Ladies and gentleman skinny and scout
I'll tell you a tale I know nothing about
The admission is free so pay at the door
Now pull out a chair and sit on the floor

On one bright day in the middle of the night
Two dead boys got up to fight
Back to back they faced each other
Drew their swords and shot each other

The blind man came to see fair play
The mute man came to shout hooray
The deaf policeman heard the noise
And came to stop those two dead boys

He lived on the corner in the middle of the block
In a two story house on a vacant lot
A man with no legs came walking by
And kicked the lawman in his thigh

He crashed through a wall without making a sound
Into a dry creek bed and suddenly drowned
A long black hearse came to cart him away
But he ran for his life and is still gone today

I watched from the corner of the table
The only eyewitness to facts of my fable
If you doubt my lies are true
Just ask the blind man, he saw it too

We cannot escape. Black smoke fills the hotel. Twenty three are dead.
Two days pass. The smoke has coalesced into a flesh-like sludge. One of the bellboys trips on floor 17 and is coated. He screams and screams and screams. We barricade the entrance to the floor.

Ten days pass, uneventfully.

I feel safe now. The sludge has moved away from my room. The lawman tells me the end will come soon. He gives me a hotel mint.

I sometimes hear the whispers of that poor bellboy, vibrating through the wooden belly of this geometric construct. He tells me he is fine, and he is happy.

A maid throws herself out of a window. I cannot fathom why. We are so near.

The bellboy tells me how his life was once filled with meaning. Motivation that drove him, ideals that enticed him, and responsibility that crushed him. He is nothing now. He is free.

We open the door to floor 17. I see

it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is moving it is lies there torn like tar stretched across ****** gills there is starlight in the gape of his throat pitch in his dead dull eyes father passes me a cup and I drink his blood father passes me bread and I feast on his flesh father

Philadelphia is a sweltering 70 degrees today! Whew! I think I’ll go to that cute coffee shop across the street, and try one of those new pumpkin lattes.

The new bus system *****! How is anyone suppose to get anywhere on time? Grr!

These muffins are so adorable I just want to throw up!!!

The park was especially lovely this evening. The flowers were in bloom, and this one little girl just kept sniffing them and sneezing and sneezing until she couldn’t breathe and was driven away in an ambulance.

Red blue red blue, they taped off the block today. Pipes burst beneath the road, a bus overturned and the streets flooded with bodies.

little faces pressed against the pavement little faces pressed flat little faces pressed like flowers flat flat flat flat a poem

don’t make me remember please stop

There’s a dead deer’s head in the foyer above reception. The rest must have rotted. They cut away the animal and left only the carcass, the severed space. Our bodies contain us, they are a boundary, and when we tear at the surface we open up and flood the world with emptiness, or perhaps the world floods us. I think that deer burst and they hung its face on the wall to remind us that this hotel is filled with emptiness, and that death will bring only more emptiness. Maybe we’re meant to connect like shaking hands and football and insider trading fill ourselves with foreign emptiness distract retreat like shaking hands always nervous smiling and empty.

I am not here I have never been here go away I was someone but not anymore

These muffins are disgusting they fill the insides with cream and jam and fruit and it is sick and false no one can escape this pointless stupid life go fill yourself with things filled with other things doesn’t change you are a void pulling in everything light itself devourer spinster

Today was one of the best days of my life.

Today was one of the best days of my life.

Today was one of the best days of my life.

Today was

The lawman tells me I have slept for six months. I ask him about that day on floor 17. He tells me there is no floor 17.

We have run out of hotel mints.

There is a gap. There is a gap in my perception. There is a blackness constricting the edges of my vision.

There never was a bellboy. There never was any smoke. The maid is alive. She is alive. I can touch her. She is alive.

We sit in the cafeteria. She pours me bitter black tea, her arm arching in such a manner that would not be possible were she in that twisted ****** state on the day of her suicide. We share this moment every day for a week.

I have begun noticing small grains at the bottom of my cup.

Today I feigned sickness and took the tea to my room. It burns my skin but I do not react. It is as I expected. I am drifting out of my flesh and I cannot stop.

THIS IS NOT THE SAME HOTEL. THIS IS NOT MY BODY. I AM SURROUNDED BY LIARS.

I am going to find the bellboy.

The elevator button is covered by layers of coarse black tape. I tear it away and find plaster beneath. I drive my keys in. The plaster crumbles between my fingers, revealing the bent end of a naked wire. I scream and scream and scream. I am utterly alone, suspended above the earth on a carcass of withered cellulose. The tips of my flesh quiver and the irregular geometric forms of my keys fall to the ground. They are hugged by the synthetic strands of millennia dead creatures. It is carpet, a small voice whispers beneath my skull. What does that even mean? I fall to my knees. I hear gurgling static above. Someone has turned a faucet, fully expecting water to flow out of it, as if it is perfectly ******* normal for water to flow two hundred metres into the air. There is a rasping sound and I realise it is my own throat opening for air.

I don’t want to exist in this reality, anymore.

Two weeks pass. I have collected enough dregs. I will soak them in mouth wash tonight.

The smoke fills my lungs. I hold it until my chest caves, my vision blurs. Grey streams rise from my lips, sinking into the ceiling. A siren screams in the hallway. I hear the lawman at my door. His head smashes against it, screaming, screaming, until it shatters into shell and yolk. I cannot wait to meet my child.

it is a womb alive twisting free empty stupid vessels floating blood in our casings waiting on the carcass spitting my lungs bring me my child bright death bright life

We shift bones to shift words to shift bones. Nobody died but there are twenty six corpses; his flesh fell through his frame, her bones shattered like shrapnel like atomic starlight, his head burst into prismatic decay. I watch their flesh pulled into the womb below. The hallways are umbilical cords pulsing nutrient streams gaping softly breathing burning. I know now. This intersection between life and death. It has always been. It takes in the lacuna. The space between spaces. Human shaped vessels with ill-fitted souls. You cannot tell them apart, you know. Strip the skin away they are revealed formless. They sink into bodies but never form identities. It is this place between places, where transience precipitates like breath on glass, dewdrops spun. I know I know I know the lawman rolls his head side to side blood and brains across the floor shut up.

There, in the hollow of my skull, I am dead, a fleeting absence. I hug the womb beneath me. I drag the rotting parts of myself down. I leave my head beside the lawman. I am going to be with my child. I am going to kiss my bright death into its soul, an indelible beacon to blemish the emptiness of existence.

I fell into a volcano
this my alibi

When the sheriff
flashed a badge

demanding explanation
of my fire eyes

Ok so I danced
around many fires

And fire became my sister
and I a brother

but to the embers dying
I am a shaman

So *******
Mr Lawman.

I met her for the first time at a downtown bar in Denver
On a Friday night while sipping Shiner beer.
We drank and danced and mingled and she told me she lived single,
In a small room at the Rustic Pioneer.

What started as a one night stand turned out to be a double;
I finally left on Monday about three.
If I stayed any longer I would have to face the trouble
Of a love affair that wasn’t meant to be.

On a trail not far behind me rode a lawman from Laredo,
With my picture on a poster and a price.
Dead or alive made no mind to the dead I’d left behind,
Who had died cheating at cards or playing dice.

I left her in Colorado; headed straight for South Dakota.
But I lied and said we’d meet in Santa Fe.
Should the trail lead him to her bed and he acted on what she said,
I’d gain several days sending him the wrong way.

But the bravest hearts are fools for love when fate has dealt the hand
And I headed back to Denver at full speed.
I returned there for the misses, who had won my heart with kisses,
Taking no heed of the danger in my deed.

Back in Denver I was taken by the lawman from Laredo.
But there is no hero in this tale of vice.
At a downtown bar in Denver the girl shot me from a barstool,
In her hand she held a poster with a price.

With a bullet in my shoulder, my gun never left the holster
And the lawman moved to quickly save my life.
I met her for the first time at a downtown bar in Denver
At a jailhouse altar she became my wife.

Anyway, Anaplasmata act aptly and abstractly
Backhands ******* balky baklava
Caractal chasm chant "Catty cavalry can't"
Dactyl dada dawns Djakarta drab

Larva ask dab-tap shabby knack lad
"Ever elect effete experts elsewhere?"
A clad daddy wants a dark jab dart
Fleece fleets flee flecked flyspecks

Cleft feet eve expels three resew eres
Gentle germs gelde grebe's geyser
Cede effects leek fell pecks self lyfes
Hellbent helmsmen helped hexed herders hence

Glen's remelted eggs be Serge-Grey
It insistingly implys impish ipsissimis insipidity
He held next her belched sender heel
Jiggling jibs jinx jimmy's jill jig

Its smilingly spiny impish mississippi I-I-I Is It dinty?
Kidding kibitz kick killing kings kitsch
sigil sign jimmy jib jingling jil
Livid linitis limits limbs limp

Big **** kid kicks thinking gill's zit kink
Midriffs mimics Mis's minimizing mistypings
Slim villi distils it, mini blimp
nil ninhydrin nihilists nicks nyxis nightly

Ms Mmisty's zip disc, if firm, is miming mining
ontology on top of oophoron ostomy.
Hindi hint silly lynchings. Skinny nix I stir
phonology 'pon phytol plywood poops polyglots pompons.

Polygon hoof-moon on poor toys toot
qophs
phony thong ploy loops monolog poppy.  Woody plop! Psst!
Rooks romp rootstock rods

"Posh" - Q
Schoolroom scoffs scoop shockproof snort stools
Mock stork pro or door toss
Thyrotomy 'top torpor tot's torso

So-so rooftop honk slots. Morocco sloops off
Usufruct tu upchucks
Stormy troops root to tot trothy
Vulgus vult vults

**** such curt cut ups
Wrung wctu
Vulgus vult vults
Xu

Wrung WCTU
Yummy yurts
Xu
Zulu zymurgy

Yummy! Try us!
Lawman scandal any pay at a scab yap tat tartly
Zulu zymurgy
Almanac-scratch that-clay tract vacancy

The stranger rode up
as we sat round the fire
it was burning down low
and we were beginning to tire

He tied off his ride
By some brush by a boulder
He was just a young lad
Though in the dark he looked older

We offered him coffee
said sit down, have a cup
We said if you're hungry
There's still food to sup

He accepted and thanked us
Said he'd got lost on the trail
With the north winter winds
Bringing on early hail

He pulled up a stump
I saw a slight flash of tin
I said "you're a lawman"
he just gave a grin

I'm from up in Kansas
was back to my home
Had to visit my mama
she's all on her own

I poured him a coffee
And I told him what's what
I said it isn't the best
But, it's sure as heck hot

I smiled at his lie
And I stoked at the fire
I thought to myself
This man's a liar

I said "in this here circle"
"we may not all be friends"
"so, toss a log on this fire"
"and we'll hear how this ends"

He reached for a log
placed it in, didn't throw
didn't reach for the poker
moved it round with his toe

"The rules of the fire"
"Is that the tender regales"
"The rest of the members"
"with a song or some tales'

"since you just got here"
"and the fire is hot"
"tell us a story"
"give the best that you've got"

He shuffled a little
Took a sip, and began
And it just took a minute
To hook us all, every man

He talked of the rustlers
He'd been chasing around
How they got in a shoot out
How, they'd all gone to ground

He lived life a plenty
For a man of his age
He was just twenty three
But, he spoke out like a sage

He'd regaled us with stories
As the fire burned low
We were all getting tired
But, we did not want to go

He pushed at the embers
Again with his boot
He finished his coffee
And he lit a cheroot

For two hours he talked
Since the fire rules said
that the fire was his
Till we chose to all bed

When we woke in the morning
We found he took flight
He left our small fire
In the dead of the night

The fire was burning
And there was a fresh *** of brew
But the stranger was missing
And our saddle bags too

I was right when I reckoned
That he was telling us lies
I could tell from the way
He didn't look in our eyes

The boots didn't fit
He was just stretching them out
By heating them up in the fire
and moving about

He sure was no lawman
He was a teller of tales
Truths , half truths and lies
He had them by the pail

We packed up our camp
Tried to pick up the trail
Of this campfire thief
With the devilish tail

We knew we'd find him
For liars repeat
He'd come back to our fire
And we'd give him a seat....

Some wield their guns, all uniformed up
some a stun gun, a pistol on the hip, a truncheon like a symbol of their machismo sticking up out their shiny belt
a shiny peaked hat with shiny polished boots
a multi coloured car with flashing lights and sirens
this is the law all tooled up
and some of them can be so far from lawful, and so far from intelligence,
you never can tell what kind of lawman just pulled you over
but beware, they may well be having a bad day, and your innocence is the last thing on their mind, and they will fume that you may well be going to get away.... from them and yes, some of them do take it as very personal indeed.

Back then it didn't matter who was right or wrong.
What mattered was who had the fastest gun.
The untamed Old West lived by a code back then. "I'll Die Before I Run."
An 18 year old boy wanders into town. All of the locals stare the young stranger down.
All of his instincts tell him to turn around, but he can't turn his back and run.
The youngster can't afford any fear. The kid's found himself much needed work here,
but the competition's greed is ruthless. That's why he wears a gun.
Young William Bonney was just another cowboy looking for work to earn an honest day's pay.
He rode into Lincoln County, New Mexico as a simple hired rancher's hand,
but he'd ride out to become a legend one day.
Today he's America's most famous bad boy, but he left us more legend than fact of all he did.
His legend continues to live on in stories, movies, books and song.
Who hasn't heard of BILLY the Kid?
BILLY the Kid's life of crime for many it seems
has been greatly exaggerated to the extremes.
He never robbed a bank, stagecoach or train.
He never harmed an innocent for pleasure or financial gain.
He was just a common stock thief. He'd steal horses and cattle
from corrupt, rich Cattle Barons who'd respond in ****** battle.
It was a lifestyle that Billy truly didn't desire,
but when your wanted by the law employers don't hire.
Yes he did **** but it was a justifiable sin.
If Billy hadn't killed them they would have killed him.
Some say he killed for vengeance but that was never his means to an end.
If he killed for anything it was for Justice for the ****** of loved ones and friends.
Many don't speak of or even know this, but back then this is what all who knew him saw.
Legally sworn Deputy William H Bonney, sworn to uphold the law.
Billy was once a bonified lawman with full authority to issue warrants and make arrests.
He could **** in the line of duty without fear of prosecution, imprisonment or arrest.
The Law Was Sworn First To The Lawman To Ultimately Serve And Protect.
Billy was one of many lawmen known as The Regulators.
They were law that Lincoln County would not soon forget.
Many today jump to the conclusion that Bonney was Billy's birth name.
He actually didn't begin to use the name Bonney until a few years before he was slain.
Where the name Bonney came from is still the unanswered question that continues to remain.
This issue alone has been known to drive historians insane.
Billy was a lad of many aliases. William Henry McCarty is believed to be his birth name.
Alias Henry McCarty, Alias Henry Antrim, Alias William Antrim Jr are all one and the same.
Kid Antrim was another alias that Billy became known to be.
His most common alias was simply The Kid.
Then one day suddenly he was William H Bonney and finally,
The Most Legendary Billy the Kid.
At the age of 12, legend says that he stabbed a man to death
because the man insulted his mother.
Legend also says that he killed a man for every year of his life.
It's been said that he was killed by a man once his friend.
Both were always seen hanging around with each other,
but it's also been said that The Kid was shot dead
because of his love for a woman that night.
Billy always fought to stay alive, when others would just accept their fate.
He did back then what he needed to do in order to survive.
It was **** or be killed if you dared to hesitate.
The Kid may have done some things that many can't justify.
Even so, his young life ended far too early to die.
Was he a victim of his time or was he truly the bad guy?
His entire truest to life story is about to unfold. Afterward you can decide.

His arm circling round her waist. Maybe . . .

A blare. Sweat of traffic. Muggy afternoon. The sun bounces off every surface, paints the surroundings white. I stand at the corner of the street, feel the pavement seep through my soles. Sesame drifts from the marketplace; cheap soba, oil and soy.

A cat stretches on the neighbour’s roof, white fur wafting.

Muffled speech. Hiss, hiss. A bus.

I kneel and pick up an empty bottle. Face merges into its sides.

“Ain.”

Someone, somewhere calls my name.

“Ain.”

Up there.

The school is closed for the summer. Walking towards it gives me a sense of unease. Obligation turned quiet tension. The summer won’t last forever.

Drip.

I’ve been holding the bottle upside down. Liquid sinks into the dirt. Almost looks like skin, all dry and creased.

It’s a precipice, right? The separation between the street and the institute. Like stepping over a grave. There’s a ******* bin, but I feel strange.

The reception is all glass. Sunstruck and bleeding at the edges—I catch a glimpse of something—is it me?

Lenin catches another raven in his hands. It sits still, head cocked calmly to the side. He lets it go, but it simply falls onto the ground, rights itself, then walks off.

He looks disappointed.

“It’s the same everywhere,” he says with his back turned. “Try it.”

I find a different one, cradle it against my chest. The bird looks vaguely annoyed. Following Lenin, I drop the bird. It falls and sinks into the ground about three inches.

Caw.

“Ain! How’d you do that? That’s wicked!”

Lenin tilts his head and goggles at the bird for a few seconds before running off to find another.

It’s really hot. I throw some sesame seeds at the bird, but it just glares at me. Sorry.

The bottle is still gripped in my hand. Why did I pick this up?

Lenin is running on the side of the school. His small feet tap out a regular pattern, like rain on a quiet night.

I really miss this.

I push the bottle into the dirt. Lenin leaps off the school. A running kick sends the bottle flying into the reception. Glass shatters and the summer unfurls into a kaleidoscope of light.

The raven rises out of the ground.

The reception reforms itself.

Lenin is running on the side of the school. His small feet tap on each window, sending small ripples of energy through them, distorting the reflection of the surrounding buildings and streets.

A cat stretches itself on the reception roof.

I kneel and pick up an empty bottle.

“Ain!”

Lenin catches a raven in mid-flight. Sees himself reflected in a window. Gravity pulls him down.

I’m sitting in the corner, waiting for school to finish. Waiting for my life to pass itself by. It’s the last day of school and everyone is leaving. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t know where I’m going. I feel sick, weak and pathetic. I look out the window and see my own face, Lenin falling through the air, sinking into the ground, a raven flying out of his outstretched hand.

There is a train and I am waiting. It is Autumn and the cherry blossoms will be bare for another half year, maybe more. There are golden leaves dancing through the station, trampled under the soles of rushed commuters and children.

Someone laughs with their friends, eating beef udon, yolk running into the broth, flesh filling his cavity. A mouth chews, but laughter still comes. I feel disgusted. I eat my tofu bento, but it only worsens.

Father visits, but I have no words for him. We sit awkwardly and he mentions work, but doesn’t elaborate. I pretend I’m busy and he eventually leaves.

where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i

“Ain!”

Lenin is kneeling over me. There are tears in my eyes and the sun hurts to look at. I try to brush them away but rub dirt in instead. Sleeves run softly across my cheeks. Lenin is hugging me from behind.

“It’s okay, Ain. It’s just play,” he says, nuzzling the back of my head. I don’t understand and cry harder.

The ravens have left the school.

A bottle lies on the roof.

A cat rolls in the dirt.

“Life is just a bad dream,” Lenin mumbles into my hair. “You’ve been waking every night, but it hasn’t helped.”

The sun is setting. Red strokes rise out of the ether and stain the sky. Streetlights turn and the quiet hum of night settles over the dying sounds of day.

“Isn’t this just so boring?”

A bus drives by, vibrating the ground beneath me. A mother and child walk past singing an old nursery rhyme.

“Ain?”

I sink into my lap and shut out the world.

“You don’t have to open your eyes. Not now, not ever.”

But I never closed them.

Hugs the ground. Flies through the evening. Do I eat a worm? Is that what I do?

I grip the pink flesh. The thing squirms, digging itself deeper into me.

A human female is laughing, or maybe crying. It’s hard to tell the difference.

Do they touch when they’re confused?

A small male soars down the side of a building. Why is he kicking his own head? The female splinters, but doesn’t shatter.

I’ve heard bones that don’t break cleanly are the worst to mend.

I reach out, hand brushing the feathers of a bird.

My head is an anchor, drags along the ground, grinds pavement to dust.

It’s so hot. Tar tickles my nostrils.

I’m alone, standing in front of a camera with all my classmates.

Lenin’s head is buried in the dirt behind me.

I raise my hand against the piercing sun, but really it’s an excuse to hide myself.

A raven hops onto the camera, unaware of the ceremony taking place. It shatters the façade, reduces the action to an absurdity, but no one notices. No one cares.

I pick at a rice ball. It’s cold, bland and under-filled. I stare at the shops around me and feel a deepening, crushing alienation. Perhaps, I have always felt this way, and it has taken me two decades to come to terms with it.

“There was a storm once,” Lenin mutters into the dirt, “the worst storm of the century.”

I remember. He held my hand all through it.

“But it wasn’t a storm, Ain.” Lenin finally turns to look at me. Meets my eyes through the dust and the tears and the sun. “It was existence trying to wake up.”

He didn’t let it.

“If it ever does, we will all die.”

It’s dark now. Lenin’s eyes glow the colour of warm honey. The last day of Summer rides away.

“Mum’ll be worried,” Lenin says, abruptly, “We should head home, Ain.”

We walk through the muted streets. This is my favourite time, when everyone is tucked into their homes and I can exist without others’ expectations projected onto my existence. I love the soft blue noise that fuzzes my vision. I love how ordinary objects are turned mysterious; the indistinct edges, the wistful gloom.

Lenin skips beside me, turning his head often to glance at the small pieces of art people leave behind through the process of living. A bicycle missing its rubber grips. A television set atop a toy wagon. A plushie stuffed between the ‘A’ and ‘I’ of a neon sign.

I buy two tea drinks and hand one to Lenin. We sit on the roof of an empty bus stop and stare into the harbour. Home feels further away than ever. The lights beneath the water reach the surface beautifully. They ripple and bleed, like phosphorescent dyes twining towards the sky. I sink beneath myself.

“Ain, don’t!”

I throw the empty bottle into the reception. I see my face shatter into infinity. I hear Lenin break into laughter. The cat leaps up. The ravens bury their wings. The worm writhes until it splits in two.

Blood runs down the side of my mouth. Twenty six dead in a hotel, bones melted like steel.

There is a gap I cannot fill because it is the platonic ideal of absence. An oak, weighed down so strongly by dreams that its branches have sunk deeper into the soil than its roots.

Sheets on the floor. I sink through the earth, head so heavy it compresses into a void and ***** the universe into itself; mangling, stretching, tearing.

My flesh writhes but there is no end. A pulsating womb. Flowers.

Everything is so bright.

I close my eyes.

Where am I?

Who am I?

A part of me is disappearing. I’m scared. I’m—

I can hear Lenin. He is screaming, but he sounds so very far away.

Oh. Oh.

I have been unfurling for a long time, haven’t I?

Guess she finally fled her body. Abandoned that vessel in the lacuna between. The tea! The tea must have reminded her. I must remember to pick up some mints. She’ll either laugh or breakdown into tears.

Whoops, I’m repeating myself.

It sure feels good to stretch my limbs again. Feels like it’s been an age.

Oh, a child boy is beside me. I better deposit him back home before I start.

Ain! Ain! Ain! Is this all this stupid child can say?

Everyone is moving so fast. Ugh. It’s lethargic. It’s absolutely stupid. What, do they think they’ll sink into the earth if they stop?

Ain! Ain! Ain! Oh fine, whatever, have her for a bit longer.

“Ain!”

Lenin? He’s pulling at my sleeves. Tears break, stream down his cheeks. It’s dark, so dark.

“I don’t want you to leave, Ain. Not like last time.”

It—it feels like I’m submerged. The harbour lights have dimmed. Soon dawn will come and wipe their existence from the world. It will be as if they never existed at all.

“Please Ain.”

I hug Lenin. He keeps repeating ‘please’ over and over. I have an inexplicable feeling that I’m leaving for a long time. That I won’t see Lenin again, and that I have to—

Have you stolen my body?

Yup!

Why?

Because you were scared and lonely and living a pointless existence.

I—

Don’t worry, there are a lot like you!

Will—will I ever see Lenin again?

Hmm, probably not. To be honest, I’m not really sure how all this works myself.

Please. Please don’t do this. I—

Ughhhhhh. Look kid, I’ve got places to be. Sayonara.

The market. The raven. The market.

A child petting a cat. A woman drinking a cola. Filling and filling and—

Postman runs past, knocks her arm. Bottle falls to the ground. Splash, crack.

Howling dog. It’s black, you know.

Lenin running on the rooftops. Ain asleep with her window open. He leaps in and wakes her with a grin.

“Ain! Ain! Ain!”

She throw a pillow at him angrily and rolls back into the bed, wrapping herself up like a caterpillar.

A lawman runs over to help the fallen woman. Hands her a mint.

Oh, isn’t it beautiful?

Don’t they all live beautiful lives now?

*Isn’t this what you wanted?

By: Cedric McClester

They were men of conviction
But one of ‘em wound up dead
When he refused to obey
What the lawman said
Stand down was the order,
“I’m placing you under arrest”
Captured on a tape recorder
So no one could contest

Members of a militia
Hold up in Oregon
Who were on a mission
And the thought never dawned
Their stand-off couldn’t last forever
Though they thought it could
But they should have know better
Than to think they’d be understood

They were men of conviction
Taking matters in their own hands
But you could have made a prediction
They wouldn’t achieve their plans

They were men of conviction
Fighting the government
Ignoring all restrictions
Because they were hell-bent
On getting their point across
And they weren’t about to relent
Unless their cause was won or lost
Was the message they hoped was sent

These were men of conviction
At least they said they were
Facing eminent eviction
But that thought didn’t occur
They were prepared to die
If it came down to that
But you have to ask yourself why
Would they take it to the mat

They were men of conviction
Taking matters in their own hands
But you could have made a prediction
They wouldn’t achieve their plans

Caught at a traffic stop
They were placed under arrest
Told to let their weapons drop
Only one of ‘em did contest
And so he wound up dead
With a bullet wound in his chest
For ignoring what the lawman said
Who prevailed nevertheless

They were men of conviction
Taking matters in their own hands
But you could have made a prediction
They wouldn’t achieve their plans




Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016.  All rights reserved.
                                             012715cm

I saw my first killing
At the tinder age of thirteen
Two men fell outta the towns saloon
And commenced to fighting in the street

It was at that very moment
My Momma she grabbed me
But Momma couldn't keep me from seeing
What it is I seen

It broke my heart when Momma
Stood on that dusty street and cried
But I still went about my business
When she covered up her eyes

I grabbed the dead mans gun
That's when I told my lie
I told my Momma that I'd be home
Later on that night

But my Momma she never saw
Her young boys face again
'Cept on the wanted posters
Nailed up by many a lawman

Many a lawman lately
That's gunning for my hide
'N' to think it all got started
When the first owner of this here gun of mine died

My killing spree started in Colorado
Then went south for a spell
Every town that I rode up on
Became a living hell

A living hell that no one ever
Had the nerve to give me back
I almost feel sorry for the men
Who ever dared to cross my path

No matter how far or fast I ran
Death was always close behind
In his right hand he holds a flaming sword
On the handle engraved the name is mine

The name is mine
And he knows it well
Deaths one desire
Is my soul in hell

I was twenty one years of age
When a coward shot me in the back
Shot me in the back
Cause it was courage that he lacked

The courage that he lacked
Stopped my deadly run
As fast as it all got started
The day I pick up that dead mans gun

it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girl with the mousy hair
10,000 hipsters stand in the square
with ***** makeup and ****** flare
prayers fly into the dim lit sky
as a generation asks god  ‘why’
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girl with the mousy hair
I sit here in despair
for a god of whom I did care
well, just a man with a master’s eye
for making all of the people sigh…
and now I sit here with my head in my hand
just trying to understand
what this world has come unto
can there ever again be skies of blue
and while *swishy in her satin and tat
frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat
there can never be another like that –
the morning news brought a cold chill
as the icon of us undesirables
came to be laid at rest
it’s on America’s tortured brow
leaving us to sit solemn
as old records spin
telling tales of space men
and life on mars
a little china girl
and one man who feel to earth
it’s on America’s tortured brow
the fashionista of glam rock
the birther of Ziggy
the man who sold the world
forever changing
chameleon
in smart shoes –
spinning grooves
and scattered cd’s
tears slipping away
as memories already start to fade
it’s the freakiest show
look at those cavemen go
will they ever know
just who left us
take a look at the lawman
beating up the wrong guy
it’s a god-awful small affair
to the girls with the mousy hair
now she walks with a sunken dream
and the cream that once rose so high
so too will come the time to die
and as all of us let him go
there can be a bit of hope for those
who carry a torchy flare
to the girl with the mousy hair
and will sing in the dead of night
with face paint and a big spot light
******* and the party boys
come out with their fancy toys
but it’s a god-awful small affair
if you find you’re too square to care
‘bout the goblin kings sad depart
from this earth and from hipster hearts
see these kids have no loyalty
to a man who helped define me
when the world gave me a frown
for kissing boys in a dainty gown
ole Davy gave me peace
with a confidence that never ceased
oh Mr. Jones I’m in debt to you
for turning my grey skies to blue
now I’ll forever carry this torch
from green valleys to my own front porch
but it’s a god-awful small affair
it’s nice to know some of us care…
about the earth and sun and stars
and yes
there is life
on
     Mars –

I saw my first killing
At the tinder age of thirteen
Two men fell outta the towns saloon
And commenced to fighting in the street

It was at that very moment
My Momma she grabbed me
But Momma couldn't keep me from seeing
What it is I seen

It broke my heart when Momma
Stood on that dusty street and cried
But I still went about my business
When she covered up her eyes

I grabbed the dead mans gun
That's when I told my lie
I told my Momma that I'd be home
Later on that night

But my Momma she never saw
Her young boys face again
'Cept on the wanted posters
Nailed up by many a lawman

Many a lawman lately
That's gunning for my hide
'N' to think it all got started
When the first owner of this here gun of mine died

My killing spree started in Colorado
Then went south for a spell
Every town that I rode up on
Became a living hell

A living hell that no one ever
Had the nerve to give me back
I almost feel sorry for the men
Who ever dared to cross my path

No matter how far or fast I ran
Death was always close behind
In his right hand he holds a flaming sword
On the handle engraved the name is mine

The name is mine
And he knows it well
Deaths one desire
Is my soul in hell

I was twenty one years of age
When a coward shot me in the back
Shot me in the back
Cause it was courage that he lacked

The courage that he lacked
Stopped my deadly run
As fast as it all got started
The day I pick up that dead mans gun

They say that all is fair in love and war
But is all fair in the war of love?
Is there temperance amidst the virile and the delicate?
Or is it just a guise shielding us from the bitter truths of love?

Dear brother of mine
Bold lawman in the making
Had a young sweetheart years apart

He was climbing up fast
With the promise of a bright future
And she would only be the start

But two summer days
Of ecstasy and pleasure
Were all it took in the name of time

For the young sweetheart
With his heart on a hook
To tear apart the cord of his precious spine

Now his reputation, his hopes, his dreams are on the line
Because of a young heart whose blood was replaced with slime
How can this happen to a man of pure heart and mind?
Such a burden to my dear brother will never be a friend of mine

Many days go by, many nights come through, when I haven’t the faintest, slightest inkling of you. I rest my head easy, hardly do I become queasy, over the memories of what made my love for you so true. Have I ever felt blue, when pondering you? You bet your bottom dollar, though don’t expect the remotest holler, even on the nights when I’m mildly missing you.

How could you, do me the opposite as I have done to you? How could you do the things that I could never do to you? What makes you, so tamelessly shrew, and fail to miss me as I have missed you? What could I possibly do, to know that it could be true, that you have treasured me as I have treasured you?

That’s why I was through, because the moment I found you, you never made me feel as grand as I tried to make you. Complete as you’ve made my heart, you had a particular knack for tearing it apart, and that is why it is left shattered in its own aortic goo.

That’s all on you. That’s forever what will make you the best and worst of you. To be so ruthless and nonchalant with the damage that you do, and play it as though you had no idea that was all you. Now I’m left blue, pretending to be through, when all that I’ve sacrificed was due to this idea that I had of you. To slave in an asylum, to be a lawman and a wild one, a future as bright as a bullet shining out of a gun. That was all for you, my thoughts on tangoing as two, for the rest of our unhappy lives that would have been happier, if only you knew.

Who exactly are you? Who were you to this man who is now blue? Was it your pleasantries, so few, or was it a universal coup, toying with my hopes and dreams, of meeting and ending up with someone like you, someone I thought I knew?

My head is now a zoo, filled with starving animals and poo, moaning and groaning over this animalistic swine flu, that pillages my spirits and slices me in two, all from the memories that lead me to missing you. But I told you to shoo, after your silence asked me that for you, many moons of endless begging for anything to come out of you. In solitude, I’ll watch the drops of the morning dew, condense on my windowsill as I reflect on the person that came from you.

To love such a love, I have experienced so few, the dreams of this young man, who has dreamed a little of you, where I am kissing those sweet, darling kisses of you, in my head as I recall, on the nights when I’m missing you.

There is a man in my dreams, always. He is neither foreign nor familiar. He never speaks but on the occasion that he does he is not boastful;
His lip never trembles or bleeds.
"All my days are the same, except some" he whispers.
" I should've been a woman, I should've been a man. I should've been anything but solitary knee caps & jail cells. I've lived in nothing but crowded apartments, fed on the flooded chatter of open windows!
Those moments where your heart is a hummingbird & the girl you love keeps skinning her ******* knee & for that there are heads being scalped."
I never reply to these confessions. He could be a lawman or a taxi repairman & it wouldn't make a difference because his missing teeth that he covers with dentures & the eyes that never fully close tell me I don't have to. This is not my show, not his airtime on the television. There's never a punchline, you see. His sins are never absolved & the only redemption he gets is that there's never dirt under his fingernails.
"I have lived enough" he continues
"To know that the samurai sword you try so hard to use for defense is only a swollen reminder that you've always been background noise at dinner parties, you don't know where to go without bumping into someone; the time is not over yet.
"There is no romance in finding your war and conquering it. My mother used to kiss me on the lips & my father used to beat me with a stick. You'd think these calluses would turn into poetry people would never be ashamed to read but my hands never stopped touching dirt."
He believes I'm listening, believes I understand. Looks at me & doesn't see a child; doesn't untangle the confusion inside the pockets of my dress. This, is the only time honesty counts.
"Somewhere between the hangovers & choking on all the keys I saved in coat pockets I couldn't figure out whether this was worth remembering, worth regurgitating to my children or women on bus stops
"I used to beat my wives & pretended that god enjoyed these charades; that my knuckles wouldn't feel so delicate, wouldn't be this tough if I wasn't designed to be. I looked at their cherub faces & all I could smell was gun powder, for this I never held a gun."
I looked at this man, cloudy-eyed. This man who belonged to no one; who never blew the dust off my hair but instead flicked ash onto my shoelace. This man with no name who forced me to hate him and yet when I closed my eyes there was only tenderness.
I wanted nothing more than for him to tell me something that made me comfortable in my own bed again.
"You see girl, you soon come to expect rooms without windows, people like burial grounds, that the shimmer doesn't last forever.
One day it's 9 p.m. on a ******* Friday night and you feel like a hospital rug, like a ****** motel carpet, like all the floorboards where your wife said the money you have to offer is not worth to die for and then what do you got?"
I wake up alone.

there was a little wolf and he just long to be
a cowboy in the west riding high and free
he bought himself a stetson and some cowboy suits
then he bought some stirrups and put them on his boots
bought himself  some guns of the very best
then a sheriffs  star and pinned to his chest
he mounted on his horse a nice big dapple grey
then off into the sunset the wolf he rode away
he became a lawman in the great wild west
then became a sheriff of the very best

I am a mask.

I am the face of soldiers, murderers, monsters, heroes...
Though I guard one man from stealing eyes
I am the last thing many see,
From the gallows to the shadows
And the depths of the sea.

Savior, slaughterer, sacred, scarring,
And yet I have no eyes with which to cry.

I am a mask.

I am the shield of the weak,
Protector of the fearful,
But people look down on me.
They call me a coward, but then I am showered
With praise when the crooked see.

Needed, never noticed, nervous,
And yet I have no eyes with which to cry.

I am a mask.

Used and thrown away,
Used again another day:
To raise a gun and rob a bank;
To shield the lawman stopping a criminal;
To blind a man who walks on death row;
To hide the executioner's twisted smile.

Lawbreaker, liberator, litigator, life,
And yet I have no eyes with which to cry.

I am a mask.

I know you always saw yourself a knight
But I did not realize for a long time
That I was a page.
You were my sparring partner
Who taught me to come at the world
Gun drawn
So no one could out-shoot me.
You told me,
And I know,
That Justice wears a blindfold because
She slashes her sword indiscriminately,
And looks at that scale
Never.

You always saw yourself a lawman
I always saw you as a fool.
I never realized I learned law
At your feet.
Fallacies and ways of
Drawing out argument and diatribe,
Loopholes of morality through which
We spin.
You taught me to be technically correct,
The best kind of correct,
Always exploiting but
Always within my jurisdiction.
I only know now I was a deputy
To a sheriff of ridiculous stature.

You taught me THE ART OF WAR.
It was engraved in stone for me
Like an all-caps Roman monument.
THE ART OF WAR
Is sprawled across a stone archway in my mind
Where you came, and you saw.
It marks your conquest.

You made it my way of loving,
Of relating to the world and the people around me.
You made me a martyr and mercenary,
Standing atop a hill in golden armor,
Sunlight behind me and wind in my hair,
An avatar of Durga,
A disciple of Joan of Arc,
A four-year-old poses in chainmail
You wrought for her.
Illusions of grandeur such as your own
Come with this territory.

You taught me
As your mother and father
And grandparents
Taught you,
THE ART OF WAR-
That love is just begrudging words of sweetness
Issued only after ruins lay all around
And both parties are sufficiently vulnerable,
Their bricks having been pried away with crowbars.
Love is only an apology given to mollify
The wounds you have already wrought.
The only privilege loved-ones are afforded,
Is the bandage that covers up the customary
Destruction
That is your normal face.

You and I only ever knew love as
You clipping my wings
And I breaking free to spray
The shrapnel of those chains
Into your face.
We added to each others' pile of scars.
It was so rare for us to run into battle together,
On the same side,
Voices as one in a battlecry.
I don't even know how long it's been since
Us soldiers-for-hire got hired
By the same team at once.

You cast me out of steel
Like a sword.
And now I am the legendary blade
Destined to clash against you for all eternity.
We will only ever know ceasefires
Of a day in length.
We will run through the flame,
And we will practice the art
You taught me.

There are guns all over the country aiming at you.
There's a lawman on your trail who'd love to surround you.
Bounty hunters are encroaching all around you.
Billy they're just never going to let you be.
It seems that there's always some stranger sneaking glances.
Could he be some trigger happy fool willing to take chances?
Having a price on your head brings many threatening advances.
Billy, you're not in jail but you're still not free.
You're enemies and politicians want you to be put down,
so they've hired Mr Garrett to go and hunt you down.
He says he'll either bring you back alive or put you in the ground.
Billy, you're always going to be on the run.
Everyone says that Pat Garrett has your number.
So sleep with one eye open when you slumber.
Every little sound you hear could end up being thunder.
Thunder from the barrel of his gun.
Looking over your shoulder from sunrise to sundown.
Never being able to take root somewhere and settle down.
Billy it must make you feel even more low down
to be hunted by the man who was your friend.

I want to be a thieving rogue who hunts behind curtains for treasured "gold".
I want to take
and grab
and ******;
a hooded figure no lawman can catch.
They'll search for me beyond the seas while I am just grinning in a tree ,
waiting for the alarm to give up the fight so I can vanish into the night.
But please, dear friend,  don't make the mistake and assume you know the treasure I crave,
for no diamonds are twinkling behind the eyes of the mischievous hunter,
this garish knave.
This thieving soul wants only to steal the hearts of those, chained to their woes, and all other torturous lingering foes.

So quickly I'll sneak and risk you away;
then show you, perhaps, a different view.
So tell me.
Will you
let me steal you?

In the silt
the milt
the making of man,
the coming of dawn
the morning begun,
the run through the trees,
the taking,
invoking the spirits to please,
smoking a peace pipe
wearing a second stripe
we're all in the war of what went before and
what's not here yet.

In ten thousand years they will dig up my bones
professors will view me and talk in hushed tones.
I'll be in the museum, some, will come down to see me,the fragrance of history etched in the memory of lines scratched by bullhorns,when the lawman kicked in the door man and that can't be right man.

And for now we will take it,we get used to the *******,we
were brought up on horseshit,in the spitting my way through the saliva today,
I walk upon tainted water, turned to ice, think i oughta use a ****** to slaughter the unborn of the daughters of the devil who sort of knows exactly where I'm at.

In the vat where the system is rising unbidden to fall and be hidden
I stir and stare at reflections.

When in Rome

In the Fontana Dei Guattro Fiumi in the piazza Navona  
I had a cooling dip after coming out of a smoke filled
bar, I stripped, but modestly kept my underwear, on and
watched over by an elderly patrolman, who wasn’t looking
for promotion, he knew everyone on his turf and when
needed he didn’t see a thing which was good for keeping
The peace. Dawn and the local market opened, I had oven
fresh bread and cheese; coffee, also a grappa to stave off
A slight chill after my shower I sat with my eyes half closed
listening to the voice of humanity and it was good to be alive.
Walking back to my little hotel I saw the police officer
again he was spoken to a ******* she smiled and said good morning
I did like-ways; it’s handy to have a friendly lawman on my side.
I went to bed, a window open and white
curtains moving the breeze, listening to the outside noises,
and drifting on the ocean of dreamy sleep, I knew I would wake up
at noon by the aroma of Italian food.

in my paradigm, a word to define
from now on such words,
we presume

you can lookitup. Yacoulda in 2019.
if you don't assume you
knew what that word meant when
phirst poured into me,
the idea in the word,
actedly as you act
ually allow true,
in the dom whence thy will is done, yknow?

presumptible words hold whole preconceptual

assumption of the neccessary fiction

Migration outa hell, the myth
ic map.
That'll only getcha yea far.

Once a good idea has a man,

History sets the rules for maintaining our living culture,
(lest we forget, some animals is more equal)

but once manifested, the awaited ones,
groaned for in labour like,
the twentieth century

here we come
the good idea posse, plague on
userers and slavers and oppressors, and professors
confessing greed is the engine of
onward, as we were, we shall become
they say to the we we ain't.

We are robbers

of noble wisdom occluded behind tonsored and tenured
guild rules for heresy pre
vention.

Imps, good imps, impulses to do, right, sativa in
fluency,

we take hold in mortal minds and lift the blinds on

things hidden from the foundations of the world,

now, all ye need is

-- a login and password, All the public lies unbelieved
-- from word one to right just now,
-- we un done 'em. You gotta know how to phrase
---a quest request.
-----is that a problem, are you offended that keywords
-----and key phrases,
----can open doors on no map of meaning you drew,
---- as magi were said to do?

ah, a door in y' back wall, o'yerown persian guarded den,
a glance o'er y'shoulder,

duck, crawl, through the wall

we chipped away some old mortar around
stones who can testify our right
to interupt re
ality, as you will
---
AH, I live in a Archetrope, as a sorta hippy hermit former farmer,
relative of the
Outlaw-Lawman Archtype Classes, decended from Tubalcain,
through Na'amah, ancient mitochondrial
genes  pre
valent in general hill folk  
who tend to bake probiotic home-made

bread starter. I'm the idea. The idea that goes with
certain old recipes and those smells,
****** gluonic pro
tonic action,
but I am a recent roll-out, 5G.
We be given leave for
quarkish tricks with words,
if you can believe that.

Note to self: this is only funny if you presume to know

meaning's meaning as related by JBP. And then,
you laugh a liar laugh, as if, a little

levity leavened ye, f'crysoutloud, and yewerekewl,

you knew. Yeah, y'knew all them Jordan B. Peterson
polysyllabic synchronic
ex-plain words,
You did read the whole reading list, right?

How childish a question have you lied
to answer, because, aitia, you did not know?

New values. Junk yard values.

What good's this thang?
That's a crankshaft,  the piston rod connects
down from the piston, down to
that. Crankshaft. That one's for a chivvysix.

SO, what good's it?

Not much. The car it was in won't work no more.

-----
on the border twixt known and un

the future scented in the past, orange blossum
special, borego super bloom

golden valley full o' poppies, in re
al life, already already, alright.

If you get the drift, blown in the wind back when poppies
conspired to sow seed in abundance beyond
the possibility of that now winter then
to sustain or even wake
2 in twenty,

back then when rain did not come until Febru
ary, and then, but a
pittance. Poppies and Bluebelles whispered into
pollen on the way west, sea,
see us from our wind,

next winter, we have sown our hearts out,
so send some clouds to start the spell,
the smell,

desert bloomin' pollen way, so easy to see,

intagiios of life laughing in color for such as
find now enough, enough
to see and let be true,
look up
and fly to learn to see as a silver raven could
with your eye,
your POV in sus
pected un belief.

Pop.

---
the current or pre existant state

next.
AH
HA this is not one of those mytheries mystery
fectory confections one may buy
hand-dipped

in many wee wide spots in the road,
where enough was enough
a good
while ago. A previous and probable future
stable horizon of delight

no walls. The idea twisted into paradice is

from when the hearts of men had never been
re
deemed worth the effort to fill them with

you know, good and evil, plus why and how not,

you know, you know how, but you know
how not to, too. And any fool can learn in
life's most dangerous univers
ity ified as lived, breathed in'n'out exper
ience.

Winning and being may not be mistook past here.

Find that which has been lost
since birth.
Find the old way, where good is. Walk it.

Find the message in the old words. Talk it.

Compliance or complexity. Not my job or ...

come to think...

Mentioning winning, maybe, yeah, ya'll'll gitit

My job, as a good gob of complexity eating juices,
fermented from trodden grapes o' wrath,

way back, when...
I was sung once, just
once...
in an orange orchard, I was the the ******,
or dwarf who caught the idea

from the wanderer walking in the orchard to smell
the sweat and sing at the top of his lungs

Operetic otic baritone

Faith
is the evidence
Faith!
is the evidence evidence evidence dense dense,
(
william tell)

Jim Dee was Tonto and he, con sidereal authority wise,
considered us fools, who said in their hearts,

here is where all truth dwells. (they were children, then)
the dwarf in me caught the idea
and went
Chuck Berry duckwalk air guitar singing high tenor,
Woe to the soul, what don't believe,

Woe, Sisyphus, roll it up'n' let'erole

evolve, little ****** beasty idea virus, roll out,
role on. That's the trick.Just be good for goodness,
that feeling, y'know. You got it.

Summer night in Rome


In the Fontana Dei Guattro Fiumi in the piazza Navona  
I had a cooling dip after coming out of a smoke filled
bar, I stripped but modestly kept my underwear, on and
watched over by an elderly patrolman, who wasn’t looking
for promotion, he knew everyone on his turf and when
needed he didn’t see a thing which was good for keeping
the peace. Dawn and the local market opened, I had oven
fresh bread and cheese; coffee, also a grappa to stave off
a slight chill after a bath. I sat there eyes half closed
listening, the voice of humanity and it were fine to be alive.
Walking back to my little hotel I saw the police officer
again he was spoken to a *******, he smiled and said
good morning I did like-ways; it’s handy to have a friendly
lawman on my side. I went to bed, window open and white
curtains moving the breeze, listening to the outside noises,
and drifting on the ocean of dreamy sleep, I knew I would
wake up at noon by the aroma of Italian food

The youth got on the tram
Was he coming up or going down?
Why was it so hard to smile
Was it the billions they’d spent on fireworks
Was it the famine?
Was it the lovin’
Hey Lawman, he said
Come May, don’t talk so loud, don’t talk so proud


Always will be always was


Seizures are so quick
Mine were the worst
I’m going to have to do something atomic
To kick the dead where it hurts


Always will be always was


And now that we’re are talking
How tough do you have to be?
To get free these days.
How much for a stroll on the highway?

Ever heard the story of Hammer Arm when he came to town?
They said the sight of him
And the streets would turn around
People spat out petrol and drank in sun
It was a weapon of choice
It was a day of fun


Always will be always was


What did it mean to teach the world how to be a world again
To teach the world about wonder and about peace
How to dream?