Once again I'm lost
     Big Billboard  Ronald McDonald
tells me to embrace summer but how
          
           with the air con in its death throes + baking tar breath.

              In the back with heat stroke + around
                             thoughts
                     mixed

                       **** your seatbelt I'm decomposing

             Read too much Burroughs
             Read too much Fear and        
             Loathing
+ all I can think about are mistakes and exes

At a stroke I feel the heat
Winding pulse of electricity
Beneath me I feel grounded, thunderstruck
My love abounded
So wherefore am I bound?

To tread lonely is no cause for fanfare sound
And yet to know warmth is to know bitter lacking
For in the lean times when friends seem far away
All I can feel is that maybe I was not good enough

At a stroke I banish these thoughts
But I am ill prepared to walk
The twisting thread, the tightrope-drop
And alack, I curse that I should be forgot

I hate that I should have to fight
The inner me with all my might
Who at a whim should change his coat
That in the shade I suffer'd stroke.

Nick

our kisses were as soft as our hearts & this must be the seed of all that came thereafter,
and all that didn't see light outside my mind.

perhaps our soft hearts led to my current introspection and my disposition when it comes to
pens, papers,
and all that lies
between them in truth,
in confessions by
soft tongues in shaky lips in scattered sheets in paling cheeks and blushing eyes,
in that which lies
between thought and its expression,
between brutal honesty in the heat of an oncoming summer,
in mosquito bites and my sweet blood which attracts this
violence, this heatstroke
sunshine;
it is divine,
like we imagined,

it is hectic like we desired,
it is nonsense and is madness and knows no explanation other than our
awkward silence,
our differences in imagined futures,
our various degrees of love/hate passive-aggressive
actions and feelings and resentments and appreciations;

we both are optimistic but you believe in that which counters my belief and it is
strange and unexpected and before you,
i needed someone,

and after you,
i need to be alone

Heatstroke
By
Jude Kyrie*

The naked sun sets the world on fire.
A scalded sky like a funeral pyre.
No rain in sight as the heat goes higher
Like musical notes.
Sit the birds on the telephone wire

No peace for me no cool blue moon.
No respite from their crazy tune
The chirping crows turn the volume higher.
The birds are notes on the telephone wire

That awful hurdy-gurdy sound
Makes my head spin round and round
If I had a gun I would surely fire
At those infernal birds
upon the telephone wire.

will you love me?
will you think of me next sunday evening
when the newspapers are gossiping together on your front porch
as i birth life into the rose buds growing six feet above me?
my darling, you are the georgia sun

and i loved you even before i felt
the luminescent fingers of god
sifting through the morning dew
beckoning my every root and stem
to embrace your september glare above the fertile darlington soil.
will you love me? will you love me then?

i wake up to your warm gaze upon the pink hues of my blistered skin.
i am alive and, with my finger, i trace the poison ivy
that has managed to make itself a home in these cobblestone ravines.
the grooves in the path cling to the soles of my shoes as they try and change my mind
but every sunday afternoon your remnants in the ashtray tempt me closer
i stand on the edge and etch saltwater confessions into the dying moss below me—
your memory creeps up behind me and pushes me off the bridge.

it's always sunny in darlington

In the heat of summer,
The cuckoo sits on the branch and calls-
"Eyes gone", "Eyes gone"
In this heat, life is terrifying-
Realizing this, the wayfarer decided to leave home.

How the branches of the tree are stunted-
There is no wind,
Lazily, the shepherd gave the body to relax,
In the shade of a tree, holding his flute-
This summer, the scene seems to be chirping.

Couldn't bear the heatstroke, though
The beggar is returning door to door-
The bored bard seeks to find peace in cloudless sky
Lean body, walking on the edge of an unknown village.

Dry day lean on the lap of evening
Forget the weariness in the touch of late night dream.

there is a girl made of stardust
and ocean salt, breathing static
into the night sky.
her love, if tended to
with patient hands, would
grow like wild roses across
the trellises of your heart.

she is not born of men;
but a child of luna,
sweet mother.
she is a breeze in July
softly rustling your hair
and the plague of
heatstroke and withered
tongues that swiftly follows.
her touch lingers into
the winter solstice.

she is the wave of sorrow
sweeping over your bones
and the light in your eyes
shining with leftover love;
a shadow dressed in white,
a consummation of grief.

she is a wallflower, a habitual
offender to the gods.
she will nurture you like an infant
and then leave you on your knees,
gasping for redemption.

woke up 2pm this morning
squandered all the afternoon
building magic fortresses, high on rainbow rock
til my eyes got sore and i got dizzy
from a sunny, golden-yellow glare
opened up the window, let in the draft
let in the air

(and risked pneumonia)

and I started thinking clearly then,
I started thinking when,
the deathly cold, cursed, no-remove,
fresh air got to my brain
and i sat there by the window
kept it open, 'spite the wind and rain
just following my train
of thought

(and risked pneumonia)

i felt that neither ice nor fire can do me harm
but why is it right now i feel too cold
yet still too warm
feel like a fire can freeze me,
and a breeze may bring me heatstroke,
feels like some sick ******* joke

but i started thinking clearly then,
i started thinking clearly when
my temperature went down
and i got to thinking,
and looking back
to before cold felt warm

and it came to me, i realized...

(i didnt catch pneumonia)

Feeling hot and
cold water's not doing the trick
Feeling sick with the heat but
I won't let it beat me,defraud and or
cheat me
I'm getting a fan to fan me,to cool me and
fool me into believing
I'm living the dream,
feeling hot won't then seem
so bad.
In the bath with a sponge
I take one more plunge and the
duck gives a look like you wouldn't
believe,
but I do.

Draw a narrow road with a man standing in the distance,
The sun is setting and his shadow moves for an instance;
What is this symbolizing? What does this mean?
In the background, sea, salted waters, filled with chlorine.
Don't get too caught up in this life-like dream,
Almost real, but all too extreme.

Painted man walks up to you and speaks,
"I am None, I represent the Freaks."
Sun stops setting, just stands right there,
Gleaming rays, upon it a face appears.
Chlorine waters turn into rough seas,
Winter's come and the painted man freeze.
The winds so strong seem to play you a song;
Not such a nice tune, and ever so long.
The faced sun runs away from the cold,
Winter ruled all, all it controlled.

Pebbly beaches, umbrellas at shore,
Painted man alive and the sun rise once more.
The cold got heatstroke, the seas all calmed down,
The painted man, from the sun he turned brown.
Leaves falling down, that season has come,
Trees so bare, no more growing plumb.
Final season, makes you so sad;
Drawing leaves you from your sketchpad.

Haven't set up an alter
In I dont' how many moons
The few times I tried
I truly knew the futility of it
And understood
That security, for me, is fleeting


Just another thing
That seems so easy for the others
Oh no dont applaud
My  baby brain  for its
Whining,ll just make it worse
So the other day after
I snatched the sage you left
For me outside your window sill
(Thank you btw)


I instinctively started
Making YET ANOTHER ALTER
Then broke down for the 5th time that day
"How could someone like you ever deserve a home"
Then I had remembered  
That Im not allowed to
Have a safe space

I'm a drifter
Pushing the limits
My health is at risk
Every minute
No one to care
Whether I die or live  

Sitting on my hands
In a thicket
Praying wishing waiting thanking
God that I woke still broken
Throwing up stuff
Everytime I tried to move

Hunger
Hurt
Thirst
Hate
Anger
Thankful
Stay low
on your toes
Heatstroke
Dryheave
Please No
Please make it stop
Oh god here it comes again
My Sweat drips endlessly
Chiggers bit my skin
So it wont quit itchin'

Bites that bother until next week
Typical....
All I want is a place to hang my hat
Or hopefully lay my head without trip wires surrounding
Me
All I want is to oggle my alter and call on my angels and my God
Without being on constant alert
Watching my own six

Bc your own brother will turn on you
Don't get comfortable
Dont relax
Dont unpack
Dont believe
A ******* thing they tell you
Prove me wrong then

Haven't had a mfr not turn
Haven't seen anyone actually keep their word

And why cant i set up an alter without it being destroyed?

when fear finds new homes to hide
fingertips, fire and cyanide
blazing trembles, roaring tide
quiet voices quietly abuse,
and silence blazes a fiery bruise
when you're left drinking
cyanide and month-old *****
no more tremblings left to choose
screaming like quiet voices do
when licking fire finds them
roaring too,
and ashes feel more like ice cubes
than his words do.

I am from paradise

which never failed to include rainy, cold summers

and heatstroke winters.

Where mountain ranges were as small as pebbles,

and pebbles,

were only meant for skipping.

I am from that spot in the sunset

where the

rustic oranges meet up with the rolling blues of the ocean

and have coffee.

Where endless meets infinity

and everyone wears ugly Christmas sweaters.

I am from where Harriet Tubman

and Nat Turner type dreams take root.

Where black and white meet to make purple,

green, and everything in between.

I am from where dreams fly

and people never stop laughing.

From two way conversations with strangers

and love letters instead of obituaries.

I am from here.

"Why are you wearing a sweater?
Its the middle of July,
Aren't you hot in that?
Take that off.
And why are you wearing jeans?
You're gonna die of heat stroke.
Go put on some shorts."

Why am I wearing so much clothing?
Because I'm afraid.
I don't want to show my scars,
But more than I don't want to show my scars,
I don't want to show my cuts.
The new ones,
The ones that haven't an excuse.

Yes I'm hot.
I feel like I'm in hell.
I feel like I'm melting,
But at least the outside matches now,
Matches what I feel on the inside.

Take it off?
Take it off?!
Hell no.
There aint no way you're getting this off of me.
I'm hiding,
And I want to stay hidden.

I'm gonna die of heatstroke?
You mean it?
You really mean it?
If only...
Hang on,
Let me get another sweater then.

I'm not putting on shorts,
I'm not taking off this sweater.
You're not going to see me,
Not like this.

...and no one takes the views in which is amusing but slightly sad,
and so we travel with our eyes shut to the wonders all around, on the buses, on the underground the same old vacant stare,
knock, knock, not knocking because we know there's no one there.

slightly off with situations if and when they should arise because forgetting what's on offer I forget to open up my eyes.

Not sure which is worse
me or the witches curse
no one expects the Spanish Inquisition in
Stratford, Watford or even Old Ford,
but when you don't pay attention
that's when they pounce.

Do you love me?
You roll to a stop at the red light
Cars speed forward in front of us
All containing people with their own questions that could crumble their worlds
They are all unaware that I just asked  the question that could crumble mine

Do you love me?
The red light reflects off of your face
It casts deep shadows under your eyes and jawbone
Like the deep maroon is outlining where I had trailed my lips just hours before
A dark road map showing the weakness I have for the softest parts of you

You blink once
Twice
Three times
Your lips part to say something but they stop and instead let out a deep breath
I see your thumb touch your ******* on the steering wheel and glide in a circular motion almost as to soothe yourself

Do you love me?
The light turns green
And this time you speed forward before I can see the shadows on your face
Instead you're thrown into darkness as we drive the busy night streets
Each passing streetlight illuminates you just long enough for me to see the internal struggle happening between your eyebrows
I can hear the wind blow over my ears even though all the windows are closed

I want to touch you
But what's more, I want you to touch me

I measure the minutes by how many times you almost say my name
But stop short
And then we're in my driveway
Resting at a stop with the cool night air threatening to crush your car to a pulp

Do you...
You look at me
Love me?*
You look down and your eyes stay there
I see no shadows on your hidden face

And then I'm moving my body in one smooth motion to escape the trap you've set for me in your stupid car on this stupid night with your stupid lips and your stupid laugh and your too tender words that shatter when they should soothe

One foot on the ground
Then two
One step
Two
Three
Four
Deliberately away from you and the poison that you sung into my veins
Away from your touch that felt simultaneously like frostbite and heatstroke

You don't run after me
You don't yell my name in panicked deliberation

Instead
You put your car in reverse and pull out in one motion
Careful not to glide over the lawn and leave track marks to remind me of the place you almost had me pinned down to you

And so I am left with fire in my veins and ice in my cheeks on my front step
Fists clenched in tight determination to not let the stars see me cry for you

Because I am too beautiful to be shedding tears over someone who can't whisper my name
Or touch my hands

I am too lovely to spill over myself for someone who is a closed bottle of emotion and lovelessness

I am too full to be drained by someone without the ability to synthesize their own being

I am too brave to let someone steal my hands and wrap them up to never come undone
I am too good for you
I am
And you know it

GOTHIC POEM (come on, everyone needs at least one)

My happiness like autumn turns brown

Dries out rivers of sympathy

My hope is like winter and turns rivers ice

The sunshine in spring, up before the break of dawn hints at my poker face

Summer weather droughts every thought

Strangles the idea to strive with heatstroke

In the sunshine it’s understood

when that little voice says

It's a ride  toward  madness

Caress your dreams with nightmares in your bed

You'll see what others have bled for

their secrecy shall lie with the nightmares you keep

it's interesting how many people unfriend you then send you new friend requests, fukin pests, they should have a spray for them.

and the tapedeck's out of order
can't record a thing
can't recall a thing
and now ain't that
a thing,

Saturday night hot
some still cooking
some still looking
and some are
fu...is that the time?

The Day, When the only season we know is Summer
The Day, When the only animals we see live in shelters
The Day, When every gust of wind carries the ashes
The Day, When every terrain that was once green now a wasteland
The Day, When every step we take brings us closer to a heatstroke,
The Day, When every vision we have is being robbed by Smoke,
The Day, When Mother Earth stops pleading,

And the eviction notice becomes more than just a warning

Earthquake, Tsunami and Thunder Storms

What’s mine is now Yours, takes a bitter form

Every Day should be Earth Day

So that The Day never comes

A truck picked them up near the Mexican border
And drove across Texas in blistering heat.
A hundred or more were crammed together
With nothing to drink and nothing to eat.

The big rig rolled down the Texas highway
Heading for San Antonio, they say.
Smugglers would pick up their "cargo" there,
And SUVs would cart them away.

The temperature inside the tractor-
Trailer was over 100 degrees.
The door of the trailer was locked from the outside.
The driver ignored the passengers' pleas.

Chorus:
Farewell, dear friends--queridos amigos.
Were you a father, a brother, a son?
Whatever your motivations, you
All were victims in more ways than one.

When authorities found the vehicle
And opened the door and looked inside,
Eight of the passengers remaining
In the tractor-trailer had died.

Two more victims died in the hospital.
Others remained in a critical state.
Dehydration and heatstroke had been
Cruel agents of their sad fate.

Desperate to find better conditions,
They learned that success is not guaranteed.
Hopes can be dashed and life can be threatened
When you're a victim of smugglers' greed.

Chorus:
Farewell, dear friends--queridos amigos.
Were you a father, a brother, a son?
Whatever your motivations, you
All were victims in more ways than one.

(7-25-17) By Bob B

My favorite flavor of ice cream is chocolate
I go to the store to buy some.
It seems they don't have chocolate ice cream
So I'll wait.

I stroll down the aisle, searching for something delicious
There are so many different flavors of ice cream!
Vanilla, peach, mango, and butterscotch too
And yet I still wait.

It is a very hot day today
I sweat so profusely I fear I may get heatstroke.
I could really use a nice, cold treat right now
And yet I still wait.

Here I am in the store again, searching desperately
I need chocolate ice cream! I can hardly stand it!
Then I see it: the glorious little box atop the shelf
I must say, you certainly were worth the wait.

lately everything makes me wanna cry
so i'll fix it by going out and getting high
drive straight through 234 like russian roulette
to see if i'll get hit
i need another hit
and one turns into the whole bowl pack
i get dazzled in a daze of technicolor and emoticons
flying through my eyes like doves
i hope the black birds don't come
because i'm superstitious
throw salt over my shoulder
so satan doesn't come near
but what does that do when i have horns too
with a halo hanging on them like ring toss
i don't wanna do drugs anymore
i can hear my liver whimpering in the corner
begging to not get beat
but i use the belt again
and bash my head against the bathroom sink
sometimes i wish i died in my dad's bathroom
when i fainted from my prescription
funny how the legal drugs
almost always **** me
but i wake up alive after altering my mind
funny how peaceful heatstroke is:
losing sight
drifting sound
moving farther away like my ears are
detached from my head
last thing to dissipate is touch
until my fingertips turn blue
funny how burning off my fingerprints
wouldn't remove my identity
because i already wiped it out
with the ganj- and the grass
alternative medicine isn't healing
if it's being abused
and i'm so tired of feeling abused
even three years into the future
demons seeping through the cracks of my walls as i sleep
they haunt my dreams and flip them over into nightmares
but i will always go back to sleep
because i get to escape here but stay here
i want to astral project
and shoot my consciousness into the sky
instead of shooting myself in the head
i want to soar
and pick shooting stars out of the sky
and hold them in my hand with the same warmth as yours
i want to feel body heat on body heat
until i start to sweat and squirm
and you twitch in your sleep
i want to stare at space
instead of into it
when you can see the trauma
hollowing my eyes out
and caving my face in
from bashing it against the bathroom sink
and ripping my hair out
strand by strand
clump by clump
i would cut myself
but there's no spot on my body
concealable for when i feel better
i don't want to be reminded
every day of how i used to feel
because my mind already does that for me
i have good moments
so i tell myself after the bad passes, good will always come again

i am building a brick wall
in front of the mirror
because she's saying that when the bad passes, the good will come again
but what's the point when the bad comes back
an uninvolved father
stopping by every now and then
to use the tv
with the sound off and the static on
dissolving into the couch
like the lysergic odyssey melting on my tongue
absorbed by the grayscale of unhappiness
but i'll never say depression
because i'm scared of going back to therapy
backwards progress is not progress in my head, it's failure
maybe that's why i'm scared to go sober
because i'll always relapse

it's the end of the world,
my friends.

the sky is falling,
the ground is shaking.

the entire earth is
spinning and rocketing,
twirling out of control
around its wobbly axis.

of course,
gravity's long gone,
and we're all just
floating around.

the sun's getting closer
by the hour,
burning holes in mountains
and evaporating oceans.

what's going to **** you?

a new disease,
a bout of heatstroke,
a boulder flying toward you at insane speeds?

another person?

the absence of another person?
your own boredom drilling its way through your head?

your loneliness?

your regrets?

what's going to **** you?

looking up into the stars,
only to see your own
sad, short lifetime
of accomplishments and inactions
spelt out in the gaseous twinkly orbs?

what's going to **** you?

Choose days.

They said the forecast was for Sun
Ben Gunn had kit bags full of Sun

I've had some
I mean the Sun
just in case
you wondered
where I've wandered.

Heatstroke,
and I like to be stroked,
think that in a former life
I lived quite like a cat.

So
I'm rambling
scram if you don't like it.

Tubes.

one million ideas
on their rears
ready to depart
and the standing few
who firm up the queue,

what would we do
without the few?

the smell of perfumed sweat
can it get better than this?
I suspect that it can.

Girls with buns in their hair.

I have never had a bun up in my hair
seems to me that there must be
another place to put them,
like on a plate
with jam,
Oh it can get better
it just did.

Getting off is as simple as getting on
once you master the reverse
psychology.

There is a delicate innocence
in a young season.
One where they are just beginning
untainted by the coming days and the rush
of all the things that must change.
Unburdened by the falling leaves, or the growth of flowers
or the fall of snow on a winter evening.

But as the seasons age, they lose that innocence.
Leaves no longer bear the vibrant colors of Autumn.
Spring no longer grows such beautiful flowers,
whose petals are so soft
like silk, or a lover's touch.
Winter brings forth harsh blizzards and ice that forces
everyone into hiding
as they wait out just one of many winter storms.
Summer brings forth days too hot to do anything,
drought and sunburn, heatstroke and general uncomfortableness.

As the seasons die, they give birth to the next season,
innocence born anew in a never-ending cycle
of naivety, then suffering, then the long waited for relief.
A season never stays, and you cannot follow it.
But at the same time, you know
that it will always come back to you in the end.

Seasons are much like humans, no?
We are born so delicate, full of an untainted fragility
that people swoon over
wanting for that innocence to never fade.
But as we grow, that innocence turns to
bitterness, greed, anxiety, and the wish
for the next season to come along and save them from this
the boring, monotonous day that never ends.
And as we grow even older, acceptance rolls around
and we begin to regret the things we never did in life.
But for some of us, the season ends far too soon.
and unlike the seasons, we can never come back.

16 degrees on our small island is a heat wave
and today we bask. Children will be splashing
salt water fun and games on our many beaches.
The UV here is strong, a suntan is easy to catch,
as is heatstroke for creatures not used to such
heat. We would never survive much above 16,
16 degrees of Sun. Its all relative, our summer
would be a big disappointment to the many.

It's been four years
And I still wear our rings

But im forgetting about him
He doesn’t visit my dreams anymore
Melodies of his laughter,
his steady heartbeats,
his soft breathing
replaced by grainy voicemails on repeat repeat repeat
I     wish     I     could     touch     you     again

12% beer on her front porch planting flowers on valentines day,
Remembering the short-cut on the running trail
Heatstroke and search parties
Ravines swallow last goodbyes.

A new and empty house
Unassembled furniture
You died on a Wednesday
And I told you:
“you better not leave me to do this alone.  I can’t do this by myself”
I look at the disembodied, sprawling collage of wood on the floor.

“I can’t do this by myself”

All that responds in the empty house is deafening static before the voicemail cuts.

home is watercolor sunsets and heatstroke

street lights on the river we all dreamed of jumping in and drifting through

the saltwater dark nights spent talking about what it would be like to get away

i crave burning orange peels and christmas’s that sweat like summer

now my nose burns from melted ice during smoke breaks

the people here are painted with gratitude toward the nothing they’ve experienced

-home doesn’t have a name