The tractor stands frozen - an agony
To think of. All night
Snow packed its open entrails. Now a head-pincering gale,
A spill of molten ice, smoking snow,
Pours into its steel.
At white heat of numbness it stands
In the aimed hosing of ground-level fieriness.

It defied flesh and won't start.
Hands are like wounds already
Inside armour gloves, and feet are unbelievable
As if the toe-nails were all just torn off.
I stare at it in hatred. Beyond it
The copse hisses - capitulates miserably
In the fleeing, failing light. Starlings,
A dirtier sleetier snow, blow smokily, unendingly, over
Towards plantations Eastward.
All the time the tractor is sinking
Through the degrees, deepening
Into its hell of ice.

The starting lever
Cracks its action, like a snapping knuckle.
The battery is alive - but like a lamb
Trying to nudge its solid-frozen mother -
While the seat claims my buttock-bones, bites
With the space-cold of earth, which it has joined
In one solid lump.

I squirt commercial sure-fire
Down the black throat - it just coughs.
It ridicules me - a trap of iron stupidity
I've stepped into. I drive the battery
As if I were hammering and hammering
The frozen arrangement to pieces with a hammer
And it jabbers laughing pain-crying mockingly
Into happy life.

And stands
Shuddering itself full of heat, seeming to enlarge slowly
Like a demon demonstrating
A more-than-usually-complete materialization -
Suddenly it jerks from its solidarity
With the concrete, and lurches towards a stanchion
Bursting with superhuman well-being and abandon
Shouting Where Where?

Worse iron is waiting. Power-lift kneels
Levers awake imprisoned deadweight,
Shackle-pins bedded in cast-iron cow-****.
The blind and vibrating condemned obedience
Of iron to the cruelty of iron,
Wheels screeched out of their night-locks -

Fingers
Among the tormented
Tonnage and burning of iron

Eyes
Weeping in the wind of chloroform

And the tractor, streaming with sweat,
Raging and trembling and rejoicing.

ON Forty First Street
near Eighth Avenue
a frame house wobbles.
  
If houses went on crutches
this house would be
one of the cripples.
  
A sign on the house:
Church of the Living God
And Rescue Home for Orphan Children.
  
From a Greek coffee house
Across the street
A cabalistic jargon
Jabbers back.
  And men at tables
  Spill Peloponnesian syllables
  And speak of shovels for street work.
  And the new embankments of the Erie Railroad
  At Painted Post, Horse's Head, Salamanca.

The sweat from my brow is racing the shadows of a late evening sun
and somehow they both drip into the tightening grip of the night.
Though the night's still to come,we all know that it murders the sun every day
and gets away with it.
I'd like to sit in the gallery with Winehouse's Valerie and tend to her needs,if the night feeds on the sun why shouldn't I have some fun too.

If I flew into the eye of I don't know when why,would I know where I'm at,would it matter to me if I was where I'd be or in some other place I've yet to see.
Has the cuckoo flown, after been shown the error of his ways,does he feel the sweat of his endless days in the madness of a madness of being out of phase.

The sweat drips from the end of my nose which I blow
and the devil may go where the fancy will take him
I will sit and revolve while the world spins off with any resolve I may have had,not to go quite mad.

And the hammering in my head jabbers on,like some crazy woodpecker that titters at dawn and cracks open its beak to sneak into a tree
will I,or the woodpecker ever be free
does it matter to you,would it matter to me if I knew?

The day finally goes,falling under the spell ,and the bell for a midnight tolls
I roll my eyes looking skyward and there's nothing to see
except an image of me and a woodpecker
in a tree.

If you have no life at all
let others follow your dirge
come to Facebook
where the lonely live

Write your pathetic jabbers
meet and make friends with other low life's
see the pics of smiling losers
then add them to your buddy list

Why not let everyone into your life
tell them your inner most secrets
become a Facebook freak
with the useless at your feet

Oh sad and lonely Facebook freaks
jibber jabber all day and night long
join the community of Facebook freaks
can you really be that sad, that wrong

By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

You know the one,
One who blathers on... and on;
The one we'd rather not.

One prattles like a rattle,
Tattles and gabbles,
Babbles and jabbers,
Chatters til we frazzle,
Twaddles til we drop.
One never seems to stop.

One brags
One talks
Bark off trees,
One argues
With a knot.
One can't stop.

One drops names
Like cloud bursts;
One day
One will
Be caught.

One has diarrhetic run-on.
One's opinion's seldom sought.

Finally, at the end of bray,
One has only nought to say.

I fell, hapless, when our souls first met
Just how it happened, oh I will never forget

That wicked one, he worked his charm
Barging into my life, without an alarm

Returned to my senses, when broke, that spell
Trapped as guinea pig, I was, I could tell

His everlasting embrace, it chained my soul
Battered, shattered, half from whole

He left me all alone, but he left me strong
Oh wait, I left him; to say he did, would be wrong

He was but a voice, a frail one, in my head
But I was so affected by all that he said

"You try, you fail, you'll never be good enough
You love, you're hurt, life will always be this rough"

But then I heard my soul so meek
"May I?", he hesitated; I enthused, "sure, speak!"

"You feel like you're dead inside, but look how alive
you sound as you respond with zeal, like you're only about five"

And there released a giggle, a tear
'I found her again, but will I lose her?' I feared

"No, woman, no! The little girl will always be alive"
He said with such credence, "I know she will survive!"

I was falling again, this time, to rise
I turned around to say goodbye, to the one I despise

That voice in my head, refuses to leave
But now, his balderdash, I refuse to believe

He talks, he jabbers, often on mute
I'm lost in sweet spiels, of this new beaut

Now listen, carefully, my stranger friend
If that spiteful voice finds you, shift the trend

Rush out, reach out, to YOU, your soul
protect it from him, maintain your whole

Arduous, it may be, but that voice, do seek to find
For that's true love, not the demeaning voice in your mind

There used to be a light in your eyes
That would shine endlessly in the dark
Holding hope and joy
You never faded

You used to smile brightly
Your cheeks would hurt from all the smiling
They called you Ms. Smiles
You never frowned

You used to be more energetic
Always running against the wind
Hair smelling of sweat and dirt
You were never tired

You used to sing all the time
Loudly from the shower
Disney songs and all
Your voice was never lost

You used to talk all the time
Not loudly, but just enough
From mumbles to jabbers
You were never silent

You used to be happy
Laughing and smiling
Daydreaming and playing.
I used to be.

Does he tell you how precisely he loves you .
you bet he is but a fake _ love is like hollow .
its a complete wildness not a precise seizure.
i may say its rather a ******* ,yet but a pressure.
love is overwhelming pouncing down in abstract wild.
but when he can tell you how he feels in all easy mild .
he is a made up lover and his chorus .
is a cheap picks from any ****** rot source .
when he is moon stroke before your attire .
he can make a little bit of credit as a real lyre .
but if he jabbers and puts on a sooth saying .
he means lust ,he is a bunk but nothing .
as a real love starts not knowing what to say .
it ends with not knowing if its all you deem pray.
the sincere love cant be describe as a portray of flower .
and you are a real stunt when you are sooth Sayer.
does he love you because of something upon .
your feature or some quality your nature lays on.
ask him to tell you why he really loves you .
if he does ;he is nothing but a sap head sinew .

they say grief is a silent breeze
like a pang of chill air on tuesday evening
when it pierce right through like a bullet
all strengths coalesced into a collapse

it would be the last thing in my mind
that blue charcoal dimming the february sky
3 months of lovers, how fast they expire
i always wonder, will it actually be alright?

summer come through, late of june
a boy is the last thing my head fixed upon
a soulmate, let alone, when im far from home
must human nature resent process of progress?

now i am walking in the sand, bare feet
i dont even like the beach,
but im too down to climb something i cant even reach
and im too upright to succumb to a fatal destiny

solitude is the best remedy
for only i get to listen to me
in midst of voices and screams, lies clarity
hold on to that wisp of reasons for its sanctity

a theatrical life,
we choose the roles and scenes
it get hysterical at times,
we think we're small when all's but a big screen

i am twenty two and this is maturity
tears fell, chin up and greet everybody
homesick is not a disease
i still get to laugh, i still get to live

crying because the weight of my mother's smile
toughening because of my father's vulnerability
ridiculous jabbers my brothers gone through
all part of what makes me, me

and gratitude is a warm blanket
like a comforting hug on a friday afternoon
when it tug your heartstring,
a hopeful future embrace within

i am thankful for the life i've lived
the good, the bad and everything i've yet to credit
bravery has its own merit
so i'll have a forward courage to live...and believe

a belated gift;
i am celebrating me