no true poetry fans as reenactment is explained for suckers 18.10.18

as of late in pickle
but getting out of hand
so going to explain in a trickle
all suckers will understand.
back in the day derogatory
news about the bacon
revenge from bill not voluntary
only they new what was taken.
that's all that followed
just to give a shake
no other history to be swallowed
categorically no implication in my for EVER shake.
before you jump gun
you really need to investigate
i thought bill and poetry under thumb
not doing home work is the infuriate.

one of my pet hates is to explain poetry as i want it to be up to what  the reader wants it to be about. but i am being pushed into a corner. i would like to categorically say that when i referred to a reenactment in poetry, i am referring  to is something that i feel was done to me for writing the below poems. i would like to explain poetry is just that - poetry. how people interpret it is entirely up to the reader. thank you for reading.


no reenactment saturday 24 march 2018 ( my sincere apology to old bill ) 25.03.18

　

thinking is my imagination

to express will follow

day before gave old bill *******

the reconstruction i have to swallow.

its tongue and cheek

just how to get through

names for old bill were a Internet leak

to provoke a reaction is all that's true.

metro i adore

every week day its reliable

now exposed feeling open and raw

to have the thin blue line as a fan is honourable.

down on my hands and knees

i no this you will like

accept my apology please

i deserved a bullet from saturdays bike.

poetry is my excitement

every day it provides glory

old bill i forgive you for your reenactment

lets be friends because i am truly sorry.


even pigs addicted to selfies relax we love it suckersurge 24.03.18


this will join

for sure it will see the red card

going to get some ****

the next most wanted from scotland yard.

disgracebook may be on the cut

there is still plenty of spam

4 cheeks showing like boston ****

these 2 officers going for some picnic ham.

doing some serious stock

a ****** investigation can never be rinsed

hell have no fury with 2 that are hock

going to watch my back fat incase i am minced.

serious lack of professionalism

straight talking and no fibs

the trotters are going to give me criticism

hope they don't break and spare my ribs.

pic below shows 2 pointed snout

locked is a message in this yale

criticism of social media is the only clout

next selfie smile and lift up the jowl.

Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.

Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.

Lost love

I will relate this true unforgettable love story the desert is a forlorn lonely place it runs the gambit stark even sullen and then at
A single turn it enthralls captivates and then the many moods feelings in-between it could really be a telling of human life in so many
Ways my memory of Salt lake is a nice one we were moving to California I remember the climb up the mountain that was some what
Unpleasant I even stopped in Laramie Wyoming had the U Haul checked out it acted like it had a four banger engine would cut out on
The straight a ways and it wasn’t that long ago back then that I put ten cars in the junkyard they were too old and I was two young I
Tried to out run and out do Robert Mitchum when he played a southerner who ran white lighting in Thunder road the time I was driving
A long fifty eight Pontiac without a muffler on the back roads to Herrick town was sort of a reenactment the muffler came off a few
Nights before I don’t understand why my mother left the car behind when she and sis went to Pennsylvania with her sister she even
Took the keys with her talk about lack of trust what can a seventeen year old get into well in a long drawn out search a key was found
And more than usual group of guys were sleeping out why not leave lakers go up and take ma’s car out for a spin start out slow well
Out of the side yard anyway a little more tricking putting it back so past Black desert Ray Cherry’s on the back road to Assumption by
Now the accelerator is stuck to the floor the problem a lead foot anyone have teenagers driving pray good and hard I God and hands
of steel holding the wheel when literally my blood felt like it turned to ice water from the thrill that was now in God’s hands I hit the
small bridge back this way where the road turns back left where there used to be oil well operations right there I was flying low at one
Hundred and fifteen miles an hour soon would be Dukes of hazard air borne all four tires and car at least twenty five through the air
The front tire came down with a hard jarring bang ice water veins and a heavy wide poncho and God kept it upright went down turned
Around lost ten miles an hour of nerve went back one hundred and five miles an hour same little shorter flight but this time we
Landed right on top and in the middle of three chug holes if it had been the tire and it had went in I wouldn’t be writing this or anything else
But the muffler came off with a fine howdy doo as the car banged back on the ground so I gunned the car down by Besons turned it off
And coasted back into the yard went in and told a barley awake grandfather at two thirty in the morning how the county ripped off the
Muffler he fell for it next day I tried it on Ma all I got was right did rack off nice through the hills and bottoms. There is a high that goes with
Speed but there is also is a special quality that emerges out of slow deliberate movement as witnessed by my slow climb up the
Mountain pulling a T bird and a load of furniture more pleasurable on the down grades your still fighting not to over brake but the black
Night the air and the road the trees all enters your conciseness these feelings returned as Yvette set in studio and told her story it is
A story of youth, innocence lost to mindless cruelty it happened with the little dell reservoir shimmering bright under a full moon thats reson
Zack’s mother calls him the man in the moon and the purpose of the trip Zack was into black and white photography he
Wanted to photograph this lovely vision capture it where it would be a favorite item to share with his many friends it would be what
Lived on or at least one tangible part Yvette laid the background of the story how all through high school Zack and her were in all the
Classes together and when she would enter he would all ways make a comment she grew to enjoy and look forward to what he would
say it was tender young love taking it faltering first steps on this night he called and asked her to go she didn’t think anything of it she
Hadn’t done anything special as far as dressing in fact she had washed her hair hadn’t even dried it there is something basic naturally
Raw about a woman with wet hair whatever it is it causes the male heart to beat faster anything is powerful when left untamed. They would flash out to the place this story unfolded the quiet silence the full moon electrifying the water with a glorious sheen and the grass back lit with light causing the gold
Grass to beam without words or action there was a shout coming from nature’s heart and soul it reminded me of the modern western
I read thirty years ago called Goldenrod this perennial plant found in meadows served as the name of the ranch in the story. Yvette says as they
Turned into the final lane that led to the parking she felt a hint of a first kiss in the offing everything was picture perfect and it was nothing
Strange when the white pickup pulled into park that happened all the time at first the stranger kept his distance but he slowly worked
His way toward them finally just feet away he asked them where the path went to they gave him an answer she turned her back she
Said she hoped Zack turned also because at that moment the stranger pulled out a gun and started shooting the first shot killed Zack
He emptied his gun one bullet knocked her down then the shooting stopped then she realized he was reloading in that moment her
Father’s voice spoke in her mind if attacked by a grisly play dead more shots she felt the wind and speed of the bullets pass her head
One on the side caused a ugly exit wound but through it all being shot four times she lay still with her eyes open then the killer touched
Her leg she said she didn’t have a concept of being shot but now it was something that terrified her she thought he was going to ****
Her everyone thinks about that he put his face close to hers she could feel his breath on her neck his purpose was robbery as he went
Through her pockets he withdrew and she heard Zack’s car start later as she retold this two a group in Utah’s Capital building where
She is now a lawyer and a victim’s advocate it must have been strange to get in the person’s car you just killed and have Neil Diamond
Come an and sing. So when the gunfire died down and the night swallowed the terror a future wedding and life with Zack was forever
Gone his spirit dispersed among the stars and his spirit captured and held in natures wonder the new life reality capture was swift since
He left his vehicle his story an immigrant from Uruguay first stop New York then Utah unhappy with life he became obsessed with
Death he just wanted to watch someone die pathetic he was going to then **** himself guess what he had a change of heart got a plea
Deal to avoid the death penalty Zack’s family finally agreed they didn’t want the day twenty years in the future when he would be put
To death then the protesters do like they were doing as timing would have it in Texas at that very time praising almost the killer’s life
And demeaning the victim so he got life without parole then as a true snake has tried five appeals saying he was depressed at the time
This was his last appeal and finally the family has peace, Yvette suffered victims survival syndrome she left her heart on notes she left
On Zack’s grave it showed the depths of love that was dammed far more so than the little Dell ever could be Yvette married but the
Young man in the moon was to powerful a hold so she divorced she does have a seven year old little girl that helps push back the dark
Shadows of that night Zack sister was the one who had the children her one son bears her brother’s name and even looks like him
Yvette’s ending words was she just once to run up and hug Zack and talk to him about that night when love flew away on wounded
Wings to hurt to fly far so in the desert the wind whimpers love denied finds not a heart as its home lost fulfillment blows among the sage
In the eyes of a special woman there is a haunting stare you can read there torment sorrow pathos in the raw she found comfort
In service of helping others this is her and Zack’s story and severe as it is it is also a story of youth that is gone the same as our stories
I want to relate one other special story in this exaggerated time of *** nonsense without love or consequence or responsibility this
Happened in a youthful time of innocence it was moving touching and in one way reflects the time you fell in love this won’t get you
But as the saying says the glory contained in the rose comes by the price of pain from the thorn to walk in the past you can tear a hole
In the heart and soul where tears are stored in abundance I found this out for myself I set down from Carol’s house in tower hill at
a church in the parking lot as I relived those special moments between two people young innocent love that would ignite and through
Days and nights that were to short proved it wasn’t to be what was it I can’t really say but I’m sure you know as well as any of us can
know I know it came from left field not expecting it but it’s all right to cry in a church yard even if you’re my age any time innocence
And love is called or damaged it carries poignant painful waves to roll over you sometimes with other things at play in life they can be
Too much there is a song that says I wouldn’t take anything for my journey now no and neither would I take anything for my memories
Of friends and youth and lost love.

'Tis the morning
to surpass all mornings...
The faint light of dawn
bathe its whispers on your face,
The beats of your heart
are controlled and deliberate
'Tis a recalcitrant heart
that has a mind of its own...

As you walk the path
that leads to the slow dance
that is your death,
your feet are firm
your eyes, alert
'Tis as if, it is not death
that you come to greet
But the passionate embrace
of someone, so long ago ,
you have loved....

Farewell, you say-
farewell to this world,
this nation and this people...
that cost you both
pleasure and pain

-But no regrets-

This morning, you die
willingly and with
poetry on your lips
"It is done", you say...
'Tis time to rest
Dear hero of mine
Tomorrow, you wake again,
looking towards the blue of the skies
challenging the blazing sunlight
if it can,
to eclipse the very essence of you....

It is still your name that we speak
with reverend sighs
your name that is forever etched
in the soul of our race...

Both latter and former, contrary and congruent
Neither gas nor solid, the river moves fluid.
No end and no beginning, just water moving… swimming…
A formless former that is a powerful latter
Contradiction through symmetry and space within matter
Passively energetic as potential becomes kinetic
Transparently reflective and silently phonetic
Thermally dynamic and fluidly frantic
The waters maintain a static chaos through mathematical mechanics.

Mechanically architected and architecturally mechanic
Water seems the perfect medium for analysis of a dynamic.
Dynamic existence and persistent resistance
Statically chaotic seems the architect’s insistence.
Equilibriomatic, with addition subtractive
Empirical measures fail to analyze the passive.
What simply is, simply is… Invincible to mimicry or microcosmic reenactment.
Experimental methods seek to unify the synonymous
Attempting to prove the objective with a subjective hypothesis.
Learn from the water, let its metaphor be imminent….
For the divine externality lies not without, but within it.

The setting was between Oconee and Ramsey my uncle Oroville Denton is an ordained minister
With the United Pentecostal Church he was putting on a brush arbor reenactment our church
Has what is called a testimony service where anyone can stand a tell of anything special that
God has done for you they have someone to lead the service and this was what I was doing but
The PA system was acting up while I was talking my voice was being bounced back where I
Could hear it that was where I was wonder struck I was talking normal but that wasn’t what I
Was Hearing there was spirit covering my words they make a lot of the Holy Grail as they
Should As a Relic of antiquity and it connection with Christ but it is still just a lifeless object but
Hear the Living God was speaking I felt this utter sensation of vibrant electrifying tenderness
Bathed in Unfathomable love a richness of texture that was profound the very distillation of the
Sublime mixed with human thought and expression it was warm endearing and it entered the
Soul as food ultimately different than what I experienced before except when I listened to the
Pastor in Monterey California he spoke and this sensation occurred within the spirit the same as
When you consume natural food this in the simple act of talking about the goodness of God the
World was set at a variance what was simple was astonishing the world of the unseen was
Becoming visible at least in speech anyway it was charged with supernatural renowned
Offerings that took you to levels not otherwise found inexplicable taste unbound knowing was
Fixed you were truly speaking God speak a well filled with knowing fulfillment thrilling
Spell bounding gifts sought and found by the ancients provided to common man illustrious
Clean and gleaming secrets the foretelling of dreams that begin in Heaven and then stream into
Human life truly before banners unfurled Holy and grand fortune awaits he who listens bends
His will to the flourishing uncommon vistas the predates earth and all that it is or ever will be
You are tied to immortal strands the quests of earths wisest who fail because they depend on
Only self as the one who holds the only possible answers when towers of attributable power
Stand without perplexity to the lowest searcher all is revealed it is all at the desecration of the
Giver not by might or power but by humility of need this world is bridged to the next we are
Endowed with all that is needed to secure Heaven for those that will obey truth and it just
Cause in the earth

(campfire poetry) WE ARE FIRE, WE COULD BE WATER

Flickering, fluttering, licking all it touches
Through another log it goes;
Spreading warmth, consuming everything,
Atoms and particles
Splitting and shifting in throes.

Fascination, energy at its purest.
An open flame, made malleable
By the hands that feed it or quench it.
There is no greater exhibition
Of something as infallible
In its awe-inspiring might
It is an eternal fight
Between that which is to be consumed
And that which is to be construed
Into something new, and different.

And so, we are one with the element
That awes us and terrifies us at the same time.
Our life is built
On the graveyard of our ancestry;
Our homes are powered
Through the sacrificial burning of past lives.
The food we eat is life from our perspective,
Yet it is death itself for all else.
The trees we cut down, the animals we torture,
The lives we take, the populations we uproot;
Our way of life is an endless reenactment
Of an ant being crushed by a boot
No life is sacred, all can be loot.

We are fire, we could be water;
A more gentle element than most.
A soothing, balming agency
Like the overachiever who dares not boast.
Both are harmful in excess,
Both can be destructive,
Only one is restorative.

And so, we choose to be fire;
We torch, burn, consume,
Until all that is around us
Transitions to its post-human state.
A lifeless mass of black and grey,
An emotionless, bottomless decay.

Alas, as these ruminations grind to a halt,
I find myself desperately looking for the fault
That has created the chasm that brought us here.
Where exactly did we go wrong?
How did we go from being masters of our fate
To this dark, ominous presence
That shrouds all there is?

The Renaissance, the Enlightenment,
and all the revolutions that were and will be;
The great men and women who dedicated their lives
For a better future.
To you, we should apologise - although it wasn't all in vain,
There still is a thousand-mile journey
One that has not gone very far.

And so, we choose to be fire,
When we could be water...

The Muslim woman is perhaps
the most enticing female on the planet
with her hijab (head covering)
her burqa (outer garment enveloping most of her body)
her niqa (total veil)
Such strict apparel floods our mind with curiosity and fantasies about what is so hidden
Hence the covered Muslim woman is  a reenactment of every woman's beauty, power and numinosity
a veiled vision that inscribes itself across our mind
and inescapably through our libido

I could lay here and wonder a million times over
What it is that keeps you smiling and sober
But nothing in the world could change what
Your eyes have seen and ears have heard

I could lay here and listen for a thousand whispers long since lost in space
But like the wavelengths of the words never said; I cannot hear a single trace.
I know what you feel hurts you to endure- so
I will run to cease the pain for you.

I could lay here and hurriedly paddle down the river of tears flowing from your eyes
Like waterfalls every drop is a reenactment of the rapids reflected in mountain skies
Falling as fast as they are rushed out of broken wishing wells straight from your heart
I cannot tell you how much I want to save you from the pain tearing you apart

Let me heal the wounds you keep mercilessly opening up
I want to stop the blood from rushing out of your soul
I want to keep you safe-I want you to heal-I want you to be okay
Stay with me, please- stay with me, I know I can help you if you'd just let me

Let your walls break down and open the curtains of your barrier
Let me in
Let me in
Let me in.

**Let me save you.

Your scent, once cemented in my memory, has now faded
It comes back occasionally
A fleeting reenactment of the original
Nonetheless, it still soaks me in nostalgia
And I find myself needing to catch my breath
Just like it used to catch whenever you showed up

Time is a cool liquid that flows and resonates through my being
And as I sit here slaving away day by day on man made devices based on prehistoric theories, I feel the angels of death ripping my time out from underneath my feet.
I maybe young but I continue to fret about the bullets that ring in my head and the psychotics that numb my brain into pliable putty.
They try to mold me to fit the social standard and I continue to fight back with the will of a bull and the guilt of a sinner.
I can not continue to castrate my inner self even though it is that of the flames of hell which will never accept me.
I can not continue to wish for the pure white of the wings angels and the dazzling halos of the pure, neither, because I am stuck in my impending cycle of depression and gloom.
Miss Mary Jane only makes me loopy and ***** me up immensely while the nicotine never sedates the destructive curiosity.
I am a slave to my mind and to the pain that bleeds from the bruises and cuts.
I am a slave to the human heart which controls every reenactment of the mistakes my mother bled to hide me from
And for this I cry and plead the words
"I'm sorry!"
But this is never enough.
I will never be enough.
For I am a hopeless little teenage freak that will never learn.
And for this I am truly sorry.

She told me to
expect greatness
Expect Greatness
To expect is to anticipate
To be great is...?
She told me a message
without any context
What a way to confuse
What a deliciously inspiring way
To confuse me
This open concept
That acts like a convict
Seeping through the sewers
Of my mind
Not only does it travel but
I still remember the conviction
Of that time
The heart doing it's best titanic reenactment
And beating like a teenage boy
But the day before it was different
The guy talked about the mind
He was raised the same way
But he needed that beating
His was different for me
He touched my stomach
And my flesh flew back as if a demon itself was being repulsed by the hand of Jesus
It stayed like that for a week
And I could feel it sore
He said "oh yeah this one has a fire in him"
Where did that fire go?
I realized it's still there
But like any fire it needs fuel
Oxygen, sticks, openness
I lacked all of it
But somehow I am to expect greatness
But Mark gave me an answer
You must serve to be great
But serve what?
That is the next question

My spoken word often
falls short of my
blood stained paper.
Where my heart spills
emotions only felt
with fingers between pages.

Words seasoned through the years,
lost love, heartache.
The many firsts and the lasts,
I experience my ink saturated tales.
Where one lives in a mysterious clarity
not received on the vocal reenactment.

Writing comes in waves, like the coast.
Overwhelmed, drenched in feeling,
fading then; waiting to crash back
against me eroding barriers.
To keep my detached self between
one tidal eruption breaking my
total defense from all intervention.

My childhood ended when my dollhouse got repossessed,
crying in the back of Daddy’s Caddie.
You traded your daughter for diamonds
and left it all behind in a U-Haul.

You blamed his haunting city streets,
and post-war reenactment dreams.
You couldn’t be the queen to his beer can kingdom anymore.
He flipped too many coffee tables,
and let the kids grow up wrong,
and suddenly wasn’t the man you loved in high school.
He’s just another excuse,

But this isn’t about him,
This is about you,
All 534 miles of it.

You’re a woman without mirrors.
You play victim too well,
and love me like the favorite chip on your shoulder.
I gave your title to a deserving stranger,
and you flew from my human scent.
I never got to tell you about the splatter.
It’s hard to forgive someone who’s never at fault.

But this isn’t about us,
This is about you!
All 534 miles and counting!

This is about your life in 5 year chapters,
and sweeping your problems under the bible-belt.
This is about looking for happiness in the small town Carolinas,
and loving another man,
and another daughter,
and all the people you don’t owe apologies.

This is all about you,
And what you’ve done,
And you will never be more than this.

The cemeteries are full of "if only's" and "I swear I never meant what I said's"

* My eyes hang like torn hammocks after a thunderstorm.

* You can't turn poetry into prose, believe me, it's like turning a goodbye into a bowl of narcotics.

* Burning cigarettes in pairs like a reenactment of the twin towers.

* I see your shadow in the corner of dark alleys, clutching a bottle of whisky and my notebook.

* I am having a conversation with every doorway you've stormed out of.

* I am the drunken murmur on the lawn of a funeral home.

* Your ringtone is the sound of a pistol being reloaded.

* But does he kiss you like you are an ocean and although he's terrified of the water, he's perfectly fine with drowning?

* Drowning myself in alcohol because your eyes make me sea sick.

among the dead, two heroes, Octavian, and Philip Augustus
(from the house of Capet)... to all hopes of a revived Hollywood
encircling them, fermenting as many credible names -
strange people, poisons that smell like perfume - what?
lord anthony is dead - is that how one says it?
simply as that... mark anthony is dead -
the soup is hot, the soup is cold - anthony is living, anthony is dead -
SHAKE WITH TERROR WHEN SUCH WORDS
PASS YOUR LIPS... FOR FEAR THEY BE UNTRUE
AND ANTHONY CUT-OUT YOUR TONGUE FOR A LIE...
AND IF TRUE... FOR YOUR LIFETIME BOAST
THAT YOU WERE ABLE TO SPEAK HIS NAME
IN HIS DEATH... A DYING OF SUCH A MAN
MUST BE SHOUTED... SCREAMED!
IT MUST ECHO BACK FROM THE CORNERS OF
THE UNIVERSE!
ANTHONY IS DEAD! MARK ANTHONY OF ROME
LIVES NO MORE!
i know of only two men be worth a taxing memory,
a taxman's assertion worth of bookkeeping...
that one was Octavian, and the latter remnant of Charlemagne,
namely Philip Augustus, father of the Magna Carta...
beyond the celebrated procession of Westminster Abbey...
there the minded tear...
they binding i admire most... keen puppeteers,
such that i too suffer sufficing to be with the smallest army of
exercise in the demand of owning land bereaved
from ever being lost, as sufficient demand for
posthumous reenactment of the up-kept bibliography.

i like my new journal
because
the cover is of
soft leather that
i like to rub
my hands over and
pretend
it's you
that i am touching.

i must say,
i really did
love
your little friend
down
         there.

he
was always wanting
to jump
    skip
    hop
          into my hands
                         my mouth.

and you
were always so willing
                           and wanting
so very much
to give me a
play-by-play
                    a reenactment
of all the shooting stars you saw on the inside of your eyelids.

your lips
were never quite firm enough
but it felt all the more
better that way
when you would lick down and around
                                                          ­        and then further down-
kisses of a feather.

and it made
                    the *******
feel that much
stronger,
              that much more ******.
it was the only release from so much anticipation that you could truly
                                                           ­                                                      give me.

our nights
                 in the back seat
of your truck
were
        well-spent:
                          full of **** and *****
                          and steamy windows
                          from showering in each other
                          and two whole people
                                                          ­     free from expectations.
                                                   ­                                                   a real rarity.

we both
found
something close to safety
in the pores of each other's
                                            skin.
       ­                   
                                             ­        i wonder
                                                          ­          if it all feels the same
                                                            ­                                            when
                ­                                     you're with
                                                            ­her.

misplaced anger is a real *****
I was really scared for a few
but the rage doesn't extend to me
God help the ******* it does though

someone is going wake up
watching a life channel version of his ******
with bad reenactment characters
playing up a dialed up version of the truth

I'm sure as hell I'm glad its not me
on this unhinged ******'s warpath

I have a dog waiting for me
when I get off the bus
and a brother
if I put
my trombone
down.

there are ways to be sober
ways
a pace car driver
can save
for a hearse.

the rapture, the afterlife
are both ripe
for reenactment.

dad ain’t said, but will

no person
truly ****
would disguise
blessing. thunder

has done its homework.

yesterday starts my car and bang bang bang
gets out and the tyre is flat as flat

so the recovery comes and says heck
the spring has broke and gone through
the tyre and i cannot move it from here
with just my van

and my baby is due any day now
in time for the holidays so i shall

ring for help

help comes all in orange visibilty and
a confident air to take the car efficiently

how lucky i am it did not break on the road
yet by the gate where good things happen

with birds and visitors

later i imagine it happening while driving

reenacting verbally
BANG BANG BANG

there was a storm at eight when the tv signal
went off

early rain
to clear later
a mld and blustery day

at a time,
(can we all agree it's now?)
    when the animals outside
just know somethings coming

a static in the air
a taste
metallic?

        where I hear them talk about conspiracies
 of **** gold stored inside Swiss mountains

          moon landings filmed in a downtown warehouse where all the participants have died in mysterious circumstances

    • a shaving accident
    • killed in a stampede
                              etc

etc

aliens are living amongst us


     and when waking up becomes a reenactment of the previous day and the day before that and the day before that and the day

before


she kept a diary of political slogans        and propaganda posters 

"ALL POWER TO THE SOVIETS"
she mumbled in her sleep

first you want to rob me of a mother tongue,
then you want an uncle tom's worth
of an english person?
   what's next, chimps with rucksacks?
you're pushing the line, kind anglo!
you're really pushing the ******* barrier!
you think i'll treat my next-door neighbour
like a king? you ******* kidding me?
the **** deserves his: "compliments":
what are these people think they are?
sacred hindu cows?
**** em, a pleb is a pleb, doesn't matter
what country of origin...
do i see your face on a banknote, or nodding
with a crowd? no... well then...
plebs till the field, ****!
why? i know all too well why
monster magnet covered three kingfisher
by donovan...
           so? go **** yourself...
     i didn't want capitalism in my land,
you didn't want capitalistically competitive
economic workers...
  shame on you! you taught your sons nothing!
if i wanted to teach leeches, i'd teach them:
we attune to the hunger.
i don't feel jealous with my neighbour,
i'd just like to beat, the ****, out of him...
   if he owned a bulldog, i'd punch the dog
first, before starting an aim at him...
but that's how it goes: gotta punch
the slobber...
   honest to god i don't remember being
in the last fight since i was 12...
i miss the fighting... i feel: rusty...
  no amount of ******* celibacy
does the trick...
            i just haven't been in fights...
i scratched my head more times than laid
a plum pouch...
          in the years i can remember...
i'd love a ruffle with a fellow man
just as i'd love to have intimate *** with a woman
outside the appeal for prostitutes...
sometimes it comes along, that dog
on a leash: loss of object-object riding
the donkey pleasurable: goof ball and
side-tracking the end result...
       "relationships"...
first i watch the ***** of candidmommy,
and then comparative "literature"
of donovan's vs. monster magnet's
three kingfisher...
            beat ****, esp. if:
by bloodhound gang -
ain't nostriptease if the stripper is crying...
and my neighbour?
   he doesn't own a crown,
he doesn't own an amnesty international
immunity,
         ****, i'm starting to think that
missing fighting is worse than missing ***...
so i started punching myself in the face,
and while wearing sunglasses,
seeing them fall off my visage after a lazy punch...
i know that men can really get worked up
over not having enough ***,
but that's sadistic, playing this game of
****** endeavour with them...
i'm starting to realise that,
   what i really miss?
  it's almost homophilic, in that:
    i miss punching someone...
       i miss being punched,
  i miss punching someone, but not it a sport
affair of competition,
i mean: the rough & tough impromptu...
i miss that more than ***...
i'd love to have a fight with my neighbour...
naked, and the ultimate fetish of such a scenario?
smeared in olive oil, or smeared in
butter...
     like some gag's worth of a gay pride brigade
march parade... the charlie salvador
reenactment type...
oil up ***: foul mouth 'as to speak...
beauty punch that lad into a botox pair
of puckers...
           i swear to god,
i miss having a fight more than i miss having
*** with a woman...
   last kidney pie i ever made was with
kieran o'mahoney...
               in school, before a c.t.d. lesson...
thank **** he's a nightclub bouncer
these days... too the skin-head to
the butcher of scalps: and made a decent
living, looking fat, and ugly... miracle!
        yeah, i know, i have a chili's worth
of tongue waggling...
   i can't say i'm a decent fight,
       let's just say: i'm rusty...
        so i beef up, punching myself in the face
a few times, every few days...
sometimes i manage the lazy grit
with a plum hue on my knuckle...
          sensibility of talking the proof,
after having engraved yourself as a tattoo
on a *****'s ****...
         and: well: the pleasantries
of western woman's freedoms,
and their subsequent harems...
oh believe me: i still have dream-contents
akin to a child...
    i'd still prefer to have a proper fight,
than ******* my favourite **** star;
i'm building up a compendium...
         don't worry, i'm not squirm-ish;
all i have to hide, is an afro's worth of *****,
which i would invite a gardener to sort out,
had i, a regular partner to engage with.

You’re not the type
To tap along to the drumbeat I’ve started to embed on your bedroom wall in response to the melody that infuriates the inside of my head
Or the type to laugh at a reenactment I’ve foolishly performed from some commercial that was on the tv last week while we were out at the diner
You put more sugar in your coffee than I do; my coffee looks darker, but the cups themselves, identical

Our eyes both equidistantly tiresome
But thoughts; wandrous
Always on different wavelengths, different pages, different channels
Our thoughts veer off and I am curious to know what you think about
Because sometimes your eyes dig graves
Keeping low to the ground
The mutuality in eye contact faints and gets buried
Tucked under somewhere far,
but always seeking adventure, they meet up again

I don’t mind that you never go under both sheets
even though sometimes it creates space between us two
It doesn’t bother me that you didn’t acknowledge the dream I told you I had last night
Because I understand your eyes still feel like they hadn’t woken up
But I was barely awake too

I tried to get you to wake up
You love the taste of coffee,
But not my coffee.
You like the taste of sugar
Was I not sweet enough to create a sparkle in your eyes?

I am suspended with grief
Wrought beaten
Placed about the coals
Endothermic crimson coalescence

Ferrous singularity
Tempered ingots impervious
An extension of god's arm
Sledging **** showers
Compacting crash lashings
Descalling with cold fire

Not shaped but contorted
Deep sloping concavities
Who's smooth walls actuate with convections
Apexes so thin
Whipping winds would make holes of them

Quench after quench
No closer a semblance

Extruded from the stone
Womb like enclosure

My last suitable home
Surrounded by my piers

Eeking a creep
Seeping into a mold
Ardently effervescent with aptitude smoldering
Akin to the gorgeous and gaudy
Gold, diamond, and pearl
All are flawed in the raw

A perforated structure
Riddled with gaseous pockets of base desires
Rendering a slugs mass
Insignificant as deadly
Miniscule as harmful

Eliciting a bold reenactment

A raven haired imp
Rebellious heralding divine
Angelic crown
Ringlets of white and blue
Peeking fontanel
Adorned with a rose colored center

Breathlessly pleading for impact
Contact
Of any sort
The instant where you feel the most alive
Ironically, you unwittingly find.......

You never were

Mary looked up to see tears
on Joseph's cheeks. She.
was exhausted.  The trip that
ended in the birth of her baby
was a flight out of Egypt

Tomorrow she would be in
quarantine. The contamination
of her body must be resolved.

Theirs was a strict following.
Her blood must never touch
hallowed ground.

The baby boy slept, unaware
of the Laws.  

Mary felt the sweat of her labor
dry stiffly around her forehead.
The World would wait.

Jesus's was the singular cry.
The long last breath of Hope
sweet on her face.  The
foreshadow of someone's
salvation loosed.

Mary sank into sleep
safe that she and the
baby could begin the
long journey to Calvary.

Did she know the last
of a mother's desperate
clinging to the moment?
Jesus smiled at her.
Cry
Mary brought light into
darkness, fuel into a cold
night and a will of

determination to sound
down
the Corridor to
this

Magic reenactment of

Religions signification.

Mary rested with her baby
for oh so short
a

Time.

Caroline Shank
12.24.2022

its child
reenactment

and *******

audition

Moment

Honey boo it has been a mission with you
Sometimes you're revlon to my menthol
Ease my smarts emotionally when life has left my heart sore
Appease my fears when I ought to do something overwhelming
There was a time when I stared into your eyes and it left my hands shaking
My body was being given a signal that something seismic was happening
I would hold you and it would feel like my world is coming together like the fusion of broken pieces of the the earth's crust

But now all we ever have is distance
Whenever we're together it's like we'd rather be with other people
Having *** is like reading about some mundane dramatic story with PG16 restriction
Writing you poems has become insurmountable like I need a prescription for heightened perception
Talking has become more ritual rather than something enlivening and influential
I document the way I used to feel by writing haikus to other broads so I can have emotional satiation vicariously through them

You say you want more love and affection
But it seems I am just security and a thawing tool when you need warmth and attention
Our love needs some external spiritual inspection
There has been a third party infection
All that is left now is remedial selection
Selection from the options that have sprouted from our detachment
A tree has grown that is not rooted from our vows and affectionate disposition
It grows weeds that act as a fungus poisoning our garden of passion
But like a reenactment, you just assume a role you would if you were still in love
It looks so simulated I am not at the least stimulated

I remember how like a tree and its leaves we were euphonic - we collocated
But now we are like familiar strangers who are unrelated
So for the familiar feeling I go to a bordello for an ****** massage or beyond; I don't know the *** worker but I know you so atleast with her neither of us has to be two faced about it
There was a time when I called you and came to see you and you had this gleaming countenance
Now whenever I text, you don't reply like I'm something you wanna forget like the fallen continents
It is no secret that our love has been drooping low and at the danger of an apocalypse
I would pretend that this is something on the telly and I'd act Nelly that this will end fairly but I am not a dramtist...

I am a realist and the pure feeling is I haven't stopped loving you
But I would be lying if I said I am still 'in' love with you
So I don't know if you wanna see this through
Maybe if it works you and I can enjoy the oleander view
Kiss each other a few more times and get lost in the breeze of azure blue
Time has been a rhyme fine where on the clock I'd climb and rewind to the times when we were twinned or to be right intertwined and it was fine, love was blind, there was ******* moaning but scarcely whine, so I would like to find if you would mind being on that train one more time....?
Maybe this time we won't derail but maybe our souls can soar and our hearts sail
Our memories are my bait so maybe if we reminisce we can bail out the imprisoned trysts
If you say you'll stay maybe there is colour beyond the pale
But if you choose to end it just know my emotions for you will never fail.

~Anastasia

Sweety bae envision this...
Our arms locking
Lips folding
Cardiac muscles holding
Time to time I let loose mine to your eyes
And it leaves my heart frozen
The pulse lets lose my synapses
For a more aromatic induction
Our love a tower
My body feels like Summer in your cold arms

What amnesia is this!
You forgotten how we met?
It felt weird...your calm posture
Your weird face with that lavish smile
You looked at me from a mile
Bewildered I held back
In a while...
You said to me "Hi"
I gave a smile and passed my greetings
We battered sentences with illusions of paragraphs
But it stayed with the distance
I thought of you ever since.

Moment & Anastacia