Clementine deleted Joel
from her mind. Joel tried to
forget her; he couldn't, so
he got rid of her too. You
try, I know, to get rid of me. I
try, you know, to pretend that
the world isn't spinning so fast
in the hope
that we will fall of its spinning-top edge
and stumble, clumsily, gracelessly, into
each other. We're spinning so fast with it-
the world- so this is unlikely, so we both
pretend that it's an accident when we fall
into each other,
again and again, as
We play spin the bottle while
The world spins instead.
Suddenly.
Now that that same world has stilled itself for
us: we don't know what to do without its
rotationary madness angling us
towards old age and crumpets (together?). That
same world has stilled itself until
tomorrow when that same world will spill
itself out from day to night to day again
as we take our respective first drafts
of our poems written about each other
and

Edit.

out that same mad spin
that made us
us
just like
Joel and Clementine forgot-
on purpose. We forget, on purpose
with purpose
but,
we'll still meet each other in Montauk where
that same world will still itself
as we wrap our fingers around each other's
fingers
in the cold
where you might finally reciprocate
my lacklustre
confessions.

You too,
right?

his fluid being mimics that of cigarettes;
death chopped up and rolled
into a curious little thing

i could hold him in my hands
but that is a mere only;
his wonderment insufficient
my soul too mammoth

my lips crave the grim reaper's touch
my skin detests the flawlessness of
staged idiosyncrasy
this world has seen enough
of those
you yell misanthrope,
but you do not understand

i seek
the intertwining of
precariousity
intimacy marked by fluttering thumbs
tracing specks of golden
on his cheeks

galaxies splashed across the
bridge of his nose
he is everything i yearn
yet;
everything i cannot be
he is my exotic morns
and my sunday siesta
fingertips outline
connect-the-dot maps
i could only ever get lost in


freckles.

like a lacklustre silence
the end of sentences pinpointing areas
chipped fingernails have lusted to memorise

you only crave what you know cannot be.

Tiny clumps of hair
Once caramel in color
Crumbles beneath the lowest
Lair of pallid
Trampled dust.
A lump in the back of my throat
Rises as the bone shows.
Our teeth have clanked
Collided in battle, our hooves
Finger-less and delving, we were
Ambiguously a hiatus in the water-color
Sticky like honey whilst Satan licks up my spine.
Burning sweet like the water that runs from the Nile
Into the mouths of every little insensate frame and comatose sky
Lacklustre pallor only children could buy.

You were amazing
I could feel your thoughts flow through my very body
Every time you spoke
Every time I caught a glimpse
Thats all I could catch
My net was to big
I was fishing for something beyond my grasp
I knew
My body knew;
because every time I want to talk
My body freezes in place,
not allowing me to walk
I was like a middle school girl around you
Except I was 16
Your Black hair
Your Opinions
Your Big dorky smile
I couldn't take it
It made me want to be around you
But it pushed me away
All of these cliches in this poem makes it lacklustre
I know
But I'm just spewing out the thoughts
that come out angrily
every time I open the book
and see your face
With the green light  next to you
Telling me to go
But i'm not mobile
So I just sigh as I close the book
Realising that your intelligence and hilarity will never be near me
Ever again

Free spirit of the world who hath the fire,
With what bold mind do you strive to aspire?
To cast yoke off the oppressed Souls,
Whose dismay the righteous mind appeals,
Could I surmise thy beauty with a psalm,
Craft thy form with a Lover's palm,
I would entertain thee with a dram,
Encrypt a loving, gleeful telegram,
To amuse thy mind with mutual rapport,
Of coy messages in purest passion thought.

Could we begin the correspondence blessed?
Lately from Loves work I have digressed,
For being much encumbered by the dark,
Of shill who sent to **** my divine spark,
The devils wield their lacklustre lassoos,
To strangulate me, inflict suffering true,
To vanquish voice of mine, suppress it's truth,
Take away its power, force, forsooth,
But in thee I see redemption sure,
So with Psalms to thee I fast implore.

Ferry me to sweet and seismic shores,
Where music of the heart doth sweet uproar,
And waves of sheer delight kiss passions sands,
Feel the joy of flight while in thy hands,
On shores of heaven we would surely play,
Soothing, quelling, pacify dismay
Adding bright sweet spark to darkling day,
As demons, angels go upon their way,
On chariots, the angels, singing loud,
In a divine aura duly shroud.

Thou art a rainbow shine in spite of faith,
Art a sun blaze in spite of eyes embrace,
Its sure world good and good is surely true,
And world is more good for the life of you,
Thou art a beacon of hope and fertile joy,
Suffice to inspire rise and fall of troy,
War waged to capture beauty of the day,
Who doth inspire worship of the ray,
That emit soft sultry from your sun,
Blessed form through which God's fires run.

Soul of Universe, immortal creature,
Face adorned in soft enchanting features,
Unto you I faithful bestow bars,
Sing to you under the sprightly stars,
Walking on and on through space forever,
We'd see infinity of realms untouched by man's endeavour,
Spheres rotating for infinite hours,
Testifying to creations powers,
Borne aloft on wings golden, sublime,
We suppress, vanquish hell and transcend time.

Meditation hath betrayed to you,
Inspiration through which my mind flew,
No regret in which to struggle, rue,
As I enter golden sanctuary of you,
My heart turns to raw red from deadening blue,
For warmth of love the flowers plant there grew,
To truth which raptures us in throes I sing,
For luscious love, most cherish able of things,
I welcome the ascension that it brings,
And go racing round the earth with you in rings.

Let me tell you something
That little varmint was afraid of your names
Too much power you had
To show him he he was nothing special
Another poet, what else ya gonne say? A place for him to stay if he could stay in his place
But he' already decided he's a heavy handful of poems wrapped up in his palm
He's not bad. But he ain't Shelly
Lord Byron he is not
So it's no surprise he comes here
With his terra incognito poetry
Starts the alienation process until five days later
They poked fun at my rhyme
The one I wrote about sweet momma? They laughed it to scorn, called it too sentimental
Each in turn found new ways to burn me
Until eventually
They all became voices in my head
And each voice recited one of my wretched poems and I could see I was only fooling myself
Group sessions didn't go so well
I read their poems, superior to mine in every way
I let thier voices tell me what they meant
And it wa comforting until I realized they were all about me and a vast conspiracy to drive me away
Normally I'd figure this out
But the voice began to be belligerent.
"Get out of here hack" , chanted with the insistant persistence of one who wasn't going anywhere until her will had been done.
I had no choice
They had taken up residence in my mind
Now I had to find a way to rid myself of them

CONTNUED NEXT CHAPTER in which somebody gets their way. Who? What? We'll have to wait to find out.

It
ain't
gonna
be
pretty!

Shadows on the walls
even in the prettiest shades
in the arch that stretches
from dawn to dusk;
I see the dark of day.

                             It is in moments such as these
                             where I need you the most
                             to read every single thing
                             I've ever wrote about you;
                             my words act as the horrors host.

This sense of
unrelenting security
is it truth or foley?
for it is hard
to teach me to run
if you dear
are only crawling

Sometimes silence is preferred
To those constant constricting string of compliments  
Written in your words and thrown off your tongue
With careless heed of the damage that they do
Irrevocable words of the lies of love and lust
Drip drip dripping down from your lips
To fall simultaneously in hearts and in the gutter
Where ******* collects and rains pour down
Eradicating all trace, but for the heart in which it kindled
No recognition from lips whose secret they once held
Now long forgotten and poorly remembered;
Lacklustre speech trailed and its meaning dismembered
Ill-gotten feelings poorly deceived when hopefully conceived  
From the deceptions which derided and descended
From lips once bloodied; now full of false testament.

Hello Poetry; we meet again
my bored, unenthusiastic but sympathetic friend
Why is it you never seem to like what I do?
The rhymes, the rhythm structure, the ideas I write for you?

Or maybe, in my haste, maybe I've miscalculated
Maybe, it's actually me that feels discombobulated
I have had times when I've struggled with what I've written
I always die a thousands deaths, before I'm smitten

with how I might have dotted the i's, and crossed the t's
I'll hide behind furniture to be sure that no one sees
lest they lambast my catastrophic grasp on diction
With god's help I'm sure I'll conquer this terrible affliction

and actually construct a poem I'm happy with
Here are the laws, I'll live by, forthwith,

1. don't write about your pet hamster, no one cares
2. and you should probably steer clear of international affairs
3. remember no word in the English language rhymes with 'month'
4.
5. always know your subject, inside and out
6. Do weasels have noses, or do they have snouts.....?

...****, you can't even write out a set of rules
You; You have no friend in anyone that won't suffer fools
gladly, but sadly, I have another idea
another lacklustre shot at being sincere
I hate this vicious cycle,
hate every single bit
but yep,
I'll get my pencil,
grab some paper,
then just
sit

Trying hard to learn to be one,
But  love holds you fragile and undone.
Darkened and raw every memory leaves a mark,
And you sit at night regretting every time you tried to love.

Weaker than I once was I paid with heartbeats,
Which decayed and bruised the roaring reds.
Dulled to purple it taints every vein,
Trying hard to cleanse and savor freedom.

His memory holds like a furious fist,
Gripping my voice and holding me intimately.
Recoiling at every kiss,
Revolted by every ******.

Level stares and longing for sleep,
Mirror gazing assessing the damage.
This time it was only bruises,
Next time it may be brakes.

memories made the weathered chair rock,
eyes wide with lacklustre - empty and deep,
as old woman walks 'round the block,

returning not home until nine o'clock,
night cuddles insomnia, hardly asleep,
memories made the weathered chair rock,

finger and thumb pinch 1920s frayed frock,
local teens see only the oddball creep,
as old woman walks 'round the block,

tears flow freely when stopped at the dock,
everyday starting here, ten minutes shall weep,
memories made the weathered chair rock,

girls grin as she circles a solo hemlock,
quickly in step, stride now mostly does keep,
as old woman walks 'round the block,

inside aged house, gaze freezes in shock,
relics of past - dusty, rotten in heap,
memories made the weathered chair rock,
as old woman walks 'round the block.

Green moss thick and dark, grows slowly
The wild flowers rise and reach, to catch the breeze
Lichen lie low a laclustre collect, on the rock and lee

There are no walls, the barriers and possibilities are natures' ways
The birds sing among the Wisteria, to attract the mysterious
The wild flower petals open sun-wide to receive the bees

The tiniest things of nature, can confound the human mind
Insect, animal, and human are not the only occupants
The birds fly to chase and catch a meal, then return fastidious

E'er so often you may imagine, to see with disbelief, smallish things
Clear blue above, yet does your head not heavy grow, give in
It is not your tired eyes, that fool with faerie sized inhabitants,    

Did you see the Twinkles moving, from the corner of your eye
Breathe, soft and become the meadow grasses long and tall
Clouded vision, any friend of nature, finds a pillow, live long

I have been to this very meadow, seems just recently,                    
Green moss thick and dark, grows slowly
Skin so soft petals enrich all dreams, on waking without the fall
Lichen lie low a lacklustre collect, on the rock and lee




© DWE20150416

Somewhere from this heavy present
Is a lighter mood, is a confident June;
Is a glass of wheat beer on the veranda,
Circling ice giants with my sweet Miranda.

Somewhere from this lacklustre town
Is a foggy new start, a life lived through art;
Is the full potential of human kindness,
As we finally see through this third-eye blindness.

Somewhere from these burying sheets
Lives an autumn love, where death and beauty meet;
Lives an ocean swell of sheer independence,
Where hunger is nourished, with all in attendance.