I can't end the year this way,
the title of this piece won't sway,
It is not an anchor to hold the stay,

but wait and listen to the choir singing
as they practice in the church hall down
the road, with too many cars, so listen...closely
and you may hear the high notes on
a night clear like this, just like this,

the information that swirls on and on,
about people, places and events,
homeless people kicked out of the park and tents,
political figures mishapen by absolute power,
absolute greed,
absolution to them a quick rinse in a shower,

more information feed my gluttonous mind,
I absorb none of it as there is newnews to find,
there is a woman out there
who has a reputation for causes,
wicked witch in the East beyond Oz,

gut check as some said
world paused to remember well,
so much left to do there as well,

Oh Africa!

The world's greed for your resources,
makes nasty fodder for the choices,
as to who is in charge this week.

So much pain, it is plain to see I can't write about it all, it would take an eternity.
A loss this year like no other, but a life to celebrate, who will Madiba motivate?

Natural disaster, filled with remorse after the eye of and storm has passed,
loved ones looking their loved ones lost, some evil gang backfills, a brand
of poison into the the void, the pain the anguish, in lives,
to steal the aid and make it their prize, to be aportioned at their will and price.

And George is back in the news...sad, so many things this year that make me
want to ball up my fists and punch the air, walk down the streets until I begin
to shout and let it out, harm no more, harm no more, anniversaries of bullets,

and little ones who touched, so many with who they were, I wonder who they would
                                            
                                                                ­     have been,    

I am not being flip and this is not Christianese, but God knows as the spirits they are
                                                             ­                  and He is.

There is no one poet
who can say it all,
there is no one place
that tears did not fall,
this may be a wrap up,
I have left so much out
and it falls so short,
maybe the ink I spill
is wrongly placed.

Tomorrow night at midnight, let's just embrace REFRESH!
not forgetting
lessons learned
poetic stripes
maybe earned
by writing or typing or wiping away tears
I could go one, but that is one of my fears,
...losing you.



©DWE122013

Byron couldn't get home quick enough to get a drink, so much so, he stopped at a wine bar not far from the hospital and swallowed two large jack daniels.
He felt sick to his stomach when he saw Holly, standing there in all her beauty, looking every inch the throw back of his very own Megan.
Every nerve in his body felt like electric, his first instinct was to run, far away, perhaps back to Leeds where her ghost cant be seen.He started thinking he'd had a vision or something , too much alcohol and strip clubs for one lifetime.
After a hot shower and a few more Jacks, Byron began to see things clearer. He was more focused now. He clicked open his laptop, typed in "Beautiful Words", and began reading. He read for hours, all the poetry by Maiden,the same Maiden he'd thought about, the same Maiden he'd envisioned with red hair, ample *******, and an innocence about her, like Megan.Jake was gonna have a hard time explaining this one to Byron !!, "Let's see what you're worth now, buddy!!"
Thinking back to earlier, Holly didnt flinch when she saw his face, his scarred and mishapen face."Well now" thought Byron," perhaps life is worth living after all".......

To this mess, that has shown me
how awful I can be when I forget me
and let myself get pushed around
Did I say that?
The hatred, a boiling Spring, with a nuclear core
that won't die out, not for a million years
It sits in me, abrasive, I can be
Did I do that?
This place, unshapes me, like play doh
and I, mishapen, lash out with barbs
Barbed tongue
words so not calm, cool, collected, the proof
to myself of what they say
But I am not this
The persecuted, begins to persecute
to lose sanity and act strange and wander around shouting
outrageous insanity
can't find my center, the salvation
the sanity within, please
let me in and
let me stay

you are all infinite
you, my children of the night
pagan wanderers on destinies lips
patrons of the streets, lonely, empty, wanting
I seen a generation fall
I seen a generation crumble
and be reborn.
You my midnight sorcerers on deaths hitlist
listless and searching
I seen the dance of a power divide
Ego denied, angry id, broken steps
steps
steps
steps
we walk steps in the open,
we talked talks of confession to the night
it held us, comforted us
We the unwanted zombies
of unheard promises and dysfunctional rational
you are all beautiful
undaunted by the lines
the crooked lines, cut mishapen, disater mishappen
Cheers to my world, my surrounding reality
scared and scarred by tomorrow
tomorrow
tomorrow
tomorrow
My vagabond lies, my homeless truths
You, my enormous, analytical algorythms of disobedience
of disorder, of chaos
Musicians playing perpetual reqiuems
Jazz of the dead, jazz of the wanderer, jazz of the beautiful
Show your hand, yell your claim
stake your play.
concrete mazes, blinding buildings, urban solitute
I have found you, I have seen you,
you poets of denial, poets of disaster
Prose of temptation
Words of lament
Speak to me my children of the perpetual night
My children of music, of poetry, of paintings telling me the broken down minds, the sacrificed
economy of love
I am lost in these streets
I am at home in the unknown
I am nothing but a dream, denied
We are together
all together, here, here and now
Lost together
Crowded solitude
Lets be solidified as one
You, my children are emptied of being full
full of unknown, full of yourselves and filled with *****
Drunken stories of lullabies lost
Pour me another, make it a double. doubled down truth
hit me
Cigarette stained finger tips
Plucked tense strings,
Strings so tense you could feel their vibration
We sit, listening, ears pointed at God,
Waiting to be lulled into compliance
I have seen your cigarette stained
Finger tips
Pluck strings of lament and prophecy
Sing me into your future
Oh beautiful melody
Oh wandering progressions
Telling tales of my transgressions
Oh trusty chords
Lovers speak only lies,
With cigarette gently sleeping between exhausted lips
Let us lie here
Here in this desolate desert moonscape
Forlorn homeless shelter
New antiqued flashood of home
I have seen us staring
Staring into the void,
Into the fullness of emptiness
These are not just dreams
Fevered and sweating out the ingested fungus
They are the dystopian dreams of
Every young adult novel
Of every science fiction, battered, back pocket edition
Dog eared, notes in the margins, yellowed with love, book.
They are the lost bibles of us,
Of our current histories and our future stories.
My friends
Gathered, exuberant, broken and shattered
Passing time on the the stools of inebriation
Come forth and be counted
The artist hang burnt offering from crimson skies
Sacrifices of the soul
Sacrifices of humanity
Exercises of humility
Stand here before me and and be chastised
A public flogging, a private shaming
A social satired informal gathering
Gaining peer reviewed synthetically blended praise
The dab hazed hipsters
Losing time,
faking time,
Cutting lines, sparking fires inside
Burn
Burn
Burn
Lose me in the iridescent, fill me in with acrylic
Wash me out with acid and cry-
Cry over me, cry with me
I am nothing, and we are everything.

Bed is the target
Not my bed
That's on the floor
And its a bit mishapen

Its covered in fur
And its got hidden biscuits
And a bone I put there
But can't get out now

No, my bed isn't the target
Its YOUR bed that's the target
The one with the douvet, the pillows
and fluffy, fluffy sheets

Its got a big springy mattress
And it looks nice sometimes
When its all covered in
MY paw marks

But it doesn't smell nice, though
Its smells of flowers
I would like it better
If it smelled of fox poo

But after I roll in the fox poo
You never let me on the bed
So how am I going to get it
to smell nicer

That's what I think about
When we're out on a walk
And you throw the ball
And I ignore it, and go for a roll

I roll in squirrel poo
Not as nice fox poo
But I make it nicer
by jumping in the river

You think a quick shower
with the garden hose
Will dissipate all these lovely smells
But you forget the shampoo...and I WIN

I get in the house
Dry myself on YOUR dressing gown
But still I smell
absolutely lovely

Like lamp posts, and drains
And bins
And that really nice smell
When I've been running in the wind

And no one's locked the bedroom door
So I run and I jump
And I roll and I roll
On YOUR bed

For five whole minutes
Then I hear you coming
Slowly stepping up the stairs
So I jump off your bed

Then jump into mine
Then wait and wait and wait
Then suddenly you jump up
And leave

I've no idea where you go all day
No idea, at all
But you've got a sneaky idea
Where I am

You know I'm on your bed
You know I'm making it smell lovely
Just for you when you come home
Hope you appreciate it.
Lots of Love From Your Dog

The rising moon sheds light

on a similar soul

tarnished and pitted as much

as the hovering rock above it,

rising from the dust that shines in the warm midnight air

that pervades with a vibrant sense of life and learning.

This soul can become smooth,

refined by the furnaces that it has sat in for so long,

waiting for a touch to shape it

to fix the crooked, mishapen bits-

A thought ingintes,

burning away cobwebs and shadows

raging like wildfire through a conciousness

that sat like an empty house

ready for demolition,

returned by the burst of fire and passion

of an extinguished life rekindled.

Underneath the starlight,

hope and flames intertwine

in a glorious reckoning

of past, present and future-

Wings flap as hard as they can,

destined to lift the sagging esteem

and broken promises

off the ground into the beauteous glory of the waiting beyond.

A secret smile plays;

no one can see this-

a fireworks show meant only for me,

a flustered game of chance until now,

when I found myself

and remembered the truth-

I can be the phoenix of my own ruins.

It's easy to believe in God on an airplane.
Mishapen rows of rolling clouds could
Conceivably be His ranks of Old Testament
Angels, the way they were before we gave them
Blue eyes and human faces.

When she was young her heart was whole,
its strength and depth at her control,
to share it with those all around,
or save it for one to be found.

Then as a child her heart was split,
the pieces pulled with no remit,
mishapen, warped, beyond repair,
surrounded with self-centered 'care'.

This girl grew up a shy recluse,
her soul a slave to dark abuse,
ignored by most, a friend to few,
in need of love, but one so true,

no trust or friendship in her life,
save for the cold kiss of her knife,
she drifts through life devoid of light,
a wraith, a shadow in the night,

her memories hint of happy times,
though life reminds her of its crimes,
no love without a price to pay,
no knight to take her far away,

when she was young her heart was pure,
her mind was set, her stance was sure,
no thoughts of hate lived in her mind,
no fear of love left far behind,

this child now grown, alone and scared,
a life from which she'll not be spared,
her dreams of love forgotten now,
as darkness takes its final bow.

Folded ripped and unfolded
You see the symmetry and its beautiful
But when you take a step closer you see the emptiness in the tears.
You see the valleys left behind in each crease of every fold
The rugged edges of the rip
Fingerprints left from a sweaty hold
Yes, upon closer inspection I am but the sum of my parts
And often all my parts appear to be disasters
And often they are
I trot around like a work of art
But few see what it took to get that way
How I was folded ripped and unfolded
Few can't see past what it took
They see the holes left in me but not the pretty shapes
And some see the shapes and I wish they'd acknowledge the holes
Still even fewer can comprehend the resulting work
And frankly, Sometimes I'm not sure I do
But I manage
A crippled work of art made beautiful by how neatly she was torn apart
I struggle to hold my new form in the wind and amongst viewers
Try to look like something relatable
And not like life spent too long on me
Worked till it got weary and persisted when really it should have rested its eyes
I try
To uphold my form as though every overworked corner and tear isn't centimeters away from destruction
As though the slightest snag or tug won't leave me hanging
Noticeably Deformed and mishapen
But I stretch and I retract with grace
Perhaps this is how I dance now
my life a pas de deux of trying to hold it all together
Just folded, ripped, and unfolded.

It's there.
Some small
inconveinent
hindrance of curiosity
You see,
at night I like to lay
flat on my back
on the cement
and stare up at the night sky.
Make fun all you want
but this nonpareil view
of the stars
holds so much possibility,
so many endless and unexplainable
things
to ignore it is an insult to mankind
and your gift of consciousness!
So there I lay
trying to do my humanity
a favor
but my head
as oblong and mishapen as it were
with that flat spot
always rolls to the side
forcing a limited view
of the city!
Pfft! There is nothing to gain
from the working of other people!
I've tried building many
prosthetics for this problem,
Once,
I molded putty to my head
to make up for this tragic flaw
but it didn't work
and it looked terribly absurd.
So I suppose
as much as I imagine the universe
to be completely perfect,
the fact that earth is a part of it
makes it flawed
(which yes, I realize that includes myself)
Furthermore
as much as I like
to think of myself as perfect,
that flat spot will always be
the earth
of my head.

12345- didn't think I would stay alive.
How did I survive?
Feeling alone, if I dissapeard would he notice?

No one knew.. Shhhhhh . Secret

Big mishapen.. Yellow, brown, green and blue.
They fade.

Broken, but carry on. Why? Just for another slap or a nice little punch.
Don't want to be alive.. What have I done for such punishment?

Please humiliate me some more.. Or why not punch me in the face?  
You won't though. Not now

Coward.
Your not brave strong or manly.
You weak pathetic *******.

Presents don't mean what they used to
And I understand why you never
Used my mugs and platters
That I constructed myself
With my little hands
And my heart of unaware

They have holes
These lopsided bowls
Or pots
Whatever you prefer
They've been on display and only now
I understand

They are non-intrinsic treasures
Holds no monetary promise
But you hold it in your heart
Such as every smashed dandelion
Or mishapen clay creature I've ever conjured
Yet I know you love them, uninferred.

A Godless generation
Seemingly hopeless situation
All these poets throwin words but you can't find the relation
Lets not fight over pigmentation
Of the body thought mishapen
But is beautiful as ever
No man has ever been that clever
Not in his greatest endeavors
To out do the heavens
Or attempt the deadly sevens
And survive without a single prayer
Muttered over his five o clock chin hair
Without skippin a beat
Each deadline red line flat line God meets
Because he believes in you and me
So why can't we see
That it was He
Who made this beauty
Everything it's turned out to be?

Sad eyes
For a sad girl
Its just all the make up I wear
To hide my poor mishapen soul
But I laugh because I look like a racoon
Which is just so
Because I'm rabid at heart

A gentle breeze whistles
Through the keyhole
A silence fills the room
Darkness like a velvet mole
Wafts over the still.
She comes carefully to me
Martha, from the past.
A woman of iron, strong will
and fury but silent.
A bad, evil stench fills the air
Rotting cobwebs shake in the mist
A bone, arthritic like a stick
Mishapen like her soul
Points at me, then fades
I laugh, shout "don't flatter yourself"
"You are no lady, be gone foul player,
Cat had your tongue, spat it out"
I laugh,  she reappears with tears
Begs forgiveness, her soul, the decayer
the torch with a thousand candles
hits her eyes, announcing her fears
Tears well in the socket of a misplaced ball
of juicy *******.  Be gone, be gone and she was.
Martha, a joker, a sick woman now rest in peace.

her eyelids close. hot heavy and sticky in the creases with the slime the heat of the day.
she is bruised on her legs. green purple yellow. clumsy her. someone ought to tell her to be careful.
but she looks again and they look sort of like mishapen art on her flesh. bruises and dark freckles, scattered, over her shoulders like flecks of paint. dark hair, crazy hair, she tries to fix to no avail. her heartbeat thunders in her thin bones, louder than her voice rambling sweet nothings and her fingers tapping the nightstand. the ink in her skin slink off of her body like vines, roots, slithering across the bed over cotton hills to reah him. soak into him and wrap their tendrils around the ink in his skin.

how do i become everything i despise
in order to fit my mishapen thoughts
into the cracks undercutting
their fundamentally broken world
how do i overcome the revulsion
of seeing my reflection in the mirror
knowing every step i take towards financial freedom
binds me tighter to the oar bench of a sinking ship
set afloat on a sea of abject poverty
every tainted pound i make i steal from another
in this competition of survival where
natural selection is bypassed in the name of
exponential consumption
every meal i buy i steal from the lips
of someone who will never taste sweet promise again
every penny i pay in tax
to sustain a long dead dream
kills another man i dont know
with a bullet he wont hear
in a land i cant visit
as anything other than a culpable murderer
my shame arresting me with a jurisdiction
no court of human "rights" can ever understand
how do i look around me
at those that commit blind atrocity
in the name of demonic democracy
with their ignorant bliss
and not want to ravage their pretty
pampered throats with my teeth
spilling their warm careless lives
into the dust at their feet
of those that failed to learn
the lessons of the past
or saw the revolving door of politics
spit out clone after differently hued clone
painted with the same brush
hewn from the same men of the cloth
and came away spun and believing the hype
without ever acknowledging the possibility
of another radical option
how, in words without the ambiguity
of those with a reputation to protect
and a dollar to make
do i **** everything and everyone
that makes life a race to be run
a game to be played
and a resource to be monetarised
plagiarised and dominated,
alone.

My feet are heavy
As I trudge through the sand
Step after step after step
I must go on, I must reach the end

A blanket of dust covers my mishapen form
Blistered
Burnt
Broken
And yet I must not rest

I am weary
I do not know how far I've left to go
Simply that I've come too far to pause
To lose heart and simply give in

This is something much bigger than I will ever be
This is something far more important than me
I do not suffer for me, but for you
I must go on, because I give my all

It is my duty to keep you safe

Sensitivity is a gift and sometimes makes life difficult
You wish you could return this gift.
Going with the flow is not easy
Laughing when crying is easier is not always possible
It is as if you don't belong
Taking a joke or knowing when a joke is being told does not compute
You are the puzzke piece mishapen
You dont fit in and you know it
You were meant to standout but you didnt know it
It is certain that you challenge what is unclear

C@Rainbowchaser2021

sat down with it,
meant to use it,
if you don't use it
you lose it,
so, it is lost as can be expected,

like something else was lost today,
when three youth chewing gum,
decided that the occupied crosswalk
was a drive thru at full speed,

jumped in time, looked too late to get their
license plate, but something was lost,
temper
insensed, always losing things these days,
pretty soon my passwords will all go astray,

like a cat,
like my write arm,
like my favorite pen,
like my tongue for spoken word,
rested it put down, now flown like a bird,
cannot call out or call it back

it was here a moment ago,
quiet poise,
confident plan,
pen and nerves,
ink stained hand,
blank slate waiting...
                   waiting still...

getting late,
nothing to hang onto the quill,
and yet my heart beats,
                   faster as listening to notes played, so only the bones in these ears vibrate,

trembling, not of fear,
but inadequacy,
hollowed out trunk,
filled with rot,
spoken poisonous
words,
birds looking to peck
eyes for treats,
oh what has cracked
the mirror this time,
so much clear tape,
layers
and layers,
and layers holding onto
dirt,
self-loathing or
      foaming at the mouth,
the rabid,
the rapid fall and decline,
can't see clearly for all the tape,
the mishapen place,
of unkind reflection,
     this disgrace,
                          best at being unsuccessful,
                            sole occupant of the cesspool,
crap....

still can't find my right arm,
hope it is safe away from harm,
so when it is found, let there be a will to write.