Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,

the three of them frozen:
Enrique by the world of beds;
Emilio by the world of eyes and wounded hands;
Lorenzo by the world of roofless universities.

Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,

the three of them burned:
Lorenzo by the world of leaves and billiard *****;
Emilio by the world of blood and white pins;
Enrique by the world of the dead and abandoned newspapers.

Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three of them buried:
Lorenzo in one of Flora's *******;
Emilio in the dead gin forgotten in the glass;
Enrique in the ant, the sea, and the empty eyes of birds.

Lorenzo,
Emilio,
Enrique,
the three in my hands were
three Chinese mountains,
three shadows of a horse,
three landscapes of snow and a cabin of white lilies
by the pigeon coops where the moon lies flat under the rooster.

One
and one
and one,
the three of them mummified,
with the flies of winter,
with the inkwells the dog ****** and the thistle despises,
with the breeze that freezes theh eart of all the mothers,
by the white ruins of Jupiter where drunks snack on death.

Three
and two
and one,
I saw them disappear, crying and singing
into a hen's egg,
into the night that showed its skeleton of tobacco,
into my sorrow full of faces and piercing bone splinters of moon,
into my happiness of whips and notched wheels,
into my breast troubled by pigeons,
into my deserted death with one mistaken wanderer.

I had killed the fifth moon
and the fans and the applause drank water from the fountains.
Hidden away, the warm milk of newborn girls,
shook the roses with a long white sorrow.
Enrique,
Emilio,
Lorenzo,

Diana is hard,
but somtimes she has ******* of clouds.
The white stone can beat in the blood of a deer
and the deer can dream through the eyes of a horse.

When the pure forms sank
under the cri cri of  daisies
I understood they had murdered me.
They searched the cafés and the graveyards and churches,
they opened the wine casks and wardrobes,
they destroyed three skeletons to pull out their gold teeth.
Still they couldn't fine me.
They couldn't?
No. They couldn't.
But they learned the sixth moon fled against the torrent,
and the sea remembered, suddenly,
the names of all her drowned.

As I stare into thoughts unknown,
Perchance for Millennia have these thoughts been hidden.

How many lives have been sacrificed for these lines that have been penned,
Wrought forth from the hands of women and men?

I ask myself as I stare deeper,
Will I open my soul & truly experience what is written inside?

Questions, answers, propositions, mathematical formulae,
Stamped on pages in prose, poetry and the notation of symphony,
When bound together between two covers, they are given life,
As they stand tall & proud upon spines of twine and glue.

So what are these books, where are they from, what do they do?

They are treasure troves of information,
Some may well be useless yet some do indeed cause perturbation,
due to their profundity, symmetry or, dare I say it?

Their deep ringing harmony, nay symphony with the truth of creation.

For deep within the belly of our souls writhes a beast with a limitless craving,
& her name is desire.

Silence her cries and take only that which you require,
Place the crown of creation into a state of physical and spiritual prostration,
Search out the knowledge so that you may acquire,
The epiphany of wisdom and the freedom from desire,
For in the end,
Despite what we might covet and admire,
Knowledge is rootless without sincerity,
And sincerity is fruitless without guidance.

I forced my razor knife down
into an anniversary coffee cup
crammed with pens, pencils,
two pairs of scissors, and one
roll of color film I'm afraid
to develop. I jammed it in blade-
up so I'd have to deal
with the hard part first
like a blank page before
an accidental tongue slip
drips ink and makes the page
pretty. Some tree I've never met
and some pink dye died for me
to cover this pressed pulp
in illegible squiggles;

and I'll be
                  ****** if I let it down.
'cause I'm drawn to things
without opinions. Sketchbooks,
inkwells, rubber band bracelets,
a mixed-nut dragonfly rested
on my trampoline net. // Cut it
free // cut it loose.

Find a brick behind the shed
and smash it dead,—preteen me—
young Wordsworth me.
I pulled the sepia tape from Queen
cassettes and finished the glossy
plastic off with a vise grip in Dad's truck.
Old Brucey had mustard pinstripes
down the driver's side, all the way down
to the Germania General Store.

He was a blur to me before I could buy
my own Dreamsicles. Passing the chicken feed
and the resident, caged dachshund couple,
I saw his face for the first time. Seventeen-years-
old, staring at my grandpa through picture
and plate glass panes.

The angels he swore were real—the ones he payed,
praised, and prayed for every Sunday and everyday
the sun shined and everyday it didn't—

were now less deserving of heaven.

.
Oh! Fragile martyr man--
your word play is so electric.

Therapy pulses magnetic
power
to your malignant
deformities.

Death becomes
your golden ticket
to enchantment.

The freedom revolution
evolves
from a badly broken,
bleeding humanity.

Certain
faces simply
whisper power
which question the spilled--
blood of thousands
on a daily
basis-

Another cliche war is
refilling the inkwells
of the blank page,
starving artist.  


Delicate tragic fairy tales remembered--

Layers of rust
encrust the tick and the tock
all throughout the grinding
gears of the clock.

Paintings of the Thinker
sit thinking in the
keenest calculable clarity.

The dreamers of darkness
bathe in the cold,
blinding sparks
of falling starlight.





.

Last night I fantasised that I was swallowed by your eyes,
a dream it seems but oh how real to almost feel you feeding on me.

Tell me who
does not dream
and I'll show you
an empty tomb.

flesh and blood
I am.

And then I wake
and have to shake my head
set free the fantasy
go on with the day
hoping to see
you
tonight.

when every day may be the last
when each and every minute
passes by,
to get by
I remember
last night 
when I was food
for your eyes

Though through the valley
Ran she oft
(The others caused it so)
On occasion
They would be
The staff that for her glows

His father neither
Spoke unkindly
To a soul nor ear
Yet he was needed
Someplace further
Far away from here

And raindrops fell
Through cloudless skies
Until the moon arose
And glist'ning inkwells
Fell to paper
Falling into prose
And we emerged into a life of vivid yellow rose.

The rejection episode was brutal;
the broken ceiling fan screaming
in horrible sounds, stretching in hardened
syllables, red-rusted consonants
crashing off course, double-spaced
nouns and pronouns dull, drifting
in shallow chambers as I sat in the
rocking chair in the living room
watching the flaming clouds converge
into each other.  Sunken equations
outdated and bladed, slated songs
unfolding in the blackened sky, inhaling
the smoky atmosphere, unclear gerunds
lining the foggy mountains – my chests
crumbling in inner inkwells, slouched arms
disproportioned, wandering in unknown lands.
And as I studied the barren landscape,
my heart sinking a little, meaningless
phonetics whirling in the air, voiceless  
rhetoric straining, twisting, freezing
in crumpled positions, my soul was
dividing in useless square roots.
And as I thought about the one
I loved, how I could feel his beautiful
existence on my skin, his smooth cheeks
pressed on my lips, dreamy eyes staring
at mine, my inner chamber was shutting
down, drowned, lingering within his
stunning soul system.  I was in love
with him, but he was shifting on the
other side of various spectrums,
separate vowels half-dead, scattered
across the horizon.  He knew I was
falling for his world, the lustrous stars
shining like bright love songs within
his crowned light, shimmery saxophones
jamming in his thighs, boundless drums
rattling in his glistening abs – the core
so crisp to the touch, hypnotizing
my creation, brightening serene
Jupiter inside my bloodstream.
I wanted to travel through his grassland,
feel sweet harmonies circle the air,
embracing exuberant tunes, thrilling
dreams, dazzling scenery surrounding
his wonderland wave.  But his palace
of passion was diverging from my universe,
sleek perimeters splitting apart, confused,
bruised, centimeters charred, scarred,
pulsating meters exploded, yelling yards
exposed, shattered, swarming in shapeless
seas.  And as I attempted to breathe
in his scintillating nation, the balcony
of his luminous bridges, the vivid angles
running through his muscles, brilliant
veins reaching out to me in the midnight,
his soul calling me overseas, I could
see his shadowed surface pulling away
from me in the steel gray cityscape,
every part of me searching for a missing love.

In the inbetween space
Of what I am told to believe and the immense possibilities of this lying life
I converse with the devil and the god who are all the same
And the room is orange with inkwells in my mind
As the birds who do not only challenge me but may not exist
How do I know if a room is there when I am not in it
What is life but a divine lie
While death is a white void
How do I know what is real and what is made
When the skin boils like meat
When humans are indestructible
Are we living

our nature is not inkwells
our tongues are pens
our will's to live

Deep under ground
Through these channels
Communication of a life
Longing led
Bleeding out this medication

Permutation of the rain
Water ever flowing
Through eroded cisterns
Joy and pain
Ever dimmer
And the nowhere this is going  

Through the ground i did arise
Only to find the blackest night
And through the clouds i did escape
Only to find the void of space

Back at the start
Plans demolished
Polishing my motive
Over drawers
Filled with empty inkwells
And words on paper jotted

This nightmare slowly rises
Feeling uninspired
Quiet, new horizons
Bleed out into an open sky

This earth feels far away
This is all I have to say
Simplicity, this final right
Long awaiting, this endless night

praxinoscope-théatres and chatelaines
vinaigrettes and salt sets
strawberry grabbers and victorian dress lifters
inkwells and i

how foolish of of us
to believe we would
have a purpose

how foolish of us
to believe that we would
ever be of use again

Outwitting,
out-writing
the days
defeats.

Snatching
victory
from the
inkwells
of the
mind.

Spelling
out
half-truths
and lies
in equal
measure.

The eye
of the
beholder
is blind.

Every other
word is
a treasure.

Not gold
or silver,
but thoughts
fraught with
flailing,
failings,
soaring
in spite
of
broken
wings.

Sailing
past lonely
hearts and
thoughts
of loved
ones left
behind.

Smeared
pen strokes,
notebooks,
spines bent
full of sins
or loves
confessed
obsessed,
depressed.

We are,
all of us,
roses,
between pages
pressed.

*

-JBClaywell

© P&ZPublications

today it is love that i have redrafted
today it is a feeling that i have re-envisioned
and let myself for the first time to feel and fill

today it is slowly filling inkwells, going backwards somehow
to refill, to have voice once more

today it is being enveloped, today it is being postmarked
today it is being posted
and let so gently go

some days i feel that
despite the weight of legends
that behold our names
in the light of golden inkwells
and the pull of the tide
that had ****** us together
with the inevitability of a crashing wave
that we are not so much like
the sun and the moon
for the eclipse is a collision of epic proportions
for the eclipse is a parting of a thousand red seas
the eclipse, explosively desperate, and as rare as can be

no, i find myself
something much closer to earth
deep in the ground and deep in the dirt
for you meet me like a blue sky
meets the planet below
and you kiss me at the horizon line
all-enveloping, steady, constant, sweet
sometimes in the dancing hues
of some celestial body

but most days,
yes, most days
you are the photo in the locket
that my soul has always carried
and you are the peace
in always arriving home

though you may follow me to the ocean
and its raging waters,
to be held by you
is to be held by the shore

The problem with writer's block
Is that it isn't some mystical thing,
Some boogeyman hiding in our inkwells
And under our notepads.
It is simply one term
Encompassing a number of ailments.

Writer's block is being incapable of settling on a topic.
It is incessant song stuck in our head,
Preventing us from thinking up our own verse.
It is the checklist of errands and responsibilities
We may have forgotten that day.

Writer's block is remembering we forgot to turn off the oven,
Or the TV
Or the lights in the kitchen,
Just as we sat down with a pen.
It is the ominous cloud of self-doubt
That chases away an semblance of a first line
Or a second
Or a conclusion.
It is the sticky, complacent boredom,
Or the absence of motivation.
And sometimes it is the lack of desire,
Like a fire dying down
No flames here, but the embers still hot with potential
We wait for new wood to burn.

It is the fear of criticism,
The self-loathing that we discredit ourselves with,
And it manifests is all forms
Or just one.

It is a gift,
The mark of a writer,
Like the calluses from our pens
And it is also our curse.
Literature's hazing technique,
Weeding out those that would give up on her
At first signs of resistance.
Persist,
And call yourself a true writer at heart.

Sabers cross and steel rattles into the heat of battle we go. Back and forth we ****** and withdraw. Dodging sideways and ducking thusly as cannon fire erupts around us. From side to side we see our ally and foe. Causing havoc and destruction we gouge each other with poison and place all that is dear in peril. Slashing at each other, we draw indefensible lines, back and forth we go. While the war is an illusion, the causalities are real as we duel with tongue and pen. Our war of words inflicts damage and creates division. How can such a war end, when our hearts and inkwells supply our ammunition and what we can contrive is unlimited, from the heart of the human soul.

There’s a pipe from one ear to the other
It hides behind a smile
It is made of lead

Poisoning thoughtful waters
Killing the wisdom and love I have heard

In one end out the other
Empty handed and barren

Only an echo.
“Unlovable”
That is all my deaf ears can hear
**** the constant ringing

The message is lost in knowledge
What a miracle
Proven o’er and o’er

A poet with disregard for his own self
Yet writing about his inner struggle

My verses flow from inkwells
That give what even I have not received

I’m naked in my birth from ashes
To the dust I shall return
Alone, but left with room enough to write a few more words

I think it’s gold– your feeling
surrounding, warming–

Like comfort dipped in inkwells
of truth and I-was-thinking-of-you–

washed and dotted and brushed gently.
I feel the texture of your care,

breathe the hues of your worry–
greens of calm, blues for fingertips,

like tiny droplets creating impossible waves
in this vast ocean we call Us. And then–

gold. Gold for you and gold for me
beneath skies ablaze with cosmic bearings.

Maybe I was caste in iron, but you
gilded me in starlight– give me reason

to paint my world
in colors of your love.

I never imagined that falling in love
could shatter your heart, brick rusted
dreams scraped and dragging, slashed
metaphors scattered and scanning
the skyline in search of serenity, the heavy
momentum shifting in unbroken worlds,
the spinning weight of various kingdoms
converging towards one another, the filthy
snippets stomping inside my brain repeatedly,
nasty rhythms gray and grinning, a soiled
heartbreak bruised and bladed, as I stared at
the blackened glass ceiling inside my living
room, the way its shadowed existence hovered
in ****** directions, raged, maddened,
a stabbed hall of bleeding diction upturned in
chaos.  The grief was drifting me away from
outer Saturn, more like snarling Mars, hissing
and cussing, shuffling and twisting, an empty
bitchless nation slamming shut in loud beats,
as my dull dry eyes swelled in inkwells,
slippery dungeons, rusted brown shells,
split cheeks suffering syntax, whitewashed
shoulders beneath a sludge of helpless seas,
compounded muscles, crumbled earlobes,
every smashed bone fast falling
in splintering tunnels.

Brown creamy chocolate skin, captivating
cheeks, entrancing eyes, thick eyebrows,
dread of deep depths, dreads of different
dimensions brightening in gleaming Venus,
the veins in your vivid design a dream
of many dreams, lustrous lips a labyrinth
of mystery, a labyrinth of various layers,
sparkling, scenic space stations, starry
streams, platinum equations, a brilliant
beard rising in the evening sky, streaming
over rapturous waves, high dynasties,
glistening chemistry, your swirling arms
a beautiful land glowing in the breeze,
a joyous walk on a sunny day, immense
inkwells, cosmic enlightenment, lunar
splendor, the million lights inside
of your invention a pathway towards
eternal heavens – simply shimmering,
universal undertones, incredible limits,
a great nation, an amazing foundation.

Your love shines supreme
like the hot brilliant sun,
carrying me into the depths
of your staggering masculinity,
into the dreamy inkwells
that lead to boundless desires.

One cannot effectively love without words,
And pain is not permissible but in the absence of love,
So when cautioned against the love of a poet,
I must ask if you have tasted the bitterness of ink wells long run dry,
Felt the weight of lungs unable to expand to produce sweet parables of temporal immersion.

Every inch of land charted by arthritic hands,
Unable to pull wonder from what can only be systemic from a moment of pure ecstasy.

Yet,
In every action lies an unheard metre,
Energy captured in free verse,
As her name lie on pursed lips,
that caressed shaking thighs,
that bear different origins than the name they were bathed in,
Thighs that would know not the sound but the echo and presence of love,
When all the paper has been burned and the inkwells have all run dry,
Only the poet's tongue will trace the shape of forgotten words across lips and thighs alike.

The lonely will be lulled to sleep by the tales of galaxies that rest in their veins,
And the oceans that caress the corners of both eyes  and soul,
Long after the poet has retreated,
To build temples and worships other muses,
That sentiment is not gone.

The poet's love is neither temporary or fleeting,
But sporadic,
Making love to the moment in its entirety,
For there is nothing exclusive about a moment when written,
The deepest corners of compassion,
not so subtly displayed,
In strokes of tongue and hand,
Teased across the page in ******* and organic soliloquies.

The poet's love was never meant to be private,
nor painless,
Only permanent,
The wonders described never fading in the poet's absence,
Only continuing to ignite a flame that continues to burn.

If you want to start writing,
begin by smuggling the stars of
the night in
and hiding them in your inkwells

wishes are made from these.