†           †           †    

A quorum of biblical scholars
turned their doubts into thousands of dollars.
Armed with Document Q
they revealed nothing new
but the dirt neath’ the white of their collars.

A proud “health & wealth” Oklahoman
was renowned as a gospel-tent showman.
While the scriptures he twisted,
their tithing assisted
his rise from poor hick to rich Roman.

A sexually diverse professor
(assured he was not a transgressor)
spoke only of openness
glossing sin’s brokenness;
rainbows and tolerance—yes sir.

A Mormon, who lost his own ephod
Realized he was running quite slipshod
and invoked Joseph Smith.
(Yes, it may be a myth—
but it’s not like misplacing your I-pod…)

A Christian whose faith was prophetic
held to views that were truly pathetic.
This crazed Pentecostal,
not quite an apostle,
had taken an End-Times emetic.

A sober and staid Presbyterian
was distrustful of thoughts millenarian.
After smoking some bud,
he awoke with a thud;
in his sleep he’d become Rastafarian.

A preacher who fleeced his disciples
overdrew his own balance of scruples.
He was finally captured
(defrocked and un-raptured)
and rent by his destitute pupils.

A sister who waxed Pentecostal,
mistook herself for an apostle.
Speaking pure glossolalia
she sure could regale ya’
with prophecy; crazy—but docile.

On a night like this, of full-moon bliss
Of the midnight winds and collecting mists
I remained, forevermore
Chained, to the floor
A victim of joy’s…goodbye kiss

In a dungeon I lie, hidden from the sky
A shadow untamed with vile red eyes
I waited, I hungered
Without proper slumber
In my mistress’ pit, awaiting time

It was from lust and desire to fuel and empower
For whom she wishes for me to devour
I restrained, she teased
I grew hard, to please
The widowed Countess: my dark sire.

Though my story may seem bleak
But not to those, whom morally weak
A tale, a fable
However which label
Entitles this to civilized freaks

I moved from town to town, home to home
In search of a life wherever I would roam.
At last, I came
To an estate of name
Belonging to a Countess of ancestral Rome

Countess Donatella, eyed my work and demeanor
From afar I could tell, I sensed, I smelled her
Her scent, so tempting
Was she attempting…
To allure my beastly form into something beneath her?

One night she called for me, alone in her quarters
She treated me to delicacies from rich exporters
She asked my name
I said none, I refrained
“Mysterious and Strong.” She said in order.

She walked over, to the silk on the bed
Colored in gold and shimmering red
Curling her finger
To me, and eager
“Remove your clothes” the Countess said

I did as I was told. I abide her command.
She seduced like a mistress of the eternally ******
Caressing my skin
Licking my chin
And instructed me to please her demands.

My strength increased as I ripped apart her dress
“Yes, my dear, rough and brute.” She stressed
My *** throbbing
Her head bobbing
She turned into an animal I could not resist

Through the night our lust ignited
Into a furious intoxication, organs united
A symphonic ******
Winds, rain and thunder
Matching the sweltering copulation benighted

In the glow of after, past the ****** she gathered
Breathing deeply she said, “You are mine. I am master”
For too long, I thought
I was ridden of what I sought
One to counter my thirst for lust, the tiring caster.

For many nights I swooned, I pleasured her in ways
No other human could fathom or reclaim
My art was of the flesh
And her succulent *******
Feasting like the dog of Hell’s fame

But in this time I feared
For my secret was severe
To show, to hide
My inner design
Of nocturnal savagery that is devilishly revered.

It was upon a warm night of *******
That the moon left me horrified and shaking.
I ran from the master
To evade disaster
Of displaying my transformational awakening.

I trampled in the woods and screamed into the night
The beast of the void howled under the moonlight
I ventured, I hungered
Awaken from slumber
A slave to Lycanthrope, a feral disease of might

The Countess’ workers hunted; “A monster!” they deemed
But I killed many before I was to be seen
Ripping, tearing, slashing, eating,
Guts, bones, skin, feeding
My viciousness, my curse, my bane and dream.

After my episode of moral slaughter
The workers found me curled in a fetal posture
I would have been killed
But the Countess, sealed
Me away in the cryptic tomb of her father.

I was left to suffer in the underbelly of my sins.
Shadows and demons moaning like the wind
My master kept me
Protected me
In her care I would no longer win

Now I lay, waiting for the my master to show
So the door above me will open and glow
The white orb
That will mourn
The lives I have taken, eaten and in my intestines flow

The tomb dungeon unlocks, creaking loudly with rust
The master, the beautiful Countess that I must
Please and satisfy
Penetrate, rectify
The punishment that was bestowed by the just.

“So you are known by many names.” She utters
I look up at her with eyes of thirst, my lover
“You are unique.
So much to keep
For myself, my beastly treasure and no other.”

She walks to the shadowed wall and pulls down a lever
And stands in front of me, **** and forever
A pale seductress
Her eyes focus
With mine, for I wait for the power that was severed

“Now I will be pleasure by that of a beast, that of a god.”
She says as she massages my erecting rod
“Now, my dear.”
As I hear.
“Enter me and leave me in pleasurably awe.”

With the chains around my wrists, ankles; my neck and waist
She mounts me in the moonlight space
Our sweat collects
Drips and specs
Glossing her pale skin and my ever changing face.

I stare into the moon as I ******, my moans of pain matching her voice
She yells from the seismic endurance, her dooming choice
To unleash my monster
With blood thirst conquered
No, it is not, it is her, growing with every other screaming voice

Moans of pleasure soon turn to moans of distress
The wolf of the night is coming, no less
My teeth protrude
My mind feuds
With reason and passion, where blood replaces the mess

My fur is black, my claws like steel
My fury is lustful, the deeper I feel
The Countess is in fear
I ignore her tears
And devour her, ravish her, take her skin and peel

Her lovely face is first to go, once flawless now disfigured
I tear her arms from her body, her liver in my teeth lingered
Blood, tears, flowing juices
Guts, gore, nail amuses
The laughing jackals and demons in a Hell for me that’s bigger

There is no more Countess. No more Donatella, nor master
The moon reflected in a red pool of suffering disaster
Of the ******* monster in our wake
Of the true one she had forsake
In the whims of lustful pursuit with death proceeding faster

Through the lubrication of excessive blood and ****** fluids
I slipped and broke from my chains and fled from the ruins
I remained the beast
Through the forest at least
And return to the woods, away from the her influence

I left the Countess estate as I arrived
Homeless wanderer who survived
Another full moon night
And devil’s sight
Of my life forevermore, the way of the morally derived

Where my nightmares are revived …

…Beyond my human disguise.

Newly painted house,
Clouded windows between us,
  .  .  .  Flowers in glass vase.

I. Shining Armor

To all those would-be knights in shining armore:
Make sure you have a goodly supply of silver polish on your person
Because this woman is sick and tired
Of all the tarnish she keeps running into.

Really.

Fakeness gets real old, real quick.

I ‘m looking for a man with manners, grace, respect and class.
Not someone who’ll ultimately turn out to be an ***.
I’m not looking for too much I think.
In fact, I’d given up looking at all
Because the lot of them weren’t worth the flesh
God poured their sorry souls into.

Then, you came along,
Swept me off my feet with your Leo hurricane-force personality.
Fire sign burning through my resolves and inhibitions
Until there was nothing left
But trembling and desires and hidden fantasies

But I thought I saw something behind that solid wall of sexuality
A dark knight in shining armor
Intelligence in every timbered vibration fo your baritone voice,
Smooth like Barry white,
****, I thought, you are the whole package!
Family man, gentleman, talented artistic man
Man who said women were to be respected
As they were God’s gift.

How many men, afterall, would walk you to the bus,
Stand in front of you
So the sun didn’t glare in your face, facing west.
A glowing halo surrounded your head.
My angel, mon amour
My knight in shining armor.


II. Tarnish

Fast forward to today.
Man up,
Or move on out of my life.
I’ve waited a long time
For someone with manners, grace, respect, and class.
I’m not going to waste my time
Waiting on as ***.
Not that you’ve been one, mon amour,
But I’m starting to see a little tarnish on your shining armor.

I try to be up front,
Give you the 411 on what’s going on
Is it too much to expect no less out of a relationship?
Honesty, communication
Lay everything on the line so no misunderstandings.
Maybe I’m setting myself up,
Blinded by the shine of your armor
And your promises spoken.
Soothed, hypnotized by the timbered vibration of your baritone voice.
Smooth like Barry White.
Okay, one more time, I will trust you.
On your knight’s honor,
My knight in slightly tarnished armor.


III. Tinfoil

I’m looking for a man
With manners, grace, respect, and class
Not someone who’ll ultimately turn out to be an ***,
And you crossed that line.
The shine is gone,
And no amount of silver polish is gonna wipe clean your tarnish.

You see, there are two things I hold sacred in relationships:
Honesty and keeping promises,
Both of which you failed miserably at as a man.
Yeah I set myself up for a fall as well,
Expecting no less than what I put in myself.

But what good is being together
If you’re the only one putting for any effort.
A relationship is supposed to be give and take.
Not giving and giving and giving and giving
And getting nothing in return
But a bad player’s broken promises
And a broken heart.

Gum stuck on the bottom of my shoe
Has more integrity than you do.
You lied to me.
You put things off.
I would’ve had more respect for you
If you gave me straight talk about flings
Or things like “This isn’t working out”
Instead of sweet talk that left a bad aftertaste in my mouth like saccharin.
The only part of you that ever told me the truth
Was more than happy to stand at attention
And speak volumes
Without saying a word.

And speaking of “not speaking,”
You know what really takes the cake?
You didn’t even have the mother-******* *****
To tell me yourself.
I had to find out from someone else.

Some say more shall be revealed.
Boy, were my eyes opened to the fact
That sometimes a knight in shinign armor
Is sometimes just a ****** wrapped in tinfoil.

So, to all those would-be knights in shining armore:
Make sure you have a goodly supply of silver polish on your person
Because this woman is sick and tired
Of all the tarnish she keeps running into.

Really.

Fakeness gets real old, real quick.


IV. Press Seven**

Seven.
Seven is my lucky number.
It helped me to slam the door on your sorry ***
And a chapter in my life I don’t care to re-read.

How dare you
Call up one day out of the blue
And drop a message on my voicemail.
The second I heard “Hi,  it’s (insert name here)”
DELETE!
Seven dumped your *** faster than you dumped mine
Through a third-party representative.

I don’t want to hear any “Hi, How ya doin’s”
I don’t want to hear any reasons
Or excuses
Or glossing-overs of what you did.

I wasn’t kidding when I said
Fakeness gets real old, real quick,
And that goes for ***** like you.
I may be a big woman,
But I’m not the Big Easy.
I’m a woman of respect
And dignity.

So don’t bother e-mailing me.
Don’t bother calling me.
Delete me out of your rolodex
And go trolling down Fourth Street
If you want nothing but ***.

****!
Never did pressing 7 to delete you
Feel so ****** good.

walking from A to B,
no this is not geometry,
but it might as well be,
as with your eyes, see,
well what do you see,
unless you live in BC,
you won't see me and
I in turn won't be free,
to see you.

with your eyes, that first glance,
take a risk that is hazard's chance,
don't step closer or bend down,
log it away in your card file brain,
before it is washed away to the drain
or picked up as treasured claim.

use your eyes, with that first glance,
no glossing over, might miss romance,
call it flirtation, or orchestration, you
are the maestro and the other, the ensemble,
well, conduct yourself accordingly but tumble
safely.  

those eyes so beautiful you have, can find words,
to clear the tears off your cheeks with the
new merino wool sweater sleeve and
that intense emotion that has
you locked and loaded as
someone goaded you
again,
and again,
and again, if this was *** that would be fine,
but it is not and your vexed
at how poetry rocks
your world but
also rocks the boat,
whenever you take
the time not to memorize by rote (that would be too staight forward)
take the technology out for a walk,
instgram your photo of your poem and share it on facebook, and
twitter while showing your interest on pinsterest, how is that *******
working out for you?,
or dot those eyes and cross your teas,
take ink or graphite, and write about
your sorrows, your joys, your day, your dreams,
what you saw,what you thought saw, like a puddy cat,
you did, you did and that Bugs me I forgot the color or was
                 it just me and invisible over there?
You get conflict, at that first glance at your notepad,
or keyboard or mumble "I need to write this down,
before I forget".  That first glance you take, all else fades to black,
                                                          ­                 until you write.



©DWE012014

Newly painted house,
Clouded windows between us,
  .  .  .  Flowers in glass vase.

The waitress sends signals in neon code,
through Christmas illuminations stretching across
the car-park, and straight into my ***** orange.

She laughs through awkward platitudes,
and all the beards that comment on her skirt.
She's working to make a living,
somewhere down the line.

I watch as she scribbles poetry on old receipts,
eyes glossing over the ketchup stains,
and into the passing of the moment.

I hope that she is writing of escape;
of better times and better sleep.
She will smash the glass ceiling,
and save us from the greenhouse effect.

Baritone singers lure her into art,
into the promise of soft-hearted men
with a resilient chest.

The waitress waits for a signal
to restart her life. There will be flares
on the horizon, there will be new lovers
leaning on their cars in the sun.

She will finally get to sit.
She will thank the waiter for her drink.

final option: exit in sight
shall i walk this way?

rachel, eva and samuel being in the room
my tribewords for what i consider family

final option: exit in sight
shall i walk this way?

while you are remaining in this room of memories
while samuel is crying
while eva is sobbing
rachel - dem kid's mother - being desperate

you know what rachel?
we are akin to each other
like characters in sentences:
dots

unlike the undertones of
exclamation marks and exclamation points

samuel is crying
eva is sobbing
cause you guys are in another city
far away

you sent me a message:
"i have to protect the children"

tell me:

from whom?
from what?

estimate: how many fathers does a child have?
spell out how
man and woman
wife and husband

become able to defend and favor their
shadows lips and wishes

is there any meaning?
am i flaying my skin daily?
i am not a snake
i am darkness and light
like the rest of us
bizarre billions made of
languages moral values religions

do i have to skin myself daily?
does this have to mean even a bit?

i don't know bambina
but i am sensing that we are ONE:

blood boomerangs bound
boomerangs bound blood
blood bound and boomerangs

the devil cracked our bound
he grinned and said:
"my lost son i am
looking at you: a man full of doubts

ain't no thang though
i am confirming on oath:
i will be getting rid of your doubts
colorfully
they will be gone

we just need a gimmick

hereby i am passing on the golden goblet to you
there is some stuff in it
to be found in lies and magic"


young jeezy (me ok)

harold hunter (kids, larry clark)

falco (rock me amadeus)

ali (mobster)

dmx (my ******)

fassbender (angst essen seele auf, in englisch: fear eats up your soul)

robin williams (comedian?)

benjamin von stuckrad-barre (writer and addict)

whitney houston (who was really crying?)

angelina jolie (in the land of milk and honey)

sigmund freud (will you lead me to the origins of golem?)


they daily drank from the goblet
the list of my friends is long and enduring

some of 'em died
some continued to live
some decayed with numb limbs
in musty chambers
closed curtains

glossing ghosts above the head of
west indian archie
once a powerful gangster now a broke burnout

but this is one of many countless chapters
my son
ain't we good together boy?

i am confirming on oath:
i will be getting rid of your doubts
colorfully
they will be gone

successful people drink from the goblet;
they are in charge of their lifes
my son

the golden goblet is like heat in the coldness
the golden goblet is like cooling down in the heat of the desert

water
purity
nature and leaves
chemistry and magic

my friends are global
my friends are cosmopolits
by the time some lose the "r" on their path:
they become fiends

but this is one of many countless chapters
my son
ain't we good together boy?

all cultures
all religions
all languages

all my friends love the golden goblet
more than themselves
cause the golden goblet procures them

dear deception

all my friends don't love themselves anymore
but the golden goblet
all my friends don't love themselves anymore
but the golden goblet

devils hang out beyond rehab centres
they listen to the
conversations of addicts
they want to figure out their weaknesses
analyze and exploit them

devil flapped his arms
high up in the skies
cheating god's position
between trees and snowwhite castles in bavaria a state of germany

while the devil was listening to the addicts he held
the golden goblet under the moon's reflections thereupon

the golden goblet was ablazed with light
like a constellation superior to the earthly ghosts of weakness
the golden goblet sparkled

the addicts perceived it
as children perceive candy
as teenagers perceive the defeatable supremacy of grown-ups

they perceived the sparkling
as if you were listening to your favourite song

addiction is emotional
addiction is the blind quest for meaning

the golden goblet twinkled over the roofs of the bavarian rehab centre
and one of the addicts a young woman
looked up into the blackness of heaven
frankly speaking it was sparkling everywhere

the woman suddenly thought:
i have twins
i worked as a *******
i am not permitted to see my kids

in deliverances she spoke:
"i was a *****"
"i have twins"
"i order 'em precious clothes"

a sheen coming from the devil's
pupil
as she expressed her fate

she sighed and said:
"nut doc give me prescription... first i
don't wanna take 'em ***** though
they called (...)
and (...)
and (...)
and (...)

after slinging though" she proceeded with a shivering voice
" my feeling like gold"

her mouth opened widely as if she was hungry
golden sheen

a darkred eyebrow
vibrating ******
bald head full of

holes scars blood

since the beginning of memorizing
devil has been breeding horror:

not to mention the death of g.t.
leaving parents in a daze

not to mention the death of a.k.
leaving siblings in a daze

not to mention when a mother passed away: t.z.
leaving children in a daze

since day one devil has been embroiled in torment
born from the fight of brightness and night
the creature awoke

only in darkness
hidden by the star's twilight
beyond distances
we recognize him

when he is far away from us
like glorified past
on earth though
he embodies the shape of human beings
to be between us
to expose our weaknesses
that's his guzzling his brew and his - blessing

our failing strenghtens him
he be muscle

our illness strenghtens him
he be tizzop

We are all selfish creatures

shellfish lurking in the depths of the sea

wanting what we know is wrong

lying about the shallow depths of our emotions

signing forged signatures and forged lies

forging these words that come out of our glossy covered up lips

glossing our covered up stories

our tall tales of princesses and fairies

in fantasy land, these are whimsical creatures

in reality land, we are nothing but human beings

that forged signatures say are whimsical.

A sadness haunts that town.
stuffed between the cracks
of dilapidated matchbox houses,
and in the grit of rusty trailers.
Even below the green carpet of government buildings,
And the marble courthouse floor.

Poverty stares Wealth in the face from across the street,
his haunted, empty eyes
lit by the embers of discarded cigarettes.
Wealth is good at glossing over the cracks,
setting up the chain link fences and rail road tracks.
Iron curtains that could be stepped over,
if anyone knew they were there.

But no matter how many fences,
there's still that nameless sadness in the soil.
A potent concoction
of dead dreams, harsh realities, and broken hearts.
With a dash of Cherokee tears and lead from the War.
All stirred by Monotony,
who lights her cauldron fire
with electric bills and dollar store receipts.

Like a curse, it spares none.
Though they've learned how to smile
with tears in their eyes,
above moth eaten scarves or pearls.
It's permeated everything, down to the roots.

But not to leave the glass half empty;
Some still find happiness,
some are still sad.
That's just how it goes.
Hope and despair are but two notes in the same tune.

These kids,
They look so
Derelict,
They look so
Full of ****,
Like they could
Ever skip
The river styx
Crossing.
So rather
Than glossing
Over their eyes,
Maybe these guys
Should start
Flossing
The wrinkles
Of their brains
By tossing
Back a few
Infected grains,
It's Ergot that
Brings
What you forgot;
As in your face,
As big as
Great danes
Made of waves
Of color.
If fluorescent
Grays
Ever
Deliver me asunder....
It's so dull
Under
This counter,
My mind starts
To flounder
As I flip the
******* flounder.
Or is it
Tilapia?
I wonder,
Could I be
Happier?
Probably, but
Don't you know
I like it
Sappier?
Is that a word?
Who gives a ****?
Not this bird,
Thats why she's flying away,
Not toward
The veneer covered
Ways I say
"Come here."
"Go away."
"2 for fives two for fives,
****** got garbage around the way."
The way I pray
For acid rain
To melt my clothes,
My skin,
My muscles and veins,
My mostly drained
Trays of grease;
Popping.
Bubbling.
Please.
Please
Give my
Knees
Some ease
From their pains,
I've been begging
For weeks,
I need to sleep.

Into a damaged heart
a temporary fix
of one night stands,
maybes and what ifs.
Glossing over cracks,
but the temporary rips,
widens in time,
gapping holes yawn
an infinite scream.
Vortex,
bottomless swallow
hungry to be filled.
Waiting for love's builders
to swoon with steel and solid bricks

Sometimes I've had about enough
All these ******* buttercups

Puckering up
At the first scent of gruff

It's disruptive
To my mustering

I mean

Must we
Smother trouble out of ****

Must we malfunction
Into a skit

A script

Skipp-ed
To laugh tracks

Pre-writ
Until the last laughs

Where the curtains close
To fading claps

All the cards
Are all on the floor

Little adorable torturers

Peering through the doors
Afforded by our tor-mentors

Over it
We will get

Even get on with it

Cuz all of this
This is that and that is this

Is ******* ridiculous
Is worthless

It is foulness in its stench
The bowels of our regret

Unkempt and ******
It's ******* soaked in ****

Where the credits never roll
And the patrons only stroll
On outta here for a beer
And a night on the town

And all this

Flapping of the gums
And slathering of spit

Is glossing over my ****
And it's all we will ever get

If we would just submit

Wipe the sand from our *****
And remove the ******* sticks

We might find
We have loosened up a bit

Just don't be such a little *****
And other inflammatory ****


[That's it]

soft acoustic plucking
reverberating strings
buzzing tones flutter
freely creating visions
differing from space to space
occupied between my ears
twists whole majors into 7th quarters
altering the landscape from within
bleeding fingertips hide broken verses
note for note we lie to the sound
expressing pleasure in the mundane –
gently strumming with loving caresses
melodic to the point of melancholy
old tears sit on a stained floor
eclipsing the smiling children
that hide just beyond the glass pane
glossing the pain with symbolic imagery  
a crucifix dangles
swaying to and fro
barely audibly tapping the fat statue of an enlightened oriental
in the shadow of a dream catcher
made not by native americans
but instead by undernourished brown waifs—
bending tones for a better view
I shed the physical and go incorporeal

Do you know me?
You see me everyday
Bustling in the street
Answering the phone
Sexily glossing my lips
Do you notice?

I’m trying to catch it
But your approval
It’s so hard to snare
Like a firefly
So I starve myself
In hopes my thighs
May shrink to acceptance
Can you tell?

Fishnets curve to my legs
Maybe business slacks
Or a plaid jumper
My eyes can’t hide it
This longing, deeply cut
Like my shirt’s neck
Do you see me?

Hypocrites
To tell us we are free
To be anything
Liberated, ******
Powerful, worldly
Who are they to say
We are free?

Only so long as we give
Relinquish emotions
Harbor no expectation
In favor of carnality
Unchained, as long as
We seek not to be loved

Will you love me?
Will you try?

Sitting,waiting in the bus shelter,
the mind is led by roving thoughts
from the now and here
into fields often not explored
whereto the feet hesitate to stray.

I sit there seeing the world hurry on,
not really looking at the people all around
but thinking back;thinking about those
who used to walk these same streets
who used to hurry off just so.

The roads may have forgotten their tread,
their faces blurred by time,
their voice masked by life's din,
soon to be faded into memory;
our love glossing over their faults.

But what of their stories?
What of the things left unsaid?
What of the questions unanswered?
What of their talents not passed down?
What of the bonds,the people undone?

Are their stories lost?
Never meant to be finished?
Small and unimportant enough
to be cut off,be discarded?
Lives destined for the void?

But what of those left behind?
Stories tainted by that void?
Hearts burdened b their absence?
Eyes wearied of waiting?
Dreams filled with longing?

The bus arrives with that sureness
of the things that come and go.
Boarding it,I sit next to a window
and let it carry me away like I've let
those things that come and go.

Gazing out the window,
I see life rushing past me.
And a desire takes hold of me
for this journey to go on,
to keep moving while immobile.

I think of those stories unfinished,
stories seen through a man's eyes,
read with a man's wisdom.
But what if that is not all?
What if there is more?

What if some questions are
never meant to be answered?
Some things be left unsaid?
Some talents never to be passed on
but define the person lost and him alone?

What if the stories left behind
are meant to be tainted that way?
To bear a fragrance like no other,
the void marking them for perfection.
What if people are meant to be undone?

What if the stories are not lost
but merged with the living ones?
To fuel them,to further them,
to be a muse to spur them,
be a core in their shaping?

Wistful thinking all,devised to soothe.
The mind awash with torrential thoughts
still hears a small voice of hope,
holding on to it while hanging
above a chasm of decadence.

Every night we go to bed
trusting the angels guarding us
to let happen what is right;
slipping into peaceful oblivion,unsure
whether we will wake from it again.

All these thoughts,these stories float
as leaves on that river called Life.
Whether we be afloat or under,
it flows;the grand story goes on
crafted by The Great Writer.

After all the broken hopes
dare we still hope on
as did Abraham of old,
hoping where there is none,
seeing life where there is death?

Dare we still dream on?
Dare we hope our stories
will not be left unfinished
thinking,wanting to believe that
Life is Hope is Life?

This is the river of Nainital
and this the sun glossing over the water
and this is the sound of risen voices
from chestnut trees along the road.
The bells of the shrine are bronze bells,
they walk the water into music,and
night arrives with the great stars,
cupping them deep in the dark hills of Kumuon.
A child cries out; all is not well
a sail, leaning across the water.
is ivory on jade and the herons glide over;
yet something is wrong in Nainital.
But not too wrong -a little thing,
like the slight fever in the small shack
though an old man coughing out of sleep
can send his daughter into mourning.
To Nainital, by train, by bus,
by car,on foot the travelers come,
nothing can keep them from this life
no stranger's death, no foreign pain.

enraptured was he,
enamored and taken aback,
eyes glossing and fingers trembling,
effortlessly pouring his soul to top her glass.
she was wild and equally fragile,
strong in her vivacious convictions-
stubborn and quiet and barely content,
sharing a love of fiction and faith and fire.
they danced and watched the skies,
tangled together in hopes and dreams,
tossed to the world by the winds of their cities,
trying desperately to get a grasp on growing up and getting out.
her favorite memory of him:
he had headed into the fields to gaze into space
half shivering, half dead,
holding out a rose to her-- his favorite scent.
night fell and so did they,
nodding off with heads in the weeds,
nurturing each others' wounds and bruises,
nearing dusk with new determination and confidence.

" different from the first one. "


her fingers are glossy.

glossssssseeee

glossing. n

classy. i stand gazing.

like uh, a primitive, eye

she tells me their sensitive

and i believe her. because I

am quite the gullible guy

for sweet.. pretty..

cute.

.innocent. looking

things

ZAM.

she magnetically slapssss

and caresses the back of my dome.

tap tap... tap

' hmm a heavy stone, '

tap tap... tap

'it has a lot of content'... tap

tap tap .'oh'. tap tap tap

.

.

...

She begins her

journey

from the top of my head

slowly…

            tippy toeing        

                            down….

   My

            body

moving

         her  fragile nails

Like a

rehearsed fantasy..

she's been wanting

                                 to do.

she closes in

and rests her

index finger

across my neck like a

scythe shape sun....

she approaches  breathes.

in...and... whispers..

..

  “What are you thinking?”



And within that.

          my eyes smile.



[i don’t really know,  some sort of brain activity..... ]



                  “I think”



[your pretty, inside, outside,worldwide, ]



        [and ]



“I think”



[_<(^.^)> <(^.^<) (>^.^<) (>^.^)>]





             “nothing”



She still keeps going                                    [ it’s a long walk…………]

down,

slowly

maneuvering

in

elegant

moves.

before

closing in

....again.

this time in a more arrowed position across the more pronominal areas.



‘Why are you hesitant ?'

on being religiously

silly ?."



"Like if



    you dislike

                  

              the idea of



                         being  bright?’



[because

people are .........   ]





“Wait What???"





That’s not true.



only sometimes...



lol!@#!$!.

but still

“that's  so wrong



And misleading. "





















but please go on”.

He perches on his black-crate bandstand,
stationed between the payphone and postbox.
The view from his seat never varies:
a restless audience of briefcases and knees.

He closes his eyes, concentrating
on breath becoming buzz becoming blare,
and he pictures his notes glossing Manhattan’s
thunder-colored walls.

Each tone fills the pavement, square by square
until the sidewalk is a harlequin filmstrip,
colored by notes coaxed from his brass mouth.

Passersby withhold their gaze, because giving a nod
obliges giving a dollar, and no one is inclined
to employ this trumpeter. But he pays no mind;
his own eyes secured until song’s end.

As long as his fingers are jumping,
he doesn’t have to be Gerard Wall–
who lost his wife to cancer and mind to the War;
he can be Louis, Miles, or Pinetop Smith.

When he looks up once again,
sun and spirit have faded,
and he watches the evening embers
drift out of his horn.

All my things fall away like the loose satin of a slip
Endless in its descent and completely free of conviction

Mindless in its priorities and forgiving of the moonlight
Sleepy in the silence of the twilight of the night

Who gives the prayer to the dark of the day
Who tells of the travellers that come sneaking up my way
Who takes the shame, burns away my sight
How in the endeavour of the endless I will fight

Diamonds in the rough I take with me in my wound
Glossing over the sunny sands of the eternal dunes
Cry to the ravens, cry and cry me over
Speed in the tightest spaces of the greed of cover

Sap me in the daylight and perhaps one day it will
Crawl me in the yonder life and keep me ever still
Race me and chase me, dire in all my needs
Frightened and silenced from all that I may see

Grip my heightened perception undulating in the springs
Amass me the corporations and the grit of insomniac swings
Trite in the hive groans, implicit in their destruction
Give me all the room to take in these emotions

Flat and back, flatten the back,
Tie in the seashores and pull in the ocean
Fight for the sunrise and take in the sky
I need nothing more than to see that winding light.

Caught in the middle
the centre septre stream
... genesis;  a moment the tendency for an object to twist, aligning in congruence with memory cells or a harbour memory cell hub a channel is created.  

So thought - forms can relive themselves time after time
I read an anthropological script one time and it suggested that we are souls if not stars or orbs of lights stuck in a single episode of a drama that is cosmic
So God, His Wife and their Son/s are reliving themselves through time and space ever expanding to find order
In retrospect that would explain why Showbiz is so big
For the First Fruits long for their story to be portrayed so to find justice, freedom and order
So then here I am, having incarnated for the enth time

In this world they rarely raise souls
a boy is raised to be a man
a man to serve the Man or to pay for the debts of the other man
normally to replace his Father or right the wrongs of his forefather
so there you have it, a script is ready for you to act out and your opinion is yet to matter as a soul


And Gaia suffering from the pains of the past and she grew cold, evil and bitter; worse than her perpetrators
then the middle you see Thor and his dysfunction and thence comes Lucifer and he contends with his father and seeks to oppress mother to take over the galaxies
hmmm and Him Thor in the thin of the divide
in the brink of chaos
assigned to create order

Earth then, working and cleaning out the emotional scars and mistakes of past - lives
incarnating again and again until we raise our consciousness to Higher Dimemsions
So we look to heroes you see to motivate our vision
You  contend as a gladiator and the Powers will reward you as far as your success makes them comfortable and no further
It is a danger to stand up to the gods and confess that you serve God
So maybe a nobel prize you get when you're older and you've sold so much of yourself in the process
Your victory over problems and exhibitions or sporty knockouts intimidate those who are assumed to be the limit
so this makes them insecure
these problems started before our parents and grandparents Im sure
Lands we fight and commodities we strive for only to have a say about the Word
the word that flowed through sound as it fused with light
So who with clear audibility to decipher the root code?
Her earrings Pandora we'd search for
His Heart Artola we'd contest for
Her beauty Hirana we'd aspire to behold as we become grand

The glitch in her consciousness or the filling of the void creates a monster that is a vacuum for the hollow negative consuming dark light changing names Alycza to Cleopatra but what happened to her best mantra Callia
And we live in the play
affected if not convicted of her hurt
so we long to heal


And the union again takes us to the  unnoticed spaces of creation
half the time we feel marooned
yes it is the fusion completing HAROON So we understand time better and reach RAJUN
A place of the utter Integration
Love
Happiness
Divinity
Peace
Eternity

So many roles in the middle I tell you there are many things with which you wouldn't want to fiddle
Excuse the so's; this is not a riddle
a puzzle we'd fit so pieces we do not belittle to conjoin the twigs and winds to find a fig we'd rig to our humane config.

And disease release, pains appease so we please the free and each soul turns on their stellar switch
After war, soldiers we have died so many times
I have tried to resign too many times only to be assigned
Exits I've tried as I was entirely tired
but soon darkness was fired and the good hired so our psyche was wired and the psychics reeling their powers
a new kind of life
life never. feeling sorry for a person
why do we feel sorry for ourselves
seen my father's tears so many times no more emotional games could be played
boom; the wake "I don't want to be in the muck and mire of evil anymore but a process of admission and confession awaits before I can experience cathartic filth induction"
So guilt free the freedom-seekers.so they can forgive and be forgiven
for do we know for sure how much time we've been given
many exist, those standing virtuous long have they been living
Can we live to seize the moment of deep sleep in a state lucid free from the matrix
and please not enriching the chemist; this can be done without psychedelics
Uniforms bossing hasn't this been the battle of shem to drug tossing so we can be one like tether Higher - dimension flossing
getting nearer to the Divine Source, how is meditation and prayer for glossing?
So costumes - they give us flesh, this animal and that to Adam a bone to string to sand, beat and wing
a flying structure human being
or humans being
what a fashion show for genetic engineers
And stars we remember
once we escape the material and return to the ether

the middle; you experience the in-between
the good and the bad
peace and war
love and lust
lies and truth
virtue and vice
greed and generosity
satiation and addiction
theft and earning
possession and sharing
Burning and cooling
destruction and creation
I am tired before my time.

Coming upon the supposed realism of the place
in all it's artificial glory - shining like polished plastic

Where in the glass cage; them without eyes sit, motionless
& tapping on the base of the spine - handing judgment
shouting their mad disease into the air

In the contamination of the surrounding, nameless faces
barking out for what they think they need

They scream for food, food, food!

Food and the televised delivery of words
the milky film of burned retinas
staring out as if it see anything shining with the famous names
& the electric screens all around, reinforcing their stride

& fatten them with words

Mothers, fathers and children - all young
misplaced and arguing painfully
about who is where - how they are - & acting

No relief from the bombardment
& stark reality of those people
glossing over magazine covers - top row - never bottom
& system of image delivery

Serving only in the false world
where all is hideously pretty & cold

Cancel me to work the everyday,
gorgeous and made as if by money-
for money. My body glossing
for the lifestyle it represents
all its own.

The Curvature of my eye
shadowed behind the silk
of my hair. God
made the beautiful
for something else
than donning the same shirt and shoes
to grind another blue sky day
through to its ashy undertone.

They could call me madness
and I would rise up a dirt devil
over the scrub of the mundane-
all glimmering darkness
and suggestive dirt.

I have a question burning:

. . . . What's the point of living?

My heart is pounding
I'm heavy breathing
My blood is boiling
My face is melting
My hair is pulling
My skin is itching
My nails are hurting
My eyes are clouding
My mouth is drying
My mind is waning
My voice is wailing
My hands are cracking
My stomach is churning
My strength is failing
My care is mortifying
My existence is joking
My work is freezing
My delusions are multiplying
My thoughts are racing
My life is dying
My hopes are groaning
My dreams are poaching
My will power is cooking
My mind's eye is glossing
My mood's-a-changing
No cylinders are firing
My desire is diving
The cycle is beginning
My peace is nuking
Beauty is crumbling
Life's code is encrypting
. . . . No key for decrypting
The way out is blinding
And I'm feeling
. . . . The top of the ceiling
. . . . No more flooring
. . . . Left falling, none for catching
I'm wasting
I'm choking
I'm running
The demons are searching
Me they're consuming
Me they're chewing
Me they're spitting
Me they're crushing
. . . . Causing
. . . . A raining
. . . . Hellfire reckoning
They want me deadening
Me they're taunting
Poking me, torturing
My debt not paying
. . . . It's me they're charging
No recourse, left standing
Consciousness is maddening
My enemies looming
. . . . Gleaning my soul, they're feeding
They're biting
I'm left crying
Hope is fleeting
Friends are fleeing
. . . . This nutcase entertaining
I'm stopping
Left looking
No one is caring
. . . . To grace my being
They see me fading
Cast into the void, they're jeering
Strangers are laughing
There's more I could be saying

But I'm still left wondering:

. . . . What's the point of living?

The rising of a sun,
glossing over every dewy leaf,
and my heart had been broken by a thief.

Blue skies illuminated by a golden god,
proudly hanging above,
and she starts cursing love.

Gently wisped clouds gliding,
cumulating and growing,
and my happiness is slowing.

Eagles soar higher,
animals prowling low to the ground,
and she's above water yet still she's being drowned.

The sun is setting,
the sky starts crying,
and my poetry is dying.

i want to write down everything i feel i haven’t been completely honest about with you. i feel as if you don’t see me clearly and that it’s been made foggy and indistinct from all the wrong conversations, lack of moments, and too much alcohol. i worry that in an effort to grapple with my own insecurities i’ve made myself out to be a woman that is not quite real, that’s not quite me. i haven’t said the words that i couldn’t quite force out and i want to say them to you now. i want a do-over, a restart. i want to introduce myself to you all over again without the hesitation and avoided eye contact. i want to explain how unbearbly awkward i am when it comes to texting. i want to take back that sorry excuse of a joke and how i didn’t end up returning your call immediately. i should’ve called you right back and gone on that walk with you through the humid louisiana night. i should’ve not been so fearful. i want to tell you about my beliefs in god all over again because it didn’t come from a deeper part of my soul like it should have. i want to explain that i am not usually that cranky as i was that last day we worked together and that you unfortunately saw a bad moment within myself that was the inevitable meltdown of weeks of not sleeping, a poor diet, and the shadows of a past love clinging to my every move. i want to tell you more about how i grew up without glossing over the entire decade i’ve tried to mentally wall off. i want to re-do last night not just because it was wrong but because it was so perfect, so perfect on your part. i can still feel the burn of your five o’clock shadow scraping across my bare back and i want to go back and tell you what that did to me. i want to have said your name more. i want to have told you how nervous i was without trying to act like i wasn’t a little over my head with how much i wanted you. i want to go back and tell you how much i enjoy talking to you, however mundane it is. i want to be able to say all of these things but i am worried it may be a little too late and that the world is spinning faster than i can handle.

13 february, 2014

By: Cedric McClester

Now the acolytes and apologists
Will no doubt come out and insist
That the mayor of Baltimore wasn’t remiss
I guess you could say ignorance is bliss
But the question remains who was in charge
When the mayor was absent by and large
And the duty of the office wasn’t discharged
While she was busy having her ego massaged

Acolytes and apologists
Have convenient answers for all of this
But those answers only make us ******
When we look back and reminisce
Although it may be an ominous sign
Dereliction of duty comes to mind
Or perhaps it was just blind leading the blind
But it shouldn’t have happened any time

Acolytes and apologist
Have ways of glossing over all of this
Try though we may to get their gist
They make us want to ball our fist
Who’s gonna help build the city back up
When the anger subsides the people are stuck
Because a callous few didn’t give a ****
Acolytes and apologist pass the buck

Acolytes and apologist
Are everywhere explaining this
But the salient fact they must have missed
Is the blame should be placed squarely on sis
What recourse do we have when our leaders fail
When looters and rioters don’t go to jail
Who should we look to, to assail
If not the mayor who's gone stale


© Copyright 2015, Cedric McClester.  All rights reserved.

~~~

Tonight I read a poet's work
I didn't like a bit!
But he didn't seem to be the sort
To have such a poem writ...

I commented and asked him
Why he wrote the piece
It was so dark and evil
Not like him in the least!

I made an educated guess
That he wrote the ****
To see if people'd "like" it
Because they didn't READ!

I got an answer right away
It was a sad affair
He had done as I had guessed
And planted that work there!

I must admit I sometimes feel
Like "glossing" through a work
Then I think of the time you spend
And feel like a ****...

People PLEASE! Remember!
Make this judgement call
If you can't spend the time to read

... then do not read at all!


♥ SoulSurvivor

I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
I was good, I was just, I took only what I needed,
my happily dirt-stained fingertips treated each preserved beauty with the utmost love
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But passing cars contain people, and people have gardens,
and everyone knew
So I began to press the life out of beauty, and I did it only for you.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
my now gloved sterile hands caressing sallow dahlias and florid roses,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out made just for you!
and my gold tipped spotless fingertips could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were filled with fear,
Who would pay attention to me if I had no pressed flowers to bear?
I searched for flowers and found winter instead.
But people still came for more, asking and pleading,
confused, saying that there were countless flowers, ripe for the picking.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
happy couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
Could there really be flowers I wasn't seeing?
I looked down at my hands, gold fingertips cracked and worn.

My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
I didn't need to see if people told me what they needed.
I picked sallow dahlias and breathed in florid roses,
filled orders and was met with smiles, laughter, and love,
until August was over, until the need for flowers
had completely dried up.

In September I waved at passing cars, varnished nails flashing,


I still run and I thieve for a love not my own.
But I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love/ to those who don't take the time to love


What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.

I press flowers because I like it.
The thrill of thievery, of plucking irreplaceable beauty from those who can't see it anyway,
wild eyes daring passing cars to not slow down
for the girl holding flowers between her teeth.
And I ran and I thieved for a love of my own,
a secret I shared only with passing cars and the once perfect gardens.

But I began to press the life out of beauty, to preserve it for you,
and my past theft seemed selfish, childish, and frankly, insane.
I still ran and I thieved for a love, just not my own;
Countless cherished petals fluttered to the paper as I smiled,
eyes glossing over each work of precious taxidermy.
Every page of crushed life spelled out anything for you
and my wide loving eyes could see nothing wrong.

As I ran, my long hair no longer flew in the wind,
the few remaining strands stuck limply to my wrinkled skin.
I grew weak, stems slipped through my desperate fingers,
so much beauty was too much for shaking skeleton hands.
My eyes barely opened and were coated in haze.
I searched for flowers but then found winter instead.
I heard August bees, but they buzzed around twigs,
couples exchanged bouquets of sticks and dried leaves.
My sight faded more, and I welcomed it, beaming.
Shrinking to the ground, all I saw were gray clouds:
the very clouds I used to not notice,
the same grayness someone taught me to love.

What can fool someone so far to think the sun has gone cold?
Was it August's pollen showers? Could they really be mistaken for snow?
Are sun scorched sidewalks so white-hot that they numb barefoot toes?
How can something pave the world in grayness and shadow even beauty that was preserved?
Can something so simple make gray clouds greater than gold?
But then why is it so terrible to see beauty in the dull?
It is love that can make gray clouds greater than gold,
but it is also love that can dim the rest of the world.

I still run and I thieve, but not for a love of my own.
I plant beauty on every empty doorstep,
for the love of others,/for others to find their love even if it is unknown.
Because I shook my bones until only pennies fell out,
but pennies are just pocketed rust to those who are afraid to love/ to those who have no time to love

the other day
you asked me
   what I thought about you
and I did not really
   answer your question

we all have our idiosyncracies
they make us unique
   and sometimes
a pain in the neck

being overpunctual
   or always late
staging an appearance
   or fading into the background
griping gruffily
or glossing things over
   with sweet talk
verbalizing everything
   or very little
sticking to long-made plans
   or making your mind up
   again
   in the last minute
swingin wildly
   or staying calm
pontificating on what is right
   or listening quietly
   to what others have to say
   indicating your respect
   for what they want to say
being a control freak
   or leaving people enough leeway
   to find their own approach
worrying permanently
   about friends, children, parents, family, the world
or believing that they
   can occasionally
do without us

there is a fine balance
    difficult to maintain
and more often than not
we fall off on one side

   or the other
   from that narrow ridge
   of mutual acceptance
grow irritated or disgusted
   in wild moments
tell her or him that THIS IS IT
   and s/he can leave
   the earlier the better
   and NEVER come back

when such tempestuous events
give way
to calmer contemplation
we remember
that time is short
   life is precious
   and love is what makes it bearable

and we reconsider