He was never my classmate,
Neither was he my schoolmate,
As we have met on OkCupid,
Which is where we got suited.

He soon became my tablemate,
Then got promoted to bedmate,
Ranging from late-night nosh
To some naughty oh-my-gosh.

He was my almost-roommate,
Now, a hopeful housemate,
Since he would visit me daily
And keep me company gaily.

He was frequently my seatmate,
As well as invaluable playmate,
For we traveled places together
And cloyingly wrestled each other.

He has always been my helpmate,
And is presently my best teammate,
As he has cheered me up from afar,
As we chat as if there is no au revoir.

He will one day become my inmate,
Plus my hard-working workmate,
Since we will both have mini-me’s
Forcing us to slog away on our knees.

He is undoubtedly my soulmate,
One who is to become my lifemate,
For he is a romantic yet **** geek,
A keeper with charms all too unique.

The professor said
"Family therapy is like a Pie Graph
Everyone in the family contributes their own piece of pie.
When people leave
there's a chunk of pie missing
and the other members of the family
have to take on some of those roles to fill the pie."

Here's my theory:
Everyone in the family has their own whole pie.
Categorizes each housemate as a piece of it.
how they view them in their family.
how they relate to them,

Imagine a home
Mom and her four daughters.
Step dad, his daughter and son.
imagine three bedrooms.
The adults taking up one of them.

let's look at the Mother,
Her four daughters
all with different fathers
she knows how to raise children.

The daughters all know how to
Be
Children, be
Sisters, be
older or younger than each other.
The step-father knows how to have
A Wife,
One Daughter,
A Son.

Well Step-brother leaves the house.

Susie has a child at fifteen.
what does
her pie look like now?

She used to have a boyfriend,
four sisters,
a mother, father.
Now lost a brother
gained a baby.
She only knows how to be a child.

let's look at the mother.
She hasn't learned: Grandchild
but she knows how to raise a baby.

lets look at the step-father, lost his son, gained four daughters,
what's another one?

The sisters, lost their brother, a role model.
Exchanged for this this new baby.
another sister?

everyone's pie is empty in some parts.
judging by some other
dead white guys theory
when who you are doesn't line up
with who you see yourself as,
that's when people develop
Mental illness

Well I wouldn't call it ill, but let's count the bruises.
That baby is going to grow up as her mother's sister.
Suzie is going to seek the comfort of men.
Her sisters are going to constantly fight between calling themselves auntie
and Big Sis.
like tossing themselves on either side of the barbed wire fence is cause for death.

The farther we go back in each family member's backstory
the more slivers of pie we find
Georgia has autism,
Carley diagnosed depression,
Rosie an abusive relationship of 10 years.
Clover is quiet.
The Brother, schizophrenic, autistic, bipolar.
Any number of names they can slap on him.
He doesn't live there anyhow.
isn't human.

Muffle the sister that says she miss him.
hit her, cut her, lock her up.

This was a case study.
I lived with this family for four years.
unintentionally filled up parts of their pie.
I was Son.
Older brother.
Boyfriend.
Father.

When I stopped being a fly on the wall
Stopped seeing how their story was developing.

I didn't have any pie left.

There are a lot of important things needed to be happy in life,
that stop the dark rising and save the mind from strife,
like hilarious acts and moments we find funny
and as much as it pains me to say a bit of money
so we can do other fun things like go on a night out,
singing the hours away with a beam and a shout,
or a sweet song that glistens around the head,
or an engrossing book to read in bed,
ordering a take away and gorging can give a thrill
or back to back box sets on a Netflix and chill,
and just as crucial as having a top mate to phone
is having a place that one can call home.
Having an abode to go to when employment is done
or a domain to grab some water to quell the heat of the sun,
a space to collapse when infused with inebriation,
when getting tired of tracks, a warm safe station,
a place to get ready when revving to go out in the mix,
yeah, you were all of the above dear Flat Six.
Yeah, I’ll hold my hands up, you've been a ace place in which to live,
okay you were full of damp and the bathroom wall flimsy enough to give,
and when the verdant Eden outside was chopped down it made me mad
but you were only a short walk from my Mum and Dads.
You had plenty of perks,
fab tree out back and close to work,
a 24 hour garage a stone's throw away,
that sold the ***** at night and day,
you were near a cracking paper shop that had had 2 bottles of wine for six quid a go,
suffice to say, el vino did flow.
Your living room was massive enough to play big with a cat
"always a good time here" etched on your welcome mat.
Under your roof was awesome, you engendered joy with ease,
effortlessly making great, just like the cleanest breeze.
Now although you as a building yourself is a important component in amaze
other factors also make a simply brilliant phase,
Like when friends came round for fun and revelry
after we had left the club just after three,
we'd all pick up the ingredients for a ***** do
and jump, and groove with soothing coo,
the ether resplendent with "I love you!"
finely balanced between boom and cautious,
chatting committed, gabbing voracious,
sunk into fun under your light,
the wonder of spun on Saturday night.
Now, it wasn't just at the weekend when friends came to say okay,
there were some sweet gatherings on a Wednesday,
no women, no, just a range age of men,
it could only be mid week Breadren,
we could be having a conversation about how New York seems most tourable
when a voice pipes up, "by the way bel ami my cousin has cancer and it's incurable."
There could only be one guy who brings such depressing roars
the harbinger of gloom known as Two Doors.
He'll bleat on about how his niece has no womb and is totally barren
and next to him lives a kingpin drug baron
"they are shifting units at a furious pace
and ski in more in more wizz than ******* Scarface."
He'll change the subject in the blink of an eye
and go from talking about love to who's going to die,
he doesn't like most women, thinks they are a squawking flock,
he loves men though, yeah, he really likes ****.
A mate can come out and say sobbing he doesn't want to be with a lass
while Iain does think, "Ross, let me in your ***."
His friend could weep and cry with a whimpering cough
while all Iain thinks, Ross, **** me off!
Never mind Grinder, get on my fleshy old man log."
The third guy Martin is off shooting up in the bog.
Yeah, lots of people talked in your four walls
but you provided the space for those stupendous *****,
you were brill in December, springing in May,
really awesome in September, probs cos that's when Louise came to stay.
You held our pre festival clutter with happy behest
and often covered in bottles on Monday, a big glassy mess,
oh you had everything, simply one of the best.
As I’ve said, Flat Six you as the area were great
But a paramount importance in that was housemate.
You see some people can bond and connect in the hub of a club
but when sharing an address each other up the wrong way they can rub,
although they can go to a gig and have the most divine of laughs
when they abide in the same abode they go together like low ceilings and giraffes,
arguments start over the heating not being turned off
or who hasn’t took the bins out or who’s had some of the others food to scoff,
they bleat that “you shouldn’t have gone out for that night on the *****
And then made noise when you got in as you knew I was trying to snooze!”
or “why did you have that night on the coke, you see more of Charlie than an oompa loompa
and have World War 3 over a borrowed jumper.
So yeah, it's sweet when you find a shared space dweller
and who you think is swell and you get on really well,
as when after a day at the office and you perhaps want to chill alone
when they rap on your door to discuss the day you're glad their home,
skating through conversations with the p of pace
raucous at pontificating and waiting in the listen space,
bringing the talk with dazzling natter,
singeing the fork with frazzling chatter
to ensure the words cooked go down warm,
go down a treat, go down a storm,
discussing that wowing tomorrow is pay day thrill
and who was to blame for the initial breakup of Ross and Rachel,
top gabbing, it was brill!
Someone who when the elephant in the room is sniff
you both realise it quick and score in a jiff!
And never entertain the waste that is a tiff,
not for us the sign of a rift
simply super, a kind of bliss,
see I love Joe Flat Six, I love him to bits!
Although, like you  and your constant mould
he wasn't perfect (like everyone), if the truth be told,
you see if you follow all the biblical teachings you've been taught
you'd think he would have thought,
"I can help myself to the dental care and washing hygiene, it don't matter that I haven't bought,
I can use what I deem, Si's not the selfish sort,
he'd give me the last drop of his shower gel if he could,
he defiantly would,
so do unto others as they'd do unto me
and as I’ve got this human cleaning fluid for free
I’ll leave him some plentiful dollops on the side so he can bathe in a Lynx Africa infused sea
and I can leave some mouth polish laid in the shape of a cleansing leaf
so he can keep the fillings to zero in his teeth
then I can take the rest as I’ve been true to my sacred beliefs."
Yeah, that's what he could have done.
Instead he grew horns and committed a Luciferian act
and thought "I'm taking all of that!",
Sartini, you Devilish ****.
Nar, I bet you didn't even think that at all,
you were too busy imagining going out and having a ball,
beautifully bouncing off every wall,
riding the waves of Wet Dreams with total aplomb,
spinning tunes while high fiving Tom,
cool as ice cream and hot to trot
country hopping and swigging spirits by the tot,
at least Shannon seems to have diminished, that ****** robot!
she had more wires than C3PO's thighs
and glazed over R2D2 eyes
fair dos you digged her metallic allure
but did you really want to make love with the Terminator?
Ahh but who cares about a bit of shower gel and your cyborg fawning
it was great singing along as the day was dawning
And obvs I know every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end
But it’s only natural to miss living with one of your best friends.
So far be it from me to encourage your narcissistic gaze
but Joe you can add top housemate to your list of fortes!
So dear Flat Six to summarise
I’ll miss sitting out your back in summer rise
looking through your big tree with my eyes
at the Saturday sun azure blue skies,
I’ll miss that whatever there is to unfold
won’t happen over your threshold,
I’ll miss coming in your space with loads of beer
And chill with tunes while mates appear,
I’ll miss the midnight moving across your floor,
miss my key going in your door,
miss that it’s not your clock telling my time
miss that you’re not mine when I say “who wants to go mine?”
But now you’ll always be more than an address and a collection of bricks
I’ll always love you,
dear Flat Six!

Pet was never mourned as you,
Purrer of the spotless hue,
Plumy tail, and wistful gaze
While you humoured our queer ways,
Or outshrilled your morning call
Up the stairs and through the hall—
Foot suspended in its fall—
While, expectant, you would stand
Arched, to meet the stroking hand;
Till your way you chose to wend
Yonder, to your tragic end.

Never another pet for me!
Let your place all vacant be;
Better blankness day by day
Than companion torn away.
Better bid his memory fade,
Better blot each mark he made,
Selfishly escape distress
By contrived forgetfulness,
Than preserve his prints to make
Every morn and eve an ache.

From the chair whereon he sat
Sweep his fur, nor wince thereat;
Rake his little pathways out
Mid the bushes roundabout;
Smooth away his talons’ mark
From the claw-worn pine-tree bark,
Where he climbed as dusk embrowned,
Waiting us who loitered round.

Strange it is this speechless thing,
Subject to our mastering,
Subject for his life and food
To our gift, and time, and mood;
Timid pensioner of us Powers,
His existence ruled by ours,
Should - by crossing at a breath
Into safe and shielded death,
By the merely taking hence
Of his insignificance—
Loom as largened to the sense,
Shape as part, above man’s will,
Of the Imperturbable.

As a prisoner, flight debarred,
Exercising in a yard,
Still retain I, troubled, shaken,
Mean estate, by him forsaken;
And this home, which scarcely took
Impress from his little look,
By his faring to the Dim
Grows all eloquent of him.

Housemate, I can think you still
Bounding to the window-sill,
Over which I vaguely see
Your small mound beneath the tree,
Showing in the autumn shade
That you moulder where you played.

I like you, you feel the same
Right?
Ok. So we date.
You move on and expect
Me to learn from my mistakes.

I’m not willing to satisfy
You treat me roughly
Tell me I’m too young.
I cry, move on and
Learn from my mistakes.

Still not experienced
I’m not detached enough
A disappointed utter
You move on and expect
Me to learn from my mistakes.

My friends ex,
A permanent heart throb.
Old feelings surface
I cry, move on and
Learn from my mistakes.

You meet my **** housemate
A tall, lean *****
You wake in her bed
You move on and expect
Me to learn from my mistakes.

A long standing flame
I never demand full attention
You fall for a pretty doctor
I cry, move on and
Learn from my mistakes.

How many more times
How many faults to correct
Again Right?

I like you, you feel the same
Right?
Ok. So we date.
You move on and expect
Me to learn from my mistakes.

ART MOMENT, VOL 1
By Darcy Prince

Time or reality is ungoverned, it will remain so for at least in the indefinable future. Innovations will come along. If ethical education has taught us anything. It always changes. Devoid of not making an effort.

I tried painting for a bit. I’m not that good. Several years ago, my housemate recommended watching an Andy Warhol documentary. I honestly became fascinated & dived into several art documentaries, honestly quite a fantastic learning experience. Looking, I regret not collecting all the links to those documentaries, even though I got the time to do so now. This was during the time of getting to know myself again, or getting a sense of direction. Painting, drawing, more attempts to learn, using online videos to learn how to draw a person's eyes or hands was a somewhat slightly disappointing experience, that I should try something else. I can remember the pacific moment to try art writing a go or even getting into any sort of criticism. But I ended up there.

I remember watching the program, ‘different ways of seeing’, aesthetics became a new subject for me. With Alain De Botton, now taking into consideration the larger impact, things have on society. Being utterly fascinated on how some, not all painters have a lasting print on peoples society. Like how Van Gogh never sold a painting within his lifetime. The relation between what we see & what we know is a comforting, settling thing. Seeing the painting ‘scream’, perhaps an early meme or trolling act, without a notice, reflects the inner fear we share. Feeling desired as a lover, maybe the most Holy feeling in the world. For those who aren’t, their artworks are a displaying force of nature. Rothko has provided a new way in expression, with his drape like paintings in a tone of red, as his edges before the canvas ended seemingly lazy at a time when art was supposed to be serious & realistic. And so far, people are the common thread between forms of art.

A time for action is in art. In modern speaking or our armchair conversations over coffee, maybe you’re a tea drinker. My cigarettes will be there. The hashtag learn to code was quite popular, especially when universal income became a new subject for our politicians we are voting in and started to be talked about. Games are a large industry. There’s even arguments for it being art. It does make use for graphics & storytelling. Whether you play it or not. It does include a large amount of thinking to put together. Sure we can talk of the violence it uses. Though outside those who read or try to keep up with modern times. The rise of deep fakes. *** doesn’t belong to a group, race, a part of the city, race. It honestly belongs to the world. Yes, some works of art will rise from it. The obscure thinking never actually seems to fit in. Even in the Star Wars films, there’s a use of passed away actors to be acting in the films they’re releasing now. To remain innocent, is to remain ignorant. Statues of past figureheads of culture may have been adored by the art critic, but the average person has someone they know to be entered in their private virtual world.

I don’t know what your story is. I think art can offer what we’re languishing inside of us. Personally, over the last couple of years, I’ve been wounded by my last breakup. I spent it in bed, I cried, I couldn’t do anything, even food started to taste differently. In romance art, novels in particular, supplemented so much. Being heartbroken. Can you believe that individuals can do so amongst themselves? I’ve heard it argued & arguing successfully, that identity comes from an idea. Art I think, that comes along with that. But art does provide a certain grief, with tragedy developing as its own genre.

I really don’t know where I was going with this. I just wrote it out. But leaving it here, to add to the body of work when I die. But what reconciles an individual with society, to what that person created.

Dear Roaches,

   Please stay out of my coffee mug
In the mornings, I'll leave you bread crumbs
Or whatever it is you eat on the floor
When I make my sandwiches in the morn.
     ( I'm sure we can come to some
Sort of agreement)
   And perhaps I will forget to wash a dish
Or two and leave it out with just enough
To taste and delight yourselves in.
    But if I find you in my mug
Or my coffee machine, I will break
Out the Raid and other chemical
Weapons at my disposal, and sure I know
You will procreate faster than I can
Buy poison so let's make some kind
Of deal?
    Though it may not be a banquet,
I'm sure I can leave the occasional mess,
    So how bout it?

        Your housemate,
         Dedpoet

If I were a sound
I would be the sound
of wind
forgotten amidst
the cacophony of life
but ever present
whipping through the trees
surrounding you
in the distant sound
of far away places

If I were an animal
I would be a mouse
quiet
so as not to be found
but living with you
in the wall
the floor
anywhere you won't look
I don't wish to be seen
so I scurry
living off the scraps
of my housemate

If I were a number
I would be the number
eleven
two thin lines
that are ignored when factoring
lost in the scramble
to scribble down notes
two lines that are
separate
but the same
and sometimes distant

If I were a person
I would be the person
in the back
head down
hair in my eyes
so no one sees
the truth that lies
in them
That I am
the wind
I am
a mouse
the number eleven
that I would be
in the back

But I'm not
because you put a hand up
to block the wind
bought a cat
to **** the mouse
were dividing by two
so didn't need eleven
and looked back
in class
and sneered
at the person there

We rode home
One rubber wheel after another
Drenched to the liver in rain and alcohol.

"Right family, wrong housemate"
I said as your calloused finger
Ran long the sharp edge of my shivering jaw.

Your hands, rough, from digging holes
And coming home at 5 am
With ****** and swollen knuckles

Are the hands, that wash my hair
And hold mine, step in step
And lift me onto kitchen counters

So that our lips can greet and meet
And pull apart, only to reunite
Like us lovers, who long to never be too

Far away from one another.
One block and half, around the corner
or one street and two buildings away

We are never too far apart.
"I'm never going to die"
which is why I only called the hospital and the jail

that night you went missing for twelve hours
And left the morgue out of it.
If you're never going to die

Then I am determined to live forever
So that I can wake up everyday
To the way you look at me

Even though I hate Ska music.

I have heard about your time in Viet Nam,
operating on wounded soldiers.

About your hearing loss due to the bombs.

About your then husbands abuse
that left your unborn child dead.

Your feelings of worthlessness.

And you're angry,
and you should be -

it wasn't fair.

Now when I feel irritated because your TV
is so loud, I try to remember all of this -

I remember my dark times too -

so tonight I close my door against the noise,
and let you be.

"One is the loneliest number,"
but I like being alone - sometimes.
I don't like being home alone,
too jumpy for complete solitude,
would prefer to spend time with someone
when we're in separate rooms because
distant sounds of life are more comforting
than no sounds at all.

Music is good at filling in the gaps,
it twists up the stairs and under doors
until the house bursts (into song).
It's like colours for your ears,
not quite your housemate coughing downstairs,
but it fits in with being alone
being alone fits in with music
being alone doesn't fit in with people.

it’s only i get a little scratchy across my shins at 1:33
forehead against work desk
leant down to run a track on my legs
phone untouched, shortcuts retraced
HTT ..PS//
ishouldntcheckyoursocials.      us.

couldn’t make me an addict of loss
which really is the untapped potential
for the future internet of things
safari, waystone.
safari, favourer of webpage rerunners,
safari, guide me back to a bookmarked
cliff-edge of ache.

cookies know me better than my housemate who’s sweetness blocked his accounts before something broke and we’d have to talk about it.

once the whiter lines appear on shinskin like my algorithm
I can sit back up
if not satiated at least appeased
the sound my lungs make isn’t really laughing or crying but
a wheeze.

Sounds, how strange
Great and small
Struggling to pinpoint them all
As they surround
Each making itself known

Clacking of fingers across a keyboard
Near silent whir of the air conditioner
Hum of the refrigerator
Chatter and occasional cry of a housemate
Thundering of small paws above
Clicking and clacking of dog nails against hard wood floors
Voices from a computer screen
The occasional car whizzing past the street
The brief notes of a viola a room over
The flapping of the dog door
Creak of a door
Adjusting in the chair
Sighs of the dogs and people alike

Tired eyes blink slowly
Hands ever so stiff
Back aching, begging for movement
Feet and legs long since numb

Nothing is silent
Not in this time
Nor in this place

- Jay M
December 7th, 2020

I do not love you like the ocean,

I’m much too scared of drowning.

Instead I love you like a battered paperback,

small enough to pocket

on walks from dorm rooms to lecture halls.

I love like the blanket my housemate bought me,

too pink to be polite

but a soft cucoon against my skin

warm on cold winter nights.

I love you like anything that can be forgotten

tucked away or to one side,

but hangs around in the quiet moments

still very much alive.

I do not love you like life itself,

but I love you a little like breath.

In the same way that I do not think about it,

in the same way that to not would be nonsense

in the same way that I don’t know how to stop

without the pressure in my chest building

to a point where I think I might shatter me pieces.

I suppose I love you a little like breathing.

I do not love you like the ocean though.

With you I have never been afraid of drowning.

I was twenty-five and suicidal, barreling down 35W, the accelerator, pushed to the floor, weaving in and out of traffic.

I heard the siren and paid no attention until I saw the flashing lights in my rearview mirror, I slowed to a stop.

The officer approached my window and motioned for me to roll it down.

"Mam, you were going ninety-seven miles an hour." He looked at my tearstained face. "Are you all right?"

"Offices, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking."

"Can I call someone for you?" I shook my head. "Ok, I'll let you off with a warning. Please drive carefully." He pulled away as I sat shaking, realizing what I had done.

Now I am writing this memory, knowing I could have killed someone, and acutely aware it was white privilege which allowed me to escape without roadside consequences.

Now when my housemate hurls racial slurs, I tell her to stop.

Blood flooded my cheeks at 5 am. A frozen farewell kiss from Saint Joe while I’m scraping snow from my window. Shield me from the crushing pain, I think to myself. My brother waves.

And off I go.

In this new chapter, a stranger is singing in the shower. His cat shedding everywhere. The beasts of the southern wild are howling at the fireworks outside. Because they just want to crawl into a quiet corner and die. Peacefully. Like little bodies in sleeping bags. These makeshift beds were the beginning of the end.

I digress.

I’m a roommate now. A divorcee. And when he’s out working I’m alt-j laundry loading and making a snack. As if some chèvre and crackers could ever muster the gusto to drop-kick this depression attack. Can’t afford the meds so I grab a coffee with a philosopher. That should do the trick.

Nope. I got Žižeked to death.
What a mess.

I drive back home just to have you put your back N 2 it. And when you try to tongue and groove me, I recoil. Your ******* cat coughs up a hairball when you kick me out. Then he looks up with cloudy eyes and I realize: OkCupid is a terrible place to find a housemate.

Beginners mistake.

Fours years ago the visions strongly came
After that even my strange past was never the same
Two years ago I was engaged
The family the dream all I held to feel a Queen
I still have the ring and the partner too although now as a friend and housemate
The romance and wants died a death fell flat on its face
When I found love again it stayed with him it never came back to me
Perhaps waiting for it to return
A few years ago I put on weight
I thought it was laziness to be fat what a big mistake
Nothing I did shifted its gain
I never felt pretty I had to delve deeper within to feel a sense of beauty
A bit of a wild edge at times my previous fights repaid by a crime
Beaten up on a street two women compete kicking me in til I can only hold up my feet to keep my vulnerable places intact
I learnt a lot from that
Five years ago trouble through the drink and panic attacks so thrown for night in the clink it's ok the bouncers and police bruises left me with a mark of what they did think
No stranger to physicality in relationships of the old it made me stronger and bold more acclimatised to the odd sticks and stones the words they can live on if you let them take hold
It's ok I know what's been and done and the pain we all go through It helps us grow as people and help those in need too
Peaceful nature can ensue
It will make for a better you
Always colour in the blue

It took many years to track down the compound
but I finally acquired it in the spring of '21.

It caused increases in timbral perception and aural acuity.
I could hear marching drums coming from the city center,
From across the lough I could pick out their faint rhythms.

At times things sound as if they've been shifted a 5th down
or have reverberant/echoic tails on them.

My housemate found it hard to understand me
when I neglected to pronounce my consonants
because I was not paying attention to the higher frequencies.
Despite this the cognitive effects are gentle
and unobtrusive (which is relieving
as tryptamines can produce confusion,
in concert with their enhancement and suppression cycles).

Music is listenable at this dose, and sense of rhythm intact;
Would that be the case at higher doses?

During the offset my ears felt warm,
Waves of spontaneous physical sensation washed over them.
This tingling feeling reoccurred a couple times
over the next day, albeit faintly.

Interesting that there would be an aural psychedelic.
Intriguing that other base tryptamines should be inclined
towards other sensory modalities.

DiPT for sound, MET for vision, MiPT for touch;
What sense DMT, DET, and DPT affect is unclear.
As is, the known psychedelics have a broad range
of effects. The particular specializations of the xxTs
are most curious.

I think I have a    
secret housemate who’s    
living in shadows    
of my hidden world,    
A week has passed        
since they tried to    
breach haven free,    
relentlessly;    

I think they    
come to seek    
my will, and    
my secrets,    
highs and lows,    
And now I’m    
caught by an    
unseen–A    
spectral fiend    
deep within;    

I think    
I’m doomed    
because,    
this fiend,    
they take  
over, eating    
my words    
and my  
precious    
conscious;        

I think I have    
a follower,    
a tormentor,    
a whisperer,    
an intruder,    
that hovers  
in shadows,    
to coexist in    
nightmare’s dread;    

I think as day    
goes by, the    
questions grow,    
Who is this presence?    
I still don’t know,
With mystery unsolved    
we persist, in the shadows.

Lady Bird


We got home in the early morning
The after party on the boat was pretty pathetic
But the night, venue and music itself was tip-top
It's been a long time since I've been out on drugs
And it won't be the last

I went with Ahmet, my legend of a friend and housemate
We've booked ourselves for another next month, but that's the last one ever! I promise!

So I was sitting in the conservatory alone
In the morning sun
And I notice a Grand Lady Bird singing
I close my eyes and listen
We are all listening to her

They are definite phrases
Eloquent and heavy with her touch and emotion
Sighs of praise from the older women next door
I don't even speak her language
But she is singing her best, her most beautiful
And we are all pinned on her

Crash BANG!
The noisy big bird of a ***** crashed into the conservatory ceiling
And squarks like a rude fat idiot
Quiet, settle
He better not make another noise, fat ****

Lady Bird begins out of no-where
3 notes
She stops

We are all supporting her on, in our minds

The not such a good singing little supporter breaks into his best song
No, no, no, no says Elegant loving Lady bird
It carries on a bit, this back and forth, a bit of comedy
No, ahhh, no, ahhhh, no...

Somewhere in this I'd forgot to mention
Lady Bird was angry at me
I'd somehow, unknowingly got her attention
And she was reproaching me
I picked myself out of all the surrounds to be the one that Lady Bird was getting angry at
And I was listening so intently to her song
So you can imagine how quickly I wanted to sink and hide from her view

But later I did get to speak with her
I asked her if I should continue singing
She said yes it was good, and this is from her!
To go for it
But be smart......

So this is the story about Lady Bird in our back yard
I'll try to play with her next time, on the guitar
Let's see, she is out there

By: Cedric McClester

Now it’s Obamagate
So let me state
It’s hard to relate
To your level of hate
Once it was spying
Although you were lying
But you keep on trying
There’s no denying

Bar humbug! you Scrooge
Your ***** must be huge
The whole **** deluge
Is just subterfuge
False charges renewed
Cuz you won’t be sued
So you start a feud
Lascivious and lewd

But hold on, just wait
Remember Birthergate
And how you would state
What time would ablate
We’d see you sneer
And make it appear
That he wasn’t born here
Though that wasn’t sincere

Your constant housemate
Seems to be switch and bate
As you initiate and complicate
Certain things that you state
So follow your whim
And blame everything on him
Chance are none to slim
That he’ll catch your phlegm













Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2020.  All rights reserved.

my neighbor is named cricket,
she is quiet, pale perhaps in her 70's

my housemate says she lives alone
when you ask her a question she looks

her body softens and she walks closer
then she leaps back after giving an answer