[A] is for
An
Archer with
An
Arrow through his
Adams
Apple, very
Applicable, to the
Ample
Amounts of
Amiable
Attitude,
Adorning his heart, in
After
Action
Attributes, that impart, the
Admiration, of
*******, in this
Acting out of
Arrogance bit. he is,
Astute, in his
Allure, and
Aloof, in the
Air, of
Aspiration, in which, he was
Alienated in the
Agony, of
Asking
Assassins, the
Aforementioned. lights, camera,
Action. recipe of the
Ancient
Admirals of
Avian
Aliens, that
Attacked, with the
Arms and fists, of
Arachnids, now
Aching to be
Activated in sudden
Allegiance to the
Answers, of the truth.
Accumulating wealth for
Anarchy's of
Abating
Angels in
Atrophied,
Alchemical
Academies of the ever
After life .. . of silence.
****** strengthens in these
Accolades of violence, in
Alliance to
Appliances
Appearing in the
Arson of
Apathy, happily, to
Anguish in the
Amputation of my
Abdomen, if it meant i'm a real
American, even, when, only
Ash, remains.
Acclimating in its remains
Attained, the
Articles of my pain, in
Affluent shame, next time ..
Aim... oak
[A]?

[B] is for the
Bah of
Black sheep, and
Big
Bit¢hes, fat cats,
Bombarded in the
Blasted,
Bastion of
Blackened
Benevolent
Blokes,
Berating the
Blasphemous,
Be-seech, of
Brains, to feel
Bad, about the
Blotching of
Binary codes, erroding, the
Blanked out
Books, of
Belittled
Bureaucrats,
Bowling
Back the
Bank rolls of
Betterment, from the
Back of the
Blackened
Bus, as i'm
Busting guts, in the
Bubbling
Butts, of *****
Benched, but
Beautiful, in the
Battle, in the
Bane, of existence.
Baffled, in the strain of
Belligerence, in
Beating the
Beaming
Butchery into
Billy's
Broken
Brains, in
Bouts, of
Battering
Bobby's for
Bags of
*******
Before, affording to
Build
Bombs, is just
Beyond
Breaking
Beer
Bottles on the
*******
Benefactors of
Boulder
Bashing with the
Beaks, of
Birds, with no
Bees. just a
Being, trying to
[B]


[C] is for the
*****
Courting the
Choreography, in
Computerized
Curtains,
Circumventing the
Cultured,
Contrivance of
Chromatic
Cellars,
Calibrating, to the
Contours of
Calamities,
Celebrating the
Cyclical,
Cylinders of
Cyphered
Calenders,
Correcting the
Calculations, of
Crooks
Coughing, in
Courageous
Coffins of
Canadians,
Collecting
Cobble stones, from
Catacombs, in the lands of the
Conquered,
Capturing the
Claps of thieves, sneaky
Cats, of greed. its
Comedy. oh
Comely, to my
Cling of
Cleanliness, and for your self
[C]

[D] is for the
Dip *****, as they
Delve
Deeper in the
Deliverance, of
Deviant
Deities,
Dying to
Demand
Dinner
Delivered in the throws of
Death,
Deceiving
Defiance of
Darkened
Dreams,
Demeaning that which
Deems the
Dormant of the
Dominant, to be
Demons of
Deviled
Devilry,
Dooming us for
Destruction.
Deploy the,
Damsels in
Duress.
Defiled and
Distressed,
Detestable and
Dead. in the thump of
Drums,
Dumbing down the
Debts of,
Dire regrets.
Dissect the
Daisies of,
Disillusion, in the current
Days,
Diluting night into
Dawn,
Disconnecting the
Dots of the
Dichotomy, and arming me, in the
Diabolatry, of,
Demonology, as i watch me
Dwindle away, the
[D]

[E] is for
Everything in nothing,
Eating the
Euphoric
Enigmas of
Enlightened
Elitists,
Exceeding in the
Extravagant
Essence of
Esoteric
Euphemisms,
Escaping the
Elegance of the
Elements in the
Eccentricity of
Eclectic
Ecstasy,
Exhaling, the
Exostential blessings, of inner
Entities, and renouncing the
Enemies of my
Ease,
Easily to appease
Extraterestrial
Empires,
Extracting the lost
Embers of
Enlightenment, in
Excited delight, but to later
Entice, the fight, and
Escape, like a thief into the night of
Everywhere,
Entering the
Exits of
Elevators leading no where, to
Elevate, this useless place,
Encased in malware in the
Errant
Errors of
Every man,
Enslaved, of flesh and
Entrails,
Enveloping the core of
Everything, that matters,
Enduring, the chatter, of
Evermore,
Ever present in
Everybody
Ever made to take
[E]

Funk the
Ferocity of
Foolish
Fandangos, with
Fanged
Fanatics,
Fooled in the
Fiasco of
Fumbled
Fantasies,
Falling through the
Farms of
Freely
Found
Fans,
Flying in the
Fame of
Fortune.
Fornicating on the
Fallen
Fears of
Fat
Fish getting their
Fillet of
Fills.
Feel me in the
Frills

Granted with
Generosity.
Giblets of
Gratitude and
Greed,
Greeting the
Goop and
Gobbled
Gore,
Gleaned from the
Glamour of
Ghouls in
Gillie suits,
Getting what they
Got
Going, in the
Gratuitous
Gallows of a
Game
Gaffed by
Giants.

Hello to the
Horizon of
Hellish
Hilarity, in
Hope of
Happy, to
Heave from
Heifers, to
Help the
Hemp
Harshened
Hobos in
Heightened
Horror, to
Honor the
Habitats of
Hapless
Habituals,
Herbalising the work
Horse, named
Have Not, in the
Haughtily
Hardened
Houses of
Happenstance.

Ignore the
Ignorant
Idiots, too
Illiterate to
Indicate the
Indicative
Instances of
Idiom in the
Irrelevant
Inaccuracy of
I,
In the
Intellect of
Idle
Individuals,
Irritated with the
Irate
Illusion of
Idols
Illustrated upon the
Iris,
In the
Illumination of
I.

******* the
Jobless
Jokers, and
Jimmy the
Jerkins from their
Jammie's, in
Justified,
Jousting off the
Jumps, in
Jokes, and
Jukes of
Just
Jailers,
Jesting for
Jammed
Jury's to
****
Judgment from the
Jitter
Juiced
Jeans of
Jesus.

**** the
Keep of
Khaki-ed
Kool aid men,
Kept in the
Kilometers of
Kits,
Kin-less
Kinetics,
Knifing the
Knights of
Kneeling
Kinsmanship,
Keeling over the
Keys of
Kaine, with the
Karmic
Karate
Kick of a
Kangaroo.

Love the
Levity, in the
Luxurious
Laments of
Loveliness,
Lovingly
Levitating in
Level,
Lucidly.
Living in
Laps, of
Lapses,
Looping, but
Lacking the
Loom of the
Latches
Locked with
Leeches of the
Lonely
Lit
Leering of
Lightly
Limbs, that
Lash at the
Lessers in
Loot of
Lost letters,
Lest we
Learned in the
Lessons of
Liars.

Marooned in
Maniacal
Masterpieces,
Masqueraded as
Malignant
Memorization's of
Motionless
Mantras, but
Merrily
Masking
Mikha'el the
Mundane, who is
Musically
Mused of
Monsters,
Mangling the
Monitor, but
Maybe just a
Moniker of
Marauders.

Never to
Navigate the
Nautical
Nether of
Never
Nears.
Not to
Nit pic the
Naivety of
Nicety.
Notions
Neither take
Note
Nor
Name the
Noise of
Nats in the
Nights of
Neanderthals
Napping in the
Nets of
Ninjas

Ominous in the
Obvious
Omnipotence of
Oblivious
Obligatory
Opulence,
Of
Other
Oddly
Orchards
Of
Offices,
Ordaining
Orifices in
Offers of
Ordinary
Ordinances in
Option-less
Optics,
Optionally an
On-call Oracle, in
Optimal,
Overture.

Perusing the
Pestilent
Pedestals of
Personal,
Parameters,
Pursuing the
Petty
Plumes of
Piety with the
Patience of a
Pharaoh,
******* on the
People with the
Penal
Pianos of
Port-less
Portals, in the
Paperless
Points in the
Palpal
Pats of
Pettiness.
Poor, but
Prideful.

Quick to
Qualify the
Quitter for a
Quick
Quill in
Queer
Quivering of
Quickened
Questioning,
Queried in the
Quakiest of
Quandaries.
Quarantined to a
Quadrant, of
Quagmires.
Questing the
Quizzing of
Quotable
Quartets.

Relax in the
Relapse of
Realizations, and
React with
Racks of
Rolling
Rock to
Rate the
Rep of the
Rain-less.
Roar in
Rapturous
Rendering of the
Random
Readiness in the
Ravenous,
Rallying, of the
Retinal
Refracting of
Reality.
Realigning, the
Righteous
Rearing of the
Realm, and
Retrying.

Steer the
Serenity in
Sustainability, and
Slither through the
Seams of
Slumbered
Scenes.
Secrete the
Solo
Sobriety of
Sapped
Sassys,
Salivating upon a
Slew of
Stupidity,
Steadily
Supplied in
Stream,
Suitably
Slain in the
Steam of
Sanity.
Sadly, i
Still
Seem,
Salvagable.

Topple
The
Titans in
Tightened
Terror.
Torn
Territories
Turn
Turbulent in
The
Teething of
Totality.
The
Telemetry of
Time,
Tortured of
Torrent
Theories,
Told in
Turrets of
Transpiring
Terribleness, from
Tumultuous
Tikes unto
Teens,
Trading
Toys for
Tea.
Thrice
Thrusted upon by the
Tyranny of
Tanks.

Unanimous is the
Ugliness in the
Undertones of
Undreamed
Ulteriors
Undergoing the
Unclean in the
***** of
Utterly
Upset
Users,
Uplifting the
Unfitting
Ushers in
Underwear-less,
Ulcers,
Undergoing the
Ultra of
Uberness.

Venial in
Vindictive
Viciousness of
Vindicated
Venom,
Venomously
Vilifying the
Vials of
Villainy in the
Veins of
Vampires,
Validity of
Valuable
Violence, is
Valiant in the
Vaporous
Vacationing of
Vagrant
Vices.

Why
Whelp in the
Weather
When you can
Wave to the
Whirling
Wisps,
Whipping Where the
Whimsical Were
Way back in the
Wellness of
Whip its,
Wrangling my
World,
With
Waterless
Worms, as
War shouts are
Wasted in the
Wackiest
Walks of
Waking
Wonder.

Xenophobic
Xenogogue, of
Xenomorphic
Xeons, turn
Xyphoid, in the
Xenomenia of my
X, my
Xenolalia of
X, to
***. im lost in the
Xenobiotic zen of
Xerces, on a
Xebec to the
X on the map.
Xenogenesis, in the
Xesturgy of my
Xyston
Xd

Yelling
Yearned from
Yelping.
Yard
Yachts
Yielding, to the
Yodel of
Yeah
Yeahs, to the
Yapping of
******
Yuppie
Yoga
Yanks, over
Yonder.
Yucking it up with the
Yawn of a
Yocal.

Zapped from a
Zone i
Zoomed with
Zeal in the
Zig and
Zag of my
Zapping
Zimming
Zest, upon a
Zombie-less
Zeplin.
Zealot,
Zionist, or
Zoologists,
Zeros or ones, just
Zip your
Zip locked. and
Zzzzz
Zzzz
Zzz
Zz
Z
Zero

I've heard of tornadoes
Mangling buildings and structures
Or hurricanes
Destroying landscapes and neighborhoods
Or earthquakes
Splitting the earth in two

But no one told me
A girl with green, wandering eyes
Would be my most destructive
Natural disaster
Mangling,
Destroying,
Splitting
My stomach, head, and heart
Stripping them from my ground

the poem her belly marched through me as
one army.   From her nostrils to her feet

she smelled of silence.   The inspired cleat

of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
                            her hair was like a gas
evil to feel.   Unwieldy….

                                        the bloodbeat
in her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has

—. One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off).   It was spring

sun-stirring.   sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered.   a valley spilled
its tickling river in my eyes,
                                              the killed

world wriggled like a twitched string.

There must have been seven chimneys
In the great house on the hill,
I never actually counted them
While the house was standing still,
But the years had brought their own neglect
And the house was well run down,
By the time we pulled the place apart
For a new estate in town.

We couldn’t just use a wrecking ball
It was too immense for that,
When we took it brick by brick apart
We could build a hundred flats.
The chimneys were the hardest part
For the flues had twists and turns
As they rose up through three storeys with
Each hearth, soot black and burned.

It had been the home of Dukes and Earls
Back in Victoria’s day,
With gardeners, cooks and pantry maids,
All with a place to stay,
There were ***** and more for the gentlefolk
For the vicar and local squire,
And after the garden parties they would
Huddle, in front of the fire.

We chipped away at the chimney stacks
And gradually brought them down,
Brick by brick to the local tip
As red dust covered the ground,
But then a guy gave a sudden cry
During a working lull,
‘I think I see, what it seems to me,
The top of a human skull.’

The top of a human skull it was
Of a child, no more than six,
Jammed up tight in the chimney there
Imprisoned by old red bricks,
We managed to pry him loose at last
And lifted him from the flue,
But then the horror came home to us
For his legs were missing, too.

We saw the mangling hook they’d used
That lodged in one of his ribs,
That tore the body apart to clear
The chimney, for His Nibs,
The kid was lodged in a twisting flue
They knew that his case was dire,
And tried to make him climb up and through
By lighting a smoking fire.

We couldn’t tell if the sweep was dead
Or simply allowed to choke,
When someone ordered the fire lit
And sent up a cloud of smoke,
Perhaps he screamed as the smoke had streamed
And the fire burned, but slow,
He was just a sweep, his life was cheap
Compared to the guests below.

The little lad’s in the cemetery
He was laid with special care,
With everyone but nobility
Gathered to lay him there,
It’s a page at last from a cruel past
That we turned, but won’t forget,
Great wealth destroys our humanity,
Have we learned that lesson yet?

David Lewis Paget

It must be buried under the skin,
what makes your body tremble.
What makes your taste consistent,
just here for me to use.

You came on bended broken knees,
spread on top of a rustled bed.
You left with empty breaths,
blushing sweat, and blends of regret.

Your smile speaks so well of you,
but your dignity hides it under covers.
With a twinkle in your eye,
and a flicker of your smile.
Gave me battered pleas,
just to have you pleased.

Crude interpretation of sounds and breaths,
Legs loose with a rug dress.
Working record rhythms of nervous lips,
heavy syllables swaying off those hips.

Your hands and wrists like chords,
pressed around my skull and neck,
mangling hair and skin with defect.
And that?
That is the steadfast scar I have,
from loving you.
Although love doesn't pass through here anymore.

I find that chromium-vanadium steel,
while holding glimmer and shine
through much abuse,
is harder to hone
to that razor-like edge
that truly makes chopping a breeze
(watch the fingers, please),
merely mangling fine fruits
and tomatoes, instead.
(just tilt your head, thus)
It's a tool best left
for whacking at meat,
as its heft and its strength
make short work of bone;
more cleaver than scalpel,
if truth will be said.
I've always preferred
the high-carbon alloys,
though now out of fashion
in today's haute cuisine.
While rusting and blackening with age -
not the type you'd put on display -
the blades stay as keen
as the day they were minted,
and wipe down nicely on sleeves.

1

The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
     as he beats of humanity wrapped in a shroud.

Well he beats of the **** and the killing of war
     and the mind mangling sorrow we blithely ignore
          and he beats of combatants who’re dying deceived
               while the merchants of ****** count profits received.

And he beats of civilians so savagely slain
     and of bundles of bodies cast off in distain,
          and he beats of the butch'ry that's feeding the flood,
               clogging drains with our flesh, filling swamps with our blood.

And he beats of cadavers, by famine defined
     that has ravished and plagued since the dawn of mankind,
          and he beats of big biz letting oranges decay
               while a child suffers scurvy and passes away.

He beats and he pounds till our consciences gnaw
     and his fingers are battered and ****** and raw
          and his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.

2

The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
     as he beats of abuse that we try to becloud.

Well he beats of the barons and princes and kings
     who have broken broad backs with their clubs and their slings,
          and he beats of the toll of divine royal rights
               when the droit du seigneur sullied white wedding nights.

     And he beats of the bribes that the powerful make
          to the pale politicians who wax in their wake,
               and he beats of the waifs bound by chains to machines,
                    and of slaves sporting nooses, and other such scenes.

And he beats of the tyrants in clerical garb
     who have tortured with ******* and thumbscrews and barb
          and he beats of decrees claiming all men are free
               while ignoring cowed thralls and their agonised plea.


He beats and he pounds till revealing the flaw
     and his fingers are battered and ****** and raw
           and his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.

3

The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
     as he beats of the strength of the rebels so proud.

Well he beats of the spirit the rack couldn’t break,
     and the fragrance of flesh that was burned at the stake,
          and he beats of gray witches submerged in a pond,
               being swum to nirvana and even beyond.

And he beats of the minds that could never be chained
     by the faith that was living while ignorance reigned;
          and he beats of bold battles when Spartacus rose        
               having tired of shackles and slavery’s woes.

And he beats of bent women who’ll fight to be freed
     and will never give up till they finally succeed,
          and he beats of their progress, belying the jeers,
               overwhelming the pessimists' fatuous sneers.

He beats and he pounds till we stand back in awe
     and his fingers are battered and ****** and raw
          and his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.

4

The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
     as he beats of the sights that he’s seen from a cloud.

Well he beats of the passion when lovers have lain
     with their bodies entwined midst a field of fresh grain;
          and he beats of the joy when a mother has smiled
               while she’s nursing a baby, her newly born child.

And he beats of the sorrow upsurging inside
     leaving shadows and ruins when loved ones have died.
          Then he beats of an image that looms as a dream
               of a time when compassion and love reign supreme.

And he beats of lush meadows pale yellow and green,
     shining lakes in a woodland, a river serene.
          Then he beats of a planet that dies in a sweat,
               and of smirks of the dullards denying the threat.

He beats and he pounds till we see what he saw
     and his fingers are battered and ****** and raw
          and his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.

*

The drummer beats slowly, the drummer beats loud
    
     And he beats of humanity wrapped in a shroud
          And he beats of abuse that we try to becloud
               And he beats of the strength of the rebels so proud
                    And he beats of the sights that he’s seen from a cloud.

     And he beats and he pounds till our consciences gnaw
          And he beats and he pounds till revealing the flaw
               And he beats and he pounds till we stand back in awe
                    And he beats and he pounds till we see what he saw.

And his fingers are battered and ****** and raw
     And his hands are all broken and bleeding and raw.

          And his hands are all
               broken
                   and bleeding
                        and raw.

Musclebound masked man
maniac mangling most everything he touches
Suicide squad serving the League of Shadows
Venom infuses his insane frame
Villainous tactical masterminds
should never be able to snap spines
and smash skulls
a faceless hulk
surgical tubing and tanks
delivery systems for his calcium crunching extremities
Every Dark Knight has their Bane
brash brutal backbreaker
Such a sordid past
a disaster
You're a slave to the Venom now
how do you live with yourself?
Scarecrow knows
the solace found in affecting fear in others
Poor Bane
insane and in chains
How weak you will become
when they take away your drug.

His arm circling round her waist. Maybe . . .

A blare. Sweat of traffic. Muggy afternoon. The sun bounces off every surface, paints the surroundings white. I stand at the corner of the street, feel the pavement seep through my soles. Sesame drifts from the marketplace; cheap soba, oil and soy.

A cat stretches on the neighbour’s roof, white fur wafting.

Muffled speech. Hiss, hiss. A bus.

I kneel and pick up an empty bottle. Face merges into its sides.

“Ain.”

Someone, somewhere calls my name.

“Ain.”

Up there.

The school is closed for the summer. Walking towards it gives me a sense of unease. Obligation turned quiet tension. The summer won’t last forever.

Drip.

I’ve been holding the bottle upside down. Liquid sinks into the dirt. Almost looks like skin, all dry and creased.

It’s a precipice, right? The separation between the street and the institute. Like stepping over a grave. There’s a ******* bin, but I feel strange.

The reception is all glass. Sunstruck and bleeding at the edges—I catch a glimpse of something—is it me?

Lenin catches another raven in his hands. It sits still, head cocked calmly to the side. He lets it go, but it simply falls onto the ground, rights itself, then walks off.

He looks disappointed.

“It’s the same everywhere,” he says with his back turned. “Try it.”

I find a different one, cradle it against my chest. The bird looks vaguely annoyed. Following Lenin, I drop the bird. It falls and sinks into the ground about three inches.

Caw.

“Ain! How’d you do that? That’s wicked!”

Lenin tilts his head and goggles at the bird for a few seconds before running off to find another.

It’s really hot. I throw some sesame seeds at the bird, but it just glares at me. Sorry.

The bottle is still gripped in my hand. Why did I pick this up?

Lenin is running on the side of the school. His small feet tap out a regular pattern, like rain on a quiet night.

I really miss this.

I push the bottle into the dirt. Lenin leaps off the school. A running kick sends the bottle flying into the reception. Glass shatters and the summer unfurls into a kaleidoscope of light.

The raven rises out of the ground.

The reception reforms itself.

Lenin is running on the side of the school. His small feet tap on each window, sending small ripples of energy through them, distorting the reflection of the surrounding buildings and streets.

A cat stretches itself on the reception roof.

I kneel and pick up an empty bottle.

“Ain!”

Lenin catches a raven in mid-flight. Sees himself reflected in a window. Gravity pulls him down.

I’m sitting in the corner, waiting for school to finish. Waiting for my life to pass itself by. It’s the last day of school and everyone is leaving. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I don’t know where I’m going. I feel sick, weak and pathetic. I look out the window and see my own face, Lenin falling through the air, sinking into the ground, a raven flying out of his outstretched hand.

There is a train and I am waiting. It is Autumn and the cherry blossoms will be bare for another half year, maybe more. There are golden leaves dancing through the station, trampled under the soles of rushed commuters and children.

Someone laughs with their friends, eating beef udon, yolk running into the broth, flesh filling his cavity. A mouth chews, but laughter still comes. I feel disgusted. I eat my tofu bento, but it only worsens.

Father visits, but I have no words for him. We sit awkwardly and he mentions work, but doesn’t elaborate. I pretend I’m busy and he eventually leaves.

where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i going where am i

“Ain!”

Lenin is kneeling over me. There are tears in my eyes and the sun hurts to look at. I try to brush them away but rub dirt in instead. Sleeves run softly across my cheeks. Lenin is hugging me from behind.

“It’s okay, Ain. It’s just play,” he says, nuzzling the back of my head. I don’t understand and cry harder.

The ravens have left the school.

A bottle lies on the roof.

A cat rolls in the dirt.

“Life is just a bad dream,” Lenin mumbles into my hair. “You’ve been waking every night, but it hasn’t helped.”

The sun is setting. Red strokes rise out of the ether and stain the sky. Streetlights turn and the quiet hum of night settles over the dying sounds of day.

“Isn’t this just so boring?”

A bus drives by, vibrating the ground beneath me. A mother and child walk past singing an old nursery rhyme.

“Ain?”

I sink into my lap and shut out the world.

“You don’t have to open your eyes. Not now, not ever.”

But I never closed them.

Hugs the ground. Flies through the evening. Do I eat a worm? Is that what I do?

I grip the pink flesh. The thing squirms, digging itself deeper into me.

A human female is laughing, or maybe crying. It’s hard to tell the difference.

Do they touch when they’re confused?

A small male soars down the side of a building. Why is he kicking his own head? The female splinters, but doesn’t shatter.

I’ve heard bones that don’t break cleanly are the worst to mend.

I reach out, hand brushing the feathers of a bird.

My head is an anchor, drags along the ground, grinds pavement to dust.

It’s so hot. Tar tickles my nostrils.

I’m alone, standing in front of a camera with all my classmates.

Lenin’s head is buried in the dirt behind me.

I raise my hand against the piercing sun, but really it’s an excuse to hide myself.

A raven hops onto the camera, unaware of the ceremony taking place. It shatters the façade, reduces the action to an absurdity, but no one notices. No one cares.

I pick at a rice ball. It’s cold, bland and under-filled. I stare at the shops around me and feel a deepening, crushing alienation. Perhaps, I have always felt this way, and it has taken me two decades to come to terms with it.

“There was a storm once,” Lenin mutters into the dirt, “the worst storm of the century.”

I remember. He held my hand all through it.

“But it wasn’t a storm, Ain.” Lenin finally turns to look at me. Meets my eyes through the dust and the tears and the sun. “It was existence trying to wake up.”

He didn’t let it.

“If it ever does, we will all die.”

It’s dark now. Lenin’s eyes glow the colour of warm honey. The last day of Summer rides away.

“Mum’ll be worried,” Lenin says, abruptly, “We should head home, Ain.”

We walk through the muted streets. This is my favourite time, when everyone is tucked into their homes and I can exist without others’ expectations projected onto my existence. I love the soft blue noise that fuzzes my vision. I love how ordinary objects are turned mysterious; the indistinct edges, the wistful gloom.

Lenin skips beside me, turning his head often to glance at the small pieces of art people leave behind through the process of living. A bicycle missing its rubber grips. A television set atop a toy wagon. A plushie stuffed between the ‘A’ and ‘I’ of a neon sign.

I buy two tea drinks and hand one to Lenin. We sit on the roof of an empty bus stop and stare into the harbour. Home feels further away than ever. The lights beneath the water reach the surface beautifully. They ripple and bleed, like phosphorescent dyes twining towards the sky. I sink beneath myself.

“Ain, don’t!”

I throw the empty bottle into the reception. I see my face shatter into infinity. I hear Lenin break into laughter. The cat leaps up. The ravens bury their wings. The worm writhes until it splits in two.

Blood runs down the side of my mouth. Twenty six dead in a hotel, bones melted like steel.

There is a gap I cannot fill because it is the platonic ideal of absence. An oak, weighed down so strongly by dreams that its branches have sunk deeper into the soil than its roots.

Sheets on the floor. I sink through the earth, head so heavy it compresses into a void and ***** the universe into itself; mangling, stretching, tearing.

My flesh writhes but there is no end. A pulsating womb. Flowers.

Everything is so bright.

I close my eyes.

Where am I?

Who am I?

A part of me is disappearing. I’m scared. I’m—

I can hear Lenin. He is screaming, but he sounds so very far away.

Oh. Oh.

I have been unfurling for a long time, haven’t I?

Guess she finally fled her body. Abandoned that vessel in the lacuna between. The tea! The tea must have reminded her. I must remember to pick up some mints. She’ll either laugh or breakdown into tears.

Whoops, I’m repeating myself.

It sure feels good to stretch my limbs again. Feels like it’s been an age.

Oh, a child boy is beside me. I better deposit him back home before I start.

Ain! Ain! Ain! Is this all this stupid child can say?

Everyone is moving so fast. Ugh. It’s lethargic. It’s absolutely stupid. What, do they think they’ll sink into the earth if they stop?

Ain! Ain! Ain! Oh fine, whatever, have her for a bit longer.

“Ain!”

Lenin? He’s pulling at my sleeves. Tears break, stream down his cheeks. It’s dark, so dark.

“I don’t want you to leave, Ain. Not like last time.”

It—it feels like I’m submerged. The harbour lights have dimmed. Soon dawn will come and wipe their existence from the world. It will be as if they never existed at all.

“Please Ain.”

I hug Lenin. He keeps repeating ‘please’ over and over. I have an inexplicable feeling that I’m leaving for a long time. That I won’t see Lenin again, and that I have to—

Have you stolen my body?

Yup!

Why?

Because you were scared and lonely and living a pointless existence.

I—

Don’t worry, there are a lot like you!

Will—will I ever see Lenin again?

Hmm, probably not. To be honest, I’m not really sure how all this works myself.

Please. Please don’t do this. I—

Ughhhhhh. Look kid, I’ve got places to be. Sayonara.

The market. The raven. The market.

A child petting a cat. A woman drinking a cola. Filling and filling and—

Postman runs past, knocks her arm. Bottle falls to the ground. Splash, crack.

Howling dog. It’s black, you know.

Lenin running on the rooftops. Ain asleep with her window open. He leaps in and wakes her with a grin.

“Ain! Ain! Ain!”

She throw a pillow at him angrily and rolls back into the bed, wrapping herself up like a caterpillar.

A lawman runs over to help the fallen woman. Hands her a mint.

Oh, isn’t it beautiful?

Don’t they all live beautiful lives now?

*Isn’t this what you wanted?

i think a lot about the things i can’t change
why the sky is the shade of blue it is
why worms move the weird way they do
why i still love you when you don’t seem to love me
all things that make no sense to me
you treated my body like a piece of land
and every mole, scar, and stretch mark was an eye sore
you said my paranoia was cute
and me locking, unlocking, and relocking the doors was ‘precious’
now you said it was an annoying habit you wished I would break
sometimes i wonder if you miss me the same way that i miss you
i wonder if you stay awake at night twisting and mangling your body into the positions that ours would fit together
i stay awake at night and lose hours of sleep thinking about you
and even when i find myself drifting to sleep i find your image fluttering underneath my eyelids and manipulating my dreams
even as i’m unconscious in the only place i felt safe you are still a constant reminder
i trace my lips with my index finger just like you used too
you always did this before we kissed
i remember clear as day the one time you didnt
that was the last time i saw you without tears in my eyes
begging you not to leave me
you told me i was a burden
I was a lost cause
and i knew that meant you had found someone else whisper sweet nothings too
i know you kiss her the way you kissed me
there was a girl before
and I don't doubt there will be another after
i was nothing to you
and you were everything to me
you will climb mountains
well i drown in the lakes that sit peacefully below

She'll be digging her toes in the California sands
Only Being catered to by the loveliest of hands.
Her heavenly vocals will take her to the top of the charts
Mangling and delighting a billion hearts
She'll be the next Beyonce or Lana Del Ray
But probably something better, many would say.
She'll get everything she wants, all and more
I just hope she remembers me when I see her on tour

****** hands
By :Mehrdad Nosrati (Mehreshaer)
After a puerile toil to gain more of their bike
Now are sharing their limbs cut off and diffuse
None of these two brothers would go this far in that
And won’t accept the mangling tank driver’s excuse

Our disputations had a pen of words as proof
Not a weapon of brutality you offered
Ghazza kids, our witnesses at the divine court
Testify by the change ****** hands hope covered
*
I’m a shia and a sunni is my brother
With the same moslem’s heart hate your savagery  
But not we alone feel like this, real jews, christians
And other believers of overall world boundary

You seem not be aware of Ghazza long history
And what a marvelous role it had played during times
So go and read the bravery of Batis against
Alexander, When chanting and clapping for your crimes
*
Once again I and my sunni brother tonight
After saying our common prayer will decide
How to expose your red hands to criminal court
To affect most the history’s heart by our new pride

She's like a switchblade dancing across my tongue.
She's like a hurricane crashing through my lungs.
She's like a nightmare strangling my dreams.
She's like a sobering feeling faded screams.
She's like a ... (kiss)
She's like a ... (fist)
She's like a ... (kick in the teeth)
She's like a firefly shining through my night.
She's like a lioness killing with all her might.
She's like a devil stealing to save my soul.
She's like a guardian angel I don't know.
She's like a ... (kiss)
She's like a ... (fist)
She's like a ... (kick in the ******* teeth)
She's like a switchblade dancing across my heart.
She's like a hurricane crashing from the start.
She's like a nightmare mangling my dreams.
She's like a sobering feeling torn from the seams.
She's like a ... (kiss)
She's like a ... (fist)
She's like a ... (kick in the mother ******* teeth)
She's like a priceless painting inside my mind
She's like a permanent image that I can't find.
She's like a devil lying to steal my soul.
She's like a guardian angel I still don't know.
She's like a ... (kiss)
She's like a ... (fist)
She's like a ... (kick in the ******* teeth)
She's like a switchblade dancing across my wrists.
She's like a hurricane crashing through the mist.
She's like a nightmare dangling my dreams.
She's like a sobering feeling without means.
She's like a ... (kiss)
She's like a ... (fist)
She's like a ... (kick in the teeth)
She's like nothing you've ever seen.
She's like nothing you've ever had.
She's like nothing you've ever gleamed.
She's like nothing you've ever read.
She's like a kiss, a fist, and a kick in the mother ******* teeth.

A metallic seat.
Hard orange plastic.
Strip light sickness.
And I look at you.

Disinfectant scrubs my throat,
sterilising the language I want to use.
And I look at you.

Naked feet, white tinged with yellow.
Invisible socks.
Cotton top welts left in your ankles,
flattening the spidery hair.
So much hair.

And I wonder,
when did you get so tall?
And I look at you.

Sallow face, a dehydrated
caricature of youth, erased and lined.
Needles **** the marrow,
the muscle tone gone but
stubble erupting, handsome underneath.

And I wonder,
when was the last time I saw you?
And I look at you.

Frail arms, thick bandage cuffs
giving little comfort to the empty purple beneath.

And I wonder,
was it how you imagined?

Clean blade?
Neat slices?
Choreographed claret leaving a poignant splash
on your final soliloquy?
Head to camera, atmospheric lighting,
ready for your close up.
Someday you’ll be a star.

Or was it sordid?  
Brutal?
A smashed bottle?
Hacking, mangling,
uncontrollable blood
aimlessly gushing, drenching the rambling note
so the words washed away?
No camera angles.
No haunting memoir.

And I look at you.
And I wonder.
When did you become so lonely?


And I turn away.

Beauty is whispered after silence
In emptiness.
I am beautiful
Tonight I don't remember why,
I will never remember why.
Haunted by memories of times I was tamed.
Beauty is wild and free.
Tender and grotesque.
Regrets when you stop holding my hand.
Whispered in a busy crowd.
baby
I'm sorry. Beauty is not this.
Out of breath, out of sleep, tender mangling of love letters
Unrehearsed tango of the lips in the dark.
I will love you forever.
Will never stop trying.
And your silence is beautiful.

My Murdered Miracle


so sometimes it seems a miracle may be murdered
  viciously visceral
with the shock
  and the shattering
  and the mangling of the emotions
    (and of course the inability to breathe as your soul is strangled)
      as your future is ****** over the cliff by an evil **** ******
    (and the fall may even be your fault)

yeah, I noe,
  not exactly a ******* surprise
if you've watched the decades of dying in my eyes
  or read my blog anytime after the age of 10
    (****, was that really the first poisoned when)

whatever whenever of forever later
  the sharpest shock
  the shardest shatter
the dank blank dead stare
  dried blood stains  
    un-resuscitated remains
      of what I used to share

my deep blue eyes
  open as wide as emotion allows
are riptide embraced
  into the motions beyond the shallows
    by Yur deep blue eyes
and I see straight into Yur soul
  instantly the fate of my soul
  (ooohhhhh, what I saw
     I had never even dreamed of seeing
       and You were the infinite microwave thaw
         to my forever frozen being)

**** I took the Doves of Love
  (these birds can't fly)
and with selfish enjoyment of every moment
  lagged in my movement
    towards where we were meant to be
giving them an over the cliff shove
  (why why why why why)

She is SHANNON
  SHANNON!!!
the MOST of the MOSTEST i've ever known
the PERFECT in every part and tone
  and She luved me
         SHE LUVed me!!!

I made her move and groove
  smile and giggle
  *** and then ***
    and then some

I learned and grew
  and she knew
I massaged and inspired
  until my tongue was tired
I held her as close as I could do
  and still have our heartbeats be two

**** i believed too much in my belief
  (beware the ides of grief)
failed to fast forward to what she needed
  and ended up behind what she needed!!!!

i met an angel
  and She wanted me...me
i met my angel
  and SHE Loved me...me

maybe you don't understand the historical universal infinite implications of what to you seems to be a simple detail...the coolest chick in the history of the world glowed in luving me (simply the singular most wonderful woman in strength intelligence hotness beauty empathy honesty silly sweet intensity kindness lust for life and ACTUALLY BEING ALIVE)

and i knew what to do. and it was going to give the me i've wanted to be. yo, i noe, **** i was way too slow.   FFFFUUUUUCCCCCKKKKK

every single solitary second
  felt like the first
    excited nervous giggly jiggly
each kiss such a lip lock on joy
  that i missed the fragile of the real
    left with lonely chapped lips which shant heal



...but maybe a similar distant cousin miracle shall be the 2nd Best feeling ever that keeps him alive...

he met his angel
and even if she won't keep kissing him
he still gets to noe her right?
  Right?

This poem is a suicide note.
Tonight, this pitiful life is finally coming to an end. I,
have finally accepted that much.
No longer suspended in a lost, hopeless state:
Not quite asleep.
Not quite awake.

Oh, I've been trapped for too long.
Wrapped up in you.
A translucent bubble wrap.

My voice has given out by now,
Absorbed into this shell.
Thrown back in my face.
No.

I feel like a marionette,
Losing control over what I do
And yet,
Despite my best efforts,
I'm just tangled.

Up
Around
Over
Through

So much so,
There's a knot so tight,
The only way out is to
Cut
Right
Through.

There is simply nowhere else to turn.
Oh, but I tried

I ran.
I hid.
I fought.
I cried.
Bled.
Froze.
Got burned.

And you can say it'll get easier.
It's easy for you.
But I lost my drive to please
Everyone around me.

And I hate lying here,
On the ground.
In it.
In this grave that I dug.

I'm scared,
But only of what I might become.

So, I'm gonna cut right through
the ties from the lies I've been living in.
No.
Not living.
More like spending time lost in the darkness
Of a dead, dead end.

But Death will be attending his own funeral.

Tonight,
I'm gonna restart.
Gonna be brand new.
No.
Better than brand new.
Better than the best, and yes,
That means leaving you behind.

You are the weight of the world on my shoulders.

If I can't get you off my mind,
Then how will I be set free?

I might be on a leash,
But you don't get
the choice to let go or not.

You don't get
To hide me behind a curtain
And, prop her up on a pedestal.

You shouldn't have knocked me off in the first place.

I'm gonna crawl away to a brand new place.
Where I'm loved
And live properly.

After what I went through,
You should have known.
Something had to give.

So,

I'm giving up on this life I planned with you.
I'm moving into cloud nine.

But I'm not leaving.
No.
I'll be weaving my way through
your conscience.
Leaving a trail of words so sharp,
They could cut
Clean
Through.

All the while,
I'll be moving on.

I am the rising sun
Here to **** the "me" I was
When I was, with you.
Your Envious Moon.

My heartstrings may be tangled,
And tearing,
Mangling my innards.
But I will not let myself be hanged.

Tonight,
I'm taking your picture off the shelf,
Waving good bye to my old self,
And praying I have the strength
To make it home.

roll up! roll up!!
you fine hearted boy.
time now to put down,
the store made toys.
time to make magic...
with the inside,
of your mind
roll up! roll up!!
to the dream circus
let's see what we find....


melamine monkeys
mimic monstrousity's
mangling, minor majorities
in musical mayhem
symphonies, sublime
playing  mozart in part on
a shiny yellow kazooo

meanwhile marshmallow
crocodiles smile with
mincing beguile
at ****** moo cows
meandering miles
in crooked zig-zag lines
making milkshakes
all the while...

mouses and mices
are avoiding becoming
itty bitty pieces of
rodent and crabapple pie
by milling mindlessly
around the mound
of milliners, by the by.

now to
meet and greet at the
zoo
mrs hippopotomus
has ginger biscuits and
mango milk ready for you
while you watch the fleet of zebras  and their plataypi  crew,
sail in the xebec regatta
twice around the isle of goo.
before saying
huzzah and hooroo
they won the championship
whoohoo!!!!
it's all a happenin,
at the bing **** bingle zoo


but for all these
amazing thing to occur
my lad
you have to pay your dues
so close your eyes,
and sleep .....
and you  will see
a wonderful dream or two....

I read a book
it doesn't seem to end
thousand pages i have read
and yet the end is nowhere near
characters keep appearing and vanishing
no apparent design no apparent destiny
sarcasm without wit
irony without intent
maybe i should finish this chapter
close the book and pick up another one
Perhaps I have to read this one
cover to cover

a trail of talking pictures
it seems like the soap opera
it never ends
new twists, new plots
new actors for old cliches
facts stranger than fiction
no sir, no truth here
just an unabashed indulgence
no shame, no remorse
take it or leave it
but leave it i can't
the reels keep rolling
am glued to the spot
till end credits roll out

I witnessed death the other day
a giant came from behind my left
missed me by a few feet
carved an arc towards my right
mangling everything in its way
for a moment there was deafening silence
followed by a wail from a child
then the honking to get out of way
people rushing to destinations
destinations important than crushed humans
I stopped for a few moments
then continued on my course too
shaken but not stirred

I'll not be your knife, honey.
If you wish to bleed,
Cut yourself with somebody else.
If you love pain, don't go reaching for me.
I am not pain.
I'm poison tipped.
I bite like barbed wire, deep, not where you want.
Not only a blade,
I've got fangs.
You might think you want it
But you are young and tender,
And you'll learn.
Don't slice away your ignorance with me-
The lesson will be your last.
You want an ironic scar?
The embodiment of your suffering
Mangling your flesh?
Want a little shocking thrill?
Don't pick me up, sweetie.
I ****.

We always did wonder if a piece of her brain fell to her neck
For she did sometimes—oftentimes when things were of great or grave importance,
think and talk through the side of her neck.
It was a condition we had come to diagnose in her quite early,
For she’d **** her head, sing a hum as her eyes wandered following her thoughts
And when she came to, suddenly jumping with a clap of the hands and an “aha!”
We would lean in and listen intently
But she would say something positively ludicrous, absolutely ridiculous!
Like in talking about cicadas and hibiscuses,
She would throw a hippo in there. And like last time, a stinging, mingling mangling ray!
We would all raise our brows and sigh in disappointment.
For that is what you would feel when you oftentimes hear her speak.

But sometimes, it did feel like she'd think with the piece of brain left in her head;
For she was practically logical,
Analytical to a score—sometimes. Less than oftentimes.
Then, she’d place a finger to her temple and her eyes would stare fixedly above at the ceiling or below, at the ground.
And after a while of staying so, she would speak in quite a serious tone and tell us the answer to our inquisition.
Those times, there'd be surprise and awe.
Like in talking about dark matter and soft matter physics, she, after thinking a while, would throw in some astrophysical knowledge.
So, although she'd oftentimes think through her neck, she'd sometimes think through her head;
And that is when we would cheer for her.

But the cheer would hardly be over when she'd say something utterly preposterous that we'd know, for certain, that the piece of brain that fell to her neck when she was born, was rather a large piece.

Glass roses of blue
Cigarettes and amaretto
Served with milk tears
Candy giggles take it back
Build a house from
what's lacking
Break black ties and
Want to wear heels out
For no one but
The television and
Steam mangling in a box
I need to get off frail mind lines like
Dreading time
Loving this lipstick and
I am not a girl anymore
I filthy my own nest
And i'm blind as I am blessed

You came like a season,
quickly passing by.
You made her so high,
brought her up to cloud nine.
She couldn't piece them all together,
it wouldn't tell a story.
They came in form of random parts,
from time to time, in folly.
She couldn't question why,
you wouldn't grant her the rights.
She finds herself in a cold love case,
of forbidden treats of the night.
Like a  merry-go-round,
you keep her hanging.
Her heart, you're mangling.
She knows it adds up to nothing,
for with nothing was how it started.
They were sweet nothings in this tango,
and with sweet nothings it ended.
You came at the season,
quickly passed by.
She just wants to know...Why.

There's blood on my hand
That same "**** spot"
It won't go away
I will get caught

There's blood on my face
Shame to wash it away
But I mustn't lose my composure
The spot, though lovely, cannot stay

There's blood on my chest
I can't seem to find how to remove it
I do so like it, just where it is
But there'd be many of those who'd pitch a fit

There's blood upon my feet
I must find the way to make them clean
Not at all because I mind
Because blood ought not be something casually seen

The blood, it's stretched itself to be everywhere
With that savory, metallic scent
Sweet and salty, this crimson, tacky blood
And I'm the keeper of the secret; what this has all meant

O these slashes of blood, the drying puddles, brimmed with love
The power that is the grip of life
Shed now in a glorious display of our purest contempt
Flesh weeping after the stabbing, mangling by a bladed knife

The blood has painted me
Always shall it be there
No amount of scrubbing could wash these marks away
Scent eternal, lingering in the air

This bloods borne a stain on my soul
Death a companion who'll never be far
I'll hold hands and walk with it
To hell's blackest star

My dreams are drugs;
my hopes are dope
–the joie de vivre
of old so-so–
from waning eyes
to waxing grace
my spirit seeks
another place
And rhythmically
on pain of death
from newborn cry
to my last breath
with rancid teeth
and rheumy eye
around the globe
cutting soft sky
filling the stars
with water high
to flood and pour
to light and soar
to anger each
contented *****
But not so boiled
nor never baked
swathed transcendence
of all mistakes
melancholy left un-churned
around young danseur
crapping wealth unearned
fueling no immortal work,
marching still
against the dark;
Freshest grass-scent
Lingers long
past broken tractor
at break of dawn
as crumpled shrapnel
and sticks of oak
remain wedged throughout
the auger's blades,
refusing to reap
or shadow wheat;
Therefore, this vision
pulls and holds
on wisest minds,
with fools endures;
musty marble crumbles too
all garish gold
rusts through and through...
spinning slower
then Bosons are gone...
sunny sleep stops
mowing lawn
(All things must break
when left untouched
but touching wears toucher
oh so so much!)
Arrows fly,
inertly tickle
all that's evil
whatever's wicked;
But nothing so so much
as hope
fades quietly
oh so so much.
Slumping shoulders
warring forward
searching ever
for temperate porridge,
concluding all
to dust from dust
Inciting all
from lust to lust
But rarely ever
dreaming truths
science mangling
interstellar flight
because nothing good
rhymes with truths
devoid of pretense
and heckling youths
After crops have rotted
that fed our needs
One contemplates
tending the weeds.
I've lost you now
(I surely hope)
Because at last,
here is the dope:
Riddling madness
is a cancer.
Reading answers
is disaster.
We're much too late
to break the tractor.
Grapes left on vine
do not make wine,
so smiling scythe
will give me mine.
And in the end
it's not defeat:
For Beauty Grew,
And Many Ate.

darling i have meat stuck in my teeth
             i have not a wreathe on my dome
             i have a long measure of water
             rammed in my throat, hemmed in like
             your body’s canopy in the stream of me
             i chase the silence like a tractable beast
             in this hollow den of nothing
                                                         darling
i have not hands but chains
      i have volcanoes and not moons
         i see past the banners,   an army of   light
       unfastening itself  from  the poles of foreverness
     I have in my eyes   again the frail azure
            and the gyration of clouds mangling themselves
         to    figures,   assumptions,    colloid
          endless   snow,     frayed beings moseying towards
                     rows     of   lengths and   the autumnal abode  of  hills
   turning     green,    brimming with    the ***   of pastures,

      feasting in this fill of such   heaviness,   a name    of what I cannot   recall
         darling   the yellowbell       darling   the lignified    amaranth
               darling      here   at   such   meeting    I    am  starved
         with    little    movements     of   flesh

Too few ears perk up to hear words spoken by pure silence.
Secrets spread out on the surface.
Foot level in darkness.
Remove your hand from the light switch.
Explore the floor
The way
The door.
Mangling your knees to find some more.
There's always more
There will be more.
Leave your limbs where they lay
Continue clawing at your core.

Drop a nickel on the floor,
What'd you hear?
I heard so much ******* more,
You're a deaf, numb bore
You deaf, numb bore

I was awakened by
Her wailing cries dripping
From the ceiling fan.

Gnarled fingernails unearthing
Every defect shadowed by
Cheaply colored cloth.

Her desolate eyes of malice
Bitterly waltzing across
My 'ever bone-weary limbs.

Maniacal grin gleefully thriving
On the heinous mutilation
Of my once unblemished soul.

Her exuberant howls mangling
My already asphyxiated mind
As my heart yearned for extrication.

Deafening silence devoured
The withdrawn girl until her lips
Forever cradled Anorexia's kiss.

-ARI

Bumble down the always halls
Awkward in the way they walks
Desperate in the way they talks
Gaze flings hundred miles per hour inside
The tower of intimidation
sweat gets regarded as a river
Floor by floor the floorboards wable
Claims it’s an earthquake
Not the inner mechanical failure
Mangling the last shred of sanity
Processes of a rabid animal
Brain quivers, spine soils
Not gonna die in fight or flight
Metal smears apart to the moonlit tapestry
Strewn across the pathway
Climbing up the rotting yellow walls
All but tumbling
Running past the train of thought
Faster than a bullet
Clings to his kryptonite
In hopes she will solve him.

in blades of grass
ants follow a guide,
a following unseen by
boots mangling terrain,
like sea glass,
like years of forming,
one takes time to care for
one they made.

the bed they lay
in the following night,
many strings of nights-
is like ash,
grey dirt piled for thousands
of spoken dates,
years- days following days,
until he came and took the days and
made them years,
and told us what the years were but not
what they meant to the bulbous rocks,
or how seven days made sixty two moons
a sixth
from the sun.

on purpose.

or if
he meant to **** the girl.

or if
it were naivety.

the water trickled reflections of
death, birth; frog legs
that looked like bullhead lilies.

his scars, sutures, shared bones,
they made him together like the
together we fight against.

a monster,
unlike a monster this gaseous air
has seen,
or gasped,
or choked on.
A monster like no other,
that found us here and taught us
to teach each other to drown and
forgive and drown again.

playing surgeon
words as our scalpel
dissecting our body
trying to heal the broken parts,
instead what we achieved
is mangling ourself
into unrecognizable
pile of mess

Perverted shackles distort the essence of humanity,
mangling what we are meant to feel as people.
We continue life blindly in false ecstasy,
not knowing what there really is to feel.

I see so many of my own fall into this trap of numbness,
where exists only selfish pleasure and inflated egos.
Where the dominant entity is a degrading creature,
one who only knows how to feel for himself.

To my companions, I pose this;
What about the warm embrace of another?
What about the passionate exhale that leaks from the soul,
or the connection of two beings as one?

What has happened to the gift of love and affection?
Where has the art of feeling disappeared to?
Most judge those who decide to be intimate,
those who choose long walks over lifeless engagements, and those who decide to love instead of ****.