Warm laundry gives me the
fuzzies, makes my hands grasp
   majestic purple soaps
to cleanse away the ***** wails
compacted under fingernails
A selection of smell good things
lotions accompanied by fuzzy things
to rub away and radiate the aura
of calm, balance, and tranquility
Lavender is condusive to many
different uses, inhaling the graces
of herbal essence, soothing said coolings
inducing mood peelings of layers of grime
a skin liberative—figuratively speaking
Flowers of passion brew thoughts into actions
silent buds permeating scents
   so invigoratingly innocent

legions of aloe vera lick my
toes, persuading in dissonance.
a herpetic grin streaks your
teeth, grease and yellowed
pages harrowed in stem.

now, i will tell you these
roses (that are everyanything
of a colour)--

sizzle against soft fingers,
the waft of yesterday
scribbling strikes of sense.

George was lying in his trailer, flat on his back, watching a small portable T.V. His
dinner dishes were undone, his breakfast dishes were undone, he needed a shave, and ash
from his rolled cigarettes dropped onto his undershirt. Some of the ash was still burning.
Sometimes the burning ash missed the undershirt and hit his skin, then he cursed, brushing
it away. There was a knock on the trailer door. He got slowly to his feet and answered the
door. It was Constance. She had a fifth of unopened whiskey in a bag.
"George, I left that *******, I couldn't stand that *******
anymore."
"Sit down."
George opened the fifth, got two glasses, filled each a third with whiskey, two thirds
with water. He sat down on the bed with Constance. She took a cigarette out of her purse
and lit it. She was drunk and her hands trembled.
"I took his **** money too. I took his **** money and split while he was at work.
You don't know how I've suffered with that *******." "
Lemme have a smoke," said George. She handed it to him and as she leaned near,
George put his arm around her, pulled her over and kissed her.
"You *******," she said, "I missed you."
"I miss those good legs of yours , Connie. I've really missed those good
legs."
"You still like 'em?"
"I get hot just looking."
"I could never make it with a college guy," said Connie. "They're too
soft, they're milktoast. And he kept his house clean. George , it was like having a maid.
He did it all. The place was spotless. You could eat beef stew right off the crapper. He
was antisceptic, that's what he was."
"Drink up, you'll feel better."
"And he couldn't make love."
"You mean he couldn't get it up?"
"Oh he got it up, he got it up all the time. But he didn't know how to make a
woman happy, you know. He didn't know what to do. All that money, all that education, he
was useless."
"I wish I had a college education."
"You don't need one. You have everything you need, George."
"I'm just a flunkey. All the **** jobs."
"I said you have everything you need, George. You know how to make a woman
happy."
"Yeh?"
"Yes. And you know what else? His mother came around! His mother! Two or three
times a week. And she'd sit there looking at me, pretending to like me but all the time
she was treating me like I was a *****. Like I was a big bad ***** stealing her son away
from her! Her precious Wallace! Christ! What a mess!" "He claimed he loved me.
And I'd say, 'Look at my *****, Walter!' And he wouldn't look at my *****. He said, 'I
don't want to look at that thing.' That thing! That's what he called it! You're not afraid
of my *****, are you, George?"
"It's never bit me yet." "But you've bit it, you've nibbled it, haven't
you George?"
"I suppose I have."
"And you've licked it , ****** it?"
"I suppose so."
"You know **** well, George, what you've done."
"How much money did you get?"
"Six hundred dollars."
"I don't like people who rob other people, Connie."
"That's why you're a ******* dishwasher. You're honest. But he's such an ***,
George. And he can afford the money, and I've earned it... him and his mother and his
love, his mother-love, his clean l;ittle wash bowls and toilets and disposal bags and
breath chasers and after shave lotions and his little hard-ons and his precious
love-making. All for himself, you understand, all for himself! You know what a woman
wants, George."
"Thanks for the whiskey, Connie. Lemme have another cigarette."
George filled them up again. "I missed your legs, Connie. I've really missed those
legs. I like the way you wear those high heels. They drive me crazy. These modern women
don't know what they're missing. The high heel shapes the calf, the thigh, the ***; it
puts rythm into the walk. It really turns me on!"
"You talk like a poet, George. Sometimes you talk like that. You are one hell of a
dishwasher."
"You know what I'd really like to do?"
"What?"
"I'd like to whip you with my belt on the legs, the ***, the thighs. I'd like to
make you quiver and cry and then when you're quivering and crying I'd slam it into you
pure love."
"I don't want that, George. You've never talked like that to me before. You've
always done right with me."
"Pull your dress up higher."
"What?"
"Pull your dress up higher, I want to see more of your legs."
"You like my legs, don't you, George?"
"Let the light shine on them!"
Constance hiked her dress.
"God christ ****," said George.
"You like my legs?"
"I love your legs!" Then george reached across the bed and slapped Constance
hard across the face. Her cigarette flipped out of her mouth.
"what'd you do that for?"
"You ****** Walter! You ****** Walter!"
"So what the hell?"
"So pull your dress up higher!"
"No!"
"Do what I say!" George slapped again, harder. Constance hiked her skirt.
"Just up to the *******!" shouted George. "I don't quite want to see the
*******!"
"Christ, george, what's gone wrong with you?"
"You ****** Walter!"
"George, I swear, you've gone crazy. I want to leave. Let me out of here,
George!"
"Don't move or I'll **** you!"
"You'd **** me?"
"I swear it!" George got up and poured himself a shot of straight whiskey,
drank it, and sat down next to Constance. He took the cigarette and held it against her
wrist. She screamed. HE held it there, firmly, then pulled it away.
"I'm a man , baby, understand that?"
"I know you're a man , George."
"Here, look at my muscles!" george sat up and flexed both of his arms.
"Beautiful, eh ,baby? Look at that muscle! Feel it! Feel it!"
Constance felt one of the arms, then the other.
"Yes, you have a beautiful body, George."
"I'm a man. I'm a dishwasher but I'm a man, a real man."
"I know it, George." "I'm not the milkshit you left."
"I know it."
"And I can sing, too. You ought to hear my voice."
Constance sat there. George began to sing. He sang "Old man River." Then he
sang "Nobody knows the trouble I've seen." He sang "The St. Louis
Blues." He sasng "God Bless America," stopping several times and laughing.
Then he sat down next to Constance. He said, "Connie, you have beautiful legs."
He asked for another cigarette. He smoked it, drank two more drinks, then put his head
down on Connie's legs, against the stockings, in her lap, and he said, "Connie, I
guess I'm no good, I guess I'm crazy, I'm sorry I hit you, I'm sorry I burned you with
that cigarette."
Constance sat there. She ran her fingers through George's hair, stroking him, soothing
him. Soon he was asleep. She waited a while longer. Then she lifted his head and placed it
on the pillow, lifted his legs and straightened them out on the bed. She stood up, walked
to the fifth, poured a jolt of good whiskey in to her glass, added a touch of water and
drank it sown. She walked to the trailer door, pulled it open, stepped out, closed it. She
walked through the backyard, opened the fence gate, walked up the alley under the one
o'clock moon. The sky was clear of clouds. The same skyful of clouds was up there. She got
out on the boulevard and walked east and reached the entrance of The Blue Mirror. She
walked in, and there was Walter sitting alone and drunk at the end of the bar. She walked
up and sat down next to him. "Missed me, baby?" she asked. Walter looked up. He
recognized her. He didn't answer. He looked at the bartender and the bartender walked
toward them They all knew eachother.

She left me in a hurry,
with no word of her return
so I sit and wait, in longing,
keep her treasures safe, and yearn

for her face to gaze upon me,
as she fettles her dear skin,
with the pots of creams and lotions
I keep for her, within

my rose-lined drawers and cupboards,
the little blue glass bird
with wedding rings upon his beak
I asked, he hasn’t heard

of when our lady may be back
to grace us with her care,
her brushes sit with us and fret
of the tangles in her hair

and all lack of gloss and shine
finger tips cannot bestow
within her titian crowning,
oh! Where did she go?

Days slip by unhindered,
and merging seasons pass,
without her song or laughter
reflected in my glass.

I may as well be firewood,
my veneer begins to crack,
then, hark! I hear sweet footsteps!
My mistress has come back!

Her wedding rings rehomed at last,
the bird and I rejoice,
as she brushes out her hair and sings,
for we have missed her voice.

She polishes away the cracks,
takes a seat upon her throne,
rearranging pots and lotions,
I’m so glad that she came home.

Skin.
Skin by definition is a thin layer of tissue forming a natural outer covering of the body.
Skin is for people to tan, to clothe, apply make up to... to touch.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

Mosquito bites.
Mosquito bites by definition are the itchy bumps that appear after mosquitoes use their proboscis to puncture your skin and feed on your blood.
Mosquito bites are for people to feel, to itch, to bleed, to scab and repeat. The entire cycle.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

Summer.
Summer by definition is the warmest season of the year.
Summer is for t-shirts, shorts, exposure, swimming, tanning, skin, skin, skin, skin, skin.
"It's Summer, put on some shorts."
"It's Summer, why aren't you wearing a t-shirt?"
"It's Summer, let's go swimming!"
Summer is a time for these questions, these statements, these words to fester, to breed like muosquitos, to sting like the bite of a bug.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

Dermatologist.
A Dermatologist by definition is a doctor that treats diseases, in the widest sense, and some cosmetic problems of the skin, skin, skin, skin, skin.
The Dermatologist tells me to use this and to use that. Lotions and potions, as my mother would say. Slather, rub, treat, swallow.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

Skin care.
Skin care by definition is the range of practices that support skin integrity, enhance its appearance and relieve skin conditions.
Get up, shower, sterilizing soap, body oil, steroid cream, medicated lotion, drink water and repeat the process before bed. My daily cycle.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

Seesaw.
A Seesaw by definition is to change rapidly and repeatedly from one position, situation, or condition to another and back again.
Seesaw, to push off the ground, into the air with a sense of victory and joy, only to fall hard to the ground with stinging ankles and sore calf's.
This isn't a playground anymore.
The Dermatologist says that if I don't get better, they'll have to put me on the pill.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.

The Pill.
The Pill is an oral treatment for my condition. My eczema.
One pill every morning at seven AM with food and an entire glass of water.
The risk associated with the pill- Osteoporosis,  Muscle weakness, Mood and Behavioral changes, Increase in chance of developing cataracts,  Stomach Ulcers and Liver Failure.
One pill every morning at seven AM with food and an entire glass of water. The daily cycle.

Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab, repeat.
Itch, bleed, scab.... **** it.

I would rather my liver fail and my bones go brittle then to be stared at on the street!
"What is that?"
"Are you okay?"
"What's wrong with her?"
"Is it contagious?"
"Don't touch me!"
I itch, my nails dragging over my scarred skin and pulling at wounds. I bleed, the welts that crack and leak drops from the red river that flows silently beneath my skin. I scab, leaving horrible lumps of ugly, hardened flesh to coat the once smooth area. I repeat....

Well, I don't want to repeat! I want to be able wear the clothes I want, to walk the streets with out the judging and questioning eyes of the passersby on me, to be held and touched by a significant other without the fear that their fingers will fall upon my skin and recoil in disgust!

Without looking in the mirror and wondering when I can finally begin to love myself.

I decided that today is the day! No more Itching! No more Bleeding! No more Scabs! It's time to break this ******* cycle.

Bed sheets labeled wrinkle-free,
skin stroked
with lotions from
bottles stamped,
“reduces age-lines.”

Crevasses form
and crows’ feet caress eyelids;
folds spread
as little rivers
from her mouth.

New lotions,
more massaging
feed her desire
for perfection. Her glance
catches flaws others ignore.

Love falls short.
Heat from her lover’s body
warms her palms;
fetid kisses barely
brush her lips.

Wrinkle free love;
another misnomer.

Dat ***** Though

Hey girl, I see you at da club, shaking dat *****
And all I can think about is how that *** would soothe me.
You lookin' so fresh like celery.  Baby, why don't you
come over here and put a bell on me?
I'll be your cat, rub my nose in your lap,
and you can be my doggy.  We can do it in style, for a while.
Then jump in the shower, so you can wash me with your lotions
Rub your magic all over me like your hands are made of potions.
Then let's jump back in bed and keep our bodies in motion.
Girl, you fine like China, like Flo from Mel's diner.
You hotter than Tabasco, and I know you think I'm whacko,
But you got a ***** that makes me crazy.
I want you to haze me, daze me,
and if you say no, it probably won't phase me.
I'll just write poetry about you and me
as if it were real because nothin' gonna stop the way I feel.

Dice the dead mans diligence like a Dillinger or Challenger,

He gained a Dodge Wrangler like a sad handler of emotions;

Perhaps all of this is more potent than potions or consumer hand lotions plus alcoholic haphazard;

Yet I consider the price of anything to be lice on everything,

Like a fat woman’s sullen song,

The sounds still ring in the lingering enclave of my eardrums,

Which breath waves like air into my lungs.

It’s sundown,

And therefore, I’ll see you soon;

Yes, I’ll see you soon, moon.

So very soon.

Too many expert voices lay a claim on your shape,
You are either too full, or
You have gone too far,
Too many moulds get thrusted at your face,
To some you resemble a pear,
But they feel your should look more double cherry,
And whichever fruit you succeed in turning into,
You still, are a tad too hairy
But then does anyone ever tell you,
That sometimes ice cream will be the only answer
And that is just fine?
That a bedtime prayer can be enough night-time routine,
Which needn't include expensive lotions and creams,
That you need fats as well as you need protein,
As also each little gift that Nature crafted lovingly
For this marvel of a creation that is your Being-
So that your skin is fed and living,
And your knees are lubricated and sprightly,
And your blood is rich and active,
And your soul-
No one will give you
"How I brightened my soul in 4 weeks" tutorials,
But you ought to set your happy soul-goals,
A tummy rub in a sunny lawn on a lazy winter afternoon/
A drenching bath in heavy July rains/
A spontaneous poem effortlessly jotted down on a napkin
Level-happy!
And when you're that happy you will know
That you aren't a cut-out on public display,
Not a fruit,
not a diet,
not a fad that peaks and wanes,
You are an everlasting uniqueness,
You are an undefined shape,
You are that collection of rare energies
That only comes custom-made.

It was 4am and Bill bit me
My two arms soar and itchy,
I awoke in discomfort which quickly turned into anxiety and anger
Scratching to ease my pain which temporary ceased
Thoughts of my life, work and my insecurities burned to my attention
******* Bill! I sighed, he's awaked my anxieties too early
Seething now, feeling redder and redder I wondered why Bill didn't let me be
Id had enough and got up to apply some lotion
Slowly my pain began to soothe and I drifted away
Awake now at 9am
Somewhat calmer, my insecurities still present but other thoughts present too
I ponder on what lotions I can use

I’ll lay here and let the sun make love
Penetrate the shielded part of my being
to bear the brightness of its warmth
right to the base of the unmoved core
and when hysteria sizzles time passes
right to the century of the ancient timeline
where women sadness was denied access
only to be healed by a scientific ***** massage
that gentle movement of finger in the pelvic
to bridge the eruption with the explosive paroxysms
where a woman would relive forgetting
all the unattention behaviour bore by their husband
women wombs would be removed so as not to feel
women ****** desire would be numbed so as not to feel
women would be sent into asylums so as not to feel
They are ****** women confiscicated to a domestic gloom
Let them tend to the men and gain no societical standing
until the doctors got tired of it all, with broken hands
those cramped fingers and supportive bandages
tired of motioning and fumigation of the libia
with sweet smelling and relaxing oily lotions
It was as simple as that...... the change of notions
and the innovation of the handheld vibrators
eradicated hysteria in mere 1952........

The dweeb lived in the dwellings of a dwindling tribe of dwarves
Who anchored little kayaks at the moorings in the wharves.
He organised this transport so that they might go at night
Deep into the dark dense woods to visit their Snow White.
But the dwarves were very old and weren’t getting any younger
And although they really wanted too it couldn’t last much longer.
Meanwhile the dweeb would study every minute of the day
So studious and serious with little time for play.
The daddy of the dwarfs known as Doctor Joe
Said to him, “Look dweeb, there’s little left to know.”
But still he studied on writing loads of lengthy notes,
Which sometimes he would use to make tedious little quotes.
Until eventually the dwarves found him annoying and real boring
Besides he woke them up at night with his constant snoring.
So Doctor Joe hatched a plan with his little tribe
It was devious and genius and this I will describe.
They knew Snow White was lonely and longing for a man
So this is what they had in mind for this dweeb known as Stan.
Snow White would lie there in a dwam pretending to be dead
And somehow they would lure Stan along to her deathbed.
So they told her that he was a Prince, the great love of her heart
She of course was up for it, and couldn’t wait to start.
Doctor Joe then told the dweeb, that Snow White was no more.
He said that he might save her and showed him to the door.
On their little kayak they paddled up the river
But the dweeb then said to Doctor Joe, “I don’t know what to give her.”
The Doctor reassured him that it would be real bliss
If only one time in her life she had a loving human kiss.
The dweeb replied, “This just won’t work.” So he quoted healing potions.
When Doctor Joe rejected these he suggested soothing lotions.
None of these the Doctor said were right for their Snow White
Only a kiss from a real-man could help her end this plight.
So eventually there beside Snow White all the party stood,
Outside of the stone cottage deep within the wood.
The dwarves should have looked distressed but they were full of glee
And so they had to hide their smiles in case the dweeb should see.
At long last they’d be rid of him, this boring little nerd
Some of them expressed this and they hoped he hadn’t heard.
But the dweeb was now distracted by the beauty of this girl
He didn’t know if this would work but he’d give it a whirl.
He puckered up his lips and planted one before he spoke
Then gob-smacked he stood there as Snow White soon awoke.
Immediately when their eyes met he knew that it was right
Likewise she felt this too, it was real love at first sight.
So you see that all of this now ended happy ever after.
Doctor Joe and all the dwarves left in bursts of laughter.

The time must come when
we put aside recipes untried,
socks unmended, old fabrics
too pretty to be used -when
the bottled nuts and bolts
-the springs, the locks
unused -waiting,
wait unused

    -the memorabilia of hope,
    the rusty steel of life.

The time must come when
cease to lie -lotions,
Elixirs de Leon -when we
fail our bite to the night-soak
and think not -care not, of that
breath that does not count anyhow
-when reason mirrors wrinkles
-undreams romance.

-hooked rugs of might-have-done,
school albums, what not become,
leather bottles, convalescing sun
-and the quieting ice.

When I read the Sports/
Society page, I ask myself -them,
'How will you go down?
-willingly? -with,
if not a Bang, a Whimper?
-if not with, without
the Apotheosis of Drug?

(-from http://www.condition.org/ )

sometimes i pull up my shirt
look down at my bare tummy
and sigh.

why can't you be better, tummy?
why can't you be smaller
nicer
softer
better?

like a child
i am chiding
tut-tutting
at its misbehavior

tummy, i do so much for you
i skip meals
and don't drink water
and wrap you in all kinds of weird dyi concoctions
and lotions
i take pills
and cry before seeing the boy that i like
all for you,
tummy.

why can't you be
like the other ones
why must you be
the way you are?

i will fix you.

Why are you appealing to me-

Stimulating my ****** desire
tending to arouse evil with inside

Me- You

Us
Identical-

Suggestively I've laid out
flowery perfumed petal

trailing to the bedroom

I've characterized you

by obscenity's & indecency's
you've already let me get away with

**** vivacious recipient-
eluding the lubricious

embraces of
my prurient thought.

Thigh high boots

Whips Creme & chains

Swing chair done up tight to the ceiling,

Lubrications lotions & potions,

Candlelit flickers

as

Our
silhouette's merge into

Identical
mirrored image

You-  Me

Mingling

Melting- the little death

becomes

Us!

Identical........

Always me Ayeshah

Puffing profoundly on an old bone pipe.sat the old woman on rickety stool. A white tendril seeking altitude from schorching embers.
A wafting spirit casting errant admonishment.

Dusty footpath of a million footfalls all on missions of redemption lovelorn weeping allotments of anguish,pain and hope.FULLSTOP.
At sunbeaten,rainbleached risers three in number.
Splitpea fragrance wafting to greet.
Maybe collards too.

"What can I do for ?" But having asked,she already.knew.
To.walk.out to.the.shack.was.a.profound procession.
Made by many,owned by.few
Seeking solace from.the.witches brew.
"You need.a.poultace ?
Cast a spell for.you. ?

Fix it so.she.never leave you ?

Aint nothin.much.that.I.cant do.
Gonna fix.it.for.you.

Ramshackle rundown house of dreams,nightmares and stalking horses.
Beads and potions.come back lotions. Love notions out the window.like startled ratbats.

The little shack of sorrows.
Old time mystic.sitting on a stool.
Jingle pennies in pockets.

Yonder comes nother fool

My face breaks the sea
                  wash, wash over me.

An army stands guard
                   led by lotions and creams

What, is my beauty?

Pock-marks scar my moon tonight,
the emotions on my pock face fight.

But my faults dissolve with the sea.
                              Wash, wash over me.

Lotions and Potions,
Creams and Dreams.

where sea sings to sand
in crashing surf melodies
crisp scent of salt air
seagulls screech, sand ***** burrow
sky falls off the horizon

blue on blue oceans
conjoin cerulean skies
far as eyes can see
squinting slightly in hot sun
warm smell of tanning lotions

buoys bob in and out
mesmerizing slow dances
rocking with the wind
gliding boat sails billowing
golden crests reflect sunsets


Del Maximo
©July 16, 2009

I stood waiting for her I was told she would come
I stood waiting cold and numb
Numbed by the pain, tablets and lotions
Numbed by the hope of a notion
A notion that said I might find a cure
A cure that would let me lead a life I could finally endure

For my life has been one of repeated pain
Pain from the physical, emotional, where there is no gain
A life that is lived in between, of darkness and then sparkle
A life that is to my own heart no more than a debacle

I was told If I met her she could help me create
My own alchemy, a precious recipe that would make
A remedy that would soothe my soul allow it to rest
Allow my physical body to stop undergoing this continual test

I heard movement come through the blackness
Towards me to meet, a beautiful figure, dazzling and complete
Her beauty was breathtaking her adornment a delight
She illuminated my world at once and reignited my own light

She has a familiarity that my body recognizes, a bejeweled
Being who lights up my world with her smile and surprises
Even me as I watch and stare as she moves through the darkness
With such knowledge and without care

I follow her light down passageways and past keeps
And notice parts of my body awakening like from a sleep
A body that wants to talk to me and say
That authenticity is the alchemy from which you have strayed

Your body has such wisdom its waiting to be read.
This is the alchemy you search for, its that voice in your head
It is an illuminated manuscript  gilded with the finest gold, gold of your own making
your life experience is the beauty you need to hold.

The magic is in your intuition, that you hold deep within yourself
You follow this beautiful lady and yet she is a mirror of your own self
She came because you finally called her and she sits in front of you now
Administering her balms that lingers on your skin, it caresses the pain you feel
and smoothes you from within.

But this is a balm of your own making , made out of all your own pain
It sparkles with the light you have been seeking it is your own beauty,
Hopelessness and pain.

So look no longer for the alchemists hand, behold what you see in the
mirror and be glad that you stand, for you are a beauty to behold, a life
to be treasured, a life that is lived in, a life that can be measured.

Nightly, she mirrored his skin
with her hands pressed
to the places considered sin
when not properly dressed.

Connected dots with kisses
on his back, arms, lips;
the things she misses
are ghosts on **** ships.

Soft skin lotions her bones
soothing the stinging insults, raw
by his words in harsh tones,
like snapping the straps of her bra.

Subatomic
Silver smoky sauntering lovelessness
Spots on arms, purple and green
Sickness and sleepless
Wow-like, wicked witchcraft catching

Tones humming zzz'ing
Screaming across elbows
Tucked into the ****
Concrete carnivalesque berserk wildness

Ferally and virily.

U U U THANK U...............Rice Krispie
ANNDD BEATS LEAP CURIOUSLY HIDING
UNDER THE SHEETS

Perfervid fervency.

Idling- white crisps
Blinding silences
Sticky fingertips and lurid looks
Tape after tape of binded irises in the pupil symposium,
Where side-by-side the seams mend together

Innards scissor sideways
Upways downways
Exteriors in rhythmic sync

Tastes like lolli-pop rocks
Watermelon- dazzling gold
Front-step excited eyes binding.
See-cells intertwined and idling-pupils
Dance and discover
Wild hypnotic trysts of skins
Twisting in cotton scenes
Hours of comfortable comforts of living
Women and men handling
Fun funds 'n' bon-bons; investing in the bond.
And going back for seconds.

The head riffs over riptides and causeways, lip-lies and kisses on Broad Way.
Two cadavers, hog-tied. Kissing longways and long ways.
Perogative oxytocin. American Express massages scented oils and lotions.
Persons of interest abetted in sweating. Heaving torsos.
Throwing legs, arms, and sparklers. Redonkulous nectars are microscopic.
Sweet flavors on taste buds or lit by recessed black light optics.
Massaging the rhinoceros husk in this 21st century sarcophagus,
Whiles of Wilders' words were spoken
Nickels of wood soaking in splintered tubs
Thumbs under surveillance. Sneaking inches of suspicion
Leaves treated with lacquer, fables beaten within inches of their lines;

Live its Friday night!
Deviled veterans draped in moon-hide rise
Defiling puerile twenty-something lives.

These wild highs in debts of purs'd thighs
Vexed by personal lies. Hexed in white-out lines.
Riled midnight rides inside this pyre of redolent pie- stroke six and nine
Intertwine in one human form supine
While quaffing nectar wine from the vine
Rancor drives the crime and anoints bold creature types to dine
At the interstice of Sublime.

For a couple of toffs , I was lagging their loft ,
The size of a Polo Pitch ,
With thick fibreglass , of a " superior class ",
There wasnt a part of me that didnt itch .
Now I had a , full bladder ,
So climbed down the ladder ,
Left the hatch open , like the " barn , I was born in "
Desperate for a *** , though it wasnt through tea ,
I hadnt been offered a cup all morning .
And right there , I saw , a note taped to the door ,
Saying "TRADESMAN - USE THE TOILET DOWNSTAIRS ".
In the natural light, blinking , it got me thinking ,
Is MY ***** , so different to theirs ?
Ignoring the sign, I  crossed over the line
And entered "The Master Bathroom "
It was expensively tiled , a shame to defile,
Full of lotions , potions and perfume.
So I ****** in the sink , gave the mirror a wink
And was up to the loft like a thief .
Back home that night as I turned out the light,
I imagined them brushing their teeth .

The Profitis Ilias was snorting the exokartic energies through the sinkholes that filled the thickness of the Arms of Christi and the Souls of Trouvere, from Leros came Ezpatkul with the Gerakis for the closing of the Codex of Raedus. Stratonice was dressed for spring with Persephone for the amendment of the wind tunnel so that everyone would go back to the esplanade at the top, where Vernarth was inspiring all the children of the Codex of Raedus-Vernacentricus-Profitis Ilias. Zefian brought the Toxota and Pezhetairoi arrows, they were sovereign moldy points of the Bronze tips of the Taxota Archers and the Falangists. That in turn from the high sky formed a great pinwheel when from the great dimension they shone from the flat equinoctial sky, bumping the chins of Kaitelka that the Parthenon dealer lost, that they rang the great bronze pineapple, kilometers in length forming the makro koelum from Patmos; with vertices of the Pythagorean canon of Polykleitos. A large horizontal Lecedemonia “V” was visible from Aorion's falling acrotera, projected in a copper mega bolt coming from Betelgeuse's armpit, and forming a Barnard looped sidereal Vee, fired by the hunter Aorion from his constellation. This would be an architectural last, and Pythagorean canon-mathematical for purposes proportional to the Mandragoron. They fell from the four arrows that Zefian launched, from Crete, since they were approaching the contravention of Apollo, and Artemis towards an olive tree, originating in the arrows of Zefian, to mark the new cardinal points. This is how they began with the first two sagites that are placed on the arc string, each one belonging to north-south trajectories and the other two that once again clashed with the eastern arc, to shoot the east-west arrows with limits of magnetism. southern. Three arrows are deposited in the canon of Polykleitos, and in the reticulum of the Pleiades that Aorion pursued. The points of the Taxotas were approaching with the North: Vóreios (Boreal de Zefian) South: Nótos (Austral de Borker), then Pezhetairoi: West: Dyticá (Sunset of Leiak) East: Aftó (Equinoctial of Kaitelka). The Codex came to an end in an aureole of the Melismatic hymn, within a lyric towards the rebellious polis of the Hidro Saltinbanqui, who listed their antiphons on the thirty-three codes, embodied in green fields and Lavender fields, where they exhorted the Lotions to stand until death, clinging where kings come down from their altars, under the ultimatum to celebrate the feast in the Persephone canals, pouring out the mouths of those who have perished in the desert of lyrical abstention, and wine in the cruel kindnesses of satiating her after falling into the arms of lavender.

Wonthelimar climbed up the caliginous air differential that emanated from the Basilisk's snout, which surrendered to the propagation of the ascent through the firebreak that took him to the top to meet Vernarth and Zefian, along with all the Sibyls who were also levitated towards the meeting. of the Fourth Arrow. Lochnith, Sibyl Herophila, Mardiath, Elpenor, and Vlad Strigoi were featured, all of them joined to the Phalanx of Arbela, leading to the restitution of the belligerent site, along with a great compacted mass of citizens who heard from all over the Aegean world and surroundings. The bay of Skalá was full of ships that poetized in the roadstead with intense poetry, before a new and heroic rebirth of the bones of the fallen in the transversal battles, each one carrying in their hands a bunch of lavenders, for the brave hearts that they wanted to be reborn in the bones, towards the arrival of Zefian and the raising of all the panoplies united in his bones, as a whole taking over the Patmian island. They did not let go of the bundle, but until they released the last momentum of repose, to activate the beauty of being all united in the building of the Megaron Mandragoron.

The men became more men, and the children became men, their wives were legitimate invincible forces as if they were Moiras burnishing Panoplias that rudimentary the most incomprehensible noises, until they awakened from the chin to those who had difficulty reaching the top to renew their bones Who, full of death, retired from their enslavement. This will be a truth, which was hiding behind the falsehood of a contingent greater than all the archaic invasions of foreign civilizations hungry for wisdom. Everything is great before the small because everyone wants a hero who dies and is reborn again, the brave one dies twice and is reborn twice before the arms of Vernarth, the pain is three times greater than the relief of a mother who longs for the return alone of one of their own after each battle, by wandering wastelands of enemies who dream of wanting the legitimate escape signals of the Ghosts of Shiraz, who made their crying and howling that they cannot console themselves. Poverty is tinged with gold, and those who need a similar shelter will be the object of their own unity as they are prisoners of ill-fated wealth. The Hoplite could have a parallel from the ninth book of the Iliad, towards an Arete or courage of his brave cop that filled him with branches from the spray of every morning when he was pubescent, with the Agathos or Courage, which led them as great splendors through the tube or wind tunnel rising at the speed of the Lambda, in the notch of the Lacedaemonian fold in its bronze duplicates Kardiá or Hoplite hearts. The shields were crowded upon the awakening of the same gods of Olympus, all sleeping together the same mirage during a Long Night that would rescind the power of each member and fabulous lost, before the new Megaron superior to Olympus itself, presided over by Vernarth, and assisting also Zeus; this time carrying an oak in his hand and a Dorus, detached from its rays of a beautiful Death that is reborn in Patmos, carrying in the other Hands the bunch of Lacedaemonian Lavenders, solving them from the Trésas or doubts of facing the sun of victory in both eyes divided, the heterochrome with the beautiful green green of Alexander the Great and the Lavender of Vernarth from Lacedaemon, providing the Demiourgía with his brother Etrestles, with the power or full Aristokracia of the moving spinners of Ezpatkul and Stratonice, for the purpose of unleashing the wind tunnel with the Gerakis from Leros, sharpening with remnants of Miletos, already degraded to aristocrats submerged in the dawn of the Alikantus and Kanti ridges of Crete, who still dwelt restlessly with their wounds on their backs, taking with them robes from the laurel forest of Matico and Sauco, who wrapped themselves on the perches that fringed on their heads to welcome them, and round them with some dark orange blossoms, which They muttered between their gleaming incisors in bronze greaves, woven into their corselets that continued to walk the wounds on their backs that pointed and implored Aorion, recesses in aristocratic awards for the Hetairoi hall that awaited them, very close. Vernarth rehearsing his Himation on his way to the Seventh Paradise.

The hundrum existence of millions of lives suddenly ceased
as did their obedience to the drudgery of habit -
taking to the sea, to their gardens, to boats, cool drinks,
sun-tan lotions, ice-creams, cool dresses,
to light and shade as dictated to by desire.

Sand scorching to the naked foot glitters like gold for the having
and every square of every town shelters under a haven of umbrellas
and lazy liquor assisted sensuous talk.

The farmers work on a Sunday too
and weekend traffic jams sweat it out
to the blaring of radio cheerfulness in the extreme.

Spotless blue skies progress to star-lit canopies
and barbecues are the dominant feature of the early hours.

Sun and good humour, honest abandonment, salads and heavy foliage rule.

Talking to a sorry seamstress.
Hanging out in New Orleans.
A witch, she stole you from you jeans,
Robbed you of your lover,
Sold you onto another.
Satan himself.

Exerted the most passionate of mind control.
When full of magic she robbed your soul.
Full of pizzazz and all that jazz.

Black cats and ravens.
Unholy houses, unsafe havens.
Voodoo.
Trembling zombies,
Out to munch.
Petrified lunch.

Potions.
Lotions.
Evil devotions.
Incensed.
Incantations.
New Orleans.
Zombie nation.
(C) Livvi

they cover my face from forehead to chin
they rest in the most uncomfortable creases
they are red as a rash
and big enough as a bug bite
they stick out, they lie under my skin
they hurt and they sting when I try to scrub them clean
i’ve tried washes, creams, pills,
special oils, face masks, lotions,
the works
i don’t like the mirror because it makes me look at
these things that take up half my face
i don’t like to take pictures when my face isn’t clear
and makeup just makes it worse
i don’t like to go out
because I know others are watching
and wonder how someone could be so ugly
these pimples just don’t go away
no matter what I do
so please, if you meet me
and want to give some advice
i’d much rather you not
because, you see
i’ve already tried it all
and please do not utter that phrase
for I surely will blow up in flames
”oh stop acting like it’s such a big deal”
try living as me for a day
and you will see
that this feeling of dread
about the bumps on your face
never goes away
and you will surely see
that you look like this
and they look like that
and I promise you wouldn’t want to be me