In quick-step and in air-cushioned silence,
With the drumbeat threat of mob violence,
All those laces were quite absurd,
But to us 'Jo-***' was just a verb.

Now the Alts stand in plain sight,
Preaching:

            "It's OK
                 To
                 Be
              White",

Hidden by our new dress code,
An Oxford collar and a Derby brogue.

Its in these waters, when I was merely a Parr
Or as you might refer to me as a fry,
This wise but young Brook Trout cruised the slow water with my kinfolk fry.

Moving to and fro hiding among the biome vegetation
The sunlight supported my living space and warmed my growth rings.
I dart in and out of the oxygenated seams which help me flourish.

Some days, I had to use stealth to outwit the pine marten and warblers,
I shadowed the cattail and watched them fill their bellies with those around me.
But I felt fate had a purpose for me to be something special.

And When the time was right, I'd propel myself above the water into the night air.
The large circle of orange light filled my eyes and the night sky was filled with luminary.
I imagined what it must be like to live outside this riffle domain.

This morning, through my refractory vision I spot some floating objects,
And through an inherited sensory recall I can see these are hatching green Drakes.
I immediately shoot to the surface and fill my stomach, then swim back to the undercut for cover.

As the years pass by and maturity abounds,  I find my self settling in behind a large boulder
Right at the tail out of the back eddy, providing me with an ample food supply.
And it's here I prefer to live my life in the slow current, content and peaceful.

And one day as I swam into the current seam, I spotted what appeared to be,
A different looking bug with yellow belly,  so I make my move.
He's not moving much so I decide to raise my head above the water line and sip.

As I grab the hopper I start to slide back behind the boulder,
When I feel a pinch, as if someone try's to pull me towards the surface
I fight with all my might but this force proves to be stronger than I.

It's now I realize a human reels me towards the shore line, and I'm fearful.
This one called a human, grabs my tail and places his hand on my under belly.
Pulling me from my home, he dislodges the hook from my mouth. I gasp for oxygen.

He looks me over from nose to tail, smiles and says how beautiful I am.
He looks me in the eye And says " This was a wonderful fight my friend, enjoy the rest of your life,
He places me back in water, gently reviving me and finally lets me swim away.

I dare to turn and look back at him for a moment and as he continues to watch me,
I hear him say " I fish, knowing everyday on this stream is a gift."

I walked among the seven woods of Coole:
Shan-walla, where a willow-hordered pond
Gathers the wild duck from the winter dawn;
Shady Kyle-dortha; sunnier Kyle-na-no,
Where many hundred squirrels are as happy
As though they had been hidden hy green houghs
Where old age cannot find them; Paire-na-lee,
Where hazel and ash and privet hlind the paths:
Dim Pairc-na-carraig, where the wild bees fling
Their sudden fragrances on the green air;
Dim Pairc-na-tarav, where enchanted eyes
Have seen immortal, mild, proud shadows walk;
Dim Inchy wood, that hides badger and fox
And marten-cat, and borders that old wood
Wise Buddy Early called the wicked wood:
Seven odours, seven murmurs, seven woods.
I had not eyes like those enchanted eyes,
Yet dreamed that beings happier than men
Moved round me in the shadows, and at night
My dreams were clown hy voices and by fires;
And the images I have woven in this story
Of Forgael and Dectora and the empty waters
Moved round me in the voices and the fires,
And more I may not write of, for they that cleave
The waters of sleep can make a chattering tongue
Heavy like stone, their wisdom being half silence.
How shall I name you, immortal, mild, proud shadows?
I only know that all we know comes from you,
And that you come from Eden on flying feet.
Is Eden far away, or do you hide
From human thought, as hares and mice and coneys
That run before the reaping-hook and lie
In the last ridge of the barley? Do our woods
And winds and ponds cover more quiet woods,
More shining winds, more star-glimmering ponds?
Is Eden out of time and out of space?
And do you gather about us when pale light
Shining on water and fallen among leaves,
And winds blowing from flowers, and whirr of feathers
And the green quiet, have uplifted the heart?
I have made this poem for you, that men may read it
Before they read of Forgael and Dectora,
As men in the old times, before the harps began,
Poured out wine for the high invisible ones.

She stopped to sit softly on a jutting rock near the lake.
In that fine damp mist, she felt the need to take a break.
Then, she pulled back her sleeves of scales having to kneel
To sculpture in a clay like that one used on a potter's wheel.

She kept altering and shaping it into a beautiful male head.
The lines of his face proved that the man was unreal or dead.
Then, she pulled her sleeves back down, and started to walk.  
Her aunt, a witch, approached the sculpture wanting to talk.

Come here, aunt Surah’, said Jezebel. ’What do you think?’
Surah unbuttoned her neck telling her, ‘My dear, I need a drink!’
‘Is this sculpture your deep secret?’ Surah smiled as a feline.
’ He’s the man of my dreams, and his face I will never reline.’
(Jezebel started to sing)
‘I still can hear his very sad low wail,
In a sleeping forest being of no avail,
In searching for his bride he can fail,
His bride is caught in the time's gale.

When a castle he sees in the sun's rays
Keeping two decades of sleeping days,
The beauty sleep leaves him in a daze.
'Come and take your bride', the oak says.’
(Surah became nervous.)
‘My dear, it’s a very strange dream, believe me.’
Said Surah, looking as tired as being after a hard pull.
‘Tell me, sweet child, in this dream can you see
Something about using a drop spindle to spin wool?’

‘No, never! By the way, what means a drop spindle?’
‘You must promise me to keep your mouth shut,
Or the demons in the forest a dead fire may kindle.’
‘I’ll keep the secret, or the tip of my tongue you may cut.’

(Jezebel started to dance singing another song this time.)
Come and dance with me between the daffodils.
I can hear the strong wind coming from the hills,
And never let die inside you your inner child.'
‘Sometimes, this princess wants to be really wild!'

(Surah got close to Jezebel having a book in her hands.)
'This book is a precious treasure’, Surah said.
'It always cries loudly in order twice to bake its meaning,
And we must be strong, when these words we read.
This book explains the whole history of queening.'



(Surah opened the book at the chapter: Spindle)

To begin spinning on a bottom whorl drop spindle,
You must attach a leader by tying a piece of yarn.
The best wool's colors are black, white, or brindle.
Moreover, wool dresses may be difficult to ****.

You must take the yarn over the side of the whorl.

You must loop it around the shaft underneath and back.

Over the side of the whorl, it looks like a hairy natural curl.

By the way, there's a spindle in the tower having a crack.'

(The castle where Jezebel lived)

The castle was in the forest, at a high mountain.

In the approach to the front door, there was a natural fountain.

The castle had a ditch and a bridge allowing people to cross.

It had a first gallery having the marble slabs nice cut across.


The gallery was situated between the great and the little tower.

The towers had thick walls being protected from the wind power.

The south-west side of the castle had a perfect hexagonal shape.

The northeast side had prisons, from where no one could escape.


There were four storeys formed around the hexagon on all sides.

There was an interior courtyard for the people wanting to turn aside.

In the center of this courtyard, there was a well and a natural cave.

In the cave, there was an underground lake, fossils and an old grave.


In the mountain stone, there was a subway leading to the great tower,

Which was a secret place having nothing alive inside it, even no single flower.

Banqueting House was a hall having a colored fireplace of marble,

Where the king and the queen entertained their guests, stories to garble.


The stained glass in the windows could share the sounds of many *****,

And many secret meetings took place behind those enigmatic walls.

At the top of the stairs leading from the wall, there was a passageway

Guiding into Dining Room having painted ceiling light over its walls' gray.


King's Hall had the throne in front of a screen with arched openings.

It had an oak chair and a footstool for guests to sit when they were coming.

It also contained some royal portraits, expensive furniture, and tapestries.

Here, the aristocracy came to enjoy their feast, and to share formalities.


Near it, a big Lobby having walls covered in rich fabrics was used

To entertain guests with sweets, while the jesters made them be amused.

After the meal, Great Hall was a huge space for singing and dancing.

It had monumental stone arcades in the light were really glancing.


Behind the arcades, there were the staircases leading to the upper rooms.

Those rooms were used by the guests to rest, and to dress in their costumes.

They had wooden roofs, and tall windows that were looking out upon the garden,

A domed pergola, shrubs, gateways, pavilions, and a forest of pine marten.

Suffering is why art is created.
Suffering and love.
Both, which I find pretty ******* awful.
I would never wish either of them on anyone
Love has caused me more misfortune and abuse,
than any substance I have ever consumed.
Love, is filled with many more chemicals,
Than the countless cigarettes I have smoked.
At Least, cigarettes provided me with a sense of comfort,
While any form of love I was given,
Would cause my hands to shake,
let my brain run wild,
And left my body to ache.
past lovers lips leave awful tastes in your mouth
which seem to stay,
even after years of them being away.
suffering and love go hand in hand,
they are partners in crime.
one cannot love without suffering,
one cannot suffer without love.
in a sense, it is strung to the common belief that,
opposites attract
love is suffering
suffering is love
that is not a metaphor,
but a fact.
maybe i am writing this,
because I have watched too many of Bukowski’s poetry readings,
or because your lips are still in my mind.
I gave you every inch of my being,
Just to see you smile,
because I loved you.
maybe, that’s why I am now alone,
Suffering.
because I loved you,
And like I said,
suffering is love.
love is suffering
and I loved you so much,
I thought that putting all of myself
into a glass bowl,
and trusting your sweaty palms,
to keep a firm grip on it,
was a good idea,
because I wanted to believe in you,
and my head wasn’t in the right place,
I was not okay,
I had thought maybe your hands
were different,
Maybe they would not cause
my body to shatter
And my soul to spill out,
Onto the floor,
Like blood onto concrete,
But that’s exactly what they did,
And your hands did not apologize,
as I fell onto the floor,
they did not try to piece me back together,
they did not try to gather up my contents
your hands just left me there,
fragments of myself left to linger
on your carpet.
and sometimes,
I wonder
if you can still hear
the segments of my body,
crack in between
your doc marten boots.

I need to be enriched on a Tuesday afternoon
I may begin to lose my grip if it doesn’t happen soon
The drama club was my first choice, little actresses and actors
But clearly I was overlooking certain other factors
They all think they’re DeNiro, Kiera Knightly, Judy Dench
But they’re so bad that all they do is make my buttocks clench
They constantly repeat themselves digging ever deeper
It’s a shame they have the acting talent of a railway sleeper
There is so much over acting, extra cheese with all the ham
But they like all the attention so no one gives a ****
The play’s a melodrama, a very moving tome
But I’m only moved to tears because I’m desperate to go home
I just have to tolerate it for a few more painful weeks
Despite the fact it grates on me each time one of them speaks
A soon as they perform I’ll be free of these woodentops
I’m actually counting down the minutes til this torture stops
I am so bored of hearing about Maria Marten dying
At least when she takes her last breath, I can finally stop the lying
Yes you heard me, all this time; I’ve lied just like a pro
I’ve told each and every child in here they’re vital to the show
I’ve told them their performances will make their parents proud
Despite knowing that their only talent is in being loud
There’s no way I could tell the truth, I won’t crush all their dreams
I know they’ll all learn soon enough that life isn’t what it seems
What sort of teacher would I be to tell them that they’re crap
To say their acting talent won’t ever put them on the map
To tell them that they have more chance of flying to the moon
Than of picking up a golden Oscar statue sometime soon
So I shall grit my teeth and paste the smile back on my face
And pretend that I’m in rapture at their lack of skill and grace
I shall say congratulations every night that they perform
And I’ll stand and clap for each of them until my hands are warm
I’ll do this all but don’t be fooled I really won’t enjoy it
I’ll be seething all resentfully as through each show I sit
I will forbear for two more weeks, just fourteen days of pain
And then I’m never coming near this drama club again
Next time I’ll pick more wisely, think more clearly before choosing
Or I suspect it’s more than sanity that I’ll be loosing
My grip on that is tenuous to say the very least
And working with these divas has woken up my inner beast
I think I’ll try a nice relaxing book or homework club
Or perhaps I’ll save us all the stress and just go down the pub
Yes… that’s what I’ll do

You know me better than I, better than I know myself; you know me like I want to, like I was my own world's father. A famous goddess, parishioners won't say her name, I wrote letters to her personally, but was never brave enough to greet face to face. There's a type of prose, only intimate partners dare to go, where adjectives take verbs in rounds, and lovers sing each other songs. I've you and you have me, I'm captured by you so lovely, there's nothing I wouldn't do, good or bad, I'd ****** for you- a great vegan harvest, all of everything for my love the goddess.

In a world worshiped by false idols,
Where musicians and actors are modern day deities and neon signs flourese divine promises in magazines and the televangelist newscasters inject the masses with fear and false promises.
Opiated zombies take to the streets and go about their lives sleeping with eyes wide open at screens that have more meaning than their banal lives. But I woke-up long ago looking at the photo of your limitless azure eyes through a photograph. Long before I met you, I knew that one day our paths would cross and we would drive through the desert, deserted towns listening to Townes van Zandt and other musicians that most have only heard of through top 40 covers of their soulful songs.

The cacophony of coyotes, pumas, rattlesnakes and rabbits darting to and fro, in front of our headlights as quartz crystals reflect the full moon light, and Joshua Trees dance beneath the stars while we talk about Morrison, Harrison, Hendrix and the impact they have had on our lives. While most are drunk or dreaming, we are living the ultimate dream. I cannot wake-up to a world without you there-

Beside me and a space pig curled up asleep on the backseat as we trek across the Milky Way.

I smell the fires, their noisome stench fills my nose with the harsh turpentine and piceous smoke, but in the night we cannot see the trees. This fire could be right off our balcony. It could just be a neighbor's barbecue. How can people enjoy eating burnt and coal-battered meat? Your Uncle's neighbor apparently enjoys street meat. He killed a tick-covered deer, while he rode his scooter over the pass at night, and lied, he said he hunted it with his bare hands. Why must men and women and people lie, as if their stories capture more attention if they don't share what actually happened.

Dear you, I love you so. More and more with each passing day, I just hope one day we'll both leave this place, and share our final breaths in the same Earthen place. I promise you I'll share my final resting place so long as it's in a grave. I worry you'll want someone to spread your ashes, on a ski run in Aspen. Can we pretend small creatures live inside our walls, and rule a kingdom somewhere on our second floor, where Fraggles scramble to complete construction, on a network of tunnels.

I told you I would re-propose to you every day, I love you more than words can say. It's unquantifiable, just look beneath my eyelids. There's a man who used to share the hash he smoked, in a cove, somewhere in Venice, where the locals met us.

I'd drink and quaff your humanness, the pulchritude I cannot resist. The splendor you exude in all the passions you choose to do.

Hey you, if you find me here. Let me know if I'm still alive. I've made a wish to live, and be the father of your kids. We sing and laugh and sway, we eat apples and honey and pray, to an invisible god that could disperse all our flaws. And this moon, the one that has shone itself on empty roads, ignites the stars and stares at us shattering this cold. You were made in the image of life, I've been incommunicado but connected your dots. I wish I could color you by numbers, and count the hours we've slumbered.

There's cold-weather dripping from my nose. Where howling wolves and coyotes go. Where elk canter and mule deer pass, and a small boy moose named Bullwinkle waits for his mother to come back. Here is where the spotted marten eats from a rotting corpse, maybe it's a small naked shrew, it's map lines strewn across this town, where tourists think they know us, but they don't know my goddess.

Hey love, I'll never leave you alone. I'll never go to bed before you arrive home. I try and try not to yell, or even raise my voice above the evenings sounds. Do you hear the moose stepping on the frost-laden grass? It must have been starving for it to come this far. I'm learning now I know more about nothing, which I prefer to knowing something.

My hands won't put on the show, I told you I thought I knew. I prefer to be going down, so long as you'll always be around. I could count ten seconds until I realize my sentence. Poor birds fall out of the trees, there wings must have been freezing. I wait for you and I wait for your words. Your heart is made from all the things, I've only recently realized I've seen. Together, forever more. I take my hat off and hold open the door, I kiss your neck and eyelids and enjoy our shared silence. Keep me and never go away, you're worth more than the sky may lead, or the oceans breathe. I won't step, I won't speak, or breathe. Dear goddess, you're the only one I need. I need no one but you. I only need to know that you need me too. And one hour our shadows will meld together, while we wait outside freezing as we wait for summer.

But each season holds its own magic,
A seasonal  zeitgeist where we create our own traditions that supersede the Hallmark holidays that our oligarchies have created to lead people astray from the cohesive love and communal celebrations that our predecessors revered.
Yet each moment is a cause for celebration for you are a part of my life. I cannot wait to call you my wife.

From the moment I awake and feel your warm morning breath on my chest,
I breathe in the perfume of you and kiss you gently on the forehead as you hug me closer and face nuzzle me more deeply.
Each day, more perfect than the last.
I fight sleep because life with you is more splendorous than the culmination of all of my dreams. A symphony and an endless sonnet, fairy tales cannot come close to telling the story of our love.

You show my fingers where to go on the electric guitar strings of the mahogany fretboard of the guitar you gave me for my birthday.
My hands are slowly learning how to the play the notes and lyrics that I conjure in my mind. I cannot wait to play the songs that you inspire my soul to play. We shall sing together - a melodic harmony of a quixotic ambrosia that accompanies the vibrations of my guitar strings filtered through guitar pedals and amplified in warm undertones by the Fender tube amp.
Your bass line keeps pace with the heartbeat of the song as our voices go on
Singing the songs of our adventures
As leather wearing vegans and expedition smokers.

We smoke Marlboro Red Labels to pay homage to our Americana heritage,
As we drive the Prince of Darkness to foreign lands in search of crystalline moments to write, paint, create and sing about the dream we live everyday.
The dream I live with you my dear
,is the one I never want to awake from.

You could be so pretty
if
your hair was straight
or at least neat 
and not fire engine red

You could look so lovely
If 
you didn't insist on wearing
tatty jeans
Yellow Dr Marten boots
Dropkick Murphys tees
and you weren't covered in tattoos

You could have a better life
If
You hadn't married
that blue eyed
empty pocket
*** smoking
dreamer

You could have more time to clean
If 
you didn't waste it
writing pointless poems
with your head in the clouds
listening to that awful racket

You could be more ladylike
If 
you didn't attend protests
railing against politics
didn't smoke, drink,
swear like a sailor
and stayed away from mosh pits.

You could be better
If 
you were a lot more me
and a hell of a lot less you
After all I've done
You were not what I was expecting..

Well, it was good talking to you
I love you mum
I love you too..
Lets do this again soon!

Like a stranger in is gloom, reveals the blood from his knuckles,
And the runnel filled of sludge, covers the sides of its bucket,

The maggot carnival maps out the lines of the fox
With its skeleton unhooked it creaks like an antique grandfather's clock.

Whistling Old Mother Goose, with lintels bare like Mother Hubbard,
Kept quite neatly to herself to hide away her brimming cupboards,

And a risky little boy disobeys his father's orders,
To take a chancy feral ride on the feet of its horses.

For every penny that you throw there is a wish to be on order,
But when it comes you'll never know, since coincidences are difficult to uncover,

Each speck of light from the every bird that takes in flight,
Holds the wings with its might, crossing rivers in the night.

For every marten that touts its prize,
A fledgling mother has tearful eyes,

But to a supper full of crickets,
Isn't half as good as gizzards,

A great supplement you'll know is the faith you uncover,
To the God's that heaven sews, will keep you warmer than any other.

While a plane is in flight you must never pipe or smoke,
Each passenger aboard knows, that every instrument has a fragile note.

So if it's ignorance you hold, please find a different mother and father,
Because in our home you'll know, we strictly keep to order.

But one mistake isn't so bad, as a string of bad behavior,
And it shouldn't be so hard to believe, when you see the bruises on our neighbors.

Punk kids, instead of having choreography or jumping up and down with hands in the air,
Punk kids knock, bounce and rattle against each other like broken glass in a bag or pin ***** in the most complicated machine,
I hate loud noise but I love loud music as long as I have my headphones
Back and forth, headbanging until the noise from our heads comes out those ringing ears
Nervous tics to music
Stress made into a party
Rocking out, rocking ourselves forward and back
Just like I do when I'm overwhelmed
Catching or reaching a hand to anyone who knocks themself down
Loose limbs and heads slack
Hands and feet across the crowd are literally twitching,
It's a monster mash looking, skeleton disco.
Some kids look possessed but they're okay with that
No one's worst demons can get in because the venue's at full capacity,
The window-watchers chase any evil spirits into the snow,
Fear and worry leave for one set because they can't stand the racket,
The rest of the day got lost in all the cables and pedals,
I bounce against kids in chains and band t shirts,
Hardly need to use my eyes,
My shoes are covered in Doc Marten footprints and people shove me and I shove them right back and I don't need to say anything in the huge mess that is the mosh pit
The room is full of people moving like zombies on a sugar high whose brains are being eaten by the music,
For a while, we let that happen.
When the final set ends
My neck and feet are sore like the speakers and amps were a workout you can buy from Guitar Center,
Headbanging is my favorite kind of cardio,
And moshing is my favorite catharsis.
The silence is everywhere as the punks exit the Scene.
I hardly know any of these people by name.
But we just performed one strange, scene kid dance
For the night to watch
When I go to bed my legs spasm
I think because
they are still dancing

Your veins
Like old yellow
Doc
marten laces
Your smile
Places we laid in
Your touch
Always the taste of
Sweat on our trade ins

Pleasure was seemingly
Empty embraces
Drowning on our
Over indulgence
Your habit and mine
Distilled of the finest

Sweet dreams
The fix that would fix us
Left you cold
Kissed air to your lungs
Now your gone
I ask for forgiveness

Peering across fields
looking to the horizon
creating images in my head
before the day even started

Snakes hide quickly
under the grass
exaggerating fens
feel like a big puddle

Storks nest together
on top of high poles
fox and marten watch
you can hear them sneak

Rabbit happily hops
from one hole to another
sheep looks on woolly
how do they keep it up

Frogs make paths
in the drifting sand
handy for the ants
marching across
the sandy path

Highlander grazes hairy
grass for grasshopper away
Woodpecker breaks bark
Cuckoo goes insane

A deer shoots away
is looking for a safe pasture
There is space enough
for a whole pack
all come along

Am I not supposed to see that !
I gaze upward upon your sightlines
Arranged just as God anticipated

An unruly exception to attraction
Bellowing in the halls of this dead letter office~ I arrange a place for my note to sit

Collecting data in the milliseconds of passing. Lying cleverly I sneak unabashed
from your grace. You ***** little *****

I see your eyes aboveground and star lit
I need a drink (gin) above a finger in you
I remind myself we are not alone MUse

A nightingale with a spell checker and Doc Marten 3 holes. Black
I hope its Chanel no 19 when I lay you down
And not another puddle **** with no hometown

Tu as ravagé mon coeur
Et moi j'ai bu ton sang

I guess that Paula, my counsellor,
had decided that I had been trapped in her fishnet tights for too long.
I had outgrown the Doc Marten boots and exercise colouring books.
And when I peered through the window,
i saw her sitting across from a girl around my own age.
They were doing a colouring exercise and I wondered,
did I pass the disease down onto her?
Is that how it works, am I cured?