He struggles and ponders,
reads and re-reads,
My markers fail before his eyes,
his naivety takes over,
A fruit? he queries,
I burst out in laughter,
Can be, I agree, but I await for more,
he peruses and my ribs tickled,
amused and curious, I stayed,
at his innocence that shined.
A Mango! he exclaims!
No! I equally enthused

'A woman, a fruit,
delicious and mystical,
for a man who craves'.

'Oh'  the meek sigh, a tiny sound,
concurred or dissent, I know not,
In a flash came a verbal rebuff,
back to his annoying self.

He annoys and appeases,
A friend I have known for years,
Mine forever, I know for sure,
no matter what he says.

She reads Neil Gaimen
by the light through the window,
a facing forward seat on the only train in Greater Anglia
without any heat,
yet still she peruses the pages with
a flick and a ****** and her eyes begin to wander
in marvellous repeating horizontal lines.
She is blonde and reading Neil Gaimen.

Another blonde another book,
this time Mr King under her palm,
spread like her great legs, wide
and easy to read, yet not easily led;
telephone-line straight eyes
on a north country face,
buttoned up below her is a white blouse,
lace-trimming hiding last night’s pudding-
cake baked by a daughter, I heard her conversation earlier:
there was laughter.
She is blonde and reading Stephen King.

I want to know you
The way a meandering river peruses the Earth
As it twists endlessly toward the sea,
Touching everything it can,
Yet in no hurry to arrive.

Whisper to me just how you want to feel, the way
The ocean exposes all the secrets
Of the universe, one by one, with
Each crashing wave onto white sand.

Just speak to me how you like to laugh, like
The ebullient summer's downpours joke with kids
And parents alike as they puddle together with glee,
Splashing through eternity.

Call out to me how you desire love, just as a
Waterfall delves deep down into the pool, creating a rainbow,
continuing its unending journey, rushing sometimes, but often, simply enjoying the rhythm of its perpetual renewal, coming again as a comfortable river.

You're messed up, your mind needs to confess up
you been drinking again?
Your eyes look like drugs.
no dilation, your hearing voices but its all an imagination
stirring up problems with your pitiful noises you are creating
Pumping venom thru your black heart, since you were 5 you never stopped hating
you pray on the day your father walks past that ally your standing at
with a note patiently waitin
with no hesitation,
I swear this boy has become some sorta satin
the truth is he wasn't always like this
seems the evil angel came in through the night and gave him a dark kiss
he conquers all that's weak and smashes all that's bliss
he's been kicked to the ground so much, he just got up and threw fists
protecting all he's worth
while selling himself short
he been playing this game so long, he's becoming a poor sport
his anger launches his passion
while frustration peruses his pains
don't come close to this monster please know that he is untamed
lockdown his believes and feel the wrath of his broken chains
he's a unconscious killer who has revenge all in his veins
targeting the shallow women who consistently cut him deep
its the love you all want, it's the heart break he now seeks
the sky was his limit, he jumped off the peek
this man is not crazy, nor even insane
he's just a normal man, ya choose to not treat him the same
he's become some sorta addict, he's addicted to his pen
he's addicted to "P.s I love you"
starting with "Dear friend"
tick tock on the clock
seems my talent has slowly stopped
a crossroad in my mind, I've must of hit a Writers block...

What would I do without my fondest delirium?
he stalks my outside musings
he surprises my sharpest joy within
the dullest treading tumult.

I love the embrace of his watchful eye
he peruses my dreams,
a chef sampling caviar laced Hors d'oeuvres.

I speak to him through every reflection
the blank stare of vending machine glass,
the audacity of bathroom mirrored lashes,
the subtle wink of windows, skylights, vistas
every portal into another expanse
blasts me into the remainder of his silhouette.

What would I do without my fondest delirium?
he is the simplest clarity upon my devoted retinas

and the bus windows fogged by human heat became a part of this child, and the wooden roof rot recliner

for summertime phone calls, and the crying neighbor woman’s sticky mascara,

and the hot asphalt became a part of him…the sideways light on the trees fifteen before dark, and the tract

            house mazes at night, and the hidden playground underground,

and the blooming jasmine over strangers’ fences…invisible barking dogs…and burnt bike wheel tracks,

            and glittered marsh gorgeous and toxic,

and cherry tree lined freeway, and the bitter fruit afterward…and the purple grateful palms…and the

            neighbor’s unbloomed roses;





and the car rides to Elsewhere, and the urban self-sufficience envy,

and the free tickets from the out of town hero…and the wild-haired directors pacing preshow

            lobbies…and the squirming audience beer-in-fist…and the blush-stained sidelit Cordelias…and

            the honest snickers clearing the building into the cold lot still and quiet,

and all the changes of city and country wherever she went.



The red couch, the red rug, the blue kitchen, the dying dog,
The star trek memorabilia, and the dusty book garage, and the overcooked rice leftover…

the weight of guilt, the thought if after all we deserve every ounce,

the streets themselves, and the midnight three block nightmare runs to safeway…and the barbeque smell from not-my-house,

and the ****** children stumbling to the bus,

the brass chimes that fell off the door, and the dead grass backyard blanket, and the overgrown fields

where your dad smokes ***, and the heat wave transposed radio, and the bird nest window mold ,

And the lawn flamingos become a part of him or her that peruses them now,

flame retardant,

american canyon: The Gateway to Somewhere Else, hallelujah, hallelujah,

Amen.

The poetic apprentice constantly
ponders and plans.
He dreams up wondrous writings that through critisms can stand.
He imagines mystical miracles he elaborates with his hand
Unending possibilities his vast
Mind demands

He scoures the depths and peruses vast heights.
He indulges crisp, cool mornings and envelops the nights.
He listens for lyrical lullabies and observes majestical sights.
He journeys throughout space
as he embarks on jaw-dropping flights.

The poetic apprentice searches
The depths of his heart
He dissects it and reads it
And tears it apart.
Then divulges it's secrets
And crafts them into his art

He wishes so dearly that his
Work becomes no disaster
He keeps his senses in tune
In hopes he'll one day be a master
As more work pours out the
Pressure grows faster and faster
But he'll slow down and humble himself
As his work evolves and becomes vaster

Now the poetic apprentice sighs
A great sigh of relief
He wipes off his brow
As he mumbles "good grief!"
His work is now over his
work is complete.
He knows they will like it.
Its his faith, his belief

The poetic poet now bows
To you, his work is bequeathed

It’s funny, you know you shouldn’t do it.
But then, when you lay there at the end of the day,
With your head spinning,
You know that you blew it.

Tin after tin assisting the spin,
Memories within kept under your skin,
Revolving and turning and wearing you thin,
Those long lost has-beens,
Inducing your sin.

You see, for me, I’m an ideas man, my brain constantly thinking,
Amplified and catalysed by the substance I’m drinking,
But it’s the thinking that’s linking my drinking to ink in,
These words,
While you sit there mistaking my wincing for winking,
...absurd.

Excuses excuses,
While abusing the juices,
Cause mere minor muses,
To produce abstruse bruises,
Your conduct confuses,
Peering, peers peruses,
Refusing acceptance induces,
Further misuses of boozes.

The taste is wasted,
On the embracing flavours,
As without haste you lay your,
Minimum pay wages down,
On the bar for more inebriation,
You try but you fail to
Waiver your behaviour,
But instead pave your way,
To your bottled slave labour.

It didn’t start out this way, it provided fun out of the blue,
To the problem I was blind as the issue grew and grew,
One turns to two,
Three increased to more,
Upon fixed shoulders heads askew,
Same face, different man, I assure.

Down the hatch they say, bottoms up, cheers!
As the liquor disappears it descends and it sears,
Wipe away the tears from the boozey souvenir,
And await that blissful place with no anxiety, no fears.

I understand why some find it bizarre,
How a soul can solely seek only for the jar,
My own experience has brought me in this far,
So now, this time,  it’s time for me to start...

...Raising the bar,
By erasing the bar!!

Now I’ve admitted I have a problem,
I’m committed to drawing a line at the bottom,
Of my past I can’t be acquitted but of my future I can blossom,
No truth dismissive in reality this autumn.

So that’s it for now, I’m wagon bound,
I’m on off this big adventure,
I’ve been a clown, to let it get me down,
Too long in this game I’ve been a contender,
Feet on the ground, I’ll no longer frown,
From the pleasure faked, with measure after measure,
Sorrows no longer drowned, I’ll be around,
And my life, from now, will get better.

My shadow says his heart sounds different
Words to assuage whatever pain this causes evade me
However I am somewhat loathe to enter
Into a Socratic dialogue with my shadow
Only to be aware if imperceptibly
That his knowledge of such far outweighs mine in the balance
So I say nothing change the subject
My shadow raises a question
Interrogating me on my pursuance of its form
It probes me as to why a fifteen-year-old boy peruses him
Forever questioning about his purpose and mine
These questions I cannot answer, now look bewildered
Blushing even in the presence of my shadow
But he smiles for he knows my thoughts and my actions
After all he is me
But I know his contagious affirmation of myself
Feel his warm glow his imperious perfection
His desire the need to accommodate his want
I reduce myself to his wondrous allure
Feel the ripples of a soft capricious breeze enticing me
I succumb gladly to its seductive enchantments it seduces me
I allow it to overcome my being
Then as so many times before we become one

Wealthy,
by dint of lucky birth
lavish,
by way of early learning,
the boy's body grows,
but his mind does not, and
with all things merely
given
he himself is
given
to taking
all desired things
without
a second thought

Profligate
in action, manner, and style
his brash displays of excess
appear to him
congenial acts of
tempered moderation

his slavish hedonism,
blinds him to the
folly of his ways,
like a child with an
insatiable sweet tooth
and the keys to a candy shop

he peruses the town
in ritualistic fashion
night after night,
sowing seeds of  
licentious desire
which bloom
into Devil's Trumpets
of debauched
indulgence

one drink
then another
one line
then another
one pill
then another
one conquest
then another

attained in
rapid succession
pursued with
reckless abandon

awakening
in a different bed
each afternoon
sun beams
piercing the blinds
stinging his weary eyes

his temples throbbing
his vision spinning
his stomach churning
his desire remaining
the void within him imploring:
“ENDURE”

but soon

he discovers his
well of fortune
has finally run dry
the repressed knowledge
of this inevitability
descends upon him
like a Biblical plague

his cards decline
his key refuses to
open its door and
the doors of his conquests
slam in his face

and so

the destitute rake
stumbles pitifully
without aim

with body aching
with knees weakened
with ears ringing
with hands trembling
with vision blurred
with fear and doubt
mocking his every step

the concrete corridors
once so exuberant
now appear to him as
moribund and desolate
graveyards for the senses

the neon banshees
which once broadcast their
sultry siren songs
like choirs of cherubs
heavenly and divine
now sound to him
like the tortured screams
of the ******
rising up
to haunt his dreams

the emptiness remains
echoing his every
tortured thought:

"who am I?"
"what have I become?"
"why am I here?"
"what was it all for?"

awash in the tumult
of the dark night of the soul,
the handsome stranger's limbs
give out from beneath him, and
his mind collapses into deep
and dreamless sleep
whose
countenance mimics
the final embrace
of death

For him,
they are one in the same,
and of deaths,
this will be the first
of many
for he has
but yet begun
to learn.

Your mother died of old age? Organise a party. Politicians won't listen? Your acoustic guitar might. A girl walks up to a boy in the playground and calls him a **** then kicks him. Concentrate on erasing those melodramatic close-up shots from the safety of your own home. Cut paper with scissors. Try to beat that personal best of thirty-one lines of ******* in just one night. One man drives one ******* girl to a petrol station and peruses over one Mars bar or one Galaxy. Solamen miseris socios habuisse doloris. People choose to ignore a scream. It is only a whisper that fuels their curiosity.

Going up the road,
A front of sorrows space,
Where sweet kisses of coldness,
Touch the self in side,
One inside another,
Kisses blown on lightnings spark,
While breaking free,
From storms,
Once so very dark,

Brewing hot as coffee ***,
Rich filled with quality,
Quenches all desires,
Love peruses as she browses,
The carousel of love,
Powered up by fairy dust,
In sparkled sprinkles,

Remarkable indeed,
Magic powder,
Power felt,
Chucked from impish fairy globe,
In an orb of inspiration
Blessed!
By ladylivvi1
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

Nightmares must be gentle to do any harm.
They stagger through my unconscious mind
the way the dead tips of palm leaves flicker in the wind.
In the absence of sleep, I converse with them
from my second story window,
through the air above the boulevard.

They break out in golden sweat
and their leaves clash and rustle
when I ask where all the clouds have gone.
In the face of such hostility,
I crave the trees of home,
happy to accept their fate
even as they begin to wreak
of the death of summer themselves.

They shed leaves like flesh
that bleed smoke the flavor of rotting earth
as they burn through late October.

Light dissolves
and shadows move like vertigo,
the way Lizzy Volkamer moved through the Midwest
the summer before last.

The palms won’t speak to me
And Lizzy watches dead leaves gather.
Until they’re burnt, she won’t speak to me either,
though she misses Lo dearly.
Because Lo only lives in the summer months
and is miles away by now.

Ashes began to fill a sky already in decay,
so she swam through August to escape.
She followed the heat to where it settles in other seasons,
where vicious sleep peruses such fugitives.  

Se faltan las nubes
whisper the palm trees in her dreams
even as the wind picks up
and offers to help them say so much more

Broken machine built of bones and blood, on the bruised backs of those
                                                           ­                                                          I love
your blind eye is nothing short of malevolence
a violence
in the silence
Shriveled stars saturated in the salts of my missing seas, swapped with the sterling structures of silver and steel and stealing sanctuary from
                                                            ­                                  those I love
your blind eye is nothing short of malevolence
a violence
in this silence
Your peering perverted glance peruses with privilege over the pain
                                              of those I love
passing over that which you don't wish to witness
your blind eye is nothing short of malevolence
a violence
in your silence
My mind in massacre and mutilated matter, mashed by the mincing malice of Man
                         disregarded by the Masses
                                                                ­         and cast aside like that calloused
                   carcass
Cacophonous promises in the cavernous mouths of cowards
                                                                ­---
Rejoice! Retribution in the form of a rub out, ridiculing, self-reliance
               the righteousness of Rule
Ricocheting off of divinity and running through
                      the Heart of those I love
Find my falling fears, fickle in nature, on these fallowed floors and feel the ferocity of it
                            fulfilling their prophecy, futilely fighting back the firing of hatred
                at those I love

Fall to your knees!  Condemned to continue the cycles of the crowds and cower in the corners of your own crimes
                               For those I love so, for those I fear for, for those I cry
                                       for, for those I live in,  for those I hate so
Your blind eye is nothing short of malevolence!
a violence
rests in your silence
which hurts
for this vice I won't
forgive you
never forget
                                   Those I Love

In morning, he is divided and pried from the dream
Confronted by the next plaster gray View-Master day.
He lingers on his traditional half of the bed, teetering
Then ventures across the deafening, empty apartment
Where the dust accumulates like hourglass sand
Blanketing, bit by bit, over sedimentary plans
And archeological troves of screaming bones
In a vast, derelict desert of vestigial space
Towards a wardrobe of aborted echoes.
There he peruses his potential noms du jour
The coats of people he could have been
Knowing most of them no longer fit.
He settles on his most generic pronoun.

He performs his penance to the Tao:
He is each domino just as it tips
He is becalmed
He is amid still waters
He is a ship without wind
He is a captain without a ship
He is a bouy on the waves
He is one last minute
Treading water
(He is Legion, sleeping)
He is another last minute
He is the dragging current
He is the inflection of breath
He is the mooring of the moment
He is the stones in the coat pocket
He is the coveted numbness of now

In evening, he recoagulates and retires
Resigned to eat the tail that eats itself
Consummating one more centrifugal lap.
He remembers Sisyphus must be happy.
He watches through his dizzy window
A caterpillar spewing up a second womb.
It will be the last monarch butterfly
But he avoids the finality of the situation,
And in his mind, any ensuing hurricanes.
He buries himself in stale anticipation
Beneath slowly overflowing drawers
And trash bags piling up in hallways
Where he stores expiring fortune cookies
Whose pearly secrets he leaves uncracked
For want of a friendly sweet tooth
To bite the bullet for him
Because he can't today.

Thought Machine.
From
out of
nowhere
they come.
Not here
then here.
Pop
into existence
into reality.
Many simply
fade away.
Some become.
Some materialize.
Solidify.
Occupy space.
From nothing
comes form,
comes
function.
Thought machine
peruses the
ether.
Formless
world.
Where
potential,
possibility
reside.
From
nothing
futures are
built.
From the
hands
of humanity
reality
created.
Created
from
nothing.