Mashup

Part I (and there is a Part II & III)

I mashup me, myself, and perhaps thee too.


Excerpts from my poems about poets, poetry and the process of compositions. In chronological order, earliest to latest.
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With words we paint,
With syllables we embrace,
Tasked and ennobled,
We are forever fully employed,
Missionaries to all,
You too, are one as well,
Your fate can't be renounced,

when the rusted unborn poem notion is almost done,
but remains unpublished,
for no beginning, no title, can be found,

Then I recall the cornucopia days,
when poems spilled forth like
there would never be a when they wouldn't,

I revisit my old friends, couplets, twins and triplets,
seeded inside every tear, happy or sad,
sweetly and freely,

my old friends, reread,
words rearranged in new combinations,
old poems, plants bearing new fruits,
re-titled all of them, one name,
a collection entitled,
My Solace.

My eyes, my eyes, see only the
Totality of this moment.
When mastery of multi-tasking
Is the single best poem this man ever
Penned with his entirety,
Of which not word survived
For its unspoken silence was its glory.

My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words (poetry) and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.

Color me flesh ****,
Color me blue bottled,
Red ripped asunder,
The sweetness ascribed to my love poetry,
A subtraction of the bitterness of a failed life.
Colorist of my seams, my woven words,
I am white now, my canvas completed,
Waiting for another poet to write over it,
And chaining new words to what was prior writ.

Al,  what you did not ask was this:
With each passing poem,
I am lessened within, expurgated,
In a sense part of me, expunged,
Part of me, passing too,
Every poems birth diminishes me.

You ask me how I find the time,
(To write)
But time is not the issue,
For they, are all prepared, needing only recognition,
For they, are all in readiness, needing only composition.

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was, yet is,
because of you, in poetry.

Awful poetry, some good, you will write.
But write and write till your heart be calmed,
For even ancient kings felt the anguish  of the soul,
And we profit even today by King David's psalms.

This wizened fool has his hands full,
Mouths to feed, bread to earn and bake,
As midnight is almost nigh,
He rests prone and adds a verse to this old poem
He long ago scribbled down, grimace-smiles now,
Realizing there is little difference tween him and the
Sad Eyed Teenagers of the Lowland.

For poetry salves his wounds still, even now,
Unashamedly, he thinks, hallelujah!

The poem is the afterbirth,
A conflicts resolution, an outcome,
Battlefield debris, the residue of
An exacting vision, a sentiment surging,
And your army of words, inadequate to the task,
Fighting to capture that insight flashed,
Each word a soldier, disheveled,
Crying, let me live, let me be saved,
Let me make a poem,
Let it be inscribed upon my victorious flag.

The poem is the sweat left upon the brow,
Having exercised the five senses,
The salt of struggle and debate,
It's completion, each word,
Both a victory and a defeat.

To write but a single line,
That uplifts the heart,
Eases pain, gives delight to strangers,
And makes you laugh out loud
With shivery pleasure,
That usurps a whole day and night,
That is a poet's true measure.

Mastery of the poetic,
Measured not in quantity,
But in tears of satisfaction
When others love the taste
Of newly born stanzas
Upon their lips,
couplets born and transcribed
In the wee hours of the morn.

You can have my love, my soul,
But leave to me the labor of poetry.
Loving you with words is my domain,
The speciality of my terrain,
So no more hasta la pasta if you please,
And by the bye, I would love some
Tonight, say around eight,
At a restaurant where the moon is
The only light illuminating our faces.

Until you have bent your ear to Shakespeare's sonnets,
Till you have laughed with Ogden Nash,
Wept with Frost, visited Byron's ghost,
Read the songs of King Solomon,
And once you
Despair of being their equal,
Shed your winter coat of worry,
***** your courage to the sticking point,
Begin to write then with reckless courage,
Unfettered abandon, make a fool of yourself!

Scout the competition.
Weep, for you and I will never surpass
The giants who preceeded us, and yet,
Laugh, cause they thought the same thing as well...

All I can say is
En Garde!
I will be coming back soon enough.
because you are my best poem,
and the there will always be another stanza needed...

I am no Houdini, it's quite simple,
After 5 years, I read her like a book,
A book of my poems that she has inspired,
Entitled the Mysteries of True Love.

Each letter, a morsel in your mouth,
Each phrase, a fork full of pleasure,
Each stanza, a full fledged member in a tasting menu,
Perfect only in conjunction with the preceding flavor,
and the one that follows,  and the one that follows.

Taste each poem upon thy tongue and then pass it on,
you know how....

Each word, whether chewed thoroughly,
or lightly placed upon a bud for flavor,
needs the careful consideration of your mouth.

When I hear Shakespeare
My own voice is stilled, it's poverty exposed,
I am ashamed of every word I ever wrote.
Hush me not, for t'is true,
Yet I write on for an audience of one, on but one subject,
A subject, a life, mine,
yet, still unmastered, even after decades of trying.

My poverty exposed, unmasked
for what it is worth, or not.

Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!

Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...

So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.

Soul of brevity, poetically,
I'll never be, this insightful critique,
("Your poems are too long")
I've received in multiplicity, from sources internationally,
perhaps, lucky me, you've read this far?

Surely still a chance that an angel will touch my lips,
my internal parts sign a final treaty, inside an armistice,
night sweats sighs a thing fully forgot,
poetry writing can now be dispatched,
maybe that will be my Act III,
if I can stay awake for it.

Walk a Single Word.
To write a poem, a single word select,
embrace it with a fullness that lovers, family and friends
and the *** who cut you off in the middle lane
do daily provide

Grasp said word, walk it onto a yellow, blue lined, legal pad,
touch said word with the whisper of a single tear, a single curse,
like a pebble in a pond,
said word will miracle expand
hugging you with concentric circles of lines of poetry,
visionary words and stanzas that almost complete themselves
and you

The rhymes you will require, the meter you will select,
no need to struggle, hug your child and as Abraham told Isaac,
God and Google will provide

The simple trickster, a wordsmiths, even your average poet laureate,
got nothing on you that you don't already possess, to offer them
Plenty stiff competition.

Therefore,
My life is mine to take,
Should I wish to choose the
Place, date, the time
To let the poetry cease,
I will announce it mostly gladly
with a blessing of
Shehecheyanu* and a
Smiling "by your leave."

Sometimes the pen, unnecessary.
The poem, fully formed, in his mouth, born.

Silent back labor, unbeknownst the existence
Of such a thing, yet knowing now
His contractions, coming fast and furious,
Eyes many centimeters dilated,
The sac's fluid breaks upon the poet's tongue,
He pronounces in a single breath his
Immaculate Completion

When his hand to mouth, goes,
Like Moses, when he touched the burning coals,
The words are signaled, freedom!
The words announce:
We are now created, conceived and
This new oxgenated atmosphere is now our
final resting place.

This child, the poem, this exhalation,
Once freed, is lost to him,
It's been renamed, retitled,
by hundreds of newly adopted parents as
Ours.

Words needed to create another love poem for my beloved,
Nose and toes, ******* and eyes all regularly poetically,
Cherished,
Now I have knuckled under
And competed a full poetic body scan
And have paid tribute to each n'every part of you,
Even your knuckles...which I am busy kissing
While writing this poem in my distracted mind.

The next time it be for the morning meal,
I will eat it in bed,
far from their kitchen hiding places,
And celebrate my heroics with original
Frosted Flakes and milk,
And extra sugar just for spite!
The bedroom fairies, living under the pillow,
Emerge to beg in iambic pentameter,
Won't get nary a bite,
Until they they return the poems they stole
From my midnight dreams.

I am exhausted. So many gems to decorate
My body, my soul. I must stop here,
So many of you have reached out, none of you overlooked.

Overwhelmed, let us sit together now
And celebrate the silence that comes after the
Gasp, the sigh, that the words have taken from
Our selves, from within.


On and on thru the night,
Riffing, rapping, rambling, and spitting,
Ditties and darts, couplets and barbs,
Single words and elegies,
Free verse and a lot of fking curse words,
It was a moment, a time
that deserved
to be preserved,
and so this poem got writ

You may think this story apocryphal
Which is another way of saying untrue,
But I got his boarding pass and it is signed,
To this crazy poetry dude, long may you rasp,
And it is signed by Mr. P. Simon, a big fan,
And it has never since that day,
Left my grasp

Some poems never end,
Nor meant too.
Alliterative phrases, invitations,
Add a verse, a word, even a sound,
An exclamation of delight,
A stanza in its own right.

Unfinished work, forever additive, collaborative.
Modify mine, pass it on.

Read somewhere some poems never end,
Now I understand that better,
Cause there are no bandages, stitches that can close,
Cause there are no pills, switches that can shut off,
The ripping sound, the cutting noise, the raging inside
Heard blocks away, almost reaching a house where you live,
And dying in the same **** place that
Poems come from after midnight.

And even if I am stranger now,
I'll prove useful to have around,
Giving you poetry precisely couture designed by command,
So I fully expect to be hugging you happy
Soon enough.
You'll see.

No matter combo or organized, a good nights sleep
Elusive
So poetry is my default rest position,
My screen savior.

**So when I warn,
All my poems are copywrighted,
My meaning simple, words crystal,
They belong to us, but mostly to you
Who are reading these words

Hello Poetry


Yearned.
Ached.
For so long, for a community,
That values the ineffable wonder
Of a wordsmith's creations, intended to
Repair himself and the world with bullets of
Verses.

And here you are.

Like/Dislike, matters not,
So long as we value each others work,
And the the heart echoes within
What the eyes read and the mouth whispers.

The array and disparity of your names,
A delight,
Each name a poem
In its own right.

So I resubmit a question for your consideration,
The answer is now known,
The answer is all of us.
May 2013
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­Who's Who In Poetry  



T'is a curious thing,
these verbal peddlers, tribal members,
famously well known to no one,
perhaps at best,
a kindred few, fellow-travelers.

Each a troop,
bloodied, purple hearted,
word-wounded,
anonymous unto each other,
yet all bonded intimates,
in solitary struggle united,
yet sea-parted by the very nature
of the solitude of composition.

All poets are Cain scar-marked,
purposed for everyone to see,
a warning to rabbled boors,
imagination suppressors!

World:

cherish these flawed ones,
gentle these frail but gritty,
the Lord has tasked them
to be prophets in one tongue untied,
undo the strife of Babel's division.

Poets!

Be the harpooners
of the unexamined life,
with unfettered rhapsody,
comfort caress us,
exhort the loopy
to light their illusionary candles,
turn the sad eyed lowlanders
into crinkly eye-lined smilers.

With clinical observation,
dense and demanding,
make us laugh at
the comedy of our situation,
teach us our free-to-see peep show,
reveal, unseal us
with **** empathy!

For who's who in poetry
is all of us!
saviors and failures,
recorders and decoders,
night writers of the oohs and aahs
of dreams and nightmares.

When this poet cannot,
no longer, anymore,
tastes his poems upon your lips,
keep your poems within his heart,
then he breathes no more,
and becomes one who was,
yet is,
because of you,
in poetry.
---------------
Postscript (1/25/17)

Even more true today, than four years ago.
Thank You.

I

I, in my intricate image, stride on two levels,
Forged in man's minerals, the brassy orator
Laying my ghost in metal,
The scales of this twin world tread on the double,
My half ghost in armour hold hard in death's corridor,
To my man-iron sidle.

Beginning with doom in the bulb, the spring unravels,
Bright as her spinning-wheels, the colic season
Worked on a world of petals;
She threads off the sap and needles, blood and bubble
Casts to the pine roots, raising man like a mountain
Out of the naked entrail.

Beginning with doom in the ghost, and the springing marvels,
Image of images, my metal phantom
Forcing forth through the harebell,
My man of leaves and the bronze root, mortal, unmortal,
I, in my fusion of rose and male motion,
Create this twin miracle.

This is the fortune of manhood: the natural peril,
A steeplejack tower, bonerailed and masterless,
No death more natural;
Thus the shadowless man or ox, and the pictured devil,
In seizure of silence commit the dead nuisance.
The natural parallel.

My images stalk the trees and the slant sap's tunnel,
No tread more perilous, the green steps and spire
Mount on man's footfall,
I with the wooden insect in the tree of nettles,
In the glass bed of grapes with snail and flower,
Hearing the weather fall.

Intricate manhood of ending, the invalid rivals,
Voyaging clockwise off the symboled harbour,
Finding the water final,
On the consumptives' terrace taking their two farewells,
Sail on the level, the departing adventure,
To the sea-blown arrival.

II

They climb the country pinnacle,
Twelve winds encounter by the white host at pasture,
Corner the mounted meadows in the hill corral;
They see the squirrel stumble,
The haring snail go giddily round the flower,
A quarrel of weathers and trees in the windy spiral.

As they dive, the dust settles,
The cadaverous gravels, falls thick and steadily,
The highroad of water where the seabear and mackerel
Turn the long sea arterial
Turning a petrol face blind to the enemy
Turning the riderless dead by the channel wall.

(Death instrumental,
Splitting the long eye open, and the spiral turnkey,
Your corkscrew grave centred in navel and ******,
The neck of the nostril,
Under the mask and the ether, they making ******
The tray of knives, the antiseptic funeral;

Bring out the black patrol,
Your monstrous officers and the decaying army,
The sexton sentinel, garrisoned under thistles,
A ****-on-a-dunghill
Crowing to Lazarus the morning is vanity,
Dust be your saviour under the conjured soil.)

As they drown, the chime travels,
Sweetly the diver's bell in the steeple of spindrift
Rings out the Dead Sea scale;
And, clapped in water till the triton dangles,
Strung by the flaxen whale-****, from the hangman's raft,
Hear they the salt glass breakers and the tongues of burial.

(Turn the sea-spindle lateral,
The grooved land rotating, that the stylus of lightning
Dazzle this face of voices on the moon-turned table,
Let the wax disk babble
Shames and the damp dishonours, the relic scraping.
These are your years' recorders. The circular world stands still.)

III

They suffer the undead water where the turtle nibbles,
Come unto sea-stuck towers, at the fibre scaling,
The flight of the carnal skull
And the cell-stepped thimble;
Suffer, my topsy-turvies, that a double angel
Sprout from the stony lockers like a tree on Aran.

Be by your one ghost pierced, his pointed ferrule,
Brass and the bodiless image, on a stick of folly
Star-set at Jacob's angle,
Smoke hill and hophead's valley,
And the five-fathomed Hamlet on his father's coral
Thrusting the tom-thumb vision up the iron mile.

Suffer the slash of vision by the fin-green stubble,
Be by the ships' sea broken at the manstring anchored
The stoved bones' voyage downward
In the shipwreck of muscle;
Give over, lovers, locking, and the seawax struggle,
Love like a mist or fire through the bed of eels.

And in the pincers of the boiling circle,
The sea and instrument, nicked in the locks of time,
My great blood's iron single
In the pouring town,
I, in a wind on fire, from green Adam's cradle,
No man more magical, clawed out the crocodile.

Man was the scales, the death birds on enamel,
Tail, Nile, and snout, a saddler of the rushes,
Time in the hourless houses
Shaking the sea-hatched skull,
And, as for oils and ointments on the flying grail,
All-hollowed man wept for his white apparel.

Man was Cadaver's masker, the harnessing mantle,
Windily master of man was the rotten fathom,
My ghost in his metal neptune
Forged in man's mineral.
This was the god of beginning in the intricate seawhirl,
And my images roared and rose on heaven's hill.

The roaring sound of applause is becoming too boisterous to bear.

A flock of cameras and video recorders begin to huddle at the corners of the platform set behind the curtains of the stage. Actors, dancers, stage crew, and all of those who smiled, slowly line up for the grand finale.

But not this girl.

This girl sits on top of the railing of the things that hold up the set. Waiting, seeking, and wistfully watching. An actress, without a doubt. One of the best, they say. Although this girl had no plans to take that step and accept gravity as her master and plummet to her death, she won’t deny that she hasn’t thought of that before. This time, she had other things on her mind. Something radical? Well, maybe. Spontaneous? She was too lazy to move. Dark and twisted? Not in that sense. Nonetheless, she was thinking of something with importance.

For instance, she was thinking about the homemade cookies her mother used to give her, if she behaved perfectly, quiet, and still. Since she loved the feeling of success and food in her stomach, she fought back the longing of playing games and having fun.“Too perfect a child”* some might say, but that never got into her. All she wanted was the sky, moon, stars, and nothing all at once.  

Years go by, mistakes are done, and nothing is made whole again. The girl is woven in a snare of lies and is drowning in a bathtub full of the blood of swine. She swims and floats and tries to escape the demons that haunt her very soul. Breathe in, breathe out. She continues to sit perfectly, quietly and still. Never talking, only listening, to the sounds of rules and rules and rules and rules and rules and rules that mess up her insides.

The girl performs an act that no one has ever seen. Taunting and terrifying, but beautiful and graceful all together.  The mask shows her perfection, the mask shows you nothing. Jump, then fall, tumble to the ground. Tick, tock, tick, tock, the sound as time goes by.

Tick
tock
tick
stop.


The roaring sound of applause from the demons in her head is becoming too boisterous to bear.

A flock of cameras and video recorders begin to huddle at the corners of the platform set at the unseen bottom of the pit. Actors, dancers, stage crew, and all of those who tell her, slowly line up for the grand finale.

*She takes that step.

She bore no children of her own, because her insides
Were turned to stone.
She had been abused so much before, till she walked out the door.
A woman who was as timid as a mouse, beaten and abused by her spouse.
How much more can you take, before it becomes much too late?
He was abusive in every way and she knew she could not stay.
She recalled the threat that he had said
If you leave I’ll hunt you down and bury your bones in the ground
She had to beat him at his own game; otherwise her life would stay the same
And she had to put a plan in action that would meet her satisfaction.
No one believed that she was being beaten for he was able
To leave her with no scars or black and blues, and she knew just what to do.
She saved her money and had camcorders put all around that
Could record every move and sound
When he came home drunk that night and started to abuse her and fight
All the recorders were at work recording every punch and ****.
When he left for work the next day, she took it to the police
So they could watch it play.
That was all that they needed to arrest him on site
With the news she jumped with delight’
She filed for divorce and started a new life
Remarried and is living a good life.
© L. RAMS 120614

For my autopsy, there will be a crowd around my corpse, layed flat upon a dinner table so when they cut into me the dogs know they're in for a feast. I want them to use a pen to open my chest, they'll find my heart over stuffed with love-poems, to feed int oa machine that will determine my exact cause of death. They will find so many vessels clogged with grudges, half-truths, my sons generation will need a triple bypass.

I want them to drag that scalpel across my skin like "Is this how [x] made you feel?", open up my stomach and find enough swallowed pride to lead a thousand men to their doom in some ugly battlefield, not enough paycheck stubs to make my bank stop calling, a note I was going to leave 35 years later when I hung myself in some office cubicle, and some expired tags to a license plate, because I couldn't get the **** out of here.

I want them to speak into tape recorders and scribble on clipboards, open up my lungs that look like the crumpled up cellophane you toss away from a pack of smokes and find all the breath I've held for someone else so the atmosphere can take one big inhale, and choke.

I want them to document the burns and cuts on my hands, her skin was like a stove-top you forgot you left on, her hair full of briar and the finest papercut edges, someone said they were good looking hands but they've done some ugly things, the calluses look like shields, so even when I open up my palms, my guard isn't down.

For the final ceremony they can quarter me because the world has dissected and separated me, I hope my tendons are used to tie together some little girls swingset so I can finally feel all this stres and strain is for someones benefit.

They can take my arms and hands, put em to work to pay off my debt to a government grant like "Nobody smokes on the night shift?" Are you kidding me? Take my lungs too.

They can take my legs and feet and give them to a paraplegic, watch him become an olympic athlete, because my legs are toned and trained from all the dreams I've chased. Maybe someone else can pull these ******* past a finish lane.

I hope they drain all of my blood and use it to fill a thousand pens, and I could save a few good people some strenuous heartbeats, put a little bit of the sandmans real good **** on some bloodshot eyes, hand out some cookies and juice to get the sugar flowing, because everybody bleeds when they write.

Give my heart to a girl so she can write down all her problems and stupid inside jokes on it, and toss it to a corner of her room where she lays down from exhaustion, forget it in her car, at her friends house, on the counter of a desolate library. When she finds a heart with a little more polish, a lot less IOU's and a LOT LESS tolerance to being used, she'll know how to keep it in mint condition, because no amount of life insurance on full coverage, the interest rates skyrocketing through the roof and ironically digging you a hole, can cover the bill, when a heart breaks.

For my autopsy, there will be a crowd around my corpse, anticipating the nap of a vulture with a full stomach, oh and right- about my brain? Good luck with that, their hands will look like someone caught them stealing, and **** the rainforest they're gonna need some toothpicks, I don't even care about the leftover pieces-- but no amount of shiny surgical tools or a practitioners 10 year medical degree funded by the slack jawed desire to make people pay for a check up none of need, will be able to dissect my soul.

The tape recorders sitting out, the button pressed is pause
Take a minute to rewind and catch all of my flaws
If you could turn the world around, I know you wouldn't do it
Once perhaps, you had the chance, but you just went and blew it

Now the ice is melting and it has no where to go
Now the race is over but what do we have to show
The medal discs around our necks weigh us down to earth
Metal in those dreadful eyes remind us what we're worth

All I want to know is peace, and love and satisfaction
I can't divide by zero, so I multiply a fraction
What remains is just a simple shadow of itself
Two divided by two equals my heart back on the shelf

Mathematically, we have no hold over the science
Not even when we meet the world with such defiance
If only I could hold the will of nature in my hand
I could stop my crystal ***** from turning into sand

Did they mean it when they said they wanted to undress
Just because the want surpassed the need by so much less?
Who's the one who said that love was something meant to be?
I forgot, that foolish persons name was you and me

We are the recorders of history
weirdos, winos forgotten souls
sideline shadows watching
for someone to fall, so we
can write a verse or two on tragedy
twist it out of our tormented minds
to show we care in our special way
but we do not change the world
for if there were no misery
we'd run out of material to write about

it's the smallest voices that scream the loudest
I've never been a fan of the trending hero
or the underground superstar.
slam poets make me sick.
your attitude is a well concocted ploy
to touch indie hearts and
I hate it.
I love the ignored
the militants
the trashman painter,
the gas station attendent that
makes ****** artcore ******
in her boyfriend's garage
the sixteen y.o. with a tape recorders
and a circuitbent casio
howling blood into an old
speakercummicrophone
slash and burn
leave your best work sitting
on a park bench for me
ignore the plight and shove
your fingers down your throat.
I love the broken. the hurt.
the misanthropes the schizoids
**** victims
homeless
suicidal
single mothers
drug addicts
if that fire is in your shattered
legs reflecting the age of
a
billion dead scaffolds
soul of revolution raging
knife in paw
I will fall in love with you
and sigh at the detrious
in your wake.
let me see you naked and crying
my own wounds fester quiet
when everyone else is asleep.
have a drink,
you earned it.

I went into the DeepWell this morning for another kinda,
wake up cup more like trying to be with some things need simmering down,
for the flames are bright and looking hot but but but warm and so soothing,
ooohing aaaahining awwwwweing inspiring rather blissfull kissfull blissing,
kissing idk bout hi'way 61 but for of you bro I know about your kitchen!!!!

Anywhohow way idk if I had much a drink at all with wake up or simmer down,
nor a nibble though some things are clear once in a blue year;

IDK like what's going on, down up once in a while or my preferred self setting dip flip switch's,
hahaha but reads are packing and that's good;

having to get back to too many responses 'um think 'bout the president,
the few who get through and we see a few presentations that should all be heard 'n seen too;

for I know we're all just blood bearing beings, counting on air,
but my cabinet I'm all of 'em unless you have more to say speak on this now;

staff, budget, readers, recorders, playback digitizers self routing pouting deciders,
all kinds of chaos chasers 'um not got;

I know so like all here 'um wat's wit dis cat;

what's he working three jobs or three wives 9 kids twelve ways;

nah not a drop so to say exactly 'dat way no more got a few getting on,
where I was and they was already born;

I'm thinking metaphysical then overly scrutinal to be careful both ways and wise,
she-it I can do more da better than a two way street try me I like 8's and 9's,
I lay all out there b4hand dey way den 'um say cats don't won't can't,
what ya ever think I've ever seen any reciprocity;

yah Solomon here we're working laughing crying all;

saw that movie "Anna Karenina" Leo Tolstoy novel base,
ya know the 'precious' 'Lord of the Rings' these sort of 'um things,
JC said along at least the 'Greatest b4 me Solomon' two kinds of exemplar,
(easy SO SO Bud Bud chill!!) one get demons off mans poor missions and happily,
doing 'Gods' love yet 'um well, I talk about these things with blood bearing beings,
I'm not even taking temperature into consideration;

just that I hear know 'dis 'da place gotta do 'da be greater things;

everybody knows Solomon a key why how hum 'um what ya kidding again,
oh so far off out heavy or fairy dust to me man, guess coming all together like JC,
just a bit may be out beyond such ganders of wonders what feelings lost looking down,
the land your feet are even upon, 'um man what about's;

'I'll be your solution if you'll be my remedy';

how does solution need remedy when they just bleed warm red blood a bit too bluish,
what if I say we need 'em all, does 'dat rhyme a chime of too like greedy who what me'eedy;

what ya want to "Possess Me!!!???"
hahahah !!!!<3<3##:):)!!!R

I just wanted to hit dat punchline while I was really in the middle,
but I do have a poem 'The Middle Riddle (in medias res)',

"When the middle is...
just right, there will be no will...towards an ending...!!!";

so back where we're we before the mention, no introductions say already too far gone,
as a wife would have to be  able to have an introduction of such a silly notion no more;

re: refer to as; X'yzzzzzleeeeping;

with that illegally separated easier straighter to say Fb have not figged 'dat one up yet,
Solomon is calling 'em up everyday/night;

let me tell ya man of the woes of Solomon and to me I coined the phrase myself,
so I Google'd it up, for I just thought those cats yonder dare' might have downloaded,
my brain and some well of it's keys and you've got the rest better;

know now I understand it's out there by book, I don't dare look yet before it's clear,
who wrote that stuff and I'll tell by what it won't, by omissions, excessive unwarranted permissions,
I'm wondering, I scan the great collections, not so invasive of more personally assured permissions,
there were days where there were a hand full of very warm open hopeful receptive set of beings,
along some tour that said go west as I was east and by a rather large pond;

do I need go on here now,
I start your clock too 'den what,
I'll get nine codes running inside out,
backwards inside of you,
'den just what can ya do!!!

Reality isn't what it seems to be
it isn't touch, nor sound
it isn't a taste, nor is it visual
reality is what is perceived
what is believed
what is understood to be true
even when the memory is not
when the heart makes up its mind
and the mind draws up its own conclusion
then that is reality
even when its wrong, unjustly created
what is real? what is not?
why what one person sees isn't the same
as what the next person saw? felt? heard?
is one of them wrong? if so, than how is it proven
or how is it dis-proven? video tapes and voice recorders
can only prove or disprove the event.
not the feeling that was felt, or the mental strain
that was placed. How can something feel so right
to one person, yet complete tear down another?
one thing felt so good, yet it was so bad for you?
there is no spoon, nor is there a hand to hold it
for as your mind bends to the force of your own thoughts
the labyrinth that it creates spins your reality into something
different, irrecoverable, irrevocable, irresponsibly
I stand here, looking terrible in your eyes, and with love
mirroring the effects of the icy stare
I stand here, looking terrible in my own eyes.
this is reality
unfixable? unforgivable? unimaginable?
maybe
but if there is a chance to fight the reality
to bend the spoon
to show you that my reality is not your reality
then...maybe
for this is real, with two different realities

these old books and all those boys
tripping on squeaking baby toys
your mother's last apartment floor creaking
under seven or eight count teenage weight
spilling boxes of recorders and claves
from the highest shelf and a xylophone
crashing onto solid oak table
spilling the last standing mug of tea
steaming, staining, spitting varnish
resolving to small puddles
in the divets on the table

A kaleidoscope of plastic, drafted in the
layers of trash.  The sights of a landfill,
the smells of hell.
Containers filled with grime, broken recorders
in baby dolls, apple cores, a slew of condoms,
paper products, burnt out computer parts,
bottles that held night life, while diapers full of
tired mother’s yawns; light bulbs that quit working,
family photos that hold too much, dog ****.

The things that matter most are torn,
purged, and poignant with purpose that we’d
rather forget the existence.

Concept:
youlovemeback.

The ingredients of cleanse
make their way
to your house.

There is

a

strobe,
two stones portioned off
a Ziggurat,
a present thing —
like wheels,
a teardrop,
nail clippings.

My father
would trim his nails
and bury them —
as seeds.

Stared
at that ***
all days and evenings.
Monsoons and
summer heat echoed.
Time circled back and forth.

Sometimes,

I would gargle
father’s beer and
spit into the ***.
Maybe it needed
Acrid, it needed
Strong. It needed
Disgusting,
Toxic. It wanted

wrong.

I turn 22.
The ***
Disappears. My father
too. Militants
took him away,
or so the chatter goes.
He wore Chinos, sun-dried
eyes, a hat.
Mice ate
the matchsticks
used for kindling.
The Queen Termite
Gave birth to more
hungry little ones
under the sink.
Dark, musty,
collapsing.
Memory, time,
fingertips. Thyme
rhymes

with mime,

I copy my father.
Trims nails.
Plants.
Waters.

Concept:
trytounderstand

This was only the nourish
he could give. It was
a copy of the nourish
his father could give —
Or so

The chatter goes.

Gather the stones.
Get the strobe.
Pound the nail clippings
and

an enzyme flows
Through, like tape recorders whirring
as they wind back to
play recorded confessions
one more time.

Free baptismals
at the church service
for hurried teens.
Free shirts for
the Insufficient.
Free lessons for
the young boy
who can’t read women.

Free at long, long last.

Concept:
fixtheheart

It’s too comfortable to write
In light so bright my sarcasm wont bite

So I’d rather wax intellectual in the freezing cold
Let my icy lungs ****
In some tar and I’ll
Hold everything I say
As
True

If only we could compile clues
We’d see
All the bodies we buried to be moderately happy
But still I’ve done worse things
While eye’s rolled in the back of their heads

Averting your vision
Can be the only tactic in your book
Of smarmy one liners
That all seem to be blunt remarks about my size
Which is fine
Worse things have been said
During diner conversations
We counted off the ways in music how we’d be a bonnie and Clyde

And if the220 razor wires grins sewed of mouths off cheating friends
88 sharp teeth gleaming, of devilish plots we were scheming
52 white knuckles clenched over getaway cars, or benches in parks watching false stars
36 black stares something about face mauling and bears, but I didn’t care that we only had
7 seconds to make it out with the money
5 eye’s wide open to ceiling fans or a lack their of
1 reason to wake up

And in such a way we could be writing pings on sound recorders put it just goes silent with the senseless bashing of fists on porcelain/.

but in the end we can only hope it means nothing
or as empty as air
or as simple as breathing

-Kevin T

....No man is an island, entire of itself...any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee

No man an island
yet we stand with brand
in hand, waiting
to set set alight all bridges
as we make our stand
for ourselves
over our fellow man.

We stand and watch as
killers ****, then
turn the channel
seeking the next
momentary thrill.

Less and less we involve
ourselves with others
in a meaningful way
we are more likely
to be engaged in
digital play
as we die
a little more
each solitary day

If it sounds
like I am preaching
it is because  I am

More to myself
than others
but then again
perhaps I am reaching
to you and others like
to those who understand

the carillion is a ringing
that, the sounds of bells
are stealing up upon us
as we ignore calamity to play,
tetris and zombie clan

"All mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated.**

we the poets of consciousness,  
are the translators ....
of the thoughtless thoughts
and long lost creeds

we are the heart that cries
as this world bleeds
from razors cuts
by the many thousands,

we are the recorders of the deeds
both small and large
important an seemingly insignificant.

scribes and libraians we be both
noting written word and oral oath
we partake, we give to all
but at our best we are the accord
of action and thought, deed and word

so that we reflect upon
ourseleves and others
the joy, the hate,
the hurt, the succour
the wonderment and ease,
the love and loving care
we make the hard easier to bear
we make the horrible, we make crazy
we have the ability to make the hard person care
those in despair hope...those at the end of themself
reach once more for the dangling rope

we are the fabric, the paper
on which this world is printed
we are the old gold coin
and the newly minted

we are islands with bridges between
we are understanding,
between commoner and queen

we are those who stand ready
to extinguish harmful flame
yet we are those to set hearts alight
we are those who call others
away from the game
and into the heart of the heart
into cognizant frames

we are listeners
and bell ringers both
we refine the languages
we create the quotes

we are the fresh morning
we are the new start....

These dreams fade as westerly whispers,
in a soft eastern rain.
Unremembered by morning's light
filtered by reality's coldness,
leaving only colored shadows,
we must walk alone through.

Shadows that sullenly settle
like colored chalk dust,
covering all,
but easily blown away.
These dreams fade as westerly whispers,
in a soft eastern rain.

We are the dreamtesters,
recorders of our life's events
to be read by God.

Upon our day of reckoning...

I am from black cats and silly smiles,
From senseless sisters and lazy Sundays
I am from coarse yellow grass
That brushes my legs and tickles my feet

I am from chlorine pools and fast flowing rivers
Sunny days and stinging nettles.
I am from tall trees and ripped jeans
Barbie band-aids and tireless energy.

I am from warm afternoons,
Bike rides and best friends,
Whole orchestras and squeaky recorders
I am from a place that is never silent
Pattering feet and clicking paws.
I am from snow days and sled rides,
Pillow forts and fragrant pines

I am from puppy dogs and Christmas gifts.
Spilled drinks and soaked towels.
Cool winter nights, curled up with a book,
Overstuffed sofas and Friday movie nights.

I am from daddy-longlegs
And chasing butterflies
Cicadas
Clinging to my shirt,
And caterpillars
Crawling up my arm.

I am from lemonade stands
And (I must admit) overpriced craft sales
Cozy blankets,
And widescreen TV’s.

I am from stories and pictures,
Scissors and glue,
Colossal messes and unstoppable laughter
Setting suns and shining stars
New days and new beginnings.

Memories I will forever cherish,
And new ones made every day.
Arguments,
Agreements,
Opposites,
And perfect matches.

Photographs that make me giggle,
Smile,
Cringe,
And remember.

My home is not a place.
I have made a home in my memories.
A place I can go whenever I want to smile.
I am from everywhere,
I am from anywhere,
And this is the place I call home.

Clocks spring forward and watches, too... computers follow suit,
So nine's now ten, it's true, it's true... when Spring comes, that's quite cute...
And so, this day, time Marches on... this hour changes hands,
And blessed are those who know it's gone... according to Man's plans...
I'll change each clock at home today... each watch that's working still,
From nine to ten, yes, straight away... and won't that be a thrill?
Then my recorders I'll reset... so that they're up-to-date,
So that the programmes I still get... not early or too late...
Has my TV updated now? I wonder, yes or no?
If not, I'll change it soon, somehow... if I must make it so...
Must I change Freeview and Freesat... and others just like Sky?
If yes, at least, when I've done that... I'll prove how time can fly...
It's only once a year for this... till Autumn's back again,
Then it's all change! Oh, my, what bliss... when nine replaces ten...

Denis Martindale Sunday the 25th of March 2018.

My grandpa listened to 'rpm' records
closed his eyes
and bathed in the shower of music.

My mom took us to concerts,
played cassettes in tape recorders
and the tunes paved our way to growth.

My children are used to view music
silent imagination of old days lose trail,
baton of flight of fantasy rests on choreographers.

9th October, 2017.

they always say
the second time you fall in love
will be far different from the first
diffrent from the usual you had grown accustomed to
did you notice the second time,
how your bones didn’t ache from hurt
but instead they whistled like those recorders
you used to play in 4th grade?
how your bones became empty and hollowed?
how they weren’t trying drown you in their heaviness
like the first did?
they always say
the second time you fall in love
will be far different from the first
because the first is like a freight train collision
but the second,
the second is a sigh of relief someone cared enough
to pull you out from that same wreckage

Iphones,ipads,ipods
3d,4k,Imax
E-books,online music and movies
Herbal tea,Green tea...and what not health drink
Six-packs,designer clothes,diamond-studded watches
E-mail,video chat,social networks
Selfies,groupfies,swimfies(God help us!!!)
Racism,discrimination,advanced weapons system
Fast cars,fast motorcycles,fast life
The modern day advancements and sophistications at times baffle me
Have they actually made life simpler?
Or have in fact complicated it?
The era i grew up in
We didn't really have that much choices
We had to be content with whatever was around
And we were
In fact we were pretty happy
And now look at us..we are spoilt for choices
We don't know what to leave and what to take
I miss the era of the '80s and the '90s
We used to look forward to going to the fair
We loved playing out in the sun
We loved reading
I miss writing letters
I miss looking at black and white photographs
I miss taking autographs
I miss cassetes and tape-recorders
I miss taking a walk at night without the fear of getting mugged or shot
The kids today at times they scare me
The things they do....
...At times it's hard to tell whether they are super-intelligent or super-dumb!
Computer games,getting laid and smoking ***...that's what a lot of them seem to think about!
They seem to be so engrossed in their phones..that at times it's hard to tell whether they realize that there is a world outside of their phones
And the norm now just baffles me
You wanna dump someone..just text that person
No calling or even meeting that person
They don't even got time to talk their parents!
Sometimes i wish that i was born in the early 1900's and i died in the same era
Agreed that back then there wasn't so much amenities or facilities like we have today
But life was much more simpler and peaceful
And most of all people in general were much more tolerant

If News be Truth, then Prompt those Words with Rage
By all Concepts infect Facts with such Charge
Though cause-admitted did Foredraw the Sage
Despite these Attacks by Support at-large
Still Welcome be my Martyr's Fort allow
Though expect more Rallies and Protests come
To breathe-in Peace; And Peace be Forged below
The Hammer's Soft Skill train the Anvil numb.
And in that Sense must the Doctor's Palms take
To Prognose which Infected Parts must Heal
Subtract the Ruse; As Silence frosts your Cake
Which Dull Recorders use your Prompt to Steal.
Stain your Male with Gold; Best be left un-morphed
Yet Scroll your Bearings; And Direct your Torque.

Let us come into his presence with thanksgiving;  let us make a joyful noise to him with songs of praise!*       —Psalm 95:2

Giving thanks after a “Hail Mary” touchdown
or before downing a meal of turkey and all the
fixin’s ‒ not what the psalmist had in mind when
writing about being in His presence.

Here we are – days from the cross – not much
time to rejoice and give thanks for the real story,
the passion play to end all spectacles, worldly
narratives or daily newscasts.

It’s time to set the stage – polish the bells and
warm up the recorders, get out the metronome
and clear your throats – the opening chords of
St. Matthew’s Passion are in the air still.

The celestial chorus has no patent on singing –
the angel choirs we hear on high every Christmas
do accept new members – and going solo on
timpani or viola is pleasing to God.

Many of us – largely children – agree that when
making noise, we should be joyful, loud and
yes, not be afraid to do it in public:  sometimes
gangs even march on their way to forgiveness.

As we look around in the confusion of our
world – have you looked lately? – it’s very
helpful to read the psalms, the songs of David,
it is said, can be of comfort and enlightening.

Close your eyes and imagine a mystical figure
playing the lyre and singing the words of this
psalm – give thanks, sing, praise – the words
call us, an invite to worship.

This is the liturgy you can have every waking hour
– in the house of the LORD and in yours:  you can
praise the LORD in any key – anywhere – as long as
you practice the steps of faithful allegiance to the one
who gave himself for us.  Amen.  


  Lewis Bosworth, 2-2017

we ate discarded instruction manuals for washing machines, video recorders and calculators

we learnt new things

we stalked the rabbits
and followed dogs in the shadows
salivating at the prospect
of meat

days spent hunkered in the bunker with tin food and a transistor radio that could only pick up the sound of a sobbing  man
and static fuzz

all our memories fused into one long dream

we thought of the astronauts miles above us thinking can they see the Great Wall of

Wide wake trying to sleep,
Won't do good as am awake,
Thoughts hammering bursting my brain,
With eyes numb and tears fall like rain,
I guess am a victim of insomnia,
Disturbing my sleep causing hypochondria,
It's another word to say having sleep disorders,
Where mind sets unrest and messes with my recorders,
Begging sleep to come as I try to shut my eyes,
Remembering you and your honest white lies,
Looking at the clock and watching how time flies,
Indeed am awake looking at the night skies,
However am determined with the sleep remedy,
Soft tunes and instrument playing its melody,
Surely earphones plugged in my ears,
Listening to such music eats away my fears...


©sim

if christianity allowed itself the profanity of making angels saints, and elevated saints to a near angel-type status... how about i lower the hindu gods status of being gods, to the status of patrons, patron saints... like ganesha... the patron "saint" of memory... with that common phrase... elephants have long memories... shame no turtle comes around in hinduism, given that turtles live to the status of being equivalent to the age of certain trees... like oaks... a turtle-head god in hinduism, with green skin to combat vishnu's blue blood nobility... i don't really care where a thought comes from... i guess from the ought of morality, or nothing... but memory? that comes from something, and it has all the amoral rights to unearth itself... so yeah, the patron "saint" of memory, ganesha, since elephants have long memories... try forgetting you have a trunk every morning when you wake up... and then the balancing act of the trunk with the tail.

oh **** me, i did my bit for christianity,
i played a large xylophone to perfection
in a primary school
                                 nativity play...
what more do you want of me?
                    that's enough!
                     that was a lot to begin with
in the first place...
            and if i pushed playing the xylophone
far enough,
            i'd learn how to coordinate my
lower limbs with what was already hard playing
the xylophone, i.e. coordinating the hands...
now i can join the *gotye orchestra...
and be like: ******... swing that **** by...
                  i still have no idea why i got
the hard part of the nativity orchestra...
              most people got the recorder part...
recorders... ****** flutes, more or less;
    and then in the light of awe of all those
proud parents! idiots reciting half-baked
truths about the birth, in a stable...
                       well, **** me... let's all applause!

I went into the DeepWell this morning for another kinda wake up cup more like trying to be with some things need simmering down for the flames are bright and looking hot but but but warm and so soothing ooohing aaaahining awwwwweing inspiring rather blissfull like kissfull and blissing and kissing idk bout hi'way 61 but for your of bro I know about your kitchen!!!!
Anywhohow way idk if I had much a drink at all with wake up or simmer down not a nibble some things are clear once in a blue year; but IDK like wats going on down up once in a while or my preferred self setting dip flip switch  hahaha but reads are packing and that's good; having to get back to too many responses 'um think 'bout the president and the few who get through and we see a few presentations that should all be heard 'n seen too; for I know we're all just blood bearing beings, counting on air, but my cabinet I'm all of 'em unless you have more to say speak on this now; staff budget, readers, recorders, playback digitizers self routing pouting deciders all kinds of chaos chasers 'um not got; I know so like all here 'um wat's wit dis cat; wat's he working three jobs or three wives 9 kids twelve ways; nah not a drop so to say xactly 'dat way no more got a few getting on where I was and they was already born; I'm thinkig metaphysical then overly scrutiny to be careful both ways and wise, she-it I can do more da better than a two way street try me I like 8's and 9's, but I lay all out there b4hand dey way den 'um say cats don't won't can't, what ya ever think I've ever seen any reciprocity; yah Solomon here we're working laughing crying all; say that movie "Anna Katrenina" Leo Tolstoy novel base, ya know the 'precious' 'Lord of the Rings' these sort of 'um things, JC said along at least the 'Greatest b4 me Solomon' two kinds of exemplar (easy SO SO Bud Bud chill!!)one get demons off mans poor missions and happily doing 'Gods' love yet 'um well, I talk about these things with blood bearing beings and I'm not even taking temperature into consideration; just that I hear know 'dis 'da place gotta do 'da be greater things; everybody knows Solomon a key why how hum 'um what ya kidding again oh so far off out heavy or fairy dust to me man, guess coming all together like JC just a bit may out beyond such ganders of wonders what feeling lost looking down the the land your feet even upon 'um man 'that 'bout 'I'll be your solution if you'll be my remedy' how does solution need remedy they just bleed warm red blood bit too bluish, wat if I sat we need 'em all does dat rhyme a chime to too like greedy whoo what me'eedy; what ya want to "Possess Me!!!???" hahahah !!!!<3<3##:):)!!!R
I just wanted to hit dat puchline while I was really in the middle, but I do have a poem 'The Middle Riddle (in medias res)' "When the middle is...
just right, there will be no will...towards an ending...!!!"; so back where we're we before the mention no introductions say already too far gone as a wife would have to be tobe able to have an introduction of such a silly notion no more; re: refer to as; X'yzzzzzleeeeping; with that illegally separated easier straighter to say Fb have not figged 'dat one up yet but Solomon is calling 'em up everyday/night; but let me tell ya man of the woes of Solomon and to me I coined the phrase and so I Google'd it up for just thought those cats yonder dare' might have downloaded my brain and some well it's keys and u've got the rest better; but know I understand it's out there by book but I don't dare look yet before it's clear who wrote that stuff and I'll tell by what it won't by omissions, excessive and unwarranted permissions, I'm wondering I know I scan the great collections not so invasive of more personally reassuring permissions, but there were days where there were a hand full of very warm open hopeful receptive set of beings along some tour that said go west as I was east and by a rather large pond; do I need go on here now, I start your clock too 'den what I'll get nine codes running inside out and backwards inside of you 'den just what can ya do!!!