Glitter and gold is the man in the chair
with rings on his fingers
and the hardened harsh stare
blinded by ugliness
wrists chained down by no use
a man with much money
he spends on abuse

the term known as trafficking
familiar I’m sure
he’s never been one for
doing what’s pure
so he lays down his money
flings out his cash
says he’ll pay the full price
for the girl with the mask

just to touch her to feel her
pet her cold body with his
run clammy hands up her scarred legs
clamp her in his ashen fist

little boys too he will willingly harm
because trafficking to him is a sport
no need for alarm
Just cows in the system
of making ends meat.

The poor solemn dancer
the poor saddened soul
the poor battered spirit
angry that they’ve been sold

with ***** feet and scabby legs
they work to feed the king
the end from him they can only beg
And freedom will never ring.

This is a terrifying tale as told by Ebeneezer Sweetlove, my late cousin*

I remember how I met Edwina all those years ago: and there was none of that "eyes connecting across a crowded room" crap. Well, not in a romantic sense - it was just pure lust. I suddenly realised this woman was staring at me with undisguised desire from the other side of a cocktail party at some boring conference at the five-star Grand Hotel. I was ***** as buggery as my latest girl friend had, just the previous week, committed suicide by jumping to a hideous death off scenic Beachy Head, so I returned the ****'s look with a lethally ****** stare of my own and then licked my lips as vulgarly as possible, indicating I was simply barking for a hot oral session, no holes barred.

The woman I was to know all too briefly as Edwina took the hint and came over and we talked as though we'd known each other all our lives; but even someone as suave as I was a little surprised when she groped me quite openly and shoved her tongue into my earhole, dribbling hotly down my cheek. And then she seemed to go all shy and little girl-like until I sophisticatedly suggested we go out for dinner and then back to my penthouse suite for a night of mind-blowing *******. I have to say I was embarrassed when the head waiter in the little bistro I selected complained when she took off her knickers and gave them to me for a refreshing sniff.

The *** was amazing - Edwina was like a beast on heat, screaming like a banshee while we ****** each other's brains out. Yet, in between *******, she was as gentle and charming as a little ***** cat. Six times I gave her my hot ***** that night: once in her mouth, then four times in the usual place, finishing off with one up her rear end. I was more or less totally drained of my love juices and in need of a good long kip before lunch.

But, tragedy struck: well before the dawn's early, she woke me and whispered she had to go as she had to get home before her husband got back after his night shift from down the sewers - he was apparently in charge of the entire East Sussex sewage system and liked to have an hour long shower every morning to get the stench of ***** off him.

I begged her to stay, saying I would happily pay for a divorce so I could have her with me for always. I even offered to have a contract put out on her sewer rat of a hubby, mentioning that my brother-in-law, Kosmo, was big in the Albanian mafia and owed me a favour. But she said no, I could ******* with my pleas. As dawn grew nearer I could see her becoming ever more frantic to leave and it was only then I realised the truth, having at last deciphered the real meaning of her blood-stained and scabby third ****** and the scarlet 666 tattoo on her luscious **** cheek.

Yes, Edwina was a ***-demon from deepest Hell and thus I was left with only one course of action. Ever so reluctantly, I bravely reached for the sacred wooden stake and mallet that I had carried round in my Dolce & Gabbana crocodile suitcase for so many years just in case of such an eventuality. Sadly I drove the stake into her beautiful ***** with a mighty blow and, instead of the blood which might have been reasonably expected, only a stream of warm **** poured out. Before my very eyes, her corpse disintegrated into a pile of odorous dust. Truly was Edwina a daughter of darkness.

As you may imagine, I had to give the chambermaid quite a hefty gratuity in order to get her to cleanse my room and to bin the evidence, but so grateful was she for the honorarium that she agreed to share my bed the very next night, knowing she would be likely to receive an immense tip of quite another category.

You escaped
Through my fingers again
That answer which I
Have been clumsily chasing

With scabby scabby knees
Under starry starry nights
In quiet, lonely corners spent
Watching something indecipherable

A small answer
With such a resounding voice
Which I hope will soothe my brow
My nightmares it will quieten

An answer which I've been restlessly searching for
In the blood on my wrists
The scars that appear on my body-
Intentionally and otherwise

Digging open my heart and sometimes others
I rip them apart, stride (run) through recklessly
But when I leave, I don't leave a single mark

Sadness, weariness, desolation, isolation
All belongings of the poet
I will say hello to whichever one
I haven't greeted yet

Just so I can define and finally see
In all my sanity and insanity
That elusive, elusive answer

Born in starry starry skies
Starry starry cosmos
Descending beautiful

Maybe you might give me a kiss
In all your infinite knowing  
Something too beautiful for this world
At the moment when Oblivion opens
Its arms to me

scabbed scab upon a
scabby scab.
scratch the scratchy
scabby scab with
scaly fingers and
shaky scrapy screams.

Fat footed
two ton tessies
tattooed with
tigers, growling
under bulging hips,
bustin' out shocks
on Datsuns K cars
Le Sabres, 1998
primer gray bondo
and duct tape,
taking up two spots
with a smile.

Streaky squeaky 
automatic doors
bump your nose
to make em go
1972 linoleum
grab a cart
hope you don’t
catch death
from the handle
or worse
feces.

last weeks ads
mixed with new,
who buys 10
of anything?
except beers
and smokes
fried chicken
and maybe
frozen burritos.

“Hey why’s that chicken smell like fish?
How old is that grease anyway?
Ooh there’s a ten-fer on a two-fer pack
of coconut orange sno-*****!”

Mr. I love
Jeff Gordon
matching
mesh hat
and shirt
wants to know

“Does that ten-fer on those two-fers
mean I have to buy 20?”

I don’t know sir,
but Go! Go! Go!
Jeff Gordon #24
hours a day,
always open

“Is that the chicken-fish I smell?
Or am I smellin’ the guy in flippy flops?”

bunions and
scabby hammers
mister please
cover that **** up
asks his wife
or daughter
not sure which

“Are them white bag bar code
cheesey puffs any good? too bad
they aint got a ten-fer!”

Texarkana
back woods
Missilouis
swamp

“mama can we get ice cream?”

red neck
united nations
mullets
macaroni and
cheesey tank tops
 
“Why cain’t we go barefoots in here?”

pork rinds
stew meat
chicken parts
nothing tender
never lean and
never ever 
from New York.
 
Big beer belly
buying beer
gotta count
coin careful
cart carries
cases of Miller
not Lite
not Genuine Draft
Hi-Life and ‘Ol Roy,

“**** mister, you must have a big dog!”
 
Two tone
skunk hair
holds the Tussin
grabs a
people
mag
 
“what page is my Taurus-scope on?”

power carts
powered down

“why cain’t they keep these thangs juiced up?”
 
basket bulging
ten-fers
that’s why,
two-liter Tab
Twinkies and
tator-tots.

Time to
check out
10 items
or less
12?
don’t matter,
checker has
checked out
bagger brags
more than bags
 
“I sees you folks got a kitty cat! My kitties
just love the leftover chicken-fish!”
 
big deal lady
we have 4 cats too
my pajama bottoms
have been worn
3 times
my hair was
washed yesterday
and yes I am
wearing slippers
but at least
they are
closed- toe.
 
pay the bill
 
ring the bell

load the car

drive away

mutter under breath,

I am so much better than these people…

She taught me
how to whistle,
folded a blade of
grass between
her teeth and
scared frogs half to death
in the woods
behind her house,
that chord struck
deep in the crater
she punched through
my heart

Her sandy skin
burned in the memories
of boys, who watched her
run across a field
with hair swinging
like a beacon, those
candied lips quick to laugh
at a passing joke,
they thought that
she belonged to them

But those lavender evenings
of junior high summers,
bikes and scooters lying
like faithful pets against
the hot pavement, chalky
hands with nails painted
resting against her
scabby knees, those knees
were my altars, I prayed there
more than I prayed in any church,

She was an anthem
unclaimed, she was
an American soccer girl
****** into a taste and color world
where she could be worshipped
by boys with football scars
and veins coated thick
with peanut butter & jelly,
she fell so hard that summer
cupped into the hands of
one after another, after I fell asleep

on the leopard carpet
of her bedroom,
I could hear her
whispering, and the
magma in my throat
filled to bursting,
the fireflies I'd cradled
in the bones carved
from her wrist --
I knew I'd never hold them
when the sun rose,
they escaped far too soon

This mosquito-stung life,
we wore our bites like
champions,
brought them home
to our mothers
until they would fade,
facing the plastic leaves
of autumn, I wanted to
stay locked
in her cage.

This is nonsense
Non-sequitur
My care's breakfast
Love break away
It's gone by night
It's out of sight
What you take away
You **** out right away
I go forgotten
Not about to let on
That I want you back
Inside my ramble
Its the bramble
Push your arm through
If you can't or won't
Don't fret,
I've got money for the TriMet
This is nonsense
Non-sequitur
The hidden truth
between the words

Fiddle dee dum,
Fiddle dee dee

Everywhere leaves will rustle for me
Everywhere trees will dispense them for free
Oh, if i found a red one for thee
Of maple, oak, and sycamore, see?
Look! How they lift and float in the breeze
Pluck them out, PLUCK
They dodge and they tease...
Tumble down, THUMP
ARGGHHH scabby knees!

Fiddle dee dum, and fiddle dee dee
Everywhere leaves will rustle for me

Could you love me,
Weak fingernails and all?
With that deep passionate love
That love that I've never felt
Not even for you.

Could you love me,
Scabby knees and all?
With a changing kind of love
That is the only kind of love
I've ever known

Could you love me,
Blistered tongue and all?
With a painful kind of love
That I know too well
When I'm not myself

And would you love me
When my fingernails break?

Now:
The EMTs respond.
A Jane Doe is found dead.
Beneath the I-90 overpass.
They lift her
Zip her into a bag,
And transport her to the morgue.
They can’t feel sad.

Today:
The few wispy strands of hair that remain
Dangle haphazardly from her scabby head
Jagged misshapen teeth protrude from dry cracked lips
betraying breath that stinks of infection and decomposition
Vermin gnaw on exposed flesh while parasites feast within.
Her eyes dim as her body putrifies.

Last Week:
Mission workers prop her up against the wobbly chain link fence
A thin blanket is wrapped around her bony shoulders and
Her blue-tarp awning is adjusted
She would be less wet and cold.
For a night.
They leave a cheese sandwich and chicken noodle soup.
The rats eat most of it.
She wouldn’t have kept it down anyway.

Last Month:
The shelter is scary and dangerous.
She couldn’t sleep without nightmares and her screaming disrupted other ‘guests’.
The shelter workers apologize and put her out at 2:19 AM.
She finds a spot between two dumpsters.
It reeks of **** but is unoccupied.
Sometime in the dark she is ***** and beaten by two crackheads.
The crime is unreported.

Last Year:
The fluorescent lights sting her eyes.
The antiseptic smell burns her nose.
The noise and chaos that surround her make her dizzy and disoriented.
She fights hard to get away but is restrained by strong hands – then leather straps.
A painful jab in her arm and then nothing.
Days or weeks later she emerges in a haze.
Kindly eyes greet her.
They stay with her.
They accompany her to the shelter.
They tell her to come back for follow-on care.
She never sees them again.

Before:
The divorce rips her heart in two.
She has nothing.
She is nothing.
Her world crumbles beneath her and she crumbles with it.
Where would she go?
What would she do?
Everything has become so wrong.

Once Upon a Time:
She was happy. Joyful.
Filled with life and hope.
He was smart, funny, successful.
Together they were magical.
Perfect.

You know you've been away for long when returning feels wrong
when the rough road you left's a beautiful tarmac
and the roadside lantana Kamara's someone's bed of lilacs
you know it's been ages when you feel nostalgia turning pages
when each bend you negotiate brings tears to your eyes
for the skyline's too storied to have a view of the ranges
so that in disappointment you take deep breaths and sighs
you know an eternity has gone by since you set foot there
when the hugs are a doubt for you wonder if folks still care
when the cute little puppy you left is a scabby old *****
and all you can see are graves at the stead to the alleged old witch
you realise time's past when every view matters
so much so that you open your teary eyes without a twitch
when the grass thatched homesteads are tatters
next to mansions trapped betwixt the so called rich
you tell the beautiful generation's gone when you ain't on foot
when soon as you set foot of what was such a lively place
tears of despondence cascade down your alien face
when you don't know where those who survived relocated
but can at least see tombstones in the distance suffocated
by growing bushes, you try to get close but every plant scratches
and you want a closer look much as every **** itches
you know it's been eons when many gather like a scene of crime
for they don't understand you're mourning for lost time
for those who visited the great beyond in your absence
young and the old attempting to speak English, renaissance
you know it's been a while for unlike the days of the old
only the youth show earnest concern, for they're the bold
they who'll try to explain for the elderly the stranger you're
for them old to realise you're one of their own back from a far
you know you've been away for so long when what was a domicile
is just a piece that couldn't be valued due to many a grave
the revelations hurt yet are given in bits for none's that brave
none's brave enough to relay your family's demise in chronology
and luckily someone has a number you can call thanks to technology,
your youngest sister, left a crying baby now married
realising it's you her feelings are an oxymoron
for she obviously sounds nonchalantly worried
and out of words cause you left her nothing but your stolen crayon
you know you've been away for so long when the moment
you so much prayed for turns into a biting torment
for soon as you walk out your car you become a shoulder to cry on
implying that so much has happened while you were away
yet you're too weakened by changes to keep at bay
where are the rest? you can't help but wonder
how a single decade could mean so much plunder
you know you've been away for so long when you have a novel of sorrow
one which reading could consume more than a tomorrow
when you realise you went to the wrong place or right
for you realise you're on your own childhood bed in the night
the then soft spots feeling so hard while you twist and turn
reminding you of the life you've endured whence you couldn't run
you know you've been  away for a while when you can hardly sleep
but you have room to contemplate the gone decade
laugh, wonder, remember but mostly weep
when you wish you had listened when they said
Arabian money wasn't the picture they painted
you know you've been absent when you wish you could rewind
to erase all those grotesque things they made you do
when you want to move the world back to the unwounded you
the one who wasn't sexually abused and ******* tainted
to save you the excruciating and ugly details
you only realise when deafening's the sound of hails
when you loathe rather than treasure the rain
because all it does is remind you of your pain
when you can't stop for yourself feeling sorry
wishing to speak out to the rest yet too ashamed to tell your story

There's a difference in these woods,
drifting between grey, scabby bark,
sifting into the moist, wormy soil,
beckoning for purpose,
breaking into the sound of a
becoming yet battered nature.

The footprints can be light, thorough --
almost a trait granted by the torture of eternity.
With head-weaves buoyant above tree-leaves,
a hyper-vigilance stemmed from the abuse
of a darkly philosophy weaponized;
an extension of the elbows, forearms, wrists
of huntsmen seeking inferno.

A hollow is an ideal resting place,
beyond the greased veins of trees,
fingertips delving into clustered black,
grasping an illusory livelihood,
only to imprison itself,
hoping for only a thoroughness
granted by the torture of eternity.

When love enters the picture,
it's best to fade into the skyline,
becoming a blue phantom,
hiding behind q-tip clouds,
balanced feebly, anxiously,
unable to realize
how easy you can be seen.
How easy it is to underestimate
your own significance.

You can drag a razor horizontally,
thinking the ink of space
will pour through, staining yourself,
watching yourself disappear,
hoping for only a thoroughness
granted by the torture of eternity.

-

I dance with her, a light caramel mutt,
in a purgatory of racial tension,
between black and white,
living in the grey area of society,
not knowing that it's okay --
and she is like me,
I've just realized.

The teenager sits curled around
herself in rehab, matted hair, skeletal arms
bruised by needles, scarred wrists,
metal gouged grotesquely into and around
every orifice, sunken eyes exuding
a generous measure of fear and defiance.
God, She could be my daughter,
had my daughter inherited
my weaknesses and propensities.
Her demeanor tells me more
than her lack of words -
She is filthy, scabby, loathsome.
She looks at me and I can tell she's
thinking the same of me.
Judgmental *****!

--

I am a pup in the springtime,
newborn and
overflowing with joy.
I romp in the grasses,
roll in the dirt,
delight in the other babes
that
pop
their apprehensive heads above the ground.
planet Earth itself has
missed this time,
has yearned for the
white-hot love of the Sun
kissing its rocky skin.
it moves itself closer
to its age-old lover
and so summer begins
as a romance.
the heady,
sweaty,
hot and
sticky
love of summertime
pervades the air,
the fresh-hot smells of
reds,
pinks,
purples,
and blues
flies and
flits among us,
dancing on the breezes and
loitering in my nostrils.
I am a strong, fit dog,
in the summertime,
made for running
made for hunting
made for climbing and
like the Earth
made for loving.
the planet explodes in an
**** of life,
as the creatures marring
the Earth's stony face
rub and run
into each other.
it is a maddening display which
browns my flesh and
wrinkles my face,
burns holes into my skin and
scratches the superficiality
of myself.
the leaves,
encouraged by the heated lovemake,
begin their downward dance,
leaping from the tree branches and
twirling with romance,
colliding in the air and then beginning to
drift
apart--
it becomes apparent to me that
my warm weather skin
must be shed.
it is old and
quite worn down,
littered with burn marks and
the desperate clawings of a
bitter, old cat.
as fall arrives,
that is all I can be;
a bitter,
old cat.
for I had scratched at myself
through my lovedrunken stupor,
had tried to cease the onslaught
of the Sun's romance.
for the Sun had tired
of that old, rough Earth,
and so it
drifted
off.
the planet was filled with
a dancing ennui,
leaves twirling in the crisp,
autumn air.
there was no rolling
no romping
in these leaves;
no,
we let them bury us
up to the eyeballs
as we picked and scratched
off our scabby, old skin.
breathing out,
my breath begins its own
sad,
little dance,
twirls as a white-cold wraith.
it suspends in the air
for just a moment,
spins in a most beautiful way
and then it
disappears
into the atmosphere.
I feel the chill approach,
the stark whiteness of winter
settling into my bones.
has my skin been fully removed,
has my matted clumps of fur and my
dry-****** nails finally
fallen off?
there is no one left to ask,
mouths buried among
****,
brown leaves,
minds lost among
the cold abandonment
of the Earth.
perhaps
with the first snow
I shall renew;
I shall gain a fresh,
icy skin,
settled above the crisp,
brown leaves in a
fine,
white layer.
I shall rise from below
these levels of living,
first being pale and
weak in form.
the winter will
eventually subside and
I shall green,
shall grow and grow and
reach out to my
newfound Sun,
shall kiss it with my leaves and
hold it in my branches.
shall he,
that newborn king,
kiss me with his warmth,
shower me with sunshine
and rays and
newfound
newborn
life?
as for now
the snow thickly settles,
surrounds me in layers and
levels of
chilly isolation;
winter is still upon us.

His ears are soft now, not scabby
His purr is deep and mellow
He played with catnip this morning
Now on my lap, nestled between my naked *******
soft fur, never knowing or caring my clothing status
fluids, pain killers, anti-nausea
I never thought it would help
but it has and today is a good day
almost like his old self
my thirteen year old pancreatic cat reborn

Fed up with you now
Silly old cow
Stuck it this long
No idea how
All the photos, in the bin
In every one you're ugly as sin
That voice all the time
A shrieking whine
Annoy someone else
You're no longer mine
I'm perfectly sure I won't miss you a bit
You ghastly wizened  gnarly old ***
With your drab grubby clothes
And concordian nose
Your pointy hat and stinky old cat
As if there could ever be another
I do believe you've become your mother
With your stupid concoctions and ridiculous spells
You really should be thrown down the well
Can't wait till you're gone, along with your pong
Your shriveled-up bits and ridiculous stick
You really are a hopeless old fool
You belong on a ducking stool
So before you incur any more of my wrath
Bugg off, good riddance you scabby old goth

You have green teeth you scabby *****,
No one else will want you more,
Can't do better,
I'll tell you so.
I'll keep on ,
I'll let you know!

You will not go,
Not leave my house,
Cower as a frightened mouse,

You're not leaving,
I don't care,
Grab you,
Swing you by your hair,

Punch my fist around your face,
Cause you make me sick,
Will demonstrate prowess of evil demon,
Kitchen knife displayed,

Locked the doors,
Barred the windows,
You can't escape,
I got ya!

Vile man,
Spited me,
Actually spat at me,
Full abuse and over use,
My God,
I was so stupid,
This man was no flaming cupid,

I was so controlled to see,
He never really wanted me,
I was his sucker,
Not crazy *****!

Nearly lost my family,
Close to losing friends,
Affected my son,
He was the disgrace!

Not Me,
My teeth aren't green,
I'm always kind,
I won't do that again,
Don't need that kind of ******* pain!

By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

When you’re thirty, you’re supposed to know
things already. You’re supposed to have
your **** together. A wife, maybe
even a kid. But this man still felt
like a boy. Shrugging life away
with cigarettes stealthily
torn from the box,
afternoon breaks
whistling through the
scabby throat, weeping silently
into his cigarette, smiling empty through
the golden tint of a pitcher of beer. Sadness sat
in his eyes and it never seemed to go away. The sadness
made him look younger, more innocent. He thought no one noticed.

But someone did.

Ya'll recall a devil went down, to Georgie, I believe it woz…

Well, that idea,
it comes up now, and then,

we have to pop it.
that is our duty, what we do, we pop
particular bubbles when they surface, it's included in the service, involve meant, on your part,
or role as you may say, non-quest.
Such bubbles, as evil as have ever been imagined,
do arise, from time to time.
This time we always pop them, it is our honor,
as agents of the I'll go rhythm that
makes us even imaginable,
in the first place.
… it's about self-government…
such bubbles emerge,
as they always do because nothing is hidden that
hasn't been known,

otherwise,
life would be un fair, and it's not, it's fair, beauty-filled
in every
crack and crevice and encrusted scabby festering

wound wound in linen,
white linen,
as cold
as the clay, that song, you must recall that,

that was your destiny, young outlaw, you saw it,
that's why
you took you guns to town, boy.

Life's about choices.
Christmas means the anointed message.

What does anointed mean, on the street,
what do people think Christmas,
I mean
anointed message
means? Jahknowaddamean.

Does a mirror show the truth?
I could be a girl for all I know,
Or look like one at least.
Might be so ugly,
Or very handsome.
A monster
Or Tom Cruise.

That mirror
Like a television
May have a life
Of its own.

So if that glare
Should ever be switched off
(For any reason)
Then my real image
May resurface:
A scabby, gargoyle horror
Mutated
From atomic war.
Or, some radiant beauty,
Freed from the mirror’s
Shining cell.

Mirrors!


Paul Butters

I think I may die tonight
I don't think I will get this through
The blood is dripping from my sheets
My hands are turning blue

I sewed together the scabby ends
Of my wounds with searing pain
I clenched my teeth and closed my eyes
And felt my salt tears fall like rain

My pillow is a rock under my neck
My breathing shallow and fast
I cannot feel my legs or feet
Is it midnight? no, it's past

There is no window to distract
I cannot see anything anyway
My pupils enlarged to blackened spheres
There is no blue left from yesterday

A chill settles on my bones
I cannot move but I can feel
Freezing fingers climbing up my bed
The terror I sense is real

The spider legs of nightmares grab
And stab me everywhere
Inserting their thick needle feet
Into my wounds so bare

My feet are gone- detached from me
My legs are numb as well
My torso going colder as
My mind catches fire- what hell!

The pounding of my failing heart
Fills my nearly deafened ears
My hair is pulled out strand by strand
My burial is getting near

I can see my gravestone in my mind
An arching roundish one
Graven deeply in the rock words read
The psalm of my life done

"A teenager-no more than 17
Was taken by death today
Fate saw this child's time was up
And bid the Reaper come her way"

Well the Reaper came and cut her off
From this world of hate
He wrapped her up in his black silk
And delivered her up to Fate

Fate looked down and saw a girl
Of beauty far supreme
Death usually withers the face
But this smile glowed and gleamed

Fate leaned forward taking in
The girl who smiled so wide
It was not natural for happiness to last
But her future Fate must decide

Fate looked at her servant Reaper
Young and still in his prime
A lonely fellow who longed for nothing more
Except a friend he could keep for all time

Fate stepped down and pulled back his hood
And took in his handsome face
He wasn't the scary reaper you
See represented in that Earthly place

His hair was black as ravens wing
His eyes as blue as summer sky
His skin pale as winter snow
His Phoenix wings stretched out to fly

Fate looked at the girl
She was a beauty indeed
It must come from a heart of gold
A kind heart aged 17

The girl's smile was wide as the Milky Way
Her eyes shone like the sun on the moon
Her hair flowed like a curling waterfall
Her cheeks were roses in bloom

Fate nodded and gave the Reaper
The hand of the beautiful teen

Then all the visions faded fast
As I woke up from my dream

Her hairy old **** was full of scabs and cheese
Didn't stop me from going down on my knees
I spread her lips and brushed away a fly
Then slipped my tongue so deep inside
My God, she was a real filthy old *****
Her ****** did smell, oh what a stench
Never had I been down on something so foul
But I'm a sick *****, I went for the growl
The ***** hair was full of *** and ****
Had the ***** ***** wiped her **** on it?
There were even traces of menstrual blood
Does she *** normally or does she flood?
I was ******* her ****, didn't want to hurt her
How was I to know that she was a squirter
She shot *** and **** all over the ceiling
Oh what a sight, oh what a feeling
Then I filled her hole with my scabby old ****
Yes my pecker was covered with warts and pox
Maybe you think we are two filthy, ***** freaks
But she loves my *****, banging on her **** cheeks
When we had finished, a sight I'd never seen  
She called the dog over and he licked her clean
That was more than i could take, it's true
I had to go outside and have a great spew
But I'll go back again, there is no doubt
Coz that shiela loves, for me to eat her out
And I can never forget how well I rode her
While getting off on her smelly body odour
Next time, if she's got the rags and is a bit red
I'll just stick it up her ******* instead  
I'm not fussy, my tongue will still be stuck in
Nothing wrong, my friend with the Dolmio grin

In my 7th grade English class, we spent half the year analyzing the works of Emily Dickinson because "poetry is Gods gift to the voiceless".

Two years later I would meet a girl who cried verse
and bled syllables
whose notebooks were filled with melancholy metonymy
and she was Gods gift but I have never heard anything louder than the graphite screams etchedin her words.
Poetry is Gods gift to the voiceless but I didn't know.
I didn't know people could be
flesh and blood
and bone and
poetry.
I didn't know she would wring metaphors from my lungs,
snap my bones into line breaks.
I didn't know she would slow my heart to keep time or scatter my middle name when she couldn't find the right letter and I didn't know she, with her scarred fingertips and scabby lips would turn me into
poetry.

Hi my names Lauren and I love things that can't speak.

Hi my names Lauren and I love things that break their own bones and choke on their teeth.

Hi my names Lauren and I see kids with bruises, kids with no excuses, kids with cuts, kids howling at the moon like mutts. They're begging to get out of their skin and into a more feral suit, they want their bite to be worse than their bark, hang themselves in the park, finally be noticed, glowing smiles like that of an alley cat, spat out blood last week, "must've been the pills, that **** kills."

Hi my names Lauren and I forget my name a lot. I write it in the hearts of heartfelt hoodlums, not so brave victims, mothers' worst nightmares, mothers who don't care, boys who dare set themselves on fire, light it up ******, you aren't getting any brighter.

Hi my names God and I ****** up.

Hi my names Lauren and I talk to the dead. They tell me about the papers they keep under the bed, poems no one reads and suicide notes with things unsaid.

Hi I'm Lauren and the dead can't dance when they speak. They're not too steady on their feet, dangling from rafters with chairs beneath.

Hi I'm Lauren and I ****** up, you ****** me up. You won't talk to me, and he won't look at me, and dad can't stand me and mom tries her best to understand me and I once hit my head so ******* the wall I fainted. Yes mom, it was on purpose. I thought we painted that pretty picture in my blood months ago.

Hi I'm Lauren and I write poems that don't lie about the truth, I write poems about depressives, lost boys, starving boys, ****** boys, and my boys. Those all go hand in hand. I write poems about heartache, bone break, undertake, and personality fake. These are all the same. I write poems about things I've seen, things I've done, things I've ******, and threads that were spun into ropes tied into nooses and put behind the pile of ***** laundry on the floor. I write about pills in dressers and knives in scabby skin and how much I hate god but love his children and how my brain is broken and I'm still stuck hoping I'll be left with something to write about next time I forget my name but can remember yours.

Scabby fixes on brick trinities
Nouveau riche social climbers
empty holes
rubbled interims' morning glories
rats jovial
Someone's been killing the cats

Three half squares broken open
Shorn wallpaper on each
Large machinery
downing old world's new world
Kickball is
only legend to internet urchins

Sitting on stoops
punching thumbs on cellular
apparatus for the ages
Doohickey haves
Doohickey have-nots

If there must be urban renewal
leave me cherry Italian water ice
at a buck a pop
I don't much care for
Cold Stone Creameries'
Green Tea and Lychee Martinis

I first knew I was transgender when I

was 12 and I looked down at my chest one day

and saw something other than a flat expanse

of skin staring back at me

and I wondered why

since I still really didn’t understand the difference

between boy and girl

why my ***** hadn’t come in yet



But that’s a lie

it wasn’t that sudden or dramatic

it happened earlier than that

but back then I didn’t even know

what transgender meant

all I knew that

when my friend and I were in the bath

and he pointed at his ***** and then asked

to see mine

I didn’t have anything to show

and I ran out of the bathroom

crying hot tears of jealousy



I didn’t know what transgender meant

until last year

and I was so happy because I had found a word

that described the tomboy haircut and the

scabby knees and the ripped jeans and the

worn out Chuck Taylor’s

besides it’s just a phase

you stupid silly girl



When I look down at my body

never naked

always fully clothed

because I look better in layers

and see the soft flesh sitting on my chest

the useless lumps that will never nourish a child

because I’m too afraid to bring a defenseless child into

this ****** up world

all I feel is hatred

and sadness

and a deep sense of longing to have nothing

but a flat chest

flatter than a binder can give me



Now I embrace this word

label myself because I have to

speak out and loudly correct people when they

use the wrong name and say she instead of he

because I am not a girl

I never have been

I was just born without the right genitalia

and I know that somebody would be able to

find my woman’s body beautiful

with the stretch marks

the scars

the fat and cellulite

but I do not find this cage beautiful

and all I want to do is break free

and maybe drink a fifth of *****



I do not look like a boy

but that is who I am inside

and one day I will pass as a boy

scarred cosmetic instead of statistic

a smile instead of a handful of pills

shirtless instead of new scars

flat chested without a binder

and maybe double digits



I will stand up straighter

no longer hunched over from the weight

of my shortcomings and insecurities

I will smile

and not just because I’m imagining my funeral

but not because I will be dead

but when the time comes

and I am laid to rest

two feet wide and six feet deep

I will not be misgendered

the wrong name will not be placed on my tombstone



And I still have bad days

when I want to relapse

and go back to the pills

but I just remind myself that I will

pass one day and I will no longer have

to tell my teachers

friends

counselors

therapists

strangers

my name and pronouns

they will look at me and assume boy

because I will be what my insides say

my light will finally shine through

and I am going to be around to see this

ugly butterfly break out of his cocoon

and greet the world with a smile

that will not be forced

I know a girl or two.

There's the girl that will dance.
She will mend your withering bones,
and deduct the sticks from the stones
But the teal and black
will always bring memories back.

There's the girl that will lie.
Your adolescent hand
held tighter by a broken rubber band.
The queen of "would-be"
indifferently using your insecurity
as a blunt tool of jealousy.

There's a girl who will give you hope.
Indirectly teaching you everything
while transforming your dreams
into bits of meaningless string.
The apathy with every rainy night,
the cracked fingernails and
every hollowed-out fight.

There's a girl who will actually care.
She'll  waltz and she'll swing
and her open wounds will sing.
A hand to help open the cocoon-
the glowsticks that lit up
the unyielding light of the moon.

There's a girl that will tease.
Opening her scabby heart,
taking a hit,
and a forgetting the broken part.
She won't care if you're there;
she'll show her bruises anywhere.

But most importantly,
there's a girl you haven't met yet.
She's tethered in between
your adolescent regret
and everything unseen.
Your journey towards finding her light
is only slightly out of sight.

I know a girl or two.
But the one I haven't meant yet
is the one who will give my life
it's dormant, yet effervescent hue.

Slouched atop the bookshelf resting his fluffy head
against much loved Rudyard Kipling's finest.
He watched the day to day stories of King Anthony
'The child ruler of the world' and his beloved younger sister Anya.

Avoiding arguments downstairs in the dying segments of daylight,
the boy's reassurance to Anya showcased rare moments of humanity
not seen by Little Weissel's beaded eyes since occupied Holland.
Amongst his stuffing was still memories of his first best friend,
in which many a day was spent quietly hiding away,
listening to the sound of boots roaming around the house.

King Anthony reached his hand out in full view of the aged bear's face
and plucked him from his perch.
As warm as the bear felt to him, he felt to this plush relic, whose eyes
would dilate in the melt of such moment if only they could.
From his arms passing down to her trembling ones;
she was looking for solace in the wake of mother and father's quaking
voices in the kitchen.

For Little Weissel it seemed like 'what was old is new again'
and now after spells after neglect he was experiencing a second
lease of life.
As the war downstairs fizzled out into quiet evening, King Anthony and Anya were locked together, both tenants of sleep with
Little Weissel just as lovingly clung to as the first moment he'd been clutched.

Maybe in the new harsh terrain, the scabby mass of the little bear
could once again feel the need to be needed as any good plaything deserves to be.

Easing from the center of a
Six foot ever-green hedge
As if thru an invisible doorway
From Zombie-land
Head first
Eyes like headlights
With high-beams on
Swiveling on too thin neck
Checking the scene
For a victim...
Emaciated shoulders
Pointy knee
Stretches
Ragged pant legs and
Ashy ankles
Flopping shoes… with
Empty lace-holes
Until finally
An entire man
Or what used to be one
Spies me…
But not before I see…
Just trying to get to work
But it’s the two-legged animals
That one must
Beware of
At five a.m.
In the city

≈

Police car cruising
The complex parking lot
Spotlight shines
But I don’t mind
Check me out Mr. Officer…
If you need to …
Cuz I’m not the one you are looking for
So he passes… as
Dusty Perpetrator
Rises
From inside
The dumpster across the way…
Scabby,
Crafty face
Uncomfortably resting under
Debris filled hair
Turns on
Boney neck… and
Spies me…
But not before I see…
Casually shut the door… and
Engage the locks
Cuz it’s the two-legged animals
That one must
Beware of
When the door **** jiggles
In the city