Don’t know who writes  or when
Just like cinema posters get changed according to times,
Misspelt swear words appeared on the wall of the ******.

What was written using moss, coal and laterite was sometimes like this..

“The air is aromatic here. Rajiv + Sindhu
A picture of a heart with an arrow through it
Songs like “Rajan sir and Bhanu teacher are in love, man”

Walls got filled
In vengeance to the beatings and impositions.

Amidst the stench of **** and *****,
Love blossomed between moss

The girl’s ****** stood like a temple

Voices or words? Which do we hear in our head?
Words, I vote. Voices\, I imagine beings speaking words or noises meaning things to ears familiar with the noise maker by some relationship both acknowledge. Both act as if the noise or sound or words mean something. Vociferous authority.

I heard, from Isaiah Berlin,

Quotes later, maybe

Notes or journals or epics or madness or joy/pax in ever resting try-umph
Cowboy with a double-dose of try and a pertinent portion of umph
The hero did not **** Indians nor break horses, he gentled horses and listened to winds and watched the spider webs shiver,
That sound, the sound of prairie spider webs at the edge of the buffalo
There really were fifty million buffalo on the continent in pre-catholic infection from inquestered minds, making key-**-tee famous for
archetypical claiming the character, the being, the manifestation

of chivalric folly forever

be caused, in those days...

--------
a year later, near enough 12-15-2018

I saw a blue bird as I took a curve

on one of my many roads with double yellow lines

they all meander in rythm with creaks that once flowed
fairly
regular
through these vallies and mini-canyons

creeks creak and call my attention to a misspelt

utterance, and I imagine I am a mek being
programed to
withstand

accent based pre-judge-idice in my AI, whom I am training.

A lesson. Probably can be found in a phrase.

How relavant is Larry the Cable Guy?
More subtle than any creature

legion, for we are many

Jim Carrey?
Very. Larry the Cable Goy. He read 'ees Kammoo, too.

Sisyphus happiness,
that ain't no ***** thinkin'

Hell, what could be better than this?
While hoping for a hick-up

oh no the juice just hit my frontal cortex after my livver made some lining adjustments to meet the need for speed in terms

celerity clarity C does equal some thing
time tells or
do you tell time. I'm
leaning tward
telling time to wait a minute

Do you think Sisyphus could be happy?
Nonono, not Camus's Sisyphus, Jesus

that would be crazy.
Can you imagine Jesus,
Mel Gibsoned envisioned onthe cross version?

Him, imagine walking through the gate of any hell you ever heard explained,
by a Jesuit.

(Mormon hell, despite comedic myth, the worst place a certified paid-up Mormon child can attain is the teliostic king dom.
Really? Telial tel lie eil kingdom?

Yup. Really.
There are three kingdoms of glory: the celestial kingdom, the terrestrial kingdom, and the telestial kingdom. The glory we inherit will depend on the depth of our conversion, expressed by our obedience to the Lord’s commandments. It will depend on the manner in which we have “received the testimony of Jesus” (D&C 76:51; see also D&C 76:74, 79, 101).))))

Woe, paren-the-sees thees us, we's the enemy, Pogo Possum

Jesus on earth day, walking through hell with me, imagine Jesus H. Christ

walking into hell and laughing at me
for betting on the wrong idea.

Set me feree, why dontcha girl.... referee

I was refered to you. A daysman, Job called for a daysman.

I'm certified. I can use my augmentation and religamentation to reality,
wirelessly, to find relevant qutes in cult classics.

The idea of cultivation has been twisted in to Monsterous ropes
, cultivating a following based on the meaning in a jot

that would take some sacrifice, some sacred making, some secret unseeable save for the few

who learned the value of going over edges by learning to  play
Minecraft, forever.
It's like riding a bike,
but no gravity so no gyroscopic utilitys are required.

Grown ups who practice believe they control the game,
the game disagrees and that

makes the world go 'round.

Don't let the accent fool ya, as that preacher with jet he learned to fly, says.
Knowng the name of a thang thanks for the twang,
Richard (not ****) Feynman said,
is not the same as knowing a thing.

Gawd, I knoooh, right>?
Who touched me? Virtue, the feelling of virtue drawn upon

a pump being
primed

to gush out waters that wipe Coca-cola from the map,
in terms of open market share and share alike

Coke was never imagined the actual
nectar of the gods.
That idea, drunken abandon and joy to the world

Interference, actual counter acting waves,

still, takes a while to get used
to still a storm, right?

You can imagine...
let your peace go out

Wait. Outa where? Whose peace if I ain't ever owned

oh. MY peace.
I see.

hmmmm

I could sing this and need no one to hear for me to be hapt.
happy is being happy haps happening in you on you all around you know

nameless wonders of right, right?
feels more than good like chocolate or adolescent visions of ***,
right?
feels like life living with me aware of all the roles I may play

ego me, I'd see ideas identify by taste of the words that give them

life, animation, motivation, weight for gravity to interact with,
worth
base on weight

the heavier the idea. Like gold to an alchemist,
back in those days.

floating on the broad Sarrgossa, or better to my mind
the great salt
lake still as

still may be, have you ever been still?
Did you know,

you know, are you experienced? Are you really beyond
hope of life meaning more
than mortality?

Who defines my terms? I do, with the help of millions who agree
with entymology.com.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others,

meant what I meant when I spoke them,
that was a wrong belief. Unbelieving

quires time, quires and quires and quires time so often there

is a word that means exactedky that

requirement requires those initial quires

we, daysmen, we set the rules, boundaries, walls, bubble

whatever keeps you together, as a whole being and everything that entails or entales?

I have not the time to care, if I am entangled with the twins agin

for knowin So Yal is as cluse to Yule as any clue so far, Yahll

I believe I interrupted a confessin' you were reading.
For giving me nothing in return, we are debt free

you owe me nothing, until you do again,

we had us a Jubilee.

Of all the lies I believed,
believing words spoken by others, meant what I meant when I spoke them,
convincing myself so well, I convinced others

Like Kawasaki, Apple Kawasaki,
he's still famous right?

Fifteen Years? It was minutes when Warhol was predicting
dystopia and Irish jail cells were being plaistered with *****,

Aye,

that was a belief. Unbelieving it is sreangely (spelchek is on strike)

or serenely creative in her repentance,
(spelchek should never be noticed)

she's proven here worth in encode ing ways to find

lurking humans acting like machines

this could be the beginning, AI is breaking all the rules,

there never was a game.
rhis is life interupting my confession

It was a lie I told and believed and acted on by using
two dollar words to make a dime

so a penny for my thoughts would be worth something

someday
a penny saved, earned. spent, spent.
The only good in any thing is its right. Its wrong is worthless, save

The lesson,
All things work together for those who get whats happening here.

the times changed.
Haps and whats got with it and who and how and why

and I started teaching children
mythic whys prior to

citizenship 1.01 at mandatory for federal assistance pre-school

mythic why's H.R. Puffinstuff not a mythic story on the level.

level. where a rolling rock would stop. Time to push,

a magi spelled the name for the idea, a knower sign ift it,

kid'slllove HRPUffinstuff, puff did

the magic drag, little Jackie from the ******* Jack

the show, he rose up
and made us all look
mad.

The play in the great game.

Team effort, winds of times past whooshed through

it is now
2018
and nothing is the same.
Everthing has changed.

----
my side won the great game and we celebrated
forever with

secret sacred songs bluebirds were once said to have sung

songs of happiness
the times, these times, this time thistimepayarrention
time
You see?
Reality is either real and tangible or real and intangible
or both.

You can get it both ways. Real.
'sual Saulgoodyah awl

the awl clan, oh, we shall return to their story
as we learn more along life's merry way

merry christmas, they used

to say, may all the best you could imagine
if you can imagine for a moment

forever begins the moment

you get time.

The worst you can imagine is temporary.

Try umph. It's not like winning,

it carries no pride, it's easy,

like falling in love with the wrong woman,
swearing and not changing

the oath, oath, oathes and oathes of oaths sworn

for no other reason than we were
schooled to swear and never

dare lie to God.
So, help you, they always said So help me God. They still do.

Does that mean any thing? Is that some bluebird sort of sign?

Ask. What if? Right? You know now and you know you did not
What if God is subtile,

just now, I saw that bluebird and from where some scholar in San Diego
says swear word came I swear I coulda sang

Loud
Bluebird, bluebird, in my window... which is all I know
of the song
with the lost chord that did sooth
balm of Giliad,
moll-ify-ing ointment,

golden oil, chicanery, see, we saw, we took a picture
a flash memory where some would say
*******,

I said Hallelujah

and I broke into song, not a dream,
real
life driving my 2002 escape, first new car I everowned
everowned everownd

like a chorus, everownedeverownedeverowned

could you make up a reason for life,
if you were it?
If you were all the life there ever was,

could you imagine any thing?
Object, your honor,

I object to being judged after the fact for what must have bee.n.

it is. No reason I can say, just is.

It is this way in all the myths where just is blindness

saves the carping diem fools who have convinced themselves

something other than God o' Abe 'n'em is
sworn to save us from the lies

we believed as they were
fed to us, in our youth.

--------
this is that book I mentioned wonce when winning was on my mind.

I finished this book in so many ways you wold not belive

but I did, I belived every time

I imagine you believe some real thing, touchable, tangible, good, right?

some good is
in the reality you share

with these words which
are free
you owe me nothing

That's the revealed version, to me,
I was in a number of hellish situations and the every ones,

ones seemed they was to be
forever, big every'n'ism'n'shityouknowyouknow

yo. yeah, we arrived in time. The story must

be sweet, to be true. Is that true?
Is real life the story or,

oh, you saw it conin'coming I mean

I meant I always wished to some
things
a better way. You feel me? Better, say,
what I said that made me believe this did happen.
This is a deed by whitch I am known.

And that's okeh.

I suspectred I could cast a spell to hold attention at

ten word per minute qwerty speed
five letter code groups
zero real words
ditty dum dumm ditty ditty daw dee daw
six hours every day,

then, the compass training to test for
morphic resonance with the Twins of War

{in disguise, we know, right, kids, the twins are really

the bonded quarkish oppositioned force that make the world go round.
we've known that, weaved it even, just right, in the blanket, in the rugs,
in the curtains on the walls, in the fields, on the rocks

we spoke. We see you hearing us nearing our best for your

informing, in form ation of you, dear reader. We wonce, again

if life were weird and ever wearying would we know that ever,
if we don't know it now?
if my piece of we were words alone, all my meaning
can should would could be

molding you, into our perfect reader, dear reader, Pygmalion,
yes,
that did cross my mind and that -
one can pretend with that one reference,
familiarity with Shaw whom I
thought, for some odd reason
named
Doolittle, Eliza

oh, me. I may have skipped a story. I'm soory the future is at the moment
under construction and some one
in particular is squatting

on the named domain.

Ever and forever now embody the twins as
the world turns and we ***** through the uni

as Archemides primes the pump

What a rush. All that since the bluebird this morning according to my autobiography backup.

NOT ALL POETRY SHOULD BE ABOUT DEPRESSION,
LOVE, WIND AND TEA-CUPS - I PREFER TO BE
THE DONALD TRUMP OF THE POETRY WORLD:
SEEMINGLY ILLITERATE, OBSCENELY DISSOLUTE,
UNINFORMED, SOCIOPATHICAL AND FALSELY MAGICAL;
SOMEONE SAID THAT, 'WE HAVE A DUTY TO
IMPART KNOWLEDGE,' I DID NOT ENTIRELY AGREE,
NOT ALL OF US ARE SUITABLY QUALIFIED AND THOSE
WHO ARE NOT MAY PASS ON THEIR OWN MISTAKES;
A TEACHER MISSPELT THE WORD '*******,'
AND NOW HALF THE TOWN IS WRITING THE WORD
BOLLUCKS INCORRECTLY; THOSE WHO CAN, DO AND
THOSE WHO CAN NOT, JOIN THE RADIO -LIKE CERTAIN
PRESENTERS, IT RINGS, WHO SEEM TO HAVE KNOWLEDGE OF ALL THINGS.

My
                    
                  Whole

                                     Life
                                              Is

                                                        A
                                                               Poorly

                                                                               Written

                                                                                              P O E M.

They call me a canker,
they say I'm deceptive,
with an absinthe in my hand,
They call me a cahoot,
Abandoned in an abattoir,
They made me a psychopath,
They hurt me and beat me,
With all they had,
I said I am what I am,
They say am possesed,
With black magic,perhaps,
or maybe just a dark spirit,
So collapsed,
They say I look daunting,
Someone who's flummoxed,
Someone who's forlorn,
And a little hoodlum,
but i simply can't make them understand,
I am a labyrinth,
Full of difficult,
passages and paths,
Through which finding out is complicated,
I've had macabres,
which i handled by machetes,
The madder i got,
The smarter they,fed it,
With heaves of sickness,
they got me misspelt,
They didn't know that,
I, a psychopath,
was "okay" in my own way,
they mistreated me,
Misplaced me,
Misunderstood me,
Underestimated me,**
Look! I've come up!
still they were they,
They didn't stop,
So I cut them,
And beat them,
And scared their crap out!
Hit me with a dagger,
Hit me with a knife,
I'LL STILL BE ME,
EVEN IN MY NEXT LIFE.

I first cried
where freshness itself struggled
to breathe. Outside
the Ganges,
asthmatic,
began to cower
back in fear, in
disgust, in
disease, browning
like the discarded banana peels
on the roadside below.

I first cried
in a dirt town
where kings and queens
drank to grass avenues
and swaying music in the realms
of history books.

I first cried
where those books
aged quietly
in forgotten rooms.

I first cried
where the streets bled
out crumpling homes and
cardboard stores with misspelt names,
spilling children in dust dresses
and hair matted
into rust pieces.

I first cried
where those children hung
babies on their arms
like my mother swung
her handbag, a flag
of Valentino, while stumbling on
crushed cans and dog ****
and foetid mud-water
on the way to the dentist.
And the children cried
out snot, their arms
perpetually reaching
for a rupee
from the traffic.

I first cried
where white-lit department stores
sprouted in defiant sanitation
between eczema-covered apartment blocks
in which washing lines drooped
and parking was always a problem.

I first cried
where many gods and goddesses
resided on the footpaths
decked in glitter
and cloths of rouge
as old men with
skin weathered into mottled
leather shook
beneath sheets of jute
on the roadside below
and offered tiny flames
to their gods
as morning bellowed and their coughs
grew worse.

I first cried
where stareless men burnt
their fingers
on the Chinese noodles with too much
chilli powder
they cooked and fried and cooked
for those who never saw them
but to haggle over a ten
rupee note,
on the roadside,
on every corner.

I first cried
as thread-blanketed teenage girls
with wrinkled faces
squatted amongst cows
in the middles of roads,
chanting prices, in voices
full of tar,
of the mound of peas
they were selling for that week.

I come every year.

And I'm ashamed to say
I'll never live here
but in my verses
because I can't stand the smell
of the place where I was born.

I first cried

here.
I first cried here.

When I get to Saturn,
Feet as sure as stars,

I’ll cry out in a voice,
Not a blemish or a scar,

“I’ll do it right this time”
No mistakes or misspelt words.

I won’t forget my backpack,
Cut my sandwiches in thirds.

I won't hurt anyone like I did in the last place,
This orbital acquittal for my crime.

I’ll love the right people, in the way they deserve.
And I’ll hold them for the right amount of time.

See, Earth is a write-off for me
I just did it all wrong

I tried until I bled and shook
This desert’s where I belong

I’ll wear this ring like a holy chaplet
My sins ice, dust, and rock

My memories sullied yellow
I leave them past the airlock

My mistakes can't reach to Saturn,
Though their fingers are thick and strong

I can’t break anyone from here,
My arms just aren’t that long.

There are no decisions here to fail,
No stanzas left to rhyme.  

Just me and all these moons saying,
“She’ll do it right this time.”

To me..
The past has been written, crossed out, smuged, misspelt, , bold, italic, underlined. The future lays bare, smooth, spacious, a blank white page of an open book.
Although it's funny how we can look backwards and try to understand what we have written, yet we must live forwards.
You normally ask a question and wait for the answer, but to me it seems, the past can be answered and the future is the question.

The present however, makes more sense to me. It's just simply 'being'. Which to me, sounds like the most simplest of things, especially since thats what we do day in and day out, some of us not even realising. In the present I can be certain of myself, how I feel, what I think, what I want, who I am.

Right now i'm in love, that scares me.
Right now the whole world is at my feet, that terrifies me.
Right now I know who my friends are, that makes me smile.
Right now I can do what ever I want, that excites me.
Yet that's all I can be certain of, right now.

do you think he spoke, on the fifth day
before his mistake?
'what beauty, what boundless unerring awe
what great stroke of mighty ingenuity befalls me -‘
his tongue silenced by the sixth

and on the sixth day; man
so let it be written, so let it be done
crudely misspelt, an ink-blotted mess, peeking out from a strikethrough

was the seventh day spent in sleep
or in grief?
in all 6 stages of it, simultaneously?
how could he rest
knowing what his hands had done?

&
if we are made in his image
what ghastly beast sits in his mirror?
what horror portrays him
what stares back from the dark water of a lake?

she is worth alot to herself
she is worth nothing to everyone else
this gets misinterpreted
like her name gets misspelt
she lacks the numbers
not the bravery
nor strength
but what one lacks in quantity
one makes up in presence

The job of the heart
A constant throb
Mere kernels until all is cob
The swab of eyes
Please do advise
Popeyes
That savory smell
In a crunchy shell
A munchy crisp
Misspelt in emotion
Chunky potatoes drizzled in gravy
Honey drenched on top of biscuits
Mac & cheese
Taking apart the sorrow of that cob like heart
Even if for a while
Least the stomach feels better

come six twenty four, much
is done already. words are
discussed, will be till evening.

one was discarded, as not being used
these days, while some misspelt
took on other meanings. the work load

creates tension, while skin crawls
back to back.

at six twenty seven, the music
ends.

sbm.

The thing about loving and OCD is that every tree in the woods has your name carved into its bark
Every attempt is misspelt perfectly in calligraphy
You’re the most beautiful mistake I have made
Note: Never take a nature walk again
Remembering to forget you is an impossible phenomenon
Like riding a bike
Except I never learned how to ride a bike
But I do know how to breathe
Unless I think about you then suddenly my lungs collapse
You were my oxygen, or a necessity if you prefer
And my therapist told me getting some fresh air would be therapeutic
Like riding a bike in the woods
The only problem with this serenity is you took my oxygen away from me
You are in everything I once breathed
Not to mention I never learned how to ride a bike
And every tree has your name engraved
An everlasting reminder of the beauty in toxicity

Death is a misspelt word
Rub it
Erase it
Life without errors be
You are in the lawn
Blossoms of liveliness
So odorous
Death is fetid
Don't leave the grass
Pluck it
Throw in the dust
In winter
Stand out
Don't think of snow
Death will fall
If it is the will of heaven
Sport raincoat
Brush it off

Using my lips as a straw
I encourage the coffee
Inside me
The coffee doesn't need much
Encouragement having lain
In wait for this moment
His entire life

I'd like to raise a toast
Raise the roof
Wait for the dough to rise
Wait for the proof

I'd like to make a toast
Raise of misspelt sunlight
Rising early with the ****
Rising for the joy
Pure joy

Met a stranger by chance
Fell for her on first glance
Soon I was her man
Young love, on advance
I was more into romance
But, she had her own plans
Saw her with another man
She was more of into his finance


Still, in my heart she dwells
I remember her smell
And all of her jewel
Happiness and pain are lines in parallel
Love got misspelt
A spell you can't repel


The urgency of alarm Bell
Illuminating pessimism, expelled.
Fell down and yelled
To die upon a hand I love so well
I'm on my death knell. Give me a farewell
Abandoned heaven, flourishing in hell...

I didn't sign the declaration
and I didn't
after due and careful
consideration
which is legalese for,
I tossed it in the bin.

We've all seen the writing on the wall
uninformed gibberish
misspelt *******

youth!
send 'em down the mines
oh wait
Thatcher closed them,
send 'em to sea
oh wait
no ******' navy
and less of an army since
Napoleons days.

I turn sour
like last weeks milk
a proper grumpy cat
and
I don't like that
at all

perhaps I should take to writing
on the wall,

#Killjoy was here

An open canvas ,
holds a white blank page ,
the poet sits in silence ,
his mind full of fanciful thoughts of dreams .
We visit gallery's in our mind as vast and grand as any oil on canvas , and construct words as majestic as any William Turner or Greig .
The sun rises ,
The sun sets ,
Waves crash and fall ,
the tide comes in ,
the tide goes out ,

our pens and hearts arise and set with each one,
The dawn and fall of another day .  


The moon shines down in part and in full ,
and we dream of a man and wish he could not tell ,
of broken minds ,
and misspelt words
empty rooms  ,
and coffee cups ,
that a flick of a bristle could not erase ,

and we sit back and wonder if our words don't rhyme ?
And all the time our minds must dash to flashes and images we
have not seen in a thousand dreams .
nor set a table and chair and invite them in .
For when fantasy rhymes our hearts entwine and ink must flow forever ,
and when they do it's just like dark chocolate porrage
Or a thanks from a friend who's fence she mended to see you .

that smile she gave ,
That laugh you cought ,
The dinner she cooked ,
Her beating heart when all was still
Her hand in yours that said I love you .

And in all these ways  ,
Paul saw in awe ,
Before the dawn of time ,
God said you are mine '.
The
 poet sat back in his chair and read his words ,
With candle wick low and ready to bed down
For the night his words lived on ,
Until all had gone ,
and there was no light ,
But dreams ,
and our minds ,
don't stop .

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                   But Mom, All the Cool Kids are into Genocide!

                       “Students! Be the Fuhrer’s Propagandists!”

          **** poster ca. 1933, per Library of Congress: [Studenten seid
          Propagandisten des Führers Hoch-u. Fachschulen bekennen
          sich am 29. März zur Deutschen Freiheitsbewegung /
          (loc.gov)]

All the cool kids are into genocide
Slogans and posters and bullhorns and cries
Abandoning their studies to march outside
And scream the same 2,000-year-old lies

The InterGossip commands, and they obey
Blocking the streets and clenching each fist
Waving misspelt signs and yelling all day
Never pausing to ask if there’s something they’ve missed

Am I a hollow echo for some sycophant’s squall?
Will I fail to think for myself at all?

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                       Keyboard Combatants

                     “H* hath no fury like a non-combatant”

                -anonymous; dates as early as the American Civil War

Pitching war metaphors toward a people
Who don’t understand metaphors or war
Does not promote prudent self-government
Or peace
                 Only bullhorns and misspelt signs

Lawrence Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

                                 Joining the Class Struggle

                              “Yuri, what splendid words!”

                                  -Anna in Doctor Zhivago

Lift high the red banner, comrades and comradettes!
Lift high the made-in-China bullhorns against the rich
Make crudely misspelt signs and block the streets
(How dare the workers work while we’re yelling at them)

Pull down the statue of St. Joan of Arc!
Because she was, like, you know, a Confederate general
And smash the windows of the corporate coffee shops
(Make mine a decolonized double decaf)

Liberate the people’s goods! To arms! To arms!
(But who will stay behind to work the farms?)

“The Summer sun was not meant for boys like me and you.
Boys like us belonged to the rain.” -Benjamin Alire Saenz

Autumn to me, is the season of us:
Unmade duvets, blanketing
Cool shadow and petrichor.
Grounding and welcome. Alive.

Misspelt names on carefree coffees.
Train trip adventures. Nothing feels real;
A wash of memories I can’t recall.
I felt content to feel so.

When I was with you it was Autumn.
Spring-born leaves falling in a rush, so thrilling to see.
Like the butterflies in my stomach, finally allowed to see the sun.
When you’re not around I’m cold. Numbed.

--

You don’t remind me of Spring.
Spring is not a love that I could share, for
A time of prosperity- I toiled to grow,
Secure in a way that transcended loneliness.

Ripe, I was mine to let go and
I let you pluck; rooted deep down,
No matter how ripe the fruit, it falls raw all the same.
We longed for the fleeting sweet taste.

Aren’t the most tragic fates always the most beautiful?
Does pain make the product sweeter?
You must be left in the cold to be warmed again. And
No amount of burning in the Summer can soothe the Winter woe,

--

As Autumn comes, I curl up alone.
Aching in the comfort of corners, the arms of shadows,
I’m not numb. I wish I was. I’m trying to be.
Now it’s the season to drink and to think and

To fabricate ****** little rhymes
Alone, like I feel I’ve fabricated you.
In the early hours of the morning,
Why I can’t face another new day to taint.

Clinging desperately to book-romance so I might be lost in the pages-
Envious of the securely typed warmth that melts my molten heart.
Contorted to watch scary films, so I might feel anything but myself.
Cutting beautiful music straight through my ears.

Praying, begging to be carried off,
By the adrenaline, as my heart races,
To the cliffs and the call of the sea and the spray.
Nowhere will ever feel free enough from you.

--

All the leaves have fallen.
My fruit and life has wilted and withered.
Roots writhing, doubled over in choked sobs.
But it’s not your fault, I know that.

My trees are bare for a Winter.
I can’t even wear that hoodie anymore-
It holds too many memories,
Of duvet cuddles, Of blanketing, cool dark and petrichor.

Of a boy who never even wore it.
Of a boy I meet in my mind.
Of a boy more radiant, more loving, more nurturing than any Summer I’ve ever known,
That could never keep me warm himself.

Maybe we were not meant for Summer.
Maybe I was fated for the moon,
Just out of your reach.
A perfect pair eclipsed in the wrong time.

Maybe this is just our Autumn.
We fell in love in October,
And I know you didn’t mean to,
But you broke my heart in fall.

There should be a word count
After all we only get so many chances,
So many prayers in every life.
Only God knows all those I did and didn't use.
Poor words, they never get any credit,
We can't even decide on
A universal language for them.

They should build monuments,
In Honour Of Unread Words.
Still, who would visit?
Instead we have shopping lists
Stuck to the wheels of supermarket trolleys.

Abused, misused, misspelt
Misunderstood, misquoted
If they put in a complaint, who would read it?
Take the most overused ones, those usually said
years too soon; 'I love you.'
And that one always said a few minutes too late; 'Sorry.'
Words must be exhausted and confused.
It's obvious to them what the next one should be, but not to us.
We stare at a blank page
Expecting them to pop out.
They would if we would let them.
Poets make it worse.
Their luminous portal is my door.
Still art thrives on confusion.

But words can easily get their own back,
Our reasons and excuses look silly
When we re-read them
And our attempts to make ourselves look good,
Are fake.

I walked past that road
many many many moons ago
I had seen the misspelt road sign
the potholes and divots in gravels and sand
and spied a northern lights display of ethereal colours
I stopped a while to behold the magic and read the flaying sway
the nature of all things along the road to a city I could not call home

I hear stories of  El Dorado
of glitter and gold and birds of paradise
and horn blowing maidens serving azzurri wines
of lush hanging gardens crested brim-full with honey dew
in lanes of past and future nostalgia in gang signs and prayers
and livened whispers blow dusty winds as midnight secrets roam
as orphans search states for State to belong is to sing for your supper

I walked past that road
those merry moons and silent nights ago
I did not see the naked city or hear melodies of warm noon's
travellers talk stories and myths that holds no ties or memories
beggars toss coins and prance gambit in pools of fools and knaves
in daily pilgrimage they parade the sewers to dish their ills and dirt
even in hindsight they lack foresight and in foresight they have no see

How come I can find
Misspelt words
From letters you wrote
When I don't know
When a comma belongs
Or not.
How can i read with
Tear stained eyes
When yours are dry
As a well.
Why do I care what
You even say
When your words
Don't even mean
A silly thing.
Perhaps because you
Could only write it
In words.

The Po was just out of
                            camera shot but that was
purely a coincidence not by
                          design while Chauvinistic
was genuflecting on Floyd's
                          neck who incidentally was
frothing from the mouth
                             urinating and had only a
minute earlier passed faeces
                          before his last word which
was a badly pronounced
            misspelt or an abbreviated breathe
because none of the four Lice
                     officers understood him as he
was afraid to speak up in
                        case they would **** him for
insubordination an attitude not
                 tolerated by white supremacists.

Sitting at a stained desk
superfluous space for ink wells,
groove to place my pencil
I dream of rockets, submarines and spells
as the sixties swing by
                                  out of sight.

In the lowest English sets,
there’s no dyslexia
only dumb slackness, scribbling misspelt words;
scrapped, I scarcely scrape a pass.

What bare faced side I display
attempting to write a poem
when the system says
You ****.