For the man has been changed,
dressing in a mirage and false attire
building a castle in his schizophrenic mind
for so long he guessed it was mist
his mind limboed by their words
'we are architects of the sand filled castle' they scream
they say he uses pity power,
so they tell him his pseudo-castle is bliss

For the man has been changed
the realisation is the ****** in his heart
he was right, their trust is a facade
they say he uses pity power
so they have to stay with him in the hard-times

For a time, I too thought my bed was laid,
unraveled the best wool for this bamboo sheets
all for me to realise that every utterance of love
that came from their lips
was but for them on a pressure cooker; making me the chef
though i took a journey, i started to understand they were never with me
they knock me off my perception stand
my candle light burning without light
though now they do not understand, for when they shall, standing not shall i be
for my heart has taken a bow

For a time, though i have sailed through them endlessly
and became an anaesthetic mind for their sake
for the man has been changed
though they say he uses pity power
this lego victim is the solitude man
and He's back.

Drain the sinewed brain

of twilight's limboed occult

help the humane rest

inspire our futures first

nightmares die
where good dreams live

it’s a kid and he’s five years old
and he’s playing the violin
like he’s brushing his hair,
and the people shout: ‘what a talent! talent!’
and i murmur myself into the crowd:
what ingenious robotics
that might spare him the knowledge of psychiatry
and give him plenty of *****,
unless softened as: plenty of score sheets
of the frame-worked-angling-or-angular
on the pierced lips: limboed into execution for applause;
celebrity culture doesn't work with the intellectual
output of these times with the current of atheism...
i mean... why suggest the quotation:
'i'm the most popular monkey in all of the monkey race!'
are we sprinting the 100 or doing the marathon?
'i'm the sole monkey recipient of monkey -
no other monkey came before me!’
then i stole the other monkeys’ skin
by calling them skinny and via their souls
gimmicked shaking feet
handling a raw potato as a hammer... to insinuate cordiality
rather than footprint, and in claiming something of my own
that i could not put it into latex and prop it on the mantelpiece, for a shimmer
and advertisement of good teeth; which freaked me out,
and became a david bowie oddity bestseller single sung like:
la la fleece, le le olé twirl n’ twist, la la flake of snow le le craved a tryst.

rise and fall under feathers warm exhales.

you are added to the invisible.

consequence nothing remains of details

that inflated the anger made hate risible.


as I lie limboed across the shared vapours

of moments past part making the next me.

so irrelevant now, flow of dark humors,

that we buoyed into and ground out to free


that dancing dream exalted by the hair

floating like gossamer without me there

I pause;
afraid
to make the
next move.
to open
up;
to spit out
the venom
that rots
my day.

I pause;
alone,
just
me.
I,
me
and
my why
am I facing
up again
while
it's all
going down.
and I’m
not a
whole below
the waterline.

I pause;
sinking.
a dead
mans
grip
squeezing
life,
freezing
life,
teasing
life.
afrai­d
to open
up;
terrified
to close
down.

I pause;
caught,
between
my
up and
my
down.
stuck;
limboed,
emptied
and clogged.
tired
to the bone.

I paused…

two a.m. on a temperature chilling October morn
sitting in a Lovecraft silence of
beastly creatures
sleeping in the earth
under bed and basement
the earworms dig in
with Steven King ambitions
as my lids slit to stay awake
the draping Wes Craven curtains
part to my next dream sequence
falling into hell's revenge
the Clive Barker pains of
pinhead punishments
feel believingly real
though I'm dead to the world
in a Jordan Peele trance
stiff with only mental movements
at the wheel of a Detroit demon
flaming down the to slow
to get away pedestrians
who's evil doings have done me wrong
I'm alive in the thrill of the ****
to **** without remorse
with Anne Rice stirring arousal
seated shotgun
queening the dammed
the fallen the unbathedsouls
getting bathed in the endless
bloodbath of her draining rein
to empty their cold dying hearts
hopelessly trapped
in her dark minded chronicles
I found was the ending road
with no uturn from the limboed
feasting humanoids
in a Abraham "Bram" Stoker scenario
thirsty to **** the lifeliquid
from limbs and neck-vines
shockingly terrifying me
from my zombie like state
eyes wide open and breathing
in a pandemic like panic
darkened with the next dusking day.

It is in the days of eager tastes of everything
The peculiar perspectives of knowing less than not knowing assuming that you did.
When attempts at being valid came coupled with often hindsight harsh clarity.
No longer a child, limboed outside of the person you would one day become.  
When each mistake, taught to one of that one had sense enough to listen.
Often it was the first immersion into love, and lusts fueled by the awkward beauty of changes each must go through. You liked her and she liked you.  The dance of nerves and firsts that introduced amazing and intimately discovered trusts, betrayals, love and consequences very real and some life changing.  Love when so young, so fresh and near sighted, allows the best and worst of any who try it. But long after those lessons are lost to the cadence of life song. Those memories stay rooted firmly and come to thought in vivid clarity.  For me, I see her as she was. I smile at the promises only youth can dream up.  Wonder if only, to some.  What if to plenty.  How might I have done or said, to one's I never did say, or acted in honest declaration.  They were all I wanted but I did not tell them. The ones that got away will be the ones I miss most.  Thoughts on a page.