she wanted my soul


so I cut off a finger,
noting that this little pinky offering,
came from the same hand,
who, who went to the market
to buy her a love poem
all her own, because,
it was from the self same hand
that wrote:

who, can cut a soul into pieces,
no one!
so one will still ask you,
who!
who will love you
in whole poems,
that are both past and future tensed
composite composted,
from words overly overused,
but still foolishly feeling brand new
when referencing *you,
so you can believe with new fool-thinking,
this is your sole composition

she wanted my heart,
applauded her determination,
gave her one eye to see me instead better,
so the visions she essays,  to write,
like when I sit down to write
of women I’ve loved but!

they do not come from my heart pieces,
but from inside insight from of parts
that are blind to everything
but *raucous untamable invisible desire

she asked me for all the world’s wisdom,
while standing on one legging,
I simply said, here I am,
telling you I’ll love you the way you requested,
if only to be loved in return

so with one eye and one leg,
you will observe, two is not more
than the sum of the parts of one love,
as I count to ten on my nine fingers
fingers that wrote of love not enough,
no matter how many he gave up

she wanted my brainiac left hemisphere,
said, sure,
the left side of me is where the baby poems
are created, and then angel-released when ready,
when needed, now that I
see you’re needy for pieces,
but still mistaken that pieces can be reconstructed into
a whole with spit and spirit
and an overarching imagination -
no!

the whole comes from only a holy place extracted
from the hole-in-one that is my entirety

give me then your utter essence,
the place of you
I, only I know exists, must exist,
but cannot touch to see
where you keep it hidden
from all the women who love you,
better than you even love yourself

if you want that, then collect it,
for it exists and lives on
in every woman that asked for nothing,
but was rewarded with more
than a thousand poems,
stored in stars, for her,
to be creamed and cleansed,
when she plucked them
from the night in the galaxy where exist
love poems, only
to she-one shone-shine

This Poem's about a close friend of mine. It came about following another tearful conversation at silly o'clock in the morning . . Some guy she'd slept simply waited for her to fall asleep, then just left . . Horrible really . . So, if you can picture a bar where girl sees boy ? . . Meet my friend kitten . .

Kitten

She's More Kitten . .
Than She's kitty Kat

I wish she would
Remember that
Before her claws
Engrave his back . . .
When it's too late . .
To . change her tack . .

Yet she,
As every Kitty will,
Pursues her dream . . .
This pretty playful Kitty,
Craves the saucer,
And the cream . .

She almost chooses
Not to see
That he . . .  
'A shady lady Burglar'
Craves not . .
A yowling prowling Tom
He would deftly
Pick her pocket . .
Tip the catch
Upon her locket . .
He simply seeks
To shoot his lot . .
Move on

She throws a smile
Across the bar
He catches this
Then slinks across
It's not so far
Sits . . .  
Now . . sensing need
He seeks to sow a seed
With sly slight of hand . .
He takes the lead . .  
Flirts . .
Soft verbal ministration
Slowly building her frustration
Teasing her imagination
Brings his tongue up to the table
Till she simply is unable
To . . . resist . . .

She knows tonight . . that . .
Her fairly funky *******
Will . . Be added to this liars list

With verbal tango
Now concluded
Neither party is deluded
To the spot
She stays though . .
Rooted . . .
Excited . .  now She knows
Her Closet will be looted . .
Then her pocket will be picked . . . .

Did kitten let herself get caught
Or was she really tricked . . ?

( k . . So we r gonna pause here, since I didn't write anything poetical about ******* . . Cos, well, it's a doing thing, more so than a writing thing lol . .so, for the sake of the narrative imagine these two knocking back their drinks, swiftly exiting the bar grabbing a taxi, legging it back to hers n having a bit of a **** . .two mins, maybe three if she's a lucky girl . . Then we can finish the poem :-)

Afterwards . . . . . . And in spoons . . I might add .

So now . . . Is not so much
As was before . .
When she was dripping with allure . .
His promises as flimsy
As the Dress which she once wore . . .
And now his points
Are on the board . .
This is a time consuming chore

And as She's Drifting . .
Within satisfied silence
He waits silent for her sleep
Her breathing deepens
He could weep,. .
He Checks quickly, with a peep
Then he bolts . . stealthy
For the door . .
He may . . Or maybe not
Be coming back . . For more . .

All's quiet for a while . . Until . .

Within the dawning of her morning . .
Through soft stretching . . gentle yawning
Only fingerprints betray . . .
The fact he was 'another guy'
Who came . . . to leave . . .
Not stay

Now . .
Should kitty smile ?
More kitty Kat . .
Will kitty p'raps
Remember that
When next is charmed
By coolish cat
Be ***** . .  
Not both door and mat

The Cons fed no rations...hahaha

The house breaking Burglars are Chris, Joan, Tom and Kelly
Ably assisted by Jim and Cindy, the black and white *******
who broke up their families, move in together, to **** each other
Life's too short, forget abandoned spouses, what the hell, ok
Then there's Linda, who's had three husbands in ten years
all leaving after a while, leaving her with two kids
to look after, what a palaver, where's a true lover
These ******* ****, use and take then do a runner
Her trust in ******* men ruined to pieces and no nookie

All dysfunctional lives, full of pain, angry at the world
Yes we're in Limehouse, but do we have to **** sour juice
They're all seeking to vent, seeking revenge for their miseries
Look that couple upstairs, always bright, styled like Vogue
neat and tidy, full of laughter, going places, yuppie cts
See quiet husband, walks like Bowie, with a kin of **** swagger
And the wife so cute and petite, drives the shiny Red Mini
He ***** her every night, I hear them, I tell you
Their skins glows, shines like the sun, too happy by half

Chris the Scot married to strife and bother
The criminal life is such wahala, police here and there
its hide and seek, no money, no nookie, no nothing
Well OK, there's Tennants and Special Brew to drown the blues
****** hubby again in Wormwood Scrubs serving ******* Majesty
Tom ain't stealing as much as father, have to beg next door again
Joan is ******* and ain't making no money, now in the duff
only fifteen, by ******* Nobby, from the Young ******* Socialist Brigade, Kelly is also ******* and only twelve, what a life
Ahh ....  life on the Estate is life in *******

Listen you all, here's the deal, here's the number
Those ******* Happy couple at number fifteen
Why ain't them struggling like us all, where's the cushty
You don't see them carping, the ******* are loaded,
Them knobs have it all, smiling and laughing like *******
Let put some fire up their *****, let's teach them street life
Hears they think they are royalties, let tax their ****** *****
I'll be the lookout, you kick in the ****** doors
Liberate their valuables, we'll all have a party

******* Nora, the quiet man has blown a frigging gasket
Says he gonna tell all we are crooks, gonna evict us, the fool
Go get the posse, go put out a contract, a ****** for the jump
We are Eastenders, born by Bow bells, and we look after our own
How ****** dare the toffee nosed tory, says I should go get a job
as if, working for honest gain is our thing, ****** idiot
Yes mate, the boys are out, the contract is on
Let's see Jackanory tell us a bleeding story
Hero to Zero is now playing at Roman Street market

Break them up, mash  them down, ruin their lives
lets play 'trading Places, see how the cts feels
I already see cool man strung up. dangling on a rope
How dare they live happy and comfortable
two wages, car, dining out, new attire every day
Come on Jim, Cindy, Linda, all go get your mates
There's work to be done, no time to play
We are the TUC, that's Thieves United Confederation
And we've got the ******* Red Boys in the Team

It's down Tobacco road for Mr Tory, the bleeding ******
Ain't no more laughter, we'll put them in the gutter
Lie and slander, defame and harass, topple Saddam
Get the ******* Red mill going, its round Robin time
How's yer father,  no more mate, not ****** likely for a while
Yer only leg-over is gonna be legging it to the Social Security
Its Dole time, pain and miseries for you sunshine
Sing a song of hate, pariah on a roundabout
Yer marathon man now mate, come meet the Red Devils

Here, They need no ******* introduction

The start of sophomore year.

Day one blew by like a summer zephyr.
The excitement of the beings filled the halls,
the smell of the over-sweaty high school kids
burned my nostrils,
and the cheers of friends reuniting
revererabted the cluttered yellow rooms.

Day two inched forward slowly,
testing my patience as I sat eagerly,
my small hands gripping my seat’s edge
until my knuckles turned white,
and my hands grew tired.
That second day was the worst day.

My feet could not move fast enough
as I raced to the front door of my third home.
The coolness of the grass felt nice
against the blistering heat of the sun.
I did not look behind me while I reached,
grasping the metal handle in my hand,
and pushing the door open to go inside.

I hardly sat down on my disheveled bed
before I received a text message.
The boy down the road’s name
flashed across my screen,
and I opened it without hesitation,
without holding my breath,
because this boy was my good friend.

Four words, texted in small font,
the black letters harsh against the white background.
Four words, not directly spoken,
but over my outdated phone.
Four words, those four words that
I should have declined when I first got them.

As innocent as the message was,
it left me feeling both like I was weightless
and that the whole world was crushing me.
The simultaneous bittersweetness settled
in the pit of my empty stomach.
Nervous hands responded but anxious feet
managed to move without thought.
I think I ran there.

The scent of dog wasn’t hard to perceive
when the door flew open, and there He was.
I had to look up to meet His gaze,
His dark eyes were soft, His skin fair.
His black hair curled around His face
and His dark scruff stayed neatly in place.
This was His last friendly smile to me.

The honey in His voice left me senseless.
It was sweet and kind, like His stiff gestures,
His large hands were tense, always fidgeting.
His eyes weren’t focused on the television
while we sat on the corduroy couch,
but the hem of my denim dress
that fell just above my legging-clad legs.
This left me overwrought with both curiosity
and fear.

The gentle air from His lips touched my neck,
and where I should have flinched, I froze.
The air grew warmer, nearer, but I grew colder,
more frightened than agog.
Then His hand touched my leg gently, as if that would
hush the feeling in my gut.

Those hands were quick, like callused demons,
Trailing up my thigh in what felt like a second
and a year, all at once.
His hand stopped abruptly mid stroke,
looking at me with those once soft eyes,
but they weren’t gentle anymore,
they held longing, no, hunger.
Hunger I have never seen before,
like He was ready to consume my whole being.
And I hardly got my breath back before those hands
continued to slide up,
leaving a trail of goosebumps behind Him.

Another pause - deep breath.
As He questioned me, I questioned myself.
What if I touched you there, He inquired.
I wondered how long I would have to hold my breath
before I would pass out.
He waited for a response, but none came out.
I opened my mouth to speak, but only to taste the stale air
before I closed it again.
I closed it, not because I was a coward,
but because if I would have spoken,
I would have vomited all over Him.
Oh god, I wish I would have opened my mouth.

Fast forward to November.

This is a thoroughly post-modern phenomenon.

[Breathe, don't be nervous. It's fine. Wallah, you're not doing anything wrong.]

Digitally arranged meetings with ostensible strangers yet with more familiarity than our ancestors could imagine.
An arranged meeting,
a warm greeting,
a sensing,
a feeling.

“Are you Sami?”
“I am,” as I posture for a hug.

[She’s actually more beautiful than I expected. Her ample curls smell like conditioner and sunshine.]

“So you’re Kuwaiti?"
"Yea, I moved here when I was 18, to Kansas of all places."
"To be honest, I had to look up the emoji flag from your profile. My Muslim WhatsApp group helped me out.”
“Oh, okay. So you’re Muslim?”
“Yea, I was raised Muslim; my mom married a Kuwaiti in the 80s, blah blah blah.”
“What? Your mom lived in Kuwait?”
“Yea, kinda crazy, I know, but it’s a small world.”

[Small worlds make the gaps between souls smaller.
Who knew such a small place could leave such a big impact on so many lives?
Certainly neither of us.
Serendipity?
Allah y3alam.]  

“Why do lesbians discriminate against bisexuals? You’d think of all people, they wouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“You’d think, but you’d be wrong. It’s like we have a plague.” Her voice goes on, but my mind drifts off.

[Tortoise-shell glasses, beautiful lashes, manicured eyebrows that frame flickering dark eyes, encased in a forest of curls, legging laced thighs, oh my. ::Deepsigh. Pay attention to what she’s saying! Oh my, she’s my type. This is bad. No, no, hamdilah, this is good.]

“Do you want another round?” the bar keep’s inquiry snaps me back to reality. I interrupt to suggest a change of location. [Perhaps something less commercial, less public, less straight, more private, and more intimate.]
“It’s only a short walk.”
“Yea, let’s do it.”

[By short walk, I mean three doors down from the bar. The perks of suggesting the venue.]

“Shoes off?”
“Yea, it’s habit, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”

She sits, crosses her long legs, and gives me this look. My heart flutters; I remember my manners:
“Can I make you a drink? What’s your poison? Gin or *****?”
I mix our drinks and think:
[She must like me.
This is good.
I’m glad we did this digital dance to find romance.
What a treasure, finding this post-modern habibi.
Alhamdulilah,
Lucky me.]

Hello march
Send me some scorching sunshine
Ice-Cream, Snow cone and crackling soft drinks
Large tees, soft legging and flip-flops!  <3

Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,

My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.

My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.

My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.

My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.

My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.

A Judge, once noted for his lack of compassion
Found when sentencing crooks, he’d a passion!
When sitting on the Bench, he was permitted -
Appropriate to misdemeanour committed-
To administer punishment to fit the crime!

With his court full of petty crooks that first day -
Thieves, robbers, swindlers! All found to their dismay,
He would show no mercy!  He could not be swayed!
Once declared, their sentence was never stayed!
Though he would allow them to make their plea!

On his first morning, after he opened court,
He would give judgement on each case brought,
Then once proved beyond a shadow of doubt,
He’d carefully mete apt punishment out,
To each prisoner that came into the dock!

First to come ‘up’, was a ‘known’ lawbreaker!
Though a skilled and ‘rising’  craftsman baker
He’d been caught ‘loafing’ with counterfeit ‘dough’!
Evidence was brought. Police ‘kneaded’ to show
The Court, he never did a thing half ‘baked!’

His legs shackled, - which was no surprise,
Was quickly found Guilty, then told to ‘rise’
So this first crook, a very unhappy wretch
Was sent to ‘Leavenworth’ for a long stretch!
Given five years incarceration, for his crime!

A carpenter was the next to be jailed.
Evidence shown was quite ‘plane’!  When ‘nailed’
By the local Cops, they ‘saw’ he had ‘awl’
The loot he’d ‘chiselled’ from a shopping mall.
The Jury  ‘panel saw’ he’d not got it ‘square’!

So it ‘augered’ ill for the carpenter’s fears
When the Judge ‘ruled’,  ‘free board’ for six years!
This cracked the ‘veneer’ he’d worn though the trial.
For prison ‘drill’ would soon wipe away his smile!
Once ‘clamped’ in irons, with others he ‘filed’ away!

The Butcher was next to find himself in a jamb
He’d sold ‘scrag ends’ for ‘prime’ and mutton for lamb!
When the bare ‘bones’ of his case, were fleshed out,
That he was in the ‘soup’, there was no doubt!
While the police asked that he be sent for the ‘chop’!

The Judge declared the punishment he’d ‘meat’ out
Would break the Butcher’s ‘links’ with crime, and had no doubt.
He’d never ‘carve’ his way out of the ‘joint’!
Without ‘mincing’ words, he ‘skewered’ each point
Explaining his ‘beef’.  He was in a proper ‘stew’!

When Police ‘cottoned’ on to a ‘shoddy’ scam
They caught a tailor, ‘embroidering’ a monogram.
‘Patterned’ after that of a famous fashion designer.
Smuggled out in the ‘seam’ of a jacket ‘liner’
This ‘needled’ the Judge, who, with some ‘zip’

And some ‘bias’, ‘felt’ he should practice ‘needlecraft’,
“Stitching’ mailbags for the post office. Hard graft
For a man who had ‘satin’ comfort for a long time.
But ‘fitting’ punishment for a ‘reel’ bad crime!
He praised the  police for ‘buttoning’ up this case!

When Police ‘forked’ over newly ‘dug’ earth
Their ‘spadework’ ‘dug up’ ‘planted’ goods worth
A fortune .  ‘Raking’ through the ‘compost heap’.
‘Embedded’ by a gardener, were, buried deep,
‘Silver Bells’ and a gold chain! This ‘chain, linked’

‘Fences’ to crooks who stole goods on demand.
He’d ‘staked’ all on being put on remand.
But the Judge said I ‘dig’ your kind! ‘Turn over’
A new ‘leaf.  Mould’ and mend your ways.  Moreover
‘Perennial’ felons! Are ‘rooted’ in their ways!

So, ‘till’ you ‘turn over’ your loot and repent,
You’re ‘grounded’! It seems you’re an ‘annual’ event !
You tell me that with this crime, you’ve been ‘framed’,
But I’m sure you’ve not been unjustly blamed!
Five years in a ‘glasshouse’ to sleep in a ‘raised bed’ !

Next, a Furrier and his girl - a sly ‘minx,’
Who went too ‘fur’ when they ‘stole’ a ‘lynx’
A ‘foxy’ pair!  Of this, there was no doubt!
‘Trapped’ in a Police ‘cloak’ and dagger stakeout
They were loaded with ‘pelts’ when caught

Now the Judge, whose ‘ermine’ robes shook with rage
Said the only cure for this type of outrage,
Was to ‘stretch’ them on the ‘rack’, and ‘tan’ their ‘hides’.
This he ‘felt’ would be ‘fitting’ !  Though his insides
Told him he should send them away!  ‘Furbelow’!

A cobbler, without a ‘sole’!  A ‘ low heel’,
This ‘snob’ with an ‘Oxford Brogue’ had a zeal
For stealing! Not the ‘last’ incarcerated.
He was caught ‘legging’ it, while inebriated
His ‘cleats’ leaving ‘patent’ clues to see!

Wearing ‘rubbers’ he’d work in gloves and ‘spats’
Stealing mainly from apartments and ‘flats’
He was down on his ‘uppers’, quite destitute.
When caught with his heavy bag of loot.
A ‘slippery’ customer if ever there was one!

A ‘dandy’ with a ‘black belt’ in Karate!
Was sent by the Judge to a ‘necktie’ party.
He’d killed a haberdasher, without passion -
He complained it was ‘knot’ the current fashion!
But he could  ‘hang’ around until it returned!

Sentences varied but all were most apt.
Strong men turned deathly pale when his gavel rapped!
By sentences received, none were less enamoured,
Than a crooked auctioneer, who got ‘hammered’!
For ‘knocking down’ ‘lots’ ‘under bid’ to himself!

Crook followed crook in quick succession,
Making quite an impressive procession,
As each took his turn in the prisoner’s dock,
He’d turn and face the courtroom clock,
Under which the Judge sat, with solemn face!

The Judge went down in history that day,
With sentences most apt!  What more can we say?
His procedures quickly made the front page,
And soon appropriate penalties were all the rage!
Except for those of the criminal class!

This punishment proved to be a deterrent.
More so, if they were set to run concurrent!
As for waiting crooks, from Con Artist to thief,
When he adjourned court, they sighed with relief!
Hoping they’d get a more lenient Judge later!

Rhymer April 18th, 2018.
Sorry, it's tad long, but I got carried away!  Lol.

I got strange.  Tonight I let loneliness get to me.
I left my bed to join others while remaining alone in my thoughts.
No gas. Couldn't drive far.
Otherwise I'd be on the streets.
Trading traffic lights a wave of my hand
for a sea of green.
It's always good to be grateful.
Don't ask why.
 
Strange, watching from behind a cellophane throat.
My words wrapped like salt water taffies.
Who would want to taste them?
I'd like to think someone would.
I want a stranger to break the seal;
I want a mystic to drink from my mouth
and have visions of the future.

She will be beautiful,
again.
 
The mask may re-carve itself,
twisting knots into a pure grain with every new model.
But I have always seen her eyes.
They are both ocean and sky,
mercury and velvet,
a torn legging,
windswept petals.
 
How her lips taste...

Beyond that, I get lost.
I can never remember the rest.
Can't spread myself to thin.
 
She works in glances.
With too many eyes
on me,
I forget who I am looking for.
 
I don't even know her name.

Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,

My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.

My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.

My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.

My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.

My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.

YOU saw him in a Facebook group:
•U check his Profile picture.
•He Drives A Range Rover Sport 2016.
.He is handsome.
•He inboxes you.
•You reply, all excited.
•You'll want 2 hook up.
•You set a date.
•You dress up that Legging With No underwear.
•Smelling good.
•You put on a makeup - fresh breath and new weave.
•He takes you 4 lunch @ Serena Hotel.
•He Takes you for - Drinks At Java.
•You two have a good time.
•He rubs your hand,
•Makes you laugh,
•Gives you looks and smiles.
•You stupidly fall in love.
•It's like you've known him Forever.
•He takes you to his apartment.
•He makes you feel comfortable and lays u on his bed.
•Kiss you passionately.
•You love his aggression, strength, power and you give in.
•It feels good.
•You know it's wrong, but it feels good.
•You ask for protection, he says it's too late.
•You obey and don't disturb.
•He says he loves you and you don't hesitate to say you love him too. He hits it nice and slow
•After, he goes to the kitchen to get a glass of water.
•He helps you drink it, ooohh man.
•You feel special.
•"He must be the one" you think to yourself.
•You get dressed.
•He takes you to the taxi park.
•He kisses you on the cheeks and says
•"I had a great time,"
•Gives You cash.
•U smile and say.
•"See you tomorrow babe."
• He stays silent.
•Your taxi drives away,
•In the taxi u can't stop smiling.
•You get home and inbox him that you got home safe.
•He is online, but doesn't reply.
•It's unlike him, so you inbox him again.
•He doesn't respond.
•Minutes later you can't find him on ur friend list.
•HE BLOCKED YOU.
•Days, weeks, months passes by.
•You start feeling sick, weak, loose weight, act strange with sores in your mouth.
•You go to the clinic.
•Get tested.
•Minutes later,
•Nurse walks in."I'm sorry. You're *** Positive and Pregnant!"
•".HOW ?"
•You don't understand.
•Reality hits you.
•You walk home.
•Scared.
•Confused.
•You go to the bus stop.
•You lay, hopeless, emotionless.
•You see death coming nearer.
•You look into the sky & mumble a prayer.
That's the end of you.

Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,

My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.

My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.

My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.

My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.

My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.

.
My treasure awaits,
Has pearls to uncover,
Locked in lips of flesh,
Rose petals, blushing full
Cheek, eyes of lacing nebula
Exploding in milk of heavens,
This treasure I must hoard,
Climb on to the proud chest
And unlock, spun gold threads,
Sparkles in tresses of crown,
Sovereign pink hands, tendered,
Are freckled in beads of amber,
A brooch of navel, whirlpools,
Commands my ***** greed
Toward singular jewel of her
Thighs, lanyard of legging,
Of toes, whispering ripples
Till the under tides ripped
Agast in so much bounty,
Casked in reams of satin
And flows of wet breaths
Was nary sunk, drunken,
Moony in starry love ring,
Now, by map of dream
I bury my treasure.

Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,

My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.

My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.

My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.

My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.

My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.

shed in broad daylight, ablaze
shadows indignantly leaping
onto a reindeer"s freight
all barging for Everest expedition
bounding by degrees
amidst the arena of swans
honourable Prime Minister legging
a doughnut, soaring
then stationing intact at the peak
as needles pricking my conscience
i rise a tempering shriek
while the reindeers bellow laughter
with ****** oxygen,I gurgle
freezing, airy, thicker, fatter
yet another needle ****** my conscience
blasts me on my seemingly calm bed...

I suspend disbelief, I do
Pretend for glamour’s sake,
That I’m standing in line, not walking down
Legging capri utopia, but style,
Books, Asian fusion,
And I open my window to outside fire trucks,
Sometimes voices, to pretend I’m not in small-town
Southeastern Ohio.
I close my eyes to a new, non self-conscious,
Self-aware vision.
Well, it was once a real moment:
In a studio apartment, nervous about my mom
Downstairs, outside, below me
Smoking a cigarette on the sidewalk.
Afraid she’d get jumped when I was eleven, or twelve, or thirteen.
Forgetting she’d lived in New York City
in the 1980s when she was
Eighteen.
I didn’t have any fears for her then.
I didn’t have anything for anyone.
I didn’t exist, and I wasn’t afraid
All the time, of something.
I exist now and I watch my back in small town USA,
But I still make wonder visions,
Beautiful, rhetorical, hypothetical
Walks in October five ‘o clock sunshine.
Me, and a book, and take out food walking back to work,
Where my work will be to write this down,
To try my ****-dest to convey what I felt
Out there, on the street.
That self-importance, comfort of the light
In my eyes, and my dark pants, too, they mattered,
And an imaginary cigarette from the ether,
The sun-ray concoction.
It’s almost the exact feeling of sitting on couches,
Next to my aunt’s bubblegum pink ceramics in Brooklyn.
Thinking—how glamourous.
Pretending the one room apartment was mine.
Pretending I could live in such close proximity to a stranger.
Another person, who I may or may not find strange.
Pretending I wasn’t made uncomfortable by the women
Wearing hot dog and hamburger bun bikinis dancing
In kiddie-pools in broad daylight.
How bizarre. While my brother and I played war
Upstairs. “That’s art,” someone probably said, in a
Fenced in small grassy plot in a neighborhood in Chicago.
Later in college, I’d say “the best art makes
us uncomfortable,” and my professor who loves
young adult fiction will applaud me for my incite.

An inherent desire for brass,
And fire escapes, and being
Consumed by tall buildings, and bars
On rooftops is not…
Natural.
It must be media-induced.
I consumed a fair amount of media
That glamourized and shined up and cultured
Cities for me.
Then I went there and saw that I was fearful,
Yet wanted to feel important inside of something vast.
I want to talk to curators of museums about
Everything I’ve learned and haven’t learned.
I want to impress myself with knowledge of streets,
And towns, and maps.
Out of my element, maybe I am finally ready.
Out of mostly whiteness, most of the time,
Into people I’ve never met, people I never thought
I’d know well, into hoping that I can sit in a different
Kind of circle, in a new conversation,
Restoring, transforming,
Wanting to say some sincere things, and
Make some observations in earnest.

Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,

My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.

My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.

My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.

My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.

My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.

.
My treasure awaits,
Has pearls to uncover,
Locked in lips of flesh,
Rose petals, blushing full
Cheek, eyes of lacing nebula
Exploding in milk of heavens,
This treasure I must hoard,
Climb on to the proud chest
And unlock, spun gold threads,
Sparkles in tresses of crown,
Sovereign pink hands, tendered,
Are freckled in beads of amber,
A brooch of navel, whirlpools,
Commands my ***** greed
Toward singular jewel of her
Thighs, lanyard of legging,
Of toes, whispering ripples
Till the under tides ripped
Agast in so much bounty,
Casked in reams of satin
And flows of wet breaths
Was nary sunk, drunken,
Moony in starry love ring,
Now, by map of dream
I bury my treasure.
.

Take this safety pin of pleasure,
And ***** it under the skin,
Feel ugly bliss trickle down your spine,
And the breath of your conjoined twin.

Then chase it once more, twice more,
Like greyhounds legging after a rabbit,
Forever to be outside of an arms reach,
Downright devoid of all energy and wit.

- Jamie F Nugent

Abjure the bones broken in,
The first lift frissoned by
The moving trees slain on the shift,
Rivers and risen flowers cut,

My statuary lurches betide
The nap of bent wing saluting.

My aviary is a fluttering bed,
The scattered head REMs my flight,
My feet in cloud extend for landings
Tings the belled bound legging.

My falconer bows with pride
In the stall bent wings stooping.

My clawed creature glides for only
The pitching sun or shining moon
And my flights execution, the hooded
Head, end trails my falconer.

My days, fowl to the lunar kite,
Assail the winds open wound.

Weather for the 1st in a while
  Perfect
  Warm sun shining I got my fav
  Shell shirt on
        With my new legging capris
     A nice bra birthday posts
     My option to do what I like
         What I want too
     Feeling beautiful and pretty
      My best for the 1 and only day of the year
       Even tho  I can't walk due to my broken ankle
      I still pretend that nothing is wrong ]
            As if I could jump run skip walk my own way style

The first time I had *** I was wearing a pair
of army green stretchy pants.

I accept
that they were probably not made with my body in mind:
The army green legging pattern or design.
But I have rather wide hips and
somewhat larger thighs,
so I had no choice but to go up in a size.

The leggings, of course,
were not on during the process of the act, but
worn at the beginning, as I lifted my back,
allowing for a quick peel
down the unshaven length of my legs, the leggings indeed
fell smoothly away.
At least for a little while anyways.
They got to my ankles then,
the ripples of fabric slowly unfolding, smoothly rolling,
like frosting from a baker’s hand, openly curling.

Then stopped with a peel of bludgeoned laughs
as I lay not vertical, but at some kind of acute angle, hanging nearly
precariously from my small and dainty ankles.
Then I wondered, how many drafts?
How many moments of pondered artifacts that
would eventually come down to a
pair of army green virginity pants.
The anticipation: At last!
It was interrupted by a peel of softly bludgeoned laughs.

I welcome this fact,
taking a moment to pause
and listen to the noise of the fabric’s applause
as it clung to its last moments attached to my thick and heavy rods.
Stretched in spandex I felt them let loose, feeling my feet
curl up snuggly around you.

I came to decide that I love my virginity pride and
the pants that will wrap neatly around my open and gaping
thighs.
To me, it doesn’t even matter that you never said
Goodbye.

There are those things that left our bodies when we were younger flying innocently...
Those bridges of pretentious smile that we took to our mother's  dimples to collect glories.
Those magic tears that once sliced loneliness off our shouldering lips,
Those bite and bite of unwanted hunger that beat us in the presence of our parents...
There are masquerade of innocent thoughts
Masquerade of shattered dreams at dusk,
Masquerade of fears that tortured us at dawn!
Those desks of forgotten hope in you.
We tried to gather ourselves together to bring the sun home to our flammable insight.
We tried to build the jungle on the palms of our forefathers...
We told our friends that our parents possess a lion at home,
We scared our enemies with the legging empire of our scattered home.
Those were the phases we left drifting into adulthood in pains.
We forgot our tattered thoughts climaxing into an orbiting wants and needs.
We papered the drive to become a better person.
We took our hand bags and put them in the air like  nothing would pull it down.
Under the rain,  we sang of Africa and the world
We demonstrated the right of humanity and love.
Those bridges burnt down gradually as we traveled
From childhood to adulthood.
As we journey with a thinking umbrella  that will protect us from the sun tomorrow.
Those are the things I keep remembering now.
The song we sang under the rain...
The snails we picked in the night with a strange lamp we stole from a neighbour.
The girls we touched their ******* and killed them with shyness.
The boys we sent away from home that never returned!
The fishes we trapped under the small water we made their home.
The blind village beggars we stole their money in the dark...
They are those things we left behind as we walked into adulthood with laughter of hyenas pains.!



©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingfrustration

Montague and Connie Flu
Got caught up in a racing boom
Found themselves in a field
With coloured banners and an ice cream que;
All the competitors in a line
Wearing fitting clothes , combined.
Connie in her high heeled shoes
Wondered what she could do,
Monty suggested taking them off
Wrapping her feet in an old Jay- cloth
Connie did not like this view
So borrowed a pair of training shoes
From a member of the Boom,
Black and white with silver stars
Matched her top and legging style,
So they ran their fastest best
Over hill and under tree
Won the race without out a phew!


Love Grandma for Monty and Connie .