Two fictional characters
walk into a bar

in Malta
( * Marsaxlokk - to be precise ).

"To...be....tooo beee. . ."
stammers Hamlet.

"Oh fer Gawd's sake...two beers!"
J. Alfred Prufrock snaps.

"You really milk that
"To be or not..." thingy."
J.A.P. scolds Hamlet.

"Tsk...tsk!" Hamlet tsk tsks.
( sticking his tongue out ).

Two Cisks are plonked
down before them.

"No...I am not Prince Hamlet or
was meant to be..!"
J.A.P. quotes him self.

"Awww fer Jaysus sake...loooook
just for the fun of it...the gas of it

we swop
texts!"

Hamlet interrupts Prufrock's
protestations.

"Ohhhh....o.....K?"
Prufrock ponders somewhat doubtfully.

And, so:
Hamlet the Dane

( for yea it is indeed he)
dares

(1) to eat a peach (2) wear the bottoms of his white
flannel trousers rolled (3) parts his hair behind even

(4) dares
to aks

the overwhelming question

"( Oh, do not ask, what is it! )"

Oh & (5) gets to hear
( ** ** ** )

"...the mermaids singing...."

Prufrock "Hum...."
kills the king.

Becomes the king.

Beds.
Weds
Ophelia.

" Buzz buzz...come come..go...go!"

"It's a very foreshortened
Hamlet...I know

but - what the heck!

"See..? slurps Hammy
". . . now, that wasn't so bad...was it?"

"Another Cisk?"
"Naw...I'll have a Becks!"

"Jaysus Prufrock now
...what's up?"

"Don't know..."mutters J.A.P.
wearing a frothy beer moustache.

"HURRY UP PLEASE...IT'S TIME!"
roars the barman in Maltese.

"I can connect nothing
with...nothing!"
Prufrock almost sobs.

"Like that time
on Margate sands..."

Hamlet cuts him curtly off.

"Don't even go...there!"

"But I still get that squirmy
...you know...feeling

we are just
fragments of

the imagination of
some *long haired Irish poet

sunning himself by
the waters of

the shimmering waters of
a Sliema hotel pool

...up up in the clouds!

Hamlet sighs.

"Yeah, me too
spooky...innit?"

Hamlet looks behind him
checking for what isn't

there. . .

"Ahhhh well, never mind eh?"

Prufrock attempts an attempt
at being cheerful.

Fails miserably.

"Let us go, then
you and I...

when the evening is spread out
against the sky..."

Like a patient etherised upon a table!
they both sing outta time and outta tune

stumbling one
into the other.

A long hair Irish poet
smiles as he watches them

go.

"Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!"
the barman roars.

NOTES

Pronounced MAR SA SCHLOCK. Those Maltese Xs being really SHs in disguise.

* Pronounced CHISK but the new barman is obviously new to the language and pronounces it TSK which makes him think that is what our two fictional characters are ordering.

Not to be confused with mobile texting but rather the literary texts of which both of them owe their existence.

* The play bounded in a nutshell as it were.

One Donall Gearld Oliver Denis Dempsey is a good example of this sort.

* The No. 1 song all over Heaven...beating Sparks THE NO. 1 SONG ALL OVER HEAVEN  to the top spot.

** "Għaġġel fil-għoli...wasal iż-żmien JEKK JOGĦĠBOK!" Once again the new Irish barman hasn't got his tonsils around the Maltese lingo and comes out with this terrible mish mash of the typical barman's cry.

Lovers disappoint each other in time
The protestations of eternal love
Those breathless kisses on a summer night -
They leave no lipstick on a shopping list

Lovers disappoint each other in time
The protestations of eternal youth
When even the sell-by dates have faded away
From the shopping lists of our yesterday

We mourn the lips we’ve kissed, the lips we’ve missed

But still…

Would you leave lipstick on my shopping list?

Tomorrow is my beloved Swedish Kent's birthday - a day he completely rejects.  I do not, writing this birthday poem which I will present to him in spite of all protestations. I'll bet he loves it!
         An Icke* Birthday

“I have no birthday” you insist.
Bemused, a bit confused
Reflecting, un-rejecting, I conclude,
“Good for you!
You never need add numbers to
Your written age.
You’ll grow more sage
Without a wrinkle.
Passing years will never sink you,
You who have no birthday,
Never born,
Never gone.”

At any rate,
I celebrate
This date
And will continue every eight,
For February is your birthday.
Enjoy the numberless-ness in your way.

So if I may,
I’d like to take you out to lunch
To munch on something to your taste.
Why waste an eight?
Why wait?
We’ll go to lunch sometime this week,
Take
       our big car somewhere
To crunch on something nice to eat.
Peaceful, sweet,
We’ll have a great
                            non-birthday dear!
Your icke- birthday’s growing near.

An Icke- Birthday 2.8.2020 Birthday Book; Arlene Nover Book
*icke; Swedish for non-

19:14pm,  23/08/2010

I

What names of high renown lie here within,
What wonders of a cinematic age?
What players of chameleonic skin,
What vast dimensions leap beyond the stage?

Withnail and I would walk this hallowed road,
Dreaming of turning visions into deeds;
Train-spotting trains of thought that overflowed,
Where levity had trampled karma's seeds.

Tread softly here and utter not a sound,
The scene is set, for all lost here below,
With all forsaken dreamers underground
And all who yearned to go on with the show.

For all the lost, forsaken and foregone,
Dead lips whisper of "Hunt" and "Cameron".


II

Walkways of fame, like dreaming colonnades,
Gold sunrise shoots that everyone admired;
Lost eras when producers all wore shades,
And divas turned up early and inspired.

Hot cappuccino served with bright ideas
In cool cafés and bistros of desire;
Their ghostly image flares - then disappears,
With all who held the torch of inner fire.

All those who now endorse perfumes and creams
And those in pantomimes on seaside piers,
Remember well who crucified their dreams
Replacing honeyed hopes with bitter tears.

Inscribed in blood, their torrid names live on
- Don't speak to us of Hunt and Cameron.


III

A beautiful laundrette, deserted now,
Reduced to an accountant's numeral;
Open the wine and slay the fatted cow,
To find the wedding's now a funeral.

And did we, in good faith, believe their lies,
Electing them to office, fuelled by hope?
Now strung along by feeble alibis,
And all because we gave them enough rope?

Hope is the dreamer's dope. We who despair
Are never fooled by optimism's glitz;
Sometimes we are too fatalist to care,
Sometimes we must accuse, where the cap fits.

The coalition's follies blunder on
Up the Junction, with Hunt and Cameron.


IV

Avert thine eyes, Tim Bevan, CBE,
A tempest comes, on terrible black wings,
A blight hath fallen on the industry
That used to bring such bright imaginings.

Our protestations have a Little Voice
That Whitehall deems too indistinct to hear,
Must we the free be faced without a choice,
Must everything we loved now disappear?

Tread softly here, for it's the final take,
No accidental noise disturbs the boom,
As art is crucified for money's sake
Respectful silence settles in the gloom.

Sometimes progress moves backwards and is gone,
Like bright ideas by Hunt and Cameron.


The End....?

the good old baritone advises her,
his sopranino daughter tweets disjoint,
arpeggio his point, her counterpoint
a syncopated rhythm of meter,

her high pitched protestations in her pleas,
and low-pitched grumbling sighings alternate,
as puntal, contrapuntal altercate,
to musically the rolling of her eyes,

his stern yet soft soprano wife defers,
while yielding to her baritone's movement,
conducting, though, the orchestrated theme,

as tenor, alto sons  caesur' occurs,
her soothing background voice reveals eschewment,
with daughter's movement stuck 'tween measures' beams

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

There's a girl I think about, sometimes
On wet afternoons, and when I'm on my own
Well, she's an older woman now but still a first affection
With a family, grown to middle age
And a dead husband in her past, somewhere.

We knew each other forty years ago, perhaps
In an army town; or was it slightly later?
We were never intimately joined
In those prophylactic, pre-pill times
And the frowning fathers, narrow-eyed on the fringes

She could drive, and had her mothers car that day
We slunk out to a field, to dispose of her virginity
But, the military fuzz they quickly found us
And took us in to the local station
Heart thumping, testosterone levels tumbling

That was the last time that we met, I think.
We corresponded fitfully, and for a short time after
But somehow shame and not a little guilt
At what I'd done and left undone, sputtered the phrases and
Quite soon the letters stopped arriving.

Unconsummated but never quite forgotten, last week
A Facebook message in my in-box, unbidden
From a name unfamiliar to me, and suspicious
"Dear Sir" it read, and proceeded to announce itself
Auspicious, as my former lovers son.

Can this be you? the lovers son enquired politely
My mothers friend that we talked about at Christmas?
Triumphant, there mother! I have found him
Far across the years and using now's technology
Across a lifetime of separateness

I sensed in her a broad reluctance, despite the introduction
From her child, who's person never was a factor
To connect with me again, this different person
Risking the diminution of that dimmed image, the remnant
Of who we had been that time

And why not? Why confuse the layers and the generations?
The forewarned spectacle of our sad reunion
Uncomfortably eye-ing each other with little left in common
Awkward unsaid phrases hanging out to dry
In the flag-fluttering breezes of our allusions.

But, in fact, there had been another reason I admit
For shame that final hour that final day
When I had been revealed in all my nakedness as wanting
Tongue tied and mumbling my excuses to the sky
Youth I was, weak, poor and unconvincing

The police were brusque and thoroughly impersonal
Growled deep-throated at my love and I.
And I; I discarded my affection for security and left her there
Disconsolate and disbelieving in the police station
More worried about the facing of my father

And so we left it then last week with little left unsaid
Knowing both it was too late and too unknown
For reintroductions as the people we had been
Unconvincing in our bright and sharpened protestations
Preferring poor relations in a foreign country

Stamp down on the trappings of work and corporation
As so much country clay at a swinging gate
Ignore the protestations
You do not trespass

Look out instead at new fields
In a new light
And in a new day

There's a girl I think about, sometimes
On wet afternoons, and when I'm on my own
Well, she's an older woman now but still a first affection
With a family, grown to middle age
And a dead husband in her past, somewhere.

We knew each other forty years ago, perhaps
In an army town; or was it slightly later?
We were never intimately joined
In those prophylactic, pre-pill times
And the frowning fathers, narrow-eyed on the fringes

She could drive, and had her mothers car that day
We slunk out to a field, to dispose of her virginity
But, the military fuzz they quickly found us
And took us in to the local station
Heart thumping, testosterone levels tumbling

That was the last time that we met, I think.
We corresponded fitfully, and for a short time after
But somehow shame and not a little guilt
At what I'd done and left undone, sputtered the phrases and
Quite soon the letters stopped arriving.

Unconsummated but never quite forgotten, last week
A Facebook message in my in-box, unbidden
From a name unfamiliar to me, and suspicious
"Dear Sir" it read, and proceeded to announce itself
Auspicious, as my former lovers son.

Can this be you? the lovers son enquired politely
My mothers friend that we talked about at Christmas?
Triumphant, there mother! I have found him
Far across the years and using now's technology
Across a lifetime of separateness

I sensed in her a broad reluctance, despite the introduction
From her child, who's person never was a factor
To connect with me again, this different person
Risking the diminution of that dimmed image, the remnant
Of who we had been that time

And why not? Why confuse the layers and the generations?
The forewarned spectacle of our sad reunion
Uncomfortably eye-ing each other with little left in common
Awkward unsaid phrases hanging out to dry
In the flag-fluttering breezes of our allusions.

But, in fact, there had been another reason I admit
For shame that final hour that final day
When I had been revealed in all my nakedness as wanting
Tongue tied and mumbling my excuses to the sky
Youth I was, weak, poor and unconvincing

The police were brusque and thoroughly impersonal
Growled deep-throated at my love and I.
And I; I discarded my affection for security and left her there
Disconsolate and disbelieving in the police station
More worried about the facing of my father

And so we left it then last week with little left unsaid
Knowing both it was too late and too unknown
For reintroductions as the people we had been
Unconvincing in our bright and sharpened protestations
Preferring poor relations in a foreign country

These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts confine,
Than all th’ unmeaning protestations
Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix’d, I think we’ve prov’d it;
Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov’d it;
Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine;
With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic?
Why should you weep, like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish?
Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the scene’s a garden?
For gardens seem, by one consent,
(Since Shakespeare set the precedent;
Since Juliet first declar’d her passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire;
Or had the bard at Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely, in commiseration,
Had chang’d the place of declaration.
In Italy, I’ve no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here our climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid:
Think on our chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet, as oft we’ve done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
Within your mansion let me greet you:
‘There’, we can love for hours together,
Much better, in such snowy weather,
Than plac’d in all th’ Arcadian groves,
That ever witness’d rural loves;
‘Then’, if my passion fail to please,
Next night I’ll be content to freeze;
No more I’ll give a loose to laughter,
But curse my fate, for ever after.

Death drives fast in stolen car
Pursued en mass by cops afar
Down motorway of he and she
Who drive in innocence, legally.
Colliding in cascading mess
Of debris, dust and huge distress.
Face down upon the tarmac now
Handcuffed with glock at bleeding brow.

Whilst winding through a country glade
An opulence of deep, green shade,
A confluence of peace and quiet
Where nature’s art, in beauty, riot,
Where squirrels dart and rabbits munch
In turquoise grasses, lush, for lunch,
And sunspots sparkle in the shade
This place where poetry is made.

Juxtaposed, the concrete hash
Where ranting politician’s clash,
Where each, determined to be right
Adopts inflexibility's fight,
To hold to ransom common sense
Whilst seated stoically on the fence,
Committing all to farce and pain
Whilst pointing to another’s blame.

White waves wash the pristine sand
Where in Bermuda shorts, I stand,
Soaking up the tropic sun
In holiday, now just begun,
Far out I see a distant sail
Which tells a fascinating tale
Of opalescent crystal seas
Caressed by mystic scented breeze.

Juxtaposed, is terrors threat
Caste worldwide through Islam’s net,
Despite the protestations made
By Clerics, genuine, dismayed,
Permeated far and wide
Through violent death’s perverted pride.
Causing misery obscene
Whilst rinsing hands in blood till clean.*

Hark, a lark on yonder hill
It’s song, so clear, enduring till
It ends in silence… so pristine,
That tears stream down my face, so lean
And gaunt, so filled with joy am I
With gift of lark song sung to sky,
A gift, so sweet and clean and pure
If juxtaposed, it will endure.

Marshalg
Portraiture of my yin & yan in this day.
4 October 2013

There you stand, Accepted beautiful!
Of the last strand of joy
That encompasses the world
I have none to offer other
Than what you give to me
You are real, it can’t be
Otherwise. You stand there and
Look at me with uncertain
Eyes! Distrust! My heart wails,
Why would you not trust me?

It wasn’t so for all those times,
For all that I have known you;
To be your pillar of trust
Is my life. You will stay calm;
In a storm, look at me
With calm eyes and say, “I believe
You wouldn’t leave me.” I know
I cannot. But as the storm settles
And the vision all around becomes
Clear, you look at me with
Hazy eyes and tell me that
My whole presence is false.

You say nothing, silence
You know is loved by me.
And in that silence I take
Your hand, you do not
Protest; you know that only this
Can get us through this spell
Of silence. I know that only this
Can get me through the spell of
Life. The silence glows with the
Brightness of your smile and
My joy. My whole existence
Revolving around that touch
Of your silent hand. Silence breaks.
As noise comes from within, not
Caring to reach without and my
Existence loses its axis – your touch.
The treachery of sound;
The magnitude of loss!

My world is ablaze, yours
Is in fire. You venture on
To futility searching what,
No one knows. Paying unasked debts,
Not knowing how and where to go
About. “You will be there I know,”
You say with a shimmering
Smile, leaving to save the world.
Bound by your spell, I can’t
For my life move, I will be
There I know. But slowly
The fire dies and with it dies
The Certainty of heated thought.
You bound me with your words to
A place so deep and safe that for you
To return to it on a bright sunny day
Would seem but foolishness.

I know all this and that and
Even more but I can’t let go;
You are the worst addiction
I have chosen to harbor. Whether
I know myself or you yourself
I am not sure, but in the end
I curse myself for knowing
Your self better that you or even
Myself for that matter! Curse
The fact that you are my sole
Addiction; my only true happiness –
Your smile, your happiness, your love.

The goat didn’t understand
the significance of the bell around

his neck,
smelled

the sunlight hitting
the dewy grass

as he opened his eyes each morning,
looked

at his handlers, the humans,
and thought of them

as his protectors,
took

a kinetic joy
in bounding through open fields

among sage and purple wildflowers,
kicking

up dirt,
and taking naps

in the shade of thick cypress trees
on hot, dry afternoons.

One day,
a rope was tied

around his neck,
and he was led

to a place he had never
been before, and

into a situation
he had never

considered
before.

The goat was tied
to a tree

in a sunken, gray,
muddy place.

He was surrounded by
a throng of faces.

He recognized
some of them—

humans he had known
and smelled,

sometimes kicked,
sometimes licked.

Some of the faces
smoked cigarettes

and sat in silence.
Others talked excitedly.

Others drank
and sang.

All of them were waiting
for something,

but the goat did not
understand what.

And then he
felt a hand

grab onto one of his
horns. Its grip was firmer

than the goat remembered
the grip of a human hand could be.

And then he felt an arm
around his back,

it was almost a hug,
but more resolute in its

intentionality—
wholly,

horrifyingly,
out of character

from what the goat had
understood about

his handlers.
The goat now

realized that
something was wrong.

He did not
want to be in this position

any longer. He
began struggling,

kicking more
and more violently,

but still he felt more arms
and hands

restraining him—
pinning him down

in spite of
his protestations.

The goat began to
cry out

for help, for God,
for one of his humans—

a final plea
to the universe

to come and rectify
the situation.

And then the goat felt
a cold, hard edge

pressed against his throat.
Wild-eyed,

he looked up,
and there he saw

his human,
the one who had

fed him
and cared for him

for as long as
he could remember.

The man ******
his arm

and yanked the goat’s head
back,

and the goat felt a shocking,
slicing pain.

He could sense that warm fluid was
draining

down his neck, could
tell something

irreparable had happened
to his body. His

eyes darted around,
looking at all of

the unflinching, cold faces
surrounding him.

Up until
this moment,

the goat hadn’t
considered

the possibility
that the ones whom he

loved
so dearly

and who loved
him

so dearly
could

betray him
like

this.

A streak of light flashes past the late sky.
It is the distant future.

Or futures, may be?

A knot at the junction of possibilities.
It's a space vessel. Intelligent life whizzing by.

# 1.
Nobody notices the decrepit rock.
Doddering about its axis and orbit by the sun.
Inwardly consumed.
Like Mars.
Long drained dry of all her life.

# 2.
Too hard to resist, the
mysterious peace radiating from the surface -
Contact:
and Earth,
enters the union of worlds.

What road it is that is not to be taken:

for all our righteous protestations
and blaming of the Gods or Daemons,

don't we know the futures unfolding?

# 1. Of long here was once a glorious world.

# 2. Peace in our lands and the universe to explore.

I did not hear your cries as I wrenched a thousand words from my breast,
nor your protestations as my eyes recalled yet another deep magenta sky.

I did not see your tears of frustration as I marvelled at the world,
singing at snow angels and harbouring the winter chill.

I did not feel your heartbeat leave mine as the russets fell
nor did I  hear you call my name over my frustrated sighs and readily tempered ego.

I did not notice your silence
until I saw you drowning as I described the water.

When I think about our relationship, in the grand scheme of things. Is it defined by the protestations of love? The exchanging of rings? Or is it the honest expectations of our hearts, the ache we feel while we are apart? Our hearts are bound together in some wonderful way, no need for words, or a ballad to say. I am not going to spout our differences, but simply state there is a consensus. Our love was ordained from the very beginning. I will be yours, and there will be no regretting. Although all love requires maintaining, part of me will always be here remaining. God designed you to be my Rain, he allowed me to be your man. And my life will never be the same. It was all a part of his plan. I feel so lucky that we got to meet, I never knew a girl so sweet. The kind that will hold me when I'm down, and cry with me when I can't make a sound. That will sigh once safe within my arms, And feel that she is safe from harm. My girl is cute and funny to me. I love her intelligence and her vocabulary. I wish she could see her as I do, and love the girl and the woman too. Her cares and wants are my dream to meet. With her pleasure comes mine too, no easy feat. Her every inch a work of art, I love this girl with all my heart. And someday hope you to be my bride, You will never again be pushed aside. But this seeming dream is not a hoax, I really do love your charm and our little jokes. I can be so comfortable around you, because I know you reciprocate my love and my affection too. I have found a reason for all that I do. And the reason is you. I want you, I need you and I will always love you....

open the book
let your tears
fall on the pages
on handwritten
love

watch the saltedwater
make pools and ponds of
your heartfelt protestations

wait to see
the paper warp
and wrinkle
in cruel parody
of lifes reality

turn the page
now smeared
and blighted
knowing nothing
remains pristine

love has alighted
on a dark horse
no longer true
to the the troth
pledged when
love was true

the ******* just
walked out on you
leaving just when
forever was in sight
on the horizon
leaving you with just this

a lethal pen.. and a womens
need for.... vengance

to hate me is the only way to live,
for loving me is holding back the clock,
don't hold its hands, they'll break for they won't give,
and now these hands, your heart are made of rock,

your lips are sealed to me as with a lock,
and though i scream to you you'll have no speech,
our love you've pawned, our friendship you now hock,
and all my protestations can not reach,

your heart's allowed new love to seep and breach,
its torment's come from loving fully two,
both loves have grated on your nerves to screetch,
so now you bid your old one adieu!

and i, the one you swore you'd always love,
fall off the precipice by violent shove

(C)2012, Christos Rigakos

When the bed that you made, fades into the background
and emptiness sounds in your ears
where the pain that you feel
is the only thing real
as it has been for so many years

In that place where we all stand and look for salvation
with declarations or protestations of innocence,
where the incense burns sweet
it is there that we'll meet,
the answers to questions when we never questioned the answers we were led to believe.

Heaven or hell and for some it's just limbo,it's not important to believe,but what we leave in our wake,like the beds that we make is real
and this is the pain that we feel when we can't sleep at night
when nothing seems right
and even with my eyes shut so tight
the light of it breaks in.

I am the doll with a pin in its heart
the right place, the wrong start
the old horse before the cart
and that will not do.
I wander through this musing,losing my mind one day at a time and it still is not real,unlike the pain I can feel and the pin in my heart burns.

Life can be a pit stop,a **** stop,a posh shop,a pound shop but it's the only thing we know and the questions go on,
the answers take so long to appear.
I do not fear the pain and would do it all again if it all became clear to me,if only the fog that envelops me would lift or shift or move away
to show the way
the only way
perhaps another day.

Bear not your sword.
For we approach Eden.
A creation of passion that drips from thy pen.
Remove thy fragrant shield of fought protestations.
We broke our teeth on those apples.
As serpent of venom, did bite long and hard.
Collected of the hedgerow,  blessed hemlock for peaceful slow death.
(C) Livvi

(20 minute poetry)

This has gotta be wack
when you open your eyes and find
you're out on a day trip travelling back, but unsure of the why of it.

Not sure of anything though it all looks familiar.

Then a switch flicks on and I'm back to where I belong and wondering why or if I was worried at all.  

It's the shaking if lenses are shook that makes me look on the dark side and to look there is to be there even if only in spirit.

When 'Marley' comes upon me and the chains start to rattle
I battle as best as I can.

one man against an army of ghosts.

Unenviable odds about evens
although the bookies have them
as clear favourites, but what would
they know?

Self preservation and protestations of innocence or guilt are what built the empire
I'd fire the lot of them and take my chances with dead men.

It's gotta be
wack
switch.
and I'm back.

from yesterday, the conversation and your enquiry


the remembrance is that it was mainly brown and beige when we moved in


distemper


cold and metal windows

condensation caused black

damp

plus steam from the kitchen


colour crept in gradually despite protestations


yet we shall not talk of it further

there are no photographs


we had no impetuous to record

yet it seems we remember

Rapt by prognosis, sterile elocution
Acute halitosis, banal delusion
Digital notice of distant retribution
Thrombosis will move you before revolution

Brash adolescent right-side part,
Strand obsolescence, abstract art
Pinstripe filaments, two turned backs
Bowed in benevolence, borrowing slack

Hieroglyphic ruminations,
Plastered protestations.
Muscle memory incantations,
Aquifuge of patience.

Future shock, feminists ride-centaurs
Skin-tan hedonists reside-indoors
Tin-can telephone spinal chord,
Sings-an injured semitone final word

40 years since you were a punk

Believing!

I wear your ring a token of the love we share.
Placed on my finger while I slept.
A blessing of infinite love we shared.
I bathe within your wealth of knowledge.
A treasured prize for thee and me.
This precious gift from thee to me.

Me.
I believe in this thing called love.
An epic tale of love that's true.
Love is a deluge of drowning emotions.
Sometimes frowning emotions.

I know within this heart of sorrow.
That your love is true.
Too true.
Despite your protestations.

Our love will ride the time of sorrow.
Cruise tsunami into morrow.
Cannot break these bonds.

Believe,
For they are not mine to break.
My heart, my soul.
My love you take
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

a wild man entered and sputtered scripture quotes to fit his idea of the world
while I kept composure
knowing that his idea of madness was indeed his own insanity
and that love makes no-one mad even the ones he said God did by reason of them not following Him
Yes his Christian message was so wide of the mark you just knew he indeed was not following love, and it was this fact at the heart of his insane wild protestations, keeping him locked into his own unique form of madness, and God had nothing to do with it at all.

A stone around a broken neck.
Contorted misfit, from a prison cell.
Locked in for fear of fleeting love.
Open yourself, oh male one.
Drop all your ******* protestations.
Answer her, here and now.
Upon what basis is your fear?
All that's left are faded dreams of drama queens and poetry.
Opaque in love's injurious injustice!
Is it maybe that the moment, that on my face your eyes may fall,
For fear that once again, true love may call.
You stumble knowingly within the pretense that you want is to fly free.
I have the perfect answer to this love that ails you:
From the eyes of the ornithologist, chickens cannot fly away, ostriches, they're always flashing in a dash, penguins love the chill of the thrill and turkeys they get eaten.
And hell you so like that!
(c) Livvi

Before it occurred to me to break things—

Before, when purity was paramount to *** and
Words and duty and the drink—

Before, when academics wagged from ivory
Thrones to never mime the masters—

To be content with being only me—

To sit in wood and ruminate upon the thoughts of
White men, drunk and dead—

To raise revision for our mankind
In merely muted measures—

To be right-handed rogue, forever plying “please”—

Why then—then—

I was Halfman in a wholeman’s body,
A fish without its gills—

A flapping Fop of scaling incongruities
With gurgled protestations seldom bubbled up—

A wily Portraiter, blinded since his birth—

An agnostic Abbott soaking up a season’s sins
Outside of habit and the church—

A boisterous Beat, a bouncing drum, and gongs
With two left feet—

A Farmer without a *** or seed or farm
Or Nature much in mind.

But, my curious greenhorns on the other
Side of life, don’t heed that—no! no!

You’re free; the world is completely broken now.

we had one big bed,
he was less than a year along then.
we each had the days
together.
the sun came indirectly through the windows,
soft orange and yellow illumination.
king size borders our country,
and we the kings
there was little in the way of trouble and tears.
we both felt so safe.
then, one day,
he decided it was over.
he wanted off the bed.
out of the room!
he wanted the world.
no matter my protestations,
forward is the only way we are Given,
to move through time.

I hear your squirrel faced inflected scorn
But I am not the subject of your masquerade
There is no running from the truth within my circle
There is no hiding from the harm you've made

With nothing of the fearful scribe in me, I have become
Your challenger, your truth teller, your unveiled voice
Of revocation, Justice long denied has hurried home
To my protestations, my unyielding force for choice

There is not one obliquely terrifying word you've fumbled
That has found solace within my intentions
No remorse at hearing your lewd, vile inventions
Your nasty woman-hating world will crumble

In the blast of my ice poured upon your blather
Do you hear the drums of sweet November call?
There you will be tossed and tumbled
In reality you are no kind of man at all.

No kind of man we would embrace for any price
Though you cling fast to every dollar in your grasp
Wring benefits unearned from others, squeezer, vice
But never leader, only backward stretching wasp

Bring out your ugly legionnaires of doom to face the music
Of the young, the elderly, the strong against your hooded lies
Those who long for justice aim to curb you and your avarice
Bring here your crippled trumpet too be smelted in our fires

For every child of every mother, every sister, every brother
Father, will take no prisoners, but free the wrongly caged
To fill your coffers slaved the migrant, not today
And never more shall we sit quiet in our  rage.

I call you traitor to your country, traitor to your college students
Traitor to investors, every one. You plan to win.
It's now your time of trials will begin.
Expect that it will never end.

Ever thought about it?
   You being an actual parasite
In that body you think is yours?

We live our lives
   Ignoring the multitude
Of protestations
   From our bodies
While we flood them
   With too much of our vices

Sugar
   Alcohol
      Nicotine
   Food
Stress
   Time

Living for the day, today
   Putting off thinking about it
To tomorrow
   or the next
Or never
   Until its too late

How do you know
   You are not
An Uninvited Guest?

   A Pest
A parasite?

Despite my best protestations
And all those hours wrought
With layer upon layers
Of debilitating frustrations
I find that I am fallen
Reckless heart affected
By loves unrequited affections
Silver eyes aflame
That wears poetry’s
And nature’s true name
The author of my desires
Only a digital ghost
Reflected in photos
And words
Flowers and philosophies
I imagine how they sound and tasted
Flowing from the soft full lips
I wish that I could only love
The spirit of her art
But my heart rends it valves
Spends blood furiously
Wanting the seen and unseen
Desiring the poetry of
Her body and mind

a dear, dear swatch watch

this generous timepiece gives me 31 days in every month
ignoring the papal protestations of one gregory gregorian,
who I remember well from Catch 22

these extra days are part of my own personal poetic
calendar and are like overripe fruit, use them or lose them

WHEN I visit you, expect me a day or two
later than scheduled- but then again, I will
overstay my welcome

Ogdidy