Mr Peeler, Mr Peeler, why do you creep into my room at night,
and feed nightmares into my brain to give me such a fright?
Didnt your mommy ever tell you its naughty
to scare a little girl like me?

Mr Peeler, Mr Peeler, why do you hide in the shadows of my room
and why is there a stench of doom?
Why, once you've pulled my eyelids from my face,
do you run away as if you are in disgrace?

Mr Peeler why, with my eyelids did you make pretty butterflies
once you had ripped them from my eyes?
Why mr peeler did you have to be so cruel
and never let me sleep at all?

---------------------------------------------------------------­-------------------------------------------

For almost two years we’ve been sitting on a conveyor belt
Heading straight for the potato peeler, which will
Slice right through our thickened skins and puncture our vitals;
A cold cruel machine designed to sit
In industrial kitchens
Waiting for Sodexo’s next batch.

But we—
We’re from the farmer’s market and we are not
Four inches in diameter and six inches in length.
We are clunky. We are knobbled. We are
Purpleyellow and we are waterysweet.
We are not
Iowabland or a poem of rhyming couplets, yeah
We are free verse and we

Had *** because we’re friends.
Or maybe because
We love each other
In one way or another.
Or maybe because we’re lost
Or maybe all of the above, yeah—I don’t know, I just know

The potato peeler won’t accept us for a second.
That mechanical grip, slicing slicing slicing,
A fumbling tumbling in countless browntowhite progression,
It won't accept
Our color, our flavor, our beautiful swirling eyes,
And for a while I didn't either.
But whether we have two more months on the belt or twenty years,
I know that our knobbled progression to nowhere
Will have been one of everywhere.

Oh what I’d give...
What I’d give to write within
A book whose every page is made
From smooth banana skin

The texture firm but fair,
This I long to feel
Beneath my pen which glides
Over yellow, fleshy peel

Guiding, fixing clumsy script
To exceed its usual style
Putting pen to banana
Puts to my face a smile

Ngalala nendoda engaligqokile ijazi, ukuze
ngikwazi UKUMITHA izidingo zami.
Namanje ngisawenza umkhuba.
Umkhuba omubi wokungalaleli uma
bengishumayeza
Mabeshumayela izwi liyawushisa unembeza
kodwa mina njengeRadio Station ehlihlizayo
angnandaba
coz to-Night e Durban ngiyozidansela
iShumaya.
Ngicela utshele umfundisi wakho
Angangithandazeli.
Njengo R50,
Mina ngibomvu.
Ngibomvu izono.
Nginesono Sokuba Isoni.
Ngicela NingangiThandazeli.
A car accident, ingozi yemoto.
Shuthike bobalili BABELULA ngoba
AKUSINDANGA muntu.
Njengelanga liyozilahla kunina Bashona.
Njengokuphihlika kwe Glass, Bafa. I want you
to understand this, njengentombazane efake
uBra, Babhodile.
Ngicela NingangiThandazeli.
I had a fight with the school, Sangihlula
isikole.
Then The Church had a fight with me,
Wahluleka Umthandazo.
You tell me uNkulunkulu uyaphila?
Pho mayephila akazizeli ngani Yena, wena (are
you well) Uyaphi LA?
Noma ucwecwa amazambane uya PEELER?
Lento ayenzi sense like leaving your wife for a
side chick.
Tshela umfundisi wakho engangithandazeli.
NjengeDimoni, Angiwufuni Umthandazo.
Ngathi nguMatshidiso angfuni Nomthandazo.
Ngicela NingangiThandazeli.
Njengo R50,
Mina ngibomvu.
Ngibomvu izono.
Nginesono Sokuba Isoni.
Ngicela NingangiThandazeli.
Ukushona kwabazali bami kwaba isqalekiso
kimi
Ngalala nendoda engaligqokile ijazi, ukuze
ngikwazi UKUMITHA izidingo zami.
Namanje ngisawenza umkhuba.
Umkhuba omubi wokungalaleli uma
mengishumayezwa,
Kode Ngicela Ningangithandazeli.
Ningangicabangeli nginengqondo yami.
Ningangisukeli nginezinyawo zami.
Ngicela ningangithandi nginenhliziyo yami.
Nibaleke, ngoba anginayo icalculator.
NingangiZondi, ngiyazithulela angisiye
UNONDABA.
Ngicela Ningangithandazeli.
NgiyiNtandane ngizohlala kulesi Sibaya
Sikababa Nginibuke eSikhaleni sezinti,
Nginakhele icebo likaZungu Ngokunga Qondi
kwami lelizwe enithi liyaThandeka, Ngizoba
uMelusi wamaBhubesi vele aningiZweli noma
Nginesiphiwo eSihle nithi Ngi Bhekifa, ningenza
I shepherd ka Sathane nithi Ngi Lusifa
(Lucifer).
Ngicela Ningangithandazeli.

It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
He loitered here he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
"Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark."
The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash he smoked a huge cigar;
He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
He laid the odds and kept a "tote", whatever that may be,
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered, "Here's a lark!
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark."

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall.
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink his dexter eyelid shut,
"I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut."
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
"I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark."

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat;
Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark
No doubt, it fairly took him in — the man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:
"You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! One hit before I go!
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark."

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.
He set to work with nail and tooth, he made the place a wreck;
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
And "******! ****** ******!" yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
And when at last the barber spoke, and said "'Twas all in fun'
T’was just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone."
"A joke!" he cried, "By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;
I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark."

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,
He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.
"Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough."
And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

my father was a
veterinarian
a lazy one at that

and when I was born
he simply stood by and
watched as my mother
circumcised me
with a carrot peeler

the trauma left its mark so to speak
mom and dad split up
when I was five
she ran off with the butcher's wife
he patented universal acid
a liquid that no container can hold

we don’t talk much these days
and the earth is slowly dissolving

Dancer
by Michael R. Burch

You will never change;
you range,
investing passion in the night,
waltzing through
a blinding blue,
immaculate and fabled light.

Do not despair
or wonder where
the others of your race have fled.
They left you here
to gin and beer
and won't return till you are bled

of fantasy
and piety,
of brewing passion like champagne,
of storming through
without a clue,
but finding answers fall like rain.

They left.
You laughed,
but now you sigh
for ages,
stages
slipping by.

You pause;
applause
is all you hear.
You dance,
askance,
as drunkards cheer.

Keywords/Tags: dancer, waltz, waltzing, applause, drink, drunkards, neon light, strobe, flash, flashing, crystal ball, chandelier, lap dancer, exotic dancer, stripper, peeler, strip, striptease artist, burlesque, Moulin Rogue, dance, passion, champagne, gin, beer

Jack and Keeler
Went to the Market

They bought a Peeler
And A Knife

Jack Peeled Potato
Found a Worm

Worm was Shy
Both said Good Night

I felt the edge of my nightmare, grasping to the subconscious
worries that were clinging like venomous fangs delving inwards.
Dreams were a potato peeler on the different skins that
were pealed from my normality to what turned metaphorical
hairs white, I screamed in high definition of speechlessness.

Have you ever woken to find that the reflection of what was
coherent within your diluted dreams had clung to your eyelids?
Escaping the dreamscape of illusion and collecting into the
tear ducts of deliberations connecting eclipses of reality
that was a mirage of what I conceived in both verses.  

I had awoken in momentary seclusion, short lived like a
verse of a haiku that versed much but bleed more than it
had versed. I was a paradox of complexity, my tribulations
were collecting in lagoons of reality about to burst.
I was immersed in a mirage of impulses and needed to visualize.

I felt the edge of my nightmare, and it penetrated like
satin fissures on my delicately woven reflections.
Those that stared back upon me, expressing their intentions.
We are a motion of luminosity and twilight and our
dreams weave a thin line that lingers in our dreams..

Before paper bills and money
We'd share all those beans,
Wild flowers too and honey
Not anymore but in lucid dreams

I'd strike a chord
One maybe two
But if you climb aboard
Many more, I'll show you too

With no baggage wish I were walkin'
Roads traveled and those not, havin' some fun
Sigh those bills!! no I ain't complainin'
Here on the eleventh floor, I'm just cleanin' my gun

Downed my whiskey, while the peeler swayed
I kissed goodbye to a beautiful flight
Lay rocking by the moonshade  
"Make that a double" I said, "its a cold one tonight"

Before paper bills and money
Cosmic harmony was the terrestrial theme
By the Clyde over tomorrow's journey
I'll Breathe My Swinish Dream!!

The drive home--too soon--from the evening’s celebrations:
scattered street lights, golden hues moving in epileptic waves
the unconscious coast on the interstate
for you, the half-drunken dance with raw chicken giblets
which fell to a ***** floor, with a flying, broken peeler,
skins of butternut squash, my
confidence.
Four hours pass, I stay on the couch with my wine,
the cat, & fresh salt streams ‘til sleep arrives.
You left me to be
with a dead chicken.
Lonesome Saturday eve.

Clouded by cobwebs

these days

you tell the same stories

and ask for news

forgotten by the next clock stroke.



You are no longer the apple peeler

whose hands never faltered

in wielding blade or teacup,

whichever was needed

to cater for me.



Though I bare your name

the syllables slip

and you must grasp

at faces I resemble

in the hope you’ll catch a memory

before it fades for good.



You were seventy-seven at my birth

and yet you stood

in photos with me,

constant in attention and love.



I do not know,

a world without.

.within these words is the simple question... i'm a misogynist? i'm a misogynist? i'm such curious as to how i could get away with all of this if i, truly were a woman, but as being a man, i am prescribed the sentient double-knocker of: a ******* mea culpa!

so i spent the afternoon making
two curries...
   by now... cultural appropriatio:
whatever the hell that means
having an arsenal of indian
spices that would scare both
the russians and the h'americans
with their nukes...
but like i said:
i concede:
                 the blue indian cuisine,
i.e. from the Bengal
or the Punjab?
superior to my bland salt &
paper...
although...
when it came to the chicken chettinad?
i'm not here competing
for the white-boy-eat-a-lot-of-chillies
olympics...
one standard red chilli,
four kashimiri dry chillies,
and yes... some standard chilly
powder...
       if i want to burn my tongue:
i'll drink near-to-boiling
water... thanks...
don't know... i sometimes make
so much curry in one afternoon
i'm happy to forget doing
the stereotypical male thing of...
watching the 6 nations rugby,
or the skii jumping competition
from Letho (Finland)...
   it's like... i'm transported back
to Edinburgh,
  doing 12 hours of lab. training
once more...
              hell... no lab. work for me:
but i guess... blue indian cuisine
is the closest thing to a chemistry
experiment, notably an organic
chemistry experiment...
mind you:
   have you ever wondered why
you tend to eat a little bit more
of the sauce...
   if you don't dice the chicken,
move away from dicing chicken
*******, and instead fry (which will
come later)
       whole chicken thighs?
or... marinate them prior to...
          curating them via
                   the method of poaching
them in the sauce?
diced chicken: so bland...
         esp. from the breast....
but the meat... cooked whole...
esp. as a thigh (the best bit of
the chicken, and with the bone
intact? oh god!)...
my few favorite curry though?
the one i made later...
    a... sali murgi...
   (yes, the H is always a surd...
   moor-ghee...
    butter of the moors)...
      with those beautiful sali
crispets...
          on top...
   also... who would have thought:
dried, apricots... in a curry?
oh i don't mind this...
   "cultural appropriation"...
me cooking curry is...
so much more than someone
donning dreads...
and... by the looks of it...
          i might even, slyly,
cook better than some natives...
well i already know that
i can speak a more orthodox english
than some of the natives,
i knew that back in high-school...
  started in class 2B...
moved a year later to class 1B...
(class... tier, same thing)...
a year later i was in class 1A...
and it went like so:
    1A, 1B, 2A, 2B,
              1C... 3A, 3B,
                      1D, 2C...
and no... there was no 4A or 4B...
(it skipped every two numbers
and every two letters)...
so... me worried that i might
not cook better than some
Indian's grandmother?
   not in the least...
              a, woman, cooking?
please... give me a break...
             what's that story:
if she overuses salt...
she's thinking about something...
if she underuses salt
she's fostering ill-will...
she over-cooks the pasta
she wants a divorce...
she under-cooks it...
she wants you to start recreationally
running because you have
a "beer-belly-flab"...
yeah... i'll say it...
WOMEN DO NOT BELONG
IN THE KITCHEN...
        mind you...
i was helped by a standard-bearer
to the antithesis of saying so...
mother dear...
   mother ed gein mother dear
(this better freak some people out)...
ah...
but you know what?
frying the potato sali...
last time i used a *** and a standard
cheese grater for the potato...
ingenius...
however many chemistry
experiments i ever did...
no cliche american high-school
"faux pas"...
          but then...
like men are supposedly unable
to tell the difference
between
burgundy and cordovan...
         the **** is a...
               julienne peeler?
yes... mother dear...
or... grandma dear...
                 any other woman in
"my life"...
   no really... but i always like
to keep the ed gein joker card
in play...
   for breathing space...
             all the other women in my
life were...
    for two worthy exceptions...
the nurse in the hospital
where i was born...
                     birth-mark scared...
thought it was better to
shove suckle of a feeding bottle
into my mouth so hard
that i would suffocate,
and almost die from
a premature heart-attack...
ended up with an.. "enlarged" heart...
last girlfriend...
  now... i don't even want to begin
with that story...
in full agatha christey
alias poirot paranoid-mode...
****** her for 7 hours one night
prior to leaving St. Petersburg...
****** her in the batch while she was
on her period and it was
the first time she told me to put
on a ******,
after she first told me to take it off...
so yeah... the curry was great...
we lated sat together
like jesus mary & st. joseph
watching the t.v.
   ah... China's one child-policy...
back in Europe
i'm a dormant serial killer
and my mother is actually my sister...
and my father is a *******
Anglican priest...
or myth, or ghost,
  counter... "god"...
of me turning to the public stage...
BUMPER STICKER
RETRACTION FROM H'AMERICA...
if he died for "our", "sins"...
why is the mantra still:
  the mea culpa of...
"allowing" him to die on the cross?
so we watched a movie...
book club...
staring...
   jane fonda...
  that guy from miami vice...
that woman from ms. congeniality,
that woman from back to the future
vol. 3,
          that woman from
        father of the bride...
                       and DREYFUS!
fifty shade of grey...
   cameo by e. l. james, walking
the dog?
                         yep...
        anyway... watched that...
prior to, dressed up real fine...
was asked where i was going...
to buy some beer...
   walked to the local for some cider...
had to endure a interlude
with a drunk west ham supporter
talking to the colt cashier about
working in outer east london
but being an arsenal supporter...
the movie though...
book clup...
          so it ends on a:
and they lived happily ever after,
didn't it?
            yeah... it did...
but as i was walking about...
the demographic...
   my "neighbour"...
a single mother who still has her
son living with her -
who should look like he's ageing
but... to me he's still
a stunted cabbage-patch
                       of a 13 year old...
a daughter who sometimes
crashes...
      walking home with
a... "catch"...
                           a man...
                 who i would seriously
make ******* antagonisms of...
elsewhere? in the... vicinity?
similar stories...
                      around here
i'm the jesus, the messiah's
mother and my father,
                 the ghost of st. joseph...
last time i wanted to play roulette...
my mother was visiting
     her parents,
both of them slept at my uncle's
house,
i hosted a birthday party...
                and...
  ended up ******* a black girl
in my room on a chocolate couch...
how's that?
      don't even ask me how
i managed to persuade a thai
    bisexual with cheap polish beer
and jazz...
        done brutally / i.e. realistically
in the garden...
with a my own persistent zenith
of surprise...
the thai surprise...
           of reaching into her *****...
really... sport's bra...
and you just picked her up
   from a park bench lamenting
into the phone drinking beer
at the same time, + the short hair?
really? no... moment of "suspence"
           of... the thai surprise?
there were always the odds:
3:1 - she's a woman...
        or 4:2 - she's... he's she's
                               she's he's a man...
oi! shem?! what's up?
which is it?
(3? mouth, the floral pattern,
and the ***...
                1? choice...
  well... if you've already started
courting?
              there isn't one...
4? how many points of entry
between two men? 4...
   but how many choices?
the... teasing *******
literature and wanting to experiment
or...
   the "homophobe"...
which only applies to...
   ****** taqiyya...
                        or the thai surprise...
oh i'm pretty sure i've met
a few homosexuals in my life,
but all of them had
the courtesy to... dismiss homophobia...
what was "homophobia"
and became "trans-phobia"
was forever some borrowed
from Islam... ****** taqiyya)...                
    
                 oh but reality is brutal
on this level...
                         no... not rosey ****
friends, best buddy psychotic
                  lingering ex-girlfriends...

so i drank one cider,
watched match of the day
for all the premiership highlights...
drank two more ciders...
in between taking
a king's salute of one's
most worthy subject:
    a 10cm length of fudge-like
****...
forgot to *******...
and found myself thinking...
'what if the opening
for david bowie's song
from the man who sold the world,
the width of a circle...
could ever become something
-esque shape of things to come
by audioslave...
that subtle rhythm section...
what if all rhythm sections
of songs could have more
a more subtle air about them,
so that the rhythm section
doesn't have to compete with
the vocals...
   harmony...
                very much unlike
the rhythm guitar of Metallica...
what then?

i'll speak my mea culpa...
but i'll also imagine myself
nailing him to the cross...
and then dry *******
the erected crucifix
                         with him on it...
yes...
    and he might have died,
but i somehow managed to live,
in order to understand,
rather than forget the omni-****
banality for...
    the spec-attache-of-the-wrongly-
reattached-to-the-omni-****
as-stand­ard-the...
                            particular man.

inclined to be on a, "jonestown massacre"
style... motiff?
         please...
                  i'd need to dumb
my language down to a level of
understanding that
could no longer be riddled
with idiosyncracies,
          and, subsequently
become: peppered with rhetoric...

who doesn't,
made of flesh,
borrow a segment from
     idolatory,
of these, of all of all
of the possible days...
                oh.... subtle translation
of the german reality
at the peak of the 19th century...
what was the twilight,
or rather... who were the idols
of that frame of history?
wherever i look now...
i cannot see what twilight
there's is to speak of,
other than via my own
post-mortem...
    and by then...
             i only seem to want to convey:
but i am only making
a snippet of what an status
would perform
otherwise:
full swing wholly engrossed
in idolatry do...

        nibbling...
to better explain metaphysics...
id est:
       as simply as possible...
with a...
                 underlying principle
of metaphor...
   and subsequently:
   a literalism that only dabbles
with ridicule of,
what centers around...
self-worth,
    and self-worth-attainment,
best mitigated by
   a self-deprecating comedy...
         that... is provoked
as a modus operandi...
                by an undermining,
tragico-comic...
         of a... noumenon,
self-excluded:
              deprecating comedy per se.

thus:
   the self, returns to the "self",
returns to "the box"...
               which ends up being...
something almost bearable
to have to endure,
esp. when stacking shelves
in a supermarket.

I'm in between good and evil.
Ill care for you till the very end
And if I could I would seal her
Instead I just let it mend
If its not the same you'll be put in the peeler
lets just let it go let it trancend
I have a beatiful woman and I wish I could feel her
If I could I would make it start over again..
In love and love is what could heal her
Your everything and only thing on I depend
She's an ace that im the only dealer that can deal her,
"TRY IT' 'I will defend"
And if she says she's not around it's because my arms and legs conceal her
we're in the room she has lips to tend
Ill tell you the truth I still a bit fear her
But ill just let it go or let it pend
Im still in youth and when it comes down to it I was the one to steal her
Your the only item I posses that I wouldn't lend
Now were together and I automatically hear her
Any other thoughts just started to bend
All my letters start with dear her
And love at the end
This is not what I appear to her
Im probably another boyfriend
Over it now waiting for good moods to occur
So we can make love all over again
like souple Ill settle you down whrn my love stirs
Lets make sure this becomes a trend
And if you need it Ill scream  It if it needs to be reasured
its not longer me, Its now me and her
the mysitc blend...
the end....

Taken from a sentient, spit forth and proceed. Like the hangnail that hung until you ripped it off, then told it about what happened. What ... what would happen in the coming months. Try to distance it: a runner in the coldest part of warsaw. The image that serves as the vessel through which I breathe, test tube attached to each struggle which is nothing. Everything vile in the phlegm of yesteryear. Why wait in this hypoxic state? Keep diving within and without.

Now - as if settled through writhing. Cold dex and cut-to-**** with baby's breath. Whittle me in the corner with a carrot peeler cause i ain't got the guts. Test the ceslestial light like a fuse box or put the lid on.

Suicide Room
There's a room where people go to do something banned and sad.

They go there to commit suicide.

I caught a glimpse of it in a vision after a ***** night when Emma had forsaken me.

The white wood walls are blood splattered.

Daylight comes thru gaps in a boarded up window by a corner.

A small curved potato peeler knife is what everyone uses.

Such a wicked and effective tool.

People ravaged by despair and failure come here to die.

It's a long list; the knife's always ******.

Something from that dark multi emotional place came thru my vision and lodged in me.

What?

A ghost or the reason why?

Why all types of people go there to suicide?

I can't see it; it's hidden.

I do see what 5 years of failure in love has done to me.

Decades can be added to that.

So much **** in my head, life, heart, me.

My turn will soon be here to end my life in that room.

The Suicide Room.

Emma will be next, following me.

Death by razor sharp potato peeler.

Thanx Em.

I started to love you and look what you made me do.

I'm mad at you but don't hate you.

Quite the opposite.

Goodbye.

I spy with my weatherd eyes
A broken clock that shows me better times from my past life.
As these spiteful tides have turned me
Into a grumpy soul.

This desecrated ship of doubt
It's slowly peeling me away like a potato peeler
I need to grab my papers and maps
To find the breath that I was once searching for.
These scramblings of ramblings
So nonsensical
As they lead me to the fact
That you hate that I bite my nails

Like a hangnail you chew me apart,
Gifting me these splinters from this shovel
That I used as a kid to build mountains of possibilities
Which now leaves me a hole,
To bury my soul with.
Each stone I turn I see these regrets
That look like texts I that shouldn't have sent.

The heavens from above
Have blocked their facebooks
Casting her curses in cursive
Leaving me with my grave,
My shovel,
Memories of you.

My Granny is 87
And has a new carer every week
Today’s woman is slight
But smiling
A South American beauty
Granny sits and explains
How the potato peeler works
And she beams
A bare spud in her fist
That this is something she has never used
That this is something she will bring home to her mother
That with this she could peel the world
And I believe her.

Attack of the Gods
Maya... I asked For Sweet Companion
and You Showed Up with a Laugh
Apology
For Simply being Human
And I said Thank You
I so often Feel the Same..
You Laughed Again
Like a a Star Studded Poet
Who never Left Her Home
Knowing Where Love Was
So I asked.. Where?
And You Sat there
Peeling Potatoes
Sitting on a Kitchen Stool
Just Sat there
Peeling, Again, and Again
Peeling
Knives on Flesh
Oil Wells, Animal Skins, Plows
All in that Potato Peeler
Potatoes Flesh Its True
But It started to Bother Me
Why Cant You Use Your Words,
I asked...

Thats when I saw It
No Mouth To Kiss With
Like a Mr Potato Head
With a Part Missing
Not Nothin to Say
Just Couldn't Say It
That Told Me Everything
Turning,
I Snapped the Fingers of Love's Heart
And Claimed the Wind Harp
of Life's Soul
Her Words
The Instructions of a General
Her Sound
Clear Intention Played
A ire   FORCE FIELD
fOUR the Earth
Even
"The Star Be With You"
"And Also With You"
Navy Seals would  Understand
Harmonizing Plurality
Diamond Faceted  
Impenetrable Barrier
Of Life

Earth Song

Symphony of Light

We pull on blue nitrite gloves,
doctors paid in seeds and tea-candle light.
Our medical equipment has black and orange handles,
a serrated blade, a metal loop, a potato peeler.
Our patients wait boldly with no pain killers.
We plunge in our blades and saw
a lopsided circle with a jag,
then tear the whole piece up,
stringy brains follow.
This operation has no set procedure,
just simple pleasure,
a lost tradition
now remembered.

She wasn't afraid of dirt, and never painted her fingernails
until she was old and her youngest daughter did it for her
But she planted Petunias in the springtime and made green beans
with Mrs. Dash and oil in a *** where they boiled on the stove
And she could peel five potatoes faster with
a knife than I could peel one with a peeler. And she dried her car
in the garage after it rained and pressed our shirts.
She quit guitar in her seventies, or maybe earlier I can't remember
because the arthritis was too much for her fingers but she
still sang and still made her pancakes crispy and still went
to church to sit on the pew next to last from the back
And she sang hymns with her sister until her sister was gone
And she drove a pickup into the woods at eighty and wasn't afraid
of getting hurt but she was afraid of the dark
She played Hand and Foot and Checkers and Rummy and went to
yard sales and sent cards to the sick and loved red roses
and the color purple but not the color yellow which she
told my mother she looked bad in and also my aunt.
She spoke with authority and knew what was right without having to ask
anyone but the Bible and she told you what she thought
and loved you no matter what and would always give you a job
if you were sitting because there was always something to clean
or fetch and there was little worse than being lazy.
She bought wagons for the grandkids and covered the fire at night
and sang about heaven and took walks up on the hill until it
got too hard to walk. And she never gave up and she always held
on so tight you could see her knuckles turn white because there
was no letting go.

She wasn't afraid of dirt, and never painted
her fingernails until
she was old and
her youngest daughter did it for

her But
she planted Petunias in the springtime and
she made green beans with Mrs. Dash and oil in a ***
    where they boiled on the stove And

she could peel five potatoes faster with a knife
    than I could peel one with a peeler. And
she dried
her car in the garage after it rained and

she pressed our shirts.
She quit guitar in
her seventies, or maybe earlier I can't
    remember because the arthritis was too much for

her fingers but
she still sang and still made
her pancakes crispy and still went to church where
she sat on the pew next to last from the back And

she sang hymns with
her sister until
her sister was gone And
she drove a pickup into the woods at eighty and

she wasn't afraid of getting hurt but
she was afraid of the dark
She played Hand and Foot and Checkers and Rummy and
she went to yard sales and

she sent cards to the sick and
she loved red roses and the color purple
    but not the color yellow which
she told my mother she looked bad in and also my aunt.

She spoke with authority and knew what was right
    without having to ask anyone but the Bible and
she told you what
she thought and loved you no matter what and

she would always give you a job if you were sitting
    because there was always something to clean or fetch and
she said there was little worse than being lazy.
She bought wagons for the grandkids and

she covered the fire at night and
she sang about heaven and took walks up on the hill
    until it got too hard for
her to walk. And

she never gave up and
she always held on so tight you could see
her knuckles turn white because there was no letting go.

cruising in nice bimber code 22.09.18

see no fault
LG get the car running
first stop odd bins for the malt
eye open for ladys that are stunning.
going to learn from masters
every detail will observe
rods getting good casters
from confidence both deserve.
great is the gab
eyes open for the bimber
forget the uber cab
this is going to replace tinder.
2 great blokes
cheeky under no peeler
viewers done what only provokes
you have made a mistake not smoking sensimilla.

For an Empath times were frosty! Cider draped in Sugar black,
Whilst through Enki's summit, I surely plummet yet I always had your back,
That day we graced the garden, Edgar said we weren't alone,
And with Timeline Fayre, my Alice hare,
His Lordship did atone!
Excuse my prose, but like your nose, it didn't bode too well.
And now suggestion, upon reflection my flooded spirit I can tell...
All your works, your loving shirks, I have now set you all free!
I must disparrage engine and carriage so you can no longer bother me.
When has anyone scurried magnetron and taken time to teach,
Earth's biggest Heart & Mind, my Angel kind, now makes waves and just in reach

Been difficult to Let Her Go, as Aspy serves in colours,
Images and Symmetries of a Spirit like no other.
Losing marbles it's a Ray that garbles, incoming trajectory,
Jumping timelines, Butterfly Effect it also serves the Entropy!
Whilst memories dance I take a glance at what Delilah did for me.
Beginning dynamic, falsehoods trajick, Earl Greys my cup of tea.
Yet it was a breeze, with surprising ease to fly them all round Orbit!
You may have seen, big TV screen, if not my Angels scored it.
I'm on the fence, without pretence, as the Chief is very taxing,
And that's the Chief of Angels, for anybody not worth catching.
You see my Lovers, Earths like no other, you could see why they stole Royalty,
And I promise thee, on bended knee, they fly in and out with Loyalty.
I've been tripping ****!...for days and weeks, and finally this psychosis,
Was for God's plan, and your best-man, a Sensei I now know this.
I'm late! I'm late for an important date! But I may as well stick around,
Cos time & space does sure placate when Alice makes a sound.
Times a healer, memory peeler, and c**ting mash potato,
For me I lost so we could all gain a Heartfelt all in Escrow.
Take it easy, mrs ****** you've eaten all your  nestlé
I'm sure you'll find my Angel kind, makes you 1st Officer Flyin' Airway
I'm through the pain to remain insane, and loved you with one glance,
Now Ray conveys, tetrahedral array and his finer Quadratic dance

“When life gives you lemons
Make lemonade”
Past that, no instructions
No passed down successful recipes
There’s nothing there
About how to go
From a sour fruit
To a delicious drink
In this cookbook that makes no sense,
With a mix of different languages
And scrambled pictures,
There’s everything else
Pages stuck together
Pages missing
Scribbled correction of improvised recipes
But no instructions
From anything successful
Only pictures of what should result

Very few go to the store
Planning to buy a lemon
Usually, it’s the “perfect” couple
Not yet in the scopes of life
Not yet a target
So in love with each other
They decide to take on the challenge
Of a lemon
Before they even buy it
They’ve got a peeler
A blender
A juicer
Room in their hearts
And high hopes
A recipe they’re sure to work
Not realizing that lemon in their eyes
Will still hurt

For the rest of the shoppers
That lemon isn’t wanted
It’s thrown at them
With the speed and intensity
Of a major league pitch
Breaking the catcher’s glove
Taped with a note that says
“Handle with care”
“Good luck”
But no recipe
This ignorant “couple”
Doesn’t know the first thing
About dealing with this…
This…
Accident
Mistake
Error
Slip up
Life wrecker
Unwanted
Unplanned
Lemon
So they do their best
To take what they’ve got
And see if just maybe
They can make that **** work
Realizing that’s all there is in the recipe
Stuck between
“Lemon” and “Lemonade”
Partly ripped
Scribbled in the margins
Thrown in there with the same intensity
Is simply
“Make that **** work”
Whatever bitter drink that comes out
Is forced to do the same
Add this
Add that
Sprinkle a little bit of
“What the hell is going on”
A dash of
“I never asked for any of this”
And sometimes just a smidge of
“This might be alright”
The flavor is constantly changing
Getting worse
Getting better
Then it tastes like tears
Salty at first, then bitter
Then it’s too sour
Then it’s too sweet
With that occasional
Flavor of orange juice
And all that’s asked is
“Where did I go wrong?”

But right before
It was all ruined
Before it was a mistake
It might’ve been good
Sweet
Savoy
Tingly in the way
That makes your upper lip curl
Just enough to tease
Just enough to make you constantly wonder
Maybe it was good
Maybe
Just once
You might’ve had
Lemonade
Sweet
Savory
Lemonade-----J.M.