a willow
however
stands

shallow waters

pebble stones
scattered

all the words

a cadency
of rusty hinges
hanged doors

sour, the dam

The sanguine shades of India
Flow in mantras through my mind
In hashish tones sienna brown
To ochre greens, I find.
The soaring slopes of massif peak
And roaring waterfall
Lead to tranquil rhododendron glades
Capped in scarlet, I recall.

The clamour of the market place
The grimy squalor found
In the gutters on the roadway
With a constant wall of sound,
In the bartering for spices, red
In wicker baskets wide
With the stench of open sewer
Causing queasiness inside.

Dustiness of sandaled feet
Robes of saffron gold
And the gleaming glow of polished bronze
To purchase, should  you hold.
Patterned carpets lay displayed
In jute and woollen blend
Whilst ancient hands on simple loom
Weave more for you to spend.

Ullulation in the air
As turbaned dancers spin
To shrilling ethnic instrument
With drumbeat adding din.
Wild eyed watchers flashing teeth
As rhythms beat the air
Encircled by a chanting crowd
With temperament at flair.

Thronging people fill the lanes
Churning on their way
Interspersed with sacred cow
Meandering to hay.
Children flock with outstretched palm
Surging as they do
Insistently to foreign purse
In urgency that grew.

The sea of dark skinned faces
Mid flashing whites of eyes
An intensity of gaze that takes
You jarringly by surprise
And everywhere the pungency
Of the continent in the air
With the spicey taste of curry
And a chutneyed rice as fare.

But in speaking to the people
I found their manner warm
And their love for caste and custom
And their cricket team was worn
Like a flag around the shoulders,
Like a talisman, so proud,
And their love for home and family
Reiterated, long and loud.

Overhead, the baking heat
Occasionally relieved
By a downpour of monsoonal rain
Must be seen to be believed.
And the total inundation
Of believers on the stair
Of the teeming seeking holiness
In the river Ganges there.

And then as quickly as I came here
It became the time to leave
And the wonders of diversity
Were beyond what I believed.
What was once a frank abhorrence
Grew surreptitiously on me
The splendours of this mystic place
Well deserve their sanctity.

Now far across the oceans
In my safe and sterile land
I am drawn to stare to seaward
To recall my thoughts at hand,
Out across the sprawling delta
Gazing far to sunset sea,
That special taste of India
Flows irrevocably, back to me.

Marshalg
13 July 2014

Arctic raindrops hit the back porch glass,
Singing the sad tale of blue angels.
Queasiness fills her stomach,
As she breathes more smoke into her black lungs.

Her emerald jeweled lighter sparkled,
Reflected off of the single light bulb.
The savoriness of fruit satisfied her tongue,
More than a sip of whipped ***** could ever do.

The bathroom mirror still haunted her,
Only to proclaim the scars and bruises.
From inside and out,
She still debris as another victim to herself.

they say dont self medicate
but i cant keep living this way
cant take all the anger and hate
drifting around getting lost in the gray.
would a cigarette be a real devastation?
Then theres all forms of self mutilation
i could always drown my uneasiness
with bottle after bottle of 60proof queasiness
theres all sorts of remedies
in prescription form
theyll make you feel happy and ecstatic and warm
or theyll make everything fuzzy and drag you down low
give your head an awful sort of chemical blow
theres so many options
theyll make me feel great
take away the bad feelings
coerce my mood to elevate

I just puked another poem today
There was a queasiness so my brain felt the need
To up chuck all of its contents
All over you fine peoples feet

It was a colorful array of symbolism
That I hurled across the room
It must have been something I'd seen or read
That made me ***** this poem out for you

Don't worry I'll personally clean up the mess
Before anymore of this I let loose
But this close to a sick poet you should have guessed
That eventually my works would splatter on you

Is it too late?
please dont make me bear - the bland walls whitened by the guise of death.
Is it too late?
the queasiness laughs lavishly - when will I die? If I continue to feed
Is it too late?
to Live or to die? I lie motionless in between
It it too late?
to choose magnificence glimpsed in hints behind my eyelids
to be the ancient winds gusting out of nothingness like Celtic fiddles, changing raging seas into misty green beckonings
Is it too late?

here I lie.  the deadening grasped me again.  I knew it would come.  I did my best to prepare. Was it enough?  Did I finish bridges to escape on the night?  Only time will tell, and what a devil it has become.

In a sweeping moment
Her train of thought
Comes to an end.
She checks the time
And pulls herself together.
She could feel her pulse
Hammering.
A sense of purpose
Overtaking.
She walks to the front door
In strides of self pity
A turn of the door ****
A step out to the unknown.
She was nailed to the spot
Her fears, palpable.
Her heart beat
Like a metronome.
And sweat
Like salty rain.
There's no courage
Her head spins with pain.
She hesitates,
As always before.
The fireplace, the warmth
A book and a cup of tea
Or the queasiness
Of being outside
Her comfort zone.
She turns back,
And finds her way to her hole
Why do I bother?
She can't help but think.
Maybe tomorrow
Maybe never.
Her heart beats
Like a metronome.

spilling out of bed
like molasses
to congeal on the floor
flowing slowly
wrenched by determination
towards the stairs
oozing gently down
step by step
drip by drip
finally reaching the bottom
where the sloppy puddles merge
gathering strength
like a phoenix rising
but then again, not
i stand unsteadily
holding onto the wall
to brace myself
overcome by a rush of queasiness
i rush to the lavatory
to alleviate my distress...

I WILL NEVER DRINK AGAIN!

Finally a day devoid of sharp edges.
The world in focus. For a moment. Enjoy.
Insomnia burns like Saint Augustine's fire.
Nights much longer than swooning pig *******.
Days that shimmer, stab, shake and ****.
Aching eyes and aching I. Queasiness.
Every eternal question demanding answer.
Random blasts from unwelcome pasts.
Useless drugs. Alcohol too much pain.
Eventually, to sleep, to dream. Oblivion
attained. But then, it all begins again.
  ~mce

******* in the air and filling up your lungs
Then letting it stay there as your tongue becomes numb
A slight dizziness arises in your head
And the feeling of your heartbeat as you lay in bed
A slight queasiness in your stomach
A tickle of your throat
And soon you have the sensation that you're about to float
A slight rise of panic
A simple yet complex thought
Then you exhale and the feeling is still caught
In the pit of your stomach until you catch your breathe
And the feeling is gone until your dying death

Fever drives burning rubber and sweating coolant. I never thought this would be me; Living like a willow weeping stalagmite that drips in a cave, gutted of its most precious treasures. Volcanic emissions eat their way up my esophagus, acid refluxing, reflecting the queasiness vigorously sloshing in my abdomen. A motel's vacancy sign glows behind the round masses that sit within the bony sockets of my skull. Void of thought and reason, the cavernous hole that appears to swallow, swallowing my words, swallowing my tongue, swallowing my teeth one by one; Chiclets, sliding down into molten rock. Crumbling pieces of hope plunge, deteriorating, integrating with the earth, six feet down, bodies buried in boxes, confining cells of solitary. Laid out like a game of memory, time passes, and no one remembers who lays where.

I just puked another poem today
There was a queasiness so my brain felt the need
To up chuck all of its contents
All over you fine peoples feet

It was a colorful array of symbolism
That I hurled across the room
It must have been something I'd seen or read
That made me ***** this poem out for you

Don't worry I'll personally clean up the mess
Before anymore of this I let loose
But this close to a sick poet you should have guessed
That eventually my works would splatter on you

This is just a terrible time and we just have to get through it. But how?

My life here is not a secret. The NitaAnn expressed here is a lot more of me than I would ever reveal in my real life. Writing what I write here, expressing what and how I feel, is far beyond what I would ever reveal in real life ~ even to my close friends. I cannot remember the last time I let anyone see me cry or let them see the pain I go through (exception being the therapist). But here I am, typing away, open and raw. The painful truth that is me...and that truth is that I am in pain. I pray to just sleep now so I can get relief from the pain. I pray for answers and solutions because I know that long-term sleeping isn’t the answer and I really want to feel better but in my present moment I am settling for any relief I can find. I’m grateful to have this outlet, a way to express what I cannot say aloud, or show to anyone in my real life. It is difficult for me to allow people to see this side of me, to be vulnerable, even on-line. It is certainly not something I can do in real life.

Right now I feel like I am standing above a tornado, watching it wreck mayhem on the girl who was me. But I am beyond expecting anything right now. With every step there is a twist, every fork in the road feels like a dead end. I am ready to fight. I am ready to get past this. It all still mystifies me; how this happens. Just I begin to feel better, things are going well, I can control my thoughts and maintain control over the crazies who dwell within ~ then suddenly it’s like a hammer crashes into my head and a g-force of reality rains down. I had myself convinced that I was better. The hardest part was finally over and the next part will be a breeze! Then it all catches up with me again...I cannot outrun it.

I thought that maybe taking time off from school/work would be a good idea. But I’m quickly coming to the conclusion that it might do more harm than good. Each night I just feel empty and drawn...haven’t I felt enough already? Is there anything left to feel? I feel desperate for relief. It is so hard to find hope and promise when you can’t seem to see past the thick fog of the pain.  And it still amazes me how crazyhead can manifest itself inside me causing not just mental anguish but also physical torment. And the queasiness and headache will not go away.  The blood pressure remains in the danger zone even with all the meds.

And it's overwhelming, you know? It's just too much.  All of it running through my head ~ horrible things that I cannot even write here.  And I want to talk to the therapist about it - I do - because I know I need his help.  But when I picture myself sitting there, on his couch, actually speaking aloud the horrible disgusting things from my past and my present - I imagine him sitting there, disgusted with me...he wouldn't be able to handle it.  He wouldn't.  And I cannot fathom how I would feel to see a look of disgust on his face.  To have him see me, NitaAnn, as I truly am...so I am stuck in this terrible paradox ~ needing his help but not being able to express to him what I need help with.  

I am trying to see past this time of pain and once again find hope, find joy in life and let other people in the real world help me when I am lost. There must be a solution...so what is it? Maybe I’ll go lie down and explore answers to that question. I had better find something quick ~ because I don’t know how much more of this crap I can handle physically or mentally.

I knock on the door, he says go away
I plead and I beg, let me in, I say
Please let me in
He pushes me astray, telling me to find another home to invade
Stepping aside I reveal one large flowerpot filled to the brim with soil and three blooming flowers
May I at least enrich your garden with my three budding fruits
Reaching out, the homeowner grabs hold of the cylindrical vessel
One by one he looks each flower up and down, examining their brightly captivating colors
Their yellow-like nature shines like gold in the sun
The depth of their cocoa centers contrasting beautifully with those same honey dyed petals.
Looking over into his garden, I see only white flowers.
Though equally beautiful, the unanimous collection lacked the distinction that my prodigies could provide
Awaiting his response, my head falls limply in reverence
Yet I remain confident
A smile gracing my lips.
I was excited to see
Excited to witness the opportunity my blossoms would be given to thrive in a nurturing environment
Yet as my head rose and my eyes lifted,
All reassurance left my face,
My happiness transformed into terror
Before me stood a man seeming ten feet taller and baring the face of a fiend
A wicked smile replaced his pondering expression,
A snicker belt out from his nostrils.
Looking into my eyes, the homeowner spit his words into my face
The saliva causing a sickening chill to run throughout my body
In my heart, his words will forever stay
My God-given soul permanently hardened to stone  
No. They are the wrong color.
A shiver sparking a queasiness in my belly
As are you.

I’m a little queasy right now
As I avoid looking at the needle
And when it penetrates my skin
The direct pain last one second
But the mental war has been going for days
In anticipation
And the sting is still there
And the smell of disinfectant is stuck in my nose.
And as long as the queasiness lasts
The possibilities stand
Of fainting
With seizures
Or throwing up
Or the head splitting migraines
So I lie down
Waiting
Waiting for the queasiness to go
For the headache to leave
And the possibilities to fade
It’s hard to remember that it’s for good
Helping the future me
When my arm is numb
Feeling like I’m growing faint

the viscera of streetlights stretch

the imagination of the same illumination.

overhung to recast a planetary surface

spun to its recognizable--yet altered locale.

bizarre morphs...too sudden for even change

in a single glance, recon at the recesses of mind.

left just enough to decipher the odd ends that

wear a warped resemblance--for the queasiness

of a dimensional shift.

as if masterminded cue cards whose images

become symbolic interludes.

with fuller and fuller decks held up to be

whispered.

if a sliver of such is caught in a frame--

the purgatory of incomprehension rushes

in.

A solemn moon
talking to hills,
plunged in pain of *******.

I steer quietly out
of this queasiness, did't want
to accept the risqué.

A spider was climbing
on a wall to weave
a sticky web for a baby face.

Like an aspen leaf
you tremble in even a slight
breeze of a beautiful thought.

The garden lizard
changes the color. Who was responsible
for the ruins of temples
and mosques?

Let me talk to the god, the god
standing at my door
engaging the harvest moon.

Tuned to trail all curtailed canopies
Final word written in cursive colored crayon
I'm trapped in time
Hands on clocks frozen
Civilians crying in cryo-chambers
Canary echoed foxtrots fandango
They tried to tango
Girls smelled of peach and exotic mango
Melodic
Forced free-falling foes to shuffle to earth
Like fallen phoenix's
Takes no geniuses
Ceased queasiness from quests and crunch times
The chimes still clanking on crippled spines
Spacious sparrow sprawled along sky
As tapestry spiraling
The creeps' coined cretins on campus
Camper camped out next to caravans
Never nestled next to nuisances
Nightly novel lapping up lateral lapses
Lately longevity leans left toward left in spaces
Spaced out subjects subjected to subjugate sequences

The night descended to that.
You, sunny side up,
queasiness inhabiting you
as if a change of season,
eyes damp with lethargy.

We planned to depart,
myself, a few others,
spilling well-wishes through the door
to your sanctuary,
dreamcatcher holding your reveries,
books like sentences of teeth
on your shelves.

I left, passenger seat,
with my language a glue in the throat.
The episode quite gone,
thunderous concert of silence,
only windchime giggles that filtered
through the dark.

It is what has become customary.
The bullet-point reeling-off of events,
each spark with its own named shade.
My hollow words missing the yolk
of conversation, vacant bottles
lost to the ocean, skin flecked with rust.

I ought to love you more,
this platonic, solid love.
Perhaps I should **** myself free
from the shipwreck, dust off
my catastrophes and breathe,
revel in your odysseys, let you know
my spoke of mishaps,
let us accept each other with clean hands.

with Barb Black née Beebee
to help set the ghost
of little ***** Brandt free
(a non German, but germane fellow  
courtesy Craigslist classified
personals of mine invitee
she replied, I took liberty
to Google her first and last name,
and risked calling mentioning,
she qualified as lucky nominee
meaning yours truly hanker
for a barenaked lady
to indulge libidinal ******* spree,
(ahem - no pun intended)
in layman's terms to make whoopie!

Years ago, an outing
with paramour went awry
lower gastrointestinal system
of the down did not comply
dear reader let these lines hopefully edify
and entertain courtesy
garden variety generic guy,
who strives to tickle your fancy
to jollify cause yours truly
tries humor that's no lie
and if receptive

to give feedback please notify
author of these words
who in actuality
counts himself a private-eye.
Picture the opening scene
Cumberland Farms -
in Coatesville, Pennsylvania,
the paramour and I purchase lunch;
she bought the two
Italian hoagies and drinks,
one for me and the other for her.

Upon arriving back
at boudoir place of courtesan,
we inherently, immediately,
got down to monkey business;
each of us carefully unwrapped
our respective submarine;
Between mouthfuls of deli meat and cheese,
(the latter a substance that triggered
nascent irritable bowel syndrome),
I suppressed grimaces of abdominal agony,
which ****** contortions overrode attempts
at non verbal foreplay.

The rapid fire acting power of dairy product
moved bowels of mine faster than
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.

Despite frequent record breaking
sprints to the bathroom
nothing would forsake golden opportunity
to indulge philandering bacchanalian adultery.

****** ******* the farthest
thought in my mind,
yet I ignored queasiness,
and feigned interest,
no matter intuition
vis a vis gurgly tummy
signaled warning against
engaging in frolicsome escapade,
nevertheless Casanova wannabe
succumbed to arrange himself
in concert with his mistress
two times the ninth highest prime number.

Woody pecker of mine
(a fine specimen male ***** she
highly touted, praised, and notated
courtesy the woman, whose presence
I honorably graced)
perhaps interpreted and intimated
as a fervent desire to rut
(despite lady of the night
having undergone tubal ligation
years before our initial close encounters

of the illicit kind took place
at Evansburg Park,
where after at least
a decade of being celibate,
I experienced premature *******
and soiled my underwear,
which super seminal glue
seals a stronger bond than
another tried and true
rigged with mortise and tenon.

A mortise and tenon joint connects
two pieces of wood or other material.

Woodworkers around the world used it
for thousands of years
to join pieces of wood,
mainly when the adjoining pieces
connect at right angles.
Mortise and tenon joints count as strong
and stable joints used in many projects.

Now lemme loop back
to aforementioned plight
to sorry state of affairs
that found me plagued
with an overactive
internal **** sphincter (IAS)
and external **** sphincter (EAS);

The internal **** sphincter (IAS)
forms the innermost muscular layer
of the **** canal and is a continuation
of the circular muscle of the ******
and ends with a pronounced rounded edge
1 to 1.5 cm caudal to the dentate line
and slightly cranial to the terminus
of the external **** sphincter (EAS).