He proposed to me at Disney World
   and I loved him anyway.
He’s discovered his own brilliance at 22
   It’ll ruin him early and completely.
The Ouija Board said he’d die at 33,
   like Jesus he’s living fast and loose.
His sleep is a menagerie, a night-
   time sound machine, all owls and lions.
He drank 2 liters of gasoline
   and lived to tell it, used the fuel like sickness.
He punched his arm through a window because
   of the gasoline. *******-shaped scar tissue.
He is at least 9 feet tall
   and contrary as a tree limb.
He bought me diamonds and I lost them,
   he bought me more and ******* them into me.
He liked to clamp his lips around cold cat ears
   when he had no air conditioning.
His voice was an engine dying, choke and hold,
   growling for new air and old adages.
His name walks in front of him, announcing
   the second coming and the first going.
When he was sick or scared sick, he’d wrap in
   his sister’s pink scarf, only that one, only pink.
He told us to be strong like men but act like women
   so I wanted to be a doctor that always did the dishes.
His love was a closet too small for two peoples’ clothes
   so I packed it in boxes and burned it on the sidewalk.
His eyes harbor the whole world: bombs, bicuspids,
   A wink that could **** a small school of children.
He makes proverbs that tell the time
   not minutes though, but centuries.

'You look like someone I know'
Heard that line a thousand times
Guess I'm scattered round the globe
Like farmers planting seeds serpentine
Have you heard the front-page news
Eden lives far underground
And God is just a hidden camera
Making sure the lost stay found
Big games of the life-sized kids
You were 'not It' by a hair
Fingers on a Ouija board
**** the truth just give me dare
Tweedles are now stalking triplets
Killing riddles, sinking ships with
Everything but the black lipstick
Crooked smile and rusted toothpick

Every friend is a stepmother
Eying you with pools of dead fire
As she sticks her acid tongue
In the mouth of your pure desire
Walking blind and blurry-eyed
With two chambers in each hand
Each are ******, tame and wild
Beyond these walls, beyond these lands
Only fools know the true score
Cause they've locked the exit-sign door
You were almost worth dying for
Now it's the ninth circle of this war

drunk woodland children, we
ask so many questions, we
firefly skin. the picnic table beneath
our lamps, our ouija board, our girlfriends
next to us warm and laughing.
stories:
we tell stories to scare eachother
before descending into our tents
on the outer darks.
sweet night nothings.
& everythings.

i’m consumed by dreams of you;
somehow running;
somehow ******* my way out of my own inevitable
death.

a lady bug wing half-yanked and humming.
wind scorpion.
mosquito
in the early morning buzz, and i roll over
to see your puffy little sleeping face ::: sunlight there.
limp beyond the tent and zipper.

we eat mayo sharp cheddar salami wheat sammies
& take acid.
everyone one else goes on a group nature-hike,
but i stay behind
hallucinating of my dead mother in those sequined clothes she used to wear.
::: we play scrabble and talk,
until she leaves.
like love.
like guitar strummed chords and many hydrations later –
my tribe returns,
with fish.

the girl i love.
you/she roll joints in your lap,
in my lap,
in a chair and i mirage
the faces of everyone through glass &
slosh; through campfire
& lemonade.

Death has pluck, you know, the like to sever love,
Then to show unannounced after the ruckus,
Even after so many no-shows at the theatre or club.
Death, indeed, is a tough sport, I am told,
Who plays cricket or some the sort,
Though no one really knows or asks,
“Wicket” does seem a word of choice.
But, for certain, a devil’s ouija hand
Of bridge whist, as sure as lives off
Pall Mall or Regent, as pipes a walk
In the London fog, here and there.
Yes, indeed, I would call him a chum
If he wasn’t such a cad.

you don't believe in god
neither do i, most of the time
but neither of us would ever touch a ouija board
and we talk about gas station karma and
you rap your beaten knuckles on wood

and maybe it was just the right place and the right time
and maybe we were just both ****** up at the right times

but i met you
and you met me
and all i wanted to do was meet you over and over again

now when i wake up at night your arms are around me
and i believe in magic

Time was you could turn on the radio
And the first song you heard would contain
A message to you directly from God
He'd tell you what was happening in your life
Sometimes He'd tell you what to do about it
Always a surprise, good to hear from Him
But not always what you'd want to hear
A lot of it depended upon the radio station you chose
These days fewer people listen to the radio
Opting for streaming music or perhaps internet or satellite radio
The last two sometimes seem to work in a pinch
But it's just not the same, I don't know why
Yahweh just seems to like good old fashioned terrestrial radio
Probably makes His voice clearer on the AM band than FM
Not that He doesn't respect progress
He's got a nostalgic streak in him, that's all
And some really poor people can only afford a cheap AM radio
So there you go
Practically any song can drip with profound meaning
If you use the radio like a Ouija board
Try it sometime
It could change your life
Even for the better

But I will ******* like the bible should be
******, not all soggy and misremembered
No, like a true gentleman, I’ll pull your
hair a little and I’ll whisper some things that
echo like inside mother’s womb
Don’t ask me to ‘cause I won’t call you back

Burp up some acid reflux
onto my chest and tell me it looks like
ectoplasm, let’s get those demons out of you
bring out the Ouija board and let’s
smash it, I know they’d just hate that

This isn’t clairvoyance, it’s black metal
dance music and you’re stripping for me like
I am your father or some other guy with
too many tongues and I know one day
I’m gonna write way too many poems about

Your youth is growing out of you but it’s not
a petunia, it’s more like that alien in the movie
Alien and it’s telling me in the wrong language
fdjsodsfaokdncvmjklclkmewa
so I take it as a mixed signal
so I take it as a yes

I have made lovers feel like they’re a bailout
but tonight, darling I’m gonna make you feel
some astral projection and you won’t see God but
you’ll see how many prophecies my sheets have made
up

Run the ******' Jewels, friend.

I try to write to the beat,
but **** it, I'll just strip instead.

I work in sales; I work in industry.
****, the things I say are all lies,
so what's the point of even writing them?

Because I can't write good truth for the life of me.
I can speak it though.

Catch me in court, cuz I'm trying to be hard.
It's all *******. It's just a parking ticket.

We're obsessed with hard *******, and chill *** ******.
#blacklivematters
It's true, and we're all in danger.

Who else grew up in the suburbs but is trying to go hard as they can?
Masculinity means cars, cash, *******, and ***.
If you ain't getting *****, you just a *****.

Thanks Drake, for teaching us what's important.
Kendrick speaks to 'Pac, I wonder if he used ouija board.
It's the weird line between demonic and technology.

I'm just writing off the dome,
I wonder how different this would be if I were sitting at the seafoam.

Let's praise our idols; not praise our God.
Let's ****, ****, lick, blow.
We all know there is no next show...

So what the **** are you living for?

I tried to write a lullaby
With a 70's theme of sorts
Kids drinking Sunny "D" in their jammies
Girls in Mindy, Boys in Mork

But that's as far as I could get
This dried up crinkly brain stays in a daze
So I picked up the phone, dialed up some friends
In hopes of a friendly Friday night game of charades

Of course Sylvester brought his Ouija board
He thinks with the other side he's in tune
I hate to break it to Houdini here
But I think he's inhaled to many fumes

My friends say that I'm just paranoid
Like a jester without a court
So I turn and apologize to Sylvester
Okay dude, pull out the board

We place our fingers on the Doohickey
Or is that the Thingamajig
Redrum, Redrum, Redrum, is all that it spells
As Sylvester has a fit

He knocks the game table over
And screams it's that movie, The Shining all over again
This is ****** spelled backwards people
As the smell of the dead blows in on the wind

In all of the dark spirit world excitement
I think I even ***'d myself
I suggest in a manly way with a wet spot on the front of my Bell Bottom jeans
That we put the Ouija board back up on the shelf

I really wasn't expecting an evening
Of doom and gloom and tombs and such
I think I'll go back to writing that 70's lullaby
If you don't mind...thank you very much

i keep seeing a ghost in the corner of my eye.
it sits on a box just outside my door, looking vacantly, vaguely in my direction. it's hard for me not to glance back.
it's sitting on a box of old clothes.
i cleaned my closet this morning, as well as my desk and floor.
but while i threw out the dust and old tissues, the clothes remain, in the box, outside my door, being used as a chair for the ghost. it's still there.
i just reread and edited all that i've written so far. still there.
it doesn't knock, or pace, or threaten, or cage. it just stares. and yet its gaze feels like it is doing all of the things i mentioned, and a little more.
why are all my poems about death? perhaps all these ghosts that pass by my house beg me to tell their story. perhaps i am an ouija board, with a laptop. perhaps i'm a dream-catcher, looking for some place to write down all these nightmares i catch. perhaps i'm just dumb and spiritual. ghost's still sitting on that box of old clothes. it's glanced away.

'You look like someone I know'
Heard that line a thousand times
Guess I'm scattered round the globe
Like farmers planting seeds serpentine
Have you heard the front-page news
Eden lives far underground
And God is just a hidden camera
Making sure the lost stay found
Big games of the life-sized kids
You were 'not It' by a hair
Fingers on a Ouija board
**** the truth just give me dare
Tweedles are now stalking triplets
Killing riddles, sinking ships with
Everything but the black lipstick
Crooked smile and rusted toothpick
Every friend is a stepmother
Eying you with pools of dead fire
As she sticks her acid tongue
In the mouth of your pure desire
Walking blind and blurry-eyed
With two chambers in each hand
Each are ******, tame and wild
Beyond these walls, beyond these lands
Only fools know the true score
Cause they've locked the exit-sign door
You were almost worth dying for
Now it's the ninth circle of this war

Sometimes, writing poetry feels like...

Playing Charades using metaphors to describe your actions
Solving Jigsaw Puzzles to assemble your current thoughts
Using Ouija boards to converse with your own feelings

Sometimes, reading poetry feels like...

Playing Poker when you study the writer's intentions
Connecting the poet's thoughts as if you were playing Dots
Figuring out the writer's feelings like in Strings

                                                      ­         Anyways, its always *fun!

Lovers Lane is a dead-end road
She’s got a name like heaven
An angel on an Ouija board
She’s a diamond in the sky

Say you hate me
Say you love me
Say you wanna ****
Say you don't give a ****

But say
Something.
Anything at all.

I shouldn't have to wonder.
I shouldn't have to guess
The tarot cards and ouija board
Are useless for this ****

But don't think I didn't give them a whirl, anyway

How about the one where I had so many friends I couldn't keep track
Or the one where we were too scared to make a homemade ouija board
Try the one where I went to someone else's house to celebrate
Here, have the one where all I got from my mother was a dry toned voice-mail
Feast upon the most recent one where I jumped into a pool in 53 degree weather to try and drown
I wonder what the next one has in store for me

just a nervous swimmer
making threats to capsize
cross legged eaten alive
praying acoustically so you could hear
a ship that plunges
through disaster’s eye
the harrowing digestive pit of the sea
willingly swallowed
lying under the collapsed ceiling
of
the one that crashed all around us

snow heavy on headlights
blanketing windshields with sloppy mounds
the bitter Christmas
and a night ride, cold headlights
a spelunker’s lantern
watching the masturbator on stage
his back facing the crowd
black curls like a blindfold
he smiles like someone in church
but behind his teeth something
seethes

red lipped rosy aloof
(the beautiful drunk who
I’ll write many lines)
I called you the Ouija way
but it was disconnected
Athena poured the milk you made
down your slopes and poisoned the valleys
looking back and tracing photos
wondering if you really existed at
all

walked in the humidity and
only wished I had said
nothing
realized all the time
there was no one I wanted but you,
curious feeling of being
startled awake
boots making me heavy
spent the next few weeks
swimming tirelessly upstream
proud salmon ***** that I am

Devastated was the word.  Yes, it fit.

The night before found her restless and fitful,  up and down, churning, besieged with scattered thoughts. Noisy chattering, fragmented bits of fear, hurt, shame, regret, disappointment and judgement, all jostling with one another, all scrabbling like jackals to be the first to gnaw on her bones.

Why was she carrying the full burden of shame? Had he not shown his flaws?

But as the indignation rose,  the words of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn  wept through like an Artesian wellspring of wisdom reminding, "But the line dividing good and evil cuts through the heart of every human being. And who is willing to destroy a piece of his own heart?"

"WAIT JUST ONE MINUTE HERE, AL!" she protested.
crickets
"Oh no!" says she to herself,  as she dusted off her Ouija board, "You will come back here!"  

Nervous fingers and shaky vocal chords work together in a synchronized effort to pull him away from his glass of fermented potato and there he was, a bearded wild haired man with an intense stare that left her wriggling under her skin. But she was on a mission and she would not be deterred.

Clearing her throat, she began, "Mr. Solzhenitsyn ---"
Aleksandr raised his hand up  in a gesture to stop her
His heavily accented English softly penetrated the air.
"Pебенок, tell me, what do you need?"
"I need to understand."
"Tell me why." he pressed.

"Why?"  She forced her words past the hurt that sat lumped in her throat,"I'm trying to make sense of betrayal. How can people insist they truly love even after lies have been uncovered?"
"Tell me Кэтрин, would you agree that morality can often be found to be at odds with passion and desire?"

She nodded.
He continued, "And that good intentions are often found to be at odds with unconscious motivations?"
"Yes." she whispered

Aleksandr sat thoughtful for a moment, then gently and softly spoke. "You understand Кэтрин, your problem is, you want too much from understanding. It cannot turn shadow into light and it cannot right wrongs. So, no Pебенок, you are not in need of understanding. What you need is to accept that a thing is what it is."

He drew on his pipe and smiled tenderly. 
 "And you need to make a decision.
You must decide if your wounds have made you more ... or have made you less."

The wind blows fiercely throughout these streets
shaking foundations, sound of rattling metal sheets
One man causes this clash of energies
Rain Hails for help but Wind Mist the call
Nature's Wrath yields, does not wish to brawl.
It settles down..but it's quiet before the storm
everybody stays in, eyes weary and afraid
as they hold on to their kin
I got my weapons aimed
and pray God sets the date
for me to set this straight..
Death Crazed, can't wait to watch you levitate
I'll pick up your severed brain
have a taste and spit it back out onto what's left of your ******* face!
I'm relentless, I'll **** on your grave untill you float back to the surface..
Summon you and your family using Ouija boards spelling out that you're worthless..
****.

I know how much you love me
Because I know how much you love horror movies
I HATE them
So when we're sitting on the couch
And the preview for Ouija comes on
And even though I'm scared I can't look away
I trust you
To always put your hand under my chin
And pull my face away
So I can bury it in your neck
While you watch TV
Until you kiss me under my ear
And whisper that it's all over
I know you love me
Because I know how much you love horror movies

A Poem in 3 Parts by Sara L Russell, 4/6/15; 00:51am*

I

There is a grey area between
this world and the next.
People can be foolish; they dabble in ouija, in
dowsing, in automatic writing;
and - wittingly or unwittingly,
they may open a portal
to the other side.
That is how they enter.
Beware of inviting them in.

Shadow people are there
where needle pierces skin; where the ******
sits, glassy-eyed, on the precipice of oblivion;
they lurk in unholy places where godless
politicians declare themselves to be
speaking for God;
they haunt the dreams of drunkards,
schizophrenics, junkies
and the paranoid.
But they are not spun out of dreams,
they are real.

Shadow people were there
when the ancient pharaohs of Egypt
were interred, with all their gold;
they took them to Hades
for also burying their wives
and servants, alive.
They were there
in **** concentration camps,
sitting on the left shoulders
of those who blindly carried out
orders of death and torture.

They subsist in underworlds of catacombs,
they lurk in the spaces between
our conscious and unconscious minds;
In blackened mirrors they seek out a vortex,
My friends, be the light that
keeps out the darkness,
Do not seek to question the dear and foregone,
No matter how much they are missed;
for there are others lurking in the shadows.
Be not the portal inviting them in.


II

Did I see you in Bohemian Grove,
smiling at the Cremation of the Care?
Were you there,
and did you have more than one shadow?

Did I see you in that Great Hall
with chequered floors,
where the Eye of Horus
watched over a pyramid of gold?

Did you lift a cup of
the good red wine,
did blood brothers drink each other's health,
gazing through a glass darkly?

Did we toast the Cremation of the Care,
and how many others were there?


III

Sometimes we visit Hell in our dreams,
though we may fervently pray before sleep.
There is no shame in sleeping with the light on.
Wear a cross, if you think that it will help.

Sometimes the citizens of Hell visit us,
in that stasis between sleep and wakefulnes;
they are only ever seen at the outer periphery of our vision.
It's never a good idea to look at them directly.

Sometimes they venture a little closer than the rules allow.
Sometimes the line between their domain and ours is blurred.
Occasionally, the breeze seems to whisper your name -
only, it's not the breeze.

Be vigilant.
Always try to see them first.

I'm putting away my Ouija board,
packing up my tarot cards
& throwing away the soggy tea leaves.
Oh, that fortunetelling eight ball *****,
too.

Who knew,
if you want to see the future,
you've got to get out and live it,
not sit around and read your daily horoscope or hang out for days
on the computer.
And that weatherman is a liar.
He said it was going to rain all day yesterday.
So I put away my picnic things and hung out
inside, hiding from the oncoming storm,
that never came.

Guess, I'll put my faith in today,
put on my running shoes
& before the sun comes up,
go for a sprint.
Maybe I'll get rained on,
in an early morning shower!

In this dead road
Where NOBODY knows,
We escape into a one night stand
Of seclusion.
Away,
From all the intrusion.
Away,
From all the confusion.

In this exquisite buffet,
We pick up meals after meals,
And we gorge,
And we consume,
And we fill our bellies.
Like kings and queens, but without the crown,
But at least we’re far,
Faaar away from the crowd.

In this taboo haven,
We sit together in a circle.
Like people playing Ouija.
But instead of talking with the dead,
We talk about ourselves, THE dead.
And we proceed to cry and complain and confess and create
Chaos! Is what this road will witness.
This road, will be its only witness.

In this sacred pilgrimage of our Friday nights,
We come here, bones battered and beaten.  
To pseudo wine and dine.
To enjoy the silence as we sip and slurp,
To tell tall tales of how we messed up,
In search of validation, acceptance,
And hopefully,
Forgiveness.

Please! Wait
Feeling so low
Like his (Blowfish)__ bait?
Jazzzzeeeey
Only temporary Oh! geez
Robin Razzamatazz
What!! All about Love
Candy Pez

((Enter me Expandable))

I need to fish
around so flexible
He
comments
You're quick**

The Vampire Garlic
RIP I have young-blood
I will just relive again
To expedite
what remains
Love unconditionally
All hired with conditions

The restless young
outbreak
Native New Yorker
The busy talker
draw flush
In the Navy
Fleet week Baby
meeting crush

The Quickie
interview
Gift of gab 
 stalker
Or the hermit of Hermits
Languages
No demerits
Racing down
her wicked
thighs shower his
muscles

Sprinkle cone
Iced me
mortgages
get
me sick way to
quick to even sigh
Whats up with
patience
Include the Immigrants
Somehow American
women
Not very productive
They had Robot
watchdog like Gods
The money
where  your Apple

Mouth  I-Yahoo computer
And follow me
All followers
Kevin Quick morning
Bacon
Stallone Rocky

__ Expandable

In the native lands
Over the border
The Ventriloquist
Nesquik
Emigrant exhibitionist
Deviant outsider
The Spy Breadwinner

The I pod doing
the podcast

Outcast lady
The rain in Seattle
Hanky Panky
Snoopy hang on
Aboard love boat
so foreign
Her kitten tongue
was wide open
Eye wide but
quickly minds shut
Did it say?
((Too Quick))

((White Doves)) website
Riders of the Morrison
dorm
Ouija board storm

Him hungry
for her
smorgasbord
  Stars flu

* Planetarium+

Miss Tory friend
Terry's mouth
of Sherry
Met all their lovers
Sweet Cherry wine

In the Sanitarium
Your words are
not to hinder me

Kiss of an angel
You compelled me
Such a coincidence
The spell too quick

No heart of
citizenship
Walk like a man
Talk like a
foreigner real slick
In another land
Dance like an Egyptian
From the Godly land  

No man is
quick enough
To expedite
The quicker man
Beaten by the
bodyguard
No God this is a
Ladies Island

Pulp Fiction absurd
Vanilla milkshake
Saturday Fever
Cons
So many Johns

Lockdown
People say I’m a schizophrenic but don’t hate for sometimes life just gets so hectic. Don’t know if I need a exorcist or a medic, or maybe I should ask a priest and get some advice so prophetic. Maybe I ask buddha or maybe I forget it all by taking a hit of *****. Should I ask Joseph smith or Muhammad but weren’t they just humans too, should I go ask Ron Hubbard’s ghost but don’t know how much that would actually do. Should I ask the great nothing that atheists swear by, perhaps I should I look into mysticism or should I give a ouija board a try. Hello mr.therapist we meet again, what do you think because the wheels have fallen off this wagon. Put needles in me like a voodo doll, because I’m messed up and rely on adderall. In the mental asylum talking to myself in my safety jacket, and my imagination is strong just the other day I pretended I was the guy from full metal jacket. **** ***** maggot causing a racket and sometimes I’m a inspector playing around with gadgets. Go-go gadget for I will eventually catch that dastardly wabbit, could make this my habit because I might as well for I’m bat ****. Na-na-na-na-na-na-na-na Batman getting rid of these bad men who hold bad omens. O men of little faith we should sit back and wait, for it’s a strategist mind state. Hello darkness my old friend the worlds on lockdown wondering when someone’s going to push the button.Clean up on aisle insert country name here, but people think I’m as ridiculous as the mad hatter there’s always a conspiracy somewhere. Like 9/11 was orchestrated by your own government, or how the moon landing was screened on a elaborate movie set. Perhaps the earth is flat, perhaps Matt groening is a time traveller have you ever thought of that? What obstinance I must be ridiculous, what is this a sedative uh oh now I’m starting to lose consciousness. Woke up in a interrogation room, and had a person lurking in the shadows with red eyes I thought he was zoom. Want to get out of there in a flash, but I’m locked down so I can’t make a dash. Now it says here that you’ve been saying **** you shouldn’t, and it wouldn’t matter to us if you disappeared but that would sure **** for you wouldn’t it? Look here men in black you can’t control me, for I got a brain unlike the rest of these zombies. You can’t just zap this away and make me forget, and if you discard me I’ll just be a martyr that stood up to this *******. Well if that’s the way it’s going to be then you leave us no choice but to do things the hard way. Bring it on *****!

I

The characters on the ashen keyboard were faded, now yellow smudges remain
and the words that once danced like clouds in his mind had been evacuated
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was wrong
while the shredder destroyed the lives of every personality he had created
(God's fading smile)
Littering the floor were the shards of paper, twisted and unnerving
Thin strips made new languages, new words, forlorn dictionary
Grasping at the shreds, our writer assembled a masterpiece
Seward on the Ouija board, advice from beyond
(Joyce laughed from) the grave

Scrawling longhand in a notebook on a jaunting bus through the city
No eye-contact, no interaction, careful contemplation
To the river he headed, concrete conscience
Writing nothing

Careless disregard for the laws of language
While they shunned his intellect
and tore pages before him
Scornful

No education, just a passion for words
Running away from his sadness
and learning that it don't stop
Ripples in the water
Single raindrop
Stop.

II

Start,
A tear fell backwards
Wrinkles in the brow begin to fade
Experiencing happiness for the first time, sweet joy
Sprinting in reverse, looking for the smile, return to a face
Think back to schoolyard glory and the books that were once relished

Admiration
They glued his life together
Praising the grinning genius before them
Careful preparation, consulting his Bible, The English Dictionary

Writing everything
To the world he was headed, mind free of guilt
Shaking the hands of a thousand folk, the happiness in a community
Caressing the keys of a pristine writing machine, black ink perfection on a white page

(Joyce sighed from the grave)
Seward on the Ouija board, applauded from beyond
Grasping at his hands, "this writer assembled a masterpiece"
Thin pages made new languages, new words, pregnant dictionary
Littering the coffee tables of many a home, words of beauty and precision
(God's enlightened gaze)
While the printer confirmed the lives of every personality he had created
Reading back on a thousand pages, the writer realised that he was correct
and the words that once drifted like clouds in his mind, now bees making honey, eternal hive
The characters on the immaculate keyboard were dazzling, free from corruption and scrutiny