Black hair and fair skin.
Blue prefect uniform.
I noticed from afar,
They caught me off guard.
I was too shy to even speak.
But I will.
For now, have patience.

Our first hello wasn't quite what I expected.
But it was enough to make my heart race.
I was confused.
what are these feelings?
I didn't know.
But I will.
For now, have patience.

I found out the answer to what I did
Not understand.
This feeling is love.
People say it's dangerous.
But I love taking risks.
For a girl like you,
I'll be patient and wait.

I'm afraid for what's belongs to me
I'm afraid of losing you
I'm afraid you'll be bored with this boring girl
I'm afraid if I'm not the best
I'm afraid if I'm not good enough
I'm afraid if I not more prettier
I'm afraid if I'm not prefect
I'm afraid if I can't stay strong

He wanted to be an aryan
But wasn't blond enough,
While her lifetime ambition was to be,
Head prefect of Hufflepuff.
He'd never spoken to a girl
He was a beta, not a chad,
And her limited conversation,
Consisted of "Orange man bad"
And having given up on her boyfriends,
She sat on her ******* a lot
Whereas he was a virgineous incel,
If you didn't count his weebo sexbot.

Their relationship wasn't one,
You could describe as "love at first sight",
Because they hooked up with each other on Twitter,
Where they loved to fight together at night.

“What did you have for breakfast?”
Cereal with milk, I think.
“Toast with Nutella,” I blurt out.
Just another innocuous lie
You believe it.
Why wouldn’t you

So
I begin alter reality
In small ways

Soon
I reconstruct my life

One day
I am Ford Prefect
No longer awkward, towel always present, the number 42
memorized

While on other days,
I am the smallest non-bonded hydrogen atom
Enjoying anonymity,
Hiding everywhere, being everything, finally fully
Present.

One day
I am caught
My yet-uncreated self
Snagged in thorny lies
By days I forgot
To distort

I cease to
exist

I appreciate the way things fall together. However, most times I ignore the simple beauty of things and always look for a purpose.

Ken and I were driving the afternoon streets of Lincoln. Contemplating how prefect things would be if a chauffeur got behind the wheel and we wouldn’t have to balance a lighter fumbling between finger tips. We got a road filled with daily routines and places people need to go. Where do you need to go?

We were burning our way east down Vine street when girls turning from 33rd decided it would be nice to look our way and wave, “hey”. Now you know me…The woman driving the car was obviously paying her attention on the road (as she should be), but she wasn’t very attractive so things worked out. However, passenger and backseat were occupied by pretty girls looking eighteen with wide eyes and hands waving.

We tried passing phone numbers by illuminating fingers to clarify digits. This is where a chauffeur would come in handy because I can’t drive a car without any usable hands. But, like most things, it didn’t work out and they needed to leave left on 48th while I knew my car needed to keep going. They turned. And it was poignant. I went straight.

About five blocks later I turned around. Often times in life these good things linger for a while but then eventually pass. I’m part of the later party who recognizes its existence far after the time has been spent like most of my money on material moments. So don’t look me over while I’m trying to look for you. This is so like me. I turned on 48th street looking for something that I knew was well and gone. I couldn’t find a purpose…I’m not obsessed and this shouldn’t be looked upon as creepy, but I couldn’t understand the reason for these girls so, if you’re looking for me I’m on 48th street seeking a reason. There’s a tragic flaw for ya.

Within me,
I feel the dark sense of judgment in your eyes,
I can imagine your skin, tight and swept,
my favourite place, your jawline and curve of your shoulder to the chest,
the skin on your shoulders slightly wet with sweet sweat,
a prefect mix of beguile and guise.
And i know there is a demon to be unleashed,
from your throat and mouth.
I can sense in my *****, that you are overcome with an inner hell,
that only i can see,
without you even being here.
It's ok,
take me to your room,
tell me to undress slowly for you,
with your eyes drinking in slowly,
my delicate form, ready to be devoured.
Grab me by my throat,
pin me against the wall,
put your cheek against my neck,
and smell my longing.
Let me feel your pulse in your fingers as it holds my breathe,
I can feel your rage, your spit and your sweat.
**** me up a little, baby,
make me see heaven in a new light,
let me see that demon unleashed.
I can see your eyes, though they do not see me,
I am thankful in your good graces, to be in your hands.
Lead me to my knees, to kneel before your majestic form,
My man, my saviour, my light, my life's breath.
You can take me,
You can have me,
**** me a little, baby,
take your demon and give it to me,
Let me **** it out of you,
Let me take it within me,
Let me feel you deep inside of me.
Glistening with glorious sweat of luxury and finally,
mind-altering, freedom.
I smile.
Perfection in pulse, form, and feel.
Feeling your marks on me, your poison takes it grip,
I am exalted, I am life, I am awake, I am the tip of the iceberg.
Your eyes, without seeing, release me from your grip;
We're in a whole new world of trouble, baby,
and we're in the safest place we could ever be.
**** me up a little, baby.
So i can see, the look of love, in your beautiful, eyes.

only in england, where so few philosophical
works are actually read,
it's apparently enough to cite Locke,
the famous island isolation -
after watching a program on bipolar disorders /
manic depression and what not
started watching a rekindling of
the premier league from the years 2002 / 3...
with the years' music in the background -
great memories Wayne Rooney was still
at Everton, and David ****** had a moustache
and a ponytail standing in goal at Arsenal,
Ole "babyface" Solskjær was playing at
Manchester United - the white stripes came out
teasing a breakthrough just before
their elephant album - well, that's that,
but this programme about the manics -
you'd think that england was really accommodating
to eccentrics as once Vladimir expressed -
he's half-informed, 'hey Vlad... you have half
the picture, honest to god...'
but i want to deviate from any sort of scrutiny
on the subject - the "sane" people think
doctors are holy - what's with this notion that
some surgeons don't leave surgical equipment
in bodies, and that misdiagnosis doesn't happen?
well... so much for deviation:
does it begin with questioning your thinking
rather than questioning existence?
half-baked activists - no "change the world"
prompt? i guess you could say that -
no qualification credentials and you're just
a street-cleaner, apparently - a street-cleaner
in the sense of shuffling tripping up on
banana skins (chris rea - god's great banana skin -
https://goo.gl/3JYJYV - great song) or waltzing
on autumn leaves - suddenly there's a new
zoology department at the London zoo -
changed sphynxes on two legs rattling piggies
of savings they never made other than what they
picked up from the street - besides that -
well, you can resort to the Koran -
or at least i find a way to mediate it - back to
descartes: an example of good through doubt,
meaning i'm a quasi-believer, but not, as sartre
would claim: an unbeliever - since doubt equates
itself with good faith, sartre's doctrine teaches
bad faith... and if the opposite of bad is good,
then the opposite of doubt is denial (the un- prefix
summary when coupled to belief);
so this one manic depressive was describing
a moment of solipsism in terms of annie lennox
singing to him - well, she was, the man just
experienced a moment of solipsism, a thought
experiment in subconsciously, and he simply didn't
realise it - like i told you - so few works of
philosophy are read in england, most of these books
try to follow the route nietzsche attempted:
to write very little when others wrote a great deal...
and then what? sit on a poet's laurels and ****
and smile that all too deceptive smile of some sort
of accomplishment? that'll hardly work -
imagine thirst, and hunger, and put that into writing -
and here we have the telegraphic technique -
as suggested by the author of slaughterhouse 5 -
m. kurt vonnegut - well obviously you will not find
any comparisons - but then at Yale the professor of
"creative" writing or whatever they call it
just cited the first line of the first canto - so i ask you:
why would you want to write something as if
it's an instruction manual for a television set?
oddly enough too, the Florence school of art technique
wasn't passed on - while Albrecht Dürer kept his
a secret, unto himself - lucky man, a sad man,
but a lucky man - i actually like his selfishness.
no, they don't read philosophy in england,
and i can testify with the usual saying they have:
'he's lost touch with reality', what the hell is that?
no, i don't have the stamina for any secret society
crap - i get the comedy of life,
a comfortable positioning on the ****** laze -
limit all of life's temptations and live out
a slightly impoverished life - premonition i'd say
now, had enough money back when i was making
investments in a music & book library -
now i'm full - now my turn to give -
oh look: a bunch of gnat memory readers
easily distracted by traffic lights - we've all been
there - two years and a few books in between
it took me to read Heidegger's being and time -
TWO YEARS! and how much came in between?
sunset upon glee of the sea - Ezra's
broken token to the conjunctions
        and
                and
                        and and and and
i don't mind - man lived to be poetry's prefect of
the 20th century - see, a whole group of them, not a solitary
macaroon fetishist that Proust was -
and moby **** will have his days counted,
but not by me - there's no point being a Samson
keeping all the pillars - actually, that's the point,
to be Samson, take a few literary pillars
and then the whole **** temple collapses -
so with two or three of them taken by you
the rest you leave a rubble - turning over to the leisure
of poetry - Vladimir, haven't you heard?
people in england think all poetry is depressing,
depressing? 'what's normal?' is another maxim
in england - singing on the train is forbidden, also -
hey, social criticism is better than running around
with a kalashnikov - turn words into bullets
and mown the strata - and mown the strata -
                 and mown the strata -
give up on preplanned expeditions - only gymnasts
and tightrope walkers do pre-planning -
patience and constant innovative practice - ****'s jazz,
there was no classical composer in their midst with
a silencer of the music, music scores -
how they crammed an entire orchestra in those
little heads of theirs, i'll never know -
so this manic depressive man cited solipsism without
knowing it, and it made him very, very uncomfortable...
i wouldn't have sent him to a psychiatrist,
i wouldn't even want to go to one voluntarily -
i'd have sent him to the library -
but oh, oh, more and more libraries are closing -
while the zenith in my local library was
Thomas Mann's Doctor Faustus - everything else
was toilet paper.

Tangled legs
   Under the sheets
My arm
   Our pillow
Your hair
   Flowing underneath your head
      Like golden streams leaving your scent
Your skin
   Soft as silk
Your face
   Still and peaceful
Your breath
   Slow and steady
      A prefect lullaby willing me to sleep
I drift away
Lost in your serenity
Never wanting to get up

Austerity emblazoned in silk
fallen out of the ranks
in the popularity stakes
the iced tea on the hob
warmingingly out of character

Do you recall turning the page of irony
yellowed blotter, signature book
of those you'll never meet again
autographed in old inked scrawl
holed up with cobwebbed coats

Well, they don't bother you now
even though they stared you down
head hunted the perfect prefect of popularity
seeking you to check out the aged paper trail
their current capabilities warranting a slice

Settling, the nest felt comfy
nurturing, gifts placed at your feet
you dislodged the parrot from your shoulder
it left its calling card, a neat reminder,
chatted  up colourful clowns in the corner

Squatting within a lurch of emotion
fried eyed, stop tap turned off
zero shifting into first place
cashing in their deposit too late
they paid in full willingly....it seemed

Steamrollered, you left the game
parked your plastic smile
scrubbed clean the mossy mess
sat back amongst daisy/buttercup armies
felt the hot poker of rejection, water.....devoured it

All my life I wanted that special someone. Someone who *loves me
Very  much, for who I am. I am so glad I found that person. He's there for me
Everyday and
Night. If we don't see each other, it's on the phone or text.
Gone for a week or two to my sister's doesn't
Even change a thing we still talk. That's our biggest strength.
Depends on the day, but we always try to talk it out. <3

So I would like to say, I found my *soul-mate,
Even though we are "prefect" (whatever that means) for each other and we love each other
Very much, my soul-mate can still be out there.
Everyday you can continue to search, but here and
Now, in reality, will you ever find your soul-mate? When you
Find someone special and you know their not your soul-mate
Of course you have to make the best of it because you may
Lose it and never find another one again or your soul-mate.
Don't give up is what I'm saying, but don't get caught up in finding someone you may never find.

i simply exercised my vocabulary in tantra-yoga... you mistook poetry for its expression of freedom curtailed... and while i did my tantra-yoga bending and pointing at unseen geometries... you simply ran a 100 metre sprint, elongating the hyphen into a boa eating itself with avarice the pepper & salt.*

0i preferred the haggis / czarna kiszka
than my retrospective -
i'm doing mine early, for reasons not
necessarily true, or for that matter worthwhile...
but nonetheless assuring -
had i too the gift for painting,
and the nerve to keep a young girl captive
i'd too succumb to fathom a Grimm's tale...
live the secluded live, secluded to the point
of incubation - i'd lived it like an
Arctic explorer, by the fireplace
talking drunk tales of escaping polar bear
hunts - within a pentagram of limbs intact,
greasy Glasgow my farthest stone throw of heart...
furthest the Føroyar Øer - if only i kept my heart
as stern of the body to mind as the atom of ego
in my mind to be lost among the carousel
of weathered abstracts known
as the four winds and the thrice winding clockwork -
what abstractions to bear
from now on? a memorial service?
only in poseur marginalising tomorrow as only
a change of attire for today; so too the
semi-clad conservatives of supposed workmanship
English? takes two to a woad; whatever Argentinian
*** did to you in tango... takes two to a woad!
but there's you apish and impish entwined for
coerced blue of some other Newtonian prefect
of argument, when the painting screams far from
Norway the distinction between azure and
aquamarine is very far between
suggestion of marriage... i've ate my liver as if it were
a heart by drinking salute! to a marble stone all hopes
to have my life back! i mistook my liver for a heart!
i did that! you mistook more than i care to remember
having been forced a forgetting...
those 3 years in Edinburgh meant nothing... nothing!
spend them in South America, in Antarctica!
i will not swallow another breath with a vowel coupled
to a consonant.... until the remnants of me
believe the words: Europe united, only when Scotland
is free.

I wrote you a love poem but you'll never read it.
I wrote about your red hair
        blue eyes
        fair skin
        brown hair
        hazel eyes
        olive complexion
        your prefect breast
        your curly locks
        your red lips
        the things you said
        the things you did
        how smart you are
        and funny too
        how you knew what to say
        how you drove me insane
I wrote about how you hair was like fire
        and reminded me of your personality
        and how I never would expect you to bow down to anyone
                or anything
I wrote about your lovely smile
        and how it would light up the night
        even if you were faking it
                and I could always tell when you were faking it
I wrote about how you had an aura of purity
        which is why most men where scared of you
        how I've always respected that about you
                and how I was never scared of you
I wrote you a love poem but you'll never read it
        because we never made love
        because it was just *** to you in the end
        because you said 'I love you' like a chess player making their next move
        because your unconditional love had it's condition
        because you've got me sitting at the crosswords of what is to be a cynic and a poet
        and I find it's easy to just be both
But don't get upset, thinking you've wronged me
        or to excited because you had some impact
        because in the end -
I wrote you a love poem and you'll never read it.

Perfect. By: Hannah Ostenberg

Puffed out cheeks, sunken eyes, raw throat, salty tears that run down my dry skin,
I am perfect.
Dry thin brittle hair, nails that are chipping away, Bruises litter my paper thin skin,
I am perfect.
Thigh gap of an inch and a half, Concaved stomach, hip bones sharp like glass, ribs so prominent that when my thin cold fingers run over them feeling every dip between, they could be strummed like a one of a kind vintage guitar making a sad melody,
I am perfect.
Heavy chest, Short breath, Numb limbs, Cold skin,To weak to get out of bed,
I am perfect.
Make up painted face, fake smiles, Daily lies, “I’m not hungry, I already ate, I’m ok, I‘m fine, I‘m just tired”  
I am perfect.
I am perfect,
I am prefect, Perfect at lying.
I am perfect.
I am perfect, Perfect at dying
I am perfect.
I am perfect, I am perfectly killing myself, but to the outside, to society, I’m just….
Perfect.
By: Hannah Ostenberg

August rain
Turning into a light drizzle
Clouds tapping their tambourines
How nature puts on
Her magnificent show
Splashing her true colors
All that she knows
Orange, red, green and gold
A dash of royal purple and some indigo
Well, she knows
How to swing
Her bright lamp
Through all
The prefect seasons
I'm sure and still are

Living in a world full of hate will get us no where--
In this life, you got to make the best of what you're given.
For only you control you--
Everyone comes into this world the same, getting a

Chance at life
And sometimes people struggle, but that's okay.
No body is prefect. We all make mistakes, it's better
To learn from them and not ignore that they happened.

Go ahead, live your life and just remember
Everyone is going
Through it as well.

Make the best of each day and try to
Understand how others might have to live-sometimes we don't get to
Choose where we're born and
Have to struggle for many, many years to get to an okay life.

Be positive with others and "keep your
Eyes wide open" and NEVER STOP LEARNING!
Things will get better-- "sometimes before it gets better,
The darkness gets bigger."
Each day, try your best and just be you!
R**emember: YOU ARE NOT ALONE and YOU'RE IMPORTANT!

Swallowing pride is less change on the price then the focus blinks the golf post. Sweet Love undone, shame, it’s no hole in one when folks impose on soft ghosts. As Man rest below, it’s like we misunderstand more and so the next fellow will follow. Old stories weren’t so cold, once upon a time family and friends wouldn’t trade you for gold. But don’t be caught out worn out; coming to terms with new germs makes the heart want to turn back to the cool perms. So afraid of Love that breeds us, worse, we can’t punch Aids without a glove on; Jesus… plus nowadays it even busts one in handcuffs, believe this. But who am I to judge the weathers, besides, my friend thinks I’m soft like white pampers. Just days ago, my eyes were pepper sprayed by white crackers, pick sides, and my colleague couldn’t pay his dues, all he did was explain tired matters, in all this I just decided to grow white feathers and God forbid, I cursed their wild manners. Silence still spoils the years, no doubt, I learned in this lair, how loud you roar the strength of Bears, that’s what it’s about. I can’t wait till my mother reads this... why I had to walk out of my Uncle Steve’s burial ******?
I thought I was missed, in minutes I saw her with this deep look in her eyes, fixed, then it turns out my in-law thinks my boys and I looked like gangsters in the midst, I felt my heart twist…almost threw a fist to expand what his mind missed, but ****, no kith and kin greetings and kisses… I had to take leave; my family is now Mr and Mrs. From now on end, they’ll see me with a fresh eye, this is how I’m meant, forever until the flesh dies. I guess best times are with strangers, in a rendezvous called Timbuktu I met these boys and not famous, we crushed a lot but touched the dot, the heart of failures. The *****, trees, good food clouds greed, you could snooze or leave, I swear the mood won’t bleed. Best you crown them abundant like a peace antique, that’s Mr Brown and London, my good friends indeed. It’s a Mystery what life can bring; last week over beer, I exchanged fears with a King. Possessed in some foreign church, this dream had me glad to blink while he cracked the Da Vinci code, digging to find the King of Kings. Our minds froze, as we came to realize how deep we’ve grown… time is old, I knew then our faith and freedom would have to come bold. It’s a strange time in my life, at the same time I’m deeming the name of my wife. Dog marked Kemet as next to thrive, same line, I might get me a Queen or stone my life at night. Envision the sight, with a Nefer that should be…breathing life into Pharaohs that died. Of course, kids will know what Mommy’s womb means; I mean no offence but watch the Mummy movies. Reminds me of a dream Mommy had, I was drunk and so old, I really think it’s nothing bad, I’m just young with an old soul but ex-factors be spinning my head though, and I’m hoping for some Excalibur spinning ahead, you know. Slaves are made to be industrious in a place they hate but I’m tired, it’s time for hearts to get paid. But hay, wrestling with time like I’m messing with mine got my final warning signed. My boss said I’m immature; I need to pull up my socks until I’m in for sure. I saved her the cause coz at times passion gets passionately *******, even words can’t open the door. Not to mention, I’m all bushed with hair like Samson’s intertwine, I don’t want to cause tension, hence let’s all push affairs like Santon, sipping wine. No more talk about the word, blind. They’ve been too kind, as the world gets embarrassing through their ‘eyes’. You’ll think it makes sense, when you realise how much they miss in a chance, then it blends, The first sense. It’s scary, I mean Harry…would you know when you’ve met the Carpenter? Will he be fairy or nostalgic with a scent of lavender or may be carrying messages like that guy, the Messenger? How will you know, if you can’t respect another? and yet you’re still awaiting him, who lives in you forever. Man lives forever between the lines, God how can we ignore it? My cousin is as passionate as I with no job, how does he endure this? I’ll do whatever I can to help you out Cuzz, hold on, I promise. I’m not known for counting my losses but don’t be so sure I’ll cater; fraternizing with sources is just my second nature. Pick up this heavy Rock and take a good look at the ants, in this manly clock, many subscribe to false pretence. No one wants to be in the dock and that makes perfect sense, but why all the false defence? Might as well play tennis with church, serve an ace to the priest; confess my habits to purge, in search of reason why my people fail to merge? My Dead Blood bless my verse, and my high school friend, I missed his piece called Living on the verge back then. I can remember being so young and thin, shy and dim, I couldn’t tell how it’s been ever since. Looking back being juvenile, it just seems like we dwelled in better sins. Free Mandela hit White students wild and Blacks at the same time flying with brighter wings. Nervous minds in the hall, my friend questioning the principal whether or not he’s racist. First time, I see an old man running away from the ball, explaining principles with no basics. Standard 9, every one in line curious to know who’s going to make prefect, SRC was just fine but not on the same intellect. Matriculated with a distinction but articulated no instinction. We could’ve married some of those chickens if it wasn’t for those unresolved feelings. Now the eggs have hatched, gone with those legs, a dream of the past, but then you gave me that eye on the streets to **cache…

I am trapped
between worlds where I am nothing and I am everything
I am in pieces
cornered by spirits I never knew existed
in the sunny days of childhood
Where I draw graves and fear the sound of a gun
Where I do as I should but am told I am not enough
Where the salt in my tears became a familiar taste
Where I wish that my grades measured my worth
because I had prefect grades but a flawed personality
I am floating
on a high of self appreciation
but have I gone too far?
have I turned into him?
my empathy feels like overcompensation
sincerity engulfs my actions
have I turned into him?

Your a saint playing the villain
In this, a prefect story of fiction.
Your a crooked cop.
When your supposed to be protecting mine
You only protecting yours
Your a tenured teacher
Escaping so soon
With your first class still in the rear-view.
Your a corrupt politician
Elected by the people
Yet holding a hand out for more.
Your a beautiful woman
Who stole something precious
And never bothered to give it back in the end.

like... flappy flappy pigeon imitate penguin go shoeshine your ***? like that? i don't even know whether pigeons find penguins to be more pathetic, or whether penguins find pigeons more pathetic... so one has the sky, the other the ocean... it's hardly an argument for either to be staged with a mediator; let alone a matador.

pokraka... (singular),
pokraki* (plural)...
             don't know, i'm not exactly
baby-faced pristine...
         but i don't even know where
that word comes from,
perhaps the riddle of the crow and
the writing desk... why is it that
the crow is writing desk?
          the crow stoops on earth hunched?
almost hunchback?
       maybe that?
     don't know, these fellas are doing
my slating (roof) and i'm autistic imitating
cat tactics of hidig, because i like the drunk
that i am to be hidden, and only seen
in between walls that can hear...
   or apparently but not really so...
    metaphysical question...
why is it that when you encode scratched compact
discs into mp3 form on an iPod
the product breaks? too much l.s.d.?
                 i swear to god, but you trasnslaste
a compact disk into software (it is hardware,
however you think about it; with no alternatives)
         it can **** up the hardware...
                 you have a scratched c.d.,
you translate it into a software package to your
computer, then your translate the "malware",
o.k. a scratched c.d. is literally malware,
                 on the topic of iPods...
                you can **** up your iPod if you include
scratched c.d. material... like itchy-itchy vinyl guys
doing hip-hop...
        but i have this sansa mp3 player,
and i have scratched c.d. on it, and it keeps working...
but the iPod i once owned? broken...
or should i say "broken"?
     no, literally broken...
          i picture prefect a cat's face and then
disappear when the builders arrive...
most of the time i'm a person that doesn't require
the chance exposure of my own face...
    here's to looking at brick walls, and clouds,
and drainage depots on the pave...
      to be writing poetry will eventually drive
your sorry *** into the ground and tell you:
why couldn't you become a crane-driver?
          as a fraction of a billion exemplum similis?
i don't know;
               why did you get plastic surgery?
i know... similis exemplar... that's a variant on the whole
topic.
                 why marvin gaye and the creedence clearwater
revival cover?
           i apparently don't know any latin,
and i find that stating this fact: i'm no big fan of
some grammar school rubric of "correct": toward
the status of ontologically proof riddled,
   correct.
                      *****'s here, coca is here,
sunshine (ugh) is here...
                            what else could you want?
only the etymological disinterest of the word pokraka,
derivative? krók (crow)...
         given the prefix po- (after) -
            well... imitating crow, or after the crow...
                           unto the priest... after all: crows are
symbolic of the priestly-caste in europe...
      also the opposite of onomatopoeic strain toward exactnes:
kra kra... what the crow breathes...
hardly a kraken, but almost... thus po- + -krók:
     i.e. after the crow... inherently so.

I appreciate the way things fall together, however most times I ignore the simple beauty of things and always look for a purpose.

Ken and I were driving the afternoon streets of Lincoln. Contemplating how prefect things would be if a chauffeur got behind the wheel and we wouldn’t have to balance a lighter fumbling between finger tips. We got a road filled with daily routines and places people need to go. Where do you need to go?

We were burning our way east down Vine street when girls turning from 33rd decided it would be nice to look our way and wave, “hey”. Now you know me…The woman driving the car was obviously paying her attention on the road (as she should be), but she wasn’t very attractive so things worked out. However, passenger and backseat were occupied by pretty girls looking eighteen with wide eyes and hands waving.

We tried passing phone numbers by illuminating fingers to clarify digits. This is where a chauffeur would come in handy because I can’t drive a car without any usable hands. But, like most things it didn’t work out and they needed to head left on 48th while I knew my car needed to keep going. They turned. And it was poignant. But I needed to keep going.

About five blocks later I turned around. Often times in life these good things linger for a while but then eventually pass. I’m part of the later party who recognizes its existence far after the time has been spent like most of my money on material moments. So don’t look me over while I’m trying to look for you. This is so like me. I turned on 48th street looking for something that I knew was well and gone. I couldn’t find a purpose…I’m not obsessed and this shouldn’t be looked upon as creepy, but I couldn’t understand the reason for these girls so, if you’re looking for me I’m on 48th street seeking a reason. There’s a tragic flaw for ya.

Why get mad?
We ain't that bad.
Actually you're the reason
to this nightmare that feels like in prison.
Be good, you said.
Have you been showing goodness?
I know that we aren't perfect
but you are a prefect.
Aren't you supposed to show what is right
and tell us everything with a smile so bright?
You can't be a light if you are dim.
Everyone's pointing at us.
Why is it such a fuss?
It wasn't even us.
If only you taught what is needed to be sought.
Then maybe we wouldn't be the one to blame.
Our minds and heart are aflame.
You were the culprits who kindled the flame.
Now it's devouring us.
It causes us to cuss.
Then you'll be outraged
about something completely your fault.

I appreciate the way things fall together, however most times I ignore the simple beauty of things and always look for a purpose.

Ken and I were driving the afternoon streets of Lincoln. Contemplating how prefect things would be if a chauffeur got behind the wheel and we wouldn’t have to balance a lighter fumbling between finger tips. We got a road filled with daily routines and places people need to go. Where do you need to go?

We were burning our way east down Vine street when girls turning from 33rd decided it would be nice to look our way and wave, “hey”. Now you know me…The woman driving the car was obviously paying her attention on the road (as she should be), but she wasn’t very attractive so things worked out. However, passenger and backseat were occupied by pretty girls looking eighteen with wide eyes and hands waving.

We tried passing phone numbers by illuminating fingers to clarify digits. This is where a chauffeur would come in handy because I can’t drive a car without any usable hands. But, like most things it didn’t work out and they needed to head left on 48th while I knew my car needed to keep going. They turned. And it was poignant. But I needed to keep going.

About five blocks later I turned around. Often times in life these good things linger for a while but then eventually pass. I’m part of the later party who recognizes its existence far after the time has been spent like most of my money on material moments. So don’t look me over while I’m trying to look for you. This is so like me. I turned on 48th street looking for something that I knew was well and gone. I couldn’t find a purpose…I’m not obsessed and this shouldn’t be looked upon as creepy, but I couldn’t understand the reason for these girls so, if you’re looking for me I’m on 48th street seeking a reason. There’s a tragic flaw for ya.

Warm midday break
by the maths block
out of sight of others
(teacher gone for lunch)

Yiska sat beside me
against the fence
hair let loose
no ribbon
her mother's borrowed scent
nice as I leaned close to her
touched her hand warm
pulsing slightly

thought about you
all through science
she said

what did you think about?

you and this
she said
being close out
of others' sight

kiss
lips wet
warm
close as close

parted
looked at each other

what do you think
my parents would say
if they could see me now?
she asked

put him down
you don't know
where he's been?

she laughed
no
Mum'd break out
of her dark mood
and most likely spank me
and Dad'd recite
some prayer or worse

I fingered her hair
smooth
soft

best they don't see you then
I said

best my brother
don't know either
because he'd tell
she said

kissed on lips again
my hand felt
along her thigh
her hand touched mine
our eyes searched
each the others'

do you think of me
in class?
she asked

and out of it
I said

she smiled
you would
she said

kissed her cheek
touched both thighs
her hands held mine

watch out
prefect over there
by the English block
she said

we parted
the sense of her lips
still wet on mine

the prefect called out
WHAT YOU DOING?

we walked along
by the wire
where he stood
looking at us
tall
thin
dark eyed

what was you two doing?
he asked

she wanted to know
the history of England
in 1066
I said

he didn't smile
he gazed at Yiska
you get back on the field
he said to her

she went off
he gazed at me
I watched her go away
looking behind
his narrow frame
she looked back
and blew me a kiss

girls aren't allowed
with boys
off the playing field
he said
what were you doing?

nothing but exchanging words
I said

he frowned
you could get into trouble
for this
he said
but seeing
as you were just
talking with her
I’ll let you off this time
now scoot
he said

I walked away
he watched me go
in the distance
on the playing field
I saw Yiska
with her fiends

that's the way
the world goes
I mused
maybe how it ends.

Ah.. Ah.. Aaron, I said my name,
Least did I expect that this stutter pushed me to shame;
Alalia syllabaris is a defect,
Still worthy enough for a prefect.

That darned laugh, that lost contact,
Shatters all of ‘em within..
‘Tip of the iceberg’ do we show,
The inner lies within; so little you know.

Parodying this isn’t funny, that interludes,
That seriously hurts dudes.

Stop that mock, bear our shock
Let me see how do you fare,
Mark my words because that’s a dare.