Young women know all about style -
how to fix the decimal point
between them and their mothers
differentiate themselves
from Special K over 40s wanna bees
mini skirted and high heeled
trying to catch their husband’s eye

Yummy mummies in their 30’s
are separated from the new stock
by firm elastic flattened midriffs
no bulge or wobble
unlined skin taut sometimes
navel peirced or *******
their legs wear the 4” heels again
on winklepicker pointed toes
for a mid century crop
of bunioned feet.

No scraggy necks or waddle
no tea tray arses only
plump peaches
in the bend over show
of skimpy, lacy thongs
of ****** floss

So, **** femme fatale is cool
body object the thing to be
flouncing and  preening
flirting and *******
random hook-ups on the run
in the alleys of time on the net
in the warp of space
Killer !  Whatever !
Wicked ! Yeah feral !

If my world's a bakery
in an endlessly large country
you descend upon my city
we pass at the stale loaves
eyelashes flutter, aghast
like I'm an insect assailing your glasses
I watch you smile or grimace
Run your tongue, checking for guilt stuck in your teeth

"Oh! Hhey!!"

Your voice surprises us both
it is the same timbre in which I render
words more decadent than your courage
to spit at my living person
when it stands all but 5'6 and breathing in front of you
washing up bottle messaged on the beaches of my awareness
-*****, jezebel, ******-

-her-

See, I've been receiving your cookies
in brown paper parcels
Little birds didn't want me to miss out on the flavor

I see you, small creature
how quickly you frost your hate
with buttercream icing, your loathing is cake
you devour and feed to anyone who'll taste

You have laid your field fallow
and let me assume disgrace

I want to tell you you're wrong
I want to push you with my mind
I want to throw sprinkles at you

I see you, small creature
with scrunched up fists
and I taste your poison
like grand marnier
it spoils everything

The recipe was followed rule for rule
The souffle rose
***** though you may

I'd almost rather hug you
if it would squeeze out your wretchedness
a flouncing whirl cupcake summit

so we could be tin-pan square

and may our pastry never mix again.

i’ll fall in love so many times
my heart’s bound to get broken

this was just the first time, my dear
that words not meant were spoken

i said that you were worth it
but now i’m not so sure

it’s hard to imagine myself
being so naive and immature

to think that all the pain i felt
and all the tears i cried

would somehow be rewarded
by the things you tried to hide

my mother spoke to me today
her voice straining with concern

and once i was able to comprehend
i felt my stomach churn

“i just want to strangle him,” she said
“he comes into your life,

and uproots you, takes you away from us
cuts you off just like a knife

from your friends and family and God, and for what?
so he can break your heart,

and go flouncing off to college
and enjoy his fresh new start?

just how does he sleep at night
knowing that my little girl’s

whole life has been turned upside down
and she’s angry at the world?”

i held my mama’s hand
and told her what was on my mind

“i know i didn’t listen.
i know that i was blind.

i couldn’t see that what i needed
was just the very thing

i turned my back on that april night
when he and i began our fling.

what i desired was just affection
to feel valued, to feel loved

to begin to feel self worth,
and not the lack thereof.”

so Chris, if you are reading this,
know that i will be okay

but don’t think that i’ve forgotten you
although i know you’d like it that way

you’ll always be there in my head
even when i finally

meet someone who gives a ****
and wants to be with me

i know that you know how it feels
to be head over heels in love

with someone who in every sense
is absolutely incapable of

loving you back in the same way
no matter how much you try to show

that they mean everything to you
that you just cannot let go

but dear, the sad truth is
it was my mistake as well

to think that my life could turn out
something like a fairy tale

with you at least, because you see
my prince will one day come

he loves me more than words can say
and at night when he gets home

i’ll come running into his open arms
and without fear or guilt or pain

i’ll tell him that i love him
knowing that he feels the same.

Within his paw
smeared bloodied red
by a deliberately mocking thorn
sat a
blanched ripple-y
guarachera strip of cloth
confined narrowly
between the love and the life lines.

TWO ROADS!

what remained of her
remained of the underthings
beneath

fluffing rows of silk
the heavy skirt had been raised
above the ankles
the creases no longer hidden in shadow,
one leg hoisted over the back,
the reigns held expertly.

Hey Beauty!
As it happens, the card numbered Eight is
Strength (also Lust)

She had surely fled
She has surely flown
through the trees and away
Not on foot at-all
while the three saw her pass.
great speed.
The two sisters
with that prince vulgaris looking on
curiously
Three daemon goblins watching from a distance
a disturbance
a smallish crashing
and afterwards
a scrap, sleepy and unfurled, relaxed
within the leaves that shudder
and give up the delicacy, slyly
into stubby fingers

Lovely
Dark
Deep
The Woods are Laughing!
Did you notice any scent?
Did it linger between
the thumb and the ring?
the remnant of her flowers,
Petals flouncing, swirling
in odorous potentiality.
a scrap, yes
a deep seated souvenir
Can we re-fabricate the whole from this little thing, you think?

we want her.
there are things that we want to do with her.

dangerous, they lean in close, nostrils flaring slightly
searching for the ambergris or the sticky  jasmine
sweet,
settling instead to gaze upon
the still clutched
still a little springy
sprightly, o! the remnants of her liveliness
and ***** and yet
No memories

3: at least let us show you the stage that we’ve built
with a clean sheet for the curtain,
paper cut-outs
and some sticks.
it’s called acting.
the wine and the wafer.
hidden in the trees’ darkening
‘the mattress’ lays where
the leaves will crumple

meanwhile, he’s petulant:
- why, if you’d just get off of that high horse!
- how long are you going to resist?
- are you STILL angry?
- why won’t you just let me stick it in you?

she telegraphs her response, cough:
‘you do know that in this
particular scenario
(fingers pointing downward and across
as if to suggest
that the scenario
had a specific location)
You are the wolf, right?
The wolf...

I, the girl,
am in the forest with my basket and
I have got a
cute little
blood red
crushed velvet
swing coat
With matching hood and a single task
And YOU
(with those other two *******) have decided
to bore ME with this ****?
Daresay slow ME down?
Of course I will get rid of YOU.
Wait, who am I talking to?

Let me also add that
there never has been any
high-stepping on my part,
nor ankle twirling,
no mandate to impress a stale balcony,
no sign of gaslit
illuminated
pink bows
that lay down flat
perfectly upon the straps
that snap
perfectly at the thigh,
NOT to be slid off a buttock (mine)
NOR crumpled into a dubious ball, ripped and torn
and yet I know that
that determined creature,
a hairy monster
more faithful than Argos,
is prepared
to wait a lazy eight
at grannie’s cozy house
in a sickly corner
over-eager and overwrought with
pandered fantasies
and explosions of once sort or another, irrelevant to me.

What I WILL admit to is
that the touch of those grubby fingers
transubstantiated at my waist
invisible
approach
as usual from behind
impatient and
impractical,
always too quick to make himself a beast
to rid himself of being a man

knowing how way
leads onto way
but I doubt if I should ever come back’

Home was
the sound of the djembe
As the beat of the cowbells
Joins the grooving melody
Filling the world
Black girl braids
Flying
And jiving
Feet bouncing and flouncing
Create a music of their own

Home was
the timbre of the chop saw
As the purr of the transformers
Joined by the flare of the drill
Screamo blares
Loving
And teasing
Voices filling up the room
The family dinner song

Home was
The Bumble bee tuna
As sung by tone deaf voices
And endless refrains
Fill in the void
That was never open
A harmony
And chorus
Of Wandering pitches

Home was
The aroma of a chai latte
As fresh air hit our faces
Joining the snickerdoodle scent
a lunchtime escapade
music blaring
heat blasting
laughs trilling


(Stanza Break)
Home was
The feeling of love
As you walk into your family
Join those you
love
those you
cherish
and feel
safe

2x2
they're flouncing girth
it jiggles less like rocks
the hard barrel
a great and hulking steed
billows on the hillside(
m y lady jouncing like mercury(
f r o m   GODS mouth
)on their withers )
liquid thick as glasss

I've been thirsting to burst your bubble since
I heard the low-down we may be over-
supplied with a green-backed bird called Money,
that trollop spread-wide by aliases

A mark, a yen, a buck or a pound
A buck or a pound, a buck or a pound

To a layman's ears unlearned in the fine-
tuned registers of glib-tongued financiers,
it may ring up as reason to cheer with
no tinkling of trouble, but if Money

Is all that makes the world go around
that clinking, clanking sound (they do say)

She sings, clangs a bit hollow when she clings
too heavy in alms of poorly wrung hands,
it's then well-heeled sit'n spins'll turn us about
to the golden-gapped beams of bankers mouths

For Money makes the world go around
The world go around, the world go around

And will till johns who hold little put less
stock in the **** pitches of slick-macking
daddy Street with his tricky fat pay backs
for the ounce of love he's flouncing to sell.

A heavy landscape clouds my weary eyes.
The fog lies low and hides those pretty flowers.
The London cab is almost red and vanished
The traffic slows, while sleet has walkers punished.
Wealth eludes.  So driven, I’ve found new sights.
I dream. I struggle. Distance calls. I fight

Within myself a battle.  Shall I go
And leave my loved one lost and grieving so?
Will she wait for me, that bubbly lass
Whom my heart longs to hold in soft embrace?
Will she upon our romance shut the door?
Or when my fortune’s made in the lands afar,
Will she then come to share my rising star?

Will sweetest heart remain my faithful friend?
I fear the question curdles like a fiend.
The ocean barque awaits and I must board
In just three weeks.  I heartily adored
Her flouncing curls of bronze, her laughing eyes,
And heart-shaped, pouting lips and turned-up nose.

Yet go I must, for fortune calls my name.
“Dear Barbara, will you faithfully remain
In England’s arms until I send for you
From lands downunder. I must say adieu.
I bought some land and go to build a house,
And graze some cattle, new life to espouse.

When all is done I’ll pay your passage out
And wait for you to come in style. I’ll shout
And tell the world that you are mine alone,
You’ll have such finery.  I’ll see it done.”
“I will not wait,” it broke my heart to hear.
She paused and, teasing, cast her eyes down drear,

Then lifted up her head and tossed her curls,
And planting both her lips upon my own,
“I’ll come WITH you when your ship’s flag unfurls”
She cried. With that the deed was quickly done.
The captain married us upon the seas,
Our life began amidst the high sea’s breeze.

fuzzy-eyed humpers

baby-headed jumpers

I don't need you going

out on a ledge

flipping your lids

life on the skids

because of those things

that you did

that one time in Redondo

or was it Hollywood/Skid Row or

that other time in SoHo

flouncing from one news spread

to the next

has-been cloud-head

holed up in a windowless basement

tea shades on sprawled out on the unmade bed

of some formerly artsy tenement

tacked up jazz poster of the

suicided former resident

a good friend of someone

we'd all met

at Jack's or Jerry's

or Phil's or Joe's

or Fred's

Casting chicken liver off the levee
tap and pull, rod starts bouncing
set the hook, and reel it in
all its fins and tail a'flouncing.

Costa sunglasses cut the glare
of the green rippled lake light,
three baited lines in the water,
patience, ready for another bite.

Waiting, waiting in the sun
as mosquitos buzz around me,
a slight breeze blowing from the west
they say its when the fish bite best.

Water snakes, colored orange and black
float upon cattail rafts, soaking heat,
ignore the splashing of my cast,
one of my lines goes suddenly slack.

**** the rod, the fight is on!
Catfish tugging toward the bottom,
he so enjoyed my ****** bait,
my fillet knife, though is his fate.

Channel, blue or flathead
whatever fish will try;
will be swiftly cleaned
and served deep fried.

Filleted and battered thick with beer
the oil is bubbling and smoking hot,
hear the sizzle as they fry up crisp,
fill my plate straight from the ***.

The day is hallowed

  A fresco croft of Sunday shire
made Gabriel in stallion- manes,
Decanted into bottled ships
of scalloped Wedgewood
promises.

Trees
***** away in careful rows,

Well- fed matrons
fountain pruned
wear puff-ball cheeks
of flouncing gourd
that curtsey in bewildered
corns of desiccated flora
,
flawed by scorn of August forays
left as unkempt graves
.
Much more than these
stand poplars, ordered
keepers on their plated watch in
ruffled smocks of coppered
lime to tame the knee- worn
names of climate ,buckled
down the yarrowed lanes.

This day retains
its hallowed mien
as I pass through
these borrowed years

Strike a match
A small fire blooms
Feebly lighting
These sacred rooms

Approach the shrine
Delicately handle
Touch the fire
Light the candle

On the altar
Its flame at first
Begins to falter
Then catches as it goes........

Burning and churning
Bouncing and flouncing
Dancing and prancing
Quaking and shaking
Glowing and flowing
Zooming and fluming
Swaying and playing
Shimmering and glimmering
Flickering and wickering
Wiggling and jiggling
Glittering and flittering
Flowering and towering
Brightening and lightening

Then........
Fluttering and sputtering and guttering
As a gust from the window
Makes the flame go
Sparkening then darkening
Smoking and choking

The candle's gone out
Leaving only a spark
Concentration in doubt
Rooms swallowed in dark

Meditation mind
Gone with the wind

you could say that
she is the moon that hides in daylight’s glory.
the moon at night when you see no other light.
the torch on your phone when it was late and alone.

But she was
silenced by your presence
awake by your absence.

you are the words flouncing out her hands
shapes from her pencil.
music when you were bored of speech.
direction when you glanced at a compass.
a match you sparked when you lost your lighter but needed smoke.

she will be his sun in the morning
stars at night.
for you will be her eclipse when she wanted less light.

Old friend, I've just killed a man
painted my spirit ****** red, cut the cord now it's dead

Oh adios dear friends, it's the final half of the show
the Thin White Joke is here and now it's time to go

desperation lingers, unwanted and with regret
I'm sure with time I will forget
but I look at the flowers, unfeeling but born to be free
holding against the tide, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide
born just to be

what have I done, destroying my only ally
leaving this carapace wounded and fragile
I'm standing against the tide, simply
created not to live but to survive

what's the point in this world
born to suffer
with your ghastly grace
you smother;
homeless eat from bins
the wealthy flounder in their sins
morality bruised battered swollen
dwelling in the void where hope is woven

I cannot see what I cannot forget
a society sickened and upset
bouncing flouncing to the point of no return
in their graves the unholy turn

and turn -

and turn -

So do you think you can lean and spit in my eyes?
You think you can tarnish me with your pathetic lies?
Oh lady, sweet sweet lady -

I was born to be alive
I was born to hurt
I was born to sin and look up skirts
I'm a man, I'm a man
can't you see I'm on the edge
of psychopathic health and sweet nothingness

the birds are there to fly
tears made just to cry
one caring/hatred abomination
jackhammering from station to station

I care not what you think
nor what you say
infact I care not for you in any way -

the flowers were born uncaring and free
but now the world lags, cut
finally -
finally it no longer matters to me.

words are not easy now
they turn their back an slink away
i mutter soliloquys of gibberish
hoping to entice them home
but no, they laugh  and belittle me

my muse has  taken to reading  
other poet's work and nags
about the good old days
flouncing about and swaering

there are many theories, about
this dry spell, this soon to be drought
but really all i can do is sit
out on the back deck,
watch the dustbowl
and wait for the smell
of petrichor....

I'm waiting for a message.
I'm sitting in a bar.
I've flown 10,000 miles.
I've journeyed from afar.

The stranger who would meet me
is no one that I know;
I dreamed her voice in Paradise,
she told me she would show.

Oh where are you my only love,
when will you dance with me,
step from the crowds into my heart,
I long to set you free.

When will you stand before me,
when will your face appear,
I'm sinking into loneliness,
I'm sinking into fear.

I want to lift your flouncing skirt;
I want to touch your soul;
I want my hands to trace your *******;
I want to make you whole.

They're wiping down the tables,
it's time to disappear;
I guess that you are far my love
and yet you feel so near.

But I will haunt this table,
each long and empty night
until you finally show up,
until the time is right.
-mce

Lying in the car seat,
Head hairs smeared against the window,
Eyes shut in slumber.
The sun takes a bow
With its finale rays
That split through
Columns of trees alongside the road.
Though the inner, red-blue nervy scene of a forgotten blink
Serves as the eyes surrounding imagery,
The inner eyelids start flouncing
From a stronger pulse of red
Back to the darker internal hue.
The flashes of sun that zoom in presto tempo
Outside closed eyes,
Which can confuse dreams and dizzy focus.
As the trees make the sun blink,
Awaken to the mirages before the sun dreams.

Packages of sleep
full of unopened dreams
in streams of vans
are rushing to you

Orders of delay
arrive timely
and constant
no pouncing here

On gifts of today
no bouncing here
just flouncing
away

I must be free of this layer of life where I am speaking to the fear and not to the possibility

I must be free of this layer of life where I am negotiating for breath with *******

Unlocking the crotch of  man
So that we may think freely again

I must be free of this layer of life where I must be free of something

It is just me in my skin thinking about my life that's the place I live that's all there is for any of us that's all I am

Another bag of mostly salt water thank you Star Trek flouncing through life as if as if the stuff in our head the play that we are heroic within the or victims as if all that as if all that was anything other than brain waves confusing us and distracting us

I am so loud in my own mind I am so good I am so amazing you should all just worship

And then sobriety and then waking up and then what is this sense of living in our heads that isolates with such disenfranchisement

And then you begin to wonder you think are you you think you are containing these words within the space of poetry and you think that they don't penetrate beyond that shell as you read critically

You are unaware what message I am sneaking past you to you

I know how many of you there are and to which I'm speaking and it isn't to you it never was

I just let you think that that so you keep reading and feeding

Here's the thunk worm that goes clunk in your head right now

Life life Life what the **** am I

An individual. A separate individual thinking it is part of something syncing with brains with all these electrical signals meaning driving conniving jiving what the hell are we this brain locked in the Bony skull sees no light hears no sound gets electrical signals produced creates fabrication passes that to our conscious mind he/I was/am our best guess good luck have fun



Copyright@2018 Dennis Willis

I'm done with these things
I'm done with many things
we like to say
things like this
with finality

wow
I need to be
dramatic
see myself
big, powerful
decisive

and I am
simply
an overstuffed
human
flouncing my best guess
at manly at you

Then I saw  the world collapse.
I saw life be swallowed
by hungry geological cracks
(don't know by what chance I escaped).

I saw mountains smashed
as if they were sand castles
by wild wind gusts.

I saw matter disintegrate,
I rode in a light beam,
touched accidentally an unnoticed electron,
and I watched from inside a chain reaction.

I read the book where lies all the rules
of every relation, of every physics,
and the letters started fading,
the sudden white pages would say no more,
these pages were now endless (but white),
and by my side volcanoes started spitting ice,
my body were now bigger than Earth,
that covered my body,
that covered Earth.

And, suddenly, all that were bad
were now good,
and I was judged by the people I helped,
and was punished by good behavior,
and was calmed down by deep darkness,
and what I did wrong freed me,
the cold burnt me,
the beauty hurt my eyes,
and thrash would raise me to sublime,
and when I jumped of the edge,
I felt the ground further in every second,
I felt the sky braking me,
I felt life run through my stopped heart,
and everything say goodbye in a deaf beat
produced by light vainly flouncing to avoid its end.

In the end, only I remained,
and nothing else matters.

Ostentatiously I flap my arms.
Because of course.
I am a peacock and I am the center Of The World.
Everything is mine, but nothing is.
I feel the feathers slip out of my fingers,
Like a breath away in the wind, fading fast.
Goodbye sunlight, I’ll save your glow of hope for tomorrow.
Put it in my pocket.
My voice calls across the floor and fades fast.
They do not see this decorated chicken flouncing today.
Maybe i’ll Dance tomorrow.

His rotten sleeves waft in the wind
Sleepily staining the air
He swirls in his stench
Flouncing in stink
Hatefully spinning his song.

Wildly turning
His zombie breakdown
Bellowing a gutteral noise

He spins till he bleeds
Staining the earth.
The onlookers gawp at the show.

The circle slows down
His pulverised ankles
Can no longer keep up the dance.

He slumps in a puddle
A grave of his making
A corpse
A posterity curse.

a pebble pounce bounces down the deep street
blowing with the brushing breeze
until the undertones of unpleasant winds
bring to a stop the stumbling pebbles steep steps-

listen
catch your breath
before life convinces you
to waist your lungs on a screaming match
with a sidewalk-
you don't know about the wind
little pebble.
all you know about is your pounce bounce
flouncing, doused in doing your daily doings-
yet you don't know about the wind
little pebble.
when your steps are stopped, you must be stopped
and when the breeze dies down, you cannot move-
yet you think you are in control of your movements

listen
acknowledge that you don't know where you are going
or what you're doing with your goings
and maybe
when the goings stop their showing
and tentative winds stop blowing
and you are sitting
stuck
without motion
on a sidewalk crack
slipping through
yet intact
maybe you will not curse the road you are on
but thank the wind for carrying you this far
little pebble.