it’s a wild life
of magic and tales
of light and radiance
dreams and darkness
firebird, firebird
will you bring it all for me?
firebird, firebird
will you transform all things for me?
what we dreamt yesterday
was once reality, what we never imagined
is current, and eats us day by day
desires fade and palaces appear
demons roar, and sirens kiss us
and induce *******,  and bless us with erections
firebird, firebird
let all whispers come real
firebird, firebird, firebird
let time stand still where I want it to be
clouds are rocks and earth is liquid
my flesh burns and the Princess of Far-off gyrates
Mean King objects and the Jester holds court
Kingdoms collapse and new ones come in their place
dreams, dreams, dreams die
and are re-born in the Heavens in Our Heads
*firebird, firebird
burn the ground
and let illusion and reality be one
firebird, firebird, firebird
let despair be hope, and love be lust
one the other, the other the one

There's a moment when everything accelerates
And there's no questioning, things just are.
Madly. Frantically. My mind gyrates;
Playing wildly, dancing upon each single star.
Blurred vision precipitates the tears
As I freeze, knowing in my heart of hearts
That each word falls upon belligerent ears,
And takes second place to your townhouse art.
What pain could Monet paint when floodwaters
Rise, and it becomes clear that the clearest
Understanding lies in the theatre's
Eyes? The curtains fall to the finale's dearest
Friend, and it's there I pretend that it's just a natural disaster,
That this is a craft I still find hard to master.

Lustfully creating chemistry in the bedroom,
Day dreams to wet dreams,
May I play out my sinful thoughts on you?

Your body—my favorite leisure.
Cravings unbearable,
The flavor of your lips forever engraved in my memory.

Will the next be better than the first?
Again a chance to savor your sweetness,
—To hear your moans escape.

Your body against my body, rhythmically our hips gyrates.
Desire for your passion—longing for your embrace.
The ******* of my neck—bites I cannot take.

Excitement, I cringe at the presence of you.
Fingers tactically stroking—smear my wetness.
Low gasps when you penetrate.

****** after ******, now allow me to stimulate.
Exposing all of my weaknesses,
I want you—intimately; the best way.

Electra-girl gyrates desperately.
Daddy is away on business.
The house practically empty,
Desolate winds rattle windows,
Stomach twists with craving.

Electra-girl squeals,
“**** Mommy! Get her out of the picture.”
Little Miss teacup wants everything just right,
When daddy gets home.
Electra-girl vomits hairball,

shaves thighs belly armpits,
Plucks neck chin nostrils,
Applies lipstick moderately,
Puckers (finger pushes hemorrhoid in).
She denies everything.

Imagines he is showering,
She enters **** giggling big grin,
Gaze scampering between his face and genitals,
Her approaching young body edging nearer.
He hesitates standing under waterspout,

Waiting to see what she will do,
Fearing his own desire,
Knowing it is wrong so wrong.
After what seems a long time,
Mom steps in,

Eyes firing rage and sanction.
She asks her daughter, “You think you’ll win?”
Electra-girl answers without hesitation,
“Why wouldn’t I.”
No question.

Your **** stains on carpet,
Your *** stains on everything,
Your breath smells,
Odor of rotting flowers.
Smile for the camera.

Electra-girl raises arms and taunts,
“I win! I win!
Who’s going to be my next daddy?”
A deep heavy silence follows.
She holds herself in mirrors of her past.

Anxiety is when the world around you gyrates
Depression is when it stands still
Wanting so badly to reach for the stars
Knowing you never will

Depression is more than a feeling
It's a ship sinking in the ocean of you
Always being told that you're worth it
But knowing it isn't true.

Depression is "it's okay"
Anxiety is "I'm fine"
Depression is a wound that just doesn't heal with time

And mixing the two together
Is a cocktail of explosives
Depression is absolute stillness
While anxiety is motion

How can the world be spinning
When my world is standing still
I've never understood it
Perhaps I never will.

Just One Question

You will have to forgive me for this one I’m going to be selfish pointed unreasonable contrary right down
Hateful if you want to put it that way least it’s going to be short I appreciate as well as anyone else the
Accomplishments of great people in our world and history Hemmingway won a Pulitzer for Old Man and
The Sea and many others in all fields of endeavor and in your lives you achieve happiness and joy from
Many areas but my one question backed by the one who has all authority to make this statement what
Will it profit a man if he gains the whole world and then loses his eternal soul that is my question
are you doing
What is required to make it through the Pearly gates I don’t mean to be smart on this point but I’m not
Asking for your wishful thinking you know all the questions in life that we answer some willingly and
Some grudgingly but this one above all else needs to be asked and it needs to be given the gravest
Thought the bible says there is a way that seems right into man but the end is destruction maybe Christ
Said what will a man give for his soul any way the truth is there is the biggest scrabble game known to
Man and it is the very fact whatever you do don’t think on eternal verities you know the scene when
Someone is flipping out and a helpful person slaps their face let this be that but do it to yourself you will
Be getting the attention of all of our worst enemies this Godless heathen outer life that gyrates to every
Hell bound action is making a bill that the soul will have to pay forever I said it before the pain and
Suffering we will accept as deserving but to not to be loved that will be the greatest hell that we will
Suffer today we don’t realize that it his love that makes life worth living we know so much about God
Generally speaking but the intimate real God we barely know His hell is listening for the distinct and only
Voice that matters and that is you as lost sheep He waits as an earthy parent who let his child go on an
Outing that was known to be dangerous but freedom demanded no less and for a great many love won’t
Be enough as already is shown by the Christ less graves that are strewn across the landscape I know
Because my sister is one of them I begged her the last time I was home and then she died I endured
Her truthfulness at her funeral they played only worldly songs of defiance my only comfort she wasn’t a
Hypocrite she wouldn’t live for him but died having to bear the burden of sin and it punishments her self
I told the story in Night Thoughts how I stood by a young nineteen year old mother’s desk she had a
Fifteen month old little boy it was two in the morning by eleven the next morning he would be
Motherless I being human knew nothing of this unfolding tragedy but the Christ within caused me to sob
Uncontrollably for forty five minutes or so I was getting the blowback of his undying love and her voice
Was dying away as it was carried to the beyond of the lost it’s happened more than once to me don’t
Let my tears be for you when your greatest love waits in vain for you to say please rescue me

By nine, trucks old and new
line the street, spilling into the yard.
Jim Beam and George Dickel
lubricate the chord progression.  
Drinks go down, volume goes up.
I’ll be reading in the backroom
as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr.
When the last burning drop of homage
trickles down his chin,
he gyrates across the floor,
flat-top in hand, looking for Jim.
Some other picker takes his spot
by the fireplace and bellows
about a cheatin’ heart.  
One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn
from under the pale, bearded face
of a picker who stumbles into my room,
collapsing across the bed.
His dreams of Ryman Auditorium
go without interruption.
I slip to the floor,
settling down on the raft.
A slow, steady current carries
us downstream to another shaded
swimming hole.


© 2011 C.T. Bailey

Visions in the breeze
A tree on a broken horizon
Each wave a shout
From the past to the future
A call heard only by
The one's truly listening

Tipping point mathematics
Love has and always will be
Trial and unforgivable error

Hearing the door open as
Echoing empty steps chime
Like the first poets to ever write a rhyme
Or an innocent man put to death
Falsely accused of another one's crime

Each order put into bolts and gears
Wear me thin and rattle me to the bone
I've made a mistake, I'm no longer here
My feet are crooked and I feel queer
Each note I hear is out of tune as the saloon
Has started to bend backward

The light under the fan spins
Chopping my sight clean in two
The blue creole sky enlivens my senses
As youth dances and gyrates restless
And effortless like one's first fall into love

A case for the weak
As the strong get along
No dust in their fingertips
Their stomachs always full
As the poor feel the pull
Into the road to the grave

Put the ear to the snowy hills of Eastern Europe
Make sure your boots are tied
And your pen hand is steady, unwilling to lie
Afraid of consequences is to be human
But to be afraid of a life without them
Is to tie the stitch to tight around the hem

There is choice
And then
There is responsibility

The routine
Of our lives rely
On the choices we made
Due to responsibility
Guilt and learned' reason

Forget reason
Forget thy' guilt
Forfeit the old
For the new

You know truth
More than
I

Finally, I now know death
          Albeit a resurrection
Eight red pills began the dissection
         Of my finite ego.
 
Scions of a different kind gain momentum
          Finding love's erosion
Corrupting my conscience
          A trip was in order.
 
A dizzy Carnival,
          The calliope muted
                            As decorated stallions dance
 
My recklessness reaches its peak
           So what the hell?
A soothsayers sorry signal as
           The venomous ***** gyrates,
 
My eyes bleed with regret.
 
As the chemicals persuasive grip subsides,
            The trip done,
A schizophrenic clarity remains,
 
 
My heart empty
My essence renewed

you'd always come home via the garden path, reveling in the crunching of the twigs, the slooshing of the leaves, the endless clackering of misfound footfalls. till the day, after a particularly satisfying stomp snapping, you looked underfoot and saw the remains of the fallen sparrow's nest


it took you five days to soak out the blood


tonight's supposed to be the biggest moon in 68 years. Biggest moon! Wow.


a girl at the party says it's stupid to care what others think. i agreed with her. She agreed with my agreeance, and then burst into tears. i ignored her and walked away. i'm a frigid *****, but theys' gotsta learn, they


God, the flies, it's such a cliché, but it's true, as you trek down into the sludge you can't see them but you can hear it, the buzzing, you can always, from everywhere, the buzzing


when our flatmate left, he deconstructed his bed. he didn't take it with him, he just, took the mattress, threw it in the water closet, left the headboard on the stairway landing, and the sides and springs'n-**** in the garage
                      i really respect the gesture


in the gully between the graveyard and the mine, they built a highschool. a ******* highschool. lord knows why. it looks like a ******* campers lodge, all the kids climb up the banks and the uni students sell them acid in lolly mix nickel bags. everyone i've ever known came from that school, one way or another. heavens know why. hey, look at the big chimney, guess the furnace is on. it's still in use, huh? probably shouldn't be loitering. anyway-


the big diggerman's dig up the concrete, put it in a bucket.
the big diggermans with the big digger truck, with all the cones and stop signs.
Bawm! Bwam! the big muscle arm, full of strewn piping and pistons, bab's the ground bab bab. Take that, ground! Bab Bab!! the spinning chair vibrates, the man gyrates, and the big arm up's and downs, down down, swivel, dump.


remember when we were thirteen, and the idiot boys made a game of standing in a circle, trying to **** into their own mouths? you wanted to punch them in the face, but didn't want to get your hands *****. if only you'd known, back then, that your limbs were really just overgrown turnips, would you of been so insistent at keeping your distance? keeping the world at arms length? that's always the irony, isn't it. the world was inside you all along

–

At the end of the cemetery, past the hedges, a car park, overlooking the hill, where there's a huge oak tree, and all the concrete is just fractured under its weight, and the asphalt is in tar stricken colours a blackbird in mid-dive splatter. Anyway. Sorry,-

god, you're making porridge? Porridge? *******, are you even hungry, or did you just ******* want to see the ******* oat-*****-muchus coat everything you

-just, there, in this graveside car-park overlooking the city but also in the middle of nowhere, there's two cars. One, a ******* Mitsubishi GT, all slick and weltering plastic, pure pristine millionaire CEO's toy phallus, and beside it, a banged up old Datsun, and it all seems like an allegory for something, but it isn't, it's just, someone dumped these two ******* cars here, but they're not even dumped per see, the registry in the windows are up to date and everything, but they're just there


      all the damp men take the STOP out the truck, stand on the road, hold the cones, watch the digger man seat shuffling; gotta shuffle move up the pavement before you big hand down


You were too clever, weren't you? to bash her head, right there, in the corner, there, above the left cheek bone, so i couldn't tell, right? to make her look like just one more corpse, among the rot? obscure that one side, turned away? left to decompose, mid-perch, on a desert highway? well, maybe it wasn't, maybe it was just someone else, but the fact that you knew, you knew i'd check above the left temple, and that you ****** chose that as the point of rupture, it shows, it just ******* shows, the


the flies never gather, at the point of death, they just breed in the damp, the gulleys surrounding it, why is that


and just look at you now, sitting there, naked as a newborn, crying to yourself, wiping your weepy eyes with your simpering turnip paws, and it's just pathetic, isn't it? And i love you, i do, it's the one moment i can say it, i can feel it with burning, simple purity, with self effacing truth and clarity, because, here, i don't matter. you don't need me, you need a body to hold, an arm to hug you. in loving you i can be absolved of all qualities, and so, for once, i do, i do

Yeah no! In sixty-eight years! What even is the moon



it's amazing, i've eaten nothing in the last thirty-six hours, except a single dried apricot. yet
                                   i need to *****

  you know that feeling? What a feeling. You need to retch, but there's nothing to retch, and there you are, just standing there, at 5am gagging to yourself in a damp field. A stomach, trying to turn away, fold upon and shaft itself a vicissitude. A stomach, no, no, yes, you see?  You need to empty yourself of this bile. What bile? Exactly. There's nothing. Nothing up-emptied onto nothing. And that's all there is, right, that's all that life is, is given right there; the gag, the convulsion, the upturning unto itself, the attempt, attempt, you understand? Of the cathexis, of the innerworld, taken to contain only the unspeakable within itself, miserly bile, a concomitant of all the worlds ills and would be ills and then upon it taken as an ill unto itself, a single nebulous fluid husk of malignant umbra, held in *******, bound in fleshy lining. But then the expulsion, the retch, is attempted, to take all the seething disease of the inner and to project, upturn it onto the outer world. Where? It doesn't matter. In the bin, into the shrubbery, Anywhere but in here. Once it's gone, it gone, that's all that matters, gone, go, go, get. The body tries to push the malaise of(as) the internal unto the external, the outer, but in doing so, finds itself(boundary) empty, where it thought it incubated only vile, there was instead, only nothing, but still, somehow, the convulsing, the retching, the act itself, remains. And that's it, you see? That's all it is, all the emotional turmoil, all the half-hearted hallucentric episodes, the all of everything, is just that, just an, an emptiness trying to upend itself but finding there's nothing to upend, but it still asserts itself as process, as an unending nausea, unresolvable nausea, both grounding and thrown, the throwing and that-which-is-cast, bent under itself,  nausea



the swamp reclaimed the garden last summer. flood season, after all. some days the stagnant waves came right up to the brickwork, can still see the lines, see? your old swing set's a gonna though. all the rabbits either abandoned their dens, or were drowned out. lord knows how many micro-organisms died as well. lot's of new ones were probably borne though, right? hear those flies, bzzt, bzzt. life loves damp heat. you can never tell, never tell really.

The event horizon
dies on my lips.
The outside of me slips within.

At the edge of a reasoning
this thing that would bring me
to an alternate state
cannot wait and it swallows.
My cheeks become hollows as I **** myself in
and the event shall begin with
a flashing of lights.

When the night turns to spin and the angels pin their hopes
against the twisting of the corner ropes
and the bells do not chime against the rushing of time that races past in glee.
I can see me in a negative
A picture I would give this life for
More and more the night gyrates,waits and then it rushes on
into an inner halcyon
long bygone.

In the end there is no end
no beginning
no point in space in which to face the past.
Held fast the faster that I go
a blurring in a fiery glow and eventually I will finally know
that which was hidden behind the lies.
Then my eyes will rest easily upon
the other side of
event
horizon.

lust was in her eyes so blue
did things good girls just won't do
with that wicked glance
made your **** hard in your pants

she was her own *** show
let everybody know
what she was thirsting for
desire burning in her core

your perfume lingers in the air
i reach for you but you're not there
pull back the sheets and blindly stare
cold pillows laced with strands of hair

she don't **** around like some
only hopes you'll make her ***
she'll wake up the neighbors
as she's layin down the favors

always up when she goes down
then she grinds her hips around
her hair tangled and naughty
as sweat glistens off her body

your perfume lingers in the air
i reach for you but you're not there
pull back the sheets and blindly stare
cold pillows laced with strands of hair

fingernails down your back
better than a hit of smack
her flesh ripples with passion
howl and moan in rhythmic fashion

she screams and gyrates one more time
giving reason to your rhyme
carnal pleasure she defines
like an ****** that blinds

your perfume lingers in the air
i reach for you but you're not there
pull back the sheets and blindly stare
cold pillows laced with strands of hair

always pushing one step further
is this *** or is it ******
leave you gasping as you shake
both get off like a **** earthquake

the world around stops turning
lying there in blissful burning
the myth takes human form
as all night she keeps you warm

your perfume lingers in the air
i reach for you but you're not there
pull back the sheets and blindly stare
cold pillows laced with strands of hair

shadows dance across the wall
as your bodies rise and fall
she feels you deep inside
ebb and flow she rides the tide

you stare into her eyes
as the sun begins to rise
a smile begins to creep
then your grinning in your sleep

your perfume lingers in the air
i reach for you but you're not there
pull back the sheets and blindly stare
cold pillows laced with strands of hair

i bathe myself with
the music that i alone, hear.

i heed the flinch
of my heart's centrifuge -
gyrates purely without
a hand holding it,
in a lonesome,
contrapuntal waltz.

i lie naked yet untouched,
this aloneness.

even my words prosper in
the tumescence of speechlessness.

hurrying back to
dimming light
is my body ready to feed
the wick of this dark.
traipsing the
bareness of this pantheon
is my soul,
and no one else's.
solemnity scales the stars
and transforms them
into margins to fence my own universe:

  i am the only celestial here,
   spinning in a thousand days
     of restlessness.

You’re my tortured skin begging to feel your touch
Your words kiss me on my lips, your description
Fascinates me, with mouths wide open you hold me
In my vision….

You tell me I am your temptress of emotions, as you outline
My face with your fingertips, you touch me with a hunger
That burns, as my hand glide across your chest.. my face
rubs your manly hair, as my vision of you makes me smile…

With every step you make me in an ****** vision tunneled
I swallowed your intoxicate silhouette, as sweat drips
From my eyelashes, my lips tremble, as you approach me
I am open in the vibration of the vision …

Our bodies molten by the hot liquid of our lava, we gyrates
In our convulsion of each other, I see you turn In my direction
My pulse races at a faster impulsion, you stand there, soaking in my sight
I don’t want to walk away from this vision ….

Debbie Brooks 2014

Diaper-smell, sweet rosewater--
out here, far from the sea,
in a church where the sailors
never go,

(the flies buzz on the altar,
they land on the sacrifice,
they feast)

she dances with scarves &
swords, she gyrates &
stares with ceramic eyes.
Lady of the cloth,
pale of skin & dark of
hair, golden choker about
her neck, red letter upon
her breast,

(the flies baptize themselves
against the meager sunlight)

she dances.

Jack usually sits
in the corner of the bar,
in the shadows next
to the juke box.

There's a jagged scar
that runs diagonal
across his grizzled face,
his right eye is cloudy
& a piece of his left ear is gone.
A cobra is inked
on one forearm,
on the other,
a scorpion.
He constantly drinks tequila.

People always whispered
things about him,
said he had caught
his lady
dancing & kissing
on another patron.

Well, the guy is still missing
& nobody was ever charged.
Jack's sweetheart still hangs out
next to the record machine,
continually drops quarters in
for rock and roll,
it seems Jack
doesn't like to boogie.

Jesus, she is smoking hot,
her face is immaculate,
she gyrates around the place
like a living goddess,
it's a real turn-on,
but I gotta tell you,
I believe in rumors.

My cold hard bunk is warm
with thoughts of her pretty mouth
working its way south.

This warm grip of her hot image
gyrates into explosive measures
in barracks-silence.

Why this house? This house that walks without frame? Only air strides
circumventing the dome. The permeable atmosphere
flows freely shaking water down my arms,
          pulp by pulp, fragment by fragment,
consolations for tippling music streaming in the ears.
Blowing arias – intone of regret, or the loss of beautiful things.
Preferring silence over sanguine narratives. How are we to assuage yearning?
   I heard someone say, “The ideal is unattainable.” – strange, holding
the small of one’s back and lament the narrow ends of the world.
   Strange the flight of birds, the hum of buses past Quezon City.
It would drone that you do not know her – and that she is never somebody
  else’s – that is dearth consoled. Your palm indents delineate not fate
but the steady distances of things close to contact, eluding tragedies.
                          Why this house, and why you?
I have no blueprint of your home. I know not what festoons the balustrades.
   Your rue for the absence of a balcony. A panel over earthenware I suppose,
or partitions to separate dreams from stilled things impaled to the wall.
   I presume there are photographs of you in every corner
to remind you   of your gathered storms.
                         I know not the smell of your home, but I have your
nameless fragrance on my shirt wedged, ambulating with me through the halls of
    where I chase moments like cirrus stirring in a somersault of summer.
  Make use of  bowls with
      evening water  and flush the specter down like how you would, cold water
into throat from a night of weeping. Somewhere there,
    the China will remind me of your elliptical face in
                the intensity of leaving. Your eyes
the windows for birds humming a music I do not hear.   I have been to too many neighborhoods,
I have seen unfinished structures foretold by obliged scaffolds holding together
                     a would-be home. Why this house? There are only shadows intimate on
the floor. The sudden burst of impossibilities watered down, attenuated by
            piercing glances through the thickest of nights black with remorse.
The palpable silence gyrates and the diameters of the world are too close
     to break in sidereal circles.
Why this house?   Because you are in it, and outside,
    through the thick quietude, underneath the paling moonlight,
                         you pretend you see nobody.

When magic bowed out to causality
God was the main fatality
Verdict: Reason’s lacerations
Now the solar system spins on and on
As the scientists with sin look on
Destroying nature by isolation

In a solitary, single flash
The gods were all replaced with cash
And for a while it all seemed sunny
But when we went and killed the bees
And the crops died out, we began to see:
It’s impossible to eat your money

So I could rant on, darling, all day long
And **** this world’s misdeeds in song
Like a losing woman’s lullaby
But nothing changes for my complaint
The earth still gyrates with the taint
Of its jilted, jaded sky

Yours is the music of the mind, sonorous and sweet.
The sound ferries me to your kingdom. I rise up by your side.
An old flute spills seismic song. It is enough to transfix me.

Yours is the force that put the spark in matter,
The hands that sculpt, making me less inert.
Your lively palms are akimbo to the sun.

The light that kisses the sky is yours too.
The balmy moon begets her glow. She is remote,
a pearl disquieted by treads of men. She gyrates on her wild axis.

My soul is a flowing river
stretching out,

holding onto me as I move my arms to my heart,
kick my feet rhythmically up and down
1,2, and 3

I have a dancing soul
it pulses with the music,
gyrates to the beat.

I feel it between my wants
                          and desires.

My body can't contain this dancing soul.

spinning through eliot circle
the wind gyrates above
flinging pink petals to my lips

Your breath
On my neck as
You surprise and embrace me.

Your hair, parting itself from your scalp
And leaving traces of you
In my bed.

Your eyes
Fixed on mine as you tell me of something
You've grown to admire.

Your hands
Clasping mine as we wander and explore
Through the seasons.

Your body
As it gyrates to the rhythm of your turntable
As we're dancing.

Your words
as they have fallen from your pen onto
Your notebook's pages.

Your smile
Hydrating me from across a table
As we sip coffee and talk art.

The smoke
As it slips from your cigarette
And you tell me of days gone by.

Some knowledge
That these could be things
You wish to acquire with me.

revel in the ever present always fleeting moment
face our twinkling star as it ticks away the firmament
feel the subtle warmth of burning time upon your skin

tingle from the glow of a midnight morning breeze
breathe in the animation of your vessel still asleep
exhale the once hoped maybe into the surely then was

taste the scent of new life springtime flowers growing near
see the buzz of a vibrating bee as it gyrates your inner fears
create yourself from the sacrifice of all the holy recycled dead

“Two souls once but a single thought
Of love and admiration,
Equals two hearts beating as one,  
This night has pulverized in pieces,  

As stars twinkle up above,
The night gale gyrates slightly,  
Once again my poem is of sadness,
As the depth of this pain is irreparable,

To say the least of this monumental pain,
I believed I was loved at intervals,
As my love was consistent and undying,  
There were days and nights we adhered,
To one another,

My poetic words fall to the shallows,
As did my boundless love for her,      
It is now inconsequential that my love,
Was not enough,

The times we adhered to our ****** components,
We would caress each other endlessly tirelessly,
As I would acumen her alluring green eyes,
How could one not love such a deity?

Such refined beauty was she,
Or at a minimum be enthralled in,
Such magnificence,
I would say she was talented,
but she always felt ineffectual,    

My soul feels empty in my eyes,
She was divine my indefatigable love,
Was it her fault that we have diverged?
I know not only, that words are at times
ELLIPSIS,