On the corner of 8th and Fleet
A man plays a drum with a funky beat
He uses two thigh bones as sticks in his hands
And aspires to play in the coolest bands.

He beats on a drum made of flesh and bone
And boy, let me tell you, I swear it moans
It cries out to other goblins and ghouls
And pleases the zombies leaving their schools.

This man is a mummy, no pun intended
Through all of his bindings he smiles so splendid
And plays until morning without any sleep
And he never seems to miss a beat.

Rad-a-tat-tat-rada-tat-rada-tat
The coolings of music and things such as that
Then out of the blue walked a single vampire
“You, my good pharaoh, are up for hire.”

He picked up his drum and his sticks and his hope
And followed the man to a bar called The Rope
And walked into chaos and fire and soul
Except for the dull and dumb-witted trolls

“Get on that stage and give us a beat
On top of all this, I'll give you a treat.
Instead of this run down and ***** old drum
Sit down to MY drum set and have some fun!”

The mummy was shocked and slightly unrest
But he promised and hoped that he'd do his best
He got on the stage and the lights came down
And he thought, with his talent, he'd go to town.

Rab-a-dab-y-splat-da-boom
All he could see was his certain doom
The crowd was mad, a troll threw a bottle
The mummy high-tailed it out at full-throttle



What was he thinking, he abandoned his heart
And lost his drum made with his own body parts
And alone he was, no hope and no drive
He had to find something more fun to survive.

He tried to become a family physician
But he knew this wasn't the right position
He refused and argued he'd never give up...
His bandages for anyone's nasty cuts.

He joined the circus for almost a day
But again, he knew, this wasn't the way
They unbound his bindings but he never spoke
Until they used him as the tight-rope.

So alone he walked, bitter and sour
Back to his home in the Haunted Tower
The town turned gray from the lack of spice
With nothing to do this would have to suffice.

“Poor drumming mummy, he offered such joy
When he banged and played on his favorite toy.”
“If only I knew where this mummy would be
I'd give him my bones and my flesh for free!”

Surprisingly this conversation transpired
Outside the place that the mummy retired
He heard everything that was said by the man
And he carefully formulated a plan.

He distracted the other and grabbed a big knife
He decided he'd end this wise man's life
He crept up behind him and whispered a, “Thank you
I hope you don't mind 'cause I'm going to shank you.”

The knife plunged deep with a raging fire
And to his surprise he just killed that vampire!
He laughed with a howl that scared the beast
That was running away down the street.



“Irony tastes like the finest wine.”
The mummy had very little time
He carved up the vamp and took what he needed
And to the heavens he calmly pleaded.

“My torment has turned me completely numb
But I promise I'll make a better drum!”
It only took minutes and was finally done
When, behind the horizon, fell the sun.

He set-up his station at his usual spot
Right next to an empty parking lot
He closed his eyes and picked up his sticks
And pleased the masses with his tricks.

The sound was as cold as the soulless vampire
But raged with a hot and terrible fire
Everyone cheered and screamed and howled
The mummy has bared a magnificent child

“Your drum, however, seems not the same
Does this new drum even have a name?”
“You better believe it,” said the pharaoh
“I think I'll call it the Ugly Sparrow.”

And with that he played for days and days
And played the music the people crazed
And forever and more he sat with his thought
And never again left this spot.

He turned down all offers and turned away work
And people called him a mindless ****
“That's just the thing, to have all the fun
You can't have a brain while playing the drums.”

On the massive Shoulders of Microsoft
are...
Children's games
Search for names
Weather reports
Scores for Sports
Travel news
Rythmn & Blues
Hotel prices
Adult Devices
Chinese Quisine
Night Scene
Machine *****'s
High Heeled Shoes
Butter Knife
Future Wife
Candy Crush
Makeup Blush
Family Tree
Spending Spree
Natural Pearls
Web Cam Girls
Rental Hall
Disco *****
Dance Clubs
Irish Pubs
Paternity Tests
Financial Invests
Mortgage Brokers
On Line Poker
and, so much  more.....JMF 2/21/15

Foggy breeze through my
fingertips when sunburnt days
seem coveted in memory.
When the columbines came back from the dead.
Burnt up cities...
The last glimpse of
firefly lights grew dim behind me
The trees sprouted everywhere like stardust
The pillars I once worshipped
in incense with amulets
became faded ruins...
The weathered walls texture
were like sequins with no glimmer
I escaped again to a place with green lakes and forrests of pines
It's quieter up here in the
mountains
Like a shudder through the
window
I hear the old house moan all
through the day and all
through the night
The sunlight pierces through
the blinds
illuminating his face
which is already illuminated
But you're my bumblebee
that insignia- a honey gatherer
If you subtract the intimacy
out of ***...
Nothing's left, but
hollow mechanical *******
Stealing the rythmn from
the music
Sturdy as a beam I lay
Unable to grasp at anything
It's just noise
Sweaty day, shivering nights-juxtaposed
It's like living on Mercury
In decomposition like a basket of rotten lemons
Past conversations crush their
weight against my open ribs
No parent teacher or friend
told me how all consuming the sensation would be...
Dazed eyes staring through
disheveled blinds,
I was dropping rose buds off the
second floor balcony in the night
They hit the scratchy asphalt
like a gentle meteor shower
Monotonous nights replay
the same phases
That moon...
A face splashing
from gibbous to crescent
Waning on my malady
Always stirring like a steady torch

old.... still,
kind,  
strength steps in,  
new paradigms to be created
all in long, past passion

yet still able,
yet ever will able,
to grow wisdom,


they...out there beyond
find new a rythmn
and  purpose
is it to be....

on all varigated,
arangements..... a new twist
perhaps....
some order, to the paradox
of the aboves.

what our...
never-ever-never world
should be,
we are a realm of
be all, end all, have all.

elephant's, we are to faded parchment memories.
the  mouse within,
loves a quiet,
realm of the wise....  
and careful, considered...
thought

but you...you....
fall beneath the thunder
of my steps...
in vain attempts,
to gain insight into
the hyperbole of my elephant's spinning dance

and the back scratching monkey's  never silent thought's
initiating as they be,
into the colour spectrum
of the latest...
popular...populace, fearful fancy.

be quiet as needs be,
says the mouse
the world will...
awake to wisdom,

spend fruitful time...
awaiting the calm to break

never is it above strength
allowed
the roles, the gifts,
we are given.

be  in on the  elephant's  new rythmn
and far above the monkeys purile, speculation

need, need, needs,rememeber awlays... quiet, desperate passion,  
and to fall gently
beneath the winds of change

be, find, do,
the extra-ordinary
see the kindness in the eyes
of all you encounter
and unfailingly,
return
the hopeful glace

burn, burn the oldest order
set the worlds,
infinite whorls......aright

and then
sing the stars
to sleep...
in the purple,
winkled, wrinkled hours
of the calm and pristine
shadowed span of the night.

the house is making,
noisy demands, this morning
that i feel i am, unable to meet

the microwave,
is bleating about the coffee steaming, standing, waiting,
on it's spinning table

the washing machine,
is singing a smug little jingle.
job complete. washing done,
are'nt i neat!

the dryer,
whirring, sighing, thumping,
slumping,
to a rythmn all its own.

the roomba,
is doing,
the
rhumba,
all the way
down the
hall.

the computer,
dings and sings
you have new mail.

and worst of all
the alarmclock,
has told me.
i have,
met my quota,
of snooze recalls.

so,
now,
i have to,
get up and face it all.

how i wish,
for the days,
when the
house mechanics,
went about their work,
in quiet and dutiful ways.
requiring no praise at all.

Lying quietly

The sea comes to wash

Over

The sin's

In my heart

Lying quietly

I see your truth

and i love this

Lying quietly

I hear

The rythmn of your soul

My eyes

Betray me

And the sea washes

My truth away

Yes, sir, I kissed her
On the mouth in the back of the bus
It was dark so I reached over and touched her
In a place where my fingers had never felt before
You bet your life, I kissed her
And guess what? She kissed me back
I 'bout had me a heart attack
When I felt her tongue on mine

She always has your eyes, darling one
It's how I know it's true
That there will never be another one
Who can do the things you do
No matter who she is
My, love, she always has your eyes
For your eyes are her eyes
It's not a surprise

Yes, sir, it hurt when she left me
I ain't ashamed to admit
Wonderin' how long until she'd forget me
You're ******* right she'll forget
You're best served with the truth, my foe
There's a lot you'll never know
So much I'll never tell you
For now it's time to go...

...go along, little dove, move along the straight and narrow. Bring along your bow and arrow. It's a small gate and few are the wasted who have tasted it's taste then wasted it's a band of jobless ruffians walking in a straight line, eyes locked straight ahead and determined to arrive at their destination. Dressed in monk's robes, their attire was not the only thing about them which conjured the appearance of a band of Tibetan's finest.
     Make haste! Go along, sweet caterpillar of the dawn. Gather your spawn and meet us on the backyard lawn. Make it quick, make your move, make every guitar pickin' note count. This is your time, La Penguin, it is the dawn of your destiny. The pawn of the mystic's I have placed upon a square I am not legally entitled to inhabit, figuring you would not notice it and even if you did you might not realize I was playing the match illegally. Royal eggs hatch regally, they are a meal of value and worth.
     Plath's dead voice recites her own poetry in the 74th century throught the medium of streaming music, which is every man's birthright. The inhabitants of this far off century are each and every soul well versed in song and voice, rythmn and melody, the poignant lyric in the third verse or during the chorus, their collective history was the culmination of thousands upon thousands of years totally absorbed in every aspect of MUSIC. To say they worshipped music would be to stop somewhat short of being the absolute truth but we listen anyway, we always do, good morning, I am the voice in your head. Have you finally befriended me? Finally accepted me and maybe even appreciated me? Regardless. I am the voice in your head. Do you want to know whose voice is in MY head? That's right: YOURS! Do you think this makes me any happier than the prospect of my being the voice in your head it's complicated, I'll grant that. But now that you're on a roll, what say we write some more crap poetry?

Try not to rhyme
No one does that anymore, that's reason enough
Yes, there is a secret meaning behind all this
You were not on my mind when I wrote this crap
If things had gone my way I could be making excruciatingly
Joe, where you going with that gun in your hand?
I love all you *******, I really do
Some of you are genuine artists
Some of you can't write for ****
But that don't make it bad, does it?

Who is she?
She was a worm that crawled in your ear
One summer night while you slept in bed
Dreaming of the day your son
Shot you in the head
Then left you for dead
Wake up, David, wake up!
Fear not the tarantula, David, wake up!
For his bite doth not ****

...go along, feline substitute, your portmanteau is waiting. where are those people now who were so recently uncharitable? They've all been little boys before, every soldier in the field, every face behind bars, they've all had baths and someone to dry them off. Surely this must be? I am too wasted to go on.

Naya kudro. Reo o hart bonite. Rega in gavida, gavida. E qualid plea, senior away cast them in fee, el mquee.
Hula sona karay. Shis attune heh, hey hey, the grinavorte, honeas delong. O, fate be a queen. Allah's mortal today. The name. I don't want a name. Oh, no. The glad. Uh, uhhhhhhhh, uh, I'm madalam...you know....it's grand.......these sandwiches, they're grand.........beam me up, Scotty, you know the rest of the joke........Just like drums in an African rainforest, glistening with moisture, the rain mixing up the rythmns as drops make contact with skin. .........holding in past for the trial........coming in a car.........what a................you run, you running so much higher, climbing on a wire, you know..........you run, you running so much faster and now you're...........holding in past for the time......holding and caring for strange..........what catches your eye.........

I only thought I was too wasted to go on.
But this time
It's a for sure deal
I
am
too
wasted
to
continue

...to be continued

We walked on fields of hellish amber,
our bare toes scraping barbed wire.
we held our naked palms out flat
so that they might feel the air thick with dust.
We walked in the black rain, dying our hair a sooty grey
and leaving vertical wrinkles on our cheeks.
We walked towards the end.

We watched the phoenix plumes rise up
then crescendo in an extinguishing fire.
we saw the mountains crumble, as if tired,
and lay in purplish rest.
We saw the shining sea stir against the coasts
and eat back the Earth.
We touched hands,
and we walked towards the end.

We saw a billion mouths demanding, reprimanding,
consuming and presuming, quiet to a hum.
We saw them crumple on driveways and in shopping malls,
murmuring so many names to the same effect.
They were still then,
but we,
we walked towards the end.

We trudged in our clothes,
shreds of some past life
we left there in the ashes.
We walked under the studded sky pierced by skyscrapers,
peeling back as easily as skin.
There, the torn fabric waltzed in a hissing breeze,
burning orange at the bulging seams.
Lopsided stars hung askew as decorations
and cartwheeled to the steady rythmn of gunfire.
Swaying, we danced along,
as we walked towards the end.

Scorched prairie grass crumbled beneath our feet.
Ringing filled us, and we broke cleanly in two.
Asphalt melted and mingled with the crust
and buildings knelt to pray.
We laid down side by side,
brushing our fingertips.
The sky bled lukewarm tears above us.
We knitted our hands together
and unfolded ourselves upon packed dirt,
black and singed,
as angels stitched the lacerated heavens.

We rested, tiny scars on Earth's craggy face.
We nicknamed every star and every worm,
orange with nuclear light.
Laughing, we closed our eyes,
flowing with the fire and the night.
Our hands were sure and firm,
as we drifted out of sight,
fading towards the end.

I know a lepricorn named Somhairle
He whisles a daft irish song
And I thought I'd name my son after him
thought hed grow up short but god I was wrong

He sings the irish rover while strumming
The rythmn and blues
I told him if he was a good lad
He could pay for me to go on a cruise

He starts a new job next friday
Down at dockerty doos
He cant ****** play violin
But he sure can down lots of the *****

They say when you find something that changes your life for the best, keep it
They say when you see a Rainbow in the sky, stop and look for a minute, it doesn't appear everyday
The say when you walk down a road full of dust and it starts to drizzle, for a few minutes don't run, let it wash over you

Many a times I come by souls that make me smile
But you, make me Glow
Souls that help me up, but you, carry me in your arms
Souls that sing songs for me, but you, create the rythmn of it

Beauty can be defined by many adjectives and verbs,
but the Beauty of a soul like you, no human invented letter can explain.

You've taught me to stand on my feet
Taught me that crying is okay, but wiping them off and building a bridge over it is a step
You've taught me that maybe, I may not be there today, but soon enough, with a little effort everyday, I will get to where I want to be.

And each morning, I wake up feeling better than the day before.
Though we have our bad times, its nature of life, you have loved me through it all.
Never gave up on me.

And I,
will forever be grateful, to you. My beloved.

©TheUnspoken

He said :-

This love's a place I cannot live
and the prison I can't escape,
for my love you freely sacrificed
and my dreams you nightly ****.

You are the pillow on my face
you are the needle in my arm,
you are the bullet in the brain
and the pills within my palm.

But I could never hate you babe
I could truly ner' be free,
for you are the rhyme and rythmn
that flows inside of me.

So I am holding on and digging in
holding you and holding ground,
for I know you feel the same way babe
at having me around.

So plump the pillow roll my sleeve
aim straight and swollow hard,
and when we play the hand we're dealt
I will be your joker card.

So holding on to promises
holding ground whilst holding you,
I will take life's slings and arrows
and see this sentence through.

2020 - day 193

Sunday, July 12, 2020
8:03 AM

Peer Gynt, self aware, self fulfilled troll-like
being ghostly,
projected before me, on the wall that is not there
- callin' all in, all ye outs, in free
- hear ye, hear ye
- the day of judging is this one called today.

See that pile of idle words, find the ones y'know,
use'm t'make sense
since you know sense, on sight, you re
co-gnostically be tuned to the same
signal. {soft call to be true to your self aware

you are so naked

but who knows?
right being you, not me,
selfless lost in the mix,
billions of bits being bet on yet
more
hope, faith and love
these
the trying trinity judging me...

can one tell one story, or must one,
take part in one,
as in the
one story being
the whole of all stories,
yours, as well as mine,
told in words we all know you all know

y'know waddamean.
tell me wha'd I say? Baby, be old,

turn and turn and turn
night to day, in time after time after
ever
ever
ever
being floods reality with
those three triers used to try men's souls,

attention, to the trained, means one thing,
stand up straight, eyes front, hup, now

to the beat march,
as to war...

We are off to meet the Manicheans who
swallowed all the hate once given
follower of Nicolas, in Antioch,

given hatred taken from the revelation,
interpreted by the time
stage acting as now,
the day... back when a hundred monkeys
were imagined able to use
a machine that made sense from chaos, over time.

ሴ

bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump

ding
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump

ding

the dance of graphical images mages form
as words flow from fingers into magical machines
imagined
famously by a Huxley fellow, convinced life happens
on its own volition
using right, as opposed to non working trials
abandoned,
{when the band broke up, 1970, or so}

but the music never died
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
bada bump bada bump badabumpbump bumpbumpbump
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump

ding ding ding
writers of types of tales barred from publication,
suddenly appear

as it were from the type of word processors {Wangers}
that one Huxley envisioned responding
to a hundred monks who saw nor heard nor spoke evil
but
tapped, and at each tap a letter formed
to let a sound be heard
no levers stick, no carrying platens signal need to
advance
ding
tic, steadying sounds calling next from a habit
formed to the beat
tic tic tic
squeeks
as common, common conie-like rock squirrels

squeek squeek over the steady everthere sixty cycle
hummm

hear it, little dog, not too far away; adding music
to your day, which
grew from this seed, a little spore of living from
my state of being
informed
this day,

it was mine,
when first I noticed, this being the day.
I have power to live,
today,

I slept through the night, quite comforted, indeed.

Each new day
bada bump bada bump badabadabadabump
has a rythmn
sometimes it's steady, some itssteps stutter, some  say

sibalent whistles signal something, in the spirit,

sssssss

wait, too late, we made the story and let it fly.

ሴ ሴ

Lessoning myself in social graces,

I wash away my stains, my graffiti screams whispering
see me, see me, see me say

trolls exist in this place. Those who mocked knowing thyself,
and called evil good and good evil,
call fair foul and fould fair,
say sould souls were stolen, when we know the deal:

the price agreed was paid.
I insist enough
insisting for any rational troll,
knowing you are enough is enough, is part and parcel to
the act of being true to you as you
may say you wish you were,
free as truth in ever after...

- ain't nobody got no papers on me....

The sybils all told you , furies may come, but did you imagine


the wise principle thing promised riches beyond rubies,
for what a ruby is worth,
we have no clue.
What's a ruby worth to you?

Are you hungry? Here, eat a ruby.

Auto, self, did, done, act act, ionic become charged, my son.

Mama. ah. the old wounds we cherish.
Times before now, states of decay, shedding of skins to be
wise
as a serpent, like, that's a good thing, as good as
harmless
as a dove, on which poets rise in mind's eyes to see

sources of courses through the shallows near the shore

we all meander nearer now, swamped in ante
cipitation, capere, take it

take it, take it and move on. Live and learn,
follow the flow,
when you are snow, when you are precursor of coal,
go
on, no shortage of power,
like in America, where the power is always on.

Or was always on, in my future,
which is already
your past.
So fast,
but
its all realted,
it is all one idea, in the end, we each are given one last day,

to make up for everything, or make up everything.
The latter, I think,
today.
ሴ ሴ
ሴ

You men ideas, furious in your raging, sing to us of
Gracious slaves of justice,

wake the lost hope of truth in
misformed
messengers whose every efforts fall mortally short.

Leaven a lessoning of habits formed being as a binding,
tied to each part of any whole
re-li-gated, ifthenelse ifthenelse ifthen else
re-legate, make a rule,
you
too
late,
we was e-pluriblized afor you was
aware eveh had begun,

The Pax of Everest living radiant as ever was imagined.
Peace
on earth, good will to the kind having hearing ears and
seeing eyes and slich oily minds,

anointed minded ones,
tested,
proven to have survived up
pop this very mortal moment called today,
to then, when you became dear reader in this medium
of mass messaging
lacking
any organized haeceity of pure me, not thee, not
other wise

ways wise men walk, watch, watch the liars strut,
do wise men walk this way?

Live and learn, we always say,
when given a day,
to think about it,

before dying and knowing, or not, if the point
is ever made, or was
already made before I started trying.

ሴ ሴ
ሴ ሴ ... _ .

A Feller's Opera

She sits upon
a bracken grave
with arms like
twisted thorns,
weeping in the
undergrowth
the soprano
widow mourns,
singing
haunting melodies
portentous
and forlorn,
the dying forest
will gaze no more
on sunsets
nor misty dawns.

Her haunting voice
will echo
'tween hollow trees
she calls,
a crescendo of
crotchet splinters
over timber
acres sprawl,
to summon
silent her aria
as mighty oaks
then fall,
to rise no more
in glory,
to stand no more
so tall.

Whirring,
snapping,
crashing down
as the whip
of progress cracks,
rolling,
beating
like a drum,
carving its
gruesome track,
a tympany
of lumberjacks
wave their batons
like an axe,
to the rythmn
of a wooden heart
as the wistful
chorus hacks.

Sweet the sound
of wailing song
across the land
does sweep,
devastating
landscaped eyes
in eerie silence
shall weep,
'tis her prelude
to the end of time,
that was never hers
to keep,
she sits upon
a bracken grave
to cry herself
to sleep.

©RJVHorton2014

Domino’s as their fingers,
the numbers
eating from the menu,
squares and rounds
enjoined but not sequential

In the Jazzy Cat Café
(tail curled in my mouth)

You weren't there
The sun had dried all the tomato’s,
I was calling you unanswered
missing the rythmn of your character, and
how you reached me with each impulsive smile
remembering earlier how...

we’d climbed eleven steps to your apartment,
and entered not really sure of where to next...

In another room;
(wooden floored)
was stored a blackboard menu,
a hostess said her welcome
in the way that Sultans sometimes spin

I asked for panini without the mayo
the waiter stirred the perrier
the singer sang without destination
and implied no journey

I heard her song and
watched her lips
missing
    all the ways

that you might sing


MChallis © 2015

to be a speciman in a jar
inspected from all angles
not freedom,
no hopeful view
inspected for your shape,
your feelings, your i.q.

to tip and tap scream and
yell for help to free oneself,

to pace cyclically while the beat of
your innerclock ticks your
precious time away.

to watch the watchers,

hear them whispering,
gossiping, laughing,
pointing at you,

curled feotally, as far as
possible from the incessant
view.

to want one thing,
but have another.

to desire,
to emire oneself
in a,
crooked point of
view.

to be confused, restrained
by sundered synapse,
or
fixated on rythmn, numbers,
rhymes in order to get through.

to be  black ink stickmen,
in
an ink black room,
with a black dog,
chasing you....
growling out doom.

to be living a hell private
and encompassing while,
working  in uniform
oh so neat.

we are one and all,
the specimans,
incomplete.

the glass jar is there,
for
all who stumble in defeat.

....to be a speciman
in a jar
judged for ....



is a living death,
a soundless living hell

a far cry from heaven,
more an automated shell
walking, moving, talking,
exsisting.....
             in a jar...
                        ..... on a shelf.

we coupled,last night
ben and i
in a strange wild sobbing
song of grieving,
primal,greedy, frentic lusting.
it was, an affirmation
of life,
desperation and sorrow was
our rythmn.....
anger and sadness,
the counterpoints to our, thrusting, grasping beast.
spent,  but still crying,
we spooned,
and pressed our
anguish, against each other
this morning, we are sombre
and united in sadness.
as we pack our black clothes,
to travel to your funeral.
our blood,
still humming,
with that strange song,
so wild, in it's abandoned longing of desperate need to create living, life.. to go on.

Comfortable Arrows

Lay down my friend,
lay upon a muddy pillow,

Such relief
after a hard day
playing in battle
and in fear.

Take off a limb
or two,
and slip into
something gauze,

Swathes of
poppy red fields,
crisp and clean
will embrace you.

Perhaps a little claret,
sticky,
a good nose
but not too old,

Warm,
trickling
and soothing,

Vintage,
with a bouquet
of iron,

Barbed,
with a lingering finish,

Perfect with a cigar,

Hand rolled
leaves of skin,

Toasted,
flakey,
rubbed
and lit....

Inhale,
inhale
through silver holes,

Where sparkling bullets
still ricochet,

Still smoking.....

Breath,
pause,
breathe,
pause,
pause.....

Turn down
the exploding lights,

It's only a game,

Those blazing fires
of the cannons
are far too bright
for our little lot,
for us to be brave,

To relax,
to die.

Perhaps
a little music will help,

A bugle,
a boom,
a cry,
a boom,
a whistle,
a shout,
a bugle,
a boom,

Like the rythmn
of a drum,
of a heart,
or a love song.

Close your eyes,
there's nothing more
to see,

To live for,

To feel......

It's all in your
imagination.

You will not
hurt anymore
when dying is like
being executed
by smiling friends
with childish bows
and comfortable arrows.

© RJVHorton2014

But it's all crazy, all this neo-fascist **** lately.
I guess populism's got a catchy rhythm,
if your lazy,
then it's so much harder to love me or debate me
than hate me.
Now, let's dispose of this safely: you're racist

because, either your daddy was too,
or, you're manipulated by falsehoods masquerading as news
but it's true, now, even I'm getting confused,
but ask, who the **** wins? because you AND the immigrant lose.

This ****'s got polemic, pulled by extremist views,
taking the meanest cues,
we contravene abuse, on the daily.
It's all so ****** up lately.
I guess it's so much harder to love me than hate me.


But the day will come, I'll be classed as crazy, man,
already feeling like I'm William Blake's Grain of Sand,
Eternity in an hour, in the palm of my hand,
I see the white ******* walls in the back of the van.

Because they'll nab you from the streets, it's the master's plan,
until all that's left is sheep, the rest bottled and canned,
then, they'll sit inside their keep, every gun-post manned,
their delight, so sweet, but never to understand:

Heaven in a wildflower or the Endless Night,
a reason to die or a reason to fight.
In their sweet delight, they won't see the light,
But from the Endless Night, you & me just might

because each glimmer shines out in the darkest depth,
as Blake writes revenge from the realms of Death,
those protected on high, Nations that sell & buy,
can all be blown out by a baby's breath.


'Cause only the blood in a diamond means it's not worthless,
the value we imprint are just absurd curses.
We all know what's hidden there, under the surface,
so, who teaches us acceptance and what's it's purpose?

We're all in it together, we're all complicit,
our lives connected by this something illicit.
Adopted by the collective notion, we choose to forgive it
and perpetuate it's frameworks, instead of letting them diminish.

Alright, let's have a break. Drink some response a bil i tea,
marinate in what's around us and all the things we neglect to see.
Where have we been looking and why do we think we're free?
Calm down and carry on? **** na, that aint me!

But in revolution, don't we just come back to the beginning?
Spinnin' round and round, in a ******' hellfire rythmn;
it's enough to leave you questioning each and all decisions,
or, just **** it all, sit back and watch the visions.


Like a pig to thunder: all big eyes and wonder -
As our world comes crashing down, ripped and torn asunder -
we won't get very far with all our property and plunder,
what would William say then, I wonder?

Some are born to Endless Night, but then, it all flies apart,
leaving my rhyming heart to aim and find it's mark.
It's my one sight of light in the deepest dark,
so, if you hold to me now, we just need a spark.

Can you remember the time
When the lonely winters wind
Went searching through our coats
For our skin
As the stars sang a silver song
A billion violins
Scattered across the depths
Of the indigo sky

One pair of gloves to share
Our naked hands trembling
Laced together and set
To fight against the cold
The only fire for miles
Was what burned
In the depths of us
Fueled by the dancing wisps
In our eyes
Bound by the ancient rythmn
Of the northern waves
Washing our souls
Back
Into the dreaming sea.

Where's the rythmn,
The rythmn, the rhyme, the reason?
I feel it's all getting lost,
Much like the seasons.
Have we been overcome,
Punished, for some inharmonious treason?

I feel I'm cascading and fading,
Like a politicians integrity,
I mean,
**** knows just what depths we'll see,

as all the consequences show thier hands,
in scorched lands
& Floods...

Civilisations get buried in mud,
so what makes ours so special,
that we would escape the Earth's revolution?
Sit back, enjoy, The Grand Delusion

as the Earth just keeps on turning,
never learning,
burning              hot
Right from its core
              -it's experienced a lot
                       But never this before-
A species forever driven towards war,
to enslave,
to dictate
and who impose their will, by law..
Who imagine a window
just so they can slam the door.

What more        will it take?
As half the world is going to sleep,
the other wakes,
Sun, streaming through that window,
as the day breaks..

Music fills my ears drowning out the thoughts inside my head
The beats louder than the beating of my heart
It fills me where the empty space has expanded within
Replacing the art of blades on my wrists
The thoughts of bullets in my brain
I dance feet move, my body waves and arms reach for the air
No one can see me
And this time that's okay
No one else matters
Its only the Rythmn and I
Some people take drugs to dance
I dance not to take drugs
Volume up, eyes closed I dance

Music fills my ears drowning out the thoughts inside my head
The beats louder than the beating of my heart
It fills me where the empty space has expanded within
Replacing the art of blades on my wrists
The thoughts of bullets in my brain
I dance feet move, my body waves and arms reach for the air
No one can see me
And this time that's okay
No one else matters
Its only the Rythmn and I
Some people take drugs to dance
I dance not to take drugs
Volume up, eyes closed I dance

she was jest one knotch too weird wired for regular folk
her
smile was sorta crooked,
'til she grinned,
then
the whole ****** room lit up like

Christmas Eve and New York New Year on TV

she was thereafter ever after I vanished
in the undamming of the flow,
past the weir on Tenant's Creek.

We walked in the moonlight,
to a famous cavern
where,
Dreamtime, dust stirred in the cave...
hear the sea?

way yonder, hear the ocean?
Sh, touch the dust, ashes of the past,
roll in the dust.
choke
cough choke joke joke
you pass
you pass heko heko finiinish wink.

Morning
Wood pecker rythmn in a hummingbird realm,
one two three for five six seb

seberal cebral lesions appear, pop-outa-gno-where

evil imaginations in your hear, dear reader,
go binge all Purge movies,

then rewatch five seasons of that sup-augmented
puppy show, where each episode is a win,
for the
favorite, in any any child's hierarchy of worth.
Paw
Patrol verses Oscars Oasis--
Get some goodoldfashion ethotical archeo-types
Etched in acid,
splashed in face of the diva asking ever who who who

is fairest of the fair?
not fair?

har har har, fair's fair, in Love 'n' War glory stories,

that end well, all's well.
That ends.

Next is no longer just
around the corner... this junction is some

past all that. Here is where
the rubber met
the road,

the one that leaked and changed reality
for me.

Viktor Frankl's faith was trust that one's life holds meaning
trust in ultimate meaning...
t'me,
My word trust holds true and rest crammed together for support
to stand under knowing the entire set of upgrades
and lock changes,
to mankind-basic knowledge of good and evil, since my last
a filtration algo-i'll-go rythmn and hyme adjusterho rholler
that powers ourkind past wayless places
when language joins the gamers playing for glory, at any cost,

Old Glory

per pose haps need happening,
sans happy-ness,
what ness could ever be?

What's the haps? Don't lie.
What's goin' on? Don't lie. Say,

Regular stuff. My side's winnin'. A *** in Pershing Square,
under the Jesus Saves sign, brought that to mind,

Fifty years ago, for him, looked like "no direction home"

Sansara sera, whatever sera selah

Nihili, to the max, right. But,
we know
other than this now,
this
breath

thinking process of cognitive rythm building
thunderwordmagicalthoughtsenchanghgken

coughing final, expulsion of some invading barb,
a fiery dart, setting cooling

actions sponding to ligands loosed when the
third aveili in a micron failed to expell

smooth
slowww whoooshhhhh
in-a-ginning be da vita, see...

say I think I know this feeling

qwhy-esse quiessence,
a settling,
after all that could be shaken, was.

acid to water, or water to acid?
who would gno?

Shining arcane fish
blister the concrete mind.
The solid stupid.
The flexibility we lost is
an icy sting with a rythmn.
A sacrafice for shuning nature.
She whispers
the cold truths in it
for us...
The little rays of light?
They slick WIDE your vision
of what you can be,
and what you aren't.
And what can one do?
There is no recompense for such a force,
there is no treasure map,
only the BLINDed fish.
only the too little pond.

The Swell


We see a human face

and the fear that drives it's heart,

so easily forgotten

for the things that pull Us apart.

From the start, We will treat you as a person-

it's up to Us where we go from there.

Together, We could tear down our prejudice

for a chance with love and care.



We relinquish the need for a universal control

so that new growth springs

from cracked concrete,

mielony mor.

Nature will inherit The Earth.

We listen to Her,

Her suppressed wisdom,

channelling Her Power,

Resilience

& Tolerance.



We Touch,

Hear a heart beating,

it's reactive rythmn,

as We step closer to one another,

the intensity of connection

building

branching

and reaching for the light.



We understand all there is to understand,

that We will know nothing

before The End,

before The Horizon.

Time is our commodity

and, We know what that should cost.

We understand the value

in Becoming

lost.



We embrace the coming change

as inevitible,

beautiful;

We would not stand in it's way,

shackle it to Our will

or deny it's murky reality.

We are in metamorphosis.

We evolve

and resolve

to find another way, Our way.



We find something new

beneath each word,

from every colour,

move through space with all Our senses,

open,

putting nothing under cover.

And, taking Trauma as Our lover,

We will nurture each Other.