We ambled the streets of Harare
Meandering aimlessly
Fleeting past wide-eyes scanning us enviously
Hand in hand we walked into the restaurant
Leisurely on Second Street
Our hunger awakened
Our appetites heightened
At almost closing time
With no one in overtime mode
A signal that here we could only dine on another day


Joina City was our next stop
Up the lift right to the top
'Closed' it read at the coffee shop
Into the nearest chair I went flop!
Though hungry, we gabbed non-stop
By and by we regarded the clock
It chimed 8 o'clock
And sadly, it was time to go home

Busy and noisy
Were the streets of Harare
Jabbering crowds, kombis hooting
Hawkers, vendors or is it hustlers now -
Calling for buyers or just huddled to pass time
No chill in Harare
Picturesque like a dream
Surreal…
Hand in hand we dawdled
In despair for a hot meal

In the shimmering distance
Like a mirage in the desert
The neon lights read
'Creamy Inn'
Something to calm our rambling bellies
At last…
Nippy evening air hit our souls
'Ice-cream tastes better at night'
I said
'I can't believe I'm having ice-cream'
He said
We frolicked
Hand in hand we danced past faces painted with adoration
'What a handsome lover!'
They probably thought:
My delectable younger brother

Hot cocoa,
so saccharine,
so sweet,
Warm me through the bitterest winter,
the iciest claw of the wind

Hot cocoa,
melting on tasteless tongues
warming my tiny, gelid hands
You trickle and run down numb throats
leaving milky, brown streaks
on colorless lips

Hot cocoa,
rolling and tumbling in nippy stomaches
as my belly rumbles and thunders for more

Objective and Subjective decided to hang out together at the park one day, to get to know each other and to try to become friends. Soaking up the views, and watching the people go by, they just sat and relaxed on a park bench.

Subjective broke the ice, first, and said to Objective:

It is getting a bit nippy outside isn't it? I forgot to bring my sweater with me.

Objective replied:

The daytime high will reach 67 degrees with a NW winds of 12 mph. Humidity is 68%. The weather is forcasted today for a 20% chance of rain, but it is not due until evening.

Subjective replied:

Yes, that is good to know...I guess. Now I know why I am cold. Hey, look over there on the right! Check out those roses! Boy oh boy! Did they ever come up colorful this year! I am getting a good whiff of them right now. Don't they smell like heaven?

Objective replied:  

I have never been to heaven, so I can not give you an accurate report. Roses, though, come from a thorn bearing shrub that typically produce fragrant flowers of various colors. Roses are native to north temperate regions. They are widely cultivated for unpractical reasons such as objects of adornment.

Subjective gave Objective a good sidelong glance like, Are you for real? There was a long period of silence as both appeared awkward in each other's company.

Subjective finally broke the silence and said:

The birds are really chirping up a storm today! Oh, I don't mind at all! They sure tweet nice and sweet! But these pigeons I can do without! I don't want them around me! You know what they say, don't you? Pigeons are just rats with wings!

Objective replied:

Actually, rainstorms are not caused by chirping of birds. Rain is produced when water is condensed into clouds from the water evaporation of oceans, lakes and rivers when the heat of the sun activates the process.  Furthermore, there is no such thing as a flying rodent. Even flying squirrels don't actually fly. Birds and rodents are two separate species that cannot produce offspring. Therefore, a rat with wings would be impossible.

Subjective was now beginning to get red in the face. Maybe this was a bad idea hanging out with Objective, after all. Could he really learn to understand him by getting to know him?

Both Objective and Subjective's attention was soon diverted by a tall, slender woman with blonde hair walking by. She now became the center of their focus. Wearing a form fitting blue dress, that came well above the knees, her shapely. long legs were quite appearant as she walked along in 5 inch, spiked heels.
  
Eagerly, Subjective whistled and said:

Wow! Would you get a look at her? What a knockout! Hey, Objective, I think you just saw heaven, after all!

Objective shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly and replied:

Beauty is said to be in the eye of the beholder. Back in history, it was the full figured woman who was upheld as a virtue of beauty. Her size represented a desired lifestyle of affluence. For example, in the Classical period of art, as well as the Rennaissance and Baroque periods, it was the more voluptuous female that was often the subject of an artist's rendering.

Now Subjective was really ready to blow smoke through his ears, like his blood pressure was going to go through the roof.  No way could he take this for much longer!

He replied:  

That's it! I tried! I did! I really did! But you know what? You are the most annoying being on the planet!

Objective looked stunned at Subjective's outburst of anger. So Subjective continued on in his verbal lashing.

He yelled out:

Yeah, you, Objective! You just don't get it, do you? You really get on my nerves! I can't stand being around you! It is so infuriating!

Objective was at a loss for word. He attempted to utter a reply but could not.    

Subjective added:

I got to get out of here before you drive me crazy! What are you anyway? A walking encyclopedia? A walking dictionary? For the love of Pete, talk like you're normal!!!

As Subjective was ready to storm off Objective meekly replied:

Inanimate objects, such as encyclopedias and dictionaries, cannot realistically have body limbs, nor can they function as living organisms....unless, of course, they are presentated in imaginery situations, such as cartoon figures in cinema, television, comic strips, or storybooks. Also,  I must tell you that I personally don't know anyone named Pete.......

Furious, Subjective got up and stomped off, muttering complaints to himself all the way down the street, leaving Objective sitting on the park bench, by himself. There Objective remained, wondering what he did that was so wrong.



THE MORAL of my LAME story is..........................

OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE JUST DO NOT BELONG OR GO TOGETHER!!!

nippy thursday outside
black berry clusters gather
in their dark matter conclaves
silent is the August essence
it’s morning and it’s laundry day
got only your boxers on

(My lady in waiting
Was a cougar crouched in the brush.)
Brush it off, no big deal.
I'll console myself
By talking to strangers,
Fraternizing with friends
And enemies alike.

Maybe old men
Fornicating at my image
Is better than true friendship,
Tangible attachment or comfort.
Maybe I never needed it.
(The look and feel of
Printed words on a screen.)

(Maybe the chill was me,
Maybe I am a bit nippy.)
No time was spent
Trying to harvest this field,
Cold winter took all in bloom,
Fresh compassion plucked
Before ripeness came to play.

What was I to you?
We suspected a dream.
I comforted you in
The idea that I was there,
That I could listen.
(My lady in waiting
Was a cougar crouched in the brush.)

I flew were rain descended
gleaming like an iris
waiting for the sunshine to sneak
behind the tenebrous clouds
to endure the sprinkles of nippy water
flowing like a queen in majestic raiment
streaming in routes
delivering pristine rinse to flora
and I penetrate right into it
to dance to the melody of its music!!
©shadeofalonelygirl

I want to climb buildings with you.
We could climb the tallest one
In this godforsaken city.
And we could look out
At the skyline
And sit there for hours
Watching the sun slowly sink
Beneath the jagged lines
And talk about absolutely
Anything
Everything
Nothing.
And everything could be okay.
For a little while.
Until we had to climb back down
And face the world.
But things would still be okay
Because you were with me
And I with you
And we could face the world together
Like we did when we looked out
At the seas of people
From our hiding place
On top of everything.

Wee Angus on his wae frae work
would hit tha pub fa a perk
O' Tennents lager frae tha keg
whiles chatting up tha barmaid Meg
A pint or twa there wae friens
a' bleathering awa like scholars an Deans
Debators O Parlimentary views
Ministers preaching o'er tha pews
Wae drink in hand they'd laugh their fill
tha glory Mead upon their bill
Yelping like some bairney pups
catching breeths atween their sups.

(nae wiser a man than yin filled wae ale
Nae greater a time than while drinking frae tha Grail.)

In football games they A' would linger
or singing songs for all's a singer
Nae matter how bad tha voice
a' would request their favorite choice
Happy all wae drink in hand
while holding up the bar they stand
In rattled curses tae tha bumping airms
while viewing o'er some lassies chairms
Whispering oot all dreams an desires
that drink within them all inspires
An' Angus kens that soon or late
he tae hame must tak tha gate.

Kenning tae deep doun inside
his drunken breath he'd better hide
Saying fareweel tae friens and foes
leaing ahind tha pub's warm burning coals
Doun he stummels tae tha chippy
tha air ootside tis crisp an nippy
Making him drunker than afore
he side steps frae door tae door
Eating his fish supper, enjoying each bite
thinking aboot all that's happened tha night.
Till there he rouns tha corner street
His hame sae warmly it does greet,
Falling o'er tha step ootside his hame
Tha door it opens, Behold his sullen Dame
Trying tae act sober wae all his might
afore his wifie here tha night
But she's nae fool nor blind tae see
his daft antics, his blabbering plea.

In comes Angus wae words O' love
tae face tha thumping slap an shove
Her roaring voice would put fear intae tha Deil
Hear wee Angus weep an squeal.

(What type O' life drink it brings
that great at first yet later stings
What worth has man tae waste his life
wae drinks illusions an its strife.
Sooner or later as true as Hell
Yin cannie live save by its spell
getting worse an worse day by day
while friens an family turn away
An Angus wheither he kens or no
has drifted where tha drunkards go
An time shall tell what fate bestows
for tha Curse O Ale, nae man knows.)

Alisdaire O'Caoimph

nightsong/fallsong
nippy nightfog, dark drive (solo)
breathy windshield, elmvale driveway defog,
a naked girl/thru the house panes
whose bareness
is shown teasingly. (full aware)

homestead.
lamplight, "goodnight!", golden readlight.
bowl of noodles -- broccoli,
darkly pacing silent upstairs/eight-track recorder loudsound (genesis/trick of the tail)
weedpipe outside cold fresh nighttime.
outdoor *******/rockwall/hosetap,
posters/scotchtape/pins
(troilus & cressida pages taped to th'wall)
alone with thinkcap, lady dreamin'
(that ***!---ahh!) (sighs)
ragged joint thru windowscreen . . . baked-up mouth pasted---ice tea sippin' (glorious)
warm blankets & an empty bed;
need to get out of this ****** old town
empty; lonesome songs.
---but, think better . . .
this pre-spain hometown transatlantic waitin' sadness won't last
forever.
& tripping gets you nowhere. (snoop dogg)
smoke again and maybe put on
more genesis.
. . .
*(tho it is fleetwood mac instead
that i slap on/toss myself into bed.)

there are loose leaves
at the bottom of my teacup
I rarely finish drinking the thing
- instead I stare through the dark transparent liquid
at barely-floating twiggy tea leaves that
escaped from the bag
I am forgetful
and unforgiving of myself
I am too easily entranced by
lights and thin branches that dance above muddy grass
my eyes see things breathe
like marbled floors and brick buildings
I am so enraptured by rabbit fur
and tree bark
rabbits prance along the neighbourhoods
and I love the game of seeing how close I can get to them
before they leap away

when I think of bliss,
I think of not knowing what is coming next
more even, not caring

when I think of bliss,
I think of running after rabbits
or petting a tree
I do these things when no one’s looking
so no one catches the crazy in me

there are loose coffee grounds
at the bottom of my mug
caffeine kills me
and I love the taste
of the cruelty
but my body is hurting
again
like last year
where fainting and falling and confusing my words in conversation
arose every time I felt an anxious feeling
nudge its way in deeper
maybe it’s just way of giving up
my body surrendering in complete so that I feel full effect
of how badly I’ve treated it
it’s hurting again
so much that sometimes I can barely get out of bed
or get off the bus
and walk the trek home in the nippy night

I see rabbits prance along the neighbourhoods
and oh look, I am repeating myself
again
I hardly notice because my head is hurting
like there are a million and one hurricanes
inside of it
less of a crash and more like a rush
there is a difference between headaches
and light headedness
both hurt though
still I’m ashamed I’m lightheaded all the time
there is a weakness in it
that only frail people can relate to,
the scatterbrains, the unconcentrated, the anorexics, the cancer patients
the sick-of-some-sort
what am I?

Oh Winter, I welcome you,
Your nippy air, your kindling hues,
And the tint they cast on my moods,
Oh Winter, if only you knew,

The simple pleasures your arrival bears-
The precious sleep that only your lullaby brings,
The sudden love for rich food you excite,
And so many other little 'winter things'-

Things like colourful gloves and socks,
And poor unsheltered, chilled pink nose tip,
And age-old pseudo-smoking out cold breath,
And cherry/strawberry/cocoa balms to coat the lips,

Doodling a beloved's name on a frosted window,
And tugging blanket under toes in bed, snugly,
The evening nap feeling more easing than ever,
Followed by heavenly gulps of warm milky coffee.

Oh Winter, despite, as the time of
Separation and Forlornness being ill-famed,
Each time you visit, you touch my senses
And leave them pleasantly tingling and inflamed.

For summer may be bright, sunny and sky-blue,
But you can be an enticing dark, a passionate maroon,
You mischievous cupid hiding under the garb of cosiness,
Refilling hearts with yearnings anew.

Welcome, dear Season of Romance,
Time to commence the routine all over again,
Of you- enthusing me with deep cold-warm sentiments,
And me- writing poems celebrating this eternal game.

Now, it's our time to  laze,
We've reached our Autumn days,
Chilling air, smoky haze,
Russet and brown, golden days,
Leaves descending,
Time for sweeping,
Bulbs for planting,
We head for dormancy,
Grey skies, no more sunnies,
Heating on, fleecies adorn,
Every day, a nippy morn,
Winter warmth already?
Yes, comfort food keeps us steady.....
Now it's our  time to laze,
These are our Autumn days.........

The crisp, nippy air and tired, grey clouds embrace me and I don't want them to let go.

A cotton sweatshirt, denim jeans, and skate shoes can only keep me so warm and safe. Then I'm vulnerable. I become transparent. It's so liberating to be honest, but it feels even better to share this. And that is something I usually don't.

But if it's with her, what do I really need anyway? Confidence, approval, guidance, renewal? Chance said 'there ain't nothin' better than fallin' in love,' so now it makes total sense why it's my favorite drug.

this feeds me: http://tinyurl.com/hvz44mr - sure, when you see flowers pollinate more frequently, and pigs slaughtered more so, you begin to wonder: this gentlemanly approach to things is really paying off... sure is... oh well, why are they born to necessitate such matrimony kindred to sadism? why?! by now i'm in the refugee camp: i really don't care, just get me off this orbital **** of pathos.

when bass and drums merge,
and soon overpowered rhythm guitars
all long gone...
                                    i don't have to be right,
or wrong,
                      Sacha Baron Cohen and the Cohen
brothers (albeit distinctive) and
     Mel Brooks still understand comedy:
has to do about something concerning genitalia,
but feel the rhythm,
                      it's slightly dangerous,
it's thematic according to a rheumatic
piston sharpening to pulverise you into
a state of being brain dead, that's dangerous,
skin-heads aplenty, with the fake dodo-extinction
of the left leaves the right ripe and open
to invigorate itself... just like
Urban the 2nd launched the crusades during
the first crusade... my ethnic cousins were not involved,
we waited for the Teutons, then the Mongols,
what a magical ethnic diversity,
                         you end up discarding English
media, even if or whenever they come up with a story
akin to *all the king's men - whoop d d'ah:
               helium filled balloons...
                      because what you're speaking is: i'm not
discovering as a legitimate differentiation
basis for either Lenin or Lennon -
                            shoot the dummy,
well: you're all Clinton and California is orange...
                         you see, techno punk is vague...
i'm vague...
                     i loved being in brothels,
they told me about black boys with elephants *****
and tried to get me angry,
         hell, i passed the test when one ******* stole
my bank card and the **** showed me an *** array of
stolen cards in his plagiarism wallet...
                                many more examples...
why did i retire my youth and beauty to
encounter prostitutes?
                ever tried courting an English girl?
i dare say, gnarl?
                                             you'd sooner find a *******
leprechaun than **** an English girl...
                               the bony **** of my own extensive limb
curled got boring, university wasn't the 1960s,
               i didn't want to ****...
i didn't want a Clinton reputation...
                 what's the answer? am i gay? no!
brothel 999.
                          well: if you're not going to **** me,
and i'm tired of yanking the doodle and saying
*** is actually Switzerland, where am i to go?
          the only way is brothel-land.
                                  **** a nippy chicken off a supermarket
shelf? is that your idea of currency?
                  oh i heard, two guys drugged a girl
***** her then impaled her like a Polish-Lithuanian
          Commonwealth baron speaking Ukrainian
in Argentina... then the street protests...
           i'm convict for rightfully paying for ***,
paying an extra £10 for eating the genitals out,
         making a Jewish joke akin to Balaam -
getting what i want,
                                    telling the British girls:
oh here comes the Pakistanis, curry kebab dab in that?
sure!
               whey hey!
                                   Sinjit's your uncle!
why the **** would you wonder why i designate
myself as being misogynist?
                                   i conceptualised the idea by
splitting the Cartesian Siamese distraction
into two: ergo doesn't necessarily precipitate into
the arithmetic...
                    i coordinate otherwise...
                                        going to the brothel liberated
me from dating culture,
                          from dating apps,
                                  from that i call pork trimmings.
easy to say you're an atheist but have no atheistic
thought to back it up... and few hardly do:
    because it's easy to assume you are something
but have no agreeable thought to manage the throttling
being as such.
                  a man can masquerade his delving
into lost genital interaction for only so long,
but when you live in a society where women are deaf
and blind, and prefer the company of perverts...
hey **! the ****** are parading and knocking on your
front-doors...
                      because they can, and because they will...
            what, you want to date?
                       is that eating a date while breaking
the Raamadam fasting month?
                      you got to be ******* kidding me...
don't bother...
                                      you'll die a *******-load of
squatting ***** exercises that's politically merely a
handshake... if the English girl don't give to a man:
        then let the perverts come -
i'm done.... Bulgarian ****** taught me all i need to know,
and i even decided to pay an extra £10 to slurp up that
excess of Isaac's necktie on the altar of Abraham -
funny how the Aztecs built pyramids but where not
interrupted: 'cos they were palaces of capital punishment
not trivial tombs!
                                  they taught me more than
i could have ever learned...
             when it comes to dating these days?
i can't be bothered, should i be bothered? probably no.
well, there's that case of drugging a girl, ****** her
and then impaling her in Argentina...
                       with so many insects roaming the place,
you're bound to feel a desire to ****,
  and when not gratified and not interested in games,
you go the source of your woes and
                    desire to buy salt,
and you buy salt,
                 and oh god, it's so impersonal
and yourself so intact,  and then you leave,
                                      and then you have very or merely
little concern for keeping certain things memorable.

Windy is the day and cordial are clouds
Drifting through the sky in the month of May
The sun hides behind the dark shroud

Blazingly hot been the noon but as
Crawls it away the blues of heaven
Dimmed and wind plays like a carefree lass

Soft summer skies send their showers
****** the rain-drops dance and drizzle
Pitter patter, plip plop songs of the hour

Freshen the heavens awash all dust and heat
Soon the sun gold-drenched smiles and winks
Gentle like a kiss the air blows nippy and sweet

Me with myself swaying with summer zephyr
Sleepy thoughts drift away with woolly packs
Inner desires replenished by Mother Nature

Aching...
Aching in a place where I only thought love was generated.
Frustrated...
Frustrated in a area where I thought, my thoughts sought and fought for understandings

Chilly, shivery, nippy, bitter,
Like the runt of a litter

Tired; not drowsy
Tired; not sleepy
Tired; not sluggish or slumberous

Tired as in worn, burned-out, weary...
...Done

It is not only that you do not feel the effects,

You don't even see them on my face

You look at me everyday,
I just look back
If you don't have a clue
If you don't ask, or don't care
That's a clue
That's my Q
Dont ask Y
When you become my X
...
At night I've been losing Zs
I have to start paying more attention to I
I gave up all of my energy, and now I'm running on E
So now I don't give a F

LOL (Lost Our Love)
You lost it too; I'm J/K (Just Knowing)
I'm glad IDK (I Didn't Kneel)
Now I have to B.S (Block Sensitivity)
And ***** (LET MY ******* ANGER OUT)

The sun still sets fairly late—
Eight o’clock it’s usually dark.
Its rays are still warming, during the day,
But shadows are growing longer
And the wind under the shadows
Is growing colder and finer,
Weaving between the fibers
Of your jacket to sting your skin,
Like a thousand tiny needles.

Nippy days are becoming more frequent,
But not this one—yet.
It hasn’t changed in, oh, seven, eight years,
At least.  The sun shines down on us
Over the grass, the wind
Whistling across the flat field
As we played.

The TV stays on all afternoon,
When you’re home.  Always sounds, noise,
Cooking, hollering, announcers
Saying nothing just to talk.
Cut this day out,
Slide it forward five years,
Ten, whatever.
It still fits.

And when you’re not home,
It’s like it was so long ago,
Outside on a day when everything
Is changing, playing
And having fun.

autumn skies and pumpkin pies.
great orange fields, large in size,
leaf turns to leaf as gold comes to see;
what excitement to behold, and how happy to be.
nippy air and extra layers of sleeves.
bitter cold air as my breath comes alive.
wisping away, fast deep into loving lives.
Oh October is here and I feel just happy!  
to be with everyone with hair blowing shaggy.
I love this time, and I hope i explained why.
it's these
autumn skies
and
sweet salient sighs.

They collected cockles on the seashore,
Purely for their crunchy shells,
To decorate the rockery, in the flower garden,
They were washed up in abundance,

The rock pools alive with shrimp things,
And worms, that wriggled and jiggled, all twisted and turned.
The rocks round the edges were slippery and slimy,
Crabby creatures were kind of nippy, as was the water of spring time tides,
And the **** of the sea, predicted the weather,
Again, their predictions, they were never ever right.

Youngsters with nets, collected their pets,
Poor little pool fish, destined to die,
In an old preserve jar,
Left on the side in the kitchen,
The one with mid-brown melamine,
Under the cupboard, by the door,
Mummy keeps *******,
She never wants sea fish alive in her kitchen,
Mummy never made their flamboyant offspring, set them free,
The fishes day out died,
Minute silver things, skirting about,
Too small to even splash.
Kids curiosity got them, as down the loo they slipped,
Dead fish, on the sewer dash, repatriated to the sea.
(C) Livvi

When I describe the air in the current season I never have the words to Articulate This feeling
Fall
Autumn
Harvest
All hallows
A Season To Be Thankful
The corn
ready to be cut
Or perhaps molded into a maze for the little ones
Pumpkins
Full of spice and flavor for you to smell
Or maybe just to be severed for your porch
The air
Is crisp, refreshing
When you say “it’s nice outside,” this is to what you refer
Is nippy, full
On the edge of Sweaters
     On days I have time I like to lay in the center of the field after practice and breathe
      The air restores my soul, my hope
If nothing else, I love
The air

Dainty snowflakes dance down from the sky, a concoction of whimsy and nostalgia.
I see your face in the flurry, the nippy chill numbing my senses and bringing me back to the days we first met.
I remember the first day I kissed you, our lips ridden with nicotine and nervousness.
It took about two weeks for me to muster up the courage to kiss you, for our mouths to speak to eachother, without words.
The sensation of flesh against flesh, wrapped in eachother, and the fireworks I felt in that moment remind me of the windchill, sending shivers down my spine, igniting goosebumps as though you had pushed down on a TNT trigger, hidden inside of me.
I remember how I had pulled away from our embrace, hid my face in the folds of your flannel out of fear of being rejected- giggling and apologizing for the sloppiness of my love.
You wrapped me up in your arms, quieting my apologies, warmth radiating off of you like a space heater- a warmth I knew I could never resist ever again from that moment on.
Because of you, I've learned to love winter, almost as much as I love you.

it's like I'm playing 'doctor' with myself
telling me that "this won't hurt a bit."
I guess that I'm not lying to myself
I don't know if it hurts to quit

no experience--sometimes you really only get one shot
no, not a shot, too messy--this is a chance
but  I hope I've tied a good one
like one try on your first shoe-tie, and then having to dance

it's a tad nippy out the windowsill
the rope is so languid in my hands
it looks just like my neck probably will
but pondering is not what this demands

a nice rope, not too fat, too thin
although, a little itchy, adjust it some
it's funny I still care about itchy
it's funny that I can't go numb

The rain falls slow the air is cloudy
You don't have a care in the world.
The lights are dim the fire's burning
We're perfect alone in this room.
The snow is deep the wind is nippy
You ***** and you cry and you mope.
Your toes are cold your tears are frozen
I just want you to go home.
It's steamy and sweaty and sticky
But we don't seem to mind.
Get me a little more alcohol
And I think we'll be just fine.
The air is crisp the colours are rich
We're holding hands in the park.
I guess we've had some ups and downs
But I love you with all of my heart.

When the crime is right
      & the devil wet
             the nocturnal forrest is a skin
                     and ceremony thin dreams broach reason
            they poach me with a caustic blooded rash
approaching as nippy darts  ; visions of shard and coil
a metallic eggy rot
                           and pan to the darkness
                                                     snapping electric

        irregular from that darkness
spaces between the trees comb
                      form a hyper hectic wealth of flushes
a blush burst discharges in the body
           booming pulse
          blooming rabidly
salivating to a ******* savagery
a nature to express
       forecast
             within permeable forrest

i have energy amazed limbs
             daring a dance
                       screamin' hole The Frenzy
             dog-shaking the head
legs flung and planted
crushing ferns
             this hefty simian sway
                      a broadcast challenge
             invitation
           a power coward
commanding a matching of kinds
                       excitation
       no longer to be foetal and cowed
             an aching unmend amended
a call is placed
the spell is rendered
    
                                 - resonate

The sweltering mood
cuts through the nippy weather
calm moments in despair
flirting with danger
at the risk of being burned
hoping to rise from the ashes
to take flight
towards the warm embrace
the ***** heaves a sigh

Charles used to say hello to everybody
even to us children
as he quickly walked to the shops, for the bus or home.
For us children to be counted as equals with adults
to be included
in a kind greeting
was something special.
It felt nice.
Often he'd spy a piece of *******: a cellophane wrapper lodged in a bush, a squashed drinks can next to a tree trunk or a balled up newspaper tumble-weeding across the road.
He'd pick them up, but only on his way home.
We guessed he binned them, but we never knew.
"Hi, hello. Grand morning, grand, grand," the words spoken as rapidly as his feet moved.
"Hi Charles. Yes, it's a fine day." This was the most anybody replied as he swiftly paced home clutching a takeaway bag while a pile of litter was hinged in the crux of his arm by his chest.
A giant of a man
A head taller than the tallest father.
His face was that of an aged cherub: warm, friendly, cleanly shaved and full.  
I am uncertain, but think his jet black hair was styled like a Teddyboy.
Still as children, but a little older,
a little less naive,
a little more curious,
Something kicked in.
A discovery that he was not like the other adults in our lives.
He always smiled.
"Hi, hello. A bit nippy today."
"Hi Charles. Best wrap up."
"Yes, yes," he would add with a nod and smile before carrying on about his way.
Older still and I asked about him.
Not fully comprehending all the words such as "Mental breakdown,"
but he had one a long, long time ago.
"He used to be a scientist in London," I was told, "but he had a mental breakdown."
The phrase carried weight because it was always whispered as if he could hear through the walls and houses two streets away.
Everybody said how terribly sad it was.
But Charles always smiled.
I wondered who it was saddest for.
Despite my ignorance of things I understood that I should feel sorry for him, so I did (a bit).
I really felt sorry for was us children.
It was understood he only ever said hello because he had a "breakdown" and if he didn't he would be like the rest of adults in the neighbourhood.
Knowledge stole this from us.
For Charles who was a kind man once.

it’s lips poured spirits and wine
- fresh squeezed-
into my hands, into my system.
And it walks behind me sober. Watching my slurring stumbles
whilst an old sense of strength from inside me
poured from my mouth, spilling on concrete.

my legs fail me and I fall a trance. Into it’s arms.
But only for a sweet second -
and now I’m smothered lying in stone cold slate, it’s so nippy, the cold.
and it’s shadow blocks the streetlight floating above me.
Wait; streetlight is glaring dim orange again
now that it has dispersed away, down the pathway.
With open arms, it’s searching for a sober.

Enough:

Enough of this of this up and down weather
It’s a gift, its giver backer: Its' Indian giver
it's April in December:

warm enough to walk without a jacket last Tuesday
The feel of the warmth against ones cheek
And today it the scarf tightly around ones neck

Enough to quiet the mind, enough to fret the spirit
When you find yourself staying indoors,
eating waffles, and playing checkers
then you know it’s that kind of injustices

watch the words that comes out
of your mouth,
when the rooms aren’t heated
then you thought about going mental ON........
the nippy wind whistle through the cracks,
and you wonder about the arthritis in your back

Immediately your thought turns to envelope
the rental receipts : so avoid that!
Desperate for the heat of the sun,
Feeling the effects, of a long dreary winter days
Where the songs on the radio keep

repeating, bundle up and go outside,
It prom dresses shopping 2017
Help me dear Lord!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I'd like to talk electricity,
chemicals,
living better through

I take medication
and when I don't
I feel
effortlessly
lost

thoreau would be so proud
I cry at provocations
that I would sneer at
in better days

waiting for better days
I can imagine them coming
warm and sweet
sunny fall days
nippy but still safe

even winter seems like
it could be all right
in better days

but they aren't here yet
I want to burn myself on them
push myself nearer their fire
than I can stand

I cannot bear to run away
the ink runs off my maps
staining my fingers
till everything tastes bitter

trying to redraw in charcoal
the places I know must be there
but all the familiar landmarks
are dragons now

and even when I do
even when I remember
and I even eat
and sleep
like I did when I was
ok
years ago, in a country I can't find
now
that might never have been there in the first place

even then
I'm maybe not drowning
but the air quality
is a little suspect

nippy noodles
ice cold
tall glass of water

twas a very nippy morn
a largish frost did cover
our tiny township's lawns