Feathers glimmer and shine
As though covered in fish oil
I lubricate the brain
As I slip through the sky
With a frictionless flicker
My lightening wings
Brain waves rapidly fluctuate
Perfect balance held
Between left and right
Each wing a hemisphere
As they beat and beat
Accelerating into hyper speed
80 to a hundred or more
Beats per second

As though injected
With a sonic speed
Synapses bursting and exploding
Exponentially connecting
Blistering wing speed
I become electric
My circuits exploring
Rippling and flickering through paper
My brain comes alive
Flashing multicolored lights
Like the cities nights

But still spaces collect around me
As I am buffered from the world
Perfectly still though standing
On an invisible ledge
I hold my mind in place
While I hum in space
Head down I drop my beak
Into a funnel of concentration
As I tunnel into trumpets
Penetrating deep I flower  
In new knowledge

Polar aspects of mind
Released through coherent communication
Set free with coordination
I seek to marry chalk and cheese
As I hold the balance
Between two worlds
Flashing synapses firing
And combusting
Against pointed concentration
My mind juggles two *****
Expanding into their fullness
Expressing vibrant color

My slippery slender beak
Slips and slides in
As I flutter through pages
I discover new unexpected surprises
Problems solved, Startling adventures
And puzzles completed
I find the sugary syrup
The delicate delicious sweet spot
With the thrill of falling domino's
Spilling and cascading
Many ripples fanning out
Through my mind  
I find freedom

Each ripple massaging my mind
I am catapulted into outer space
I dance from fact to golden fact  
As I am propelled forward on stardust
My momentum shoots me forward
I bounce and bounce
My mind becoming unbounded  
I enjoy this great Hummingbird delight

Too long this rot has run its course, too much the damage done
When men deflect acknowledged glance, they know that wrong has won.
Across this land and far afield the wrongness seeps within
And pride becomes a memory through distant halls of spin.
How can we bow to tyranny, how can we shy away
From that which causes  eyes to slide.... and coaxes will to sway?
To tolerate the bombast, the bullying, the lies
Succumbing to a hopelessness, which, both we despise.
Division in the nation, uproar in between
A man and wife’s contention-ness beyond what should be seen
Brothers loathing brothers, silence in the room
Where a word  uttered wrongly can erupt to screaming soon.
Allies left in tatters, trust is cut to shards
Tariffs injudiciously, imposed to **** the cards.
International uproar, industry in strife
Teetering disastrously when NATO flees the knife.

Putin sits and rubs his hands, hilarious the show
Disorder and disharmony to lubricate his glow.
Beijing sits inscrutably, always opportune
Manoeuvring judiciously, in place, to call the tune.

America, the isolate, sails away to sea
Blondini, at the helm, wears smirk indulgently.

M.
The White House
HAMILTON NZ
12th July 2018

This is what she looks like when she's sad:
The human condition effective immediately.
Winter shades shift side to side,
exploding out of each iris.
Skin falling off,
when lunging forward to kiss me.
Fingernail daggers dig into my pores.
I'll bleed under her fingernails,
if she'll drag them down my torso
until her knees click the floor.

This is her tongue inside of my mouth:
We taste each other before we waste each other.
Hip bones parallel and our eyes rubbing shoulders,
my hands surfing her rib cage
and it's all the rage because she moans.
And when she moans,
color tones orbit around her head.
Planetary tumors dancing around her skull;
jump roping with her hair,
eating morals and removing plurals.

Those are her lips around me.
Her head moves up and down
but her eyes focus on me.
She makes eye contact
and I empty my dreams
into her mouth.

We are a public forum.
I ache with alcohol poisoning
and liberal undertones.
The terrain that is my face
bleeds oils that would lubricate
the axle of the car that she drove
into the tree
that we carved our name into.

Come back to me.
I miss you so much.
I watched you die.
I watched you die
and there was nothing I could do.

They told me that she wouldn't make it.
They told me that she might make it.
My hand gripped at blood stained blanket.
I think she said my name under the air mask.
I could tell if she saw me;
her eyes rolled back into her head
after she gazed a thousand yards away
into the field of black
that sheltered the tall grass
that we would chase each other through
and get lost in
as we got lost in each other.

I love you! I ******* love you!
My back, a membrane coil
that rises my stiff neck
that cares my head full of memories.
I turn on the light and you're not there next to me.
I put my hand on your copy of The Thornbirds
and know that you've read it more than the notes
I leave in your inbox,
hoping that it'll say that you have seen it.

Walking to your grave,
I am a darkness that the abyss has swallowed
and I have followed myself into nothingness
that is such bliss
that I forget
your kiss.

Fought
One, Twenty-two skidoo.
Cantankerous mad filamous

She,
That of her,
Me.

Piñata, stretched balloon
Over my big fleshy
******.

Tea and cakes,
Painted my nails
Painted my lips
Like candy.

Gold trinkets,
Pour like mercury out of my ear.

Ouch! I cried
My feet in hot sandy
Dreams.

Flying peacocks tickle
My *****.

Oranges roll on chalk board tables
Over stale rye bread.

***** dribbles out like mucus
And a runny nose.

Toilet paper and rusty water.
******* on you.

Stocking lover.

Fetish cover.

Woman pusher.

Mellifluous ****.

Look at my skin.
Pink, beige, peach, red
Porous, greasy, bacteria ridden hide.

**** me like seppuku,
Smother, suffocate me with
Red jelly jam.

Lubricate your finger with black
Cancerous ash.

Stick it in my naval,
Unravel my umbilical cord
Like so many filaments of my heart.

Tear your flesh
You auto *******.
Rip your liver

And force feed it
Corn and maize
Hay and grass

Emory my nails against
Red barn walls
Until bare skin fundamentals

Kisses with salty lips
Inflame my ravishing
Pig stomach.

Kick my shin you
Everything,

Wake up you stupid
*****.

Void can be blue skies,
Oceans call for suicide.

Kiss me with delight,
Raspberries tattooed
In my *****.

Strawberry cream
Vanilla, milk,
Ponderous infinity,

Cotton, dough
Honey and sage.

Caustic gastric
You and not me.

Feel my legs,
Touch my thighs,
Lick my lips,
Give me anything
Not direct.

Tie me up in complexities.
**** my head up.
Put me in a dream,
Make me happy.

Blair Butterfield 2004

Those clear liquid drops of fluid that roll down your cheek when you cry. Crying defies the scientific explanation. Tears are only supposed to lubricate the eyes. When tear glands overproduce tears at the behest of emotion...I think it's our way of releasing those emotions; sadness, grief, desperation, anger, shock, happiness, etc. Emotions are weird things. As humans, we have hearts and brains. But emotion also defies scientific explanation. Hearts are only supposed to pump blood, not feel emotion. I guess, in a way, humans defy scientific explanation. We cry, we have feelings. But it's beautiful. Tears fill our eyes until they're blurry and we can hardly see. Tears roll down our cheeks, the sides of our noses, into our slightly open lips, down our chins, and even along our necks. When eyes are full of tears and they glint in the light, it's almost inhumanly beautiful. But tears can also be ugly things. When you cry, tears clog your throat, your nose. You have to breathe in gasping breaths and you can't see because your eyes are too blurry. All you feel is the damp marks your tears left. When you look in a mirror, your eyes are blotchy and your nose is bright red. Your eyeballs are glassy and water marks your skin. After a good long cry, you grow tired and fall asleep. When you wake, your face feels like it has been scrubbed raw, but really it's just the tear tracks. It isn't the tears that are ugly, but the crying. Humans are complex beings. Everything about them is also complex. Sometimes, those complex things are beautiful. Like...Teardrops.

HaHA, I've done it!  I've created a device
That can tap into my subconscious
and translate it for all to hear.

I will win the Nobel Prize!
I will be rich beyond my wildest dreams!
People will LIKE me!

So let's see here....I put on the cap, set the throttobombulator to 8.
Adjust for fuzzy dialation...set the circuit threshold to .79, make
sure the lucid translation synapses are firing...and yes.  The next
words you hear will surely be written in History books one day,
much like Thomas Edison's first phonograph recording, or the
first telephone call!

Neural connection is active.  Transmitting

TRANSGENDERED KANGAROOS FORNICATE IN THE
PURPLE SHADE OF BETTE MIDLER'S THIGHS.  PLEASE
PERFORM ******* AT THE BEHEST OF BUDDHIST
MONKS WITH LISPS.  COUNT TO TEN AND BECOME
A BUXOM BLONDE ***** WITH BOUNCY *******.  
WHEN THE CLOCK STRIKES TWELVE, CINDARELLA IS
ON HER KNEES AND ELBOWS BECAUSE IT'S ******
HARD TO GET LOW ENOUGH TO PLEASURE A DWARF

Oh dear.  This can't be right....now where's that 'off' switch?


JACK AND JILL WENT OFF THE PILL SO JACK COULD
BE A FATHER.  JACK WENT DOWN TO LONDON TOWN
AND PUNCHED THE DALAI LAMA.  EDIBLE *******
GIVE YOU INDIGESTION.  DO YOU KISS YOUR MOTHER
WITH THAT MOUTH, BECAUSE YOU SHOULD. (AND USE
SOME TONGUE THIS TIME)

Oh My...Ladies and Gentlemen, It's clear that my invention
is experiencing technical difficulties.  If you would please be patient---

SATIN BRAS DON'T CHAFE.  NONE OF THE SMURFS
HAD BLUE ***** THANKS TO SMURFETTE.  I WONDER
WHAT MARY MAGDELINE WAS LIKE IN THE SACK?  *

STUPIDSmashPieceSmashof GARBAGESMASH

DoNT LikE iT?  tucK iT bAcK!!

Connection Lost*


I...erm...clearly have some more work to do before it is ready
for the *****--er..public.  I have run into some...translation
errors...and need to re lubricate--CALIBRATE a few things.

Please don't tell my mother.

“If you or someone you know
Has been diagnosed with Parkinson’s . . . ”
You can tell a great deal about UNLV,
My Vegas morning, easy listening
Radio station of choice,
When I first sit down,
Sit down to work in the morning,
One can surmise from the
Target demographics of so dire,
Such sober pronunciamentos, by
DJ Mueller, 91.5 The Source»
Live from UNLV/KUNV
Las Vegas kunv.org/KUNV
The Jazz Lounge with
Frank Mueller, Thursday, 7:00 am-11:00 am.
So don’t say I never
****** your ****--metaphorically speaking—
Herr Mueller, my good friend.
And while we’re on
The subject: WORK.
They never tell you that
Writing is such ******* hard work,
Which explains my need to **** up &
Lubricate the mechanism,
Before I start.
But I digress.

Just in case you haven’t noticed,
In case you had not been taking heed, CNN:
There’s an exciting new, radical ******,
Left-wing personage & presence
Making a play for the main room,
Center stage, center ring
Global Palace & Amphitheater.
I refer, of course to
Pope Francis:
Media-savvy, media mensch,
Crafting his own image,
Playing to the masses,
Choosing the namesake--
Francesco—right outta the gate,
Zip outta some Franco Zeffirelli
“Brother Sun, Sister Moon,”
Saint Francis di Assisi,
Talent show.
Born Jorge Mario Bergoglio,
In Buenos Aires, Argentina,
He worked briefly as a
Chemical technician
(Read: “bomb maker”)
& Nightclub bouncer
(Read: “sadist”)
Before resuming
Seminary studies, 1969.
(Tribute PSA: October 29, 1969: Happy 40th Birthday to a Radical Idea! Bill Duvall, SRI computer room. Late 1960s, the evening of October 29, 1969 the first data travelled between two nodes of the ARPANET, a key ancestor of the Internet.)
Pope Francis is a master at technology,
As any aspiring Global Wizard must be.
He has a special web site:
“Papal Bulls & Other *******.” Palabras del Papa Francisco - News.va www.news.va/es/source/vatican-va Translate this page PAPA FRANCISCO. AUDIENCIA GENERAL Miércoles 13 de mayo de 2015. [Multimedia]. Queridos . . .

Francis: Pope in Rome,
Signing international treaties again.
The Holy See himself—that
Wacky Argentinian--
One of many Lefty Cardinals,
Pulls off upset ordination in
Vatican City, God’s little 110 acres,
Our world’s smallest city & sovereign state,
Patrolled by a wacky-striped
Swiss Wackenhut Swat Team,
The Vatican: former playground for Nero,
**** Command Central for Caligula,
Construct of Mussolini’s $92 million
(More than $1 billion in today’s
Ever more worthless,
Ever more inflation soaring money!)
Lateran hush money,
Vatican monopoly money,
Seed money for colonial expansion,
Il Duce signing on behalf of
King Victor Emmanuel III,
Remembered today
Mainly for his short stature, &
Exile to Alexandria, Egypt,
Where he died and was buried.
“Vic the Man,” as he was known
Here in the Principality of Monaco,
“Vic the Man in Monte Carlo.”
But I digress.

Just the other day, Pope Francis
Signed another international treaty,
Recognizing Palestinian statehood,
Generating praise from Palestinians, &
Criticism from Israelis, who said:
“The move does not advance peace efforts.”
“Even this Philo-Semitic pope,
This pope who cares about the Jews,
Even he doesn’t get it,” said
David Horovitz, Editor,
The Times of Israel,
Which is what one would expect from
The guy who wrote the book:
A Little Too Close to God,
Still Life with Bombers:
Israel in the Age of Terrorism . . .

It is tempting to ignore the
Sheer ego, the colossal megalomania
That is Jorge Mario Bergoglio,
Truly a personage of great moral suasion,
Whether he’s cleaning the feet of the homeless,
Dialing up strangers for late-night chats or
Convincing the self-described atheist,
Raúl Castro to give Catholicism a second look . . .
This pope who took the name of a
Nature-loving pauper,
This Pope in Rome,
Francis:  Transformative,
Revolutionary gust.
Pontiff, from Latin: “a bridge,”
Spanning the God-Man divide.
We are talking about a brotherhood,
That survived both Borgia & Medici,
And other assorted kink-fests for centuries.
Just what bizarre peccadillo
Required the resignation of
Benedict XVI, in itself, a
2,000-year first?
Francis:  the first Jesuit Pope.
Francis: the first Pope from America.
Francis: “The circumstances surrounding
Benedict's decision to step down
Will titillate scholars and the journalists alike,
For many years to come,
Given his resignation came so soon
After the “VATI-LEAKS” revelations:
Vatican bank corruption,
Pederast-priest cover-ups, &
Other ignominious fiascos
Requiring significant damage control.

One would think that an institution
With their own royal observatory,
The Papal See’s inter-galactic,
Night-vision telescope, Mount Graham,
Southeast of Tucson, Arizona,
Could steer clear of faulty stars.

I was sitting at the Costa Café located in Indiranagar 12th Main road. To my right was the lane, sporadically disturbed by the wagons of sophisticated residents in the area. A Hollywood music puffed to the left of my ambience that comprised the café au lait hued interior, perfectly contrasted by the white Royal Genware Porcelain cutleries. It was a Sunday afternoon. The glass walls of the café were stained by the transparent drizzles of rain. I noticed my faded reflection on the glass wall. The eyes in the reflection held no sparkle. It was a pale face of a 32 year old adult, who has surrendered himself to Norns. Beards on the face was a sign of mental otiose. A good designation flavored with a terrific Pay Scale over the norms has filled the life with luxury. What more I need! I blinked. Tears occupied my vision to lubricate my eyes dried out of staring for long….
She entered into the Café with meek steps. She was wearing a bottle-green colored Patiala suit. Her head and upper body was veiled under a red Kashmiri stole. The veil was perhaps put on as a shelter against the drizzle. She seated opposite my position, three tables to my left. She slung her hand bag away on the opposite chair, removed the veil and threw it on the bag.

I skipped a heartbeat. I saw her after 11 cruel years. She looked fairer and chubbier. Her hair had grown longer; she managed to collect them into a neat plait, falling along her right shoulder touching her lap as she sat on the chair. A waiter came at her service. She bothered not to look at the menu and ordered a large Latte with a quick rise and drop of her eyes at the waiter. A streak of blue mascara made her eyes more stunning. However, those eyes have lost that magical grace. I remember her obsession for eye makeup. She used to imitate every step mentioned by the beauticians on YouTube. She had a rich collection of eyeliner, mascara, eye shadows and what not.  Her concentration during eye makeup was firm. When I had asked her why she put so much make up on eyes despite being a blessed beauty, she had always replied that the color on her eyes proves her chirpy soul of having me as her partner. Every time when she had cried in my arms after a storm of misunderstandings between us, she had pulled my shirt to bury her face within the hug, and ended up smudging her eye makeup over my shirt chest. She had conceded the smudging as the decay of her soul due to misunderstanding. I had always laughed at her childish theories and underestimated it for being absurd. Now that she had left my life, I realized she was never immature. Each small act of love and care for me was priceless. Her love theories held a deeper meaning that always hued her soul bright. But I was blind. I remained blindfolded by the silky rich aims. Neither could I see deep into her mesmerizing eyes, nor could I shelter inside her majestic heart. It was already very late. Her soul has already decayed along with the colors of her eyes. All that was left behind was a feeble streak of fate.

The waiter appeared to serve her order. This time she thanked him with raised eyes and a forced smile. She added some sugar to the coffee, stirred it and then cupped her palms around the coffee cup to soak in some warmth. I spotted a diamond ring in her left ring finger. A spark of reality exploded inside my core. To re-confirm, I looked at her hair parting on the forehead.  There was a small vermilion mark. She was married.

Suddenly the Hollywood music at the background became loud. I realized the café was crowded enough. The drizzles of rain had stopped and the sky was clear. I could see her reflection on the glass wall to my right. A long life has passed. I failed to catch hold of the most beautiful gift ever. The eminence of huge money earned is limited only to the conspicuous objects. I have already lost the angelic affection of the most beautiful girl I could ever imagine. A vacant chair opposite to me proved the destitution of my soul. Neither have I owned an engagement ring, nor a friend to lend an ear to listen to my mental adversity.  The greed to eat money has left me diseased. What do I have? I blinked. Tears occupied my vision to lubricate my eyes guilty of every moment ridiculed for disparaging the people who selflessly loved me.

as if pulling (on the tab)
prevents the continued closure
of the lunch box
oxen milling brunch
as it unfolds sinewed pasture
green purloining sunlight
oxen munching salami on Thursday morning
mourning the luncheon of Sunday
black black blackberries lugubrious
lubricate brioche freshness
pile of white pile of brown pile of pylons
pile (on the tab)
shots are on me
shots fired no casualties
oxen bagged lunches aren't as fun as pulling punches

The covers move on top of me. I roll on my side, groaning, and open one eye to scan the room for the culprit. Immediate regret. A dull grey light is spilling through the fourth story window, the kind that’s not-quite-sunny but still bright enough to kickstart today’s hangover. A camera falls from the bed-side table and the source reveals itself: Anna’s cat, a tabby, nameless and found mysteriously missing a tail near Saint Denis street four years ago. More groaning, but being more awake than not, I kick the covers off me and look at my phone. December 30th. Scared to check my texts, I’m suddenly flooded with the memory of drunkenly messaging friends I hadn’t spoken to in years, hoping they hadn’t succeeded in overcoming their weekend MDMA habit. Most of the replies went as expected: “Who’s this?”
“No one” I text back, throwing a pillow at my friend, finding an injustice in the fact that I was woken up by her nameless, tail-less cat.
“I know you’re awake.”  
She looks up, smiles sheepishly. When she gets up, the light catches the right side of her face and I can still see patches of glitter. I smile. Say, “I can’t believe this is the last time I’m going to see you.”
“I can’t believe I’m still wearing the same make up I had on three nights ago,” she shoots back.
“Always the sentimentalist,” I tease.
“Yeah, yeah. You’re coming to visit me anyway.” Right.

I smile nervously. Somehow it felt like I was breaking up with someone after a six year relationship. Not the kind where you’re necessarily in love with the person, but the kind you stay in out of comfort and because you don’t know where else to go.

11:51 AM
That morning we walked to a local cafe on Rue Ontario, the one we’ve passed by almost every Friday night for the past two years, sometimes dressed to go to the dep and argue over what mixes best with peach *****, other times wearing Red lipstick, laughing in the 3 am August breeze, cars honking and men gesturing for us to come closer (laughing, you explained to me once, if you’re from around here then you know about Rue Ontario.)

Joi de Vivre. Joy of ******* for cheap. Missed opportunities. Never realizing my full potential. My wife, she doesn’t love me no more.

Laughing.

I know what kind of girl you are.

Laughing.

*****, where are you going?

Laughing.

Frigid ****. Don’t go asking for it.

Dead pan.  “I’m fifteen, *******”

His turn. Laughing.

If you’re fifteen then I’m going to jail tonight!

11:52 AM

We order four polish donuts and coffee, sprinkled with cinnamon. “For the special occasion,” she tells the man behind the counter. Paul. I’m hit with the notion that I probably wont see Paul again either. My feet feel light, I forget my name. Forget to thank the barista as she hands me my coffee. We find a table next to an arrangement of biscuits with all the ingredients labeled in Polish, exchange stories about the first time we realized our vaginas could lubricate themselves. We exchange stories about the day we were born.

“Use protection!” I yell as she walks off. “Never,” she winks.

I forget my name.

That night she's on a flight to Portugal to be with a boy who’s just too busy to see her.

February 2, 2018
12:32 AM
But we’re so in love.
12:41
He’s just been really busy.

2:52 AM
I was so, so, busy.
Read √√

I’m sorry,
√√
I’m so so sorry.
√√


Find your friends!

Search: Anna

Location: 3,263 miles away.

February 11, 2018

I wear Red lipstick, wake up with glitter on my face. Laughing, laughing.

You are in there,  I am certain of it--
Behind the gear's finely-honed,
precision fit  gear..

in to gear
in to gear

into gear..
And I wonder..  do you want out?
The machine  on the outside, self-repairs
Any attempt towards dismantle  from
the external,  is futile..
But the internal,  beautiful girl..

"I don't know what you mean, about 'machine'"
She is apprehensive, those beautiful
brown eyes,  looking up at me..
"Look down, sweet girl"
Her thighs, fully parted,  as I slide
in to her.. those amazing hips,
moving so perfectly with mine,  extracting..

Milking from me, my warm  pulsing *****--
a deeply-penetrating lubricant,  pulsed
deeply into the machine
As if to lubricate its gears..
As if..

But penetrating so deeply, as to now
permeate the insides  of the
mechanization's innerworkings--
turning from lubricant, to that
of a corrosive nature..
Fully coating now, the inner you..

as it turns back now, into that
of a healing balm
Bringing to you  a moment of Light  
  and internal clarity--  
long enough for you to see

    That the machine  is made vulnerable
    by the ever-changing qualities  of
    Love that found its way through
    As the awakened parts within you, for the
    first time.. understand

the machine's love-blocking,  nature
And you begin to choose, mid-******
the machine's dismantle,  from the inside--

'Little by little..

Line, upon line..

Block, upon block..

Precept, upon precept..'

Until we have the chance,  once again..
to do it all again

Bling Bang Boom
Tight little itty-bitty *****
If it don't fit, don't force it
You can lubricate it, so you can appreciate it

Oops, did I say that out loud?
Wearing Dr Dre is a *****, when you make a glitch

**** this gun like a real cool chick
It's barrels aren’t that hot or that ******* thick
And when it comes, blow your brains, while you’re still in cuffs
Elvis offended nerds, while doing those pelvic thrusts
But, he was merely having fun and just being ******* futuristic
While your parents were secretly playing with ***** vibrating plastic

I used to call myself at that time, ‘The Magnificent One’
Hell, I don't call myself that now, but I still believe it to be true
At the time, the frigid white kids would only spectate from the lower balcony
While some ***** white kinds, were leaping over with jealousy, to get downstairs
Because, that's where the black dudes would occasionally perform, their ****** affairs

Bling Bang Boom
Tight little itty-bitty *****
Protect yourself with a little soap bubble
If you want help, I can go pop, without getting into too much trouble

Oops, did I say that out loud?
Wearing Dr Dre can mean defeat when others hear your beat

How can I put the creeps down, when I've been creeping from afar?
I'm another mother ******' world wide pop star
They called me, ‘A Hip-Hop Bipolar Southpaw’
Always left swinging up and down like a friggin outlaw
They warned you that, I would drive all the the kiddies insane
So don't blame me for the way your kids now truly reign

Bling Bang Boom
Tight little itty-bitty *****
Thank you for being so sweet and ever so cute
Next time remind me, to always switch the ****** to mute

Oops, did I say that out loud?

I am the warm lips of sun, that kiss your dew drenched petals,
when you in self oblivion try to embrace, I've gone faraway,
playing  with love struck clouds, dancing, their slips flying,
I am the fire making your body burn with desire,slyly planted

I am the wind, licking pollen off your stamen softly, making you
want me to do that more, sowing goosebumps all over
I am the movement of desire, moving through that time of the day
languid in mornings,spreading fervor at noons and in darkness
coils like a serpent that searches for burrow to snuggle in til dawn

Flow of water am I, that carries you along easily throughout,
you could ease in to me, I am the bed and the fingers caressing,
in my dreams you are the  sneaking fingers of my naughty lover,
in you are my ablutions, my fire is quenched  by your  flows.
I ooze,fluids of many scents sometimes a sprouting spring.
I trickle with  pleasure, lubricate,cross one level to the other.
                                               (C)

I am a writer who hates whiskey.

I feel that I should love it like a writer's only friend,
Like I should sip it from a glass while I scribe with broken pens,
Like I should clink the ice against the sides and swirl it, deep in thought,
And take it neat and raw, in admiration of its steely course.
It should lubricate the mind and guide the flow of words to page,
And since a nervous age I've yearned to say I love the way it burns and maims,
And maybe on a certain day, I'll glug it without choking, breathless,
But for now it hurts my brain to even think about its... smokey wetness.

I've idolized an archetype, a writer with a harmful life,
Sit alone in bars at night, lament the fact that art is strife,
But recently I'm thinking more, and honestly, this can't be right,
I love the pen and paper, and I love the fact it's hard to write.
It's the way that I've romanticized it, fantasized and glamorized it,
Like I could just forget about a novel, let Jack Daniel's write it,
While I sat and focused on my magnum opus, penning parts of it in prose,
I viewed my present like it's hindsight, through glasses tinted rose.

The plane touched down after a long flight that was true torture the whiskey had long since ran dry the coke had left me
with a headache and the movie was freaking me out
****** you twilight.

Had a seventeen year old girl chose this film that reminded me
I needed to call my wife  to tell her I couldnt pick her up after highschool.

Apon landing I was met by strange  men all named bobby  
im guessing to be a cop here you had to all be related
and named bobby  fine with me.

These men unlike there many named brothers across the pond didnt
have any wepons  dear lord man   wait a minute  take mine  what nice men these bobby clan were.
what was even better was this magic land had the sense to give them all the same name   so when you were drunk you wouldnt forget it.
Why did we not do this   the women  as well.

Apon searching my always ghost town of a wallet  one of the bobby
clan replied hey you know skeeter to?
Jesus  I wont even comment on that.

Apon my exit from the airport i was greated by something that was
a true blessing to any hungover eyes.
No sun  dear lord  I also noticed these people had already been drinking.  
For they were all driving on the wrong  side of the road.
London was rainy  cold   and soon to be Gonzo.

My trip began  like any good writer slash reporter slash honrny ******* drunks would begin  at the liquor store.
the bobby clan had taken my moonshine slash rocket fuel
oh well  least the plane wouldnt be the only thing flying tonight.

The strange little speaking man  who drove the taxi rambled on  as i applyed my social lubricate  better known as *****  how i did miss wild turkey.

You fancey a ***?
Sir your attractive but i dont swing that way.
One thing seemed clear these people were all drunk
it brought a tear to my eye  I had finally found my people.

Wanna see the palace?
Why not although  after i had been to cessars  this place seemed
kinda odd how did they expect it to make any money
with it all locked up?

Allthough the silent man outside with the black furry quetip hat was a draw.
The strange big eared  man i met in the garden after  my  
well little fence hop hell  being the human quetip didnt say anything
I figured he wouldnt mind to much.

Well the big eared man was rather plessant  after i offred him some whiskey  sorry  its a little weak  thoose bobby boys took my good ****.
No worries you crazy *******  wanna ***.
****** man Ive  told you guys  im straight.

After my exit  and brief *** kicking seems thoose quetip people are silent but deadly   my face soon kissed the pavement
as one replied  I belive him to be the one that wasnt special said thats what you get yank for speaking to the prince.

These people were worse than i thought  I was a big fan of purple rain.
dont belive a word that man said  besides he's a racesist.
never trust a man who can jump outta a  airplane and glide to the ground  unless he's dumbo.

One place to always seek refuge when in doubt  was a pub
least these people werent obsessed with if i was gay.
yes like a man in a church filled with like minded crazy people i was home.

Sharing a booth with a strange man creature who called himself Keith something  what a drunk genius he was indeed.
rambling hours on end about **** I seldom understood.
but as long as he was buying i was happy.

Poor guy  seems he was in a band  but with a name like the Rolling Stones how far could they go.
after much more rambling and some bad jokes we were off
me and my struggling guitar playing friend  who dare I say it was on drugs  I had met my true idol.

Always up for a prank we found areselves in he country
loading a bmw full  of horse crap  when a old woman from
the mansion did appear  under the inffluence  anger with pitch fork in hand.

As we fled  as well as staggerd  I asked my drunk pirate friend
you know that old woman looked  Paul  Maccartney That is Paul
Maccartney you ****** my sruggling sorta insane friend replied.

Running through the woods drunk at night is always fun
aside from thoose dam trees.
i was knocked flat as if i had been socked by skeeter
as i came to there the  legend stood overtop me
pitch fork raised wait befor you **** me sir please can i have
one last request.

I should have known Sir Paul  replied  happens all the time who should i make the autograph out to?
***** that amigo i pulled out my bible better known as my flask taking   one last drink of fire water  this was gonna ****.

When all the sudden a banshee's scream echoed in the forrest.
******* mate were done for  sir Pauls fear was clear as the wet spot on the front of his pants.

Tree's rattled what kind of monsters did this country hold?
the howl closer ****** Paul get of my back   im not
your old song writting buddy.

From the sky the bashee did appear  but had little or no intrest in me
The battle was epic the *** stained warrior put up valiant  and tearful fight.

The kicker was when she removerd her leg  like some sort of Brittish  samuri  all i can say is hot.
She swung like Mickey Mantle   or maybe it was mouse im not a big footall fan anyway.

Sir Paul knocked stone cold out  the she demon turned her attention to me.   And you!
She howled her leg wepon raised high in the moonlight
it was i know what your thinking romantic.

I deffended myself as best i knew how by falling to my knees crying pleading for my life  dam you bobby clan were are you now.

But to my suprize she only laughed silly yank  help me go through his pockets  befor the old ******* wakes up.
we searched finding many thing's hey whats this a flash light?
****** i should have known better than to look through a grown man's pockets.  
Had I not learned anything from my uncle.


The moon the she banshe with the removable leg
My drunk struggling muscian friend from a little blues band it was a magic night indeed.

As I sit by the fire  looking at it hanging over the mantle.
I wonder when will i again return to this  strange and Gonzo place.
And how the hell I was gonna explain were that leg came from.

Untill next time kids stay crazy
Gonzo

Here is the rub. Riddles we never got. Oh, my.

Serving to illustrate my point of departure from the mean norm.
the rub is the cause of the pain, not its purpose.

Pain is not for punishing, whatever that means to you.
Pain is for correction, for your own good, ditto the meaning part.

The rub is where touch goes too deep, applies too much braking,
the humdrumconundrum setting on life's pace (get the app) in the age of Google.

For more time than Google or its finders could agree, with me, to believe,
I have been waiting for this moment to arrive. There are places where that rubs.

Fiction, that does lubricate real ification, doesn't it.
I never noticed, until now. That's why liars prosper, maybe.

Jah, I saw it comin' on my back, in a safe place, two days before leaving Bien Hoa, Spring
1969. The White Album, Koss EPS6's, tight, no sound, dark, I wandered homeward.

Not all war stories are lies, some are parables, some are prophecies.

I waited until now was firm in every mind involved,
then launched the grand old party line to God almighty, in my mind

Radioman manifested from the dreams and events that seemed as dreams seem,
upon that time, when I lay waiting, near Bien Hoa.

Look homeward? Where? I have no memory, I've been Bourne Borked, why me?
Was I the hero of the story I was in? I must have been, I am alive and I am old.

And there, the acid message burned through my sckull and I played something
like Russian Roulette, with a character named Ken Kingman, who grinned like a devil.

All this in my mind. Where were we then, we Googled men? We friends on the grid?
Flesh and bone, muscle and blood, for God and country, do or die, don't ask why?

Airborne, All the way, ah, we sang that cadence in our dreams, even after we got the joke.
But we was always only me, we are imaginary, in my mind, extensive, albeit, still mine.

I didn't know.

No, you could not have known, that was just me, the meek little me speaks,
peeking beneath the banner over me. You never crossed my mind.

The show runner speaks up and has nothing more to say, we run on, fo' a long time,
lemme tell ye gotamighty gonna cut chadown. Run on, fo' a long

The point. Fret not. Been there done that entered the vernacular on my watch, I saw this.
I'm ready. You ever been slammed, honest t'God slammed to the ground, breathless?

breathing brings us to the center. Home is where your heart is. That's a riddle, BTW.
Where a thought is first thought seems to establish its eventual trajectory, don't you think?

We be comin' to some real that normal can fix on, soon, waitin's what we do til then.
No pain.  No rub, no, friction fiction uses warm a weary mind as to what might be.

When ye think a bout it. Something in the way we thought must 'ave mollified it, the rub,
above, with **** we let slip by. The aitch's do that. Aitch sounds. 'ushin' ohmmmm.

By nine, trucks old and new
line the street, spilling into the yard.
Jim Beam and George Dickel
lubricate the chord progression.  
Drinks go down, volume goes up.
I’ll be reading in the backroom
as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr.
When the last burning drop of homage
trickles down his chin,
he gyrates across the floor,
flat-top in hand, looking for Jim.
Some other picker takes his spot
by the fireplace and bellows
about a cheatin’ heart.  
One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn
from under the pale, bearded face
of a picker who stumbles into my room,
collapsing across the bed.
His dreams of Ryman Auditorium
go without interruption.
I slip to the floor,
settling down on the raft.
A slow, steady current carries
us downstream to another shaded
swimming hole.


© 2011 C.T. Bailey

My summer sweats bloom from a grass rag,
Scratch another hardly blasting out a calibrate,
Can I break, strap out hacker doozy bluemoors,
Caught from an out sound, an out frowned
Blackening the coffin sweet cough lubricate,
Shackle high tops on pipe dream loft shakers,
Clover feelers, four hitter on lucky seven collar,
Depth sin protector, **** I ain't wrath looter,
Nor do poppa sizes on some puke lips locker,
Key switch for gates hellish donor, back loner,
Course you see, I seek seep suckled *****,
Not some subtle soul (gap in skirt) poker,
Forever reaching lines, bust knuckle lifters,
Cracked rage like Nile is flooding wealths curlers,
Jewel duplicate for ruby cuts on roofless lust,
Symbolise another and I'll grabble force an honour,
Sober up soppy crotch rummage coper,
Scan cell prison ament Scholar's "repent!"
Mace battle X axel swop blunt round passel,
Cost more on pepper rubber rock relation,
Patient prep operation, cramp dilation,
Dial engage **** sudden blocked injection.
Cast nocturnals ominous above monuments,
Men fall like weak's race for joy's division,
Attend pro's vision, pure as skies probations,
Pack pampers protection tracks premonition,
Flat lines before lap times, clenching half rhymes,
Hop hotter than blues croft in dusks knots,

it's no fun to hear my bones creak
feel my back give way
here and there a twinge and squeak
as i climb stairway

chorus:
pass the WD-40 spray
lubricate my joints
if you take my aches away
you'll earn some extra points

there's a rainstorm in the air
grandmother used to say
as she'd sink into her chair
her legs giving way

chorus:
pass the WD-40 spray
lubricate my joints
if you take my aches away
you'll earn some extra points

no denying, i feel it coming
Sir Age is knock a-knocking
impatiently his fingers strumming
on me under-stocking

chorus:
pass the WD-40 spray
lubricate my joints
if you take my aches away
you'll earn some extra points

there's little fun in getting weak
but we can't turn back the clock
so instead turn other cheek
and hope my jaw won't lock

chorus:
pass the WD-40 spray
lubricate my joints
if you take my aches away
you'll earn some extra points.

There's no rest for the wicked. The plot thickens. The blood thins, then bleeds out onto the thorny thickets biting at bare shins, which sickens you to death times ten. Now you're feeling like a tiger in human skin. You begin setting off on the prowl for substance and the meaning of your life akin to the World's splendor. It's sustenance revealed to your awoken third eye of insight. The mind's eye of you and me, sees bountiful trees breathing and leaning towards your sweeping winds of change. Swaying towards every gaze, starstruck and amazed, chasing the dreams of completing this crazy maze of madness. Tears of joy, tears of sadness, tears that lubricate the gears that moves giant machines for years to come. May they be for peace, safety, and fun. Genes of the spirals behind our tattered, denim jeans holds molecular machines within us. Tiny gears set into motion, creating particular love potions, pouring out into vast oceans of debris floating in currents aligned. Strive for hopes and meanings sublime. Finely layered lines of poetry shine out from the beating hearts of timely martyrs chiming, rhyming, and climbing up the never-ending step ladder of the divinely. Ascension from the tension of the rotting vine of hatred, did I mention the sign of sacred love, which swoops down from above? The dove from it's perch of light, stares directly into your sight. Bright, dazzling displays amaze you more by the day.
Chasing and facing the challenges of anxiety, stress, and worry, obstructions of a 10 story building crumbling down all around you. Dust-bellowing clouds to choke and blindly block your steps around the destruction. Using torn limbs as ****** crutches, stumbling amongst dozens of slain wretches. Bets are placed for survival of the quickest and fittest. The wittiest guy you know is fastidious as the insidious destroyers of tomorrow.
This poem I borrowed from my soul and mind. The lines have spilled out onto shining paper reflecting the light from the mind's eye. All these meaningless rhymes will move tides that waves to you goodbye.

If poetry is a vehicle
I turn on the engine
Move through to high gear
And take myself away

If poetry is a vehicle
I lubricate the hinges
Wash off the dirt
And chase a sunny day

If poetry is a vehicle
I exhale the toxic emissions
Put away the sat nav
And find my own way

If poetry is a vehicle
It will take me to my destination
But will teach me on my journey
To better days

Set this in motion
In this mind matter ocean
Your words are brain lotion
To lubricate my emotion
With this potion
With a notion
Of devotion
A heart in locomotion
Physical commotion
So glad to have choosen
So glad to have woven

Woven and weave
Like ivy leave
Entwine a maple tree
Under which you rest with me
Like pedals and stem
Fabrics set in hem
Gold in mold with gem
You wrap my brain stem

I am deceased with love
For poetry's sake You are my Medusa
And I your ******
Your piercing eyes solidify my heart
And turn my love for you into stone
Suffocate me with affection in our little gas chamber
The Gestapo will keep intruders at bay
Set me ablaze with madness
Let my schizophrenia watch from behind with awe
De-exorcise me from this angelic daemon LOVE
Medusa lubricate our union with your venom
I shall see to it that the Wehrmacht safeguard this treaty
African queen of infinite tantrums
***** love and hair
Ovid has already said that you are the jealous aspiration of many a suitor
What more shall I want

I walked in ready to take you and the moment you looked me in the eyes you new it.
I walked to you grabbed your neck and stood you up. I kissed you biting your lip as my grip tighten.
I undressed you as my hands traced every inch of your body.
Tracking over every detail.
Soon naked I pushed you down on your belly and I lifted your hips your *** sticking up for me i grabbed it as I spread you for me see that beautiful bush and all, I bit down on your *** and my teeth follow down your thighs .Your already wet? I haven't had a taste yet. As I sink my tongue down and into you getting a full taste of you. Licking my way to your **** as i continue to lick and ****. I flip you on your back and continued until you *** for me.
But I can't stop I've had a taste and now I want more my lips and tongue twist a new language across your **** made just for you and your body.
I continue as your moan grows lowder encouraging me to do more licking and ******* as you continue to *** again and again for me dripping down my chin as I lick it off your body. Licking your **** and ***** following around to your cute ***.
After you've *** for me a few times I stood above you kissing you as your hands reach out for my belt. I can feel my hands already found how wet you are.
My fingers twist a tale as the find there way inside you I can feel you *** again as I rub for the right spot feeling you dripping as your hands already done away with belt button and zipper. Grabbing my **** as you *** again. I sit up as you begin to take me into your mouth. I feel your beautiful lips and tongue my body freezing up Asif forcing me to let you continue.
Soon I'm throbbing and dripping with your saliva.
I kiss you as I grab you lifting you into my lap as you grind down on me. Feeling me push deep ,your hips turn n twist.
We continue more n more until you feel me swelling inside you I grab your hips and push you down hard as you feel me now throbbing inside you, you *** for me again as I pull you up and throw you down on your back. Grabbing my **** as your *** still dripping down my shaft n ***** helps lubricate my final stroke as I *** on your chest belly n ****.

a brand new
atmosphere
to breathe in
made of
whispers
from my dreams
lifts my heavy
heart to light
new stardust
decorates
the night

brand new
air to
fill my lungs with
scent of nectar
to collect
and lubricate
our twisted
tongues with

brand new
sweetness
like a wholly
different
world bloomed
to become it

If you're going to bow
kowtow to the ***** in this ocean that is life,
you'd better get a snorkel tube and lubricate your nether parts,
broken promises and the hearts that drown of those that bow down just float away,
if you're going to stay
stay tall
tread lightly
don't fall,
we all break and at times we all take a hit,
just keep shoveling the **** away,
if you're going to stay.

It's greener somewhere and the ocean's air is a soothing balm and the storms subside and it all seems calm,
somewhere
we'll get there
if we keep
paddling.

You lubricate me
Make me run smooth
Careening through traffic
With nothing to lose
All oiled up
No need for an inspection
Plug in GPS
Destination:  no affection
Ignore the check engine light
Pour in another quart
Traffic is pretty slow
And this one may abort

i like self-destructive girls
ticking time bombs
****-faced, little things
to work for with max rewards
medicine love lubricate
to letting all this gore down
my throat

Forgive me...
I have "spoken wrong" again, been unjust with my words
Forgive me...
I have been eccentric, I haven't followed your personal ideals
Forgive me...
I am on a path to the other side, I am drinking
this "poison" down, it will be my own "undoing"
Forgive me...
Somehow these activities have been the grease
which lubricate the "devils wheels"
Forgive me...
I am underneath all "normalcy," I have seen things
that the children "should not ever see"
Forgive me...
There is a path I have tread upon that bares your mark,
I didn't see the mark before hand but "knew better"
Forgive me...
You are the one! You will show me the way, I am yours
to ****** upon all knowledge both right and wrong
Forgive me...
I will always be in your shadow, I am poor but still
I have "spoiled myself" with work that is lesser

~You will never say two simple words,
they are beyond your comprehension~

~You the "mature," "wise" old one with years of
learning and "pure" precision~

~I am always in your debt, you never need me,
I alone make the untrusted decision~

The two words you would never say are simple:

*~I'm Sorry~

Winter of 2003
I won't hang my head past February,
Or let the obstacles I face stamp my feet into a statistic.
You left me, 10 years old, with a baby that's hand coiled around my finger like a ring that was two sizes too small.
I would use sweat to lubricate his grip but,
He was to precious to remove, so I let him choke the circulation until it looked like your eye makeup before you left for "work".
Painful.
A 10 year old, with ten fingers, perfect to cook 10 chicken nuggets I got for $2.67.
He only had ten teeth but I only had 10 dollars that you earned from spending ounces of Smirnoff wasting away your body to the underground public.
Early Spring 2003
He calls me 'Mom' instead of 'Maddie'.
The bathtub in our apartment would always slump,
I would grip handfuls of his rolls to save him from drowning,
water leaked into the grout of the tile, drawing mold between the carpet causing our conversations to rot,
They were no longer sweet,
The expiration date was February 1st  when you planned another baby.
Summer 2008
You kicked me out,
I spent each day with my feet scorching,
Barbecuing on the charcoal grill of Las Vegas streets.
I couch hopped from friend to friend,
sometimes slept in the rain gutter to stake out for the night.
I still knew your hours,
kept my journal close, dragged my guitar case behind me, occasionally stopped by the house to see him all grown up, only at 8 years old.
He would leave chicken nuggets on the front window sill, the dragging of my guitar case gave me away.
September 10th, 2011
You let me back into the house,
My little brother of 8 years old slept in my bed for 3 weeks straight.

1.4 million teens become runaways each year.
I won't let you stamp my feet into a statistic.
Runaway isn't my choice.

Fall 2014

Still standing.

The cost of living fast and lean
And getting what you're owed
Is feeling always in between
And strung out on the road

I sink into the motel bed
And stare up at a water-stain
I take a pill and rub my head
And listen to the rain

The blues and reds are easy meds
Embalming for my brain
They drive the creeping minutes out
I count the loss but gain

The easy buzz of Secanol
and bourbon brings me peace
One-hundred-forty minutes flat
A fleeting, sweet release

I run my fingers through my hair
Relaxed, as I come to
I lift the satchel off the chair
I've got a job to do

The headlights through the curtains
Trace a line across the floor
I pull them snugly closed and
Flip the deadlock on the door

Pull the slide and pop the spring
Wipe the action with a rag
Lubricate with kerosene
Reassemble, slap the mag

I shake the cardboard ammo box
The rounds are heavy, cold and clean
I flip them over, one by one
And press into the magazine

The sun is slowly rising though
I cannot see the light
As sure as I'm about to blow
Tonight will be the night.

my father,

how he ever got laid
is beyond me,

how I was conceived
is beyond me too,

when all you want to do is
work
work
work
there’s no room for affection
towards your children and
no companionship towards
your significant other

but he strives so much
for a reputation of being
“the hardest working man alive”

and when he’s not at work,
he’s talking about work
or his fathers before him
and how they were even
harder working men

a whole blood line of
genetical hard working
people that ends right
here with me

I can’t blame him for that,
that’s all he knows to talk about

but why spend most of your time at work?

maybe he doesn’t like his home life?

for that, I can’t blame him either,
if I had his home life,
I’d be at work all the time too.

I just can’t fathom the idea of
growing up and spending most
of your time away from your
loved ones and be with people who
are hand picked by someone else
whether you like them or not

and for what?

for money?

money is just the lubricate that makes
getting ***** by the world a little
more tolerable and a little less raw

unseen by many
and directly deposited
into their bank accounts,
to unevenly disperse
amongst conglomerates
who hold the keys
to the little things
you need for
comfort and convenience
only to be left with very little
or none of it

if brilliance is footsteps
then I’m stepping off and
away from this revolving
record of solipsism

my father was never there
for me physically or emotionally
but always had me financially,
all of which, have taught me
the same thing...

nothing at all.

so whatever
I’m doing
in my life,
I’ll let him know
the same thing
he taught me...

nothing at all.

what I’m doing with it
will be a gift to myself

and only belong to me

but what do I know?

I’m just a **** mopper
at the local peep show.