"Give me a good reason,"
the exasperated gangster-father
quizzes his son,
"why you flunked your school exams"

"Well, dad,"* says the spoiled brat
*"they locked us all up in a hall
and they asked us questions
five days in a row -
but all five days I never
gave them a word
Everybody else - the cowards -
spilled the beans!"

Palaces of ****** souls
have green neon text frames
standing sideways like arches;

divine arrows, they guide
the paternal flunks, the tar-soaked offspring,
the lonely and the business bunch.

Here in these palaces, all sin is a freeze, all
lust is a spin.
Fairy lights are often flagged in a net,

to catch mischievous mares flinging
themselves against the glass displays
of overpriced clothing shops.

One finds when wondering the perpetual
lines of restaurants and cafes, the vastness of them
having a motherly touch, for

these palaces, they stretch like the sky and
they spread like the shepherded
fire ants of Gaia herself



And when ones welcome is overbid
they need only to follow  the
evenly laid out,  sorrow yellow street lamps

and bite their cheeks and bare the frost
for soon the polluted lux will lead them to
an overnight joint, a limbo of sorts,

where they can breathe anew.
On those red leather sofas- fast food
or the district kind- when the night seems

to crawl on its final limbs,
they'll lay and slip into sleep.
Some say they never do wake, that they

wither with the moon and then
haunt the attics of the dance halls
where they swirled and laughed and lived

in a previous life.

Seven born to a home in the hills
Lost in the waste that time kills
Each segregated to a different day
Or so at least some say

Anthony couldn’t help but fall
Built too tall
As he hit his head upon a door
Running adjacent to the floor
Young Mr. Cooper took form
And quickly ran to his scholarly dorm
On the way he transgressed to
A fellow who
Used to dwell in the same domicile
Until he felt the environment was too vile
Fled the scene in the matter of a moment
Not knowing there wasn’t an opponent.
Reluctant to turn around
With no answer found
Another division began to develop
One, which was quick to envelope
Everything the boy thought
And freedom sought
The new guy Stephan sold the car
Got a job at a bar
Cleaning up there every morning
While other livers were still in mourning
He had to remove the lingering drunks
Still caught up in their mid life flunks
One always takes a swing
Ben Gunn wakes up feeling the sting
In panic he flees
Watching passing tress
Tracing the trail of something known
The place he called home.
Once in sight
This personality takes flight
Out steps Dewey Dell,
Who looks like a glimpse of hell
Takes a nap to restore
His body, which felt quite poor
He had expected to awaken
The boy was mistaken
Waking up on the cliff
Was a boy named Winston Smith
A devotee to a righteous cause
He just didn’t know what it was
Spent his days inside a pew
Surrounded by slim to few
As answers ceaselessly taunt
Halls made to haunt
Without hope he grew less attached
And quickly became Anthony Patch.

𝒍ost in your touch
𝒐penly deciding not to be open
𝒗ariety flunks
𝒆veryone else doesn't matter

An ode to love.

𝒍earning from your mistakes is hard, it’s like
𝒐pening yourself to new challenges, to fight
𝒗ulnerable in the war, we go through desolation in love
𝒆verytime that one special individual is in sight

It's insane, but it’s love.

𝒍ost in the moment since your smile’s aesthetic
𝒐nly wished it was you, but your heart, i spent it
𝒗alued your love, and that i took advantage
𝒆xperience was our enemy, we always took it for granted

We were in love.

𝒍eaving was the only thing i felt was right for you
𝒐r for us, but it never made my love false, or less true
𝒗enerable for all the things we’ve gone through
𝒆yes rained from the sky above and onto you

No, we were not. I was in love.

𝒍earned, forgiven, still reminisced
𝒐n 'til laceration met my wrists
𝒗enomous love, my first and my last
𝒆yes deceived, still stuck in your trap.

I was not in love. I just needed it.

What do you think
when your brain
is filled with ink

un-spilled and
repeatedly
and often refilled

and your thoughts
are ought's and
naught unsought

oh i am wrought
to choose which thunk
to call a thought

reason Faught
and knowing flunks
having praised a skunk