My mouth blooms like a cut.
I've been wronged all year, tedious
nights, nothing but rough elbows in them
and delicate boxes of Kleenex calling crybaby
crybaby , you fool!

Before today my body was useless.
Now it's tearing at its square corners.
It's tearing old Mary's garments off, knot by knot
and see -- Now it's shot full of these electric bolts.
Zing! A resurrection!

Once it was a boat, quite wooden
and with no business, no salt water under it
and in need of some paint. It was no more
than a group of boards. But you hoisted her, rigged her.
She's been elected.

My nerves are turned on. I hear them like
musical instruments. Where there was silence
the drums, the strings are incurably playing. You did this.
Pure genius at work. Darling, the composer has stepped
into fire.

my tea has gone sour overnight
the stars must have mixed with milk
dreams dancing into my two white pillows
why does night slip away so suddenly

tones of sadness find me early morning
I try to unsap my fatigue and fall
stumbling into the room where we keep our food
which keeps us alive

sip my new fresh tea from my country
red and warm and hugging
I miss the accents of my land
craving something familiar (like you) but not

maybe we are all so incurably alone
spinning around this globe individually
unstoppable in solidarity
maybe this was how it was meant to be.

'I want to eat you,' he said with his eyes closed.
'Why?' Still, even though she was afraid-unfathomably afraid, she was infatuated with him; this creature so terrifyingly comely that she was sometimes scared of it-she could not then help peering into his bright face; its exquisite whiteness was dauntingly mysterious, but again full of indecipherable words-just like a dangerously emotionless sea; which could but turn tempestuous in the course of just one shadowy second.
'You're simply too tempting to me,' he replied after what seemingly very careful thinking; this time with his lips coming nearer to hers, until his breath she could see emanate in bold wreaths of white, pearly bits; bits of ice-lifeless, and tender whilst in handfuls, but at times heartless with their cold souls.
She reflected on the answer for a while, then slowly formed a thoughtful smile around her lips. 'Then where would I be, if you ate me?'
'Within my soul, my blood, and all the length, mirth, and the very crown of my heart,' he uttered the last two words confidently, before further lurching straightly forward to bestow a playful kiss on her trembling lips.
'Ah, but still it won't be the same, my love,' she cupped his cheeks with her cold hands and whispered to him quietly, when they finally pulled away. 'I would no longer be here by your side. And as you have but stated before, you surely like having me here alive better than dead, don't you?' She let out a deep breath, and showed a flirtatious grin so captivating that he wanted to kiss her once more. And possibly mesmerize her. Startle her. Eat her. Partake of her. Consume her. Conquer her. Possess her. Tear her. Tear her apart. Tear all her senses apart. Break her up. Break her body up. Break it up into nothingness. Until she was nothing. Entirely nothing. No more of anything of herself but what he had. Nothing but what he owned. And secretly desired. And had always longed for. Nothing but he possessed; and treasured within his very body; and its very own capricious cells. But still eventually, be her everything; or simply, be everything to her. Be everything she ever wanted. Everything she desired. Everything she wished. Everything she, with all her human weaknesses, ever eagerly wanted him to be. Or to do.
'Don't worry, still it will be the same,' he caressed her hair with his free right hand and kissed it. And when she became puzzled by this tauntingly obscure remark, he explained, 'It will still indeed be the same, and will forever be the same, because you will dwell within me, and thus within my heart will be carved your name. So that you're the sole torch that keeps my flame. And the mere lamp that lights my soul. The medicine that heals my wounds. The very deeds of my desires. All the merriment of my days. And the very light that is thrown onto my ways.' He stopped and sighed for a while, before continuing, 'Thus, on top of all that, you will still own the same brand of addiction-to which my entire being is addicted to. Really addicted to. Incurably addicted to-as I will never be able to continue to live without it. I will prefer death, and cherishing a gruesome life among the dead, to having you not within my being-just like I will be if I ever consume you not. So within me,' he took her hand and pressed it against his chest, 'there shall be nothing but satisfaction,'-he stepped closer into where she was standing, 'with having you within me; so your soul shall blend, and merge but perfectly into mine, querida. And such is an occurrence I shall never regret; even if I eventually have to eat you.' Having proposed these last two words, he closed his eyes again; before launching his body right onto hers, and this time missing not planting his fangs onto her shoulder.

Earth Day, April 22, 2017  "give back to Earth",
as an "offering" for all the planet gives us.**
For Global Earth Day information visit:  http://www.earthday.org/


       Her ominous shadow
             shown a path
   far beyond the miles high
  a majestic mountain stood

   Silently climbing down
         million year old  
      steep canyon walls
               at dawn,
  each step chosen carefully
     coursing with purpose

    Finding a way forward
         was the only way
           to look back up
      river carved ravines
     where higher ground
              once stood

  Instincts drawn downward
       gravity feed towards
         the faint murmurs
       deep echoes tracery
   down sheer basalt cliffs

          Artesian waters'
       resounding gurgles ―
     bubble up to quench
     a lost soul’s incurably
   intrinsic parching thirst;
       to find an unfolding
       metamorphic peace
     in the trove of igneous
     fountain veins of earth

    There’s not need to wait
      on sunrise pathways lit ―
   there is no fear of gravity’s
     downward silent weight  
      nor burden to be borne

Listening beyond dark silence      .
      igneous bedrock roots
     beckon deeper expanse ;
  spirit realms of ancient souls
     whisperer like thunder
        to the soul of man ―

Awakening ruptured lifelines
    deep below earthen crust ,
    creations hidden essence
     eternally remembered
         by the light above ...



April  2017 © harlon rivers ... all rights reserved

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer were a very notorious couple
     of cats.
As knockabout clown, quick-change comedians, tight-rope
     walkers and acrobats
They had extensive reputation. They made their home in
     Victoria Grove—
That was merely their centre of operation, for they were
     incurably given to rove.
They were very well know in Cornwall Gardens, in Launceston
     Place and in Kensington Square—
They had really a little more reputation than a couple of
     cats can very well bear.

If the area window was found ajar
And the basement looked like a field of war,
If a tile or two came loose on the roof,
Which presently ceased to be waterproof,
If the drawers were pulled out from the bedroom chests,
And you couldn’t find one of your winter vests,
Or after supper one of the girls
Suddenly missed her Woolworth pearls:

Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
     they left it at that.

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a very unusual gift of the
     gab.
They were highly efficient cat-burglars as well, and
     remarkably smart at smash-and-grab.
They made their home in Victoria Grove. They had no regular
     occupation.
They were plausible fellows, and liked to engage a friendly
     policeman in conversation.

When the family assembled for Sunday dinner,
With their minds made up that they wouldn’t get thinner
On Argentine joint, potatoes and greens,
And the cook would appear from behind the scenes
And say in a voice that was broken with sorrow:
“I’m afraid you must wait and have dinner tomorrow!
For the joint has gone from the oven-like that!”
Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
     they left it at that.

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of working
     together.
And some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of
     the time you would say it was weather.
They would go through the house like a hurricane, and no sober
     person could take his oath
Was it Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer? or could you have sworn
     that it mightn’t be both?

And when you heard a dining-room smash
Or up from the pantry there came a loud crash
Or down from the library came a loud ping
From a vase which was commonly said to be Ming—
Then the family would say: “Now which was which cat?
It was Mungojerrie! AND Rumpelteazer!”— And there’s nothing
     at all to be done about that!

like the inconstant moon I change,
cyclical about circumstances,
serendipity and fortune exchange
appearances for second chances,

and as we each alter our perception,
we see ourselves as constant,
each and every change in direction
still seems like a straight line

with no more than closer inspection
looking behind to the distant
fading horizon in the failing light
the pattern of circles and spirals

and zigzags, stops and backtracks
a wandering chorus line of fools
all singing things I can’t take back
the realization that I am not an individual
:
but an average of multiple formulas
complex variable algebra and simple subtraction
a vector resulting from many forces
pushing and pulling and thrusts and attractions

the color of the liquid in the test tube
fizzing and changing with every next drop occurring
an organism that adapts to its environment
to thus fill its requirements and its fleeting yearnings

a flock of birds, a can of worms, a herd of cats,
an untamable unit described in terms
of the time it exists in existing- that is
another illustration, another article, at any other time or mood

a crop whose fruitfulness is determined by unusual farmers
one field ploughed, one weeded, one fertilized, one seeded
akin to the Bible, a book of numerous authors that tries to
merge allegories into a useful, enlightening anecdote with which to furnish the brood

flesh, soul, chemical, inspired, mechanical-Angel
a temptable machine whose springs and cogs
could be found to have been hand-wound
at any given time by either His Rival’s or God’s

and if Made in His Image then I must be both
wrathful and loving, vengeful and forgiving,
quick to temper and eternally patient
yet limited in time allowed to be spent living

the difference is- my choiceful subsistence briefly caresses
this quick struggle and my purpose not yet fully defined
would fate’s justice have me on the gallows for my excesses?
or would not passion for the endowment of living grant reprieve?

where is the solace for the incurably ardent?
maniacally spontaneous, courageously aloof
what cheer can be brought to the seers?
dejected clairvoyants, puppets or puppeteers to the truth

however never simultaneously clever are we
always we must be one or the other each seen
though never seemed to be separate things
now see what difficulty wrecks all my dreams
:
catharsis then epiphany then pensive then somber
an artist, a daddy, a mocked captive, an avid doubter
carouse then abolish then regret then absolve
a spouse, a skirmish, an uncommon asset, an outlet resolved

how do I bring about the determination of the jury?
which of the accomplices will abide full recognition
and be he who will stand to read the indistinct verdict
to the culpable crowd assembled in this the trial of alternation

so contempt be then to the court of constancy!
no thing in heaven or earth adheres to its philosophy
render the sentence that I may be found guilty
yet I am consented to return undestroyed, now let the die be cast

these confines beg for stasis I cannot deliver
my cell itself is afloat without a tether
these customs require that I be a quitter
yea though the pendulum returns to the tock once the tic has passed

hope called through a
window's pane, the scratch
marks in the single glaze
opens my letters; they
sit down to honeyed
conversation out in
the back yard. my throat
rakes small tendrils
billowing up through
the gravel, i slumber
cradled between soft
hot patches of afternoon, i
call nobody lover but misery,
still.

moribund, late light
crosses the neighbour's
rose bushes and cries
from the fenceline. all
is broken like me, but i
do it better. that, i promise.

now, finally slowing in eyelid
beat counts, my dreams tell
truths of my own small life; the
ones i won't dare live by, but
instead lay down and watch
ribs lain below
asbestos skin: i lose
hope's screaming in the garden,
knowing no fingers would want to
cross their lines,
who'd edge up to ****** up
tired little i?

Ah, I'm red, red, red, red, red! Blush didst I odiously-heavily and gaily, soon as my cheating eyes caught t'at sight of thee! Yes, my dear! So splendid in thy furry, silky coats, ah! silver and red just like th' plentiful breaths of thy streaming innocent gladness; and so perfectly swimming in the oceans of thy handsome face. How profuse and miraculously stunning, like t'ose proud branches of th' juvenile brown verdure-clinging to th' wreaths of cloudy smokes, but still in possession of t'eir own light-hearted lives. How my pride, and weary confidence, sulkily musically leaned away and eagerly bubbled out of my entire conscience; ah, gasping for air then I ended up, unable to **** in th' very atmosphere of th' corridors in which I numbly stood. How I was incurably merged into thee, my love! But still-can't thou see it? My wit, oh, my absurd, haughty wit-and waning intellectual dignity, all were but worse and merely remnants of desultory shadows as soon as thou heaved thy shiny self into view; and straight away-ah! in th' one very blink of th' cautious eye of thee-my thorns of meek feelings were but cheered again with unseen crowns of white dew. Oh, querida! How I plodded about th' magnanimous region of our dwellings, yes-amidst t'ose chirping buds of waterlilies and lavender-like moors out t'ere-t'is morning, with thy image so clearly evoked within my chest, before satirically-and dolefully-giving up my fragmented efforts-as I found thee not, my love! But t'is tearful evening, o, as agitated, sombre and colourless as it would ever become, soon flashed into mine t'at wildness, and yet flirtatiousness-of thee, bathed in jubilant waters of light, and deafening storms-ah! t'ose torturous storms of benevolence, hysterical prudence, and ingenious salutations. Oh, how sure and convinced I duly am now-t'at thou art th' only merit and most precious gift I shall ever love, cherish, and care for. Thou art, indeed, th' sole man I want, and am ever desirous of, in t'is mortal world-for I consider thy love immortal, and secured, for me-ah, as it hath always been-just for me, love. I love thee-I love only thee, oh my, my darling! A prince, prince as thou art, shalt break t'ese weak, ye' icy stones in which I am enveloped-for all th' virtuous akin 'tempts hath all been wan and futile-and melt, melt safely t'is stern heart of mine so I canst cherish love again.

I really tried to let my nails grow out
but I just had to bite them
Waiting is simply not a skill of mine
I will admit that patience should be desired
but I will not lie and say I am fine
I took three baths today
I tried to scrub away my sadness
but the water was quickly soiled,
my body dissolving
in a tub of the burnt and boiled  
I left a trail of wet feet on old tile
and fell into my nest of isolation
I can't be bothered to even get dressed
Because it's just another day of nothing,
and yet I am incurably stressed

"Would you like your groceries
bagged in paper or plastic?
will you be paying with paper,
Or plastic?"

Rock paper scissors
has been replaced
With something
more rudimentary
But essentially,
Neither have intentionality.

No matter how far you try to move
away from synthetic
you're still drinking out of plastic
eating out of plastic
driving, walking, buying, *******
out mounds of it.
You put your plastic in plastic,
leave it outside
until a man swings by
throws it into a pit
with all the other wasted ****
to exist
for all eternity.

Would you rather melt or burn?
Bankruptcy is a hard lesson to learn
But the ashes of this economy have been
Touted as prosperity
Instead of resigned to an urn
To relearn the transparency
of democracy
As it should be.

I'll trade my plastic smile
For a fistful of paper
I'll exchange it for something physical,
Something bigger
Something somehow better,
Sans the improvement.
The reanimation of the market
Capitalism! Ah,
The dream land.
“Build your monopoly
Crush your enemy”

Oops I mean your neighbor
They're all the same
in this day and age.
Community has been sold
for pennies on the dollar.
Now we’re fighting tooth and nail
To be the one
wearing the shock collar

Bzzzt!
I have the most likes on my photo
Bzzzzt
This minor annoyance
has become my addiction.
I’m shopping and sharing
And living within this tiny television.

This is post apocalyptic
You just can't see it
Because you're living in it.
Things are better, yes
But 6.7% of Americans are diagnosably,
incurably depressed.
37% are oppressed
44%  are over stressed and
81% are in debt.

Let me just say this now
From my white-privilege-podium
That keeps all adverse effects
Of free speech
From touching me

****
YOUR
AMERICA.

**** this corporate greed
that grinds itself down
and repackages itself into
“The American Dream”.

and **** us, right?
For thinking anything here was free.

The Lawncrest Acres State Hospital for the Incurably Poetic -
I think dear Granddad, the good doctor,
once practiced there as a clinician
(and as patient once, too)
his writing otherwise confined in public eyes
to those horribly dry tomes whose titles began
"On the practice of..."
whereupon he may have gone
on to expound the virtues of religion in psychiatry
as measured in cross sectional study
or harsh parenting as inherent to induction of pathology
But at home he would write
the sweetest poems to us
on birthdays or just because...
he never wrote one for me, oversight I'm sure,
as I roamed the floor
in his house, same as all the others.
So maybe that's why I secretly try
to be a poet like he was.

There are so many other girls with perfect hair and skin and eyes and compared to them, I am a walking joke. I am an unfixable calamity of dark grey circles under my eyes from staying up all night because the thoughts in my brain always seem to bloom at the worst times. I am the weight of a thousand words that sit at the tip of my tongue but refuse to come out. So please don't ever tell me that I am flawless because that word is so far away from what I aim to be. At the end of the day, I want to be so incredibly flawed and real and incurably human but still beautiful because of what is inside my heart instead of what sits on my skin. I have slowly become a whirlwind disaster of running away from your toxicity. I am a hurricane of good intentions gone wrong but I can promise you that you'll never find a perfect person that could love you as imperfectly as I ever did.

Comfortable syllables flow from the mouths of preachers
who tell us the words don't matter, only what's
etched incurably in our hearts.
But we know better
We must flee to be free from the gazes of perfectly winged eyes, standing upright next to suit jackets and pristine ties.

And the pleas offered up from our minds are never headed in the right direction, the one all the rosaries and pews point towards- we send
our message up to Heaven, taking avenues that even we can't comprehend. And no one believes because they won't spare
just one second.

They see the worth only in the hours squeezed out of organized bodies
and the tangible gifts and the pounded out work deliberately presented, but every hair stays in place and not one drop of sweat falls and they wonder why religion is not an appealing call
because they've lost the point under all of the
lipstick and lies they lather on.

It's absurd to grasp the notion that any god wants to hear from
a pack of perfect praisers,
raising their children to pray the same way they've always done.
There's no way to find your voice under all the babies crying and cries ringing and the fierce scolding of every beautiful thing.

So our prayers remain hidden, buried deep in the wind that carries them away. We pray every second of every sequestered and lonesome day. We fill up our spirit in the way we hope as we desperately pull on our clothes that today we won't be too late.

We lift up offerings in the tortured songs our tears sing as they run over all the keys engrained in our faces by all the fingers that forlornly stroked our cheeks.

We pray by shaking our fists at the sky as the trees rock and sway, upset by the storm that heads our way, as we fall to our knees because we've no better way to express our need than to let it seep from between our clenched fingers.

Every swish of a desperate eyelash, momentarily hiding the lake frozen inside is a viable thank you that at least no one treads the length of our ice and a request that one day it will melt and even if it leaks from between our lids, we will be able to let it go

Every moment, birds fly from our chests, greeting
the infinite clouds with timely beggar's leaves clutched in their mouths

Misery is not what we claim, but as we walk, we pray, each step pleading for a better path to follow and a heart that doesn't beat with
everyone else's blood pounding so hard
against our own

With the days that pass by
Along with the moments we hope to leave behind
Come the lingering feeling
Of what should have clearly been

As the contingency gets scanty
And the feelings, grievous and empty
Even with desperate cries for help
Why do I stay incurably unheard?

I extend my arms and try
Try as I might to fly
For when they say follow your heart
It’s with you I want to start

Yet my hearing must be impaired
'Cause it hears your voice that says we'll not end
Tell me how could I not hold on to these words
When in my heart they broke through, heard

As we dare and lose a zillion times
As our laughs retrogress to cries
As the hugs turn into meters apart
Does the end really need to be that we depart?

Then here I hope that all the pain leads us farther
That the past was nothing but a mere poseur
'Cause when we again find one another
It’s up to the flame we cannot smother

Kakorrhaphiophobia
Achluophobia
Contreltophobia
Iop­hobia
Eremophobia


Many things scare me. I am afraid of *failingtests and failinglife. I am afraid that what happenedinninthgrade will happen again. I am afraidofthedark, and beingalone in it, and beingmyself in it.


Ligyrophobia
Erophobia
Androphobia
Hedonop­hobia


I am afraid that I don’t deserve tofeelgood after what happenedinninthgrade. Happened because I was afraidtoscream because I was afraidofhim because I was afraidofmybody


Scopophobia
Haphephobia
Eisoptr­ophobia
Rhytophobia
Mnemophobia
Agateophobia
Necr­ophobia


I am afriadofbeinglookedat and ofbeingtouched because of what happenedinninthgrade. I hate lookinginmirrors because I never know what I’ll see. I am incurably afraidofmemories they make me feel like I’ve lostmymind. And last of all, I am afraid of everything I see; I never know if they’re **trulyalive

We hire the consultancy firm,to firm up the prices which we're going to charge you,and charge you we will,
Charge you until your pockets squeak,charge the poor and the weak,the old and the sick,and we might get it into our head to charge the incurably recently dead.

That's what we're hired for,to hike up the prices you charge at the front door,no one comes through who hasn't paid through the nose and those who chose not to, simply do not get through.

The consultancy firm and with a firm hand, will show you a profit by turning and biting the hands that have fed it,through the thick and the thin,all it takes is some spin,
and we're good at that.

Two petite pretties 
pranced before me
paragons of the 
impoverished society
that values surface 
over depth

The dancing debutantes
Dangled their dangerous
And dubious dispositions
Directly in front of me

Enter stage bad boy
Blustering buffoon
With a silver spoon
So far up his ***
He spewed silver polish
On his nice Polish pants

Cash in hand
He passed around 
His affluences
Like it was influenza
Vomiting vague
Platitudes with 
So much attitude 
As if he had 
Anything valid to say

But this crowd was rapt
With the vapid vocalist
He drank expensive ****
To prove he was valid
No valor just vain vagaries
On display to frustrate me 
Greatly

They celebrated the success of a 
Failing millionaire who was premade
By the fortune that his father made
To bail him out of all of his mistakes
As he played society like a broken violin
I was trying to bring talented art back in
But society placed me in the trash bin
Before I could even begin
To purge the poison
The incurably incurious
Perpetuators of 
Shallowness

So I bow out of this
Cause I thought 
We were working together
To make each other’s life better
But it turns out I was 
Running a race 
I did not even know about

Don't talk of the present.
It's too bad.
Leave it.

Even hope is incurably sick.

my mom says she needs to talk to me but how am I supposed to listen when all I hear is grinding teeth and cold ice sharp enough to scratch my skin and my dogs won’t stop barking but it’s not their fault they’re supposed to be quiet all the time what if they have something to say sometimes too and no one ever listens to them either and all they want is to play but everyone’s too busy and everyone’s too sad and everyone’s dying so time just goes by because the smell of hospitals is ingrained in my body and stops me in my tracks and I want to sleep all the time not because I am incurably tired but because I am insatiably sad but I need to do my physics homework so please wake up but sometimes I just need to think about something else to distract myself from what you’re saying because I can’t hear this right now. stop.

the vampire hunter and his son
were like "lone wolf and cub"
if you know about that one

well they were always together
battling the undead
through all types of weather

then one fateful eve
they could not help but perceive
the shining blood moon meant war
they were not naive

outnumbered they were
and survival wasn't assured
but they battled and brawled
until it all was a blur

but when the smoke cleared
it was not as they'd feared
for all the fanged beasts
had been successfully speared

the hunter then turned to his boy -
victory! they both were about to enjoy
but the hunter saw something that made him a wreck
two tiny red holes in his child's perfect neck

for his son had been bitten
and so it was written
this would be his final dawn -
he was incurably stricken

fate was something they could not ignore
so they waited until the dark was no more
he vowed to always remember his son's final night
as they walked, hand in hand, into the sunlight