The rat smells the air, squeaks in alarm and runs off.  
Black boots come into view.  With the sharp tip of a sword.
I crouch in the dark, behind the bins of *******.

The boots walk on by.  The sword, poking into corners.  
All the while, eyes of glowing red, within deep sockets
of a musty old skull, scan for signs.

I look at my hands.  The festered and rotting flesh.
My bones showing through.  The stench unbearable.
Glad my nose fell off last night.

The timing was off.  It was just a little sneeze.
PLOP!  Right in my gruel.  
Every one at school laughed.
Skeleton Puberty *****!


And now, Dad is mad.  Just cause I waxed the hearse
and didn't use "Ear Wax".  You could hear him rattle
all day.  What's wrong with the "Toe Jam Wax"?

Wait till I catch sis.  She went and showed mom my
mags.  "Raw!  Boo To The Bones".  I'll bet dad had
mags like these when he was a teenager.

They have good stories.  The pics are just a bone-us.
I think it's safe now.  I'll just sneak into the house.
Just sit and look innocent.

How did you find me?
A whole trail of pieces?  Sheesh!
I know.  I'm grounded.  Not for the wax job?
The Mags!?.
Skeleton puberty *****.



My Halloween offering for Oct. 12th

Barefooted teenager
Sliding D&G; watches
Into a bag filled with
Addidas shoes.

It's bonfire night in the cities
Of England. Come out, children,
To the heart of the city and
Bleed it dry.

Betray your hunger,
The greed that consumes you
And the indifference bred into
Your marrow.

Bred by despair and shiny
Baubles in window displays
And worn by all those
Stars in those glossy mags.

It's a consumer's world; it's about
Instant gratification, not hard work -
Even if work could be found.
But why work if you can steal?

Bonfire night. Like when we burn that
Guy. Fawkes? He tried to destroy Parliament
But teenage angst and thugs could do in a few nights
What his barrels of gunpowder couldn't.

Alcohol and **** to last a
Short lifetime. Shopkeepers in the way
Should know better; You can't fight
Irrationality. It has no conscience.

******, loot, burn like in those
Movies about war, Grand Theft Auto,
And a million other games. Just keep
Moving so you never have to actually think.

But just in case, let's blame someone else:
Let's blame race, the Met, politicians,
The schools, the economy, parents -  
Society.

Burn, London. Burn, Birmingham,
Burn, Manchester, Burn Liverpool.
Burn, Gloucester. Burn, burn, burn,
But let tomorrow be just another day.

Bonfire night. Every night.
Till they put out the fires,
Tend the wounded and
Bury the dead.

I don't feel it, You say. And, pray tell her
name, my sir, that i may find she thee and prithee

Bear me off to southern sounds, fallow fields,
an altar ground, a garland rope of singing springtime snows.

this may be more than i can--;;
                        YOU
                        ARE
 ­                       NOT
                        WOR
          ­              THW
                        HILE

and i had such an awful dream last night--

you said, Bronwen, my love;
and i could not sweep her hair from the floorboards
beneath which you hid your ***** mags from mice.

because you tell me about it.

                                                            ­              WHOAM?
you speak of gOd like dOgs & i am worthless coinage
in the sewers. the sewers find my dress still hanging from your bones.
your bones your bones your piano finger bones
kiss me again

until my lips swell my throat bleeds i do not want you to know how much i crawl spiderlike through the trails of hair in the drain as the autumn leaves the summer leaves the spring buds freeze over hell i am not i am not listening pan-drum please let me say this one last thing:;

he is your accordion player the ***** player man who speaks fluent french and inflected english he is your accordion player on the pipes-----

and you say i do not feel and i reply,

this is too bad too late, chuckle replay as your fantasy walks through the door my team my team she is porcelain lovely see the perfume in your synesthesia colorblind goat footed grandiose Cesar with epilepsy she is your dream she is she is she is!

&meanwhile; the trumpet in soul still plays solfeggio---

1 2 le 3 4 1 2 le 3---1 2 le 3 4 1 3--le 1 le 3 le 1
she is the discord of the seventh in the tenor line
she is membranes she is rain she is towels

                      LEIGH **** IT

if only if only you weren't so lonely i might call you mine and bring you back homely.
IF ONLY-----Charles weren't so busy while you

stare at silver spoons and cherub smiles

and cupid calls you home again.

I sat with Billy in his caravan
buffeted by winds and squalls
and at other times
roasted by summer heat
scalding the tin roof
lolling in oven like conditions
as we drank luke warm beer
[the fridge only periodically worked
when hit with a hammer]
and in cyclical freezer like conditions we drank
supermarket smartprice whiskey
musing over edgeland legends
and urban decay
and towns with no cheer
which was always the cue for some
Tom Waits
[old record player/vinyl/much drunken sing-alongs]
the cheap liquor slipping down
a bin burning outside
ragged crows cawing
and Billy laughing saying
he has reached the heights of consciousness
he calibrates with the saints
on the level of spiritual vibrations and
he knows this because he’s done the tests
found a book in a skip
putting the world to rights with a divine glow
safe in his kingdom
slouched over vintage **** mags
in Billy’s caravan.

Hey you,

Just got back to the flat, not the same without you sat at the top of the stairs typing away.

Reminders all over, showing me of your recent presence.
First sight at pile of dishes that you washed,
Empty grissini breadstick's box,
Still some tzatziki and houmous left though.

Need a ****, can't deal with this already.
Ahh, that's better. A tooth-brush is missing,
Spa Covent Garden Sanctuary, Irish Meadow?
Will upstairs be any better?

Must pause, plug in interent hub. ****,
Back to old self so soon.
Duvet squashed up to the back wall,
Can almost make out your imprint.

I'm reluctant to throw out the remaining *** butts,
Seems as if you're still here.
Half drunken mugs of tea, finished quiche,
Can't believe I was so sick on the last night.

Bad dreams yesterday, two in fact.
Both being hung over ridiculous heights.
No good with that, big fear.
A sign of pressure bearing down?

Held council to rights, no joy.
Start the whole drawn out claim again,
Lot's of boxes to tick and fill.
Toss pots, must bite tongue and get on.

Doctor’s waiting room has mags for women only,
Nothing to chill my nervous mind.
'But are you going to faint on me?'
I made it through allright, lost some blood.

ECG scan on Thursday, for what though?
Chest or heart? Probably heart.
Mid-life wake-up call come early.
Do I really want to know? I suppose.


Where's my lovely? I need her so.
A cuddle, a smile, all better.
Action time- phoned all bills, extra time.
C'mere money, pretty please?

What thong then? Suspicious...
I was right (kinda)! ***!!!
So excited, so touched, wow!
We will work it out Dee.

Thoughts of wild horses scare me not,
Something feeling very right, not at all wrong.
Hardest thing ever has already been done-
Finding that special little someone.

We sat there in a group a circle of freaks with a doctor more ****** up than all of us put together on  the side.
So John anything you care to share today ?

I paid little or no attention to the ******* rattling off about feelings or all that other **** I truly could give a **** less about .
I was in this asylum and that was ******* embarrassing enough .

John?

realizing this paid babysitter for the insane wasnt going to leave me the **** alone untill I said something or told him the voices in my head were telling me to buy a hand gun and do a little spring cleaning .

I replied .
Yeah Doc I'm good not really feeling like sharing or talking or giving my opinion about crazy Larry's compliant about the martians trying to speak to him through the microwave okay.

John we try not to joke about are fellow residents .
Yeah whats not to joke about we got people in here who talk to walls and write letters with there **** okay!, Sad part is they spell way better than me for **** sake Deny here is scared of cats and I tell you I never trust a man who's scared of ***** alright .

John tell me about Gonzo.

Is this a ******* joke doc ?
I asked half ready to flip the **** out yet considering ****** would probably be frowned upon when it came to me getting out of the nuthouse.

Alright doc what the hell do you want to know?

Well is he a separate personality from you ?
No ******* it's me okay you ever hear of a nickname I'm sure your wife has one for you like needle **** the bug ****** .

The doc looked at me like well he looked at me like a guy who went ape **** and got locked in a nuthouse .
John is humor how you keep people out from knowing the true you?

No doc it's how I deal with the *******  who ask me stupid questions like that.
I sense you don't like me asking you questions.

Oh doc it's not that honestly you see I hate life right now and being locked up surrounded by dipshits who think a wild night is getting a extra graham ******* before night night time well it's kind of ******* lame okay that and I want a ******* drink and maybe a piece of *** okay!
Not from the doctor that is get your minds out of the gutter hamsters cant you see I'm using humor to be serious  here?

Yeah I know who gives a **** now enough with the foreplay kids.

Mr Robbins can you please re-frame from using vulgarity .
Can you believe this guy ? , Or the fact I can spell vulgarity and who said nothing good comes from a nervous breakdown .

I took a moment to look deep inside I saw a forest  and other pretty gay **** I'm kidding it was more like a brothel and Disney land combined  minus that hot duck with heels but enough about Selena Gomez.

Before the doc could say anymore stupid **** that would probably land me spending the rest of my life sharing a room with a guy that enjoyed making wine from his toilet I had to unleash a rant from hell and put a end to this this **** fest of a write cause it's happy hour and the drinks are a calling kids.


Look doc I'm going to tell you  like this.
Yeah sure I went a little a little nuts tried to **** somebody took one to many pills drank a little to much parked a car in the bar hey what can I say least when i woke up I didn't have far to go for cocktail in the morning.

But all the **** aside were all ******* nuts in this life hell there's more dudes and chicks sitting at home just building up pressure waiting to off one another like some bad mafia movie .

Yeah more ******* blood has been shed over that ******* word love than I can write about .

Yeah ******* I can sit here talk about about my Godammed feelings let me tell you what I'm feeling some of those good drugs that nurse with the great **** is handing out .
Her and me and some time alone that's what I'm ******* feeling sure it's just some cheap thrills and some ***** hot *** but hey thats about as wholesome as apple pie and ******* baseball pal.

So if your done with your stupid as questions I'm going to get the **** out of here hit on that nurse make her laugh and get shot down and probably go practice some self love alright amigo .

And let me also point out look how about some better mags in this place hey you ever tried to ******* to better homes and gardens?.
Yeah talk about a bush oh how a love the fall and a fern don't ask.

Mr Robbins.
Shh I put my finger to the docs beautiful full lips .

Look I'm crazy and I'm dam proud of it so to poetically put it shut the **** up cause I'm out homeboy.

With that said I left this circle of fellow freaks behind slammed my pills took my copy of home and garden and treated her like a copy of my favorite intellectual magazine hustler .


See and who said I didn't believe in happy ending.

Stay crazy or you just might go sane .

Gonzo

All those I-hop visits in the middle of the night, all those nights sneaking out of my room and hanging with you until 4 in the morning, or saying I was sleeping over my friends house when I was really sleeping at your house, OR OR OR you sneaking into my room at night and crashing on my floor till morning.

I never regretted any of it. I still don't. I didn't think it was wrong. I still don't. You were like my big brother you still are. Yeah I knew my father and stepmother wouldn't approve of you as a friend (nor would the approve the misfit gang our friends) so I kept you hidden, hence all the sneaking around.

You called me panda growing up and would "******" anyone else who even dared to try to call me that. And Hell I was one of the few people who was allowed to know what your real name was (don't worry I wont put it up here).

We've been through hell and back. As Mistress and sub, Enemies, romantic interest, then siblings. We've been on one hell of a roller costar. But through all the yelling and the fighting that we seemed to always do, We always would find a way back to each other and bee there for each other through thick and thin. We always had each others back and would look out for one another.

You would sometimes take me on your dangerous jobs. I was always in that beat up old ford focus you had with an oversized hoodie on and your iPod blasting in my ears. You taught me how to fight with a Tanto (the dagger version of a katana sword) well two tantos, so now I am quicker throwing a knife then most people are pulling the trigger on a gun Something I am VERY Proud of, (See you don't need Hideous disgusting GUNS to defend yourself) AAAAANNND I am very deadly with just my hands and body (AGAIN you don't need stupid pointless nasty guns to defend yourself). And I taught you how to keep your temper in check (which rarely ever happened so maybe I didn't)

We let the other see sides of ourselves that we never showed anyone. You were for the longest time the ONLY person who knew what my ex boyfriend Jim did to me, and so there for were the only person who understood why the song DONT STOP BELIEVIN' By Journey would make me curl up in the fetal position and have such horrible flashbacks I would hyperventilate and cry my eyes out and shake uncontrollably  (Still get flash backs but no more hyperventilating or crying, now I just freeze in the middle of whatever I'm doing and shake really badly). I was the only person you would open up about what happened to your family, about the car crash, that is until a few months ago when you finally wrote a poem about it and started coming to terms about it.

I was the one who stood up to you and got you to see that your drug addiction was destroying you. that youw ere better then the "low life" **** you were portraying yourself as. I was the one who made you see the light (your words not mine)

You were the one to show me that I wasn't worthless, or a **** up, or a waste of space that my family was better off without (though I still struggle with that everyday).


I met you when I was only 12 turning 13, you were 15 turning 16. Now I am 21, you 24.

THATS 9 YEARS!!!

you left my life from the time I was 15 to 19. FOUR YEARS! you left my life because of your drug addiction, Those four years felt like A part of me was missing. My big brother was gone. The person who had been there for me through everything. The one who would always make sure I was ok and had a smile on my face. the person who when I was mad would sneak me I hop pancakes into my room when my stepmother or father wasn't looking. The person who was always there in the shadows making sure I was safe, Always protecting me.

But then you came back and I welcomed you eagerly. You promised me you would never leave my life again. that you realized that it was stupid. that you missed your sister to much. I was fine with that. I missed you too.

You finally got clean and free of your addiction. though you still did dangerous jobs... Which led you to getting shot and almost dying. But when you got better you quit those jobs and focused on other things. Like your Boyfriend and the love of your life who later became your wife.Then you started a family, You wife and your beautiful daughters. Gosh I love my nieces. You started to see the light. And I was happy to be a part of it.

But then Magnum (your kinda father figure) got hurt really badly and BAM you changed. You started to revert back  into your old self, dangerous jobs, cold hearted, distant. And nothing anyone would say would get through to you. You wouldn't listen to any of us. Not Mags, Not your wife, not your boyfriend. not even me.

THEN CAME THAT DAY

It was  September 15th 2014.


You posted a poem on here and I commented. and we did our usual Banter back and forth of you saying something and me being stuborn and not letting it go. you FLIPPED out and told me "I DONT WANT TO BE YOUR BIG BROTHER ANYMORE SO ******* AND LEAVE ME THE HELL ALONE!" Goddess that hurt so badly

It felt like you had shot me, stabbed me, ran me over with an 18 wheeler. You ripped my heart in two. You told me to get out of your life. But you Promised you would never leave mine! You've been there since I was 12 years old and now you just want to leave? AFTER EVERTHING WE'VE BEEN THROUGH! you want to just wash your hands of me and be done? You want me gone? You want me to leave? DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THAT HURTS ME??? The ONE person THE ONE ******* PERSON who has always been there for me is now GONE!!! **** VANSIHSED DISAPEARED!!!

My big brother. the person I could always count on. :'( Gone... just Gone.. it left a gapping whole in my heart.

I tried to be angry. And I still am. THIS ISNT FAIR TO ME!!!!!! I DIDNT DO ANYTHING TO DESERVE THIS **** IT!!!!

WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME HAWK???? WHY??? WHAT DID I DO WRONG???? HOW COULD YOU HURT ME LIKE THIS??????

I've slammed the door on you. I cant handle this pain anymore. I cant do it without falling apart. I've slammed the door and locked it. And I don't know if I can ever unlock it. You've hurt me. Worse then you've ever done before. I don't know if I can ever let you back in. Yes I love you. That will never change. Yes even though you don't want to be you will ALWAYS still be my big brother through and through. That will never change.

But sometimes even though we love someone. we just have to let them go. Some times we have to protect ourselves from the pain they cause. even when we don't want to. Even when we want to cling to them and beg them to stop hurting us.

Maybe someday in the future I will be able to unlock that door and we can start again.. but I don't know. I honestly don't know.

I want to open that door so badly though. I want you back into my life. its only been a week and I already miss you like crazy . I miss my brother.

But how can I know you wont hurt me again? Is it worth letting you back in? You broke your promise to me about never leaving my life again. You broke your promise. How can I trust you again?

i.

a child’s edition of your father.  in which

the unused
scarecrow

is found
hiding
the *****

mags, the cigarettes

of a sister’s worry, and other

inanimate
markers

of accounting, meant to be

traded
for fireworks, for fat frogs
not given
to snake…

that is, had the boy
lived
to unsee

the water
he didn’t
make…

ii.

(my handle on death)
is holding
a book.

an overfilled
pauper’s
grave / transcends
its archaic

reference
to belly.  all mothers

are single.

Tired of the same old scenes around here.
Thought hey im gonna explore space.
Introduce Little space dudes to bad habbits
nudie mags and maybe share a beer.

Yeah it'll take some getting use to
anti gravity bars.
Pack up the whiskey and of course the kids
honey cause were moving to mars.

People kinda look at me like my
mind did slip.
just cause im going round collecting cans.
Hell with what else are ya supposed use to
build a spaceship.

I made a few changes it runs of corn whiskey
instead of rocket fuel.
You might think im crazy.
but when my home made rocket takes off
it'll be cool.

Say goodbye kids to your ***** grandfather Bert.
Hey darlin from up here I can see down your shirt.

It's three seconds to lift off people
ya might wanna move your houses as well as cars.
Cause lord knows whats gonna happen.
in my attempt to move to mars.

Its time for lift off crap honey do ya mind lighting
fuse.
Hey kids after this maybe we'll get a reality
show.
I mean if we dont die  that would only make the local
news.

The homade rocket ship rattle and shook.
I knew i forgot something I mean it's a minor thing.
Steering wheels are overrated guess I should have got a book.

And as it lifted off into the sky.
I screamed like a little girl.
I forgot I was affraid to fly.

Yes I kinda fell short on my quest to the stars.
cause i crash landed in New Jersy.
Well kids sorry but Atlantic City is probaly
a bit more fun for daddy that is.
So much for moving to Mars.

My sports car’s bumper is redder than your pale lips,
And it’s Parrelies blacker than your silver flecked hair.
The TSW mags are genuine chrome, not only the lightly rooted tips,
And the smooth, glossy bonnet not wrinkled like your dial from care.

The seats are a plush tan, not a stark, unsightly white like you,
And the V12’s rev is an unmistakeable sound.
The speedometer reads 360, if ever beaten, only by a few,
And when I’m done it resides in splender, and not six foot underground.

The shatterproof windshield is clearer than your misty grey eyes,
And its model number reads 2004, not a dozen and three score more.
The Ferrari I own is the best that money buys,
And it makes me proud to say, “It’s mine!”, not a nuisance for 40years I’ve bore.

Now when Top Car says Ferrari 2005 I’ll need another,
But my love for you is timeless and can be filled by none other!

My brother is a pilot,
Not just any old pilot...
A tail dragger pilot,
Champions
Cubs,
Super Cubs.

Planes made of spars and fabric,
Held tight
By screws
And dope,
And glue.

Airframes part wood,
Part aluminum,
Part steel.

Fuel tanks sloshing in the wings
Either side above our heads,

Set the mags,
Hand crank the prop,
Turn on the fuel,
Hear her pop
And roar to life.

We strap in
Single file,
Controls fore
And aft.
And rev 'er up
To join the winds.

Once up,
He yells, "She's yours!"
And I am piloting
Or rather gingerly sliding her
About the blue,
Skidding right or left,
Holding my breath,
Wondering how much I dare
To tip her up there in the air.

"I've got the stick!"
He yells, and I let go.
"Don't be afraid to fly it!"
"It's just a machine!"
"Make it do what you want it to do!"

And we are diving toward the ground,
Then bringing her up and tilting 'round.

"Give her fuel when you tilt to turn!"
He demonstrates, and we are standing
On the wing,
Perpendicular and looking to our left and down.

I know he's right,
That I am timid in my flight,
And he is brave with years of joy,
A pilot fearless since he was a boy.

"You want to land?"
I hear him say.

"No, that's alright!"
"Not today!"

To prove how safe it is to fly,
He touches down,
Then bounces high,
And vaults us back into the sky.

We flit across the fields,
And then,
He flies beneath the power lines,
To show how spray planes catch the ends
Of fields.

He skies the plane at either end,
Then bee lines it to the badlands' edge
Where suddenly we're swooping down
Between the canyon walls, and sinking low,
Then, rising, turning to our right,
He sails us toward sun's dying light.
My only hope is that we'll land
Before the night
Erases all our sight.

And sure enough,
The air is calm;
The night is coming on;
Gusting breezes are all gone.

We gently settle once again,
Back at the ranch,
I help wheel her then
Into her waiting hangar pen.

Life can be lived all in a panic;
Fear fills us with a lingering dread,
But we should live our lives
Just like my brother said.

"It's just your life, so make it do
Whatever it is you want it to!"

And when you're changing
Your directions, throttle up!
Don't let the fear of living
Bring you to a needless stop.

Why I ever lamented
your advertisement
in the NY Times
Your sickly look, it's she you took
swept off her feet
I know how it feels
Found her again on the internet
while you were desperate
In Haifa, a million miles away from English without an accent
You hunted her down

A clown you are
She, editing dime novels by candlelight
manufacturing romance for the racks of Walmart
Next to the car mags and tattoo girls are those things
women read
gotta make a living somehow

So she can fill in the spaces between your attention
with her imagination, stoked daily from corporate romantication
She can live in her bubble world and see what she wants
eternally and think it's real

So she's better for you than me
because your love isn't real, never was, never will be
Both of you from the land of fake nobility
Prep schools and Ivies that lead to jobs
in sparkly NYC lobbies and decaf mochachinozeenos
with a side of 100 calorie pastry

Before dinner at the Italian restaurant
where you can show you are loved and love

And you, with your fakery
You shallowness, can collect your trust check
And work just a little, and blow the cold coals of her love once
in awhile to get the corporate machinations again in her head
to spin a fantasy romance

I'll look for it at Walmart.

the boys will pick up sticks
down by the river bank and bury
themselves in swampy soil and inch
thick ***** mags from before they were
twinkles or considerations and their fathers
ignore their quick wits and charms--let their
curiousity coil around the garden stakes till
it chokes the tomatoes and lays itself across the
blushing rhubarb that mama worked so hard to
cultivate.

Papas, why didn't you chop down those trees or
tame the stinging nettle, the roof is riddled with
bullet holes and the rifle in the attic is still warm
still vibrating on the shelf, buried in moss, in
wisteria dropping in and growing up the sides--
she can make a man more beautiful but still hide a broken a home

you had a chance to guide your sons

you had a chance.

The children would be packed and ready days in advance.
At first, we packed for them, but as the years passed,
They were experts at rolling clothes for twice the space,
Using laundry baskets rather than luggage tripled our carriage.
We'd leave early Saturday morning, almost night,
Departing from the Ontario weather like a bad odour.
Kathleen was away at school.
Mags and Andrea were in their teens now.
Ten years of March madness was terminating.

Herself would sit shotgun with Triptik and thermos.
The kids would awaken south of the Ohio,
Hungry, grumpy, and eager.
She had it all planned out.
Crosswords, colouring, wordfinds, books, Gameboys, lace,
Sandwiches, juice boxes, treats of all sorts,
For another twenty hours on the road.

I invariably imagined our Mini in the return lane
As we crossed the Bluewater Bridge into Michigan;
Trip over, kids exhausted, us, quiet, subdued,
Just wanting our own bed.
But twenty hours on the I-75 lay ahead,
Turn left at Knoxville
For Myrtle Beach, sun, tennis, seafood,
Separation.

I found no peace in our final escape.
Conversation with her had halted.
A round-trip of dialogue in my head.
She'd said, I bought a house.
Words wrapped like an egg-salad sandwich.
It was our March break.

When I was a kid, round here
purple sweet peas carpeted common ground.
Thick, and ripe for picking
in their depths we found
all manner of detritus,
single shoes and old **** mags.
My friends and I went roaming
with our secrets and five ****.

Down on Slade Green marshes
fearless urban rangers,
ankle deep in water
never minding dangers.

Our private wilderness so bloomed
and we sank into its mire.
Running, jumping, singing, shouting
our youth ablaze, on fire.

Untouched as we believed it
that ground had seen its share,
of blood and fear and wanting,
we didn't know (or care).

Needles in emplacements
left by no one soldier brave.
****** was young back then,
at least, around our way.

In my peaceful ignorance
of 'paedos' underground,
I hid among the rusting hulks
waiting to be found.

Underneath the tower block,
the thirteenth floor my home,
a dragon in the ******* chute!
Imagination sown.

Each time that the fire brigade
came screaming to a halt,
to extinguish yet another mischief
for which none would be caught.

Our little speck of landing
Mrs Kingsley kept so clean,
a bizzy lizzy at her door
she visits me in dreams.

Skin shiny over knuckles
a worn-thin wedding band.
Her flowery dress, neatly pressed,
a duster in her hand.

And I guess she's been dead years now.
She was old as could be then.
I never knew, the day we moved,
I'd not see her face again.

But, move we did,
from 'the flats', to number ninety-nine.
We had gardens - front AND back -
my own bedroom, yes! All mine!

From the windows of our council house
the world changed, all around.
The sweet peas were uprooted,
houses claimed my common ground.

So, I don't own it any more,
if I ever did.
But home is home, wherever,
inside I'm still that kid.

Who ran and jumped and shouted,
a childhood held dear,
and though I think "I've come so far"
my life began round here.

Expectation

We bow to our gods
Our demigods

Take sides
Give credit where we think
Credit's due

***** at the other

An exercise in hope
Despair, disgust

An act of rebellion
Worship, boredom

A little entertainment
Perhaps

Oh Holy Night is blasting
But it's business as usual

What did we expect?

The Donald's having another
Rad hair day

Merc is mixing up yet another shot
In the arm of the unsuspecting ignorant

Monsanto's engineering one more
Pernicious stew for dinner

World War Three pending
At Arm's Dealers Inc

A trader goes Kachung

A raven drops his doodoo

Really
What did we expect?

Shiny stilettos go clack clack

A homeless man shivers in the rain

The guy on the bike gives ya the finger

Grandma turns on and drops out
Can ya blame her?

Another heart-breaking day
For the broken

A little goodwill
For the willing

Martin Lawrence sneezes
And we can't help ourselves

Hilarious

Charley Sheen loses his knickers
In repeat spin

Another bad news nugget
For the rag-mags

What did he expect?

The jingle bells jingle

It's tinsel time again
The gift can go bye bye in the mayhem

In this the season of high expectation
It's good to have less expectation
To worry less, to feel more

Share
See what happens
Expect a miracle
or
Expect nothing

The gift
Ah the gift

The present
Presence

That is all
What did I expect?

2015 for the present

Gonzo

Is often called a barroom poet slash outlaw .
Who's work has been featured in some mags that clearly do not care about good taste or morals .

When not living as a total recluse drinking his liver silly and watching ****, He often enjoys long drives by himself picking up hookers but enough bout his ex wife.


His short stories usually revolve around some demented ******* much like himself .

He currently resides in hell or as others call it North Carolina .
Where him and his dog share drinks and take turns being the designated drunk driver .


His work will probably give you a contact high or at least the clap.

Enjoy .

And stay crazy .

Gonzo

Lonely black lab on the path behind the garages I used to sell crack
Went to the shop, brought some ****, blacked out windows on a cab
spells danger backwards that's Reg Nad
So I'm looking all around me, back at the cash grab
Where old ladies clutch black bags and wear glad rags
I'm not glad lad, '*** the world looking like rag mags
with girls selling soul on corners right now
where their daddies sag lag on the track; Baghdad
where war heroes return home back to the smack
and clap traps where they get and share the clap; sad
or when little kids run to their mummies 'cross roads all alone
to their home that used to be a home but now is a dome for the dome
so food can be put on tables that rust and break and the kids get hurt
child protective services, what's worse
I'll tell you what's worse living in a hearse
or a one berth tent on this Earth where the ones in charge
discredit your worth
or better still when they ignore your very existence
so we're standing here screaming and pleading
bleeding and scheming
because there's no food in the cupboards
quit dreaming
stop the screaming
Lousy demon fiending, feeding the sea men with *****
on seashores the sea's ****** sing hee-haw the horse of remorse
hits the veins and see more the way the see-saw zig-zags
back to the black labs on lagging black paths
behind the garages I used to sell crack

John Lee came home at ten to three and kissed his wife so easily and had some tea.
But Mr's Lee had other plans involving paint and lots of cans
oh dear me.
Stripping walls in halls and pasting paper was not the kind of weekend caper that would float his boat.
He grabbed his hat,put on his coat and in the farewell note he wrote,
a single line,
'next time you plan to decorate, my darling, better not to wait 'til Friday night,
a man's a right to relaxation without the need for decoration, just paint it white'
Mr's Lee was sad that he had gone but she knew that life would go on and so it went,
her time was spent in knitting mags and smoking endless cork tipped ****,
oh what a loss.
But she knew that she'd find one day a man that would quite clearly say,
'dear,
you're the boss'

Alpha Pistols
It’s a nice warm summer’s evening in 2004
The cool man was on top of the Manchester tower block
He fires down with various guns at his lower targets
There is a builders yard two hundred metres away
The fork lift trucks zip about and disturb his sleep
When they reverse their beeper goes Beep Beep!
This riles the man and makes him madly dance
Round his one bedroom flat on the 22nd floor

He grabs all of his guns in a heavy holdall and rushes up
To the very top of the building where he can pop them
While wearing only his bleached white Y-fronts
He sits down by the edge and gets ready for war
From up here he can hear the fork lifts beeping
He grimaces and shakes his head then opens his bag
And removes a small tape player then presses play
The 12 inch version of So Alive by Love and Rockets

His chrome and ivory Colt 45 follows with three clips
Clicking off the safety he aims at the reversing trucks
Their blinking orange light and street lights illuminate
Y-front man aims and fires at the small trucks
His gun is loud and follows thru the muggy night air
Bullets spark off concrete blocks and one hits home
Going thru the windscreen and shocking the operator
Quickly reloading he fires again till the mags are empty

There are 30 different fork trucks in the yard and area
He killed one driver and wounded another in the leg
They are all instructed to to their job while able and alive
Next he gets a 45 calibre Grease Gun with long barrel
He opens the shoulder support and readies his toy
He stands up and sprays the yard from the hip
His grin sez it all as his sub gun blazes away
Two fork lifts collide and drop their pallets of bricks
Reloading he fires at the upended yellow trucks

Their gas bottles explode and cremate the drivers
His song is on a loop and goes on forever
With raised arms and eye to the sky he dances
Round and round he spins to the goth song
Next he grabs his Al Capone 45 Tommy Gun
It has a round mag full of bullets good to go
Standing and firing from the shoulder he goes
The recoil pushes him away from the roof edge

He leans into it and the muzzle flash is serene
The slugs impact all over the yard and 6 trucks
Snapping chains piercing tyres hitting drivers
Two are killed one hurt three are terrified
They still operate their vehicles as ordered
Second mag time and more damage below
A gas bottle blows in an orange blast of debris
While this occurs beepers still beep and lights flash
It’s a huge yard and there are many targets still

Slowly but surely he eliminates them like a surgeon
His next gun is a BAR Browning Automatic Rifle
This he shoots on single shot bipod lying down
It’s a powerful 7.62mm gun and simply superb
Each shot hits home and kills 4 operators dead
Explodes rear 3 mounted gas bottles and more
But the BAR does full auto too and he we go!
*** ****** full ******* auto 30 shot mag wham

Soon empty rounds down range more hits
The fire has been devastating attrition mounts
There are far less fork lifts now in use there
Burning trucks and dead or dying operators cry
In his head he’s the rock n roll man on a roll
I’ve got more guns to fire and now it’s my cod piece
Browning 7.62mm machine gun with bipod
I quickly pull the parts from my bag to assemble
Then a belt of 250 rounds with 1 in 5 red tracer

Happy it’s ready I click off the safety and fire
I’m sat down and hose fire downwards
I slowly move the gun left to right left to right
Impacts spark and in the night air tracer guided
My 250 bullets lasts fifteen seconds and is it
Nothing intact remains below working wise
I took out 30 fork lift trucks and operators
Many are dead some injured others hiding
Lastly I use my M1 Garand rifle with blank ammo

I fire eight rifle grenades at the builders’ yard
I pop a grenade on the end angle up and fire
The blank shell launches the grenade up and down
It takes seconds to fall and hit and Bang Boom Blam!
I fire 8 at random spots of the huge yard
There are no more reverse beepers sounding
All fork lift truck use ceases forever due to me
Now I can peacefully sleep in my room at night
Do not destroy my slumber!

Freight rumbles by
While sweat drips down
And the crackle of a speaker
Still sounds;
Echoing through the tunnel.
A body turns, fidgets, moves
And itches with the heat.
The feet they tap
And dance with boredom
Wishing *** had a seat.
A woman leaning upon a beam
Aggravated by beads from pores
Moves to take a walk, it seems,
But soon she leans some more.
Too hot to move, til a breeze is felt
Coming down the rails
A beam of light, first one than two
And not freight, but silver and blue.
The cool air flows like whiskey at a funeral
Sour, but necessary, to make it through the ride;
And you sleep through stops instead of wondering who the hell had died.
Thumbnail clippings float down the car from conversations had:
Comfy chairs, squatter’s nation, opiates, and ***** mags.
Subtle "sorry"s linger in stale air from bumps that people make
While ******* suits, stiff as cadavers, snoot and snivel of mindless drivel
And look around in shame.

School mums running
Clever and cunning

Lipstick and blusher
Are good for chatter

Shadows and bags
Weekly girl mags

Gossip time and toast
They all have a boast


Slimming and fitness
Goal is the witness

If you've tales to tell
Their your best pal

Talk behind you back
Of all that you lack

Mums school gang
Go off with a bang

They'll give you hell
Then say oh well
No reason to yell
You just don't gel

prepare for the hittin
once the beat punch in
ya know im deadening
rude awakening
wake n bake never split the cake
50 50 down the middle
i want it all cant fall
if im the tallest never the smallest
regardless if fools hate this
ill just take this rhyme
and rip you up
like a machete
chop ya body up
then grind it like spaghetti
smoke phillies
ya know the dealie
got girlies sloppin the *****
til they silly
mortal like combat ya die quick
trying tie with
the wickedest
emcees im sick of this
everybody sounds the same
once i ignite the flame
burn all of those
til a salt grain
endure in pain
like hells household strong hold
on the game ill never let go
******* hoes
Been down from the jump though  
fools that hate get kidnapped
and drags puff buddha bags
afro with a red bandana flag
**** the source and the other mags
despise ****
i could trade in my rhymes
and itll amount to price
of fo jags...

I've been hearing a lot of people talking smack about the officers.
They say were a bunch of stuck up, privileged, *******.
That ain't far from the truth for the officers of other factions.
Not for us though.
Because in the Army,
ranks are earned,
not given.
They are earned through empty casings and spent mags,
through broken bones and shattered hopes.
Through the finished ammo belts and used grenades.
When you're promoted,
its not a ceremony,
its a declaration.
A declaration that you fought through the carnage,
the bodies and the mayhem.
You, of all the soldiers in your unit,
are a badass.
Even if you maybe aren't right in the head.
The chevron on your shoulder is a reminder.
Whether its a good one, or a bad one,
that's your choice

I SEE THIS ,
FOR THE TRUTH THIS IT IS,
THE IT THAT I WANTED FOR ALL,
THE IT I FIRST GLANCED AT,
THE IT I WILL HAVE FOR NOT JUST THIS LIFE,
THE IT I WILL HAVE FOR ALL LIVES,
THIS IT IS MY MAGS.

My brother is a pilot,
Not just any old pilot...
A tail dragger pilot,
Champions
Cubs,
Super Cubs.

Planes made of spars and fabric,
Held tight
By screws
And dope,
And glue.

Airframes part wood,
Part aluminum,
Part steel.

Fuel tanks sloshing in the wings
Either side above our heads,

Set the mags,
Hand crank the prop,
Turn on the fuel,
Hear her pop
And roar to life.

We strap in
Single file,
Controls fore
And aft.
And rev 'er up
To join the winds.

Once up,
He yells, "She's yours!"
And I am piloting,
Or rather gingerly sliding her
About the blue,
Skidding right or left,
Holding my breath,
Wondering how much I dare
To tip her up there in the air.

"I've got the stick!"
He yells, and I let go.
"Don't be afraid to fly it!"
"It's just a machine!"
"Make it do what you want it to do!"

And we are diving toward the ground,
Then bringing her up and tilting 'round.

"Give her fuel when you tilt to turn!"
He demonstrates, and we are standing
On the wing,
Perpendicular and looking to our left and down.


I know he's right,
That I am timid in my flight,
And he is brave with years of joy,
A pilot fearless since he was a boy.

"You want to land?"
I hear him say.

"No, that's alright!"
"Not today!"

To prove how safe it is to fly,
He touches down,
Then bounces high,
And vaults us back into the sky.

We flit across the fields,
And then,
He flies beneath the power lines,
To show how spray planes catch the ends
Of fields.

He skies the plane at either end,
Then bee lines it to the badlands' edge
Where suddenly we are swooping down
Between the canyon walls, and sinking low,
Then, rising, turning to our right,
He sails us toward sun's dying light.
My only hope is that we will land
Before the night
Erases all our sight.

And sure enough,
The air is calm.
The night is coming on.
Gusting breezes are all gone.

We gently settle once again,
Back at the ranch,
And I help wheel her, then
Into her waiting hangar pen.

Life can be lived all in a panic.
Fear fills us with a lingering dread,
But we should live our lives.

Just like my brother said.
"It's just your life, so make it do
Whatever it is you want it to!