i - Introduction:
ii - Lismore Park
iii - The Road to Maidenhead
iv - Town Square
v - Contradiction, contraband
vi - Saturday Afternoon
vii - The Circus Comes to Town (Sunday)
viii - The Show
ix - The ringmaster
x - The Fracas
xi - An incident at Upton Park
xii - No ball games
xiii - New found…
xiv - Nearly done
xv - Another time…

i - Introduction:

Come friendly bombs you’ve still to hit
The place whose name means quagmire
The town, the place that’s left bereft
Of soul, of spiritual fire.
But hurry, hurry, please be fast
For the crack dealer plies his trade
With slight of hand and cunning
A ghetto he’ll have made

The peroxide perms have now all grown
And muster outside shops
To wait for the be-suited sales rep
With his rocks and his alco-pops
They’ve all spawned offspring of their own
Fifteen-year-old cradle pushers
Who sold their souls in return for hope
To thirty year old cradle snatchers

Come friendly bombs it’s plain to see
The vacant, empty faces
The lifeless eyes, the pallid skin
The love that leaves no traces
The love that lasts a knee trembling minute
Outside Harry’s and Sluffs
A love that smells of emptiness
O they cannot get enough

Come with me, look over there
To the sculpture in the mall
The stainless tree with it’s stainless birds
And stainless birdsong call
A bird sings and the town all stops
To see from where this sound will show
A bitter disappointment when learned
It was played on the radio

Community service on the airwaves
To draw the crowd together
A song played, a one hit wonder
Reminds us nothing is forever
The sterile radio station plays on
Opiates to which we should yield
And bare our souls and be grateful for
The song of Bedingfield

ii - Lismore Park

The sight of a child playing in the street
Is one of day’s gone bye
But Lismore Park sees them out in droves
Stealing cars and getting high
The twelve year old sent out to play
Whilst mother takes a knap
But really she’s having it away
For a fiver and a brown wrap

The party at the house next door
That never seems to stop
The men all come and go and paw
Girls in this knocking shop
But halt weary traveller, stop!
Come sit and rest your back
The bench awaits you on the green
And the deluded maniac

The man who knows what’s wrong with you
And how to make it better
As long as he keeps his soul filled up
With cheap White Lightening cider
Six large cans for a five-pound note
From the corner shop near the school
An offer really not to be missed
And to make the drunkards drool

A songbird sits on the climbing frame
And sings his cheerful tales
A tune too much for our dear lush
The maniac exhales
The songbird sings and fills the air
With a loving string of notes
That reminds the sitters on the bench
There may still be a hope

A radio plays ‘that’ song again
Should you dare to forget the rhythm
The bird has flown away now
Fed up with this hypnotism
The airwaves are now filled with dross
Thanks to the flat opposite the green
The weary traveller moves on
“Better days has this place seen”

iii - The Road to Maidenhead

O friendly bombs do try to miss
The sweet blossom, the fragrant smell
The flowers, the green grass of the parks
The havens in this hell
Be careful around the Jubilee River
With it’s wildlife and sculpted hills
For a walk in this very man-made place
Will surely heal your ills

But spare no mercy for the superstores
That pollute and destroy our thoughts
“If it’s not on the shelf, we haven’t got it…”
The familiar assistants’ retort
Take no prisoners with the office blocks
That lay empty year after year
For they clutter up the atmosphere
And have no value here

O friendly bombs, o friendly bombs
The cabbages are all grown
They read the Sun and sing along
To the radio’s dreaded drone
Whilst in their vans they speed on by
Jumping all the lights
To price a job – a small brick wall
Based on a thousand nights

The car showrooms… the car dealers
Stack ‘em high and sell them cheap
Chop-chop salesman, soften ‘em up
The rewards are there to reap
Finance, part exchange or cash
Anyhow you like
“No sir, not me sir…
…I’d prefer to use my bike”

The bustle of the weekend crowds
The steamy traffic queues
Stare too hard at that red car
And suffer the abuse
Overtake the blue one now
And make him toot his horn
See him raise his voice in anger
To satisfy his scorn

iv - Town Square

Saturday morning, seven o’clock
The town begins to wake
A pair of sleeping winos
Dream about their fate
They plan their morning sermon
But who will really care
For what they say means nothing
Less than their icy stare

The busker and the balloon man
Wait to take their turns
To entertain and irritate
And suffer being spurned
By a thousand shady shoppers
Who’ve heard it all before
And probably given hard earned cash
To make them play some more

The trickster and the barra’ boys
Set up all their stalls
Selling mobile phone covers
And fake branded hold-alls
Adorn your phone with logos
Hankies for a pound
“Yes sir, we’re here on Sundays…
…(Providing there’s no police around)”

Grab a baked potato and sit
And watch the folk go by
Some will have you in hysterics
Some will make you cry
The man on his double-glazing stand
In his suit and in his tie
The perspiration on his head
Watch him wilt and fry

The songbird settles on the wall
And sings to our delight
A merry sonnet that will inspire
Dreams we’ll have that night
The wino shouts his sermon now
The bird has paused his song
This post-war sprawling Hooverville
Muddles slowly along

v - Contradiction, contraband

On the steps of the library he screams aloud
Through a mist of smuggled gin
“You’re all fools, the lot of you is ****
I’ve not committed sin…”
“It’s not my fault I’m a lush… a drunk
I don’t choose to live this life”
“You’re all wrong in carrying on
It’s you what’s caused my strife”

In his wretched form he abuses the world
Pooh-poohing this and that
A skunk telling the world it stinks
The polemic polecat
“Society has robbed me of everything
And left me less than whole”
“The only day that’s good is Thursday
When the postman brings me dole”

On Friday he meets his dealer
To fuel his pickled mind
The man with the van on Saturday
With the spirit and the wine
By Monday, he’s all skint and broke
The weekend has passed him by
He takes his place on the library steps
We shake our heads and sigh…

Every week the same routine
The same routine again
Like clockwork his life ticks on by
The suffering and the pain
But he tells us it’s all our fault
We’re the ones not right
But it’s very easy for him to say
The man who’s so contrite

The children watch him puzzled
It’s more than they can bear
“It’s very rude…” their mothers say
“To stand like that and stare”
But what, do they expect their young
To ignore this fool a mumbling?
For they will see it for what it is
A stormy weather warning

vi - Saturday Afternoon

I sit on a wall in Slough with friends
Sharing the Dutch export
Watching and laughing at the world
And it’s variety of sorts
A happy bond that we all share
The joy of simple things
Come friendly bombs and gather round
Watch us while we sing

The friendly bombs you call upon
Are they straight off the shelf?
It’s my belief, my firm belief
The bomb is in yourself
Ticking slowly by and by
Just waiting for the code
To trigger you and trip the switch
To make the bomb explode

We watch the people from where we sit
The hellholes they’ve all made
They don’t live they just exist on
The edge of a razor blade
Stop! Step back and take a look
It’s not too late to change
And become what you really want to be
An icon of your age

Over now to Langley Park
To sit and bathe in the sun
O friendly bombs please wait a while
Until this day is done
But what will tomorrow bring my friends?
And will it come too late?
Something that may save us all
The bombs may have to wait

A sedate sleepy Saturday
Away from all the crowds
Share a joke, a ****, a smoke
And laugh together loud
The sun warms our sombre souls
As on our backs we lie
Staring as the clouds roll by
United under the sky

vii - The Circus Comes to Town (Sunday)

Halt now, wait awhile please
Stop the counting down
Today the air is charged with joy
The circus comes to town
Must have arrived last night we think
Under cover of dark
And settled down and pitched it’s tents
In the grounds of Upton Park

The queue to purchase tickets
Trails far along the road
No. 53 offers cups of tea
From outside her abode
The crowds are mum, they say not a word
As they wait their turns to go
Inside the circus big-top tent
And sit and watch the show

We settle down and take our seats
With an ice-cream and a coke
But wait, where are the circus clowns?
Is this some kind of joke?
A wall of mirrors fades into view
And puts us in a spin
Reflecting all the bright lights
The colours and the din

The ringmaster enters, cracks his whip
And hands out little slips
“Everyone’s a winner” was
On every body’s lips
The clowns they all appear now
With a modicum of fuss
Hold on just a minute now!
The clowns we see are us

A spotlight points up to the gods
At the top of the trapeze
A giant money spider glides
Down with greatest ease
He touches each and everyone
All paralysed with fear
And hands out ten pound notes to all
Then promptly disappears

viii – The show

A strongman strolls out slowly with
A length of iron bar
A leopard spotted leotard and
Moustache sealed with tar
He looks around the big top with
A menace and a sneer
Surveying all the audience
He seeks a volunteer

The white van man he raised his hand
The tattoo on his arm
Said this man must not be crossed
To do so would mean harm
The strongman bent the iron bar
Across the van man’s back
Then invited him to strike him down
An unprovoked attack

The van man clenched his hand and hit
And hurt his mighty fist
A statue of the strong man shattered
Turning into mist
The van man stood and stared in fear
The mist it gathered round
And carried out our hero driver
He hardly made a sound

No-one clapped we all just stared
Our faces ghostly white
The strongman re-appeared and looked for
A second stooge that night
No-one raised a hand in fact
No-one said a thing
The strongman shrugged and vanished…
Empty was the ring

A knife thrower was the next to appear
And seek the help of one
With nerves of solid steel and courage
Secondly to none
Down came a fallen woman
Who said she had no fear
A knife was thrown and pierced her skin
Her right large ear-ringed ear

ix – The ringmaster

A second knife it struck her chest
She didn’t seem to weep
She didn’t seem to be in pain
Although the knife was deep
A third knife struck her arm and then
A fourth it struck her head
The knives that should be missing her
Were hitting her instead

Horrified the crowd looked on
Without a fuss or row
The woman now all full of blades
Politely took her bow
She then went back and took her seat
And never said a word
Not another word she said
And not a word she heard

A magician was the next to charm
And thrill us with his tricks
He pulled a rabbit from his hat
Then sat it on some bricks
He then threw watches at this beast
That grew to a great size
The rabbit caught them all and juggled
Them to our surprise

But here’s the rub when we all looked
At places on our wrists
No watches were there to be seen
A cunning little twist
The magician cracked a whip and put
The rabbit in a stew
Which vanished there before our eyes
Vanished out of view

The magician he announced that he
Alone did have this plan
To mystify and amaze us all
With his clever hand
Indeed he was the ringmaster
That owned this circus troupe
That terrified and petrified
Our frightened little group

x – The Fracas

A swarm of bees engulf us now
And cover us with honey
The ringmaster cracks his whip again
The bees all turn to money
Then suddenly the fight begins
As we grab this flying stash
Filling up our purses now
With the hard-grabbed cash

The ringmaster, a clever man
Calms us with his sigh
“There’s plenty here for everyone
…And more than meets the eye”
Suddenly a flock of doves fly
Sweetly through the air
They then attack the baying crowds
Pulling at their hair

Then with a deafening bang, a crack
A flash of burning light
We all cascade towards the floor
The circus out of sight
Confused we all stare around
Thinking it absurd
This bizarre spectacle should vanish
Gone without a word

I look from face to face to face
Whatever could this mean?
We all are laughing nervously
How stupid have we been?
We talk about the day’s events
We talk and talk some more
A voice booms from out the sky
“I’ve opened up the door”

“I’ve brought you all together now
To pander to your greed
To watch you take from fellow man
Deny him what he needs”
I reach in to my pocket
For the money I did place
It reads “Admission: 1 adult
To The Human Race”

xi – An incident at Upton Park

That week the local paper ran
An exclusive full-page ad
“Faland’s Travelling Circus Troupe”
“The most fun ever had”
But no review was there to read
To tell of our event
The strange encounter with this circus
To which we all went

The following Sunday we meet up
In groups of three or four
Since that incident in Upton Park
The spectacle we can’t ignore
No-one knows quite what it means
I don’t think that we’ll ever
Understand all that happened here
That brought us all together

Perhaps there is a deeper message
Given on that day
Faland may be telling us
That we have lost our way
He simply used us all as tools
To illustrate our folly
That had now become too serious
A risk to things so jolly

Every week now we all gather on
This hallowed piece of land
And this is very odd because
Nobody makes the plan
The idea comes to all of us
A self-ignited spark
And draws each of us in turn
To meet in Upton Park

We picnicked then we all played games
Then talked about the rain
We toasted our new friendships
And vowed to meet again
The bombs, the bombs they’ve all slowed down
Compassion saved the day
This newfound love we now all have
Must surely pave the way

xii - No ball games

The joy did not take long to spread
Across our grimy frowns
And bring a little sunshine
To lighten up this town
Happiness is upon us now
The whole of Slough-kind
Depending on how you look at it
And on your state of mind

The lush upon the library steps
The wino on the bench
The Publican and Landlord
The ***** serving *****
They all wear smiles and laugh a lot
And speak of wondrous things
A songbird perches on the fence
And merrily she sings

The children, o the children
How they sing and dance
Always being friendly
In any circumstance
They have no care for politics
You’ll see it in their face
They want to play with everyone
Who’s in the human race

Meanwhile back in Upton Park
The townsfolk meet again
But there’s no talk of horror
Or suffering and pain
Instead though how a monument
Should be erected in our names
And pulling down the signs
That read ‘No Ball Games’

The bombs have all stopped ticking now
And line up by the wall
And every now and then they clang
Just to remind us all
If we get too complacent
And don’t respect our friends
We’re marking down the seconds
To our bitter end

xiii – New found…

We shared our food and shared our tales
Life stories we all told
They made us laugh they made us cry
Left us warm and cold
The suffering we did speak of
Helped us understand
How fellowman and woman kind
Dwelt in other lands

We laughed at tales of folly
And stories of the past
Stories that we are in awe of
Stories that will last
For another thousand years or more
And travel on the wind
A gentle breeze that talks to us
Thrilling to the end

Gathering momentum
Our stories travel far
Picked up and told by new folk
Under glowing stars
They bring warmth and humanity
Softened by the rain
They travel back to each of us
To be re-told again

Who’d have thought this loving joy
This beacon in the dark
Would begin upon the grass
Of hallowed Upton Park
The greed has gone or mostly so
Now happiness is here
We’ve seen the light and now must spread
Our messages of cheer

Looking back it hardly seems
We could have been that way
Not caring if each other lived
To see another day
This new found near Utopia
Must spread across the land
And we must stand to offer all
Our warm and guiding hand

xiv – Nearly done

The story is now almost told
Of how a strange event
Saved us from our selfish selves
A message heaven sent
With cunning tricks and sleight of hand
The error of our ways
Was written up in greasepaint
Shining through the haze

A strange di

hand slaps shoulder knee rhythmically that’s called hamming the bone sitting on a street curb singing making up lyrics i got a transitor sister loves cossack named jake he rides Cherokee chopper all he’s ever known is hate he’s going down underground where a man can be a man wrestle alligators live off the land ebb flow i don’t know racing chasing hair-pin turning at 150 miles per hour downshift to 3rd spread the word sweet sour naked flower touching skin deep within defies all sin with a grin speed speed speed all i need i’m getting off coming on you tawny scrawny bow-legged pigeon-toed knock-kneed Don Juan Ponce de Leon Aly Khan all wrapped up into one going to have ******* good time good time tonight i feel like an orphan mom and dad seem so far away tonight i feel like an orphan you make me feel this way hand slaps shoulder knee rhythmically hand bone hand bone

Odyseuss drifts job to job construction worker office assistant waiter whatever he does not understand how road to recognition works continues showing portfolio to art dealers but they react indifferently he does not know how to attain notice in art world begins to suspect there is no god watching over souls instead he imagines infinite force juggling light darkness creation destruction love hate Mom and Dad insist he can earn respectable income if only he will learn commodity futures like cousin Chris Mom says you can work down at the exchange and paint on the side a part of Odysseus wants desperately to please his parents he considers perhaps Mom is right for the time being maybe build up nest egg it seems like sensible plan he wonders why Dad and Mom never speak about money how to save manage they treat the subject as forbidden topic Odysseus has no idea what Dad or Mom earn or investment strategies Odysseus is about to make serious mistake the decision to get job working at commodity exchange needs deeper examination why is he giving in to his parents what attracts him to commodities trading is it Chris’s achievement and the money? does Odysseus honestly see himself as a winning trader or does it simply look like big party with lots of rich men pretty young girls is that where he wants to be why is he giving up on his dream to be a great artist does it seem too impossible to reach who makes him think that? is he going to give up on his true self? he halfheartedly follows his parent’s advice begins working as runner at Chicago Mercantile Exchange several friends including Calexpress disloyalty for entering straight world commodity markets are not exactly straight in 1978 clearing firms pay adequately hours are 8 AM to 2 PM over course of next 6 months Odysseus runs orders out to various trading pits cousin Chris rarely acknowledges Odysseus maybe Chris feels need to protect his image of success perhaps in front of his business associates Chris is embarrassed by Odysseus’s menial rank and goof-off attitude maybe Chris senses what a terrible mistake Odysseus has made

Chicago suffers harsh winter in February Roman Polanski skips bail in California flees to France in April President Carter postpones production of neutron bomb which kills people with radiation leaving buildings intact in October Yankees win World Series defeating Dodgers in November Jim Jones leads mass-****** suicide killing 918 people in Jonestown Guyana in December in San Francisco Dianne Feinstein succeeds murdered Mayor George Moscone in Chicago John Wayne Gacy is arrested

darkness descends upon Odysseus his heart is not into commodity business more accurately he hates it he loathes battleship gray color of greed envy he resents prevailing overcast of misogyny he meets many pretty girls yet most of them are only interested in catching a trader it is rumored numerous high rolling traders hire young girls for sole purpose of morning ******* remainder of day girls are free to mingle run trivial errands commodity traders typically trash females it is primitive hierarchy Odysseus bounces from one clearing firm to another then moves to Chicago Options Exchange then Chicago Board of Trade on foyer wall just outside trading floor hangs bronze plaque commemorating all men who served in World War 2 Uncle Karl’s name is on that plaque Daddy Pat bought his son seat hoping to set him up after war Uncle Karl’s new wife wanted to break away from Chicago persuaded him to sell seat move to California Uncle Karl bought car wash outside Los Angeles with Daddy Pat’s support Mom and Dad encourage assure Odysseus commodities business is right choice they promise to buy him full seat on exchange if he continues to learn markets they feel certain he can be saved from his artistic notions the markets are soaring in profits cousin Chris is riding waves a number of Chris’s friends are sons of parents who belong to same clubs dine at same restaurants as Mom and Dad Odysseus is not alpha-male like Chris Odysseus is a dreamer painter poet writer explorer experimenter unlike Chris who has connections Odysseus starts out as runner then gets job holding deck for yuppie brokers in Treasury Dollar trading pit Odysseus holds buy orders between index and middle fingers sell orders in last 2 fingers arranged by time stamp price size in other hand holds nervous pencil he stands step below boss in circular pit in room size of football field full of raised pits everything is traded cattle hogs pork bellies all currencies gold numbers flash change instantaneously in columns on three high walls fourth wall is glass with seats behind for spectators thousands of people rush around delivering orders on telephones flashing hand signals shouting offers quantities every moment every day calls come in frantically from all around world space is organized chaos sometimes not so organized fortunes switch hands in nano-seconds it is global fiscal battleground rallies to up side or breaks to down side send room into hollering pushing shoving hysteria central banks financial institutions kingpin mobsters with political clout daring entrepreneurs old thieves suburban rich kids beautiful people pretty young females abound big guns **** in same air stand next to low-ranking runners everyone flirts sweats sneezes knows inside they are each expendable Odysseus is spellbound by sheer force magnitude he feels immaterial only grip is his success with girls it is not conscious talent he grins girls grin back Chris’s trader friends recognize Odysseus’s ability they push him to introduce girls to them it is way for Odysseus to level playing field he has no money or high opinion of himself he simply knows how to hook up with girls

1979 January Steelers defeat Cowboys at Super Bowl Brenda Ann Spencer kills 2 faculty wounds 8 students responds to incident “i don't like Mondays” in February Khomeini seizes power in Iran in March Voyager space-probe photographs Jupiter’s rings a nuclear power plant accident occurs at Three Mile Island Pennsylvania in May Margaret Thatcher is elected Prime Minister in England in Chicago American Airlines flight 191 crashes killing 273 people in November Iran hostage crisis begins 90 hostages 53 of whom are American in December Soviet Union invades Afghanistan 1980 in November Ronald Reagan defeats Jimmy Carter one year since Iran hostage crisis began

he meets good-looking younger girl named Monica on subway heading home from work he has seen her running orders on trading floor she is tall slender with long dark brown hair in ponytail pointed nose wide mouth innocent face she confides her estranged father is famous Chicago mobster Odysseus recognizes his name they talk about how much they dislike markets arrant disparity of wealth between traders and themselves Odysseus says i hate feeling of being so disposable worthless Monica replies yeah me too he tells her if i was a girl i’d ******* myself to several handsome generous traders Monica acknowledges that’s an interesting idea but who? how? which traders? do you know? he answers yeah i know exactly who and how Monica says if you’re serious i’m in i have a girlfriend named Larissa who might also be interested i’ll call Larissa tonight following day Monica approaches Odysseus at work agrees to meet at his place after markets close that afternoon Monica and Larissa show up eager to learn more about Odysseus’s scheme Larissa is petite built like a gymnast giggly light brown hair younger than Monica he lays it all out for them cousin Chris and his buddies the money ******* both girls are quite lovely he suggests they rehearse with him he will coach them on situations settings techniques girls consent for 4 weeks every afternoon they meet at Odysseus’s place get naked play out different scenarios he shows girls how to pose demure at first then display themselves skillfully fingers delicately pulling open ***** spreading wide apart buns working hidden muscles he directs each to take up numerous positions tasks techniques then has them switch places he teaches them timing starting slow gradually building up rhythms stirring into passionate frenzy having two mouths four hands creates novel sets of possibilities one girl attends his front while other excites his rear he positions them side-by-side so he can penetrate any of all four holes he stacks them one on top of the other many other variations after reaching ****** several times making sure to reciprocally satisfy their eager needs Odysseus dismisses girls until following day finally after month of practice Monica and Larissa feel confident proficient primed Odysseus arranges for girls to meet with 2 traders through Chris most traders have nicknames Twist who is hosting event is notoriously wild insatiable on opening night Odysseus behaves like concerned father Larissa and Monica each bring several dresses and pairs of shoes Odysseus helps them choose suggests Monica ease up on make-up he styles Larissa’s hair instructs Monica to call him when they arrive again when they leave he requests they return directly to his place Monica wears hair pulled back in French twist pearl earrings sleek little black dress black stiletto heels she stands several inches above Odysseus Larissa wears braided pigtails pink low-scooped leotard brown plaid wool kilt just above knees brown suede cowboy boots he kisses each on lips then pats their butts warns them to be careful mindful Monica winks Larissa giggles more than an hour passes as Odysseus sits wondering why he has not heard from girls suddenly reality hits he does not want to be commodities trader and certainly not a **** this is not how he wants to be known or remembered Odysseus wants to be a painter and writer Monica and Larissa are good sweet girls whom he has misguided he calls Twist’s place Twist answers Odysseus asks to speak with Monica when she comes to phone he questions are you all right Monica answers yes we’re fine we’re having a fantastic time why are you calling what’s wrong he explains you were suppose to call me when you arrived i began to worry i think maybe this whole arrangement is a bad idea i want you to call it off and come back home i don’t want either of you to become prostitutes i love you both and don’t want to be associated with dishonoring you Monica says it’s a little late to call it off but we’ll see you when we’re done kissy kiss bye Odys another hour passes then another he frets wondering what they are doing after 4 hours as he is about to call Twist’s house again doorbell rings Monica and Larissa both giggling beaming Odysseus can spot they have a coke buzz Monica announces you should be proud of us Odys we got each of them off 2 times we left them stone-numb and tapped out the girls open their purses each slaps 5 hundred dollar bills unto table Monica says this is your cut Odys we both got a thousand for ourselves he replies i can’t touch that money we need to sit down and talk Monica demands no talking Odys take off your clothes he insists i’m serious Monica i’m never going to send you out again Larissa claims there’s no turning back for me i had too much fun Monica  pleads come on Odys we’ll be good we promise now take off your clothes Twist and his buddy never attended to our needs i’m ***** as hell Larissa where’s that little bottle of dust Twisty handed you

Chicago Monday night December 8 1980 Cal and Odysseus sit at North End they're on 4th round feeling buzz the place is lively adorned with holiday decorations Cal says you’ve changed Odysseus questions what do you mean? how? Cal says the commodity markets and your cousin and his friends they’ve changed you when was the last time you painted Odys? are you dealing coke Odysseus looks Cal in the eyes answers they’re so ******* rich Cal you can’t believe it one drives a black Corvette Stingray another a ******* Delorean anything they want they buy girls cars clothes condos boats yeah i’m dealing coke to Chris’s friends it’s my only leverage remember the Columbian dude Armando we met at tittie bar? i score from him and keep it clean Chris’s buddies pay up for the quality i don’t remember my last painting maybe the black painting i never finished after breaking up with Reiko Lee a girl falls off bar stool crashing to floor at other end of bar Cal says Odys, you better play it careful you’re messing with the devil got any blow on you suddenly bar grows quiet someone turns up TV volume they watch overhead as news anchorman speaks slow solemn camera pans splattered puddle of blood pieces of broken glass on steps to Dakota Building Cal looks to Odysseus John Lennon has been murdered Cal waits for Odysseus to say something tear rolls down cheek Cal glances away stares down at floor they drink in silence

You know how I feel about you
I know how you feel about me
And if I felt like I could truly stay
I so would.

I wish I could
I wish we could be so sassy together
Like you described last night
Sitting on our hands
There is no way to deny
The undeniable attraction.

Do you remember when
We would say things like that to each other
When we would make love?

It's hard not to
Fall back into
You
A long hug
You pressed my body into yours
Kissing my neck like
You may never get to again
My lips black
Like you must have
Neglected them
For a full months time.

You said you like it
You like the poetic responses
I sweep up branches and limbs
That fell while you were gone
Rebuilding the shelter around me
You reach through my window
A prism of light, you can't help but want it
But baby I need you to want all of me.

I know you can't and you won't
I know you aren't gonna walk away
From the freedom you claim you seek
So I watch you watch me go.

It's September now
It's the month I was born and raised
Balancing beams and justice filled things
Pumpkins appear and take flight
I prepare for a busy ride.

Maybe we can start a new
But you're right
Honesty must not only be your water
It must become your refuge.

Nina pranced about
the lush green grove.
The pitter patter of her footsteps
like raindrops on the ground,
and her movements,
like a fog rolled through a valley.  
A white satin leotard
decorated with flowery lace patterns
A tutu that blossomed
from her slender waist.  
Hair elegantly tied back into a bun.
Face, filled with symmetry, lightly made up with powder.
Her cheeks flushed with a pinkish red blush,
but natural like her lips of pomegranate red.  

The grove,
short deep green ryegrass that rolls over the lumpy ground like moss.
Trees shade like many arms shielding many eyes.
The pure white light of the sun shone through the canopy in beams.
Nina danced furiously intent and
music box intricately
in and out of the beacons of light
as a ballerina should following a lifetime of training.

I only have one photo of Grandad
from his years of service in the Great War,
and in it he’s wearing a leopard-skin leotard.

My paternal grandfather, Grandad,
was brought up in Brockley, South-East London
In his teens he was conscripted
and became a gunner sergeant in the Royal Field Artillery.

I still have his stirrups and his French/English phrase book
which includes useful words, like dysentery,

(think of the movie, ‘War Horse’, and you’re almost there).
He fought in the mud in France and put a lot of horses out of their misery.

Apparently, he enjoyed the stage – a song and a dance,
and almost went professional after a string
of successful nights at the local Roxy,
all of which makes me want to have known him better,
but he died in my teens.

He laughed a lot, loved his vegetable garden
and had a collection of handy-sized, hard-back books
giving details of how various circuits and wiring worked.

I recall his bear of an armchair
and how it was in easy reach
of a slim stack of shallow drawers
from which he would take slender tools or small curios
and sit and explain their significance to my bemused child self.

I have the brown photo somewhere -
it’s not one I’d like to frame as it raises too many questions for me.

Like – is that bloke next to grandad meant to be Robinson Crusoe?
Like – what prompted grandad to ‘black up’ from head to toe – is he Man Friday?

And now, I stare at the photo handed to me by my friend of his grandfather, complete with rifle and medals,
and again I silently ask my grandad – why?

I was driving
And thinking
(Dangerous, I know)
Thinking, hard, fast,
And even, slow;
(Did I slow down)
That is a question
Best answered for
Another poem.
(My driving?
My thinking?)

You distracted me.
I wish you would
Please
Stop doing that.
Sheesh.

I was thinking about
Robbery.
Of the armed persuasion.
Why 'armed' robbery?
Weaponized sounds better.
More exotic.
Forearmed?
Elbowed?
Wrong limb classification.
Handed robbery, unless
Prosthetics are involved.
Hooked robbery?

Unarmed robbery-
(Unhanded? UnHAND, me,
Sir!)
Is that just simple
Theft?
And is a simple
Theft ever really
Simple?
Ah, the philosophy of theft.
I think I want that,
Therefore, I exist,
Because want cannot
Exist on its own.
(Or, maybe: Want
Has pre-existence;
It is VIRTUAL
Minus the virtue-part
Until it becomes…
ACTUAL)

I’ve stolen over
My years.
I’ve taken things
That pretended to belong
To someone else.
They belonged to me
Even less.
Ad Victorum Spoilas
(To the victor, goes the spoils)
Spoiled is right.
I still feel
Residual guilt over
These crimes.
I’ve never witnessed
A violent crime.
Never been in the holdup
Of a middle.
Never seen a man
Wearing a ski mask
Running perpendicularly.
(Why are women never
Mentioned running?
Away from the scenes
Of robbery?)
Heels.
(Men are, I mean)

Stanley Kubrick Scenes
Of Robbery:
The Shining: Uncut
Take 146:
“This time, Jack,
Pretend you're a ballerina
Holding up a
Leotard store.”

I cannot wrap my
Mind around the thought
Fathered by the impulse
Grandfathered by the
Desperation of needing
Wanting
Something so badly you’d
Wager your ability
To wander, to mosey on
Along the boulevard, up
The hill, past the
Graveyard that you only
Remember was the dead
Sleeping a mile past it
In the car with which you
Are legally able to operate.

Hey! I think I’ll grab
This gun, and put bullets
In chambers, and possibly
Hide my face behind
A silly mask, and then,
Possibly, point it at
Bank Tellers?
Pregnant Ladies.
Clowns.
Mimes.
OK, I can see threatening
Mimes.

Besides appearing to
Be the most harmless of
Professionals,
They get paid peanuts.
And they get guns
Stuck in their faces
All the time.
So step 1 goes with
Hitches, glitches galore.
Video surveillance.
Dye-marked money bags.
Security guards lurking.
Dudes with cameras.

So you’ve stolen
The public’s money.
You’re in the getaway
Car, ineptly named,
Because whatever the
Percentage
Of bank robbers who
Free, clear, and cleanly
Get away has to be
Impossibly low.
What do you have, now,
Now that you have
What you risked sharing
A cell with Bubba
To steal?

Sadness. Grief. Guilt.
Stained hands.
Equally stained heart.
(And oh yeah, lots
Of marked/unmarked
Bills)
Do you feel anything
Anything at all?
Having your fun
Stuffing bills into the
Garters and ******* of
Bored strippers?
Buying expensive alcohol
And, later, waking up having
Vomited and voided yourself
In the back of a limo
That has, on top of it,
A giant chicken?

None of us,
Not ONE of us,
Knows the time of
Our demise.
We will be gone
One moment,
And Here before Jesus
The next.
At the Foot of the
Judgment Seat of Christ
Himself. Almighty God.
Quaking, trembling,
Feeling the truest form of
Respectful fear,
Fearful respect.
Shed of our human skin
Our spirits filled with the
Substance from the choices
We omitted and committed.

I know Jesus Christ
As and Is My Savior.
The god of money
(Mammon)
Will not be there
To Judge me.
God has ears, eyes.
He sees, hears.
Every thing.
ALL THINGS.
Little gods are both
Blind and deaf
(If the blind and
Deaf can be said
To exist for non-
Existent things).

Jesus will recognize me
As one of his own.
Satan might be skulking
Around, looking for
Those who chose anyone
Else but Christ as
Savior.
(Like the green cottony
Stuff that many think causes
The world to rotate)

The sweetest words I’ve
Ever dreamt of hearing
I will hear from the
Mouth of the Man who
Created everything
By speaking it aloud.
The ore in the ground
That eventually went into
The gun that I never pointed
At someone else
While taking things
That didn’t belong to me.
The trees that yielded
Some of the paper
(Most of it’s linen)
That was the money
In someone else’s
Account
From the bank I never
Robbed because I was
Too afraid of the
Consequences
Of
Theft.

---

What lies beneath the surface?
All the media hype?
What lies beneath your internet,
your TV and your Skype?

What lies beneath the input
that boggles your wee brain?
What's up with politicians?
The jingoist refrain?

What's up with Miley Virus,
in her fairy leotard
******* bare for all to see...
hoist on her own petard?

Is it all it seems?
A world that's just sick?
Or is it a great metaphor
for a magic trick?

While the Great Houdini
rolls up with a band
you're watching smoke n mirrors
and disregard his hands.

Televangalists preach prosperity!
Filling up the pews,
While you're watching people
going crazy on the news!

What lies beneath Denver?
The Dome of the Rock?
Are there great growing cities?
Or is all of that just talk?

There was once a mighty ship
they thought would never sink...

Folks, what's beneath's an iceberg

and it's CLOSER THAN YOU THINK!


SoulSurvivor
(C) 5/19/2015

A woman traipsed with the whole company of ballet;
She was but only a soloist, a mere sujet.
Her companions wore clothes for traveling hard,
But our sujet, she dressed in dancing shoes and leotard.
Her head was upturned and her nose pointed
High, as if by a great saint she had been anointed.
With ease she stretched into each dainty pose
But no other ballerina saw the bandages wrapped around her toes,
Which she had to replace every other hour;
Seeing her bleeding sores did often make her cower.
To the other ballerinas she was dismissive and ****
But her oft-clenched fists belied the faltering of her heart.
Her chestnut hair she had dyed golden like the rest
And her curves became thin so she would dance her very best;
She had hidden herself inside ‘till her olive skin turned pale,
Believing if she fit in, at her craft she never could fail.
Instead of breaking her fast or supping at night
She practiced her art and took nary a bite.
The ballet troupe sneered while the sujet put on her airs
Yet I know she wept at the ice hardened in their stares.

you are splatter-painting in my living room
bright red like blood,
like the light in the room from that day you took me away
framed in the center.
"Oh."
we chase and try to catch the moon, but it isn’t out tonight, so

we hold each other instead.
I use my garden as a tightrope and you challenge me like a ringmaster.
I’m in a spangled leotard, turning for you, charming under the ink sky, and you go inside to make me some smores.


You said you couldn’t stay over because you had work in the morning, but I woke up to your elbows and my coffee.

The countenance of her throne
epitomizes the state of her soul,
and this countenance I shall describe
but only to who may tolerate the details
of its most uncanny existence.

A clique of stallions
gallop about in a nauseating blur,
their red eyes glowering under
the amber light descending from
an ominous sliver of moon,
its mere presence prompting on
the inversion of the stars
and the curled screeches of
the morbid beasts
whose fur hangs darker than
the trembling eye of Hell.

Atop one lacerated saddle
rides Her Majesty--
The Queen of the Circus,
deranged like the specimen
she keeps in her company.
And,
with every cacophonic rise
of the carousel,
she howls,
her ******* cries as primal as
the stallions' untamed whinnies.

She bites her lip until
she can taste blood
(and ***),
throws her hands to her temples
in ****** wistfulness--
pale limbs encompass teased hair
where decomposing acorns
(rotten kisses)
and bouquets of Nightshade
reside amongst the tangle
of Medusa-Esque curls,
amongst large, brown eyes
that sparkle gold under
the cursed heavens
which have been simultaneously
pleasured and scandalized
by the sight of her bare *******
clinging to sheer leotard,
by the sight of her body swaying
round the rusted poles that
have sunk themselves into the horses' skulls
like a ring sinks round
a glass bottle
or a lover's finger.  

Of course, Her Royal Darkness
is more than just a Circus Queen.
She, indeed, entertains
a grand variety of morbid hobbies;

She is a Fire Eater
{spitters are quitters};

Grave Digger
{she dances the Charleston atop
treasure chests of bones and
bones with carnival mobsters};

Crystal Ball Prodigy
{reading palm | l|i|n|e|s | like
p
o
e
t
r
y};

Ring Mistress
{**** or ****,
purr or bite--
what shall it be?};

Acrobat
{knees perched above shoulders,
a man's mouth between her legs};

Ventriloquist
{"I'll steal your breath away, darling."}


Why yes!

She is a Jaqueline of all trades.

"Pick a card! Any Card! ..."

"Is this your card? ..."

A heart is drawn,
cleaved between her teeth,
each pulse of vein
a magnificent drum beat
against her tongue.
With the blood of her prey--
juices as thickly sweet
as candy floss--
she marks her territory,
parades her ****--
a pink handprint
smeared across the hide
of each stallion.

"What dizzying artistry...
how lovely--
how...insane,"
she laughs,
each high pitched giggle
a homage to the maddening  musings
of her soul
(and her throne.)

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A dancer’s world is brimming with mirrors
So that you can identify the flaws
And meticulously correct them.
I saw that I was too fat, repulsive,
My leotard stretched too tight
Across rounded plains of skin,
I tried to correct it.
Thinner, thinner,
I said.
Better
Better.

One day
A collection of voices
Paid me a holiday visit.
They liked it so much
They never went home.
I don’t know why they liked it
All they ever did was shout at me
And tell me I wasn’t good enough
And make an insecure monster out of me.
They chewed me word by word and swallowed.
I asked to be left but they never repacked their suitcases.

I never meant to be a murderer, death’s employee
Not even when I was killing did I intend it
It was all accidental, I swear, honestly.
But even that won’t convince me
To stop washing off the blood -
Maroon aura blooming
And blooming until
Washing, washing,
I thought the
Stain got
Smaller.
Not.



'wait a minute shall we not dissect further and twist the scalpel and tease apart sinews until they're all just science and shall we not draw diagrams and observe the peculiarities of their ways and shall we not uncover their biology and their phycology and investigate a hypothesis without coming to a conclusion shall we not forget their humanity write them down as chemicals and failed reactions and have done with it shall we not turn impersonal and...

sorry, I forgot they were people.'

First things first,
you’ll have to remove your hat and
the plank strapped to your limbs.
Your body will be used to thumb-wrestle with
gravity.

Please remove the staples from your chest.
Find your new set of lungs.
There is space to breathe here.
Take this new heart.
You’ll beat slower, suspended.
Circadian rhythms will not help you.

Your body will become a willow in a storm,
never breaking.
There are no mistakes here.

You’ll learn to drink silence for sustenance,
washed down with madness and tepid water.
You’ll learn to compensate for lacking conversation, hold secret meetings
in the basement of your mind.
You’ll learn how to disappear in a room.

No matter how hard you pound against walls
they remain padded,
concealed behind billowing drapery.
No one will hear you.

But, you’ll fit in fine.
You’ll stretch your skin as a tattooed leotard.
You won’t grow up,
You’ll grow inward
fortifying your lungs with weeds.
L’appel du vide, your distinctive urge to jump down from
high places will be quelled
by the grace in lifting.

Take respite,
There is nothing left to destroy here.
There are no checkpoints to neglect.
There is no need to be a hero.

Still,
you’re not convinced this is so much better.

My mother orders a smaller size
for my leotard so I ***** in the gym
bathroom, in the last stall.
Later, I put on the outfit: small, shiny,
with cutouts for a fashion statement,
but I draw red circles around those patches
of flesh--mistakes to fix.

Every day in the car, Mom gives me a lunch
she packed: two rice cakes, peanut butter measured
to exactly one tablespoon, carrots and ranch dip.
Accepting her boundaries seems weak, so I never
eat at all, my only spot of control set against
the nightmare of a needle spinning around
numbers in a sickening game of roulette.

She kneels in front of the stage during
all eight routines that thinned me into a figure
worthy of her photos, immortalizing
me with vague curves, a slim face replacing
pink round cheeks--
but that was enough for my mom
because I know she sets the scale
five pounds above zero.
Inches disappeared, until that needle,
sharp like her eyes, aligned
with the big 85, causing mine to
open in a room with blank walls
and sterile-smelling sheets, the place
of rest.

The superstar opted for a rather daring look and took a photograph in a bathroom mirror for fans.

Madonna seems to be taking style tips from Kim Kardashian these days by falling in love with a very **** pair of boots.

The 56-year-old star continued to prove she won't be getting a blue rinse anytime soon or covering up with saggy jumpers as she flaunted her figure in a selfie.


Posing in front of a mirror in a black leotard and black knee-high lace-up boots, she wrote on Instagram: "Nothing Glamorous about this bathroom but these Gucci Boots are Eeeeevrythang! #rebelhearttour."

She can be seen in the pic without any make-up on looking slightly tired while rocking a wavy blonde hairstyle and wearing black fishnet stockings.

Meanwhile, Madonna recently claimed she will continue making music until she dies because she is so "inspired" to keep working, just like Picasso, who died in 1973.

She said: "I like to compare myself to other kinds of artists like Picasso. He kept painting and painting until the day he died. Why? Because I guess he felt inspired to do so. Life inspired him, so he had to keep expressing himself, and that's how I feel."

The Living For Love hitmaker - who released her latest album Rebel Heart earlier this year - continued to say she doesn't think her creative streak will ever fade because she always wants to inspire others.

She explained: "I don't think there's a time, a date, an expiration date for being creative. I think you go until you don't have any more to say."

The music icon will kick off her Rebel Heart Tour on September 9 in Montreal, Canada and said she has spent "weeks and weeks" choosing a set list because she has so many well known hits to choose from.

She added: "The theme I really truly explore in this show more than anything is love and romance. I want people to walk out like they're feeling inspired and like they've seen something they've never seen before (and) felt something they've never felt before.

"I realize I have 32 years of other songs, so I have to pick and choose. I sit there for weeks and weeks and weeks trying to figure out which of my old catalog I want to do.

"It's a puzzle that we have to put together 'cause thematically the songs -- the old and the new -- they have to go together; sonically they have to go together."

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Demi-plié. Tendu.
Relevé. Passé. Développé.
Souplesse. Cambré.
All day. Everyday.
Until I step on stage and get blinded by par lights.
Until my tutu twirls and my pointe shoes die.
Until I do my reverence and hear the audience clap.
Everything can be taken away from me
Except for my body covered in a leotard.



- LynnAA

There she was on stage
The Theatre was packed full
Her face painted
Like a porcelain doll.

Lights shone down on her,
Red velvet curtains draped
It's like we were in
The Eighteen Hundreds

She was in full view
Her long black hair was
Camouflaged with her leotard

The spotlights must have
Blinded her eyes

She danced as
Delicately
As a feather,
Mystically and
Artistically,

It was entrancing to see
My friend who was
Starring the show.

The audience were captivated,
Gentlemen smoking their pipes
Nodding heads of approval,

Swift,
Soft,
Subtle movements
Mesmerised the greater crowd...

And then she speaks.

She speaks poetry
In so many words,
Words I can't relay,

I wish I could remember,
But I remember
How it made me feel;

How it made every one feel.

The strange eeriness
Mixed with elegance,
Her words harshly whispered
But true...

The crowd errupted
With applause
"Bravo" "Bravo"

And then I wake....



© Karen L Hamilton, 2012

symbols, some just say zodiac, with Gemini at my lowest ebb - ebb, funny word, unravelling nouns from the cauldron of onomatopoeias, say knock on wood precipitated into a privacy of owning a door - whereas the Irish and the Poles encoded dialogue (like in Ulysses) with hyphen for snappy convo; in a pub, Charlie and Harry spoke:
- pint's on me.
- aye, on you the one and no more.
- why not more on me?
- i won the lottery, i'm goonah buy half of Cork.
- so who's this Yorrick fella'h?
- apparently a resurrected maxim.
- travesty...
- indee- doodley oh.
which beckons the question why the un-imaginative encoding of sounds gave English narrators too much power... the supposed ditto / invert comma wasn't expression of approx., nuanced, why wasn't the interpretation that of nuance? we can all use the unit Sartre chose to nuance, instead of "ego" the ref. point of conduct ~ego, i.e. approximately me, living with my mother but nonetheless womanising... unimaginative narrator, speeding, never gave his characters a chance, "i went to the market today", he said; that's the narrator masquerading - call this a dubbing mechanism? i would... like i'd hope for the centimetres and miles and nanometres of pause differentiating a comma from a hyphen, a hyphen from a colon, a colon from a semi-colon... and a semi-colon from a fullstop (exampled a germanic word with missing hyphen not authorised by the Oxbridge dictionary of couture, disassembling a navy sweater and toad-green jeans)... i mean, **** me, give me the precision tactics to read without invoking an αsθmαtιc imitation of a sailor's last breath; are those dots above i and j really necessary? it just rained down y y y y y y y y y y on top of them, enzyme activity? yep, ιoτα; otherwise just inert *******; and no, it's not a language these days, English has been reduced to pixel graffiti.

well... mandrakes and sparrows
aren't exactly androgynous...
maybe a mascara advert went missing
along the way... maybe.
here the piano... here the broken
fingers of Liszt... you poker me,
it's worth the gamble...
well ontologically *sprechen what
the hell is a natural appropriation
of waiting for water to boil,
or an egg to be poached in shell
for a runny yoke? me neither,
i'm as dumb as a doughnut concerning
such affairs... i said there's no androgynous
behavioural patterns in sparrow and mandrakes,
you choose you adaptability whenever you
choose to stress a chequered flag...
parasitically i'll march with telescope
ants and flies of what alienation did
to the food-chain - yeah, aliens with an
enlargement syndrome -
bathtub of hydrochloric acid -
i just imagine the newly beloved painting
unseen, a squid cleaving fat and muscles
off a skeleton in the same light
as seeing a ******* - artist or pervert?
i guess both go hand-in-hand;
the hyphen, equal parallel usage with the inverted
coma / well... it used to be known as a ditto
                                                           ­            "
                                                               ­        "
                                                               ­        "
but mind you, before Oxford accepts a german
sounding word compound it requires a hyphen
in english - pistachio shells and shrapnel -
yep, as the above - unravelling of fictive tactics
of the bothersome nature for the narrator not only
loßing the plot but also the characters;
hey, english is perfect, i can apply whatever stresses
of φoνo i want... it's stark naked Adam & Eve...
i can put a ballerina's leotard on this encoding,
and no one will truly mind.

soap and water
          dishes
          laundry
          or shower

brick from mortar
boys against girls

urban velvet smog
city vapors clog

this train -- there is a line
        beginners
        quitters

this parking lot -- there is a line
        shoppers
        influencers

open bar pharmacy, bottled water

                  no pity
                  no guarantees

dragon chasers
chin music
        
          lapsed short term memory loss

opening mail for grandmother
                the obituaries
                that ****** fly

a discussion among men
about a woman's voice
           come sit and listen

one last cigarette couple
walking home through the park
               driving alone in the dark
                             on the heels of
                             a reflection
                             of Christ
                             or an hourglass
                             in remission

them or not them
       just arrived
       just married
too many stairs
not enough elevators
worry about it later

them, definitely them
sharing beds
      under the leotard
      under the candlelight

a helping hand
finely manicured fingers
one stationary
        then two in missionary

word upon words need aspirin
            orchestrate
            headache
                            pillow is the threshold
                            tomorrow...soap and water

I am from

A yellow house and a little red bike

Bruises and Band-Aids on my knees

From learning every time I fall



I am from

The Band, The Beatles, Buddy Holly, and Bruce Springsteen

Our small kitchen table and Christmas cookies

From a family that almost fits on my Grandparent’s front porch



I am from

Summer memories and freckles and the Field of Dreams

The swimming hole, egg salad sandwiches, popsicles and pecan sandies

From Gramma and Fred and the Mill Road



I am from generations of tiny waists and dainty wrists

Of Marlise and Melissa and M’s

Brown eyes and pine needles and Big Rock

From denial and acceptance



I am from

Tea with my mom and driving with my dad

My beautiful Hazel

From the Harvest Party and my beloved barn



I am from soft white clouds of comforters

A room painted the shade of pink lemonade

Arizonas and cosmic brownies and Matt’s Honeydew melon Sorbet

From Quickway and the Gazebo and Cherry Valley


I am from a collection of keys with no locks

Chewed cuticles and paper cuts

A mouthful of words and a bad habit of tripping

From the love of glue and sharp scissors



I am from years of *****, bare feet

And freedom to be me

Getting the mail everyday except Sunday

From picnic tables and corn on the cob


I am from a love of language and words and poetry

A love of planes and tractors and the Superbowl

A big family as strong as the Brooklyn Bridge

And just as supportive too


I am from my dream catcher

Catching my fantasies of fast cars and shooting stars

A bottle full of memories and polaroids taped to my wall

From hip hop and coca cola and heart shaped sunglasses


I am from the baby freckles on my shoulders

A love of sun and freshly mowed green grass

Brave New World and Brandy Melville

From tweeting and handwritten letters


I am from the studio floor and my ballet slippers

My favorite black leotard and Fuentes

12 years of pointed feet and tutus

From the dressing room and the barre


I am from the Star of David and 8 burning candles

Suburban Philadelphia and Black Friday

Diners and Chinese Food and Fortunes

From my dad


I am from the cornfields and red barns

Chickens and cows, fresh eggs and warm milk

Valedictorians and Ivy leagues

From my mom



But most of all, I am from the puzzle pieces of myself

The dark, dusty, unexplored corners of my brain

The fear of death and rats and failure and loneliness

From the love of life and belief and hope

against the motto: write little; do it well -
sure, let's fill galoshes with frogs and slugs and
seawater - fry a pancake, eat a leotard -
play chess using our toes -
do all those things, but never get a brimful's
worth of insight into waterfalls
or volcanoes interrupting the goody-two-shoes'
lives in the market sq. of Pompeii -
let's do that, let's do that, write sparingly,
let's not gesticulate at the void like
what's missing at the para-Olympics -
two blind men boxing, lights out already?
throw a torso into the swimming pool!
misery... and the funniest comedy - you
could almost get tired, but it doesn't tire,
you were expecting a mile long walk -
now you're running a ******* marathon,
hyphen (or the hanging pause) -
just yesterday, a minor virus on word,
font turned into Vendetta from Times New Roman,
and this ******... ¶... everywhere, each line
a new paragraph, who's he?
Mr. ¶ or Mr. Pillow-Crow - piquant like
a radish in pickle acidity - before
writing the invoice a good 10 minutes trying
to make Mr. ¶ disappear - long ago it was
like so:

¶xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxx­xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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¶xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
**­xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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but it changed into

        xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxx­xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx­xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx­xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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         xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
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(cheaper print charges, could allow more blank space)

nah, forget writing well but very little,
learn the trombone or the viola instead,
write a lot, write a lot to make mistakes,
become Jack the Decathlon inquirer,
all the trades, master at none,
splash in a rainbow, some thunder and
some sleet, give it a proper variation juggle
and wait for the chuckles brigade -
now instead of writing about reading
we're writing about giving advice,
i'm not, pronoun usage can be misleading,
i'm giving myself self-assurance,
yeah, in a car accident, whiplash,
i'm gonna bank about 2 thousand quid in insurance,
and i'm working it out from the citation
of Alexander Dumas, Athos - "the best advice
is to not give advice", and boy did that morph
from " " into ' ', i.e. my own -
the best plan is to not have a plan -
while they write their systematisation and
skeletal fiction with unsurprising anatomies
i'm writing and i'm like... huh? i didn't plan this!
well, no shame in that, no beetroot face,
unlike squeezing a wet **** on a rush-hour
commute home on the tube -
write a lot, so you can write ****** pieces,
write a lot, so you can become a simile of a missing person,
write a lot, so they don't find you (no paranoia intended,
not really about some obscure government organisation),
write a lot, just so you can write mistakes,
don't become a prim-bow-tie perfectionist.

My glass is half-full but I know where I'm coming from
how does time fly - it seems to when you're having fun
it's a game of two halves and I'm good in the second
I could have done better but still won I reckoned

I tried to second-guess but didn't come off best
you wish, in your dreams and all the rest
I've tried so hard but not in my back yard
how do I look - not too good in the leotard

I'm watching Peter Kay - what does that guy say?
by the time he get's to The Phoenix - they'll be closed, hey!
what you need is a make-over - so I had one
I looked like botoxed ******* when it was done

I've been compromised, unrecognized and my jewels
are oversized - I didn't ask to be circumsised

I am not graceful
I am a total klutz
the only time I am
is when I dance
when I spin and twirl
I feel at peace
My leotard pink
my tights are white
well at least they used to be
ballet shoes pink stained with grey
my red hair in a bun
leaping high
Dancing
Dancing
Dancing

© 2013 Emily Larrabee. Legally Copyrighted, all rights reserved

Step right up, step right up
Watch your drink
Watch your purse
Watch the eyes of the guys around you
Watch out on behalf of the other girls, you never know what might happen
When you go to college a ******
Life is a ******* circus and
The elephant in the room has always been ***
But they told you that life would be a circus
And that’s where the elephants are meant to be seen, right?
So even though you were prepared to paint your face a sad clown
You put on a leotard and start walking fine lines like a tightrope
Looking for flashy colors on your skin
You wear hickeys and purity rings with the same amount of pride
And you won’t always know why you care so much about either

You’ll learn to be a ringmaster
who can conduct a proper show
But you get used to staying offstage
So the first time he sets off firecrackers behind your eyes and between your hips
Don’t be so scared of the light that you curl up under the circus tent in shame
And shake until sunrise, spitting out the ashes that remain on a briefly lit fuse
Because even though you’ve tasted sparks before
Breathing fire has never been a partner act
But you know that this boy knows how to feed you flames without cooking you inside out
So you attempt to rationalize that perfect double act

And you’ve seen contortionists always return to the shape they were taught
But you’re sure your muscles would stretch enough to change your build
So when the lion tamer brings his head away from a newly domesticated maw
And you start swallowing swords
Your first reaction should not be to gargle alcohol searching for open wounds
And ponder what shade of virginity you’re still allowed to identify with
Take a bow, darling, or at least take a breath
The heat on your tongue is only an afterthought

When he leaves you
shortly afterward
Do not singe your skin in an attempt to burn away his fingerprints
The tears that catch in your throat are as hot as the cinders he put there
And neither one will do away with the other
You just have to let them react and steam until you can breathe again
And breathe until you can feel again
And feel until the cold no longer numbs you and the heat no longer melts your bones
Spitting out the fire means you risk setting everything else ablaze
But swallowing coals until your stomach rejects anything else isn’t the best course of action either
So you hold the match between your teeth and the sparklers in your veins and deny the passage of time
Certain that they will burn out before you have to worry about them again anyway

When you go to college a ******
You’ve been told that fire is cleansing
But chewing on ashes makes you feel *****
And when the heat of passion sets off smoke alarms
It can be hard to remember which drills to follow
So remember this
Don’t catch fire to entertain
If what you really want is to keep warm

I cannot look at myself in the mirror. Staring back are huge thighs, massive shoulders, a bulging stomach. Staring back are two disgusting eyes, horrible plain hair that can only be contained in an elastic. Staring back are two hips who cannot fit into a pair of skinny jeans my mother wore when pregnant. Staring back are calves that resemble toothpicks one moment, and guitar cases the next. Staring back are ankles that cannot be distinguished from the guitar cases. Staring back is someone I do not know.
I have not seen myself in the mirror in years. Instead, all I can see is this disgust, fat, hatred, loathing. All I can see is the time when I had to wait for a store clerk to find a size 14 dress, not put out in front to maintain their perfect size ideals. All I can see is the number of boys who have asked me out, only to say “April Fool’s!” or go laughing back to their friends. All I can see is the look of disgust on my father’s face the first time I wore a leotard for dance, and then proceeded to tell me that I had better watch that buddha belly.
I realize that I have never been looking in a mirror. I have never looked in one. I have seen only what I have been told. I can see only ******* because some teenage boy decided that my smile at work was a “please, **** me.” I can only see thick, thunder thighs because someone on the bus thought it funny to run his hands up and down them. When I was 9. I see linebacker shoulders because I was called a boy from kindergarten until second grade when I started to finally look like a girl, whatever that means. I am called mother because my arms are not perfectly toned and stay in place when I move them around.
I am wondering when it went out of style to not see bones sticking out. I wonder when my body no longer was my body. I am wondering how a mirror could be turned into a portal to hell, showing you the worst possible things, and none of the good. I am wondering why I cannot look into a mirror without wanting to *****. I am wondering who told me to do this. I am wondering when this all started.
I look into a mirror, and I cannot see anything besides what I am told is me. I am told that I look fat in these jeans, and that I also look fat in those jeans. I am told that that dress makes me look pregnant. I am told that I should be grateful when any boy stares at me, as if I am a piece of meat. Whenever I walk down the street, I am not on parade for you. I am not a cat, do not call to me like one.
I was 9 the first time an old man tried to flip my skirt at a dance recital. Telling me to show a bit more leg when I hadn’t even hit puberty. I was 10 the first time that the word ***** came flying from an open car window. Walking alone, terrified of what might happen if those boys came back. I was 11 the first time that a boy commented on the size of my thighs, telling me he would like to be between them, with me having no clue what he was talking about. I was 12 the first time a boy groped my chest. At a Christian camp, while the boy was 15. I was 13 the first time that my *** was smacked as I walked down the hallway. I never found out who did it. I was 14 the first time that I boy tried to get me into his car to blow him. There were no repercussions when I reported this, except for me loosing friends. I am 15, and I have gotten so used to the sound of grown men hooting at me as I walk down the street that I sometimes forget not to take it as a complement.
I cannot look myself in the mirror and not see any of this from the past. Instead, all I see is the past. I see how years have torn at me, breaking the mirror, fixing it, putting the pieces back in the wrong places. I look in the mirror and I try to see the good. I stand in front of that broken mirror and admire the legs that can lift 400 lbs with ease. I look in the mirror and I see hands that can play bass guitar, baseball. I see arms that can lift my mother. I see a girl, not a boy, not an it, not a toy for you to play around with. I see eyes whose stare has made grown men tremble. I see a girl who was thrown into the fire, and then made into it.

Love doesn't mean anything anymore.
Love is a word that pre-pubescent adolescents
throw away on their very first kiss.
They take a crush, and they call it love, and no one
reprimands them or scolds them because no one
can see that there is any difference any more between
love and the half-hearted pretence at love -
the newfound infatuation with the very idea of
being enraptured by the very first person seeming
worthy enough to be enraptured by.

And hate. Hate means nothing either.
Hate is the feeling little children scream at their parents
when they couldn't wear a leotard to school in December.
Hate is when people take a notion,
a preconception, a misconception of what an
emotion should feel like and they take the worst
feeling they are feeling and they label it hate
and they proclaim hate on their 'haters' and
they forget that they are 'haters' themselves when
they laugh at the real hate they dole people out on dinner plates.

Jealousy? Jealousy has been eclipsed.
Jealousy has been eclipsed by the lack-lustre attempt
at jealousy that ten-year old girls have for their friends.
Jealousy now is what people feel when they
realise that they don't have enough money, or fame,
or friends to truly feel good about themselves even though
these things are entirely human constructions
and seeing as no one on this planet has yet to do a
**** to affect the universe anyway, the universe should be
jealous of us for having such care-free lives.

Some people claim they feel rage, but anger's dead.
Rage is the thing to pretend to feel when the
world realises it doesn't revolve around anyone and
actually revolves around the sun.
Rage is like a rushing tidal wave of the opposite
of melting sunsets eating the horizon and generally
it's a lot less pretty unless you see a macabre
sort of beauty in war and politics and education because
education is the big thing we should really be angry about
because wouldn't true ignorance be bliss?

Come one,

come all

and

join me

for a night of

unadulterated madness.
--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------
“I see a dreadful fright in your future.”

–Madame Tarot
-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------
Poor, dizzy fools.

Watch how they

go round and round

until their eyes pop

from their sockets,

until they *****

pink streaks of cotton candy

onto the sweet

horses with golden hooves

and blazing eyes.

–Cursed Carousel
--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------
My lovely Lady Tightrope

I do believe that skirt is

far too short and

that leotard far too snug.



When you said you wished

to put on a show for us,

I did not realize this is

what you had implied.

–Getting Freaky
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
They say these grounds are haunted

by little girls in feathered bonnets

and little boys in blue trousers.


And, if you listen carefully,

mingled in with the pervasive

notes of carnival music

are the morbid wails of these children–

children whose balloons have burst,

and whose ice cream cones have been dropped.
--------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------
“But Mr. Clown, mama says I’m not supposed to take candy from strangers.”
-----------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------
How ironic that the ringmaster

is missing his own ring finger.

–She purred like a kitty but knew how to pounce
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
“Why, what terribly big teeth you have.”

“The better to eat you with, my dear.”
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
I present to you

The Great Dr. Whim.



Watch how he saws his

assistant in half.



Relish in the piercing

serenade of her screams,

and how they ricochet off the

tapestried walls.



Grin wildly as her blood–

thick with candy floss

and other disgustingly sweet

delicacies–

drips down into the

cracks of the floorboards,

slowly inching its way

towards the audience.

–Magician’s Corner
----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------------------------
See there?


Hidden among the

silhouette of the trees

is a man with

blistered lips and

charred teeth.


If you look carefully,

from a distance,

you will notice

a gray fog curling above the

pines–

it is the smoke billowing from his

nostrils,

threatening to wrap

its angry hands

around any guest

who dare venture too far

from the carnival grounds.

–Fire Eater
-----------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------
More often than not

his daggers do not hit the target,

but instead find themselves

embedded in

the backs of our

lovely attendees.

–Knife Thrower
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------
And to end the evening,

we have something spectacular

in store for you–

our human cannonball.


He is to fly,

but to never come down,

cut from his tether

to this earth

like a balloon that has been cut

from its string.


And at the most climactic moment

of his soaring escapade,

his flesh is to ignite,

leaving for his viewers

something resembling a firework show,

as a mesh of burning cartilage and

scorched bone set the night

sky ablaze with horror.
---------------------------------------------------------­------------------------------------
Oh?


You say you are afraid?


But I am simply fulfilling

the promise I made to you

upon your initial arrival–

it was madness I promised,

and it is madness you have received.

if you asked me, i'd tell you
that i started reading the master & margarita
in st. petersburg...
then in the warsaw airport...
and that i liked tsar peter's pickled foetuses...
but that i found the hermitage
a bit leopard-print leotard tacky,
i mean a little bit ****;
nah i mean really really **** ha ha,
i mean it was like a carboot sale in essex of a gallery:
classics just jumbled up, a junk shop in the least;
homelesssness of paintings invoking
a translation of the cube into traffic parallels:
like a desecrated jewish graveyard of paintings
stacked against each other like tombstones.

(20 minute poetry)


Hoodies oh goodie I'm in for a treat,
I shall pull up a chair and put up my feet
the show is about to begin.

In the red corner is *****, he looks a bit ropey, wouldn't trust him with a dog on a lead.
And in the blue corner weighing in at some tonnage from Sandwich in Kent,
is bald headed Bob who looks a bit of a **** with his pink leotard trying hard not to be the **** that he is.

Showbiz Sally's getting really rather pally with my right leg, she'd beg to differ, but something's getting s... Wait.. Ha, a comb in my pocket and I nearly broke it or 'Brock it' as they say up Lancashire way.

St. Paul's just a stop on the way to the bank and Bob's just told Frank of his love.

And the crew is cast out at Holborn, I doubted they'd stay,
for more entertainment one needs the circle line,
I'm on my way.