swashbuckling kittens wallpaper -- cutlasses, eyepatches, royal blue bandanas --
lined the walls of the kitchen.

"you love it, don't you?" Mathilda asked. she poured me a glass of almond milk.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever. and ever. and ever.
fridge door open. it's sparse. a world weary McDonald's bag and a last chapter beer,
the only other tenants.

"it's neat," I said. don't care much for animals. don't hate them by any means,
but don't go out of my way for them. my analyst says it's Sparks, Oklahoma's fault.
see, when a boy, I had seven---no, eight kittens named Simba. the howl of the coyote
taught me about expiration dates. Had a hard time accepting total loss (e.g., eight Simbas).

"do you feel okay?" Mathilda asked. and I didn't. but I said,

"yeah, yeah. sorry about waking you up last night. just didn't think I could make it home."

"I noticed you slept perpendicular to the futon. with your sneakers on. interesting choice."

Mathilda can be funny. and the almond milk was good. and like I said, I could drink it with
her forever. the ceiling fan, though, rocked off-kilter. she had stray, sad balloons in orbit
around the fan. imagined the balloon with the red-lettered "BOO-YAH" entering the wake
of the wobbling blades. imagined the blades flying off one-by-one. imagined one striking
me in the head and freeing me of a hangover. imagined being in the back of the line outside
the gates of heaven, while St. Peter kept letting the hot, single girls cut in line.

"will you?" Mathilda repeated, I think.

"will I, what?"

"take a picture of me in front of the wallpaper."

"sure."

"sorry, I've taken like 30 selfies trying to get Grace to re-notice me.
starting to feel like a chronic masturbator."

"what do you mean?"

"well, you know, selfies are pathetic indulgences in narcissism. hell, they can be
necessary, as is the case this time, I assure you---but pathetic, nonetheless."

took the phone. Mathilda stood in front of the pirate kitten wallpaper.
she leaned forward. made a kissy face.

"do you have to do that?" I asked.

"don't bust my *****," she said, "just take the photo. I know what Grace likes."

the two broke up last week. Mathilda in her oh-yeah-wanna-run-off-with-ol-banana-***** fury
threw a ******* party with balloons (they were tethered to things at the time.
the dining chairs, cabinet doors, the wrists of guests, etc., etc.). I left early that night.
I'm straight and not very relevant. so, well, you get it.

"would you like some coffee too?" she didn't look up. with locust clicks she fingered
the screen of her phone, uploading the kissy face, pirate kitten wallpaper picture to
her Tumblr. I nodded.

at the party she bedded two skeletal, Sylvia Plath feminists. self-fulfilling prophecy.
she'd written about the then-fictitious scenario months ago on her blog.
Mathilda called me crying the following morning. between the
shame/guilt/self-pity wails, she advised, "don't ever be the third wheel in a threeway."
noted. she said the three had a silent, last breakfast before they left. and I said something
to the effect of, you didn't let them go near the oven did you?

the first droplets of coffee hissed as they struck the bottom of the ***.

"if only coffee were a woman," Mathilda said. "am I right?"

"if coffee were a woman, I'm afraid I'd still pour her into a fine porcelain cup and drink her."

"you're awful."

and I am. but she doesn't mind because I've been celibate for two years, and she's been
so successful it brings her down. off-setting penalties, the basis of our friendship. or maybe
it's the way we leave things where they fall or rise. natural resting places. Simbas. balloons.

when the brew idles I grab two cups. fill hers three-quarters full. she likes almond milk in it.
and I could drink almond milk with a lesbian forever, I swear. to the fridge. the ceiling fan
seems a bit louder. one-by-one the blades. and heaven. and St. Peter, the pervert.
gave the almond milk a shake.

"why you holding on to the McDonald's bag and the practically empty beer?
I think they're starting to smell."

she didn't answer. well, not right away, anyway. and I took that to mean they belonged
to Grace. natural resting places. so, I mix the almond milk into the coffee.

"I know I should throw it out. Grace doesn't even like McDonald's. Do you know what's
in that bag?"

"I don't."

"avocados."

"what?"

"yeah. one of her friends works there. just cut up some avocados for her."

what sacrilege. made me tired, you know? fast food avocados, selfies,
Sylvia Plath feminists, etc., etc. the ceiling fan sped up, for no reason, I think.
the balloons cast shadows over the dining table. and I could drink almond milk
with a lesbian forever. trust me. just not under those conditions. beeline for
the fridge. door open. snagged the bag of blacker-than-brown avocados
and the bottle of beer.

"stop. she could be back any day," Mathilda said.

and what I should of said was no. what I should have said was Grace,
for all intents and purposes, was dead. and what she was doing
was reusing a dead name. and reusing a dead name isn't a resurrection.
but what I said was, "okay." and I sat down under the ceiling fan.
my natural resting place. almond milk forever. and ever. and ever.

How do you feel about this and that?

A cockroach stealing your children's dreams of a bright and peaceful future?

Watching a mongoloid getting backhanded by a ******* with a heart of gold?

The unknowable can't be evacuated by an atomic bomb.

Knowledge cannot be enthralled by microbiology.

Peace CAN & WILL shatter into fragments by the use of clinical drugs.

Fun finds the cure for cancer in a twisted upbringing that you and your siblings will never be blessed to experience.

Trust can trigger an avalanche of facts, AND satanism should generally avoid including sexuality.

Mary Magdalene turns boring things into ****** tension like peace inspires fundamentally skewered acts of protests.

Our world leaders briefly researching painful mutilations in an ancient garden in Greece, while suggestively grabbing handfuls of lost gifts in a church made from human bones.

How are you feeling about this mess of words I've sewn together?  

Televised revolutions are deeply advertising etched foreskins of death like Disney World sells us dates with Mickey Mouse and his muse Minnie as Donald poses as Adolf ******.   

Watch your friends fade and die as they disobediently blow away blue swamps at your feet, never even bothering you with a decent goodbye.  

There's a supply and demand on our radios briefly warning us of fearful flesh in the background of a dark ash filled sky, gently driving away from mysteries spied through a peephole.

I would have cried briefly, if worshiping premonitions in the shadows was good human behavior...But it's not..

Your sisters are daintily self-destructing emergency shelters dancing w/ both hands in your pockets while vomiting their lunches into fine porcelain. Aren't we lucky?

I am happily reusing substances
and creating electrifying populations with clay and words. A seamstress of sorts I suppose.  But I'm no artist.

Pentecostalism might be able to rid the world of a nightmare and your wildest dream might have been known to lead to a disorder that hasn't yet been but already has five matter of fact cures.

The Bible courses through the veins of vengeance like physics can be used to detect our long-term relationship with Santa Christ. Satan and I think this is exciting!

Complex religious designs can be combined with gracelessness in the name of American eye-candy.  We can be uncomfortable if it's entangled with destiny. Of this I am certain.

Cusp

Once I wrote these words:

Place your ****** hands upon thy chest.
Let them melt thru and come to rest,
Inside, the battle ongoing, under thy breast.
Watch, eyes open, knowing, fearful.
Swiftly, with no hesitation, from within,
Rip open your body, exhaling the best,
And the worst of what you got.

The cool air rushes in,
Stirring the inside stew of:
Infected grime, shameful desires,
Secrets that should not have been exposed,
The ***** stuff of about your life
that you alone know exists.

Contact with the atmosphere makes
Self-pity dies, blue blood turn red,
The TNT tightness explodes,
Ashamed, you have only one escape hatch.

Now, you are ready to write.
(http://hellopoetry.com/poem/now-you-are-ready-to-write/)

so here I am, hands on my chest,
so unready, incapable of writing,

the battle site changed,
sledding to the top of my head,
moved northwards, mush, mush.

just don't have what's required
to melt that mush open,
just don't have the anymore
to finish this Iditarod race
called my Idiot life.

nobody knows the silences
kept in my treasure box.
nobody knows the nail-beds
slept, bloodied, by this
mthrfking depression,
unexpectedly returned to sender,
unable now,
to write, free and clear.

suffused, this words reappears,
you don't get it, the twilight twinkies
below laughing, twinkling,
middle ******* me,
so not suffused,
nah nah nah nah
you don't got it,
you got nothing.

the words supply, torn and  tired
reappears, now escapee prisoners
before flatlining, crashing
as I am currently 20,000 feet over
somewhere above the Eastern Seaboard;

we may land smooth,
but not in any groove
that fits me anymore.

Here's the sorest, sorriest laugh,
what you are about to read
was eons ago born, and today
birthed.

Happy M.F'ing  Birthday #0
don't even, can't complain fresh,
reusing unused words that never got
devoured, so now, used up too,
like me.

cut by thicket's branches
(that in their defense, maim only to self-protect)
calluses of experience
not enough to survive
what is now needed,
new chapters required.

choruses of repetitive choirs fresh,
inspire but land on surfaces
heart-hardened by fear contagion.

who will know and
who will care and who
will make them all go away,
but me...

so touch my self,  
reminder to self is emailed,
beat the odds so man-many times,
one more time, what's the big deal?

fresh differences,
maybe,

words that are new
not in my vocabulary,
maybe.

Struggle, long lived,
is the status quo,
** **, don't you know,
nobody tole ya?

world's axis is tilted
you can fall off
a familiar horse,
get off course,
so east easy
a gravitational force so subtle,
clueless you're drowning
till the riptide
has liberated your
pockets possessions,
pathetic borrowings
of unoriginal thoughts
you thought you actually owned!
now you realize
new inspirational how to books
keep getting writ,
published for experienced suckers
like you.

so here at the pointed cusp
a crescent shaped tangent,
lines crossed, intersection of a curveball
turning inwards, retracing prior paths,
familiar but tho the forecasts predict
being on the cusp of something,
crystal ball reveals nothing at all.

I fold the little have learned
into a handkerchief
folded three times over,
tied cusp to cusp
with a trefoil knot,
which while
mathematically correct,  
is too easy as my hanky is almost empty
and hobo heart journey scary is thinking
done.

The third stanza can be read in several ways. It depends on how you read it (as two collums, one full stanza, etc.) Hope you enjoy :)

The headlines would never see Truth.
She is too truthful.
Their lies would never believe her.
She would scream
"Beautiful land taken away."
They would shout
"New zoos opening!"
  
O' humans,
You have stolen me!
I am your beautiful prisoner.
This dark place will never be a home.
My people will dwindle down.
They will become the ice caps on this warming planet.
People will disbelieve all they want until they see the impact
"Too little, too late."
  
Down to the bone my loves will gnaw on what they can.
Mother Earth                             Is the World
Food Supplies                          Gone
Water Supplies                         Down
And Father Sun                         Forever heating up
  
Can everything truly be done
Because people wanted to have fun?
Humans are you so shallow
That you let vanity corrupt untamed lands?
  
I used to be Africa a land of beauty.
Where even the blind man could see me.
I used to be Africa a land of love.
Then you took my people and made them slaves.
I used to be Africa a land of resources.
Then you took what you could
And stole the rest.
  
My sticky molasses was not strong enough to hold me together.
Instead I stuck to more places than could be counted.
The number grew until there was no more to hold.
Coming together became a chore.
I lost little pieces here and there.
They started to grow like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle slowly becoming connected together.
  
Slithering snakes snaked their way up smothering my breath.
Snakes with innocence for faces and trust for eyes.
Soon my land was used.
Minerals and gems taken.
Goodbye darling tanzanite.
Food and animals taken.
Goodbye Quagga.

Impact has come and people now try.
They start to help Mother Earth.
Reducing, reusing and recycling.  
They're efforts die as they see they cannot bear the tide.
They live with a history rooted in fame.
Now it seems their lives cannot be filled more with shame.
They stay under waiting for their blunder
to take its toll.  

They have no misery in what they see.
They do not care about my history.
I start my flame
and light the embers.
I no longer an smothered
The humans are.

Danimal Dan was Green, reusing every hand-me-down
the dumpster offered.
stipend half our middle class allowance, so the Danimal
could get his fix in unison with ours.
slab dual twenties in his oily callous hands.

while sluggin N’ sloshin’ his cheap wine,
the Danimal returns heroic, with red lips
and pink teeth, handing us “licka” boasting new
apocalyptic theories
the sky is full of creatures,
deys plottin’ yessir, pilots
   known for years, but Big
Washington Wiggies, keep
Uhmmmm zipped, yessir
hired dem creatures, “population
control” to **** eat America
leaving only the Finest.

the Danimal’s vision flashes, giant winged
Salamanders kamakazie dive from the sky.
fat white collar Cons offer bribes as they ****
fantastic fear all over their linen pants.
some auction children as the Danimal
arrives with an army of America’s finest
staggering out of
back alley bars & soup
kitchens
they shake Salamander hands
Slurring welcome
with Bourbon breaths

Beneath "the Blue Room" of Picasso
lies a mystery long concealed;
It is the portrait of a man
which only infrared revealed.
Reusing canvas is a trait
that struggling artists understand.
Concealing one work with another
masking the efforts of weaker hands.

We too are canvas of a sort
drawn in the culture of our birth.
Then, painted over by other masters
of uncertain provenance and worth.
Beneath the layer of the cynic
lies the young child's trusting eyes.
The image we are shown, world weary,
concealing where true beauty lies.

Reusing old graves

Some of your own blood

Nectar of your soul

To build this nest

This stinging canister

An assembly line of skeletal remains and burning wings

Pushing little armies on the left

Pulling little armies on the right

To march themselves out of existence

Life is a pesticide

Kills the flowers

Kills the connections

Keeps you working overtime

Just to hold on to a place where you can shuffle off this mortal coil

I am slave
I am addiction
Airy
open my pages
Find a clear lack of clarity, apparently.
find the words of obscurity,
that kept ME,
feeling absurd / lacking purity.
Words that helped me hold you down
Hold me down
Consuming and reusing and expelling in a town
Where we have no choice but to be ourselves
Ourself as seemed reflected on a screen
Our|a|self we might through dedication gain applause for
But not ourself, the one our eye’s never see.
Even our own eyes.
A self i/u/we buried.
To seem I was special and lacked- |non|?-absurdity.

Oh how it is so late,
But I have used so many plates.

My grandmother was it’s reason it landed in my hands,
Otherwise it may have gone to the lands!

I enjoy reusing,
It is so sentimental and soothing!

All people are selfish.
Not all people have empathy.
A waltz or ballet dances in my head.
Am I doomed to hear them on repeat until the day I’m dead?

Why can I never write?
Tripping over my words like rope left out at sea.
Now look at that, I've lost all hope of writing an analogy.
Then a rhyme, a spark of joy.
Maybe this could be a song worthy of others to see.

There’s never quiet,
always sound,
never focused,
it's just too loud.

Words used to be my escape but now I can't even write.
I design fantasy worlds where I can fight my inner demons,
the ones that crawl around at night,
as foxtrots in the background are played in delight.

So I'm sitting in a back room, cringing at the slightest sound.
Reusing old lines from old poems and songs.
Things I can't finish,
things I can't start,
and things that hurt my broken heart.
Thoughts that seem stupid but won’t go away,
moments in the moonlight that aren't here to stay.

I'm so tired and yet I've gotten enough sleep
I guess I'm just tired of promises to keep.

There's so much to do
Much I wish that I did
Someone needs to remind me
I'm still just a kid.

Can I have another childhood, can I take it all back?
Would I take back the painful years of torment, of lying and shame?
Would I take back the tears that I have cried?
No. I’d never take back those tears, for they are my story.

There.

Have I done it?

Have I written enough?

I'm tired, so tired, I can't see it through.

Distractions, distractions, they hold me inside.
Inside the dark corners that make up my mind.
So many things dwell inside of my head.
It’s hurting, It’s hurting, make it stop, the little boy said.

Take another step, I know that you can.

People who are more active
are less likely to think about cancer.

Choosing confusing reusing
is the answer.

Spanking your child
is unproductive and cruel.

We may have been wrong there,
But hey! William Singer can get the kid
into a better school.

Pools and ponds are okay,
but avoid lakes.

3 out of 5 doctors
prefer headaches.

Do you have a problem (?)
Take this pill.

But not for too long
'cause it can ****.

Don't eat eggs,
don't use butter.

You can eat eggs now,
but not with butter.

It's okay again to use butter,
just skip anything from Laura Scudder.

Girls with long legs and short tempers
make better lovers.

Boys always marry girls
who remind them of their mothers.

Do these 40 things
to be a better father.

That's so last year!
Why even bother?

Women who wear wicker
marry quicker.

Men who love their lawn mower
do it slower.

People who breathe through their mouth
as less likely to pick their nose.
Or so it goes.

50% of those polled
said "yes."

The other half shrugged
and wouldn't wager a guess.

We know it's a lot to process,
so just stick with us
and we'll guide you through...

more or less...?

There’s no substitute for life.

I find myself,
seduced by yearnings.

I’m flourishing here,
contemplating sin.

I’ve nothing to do
when I’ve nothing but time.

I’m reusing solitudes -
they’ve become ragged.

What’s the answer then?
Should I seal my girly heart,
engage in uncaring kisses
like it’s ‘casual friday’ -
connive brief excitements
- just to feel a pulse?

I'm full
Devouring eons of blank air
Devoid of noise or sounds of speech
An all consuming force
Gorging
Digesting

But this has been poison
Sickening my mind
Breaking it down

Believing it with each bite
Hearing the calm nature of silence
Hearing it's preach of peace

I've written the silence with hatred and pain
****** hands holding a knife to the page
Gorging on my own pain

Reusing my suffering mind to escape
Immolating my thoughts with repetition
All in the silence of my mind
Not a soul hears me
Gorging on my own pain

No don't create don't type don't think of who you once were

Creativity is overused words are old and minds are limited

Randomly typing nothing rambling away into pixels and twisted letters that once spun in an imaginative mind

Loneliness shooting from fingertips reusing recycling but not creating

Typing on without pressing backspace just letting the words take their places their seats their positions of who they truly are and were

Not caring about of the lists of writing rules of running sentences of incomplete lines

Just writing just thinking just telling the brain to move the fingers one by one nerve signals like fireworks the screen is a black hole

A black hole that comes out white on the other side then purple then red

A line flashes as I type a line always in front of me beats along with all the cliches I have ever used

MOVE

This Christmas, let us move from me to us

Move to protect our environment, by not cutting Christmas trees.

Move to feeding Turkeys not eating them away.

Move to buy little gifts for the poor street children, when we buy for the family.

Move to get back our old parents home from infirmaries or old age homes.

Move to rebuild relationships with old friends and relatives whom we have ignored.

Move to plant at least ten trees to save ourselves n our children. To increase oxygen levels.

Move to save sweet water by reusing it in many ways. E.G. From washing machines to flush tanks.

Move to make things better, brighter and our Earth a better place.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

JOIN ME

A little bit of awareness, a wee bit of extra care;

Help me, join me, with me this willingly share.

Electricity has many advantages; count we here cannot.

But it creates heat n pollution, which increase should not.

Summer is here n cannot do without A/Cs and fans we, today.

But to use them judiciously, carefully there is a way.

Switching them off immediately is a way simple n great.

Until we return,  to keep them on we shouldn't wait.

Electronic devices produce extra heat, which we try must to reduce.

So help Nature, let us, and many jobs simultaneously fuse.

with the A/C water; grow n water plants; this cool will our Earth

Waste water from RO plants, drink can animals n birds, or use it at the hearth.

With a plate of this water, ice make n under the fan keep.

It will help cooling the room, recycling done can be; just flip

Reusing water, switching off lights, cars, can help to reduce heat

New little innovative ideas introduce, share; n this heat defeat.

JOIN ME in my endeavour important, with a beginning small.

Help spread the message to your friends, family one n all.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

DIVE DEEP DOWN



Dive deep down into those fathomless depths of the ocean I do, to find pearls, precious and rare

Believe me, it is worth taking this trouble, when successfully you can them find, with hands bare

Pray I, my Lord, to grace me, grant me these invaluable, most precious pearls, those beyond compare

O Ahura, when ready they are, scooped from their oysters, them with readers, I would like to share

Varied may they be, shiny, shimmering, lustrous, white, ivory, or pink, for each and every, I deeply care

My poems n quotes should create an impact deep n for a better change; like oxygen does to air.

May every reader digest/absorb at least a  pearls few, be it helping nature, earth, religion, or elder-care;

Be it fighting pollution, reusing plastics n water; or prepared we must be, to consequences dire bear.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

ONE, TWO, THREE, I LOVE YOU LET IT BE
Dear Andrew, I am sorry but I just cannot handle you anymore. I am embarrassed to even show you to my parents, or friends, let alone call you my "boyfriend". You suffocate me, you mutilate my mind and soul, and you never even have time to compliment me on things like you have before when we first met.
~
I threw her on the concrete ground by the dumpster. The thud that her head made against the metal must have echoed throughout the next six or seven blocks. I felt bad, but she looked so gentle and sweet just laying there with that expression on her face; I gave her many compliments while she was suffocating (she died happy).

FOUR, FIVE, SIX, LICK YOUR PRETTY LIPS
Maybe if you agreed to change things would be different. But your weak, dumb, and stubborn. People like you never change.
~
I took out the knife she got engraved for me and gently pressed the cold blade against her cheek...Tameia said she always wanted rhinoplasty. From here, I will construct a new me. A better one. A stronger, smarter, more diligent me. I always wanted to be an artist, and here is my chance to be one.

SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE, I SWEAR TO GOD I'LL MAKE YOU MINE
To be honest, I hate you. I just ******* hate you. Everything about you bothers me so much. That rancid coffee breath you have in the morning...the way you always ignore me when I ask you to ride bikes with me to work...the way you always fret about every little insignificant thing........
~
My inspiration has to be those annoying day-to-day occurrences we all go through everyday. Finding out there's no more milk when you made your coffee, finding out you have no gas when your going to work, finding out your meds ran out when you are having a panic attack...

TEN, ELEVEN, TWELVE,  LET'S FORGET I'LL GO TO HELL**
You're a cold and numb *******. I can't even consider you human anymore. You have no feelings, emotions, insights. You have no capability of even feeling the slightest amount of empathy or compassion.
~
If anyone ever asks how I felt while constructing this new piece I will tell that I felt very enlightened and compelled. I am very passionate about my work. My overall concept was recycling..."reduce reuse recycle"...
I am reducing nuisances, reusing her body, and I am recycling (re-incarnating) her existence.
Pretty simple, and I think the post-modern patrons will appreciate it.


With a swift cut into her throat I started to carve out her name. T..A...M...E...I..A..
...This piece is self-titled.

For Armaity, this Earth, I sincerely wish to do plenty of deeds good

Achieve this easily, if bless me with success Ahura kindly would.

Achieve we can plenty, if many people cooperate in this mission would

Ahura, if Your light n guidance inspires them; then participate they would

By doing our little bit, a lot can be achieved; but everyone pitch in should.

Switching off all gadgets immediately after use, we very easily could

Using fuel wisely, planning trips well; save a lot of money, easily would.

Due to water scarcity, women go through trouble plenty; help them we could;

By planting trees, by rain harvest, achieve a lot we could

By canal n artificial lake constructions  possible become, this would.

In our own small way, switch off our gadgets,  lights immediately we should

Repair leaking taps n close all taps promptly after use, we should.

Reusing discarded water from ACs, ROs, washing machines save water could.

Seawater in coastal areas, for flushing toilets, be used easily could

If individual every, diligently does this, plenty of resources save we would.

Armin Dutia Motashaw