A charge
in between
our skin
like wire
runs deep,
perspire,
make seem
we're fire.

The group
like lice
that form
my eyes
absorb
the light.
Transform,
make right.

    We burn
    our houses down
    then turn
    our eyes to town-

    Then run off
    into the woods
    to blend in.
    I know we could.

The kind
of hate
I found
too late
has gone,
escaped.
Evap
orated.

Shrouded in black,

Dear heart departs,

As writing soul  flies,

Engraved deep epitaph ,tablets of ancient stone,

Memorial stones morose, sombre in grey with fur of yellow lichen,

Pavements, flagstones,inscribed with memories dear,

Glimpsed in morning, mourning sun, alone,

Words eroded after many years bathing, soaked with maiden angels' tears,



Dried out again with sunshine's kiss,

These words they state,

May we not forget  past soul,



Lyrical words lift a song from sad heart,

Screams emotional rescue at times,



Letters of love filled with devotion,

Causes sweet release of emotions,

Words pasted on pages,

Imagination creation,

Words trap interest at first glance, Love in words,  

At first sight, perchance,

****** them catch them,

Keep them close  in your heart every day,

Fill up life, with words unfurled,

Words in technicolour,

Clouded in blue,

Use of profanity,

Well that's nothing new!

Orated in Shakespeare's play, sung in aria,

Opera adorns ears,

Words used in crosswords or cross words,

Word Play!

Child educated in fine art,

Writing divine,

Such worthy art in need, indeed!

Mouthful of words all arty and farty...bouncy, total joy!

Phraseology,plays intense on a mind, a poet at play,

Livvi Kent 28/04/2013

i can walk in the street with canned beer
and appear to be ******,
because alcohol gives me buddha eyes.

alcohol is always looking for a righteous expression,
it's abused all the time,
it burdens the n.h.s. all the time,
it has too many idiots succumbing to it,
it requires someone to drink
and be an intellectual, simply to pardon
alcohol in the conglomerate
of ****-ups, hangovers, puking in toilets,
et cetera et cetera.
when used with sleeping pills and a paracetamol
tab it's the perfected sedative,
i sedate myself, i don't drink to party woo hoo!
encountering a bunch of marijuana idiots
giggling over a pickled cucumber pimples
ha ha... pickled cucumber acne... ha ha...
enough about my drinking...
loving it anyway: it's holiday within a jolly
good day... passed a young blonde and an old ****,
they were having a therapy session in
the park... second time i pass them i end up
whistling as they pass, the old **** is telling
the young **** to look the part and assert
some for of happiness, marriage and security
and the dead man's dole to keep her interests
in perfumes and clothing afloat...
i tell the ancient oak it's required to be brown,
while the colts miscarry brown with penicillin green,
marshmallow and fungi, both squidgy,
the octopuses of the forest,
mush watered-fevered-of-shape for an umbrella
invented, latest the 18th century, with an aeroplane.
other than that?
i accuse the beatniks of desecrating sacred grounds / tool,
they invoked the use of words, they recorded their
experience of ancient indian / aztec shamanism...
carlos castaneda* quoted the shaman don juan
as saying: the experience is for you alone...
the beatnik poets started to write about the experience,
werther's original (butter sweets) turned sour,
they invoked recording their hallucinations,
**** them, **** them **** them **** them!
the mystical experience has been eradicated,
any more talk of neil armstrong and walking on the moon
parallels the desecration of these hallucinogenics
with words, these american poets desecrated the one
single dimension that could not be written about:
they walked on the moon and wrote about it...
i know nostalgia and all that, but give us a break!
the only people taking peyote these days
are rich white girls who end up injecting the concentrated
version of the natural, the essence, into their arms...
god said analysis... man said: synthesis (and analysis)...
although i dare to add the fact that there are two
strands of poetry: one that looks like a morning hangover
haircut... and one that looks like the taj mahal
of rolling marbles...
for example: ezra pounds' and ginsberg's poetry
looks great, and i mean great, they write like
they telling you to use a microscope...
but they don't have the voice to orate...
whereas gregory corso's poetry doesn't look that great,
actually it looks like ****, too simple,
but when he orates it... HE ORATES IT!
maybe his life gave him the power,
i wish i could orate like him, in fact, i never had,
the most i orated was impromptu
and it was never noted down...
but the point is: those who orate perfectly
write a simple aversion to the other strand of
poetics that is relegated / more interested in optics:
rather than a stage, a crowd, a voice "in the wilderness;"
all in all, my affiliation with hades.

you can't learn intelligence,
you must be born with it,
you can learn from rhetoric
to imitate intelligence on the sly,
but eloquent speeches
are only orated once all the facts
happen, and such eloquence
ought to be used to predict calamities
ever happening, or if happening,
ousting a humbleness and immersion
in being anointed by them happening
for pride's self-worth as a welcome
emotional utilisation (for
a better accumulation of predictable
thought): better than a broom
to sweep old vacant apathetic dust i say;
god, this almost sounds like a self-help
book... got to surd it... gnome (g is a surd
in this e.g.), psychology (p is a surd in this e.g.):
so if other european languages used the latin
alphabet with stressors / diacritical marks,
there's an unspoken surd system in e'ng-galosh.

well of course i could have given this
planet some great name
in accordance with insomnia
and serotonin changed into caffeine
(let's stick that as a metaphor
and not get carried away) -
but concerning the Planet Mūgagamon̄go,
of course it's a nonsensical name
for a planet, a bit like the planet
PSR B1620-26 b (discovered on May
30th 1993)... but let me tell you this
in that common vein of the English
expression: 'how do you say that,'
i have a stopwatch in my hand...
now i'm listening to how you punctuate
diacritical marks included in the noun -
diacritical punctuation is equivalent to
what's standard scalpel procedure in
colliding syllables for a complete and at
ease elocution - mine might be a bit off too,
given that i haven't orated none of
my poems... keep the silence, don't
fall in love with yourself, orthographic
optics will purge dyslexic apprehensions
of stalling into shame.

Hope flies out the window fast
Bottom empty no repast,
Moment born of cancers’ child
Status hangs unreconciled
Woe be they who lay it thin
Who stalk these dark nights, plundering.
Woe be they who keep their guard
Abreast, and lo behold, ******
That which causes heart to sing
Despite the hurt imbued within.

Solitary, lonely way
Through this enigmatic day.

When, in truth,  potentials lie
Through yonder, bright magenta sky,
Through reams of iridescent verse
Orated daily, unrehearsed,
Bowls of olives, black, in oil
Turkish loaf, foccascia foil
laughing girls in skimpy skirts
Raucous till he belly hurts….

But futile in this state of woe
As bitter bile now sours the show.

Towering in halls of cloud
Mouthing ,hard, jawbone aloud
Struggling to hold intact
Counterpoints to interact,
Damning inconsistencies,
Weak deniability’s
Betrayal slides In cuts of time
Agonising back teeth grind
Quivering in searing pain
Every good, undone again.

Stalking hard to places thin
Solitude… eviscerating,

Emptiness imbues the light
Shatters soul in shoals of fright,
Delve hopelessly to hopeless ways
Scream as light refracts in waves,
Wallowing to places thin
Wavering to lost within.
Weakness in the cold half light
Shattered prospects drenched in fright,

Rabid eyes withdrawn in face
Incarcerate hot hatred’s trace.

Better now in light of day
Sunshine beaming in to play,
***** count resumes its gain
Flocculant reduces pain
Shame slides in the door ajar
Embarrasment impinged afar.

Amazing how a cup of tea
Resurects the life in me.


M.
14 April 2019