I found a spoon in my garden.
Could you even call this a garden?
The planters are all full of
pine needles and stagnancy.
Even the bench I'm sitting on
is rotting and covered in ants.

Anyway this spoon was barely visible
among the dead leaves and dog ****.
Not rusty, save for the edges that had been
knicked by a lawn mower at some time
and then bent perfectly
down the
middle.

A memory of playing superheroes
disrupts my study.
Someone was trying to prove their
strength by bending it
"with their mind".

Eventually we tired of our
mind's lack of capabilities
and used brute force to
bend the dreaded spoon
but the celebration was nonetheless
sweet after being able to bend
our mother's cutlery.

Back then the garden was tended.
My mother put us to work
and my
"secret garden" was born partly
out of my imagination and
a lack of reality.

My mother called one plant
"lamb's ear" and I didn't
argue because it was the softest
thing I had ever felt or ever will feel.
Did she make that name up?
Surely, she wouldn't lie to me.

And now that lamb's ear, like
everything else is covered in
a thick, itchy layer of pine straw
and stagnancy. To let the plants
even begin to heal from their
prolonged exposure to cold,
mistifying darkness I would have
to scratch through the
allergy-inducing tentacles.
Push them out of the way.
Dig up the dead, dry earth,
plant new seeds and tend to them
arduously--all while wondering

why couldn't my family just
take care of what they had?

but then I notice this spoon.
I've gotten carried away again
and now I forgot to write about
what I meant to write about in
the first place.

It's not healthy to let things rust.

He's quiet in class,

Sits at the back,

Never put's his hand up,

Friends he does lack,

On his way to lessons,

And before school,

He's beaten to a pulp,

He spits blood and drool,

Every day he runs,

Faster and faster,

Trying to escape,

His self-proclaimed master,

Scared to roam the playground,

Scared of having fun,

Hopes it will get better,

But they've only just begun,

Eveything is better now,

He's laughing, playing games,

No more bullies in the school,

To tease him, call him names,

He decided to tell a teacher,

And then he told his dad,

Went to the head,

Said it made him really sad,

The school rang the police,

And had the bully arrested,

They took him away in handcuffs,

The one who had molested,

His gang disappeared,

Without a trace,

For they had no leader,

They had no ace,

Everybody cheers,

Fans of the Victim,

Some guy has hit a teacher,

Now in one foul swoop he's knicked 'em,

I

Behind his eyes of Laser Blue
I have a history as brief as titsi-flies

Behind a furrow or a dormant smile's bloom
I am indentured
by his manipulations,
                                lessened by his education
and I am supposedly the one he loves...?

So, there in the bear-hug of his lies
I am mute in delirium
copulation cranked to carnival speeds

Because he has power in the unspoken
as vaporous as white smoke
incantations & sorcery
                          fish hooks my love into my doom

I understand that gaze
I commit to its kaleidoscope
variegated faces
for every season and holiday
each hour etched is an emotion
pretend and pretense

Splayed

Muscle, toned,
limbs limned in liquids
arms of a giant squid
the transparent center:
a cluster of homosexuals suckling...

He is Captain Nemo, submariner
mad haired scientist,
testing each concoctions' mixed diversions
and perversions / replete to repeat
                               how we all un-burden ourselves
to him, patience
is an old man with an oil burner...

I am transfixed
a lobotomy experiment of chopsticks
and peppermint schnapps

who's time has misplaced it's tick.


II

I am aerodynamic...

Because the laws of attractions
commonalities not flesh on flesh
or polysyllabic meals of kisses
none are removed from him

He weaves his wizard's wand
fantasia music to magic  ***
to a whistle's whim,
while I chimp out puzzles complex
just to gain praise and admiration.

(As he vanishes to rendez vous
another grinder, another victim,
another name game)

For behind his hood
and hat of tormenting's tricks
I have glimpsed his true nature

like Midus whose touch once harsh straw,
rumpled in his still-skins
complete with fanatical flaws
I witness an aging ram
horned, silver haired satyr...

I am a deer in headlights
every time I am shocked by my own
naievette
like sheep to a herder
steering a flock,
a troop, a school, a ******

unguided paths that shape themselves
by the traffic of every foot.

I have grown blank
no mirth or self-contrition
this rat retreats into moist dark spaces
to converse with paranoid shadows...

Behind his eyes
even when he mistakes his conjuring
excuses tangled among false & fallacies
but stupidity is
the only spell he never casts
upon my helicopter spinning mind


III

He has transformed me not to a toad
with a swollen desire
to croak / a burp

but turned me
into a boomerang...

Flung high with speed
inaccurately to flee blind
uncertain as wind-shears in Chicago
but still returns to suffer

A beaten Benji,
and still an Ole' Yeller defender of truth
I remain

knicked, knocked, chipped
licked - not yet
but seemingly to his soul's spotlight
dead.

Thrown out
to welcoming skies so blue

still there's an anger behind his eyes
I understand / it will be the end of me

I am unable to discern
our story - where dying heroes lay
when they realize
tragedies end unluckily...

But a boomerang
knows not reasoning to leave
and be victim
to its own nature's treason,
it does not question why
nor weep helplessly

yet it also does not sing
celebrating when in its master's hand
yet comes home
unhappily half alive
I suffer like the boomerang
still my own company
without
compass or wayward destination
give in to it's predestined
abilities
in high flight always returning,

whistles to the joy of living

you see, a yo-yo can not fly

I have become acquainted with heaven's sky
kingdom of light
familiar to it's shine
delight in my unforeseen
demise

(my magic kiss kiss
imagination bang bang!)*

I am a divine toy of life,

be it

a boomerang.

I kicked the edge
of the coffee table
with the top of
my small toe.
And then I thought of you.

I dropped that glass
But nearly caught it
with my then glass
Shard filled hand.
And then I thought of you.

Knicked the edge of
my Razer against the
Contour of my face
while my blood filled
the rest of the mirror.  
And then I thought of you.

But when I nearly
cut myself in half
with that old ax
And dead tree,
I didn't think of you.

You don't want me dead,
Just alive enough to feel the pain,
because when you're dead you can't
feel dead,
when you're living
Sometimes it's all you can feel.

What if we mailed a letter,
To Matthew, Luke, and John.
That Mark had conceived a practice
Which would turn the world around.

To freely speak his mind upon them,
Faceless tadpoles in the crowd.
Just open your ears and hear these
Insightful thoughts through a speaker loud.

As he turned his mic toward her,
And grinned a smile so warm.
She often got too frightened,
Fearing his life in danger and harm.

But this was not a contest,
No beauty prize at hand.
The only thing he demanded
Was to introduce them to his band.

Of cheerful loving misfits,
That faught for truth and good.
To flip the frown from beneath them,
Just like any honest citizen should.

But to win over such an election,
Of justice, daft, and punk.
Would be to lift them from their tight knicked chains
And fill their lungs up til they are drunk.

as the wet drops of paint
Splatter across the scene
I'm reminded of a saint
who's life devoted,
and transformed by love,
lived to long

My strokes are disciplined,
but time decides the fate,
and helpless to nature,
Gravity brings the heavy ***** of paint
Down into a bleeding imperfection
that tried to fight the odds
and Live forever

The scene,
many greens overpowered by reds
And blacks covering whites
depict a nameless man
who will live longer than me
the artist
who's fingerprints,
hide among the texture,
and who's essence is captured by the beast

the beast
and a man
fighting to live a second longer
each with titles and memories
each with myth and reputations
each risking death just to be remembered
through tongue and emotion

sadly the faces are unrecognizable,
the paint to thick for detail
and the detail to ambiguous for translation

in the end w ** will know that i knicked my finger
and bled on the canvas
or smeared the paint
who will know that i am the man
and who will know that they are the beast
and who will know that the saint lay in paint

Stop killing me with deep despair,
In deepest sleep hides your constant stare!
Nails clawing at blackest sin,
That clings and stains at my white narrow shins.

Guilt drives to this midnight panic,
Fingers breaking through and revealing the satanic.
I loved you with this down trodden heart,
But you killed it with your wicked arts.

It started with a drunken fist,
And struck hard in the blood streaked mist.
I screamed and flailed in your arrest,
Tearfilled terrified and distressed!

Scared hands encountered,
On the kitchen counter,
The weapon of your instant death,
Which robbed you of your final breath.

The knife knicked,
With a frantic flick.
And dead were you upon our floor.
Right next to the garden door.....

It's a little late for
A smile
It's a little late for
A mile

You promised
Or
Maybe I did
That the sun
Would always shine
In
Both of our eyes

You're a tad quick
With your pick
You're a bit knicked
With your tick

But I love you
Just the same
There's no reason
I wouldn't have came

Walk toward a dead poet
Mirror
Expose of a soulless
Exhibitionist

Praying
One day

They'll have a soul

They believe

Is not worth

Remembering.

Ouch she squealed,
an internal groan,
The sliver of glass knicked her finger,
Near down to the bone.
She patched it up with tissue,
to try to stop that bleed,
At that very moment,
she remembered the sailor man,
the one that she just freed.
Took a closer peep
carefully, remembering the glass, this time.
She actually thought, she saw him weep.

She thought she'd take a closer look,
His expression had changed,
He was no longer looking deranged.
As from the broken ship he'd fled,
The bottle was shattered but he wasn't dead.

The old sea dog,
in the gaberdeen mac,
Peeped in the doorway,
yes,
he came back.
Said he to the assistant ,
where is my ship?
The girl she explained with an expression that pained,
I'm so sorry Sir,
It met a grisly end.

"Once ,It was my ship said he,
When the bottle got broke,
I was set free.
I bet you never realised,
the bottled sailor boy was me."
(C) Livvi

Dougie wept
because his zip-off chiffon sleeves
had blown away in a strong gust of wind
that issued from a nearby kebab shop.

Don’t cry for him, though.
He knicked ‘em from a mad old woman.