boasting of the god of love's attentions,
this magicweaver lures her prey--
conjures forth her whim
seeking quench of fickle thirst within
attempting avenues of guile
numerously failed, and baits another heart
to suit her object's mate,
whose favors hail from Shiva
unto dominion everywhere,
  except at forest hut where Rama--
with Sita --honeymoons in exile
having snapped the cosmic dancer's massive bow
to win her for his wife, yet bound
by family word to wilderness
  in elder-shade of mystic eagle
guarded by their builder,
brother Lakshmana, in whose absence Kamavalli comes
to woo the godlike archer for her own.

little bells on anklets ring--
from creeper snagged
as if in venery yearning,
urgent vines would find their way to rest on skin
and squeeze in verdant rooting underform
prancing by, playfully demure
to enter subdued greenery
of Panchvati's gated yard
to catch the stoic Rama's eye
in invitation flashing for his gaze:
a sculptured form of flawless grace
nubile teeth shining from the forest dark,
a smile unassuming of callipygean sway
beneath the flitting lashes of her iris' swell

baffled there he stirs to praise her openly
as perfect--
despite his inner-goddess-for-a-wife he keeps inside--
with tripping words
welcomes and blesses this new girl,
exalting her with blushing queries,
sylvan surging rush to know
interrogate her mystery,
rapt in wide-eyed wonder verging beatific breath--
but learning of her lineage...
begins to plot their deaths.

banter light,
flirtations with a hidden, cosmic weight to pun against,
his praise asserts its hold
pretending bachelorhood;
his kindly, transauthentic voice resists
and in a sympathetic, skillful tone, promulgates
a drama to entice her eager mind--
ironic fancies of domestic bliss
flow from Rama, subtle jests
become her plight obsessing
into darkness embered with her lust
to truly claim him as her love,
her grandiosity defused in simple
entertainment quipping of their castes
and then with sudden burst entranced in luminescent rays of stunning rustic glow
from cottage comes his wife to claim her presence known.

the blow is dealt: Manmatha lays Kamavalli's fate: to self-disintegrate

jealousy to deafen gods, in cave retreat
to nurse her spite, surrounded in a dance
of serpent flails to sate her woe,
and only feed in ouroboros knotslip pulse
a lump-filled throat of gulping incite forward zest salacious
pungent flare of earth identity of fang and blood
the cry to shudder down a wolfine howl
in blast of animal, from screaming womanhood
the swoon precipitate-- vast height, abysmal fall
on being spurned by one who led her on
into delusion wrapped in sham an alter self
she met in bed a thousand cravings razing sanity
into a hate for moon, for elements themselves,
railing at Manmatha's haze infernal globe within and out
projecting Rama's face transfixing her inept
in wracking convulse whine of every cell,
her being sweating out imagined arms,
palms of his to cup her, lift from hellish pit of stifled longing never known 'til volcanically regrown--
in new love's throws an innocence of honest
selfhood found in him, bizarrely enemied in Lila's
killing spree of ego-dolls of lotus costume tracing all
searching through his fresh phantasm for her quelling salve
his diamond ******* targets for her soul
his broadness engirthing her to moan until her last in ecstasy
unknown asura-brew untold invented only now forever lost,
the moment fondled vastly gone,
his chest but gossamer instead of flesh
the emerald shoulder glimmer fake
the boundless confidence exuded in his
tender skin's encapsulated sinew strength
merely thought on causing pelvic quake
repeating there an apparition for her nearly endless letting out
he comes for her a demon double of her making
demi-god creator-demon vision for her writhing,
abandoned to the ambrosia torment he provides
wailing at the cavern sky her prison boudoir den
enscaled with slither pile coat of snakes, masturbatory wake of swooning still again

through to dawn..
in which psychotic break decides:
Soorpanaka births herself anew--
possession of her goal, or suicide.
the dewy spectra shines reflection of the choice;
rave committal forms its mould--
exhaustion hatches colorspray of plots,
braving mutilation to abduct,
lies and bribes surmounting each before
in ****** propositions to her ever widened bed,
else demonic armies loosed,
infatuate Ravana's heart
with illusory snare of golden Sita's rumored wares
to get her man alone and hew derision
with her desperate charm, by cantrip or war
spawned from deeper lairs of a broken,
fallacious heart, toward matrimony
or destruction bent













.

Mine is a generation of taboo.
We are tribal tattoos and cheap motel room honeymoons.
We are slander,
and slang,
and brittle teeth.
We are born-agains and suicides.
We are podium preachers and cracked-pavement prayers.
We are melted plastic and oxidized metal-
sometimes we gleam with the Liberty Green of corroded copper,
sometimes we crumble with rust and stain calloused hands.
We are the last stand of Art.
We are the manifestations of forbidden bloodlines
and insanity.
We are just as much our mothers
as we are our fathers,
and we are everything that they are not.

We are stigmata.
We are red paint on white canvas.
We are fast food coffee.

We were born to the sweet smell of formaldehyde
in rooms dressed in florescent white
that share plumbing with the morgues
beneath the linoleum floors.
We are the mix of ***** and innocence that lingers
in the kiss of a dimly lit basement.
We show and we tell but always only for the right price,
the wrong reasons,
or the promise of an exchange equaling to the feeling that
this is a mistake.
We are rosary beads counted between gnarled knuckles
and dragged across smooth palms that long
to sweep tear salt from flushed cheeks.

We are Heaven's lonely singles.

We are skin stretched out too thin over skeletons.
We are the complexities that machines can't calculate
much less imitate.
We are the futile cries that once tried to keep towers from falling
when the sky came crashing down.
We are the pardoned and the withered.
We are the hardened faces of those that have
worked too long
and been loved too little.
We have been told that the safest place for your soul
is in the hole of your chest,
but only if it's reinforced by
four inches of concrete and steel,
and strapped tight with a Kevlar vest,
because they said people,
at best,
are manslaughter.

But we have never been great listeners either;
when we were growing up
we pressed our hands to hot stoves
even though our mothers said not to,
because we couldn't just be told what it was to burn
we had to feel it for ourselves.
So every now and then we will crack open
our rib cages in the hopes that someone will come,
light a fire,
and decide to stay.

We hopelessly spray paint things like wings
On deserted brick buildings
So that, at the very lest, we can feed the
Hollow-eyed passerby the belief
That these streets still have guardians,
Even when we, ourselves,
Abandoned such ideologies in
backroad dumpsters
along with our deities’ infidelities.
  
We are the period at the end of the sentence.
(Or maybe we are the ellipses...)
We have redefined the American family
and proven that even Christianity knows how to hate.
We were raised by sixty-percent divorce rates,
yet we still believe that we are soul mates.
We are the jokers of the deck:
either smiling fools or wild cards.
We are cocked heads with smoke billowing from throats
coated with blisters and cough syrup.
We are back alley scavengers crawling on all fours.
We are the era of the Auto-Tuned voice,
proof that with a pretty enough face anyone can sing.
We are foggy mirrors with smiles drawn on them
by print-less fingertips.
We slip up the thighs of our lovers
and swirl down the drains of sinks with chipped paint.

We are the hearts in your hands-
Crush us into powder and brush us across your face like Indian war paint,
Give us up to the sky so that we can be revived by lightning,
Dance to the rhythm that we beat,
Squeeze us and watch as we seep through the cracks of your fist,
Conceal us in your pocket and only ever speak to us in a whisper,
Or,
with all your natural voice,
sing to us
songs about thunderstorms
to wet the dusty desert dirt around our rooted toes
in the hopes that we will blossom in the most vivid colors.

Just do something with us.

Don't sacrifice us to the tops of lost bookshelves
to collect dust
or rust in the rain with everything you once loved
but grew too old for.

no words will give justice
to these emotions that howl over me
it's doubtful how you miss
this love that cries for you to see

i'll shower you with flowers
and i'll kiss away the pain
i'll hold you when fear towers
and i'll break off every chain

it won't always be smooth sailing
i know honeymoons don't last
but know my love is never failing
with you, selfishness is of the past

i realize you're in a trance
of that girl who loves you so
but if you'd only give me a glance
i will take away all your sorrow

words left unspoken
feelings left unsaid
before you i was unbroken
but now for you i've bled

I saw her on the side of the road
Her thumb was scrapping the sky
I couldn't believe what I was seeing
She was standing where love goes to die

I asked, "Where you headed hon?"
She just smiled and climbed on in
I put my love life back into gear
But she was just lookin' for sin

"This is as far as my heart will go"
She made it clear to me
"I just like the honeymoon
And that's all it's gonna be"

She was ready to double-down on love
Even though she had no idea what came next
It didn't matter if she won or lost
Her heart was used to writing that check

I was maybe just the next ace
But gambling was her life
She just liked the excitment
She didn't care if she became my wife

This is as far as her heart will go
She made it clear to me
She just likes honeymoons
A beauty queen won't settle down for free

For a moment I thought I saw it
She was telling me she's been hurt before
Just when I thought she might settle down
She started looking at the door

This is as far as her heart will go
Just to the next stop
She'll ride with you for a while
But soon you'll be alone on that blacktop

I want to put my hands in your pockets

To feel the muscles in your thighs

And it makes me want to wear you like a crown

Until the weight of you doubles my back into tantric

And forces out of us the sounds

Of open windowed honeymoons

And shameful moans

Slipping through the jail of my fingers over your mouth

And it’s only shameful this time

Because we are outside

Please if you could

Keep the ***** talk going until

We’ve soiled the blood-money to sopping

In the imaginary world of the things you make me say

Guilty started once you took your coat off

We’ve shed this skin to sin

And now I’m just lightning

Stabbing at your thunder

What’s your name again?

You can make it up

I will shout anything you want me to

Into the darkness of wherever

I am open to anything

Promise

You don’t have to feel bad in the morning

I can pretend we never met in public

It’s not like I can take you dancing

I have two left feet

I won’t buy you drinks

You wouldn’t take them anyway

I will even look the other way

When some other guy dishes out

His disaster for you to break your bones in

He doesn’t mean anything anyway

Just know

I am probably sleeping alone if you’re not here

But I won’t always be thinking about you

Title-out of place- by meself.   A boor I am to peasantry's sultry disgrace, cargo to be tended, I subsist unamended, how childish I play these games. Liquer buds, saltine love crumbles beneathe day room lock-outs! Eyes stare ablazed, the hued sunset repeadily turns masterpiece of horrid honeymoons idealistic and realistic to discussions seeming strange. Partial bodies secrete the grassed out hills, morning calling awaits.,,,,,

I had written you a love poem
maybe two or twelve
before I ever met you
but it's hard to tell

I wrote you ten or seventeen
while we were in our throes
I wrote about a handful more
before I met my close

Then wedding bells
Then honeymoons
I wrote a few for her

I passed them off
originals
her own down to the word

I might have been successful
she never cast a doubt
but I never believed
I ever left you out

I deserted from the paradise to explore the universe
Because God made me excellent but also just diverse
I wanted to be considered at length while I was terse
With visions to explore horizons to be more transverse

I came across a sand dunes with its real musical tunes
Then I saw beauty with very many galaxies and moons
Love came down to me like drizzling rain in monsoons
A fairy in her golden dress came to me for honeymoons

Beam of light struck to complete the pursuit of my soul
A glowing beauty touched my heart as my ultimate goal
Sentiments started moving from part to part ,pole to pole
Love reinvigorated celebrated in shape of love as a whole

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow

FRENCH KISS
Such buttery lips
Sweet cream-silks, wrapping our tongues,
Je patisserie.

Le VALENTINE
Red rose and sweet prose
Cyrano DeBergerac's
Moonlit balconies.

DESIRE
Burning in goose flesh
Yearnings with caldera-thirst
Your kiss is like rain.

DEBONAIR
Dean in gabled suits
Eloquent body, jazz-smooth
Sweeps her off her feet.

METEOR SHOWER
Friday night space lights
As we caress the hours
Streaks across the sky

ORIGAMI
The creases of us:
Tales of dragons and white ships
Neatly folded sheets.

VEGAS WEDDING
Romance thru sun roofs
"Hallelujah" honeymoons
Marriage number two.

BON VOYAGE
Like wide sails that cup
The high winds of this marriage
I'm at Love's mercy.

NAPE
*Warm whispers my lips
Down smooth meadows of your neck,
Sweet familiar bed.

Title-out of place- by meself.   A boor I am to peasantry's sultry disgrace, cargo to be tended, I subsist unamended, how childish I play these games.
Liquer buds, saltine love crumbles beneathe day room lock-outs! Eyes stare ablazed, the hued sunset repeadily turns masterpiece of horrid honeymoons idealistic and realistic to discussions seeming strange.
Partial bodies secrete the grassed out hills, morning calling awaits.,,,,,

The man with a banana in each hand.
The elderly twin women with greying hair and stoic faces.
“Simon, Simon. Simon’s a ****.”
The man with the piercing blue eyes, loose tie, and nervous glances,
Hiding in the collar of his wool coat.
The woman with short blonde hair sitting halfway on a stool,
Dunking her bagel into a cup of coffee.
A small French boy begging his father for attention.
A French father absorbed in the screen of his smartphone.

Hundreds of faces and averted glances.
I’ve fallen in love with dozens of strangers,
Embarking on their dream journeys,
Their honeymoons, and simple business trips.
I don’t know where they are going,
And I will forget them by the morning.

ROAD
          Where choices begin;
          Some are quick to find its end.
          Wise keep journeying.

CARPOOLING
          The heavy traffic
          An ocean's slow ebbing tide
          Our patience drowns in.

METEOR SHOWER
          Friday night space-lights
          As we caress the hours
          Streaks across the sky.

STAINED GLASS
          Broken pieces shapes
          The Cathedral of one's soul.
          Stained light still shines true.

TAI CHI
          Dawn's ceremony
          Wet grass tickling bare feet.
          Wave away the night.

FRACKING
           Jonesy punctures black
          Points in caves, Great Mother weeps
          Wells of poison rain.

NIJINSKY
          So divine his grace
          Words not made to embody
          Ballet when God speaks.

MY WINTER GIFT
         Skin so Downey white,
         Like a cold glass of fresh milk.
         Unwrapping Christmas.

FRENCH KISS
          Such buttery lips
          Silken creams,  wrapping our tongues.
          Sweet patisserie.

VATTO
          Gang signs, ink, and blood.
          ****** in a low Beamer.
          Cool kissing his gun.

ROSARIES
          Madre genuflects
          In brown countries of her hands
          Old beads, sweat, and faith.

DRIVE THRU WEDDING
          Romance thru sunroofs
          Hallelujah honeymoons
          Marriage number two.

HOT TIN ROOFS
          A light Summer breeze
          Cools cacophonous bodies
          like hot stars at night.

NOSTRADAMUS
          Doomsday Soothsayer.
          His visions doth entertain
          Medieval profits.

CHINA
          Man's golden lotus.
          A wealth of divine knowledge.
          Heavenly on Earth.

FIREWORKS
           Our toast to Heaven.
           Chrysanthemums igniting
           The night's colbalt sky.

ORIGAMI
           The creases of us
           Tales of dragons and white ships.
           Neatly folded sheets.

BON VOYAGE
           Like wide sails that cup
           The high winds of this marriage,
           I'm at love's mercy...

OSMOSIS
          Blossoms in spring time.
          Bursts of Japanese kisses.
          How to love haiku.

HOMONCULUS
           Ultrasound preform
           Whose quickened heart is my own:
           A mandragora.

12 STEPS**
           Most Alcoholics
           Who drown in their own thirst know
           How deep "empty" hurts.

"Our Dream (Can't Wait)"
Running through my mind,
Running through my mind,
I wanted you beside me,
Like a marathon,
Im gonna keep it moving,
Coming to save you,
You I'm not losing,
About how fast were moving,
I put you first,
Love u no matter the cost,
But you are priceless,
Never run away from our dreams
Unless you would be loveless,
If you love me like you say you do,
Run away with me,
Having eternal dreams with you,
Bet you can't wait to see me.

falen



"Future Wife"*
Fell in love with woman,
Not for the beauty,
Or the body,
But the way she moves my heart,
Cant wait to tell everybody,
Oh look everybody knows,
I see a marriage commencing,
Will you take this ring,
Falen will you make me a happy man,
And make my heart sing,
Were gonna have the prettiest kids,
And we do,
Honeymoons will do the talking,
Baby making decisions,
In suites just night capping,
And when you kiss me,
I just like telling god,
That this is real beauty,
This may come as shock,
Future wife.

will you marry me?

Rosaries might be like ball-point pens
A souvenir for you from Brighton Beach
Fabrique en Chine, blessed by the Bishop of Rome
A kind thought from gap years and honeymoons

But now those rosaries and ball-point pens
Repose in stasis beneath your Sunday socks
And the handkerchiefs Mee-Maw monogrammed
In silk for your high school graduation

Go find them
(No, no, not the socks or handkerchiefs...)

Words flung onto paper are gifts of light
And so are Aves whispered in the night

Romance thru sunroofs
Hallelujah honeymoons
Marriage number two.

Love me like no other man has before you
Only you make me feel as you do
Velvety soft lips, oh so kissable sweet
Each kiss begs yet another and another

My oath to you is my unconditional love
Embrace me so loving, warmly embraced

Take me higher, love me ever so true
Raging our of control, our inner fires
Underneath the honeymoons, and the stars
Every reflection in your eyes, says love me true.

i open my arms to the wind
and find it uncomfortably still

there is something eerie
about the way you
can be submerged
in something
(or someone)
but feel nothing

i wave my hands
back and forth
like a cab-call
to feel it on my skin

the first time
a boy kissed me
i asked him
not to.
he held me tight
while no one was around
told me he would not
let go until i did.
i called it love.

now i write poems.
and maybe i shouldn't write poems
for men that i have only looked at from across a room
and maybe i shouldn't tattoo his name
in hearts on my arms
and go on honeymoons before the wedding

but if i'm being honest
i have so much to give
that the fantasy of you and me
makes me think that maybe
up is down and down is up
and that for once, maybe
falling might not be so bad

when you teach me parkour
you tell me there are softer ways to land
tuck, roll, spin out, land gently on your toes
falling is not the worst thing if you do it right
but it takes time to learn
and if i am honest
i am writing love poems before
i've learned to rhyme or reason
recite to you my flat lines
trying to turn the snaps into
a CPR jumpstart for love
plug into you
a broken battery,
just trying to recharge
all of my rusty parts
that I, lay before you
as if getting *******
would fix the gaping
hole in my chest
thats been out of
commission for years now

when you tell me i am _
and introduce me to your best friends
i feel the walls fall down
like piles of clothing around us
like makeup washing down a drain
like scrubbing rust off an old pan
i stand here raw and real, and still
you tell me i can stay over
for the first time in a long time
i say "id like that"
press two lips to a forehead
and two hands to a chest
take a moment to take in
the man that is
lying so beautifully next to me
lying so beautifully next to me
lying so beautifully to me
my body hits pavement

shame leaving me a widow in the window
singing the haunting notes of doom
writing in blood with feather plumes
shame convinced me about you
the prince carries broken promises
i thought i could stitch, ditch the rust
the jagged edges continued to cut
fiction, your diction, death by a thousand cuts
in and out of honeymoons, in and out of therapy rooms
beating me down mentally never enough for you
obtrusive, abusive, obtaining the useless
to use it, to ruin, dispensing the fruitless
beat me down, screaming out, enough is enough
call back your hounds
this is not love

chasing a fairy tale
flitting between lovers
in fear of abandonment
good girl bad boy
promiscuous *****
re-enacting traumas
suffered in childhood
emotional scars
deep wounds
and daddy issues
an endless procession
of honeymoons and nightmares
crying all night
binge and purge
*** drugs and alcohol
suicidal idealation
hoping the next one
is the right one

Love oh Love

honeymoons along the coastal shore

first anniversary fights, I won I Love you more

.i need to be dissatisfied with these words... they are so bothersome that... i'm yet to begin a what... a where... an anywhere to claim suggestions of my claim being adamant.

a candle for the pagan gods: in their wake...
for no reason other than
to somehow tread on ground
of borrowing inspiration...

i was called today by some incognito
clerk in a factory of voice...
she wanted to speak to
a mr. "x"... i implored for the first name...
ma-
       i can't pronounce it...

mateusz -
i should have taught her a little
instead of putting the phone done
immediately:
after all... she was going to sell me
life insurance...
i'm not a gambling man:
i don't gamble on horses,
i don't gamble on football teams...
las vegas would still be
a desert if i had my way...

              i could have taught her
a little: not that it matter:
or that i could claim to be colour blind...
i guess if you have experienced
the onomatopoeia of sounds
from a mouth who's **** is being
****** you'll be able to invite
any known stressors relating to "race":

michelle obama's black and brown...
my own?
chocolate, cinnamon,
a tease of cumin / coriander -
opaque: matted sort of hues...
glistening keynyan oily
marooned esque tamarind concentrated...

in madame bovary flaubert wrote
of a chemist's preference for
blondes... brunette...
let's go all out bonkers when it comes
to interracial mingling
utilising these architectural borrows:
a house is a *****
a stadium etc.
                   the limping phallus
of an obelix or statue or a skyscraper...

i knew i was talking to a gooey
tanning of khaki skin...
   it's not important in that it is important
for the descriptive addition...
i can't see the anglo-saxon way
completely...
  i like the addition of
sacrosanct  / immoveable details
of objects...

the middle ground: details of character
and personality...
to the point where there's a veil
quasi-n.p.c.
                i think it's important
that i'm hardly white:
       extremely: rubbing gammon
pink raw fetish
but given enough sunrises
and sunsets and summers:
i'm ol' iberian fake tan h'arab...
that's me...
                  black of what black...
after having ****** one:
with enough cocktails and wise
choice of music...
             interracial that it was...
here's me wishing to...
what frankenstein never did:
investing human *****
in a body of a wolf... at best an ape...
for kicks!
if i had enough money
and enough seclusion...
do you think i wouldn't want
to attempt this experiment?

her name was lisa but i know
she had the voice of a tinge more
fuller than mine...
you can tell what race speaks:
sometimes these cues...

ask the extremes...
a choir of Ursules: *** vox sanguinis Ursule...
and a baptist church choir...
you know who's singing...

the jewish dogs of genocide...
such shadow paths...
nothing to really celebrate...
and yet from the slave trade...
such exceptions to rules:
the voices of blacks: celebrated in song...
their ability to borrow instruments
from a classical period and turn them
into jazz... celebrated...
all the physical prowess of the "blackies"
celebrated in sport...
the hebrews?
who's celebrating the... voices
of the 'ebrews?
             singing broken-*******
at a ******* Bar Mitzvah?!
pseudo-castrato?!
this... this is where shadows give birth
to labyrinths...
they were not subjected
to genocide... yet they...
feel inclined to believe that:
they have been...
since... as ever... a small minority rises
to the top...
and doesn't possess the will
of the people etc. *******...

king Casimir could have been
****** by the nazis...
for giving them:
shaky grounds to settle on...
1410 and still these dumb-polacks
who converted to catholicism
400 years prior
wed their ***** of a bride
to a pagan lithuanian king...

that by 1410 there was still a pocket
of paganism in europe...
so large it required a teutonic mass
and the first postal service
to conquer it...
that some dumb polacks
stood their ground...
would be later shamed for dealings
with the ukrainians...
because: hell... the bands of UPA...
honestly?
the flag does it justice...
not this pristine: blue above and yellow
below...
red above... black below...

for some reason i seem to be
bombarded with history snippets...
mind you... years in an english catholic school
and the best we got was...
the end of anglo-saxon england...
philip augustus of the capetians...
oh most certainly:
fixture detailing edward the confessor...
it's not like we didn't
learn a "censored" history...
i suppose i have to learn "my" own...

but... in all... honesty?
i'm going against the hoarders...
those who hoard history rarely
allow anyone to learn anything from it...
therefore, it just so happens...
that it might have to be repeated...

i should just asked:
can you replace that Z with a H...
wouldn't that help:
mateush?

           it's hardly a special...
math-of-few...
for few for everyone...
i just want to hear all that baptist
soul
from the depths of auschwitz...
ceelo green: music to my soul...
a slave with gangrene blues
in shackles... later celebrated:
but of course... the suspect
hebrew intellect... as ever...

   it's not so visible it's not a singing
voice... it's not a body readied for
the hunt or some basket and ball...
and the dangling aztec project of loop loop
let's grow some gold...
i imagine the best ****-buddies...
though...
she would tell me...
i will keep you forever...
i will ease up the ******* strain too...
but i promise you:
i will never let go...
hell! i'd be like... Elisheba!
      i'll give up my ******* for that
sort of love...
i just imagine:
the day i was married to a god
to a woman to a monogamy holy swan
project... i'd have my ******* turned
into a snippet of "history"...
  
i did have a cultish idea only two days
ago on my usual quasi-marathon...
one will never walk with one's head
covered beneath trees...
one will always take off one's hood
one will always take off one's kippah
when walking beneath trees...
oh imagine! the sunlight and the cranium
of all these crows of trees!

i have to imagine such cultish quirks...
i'm not yet reconverted to my abandoned
catholicism...
little chance of that...
if i were pleading for a church wedding...
i'd be required a confirmation...
me? i'd much rather...
ahem... to be circumcised when
wedding someone...
all the ******* in the world
and cocktails of *****...

   here i was listening to some saint Ursula
chants... now i'm back
listening to: cee lo green's music to my soul...
any music from aushwitz?
any... wumpscut:?
any bunkertor sieben!

oi oi! here's a bunch that just wants
to talk and randomly chant
bogus rhymes!
   d.j.! give us the blooooooz-snooooooze!

Hannah? how is that?
         any sha! schtill! gaining pop frequency
status?!
           not enough Palestinian
paint-on plum
hit targets... not enough
experienced collateral?
counter the suicide squad...
  my pike! my pike's your pike!
oh no no... your pike's my dracula!
my ottoman keeper...
romanian... sloth for words...
loves his toothpicks with a bite first...
canopy expert... or so i heard...

this felicity thrill of language going
south of: westminster...
yes... the south of London:
some people do desire... staging
a... what's two weeks called?
formally? a fortnight... ah...
     honeymoons' a ******* sweeper...

either a blyck ******* the burner of my ribcage
of a...
sacred hebrew pride...
one which would come with
a leash
and i would lose the ability to *******:
one who i would wed
to be circumcised...

unicorns and siamese twin serial killers!
bright with a fire of dance
from a "blackened" voice -
the entire angelic choir has to be:
"bleak": blyck... bLACK...
you ******* are pushing
the ****** can down some "other"
avenue of: pseudo-somali ***-par...
ethiopian...

your voices are better inscribed
in song... to have this lackey body
take to jig than anything:
spontaneously animated:
but like the riddle for the rest
of us... the no man's land
of average achievers...

             for those of us who
woken up with your voices in
our heads...
and bodies disembodied...
sacrificed to the rhythm...
to having to face this
sterile environment of
lacklustre...
these bombs of well assured...
verbiage comforts
peppered with grecian prefixes...

but it's one thing to play basketball
with me...
quiet another: and i play the opposing
"team's" nuances:
i'm supposed to feed
this green hydra of jealousy...
it was never about the heart
of Macbeth...
i was always supposed
to earn the earnest of a progeny...

what songs from aushwitz?!
from the sentenced to a dodo project...
not kept as slaves that
would otherwise tier their toll
above mere stature of plumbing:
god... i have a beard...
it will never "miraculously"
turn into a ******* violin
whether or not i fiddle with it...

a tier above the english moors...
there's this fibrous land of the scots...
i have lived in edinburgh..
but i am not deceived by
th deserving comforts it provided...

the blacks feel outrage...
for being slaves... while the jews
sloth... in sullentry:
for being subjected to a genocide...
makes the mind boggle
and ask for a wilderness...
who is to become this...
voicerous exemplar!

not listening to the h'american project...
i would had i...
enough anglo-saxon boiling blood
in me...

come: revise me...
i am yet to find myself astouded
from the output of those living:
as i cower for inspiration
and grace of those
bound to the serenity...
of all things passed...

        from among the living i am...
lasting with concern for
mountains foddling
when egg-shells are
crushed with
the graces of ballerinas...
but not! stampedes of wilderbeasts!

this is now! this borrowed
time i have to imitate grief
for the liberals...
bleach me! have me scare
a sacred ritual of time...
                 i will, have... retained...
my... feet! the people and their
democracy can have their sway
and their own litanies:
their ditto-heads
and what's awaiting:
their cannibalism: self-proclaimed
redemption into reclusion...
but i, will, have... my feet...
with which to walk... and imitate:
ploughing a field...
i will have the wind for music!

i will have all these subtle intricacies:
for concern of detail:
i will not find myself
celebrated... hardly: that i must...
i will not have been
born from this hearth
from this... gladly besotten
first of breath... not so...
gladly inquiring their posit
of rooting...

let's just speak plain...
among the poets...
the priests... the prostitutes...
and the hebrews...
i of a 6ft2 and bulwark
form... could... compensate...
and the psychiatrists...
as a child i did have
a wild idea...
to procreate human *****
with monkeys...
with wolves...
and wait for the results...

             it's not like interracial
adverts for these newly achieved status
quo utopia bid me any luck...
a nigel: or a forkin' callin' it "inns"...
once you have had your
interracial: and all that ******* rattle...
there's no thai surprise
or a japanese porcelain "girl"...

enough of a walk come tomorrow
and enough sleep: promise me!
no dreaming architecture!
i don't like pretending / faking
death with sleep with
promises of disguises stolen light...
with the creases of grieving for
dreams...
it's enough that i have an over-worked
sympathy for the faculty of memory
and all that cameo cinema...
forget me attempting sleep
with an advent of dreams.

Honeymoons may be many things, but
They aren't some measurement of time,
More often they are diagnostic tools,
Dead battery, a check engine light,
Low oil, no seat belts, or low on fuel.

I danced with a boy today.
He was lovely.
He was gentle and kind.
I held him close to me and felt his breathing against my neck very quietly, but hesitant.
We danced around in waltz and danced like crazy.
We were looking like idiots.
But I didn’t mind.
He would step on my toes every now and again but I didn’t mind it.
I like him too much to say anything.
But he would of course apologise to me and say he likes me too.
He’s just a bit clumsy that’s all.
This was our first date.

I married a boy today.
He carried me home in bridal style which is very fun.
We’ve settled in a new spot and made plans for honeymoons too.
We’ve made plans to go somewhere nice but he didn’t want to anymore.
But that was fine by me.

I’m pregnant but he is hardly around anymore because he’s off working or with friends.
But I don’t mind as long as he’s happy.

He came home one night and hit me.
It was an accident of course because he was drunk.
I’ve got a black eye.
It’s technically purple and blue but nothing a little make up can’t fix. Right?

I have a son. His name is beautiful but He wanted His son to be called something else.

He’s angry at me for not cooking food on time.
To be honest I have been quite lazy since the baby arrived. I’ve not done the housework or cooking.

He came back angry again tonight he had to sleep on the couch.

I’ve been hit again. he wanted me to cover it up and he says he’s sorry so it’s fine.
My son turned 2 today we had a chocolate cake and it was delicious.

Me and Him went out for drinks to celebrate His birthday with His friends.

They were lovely.

We danced again.
Don’t know how long it’s been since we did.
We danced like crazy and we didn’t look like idiots this time.

He said he wanted to drive but I was the sober one.
He hit me too hard this time and I hit the side of his car denting it.

Sorry.
For denting  your car.

I'm dancing with a boy today.
He held me close and said ”I like you”.

I am under the impression
that love like religion, is an
out of date concept that has
had its day, nobody wants
all of the bureaucracy that
accompanies it.

Now all people want is to
**** and be gone, just like
animals which is how nature
intended it to be.

Love was like Christmas
and birthdays, Valentines
Day, Mothers Day and all
those other concepts linked
to marketing of product.

Engagements, stag and hen
parties, gold rings, lavish
wedding dresses, invitations
to banquets, honeymoons
mortgages debt death funerals.

All utter *******, legalise
prostitution and that will
put a quick end to love.

Men don't want love, never
did, we want *** and no more.

Thank you for agreeing with me.