Crossing my mind like a bitter taste
You infiltrate the better workings of my thought process
Imbedding a sick idea
One that compels me to do things
Things no sane person would ever consider

Touching my skin like a slimy algae covered stick
You tempt me and beguile me
With sick twisted fantasies
Scenes where terribly gruesome acts accompany mixed feelings

Breathing on me like a fat gorilla
You disgustingly grasp and ***** my limbs
Making my stomach churn with bile
But you never see this


Your sick ideas
Your twisted fantasies
Your disgusting groping
All build a fire inside
Not one borne of passion
But born of loathing

Your actions have been dealt with
Your person thrown in the hell of all hells
Yet new ideas form
New fantasies form
As sick and twisted as ever
Each one with you as the center star

These have changed

You are the star

You are the spectacle

The spectacle strapped to the chair

The ****** beaten spectacle that begs for my mercy

As I deliver you blow for blow what you dealt me

All I can imagine
All I can fantasize
The only thing that keeps me alive
That keeps this heart beating



Is the delicious thought of you dead



Six feet below the ground


Cold and rotting with no one to miss you

my gift to you are these few little things
that i have managed to save
like moths who fell asleep in my
care
and
who probably will never wake
preserved in a yellow clothe, folded and placed
in a box beneath my tongue
carefully so as not to disturb the dust on their wings
in case they should
fly again...

(the rustic child’s toy)

morning as blue as the eyes
of god

upon the roof

entrapped in it’s
crisp clutches

love and other
shining, stupid things
teeming below our crunched
bodies

something like euphoria
(or much to much wine)
and

silence finally

watching planes
leave their billowing
impressions on

the flesh
of the sky.

2.(the newspaper clipping)

we sank into the ground
bellow the bridge
and pretended we were
trolls
scaring the
goatlings
that trampled
by

you smelt of oranges
and wood-chips

we
grumbled and smiled
into one another’s
available
skin
to keep

laughter from
penetrating

the web of
fantasy

we were spinning

3.(the photograph)

naked beneath
the togas of wool that
our mothers gave
to us

tears trembling on their
eyelashes

(before
we walked away)

there is now fire dividing the
space between
our salty smiles

neil young-
a tiny voice
tickling the smoky
air
like little fingers
of sound

4.(the letter to yourself)

no contact
aside from

the mingling of
breath
and other
invisible

body things

like the mutual
recognition
of comfort

when was this
but
most
moments
mornings
in
cold that
froze
words
between ear
and mouth, slowing them
like insects,
caterpillars
slugging along
a frosted
branch

imbedding them
in the space
between our cherry
faces.

and in low times on sad nights
black tendrils sliver from the darkness
and lick seducingly close at torn skin

promising sweet release from razor pain
whilst imbedding their poison in vessels
to be encompassed by welcoming lips
-tdf

tenet fingers could ed braille,
hard-skinned fingers
could read nothing,
but morse-braille...
   and then there's stenography...
why o why
is the diacritical tilde
   (                  ~                  )
used to vacate either m,
    or the rattle-snake, trilling,
rolling implosion of the shape of R?
sure, b as 6... p as a copernican
north-by-north-west d...
   P as chiral narcissus 9...
     A as lambda (Λ)
and suma summarum:
a return to Phoenician
     jurisprudence and lament...
or rather lamed, subtle variations
circa 90°...
    E, I, K, V...
        how much of injustice
is grounded upon the "logic"
of stenography...
                         which could introduce
tilde to replace either M, or R...
thus said...
compared to braille,
and the simplified braille via morse
encapsulation? stenography
is cuneiform by comparison,
what's the point of shorthand,
when certain cases are delayed,
and delayed...
and 20 years later on deathrow,
enough time to see Johnny Cash
die of old age... and still waiting...
needless to say,
braille combined with morse
makes more sense than
     stenography...
                   almost as if...
you're begging to see a man
possessing a chronology of
20 years of sight,
attempting to discourage
braille writers from owning
punctuation marks, instead,
focusing on spacing...
    of man's notion of serving
justice... culminating in the nonsense
of stenography...
with either M or R,
marked by a tilde...
              should a blindman write
in braille... what the stenographer
writes in resurrected Phoenician...
as quickly as...
    a death sentence becomes
a liberty,
         for poor Xavier...
       than the upper tier of
zoology, lodged in a life
measured by: x cubed...
             man has another name
for passing law...
namely... imbedding itself in delay...
once a life, reduced to the frivolity
of micro-aggression,
culminating in, waiting for a bus,
five minutes late...
          that death that sloth
that slouch, that... ******.

There are things to worry
See in a hurry or a blurry
Move or push in a scurry
Yes even thoughts to bury
But a false premise builder
Often strikes match flash light
Whoa oh how bright oh bright
Let shine and blind bewilder

Imbedding their charges against others to come
Looking at the world in black or white smothers to some
Whispering character assassinations
Then twist and turn and speaking bass drum
Punches, scream oh no accept reply
Dive swim down deep pressure diving
Breaststroke splash splash accusation conniving

Slow blow mean demean, all to be sight unseen
Hide hide, what you?
Hey say, are often the hiders themselves
A skew, how shrew, the essence, yes the crux

Full one side story oh there is never
Force grab oh don’t push neither left nor right lever
Oh middle lever free is never to be oh unfree decree

Everyone forever on the mend
Though never even a soft only a hardened bend
Why oh why, why not to me now unfriend?
Try I to comprehend!
I trip tripness darkness spread
So must free flow words here this letterhead
Mind fever drugging underflow
No not no not yes knot oh complete knot tightening blow



Cheers, punch gut to me inner character assassination
My heart covered by trepidation
Fast forward roundabout rewind harsh lamentation
One sided black or white, out of spite and protection might
Middle ground oh of constant unbound
Oh why middle never to be truly found

To the mirror is the appearer
And yes all humanity can be vanity
So seek sanity says *** to kettle
Oh what, is there nothing to settle?



As member of humanity I am
Realize hurt I may have caused
Though not mal-intended
Yes not so intended to those befriended
Though deep down result is same
I neither disclaim my blame nor take crooked aim

do you have the

chops to be with

The Word as it dies?

poet a race human--

imbedding a chest...

left  to its own devices.

let it alone.

Opinions

Opinions
They are a rifle fully cocked
Ready to go into battle
Until the enemy fully concedes
Or is eliminated without any dignity

Opinions
They are pesky little tics
Imbedding themselves into every inch of the skin
Finding a home and ******* you thin


Opinions
They are a bulldozer
Come to take your home
And trying to rebuild who you are
Into something flashier and more sound


Opinions
They are that soup
That goes down scalding and smooth
Warming the insides like something to renew
But when they are wrong
They leave behind blisters on the tongue
That change the way you talk and the way you sound

Opinions
They are an oracle
A riddle
Without facts to support their claims
Claiming a destiny that is yours for the taking
But sometime faulty in their ravings


So next time you look to opinions remember,
they are deceiving and sometimes manipulative
only looking out for their own interests
they can be cruel and penetrating
seeking to annihilate
rather than something to create
they can raze or they can renew
don’t let them destroy what makes up you