This is my only moment
Of lucidity.
I lie on this bed,
On top of blankets
And pillows
And the ghosts of my lovers.
And I see the room, in which I lie
On this bed.
I am aware.

But this is not reality,
This dream-state.
My body does not move the way
It should.
I am twisted,
And frozen.
But not cold,
The icy streaks
Which paint the cement outside
Silver,
Have not taken me
As home
Yet.
Yes.
But I have forgotten that I have joints.
My hands and feet
Are backwards,
Connected to
Wrists and ankles
Which were removed,
When, I know not,
But replaced upside down.
Are they even mine?

I can see the lamp,
And feel its small light,
Like words,
Calling to me.
But I am paralyzed and cannot answer
It.

I hear, too,
A howl,
Like the howl
Of one hundred
Lost souls
Of a generation,
Not looking to be found.
And certainly not in
Any sullen art.
The howl settles
Like white noise
Into my gray matter.
This drone holds the only truth;
Ploom ploom tra da da da

Watching from within the room, but outside of my body,  
I saw you,
The phantom.
For that phantom had
To be you,
Jeremy.
And you,
The phantom, stood over my body,
In its paralytic
Dream-state,
And he,
You,
Ripped through the flesh
And bone
And grabbed at its sin.
And he, you,
Ate my tarpaulin colored
sin.
It was then that I knew
That is what fills our
Porcelain,
No limestone,
Shells.
We are afraid of our own
Nondescript insides.

Get down from that perch
Above my head,
Jeremy.
You sit
Like a lead crown.
I wish to see you,
As you were then,
But also as you are now,
A figment of my subconscious.
I lose myself to my sullen art
And wish to sleep forever
In this dream-state,
In you,
My phantom,
My lead crown.

Hips hunkered, rise to dapple-blue-toned dusty seat
Flush arch cheeky blush, excitement
Droll eye-glazing blue pupil toned in sleepy drug haze
Wind whipping wild air rushing through tempered glass
Wubing whoosh of wheeled blacktop pavement
Colored in eerie sunshade yellow
Lined, darting-flash gold white boundary crossing  
Tight knuckles, two hand hold
Blinking brown doe-eyed drowsy heavy lidded
Lolling head knocked back, head bash rested caressing faux blue
Ploom of dust
Dry-mouth open to catching fly’s
Or what’s left of dank-infused air
Quiet stillness

Blond hair crawling in busy wind,
Equally as gone
Thumping, jolting-momentum  
White line boundary lost, wheels ended grass
Ditching down, dirt slid slide
Floating weightless suspended-nightmare phase

Snapping,
Awake! Awake!
Screaming slotted terrified,
Panic! Painful-heart-wrecking rob breath
Nose dive, mounded metal drive inching closer
Hairs-breath away

Afraid, screaming ****** ****** inside sealed lips
Brown eyes; lid white
Hands upon steering slack, loose light
Asleep, peaceful in calamity
Unnatural shake and tumble
Nail dug bleeding ache
Skidding gravel, tree lined doom
A god not believed in a prayer ensued
Shaking, the calm unglued
“Baby, wake I beg you!”
Brown quick electric wide
Screaming, Screaming
“Oh my God! Why!”
Swerve snake skin peelout
Black lane orange in night
An almost death.

Well.. Take: Two has fallen through,
Should they try for Take: Three? Or just let things be...
People say that the third times the charm, but is it worth the harm,
When the second crack of the whip made them lose their grip.

There's a heavy deposit of skeletons in their closet,
Without a shadow of doubt, once the dooors opened the demons will come flooding out,
No control of emotions, numerous times have they caused extreme commotions,
Surpressing their memories, has caused problems in a multitude of territories.

Each corner turned, has left them perturbed,
At the front of the race, constantly chased by disgrace,
Cannot evade the past, wearing a smile as a mask,
A negative mood is nigh on impossible to elude, when corrupted thoughts continuously intrude.

Reliant on a bottle to release their full throttle,
Narcotics are an escape, ingested to alter the view of their own mindscape,
An array of illicit highs, have been used to speed up or slow down time,
Multiple mental chokes, caused after ploom, after ploom of differing smokes.

The director has tried more than once to call cut, but that pathway was shut,
Family and friends shouting to not let the show end,
The final curtain was nearly drawn, but the show still goes on,
"You have to continue! Let the world know the talent that's in you!"

Hi boy with the bike on the vase full of bloom
.........................................................pl­oom ploom
hi chair by the table
hi bread on the table
hi fisherman-fish with the pipe
........................and
hi fisherman-fish with the cap
.................cap and pipe
..........of the fisherman fish
..........................hi

Hi-i fish
hi sweet fish
hi little fishy mine

I make no promise and expect no change
Yet find the need to arrange
My words upon this page with angst
Of what has become, or what has came
Upon majority of human brain
That love should leave and hate should stay
Hardened minds of mental clay
Crack and erode but never stray
From cheap beliefs that bumper stickers say
         Exactly why we're failing

From the school house frequent sigher
From the ever-flattened rubber tire
From the foot penetrated by the briar
From the sweat workers perspire
From the president that you loved prior
From the elderly man that won't retire
From a name in lights to a world on fire
Are cultivated by desire
And cradled tightly in other's pliers
          But no restraint is needed

Those who believe you can be taught
By a distant rifle shot
Stain your clothes in ****** polka dots
And leave you lying there to rot
The media lay still distraught
They knew your name but they forgot
         And all the people pleaded

But those who **** for peace will see
It's like ******* for virginity
And everyone who sees agrees
That every person should live free
Not they not them nor he nor she
Should ever be threatened and forced to leave
And no mans authority
Should enforce anyway but peacefully
And as far fetched as it may seem
It will happen naturally
And is exactly what I foresee
        And that is why I'm trying

Our speaker speaks of bombs in June
Sure to shake both sun and moon
While gentle flowers lay in bloom
From ashes cast they wilt to soon
The dull boys  wages melt in a spoon
By danger out young ladies swoon
Sovereigns sit face down in saloon
Awoken by mighty trumpets ploom
While scholars flee with impending doom
To them he says "I want you"
        But change is not commanding

You gaze upon a world galore
Both ripe and rotten to its core
You gnaw through holes that worms bore
To find it sweeter and more bitter than before
The rainy day the drafty door
Are not your problems anymore
But blood and gore and golden shores
Homemade cake and civil wars
Both exist in a world that's yours
You will find things you adore
         And that is understanding

you're still going to pay for something with a woman, so why skip paying for the dinner, and pay for the knitty-gritty?

which why why i don't understand
β-males,
  these highly evolved moralists...
i can understand an α- male strutting along
playing a miles davis track
with a trumpet, and a bob dylan
jingle with his has ushering the wind &
the willows via his ***...
   it's a simple question -
   do these males really feel so morally
superior, as to ostracise both the *****
and the pundit?
                   seems the men who sometimes
visit prostitutes, are worse than
the prostitutes themselves,
  they stink of: ******* should exist,
but only offer services to the disabled...
  oh they're not for "abolishing" prostitution,
they're for prostitution to be a medium
for: those poor ******* in wheelchairs...
  while stephen hawking spends a weekend
on *jeffrey epstein's island and gets
his brains ****** over twice without
thinking about the universe: and that slobbering
grin of his just enlarges into a supernova...
but hey... it's apparently the moral basis
for a β-male's pruning the rose bushes,
  because if he ever walked into a brothel
he'd run off having a wet *****'s worth
of premature *******, looking at a room
of 12 x 2 = 24 caterpillar of fleshy legs...
          intimidated, he couldn't even
get a hard-on drunk...
              i'm the last man "waiting"...
         i have no point to ostracise these women,
clearly ******* elevates their
moral "dilemma"...
   oh bad, not good, this can't go on!
     let me check with uncle richie my right
hand man on the topic: is it all bad?
            depends...
  you find a ***** in a *******'s room,
she spots you looking at it,
  and she asks: wanna use it?
  and you reply: not really -
or when she's exhausted for the day and
you tell her: i don't mind,
   and you snuggle up together for the rest
of the paid hour and just talk,
and then you kiss both her eyelids,
or you leave after an hour,
after she just told you: baby, you can *******
as many times as you like,
  but after that one hour: you haven't,
and she gives you the look of:
          i must be some sort of failure.
it's just a ****** shortcut!
      you end up paying for something,
  whatever it is, dinner, shoes, you name it!
but the β-male "morality" is about as gratifying
an argument as: excuse me, have to shoot
the sheriff off... because hands really are
the "moral" excuse for living the "pristine" life...
oh the shame, the guilt!
    how is that even a question of "morality"
when a ******* exclaims:
   aww... that's the second time on the job
                     (regarding her climaxing) -
ouch, kiss on the hand moments later and she's
still bewildered as to why it happened...
       that's why i don't believe in this
alphabetical psychologism derived from
the alpha-beta interaction,
after all, who the hell said -
        ego sum alpha et omega /
                         ἐγὼ τὸ Α καὶ τὸ Ω?
scrappy second pickings if you can't
identify that major woman in any man's life
that's sophia, that bride of ω-men...
and yes è (hold back) g' ò(h) -
other it would come out as    e'goo,
but the grave on the omicron is bewildering,
you already hold back from the ω,
i.e. ó, i.e. u - or too...
                as if the iota (ὶ) - which is what,
exactly?     you still cite j, which is
the iota acute (ί)... sure, it's not kay -
      but cayenne (pepper) - kai -
       what sort of withholding / drawing back
the slingshot of a tongue using this
diacritical distinction?
****, the greeks are just as bad as the inheritors
of latin (the english) -
   one has become too pedantic in their
written script, while the other has become
too lazy to even use it!
which means, by definition of applying
arithmetics to diacritical distinctions
   we receive the following clue:

omega acute (ώ) = oo'oo(h)
   omicron acute (ó) = ω = oo(h)
catcher in the rye, catcher in the tetragrammaton...
          omega grave (ὼ) = o               (oh,
pict for - oghhh **** - gurgle that one out)
                      omicron grave (ò) =
  ah, you see, only works in french,
   like the cédille, or sigma -

            even though there are no examples
of french with that letter -

the omicron grave is unfathomable to me...

       perhaps in spanish, in a bullring
where the matador would fling a pink cape
into the eyes of a gay bull and shout:

    olè!            i.e. ol'!
                      rather than....      olé! le le le! o(h).
      
in whatever french example there is...
after the grave accent on the vowel has been
indicted, the subsequent letters are surds...
i.e. silent... the best example i can give you
        is crème fraîche (crem)...
         ever wish you could have teased james
joyce to have written at least one diacritical
marked letter into finnegans wake?
   insert a single diacritical concern into that
work, and the whole work disintegrates into
a concern for his schizophrenic daughter's
ramblings...
     for all the concerns, there is not a single
diacritical mark in that book...
   not one!
                    must be an irish thing -
  ploom boom bam - 'ere comes the plum /
  plām...
               aah: just so you can imagine what
it would be like, had i pút an banana into
that sentence, instead.