NOTE TO THE READER – Once Apun a Time

This yarn is a flossy fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together, adorned with fur-ther braided tails of human frailty. The looms were loosed, purling frantically this febrile fable...

Some pearls may be found wanting – unwanted or unwonted – piled or hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy...

The threads of this untethered tissue may be fastened, or be forgotten, or else be stranded by the readers and left unravelling in the knotted corners of their minds...

'twill be perchance that some may  laugh or loll in loopy stitches, else be torn or ripped apart, while others might just simply say “ ’tis made of hole cloth”, “sew what” or “cant seam to get the needle point”...,

yes, a proper disentanglement may take you for a spin on twisted twines of any strings you feel might need attaching or detaching…

picking knits, some may think that
       such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land’,
       such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land’’,
       such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land’’…

and this may all be true, if credence be dis-carded…

such is that gooey gossamer which vails the human mind...

and thus was born the teasing title of this fabricated Fantasy...

                                NEVER LAND

An ancient man named Peter Pan, disguised but from the past,
with feathered cap and tunic wrap and sabre’s sailed his last.
Though fully grown, on dust he’s flown and perched upon a mast
atop the Walls around the sprawls, unvisited and vast -
and all the while with bitter smile he’s watching us aghast.

As day begins, a spindle spins, it weaves a wanton web;
like puckered prunes, like midday moons, like yesterday’s celebs,
we scrape and *****, we seldom hope - he watches while we ebb:

The ***** grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -
he quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:
“You’ve tried and toyed, but can’t avoid or shun the pale monsoons,
it’s sink or swim as echoed dim in swinging door saloons”.
The laughingstocks are flinging rocks at ball-and-chained baboons.

While ghetto boys are looting toys preparing for their doom
and Mademoiselles are weaving shells on tapestries with looms,
Cathedral cats and rafter rats are peering in the room,
where ragged strangers stoop for change, for coppers in the gloom,
whose thoughts are more upon the doors of crypts in Christmas bloom,
and gold doubloons and silver spoons that tempt beyond the tomb.

Mid *** shots from vacant lots, that strike and ricochet
a painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy)’s on her way
to tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
and indiscreet upon the street she gives her pride away
to any guy who’s passing by with time and cash to pay.
(In concert halls beyond the Walls, unjaded girls ballet,
with flowered thoughts of Camelot and dreams of cabarets.)

Though rip-off shops and crooked cops are paid not once but thrice,
the painted girl with flaxen curl is paring down her price
and loosely tempts cold hands unkempt to touch the merchandise.
A crazy guy cries “where am I”, a ****** titters twice,
and double quick a lunatic affects a fight with lice.

The alleyways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
from losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
while in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.

A *** called Boe has stubbed his toe, he’s stumbled in the gutter;
with broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
the passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
“Let’s pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.”
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.

The jungle teems, a siren screams, the air is filled with ****.
The Reverent Priest and nuns unleash the Holy Shibboleth.
And Righteous Jane who is insane, as well as Sister Beth,
while telling tales to no avail of everlasting death,
at least imbrue Hagg Avenue with whisky on their breath.

The Reverent Priest combats the Beast, they’re kneeling down to prey,
to fight the truth with fang and tooth, to toil for yesterday,
to etch their mark within the dark, to paint their résumé
on shrouds and sheets which then completes the devil’s dossier.

Old Dan, he’s drunk and in a funk, all mired in the mud.
A Monk begins to wash Dan’s sins, and asks “How are you, Bud?”
“I’m feeling pain and crying rain and flailing in the flood
and no god’s there inclined to care I’m always coughing blood.”
The Monk, he turns, Dan’s words he spurns and lets the bible thud.

Well, Banjo Boy, he will annoy with jangled rhymes that fray:
“The clanging bells of carousels lead blind men’s minds astray
to rings of gold they’ll never hold in fingers made of clay.
But crest and crown will crumble down, when withered roots decay.”

A pregnant lass with eyes of glass has never learned to cope.
Once set adrift her fall was swift, she slid a slipp’ry ***** -
she casts the Curse, the Holy Verse, and shoots a shot of dope,
then stalks discreet Asylum Street her daily horoscope -
the stray was struck by random truck which was her only hope.

So Banjo Boy, with little joy, he strums her life entire:
“The wayward waif was never safe; her stars were dark and dire.
Born midst the rues and avenues where lack and want aspire
where no one heeds the childish needs that little ones require;
where faith survives in tempest lives, a swirl within the briar,
Infinity grinds as time unwinds, until the winds expire.
Her last caprice? The final peace that no one could deny her -
whipped by the flood, stray beads of blood cling, splattered on the spire;
though beads of sweat are cool and wet, cold clotted blood is dryer.”

Though broken there, she’s fled the snare with dying thoughts serene.
And now she’s dead, the rumours spread: her age? a sweet 16,
with child, *****, her soul dyed red, her body so unclean.
A place is sought where she can rot, avoiding churchyard scenes,
in limey pits, as well befits, behind forbidding screens;
and all the while a dirge is styled on tattered tambourines
which echo through the human zoo in valleys of the Queens.

Without rejoice, in hissing voice, near soil that’s seldom trod
“In pious role, God bless my soul”, was mouthed with mitred nod,
neath scarlet trim with black, and grim, behind a robed facade -
“She’ll burn in hell and sulphur smell”, spat Priest and man of god.

Well, angels sweet with cloven feet, they sing in girl’s attire,
but Banjo Boy, he’s playing coy while chanting in the choir:
“The clueless search within the church to find what they desire,
but near the nave or gravelled grave, there is no Rectifier.”
And when he’s through, without ado, he stacks some stones nearby her.

The eyes behind the head inclined reflect a universe
of shanty towns and kings in crowns and parties in a hearse,
of heaping mounds of coffee grounds and pennies in a purse,
of heart attacks in shoddy shacks, of motion in reverse,
of reasons why pale kids must die, quite trite and curtly terse,
of puppet people at the steeple, kneeling down averse,
of ****** tones and megaphones with empty words and worse,
of life’s begin’ in utter sin and other things perverse,
of lewd taboos and residues contained within the Curse,
while poets blind, in gallows’ rind, carve epitaphs in verse.

A sodden dreg with wooden leg is dancing for a dime
to sacred psalms and other balms, all ticking with the time.
He’s 22, he’s almost through, he’s melted in his prime,
his bane is firm, the canker worm dissolves his brain to slime.
With slanted scales and twisted jails, his life’s his only crime.

A beggar clump beside a dump has pencil box in hand.
With sightless eyes upon the skies he’s lying there unmanned,
with no relief and bitter grief too dark to understand.
The backyard blight is hid from sight, it’s covered up and bland,
and Robin Hood and Brother Hood lie buried in the sand.

While all night queens carve figurines in gelatine and jade,
behind a door and on the floor a deal is finally made;
the painted girl with flaxen curl has plied again her trade
and now the care within her stare has turned a darker shade.
Her lack of guile and parting smile are cutting like a blade.

Some boys with cheek play hide and seek within a house condemned,
their faces gaunt reflecting want that’s hard to comprehend.
With no excuse an old recluse is waiting to descend.
His eyes despair behind the stare, he’s never had a friend
to talk about his hidden doubt of how the world will end -
to die alone on empty throne and other Fates impend.

And soon the boys chase phantom joys and, presto when they’re gone,
the old recluse, with nimble noose and ****** features drawn,
no longer waits upon the Fates but yawns his final yawn
- like Tinker Bell, he spins a spell, in fairy dust chiffon -
with twisted brow, he’s tranquil now, he’s floating like a swan
and as he fades from life’s charades, the night awaits the dawn.

A boomerang with ebon fang is soaring through the air
to pierce and breach the heart of each and then is called despair.
And as it grows it will oppose and fester everywhere.
And yet the crop that’s at the top will still be unaware.

A lad is stopped by roving cops, who shoot in disregard.
His face is black, he’s on his back, a breeze is breathing hard,
he bleeds and dies, his mama cries, the screaming sky is scarred,
the sheriff and his squad at hand are laughing in the yard.

Now Railroad Bob’s done lost his job, he’s got no place for working,
His wife, she cries with desperate eyes, their baby’s head’s a’ jerking.
The union man don’t give a ****, Big Brother lies a’ lurking,
the boss’ in cabs are picking scabs, they count their money, smirking.

Bob walks the streets and begs for eats or little jobs for trying
“the answer’s no, you ought to know, no use for you applying,
and don’t be sad, it aint that bad, it’s soon your time for dying.”
The air is thick, his baby’s sick, the cries are multiplying.

Bob’s wife’s in town, she’s broken down, she’s ranting with a fury,
their baby coughs, the doctor scoffs, the snow flies all a’ flurry.
Hard work’s the sin that’s done them in, they skirmish, scrimp and scurry,
and midnight dreams abound with screams. Bob knows he needs to hurry.
It’s getting late, Bob’s tempting fate, his choices cruel and blurry;
he chooses gas, they breathe their last, there’s no more cause to worry.

Per protocols near ivied walls arrayed in sage festoons,
the Countess quips, while giving tips, to crimson caped buffoons:
“To rise from mass to upper class, like twirly bird tycoons,
you stretch the treat you always eat, with tiny tablespoons”

A learned leach begins to teach (with songs upon a liar):
“Within the thrall of Satan’s call to yield to dim desire
lie wicked lies that tantalize the flesh and blood Vampire;
abiding souls with self-control in everyday Hellfire
will rest assured, when once interred, in afterlife’s Empire”.
These words reweave the make believe, while slugs in salt expire,
baptised in tears and rampant fears, all mirrored in the mire.

It’s getting hot on private yachts, though far from desert plains -
“Well, come to think, we’ll have a drink”, Sir Captain Hook ordains.
Beyond the blame and pit of shame, outside the Walled domains,
they pet their pups and raise their cups, take sips of pale champagnes
to touch the tips of languid lips with pearls of purple rains.

Well, Gypsy Guy would rather die than hunker down in chains,
be ridden south with bit in mouth, or heed the hold of reins.
The ruling lot are in a spot, the boss man he complains:
“The gypsies’ soul, I can’t control, my patience wears and wanes;
they will not cede to common greed, which conquers far domains
and furtive spies and news that lies have barely baked their brains.
But in the court of last resort the final fix remains:
in boxcar bins with violins we’ll freight them out in trains
and in the bogs, they’ll die like dogs, and everybody gains
(should one ask why, a quick reply: ‘It’s that which God ordains!’)”

Arrayed in shawls with crystal *****, and gazing at the moons,
wiled women tease with melodies and spooky loony tunes
while making toasts to holey ghosts on rainy day lagoons:
“Well, here’s to you and others too, embedded in the dunes,
avoid the stares, avoid the snares, avoid the veiled typhoons
and fend your way as every day, ’gainst heavy heeled dragoons.”

The birds of pray are on their way, in every beak the Word
(of ptomaine tomes by gnarly gnomes) whose meaning is obscured;
they roost aloof on every roof, obscene but always herd,
to tell the tale of Jonah’s whale and other rhymes absurd
with shifty eyes, they’re giving whys for living life deferred.

While jackals lean, hyenas mean, and hungry crocodiles
feast in the lounge and never scrounge, lambs languish in the aisle.
The naive dare to say “Unfair, let’s try to reconcile.
We’ll all relax and weigh the facts, let justice spin the dial.”

With jaundiced monks and minds pre-shrunk, the jury is compiled.
The Rulers meet, First Ladies greet, the Kings appear in style.
Before the Court, their sins are short, they’re swept into a pile;
with diatribes and petty bribes, the jurors are beguiled.

The Herd entreats, the Shepherd bleats the verdict of the trial:
“You have no face. Stay in your place, stay in the Rank and File.
And wait instead, for when you’re dead, for riches after while”;
Aristocrats add caveats while sailing down the Nile:
“If Minds are mugged or simply drugged with philtres in a vial,
then few indeed will fail to feed the Pharaoh’s Crocodile.”
The wordsmiths spin, the bankers grin and politicians smile,
the riff and raff, they never laugh, they mark a martyred mile.

The rituals are finished, all, here comes the Reverent Priest.
He leads the crowds beneath the clouds, and there the flock is fleeced
(“the last are first, the rich are cursed” - the leached remain the least)
with crossing signs and ****** wines and consecrated yeast.
His step is gay without dismay before his evening feast;
he thanks the Lord for room and, bored, he nods to Eden East
but doesn’t sigh or wonder why the sins have not decreased.

The sinking sun’s at last undone, the sky glows faintly red.
A spider black hides in a crack and spins a silken thread
and babes will soon collapse and swoon, on curbs they call a bed;
with vacant eyes they'll fantasize and dream of gingerbread,
and so be freed, though still in need, from anguish of the dead.

Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
sate appetites on foggy nights and days like crystalline.
A migrant feeds on gnats and weeds with fingers far from clean
and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
her baby ***** an arid flux and fades away unseen.

The circus gongs excite the throngs in nighttime Never Land –
they swarm to see the destiny of Freaks at their command,
while Acrobats step pitapat across the shifting sands
and Lady Fat adores her cat and oozes charm unplanned.
The Dwarfs in suits, so small and cute when marching with the band,
ask crimson Clowns with painted frowns, to lend a mutant hand,
while Tamers’ whips with withered tips, throughout the winter land,
lure minds entranced through hoops enhanced with flames of fires fanned.
White Elephants in big-top tents sell black tusk contraband
to Sycophants in regiments who overflow the stands,
but No One sees anomalies, and No One understands.
At night’s demise, the dither dies, the lonely Crowd disbands,
down dead-end streets the Horde retreats, their threadbare rags in strands,
and Janes and Joes reweave their woes, for thoughts of change are banned.

The Monk of Mock has fled the flock caught knocking up a tween.
(She brought to light the special rite he sought to leave unseen.)
With profaned eyes they agonise, their souls no more serene
and at the shrine the flutes of wine are filled with kerosene
by men unkempt who once had dreamt but now can dream no more
except when bellowed bellies belch an ever growing roar,
which churns the seas and whips a breeze that mercy can’t ignore,
and in the night, though filled with fright, they try to end the War.

The slow and quick are hurling bricks and fight with clubs of rage
to break the chains and cleanse the stains of life within a cage,
but yield to stings of armoured things that crush in every age.

At crack of dawn, a broken pawn, in pools of blood and fire,
attends the wounds, in blood festooned (the waves flow nigh and nigher),
while ghetto towns are burning down (the flames grow high and higher);
and in their wake, a golden snake is rising from the pyre.
Her knees are bare, consumed in prayer, applauded by the Friar,
and soon it’s clear the end is near - while magpie birds conspire,
the lowly worm is made to squirm while dangling from a wire.

The line was crossed, the battle lost, the losers can’t deny,
the residues are far and few, though smoke pervades the sky.
The cool wind’s cruel, a cutting tool, the vanquished ask it “Why?”,
and bittersweet, from  Easy Street, the Pashas’ puffed reply:
“The rules are set, so don’t forget, the rabble will comply;
the grapes of wrath may make you laugh, the day you are to die.”

The down and out, they knock about beneath the barren skies
where homeward bound, without a sound, a ravaged raven flies.
Beyond the Walls, the morning calls the newborn sun to rise,
and Peter Pan, a broken man, inclines his head and cries...

Dear Jane Sardua Nagley;

Hello dear queen, I just wanted to write you a love letter just in case anything is to happen to me. I'm trying not to sound nor be a pessimistic being mine love, though with all the health issues I have going on right now and worries on mine mind,it's truly hard to be positive. When daily ( literal demon's attack me) as they do you mentally and emotionally and me physically spiritually and in all form's, ( as who cares if others believe in that or not!!!) As tis you have seen the proof physically and what happened with us the one time face talking on Skype. The breathing coming through the line. Yeah as you and I more than know!!! Anyways what I'm writing to say is though things haven't been most positive for me health wise and things im dealing with as you are dealing with alot; The true positivity that I do have is you Jane. YOU!!!! Yeah I said it queen. YOU ( mine soulmate), YOU ( mine life) YOU ( mine all) YOU ( Mine love) YOU ( mine air) YOU Earl Jane Sardua ( Nagley)!!!!!!! See you always say to me that you don't do enough for me, that you say you aren't good enough for me, that I deserve better is what you tell me.... And that you are worthless you say at times...... !!!!!! Jane nagley!!!! LISTEN TO ME OK? Loll... You ARE MORE THAN WORTHY OK? MORE THAN!!!!! You are PERFECT!!!!! MORE THAN!!!! You are ****!!!! MORE THAN!!!! You are the positivity that surrounds me!! You are gods light and his messenger to me!!! I don't even deserve someone so spotless and beautiful and pure and angelic and amazing!!!! And someone so godly beautiful inside and out Jane!!!! Your inside is more than wonderful and attractive!!! And glowing!!!! Why do you think all people circle around you Jane? *** there's a bonfire!? Lol NO!!!! Because you are bright and a light and everyone from here to heaven can see that!!!! People adore you!!! God cherishes you!!!! I want,need, yearn, and desire only YOUUUUUU!!!! Not thy friend's, not noone here not noone anywhere!!! There's one queen who owns me and who I'm with and need and want hear me yet! Listening? Lol the Queens name is earl Jane nagley!!!! it's YOU!!!! Noone else YOU I'm in mad love with!!! and I don't care who doesn't like us.. And I don't care who sees our love!!! Because our love is something others wished they'd have yet do not!! Yet I pray others can find a love like our's!!! Because I've never been so happy in mine life!!! I've never known love before, fact is as I told you!!! Before you I reached out for any quote ( love and affection I can get) ànd I was never truly loved!!! I never truly felt love from anyone nor did I actually ever love anyone else!!! It was out of lonesomeness I reached out to others!!! Because as human beings we reach out in our loneliest hour's, as the amazing part I told you I cried and prayed to God even with others to send me mine real true soulmate!!! One who will love me for me and me inside and me for mine mistakes and faults I have because I'm far from perfect as you say im some perfect being haaa! lol.... But you know how amazing God is Jane? See people always question God asking him why isn't their prayers answered by him? And why isn't he listening to them.. Or hear them? He does hear us. and alot of times God gives us the ànswers back right in front of us and we don't even know it or he'll give his answer not the way we want it meaning not on our own time but his and not always the way we want our prayers answered.. As I kept praying for years as many do and pretty much gave up!!! Then after I got out of prison in mine loneliest lowest time!!! That's when it happened SLAP BAM!!!! On mine doorstep!! Mine angel God sent me!!! The soulmate I learned for years.. Since before mine birth was sent to me Jane. The one who's look's mind soul spirit and voice hair eyes lips thinking all I ever wanted... YOU!!!! And you are always so afraid I'm going to leave you because you feel I deserve better and that you aren't good enough? Are you kidding me? YOU are MORE than worthy and good enough, and I'm never leaving the answer to mine prayer that God finally gave me!!!! Even in death I shall find you... We will meet in this life no matter how long it takes and no matter if we can't talk for a while at times.. I'm NOT leaving you mine Filipino rose!!!!! I'm going nowhere Jane!!!!! I'm so happy with you, I've never known happiness until you fell from the heaven's!!!! You are mine only peace other than God!!! You are mine comfort, best friend, soulmate, mine lover, mine ALL!!! and this is a letter for all to see to bend on mine knee's for mine queen, in front of your throne: to tell you....

THANK YOU FOR SAVING MINE LIFE
FOR LOVING ME
for doing all for me noone else has or ever could....
You are me
I am thee.
I'll forever Love you earl Jane nagley
And honestly daily mine love grows for you.. Dont know how when I'm already madddddddd for you!!! Lol this hearts gonna pop because I love you sooo much and I wanted all to see this to show you that you are worth more than anything on earth!! You are many other's angel to not just me!!!!
Especially mine!!!!!!
And mine other half
Mine half
Me period
As I am you.. ..
You are me!!!!


With love forever and always
Your king
And soulmate and lover.....

Brandon Cory nagley





©Brandon nagley
©Earl Jane Nagley dedication ( Filipino rose) soulmate
©Lonesome poet's poetry

How we start is only part of what we eventually do.

Physically that's easy to see. Being human, adamkind,
we see weak starts often in life.
Colts or pups born a week too soon can be loved to lives as pampered pets,
Siring toys for the enjoyment of those who can afford to fuel them,
For generations, with never a single care,
Past that initial trauma and subsequent subjugation to the will of man.

I don't tell horse stories, dog stories or war stories, if I can keep from it.

But when you want to demonstrate the purest of payback,
revenge getting the bad guy in the end,
having a horse be the hero makes behaving like an animal
more noble to the mind of vengeful man.
It's not true, revenge being noble.
That's a very old lie.

Law is to prevent error by disallowing failure. Law.

Relative to the rest of God's creatures, we, adamkind, seem dependent, weak and vulnerable next to bears being weak
a way-less long time
Than we.
We come into this world weak as a baby anything and we stay that way longer
Than any living creature.

I am an American, by birth.
I was not born to a political party or a family with political roots,
"I ain't no Senator's son."
Still,
I was reared drinking mythic cherry wine
sprung from George's failure to lie
Regarding his woodman's knack with a hatchet.

Sitting on the fence rail Abe split,
town fathers where I lived
were said to have decided the most harmonious of towns
have only gainfully employed darker folks,
while white
trash was allowed to loll around because they was
some employer's kin by marriage.

It all seemed pretty normal, as a child.
The loller-arounders let kids listen when they told
Their friends, who could not read, what the newspapers said.

One block from my house there was a vet's and hobo's flop-house clad in corrugated tin, rusted-round the nail-holes all the way to the ground and the rust had spread, so at sunset,...
I only recall the single story shed having one door.
There were always old white men sittin' on the southside of the shed. At sunset, those old men's whispy white hair

appeared as white flowing mare's tale clouds under
a scab-red wall held up by old men with sunset shining faces...

It was a big shed, a low barn, a bunkhouse,
eight or ten 4-foot tin-sheets long on the north and south
Windowless walls.
The one door was on the south side.
Once I saw an old man selling red paper buddy poppies.
He was missing both legs about half-way up his thighs.
The poppy seller rode a square board that had what I think were
Roller-skates, the key-kind, with metal wheels about a 1/2 inch wide.
Nailed to it's bottom. He had handles made from a carpenter's saw
Without it's blade. He pushed himself with those handles.

That looked fun, to a four-year old.
It looks different now-a-days. Knowing
Those red poppies symbolized
The after math automatics of the war to end war.

Who knows the poppy-sellers son? He would be old.
Does he know how his father lost his legs, but lived?
Does he bear the curse of the curse that lost his father's legs?
Does he honor his father's cause or weep at the thought?

Enough is enough.
My family tree branched in America, but only one great grand-parent,
Three generations back from me, was rooted in this land.
My gran'ma's ma, a Choctaw squaw,
That rhymed fine,
But it's not true. My grandma did not know her parents. She was born an orphan,
And her father and mother were likely strangers.

1910 in southwest Arkansas or southeast Oklahoma or northeast Texas or northwest Louisiana
And the color of her skin is all that proved my American heritage.

My grandma was born poor as poor can be,
she never told me how she survived

To survive a 1925 or so car wreck
in eastern Arizona's white mountains.
I never asked what my grandmother knew,
nor how she came to know.

This is my point.
After you and I have gone into forever more,
Our great grand children may wonder
what we did or did not, since we
Are no longer around to give our account.

These days we can leave our story to our great grand children.
Our own children
And our grand children follow us on facebook back to before they were born.
Shall they judge us idlers wielding idle words for laughs,
or  think us knowers of all we found while seeking first the Kingdom of Heaven
In the place Jesus says it is. You know where Jesus said the Kingdom of our kind lies?

The double minded man is unstable in all his ways,
hence Eve and her broader bandwidth corpus colostrum
Come back later, there is a breath system upgrade evolving.

Such changes to the courage of the mind rolls out more slowly
to the root ideas, labouring to find sustenance,
it is a struggle being a radical idea,
we agree, but we have our part,
as do the flowers
and the spore.
Leaven the whole lump, like it or lump it.

The now we live in grew from far deeper roots than
the roots claimed by the
Self-identified nation through it's cartoons/representations of national desires to rally 'round the flag as if it were the fire,
those desires to herd beneath any shelter from the storm,
Your country, your incorporated allegiance
to the inventor and creator and counter of the money under
the protection of the sword and crown representative
of the flame that burns,
The namers of patriot, the rankeers of ideas
who, by their existence,
naturally, over rule you.
Such powers are granted by the individual, not the mob.
You get that?

The desires of the nation over rule the desires of the individuals who
Com-prize the nation.
Whose side are you on, dear reader?

Is the idea we believed believable?
Ex Nihilo, I don't think so because
I can't imagine how now could be
Accidental-ly.

When my hero wore spurs as he went from the jail office to
Miss Kitty's place, (Gunsmoke on A.M. radio)

What did Miss Kitty do?
I had no clue.
In my hero's world people never
Did the wrong thing
While Marshal Dillon was in Dodge.

So did you think Miss Kitty's place was anything other
than a culturally acceptable
reference to professional social ******* workers
under a strong, smart female CEO
with top-level links to the local cops?

All these are rhetorical questions, this being
Rhetorical if you are hearing me say this.
That means, don't nod or raise your hand or shout Amen, kin!

I see your answer my answer and
I know my answer, so you know my answer.

Step-back, 1961, USA Snapshot
Unitas, Benny Kid Perett, Mantlenmarris, the Guns of Navarone.

Why I recall those things, I know not.
Why I did not say I do not know, I do not know.

Though, pausing to think,
knowing contains the doing of it within it, you know.
What's to do?

Outlaws were more my heroes than cowboys, and marshals, and such
Especially the ones that had been forced out by law.

I grew up in a 1950's junkyard with no fence, one mile north of route 66
On the Al-Can highway to Las Vegas, 103 miles away.
My Grandpa was a blacksmith's son,
who rode a horse he broke and his pa had shod
From Texas to Arizona in 1917, at the age of 18.

by the time I knew him,
He was fifty, settled down, nearly, from the war.
Momma had to work, so, daytime, Granddaddy raised me.

Horses weren't, wrecked cars were,
the toys of my childhood.

Grandpa built a junkyard from cars left steam blown
on the old stage road, from before
the railroad.
The Abo Highway hain't been Route 66 for some time yet…
Hoping…


Hoping sometime to polish this bit of this book, I left myself re-minders
Hoping memory of mental realms might rewind or unwind sequentially
When trigger
Neighed.
That worked, Roy Autry and Gene Rogers were names Sue Snow's
Mormon Bishop granddaddy called me,
back when I first recall My Grandpa Caleb,
a baptist by confession,
who was,
as I recall a *****-drinkin' jolly drunk.
While Grandma made beds in some motel,
granddaddy built boats and horse trailers
and hot rod 34 Chevies,
and he fixed this one red Indian, I could read the word on the gas tank, I knew the word Indian
and this motor cycle was proud to wear the name. I was 4.

A stout-strong man, no fat near any working muscle system,
he could and would
repair any broken thing,
for anybody. People called him Pop.
Pop and Mr. Levi-next-door at the Loma Vista Motel, shared a listing in the Green Book,
so broke down ******* knew where help could be found
after dark in that town.
There was a warnin'ag'in
let'n sunset there
on darker than grandma's skin.

My Gran'daddy's shop had two gas pumps
that were reset to begin pumping with the turn of a crank.
As soon as I could turn that crank,
I could pump gas.
I could fill up that red Indian
Motorcycle.
But "m'spokes was too short
to kick the starter."
I told my eleven year old uncle
and he told
how he would always remember learning
that saddles have no linkage
to horse brakes.
"Not knowing what you cain't do
kin *** ye kilt."

He grew up in the junk yard, too.
My first outlaw hero.

Likely, I am alive today, because
On the day I discovered I could pump gas as good as any man,
I also discovered that real motorcycles were not built for little boys.

it feels as if
i'm the one
always chasing
after someone

my lungs are burning
and my heart is tired
i want to collapse
and loll here forever

let the flowers
bloom all around me
as i leave an imprint
in the grass

maybe someone
will gaze upon the blossoms
and mistake me for a lily

..                                                       For as flying.        
                                                 ­              Spying
                                            ­             Places repose.  
                                                       ­Dream, suppose.      

   Dreams loll without respite       Shady oak.      Bright swirl spring breeze
      Of green crisp apple bite.    Shelter bespoke.   Insects morn, vast seas
        As gold burns warmer.    Sleep, still abuzz.    Clouds as beat wings
            Sun shadows corner        Seconds love.      Million insects sing

          Dreaming more light      Eyes shut, island.    Time goes, seconds fit
            Colours mix despite.     Twig woodland.     Seen today, exquisite
                Great light bested.      Instant, rested.      The rays pestered
                      Shadows nested      Dreams vivid.    Up, now rested
                                                          ­   Colours
                                                      ­          Mull

You’re drunk
And I don’t need this
Right now.
You can’t see it
Can you?
My hands
Trembling,
My voice
Cracking,
When I
Try to
Tell you
Not to
Touch me.

On the verge
Of tears,
You are
Deluded.

I can smell
The toxicity
Of the alcohol
In your breath
And I
Don’t recognise
Your eyes.
There’s something
Different,
About the way
You slur
Your words
And,
Loll your head
Against
My back
As I try
To push you
Away.

You don’t ******* get it,
That it kills me inside,
That a lot of nights I cannot sleep
Trauma
Paranoia
I worry till my bones ache
And I can’t feel my legs.

I did it again, mama....
     I took your words to heart.

But, I left them there.


"Don't touch it baby, it will hurt you!"
You would always say this to me.
Mama,
     Why can't I stop touching?
And mama,
     He wasn't a stranger....
              ....but afterwards....
     he.... became.....one.

You were right, mama.
     Strangers do hurt me.

Can't I just be your little girl again?
With my scraped knees
And my bruised chin?
Falling out of trees
or off my bycycle
Where there would be a kiss
To make me feel better.
AND a hug!

God.... Mama,
   Read me a story
of knights in shining armor,
Of princesses,
Of those fairytale men.
Can I trade you stories for mine?
For they are far much better,
They'd loll me to sleep,
I wouldn't cry...

I did it again, mama.....
     I took your words to heart.

But, I left them there.

Revolving in oval loops of solar speed,
Couched in cauls of clay as in holy robes,
Dead men render love and war no heed,
Lulled in the ample womb of the full-tilt globe.

No spiritual Caesars are these dead;
They want no proud paternal kingdom come;
And when at last they blunder into bed
World-wrecked, they seek only oblivion.

Rolled round with goodly loam and cradled deep,
These bone shanks will not wake immaculate
To trumpet-toppling dawn of doomstruck day :
They loll forever in colossal sleep;
Nor can God's stern, shocked angels cry them up
From their fond, final, infamous decay.

head to pillow
heart asleep
my eyes: exhausted
for insomnia has taken my mind
endless sleep on morning's light
yet night never takes me

irritated eyes
I toss and I turn
I beg to fall into slumber
my head does not stop moving
but then it halts
halts into the most obscure position
halts into; "why am I thinking about this"?

insomnia, it is 2015
your existence is as old as time
but instant streaming is new, and I'm not alone with my thoughts
in fact...
I believe my literary repertoire is built off insomnia...

let me sleep now for rested sounds peaceful
2:00am poems never bothered me
and music sounds better when no one is awake

but please, let me sleep
allow me to loll into drowsiness
I am telling you I am tired

2mg of Klonopin...still restless
2 boxes of chocolate...still broken

Insomnia, you are an illness
but please have mercy on my sanity
for I am losing it,
and yearn to merely breathe

The voodoo doll sits there on the window sill,
I named him Bill,
Bill sits there all day and all night,
And when I come in at night he gives me a fright,
It looks like he has an evil grin on his face,
Sometimes he can be a disgrace.

He can be a disgrace doing all sorts of things,
Sometimes he steals my rings,
I don’t know how he does it,
But he will never admit,
What he does to us,
He puts us in a lot of stress.

There is something about Bill that you should know,
He is very handy with arrows and a bow,
He is very special in his own little way,
He likes to make little people out of clay,
He is no ordinary voodoo doll,
Paulina is his best friend they both love running into a wall,
This may seem very odd,
And when I tell them off for doing this they just stand there and nod.

This is the story of my voodoo doll,
Whenever he gets tired he likes to loll,
So next time you come across him,
Remember to give him a sim dim.
This way he will be very happy.
And forever make you his close enough pappy.

My voodoo doll sits there on the window sill,
His name is Bill,
Bill sits there all day and night,
And when I come in at night he gives me a fright,
It looks like he and evil grin on his face,
Sometimes he can be a disgrace.

He can be a disgrace by doing all sorts of things,
Sometimes he steals my rings,
I don't know how he does it,
But he'll never admits,
What he does to us,
He puts us under alot of stress.


There is something about bill you should know,
He is very handy with arrows and a bow,
He is very special in his own little way,
He likes to make little people out of clay,
He is no ordinary voodoo doll,
Paulina is his best friend and they both running into a wall,
This may seem very odd,
And when I tell them off for doing this they just stand there and nod.

This is the story of my voodoo doll,
Whenever he gets tired to loll,
So next time you come across him,
Remember to give him a sim dim,
This way he will be very happy,
And forever make you his close enough pappy!

O sweet are tropic lands for waking dreams!
There time and life move lazily along.
There by the banks of blue-and-silver streams
Grass-sheltered crickets chirp incessant song,
Gay-colored lizards loll all through the day,
Their tongues outstretched for careless little flies,
And swarthy children in the fields at play,
Look upward laughing at the smiling skies.
A breath of idleness is in the air
That casts a subtle spell upon all things,
And love and mating-time are everywhere,
And wonder to life's commonplaces clings.
The fluttering humming-bid darts through the trees
And dips his long beak in the big bell-flowers,
The leisured buzzard floats upon the breeze,
Riding a crescent cloud for endless hours,
The sea beats softly on the emerald strands--
O sweet for quiet dreams are tropic lands!

It’s a hot summer afternoon, perfect in every way,
A time to enjoy and relax, loll about and play.

But the afternoon’s long shadow of darkness makes it clear,
That for a particular group of students, disaster is near.

And this unfortunate bunch march into a hot class that noon,
With filled stomachs and eyes full of blissful slumber,
But still, there is a sense of impending doom in the air, and soon
The class will have to face up to a nightmare they fear.

Then at half past one a man walks in,
He smiles and says,“ good afternoon, class, lets begin!!”

The sir then starts his physics lecture,
Much to the students agony and dismay,
And while they curse and snarl silently like a mangled cur,
They wish they had never lived to see this day.

And in no time the teacher sends out a barrage,
Of “physics”, from lasers to parallel rays, characteristics of a coherent light source,
Reflection, Wein’s displacement, sinusoidal wavefronts and an electron’s charge,
He shouts his voice out till he goes hoarse.

I too, as part of that class, try,
To make sense of the gibberish spoken,
But its hopeless, I give up with a sigh,
I doubt his explanation could be understood by the smartest of men…

And in the sweltering heat of the afternoon, with the lecture being a bore,
The students just can’t listen to him, but can certainly do a lot more…

And within minutes of the lecture the class is in its own world,
Where life by quantum physics is not obscured…

Boys start throwing paper pellets at one another,
While mocking the teacher behind his back,
Meanwhile the girls giggle and nudge each other,
Laughing at the jokes they crack.

And oblivious to all that is going on around him,
The teacher goes on to say why the LEDs glow dim.

And I am caught, in a whirl,
Of various activities all around me,
And while I pen down a poem, think about my favorite girl,
I am amazed at the sight I do see…

The class becomes more and more unruly, falling apart,
And at a certain point it is too much and hence,
The sir stops talking about the critical value, and does start,
To take the class’s attendence.

No sooner is the roll call done that the herd stampedes out,
With many a push, a yell and a shout.

The same phenomena will occur again next week,
Isn’t it an example of college life at it’s peak?...

A thick flood of thought clogs
lemon teeth and pools, crude
and salty behind lost red eyes.
Gouge them hollow! Darken the moon.
Brittle moans like a swollen beehive
loom tall, fifty miles behind the lost craters.

Hugs from pigs in blue,
they dance and loll around the flames,
a funky dark against their luminous fire.
Proud and bogus (and probably ******),
bitter about foul books they never read,
statues made of fear in the groins of men.

Ruined: hurled into a crag,
torn and singing, trapped in loops -
No elbow room in black hole falls.
Snoring next to wives wrapped in shawls,
hugging her leather Buick seat,
praying to wake up gaunt and lithe.

They rise, mornings, clutching onto dreams
in which they fly through the cold gloom.
They scratch desperate screeds onto napkins,
bite squirming, disobedient tongues,
souls raw, chafing in their dank enclosures.
Animals! Bred to elect ourselves for slaughter.

Even nirvana must be empty.
Even silent revelation must allow herself to be taken, afterward,
by noise.

Kept, perhaps, might be a few
thoughts—the principles of salvation, maybe, easily incorporated
orts

soaked up, scooped with bread.
Chewed, passed—as everything, habitually—disintegrated into in-
visible

fuel for the festering divisions.
(Precisely those divisions sought to be stilled by breathing deeply,
crossing

the legs of, still, a body.) But
even nirvana must be swallowed by the Buddha’s gaping mouth
of transience.

For afterward, must it not stay,
still, the same? After achievement? Yes, I like to mock as I loll, in
naivety,

but I am also a talented nurturer
of it. I know behind is something quite valuable. A transient irony,
perhaps.

I stare at your eyes and gather;
I close mine and wait:

the soft, yet vapid
on my lips, slightly open.
Yours cupped on my overlip.

The charged air, the sublimed space.

I close mine on yours,
and stay.
The comfort of overwhelmed.
We stay, please.

I push.

The warmth
of your every breath on
my philtrum:
you are with me, now;

I feel my bridge on yours
point it
and rest
on the vast, skin beside.
(carry me)

I run my thumb
on the smooth of your jaw,
the tender and sweet in
them lips
your delicate beauty.

Yes, dear:
I drown myself tonight
in your mouth.
We glow
in our little corner of the dark,
and starless sky.

Your brow loll on my forehead
your eyes gently unshut
looking
beyond the locked lips,
and the caressing chins,
on us.

Because.

My love,
more to tomorrow
and growing surround,
the ephemera of the night:

our lips,
inevitably,
will part.

Warm torrents of rain utter best, eaves broken gutters
in hot summer with rumbling thunder asunder
naked but for cutoff jeans and purple Chinese houses
Let loose rally cry,  a primal voice of joy and freedom
summer has come to heart and bird call nous
slip and slides, running fearless of lightning strike news
Zeus, parts clouds to spy one eyed in appointed winds
aiming at those that would hesitate under Lindon trees
sensing a prodigal fragrance and mother crow's riot
open fields near dense privet hedges defy revelry
baked erratics by cold lakes and deep dives not taken
while a boat's buoyancy sends balance a mysterious cue
water's lumbering Leviathan body ripples to its caress
breezes take up names; sweet, cool, muggy mosquito
and in even' time porch light lowered voices loll

-cec

This is a quick little quote I thought I should post by mine queen earl Jane..  Lol it's a funny thing she said I would like to post.. She make's me laugh hard with her comments sometimes. A very funny queen and always gives me the giggles...  This quote from her comes from s
he keeps telling me she wants to work out for me to quote " look good" though in actuality I told her to hush lol because she is already very beautiful, elegant, and **** beyond mine thought process and beyond mine comprehension.. She's completely perfect to me as is. Though she keeps insisting she works out to flatten her belly to look good for me!!!! Lol she is already a doll... I told her not to work out for me since she already look's godly stunning. I told her if she want's to work out to do it for her to feel good about herself and for her to be happy doing what she wants to do..  Here's her quote. And our convo.... Enjoy lol. Sunday night fun!!! (::

Jane-I better make my tummy smaller than making my voice bigger. Loolll.... I wasnt able to do the work out this morning. Am gonna do it tonight

Me- LOL, Queen u look wonderful. Just work out to be healthy and to feel good about yourself. Don't need to for me. U are already amazing looking to me. Duhhhh....

Jane-I will feel good if tummy is smaller and if i am beautiful. Loolll... Lool so i better do it. Haha.. Its exercise too. Duuuhhhhh......

Me- lol your funny you already look amazing woman!!! Hush! Or I'll ****!!!

Jane- I am not amazing looking... Since we will meet til i become engineer, i wanna look good those times.. Coz u might RUNAWAY if i dont do anything for myself. :( :(

Me- Jane, you already look good so hush! You are the most beautiful woman I've seen in mine life, And ONLY beautiful elegant apple of mine eye queen ever!

Jane- Thank you, but i wanna be better. Its not wrong to be better right??? Am not doing any lypo suction or adding silicone in my **** and *******!!! Looolll. I will just work out,be fit, toned, be better and be beautiful...Lool. Nothings wrong with that right?? Hahaha!

Me- lol silicone to **** LOL.... U are already amazingly looking! But if you wanna work out , go for it hahah!! Will make you happier hahaha!!!

Jane- Loooll am laughing alone here. Looll ....
Its better than putting CRAPS in my body right??!!! Dont wanna be a walking plastic. Looll

Me- LOL craps? LOLL...you should make a poem about that, called walking plastic... I should post that in HP seriously, quoted by you. Lolll!!!

Jane- Yeah you copy our conversation and paste there. Haha. It will be trending. Looll...

Chat goes on. Lol just gives me a laugh her line saying... Quote
(Its better than putting CRAPS in my body right??!!! Dont wanna be a walking plastic)
Also her quote: ( Am not doing any lypo suction or adding silicone in my **** and *******)

LOL I love you so much Jane Nagley!! You make me laugh so hard baby!!! I love you more...
Don't care if anyone reads this you said to post it so I did lol oh well... I love you moreeeeeeeee queen!!! Me more!!!


©Brandon Nagley \Earl Jane conversation on November 22nd,2015.....

The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set --
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all that shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink --
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSE IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK -- HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY ... USED ... TO ... READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic tales
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the ***,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the ***** rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and-
Just How The Camel Got His ****,
And How the Monkey Lost His ****,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole-
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the ***** looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks-
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something to read.
And once they start -- oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their hearts. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.

No servile little fear shall daunt my will
This morning. I have courage steeled to say
I will be lazy, conqueringly still,
I will not lose the hours in toil this day.

The roaring world without, careless of souls,
Shall leave me to my placid dream of rest,
My four walls shield me from its shouting ghouls,
And all its hates have fled my quiet breast.

And I will loll here resting, wide awake,
Dead to the world of work, the world of love,
I laze contented just for dreaming's sake
With not the slightest urge to think or move.

How tired unto death, how tired I was!
Now for a day I put my burdens by,
And like a child amidst the meadow grass
Under the southern sun, I languid lie

And feel the bed about me kindly deep,
My strength ooze gently from my hollow bones,
My worried brain drift aimlessly to sleep,
Like softening to a song of tuneful tones.

don't drink
like you don't mean it,
drink like you want it,
like you want no more
sorrow
and a ****** is in dire need,
put your lips
all the way to the cusp
of bitterness
to the very vector
of unhappiness,
let your tongue
loll in
the shadows
of your mouth,
let it droop and kick back
against the acid wash,
but don't hold it too long,
sorrow is a monster that likes
to creep in
at high tide,
when everything is under covers
and restless.

Kick that **** to the back of your throat,
kick it to the bottom of your heart,
the top of your soul,
the end of your salvation,
the tipping point of your love
and the blasphemy
of your hate.

Don't call out to her now,
she isn't listening
and you're not even close
to being finished.

Hectic, humid air rings to the sound of ecstatic havoc,
Beating in time, murmurs rise to roars, from where hallway packs loll,
Acceptance seduces me out of my box, to uncomfortable happiness.

when I laugh,
the whole body
one big mouth
of laughter

when I sing
words emit
like a seismo-
seismograph

If I squat, drowsy,
all my teeth are
melting down
a whirlpool

walk, look back
and wonder,
whose vanishing
footsteps
are they
meanwhile,

my as-lost-as-me
friends, frantic for
shade in the sun
and can't find it

together, like a
splash of colours,
we loll in the garden
for the madness to pass

later, at home they ask
about the blood red
eyes, I say, it was
some colour, some holi

Another poet's words slammed into our faces,
crushing our bones with truths held like fire,
a burn on the hand but worth every sting,
running in circles from thoughts we can't speak of,
knowing what the other is feeling,
why can't I hold you when inside you're weeping?

We connect, you can't deny it,
arms brushing one against the other,
heat surging rebuilding shattered ribs,
sewing my lungs back in,
allowing me to breathe again.

Reverberating words from raw poetry in our heads,
I  can see it in your face, the relevance they had,
you lie falling next to me, I know they're still there,
why are you letting her get you down when you know i'm right here?

Dreams overtake you, dead asleep in the night,
the darkness can't consume all of your light,
you're safe with me as we loll asleep,
my fingers laced in your hair to wake you from dreaming.

Don't leave me now,
your scent lingers in the air,
i'll stay cuddled in this blanket forever,
i'll pretend that you're there.

The echo of your words keeps me warm in my slumber,
like the poems we silently cried together over.

A vibrant, boundless beauty,
Cast against the midnight tide,
I find you most enduring
While upon the soft waves you glide.
You kissed me with some kind of freedom,
The taste of which was an awakening,
And your skin, like Eastern silk moving
Upon mine in perfect contrition.
The absence is unlike anything
That was felt any time ago,
I do find myself at times worrying,
Where will I ever go?
Unperturbed and undisturbed,
The loll of heartache and sensations,
Have rendered me now incapable,
And have turned my heart to immolation

Sediment slabs purl down soft rock,
parched charcoal lathers soot - scintillate,
smothered form in slate deluge,
where the sun can take refuge,
saturnine in the hiemal shift of the alcove,
and nebulous spume caroms  - gaseous halations ,
off scalding waters, sweet smoke arise,
tenuous strings of light gossamer in the eyes ,
meshed scales loll down,
corona tendrils stream over sunken psilocybe,
equilibrium sun-warped - flares effulgent,
seeping into trails of salt-lacerated skin,
wax beads singeing skin - summer hit of apocalypse fever

The moon tonight doth wear a shroud
    Of crimson-orange ether,
And seems a pumpkin with flight endow'd,
    Nor with a rooted tether.

The night is warm; the breeze doth loll
    Upon the shadow's creeping;
And autumn very soon will fall,
    And bring with it more sleeping.

                              August 29, 2015

O.O

The first blushes
of dawn
fragment mascara line silhouettes
of morn.
Powdered breath
caught in light kisses
of fading neon.
A turned up collar's
no substitute
for bed's warmth.
Heavy eyes loll lingering on
fresh passages
of the passing night
And how two bodies lied
to lie together
for a while.
Shadowing secret
hooded lips concealing
nakedly honest smiles
enough to make the dawn blush

Two years have passed since your last appearance,
way before  we got the camera,  
would’ve been great to catch your  exotic double life .

Your thick green arms reached  towards the blazing Texas sky,
pink  blossom fingertips  fearlessly  faced  the imperial red roses ,
while the yellow blossoms pointed towards a tangle of  overgrown pond grass.

We learned your name,
indulged in your subtle fragrance,
unparalleled by any man- made hand cream and
impatiently waited for the next round of double harvest.

Something  savaged your leaves, leaving you half barren,
forced to separate from  your *** mate, we hoped your widowed side would revive.

You’re back hosting those long lost yellow petals,
lopsidedly holding your own in front of the sprawling purple bougonvillia,
and the brazenly orange hibiscus bush.

A busy gnome now covers the scar,
so only we really know  that you didn’t always loll to the right.

I think you came back just to say goodbye.

My Dear, it is incredulously
Important that I am willingly
Rendering this letter innocently,
To you, who holds my heart.
It started in the Fall,
For now seven years in all,
Even when the wind will loll,
I remember we are apart.
I used to sleep...and dream of you,
Now the nights are absent, all untrue,
The rends of tomorrow that hold no glue,
The engine is withholding.
Cohesive and all but branding,
I was ever so understanding,
Honesty was our safest landing,
From a leap so foreboding.
An empty nest, an abode so cold,
Just a house now, no one is home.
And endless bound where Nothing roams,
I am all that is longing.

The little snakes beneath your skin
open up their mouths
their heads bloom
their tongues loll out,
turning a hearty lavender
your eyes refuse to blink

each second resounds
with a muffled twitch of your left eye

after 345 milliseconds
your eyes close
and after twenty seven hesitant days,
the snakes take their dry tongues back in

Much rather than having her dead. Let her live and let her loll in my joys, beauty, and happiness. whilst her soul is stripped naked and humanity no longer resides in her, nor will she know the ease of humility.

I love you
But I miss the sparks that fly
From new lusts fire
When the thought of you
Made my heart race and my **** wet
Rather than what we might
Have for dinner and watch on the TV
Now we loll
In the same sleepy bed
Side by side
We pour our passions into our devices
We book calendar time for ***
Yet I love you
Who you are, who you have made me
Our life without drama
I still miss the sparks