tried, much harder to grow much faster.
Yes I would flounce away with my neck-length locks,
And go play with my younger brother.

I cry in love, I love in hate;
sorrow t'at no-one should create!
Whenst no gladness runs my heart's brake
It's thy own image t'at I'll make.

I remember lightly t'at day
As I caught thee on my morn way
With some radiance on thy brow;
thy words to me began to flow.

How at thy gaze my heart fluttered;
and as we stared my cheeks ripened!
Easily didst t'eir shells turn red;
and my body, numb went with sweat!

Ah! T'ose docile roots within t'eir ***,
cunning creatures of o'r smug Lord!
With eager thirst t'ey peered at us,
sketching a poem as we conversed!

And t'at quaint note I filch'd from 'em-
what a gay song on t'eir young stem!
I knew just t'en how thou doth feel-
from yon crisp leaf and its mild seal!

Seized it as I two nites af-ter-
mine heartbeat fastened with lau'hter!
'pon learning thy name on its end;
so dearly crafted by thy hand!

O! How thou planted into th' cells-
th' living plants, amongst t'eir wells!
T'is piece on loving confession-
and such tender expectations!

I danced gaily in victory-
immersed myself in vile glory!
Ah! Didst I flounce myself right outside
To lure and bringst thee t'wards my side.

'Twas th' start of o'r story;
and my at-first-sight love for thee.
O, in thy arms I weave my might;
and in thy warmth, I findeth delight.

Stardust traveled nonillion miles
Life struck, all somehow
All to let me see your smile
All to kiss you upon the mouth

Beautiful, Good Earth spins and spins
Day and night, allow
To hold your hand [a considerable win]
To hold you close, my guiding shroud.

Oh bird sing sweet, mellifluous melodies
And for my love, endow
A tree who's branches wrap round thee
A tree that's fast, fearless of flounce

Season, oft, may change its cloths
But see me, lough
Deep, deep down- koi and Thoth
Deep, deep down, thy heart I house

Traveling Universe without destinations
I find it all, now
To be a thing of thoughtful, [marvelous] creation
To be a journey, in and out

No matter how many words one uses
The thoughts, ideas, avow
My simple truth, because of you (Miss)
I was lost, but have been found.

They lived in a farm on the lower slopes
Of a place called Gresty Hill,
Three sisters, Emily Jane and Hope
And the younger one called Jill,
My father said to avoid those girls
And my mother echoed him,
‘They’re plain and nasty and not for you,
My son, my darling Jim.’

Like everything that’s denied to you
My interest was aroused,
I’d watch them swilling the pigs below
And milking the Jersey cows,
They went barefoot and they slopped through mud,
When they laughed, I heard their cries,
And watched from up on the hill above
Till I caught their laughing eyes.

Then they’d point at me, and they’d strut and flounce
And would shake their tangled hair,
A blonde, brunette and an auburn girl
They would stand below, and stare,
And sometimes, when they were feeling bold
They would hitch their skirts up high,
Put one foot on a water cask
And show me a muddy thigh.

‘Don’t never go down to that Gresty Farm,’
My parents made me swear,
‘For once they get you they’ll use their charm
And will likely keep you there.’
But the girl called Jill had a butter churn
And she made it soft as silk,
And came with Hope to our rustic barn,
Selling the sisters’ milk.

They smiled and giggled when I came out
And they ****** their wares at me,
‘I don’t know whether the folks will want,’
I said, ‘I’ll go and see.’
But my father came and shooed them off,
‘We don’t want the likes of you!
You keep yourselves to your Gresty Farm
And do what you have to do.’

I asked my mother what they had done
And she shed a whispy tear,
‘Some things cannot be undone, my son,
I try not to interfere.’
My father turned to me, stony, grim
Said sleeping dogs should lie,
‘The likes of them are forbidden, Jim,
But you’ll not know the reason why.’

The day came after my father fell
From the tractor, over the hill,
Was crushed, and after the funeral
All of his secrets spilled.
My mother took me aside to say
That my father wasn’t a saint,
‘You know how a cuckoo drops its egg
In another’s nest… Don’t faint!’

‘Two of the three at Gresty Farm
Were his, but I don’t know which,
Their widowed mother would put about
Before they were born, the *****!
It well could be the first and the third,
The second, I couldn’t tell,
All I know is your father made my
Life, like a living hell!’

Jim went down to the Gresty Farm
For the first time in his life,
He lined up three of the Gresty girls
And said, ‘I need me a wife.
I’m told that two of the three of you
Are my sisters, is it true?
I need to know what your mother knows
For I sure can’t marry two.’

Their mother Gail gave a fearsome wail
When confronted by the four,
The daughters said, ‘Well we never knew,
Why didn’t you tell us before?’
‘Emily Jane and Hope were his,
I never was going to tell,
But Jill was William Parson’s girl,
Your father should burn in hell!’

He took Jill back to his hillside farm
And he called his mother out,
‘This is Jill, and her father’s Bill,
I’ve been told that, without doubt.’
Then he said to Jill, ‘Will you marry me?’
She was coy, and answered slow,
‘You’ll have to prove you can carry me,
If you can, you never know!’

David Lewis Paget

The roses lift their wearied heads,
To witness my half-hearted death.
They bow in the most solemn honour
To my corpse and rotting flesh.
And as the ants try drag me together,
They only pull me apart again.
Greedy bites of my insides,
Tried and denied a new friend.
I just waited for the therapy to delete the problem,
And fought against the fight.
Til all at once I finally broke,
And I could never lose this sight.

The vines grow across me now,
Silent sepulchre to possess.
I toss and turn in my perpetual sleep,
Til there is no skin left.
As I'm ensnared in my ivy tomb,
Who left me here to bleed?
Was it your poorly executed handiwork?
Or my own special needs?
A dried zero carved with liquid,
Resembles the prisoner you made of me.
Zero oh so lonely,
But not existent to see.

Still my skin peels away,
Wind runs through my scattered guts.
And as the raw meat finally decays,
Know I've had deeper cuts.
As the last wisps of hair linger in the breeze,
Do you ever reach to catch them?
Maybe this time I'll trap you in my web,
Except not with lies, but truth instead.
You helped build this self-made cage,
I tore free past the thorns.
I'll tie you in knots of lies you made me believe
In a dead shell a soul reborn.

The bony remnants of my fading body,
A harrowing sight indeed.
Butterflies dance and flounce right past,
And never know that it was me.
They kiss my new found fatal wounds,
In beauty you'll never perceive.
I'm ethereal, eternal,
Though my internal never again seen.
I've forgotten you now,
For I've no emotion for you left.
And never again will the roses lift their wearied heads,
To witness my half-hearted death.

You are no longer the
tortured tumescent terror
you were at twenty.

After sixty, the ****** urge
waxes and wanes,
but still arrives
promptly when called upon.

A kind of peace lives in this.

Arousal now requires love,
whereas when young
it arrived at the glimpse
of a leg or a skirt's flounce.

This is more personal
and more satisfying.

The young deserve lust and
the tempestuous heartbreak
it inevitably brings
when mistaken for more
than it can ever be.

Those older need the touch
of a beating heart
as much as the touch
of simple, hot flesh.

No time remains
for the merely casual.

Your desire reminds you
of ruins, fallen towers,
the pressure of mortality.

You want the body beneath you
to touch your soul as well.

You want to touch it back,
to make it gasp and moan
but to hear it in your heart
as well as in your ears.

You want to hold it close
and keep it near forever,

remembering that forever
is not nearly as long
as it used to be.

No time to fool around;
find someone real
and clutch them as if
they were your last chance,
which they may well be
at any age.

it is something that has
made me once laugh.
and now that it is something
that is done to perpetuate
a divinity of its savoir faire,
or unfurl the evocativeness of
  sartorial workmanship,
it is something that inhabits
me like an imagined pit
that a body should plummet into
and crash, having fallen off
from the boughs of a bottomless dream.

like snow or silence, drops onto its vastness and fastens in it such felicitous rigor greeting it
   like an old companion, reminding
   me of these unimpeachable occurrences: as a wrinkled log is petrified, where mosses pullulate to archipelagic green, where wild ivies sprawl like children in the high-afternoon, or clandestine Paraneoptera ensconced somewhere within the triviality
    of demarcated stones in
the dark's cunning edge,

  my body knows its peace,
   all borderless without flounce
  flourishing in its still life.

you felt like a new texture, a fabric i'd never slipped through before,
but darling,
you and i are merely old habits gussied up in
tulle and a paper mache artifice - ghoul masquerading as prima ballerina
fouette for me baby, twirl me dizzier than a whirling dervish
and flounce me on my head to spin out over this choreographed failure.

i've shoveled so much chocolate in my mouth-hole this weekend
i think i'm rotting from the inside out,
made of only sugar blisters and quicksand sores
that are bursting new caverns to life
crafting a base relief depiction of my longing into my throat,
how deliciously destructive!

i'm loony-eyed swooning over this 90-watt moon replica
and these reflector paint stars!
oh, i think i'll trade the entire night sky for this masterpiece
and a macrame bandage for my chest,
much more utilitarian than the atmosphere i drown in these days.

my reckless howling and witchcrafting whimsy
have loosed my lungs from their cage,
wheezing out an incantation into the far-reaching wind,
Everest is ablaze under my spell
sobbing it's ice into the earth and
melting it's bones to ash in my palms.

some men just want to watch the world burn,
i, however, merely want to reconstruct it
from the bottom, up
shoveling all of its innards to the surface
and making the unseen
known.

In the department called
freedom of
expression,
where the language is quite
Anglo Saxon
there's no room for the weak
or for those who
don't curse when they speak or
describe most emphatically
and graphically detail each
****** function.

An adage in old age is, **** them,
the men down in Whitehall with
no ***** for billiards and
the bankers who spank us with
high rates and interest
can fester away and
testing each day as it comes are
the bums and the drop outs queuing
for hot tea and handouts
and **** them too.

To be free to express is a gift,
nonetheless one we must use
with a modicum of
compassion but the fashion today
is to curse the **** away
and each expletive pronounced only comes back to flaunt or to flounce and there's not an ounce of common sense in the pretense I may feign by reigning my words and refraining from swearing, I
say
**** 'em again.

If I hang I'll hang well and stink to high hell and that's one way to express what a ******* awful mess
we're all in.

!IT'S IN HER KISS!

"Arra..!" she smirks

"Sure, give us a póg
ya auld rogue ya!"

I chuckle at her
Orish-ness.

"S'ea...n'ea?"
her eyes question in Irish.

"Tabhair dom do phóg!"
I challenge her gladly.

And in the kiss
the exchange of bliss

a tiny rolled up note
passes from her mouth to mine.

Her tongue firmly
in my cheek.

Speechless I...
. . .can not speak.

She turns and with a flounce
sashays off

an angel
in dirndl dress.

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"
thrown over a naked freckled shoulder.

I unroll the tiny tiny scroll
smile at what is written

her telephone number
with several x's beneath

in red indelible ink.

Two tiny tiny eyes
drawn in blue

with one eye closed
in a wink.

*

"...póg..." - a kiss

"S'ea...n'ea?" - "Yes...no?"

"Tabhair dom do phóg!" - "Give me your kiss!"

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"..."Goodbye...boy!"

I used to sing at the top of my lungs
and only think of colorful air
passing over my tongue
but ever since you left
every time I sing, I think of you.
You were taken from me too soon
without a chance to say a last
I-Love-You.
Sometimes it's a dull ache
but sometimes I'm doubled-over in pain
and it hits just when I think
I can finally see the sun.
Because how can the sun still shine
when its rays can't find you?
You'll never flounce through the
screen door again
on the way to your favorite
wooden bench
but you still
float in and out of my dreams
and it's such a bittersweet pleasure
to see you there.

!IT'S IN HER KISS!

"Arrah..!" she smirks

"Sure, give us a póg
ya auld rogue ya!"

I chuckle at her
Orish-ness.

"S'ea...n'ea?"
her eyes question in Irish.

"Tabhair dom do phóg!"
I challenge her gladly.

And in the kiss
the exchange of bliss

a tiny rolled up note
passes from her mouth to mine.

Her tongue firmly
in my cheek.

Speechless I...
. . .can not speak.

She turns and with a flounce
sashays off

an angel
in dirndl dress.
*

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"
thrown over a naked freckled shoulder.

I unroll the tiny tiny scroll
smile at what is written

her telephone number
with several x's beneath

in red indelible ink.

Two tiny tiny eyes
drawn in blue

with one eye closed
in a wink.

Slamming doors,
Stomping feet,
Angry tone,
And vicious eyes.

Screaming.
Yelling.
Harsh words.

And instead of flinching,
Unlike then,
Right here and right now
My fist clenches,
And I want to scream
"What power do you have?
Other than inflicting fear upon those that are weaker than you?"

And I feel nothing for those that have
Left me bruised and scarred,
Spitting up blood during my
Graduation ceremony.

Not contempt,
Not anger,
Maybe a little fear.

And when I feel rage
Coursing through my veins,
I'm suddenly calmed my a thought,
Sweet and Simple:

"My Bluebird."

And it's a song,
It's a smell,
It's a feeling of warmth and calm,
It's sanity in a good way,
Insanity in the best way.

My Bluebird of Peace,
Brings calm around me,
Brings the sizzling, explosive temper I possess,
Down into nothing.

He lifts me into the light of day,
When I'm overcast.
He pulls me into the warmth of human decency,
When I don't feel human at all.
There's a certain "who-knows-what" about him,
And I'm more than willing to find what it is,
And hold it to my heart with all the defensive protection
I can muster up.

Golden rays of sun,
Glistening down from the heavens,
And I'd rather be here with him
Than anywhere else.
A sky so blue it wraps you in the warmth
Of the sweet summer breeze,
That you almost can't feel because the humidity coats your wind pipe.

And birds flutter and sing in the distance,
And the soft call of a crow can be heard farther off,
And a song thrums in the back of my head,
And I feel a flounce and flutter in my heart,
And I want to feel the beat of his heart
Against my back
As we fall asleep.

The smell of apple cider
On a winters day,
And the warmth of the fire,
As my hands spread across a blanket,
To link fingers with his.

I want to remember
This feeling of being in love
Forever.
Yet I know,
I will be in love
With him until the end of days.

Tonight,
I am manic.

A vast new world,
A different taste
From my dysphoria
From my fears
From my anguish.

I am hyper,
Hyper-active,
Hyper sensitive.

I twirl and flounce
All around
All around you.

I can be brighter
Than the sunset
And lighter
Than the stars,

But this isn't that.

This is random giggles
Taking my medication late
And cooking too much
Talking too much
Thinking too fast and too much
All at once.

This is reckless behavior,
Heightened *** drive,
But it's a back-and-forth,
Because my *** drive doesn't function
Without you.
It's a to-and-fro because you keep me in check,
You keep me at more of a balance
Than I had been.

But the mania
Still poisons
My mind.

MAN OF IRON

My fingertips
touch your dress

remembering
the first time ever

caressing your curves
...through it

your body covered
in its flowers

remembering
******* you

your dress
gently resting

strewn gracefully
across a chair

tame now
in the moonlight.

Once again
tenderly I

take it
(unfasten it)

fingers touching
its hem &

longingly
(lovingly)

...iron it.

*

Guess this is MAN OF IRON PT.2 IN 3-D!

*

A MAN'S WORK IS NEVER DONE!

Remember every
flounce & frill

of your white summer
frock

how enthralled I was
by how it fell

capturing the swell
of you in it's

...every motion...

the two of you
captivating my heart

only now realising
what a *****

of a dress
it is to iron!

are my lips too thin
so the words cannot flounce
or somersault with flair
they break their pretty necks  
land with a painful yell  
and flounder in your grimace  
helpless

are my teeth too crooked
like a metal fence deformed
the sentences tear and topple off
flattened children in the muck    
mangled by dogs
their sad filthy hands pinch your ears  
hopeless

if i dressed it all up
like a call-girl, ruby lipstick,
fishnet stockings on my thoughts
and i danced out the poetry
on your lap, in the dark,
would you be fine with me
being in love with you?

i don't know

poet ramble
on the walk of a dove
a flounce of a pea

Fairytales are for children.
You know this
Brutal cautionary fables
Or beautiful magical lies alike
They are for children
And it’s time for you to wake up

You're late, You're late
It's an important date
The world is falling apart
But update your status
Smile and laugh
Share your dreams
Like glitter bombs
In everyone’s face
Because in a world of 7 billion plus
It always has been
Always will be
About you

It’s ok though
Hush little one
Yes the world’s not fair
And you know what
It never will be
The world doesn’t spin to the Disney songs
That for the longest time
Have promised you
That one day your prince will come

The world has changed
It’s dark and cold
You are a grown up now
There is no more protecting you
From the realities of the life
You decided to choose

And people don’t change
Not really
Because deep down
Beyond everything
We are driven by this need to survive
Well
Mostly
And the path of least resistance
Is the one people will take
So if they know a path well
They will keep walking it

And no matter how many times
We prescribe to take the path
Less travelled by
Ultimately
We make our way home

You need to put your feet back on the ground
Get your head out of the clouds
And learn how to own your ****

Because fairytales are for children
Life doesn’t play out like the movies
And ultimately
I’m done carrying your baggage
So you can flounce around like it doesn’t exist

You aren’t a princess
This world is all there is
Prepare yourself for it.

My heart grows in gardens
Spread out the land
Roses magnificient
Some climbing some stand
The roses are David Austin
Cupped shaped layers of flounce
To touch they do drop
Becoming sailing craft.
The gardens are my home
Petals covering the ground
And my heart lives there
Foverver grateful for a hand.


Love Mary  xxxx

HAUNTING MY OWN GHOST

My ghost hung around
waiting for me to kick

the bucket so it could
take my place.

I shouted: "Now, just hold on
a moment I am

not dead...gasp....gasp
-  yet."

"Oh hurry up and get on
with it!"

it screamed back.

Well...I never.

"It's hard being here but
not all there

if you know what I
mean...a ghost's gotta do

what a ghost's gotta do!"

Anytime anyone
came into the sickroom

my ghost crawled
up the wall or

hid behind the curtains
blending un-successfully into

the dreadful wallpaper.

But somehow
the kicked bucket

stabilised itself and
regained an equilibrium.

My ghost
assuming the worst

had now being
caught out

of its comfort zone
and had to pretend

to be my shadow
or my reflection

and learn to smile
at me through gritted teeth.

Me now the picture
of health.

I haunting my own ghost
with my continued living.

"I'ill get you for this!"
it snarls from the mirror.

"Oh go rattle your chains!"
I yell and flounce out of the room.

It hopes I die
...soonish.

!IT'S IN HER KISS!

"Arrah..!" she smirks

"Sure, give us a póg
ya auld rogue ya!"

I chuckle at her
Orish-ness.

"S'ea...n'ea?"
her eyes question in Irish.

"Tabhair dom do phóg!"
I challenge her gladly.

And in the kiss
the exchange of bliss

a tiny rolled up note
passes from her mouth to mine.

Her tongue firmly
in my cheek.

Speechless I...
. . .can not speak.

She turns and with a flounce
sashays off

an angel
in dirndl dress.

"Slán leat...mo buachaill!"
thrown over a naked freckled shoulder.

I unroll the tiny tiny scroll
smile at what is written

her telephone number
with several x's beneath

in red indelible ink.

Two tiny tiny eyes
drawn in blue

with one eye closed
in a wink.