This is the time lean woods shall spend
A steeped-up twilight, and the pale evening drink,
And the perilous roe, the leaper to the west brink,
Trembling and bright to the caverned cloud descend.


Now shall you see pent oak gone gusty and frantic,
Stooped with dry weeping, ruinously unloosing
The sparse disheveled leaf, or reared and tossing
A dreary scarecrow bough in funeral antic.


Then, tatter you and rend,
Oak heart, to your profession mourning; not obscure
The outcome, not crepuscular; on the deep floor
Sable and gold match lustres and contend.


And rags of shrouding will not muffle the slain.
This is the immortal extinction, the priceless wound
Not to be staunched. The live gold leaks beyond,
And matter’s sanctified, dipped in a gold stain.

I stood alone with eyes closed,
in the perfect view of the sky above,
generation swept below my feet,
waffle laugh filled the street,
they talked, without speaking,
they sang, without sharing,
empty, their soul filled with darkness.

Free are the doomed, the idle, the fallen,
for they are breathless, of this stagnate air.
I stood alone with my psyche open,
with quivering bones, and steady thoughts.
Flash of time, was catching my breadth,
ties of love, care and passion,
left behind under cloud of dust,
they say when your time is here,
you see the flash of your sins, mortal,
only, under the dark of my eyes shut,
i saw the face of my fallen love,
the reason of my life, the reason for my death.
I reached my arm to embrace,
i took the leap, into the space,
my face kissed by gust, my hair filled the dust,
the sky felt departed, as i inched the earth,
no cause to commend, no regrets to mend,
i feel free, i see my wings,
i feel young, i see the springs.
today i fly,
behind i leave is a lie,
heaven or hell i can't care much,
for freedom my heart clutch.
The world went quite as I hit the dirt,
the sweet pain seized my soul,
blood set free off my vein,
my last breath, drifted,
as it rose up to the blue.
I lay there cold, untied,
with a halo of blood.
Shattered, unwanted,
bordered by the living slaves,
silent screams bury the unwanted grin,
hollow prayers crucify the reaching hand,
in the end there was just me,
in my death, I am free.

Observations & conversations, written the the shallow heights of the sinister winter.
The year that the would ended, successfully, unsuccessfully
''who were forced to open antique stores where they thought they were growing old & cried''(AG)
The same year we lost Bert & nobody cared & as a mark of respect, all of my guitars were given away as
parting gifts & so the songs did not cease to be written but only written now on key-junk & toy-scramble
& far as my plans are planned this is the way I will stay, & no, your're right, it's true I haven't played  show in  months. My fingers now smooth & twice as yellow, just like when I was older than I was tomorrow & you ask me if I have ever been forever & the notebook brimmed over full of eavesdropping & secret secrets I expose in writing that you'll never read  & long walks home & Picasso pictures of strangers that I've never seen (gasp!) The great mythological hat flapped, low heeled, opaque smoke covered goon of the night, only to be seen propping up lamp posts for a light to scribble by  & then gone in to the night again like Jack The Shadow when he was young & always one eye open when the cars drive by, to save the blind eye, in one eye anyway & now & then blind in both by text message of newfangled but out of date technobabble & uncool is the new cool. Tired, writing.
The gravel mounted marching marvel, which never really made any sense to begin with  but(have you ever read Tender buttons?) nothing else really ever makes sense too, just like when I discovered that time doesn't exist, but O' the contradiction of the clock ticking. simultaneously asking favours from the moon, saying ''come on, please, tonight could really be the night, one more, anything,  anyone will do'' praying, but only in jest & grand sarcasm just like the day that Chaplin died(although, yes it's true I do enjoy the merriment, but in the end it only brings me down once again to think how its only once a year that people stop hating each other & then only for the want of THINGS) & now birthdays too have fallen through the holes in the floor in a see-no-evil-hear-no-evil attempt to keep from aging & even now I feel a little older(tick tick tick). Always fearful of change, constantly fumbling for more change in futile empty pockets in the back bar to keep from being seen & then back around the river again to sleep & dream only the most mundane of dreams to wake up scared that you have no ideas left & your creativity, which was all you ever had has finally dried up before you really got to use it, & the pain in your nut-box, maybe you've really gone too far this time & maybe you really have woken up dead this time & woe is everything & you never got to be a cliche & move to Paris & write & starve  & drink with Hem & Fitz & watch Fitz faint & work in a hotel with Orwell & all the Russians & be treated like **** by Strickland(even he was fictional & if he wasnt he died a leaper any-who).
you know you've always been a leth-wretch & a glutton for sorrow, but who cares about happiness, all things temporary etc etc. & I remember saying '' I think to make any great art, you first need to die a little'' when I was drunk & the next day feeling a fool, but ''better a witty fool than a foolish wit'' etc etc. when I got the beermares & the flashbacks of secret hand holding under the table & us(I), waiting until we were alone & never spoke of it again(again)& now the standard issue of time apart before we forget again & the whole thing will unravel again with shocking to the detail similarity as before & the time before also similar, for which I wont go into details for fear of you reading this & having probably already written it yourself, you being a much greater writer than I & we both know it, but still you would never say it & I only babble about myself in a chain smoking, nonsensical, bending on a loop, only ever thinking out loud fuzzy feedback ash tipping of the mind but still I wouldn't give away any secrets. I'm still surprised I gave you my real name, but my oh my, isn't hard being a spy.

The seeker the loner the lover the keeper
The thrower the catcher the leaper
The believer the stoner the beater
The busser the cleaner the waiter
The water the sinker the caster the bleeder
The runner the stunner the teacher the preacher
The heater the steeper the meeker the feature the
Sliding the slipping and sloshing and
Crawling and creeping and cutting and kissing
Dishing and wining and dining and hissing
Looking and seeing believing and breeding
Heaving mashing heaping seeding
Feeding flooding fretting keeping
Shining a lining flowing and flipping
Tripping sipping showing shipping
Beating the beat of the poem of the people

what a calamity i arise to befall
The step i climbed to miss
The ground that drunk of the water i swallowed.
Hissing and blazing, in a count of configuration
The bundles of antiquities flown by the naked ventures of tranquility
Here i bore the question with an empty head of lessonless mind
Look now that i smile nay i show non by the face
See to my lips and read yourself the smiles
Is it all yours
Or you beg for less the more i offer
Many as lame i be to walk, the blind and beauty of those i lead, the bright to line by my back the genuis stuck by my ways.
Aint no way through my heart is taken, hugged in a jar of Love to the hunter of my soul
I see not to venture go by the gone in the
I heal what is hurt in my hurt from the heart
******* the ugly beauty of an angered mind, sweeting gallons of hope to thee that seeks non but faith
Down my injuries i heal of you
To say bye i lie for i stay not to fear but of my choice to go far the worry to stay in one past the known one for joy
I cometh as i leap & leave as i leap, Leaping to stay and to leave the leaper but non for one
Now am there, to stay and to be this to me is further i go to stay her meekness am drawned her thickness am strive her boldness i lay her softness i am dragged
How do i and so can i not be  not to run a race past the behind of my favorite front

*** teaser
people pleaser

mind reader
secret keeper

man leaper
grim reaper

floor creeper
little sleeper

Long lines at midnight, breathless hype,
shiny sheen, the high gloss of marketing,
cosplay and balletic spoiler avoidance,
slammed multiplexes, overloaded ticket sites,
Croesus-like CGI kissing earnest steady-cam shots,
fan service, callbacks, countless punches.

Childhood idols fleshed out
on the grandeur of the silver screen,
writers room noodling netting billions
long after all the shaggy boho creatives
that originated it all were lowered
into the loamy maw of anonymous grave plots.

There's a degree of validation for the pasty
and hopeless, the low and lowdown
in watching a distinguished professional legend
pretending to be Bartoc the frickin Leaper
as though it's not silly, as though all
your idle moments, all your random diversions
really matter in the end, as though it all ties up
with a master-planned through-line of purpose,

as though it all mattered when you avidly read
about Iron Man, Hercules and Giant Man punching
out the red-shirt Skrulls (or was it the Krees?) on some spaceship
for a few minutes back at your grandmother's house
back before she was dead, before you were consumed
with the caustic sting of bitterness and bile, all the
accrued weight of a life generally but pleasantly wasted.

Kisses.
Sweet and soft.
Childhood.
Innocence.

Faster.
Heavy breathing.
My heart, it beats
I can feel every pump.

Stomach.
Leaping,
Then diving.
Roller coaster.

Clothes.
On, happy.
Slipping, and scared,
Hands grasp at my dress.

Kissing.
Scary.
Breathless, gasp.
Closed mouth.

Faster.
Head spins.
No.
Say no fast.

Stomach.
Dead leaper.
Alive fire.
Tucked into lungs.

Clothes.
Battling hands.
Defeated hands.
Clothes off.

Kissing.
Forced.
Lost consistency
Dead.

Faster.
No, no, say it fast.
Breathe.
Fast pumps.
Pumps of pain.

Stomach.
Empty.
Hollow guilt.
Swelled up alcohol.

Clothes.
Gone, missed.
Coveted bedsheets.
Grasping for cover.

Kissing.
Dead.
No more.
Death.

For a dip of her toe in the clouds
She’d fiercely stretch til she’d rip up
She’d throw her bones, spread her skin
To rather die than never win
Dyeing a bloodline, infinite green

Seeing a swarm of flies
Seeping the sap of
A hand-deprived
Leaper's fresh wound
A good Samaritan
Disarrayed them with
A hand clap “Twa!” sound
Getting as close as he could
In vain expecting
“A thank you!” gratitude.

“You shouldn't have done that
When the former ones,
Who had their fills, depart
The famished ones come forth
For their part
To siphon my blood
To their hearts delight!”

The upstart incumbent
Closed a curtain
On at the-end-of- the-tunnel
-alluring light
Let alone warrant
The much-touted
Days bright—Democracy
Deepening
Across the board wealth sharing.

Revolutionary democrats
Who boast “Brave
In a guerilla fight
We have sent
Tyrants to a grave!”
Serving the people
Opted to forget
So as
From government's coffer
To line up their own pocket.
Tax-comafledged exploitation
Compounded by
Government-sponsored corruption
What is more intimidation
From one's land
Or abode alienation
Research aiming
At ethnic cleansing
Bureaucratic logjams
And maladministration
Creating a non stop
Hassle and tension
From fever-pitch
Brewing up
Political tension
To divert attention
Are the tactic
They use
To sustain
Their tenure
And advance
Bad governance.///
African politics © 23 hours ago, Alem Hailu Gabre Kristos   sad poems • society poems
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Peter the Ce

Of thee virtual netherland...
courtesy one spellbound wordsmith
within apartment b44
nestled within a manor
(and manner of writing)
atop nondescript Schwenksville highland.

All gibbets zing aside
I got noose for you,
yours truly enjoys harmless chide
ding even kibitizing about,
when cessation of consciousness occurs
leaving terrestrial plane
frequently incorporates divine spirit as guide
absolute zero escape
regarding death to override.

Oft times ('specially
these latter unsainted days and nights)
death doth haunt me atheistic zeitgeist
which thoughts of my demise
crowds out purposeful thinking
in the twitching mind kempf
paradigm of this atheist
hence, he betook himself
to this MacBook Pro,

while swiss side dull ideations
for professional intercession,
deadline could not wait
asper affecting s cathartic,
emetic, harmonic tete a tete
and providing a meaningful surrogate
to expunge morbid mental state
accessed Open Office
and let fingers (of left hand)
do talking heads

to an imaginary therapist
across this qwerty keyboard
allowing, enabling, and
at the quickest typing rate
striving to cap cha dismal, gloomy,
and ill lust tree us deplorable
mood aye equate
with pitching into
a bottomless abyss where pate
fed ceaseless diet of NON GMO –

a last repast
the grim reaper did orchestrate
gluten free, an extra heavy dose
of monosodium glutamate
which ingredient doth
BuzzFeed thine appetite
for total mortal exterminate
'thou no need fermi to rush,
where angels fear to tread,
cuz tis better late

than never, the apothegm,
credo, ethos...foreign ha Kate
the caterer maintains
an open exit from life,
and cares only
that each soul doth feel elan,
joie de vivre, and psalm times
a leaper chants, ecstatically finally
gustatory humming don't jubilate
for your final homecoming, or else
the mailer daemon lived
a devilish life will instigate

a de coup age d'etat,
but such extreme
measure for measure heed doth hate,
yet exceptions always made for a date
particularly when henchmen to die for
golden opportunity
to ****** a generic guy a create
an underground soiree will cease,
when ashes master
of hell raising circumstances
twill use as bait
let underground missionary be advocate.