.Her adjectives were littlemore than colorful trinkets that splashdark light, even on Sunday mornings therewas no rest for the wicked. My earsrejected the multi-colored grotesque barrageof hateful verbiage crammed in therewith every other simple sentence that you couldprobably see long stains left behindlike a fatal battle scar. Her mother was just as evil--I'm surprised my wife even made it to puberty. I supposeshe wanted a carbon copy just in case of an emergency,because she practiced clenching old mens' esophagus' with herice cold eyes; much, much colder than any sea on the moon;Tranquility must have been banned from her cartographers budget.Her words were like old moon rocks she'd hurl at passers bywith her catapult like tongue and even swifter *******. Always aiming at the frontal cortex. Her harsh textured words would kickand claw their way down ravaged ear canals like three ******* catsin an Italian gondola slowly floating down the over saturated streets.It usually irked me beyond comprehension when she would bring outthe sickly sweetened, over ripe verbal ammunition to pry and beg mefor more cigarette money. I'd give her the money with my favorite feined grin which bought me sacred time and to watch her walk away..

Too often, when I begin my poems- I turn on the caps lock key. I want the letters to be big and tower above my body so maybe I’ll be able to believe they actually mean something. What I am still learning, is you cannot always start out screaming. You can not always begin with ripping your hair out and spitting out your own tongue, you cannot always start with passion. Sometimes you need to work up to it as if you are riding the gondola just to see the sunset meet the waves. For so long, I believed poetry wasn’t real unless it was uninterrupted. It didn’t truly matter unless it all come out at once, unless you are imagining and rewriting the next line before you even finish the first. Is it even art if you stop halfway to think about what word sounds best?

Well, who’s to say its not?

Art exists for two reasons, to make your audience feel something, and to calm down the rapids within your own veins. Sometimes we choke or we spit or we throw it all up but no matter how it flies out of our paper matte lips, it still fills our lungs the same. You are like the ash I flick off of the burning skyline my cigarette is. I always compared you to an ocean, because I could drown in your eyes, but you are not quite so vast. You are not as important as I make you out to be. (Or at least that’s what I’d like to believe.)

Maybe you are everything, maybe you are the shooting star that rolls by my window just slow enough for me to spot it in the sky. Maybe you are that crack in the sidewalk where the weeds and dandilions took out their latest mortgage. Maybe you are all the things I told myself I would detatch from your name.

I cannot keep these promises to myself no matter how hard I try, two years later and you’re still my biggest influence. There has been a block in my bloodstream since I lifted my fingers from the keyboard, since I let the lightning stop starting fires.
There has been a hold up but if we are putting it all out in the open, I still try to swallow my feelings for you because you liked me best when the fibers of my sweater were caught in my zipper. You liked me best when I had too much cotton in my mouth for me to even breathe.

I’ve been spitting and coughing up poetry since I could speak, I have been substituing and backspacing until I found perfection in my own words, especially considering I couldn’t find anything else about myself even remotely close to perfect.
You are the only thing in this world that’s truly left me speechless.

But the words I never got the chance to say, are growing stale on my tongue.
I call this; rocket ship poetry.
It is like the day after the night of drinking. Of stomach bile and bread eating and promising to a god that only exists once in a while that you will never, ever, drink again.
It is the way you remember an angry middle aged man banging on the door before he burst in, fuming mad that you forgot to turn the lights off.
It is real and it happens so quick sometimes you don’t even see it coming. It is the pink ***** on your window sill from that party where you didn’t even feel drunk.
The time where silver smiles painted your skin to match the depth of your veins. All the flowers you picked out of the ground from their roots.
There is no stopping it when it’s arrived, there is no way to unravel it.
It is a rocket ship because you count down the seconds until take off and before you know it the stars are in your ears and you hit the caps lock key, and it isn’t because you want the letters to mean something, it’s because they mean so much already that you need to raise your voice.
You need to stop using periods and start using commas because after awhile you get tired of being interrupted. You get tired of taking two trips and saying what you want to scream. You just get tired. There is broken glass rattling around inside of you, and sometimes it’ll slash you open from the inside but you are going to be okay.
Sometimes you will get too close to the flame,
but it’s better to get burnt,
then to burn out.

I could get on a plane,
and scale the alps,
or scuba drive across The Great Barrier Reef.

I could push around a gondola,
learn to rope a steer from a cowboy,
or man a tuk tuk.

I could be painted a million different colours in India,
drink my weight in beer in Germany,
or pour out my heart into a notebook under the Eiffle tower.

I could do all of these thing, but my responsibilities would be waiting for me at home.
University, jobs, love, life. It would all be waiting, ready to turn me into an adult

So, let's keep moving , eh?

I gave up on astrology
when you gave up on me.

       these stars will never align

doomed to a quickened heart
when every other year
you tell me I'm
beautiful.

you're a devastating black hole
I've wary watched the effortless pull of
galaxies into your guile
invisible webs gilded with your smile

infinite universal promises of nothing.

having fallen sick with the brush of your hand
(careless earth-shattering connection)
    
          he loves me... he loves me not
                 he loves me.... he loves me not

"your old friend"- how dare you?
at the origin- ever aliens!
you never obeyed the customs
when every look was all a kiss
and every touch a secret question

"we never were just friends," I muse-
fleeing on my gondola down the milky way
casting over my shoulder your cordial invitations to love you
from this millennium onward, you've changed the font but kept the paper
into the nebulous reality you've tried to gather
I don't. I won't. I would not rather.

let daisies decide.
leave me alone.

I remember in the days when I wore overalls
And had pajamas with dinosaurs on them.
When a pinky promise was unbreakable,
And whoever could run the fastest was king.
The world was huge.
A trip to the grocery store was a great journey.
A small boat ride was a quest for the Golden Fleece.
Flying on an airplane was like going to another planet.


Then I became a teenager.
The world was smaller.
The internet had compacted it.
The media shaped it.
The elders squandered it.
And I believed them.
I saw pictures.
I saw people write about their exotic trips.
How they found the culture in India to be quite lovely,
But the temperature was over-bearing.
How they found that everyone loves their beer in Ireland,
But the greater beauty was in the landscapes.

Now I am older... ish.
But I see more truth than ever before.
They found.
They thought.
But what do I think?
What do I think of these places that I have never gone to?
To tell you the truth,
I don't know.

But that world that was once small.
That world that was so infinitesimally microscopic.
Suddenly came roaring into my head.
Venice was waiting for me to visit it!
To sail on a gondola with a beautiful Italian girl.
Paris awaited me!
To indulge in delicious cuisine!
Germany had its arms wide open!
They think they can drink?
I say, "Prost!"

The world is open and ready for adventure, my friends!
So, who's coming with me?

Through silken waters
My gondola glides—
And the bridge... it sighs

                   Bryan Ferry


Oh for Transcendence to sit on my face
Refreshing my vision with her pure grace.
For that bright vista I’d gladly go blind
Beholding her glory: my daily grind.
I’ll talk to her forests in feline tongues,
Mouth-to-mouth lip service, heart, soul and lungs.
Tropical therapy; her countryside
Where medicinal landscapes open wide…
Then poling my gondola into port
On the waterway of love’s last resort.

Two poets in love,

A natural disaster,
just waiting to happen...

Ah, yes,
I live in beautiful,
beautiful old Paris,
& as they say yes, yes,
oui oui,

Do you like my French accent Mon Cheri?

Well good.

You have your passport I take it?
Bags are ready?

Perfect,
so here we go,

Ahhhh yes,

Let me take you for a ride,
in a lovely old gondola,
through the beautiful & peaceful,
& placid canals of Venice,
the romance capital of the WORLD,

Or on a romantic moonlit stroll,
in the city of love,
hand in arm,
down some worn old,
cobble stone street,
heels click,
with a charming old lampost,
to kiss,
beneath,

Incredibly beautiful that Eiffel tower,

Or take you,
for a heavenly ride,
at the drop of a fateful hat,
you sit by my side,
we are drifting in a hot air barquilla,
yes,

Oui Mon Amour,
as pursed lips,
take careful sips,
of delicious red roija,
a candle burns,
as melting wax drips,
my heart just skips,
cheers my darling,
sampling one another's lips
& roving eager fingertips,

Quivering in a touch
& wanting so much,


This feels right, no?

Beautiful tastes,
of salty spicy Mahon,
from the Islands of Menorca,
tastes Europeans can appreciate,
& so can we
we can belong to the city,
and really it's such a terrible pity,
to stay in,
come along,
it isn't a sin,

The bright lights,
on the city's most tempting nights,
I'll take you to the highest heights,
relishing in the simple & sweet delights,
something we shouldn't fight,

I am right there with you,
like a twisting kite,
  kissing the wind,
just board that flight,

We are free in our wildness,
they say,
like Hemingway,
& his,
"Movable Feast"
I wanna taste this memory,
tonight,
like beauty & the beast,
I see you are so very beautiful,

As Pablo Nerada is gently,
nibbling on,
& whispering in my ear,
telling me, telling me
telling me,
of my most secret,
secret fear,

"You must give in to the night"

As you tip my neck back,
& come in for a slow attack,

"Like a Puma in the barrens of Quitratue"
stalking the night,
& your lover
loving her right,
& the stars,
as they are so brilliantly shining,
on blood you are dining,
try in vain to resist,
this feeling it always persists,

There's more,
I promise my love,

Wherever you wanna go,

I'll paint the way,
so whatta ya say?

Lay next to me in the sweet,
incandescent moonlight,

I would love for you,
to come along with me,
I would LOVE to love you,

Except I'm here,
I'm not there,
just take a little risky dare,
I just wanna say I'd share,
in something that I always swear,
I think that we'd be quite a pair,
no I guess isn't fair,
doesn't matter though,
cuz I don't care,

Being a poet,
it seems that I can take you,

ANYWHERE.

Cherie Nolan © 2016

The summer before
her chest hollowed out,
ribs bowing around vacuums,
her lungs ballooning new geometries.

The summer seas invaded body cavities,
feral and chemically sweet.
Her body became a gondola
ferrying pale, diminutive hopes
across the wide strait of your pelvis.

Oceans shifted gingerly,
unborn into the intimate dark
of throats, heart chambers,
marshes between thighs.

She drew the shores around her close, paranoid.

When they got to her
she’d filled her mouth deep
with different types of char: love, anorexia, Quaaludes.
Marrow coagulated and stopped ebbing
with the orbit of the moon.

Her heart smelled like day-old fish.

Can you envision a city built on a lagoon?
That's Venice, a name that always makes one swoon,
It has a reputation for canals rather than roads,
And a prime reason why one will never get bored

The famed gondola ride through the labyrinth of canals,
Is a must-have experience that is far from banal,
Gliding through serene waters with hardly a tilt,
While being serenaded by the cheerful gondolier's lilt

The epicenter of Venice is the popular St Mark's Square,
Teeming with tourists with a perennial effervescent flair,
Historic buildings and stately arcades form the periphery,
With an array of cafes and accompanying music for people to make merry

Witness the serpentine line of visitors entering St Mark's Basilica church,
Gazing at seemingly endless luminous gilded mosaics inside makes one almost lurch,
The Pala d'Oro altar of gold studded with hundreds of gems is a marvel to behold,
As are the mammoth innumerable columns that are so mind-boggling, if truth be told

The majestic Doge's Palace bears the stamp of masterpiece Gothic architecture,
Resting on a double arcade of marble columns lends solidity to the structure,
Spectacular halls and staircases adorn the interior, replete with exquisite paintings,
While ornate works of art complemented by more paintings are featured in the ceilings

The Bridge of Sighs is touted as one of the finest bridge architecture in the world,
The stylish Italian Renaissance connects the interrogation room to the prisoners' abode,
The sculptured sad or angry faces while crossing under the bridge can easily be seen,
Depicting sighs of prisoners awaiting their fate, as they mulled "what could have been"

The bustling Grand Canal is the central transport hub in picturesque Venice,
Gondolas, vaporettos and water taxis cruise up and down the canal without amiss,
Flanked by colorful buildings, iconic structures, buzzing markets and cobbled streets,
Time flies in hopping to various locations while savoring the glorious visual treat

The world famous Venetian glass has a history of its own,
Murano's glass museum visit facilitates all there is to be known,
For intricate shapes, it is a treat to watch the glass blower's skill,
Colorful designed vases and sculptures are effortlessly made at will

The lengthy arched Rialto Bridge is as old as the hills,
A crossover between San Polo and San Marco districts with hardly any frill,
It's breathtaking sunrise view receives considerable emcomium,
As a popular tourist spot, it needs no second opinion

As the bell-tower of the basilica, the Campanile is the tallest building in Venice,
The ring of each of the five bells is replete with history that one cannot miss,
The panoramic breathtaking view of Venice from the tower top,
Is one of the reasons why it is a must-experience visitors' stop

The mere mention of Venice always makes the lagoon city so exciting,
Little wonder that the annual Film Festival is a much-awaited outing,
The aura of glamor, glitz and entertainment never wanes any given year,
As folks continue to throng the city from far and near, with their near and dear

and now, i too, can jest, waving the brick,
the 20th century's Odyssey,
so too Ulysses, father of, this cantos poet,
it's a well worn book,
to make books like leather, the older
the better, lost the colt stink of freshly
peeled, leather rather than fur,
so too, i, can now close the book and leave
it's ancestry in lost conversation among
the living in cafés and pubs,
so now i can give you a bewilderment i too
am aware of: the chaos of kept Latin
geometrics, style, indeed orthography with
accent here and there, but to dwell on
the past like that, per se, prae se or any such
coercion to disregard the general public,
no surprises with such a pompous raucous,
elephants and stilettos, mass and weight,
bouncing on the moon, the sheer chaos
of how the barbarians lost runes and incorporated
the gaps, i.e.: a, e, o, p, R, b, B, Q, g, d...
                       with Hindu 0, 9, 8, 6, 4...
or as Arabs say: our ten commandments.
but still the chaos, once meaningful now meaningless,
hence programming, encoding, data structuring,
fish tanks think tanks, and SLANG, or SHLANG
as i call it, impromptu youth too cool for school:
still don't know what you're talking about...
the lettering survived because their arithmetic
that gave us beauty like the Coliseum and marble
testicles (later missing with castrato hosanna
in excelsis deo - o took a baritone stance) -
the fall of the Roman empire? all due to
                      I + VI = VII
                      XI + V = XVI.
                                               everyone was like... huh?
can you really **** around with these symbols
in modern physics and mathematics?
... no thanks... we'll keep the alphabet but bring
you down on your mathematics...
but have you seen the Appleton Tower in
Edinburgh? or the library in George Sq.?
you haven't... both are hardly Islamic mosaics and
minarets. as many curves and glitches of beauty
as the models on a catwalk during London's fashion week;
anorexic imagination: keep it square and bony,
me and my godforsaken x-ray vision.
so suma summarum:
it began with: and then went down to the ship...
but ended up with the ship being a gondola
i.e. you in the dinghy (piccioletta) astern there!
i'm not even going to read the drafts & fragments
section (CX - CXVII - C X C V - or the curriculum vitae).

I want to take you
by the hand and show you
everything worth seeing
in this world.

I want to take you
on a ship out to sea
so you can see the power
that rages in your eyes.

I want to take you
on a picnic beneath
the Eiffel Tower
so you can experience
the aesthetic that falls
just short of matching yours.

I want to take you
on a gondola ride in Venice
so you can sit under the stars
and hear the gentle waters
and know what I hear
every time you speak.

I want to take you
running with the bulls
so you can feel your heart
threaten to burst out of your chest
so you can feel what I feel
each time you walk into the room.

I want to take you
across the world
until I have shown you everything
so you can know first hand
the wonders of the world
and how you best them all.

In the gondola bobbing above the waves she sits
like an apparition drenched in  golden morning light
he wishes to elope with, to an island distant
hoping to live there for eons, till they grow very, very old,
defying death that in many forms
they know for certain,
will chase from behind
like a vengeful hound

He sings a barcarole.
to mislead miseries and death,
that fallows, she weeps,
oh! the sufferings love brings to them both!
yet their hearts were too pure, always rejoiced.

The song he sings is on sacrifice for love
on lovers defying conventions
together they ran away to a far away place
but sweet love sometimes brings them
to sudden turns , cruel some times,
they lied down their lives, felled by swords,
for raising the banner of revolt, in the name of love.

From her eyes tears flow uncontrollably,
she sobs, as of it happens to them,
the song, nears it's end,
he is stunned by her overwhelming emotion,
does it portend
something bad?

His barcarole comes to an abrupt end,
what does he see ahead, a volatile crowd,
what is this commotion all about,
would someone please tell?
Are they waiting for the lovers with drawn swords?
Love has found martyrs, unfailingly once more,
Let the waters in this canal in Venice, be red again.

I thought I had something to write,
but instead I'm buzzing strangely
as if I'm a conduit for the lost currents in the air,
   The static electricity.
  
I yearn to untangle.

My insides are a coil of jumper cables
and perhaps I'll take up yoga.

And then I will write a story that weighs more than the factory which made the pen,
And it will be such that the whole world will read it
and weep.
And the whole world will be that one guy who rows the gondola boat in city park
because I will have left it
by the dock.
And all the people will return again and again
To purchase another ride,
To sit in his boat and glide on the water
and hear him tell the story,


And their tears will fill the lake.

Gulls are flying down
and alighting on palms rude
by the net of the days.
Where’s the gondola arched?
At the ball of the masks of nephrites
the song of the sea is lost,
the call of the falcon,
couch of roses.
Ah, how he used to dream somewhere
in the tinted by autumn
wave
under the bridges
of a stone forgotten
to find the coiled up
in a prayer
soul.

The masks were choking him …  


The original:


Балът на маските

Чайки политат надолу
кацат по дланите груби
от мрежа на дните.
Къде е гондолата витa?
В бала на маски нефритови
загуби се песента на морето,
зовът на сокола,
ложе от рози.
Ах, как мечтаеше някъде
в обагрената от есен
вълна
под мостовете
на камък забравен
да намери свитата на кълбо
в молитва
душа.

Маските го душаха…


Translator Bulgarian-English: Vessislava Savova
rarebird
© bogpan - all rights reserved.

I falsely remember gondola rides between the faces of your words
The sea that held them together harmonized with the serenade
You are Venetian by association.
You are an artist because of the tune you left humming in my ears

"She...she. . .
loves me!

He says it just
- like that!

As if he had practiced it
and had got it

- down pat!

Or as if he were saying:
"Pass the coffee ***."

Or as if...
...I didn't!

I watch him
distorted in the coffee pat

a short stout man
a little man with a long face.

I want to laugh but
I have lost my laughter.

"My...sister! My...twin!...The *****!"

"Go!" I tell him "...just: go!"

He: went.

She felt like an android
or replicant rather..

She thought of her
self now

in the( "Absurd!" )3rd
person singular

as if she had fallen
out of her self.

He: gone.

All those moments
lost in time

making love to Wagner's
Tannhäuser

( screaming the house down )

always his laughter
her music

stars dancing over
the Bridge of Sighs.

A Santa incredulously
in a gondola

singing Santa Lucia.

"So...
me d'oh!"
she hummed.

This the little song
of her self.

"So mi doh!"

trying to keep its head
above the floodwaters

of belief.

Bladerunner rewound 99 times
to that END.

All those moments
...lost in time

like( cough)tears

in a glass of
red wine.

The gondola chains ***** *****
with the rising tide
deep throated voices
echo and bounce
down the mist coiling canals
Raspberry golden dust rays
of a slow sunset
split the spaces
of the room

Are you still awake ?
I am,
but I pretend
I could close my eyes
forever now
and die here
with you.

© M.L.Emmett

miss the smell of your hair
Gondola, swings, no final fare.

Well I think it's in-genuine
But genuinely I miss the scent of sin.

Serenity in the the trace of tires
Skidding, softly to the suns fires.

Where parasites would've given up
Divine is dinner is not enough.

Breakfast at four to carry us down
The sound of a left desire begins to compound.

~


Floating... in the dream state of a conscious mind,
picturing hibiscus ribbons in sweet chocolate hair,
happily smiling along mockingbird whispers, melodically
heard deep within our hearts…we imagine

Our gondola, of painted daisies and wildflower song
drifting silently upon uncharted thoughts and desires
Capturing a sunbeam glowing from your smile
I hold it close…softly to my chest

Warmth filters beyond any worries, comforting fears
Resting my hand in yours, gazing into your eyes
as illumined affection ignites a passion
reflecting azure skies, still unprepared for your beauty

Sadness which once danced in our paths,
raining tears on wilted cheeks has led us to an intersection,
a new avenue to travel, closer to any wish
of four leafed clover descent resting in our pockets

And I feel safe, for these arms of satin wonder
drape my soul with a gentleness I have not before known,
born of friendship and deep admiration...we imagine
and we realize our imagination is not this…for this is real

Counting the stars one by one in Venice
Passing through the waterways in a gondola;
Thinking it would've been best
to be accompanied

Distance is the cog wheel
on the haunted axle of my hearing,
grinding fine the deadened mind
of that unborn god
waiting to be caught
by the earth's blue speed,
and carrying in a handled urn
the plucked heart - ours,
it's beating, it's heard, it's beating, it's heard,
a sphere in wild growth -
the roads are wet with tears,
memory frail and elastic,
a sling for stones, a gondola
drowned in childlike Venices,
a tooth yanked from the cells with a string -
down the empty socket of Vesuvius. And you exist.

*Nichita Stanescu

there are so many of them
  and there is only less
  of me —

gondola in Venice,
  H-bomb
and the knife of Bach;
a steady collision in Q. Ave
as the fizz of the afternoon mirage
settles with the ides,
the torn elephants of
  Chiang Mai
the red blood of Golden Gates
   the froth of the repeated wave
at the lip of the ocean,
  city buoys lacerating
the skyscape

and your coming in here
  ransacking all;
appeasements and
  trivialities — there are so many
of your photographs here
  and only less of me,

looking at all of you
  and weeping it
later. sounds like these sounds
hanging by the edge of the bed
reducing woes to a hair-trigger.

i look outside and there
are women, cat-called by peddlers,
stopped by cabs, inside and outside
  of cars with sometimes lovers
hot legs and all that,
simmering in the highway
glancing at them now
   lamenting them later,
what's a dull boy to do in a dull town
  with clothes dull wielding the
     dull word?

meanwhile, there's so many of you
and there is only very scant of me left.
light voyeurs through the interstices
   of the huddled masses,
panic screeches through the maddened
  streets of Vito Cruz.

   the night is all black and stark
and the heavy behemoth of existence
  prods underneath where
rats, rodents and vermin run
  plodding the highway with sleek varmint
    demeanor. a lady passes by with a
string of fragrance dangling upon
  her shoulder-blades.

what's a dull boy got to do in a dull city
  with a dull heart?

there are so many of them for my
   territorial hands cannot name
and there's only one of me:

     unheroic
        impinged
small
        half-drunk and
half-believing

  that there's something
a dull boy ought to do
   in this dull city
with dull words but it comes
   with an exorbitant outlay.

dog-leashes are expensive,
    moonless hoots through opened
windows hefty with price.
   moon-blooms again and again,
missing all hurt trying to repair
   the ravaged — i look at young
girls, old women, fine and complete
  and this thing of being me
     on the market marked: sun-stifled.

there's so many of them
there's only a sum of me
that's often small and burgeoned
bringing the question
  
what's a dull boy to do in a dull city underneath a dull moon
       within a dull crowd?

When it rains outside,
and their choirs grow,
while the crickets sing high,
the frogs sing low.

But where do they go when they're tucked in there beds?
And what are the voices they hear in their heads?
How loud are the screams that shatter the dreams?
And the sighs and the moans of the life in between?

And who gives them warts on their necks and and their hands?
Whose legs do they eat?
Whose fate do they meet?
And which prince will they kiss just to make him their own?
And where do they go when their frogging is done?

If I were you my little friends,
I'd make this vow to make amends,
with the green blood splattered on the cold road side,
and the twitching arms trying to stay alive...

Because from the dark there are eyes that peer,
and amphibious ears that are longing to hear,
of a hardened tongue and a wicked stare,
and the crooked hands that will lay a snare,
for the one who owns that-
sorrowless,
merciless,
cruel,
in-compassionate glare:
will find his end on a gondola,
while the night creatures doom him
to Frogola.

Kiss me under the Bridge of Sighs
on a moonlit starry night
and I will sigh forever
A gondola ride with you by my side
In the city of love

Kiss me under the Rialto Bridge
an architectural dream
and I will dream forever
A gondola ride on the Grand Canal wide
In the city of dreams

Kiss me under the Bridge of Spires
with passion and desire
and stay with me forever
A gondola ride, the sights to inspire
In this magical city of bridges

JG 14/01/19

Going
once
Hey
Buster!
1-desperately
Never want
The New Jersey
Wife-bra
That drops down
Actress Fakes
Going firm up
Hollywoods
 La Femme
Frenchie
Her Roast beans
cup
2- twins bark
pup
Bra me=
I'm +Robin Birdie
Told me
((Never Ha Me))

2-Bustiers
equally
Tara twice La
Him musketeers
- duh Harrah

Sara Smile- Huh
Santa's trainer-Shy Spanish fly
blush Fly Robin Disco pry

Twirled together
Behind the
curtain
Dorothy & Toto bra click my red slippers home-
Girl scout brownies
The bra course
boom!!
Never bust room!!
Mystic
Falls Vamp-hire
[.
[.
Trump-her
Naughty
Tara La Bra-ly
Hybrid
Which one
Is the  
Witch
wizardly bra?
The good
Linda witch
Jinx
Jalapeno
Never a
Prince
She's allergic
Like Tied- ankle
slipper

Cozy Curry
Bra Chicken
Terror Terry
Bra trader

Villalobos
Snackerro's
"La Bra land"

"One Chosen Bra"
Sultry\ steampunk
Bra- link

Blonde
niche
Patriotic
Red- blood- white
The King Elvis

 Being Launched
Queen Priscilla
size
  Tara La
"Historical" Aint nothing but a hound dog*

The girl has rocks in her head
gone stupid in bed
she couldn't lift
her underarms

Scarlett has gone-----
with her friends' lover
Never a bra
with firearms
((Never B-B Tara La))

Her
long
neck_
Vampire Diaries
Disease VD
Pour bra Scotch

"0" outcasting
Tomato Pie
Lace box
"Robin
Redbreast
take-off
wizardly
Ozfully-set

She was
born
like
that
bra
Lady
GaGa
Singer
Robin-Hood me
blood bra orders
Where's your Bra?
High Dalmatian
demand
bone-fish bra

So many Men
Gondola Tara La
Venice
Chinese
Cat-talk
Siamese bra
takeout
Catstick_
faceoff be quick
Bra \off
this is
Taras turf

‘We’re floating up with the Angels,’
Said the girl in the pale green dress,
She’d voiced the phrase in German
For the girl had hailed from Hesse,
‘I never have dreamt of a night like this,
We soar like the gods of old,’
Then they came and shut all the windows,
For the night was growing cold.

There wasn’t a shake or a shudder
From the platform in the sky,
The waters of the Atlantic streamed
Below, but they were dry,
A headwind slowed their progress
And a storm was coming on,
The flickers of distant lightning lit
The path that they flew along.

The following day, the coast appeared
But the rain set in the more,
Rather than land, the captain took them
Over the Jersey shore,
The weather was bad at Lakehurst, so
They whiled away the hours,
Floating up there above the clouds
And the steady springtime showers.

They finally dropped the mooring lines
As the crew stood by below,
When a sudden flash was seen up aft
And a roar began to grow,
The ship was lit like a candlestick
As the gas and the fabric scorched,
While a flame enveloped the girl in green
And lit her up like a torch.

The frame crashed down on the gondola
And all you could hear were cries,
It was almost as if the gods had screamed:
‘How dare you enter our skies?’
They say that St. Elmo’s Fire was seen
By the watchers, down on the ground,
But there wasn’t a trace of the girl in green
When the Hindenberg went down.

David Lewis Paget

Distance is the cog wheel
on the haunted axle of my hearing,
grinding fine the deadened mind
of that unborn god
waiting to be caught
by the earth's blue speed,
and carrying in a handled urn
the plucked heart - ours,
it's beating, it's heard, it's beating, it's heard,
a sphere in wild growth -
the roads are wet with tears,
memory frail and elastic,
a sling for stones, a gondola
drowned in childlike Venice's,
a tooth yanked from the cells with a string -
down the empty socket of Vesuvius. And you exist.

by Nichita Stanescu, translated by Thomas Carlson and Vasile Poenaru

A wave of nausea, not hatching in your stomach, but leeching the strength from your legs, out through your feet.
The sound of a slammed door has coursed through the air to leave an indent, an impression, in your shoulder and side. It echoes and bounces inside your fleshy cell, spurred on by the brushed drum of blood
and ticker-tape heart.
What a body.
What a carcasse.
Hear the clicking of thoughts through carbon paper to long-dead wood pulp.
On Endless rolls wide as your *******,
your ticker nails down the free, lively thoughts.
For two ticks in ten you'll capture a word that deserves a second and third glance.
This.... thing. This wholly unholy, sacred little jewel will divide it all.  
It's as good as a weapon.
But, to slip through fingers, land in mud and be buried; as fate would jump at the chance, a truth worse than fiction.
Everything is rushing towards an end; some end.
Spotting patterns in cycles in routines, like an amusment park ride with a thousand
spinning axles
pinning
branches of branches of branches down.
When you, in your little capsule or gondola, reach the end of the long arching journey, things speed up.
Everything's true shape is revealed in a blur.
Here we go, this is the end.
No.
This arrangment,  and exact shape of whirling arms, shall come again, and though it seems like you'll be thrown away, you'll crack the air,
leave a vacuum where you just were,
and whip-cord shimmy-shuffle back to the center.

I ask my eyes to remember.
They have so much to tell.
I ask my memory to work with
Them, but it's stubborn,
Like an old pair of shoes
Letting in rocks and
Gravel.
We've walked enough.

I ask my lips to remember
Old juvenile softness,
My ears the sound of wind
Through rainforest foliage; a
Creek drizzling down a water-

Worn hillside, but all is so
Vague after the years between.
Some things resurface,
Then sink back into oblivion.
So much mind wasted on
Everyday trivialities.

I was there,
I tell myself when
Trying to recall the Italian song
Thrown between the brick walls
On either side of the narrow
Canal, as the gondola slid under
Yet another ancient bridge.
I could smell
The water. Filthy and beautiful.

I'm here,
I'll keep telling
Myself as always. Eyes
Resting on the
Ground Of Now,
Neck too sore to look
Back and focus.

Ears hearing her muttering
In sweet sleep, then opening
Her eyes to look into mine,
Touching my

(I'm here)

Face with feather fingers, then
Closing in on herself to
Sleep on, safe and warmed
By present love.

My eyes still see.
Ears still wallow in music.
My skin still

(I'm here)

Feels the touch of something
Wanting to touch it,
Touch it.

For now, I'll listen to
My shoes.

Is someone really
giving
you the (Malocchio)
eye goodbye
The doubt eye? hum
Such irony but the music
opera I see an eye for an eye
Of the symphony

Talk relax and Muncha
Prego colorful array
of food "Amazon Rainbow"
Bow -Italians Arrow- Americans
Ride the Gondola
Rome, Venice, and
Florence at night
The art and ancient architecture

Ferrari red cars heart confidence
Doubtful eyes met Mr cappuccino
Stevie any wonder piano
player superstitious
The evil eye how
did it ever become the
forever, Dr. Love

He lies potbelly stomach
He acts like he's above
All of us the Monarch
Those after effects
Or before I doubted him
He became my subject

Let's really be reasonable
And if anyone thinks
they don't have a problem

Just go bob bobbin along
Like Robin_*
How much
Different red's of tape
I am swinging with
reasonable doubt
Monkey *** banana ape
swings to Havana
Unbearable banana peel
shes reasonable with her
face Spa peels
More discounts
50% off the 1/2 lip martini 1/2 eye
apple of my eyeglass 
Wait for him 75% off
After Christmas nightmare
To top things off
He's not the discount person

To Elope an obsession
everything he
touched blinking eye $$$
expensive____
I feel like the plaid pants
pajama party doubtful event
The scotch tape
He loves to drink Scotch
Like sleeping eye patch

Just be flexible U-R never reasonable
Colorblind with red hearts, belts,
roses, glasses
Her red-danger lips can
we actually escape
Then all the yellow tape like
surveillance comes and passes
You define whats important

What you dedicate your time too
Eating the best icecream cherries
Whip cream vanilla fudge

Serendipity New York City
A different occupation
being a Judge
With any reasonable doubt
Not to judge anyone moves out
He's in his fifties style suit
acts conventional and
whistling Dixie

Change of words, Bowie
You only hear what you
want to hear the ambulance
bloodshed stranger on the
stretcher,  you never know
what you got until its gone

Not a movie Scarlet went
like twin parrot's eyeing the event
The third spiritual eye
He's waiting with his attache case
What a six sense no sense
The guy on the stretcher
would die
Like the saying, you
never know
who your relatives are
You felt like the
headboard

Unreasonable time
dark place ouija board
The concentration camp
board
No-one is ever on-board
Keep it peaceful and sonic
But you felt the atomic
a bomb hit unexpectedly
surprised
Just relax with
Gin and Tom-ic with the
watching eye

I think about the day it will end
The day I’ll wake up in the morning
And calling you won’t be the first thing on my mind
The day I’ll listen to some beloved melody
And your face
So well known that it could have been my own
Won’t be the dominating presence that I can’t ever leave behind
The day when I’ll dream of going to Venice
And you won’t be in the gondola holding my hand
The day I eat a Popsicle
And you won’t be there to see the stick hanging out
The day someone gives me a rose
And I won’t throw it back at them
The day I cry my heartstrings dry
And I won’t tell you
The day that I’ll be able to listen to love songs again
The day I will be able to look at humanity
And feel like it deserves to exist