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Kristi D Sep 2013
Love, the real kind, is never simple.
It is the one thing that makes life worth it in the end,
and something that wonderful and sought-after is never going to be easy to get.
You have to work for it.
Blood, sweat, and tears.
So if it’s easy, yeah maybe you won’t get broken.
But you won’t be truly happy, either.
You’ll be settling.
Don’t get me wrong,
There are lots of things in life that are totally acceptable to settle on.
Sure, Harvard was your dream school.
But you know what?
Going to your state school because its more affordable
Will still get you where you want to be in life.
And I know the hairdresser couldn't match the color you showed her,
But you are beautiful and can rock it anyway, so don’t worry.
But love?
Settling in love is like buying a pair of shoes that are a size too small,
Just because you thought they were pretty.
They may look nice,
But you are dying on the inside. I
f you had just held out a bit longer,
You would have found a pair just as beautiful that fit well, too.
Maybe that nice guy looks good on paper,
But if he doesn’t give you butterflies whenever he looks at you,
Don’t be with him.
You want someone who makes you fall for them every day,
Not just once.
Chris D Aechtner Sep 2011
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer
was leading a lonely life working nights
at the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory
where he was in charge of loading crates
full of fukfoorfiffenfimmers, onto cargo cars destined for the city of Cincinnati.

There was such a huge demand for fukfoorfiffenfimmers in the city of Cincinnati,
poor Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer worked his hunnyhush to the bone.

On one of his few holiday weekends,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer went to a hair salon for a trim.
Here he was attended by a hairdresser named, Henrietta Huckhellopolis.
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer instantly fell for the husky-voiced hairdresser.

Gaining enough gumption and gallasisgoppingguff needed to bypass beating around the bush of courteous courtship,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer asked Henrietta Huckhellopolis if she wanted to leerlumpaloomp later that evening.

"I would love to leerlumpaloomp later this evening," she replied, batting her long lashes lustily.

And how those two leerlumpaloomped!

They leerlumpaloomped long through the night.
They leerlumpaloomped so loudly,
the neighbours ended up sticking stuffystoils
into their sensilivities, in hopes of drowning out the noise.

Nine months later,
the lovers were blessed with a litter of lullaloonillies—wot with the loud leerlumpaloomping and all.
But, of the seven lullaloonillies, four of them had two lumpalots instead of one.

Bolstering himself against drowning in despair at the prospect of having sired freak lullaloonillies,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer helped design fukfoorfiffenfimmers especially meant for lullaloonillies who have two lumpalots instead of one.

As the double-lumpalot fukfoorfiffenfimmers
were Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer's idea, the owner of the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory gave Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer
a forty percent cut of the royalties.

*Fortunately some fairy tales come with a happy ending, because the city of Cincinnati was hit with a record number of lullaloonillies
born with two lumpalots instead of just the one.
The high sales of double-lumpalot fukfoorfiffenfimmers,
enabled Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer and Henrietta Huckhellopolis
to quit their jobs and buy into the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory.

Yes, after getting married,
Harry Heironymous and Henrietta Huckhellopolis-Huffenhoffer
lived happily hever hafter.
So did the lullaloonillies....

including those with two lumpalots instead of one.
September 6th, 2011

“So you want to be a hairdresser, I bellowed, I gave you
a splendid  education and that is how you repay me!”
“You can study to be a doctor or a lawyer or something
posh, but never a hairdresser.”
“I struggled in poverty to get some kind of education at
the Academy of catering and pursership- I never have
heard that word before- you have now, this to drag me
out of the slum of being working class, and you want
to be a hairdresser!”
She is my daughter a product of a reluctant relationship
Her mother was a  reserve nurse at a local hospital and
Was content with her status.
“ If you persist in wanting to be a hairdresser leave my
house I will not have you here inviting the poverty
I tried to get away from.”
I know where she works as a trainee hairdresser walk
past the salon, every day just to see how she is getting on,
but I won’t let her see how much I love her, this stubborn
girl taking after her father
Bus Poet Stop Apr 2015
eye did.   As my prejudices expected, the odd assortment of "characters"were all present and not to be unaccounted for...a romantic comedy on a good Friday, attracts the believers, the well wishers, the ones who think if only the world was.. and I was not re or so tired of life, unemployed, lonely, damaged in some manner of being...

not too many young, just a few... theater darkness is a masque, with a risqué chance of oh no, I've been witnessed by the non-believers.

the infirm with their mobile caretakers and paraphernalia were there.  Odd couples, were there.  If there was one unifying common characteristic, I selected this one.  We all needed haircuts. eye don't know why but it made me think about going to get one's haircut, and the rituals that requires....and it is and is not a bit like being in a almost totally private world inpublic, where you, the individual and some outside force majeure, hairdresser, movie screen engages and temporarily transforms you.  That is why, I, went to the movies on a Friday afternoon, to be transformed and not reformed, in public, in private...
canto 1
I call her daddy my own. He felt nothing for her when the time had come for him to do something he fell and she felt nothing at all, nothing whatsoever. It is a cruel world, mateys, and the best thing you can do is curse God and die. Hard to ditch the pity act. Ditching is denying and there is much truth to the lie.

canto 2
Their eyes bubble in the open air, they fill to bursting and scrub until they scratch. **** drips. It's a sound that I will never forget. A sight that should be reserved for the dream world...a stench unrivaled.

canto 3
The Chinese bomber is persistent. One has to wonder why he bothers at all, seeing that his attempts have been futile up until the present moment. It's shoe week, so I guess he has his reasons. But this has gone on for far too long. If there were a way for me to stop him I guess it wouldn't hurt to try.

canto 4
Random parking lots and good God what have they done? I thought it was all over, these thoughts were through, these voices are mad. Usually it's not as upsetting. Your car door gets stuck, you know, it happens all the time. It happens every day, still you never get used to it, do you? You're always stuck inside that ugly mirror.

canto 5 (the "missing canto")

canto 6
I want to tell the world how good you are. Amazing and incredible. **** and *******. Talented and unrestrained. Honey nut Cheerios. You give it but I have a sneaky feeling you would rather be lost in a dream. A banal night vision. Comparably

canto 7
I want to make it better. I want to see you smile. What can I do? You are my own heart ripped from my chest and given wings to fly. Your smile is a lost treasure I would do anything to get it back to give it back to you, I didn't mean to take it away from you. You push me up against a stone wall and you don't even realize you're doing it. That my soul cries and prays for something real, for some kind of explanation or even an excuse would be fine right now. Instead I float. Not the way I like to float. I drift and crash, a dizzying spiral out of control, confused and dumbfounded by the realization that none of it means a ******* thing. What I thought was love turned out to be a jester's game, a joker's trick. You don't need me anymore.

canto 8
I hide myself behind a blanket of stone where you cannot spit fireballs at me without cracking an egg. Cold breeze tickles my news. It's not too chilly in this room. But the fireballs warm things up. "Blanket of stone"...what a stupid expression. Why do you have to be so hateful to me? How many times can a man say I'm Sorry without losing an eyeball?

canto 9
I have no right to feel the way I do. I don't think I can control it, though. This is one of the ****** up idiosyncrasies of my confused existence. Vanish without a trace and look for clues in the alphabet soup.

canto 10
Weariness is like a slug, a giant slug, a parasite infesting my body, hanging on and hanging out. A fire down below that waits for my imagination. My sleep patterns are getting ****** up but I'm not sure if I was sleeping or just dreaming I was awake. Under the impression that it doesn't matter? Well, you are a stone fool for thinking that way. You've never experienced the life-changer. Else you would know. But all I want to know is this: Why am I afraid of sleep?

canto 11
Things get slow. Patience is required, but I don't have any. Why does it have to be that way, o cruel dictator? You get a kick out of this ****, don't you?

canto 12
Spill your guts, maties, it's the only way you'll ever come out of this situation with even a shard of dignity intact. I know it's early and you haven't had time to adjust your eyes and your wrists for this delicate task. Go! Do it now before you lose confidence.

canto 13
We took a holiday and it was so nice. She stood there on that stage without a stitch of clothing on her voluptuous body. Baby, don't you let your hairdresser down

canto 14
Who doesn't love breakfast? Me, actually.

canto 15
I can't help it if I'm changing every day. Ask the question later, maybe my answer will be suitable. I don't think I can help you because I'm not like anyone you've ever known or will ever know or can ever know or would ever want to know and why do you keep wanting to know where I've been? I've been right here. Right where I've always been. Haven't moved a muscle.

canto 16
This is the 16th and I should be proud but the apathy seeps from my very pours. That little ******* was about to take a **** in the corner. When I picked him up to take him to the paper he dropped a couple of turds on the floor beneath me. I guess he couldn't wait.

canto 17
Sometimes things change so much that it's hard to tell if they're for the best or the worst. It is at these times that I enjoy a good evening on the water, enjoying my yacht and eating peanuts from another man's sack. Salted peanuts with pickled eggs and deviled ham with a side order of angel food crack.

canto 18
My wrist hurts and I've lost the will to **** socks.

canto 19
The lawn chair has been placed under extreme scrutiny. It's rocking motion is being scientifically tested and arranged for packaging. The physics of this miracle are in the process of logistical infiltration. You'd be surprised at how useful a rocking lawn chair can be in a world tangled in war. It's a good place to relax. For paranoids, that is.

canto 20
Bird feathers of a different post, it has never made a lick of sense and the promises made were broken. Who was that man in the bird suit? Why was he making all those funny noises? I'll have to investigate. Lawd have mercy I do believe I've **** my pants.

canto 21
Don't come crying to me if you feel misunderstood. I can read right through you and I know that all you're doing is fishing for a compliment. You will not receive one from me, Salty Dog, not because you don't deserve one. You probably do. But not from me. Perhaps you should take up your case with Hoda Kotbe. Who knows but that you might look really, really good on television. Just remember to feed the dog before you leave. He gets hungry. But he doesn't miss you. I don't mean to break your heart, but the rational man within me is very convincing when he tells me you are a real pickle.

canto 22
Those comments are found particularly offensive in light of the situation in the Gulf. You need to regulate your interest in beans. One day you'll fly to the Middle East looking for peace and all you will find are demons like the ones who raised so much hell in "The Exorcist". You don't want that, do you? Settle for Ranch Style and leave the diplomacy to the masters.

canto 23 (the "lost" canto)
I wouldn't wish this on a barrel full of monkeys. They say that time heals all wounds and I suppose it does. No "if"s, "and"s or "but"s. Don't believe me? Listen to 'em snarl. They're hungry for blood and sandwiches. I owe you nothing, so perhaps I'll send you a good time from New York. You gotta love a trapeze artist.

canto 24
I'm trying my best to change the world but the fact remains that the human race does not deserve the kind of tender loving care that I'm well known for. This holiday event will not include high temperatures or the kind of crap the weather people try to sell you.

canto 25
******* Valhalla. This is how it always seems to wind up, isn't it, Pinnochio? Just when you think things are getting better, BAM, ****** up again.

canto 26
You know you've reached a severe point of boredom when you switch to the Daystar Network and find yourself singing along to the bogus faith healers. Pecans on that one, please.

canto 27
Plug away, Sailor. Keep plugging away. When you get there you can say you plugged away with as much vim and vigor as a much larger man. Slough it off, O Great one. Keep sloughing it off. When you get there you can say you sloughed it off with as much skill and empathy as one might expect from a lizard. Or a monster frog.

canto 28 (the "twenty-eighth canto")
Come, look at my incredible collection of dice. Right next to my collection of mice. Next to that bowl of rice. Sugar and spice, everything nice. My head's full of lice. Don't think twice, just break the ice. Pup your puppy dog in the freezer.

canto 29
My toes are cold and so is my nose. I should be concerned with this situation but, strangely, I could care less. There are so many other, more important things to worry about. Like how many frosted flakes are in that box over there. And is there any milk left? And is it the real deal or that phony 2%? 1%? Skim milk is even worse. If it gets down to that point I'll save the money and use tap water. Don't think for a moment that I won't.

canto 30
Colored pencils expect risque answers to tame pencils. Unfortunately the quality of superior eggs is relative to the ice cream that has dripped down your shirt. You're starting to smell bad and I would highly recommend soaking in vinegar for an hour or six.

canto 31
There are times when I wish the planet would implode and **** every living thing into a void. I don't wanna die, but if I'm gonna I want everyone else to come with me. I'm tired of hearing about God's word. But even more so John Hagee's special gift for your love offering of any amount, the super duper Bible verse audio player, with selected passages read by the man himself. You can leave him behind.

canto 32 (the "same as the 31st" canto)
There are times when I wish the planet would implode and **** every living thing into a void. I don't wanna die, but if I'm gonna I want everyone else to come with me. I'm tired of hearing about God's word. But even more so John Hagee's special gift for your love offering of any amount, the super duper Bible verse audio player, with selected passages read by the man himself. You can leave him behind.

canto 33
Yazaa, yazaa, yazaa I told you I was gonna steal that car. You didn't think I had the guts, did you? But look who's laughing now! That guy with the big flower in his pocket must really feel like **** right now, realizing that his awesome vehicle is no longer in his possession. Maybe get an ice cream cone, maybe feel better.

canto 34
Come out of your hidey-hole, scurvy dog. Rat scabies be breathing down your neck and it's cold and old and you'll do as you're told. Pinch back that stray lock of hair, O Queen of Sheba. You shall spend the rest of your days parked on a green chariot overlooking Lake Erie

canto 35
You could have given me a reason for the season. Instead you had nothing to offer but a huge chunk of pepperoni that had mold growing all over it. Admittedly it was delicious but surely you could have come up with something a bit more expressive of the tender emotions I inspired within your fluttering heart.

canto 36
The prospect of a news reporter calling you a crack head based on information gleamed from your Internet social network profiles is quite terrifying, but when you tie the noose you might as well make sure it was time well spent. It's a shame you shaved your head because the painful truth is that now you bear a striking resemblance to Telly Savalas.

canto 37
Energy. That's what is required. And not just the kind of energy you can get from sugar, caffeine and butter. If it were that easy you could be **** sure that the Catholic Church would be the first in line to canonize it. They have a burning desire to fall off the wagon. "Which wagon?" you may ask. The one with the ice cream, of course. Don't be a fool.

canto 38 (a "short" canto)
If boredom is a sea in which one can easily sink into and drown in, I must be swimming the Atlantic.

canto 39
When the dog barks like that it's a sure bet that he's been neutered in the last few days. It's a sad and sorrowful sound that is only recognized by **** knockers in the deep woods.

canto 40
I could stare at the bars of this prison for the rest of my life. Okay, that's *******.

canto 41
Who was it that once said time is the only reliable concept in the universe? Oh, wait. That was me

canto 42
They tell you to wait. That's what it's all about. Wait, wait, wait, wait until I can almost feel my hair turning gray. The estimated time is currently number 7 the estimated hold time is 4 minutes, thank you for your patience. Well, you're welcome, comrade.

canto 42
I've only to surrender you to the world, lie down and wait for it to crush me.

canto 43
If I can only keep it together...if I can only hold it together this one time, I know the gravy train will come my way. Would it do any good to pray? This isn't the first time that enlightenment and illumination have reared their blessed heads. Would that I could live within them this time.

canto 44
Have I told you lately how much I hate to wait? Thinketh not that the Chair has lost it's financial imbalance, the very thread of chocolate that brought you here. It is still a very important and, some would say, a hot topic regardless of the amount of grime, sweat, blood and V8 juice is spilled on it's ivory shaped pear seat.

canto 45
The shadows turn into cloaks, dark itchy woolen capes that enfold the nothingness beneath them, the nothingness of being. You could have worked a little longer and a little harder on that one, amigo.

canto 46
It's been awhile but my wrist still hurts and I've written the word "moon" on the back of my hand with a Sharpie.

canto 47
I'm movin' this **** to WordPress. No I'm not. **** WordPress. Press WordFuck. Word FuckPress. On and on and on and on and not the least bit clever or entertaining. But I do like steaks.

canto 48
I swear to God I wish I had never taken that first hit of ****. Look what it's done to me. After so many years, I guess I was only fooling myself. Or maybe I was so dumbed down that it didn't seem to matter. But now things have changed. And I can do nothing about it. Dump a can of Campbell's Chunky Soup into a bowl, throw it into the microwave, let 'er go for three minutes, let 'er cool down in the oven for a couple more, stir in a quarter cup of Tabasco sauce, let 'er cool down for a little while longer, mix in a ****-load of Cheez-It reduced fat crackers and then go to ******* town. Go to ******* town, I say, **** the stoner days.
noseyrosey Jan 2010
There is a young lady called Anna. She is a loner. She lives alone with her two cats. They are her world. I am a cat lover myself and have 2 little cuties in my nest. But these cats are just plain feral. They terrorise the other cats in the neighbourhood and **** in all the neighbours’ garden.

She works Monday to Friday for a recruitment company. She leaves her flat in a purple Mazda convertible which is renowned for being a Hairdresser’s (AKA dumb ****) car. Every day she leaves at 7.30am on the dot and every day she arrives home at 7.15pm on the dot.

Once at home she turns on her TV cinema system (sub), just to watch the TV.


At the weekend she also leaves her stinking putrid ******* bags out in the communal hallway.


She ignores her neighbour’s knocking on her door. She ignores the notes that they put through her letterbox.


So as Anna was not willing to speak to her neighbours directly. They had no other way to turn apart from to report her to Environmental Health for playing her TV cinema system (sub) too loudly and also for the disgusting ******* that she regularly leaves out in the communal hallway.


In which she returns the compliment by reporting them (said neighbours) to the Environmental Health for:

1) Shouting at each other,
2) Talking too loudly,
3) Banging kitchen utensils on the floor when she is in her kitchen

How deluded is this *****?!?!

At the same time that her neighbours reported Anna to the Environmental Health they also spoke to the Community Support Officer. They advised them to contact the Mediators in their local area. Which of course they did. The Mediators arranged to visit one evening. Unbeknownst to them they parked in Anna’s allocated parking space. Once they had finished with her neighbours, the Mediators returned to their car. Just as they were about to reverse their car, Anna arrived home in her Mazda convertible and blocked them in.


When she got out of the Mazda convertible, with attitude I might add, she asked the Mediators who they were. They then introduced themselves. Once she knew who they were, she invited them into her flat to hear her side on the story.

Hair can be mischievous,
You never know when it will strike next,
Don't ever let your guard down,
Run when you feel danger,
Or better yet,
Xylophate it,
You must know what that means,
Make no fuss about it if you don't.
Either way, remember:
Love your downfall!
Use care 24/7,
Let nothing convince you otherwise,
Let nothing lure you into trusting your hair,
Or it will stab you into the back.
Love your dog, but never your hair,
Once you do this, you will be:

Exit paranoia; poem is done.
Hydroxymethylcullolose: a food grade vegetable thickener; gelling agent
(and the funniest word I stumbled upon while reading the backs of various hair products)
Don't get me wrong here, I love may hair, and the lady gave me an amazing haircut, but I was just bored and trying to write an acrostic, so...that's what happened :)
We were about a case deep in the conversation Jerry my
life long amigo and fellow brother in madness were finally catching a buzz.

And much like a chick ya knew after way to many beers
would probaly dance strip cry try to **** you puke and then try to make out with you  after you held her hair.

Jerry Was finally in the zone.
For my normally kinda silent almost creepy serial killer
acting friend when under the influence transformed into
a true brother of Gonzo.

Well aside from his morbid love of REO Speedwagon and Journey.
Dude! if i stopped smokin I could out sing that ******!
Yes if not for being tone deaf and sounding like Bon Jovi beeing mauled  or rapped by a bull or flipper  really whats the diffrence?

Dude idk why people are so uptight on  face book?
I mean just cause i posted my **** on there look it wasnt even hard.
Okay I thought to myself  this ******* tripping  probaly due to the *****  or the mushrooms we stole from his grandma.

Well i replyed to my kinda unsobber Journey listening drunk off your *** **** pic posting short friend.
Gonz it was cold out okay.
Yes amigo point taken.

Im guessing amigo that people when they want to get to know the inner thoughts of a shallow mind really dont wanna read.
Just dicking around rock out with your 3 inch  **** out okay it was  cold out.
that and stop poking the  the next door neighbors daughter
much like this write it's just weird.

True she's just a small town girl but ya gotta stop beliving
open arms and perverted nature are welcome to all
besides she wears a helmet and is 16.
Once ses to me she's not just fahsion foward  but prepared for
for the fall  of the flying monkeys.

Jerry looked deep at me with thoose  hound dog after he took a dump
in your bed sad yet naughty eye's of his .
And finally after some silence said you know Gonz
you truley cut to the heart of the matter and i just farted.

Yes he was a charmer and people wonder why were single?

Just then there arouse such a clatter.
Dr Jerry dropped his lawsuit against extense.
As I posted on twitter does this dress make me look fat
in a question which i only wanted replys from *** admires from
what a girl has needs !  

It's officer Rutherford time!

Answering the door in my trusty school girl uniform minus
the heels cause i was retaining fluid.
What? It's that time of the month you know january get your minds outta the gutter you naughty pennguins you.

Officer Rutherford  where have you been.
I knew my sorta outta my mind and kinda whoreish
way's would bring you back.
But enough with the foreplay children.

Yes even though officer Ruherford's eye's oh **** not this crazy *******
I knew in his heart burned a deep desire  to run like hell
and join to the witness relocation program  just to escape me.

Look John I just gotta serve Jerry okay have ya seen him?
Officer  may I ask you a question.
Like if I say no it stop you. You crazy *******.

Officer would you find this weird if you saw this on facebook?
What the **** it looks like my kids hamster what is that two inches ?
It was cold out okay!
The voice cut through the madness.

Is that Jerry!
If it is will you come in smoke cigars drink brandy while speaking
of summers past.
Shakspere in the park that first love how her hair smelt of
jasmine  and lips tasted of peach.

Officer Rutherford stood much like a man who wished to god
he was anything but a cop  dealing with a drunken perve
right now.

Look **** this I knew i should have been a godammed
hairdresser or a ******* mall cop.
He tore the paper up and sped away gone from my life
without even a kiss dam you cruel world!

Currituck County Cop's  zip  Gonzo 100  
Victory is sweet  yet bitter as a old grandma
you do uhh favors for, For drinks  im just saying times
are tight  and thats about all that is .
Yes I know im going to hell or Indianna really whats the diffrence.

Shutting the door going long for a beer and crashing through
the trailer wall dont worry I didnt spill my beer.
We sat spoke of things only true brothers from other party girl mothers do.

Ya know amigo I really should write about are antics more
Gonz  people would think we were from another dimension.
Or a mental ward btw want cheese  on your roadkill meets
some glowing **** stew?

Hey whats in that *** ?
Umm some  deer  maybe a I dont think a brazlian hamster
maybe fluffy.
****** man stop taking from fluffy she only has two legs left.
That and whatever is in that *** just got out.

After some deep thought  playing guitar hero  and watching
scrambled **** off cable I think thats a **** or a christain.
No it's a elbow dam you Simon Cowell
and your tight black shirts  its just not the same.

The ***** gone  and on the brink of food poisening
and that awkward feeling called being sober
yes I know scary.

It was my time to leave.
Jerry. What the **** ya gonna do tonight?
Gonzo,Probaly puke  for a hour watch **** ,take acid
maybe talk to the wall make out with a random
women that reminds me i must check my traps

It's a shame when they chew there leg off and get away
you gotta love strippers.

Deep in thought or maybe on the verge of passing out
my kinda crazy amigo replyed

You write?

Dedicated  to my real life  brother who's
never read a word ive written.

Jerry Waterfield.
Yes its hard to belive but this is the world of gonzo.
And i truley am crazier in real life.
But remember kids there only be one highlander
and i am the king of crazy and *******.

Be safe  kids always use protection or you could
and up with a crazy ******* like me.
well im not that bad.
I mean im not good  but im kinda fun
ya know ya love me  and i look better on *****
least that's what skeeter tells me.
16 year olds  there some moody *****

You stay crazy kids
Sean Critchfield Jun 2013
My Father used to buy cars. A lot of cars. Broken down, busted up, P.O.S. cars. Usually VW's. Always on the door of the great rusting field in the sky. He'd park them on the side of the house in a long row. This area was technically off limits, but rest assured that many battles were fought against mythical beasts and imagined armies.

It was a fort, a hideout, a giant clubhouse, and where I saw the inside of my first ***** magazine.

But the landscape was always changing. Evolving. This time line of rust and oxidized paint.

The cars would move forward one by one into the future like plate tectonics and more cars would be added to the past. And each one would make it's way into the garage. The land of curse words and flying tools. It was in the gladiator arena that smelled less like sand and more like grease,  that I learned to be a man.

Busted knuckles and loud music. And these cars would raise up on stands, and my father, like a surgeon would open their insides and make them whole again. Slowly. With the time that he had. And the cars would heal and eventually purr to life. And then, one day, they'd be gone.

Some would stay longer than others. Some would be displayed like show ponies. But eventually, they all left. And all the while, I would watch from my graveyard of cars on the side of the house.

It wasn't until I was older that we talked about it. Those cars. I always thought that this was just my dads hobby. Fixing things. It made sense. Anytime I needed something fixed from a toy to an angry heart, I'd take it to my father. And, I suppose, in a way it was.

I asked him about those cars once. Why he did it? Did he miss it? Why didn't he keep them?

He told me that he never intended to keep them. That in his eyes, they were not cars. They were insurance policies. Rent. Food. Emergency house repairs. Peace of mind for my mother.

And it all became clear. My family struggled in my youth. A young couple. A hairdresser and an airforce airplane mechanic. With two kids. Trying to make ends meet.

It was this line of rusted cars that made those ends meet.

It was ****** knuckles, loud music, curse words, and air heavy with sweat and grease that made those ends meet.

And any time the ends would not... quite.. touch...

One of the cars would go.

My father doesn't work on cars anymore. He doesn't have to. He and my mom are successful. Comfortable. They worked hard to become so.

And I am proud of them.

He has traded in his wrenches for other hobbies. Traveling. Collecting military memorabilia on ebay. Watching movies.

But that row of cars will always live in my heart as the example of what it means to be a good man.

My father loves his wife. He loves his family. His knuckles have healed. And the cars have gone.

And he is still my hero.

My dad is a husband, a fighter, a survivor, a mountain man, a war hero, a father and grandfather to dozens who didn't have one of their own, a firefighter, a medic, a collector, a wicked good shot, a teacher, and a friend.

He is also a mechanic.

And he is a good man.
It’s all right your man comes tonight from the bar
Your woman from the hairdresser
But the best thing would be to move the hairdresser
In the bar
So you know something for certain

Rolled in a pile of desire and ambition
We jumped to scatter through the world
To buzz insanely all his wonders

We reported heaven as missing
So we flew through the ins and outs of the earth
We swam through the sand floating through the fog

Yes Sir
We walked on the water fainted like crazy
Until everything was made a road at our feet

Arriving close to World's End
Where is no trace of regret or sigh
Where we see only the Water and the Great Wall
We will find out of the blue
The Peace and Friendship of a madhouse

There thirst elevates us to catch our breath
With the blood stained by the sword in our hand

Lord great is Thy mercy:

The Reality is you wake up smiling
And you look like hell
Yes ladyes and gents on the other side of the bridges Reality is to wake up smiling and looking like hell :)
the electronic dispenser is out of order yet the automated voice keeps repeating it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem it’s not a problem…

i hint to Mom maybe the nightly sleeping pills might contribute to her forgetfulness she replies what? i didn’t hear what you said i repeat maybe the nightly sleeping pills might add to your forgetfulness she answers what? i can’t hear you i say Mom you’ve been using sleeping pills since i was little maybe they’re a source of your fogginess she snaps what? what are you saying i can’t hear you

Tucson 2001 in the heat of disagreement Mom accuses i am the cause for her need to rely on sleeping pills do you understand what that means Mom you’ve been taking sleeping pills as far back as i can remember miltown seconal nebutal placidal ambient (when i was young i took some from your medicine cabinet then sold them to friends) was it always because of me your off-beat weird troubled kid or were there other reasons thank you Mom for all you have given me i am grateful appreciative truth is none of us trust each other these defenses we’ve created will someday turn on us

2010 it is difficult to write about Mom so many conflicted feelings our struggles contentious exchanges expectations criticisms blame all the money she and Dad poured into me hoping i would turn out successfully employed married with children instead her difficult child chose painting writing punk rock yoga Mom will be 90 in October she caught viral pneumonia last month concerned for her i flew to Chicago to see her my beautiful glamorous Mom who lives high up in tall high-rise doorman deskman elegantly decorated 3 bedroom apartment along lakefront my little Mom who’s once lovely figure shrunk in size morphed in shape with arthritic painfully twisted fingers hair color light ash skin spotted with dark purple brown splotches estate dwindled to crumbs my clever shrewd Mom still so talented socially telephone constantly ringing lunch dinner engagements accompanied by frantic loony sister both dressed to the nines shopping returning hairdresser appointments manicures yet memory rapidly disintegrating my poor sweet Mom who now needs my loving protection it is time for me to step up to the plate shield her from caregivers poised to pilfer my vulnerable Mom leaves her wallet in cab loses her glasses forgets events 2 hours ago furious at pharmacy for neglecting to include her sleeping pills i know i cannot change her whirlwind 24/7 world of gossip scandal denial it is i who will need to change sacrifice my simple sparse existence quiet desperation scrambling for pay gardening gazing up at the moon stars adapt to her dizzy drama driven life style in order to look after her

i’ve written about this before a defining moment that haunts me Bayli and i are staying at Toby Martin’s spacious loft near corner of Bleeker and Broadway 1973 Toby offers me job building stretchers canvases for Warhol he tells me lots of nyc women will model for me if i want to keep drawing vaginas he advises me to drop out of art school like he did assures me i will become famous it is October Sunday i am wearing white turtleneck wheat colored corduroy Levis jeans taupe suede clogs Bayle is dressed almost exactly as me except powder blue clingy top we are just art students Toby takes us up to Rauschenberg’s loft on Lafayette Street Rauschenberg is in the Bahamas the kitchen is all industrial size stainless steel coffee stained glass Chemex drip coffeemaker on stove  upstairs on roof many currently trendy painters edgy artists a sculptor who uses dynamite to blow up quarries in Vermont they scrutinize Bayli and Odysseus with voracious glares the men eye Bayli several women send flirtatious looks at Odysseus he feels fright protection for Bayli it is all too much too complex too threatening and in that moment he drops the ball creeped out fearful he takes her hand and they flee back to Hartford Art School but maybe he was wrong possibly Bayli could have handled those depths heights perhaps she would have blossomed i’ve thought about that moment many times torturing myself with my cowardice insecurity adoration for Bayli our love remaining pure never corrupted

a boy/man makes love with a girl/woman once twice in bed then falls blissfully asleep wakes up makes love all night in secluded room in sheltered house on quiet street in sleepy New England town in the morning with Velvet Underground turned up real loud they dance wild then make more love

perhaps my fears insecurities shyness are about a diminutive ***** or concave ***** at center of chest or all my weird physical psychological inhibitions idiosyncrasies not wanting the world to ever find out know a secret between Bayli and me possibly Bayli never noticed but probably she realized my desire longing to be recognized acclaimed yet remain unrecognizable live in quiet privacy i don’t know sometimes i wonder if Bayli loved me like i love her if there was only one twinkling star in her sky like there is in mine Mom says it’s wrong to limit my skies to one star she says Bayli separated from me and married someone else she asks has Bayli ever made an attempt to contact you since her 2nd marriage i answer you don’t understand Bayli is entirely devoted she would never look up or away from her man Mom says open your eyes there are lots of special stars meant just for you in the sky

at some point it becomes obvious the latest is instantly embarrassingly obsolete why would anyone want the latest

let them come these winds of change blowing sands garbage leaves twisting branches bending trees up the coast down the hole displacing erasing everything oceans rising currents colliding mountains crumbling fiery red skies there was a time once but that time is gone there was a girl once but that girl is gone a street a house  a room  a bed once but that street house room bed are gone hunter buried under hill sailor lost at sea he who steps courageous mindful compassionate will pass beyond the terror
Lysander Gray Nov 2011
There's something tragic about Brisbane; the city speaks of an older more Romantic time, though the people speak of a newer, modern; more disposable age. It seemingly looks at you with a lost lovers eyes.

Though the city still retains some of its antique glamour; take a stroll down any street in the center and around you will be found the remnants of that age.
Victorian Red-bricks dot the city like proud sentinels, keeping watch over the ever expanding invasion of its contemporary neighbours.
What tales would these monolithic madmen tell is if only we had the ears to listen, who's feet did once trample up the now year-stained wooden stairs, who lived and died and loved and uttered curses and birthed within those walls...and what tales would they have to tell if we only listened?

Ah, gentle reader, you see how your mind wanders at the mention of these thoughts?
The City certainly has its landmarks: the Clock tower of Town Hall, over looking the new modern space of "The Deck" in King George Square, the facade of Grand central station still retaining its grandeur and majesty; now turned into theme bars and a nightclub strip. The old houses littering West End and the strip of red bricks running like a sepia toned river up Elizabeth Street. And of course the dotted remnants of Old City Life being ever encroached upon in the center of the City's smoke filled heart.

The most curious of these is the impression wrought in plaster and cement, white over red, of a window in the city center, with a set of stairs leading up to a place that no longer exists; 50 feet in the air.
Whenever I gaze up at that window, that reminder of the past, I cannot help but wondre who would be staring down at us, on this date in the last century.

"Suffer them not" I wish to say, "for these people are of a different age, with different Gods and values than you."

Suffer them not, ignore their slings, suffer them not.

I love Brisbane.

It's mish-mash of centuries, its people, the tales of its unwritten past, it seems as if the city exudes both a sense of joy and one of unutterable melancholy.

I'm on the train, homebound now to my modern house in the ultra-modern Gold Coast. This is quite depressing. The freedom, the movement, the chance, the ebb and flow of the people soaked tide of the city is leaving fast behind me as this electric trap with seats barrels under facades and tunnels, with enormous neon snakes glittering down from the peaks of modern and ancient towers and we find them reflected in the winding river like innumerable fireflies...dying and twisting and being reborn in the soft moonlight.

South Brisbane Station.
An immortal Victorian construct, still surviving to this day. The same architecture, the same route...different paint though. This Industrial Relic is overlooked by the shining modern whirlpool of THE EYE, a gigantic Ferris wheel giving you the chance to see the city by air, to one side; and a multicoloured, four story glowing monument to the hairdresser franchise god Stefan on the other...which I dub "Stefan's Pintle".

It's garish as hell.

Passing through the night the train goes ever on, powered incessantly by the ticket payers seemingly endless dollar supply.

There's a strange transition from City to Coast, the outerlying towns left in the dust and wake of one and unsure whether they belong to the other. Places such as Kuraby, Banoon, Runcorn, Altandi, Logan and Eden's Landing.

Yet the train ponders on into the night, as it's denizens relinquish themselves to its discretion and desires.
Yes; the train ponders on into the night...

We slowly pass through Woodridge, one of those last bastions of civilisation, neither here nor there. A glittering town trying desperately to be a city. They have a McDonalds. Yay. These places always scare me, and confuse me.
What are they like? Their people? I guess I'll never know, i've never stayed in one long enough to realize.

Welcome to Loganlea, this is a strange place...the funniest thing about it is the fact that it IS a hole. Yet the sign into it shows a shining beach with palm trees and boldly proclaims "WELCOME TO LOGANLEA".
As you draw closer you realize it's pock marked with bullet holes and rust stains.

A train whizzes past, and we find ourselves reflected in its windows, our reality traveling one way; our ghosts another.
Into the long, pale night, coloured by the stars of a thousand distant streetlights. Like a million tiny man made suns; created to fend of the darkness and keep our fears at bay. We truely live in the age of endless day.

The melancholy of the city is far behind now, it's streets, its smells, its people all gone. As we are lost in the brightness of the endless day and the night grows ever long, touching those distant, far between places with its natural, velvet splendour, running its hand down the cheek of time. For there will always be a night, even when we create days, and the city will always be melancholy, and the coast will always be a glittering sequin on the dress of a cheap, soulless *****.

I love Brisbane.
ChildofGodyay Jul 2018
Carefully you cut my hair.
The fingers of your hands slid through the blanket of my head.
I looked at your eyes.
Filled with such focus and concentration.
Afraid to talk I tie a knot with my fingers.
Afraid to talk, I made excuses.
Afraid to talk, I tap my foot.
Yet when I opened up.
You revealed to me the normals of your life.
But really a surprise to this life of mine.
Fellow hairdresser, as I sit in the chair.
carefully cutting my hair.
With a scissor on his wrinkled hands.
Maybe I should be more open.
But I should stay closed sometimes.
Like maybe...a half-opened door...
just some thoughts. And yes i did go to the hairdressers today!
Margot Apr 2019
We lie amidst Ripe mountain herbs,
The nightingale has just begun its summer trill,
This hymn for golden vocal cords
Composed no owner of a writing quill

So sweet were melodies produced
That I mistook the front row lady’s cheap perfume
For blossoms, above which haunting hornets mused;
For an aroma of our Shakespeare love in bloom.

The serenading cardboard creatures –
Those thieve their voice from birds with no address.
Meanwhile a glass raised in a playhouse features
But colored water, as red as gipsy’s dress.

When the last spectator goes,
Having not found at least one genuine sun,
As actors, we recede into descending roles;
Electric blood in lamps’ capillaries feels numb.  

A lovely ladybug, I doubt, I will ever catch,
A lifelike flower, dipped in a painting fusion:
All this, fine artists tenderly attach  
To lifeless decorations, for aid they do us in a willful staged illusion.

Three burnt sienna pearls run down your spine
Yet after a big round of applause
These jewels are no longer signs of the divine,
But witches’ marks or, rather, unalluring flaws.

After the play I went to buy a notebook from my shopping list
To store the overgrowing verses, such as these;
A sheet of paper guarantees
To treat them like extinguishing bees

Cashiers ****** the change into my hand,
You purchased hothouse roses with;
And up those pretty useless beauties stand
In someone’s vase, whose name remains a myth.

They give me back those polished dimes
You traded for a pair of shoes.
I’ve seen you marshal through onstage lifetimes,
Yet to disclose personas’ traces the theater walls refuse.

Your chocolate hair has just fallen from the hairdresser’s hand,–
That’s how I know the summer’s coming to a bitter end.
This poem I dedicated to a local theater actor Julian. During one of his plays I thought of this fictional plot. Thank you for reading!
Tori Hart Jul 2013
My body is like a garbage dump.
It absorbs the trash people don't want anymore:
The hairdresser's abandoning father
The blog follower's self mutilation
The family's dark past
The boy's suicide attempt

My mind is like a sewer.
It's the drain that catches everyone's waste:
The noble girl's ****
The boy's love battle
The drunk man's broken past
The dear friend's "Goodbye Call"

Soiled oceans of sobs from those I love
To those I've never truly met
Mixed together
Putrid with self hate
All coming together for me to collect for them

My soul is like time bomb.
It takes on the weight of people's misfortune
People's biggest regrets
And people's deepest pains
It ticks steadily with the weight of other's
And my own hurt
Feeling more weight from others
Further pushing the timer forward
Steadily ticking

And the scariest part
Isn't the stories being told
Or the hurt that I hold
Or the ticking
It is the unknown moment when there is no more
AntRedundAnt Jan 2014
"Not too short on the sides,
not too long on the top."
I've prepared my little speech,
dreading the inevitable small talk
as the hairdresser's fingers fly
across the jungle of my dome,
her scissors like mini machetes
cutting down the foliage to see
what is hiding in plain sight.

I love the Bob Marley shirt I'm
wearing, so it's bittersweet it'll
immediately be taken off when I
get up from the chair. "One love,
one heart, give thanks and praise
to The Lord," laughing as I type this,
autocorrect shows Siri's faith in
human invented religion and God.

Hair litters the floor, and I know my
turn is next. The beginning of the end

Ramonez Ramirez May 2011
Sharon was picking at the scab over the mole on the back of her neck
where the hairdresser had shaved too close to the skin:
Water under the bridge, she thought, and licked at her salty fingertips.

By focusing on the sound of her new high heels over the metal steps,
she blocked out twisted traffic audio below;
the wind whistled a tune through the rust over her painted toenails.

She liked the way some of the pedestrians down there looked up at her.
Sharon felt so elegant when the wind lifted her skirt,
just like Marilyn Monroe in that picture, except that Sharon didn’t smile;

her skirt had been lifted up more times than she could (or wanted to) remember.
He always looked down at her. There. Below.
Sharon flicked her new purse into the wind, and ripped off the matching blouse.

The Samurai sword, tight between her *******, felt hot and cold at the same time,
like the red of her peach blossom skirt glistening white against midday sun;
memories of her only child freeze-burned the empty love caverns in her heart.

A river of emotions rippled through her body but she didn’t utter a sound;
that was reserved for the impact with the oncoming bus,
and the tip of the sword that ripped through the driver’s leather-sandaled heart.
Sharon Stewart Nov 2011
I don't brush my hair or eat my vegetables.

Really, that's who I am. The tall girl
with the little cousins splashing careless
in the tissue paper leaves of fall
who climbs trees and scratches her bug bites until
they bleed and comes home giggling
with grass-stained knees and dirt in her pockets.
Mom would smile at dinner and say I smell like

The compliment of compliments, untouchable with
innocence revered.

Somehow, with a little west coast living and
men under my belt, I've changed. With pressure to
be domestic and beautiful, ****** and *****,
flourish professional and more successful
than my mother's mother who mothered 6,  
I have forgotten this. I fall short.

I fall
in love with men who quell Outside joys and bike rides
with money and ******* and touch me in the dark,
cooing and cawing and convincing me
I'm happier to throw a pretty penny
around, and here, take this pill, smoke this dope,
to not remember the smells and scabs and stories from
when you gave a **** that made you who you are.

I'm getting my hair done today at some high end place.
I'm waiting for blonde dye to set, reading about
world hunger in my National Geographic. Wait,
that's probably not acceptable.

Okay, I'm reading
about J.Lo's *** in US Weekly, talking numbly to the stylist
about I-can't-believe-they-wore-that, while some yuppie
next to me with her face stretched too tight
is reading something ****** in Vanity Fair and
won't shut up about the Kardashian divorce.
"I mean, not like I know her or anything, but it seems
SO like her to..."

I'm surrounded by flourescent lights and floor length
mirrors and ******* with their caked on makeup
whispering of affairs and debt the way
you inexplicably can to your hairdresser alone.

I look at my face in the mirror,
framed in foil, pop music pounding overhead.
I mean, I'm not as bad off as the rest of them, right?
I couldn't be. I
remember the bug bites, piles of old leaves,
pink-cheeked simple childhood, and I can't
breathe all the sudden.

click my designer heels to the counter
throw my credit card at the $144 bill and
leave, speeding, to get away, don't know where
to go, I just end up at a ritzy bar where I stumble in
and, out of habit, order a martini, clean, straight up with
a twist.

Then I look down and burst into tears because
really, I'm no different from them and
truly, growing up in this town is
such a cruel, long hurricane of loss
that you can try to flee, past tangled hair and untouched
vegetables, all across the great Outside but you
just can't outlast in hide and go seek.
Zack Feb 2013
My English class got paired up with a class from the University.
While everyone's partners had the appearance of being "normal"
My partner sat in the back of the class wearing bright red ripped nylons
With cowboy boots with curly cotton candy hair
With a body language that spoke
She was only 23 and smelled like an old Denny's restaurant

Her breath was the stench of her smoker's only section
Battling against the stench of her caffeine addiction.
While I was asking her questions about life
And how everyone including the voice in the back of my head
Tells to get a conventional job
She poured out nicotine into a slip of paper
Like how I just poured out my questions on life outta my lips
She said through licking and concealing her hand built cigarette
"KID! Stop thinking what others think for you.
For your age, the best plan is not having one.
Now do you want to go outside with me while I smoke this?"

And I realized, ****, I don't have a plan.
So many kids my age are so quick to bash Tucson
They've already mapped out the quickest route outta here
Created a 5-year plan to get rich, and have been keeping
They're "*******'s and see ya later's" in their back pocket
Since they turned 18.
And I'm still hung up on the homework I forgot to do,
last week.

One of my friends told me a story how her mother
Followed her passion to be a hairdresser
How her mother tells her stories of the good old days
And used to be so happy. And that her mother gave it all up
For a better paying job in order to take care of her.
Now my friend wants to go to college and make lots of money
And be just like her mother -- unhappy.
I actually broke down and started crying at the lunch table
Because she so obviously didn't learn the lesson
She so obviously didn't notice how her mom sacrificed
Her passion in order for her to chase hers.
I told her she didn't get it.
She told me I didn't get the "real world."

So yeah, maybe I don't
Maybe I like to believe in real-passion
And the real-meaning and purpose of an education
Ya, maybe I don't know what I want to do with my life
Maybe I'm not done exploring Tucson
Or maybe I am immature
Because my plan of not having a plan
Is what excites me the most
I've planned for 18 years for what I'm going to do
To get me to that day I graduate
And I haven't even spent a good hour thinking
What I'm going to do every day after.
I don't need to keep a ******* in my back pocket
I'm not tying myself down to any plans
I'm rearranging the sentence, "F You Tucson"
And I'm just trying to say
"Tucson, I'm getting reading to finally meet you"

If Tucson molds me into the poetry loving
Preaching to kids, kinda hippie I already am
Or if I just become a waiter my whole life, trying to get people to buy my book
Or maybe college will make me even hate books
Maybe not having a plan is a mistake,
But maybe, if I make enough mistakes
One of those mistakes will be something really really great.
And I really, really can't wait.
part of this poem is my other short poem "Smoker's Section Only" in case you thought it sounded familiar.
If you have never read any of my poems and absolutely is not familiar then try to read my other poems.
If you do not want to read my other poems and hate this poem and lasted this long to read the notes then thank you for your patience.
You are beautiful. :)
dania Nov 2013
the hairdresser used the wrong dye
       your boyfriend dumped you for a guy

all you have left is shattered dreams
      camera flash blinds you with its beams

missionaries bring word of an impending doom
    your dog snuck in and broke your fave perfume

trying to grow your hair but you have split ends
        the guy you've been eyeing wants to be just friends

your favorite jeans ripped and you don't have spares
        you would ask for a friend's but nobody cares

you're late to work and you don't know why
      you got scouted to model but you were suddenly too shy

you failed the pop quiz that everybody aced
      you got mistaken for a celebrity and brutally chased

you dropped your wallet jogging around
      you found it empty a week later in the lost and found

you forgot not to and picked a scab
       your favorite uncle's stuck in rehab

your grandmother mistook you for her son
      in reality you're female, and nowhere near fifty-one

you're a penny short but the cashier won't budge
     your mother is still holding that 10-year grudge

what can you do, what can you say?
when all you have is first world problems, today.
Raj Arumugam Jan 2012
Occupy MDP!
mom’s and dad’s place -
you imbeciles!
Mom’s and Dad’s place -
they’ve made too much money!
They’ve worked since
they were twenty
Looking after kids
and saving money –
being selfish
no charity!
just being plain greedy!
Occupy MDP!
Don’t you see?
Mom and Dad got too much money!
Look at me –
I’m twenty-eight
going on twenty-nine –
ain’t got a penny
ain’t got a honey
and Dad and Mom
got too much in the kitty
They put money in the bank!
****! Don’t you see?
Mom and Dad are capitalists!
Occupy MDP!
So Dad and Mom
thirty years
they worked
and raised kids
and they’ve paid every cent on the house!
****! Mom and Dad are capitalists!
****! – they’re bourgeoisie!
Occupy MDP!
Open their fridge– eat for free!
Watch TV, use their internet
and surf with glee –
Mom and Dad can pay every fee!
Cos they’re capitalists
and money pigs –
that’s what they are,
Mom and Dad
So Occupy MDP!
Lie in the couch
and get your friends
in the garden
and trample on the beds of flowers -
****! Can’t you see?
She goes to the hairdresser’s;
She goes to the pedicurist -
Mom’s a bourgeoisie!
Drive Dad’s car
while he snores
who cares if you burn the tires
just drive at speed
for a good adrenalin police chase -
Old Dad will pay the fines anyway!
**** – the police are capitalists!
Dad’s a capitalist!
Mum’s a bourgeoisie!
Come on - O youth of the World
It does not matter if you are past
twenty or thirty -
All youth unite at this cry:
Occupy MDP!
Occupy Mom’s and Dad’s!
O brave Youth of the World -
Occupy MDP!
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Silt and asbestos ensnare diaphragms -
duly expressing elite contraband

"Come on man, take my hand," tooling my ribs - reactors are passing for colonist fibs

My funeral follows a prudent position: infinite drama recounted in visions

Muddles reality into insanity - imagine the ways I'm bewitching my vanity

Woke up in feverish pools of deception - recalling this snaking tale of repression

Saddled apocalypse summons the storm - carnival prince and the reptile are born


Yesterday, I was saved frozen at sea drowning in confidence - pulsating excellence

Sudafed, opiates, amphetamines - sifting like gold diggers scratching at screens

This fabric has hieroglyphs witches and ornaments barely, she begs us to win sacred tournaments

He reached for her arms as she swam in the pyre, true to the caring that she had inspired

He's standing there drunkenly highly confused, gasping at semblance of what he could do

I don't know - I don't care somebody must
Fleeting ambrosia - burnt naval husk

Honestly, looking back nothing seems real
Surrealist and spooky is all I could feel

Scrapping sweet memory fertile new bones
A concert of cannibals worship this tome:


Psoriasis fingertips - silvery hair - eyes so cartoonish, "I can't help but stare".

Drawing strange images into the dirt - ghoulish imposter, "Flames on his shirt".

Crouching in testament - cutting herself - steadfast and jolly, "Infusing with health".

Leaving a trail of blood left in her wake,  as she stumbles and crumbles, "And tumbles in place".

Bastions of light usher scoffing demands - spears made of aloe, "Leave wounds on my hands".

Anxiety begged her to hide in the sheets - praying she'd come to bed, "Thrashing her feet".

Mysterious words from some fiction have bled into parasites,"Parasites play in my head".

"Hold me", she told me, eternally wed under deadly exposure, "More nightshade," she said.


Exquisite demonics implanted inside - articulate, "Just let me hold him", she cried.

Feeble as Latin words - etched down his spine - congregate, estimate, "Counting in rhyme".

We offer up sacraments, sacrifice innocence, whispering terrorists, "Following genesis".

Accordingly heathens with blasphemous hearts, "Whimsical orphans - atropine darts".

I keep you immortalized - captured in song, standing in pentagrams, "Naked as sin".

Dwindling starlight and twinkling frost - honored to share in this, "Paradise lost".

Arc of the covenant, star in the earth - hands held together - they're chanting this verse:

"I love how the world has the need to expire," and, "Look in my eyes as we bask in the fire".


Chefs lack the candor of regular pith in this kernel of sorrow we're journeying with

Beating her sternly - he's scaly and ****** - caging her bones under fertilized loam

Estrogen forests are trampled by scythe, sickle and saber, reaping the wife

Frisky in nocturne this sensual bride finds contextual meaning in meaningless rhyme

Standard and righteous - I prance in your skull - are we fated for cancer and ready to fall?

Tumors, abortions and cellophane wombs, consecrate gargoyles - guarding your tomb

Weeding out chilling improvements she sings, "Are the best of us lonely or left without wings?"

"I don't know anything - not anymore". He's begging to stay with her - holding the floor


'Flowery words', she rhetorically mused
Rawest emotion, endangered, refused

Lost and impossibly caught in the heat of the endless embrace of embarrassing need

Hopeful and starry-eyed, pushed to the side, doubted by scornful inclusion and lies

Twisted by jokes, wishes and visions, and tempting tornadoes of desperate decisions

Head in the clouds like the lady deserves, not the tinge of exclusion, repulsion, the nerve

Standing beneath as the waves crash above and the whip grips her knuckles - the crack of the glove

She falls on ground with an earnest composure while hippies and poets all **** on her floor

Promises, bonds and a zone full of friends that all predate her lovers - impaled on the fence


The pair of them rumble in harmonious glee, to wrestle and grumble in palpable need

Tanning distraction this action proceeds under cover of capture the flag as we leave

Beady and auburn, I gaze in your throat as you're speaking in languages nobody knows

Follow you as they do barking at wounds  - howling at insects - gnawing harpoons

Tenacious, relentless and yawning at doors as this screeching is creaking and echoing violently

Mischievous prankster - he sleeps on the floor - god of destruction, you unsullied *****

"Enough," is enough to command that he store all those awfully snide instincts that cause him to roar

"Maybe she just wants frontiers to explore?" In this city of carnivores no one is poor


The extent to which anyone really should mind is a farcry from anything I would have tried

How do you look at yourself in the mirror? Caring for no one, "Can I please steer?"

Monopolize - colonize - fall to your knees,  derangement of outfits and gloveless disease

"Them," he thought, fraught in sharp needles, "They knit," sought it out seeking some table to sit

Sickened and tarnished, they're grafting his skin, Alice keeps asking him, "Please let me in".

Swift as the sultry ones - swagger for days - aloof and untouchable - "Just go away".

Subtle forgiveness was penciled in rot -abstaining from quicksilver lessons he thought

"Apple shaped targets?" this weird maidens heart is a factory of gears that all grind with a start


Quintessence, purses strings and cardinal demands, weaving his fingers through crucified hands

Fondling smoldering kingdoms of glass - "Sand in my eyesight,"  she sinfully asked

Cathartic - imparting this wisdom upon as the mask on his face does gives way to the pawn

Comforting cripples with zippers for lips all while shards of perfection steal barbershop tips

Companionship - sunken eyes - drown in the lake as the greatness of bodies of water intake

Angry as clamouring mountain folk groan, "Cavernous hillside. Some call it home".

Clamping considerate grips on her wings as they sell her for rubies and loose diamond rings

Foulest intentions from bittersweet ghosts, repenting for eagles with talons for toes


Painstaking chimps have their skulls opened up under practical willows with creatine tusks

Tedious dysentery fractures the press of impoverished illusions, "Why aren't you dressed?"

Trapped under flint rock - collapsing in filth - avalanche scoring and soaring from hills

Breathing out fire from chemical lungs, fringed with discomfort - flensing her thumbs  

Hot as fresh crystal - clanging like gongs,
cost of the gambit is mounting to some

"I'm not sure you'd go - if anyone knows," as your icy composure forcloses your glow

I'm content to think that anyone cares - it's a panicked delusion and I wouldn't dare

That's why you wake up just shaking in fear, sleepwalking in public,
the horsemen are near


Waterweight - ******* - no one is home - send up the lizard - "I might as well go".

Jello shots - taking the bus to the tower - sticky and tenuous - eloquence strenuous

Pent up and sent up the labyrinth spire - elevate thusly, cables and wire

Incarcerate me as they douse you in ***,  sloppy and ****** - bloodied with ***

Warned of a fortune so spacial it ****** at the cosmic imprisonment laden and fixed

Misogynist epitomes launder transfixed on a native reserve burning nicotine sticks

Steeping a boiling *** - struggles display - "Are you gonna keep letting him talk?" Go away

Tearing her eyes up with digital pins - asunder they tore me with calico wings


Vainglorious stitches - monogamy dead, shuffle to school without sutures or bread

Starving so beautifully no one is there emptying halls of his putrid despair

Wallow as germophobes glean to react, "I was hoping to bounce as the luster refracts".

Hookworms are evident dazzling tone - shoddy as hues on this luminous phone

Lioness named for the flame of our youth - rather you gargle my pain in vermouth

Flimsy as benzene - it seeps in my ***** - bartering spirits for paper and coin

Seltzer and alcohol, oh how I trust that you'll ****** me right into this shallow new husk

Casket misshapen - diving beneath the surface of every mistake I can see


There's more darkness in consciousness than you could know - pesticides rest inside nightmarish dreams

Tantamount, visceral -  mountainous screams, "Colossal magnetics start firing beams".

Floating upon rings of onyx and lime - the city was swept under soundwaves of time

The first night I met them, they washed me in light - fifty foot gypsies - lasers in sight

Demonized, ostracized - gaudy as hell -
trampling heavily - rotating noisily

Show boats with no hope to wake up and yell, quoted retraction - lucid reaction

Shadowy faces contorted and towering -  flinching and wincing, cringing and cowering

Flowering stupidly - running away - asking, "Can anyone help us today?"


Justify heartless precision you take on this rectified burials thirst to replace

Cresting some green fixtures spiraling waste - photonic windmill - sneezing with haste

Alkaline infants are tastefully conned into terrible matrons with hypnotic yawns

Grifting the shoulders our blades rest upon into sorry excuses for stabilized arms

Braced for the chance of a kick in face - "They offered me poppers with lemons in place",

Of some sort of wandering thievery race, gracing the shape of the nails in her face

Abstract absurdist - this faction is severed - luridly campy and hopeful he let's her in

Demonstrates how it all works when you die, "Your body keeps heaving perpetual sighs".


"How would you like to experience death?" The smoke in his broken heart lovingly said

Typing cryptography under his breath - "Shade of a pyramid's awkward," it says

Scabs weld their fools on the tracks to the rails - locks crimson black as they whimper and flail  

Sabotage robots who walk on the ceiling - gibberish, ******* "Roaches are dealing".

Larynx absconded with starlings and doves - swallowing nestlings while fledglings make love

"Time to stop fighting," it bellowed and mourned - spongy testosterone - exercised horns

"Sodomites," - come to me - "Gumption eschews". Hilarious pictures that serenade you

"Unruly, infesting," - bowels of a God - evoking the pantheist's haggard facade


Catacombs yielded pretentious as mines - lines in the quake of awakening vines

Higher than killers with thrills who conspire to bask in our innocence, "Lakes made of fire".

Needlessly sending for doctors and kings - soldiers of vitreous letters know things

Nobody else could have possibly guessed, sauntering safely into our regrets

Twisting odd verbs in a blunder he spoke, "I wonder when they'll ******* thunder". She wrote:

"No one wants you to fly more than me".
Red as her blood was. Blue like the sea.

Operate casually - amateur alchemist
Practicing chemistry  - new occult balcony

Reaching a point of unparalleled strife -
Precedent slit - heralding the knife


Allergens checker an angelic frown - grinning to save face - numbing her crown

No one wants you to fly more than I - correcting her grammar... "I'd rather die".

System reset - she said, "Need to expire?" Curling so cowardly, "You're such a liar".

"Philandering suckerpunch," arteries whine - encumbered, sporadic - they plough through my spine

Clinching the gashes that poke in his sides - entryway clutter is littered with pride

"Heuristic Columbus," hypocrisy boons, "Exiling marrow," he passively croons

Fitful hounds - kerosene sheets - "Leave", - fueling the sparks of satanic relief

"Pastor, what have you got up your sleeve?" He actually thought he would get a reprieve


Climbing down sideways - expanding deplores,  "dastardly hooligan - hands on the floor!"

"Stout absolution?","Storybook gates?"
"Novacaine icebox?" Hoodlum debates

****** as rangers with rifles and glocks, they're flocking like animals down at the docks

Fifty-six mannequins crouch in a row all while tantric eccentrics converge toe-to-toe

They're bowing in tandem and chanting in sync, "I swear to you mother, it's not what you think".

Ancestral wigs often shed temple spawn,
"Honestly kid, what the hell are on?"

"I don't know anyone higher than you".
Hairdresser puns are a noxious perfume  

Gripping strange stalks of white tight in his claws, "Bring me a lighter", he silently gawks


Ubiquitous - which is his festering moan, conspicuous stealth in the place of this poem

Tolerate surrogate - lecher bemoans - fostering pestering questions alone

Delegate consciously - losers go home - victory pasteurize hearts made of stone

Revving in dangerous jungles, you know, "I'm confusing the past with a future foretold".

Approved as a commune of toxic cartoons, the queen suffers no more than idle abuse

Deep in the pockets and dunes made screws we are trenched in this utter bereavement of you

Alice in wonderland  - Alice in chains -
Alice likes cannibals, torture and pain

I don't remember if that was her name -  cats in black dresses - are scratching in vain


Cross-legged in triangles, shells billow smoke, after everyone's lymphatic system is choked  

Sanctum synthetics - these viral fiends **** - oh how I loathe silken knights laced in cloak

Vitriolic and fatal - she's spiteful and mean - relinquish your insides, "I want you between".

Riding on horseback their sheaths slip behind, hypotenuse daggers have poisoned my mind

Isosceles vertices equal - they feast - growling in lateral scalene it creaks:

"Love all my friends," now the beast has a plan, "Triangulate all the new ravens I can".

Colonic intoxicants signal the fan of the chronic conception of too many hands

Again we're in triangles primed for the farce, exit the scheduled-impressionists art


Fantastic, predestined - the sickness is seen as the top hats and wizards make scientists gleam

He comments, "we all love you carry my breed to the temple of torment, I offer the seed".

Tally marks scoring with scarabs and ticks which impregnate the fleece of these humanoid tricks

Triangles, Triangles, "Beg me to stay,"
Parasite, Parasite, "Don't go away".

Terry Collett Nov 2013
O'Brien said
the whole girl thing
was a falsity
why waste your time

on them?
he'd told Baruch
yes why?
Sutcliffe said

in an echo
as they walked home
from school

the New Kent Road
holding a cigarette
to one side
a thin line

of smoke
from his mouth
as she spoke

Baruch said nothing
about Fay
he just listened
thinking of her

as they walked along
his hands
in his pockets
his scuffed shoes

treading the pavement
his eyes looking
at Sutcliffe
at his blonde hair

and bright blue eyes
and O'Brien
with his shock
of brown hair

and his crafty eyes
I've yet to meet a girl
worth losing sleep over
he said

not a wink of sleep
Sutcliffe added
Baruch had seen Fay
the day before

on the way home
by the church
on the corner
of Meadow Row

she in her catholic
school uniform
clutching her satchel
her bright eyes on him

her fair hair
by the afternoon sun
how they had walked together

up the Row
she talking of the nuns
at the school
about the whole Latin thing

about the long list
of saints she had
to remember
he took in

her anxiety
her paleness of skin
he told her
of the pottery teacher

who ridiculed his pots
and how he did it
in front of the class
holding up the ***

and running it down
not that I care a toss
Benedict said
least not

about the ***
and they crossed
Rockingham Street
and up the *****

and there they waited
gazing at each other
the silence
like thin silk

he wanted to kiss her
but not doing so
she wondered
if she could get

nearer to him
maybe much closer
but feared her father
might hear of it

and he didn't like Baruch
didn't like the Jew boy
keep yourself free
of them

O'Brien said
girls cling to you
like leeches
and ****

the being
out of you
with their petty wants
yes wants and wants

Sutcliffe echoed
Baruch paused
by the hairdresser shop
by the crossing

opposite Meadow Row
best get home
Baruch said
yes me too

said Sutcliffe
hope my cousin's gone home
she's been with us
for weeks now

and always
in the bathroom
and wandering the house
in her almost

see through night dress
sure sure
O'Brien said
bet you hate that

and he laughed
and Sutcliffe walked off
home the cigarette
behind his back

in his inky fingers
see you around
O'Brien said

and wandered on
up the road
and Baruch
saw him off

and crossed the road
and walked down
Meadow Row
thinking of Fay

and that moment
he almost kiss her
how they stood
gazing at each other

he gazing
at her fine beauty
her figure  
and she fearing

her father
would know
and the nuns
at the school

always writing to him
about her
and what she does
and does not

and she seeing
Baruch there
feeling her heart beat
and sensed feeling hot.

— The End —