"patrolled" poems
She was like the iron pyrite
The teacher asked them to examine, and describe;
Cold, dense and prickly,
Difficult to love.
Given the right light
And a gentle handling,
Oh, how she'd sparkle,
But in that place, expectations and sensory overload
rendered her lumpen, and resistant.
Removed from her books and her inner world - all she needed -
And placed in a maelstrom,
She was bewildered and forlorn.
Un-cooperative, they called her,
And the teachers loved the other gems instead,
Pretty little nuggets; Ruby, Jasper, Jade.
Two years of discouragement and dislike
And even the tentative sparkles had darkened.
The other gems enjoyed each other
And moved away from her magnetic pull,
sensing difference.
No outright meanness, not yet,
But hints were brewing, whispers had started
And she wandered alone, in the playground,
Talking to the seagulls, and singing to herself.
The teachers only wanted conformity
And called her parents to voice concern
about her lack of friends.
Had they asked her, allowed her to have a say
She would have told them it didn't matter
But they were determined that it did, to them, if not to her,
And her parents were added to the burden of people
Worried and disappointed, watching.
She knew now, she was different, she had always known but never minded,
Now it was a problem. She didn't fit,
Like that scratchy purple uniform, around her chubby waist
Food didn't judge, dislike or condemn.
That life ended, and a new struggle, in a new school, began.
This was harder; the meanness was apparent now,
Difference wasn't tolerated
And someone wandering alone was a target.
She found a place to hide, behind a staircase, with a book,
But they found her, removed her and patrolled her only refuge
Forcing her to submit to the torture.
Every day was a war zone,
So she found another way, and embraced ill-health, stealthily
Spraying deodorant directly into her own face
induced asthma attacks; and not all those ear infections were real,
She was an accomplished actress.
She got through it, millions do.
She found her own place, her own friends in her own time.
Among Onyx, Jet and Tigers Eye
Her darkness didn't mark her out as different,
And all that fake illness
Was great prep for theatre,
Where she was able to return to her inner world,
And no-one cared if you feigned madness
Or embraced the real thing.
Difference was celebrated,
The whispers now, were that she had a great stage presence,
And a talent to be nurtured,
Not a difference to be despised.
Sep 17, 2013
Sep 17, 2013 at 4:35 AM UTC
We stalked hawthorn hedgerows,
Backyards our battlefields,
Wielding wooden swords,
Dustbin-lids, for our shields.
We scouted railway cuttings,
Long abandoned and disused,
Where friendship’s blended alloys,
Were cast, forged and fused.
We patrolled village streets,
Marched along muddied lanes,
Proudly defending ‘our land’,
From raiding, heathen, Danes’.
We boldly challenged Vikings’,
Beneath a Sixties-summer-sun,
Bonding loyalty, faith and trust,
That will never, come undone.
Those days will not return,
Memories-mismatched-truth,
Recalling the fallen heroes,
Fighting follies of our youth.
Protecting imagined Kingdoms,
Lost in time, for evermore,
Boy soldiers standing guard,
In Castles built from straw.
Oct 3, 2010
Oct 3, 2010 at 2:06 PM UTC
The hurdles I must *******
gauze against breath
within this gripe
of well patrolled
polite sobriety
What clarity can I operate ?
take a breath
expel a myth
pattern a thought
create an action
reset and repetitude
Mar 28, 2016
Mar 28, 2016 at 6:52 PM UTC
We proposed for Witches Abroad on Broadway, a costume.
As a lure to students, orange and black candy.
Dancing at the prom, cell phones caught the ghouls.
This stretch of road was full of cool cats.
Unlucky ones were left on the side as skeletons.
We swept them clear with our broomsticks.
Our guns were not as brutal as broomsticks.
Bristles hid the ******* end, as if in costume,
No flesh, just skeleton.
Like bags of orange and black candy,
They were left, full of calico cat.
Our familiars, our friends, dinner for a ghoul.
They pulled at the ghoul,
In the hands of a witch, danger came by broomstick,
When ghouls snacked on cat,
In their orange and black fur costume,
Tasting sweet, like candy.
They beat them up and down, but they find another skeleton.
Them ghouls come faster, giving birth to others, another skeleton.
Vocalizing desire for black and white, red and yellow make orange, a ghoul,
Howls for student flavored candy.
A witch lays out one, then another with her broomstick,
Removing the face mask and costume.
Them that can, holler their outrage in cat.
Your *** was revealed in orange and black on a calico cat.
Females cooled themselves of *** unwilling mates to a skeleton.
Once alive, copulating loudly, now in a death costume.
Walking upright, a neighborhood was destroyed by a ghoul.
Neighbors watched, a witch patrolled on a broomstick.
Your students were seen as human candy.
One wife beater had a juicy rind, sweet and soured candy.
At the dance, hors d’oeuvres were made of cat.
Shot forward, it can create a hole, can a broomstick.
Where stomachs used to be, a skeleton,
Death conquers all, no more ghoul.
One, now many properly attired for the Danse Macabre in costume.
I found an orange, as broomsticks cleaned Broadway of cat candy.
In my student costume and human face mask, my path is crossed by a cat.
It disappeared as if it never was, visible only to Death, a skeleton made by ghoul.
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 7:43 PM UTC
Twenty million years you have existed
Ancient are your ways, carried out for days
Even in birth sixteen to eighteen months consisted
You stand alone in bravery of age
Predators won't cross, footing would be lost
Your power is of one to be amazed
Teaching us that solitary timing
Benefits us too, reminding how you
Spend your days so patiently on dining
The earth is your bed and has been always
Suiting you well, this your story to tell
Free from what man has made building hallways
We learn from you to push through and go on
Leading us through, what is infinite truth
Your soul abounding to bestow upon
Grunting and bellowing your presence known
Boundary protected, patrolled, directed
No one will be found threatening your home
Stand up in for what you truly believe
Too many to fight, find rest day and night
Pull those close to you who will not deceive
We are timeworn and primal like fossils
Daring to care and completely aware
Protection of our love is colossal
Be with us when we must move in a way
That makes us feel scared, feelings should be spared
No panic, no anxiety dismay
Wisdom to move past life's ever obstacles
Our size matters not, for with you we've brought
A strength that to beat is impossible
Remind us to pray to all good things endowed
Spirit gives blessing, heart is confessing
Creating what our free will has allowed
Be with us mighty one when mistaking
May we never forget, we too have yet
A legacy like yours in the making
Though we may not understand why we're here
Holy Spirit's hand, reaches and expands
Guidance walks us on the path to adhere
Brilliant light shines, helping us to get past
The hurt and the pain, learning we sustain
Achieving a great wing span long at last
tHE tERRY tREE
Oct 18, 2014
Oct 18, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
your daughter is infected;
writhing as she sleeps in too-thin-skin,
afraid the already permeable peach might catch,
impaled by some night terror
inching out under her eardrums and eyelids.
any other orifice blackened with rot,
and skin crawling with creeping creatures, cutting comfortable
dugouts and sleeping quarters in her heels,
beginning to pull and tear as
one-by-one pests patrolled her leg bones.
cauldron of guts, blood, oil, trouble and toil,
stirred to churn, to gurgle;
Out from up her hip bones the maggots marched,
All her demons expurgated,
Slithering out and flicking forked tails,
Winking kisses with blind eyes
Jan 8, 2014
Jan 8, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
Griselda gratz kept sixty cats,
She fed them very well
On angel cakes and raisin flakes and acorns in a shell.
Her furry crowd patrolled,meowed
About her tiny house,
Griselda gratz kept sixty cats,
To catch a single mouse.
Mar 13, 2014
Mar 13, 2014 at 6:17 PM UTC
Once upon a time
There was a Girl and a Wolf
One in hunger
The other on the brink of fear
The girl shivers and cries
Collapsing as her legs go numb
She wipes away her tears
And she clears her eyes
To see glowing eyes at the forest fringe
A place she was told never to venture
For a she-wolf roamed that wood
One with no pack
One that her grandfather told stories of
One whose hunger could never be satiated
She has heard the horrible tales
Ones that caused a tradition
To spring in fear of it
It was said the beast could never die
There was a chilling curse
Set on that tangled wood
That caused this she beast to be immortal
But the little one had to go
A child's curiosity is never quelled
So she edged ever so close
Leaving a trail in snow
Battered velvet dress
Starting to tear
Fingertips moving at a crawl
The eyes at the edge have lost the sparkle
She can see the beasts battered fangs
No growl, no howl, no sound at all
The white wolf did not pounce
Not like one should
The child had prepared
Steeled her fragile heart
Waiting for fangs to puncture
Moving her small hand ever so slow
She reached under her frozen dress
Revealing her father's ****
Laying it the edge of the wood
To feed the she-wolf
The wolf's eyes never blinked
Frozen as the weather itself
So they sat gazing at one another
The girl gazed and gazed
Inside this creatures black eyes
She found the reason
Why the wolf patrolled the edge of the wood
Like a fleeting shadow
Inside that wolf was not a beast
But a woman instead
Beautiful she was
That brought tears to men's eyes
This princess of sorts
Was the Lord's daughter
Who also sought what the forest covered
But her curiosity became her everlasting doom
She patrols this wood
To protect ones outside the fringe
From the curse that transformed her
Jan 6, 2016
Jan 6, 2016 at 9:06 PM UTC
It was 4am and snow
had fallen silently for hours
leaving a thick blanket of marshmallow skin
draped over all, and silence reigned
like a wise emperor whose subjects slept
without fear of Timpani.
Trees were over- burdened by drift
and bent like old men,
they stood
where their seedlings had taken root
centuries before villages
crept
up from the valley
to squat among them,
bringing chimneys and children,
women and men,
and all their
dreams.
It was late
and stillness shimmered
in moon-glow and cedar musk.
frozen stars,
all around
mounds of them
as gentle winds
plowed through the natural world
sweeping smoke from rooftops.
As
Giant owls; Their wings
cupping the elemental
patrolled pillows strewn about
the star chamber
of all Gods...
Up where an omnipotent Love
dreams on and on about giant owls
and how from here, the owls were gods,
patroling the nursery
of new gods.
Owls were floating in warmth, that had been
crushed into something
it had never suspected,
they were Owls
that kept the riff raff
outside
the perfect moment
for gods to catch some sleep...
they make it so
As Owls
too small too comprehend,
the vast Love
that loved them...
even so
a majesty was theirs
if not a mind that could have known - and not
unravel from the effort
of such Understanding
They were
savagely beautiful
in all their oblivious fulfillment
of the creator's plan;
they were
Lords
wearing crowns
without burden...
At 4am, the mice below the frozen stars that fell overnight were in there dens with uneasy sleep tickling their whiskers. Those mice out of sight of The Plan's Predator, unseen in the dirt pouch under rich soil and snow, The lucky ones continued to be blessed. The gods were sleeping... and they all loved mice... So at 4am, the mice below the frozen stars that fell overnight; they received all access to another day on earth... they enjoyed the consequence of Love's action, for owl eyes were denied cute things to look at but saw everything else. And beaks ... Well....
They would go wanting.
At 4am, all Mice who prayed for windows never got windows at all.
And the first snowflake to ever have a Red dream
was later made a prophet.
Oct 8, 2012
Oct 8, 2012 at 11:27 AM UTC
I.
Prideless, they tore railroad men’s brown *******
lurking the thirsty Kenyan banks.
Red moonlight sluiced from brambles and linen skins
pressing upon tawny flesh, igniting fire of feline eye.
Imperious, they patrolled the union jack encampment
lingering in shadows of long-labour’s dreamless sleep
until the smoldering campfire morning
when one hundred hammers lean in one hundred corners.
II.
Maneaters in glass houses can’t throw stony glances—
the power to haunt having run off with the ghost.
Now, they reign over the acrylic savannah
sneering—not out of regal disdain, but mild discomfort
from dust mites nitpicking at tautly taxidermed pelt.
Rebel eyes that halted an empire now cast
dull marble stares at fossils in the floor
and derailed trains of un-terrified school-children
near a hissing robot-box called Mold-A-Rama
spewing magma into plastic tyrannosaurs.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:06 AM UTC
At eight weeks old, she was our newly rescued mixed beagle pup.
Noah named her Daisy. Not a name I would have chosen, but certainly as sweet as
memories of Grandma's homemade molasses
bubbling in the old iron kettle brought out from the smokehouse for only one day each year on a crisp fall morning.
By sixteen weeks it was evident that all involved in the rescue didn't know squat about Beagles. After a frantic thirty seconds on Google, our mistake was quite clear in the form of about five hundred red and black and tan photographs. We were the proud but red-faced and slightly shocked owners of a **** Dog". Yep. And Daisy was her name-o.
Two years and seventy pounds down the road, I sat in my morning solitude spot this day with a good mug and a good book watching the nut hatches, house finch, and Black-capped/Carolina Chickadees tearing that special blend seed up as Daisy patrolled the yard for squirrels with one eye and her nose to the sky watching for the lone and clever Rock Pigeon scout that always precedes the flurry of flying rodents raiding my feeder. I can't help but to smile as Daisy glances at me through the deck door glass to see if I am admiring her skill and diligence. I am.
This being a Sunday before the dreaded M word day, I tend to lounge lazily around the house in my worn Clapton pj bottoms and hol(e)y Langley T-shirt. My shadow follows me from comfort to comfort spot knowing that I leave a trail of odd snacks from my kitchen perch to living room couch to study to lazy bed, and back again. She is showing a bit of winter fat.
To be continued....
r ~ 9Feb14
Feb 9, 2014
Feb 9, 2014 at 1:34 PM UTC
Your cheek rested on my chest light
pressing the silence bright for a moment
in your dark porch feelings had weight
but I was reluctant to detach to speculate
about where we were and what we held
too secure to need to share talk at all
like the black cat blending into the explored
our world still unbound by word patrolled walls
the street lamp flickered with temptation
asking elemental questions on decisions
reason on or off proving only a distraction
illuminating your attractions from a distance
above us a curtain stirred
up against an open window
lulled by slight rain cloud
blurring the moon to slow
cuddle in love with a dream
seen sweetly on half show
to only a lonely lane
and me in the light kiss
you gave with all that's pure
from a girly whirly place
full of pink hats and allure
making the darkness shake
when I saw the look in your eyes
sure with what I couldn't mistake
as yet told only in storybook ways
I almost dared to try and speak
but you felt the twinkle of stars too
shyness fluttering your lashes
and passion escaped and flew
skies beyond intensity to catch
respite in what little sleep it could
before getting bedded by an au revoir
which l foolishly leapt into turning round
pulling up a collar against the late hour
leaving you a wave to hide my two minds
I notice you pull your curtains together
cold sheets made bearable
when you phoned
to see I was safe
to hear your voice
saved me from strife
and though not face to face
we spoke of what in our lives
was finally in place
behind your curtain of love
my fingers slid down the natural gradient
stretching the fabric all the more sensitive
felt as a soft moan might pad on a sheet
intent on some scheme or hunt secretive
Jul 10, 2014
Jul 10, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
Wandering the wild shore among the dunes
The sunset colored the peaks in glowing gold
In the shaded purple folds, gray gnarled driftwood was strewn
In anticipation of the moon I strolled
I love the cold white light of a waxing moon
A heavenly body my path to unfold
To illuminate foot prints where they were strewn
Alone with dunes and beach by me patrolled
From atop the sand dune a moonlit lagoon
The V shaped ripples from water fowl, look, behold
The surface like molten glass behind the loons
Man, cannot dominate that which I behold
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
Lore tells of a cold, brumous island,
thoroughly clad in a dead fog, and silence.
Patrolled by only a few, lonely sirens,
their purrs and songs have long since subsided.
Times of enticing pirates and beguiling pilots
have been traded for times of shyness.
Some opt for quiet nights of gentle crying,
others for anxious hiding.
Lusting creatures, once desirous,
now left forlorn, nearly lifeless.
Obscured, hidden from the horizon,
this island is their asylum.
Jan 26, 2019
Jan 26, 2019 at 4:40 AM UTC
RESPECT
Mr C Penguin the head of the house
Wears a uniform and listens to Strauss.
Seals plonked by the door as a draught excluder.
Chimps are taking tea in the parlour Room.
Judging how many cakes they can consume.
“Get a brush Foxy and sweep up those crumbs,
I will be charging them double when the time comes”
Mr Badger making endless trays upon trays of cakes
For the ignorant posh chimps and the mess thy make.
“Bag the goose and send the felloe to me,
I will give the chimps something to do for free”
The penguin cracked his knuckles and gave a cough
He had told the chimps he had taken the day off.
“The goose is here” half smiling “the goose is here”
The chimps shook, gulped and felt a trifle queer.
The goose frog marched in and the chimp went limp
“Right you posh lot, eat nicely is that clear chimp”
“I’m not old fishy pengy” he snapped straightening his wing,
“no hanky panky on my watch, nothing, no anything.
“I run a tight ship chimp, my rules old chum.”
The chimps heard right and put an end to the fun.
“Respect, respect,” the goose patrolled his little space
The chimps now ashen with a worried look on their face.
It is all about respect
Jun 22, 2013
Jun 22, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
I do not remember my father as a demonstrative man,
but, hobbled though he was by a pre-war psyche,
we never doubted the depth of his affection for us.
His love of nature shaped our own perceptions of life
and his love of sport showed us the path of true competition,
that the essence is not to better others but to better oneself.
He transfused the ocean into us so thoroughly
that we will go to our graves with salt on our lips.
At all the painful pinnacles of growing
my father was there like a crampon you know will not fail you.
A towering lighthouse in his hat and dark suit
as he led me through the convent gate on my first day
and gently cut me adrift in the cruel seas of education
where the nuns patrolled the playground like killer whales
in search of seals.
He went ahead to each new town to make things ready for us
when I started boarding school he let me go in confidence
he bailed me out of scrapes with the law,
he was as certain as the mountain of his beloved Taranaki
and as solid as the beams of a whare runanga.
When I returned from overseas
my father and I found a space in our lives
where we could really get to know each other.
Through a winter that sparkled
he led me on odysseys into his soul
through the walkways, forests, rivers and coastline
of the city of his birth
which will, one day, witness his death.
If I were allowed only one memory of my father
it would be this: seaweed expeditions.
The northeast winds blew a bounty for his garden
onto the reefs around Belt Road
and at low tide we descended with our gumboots and sacks
to gather the fleshy harvest with its nitrogen-rich pods.
He had a system.
We heaped the seaweed on a number of high, dry rocks
then bagged from first to Iast to allow time for the seawater
to drain and the burden to be lessened.
I watched him as he moved around and about as deliberately
as a crab,
gathering the morsels,
bending to scoop the necklaces from the sea,
the sun's purple fire in the white, white, white of his hair.
He had seaweed in plenty at home,
it was the experience he craved.
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 6:54 PM UTC
When they burry me, remember my feet
Which trekked every step on broken streets
Felt the sands course through the toes in heat
Through the winters snow and the icy sleet
Tip toed at night, in the shadows, discrete
And in the day stomped to the beat
Carried me to a love so sweet
I beg of you, remember my feet
When they burry me, remember my knees
Which cushioned the flips and falls of the trapeze
Held up my frame with the greatest ease
And never knelt to anything in displease
Sprang up in the summer’s breeze
Survived through the winters freeze
And only bent to the love I wished to please
I beg of you, remember my knees
When they burry me, remember my hips
That were there for all my trips
Danced and shook for tips
Witness the beauty of an eclipse
Helped me stay balanced in all my slips
Swung side to side on moonlit strips
My love, who so tenderly grips
I beg of you, remember my hips
When they burry me, remember my hands
Which toiled and worked in foreign lands
Saluted in honorable commands
Showed knowledge that still expands
Gestured my souls demands
Conveyed a message that understands
Maintained a love that stands
I beg of you, remember my hands
When they burry me, remember my chest
Where my heart beat without rest
Gave me bravery in every quest
Allowed me to pass every test
Grew for those oppressed
Out front when I progressed
Where my love, became expressed
I beg of you, remember my chest
When they burry me, remember my head
Smart enough to help me earn my bread
Heard in passing, everything said
Looked upon the horizon spread
Felt the pain, when my body bled
Kept my body fed
Laid next to my love in bed
I beg of you, remember my head
When they burry me, remember my soul
How it took others on an emotional stroll
Made me conscious of my body toll
Gave me purpose, a position role
Appreciated everything in its whole
The spirit world where it patrolled
My love, whose heart it stole
Above all, I beg of you, remember my soul
Jan 16, 2014
Jan 16, 2014 at 10:53 AM UTC
You gave her bouquets of branches,
because she saw more beauty
in sticks than flowers.
And today I was asked what phase
the moon would be in tonight,
to decide how discreetly
he could kayak on an overly patrolled lake,
beneath the stars.
Seven cigarettes and others,
to ease the tribulation of a
warm lonely summers night,
where unplanned contacts,
led to strange content.
A book and a boy and a pen,
and a thousand words
that had yet to be inspired,
through a faulty habit
that took paychecks and too many hours.
Darkness molded itself around my peripherals,
like the ones your grandfather watches baseball out of,
and the love that pushed through the cloudiness,
to enter my cornea with grasping motions
from pretty faces with laughter to spread but no dime to spare.
They are the reason why
In a small church parking lot
I found beauty in the delicacy of change,
and the way things can crumble
and bloom,
so very near to each other.
Jun 13, 2013
Jun 13, 2013 at 4:27 AM UTC
You, were a gem
Shining inside my head
You, were a gem
And I let you inside my head
And now, now that feeling seems dead
You, were a top
Spinning too fast to be controlled
And the halls, the halls are being patrolled,
And I, I feel like the bottom of a totem pole
You, you were a top, and you aren't ready to stop spinning,
And I, I couldn't stop grinning
But that was then, and this, this is now
You, you were a handle
You, you helped me stand when I needed help a little X2
But that was then, and this, this is now
We, we seemed like a puzzle,
Fitting together like a Rottweiler with a muzzle
And I, I was out of my mind,
And I, I wrote words that might have been too kind,
Now I, I bite my tongue
But we, we both still know the things that were done
And I, I only hope I can catch you when you stop spinning
Aug 11, 2013
Aug 11, 2013 at 6:55 PM UTC
We call it the Bloc
Aint free to live our lives
the streets steady patrolled
by the cops
living in the clouds
Wiz Kahlifa dreams
this is a duck hunt
prepared to get shot
every day children's names
forever lost.
Sep 12, 2012
Sep 12, 2012 at 7:31 PM UTC
You hope that university will answer all of life’s questions, but nope.
I don’t know, I.
There was a guy who’d been hanging around outside our residence lately. Too consistently. At first, I thought he was someone’s friend but he’s always alone. He wasn’t doing anything or bothering my roommates, but that asymmetry set off my alarms.
He looked at me once (which I suppose isn’t a crime), I think, it was quick - a blink of sharp curiosity. I mentioned it to Charles who took his picture. The next morning he said the guy’s a legit student who has no criminal record, so maybe I’m all wrong.
Every girl’s encountered a creep or two before. They’re seemingly everywhere, as if mandated by law, like auto insurance. Most girls develop a sixth sense, a creep-dar. Nowadays, creeps have a new name, “incel” ("involuntary celibate") and they’re a recognized, online subculture. Next, they’ll have a coat of arms proclaiming, “We Would if We Could.” It’s as if awkwardness, a normal human foible, has been distilled into something dangerous.
Although the campus looks like a garden or a perfectly manicured ‘stepford’ park, we joke that it’s really a locked-down, patrolled, surveilled compound, with guards, cameras and card-key access to everything. Which, I suppose, is all to the good.
Our creeper wasn’t there Friday, and he wasn’t there today, so maybe he was nothing.
I don’t know, 2.
I was in Sunny’s room. We were going shopping in a few. There was a little pink book on her bed - a diary!! I’d never seen it before and it was open, about three-quarters of the way. She too-casually moved to scoop it up, like the neglected book of a sorcerer.
My GOSSIP-dar Alerted like a class bell. “Hmm” I hummed, head-tilted, then I laughingly lunged for the book.
Sunny’s eyes went wide for 3-billionths of a second and she snapped it up with the speed of a striking cobra, “That’s MINE” she said, rigid with seriousness.
“What’s going ON?!” I asked, but she shoved it into her night table.
Another mystery!
‘Sleeping dogs,’ I thought to myself.
Apr 10, 2023
Apr 10, 2023 at 2:38 PM UTC
"I ate civilization. It poisoned me; I was defiled. And then I ate my own wickedness."
- Aldous Huxley
i let my head hit the brachiaria.
cyan sky rolled past,
and it seemed to me as if
my past itself was dragged out of my body,
excorcised and pulled up
and traveled with the sky's current
the sky is moving,
impossible and slow.
the clouds jog with a rush.
sometimes i think i have never
felt at all
with my year ****** up,
on their way to Mongolia or
Philadelphia,
I tried to desperately recall
sullied at the thought i couldnt.
I thought about how i always embarrassed you
in public
how i'd turned into an embarrassment
at this point in time
my pure innocence
that flowed in the past gently
uncomfortably shifting and
wondering how certain things felt
i don't know
manhood devoured me like
an apple.
in the garden
i walked
tried to spot all the perennials
and i did
and i thanked mankind for taking up the
habit of finding wild plants
bringing them into our lives
i see a sign, the museum is holding an exhibit on
british pastorals and hellscapes
i tell her we should go.
she agrees
walks across the street to buy a wire.
my blood ran down my body
onto the linen
Egyptian cotton
like the princesses who
married at 14,
at 13 i laughed
when they asked me to go the square
and at 15 i felt it my responsibility.
the fetid collapse of my
sincerity and my serenity
flowed through my being
patrolled round
my purity like
a culpable
sentry
i closed my eyes
and i felt the sheets heavy with
plasma
i blinked and
everything turned to burgundy
the subway grates licked at my ankles
the poplar and elms
in firestone
laughed at me,
who had so eagerly
held on to a fray
consumed by mankind
gutted with
certain
toxicant.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 12:55 PM UTC
I feel it sometimes
driving through the backwoods
of Georgia
along narrow winding roads
patrolled by tall solemn trees,
and no lights for miles...
praying my tires hold up,
that the thermostat stays cool...
this is no place for a *****
to get lost,
or stuck,
and this *****
doesn't need a history
lesson to know
what I feel
in my shango bones...
and yesterday I saw it
screaming in black
from an off-white wall
at a pit stop in Macon:
*" I hate n#&&@rs
let's killem all..."*
and I started packing mentally,
stacking the frost bite,
hustle and rat race
that chased me down
south
in the first place
back into my duffel bag...
I had a train to catch
~ P (Pablo)
(7/27/2013)
Jul 27, 2013
Jul 27, 2013 at 6:30 PM UTC