1
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back a while sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard,
Nature without check with original energy.

2
Houses and rooms are full of perfumes, the shelves are crowded with
perfumes,
I breathe the fragrance myself and know it and like it,
The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it.

The atmosphere is not a perfume, it has no taste of the
distillation, it is odorless,
It is for my mouth forever, I am in love with it,
I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked,
I am mad for it to be in contact with me.

The smoke of my own breath,
Echoes, ripples, buzz’d whispers, love-root, silk-thread, crotch and
vine,
My respiration and inspiration, the beating of my heart, the passing
of blood and air through my lungs,
The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and
dark-color’d sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn,

The sound of the belch’d words of my voice loos’d to the eddies of
the wind,
A few light kisses, a few embraces, a reaching around of arms,
The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag,
The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields
and hill-sides,
The feeling of health, the full-noon trill, the song of me rising
from bed and meeting the sun.

Have you reckon’d a thousand acres much? have you reckon’d the
earth much?
Have you practis’d so long to learn to read?
Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems?

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of
all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions
of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look
through the eyes of the dead, nor feed on the spectres in
books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

3
I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the
beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now,
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,
Always the procreant urge of the world.

Out of the dimness opposite equals advance, always substance and
increase, always ***,
Always a knit of identity, always distinction, always a breed of
life.
To elaborate is no avail, learn’d and unlearn’d feel that it is so.

Sure as the most certain sure, plumb in the uprights, well
entretied, braced in the beams,
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

Clear and sweet is my soul, and clear and sweet is all that is not
my soul.

Lack one lacks both, and the unseen is proved by the seen,
Till that becomes unseen and receives proof in its turn.

Showing the best and dividing it from the worst age vexes age,
Knowing the perfect fitness and equanimity of things, while they
discuss I am silent, and go bathe and admire myself.

Welcome is every ***** and attribute of me, and of any man hearty
and clean,
Not an inch nor a particle of an inch is vile, and none shall be
less familiar than the rest.

I am satisfied - I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As the hugging and loving bed-fellow sleeps at my side through the
night, and withdraws at the peep of the day with stealthy
tread,
Leaving me baskets cover’d with white towels swelling the house with
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my
eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the value of one and exactly the value of two, and which is
ahead?

4
Trippers and askers surround me,
People I meet, the effect upon me of my early life or the ward and
city I live in, or the nation,
The latest dates, discoveries, inventions, societies, authors old
and new,
My dinner, dress, associates, looks, compliments, dues,
The real or fancied indifference of some man or woman I love,
The sickness of one of my folks or of myself, or ill-doing or loss
or lack of money, or depressions or exaltations,
Battles, the horrors of fratricidal war, the fever of doubtful news,
the fitful events;
These come to me days and nights and go from me again,
But they are not the Me myself.

Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, compassionating, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is *****, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.

Backward I see in my own days where I sweated through fog with
linguists and contenders,
I have no mockings or arguments, I witness and wait.

5
I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to
you,
And you must not be abased to the other.

Loafe with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat,
Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not
even the best,
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice.

I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning,
How you settled your head athwart my hips and gently turn’d over
upon me,
And parted the shirt from my *****-bone, and plunged your tongue
to my bare-stript heart,
And reach’d till you felt my beard, and reach’d till you held my
feet.

Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass
all the argument of the earth,
And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own,
And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own,
And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women
my sisters and lovers,
And that a kelson of the creation is love,
And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields,
And brown ants in the little wells beneath them,
And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heap’d stones, elder, mullein and
poke-****.

6
A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;
How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more
than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,
A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,
Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see
and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,
And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,
Growing among black folks as among white,
Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,
It may be you transpire from the ******* of young men,
It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,
It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out
of their mothers’ laps,
And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,
Darker than the colorless beards of old men,
Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,
And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for
nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and
women,
And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken
soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?
And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the
end to arrest it,
And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

7
Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know
it.

I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and
am not contain’d between my hat and boots,
And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.

I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth,
I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and
fathomless as myself,
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.)

Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female,
For me those that have been boys and that love women,
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted,
For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the
mothers of mothers,
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,
For me children and the begetters of children.

Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be
shaken away.

8
The little one sleeps in its cradle,
I lift the gauze and look a long time, and silently brush away flies
with my hand.

The youngster and the red-faced girl turn aside up the bushy hill,
I peeringly view them from the top.

The suicide sprawls on the ****** floor of the bedroom,
I witness the corpse with its dabbled hair, I note where the pistol
has fallen.

The blab of the pave, tires of carts, sluff of boot-soles, talk of
the promenaders,
The heavy omnibus, the driver with his interrogating thumb, the
clank of the shod horses on the granite floor,
The snow-sleighs, clinking, shouted jokes, pelts of snow-*****,
The hurrahs for popular favorites, the fury of rous’d mobs,
The flap of the curtain’d litter, a sick man inside borne to the
hospital,
The meeting of enemies, the sudden oath, the blows and fall,
The excited crowd, the policeman with his star quickly working his
passage to the centre of the crowd,
The impassive stones that receive and return so many echoes,
What groans of over-fed or half-starv’d who fall sunstruck or in
fits,
What exclamations of women taken suddenly who hurry home and
give birth to babes,
What living and buried speech is always vibrating here, what howls
restrain’d by decorum,
Arrests of criminals, slights, adulterous offers made, acceptances,
rejections with convex lips,
I mind them or the show or resonance of them-I come and I depart.

9
The big doors of the country barn stand open and ready,
The dried grass of the harvest-time loads the slow-drawn wagon,
The clear light plays on the brown gray and green intertinged,
The armfuls are pack’d to the sagging mow.

I am there, I help, I came stretch’d atop of the load,
I felt its soft jolts, one leg reclined on the other,
I jump from the cross-beams and seize the clover and timothy,
And roll head over heels and tangle my hair full of wisps.

10
Alone far in the wilds and mountains I hunt,
Wandering amazed at my own lightness and glee,
In the late afternoon choosing a safe spot to pass the night,
Kindling a fire and broiling the fresh-****’d game,
Falling asleep on the gather’d leaves with my dog and gun by my
side.

The Yankee clipper is under her sky-sails, she cuts the sparkle
and scud,
My eyes settle the land, I bend at her prow or shout joyously from
the deck.

The boatmen and clam-diggers arose early and stopt for me,
I tuck’d my trowser-ends in my boots and went and had a good time;
You should have been with us that day round the chowder-kettle.

I saw the marriage of the trapper in the open air in the far west,
the bride was a red girl,
Her father and his friends sat near cross-legged and dumbly smoking,
they had moccasins to their feet and large thick blankets
hanging from their shoulders,
On a bank lounged the trapper, he was drest mostly in skins, his
luxuriant beard and curls protected his neck, he held his bride
by the hand,
She had long eyelashes, her head was bare, her coarse straight locks
descended upon her voluptuous limbs and reach’d to her
feet.

The runaway slave came to my house and stopt outside,
I heard his motions crackling the twigs of the woodpile,
Through the swung half-door of the kitchen I saw him limpsy and
weak,
And went where he sat on a log and led him in and assured him,
And brought water and fill’d a tub for his sweated body and bruis’d
feet,
And gave him a room that enter’d from my own, and gave him some
coarse clean clothes,
And remember perfectly well his revolving eyes and his awkwardness,
And remember putting piasters on the galls of his neck and ankles;
He staid with me a week before he was recuperated and pass’d north,
I had him sit next me at table, my fire-lock lean’d in the corner.

11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.

She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.

Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.

Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.

Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather,
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.

The beards of the young men glisten’d with wet, it ran from their
long hair,
Little streams pass’d all over their bodies.

An unseen hand also pass’d over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.

The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and bending
arch,
They do not think whom they ***** with spray.

12
The butcher-boy puts off his killing-clothes, or sharpens his knife
at the stall in the market,
I loiter enjoying his repartee and his shuffle and break-down.

Blacksmiths with grimed and hairy chests environ the anvil,
Each has his main-sledge, they are all out, there is a great heat in
the fire.

From the cinder-strew’d threshold I follow their movements,
The lithe sheer of their waists plays even with their massive arms,
Overhand the hammers swing, overhand so slow, overhand so sure,
They do not hasten, each man hits in his place.

13
The ***** holds firmly the reins of his four horses, the block swags
underneath on its tied-over chain,
The ***** that drives the long dray of the stone-yard, steady and
tall he stands pois’d on one leg on the string-piece,
His blue shirt exposes his ample neck and breast and loosens over
his hip-band,
His glance is calm and commanding, he tosses the slouch of his hat
away from his forehead,
The sun falls on his crispy hair and mustache, falls on the black of
his polish’d and perfect limbs.

I behold the picturesque giant and love him, and I do not stop
there,
I go with the team also.

In me the caresser of life wherever moving, backward as well as
forward sluing,
To niches aside and junior bending, not a person or object missing,
Absorbing all to myself and for this song.

Oxen that rattle the yoke and chain or halt in the leafy shade, what
is that you express in your eyes?
It seems to me more than all the print I have read in my life.

My tread scares the wood-drake and wood-duck on my distant and
day-long ramble,
They rise together, they slowly circle around.

I believe in those wing’d purposes,
And acknowledge red, yellow, white, playing within me,
And consider green and violet and the tufted crown i

My Second Letter to Allen Ginsberg
Dear Allen,
Almost five years ago, I wrote you a letter, and in
That letter, I purged my drunkenly woeful cries
That seem so first-world now and naïve –
The things I grimed over with luxuries I didn’t
Realize that rubbed against my plump limbs
Like millions of felines poised at the
Tombs of pharaohs.

Oh, Allen, I’m so tired –
These politics, and poly ticks, so many ticks that
Annoy my tics. Allen! I smear your name so liberally
Against this paper like primer because the easiest way
To coerce someone into listening to you like
A mother
or predator
tugging or nibbling on your ear –
Swatches of velvet scalped from a ****’s coat
Are you and I talking to ourselves again?
Candid insanity : Smoky hesitance.

Dear Allen, I’m so tired –
Yes, I love wearing my ovaries on the outside like
Some Amazonian soapbox gem glistening from beneath
The iron boots of what the newspapers tell me while
I cough at them with the hurdled delicacies of alphabet soup.
Give vegetables a gender and call them onions, Allen.
Sullied scratch-hicks pinioned feet from slapping
Society’s last rung on the ladder.
Ignore the swerve of small-town eyes.
Scapulas, stirrups, pap smears, and cervical mucus – now do you know who we are?

That fingernail clipped too short, Allen. We’ve all got AIDs
And AIDs babies, haven’t you heard? Hemorrhaging from the political
****** and out – they haven’t reached the heart.  
Since when have old white men given a **** about some
13 year old’s birth control? I’m riding on the waves of the
Parachute game and I swear this abortion-issue is just a veil outside Tuskegee University
Being further shove over plaintive eyes, swollen and black.
Pay up and
shut up.

I still remember my first broken *****, Allen.
Can you tell me all about your first time?
The vasodilatation that made veins rub against skin,
Delirious brilliance : unfathomable electricity.
I made love during an LSD experience, Allen,
And I am not sorry. I see cosmic visions and
Manifest universal vibrations as if this entire world is
A dish reverberating with textiles and marbles, and
All are plundering the depths of the finished wine
Bottle roasting in the sink like Thanksgiving Turkey.
The patience is in the living. Time opens out to you.
The opening, between you and you, occupied,
zoned for an encounter,
given the histories of you and you—
And always, who is this you?
The start of you, each day,
a presence already—
Hey, you!

Ah, Allen, if you are not safe, then I am not safe.
And where is the safest place when that place
Must be someplace other than in the body?
Am I talking to myself again?
You are not sick, you are injured—
you ache for the rest of life.

Why is it that I have to explain to my students that
sometimes what I'm spouting is prescribed by a pedagogical pharmacy --
but all they want to know is "what do the symbols on the television mean?"
I am completely aghast against the ghosts of future goners --
I am legitimately licensed to speak, write, listen like some mothers --
I am constantly cajoling the complex creations blamed on burned-out educators --
I am following the flagrant, fired-up "*******"s tagging lockers --
Pay up and
shut up.

Yes, and it’s Hopeless. Allen.
Where did we get off leaping and bounding into
The dogpile for chump change jurisdiction, policing
The right and the left for inherent hypocrisies when
Poets are so frightful to turn that introspective judgment
Upon ourselves?
We didn’t see it coming and I heard the flies, Allen.
Mean crocodile tears. Flamingo mascara tracks
Up and down : up and down: bow – bow – bow – bow
Buoyant amongst the misguided ******* floating around
In the swirlpool of lackadaisical introspection.
What good is vague vocab within poetry?
Absolutely none.
Would you leave the porchlight on tonight?
Absolutely, baby.

Dear Allen, would you grow amongst the roots and dirt
At the knuckles of a slackjawed brush of Ever-Pondering Questions
Only to ask them time-and-time-and-time-and-time-again.
Or pinch your forehead with burrowed, furrowed concentration upon those
Feeble branches of progression towards something that recedes further
And further with as much promise as the loving hand
Attempts to guide a lover to the bed?

Allen, I wish to see this world feelingly through the vibrations of billions of bodies, rocking and sobbing, plotting and gnashing like the movement of a million snakes, like the curves collecting and riding the parachute-veil.

Ah, Allen! Say it ain’t so! Sanctified swerve town eyes.
And everything is melting while poets take the weather
Too personally
And all the Holden Caulfields of the world read all the
*******’s written on the walls and all the Invisible Men
Eat Yams and all the Zampanos are blind and blind
And blind and blind and blind and blind
Yet see as much as Gloucester, as much as Homer,
As much as Oedipus.

Oh, Allen, do you see this world feelingly
and wander around the desert?
Colored marbles vibrating on the curtailed parachute paradox.
Lamentation of a small town’s onion. Little do we know, Allen,
That what you cannot see, we cannot see, and we are bubbling
Over in the animal soup of the proud yet weary. I can see,
However, how the peeled back skulls of a million
Workboots and paystubs may never sully the burden
Of an existential angst in miniscule amounts.
Pay up and
shut up.  

My dearest Allen, there is always a question of how
The cigarettes became besmirched with wax to complement
What was once grass, and
What was once a garish night drenching doorknobs.
The night's yawn absorbs you as you lie down at the wrong angle
To the sun ready already to let go of your hand
As you stepped, quivering, on to
The shores of Lethe.

for Those who eat ramen by choice, or not.*

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by disillusionment,
lacking egotistical sold, dragging themselves through the hip streets at dawn
looking for a socially self-aggrandizing fix.
Poets, as they sit in desks and discuss discourse
about discourse about discourse about discourse,
who fear that thinking itself was buried with Vonnegut,
who are lost in forests of brick walls,
inviting, because they block the wind of dying fall,
who swim in cesspools filled with academic sewage, yearning for freedom,
for truth, as they always have,
mining their minds for images, and searching for words to describe
-a reality which is virtual at its core and each act, another chore./
-a scene of life which reflects all that is poignant and sacred.
Poets seek musicians while musicians seek poets.
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly

These poets who search aimlessly for the feeling of feeling,
who are overwhelmed with meaning to the point where meaning
has no meaning in itself.
Who claim this poem as their own and continuously write themselves into it.
It is those who suffer in truth that live the poetic.
Those who sit in front of space heaters eating peanut butter sandwiches in winter,
who sweat unknowingly in summer, comforted in each’s odor.
Those who open Macbooks while squatting in empty flats.
Signing up, logging in and zoning out, forever disengaged.
Those who type prophecy on keypads and let keyboards gather dust-
stratification, signs of long nights spent in century-old homes still not renovated,
ceilings sinking at the sides while those above pogo to punk rock long dead,
or grind genitals to old soul, simulating all that is sensual.
Those who play archaeologist to their own layers of makeup, grimed on the sink.
Those who share their food with the roaches and the mooches who all have keys,
who use the books as shelves to hold ceramic mugs, stained with a single drip-drop,
who, with arms crossed, watch bands in basements play noise.
Those who replaced their nu-metal records with folk but kept the unkempt beards.
Those who drink stale beer on stranger’s rooftops.
Those who live with bags under eyes, themselves asleep, lacking a body,
sleeping naked together to stay warm,
sleeping naked together to stay sane,
sleeping naked together to stay touched.

Those who leave coffee in unplugged automatic pots, decaying rapidly.
Those who eat pizza for breakfast, cold or microwaved, as an act of ultimate indulgence.
Those who prance about in un-matching socks
from hardwood floors to vinyl floors to tile floors, all under the same popcorn ceiling,
dancing to the sound of rhythmic silence.
Those who fight with lovers about acts, but never once mention the act of love itself.
Those who don flannel plaid in springtime color, constructing Williamsburg,
who consider gentrification a new form of landed gentry,
who live in poverty as if it were a novelty,
capitalist martyrs sacrificing employment to hide being non-hirable,
who shop in online surplus department stores for unique vintage.
Those who, who, who hoot like the owls framed on their walls, eyes wide but beaks small.
Those who are oppressed by nonexistent kings ruling in imaginary suits.
Those who crave something new, not tired-as the form of this very poem-
something which is not-yet auto-tuned.
Those who, faux-hawked and shredded, rock and bop to Bowie doing Lou
on Sunday Morning from Station to Station shooting ******,
who walk swiftly with denim skin on their legs and refuse socks.
Those who, in their rightest mind, are the wrongest-minded.
Those who can reject privilege only because they are privileged,
who, in their uniform whiteness, denounce racism,
who, in their uniform straightness, claim immune to homophobia
who, with their ***** ***** in a row, claim to be feminists.

And those who search for revolution in a time when rebellion is conformity.
Listening to the  pounding sound of blog-protesters typing n o w.
who, in claiming to accept, don’t accept the unaccepting,
who got veggies tattooed on their sides while snapping bacon in their teeth,
who ironically infiltrated asylums and performed madness until the shocks came
and they were maddened, for good, eaten alive by volts resounding
ka-ching, ka-ching, ka-ching.
Who sleep naked together to be together but end up being alone,
exchanges from lips that move in pretentious drone,
and the dog chases its tail, endlessly.
When the abnormal is normal and the whole structure is inverted and
heaven is here and flames under the soil are no longer hell burning for soles of the
Converse, Adidas, and Nike sneakers on the bicycle pedals of poets who ride at night,
listening to the sound of owls that question:
who?
whoo?
whooo?

She married off to a village chief at age of 14,
But only after being chopped of a ******* in a Maasai
Ritual of FGM, chlitoridectomy or you name it,
For the African elders strictly marry circumcised virgins,
What a ritual so pernicious that my nerves panic with fire.
She gets into a marriage now, Male sided marriage,
Where women and distaff are seen, but not heard whatsoever,
It is her well rounded buttocks, sharply ***** *****
Tight thighs and sweet sensuous moans to be made in bed
That matters most, but not her thoughts not even human feelings.
She starts of her day by morning glory; early morning *** at 5.30,
Then she jumps of her bed, whether sexually satisfied or not,
She goes straight for her broom then begins sweeping,
And scrapping her house, the main house then the kitchen,
No brassiere under her blouse or lingerie under her skirt,
For you never can tell when the chief’s cloud will accumulate,
Into thunderous rain, ready for planting and planting,
She then prepares porridge from millet and sorghum
Or Soya beans, ground nuts and simsim for the children
To take before they leave to school, both her children,
And those sired through out-growing by her husband,
Then she goes at the cow shed to milk her native cows,
Which she milks by dodging ceaseless kicks from the angst ridden cow,
She sings and whistles hymns for the cow to calm and stand balmy,
But coincidentally her last-born baby, three months old boy,
Named after the paternal grandfather wakes up,
Starts crying and croaning for attention, suckling,
She shelves milking aside, and rushes to pick the baby up
Not because of anything but lest its crying may disturb her husband
From sweet morning sleep, it is so bad and punishable.
She picks back the baby, using a shawl as a cot,
Then comes back to the milking shed, to resume her work,
Only to come to a surprise; the calf un-knoosed itself
And has suckled its mother’s udder dry, foam frothing
At the mandibles; she picks two litres of milk to her house
To the kitchen, starts cooking for her husband, two calabashes
Of tea, over spiced with milk and Kericho tea leaves,
As the husband is called to a treat of mellifluous tea,
She jumps at washing her husband’s clothes;
Unmarried brother-in-law passes by, and runs back to his cottage,
Scoops and brings his grimed Jeans Levis Straus trouser,
Also to be washed by his in-law, as the woman belongs
To the clan, to the entire community but not singly to the man
Or the husband who married her, she washes it minus qualm,
Lunch hour knocks, she rushes to the kitchen and cooks,
For the children are about to come from school, they must eat
Eat on time, if not declare this woman a public disgrace
Who can not cook for the community, forget of the children,
Evening comes; she cooks again, her baby still on the back,
The husband complains of the food being not delicious,
Salt was not enough, she did not put in pepper; a stupid woman!
She accepts her mistake and apologizes effusively, or else fire!
She goes to mend the bed for the husband to rest, plus the baby,
She goes out behind the hut to take a bath,
The husband has not yet constructed a bathroom,
For fear that evil neighbours can plant there voodoo
It can **** the husband to forego his wives and cows,
She comes back to her bedroom, when drying herself up,
The husband goes up in libido; he forcefully shoves her to the bed
As the giggles desperately, he jumps on her bust, minus foreplay,
No single kissing, pinching, nor fondling of the breast or even kissing her
On the stunted *******, he penetrates her mechanically, like a block of stone
He introduces himself deep and deeper into her,
Then he releases warm ***** into her, before even she is aroused
He falls asleep like a log of wood, leaving her wide awake on a flame
Flaming ****** desire, burning and torturing her like an abyss.
This rhythm repeats like a circa, on a pattern of regular basis,
She endured and finishes one year without getting pregnant,
The husband gets self-suspicious and irritated, very irked,
As per why the woman on whom his cows were wasted is not receiving
His very powerful seeds, to become pregnant, to carry his son,
He beats her up, ruthless flogging and kicking, kicking her buttocks,
Insulting and lambasting in heavyweight measure, down to ash pit
She apologizes and promises to be pregnant in a fortnight,
To which the man accedes; but…but…but let it be
That you miss to be pregnant, I will chase you away,
I will repossess my cows, I squandered on you
In payment of your pride price; dowry
To marry a reproductively better wife.

Sit on the bed. I'm blind, and three parts shell.
Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.
Both arms have mutinied against me, - brutes.
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats.


I tried to peg out soldierly, - no use!
One dies of war like any old disease.
This bandage feels like pennies on my eyes.
I have my medals? - Discs to meke eyes close.
My glorious ribbons? - Ripped from my own back
In scarlet shreds. (That's for your poetry book.)


A short life and a merry one, my buck!
We used to say we'd hate to live dead-old, -
Yet now... I'd willingly be puffy, bald,
And patriotic. Buffers catch from boys
At least the jokes hurled at them. I suppose
Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting,
Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.
Well that's what I learnt, - that, and making money.


Your fifty years ahead seem none too many?
Tell me how long I've got? God! For one year
To help myself to nothing more than air!
One Spring! Is one too good to spare, too long?
Spring wind would work its own way to my lung,
And grow me legs as quick as lilac-shoots.


My servant's lamed, but listen how he shouts!
When I'm lugged out, he'll still be good for that.
Here in this mummy-case, you know, I've thought
How well I might have swept his floors for ever.
I'd ask no nights off when the bustle's over,
Enjoying so the dirt. Who's prejudiced
Against a grimed hand when his own's quite dust,
Less live than specks that in the sun-shafts turn,
Less warm than dust that mixes with arms' tan?
I'd love to be a sweep, now, black as Town,
Yes, or a muckman. Must I be his load?


O Life, Life, let me breathe, - a dug-out rat!
Not worse than ours existences rats lead -
Nosing along at night down some safe rut,
They find a shell-proof home before they rot.
Dead men may envy living mites in cheese,
Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys,
And subdivide, and never come to death.
Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth.
'I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone,'
Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned:
The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now.
'Pushing up daisies' is their creed, you know.


To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap,
For all the usefulness there is in soap.
D'you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?
Some day, no doubt, if...


                                          Friend, be very sure
I shall be better off with plants that share
More peaceably the meadow and the shower.
Soft rains will touch me, - as they could touch once,
And nothing but the sun shall make me ware.
Your guns may crash around me. I'll not hear;
Or, if I wince, I shall not know I wince.


Don't take my soul's poor comfort for your jest.
Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds,
But here the thing's best left at home with friends.


My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest,
To climb your throat on sobs; easily chased
On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.


Carry my crying spirit till it's weaned
To do without what blood remained these wounds.

Has it arrived?
Why, why hasn't it?
The hands that run this place
***** and test my spirit.

Oh but I am patient,
but stand not to suffer.
These bullies,
they will hear from darling Mother.

Mother will not be charmed
by this, this
hair on my chin.
How will she hope to recognize
her little Monkey kin?

Where is the razor promised?
She will be here quite soon.
I scraped and clawed barbarously, but
my nails aren't meant to prune.

Equanimity.
Little Monkey, breathe.
Allay the palpitations
and the grinding of your teeth.

Count. 1, 2, 9, 4.
In.
Or was it 1, 2, 4, 9?
Out.
Oh, Mother says it's not vital.
I'm sure she wouldn't mind.

Wipe your chin off of blood.
Good.
And bite your nails off too.
You are, no, I - am patient -
until the debt is due.

-

Like that kid, what was he called?
John? Jim? An arrant name I'm sure.
He hissed and said he'd tell on me,
for eating green manure.

He ran -
that poor little Penguin.
What Mother bestowed to Monkey,
his did not bequeath to him.

A splintered piece of fence in hand
- why is the razor not here yet -
A fall, a squeal, he could not defend.
Cowgirl, concede, plead, then stab.

Prying open a chicken's beak
was cleaner than plucking out his tongue.
This Jack? Joe? This brown-eyed snitch,
thought he'd won because he's young.

I ejected into his open mouth - no loss,
to assure my secret stayed unleashed -
and I never quite liked brown manure,
unlike Mother's eyes - a jade-green finish.

The Penguin family - an unexpected crowd.
All of them - mother, father, and two other browns.
They all screamed and the father lunged, but -
penguins can never beat Monkey on ground.

Each one felled by fence's tip.
1, 2... well the father was elephant-big.
And the others combined would make one more.
So two Elephants by Monkey's score.

-

My fingers with nails freshly removed,
evoke an image of that wooden stake.
Dripping and wafting - suspicious acerbity...
...I think she's here! 1, 2, 9, 8...

Blood-grimed hands no longer throbbing,
for it's all right now, dear Mother's coming.
She will kiss you and speak with her peridot eyes,
sing lullabies and... Where is my Mother!?

You bullies promised me Mother was coming.
Liars! Are you hiding her from me? Mommy!!
Monkey was good and waited meekly for you.
You thieves and brown-eyes, what did you do?!
And where are you taking me, if not to see her?
No I don't want to sleep, I want a moment with her!
Count your debts
- all of you -
for I have a patient nature.
You will all pay - when I get my promised razor.

Weight back, son, back -- now!* Pivoting in air, I felt wood crack
and sent one screaming over first. My three mates whirled
around the sacks and fierce joy burst past, or through...
First inning, Father. Bags full. And all for you,
who, miles off, listened hard beneath a static sky.
The radio crowed: "Grand slam!" -- and "You'll be next to die."

Once, you showed me something about the stance,
how the weight came through, and how the dance
of foot in dirt was beautiful and clean --
I don't recall the point -- not now, I mean.
But I still can see your hands, the coiled way
they worked the wood, and how your wrists turned,
mirrored snakes, twin roots, and how the simple day
was shaken by... what was it?... by all I'd never learned?
Your fingers were stubby, grimed with grease, coarse hairs
tangled over bulge of blood. My youth still fares
its way from lost to lost. I move my dancing feet
to match the steps you traced with yours -- and life's complete.

Yet as I gape and gasp in desperate dark,
a voice returns, riding warm winds from that park.
These forty years, I've been turning into you.
I have your hands, your heart -- and these will fail me too.

940

On that dear Frame the Years had worn
Yet precious as the House
In which We first experienced Light
The Witnessing, to Us—

Precious! It was conceiveless fair
As Hands the Grave had grimed
Should softly place within our own
Denying that they died.

Oh circle of lights,
With your false,
Plastic,
Warmth.
Oh circle of lights,
A firework’s ,
Bittersweet,
Farce.
Down at the bottom
Only a hint
Of your color
Remains.
Water-logged and drowned
Left to dry
In my arms.
Lips parted
And black water spills
Forth
Gathering in matted locks
Like grimed pearls.
When the screams
Go forth
So musically
Left to escape
In whimsical bubbles.
Oh circle of lights
Your false
Plastic
Warmth.
Is all that I see,
Oh circle of lights
Your colors mangled
As a drowned man’s
Farce.

Exhausted by death, we took the car and drove
Away, past gut-torn children and the like -
The stricken hospital, top-heavy despots, dust.
Someone cried, and for a while the earth stood still.
Then on we rushed as sand got in our eyes,
Through states with something rotten at the heart
And effigies that stared with wrinkled lips,
And women crying over families spent,
And gunned-through houses, doors and windows, gone.
And once a grimed-up pick up cut us up,
Tore past in clouds - Land Cruiser tyres churned -
And at the wheel a man's split-second face,
A turban and a beard, fanatic stare,
Long gone in dirt, but at that time,
We knew him to be mad. Then on we drove
To pastures new and sand dunes stretching miles.
At noon, a woman offered food, her children
Clustered round her, shut-up face. We left
Her scratching yet more dust, and sped into
The only sun, into a slap-up village where
The kids in rags kept up their pestering cries
Of hunger, sickness, want, disease, and pain
That stretched back years. They clawed the car,
Tore strands of air between their teeth and we
Were heart-struck at their noise.  By dusk
We headed out again – the clamour died -
Catching the western sun before it sank,
We disembarked and tucked it up in bed,
Knowing ourselves at home, and finally
Slept at last where it was warm and dark.

Normality

Is how he stays
Awake and warm
Coated in the
Sticky sweat and
Grimed residue

From thoughts of you
The touch he craves
He can picture and
Violate your
Pure young image

Immorally

Is how my mind
Stays plagued with
A cloud of love
Wispy and soft
Adoration

From thoughts of you
Attentions craved
I can’t wish for
One **** handhold
It is a sin

Perhaps this is

Insanity

In the night’s shadow
As my frame seeks slumber
Burning eyes of wolves glow
Ready to shred me asunder!
Thoughts lying dormant in the day
Blow up dark and ugly
Inside they warm up hell-bent to slay
My diurnal angel of decency!
Evil visions of wanton desire they breed
Apparitions of depravity grimed and mean
Awakening in me the vermin of greed
Goading me to lust for the forbidden!
A good part of night I grapple with them
The enemies within me in disguise
Knowing in my heart if I lose this game
The demons would have a good feast at sunrise!

it’s tears and weeping
groaning struggles
that tear down what keeps us from you
Only pain can take us
teach us to enter
Your spirit dimension
the waters of suffering
wash the ***** windows of our eyes
grimed from day to day lies
We can’t keep the dirt from building up
until pain teaches us to cry
cry quickly
to wash it all away in honesty
And in that moment we catch clearer glimpses of You
Slowly memorizing Your form and face
until we can trust
even when our eyes are closed and grimed

She is a blank slate
pleasant sight of purity,
always caught in mire artistic situations,
attracts nothing but cold, grimed,
treacherous hearts,
somehow, always ends up in tainted hands,
to painters who were not meant
to hold a brush.

The flats were old and the rooms were cold
But I didn’t have much choice,
I hadn’t the money for anything else
Since the spat I had with Joyce,
I’d walked the streets for almost a day
Just to find a place to stay,
When I finally found a flat to rent
The building was old and grey.

Dust was grimed on the windowsill
And mud was tramped in the hall,
Whatever was left of the carpet there
You just couldn’t see at all,
The caretaker in the bottom flat
Handed out the do’s and don’ts,
The rent on time on the topmost line,
Ahead of the wills and won’ts.

I didn’t know it was partly share
Till I’d paid, and taken the key,
Until I entered the bathroom there
And found there was more than me.
A woman sat there, painting her nails
Come in from the flat next door,
Said, ‘You’re my share?’ as she patted her hair,
‘You’d better prepare, there’s more.’

We not only shared the bathroom there
But the key to the only Loo,
There was only a single kitchen there
And it looked like we shared that too,
I wasn’t impressed, was more than depressed
And I kept on thinking of Joyce,
How could I sink so low, I thought,
But she didn’t give me a choice.

I lay in bed the following morn,
Lay in till a quarter-past two,
Why should I get up early when
There was nothing I had to do.
I thought I’d cook me a rasher or two,
Some eggs, and a slice of bread,
Till I walked out into the kitchen, then
And into a land of dread.

There were bats hung over the fireplace,
And a great big *** on the hob,
And something thin that had just been skinned
Lay over an iron ****.
There were piles of bones on the platter board
And some fingers left on a plate,
Their rings were on but the hand was gone,
Off to a dismal fate.

I whirled about in despair, in case
Someone was stalking me,
And checked the grate of the fireplace
Where the ashes glowed redly,
The *** was bubbling on the hob
And some things that looked like ears,
Kept bobbing up to the surface
Like some headless bombardiers.

I spun away to the kitchen sink
And I gazed into its depths,
Peered on in with a single blink
And I fought to keep my breath,
For staring up was a grinning skull
As the girl I saw last night,
Came leaping in like a beast of sin
And I lost my appetite.

‘It isn’t what you might think,’ she said,
‘I should have warned you, right!
We use this room for the local Rep
To rehearse their play tonight.
I set it up for the witches scene,
It’s only a plastic skull,
And plastic bats and toy skinned-cats,
Want to eat?’ I said ‘I’m full!’

David Lewis Paget

rewind
be kind, i haven't been
so
to others or myself
we are one
behind this teal
veil;
but rather,
i stay bottled up
in a grimed shell;
let's dance,
shall we?
to music unseen,
our hearts soaring
without wings,
but instead
riding upon
the air waves
of compassion

one day, i won't be
here anymore,--

the breath will have
subsided, and my body
given to the coast guard
for safe keeping;

what of my soul?
the mind struggles to
answer this ever-fleeting
riddle by complicating
matters worse: accumulate,
compete, and compare

meanwhile
the smiles, the frowns,
the lips aligned
in parallel design

play like an instrument
behind the curtain that is
the flesh

and what the flesh
desires, it desires
in droves

i hear my mother
in the background,

screaming something
about how i'll never
amount to anything

but she's long been
dead; and what remains
is a dear old friend

those faithful lines of
hers always keep me in check

they dot the i's
cross the t's

i handle all the rest

but let's
rewind, shall we?

be kind, what of that child
who never got much attention
or nourishment?

surely he's still around
here somewhere; waiting
in the shadows to be called
forth, with words such as:

'come out, my friend. no need
to be afraid; death will take us home
some day, but for now

we awake, we live

to love one another'

because I believe
we are birds of a feather.

The doors scream;
The tiles creak;
The wind shrieks, shattering the grimed windows;
The window shutters slam in agony and anger;
The electricity thrums in anticipation of violence;
The wolves howl at the screaming doors forcing a brute entrance;
The silken blood rushed into each crevice running from imprisonment;
The enraged Earth quivers and shakes in pure, undiluted rage;
The inflamed sky rips the ground and everything upon it to shreds, painting the world ruby red;
The universe tears itself apart in a flurry of  unrelenting sorrow and agony;
All as the blood of a sheep seeps into the souls of the living.

From the Sea of Hoces
to rolling Cape Horn
the sea is vengeful

The ocean rolls and boils
at our dangerous ignorance
and our prideful arrogance

It drifts ****** icebergs here
and chops the windy waves
to assault our fragile senses

It hides monsters in it's depths
waiting beneath the surface
in our grimed gyres they wait

For us to finally choke on
our foolish mistakes of time
the cold ocean will wait

The living dead are going to
ask for the right to be
forgotten in gender dysphoria.

In grimed apparel,
the deities were deported back
to the barn, for housing the antiques.

The future turns blue,
moon-eyed, hooking up the
hopes of running heels.


Is that true that there
will be mass suicide after
the fall of the fort?

The fat lanterns now
don't throw the light. Incense
of burning flesh floats.

As dawn cracks open brand new day
With somber light and quietude
It's gray newspaper mâché paste face
Might challenge hopeful attitude

One blackbird high in naked tree
One on the garden *** below
Surveying mulch for garden seed
What more do those glass black beads know?

Attention turns to perk coffee
As mantle chime ignites the heart
To think the rest of globe drinks tea
My random thoughts so far apart

I sometimes worry ‘bout myself
Birds, coffee, and philosophy?
With age the neurons seize -- it's hell!
I ask you now, “Please where were we”?

Oh yes, the morning through my eyes
Back to the little window birds
My, I should clean these panes, they're grimed
Go on, you can call me a nerd


Written by Sara Fielder © Mar 2015

It is always the longest time. The minutes crawl forward on raw hands and bloodied knees, digging grimed nails into tough Earth. They drag me along with them, face down, heavy chest pressed to half hard mud, cold but warm. My own breath swirls in the air around me, but to my lungs it will not come, a ghost lost. I look at the clock, a soldier ticking on, exhausted and unsure of the point. The world shrugs.