The day you got your hair cut
I went to a lesbian bar after work.
It was 3
And I was tired
But I went straight there
Because I had to do something.
I knew it was a lost cause before I even got there.
The back of my neck was prickling with tension
With fear
Because I knew I was too late.
Somewhere in the depths of my soul
My free will was on a gurney,
Cold.
But I couldn’t help it-
I needed to feel like I had control,
So I went inside.
People were dancing.
None of them held themselves the way you do
Like a marble statue that has set down axe and shield and stepped off the plinth for a brief rest
(You will be returning to battle shortly-
After you fix your eyeliner.)

I did a shot
Because that’s what you do.
They were free- *** on the Beach.
I sat there,
Wondering why the fact that you named your cat Heathcliff as a child meant that I had to love you.

I decided that I needed something stronger in the way of alcohol.

A girl with soft brown eyes and long hair came up to me.
Her name was Tiffany.
She wasn’t clever like you
And her voice
Wasn’t low and rough like yours
But she told me I was pretty.
I already knew, but I thanked her.
I felt nothing.
She wasn’t interesting
Or funny
Or smart.
She was attractive- beautiful even, I suppose,
And maybe she was kind.
She bought me a drink,
And mistook my sadness for shyness.
As I answered her questions I was afraid your name would fall from my lips like a seed
Take root and grow up through the floorboards.
Nothing she said changed me, nothing I said back changed me,
And my thoughts kept snagging on you
Tearing and unraveling.
I needed you out of my head.
She was looking at me with big eyes
And I suppose they were compelling
But they weren’t yours-
Rimmed with black, hypnotic and stormy at times, sparkling with mischief at others,
Forever changing and forever captivating,
Windows to a soul I fiercely wish I knew-
They were just eyes, and maybe they were vulnerable
Or curious
Or sweet.
I kissed her so that I could stop looking into them
And not seeing you there.
Her lips tasted like nothing.
I closed my eyes and kissed her harder,
Hoping for a reason to forget you.

We were beautiful, I knew that.
I could feel eyes on us-
Two small, lovely women
Tangled on the dance floor under the lights
Fingers in each other’s hair-
We must have looked
Just like lovers.

I searched for a way out of my feelings for you.
I kissed her for a long time, until we were both gasping.
I found nothing.
In my frustration I pulled her head back,
Bit her lip
Pressed my fingers hard into the back of her neck
And I felt her lust
But not mine.
It was nice to be wanted
But not nice enough.
I wanted to hurt her for touching me
For not being you
So I pulled away
And kissed her cheek gently
My hands beneath her jaw.
“Wow,” she said.
I couldn’t look at her.
That tenderness wasn’t hers
But it didn’t matter.
I kissed her hands
In penance disguised as sweetness.
Suddenly all the anger was gone from me
And I felt desolate.

That night I walked home with my head buzzing.
I wasn’t drunk,
I was sober as hell
Head pounding with thoughts of you.
I hated it.
I hate it.
Somehow I fell into this feeling
And I’ve been fighting not to drown ever since.
When I look at you
I feel everything I wish I’d felt while I was kissing her
And more
That I sometimes wish I’d never feel again.
Sometimes I think you see it.
Sometimes I know I cover for it badly.
Sometimes, when you’re suddenly present
Like the sun has turned on just for me
And then distant later
Like the sea at night
I think you know I already love you.
Maybe you hate it like I hate it.
Maybe you worship it like I worship it.
Maybe you fear it
And I don’t blame you.
A storm presses out against my skin when I look at you
And I’m surprised no chaos seeps through.
My bones hum with it
My heartbeat reaching like thunder into my fingers.

I’ll probably never kiss you
And maybe that’s for the best
Because even being near you makes me feel like I’m falling from somewhere high up.
If I kissed you, I’d feel everything, I’m sure of it-
Everything there is to feel
And it would end me
And I would be grateful.

I wonder if you ever see that in my eyes.
That fear, that longing, that shame and joy.
A love and loathing so intense it scalds.
‘I can’t believe I’m here again,’
It pounds through my veins.
‘I can’t believe I love another person
Who is always looking elsewhere.’

Just know, if you ever discover how I feel
That I tried to **** it.
I looked at this beautiful feeling
A feeling you could pray before like an altar
A feeling you could whisper into like a temple- barefoot and cold with wonder- and hear your soul echo back,
I looked at the sacred piece of humanity that had suddenly risen in my heart like a hymn
And I tried to silence it-
I tried hard-
So that you would never have to fear it.

I failed. It lives.
It took root in me, and whenever I speak your name little harsh flowers push their way up through the concrete under my feet, sending cracks out like jagged spiderwebs.
They bloom like wounds.
They kiss the sky.
And, slowly,
They are crumbling this city to dust.

If you're ever on the riverside
where the sun beats your head
you would see the old man
selling hats of palm leaf
but you care not to notice him
having already smelled the sea
and too keen to cross the river
travel southward on the island
till the saline wind scalds your eyes
your skins itch to jump into the waves
yet the man with the palm leaf hats
would not cease to tell you
how burning would be the sun on the sands
and so badly you need to protect the head
by parting bucks that mean nothing to you
but a world to the mouths he feeds
and before you stamp on him a final no
she has one atop her hair
beneath which her eyes flutter like butterflies
her sun rouged cheeks untimely blush
and two born anew lovers
merrily head for the sea
having bought romance
for forty bucks.

Floating above the rifts of apperception I glaze over the gaudy faucets of imagined vector thrusts in hibernation by the lucubration of space-time materialized crystal in the somber beats of fetched farrago of choice slices in delicate hums of hemmed balance rantipole only in ethereal importance but otherwise supersolid above the sprauncy vagrancy of dilettantism. We shout a clarion virtuosity so that the conclamation of neovitalism conjures upon a spell of lapse and regress a motive for further crystallization of epidemiology into harmony with syndicated admonition sleek in design and parceled into renown by feats of completion rather than slugabed gregarious fountains of wasted ingenuity bleeding from the vacuum of an empty hearth in a hospitable dwelling otherwise cleared of imperfection. Right now, I levitate with transcendence with an approximated eidetic memory that is the surgical vibrancy of renewal rather than the chameleons of hidden talents buried by the walls of Jericho sounding tocsins of alarm that the anointed favor of choice destruction is only an encircled rapture of rhapsodies of confluence found in axiomatic truths ribbed with the futtocks of seaworthy but cauponate recidivism into the donnybrooks of apocryphal revelation preceding the whimsical fall of cascading permanence just as gravity so ordained it. We breathe the life of the ethereal numinous spirit of isangelous repute because we navigate the exquisite cobweb of reconciliation to surpass all understanding in peace what would be a miscegenated carcass of war otherwise apart from the incidental apartheid of the drones of causality ignoring the antecedent reality too much to register fathomed streaks of preventive endeavor because of the scars of a scrappy schlep of the rampicks of ecbolic servitude to moth-eaten star-crossed lovers of the mean menagerie of gutless succor renowned only in tepid rejections of harbingers bequeathed in succession but ignored because of the procession of “Billie Jean” politics.

   The citadel aflame with controversy buttresses carnality by witless contaminants of hidebound scaldabancos of ineffable destitution so craven in eisoptrophobia for their hypostasized indolent fatuousness of capitulation that they are but a minor punctuation in the largesse of centuries to favor audacity in candor over the prevarications of catastrophe to dented human pride against humane dictates of theodicy in fatalism that predestination experimented with its own vaulted verve to find permanent solutions engraved in the agrapha of time to solidify the redintegrated truth of God’s divine stewardship above the quisquilous deism of former regnant centuries of blench and blandishment. We revolt at the specter of rot only when the effluvia of disgust elevates the visceral reality above the utilitarianism of recycled prim nuisances of noisome lineage that yet balk because they are bereft of attention but not a vacant talent and therefore should the subsidies of man surpass the ignorance of appearances he will shrug of the demur of the scrimshank and sharpen his scrivello in the service of redemption found through cultivated prowess of gardens beneath where rivers flow above a cubic centurion of embattled visages of the heavens becoming the rampart for the vestigial clarity of Secret Masters to foresee the bypass that heals decadence and rebukes the formalism of puritan endeavor to sweat with exhaustive patience over the gossamer intertesselations of a ripe reality rather than a groveled fragmentary world shattered too much by exigent metanoia to mount the crenellated catchpole of vigilant enmity towards the stew of listlessness found in epigone and farce more than in organic fortunes. We flip the upheaval of society to squander our proportionate degrees of wealth on the necessity created by dire quandary which enamors by interrogations of pulchritude the verisimilitude of participle ivory dalliance of etched canvasses of simultagnosia for the librations of the liberated rings of betrothed liberation despite profound lurches of the mistetches of ignorance presiding dismally over the hulked disdain of glamborge rather than resselenque.

     The winter is a poor porcine glut of ciconine swelters because the prickly obtuse recoil of the delopes of caution find their permeable balance with a sort of photographic photosynthesis that braves the dearth of reprieve for the reprisal of nostalgic deeds found in the docimasy of riveted reflections because the preordination of God is the superlative champion of the witeless grandeval protectorate of infinite concepts guarded from the parvanimity even of the most strident minds squabbling over the braseros and battues of history as though those funereal stains of lachrymose regret outweigh the traditions of vaunted human progress because they are finicky about importunate pleas of subsidiary injustice rather than fulminations of the modern rebuttal to the disclaimers of an uneven history that shepherds the doubts of nihilism into ripe fruition at the expense of very expensive moral rot for the codlings of urbacity and mendaciloquence used to foment that tribalism of totemic justice. We see in Penuel the wrestling match of specters and heroic giants documented on the ageless pages and we notice the ironic twinges of struggle that kneaded the propriety of gentilian privilege that ultimately fostered an insurrection against chosen bravado among those that sear with zeal beyond the yordim afflictions of yobbery because the Jewish heart is stronger than any calamity even if it departs from the reverence of the colporteurs of the integrated syncretism of the attempted monolith that beseeches polyphiloprogenitive growth in mindset rather than in testy abeyance of forbearance because of known scrutinies into the tropology of wilted facts remanded by curious historicity that crumples without disdain when we memorialize the erasure of scepsis by modern standards of thaumaturgy.

    The minauderies of growth are a repositioned tacit allegiance to the untold fanfare and hearsay immunized against the broach of facetious levity to buoy discordant hearts above fumatoriums of relentless ignorance because coherent masterwork can be cobbled without such lapidary toil and toll on sincere affectations of wizened brevity. The seismic precautions for the forefathers of incidental convergences between expectancy and crystallized history are an ironic intortion of priorities because the heralds and tribunes matched the peerless foresight with the gerrymandered figments of apartheid between the imaginary and the real so that the delicate synchrony of events could unfurl a riveting carapace from the shells of protection even in amiable squalor for its impenitent attrition on the volleys of sensible rumor becoming fashioned in covert bedazzled errors in judgment leading to the triumph of the eventual civilization over the futtocks of the burial of the former trekleador of zenkidu belonging to provincial cadasters found so tucked in the hedges that discernment of frikmag would be an indelible scourge on the biognosy of the diagnosed endeavors that elapsed into remediated circumstances that brave the depths of deontological violation for the breadth of apportioned loaves and two swanky fish earning a place among the miracles of transcendent liberation from articles of decree imperious by sardonic disdain becoming nullified by the histrionics of a delicately staged orchestra that cements human achievement.

       We relish the frescades of a ruffled autumnal reminder of flourish above pothers of the screed of admonition swamped by nostalgic backtracks in the séance with ultimatum of design and the impregnated and carnal lusts of a world pitched in darkness with guarded lambent lights fomenting a perjury against tact for the deliverance of freedom in tacit agreement with owleries that every bonanza be tithed in their favor regardless of hibernation of spoilsports or their subsidiary remarks on indelible quills of invented manufactured realities we crave with desperation rather than cower from in requited nescience urging us to depart from affairs and stagnate the loyalty of fealty above the limber of utility mobilized above levities for solemn remarks and rejoinders. Promulgated above the robotic rubble of staffage haywire in wiredrawn contemplative resonance of tremulous subterfuge vestigial but immediate to the yardsticks of reprehensible malarkey, is the barnstorm for erratic dimples sauntered by the saunas of shelter above the chaos of ruined ginnels for the gimcracks of auxiliary duty to service, is the glorification of the sultry intimations of legions of remonstrance in guarded decorum about sunken atrocities lapsed in memorial to the incumbent brunt of sockdolagers of justice returning revenants from the bridewell of historical internment. The symphily of orchestras to cineaste symposiasts of surquedry in impudence beyond the brays of betrayal is the aborning mythos of regimented perceptions of a world that when magnified by minutiae appears starkly contrast to the gapped gubbertushed reality of the average patron of the arts to such an extreme gulf of receptive understanding that the qualia are dovetailed only in the swink of careful kisswonks to certify certitude itself when all the fragments coalesce into subjoined harmony to the substructures of inherent conscientiousness. The miracles at work that are vesicles and vessels for the swage of imprint above the loyalty of the imprinted tribunes of the fluminous is how hidden protrusions can emerge so victorious over popularized glazes on the pastures of a farmed culture itching for timmynoggies of innovation but only finding the etched remarks of pristine imagos of heroism dwindling in motivation to surpass the imaginative leaps accustomed to a newfangled laziness that bedazzles the guzzle of crowds but not the discrimination of the crowded morass of incompletion found in mosaics missing enigmatic philters of intoxicated love for the profound. So to be intermediary as a custodian for artistry we must cozen the wheedled imaginations not of the relic but the archaeologist that discovered the embedded prisms of attentive scrutiny for glinting sunshine inherent in troves of surpassed excellence beyond parochial sympatric blandishment of donnism rather than a resselenque that floats above demeanor to usher the cosseted age of treasure above the glib brocards and florews of past success.

      Immanent to the provisions of God as decreed from a syncretic reconnaissance of the pitiable gulfs that separate boundless divine love from the clavigerous potential for scrappy sympatric affiliation to **** through the barnstorms of internal comestions of conflated priorities we are ourselves prismatic in the indulgence of a tasty life sprinkled with zest rather than tempered with the vengeance of retorted animosity that we knead the pottery of ironclad resistance to a metallic conduit of pruned fulminations of unguided intuition so that the natural accord supersedes the goad of materialism for the sustenance of antiquity beyond its heyday for vital gains against the tauricide of panic and frenzy. The linchpin of all realistic attempts at the sympatric symphily of civilization is a guided remorse through the torment of affliction that sizzles without anteric barbs as it measures through engrenage how to pilot the vehicles of prosperity through the minefields of contingency that invisibly bequeath new hurdles and inestimable obstacles that collude surreptitiously to fulminate measured controversy against the backbites of restrained equipoise created by polities of the macadamized fabric of a welded smithy of a universe that with ubiquity proclaims above the senseless the harvest of conjugal repartee in sensible pride against militant bastions of incidental prejudice for a careen against the flyndresques of danger and the flyndrigs of glaikery alike for a humane spurt of enlightenment to tower peerlessly in supervision of entelechy created by esemplastic unity in apolaustic purpose. We cannot be puritans engaged in a pilgrimage to a palimpsest of priggishness because the daring elements of adventurism are necessary ingredients to catalyze the supply-chain of the innate gluttony of ego-seeking endless balance with a natural sustained biognosy that prizes biocentric harmony above bibliognost scepsis so that the enthused can flock with liberty divorced from libertinism. The ultimatum is a war between hedonism wed with donnism against eumoirety and self-restraint and this battle will be waged on the indolence of a future of cordslave tethers to interrogation of privy conceptualism hamshackled by the gradgrinds into the neat nexility of precise conformity that blacklists the samizdat because the genizah profoundly twists the already jumbled jengadangle and provides a junediggle of procession and ceremony rather than pomp without substantial grit embedded in the showmanship of a reality in need of a fourth-wall.

        It is ironic how we bewrayed our stewardship of the planet as a plenipotentiary sentience waged against the vesicles of instinct but more fundamental to this tattered but pregnant psalm is that the stronghold of our future is the tenacity of filial duty to enthrone the household with husbandry and restraint as an emolument to divine justice that sparkles opalescent in its own redacted notions of gravity imperfect in the taradiddles of science but refined by the eclat of the combustible syncopation of a reiterative trope of realism combined with surrealist caprice to henpeck affectionate violation above inviolable screeds of blood sport rather than conjugal affections afforded to the brood and the feast of the flocks that rein supreme over all things but exert inclement justice over the cattle and chattel of civilization itself. The minkumpf against the sacrilege of a prioritized kosher is to abhor the suffering rather than embrace the penitence of perceived but specious sacrifice which is an ornery thorn on the stained conscience of the yobbery of both the apikoros and the obedient because to attenuate all suffering even of instinctual beings we anneal our hearts to a glorified compassion that supersedes the relegated relics of pushful genuflection by succedaneum of sacrifice waged against the docile whangams of otiose theodicy. The filibusters against the regnant complexity of regalia that is a sprauncy poivrade with terpsichorean flairs to transmute the intimations of hibernated perfidy into finicky transmissions for the riometers that accord orbific merit in a lackluster time enchant the rollicking audience of this auditorium of the prevenance of the conquered universe bracing for the camorra of the insipid entreaty of defalcated casuistry—the prominent exchequer in hoodwinked political agitprop that forges ironclad allegiances to flimsy facades of the verisimilitude of dignity with recalcitrant but incondite bruits of venom militant against secular apostasy—that the fitful arrivistes that swim in dire dearth will be welcomed into the reconciliation of all time with a tempered lurid glint of revelation bounded by sunken albatross of hype unbounded with a peace insurmountable in prestige rewarded only with the highest reservations.


    On 3-1-2020 when I penned my philosophy—even at a slowpoke margin of crafty precision above rapid empirical faucets of folly—I was entirely selfsame with the autotelic engravings of the smoldering aboriginal talents within that many can swing through by tenacity for enormous plaudit but a flagrant majority will apprehend with flippant scollardical tenets of rebuke and remain honest in their appraisal only in meek resignation of parvanimity.
Consider the postulates of rarefaction whittled into a vehement zeal against the prostitution of our species to the anteric cycles of residual molds of dingy spectacle mired by the tyrannical towers of supercilious squirms of revamped novelty rather than enhanced by the freebooters of dirigisme that borrow from time the behest of philandered flairs divorced from the cadges of secular instinct and enthroned by the qualms of engineered virtuosity that is stark, barren but peerless in its outstretched clamor for luxuriant sprees against the silentium of grandeval asylum incurred by the flippant filigrees of recalcitrant modernism endangered by the irredentism of the future upon the whimsy of the present-minded momentary glare of rapture.  This impending architecture of nimble but subservient endeavor is a pinprick rejoinder against the wernaggles of prepossessed fountains of configured animosity against the stapled heed of a modality of trayned invictive invectives against the plodding course of fustilugianation that swerves in apathy of autopilot junediggle to emanate the surrender of epigone to the raktendure of the synaesthesis of the attuned perception of all superimposed minutiae delegated by calculated design into a synclastic focus on veiled caprice that is vaulted above the choppy and sketchy verdure of remiss perception to stellar continuities rather than mundane knickpoints of stodged blurs that magnify syncretic qualia into baseline congruity rather than staid torpefied resignation of the visage of thunder without the pangs of the widely vituperated lightning that bequeaths all certain notions but flouts the tortious saboteurs of the prim trucage of brittle fundamentalism.

     As the flawed paragon of a picaresque youth punctuated by vibrant plumage of self-wrought tropophilous usucaption of remote groomed frontiers of desolate luxury but buoyant morale into the ballasts of a nimble usufruct that hikkles yet still against still-framed thilloire--fatuous in endearment only to the polity of the waterdrip of craven but gravid disingenuous flickers of lambent cloaks of perfidy—that earned its birthright by meditative fruition rather than prodigal tallespin of indolent frapplanks of a vicarious personage rather than an autotelic haecceity showcases the folly of heterodyne inclinations meeting an impasse of accidental dislodgement. The interregnum between the spurts and sprees of luxuriance is a staid pause between continuities of afforded parlance becoming stapled demographic solidarity affixed to a strident gallop of effortful pushes against the tenacity of the slumberous wicked hibernation of vetust magpiety without hieratical internment because youthful industry beats hackneyed bludgeons of wiseacres of a stilted manufacture of steamy nostalgia for lickerish moments that dignify but undermine moral virtues but splash anointed and sometimes disjointed favor upon the congeners to a rabid escapade of a heedless love frowning on the girdles of the prim balderdash of heralded jolts dim on levity and puffed with elusive contextualized control of libidinous serrated defilement because the crotaline **** outmantles the sweedled limber of exploitable folly. The cosseted reality of wheedled gourmands of continuous perception rather than the Gaussian blur of the protean invention of stitches in time that obscure rather than magnify the supernal levity inherent to most artistry is a linchpin of lenient gravitas that levies the lavaderos of ripe perception into annealment.
Excuse the bravado of the gait of winnowed forks in a bronteum for heralds of megaloscopy fastened to the macroscian reality of indelible filigrees of countermanded controversy becoming its best behest in the sempiternal flowering of burgeoned demonstration rather than illustrious overhang of drab slabs of manufacture rather than organism that should be interposed between the constellated concepts of both apperception and the aggrieved counselors to obtuse obsessions that are an improper tutelary for a designated reprisal of the once profane now immediately gratified by ramshackle tenets of a guarded sublimation of the tenets of post-modernism into a sustained force of the internalized tabernacle of haecceity shepherded into exuberance by the manumission of spirit from the ******* of purblind scalds of defamation that incurs the penalty of flippant privation. The refuge the Lord provides is not contingent upon the vagaries of deliberation nor the calculus of oversight but the remontant amaranthine glower of a listed deed becoming an eternal reminder that a dismantled and disjointed world fathoming only remorse rather than the trudge of gentility against the headwinds of brunt asperity will always flout the successor rather than atone for the failure of the imponent condition that constellates around rudimentary drivel grubbing the momentary out of avarice for allotted merchandise rather than glommed magnets to amoeba sentiments for the kisswonk of ulterior motive beyond dungeons of desperation that lurk ghoulishly with spectral frights at the disfigurement of morale created by errors askew rather than a contagion of righteous valor.

   Ask the heedful servant if the captaincy of reneged commitment owes homage to dutiful instruction or whether it is a balking corpse of necrosis accorded to the omphalism of brutish carnal repose in times of sedentary silt siphoned in spelunked rijuice for preordination is a predominant specter for a world scared scurrilous and skittish in a diatribe against the very notion of tribal screeds embedded in the sedimentary heft of traditionalism above the pother of vacillation commended to the apikoros but counterfeit fiat system of a ruddy governance without a supreme magistrate. Now lets venture into the territory of visagists as we envision the swanky subversion of impoverished and nebbich visions of oligochrome that fixates on belabored but dead notions of rigid propriety and levitate above those concerns with a querulous transcendence that never wernaggles about the profaned irrelevance of burlesque tropes of sidereal friction but instead memorializes the thermolysis of permeable endeavor above staid countenances of imposture that lurk in the shadowy penumbra of the connivance of persona above the archetype of the tutelary guardian spirit that through windlass and sometimes deliberation affixes nobility to even the pedestrian in order to assize its proper proportions to granular ironies expounded into megalography transformative by the very rivets of its supersensible existence and cohabitation with histrinkage among human taboos.

   The handiwork of a permeable race prone to exacerbated proclamations of prerogatives bulldozed by the rapid percolation of insoluble quandaries to the gripes of the feast of foofaraw sometimes shelters our otherwise regnant concern about the plenipotentiary God that observes all latent affairs without the paramours that conflate vivid carnality with appeased luxury and superimposes a crafty system of seismic shifts in rantipole dances with numinous flux rather than dissipated militant suppression of the fracklings of dissolute pollution which swirk in their dastardly desperado endeavors to corral the entire monoliths that guard each province into a winnowed rumble of rubble by tarnish of Tyre rather than by the upstart rejoinders of Canaan. Every creature which has the capacity to perceive language is afforded benedictions by the overhailing force of the hypaethral heights of superlative ingenuity founded in the bolted speculation of the endearment of all to tropological seesaws embattled against the hearsay of nyejays that contaminates the telmatology of the ecosystem of revivalism rather than buries the leaden debts of the disjointed revenants of past prominence into recycled irrelevance for posterity rather than for anything but a machination of a clockwork apple rigged for a rotten worm to swindle the sweet delicate tempests of unforeseen disaster to perjuries against financial solidarity.

The spinsters of sardonic drollery underscore the imminence of an incondite cutthroat collapse blackguarded by the hucksters of incontinence grubbing every fetched noisome notion and congealing a bonnyclabber of desiccated mildew that proves vestigial when the victors of time earn their joyous serenade to the pinnacle of the totem of jaundice slits in wavy endeavors for the participles of sejungible syntax of the ephorized furor to outlast the draksteng of droned dereliction manned by half-baked spies of ulterior recitals for imprinted vicissitude in supremacy in synquest for frizzlounges rather than the pedestrian circulatory system of careworn polity. We vaporize the petty hatred of sympatric regelation that neuters the virulence of motivated impediments to the draconian surge of asperity that sinks temporal haplessness as a regaled blasphemy that crowns only the ringed betrothal to spumid serrated halts in slick superstition that is a buggery to the idea of insectivores devouring the erratic chantage of germane germs that pauperize rather than even blind the deafened to be a crutch to vehicular homicide. Melismatic sennet is a dirigible of immense herculean sinew without the traces of vestibulary retches of kisswonked grisly tepid intimidations of eccedentesiasts by the radioglare of wizened corrugations in thanatism that exhort the avatars of narquiddity over the natural departure of revenant souls back to their temporary hostility to crass lifeless decarnate immediacy that slinks with foibles magnified by vertiginous heights of scollardical reputes rigged by the rijuice of the plackiques of meaningless spoils for swashbuckler bonanza borrowed from serrated vengeance exacted in prominence to provide false avenues of extenuation to malefaction that is confidant to the panopticon of exemplary dimples meager in the largesse of the composite realism of a sizable imprint on megalography that outlasts impertinent excuses for dangerous trout swimming against the mobilized selachostomous frizz of sharks gathering to avenge disclosure with insolence and gravid atrocity of incisive surgical evisceration of attempted depositions that falter by innumerable facets of countenance that belie ultimate realism and the perdurable construction of a sturdy hive of bibliognost revelry.

     Even with the blaring sennet of majesty inundating my piecemeal perception with the marstions of flarium that is an efficacy in a flaccid world of otiose pretenses limpid only in folly but contraplex in ironic skewbald skerries of grubbed destination that is the terminus of karezza despite the maledictions of vehement guarded betrayals that conjure up lurid noisome virility against the gamines and gallywows that populate interstellar fictions of virtu rather than mundane pragmatica that astound with the resselenque of contaminated skeumorphs of latent fracture belonging to a skeletonized ossified reification of farce above historicity in seemly seamless countenance with overwrought princely stature deserving integrity to ripples through sparkling opalescence. The vapid insularity of the self-contained mythos of appeased groundlings is based on the rhizic and rhizogenic fracklings destitute in predicative flares to swelter above stratospheres of the illimitable into the dwelling of the highest serenity inherent to the pacification of truth to neglect its egregious errors of mistetches of a ripened pachyderm of bravery in times of austerity and now a reclaimed notion of sempiternal charades swimming above the punitive draksteng of dranger that is enlarged by acclimated attempts at foiled raltention hikkling against its own superior forces of galvanized preterition to elide over screwball insanity of derangement in this virtual paradise of inhabited souls belonging to former times congregating on the pasture of the evanescence of now for all eternity having the optative condition of incarnation above the ferules of the stagnant brevity of oversight in heavenly realms by postulate but not confirmed by regal logic.

     The troponder of the flickered lambent niceties of polity is a countenance that piggybacks on simpered jostles of negligent engrenage to appease sworn enmities among beatific havens for certitude swarmed by the fisticuffs of darbied bridewells of desiccated drainage traversing the distant disdain for the gravel of cemented slits of stilted pragmatica that is a gavel of atrocious estoppel mediated by heroic heresiarchs against pitiable betrayal for forceful remedies in acclimated servitude to the groans and groaks of a life of remorse and dearth rather than the glut of luxuriance in forbearance to its own intorted mirrored ironies that etch infinity with every scrawled rejoinder to austere ploys of checkered rumbles of threat and exigency posed by the clairvoyant hypocrites who benefit greatly by the design of the omphalism above the frays and brays of corporate dogmatism slowly outmoded by vibrant plumages of heteronormative originality beyond petty chantage. A hesitation overcomes the bluster of bravado as the restive earnest concerns of tribulation beset the minauderies of divine affection to reaffirm the teachings of the Gospel so that future generations genuflect beneath the altar of the ultimate stroke of sociogenesis and the blood ransom of suffering that promoted the human latitude and liberty against incarcerated throngs of virtue over caesaraproprism accorded to genuflection beneath denarii rather than absolution by tether to the eternal vine of sensation of the supersensible entelechy of all valiant insurrections against defective polities and renewed policies.

     We thus seek a transdimensional bridge between the morphean virtu of rudimentary alchemy of propitiation divulged by leverage and the teeming rambunctiousness of fiduciary tribes to the ultimate duty of man to consummate the future of eternity even in slowpoke mannerisms that sidle through rigors of entelechy and assize the masterwork of tutelage above the circumforaneous entrenchment of glut above the mastery of the subtle subaudition that beleaguers an adept conflagration of harnessed human ignorance staid in the incarceration of exotic virtues of freewheeling sapience never vulnerary to hospitable concerns that entrenches the verisimilitude of a refracted justice to reign over the stultification of a primitivism inherent to man and not man alone.

russia
the mother of the love was cindy. she lives as wari and has no longer power. her beauty is renowned and she should rule.

argentina was the land of dd but mexico was goal and it was dana's land. dana is alive but needs to take control.

germany was grand and elsa was their king. elizabeth will rule. william was leam and harry was star. charles was ruu.

venice

the leader of the wall must take the city down dunstable will rule but row must take command (paul p) just lift the iron up and drink the holy well. paul (row my) must lead the way and let the city fall like jerico to row.

sibelius was chief his love could control hell. his land was mexico. he will return in 100 years. for now his son razor must reign. razor reigns already he was always strong with his power.

anthony (anthony p) is still rome. druididous stole from anthony. italy will love his power. his father still lives. he was known as tora. he will always save his people every time. (anthony and cleopatra).

simon (simon d) was the bell of the dance. his land was the guard of the law, his saviour was the christ.

palastine was oscar's (livin christ) land. he loved the people first and then the chosen leader. china stole his heart but his mother's magic eye was always the greener for the dome of the bar which was his mother's land.

syria was kim's the turks obeyed her law and her partner simon rice was the lord of undeceived. (kim's favourite sword - immaculate) kim would only ever give land to someone who beat her in a sword fight.

pakistan was morrow. morrow still lives. i will give him pakistan tomorrow.

laura (y) was time of space. her land was always persia. she always controlled the south and gail (r) did not deceive.

gail was the haunted skull. her wind would launch the sail. her seas were ever brave and her love was always true. persia (north)
was her heart. never steal her heart.

spain was not my son he was never in my life but portugal was spain and gavin (p) was their king.

the catharsis will run and run. i will never be deceived the gate is always closed for love is in our hearts.

england

gina (p) was our queen her lands would always flow. china stole her heart but england was her throne. ( i would like gina to come back to china to bend for the corn) gina's mother was druella in the ancient times.

david (b) was the king, he was the lionheart. he was our favourite king and no man could deceive.

scotland

gavin (p) was the james and diamond was his jewel. diamond is his wife and he must now command for nothing could corrupt.

stuart scotten was a scotish noble.

michael never ruled but no man thought he should his love was always wine and wine should not be loved. (as usual we will give him the principality of lowe as a gift so he does not destroy everyone).

serbia was the good, the love that jesus saw. give my son his thone. the love will be believed. in ancient histories serbia was known as dela. (see note lower serbia is now held by lassa and tal as guardians of the land below mount denar.) serbia and palastine must live in peace now the jew is gone who wanted to hurt palastine so much her people were forced south.

ok important note. we believe serbia was originally dunne but he always wanted land so he was not allowed back to earth. his lands were south of mount denar. oscar/ the christ/ the livin held after dunne left the earth but it was eventually agreed serbia below mount denar would be loved by tal and lassa as guardians of the land.

iatilahhomanne is the blue sky is yugoslavia. his wife is doran. she was his love. his old name was swee. yugoslavia is west of tee and north of do or die generally it is where teem is now. (old dree) their language was hebrew their god was jesus. the jews wanted christ to be their god not their christ. it is easy to find yugoslavia of the old world it is next to dree (ethiopia) and west of door. we believe they were also palastinian descent in the old world.  

pakistan was blue, she gave it to her heart and lassa always rules. lassa is alive give him his power back. no man then will grieve for joshua is back.

australia is madam it must return her power she knows the paths of peace and lives as mary rose.

newzealand is (d) (not good) madam must take control or ruby (a place) will aspire.

america is (d) she seethes to take the land. her hatred scalds and scalds it was berire's land. berire was the chief his land was mule and strike the karaoke's scream i will protect his thone.

orinoco should control his mind is always lead he knows no dark of heart and all his love is treve.

treve is always beth but she was ian's soul. please leave me ian's heart and yours should be atol.

atol would not be right. orinoco always marries beth (yet again). gail will not marry jet.

jason (rye) was no fool his lands were israel's heart. he loved the soul of rule but simon (d) could command.

kirby was the goo, india his throne. he was the amicable man his love was always christ the taj mahal he built and that was his home.

ian

i only want to love one girl, her name is beth. her love is like a bird that listens to the sky and then listens to all my love for her.

denmark

denmark was lasa at the dawn of time demeter is the rule and she's the queen of time. demeter now is young she is the queen of time her land is do or die and masa must command.

esotonia

was the house built by the sea it was eric's house and he was the son of the man he was the love of the life and he lives these days as stan.

france was warren hall but i must now be true. please give my catherine (m) land for aragon must rule. she was also in the ancient history joan of arc.

venice
paul (p) row my (principality palace in tlau.) dunstable took paul's money.

laura y (south china) it was the bys that took laura's money.

mowh has saved the word in china but as usual she tried to take power and had to be destroyed..

in venice beth was cocyo (the giver of bliss)  ( row cocco)

stav in south china is oscar's principality. stav is where oscar (the livin) is always happy. tao (ian and my son) loves to live in lowe.

the emperor of berling (north west south china) should have been. martin j. his brother originally drim dra dro was originally the prince of lowe but when i gave martin his territory in berling nick j became the prince of toi with the principality of toi. this was true in ancient times. martin was known as jo.  

orinoco was the emperor of china. the world was the waiting because the love would always be good.  

skybird drew was ray son. drew were the rightful thone of japan. the drew meant the solace of the earth.

gina in venice was tray.

ian's mother was fred.

eusebius was the poet of the heart.

eri (y) sometimes marries the man of the water.

michael is the guardian of the keep. i will always love my true.

helen (v) was the lover of the vine. she was chinese but had no throne.

claire was jezibel.

david was dow and fun

dunstable was char the feather of the water. he stole row fun.

in venice
eri was elea
laura was dezibel
gavin was cla

i have accepted as a gift a principality province in tithale.

kim of indonisia was the man the people loved. kim of the creator. we used to call kim the good man of our lives and the gentle spirit. everything of his goodness is returned.

our love was the strength of the world.

solace was drew. drew was the noblest family of all.

laura (y) was the mwang the rulers of the town and they were always princes.

in 1288 beth said goodness is more powerful than evil.

watling, turner and maccarthy were forced.

i am the family of fwoah.

lauren fwoah meant lauren the beautiful.

it was the evil family foo who made everybody born (or moved) to england. i demand all their money returned.

trump was the man of the star. he wanted the world to be quiet but loved. his name was choo. his current wife is belle and she was always his queen. his throne is peru.

boris was the baron of the star. your wife is livia and your land was mexico and your name was boro. your son was stevio the prayer of the mind and bringer of peace.

blair was catcho, the man who spent the fun. his original land was japan and he was noble but not the throne. the throne is now skybird drew.

it was the swinster family who hurt diana.

the current emperor of china is loco. he will give the territories to beth. his wife was the queen of the north.

*** (orinoco) was the conqueror of time. his destiny was power. he always loved beth and his province was the south.

japan is dalta at the moment it should have been drew. he stole for power as the armies wouldn't work. he wanted peru but i will not give peru for his destiny is fire!

peru should be malta but malta should be fire the love was the love of the love was always peru and peru should be ruled by scotland.

india was palm of par he was death of silence he was a resiliant man and today he lives as par.

atlantis was my sky i'll always love her heart. her chimney burnt to flame when carthage stole my love. phonecia was the blue and blue as of the wave (m) does wish but it is oscar's soul.

ian wynn was wales his love was orinoco. his daughter still lives as simone.

anthony (rome) was cabra in italy and dree in china which meant love me love. he was also lieu which meant the loved. (anthony and cleopatra)

lean built pisa tower. he was best at food.

row meant delight the sky.

the agha khan was dal which meant the love. he believes his true throne tunisia. i believe this is correct. also iran and iraq.

tin is throne of india.

del was the true throne of sweden. he is in charge.

norway was lion's land. it belongs to strong. who lives as guy.

the shah of iran was simon rice's father. he was the true throne. he was known as tal, which meant the good leader. iraq was also his which was the flower of land, denmark was also tal's land because yassa pretended lassa, this meant the throne was wrong but tal is lawful throne and lassa agrees.

godolphin was the arabian throne.

gina's money was taken by tong and fau who was the imposter winner of gold. they are both dead.

beth's love was the strength of the world.

drua took beth's seal in the china parliament. he stole my money. i was the word of china. i will return and take my rightful seat. my friend the shah of iran has already bought me the principality of siam and principality stav for my livin/oscar/christ ( oscar was born 25/12/97 this is the truth) as a wedding present. my mother gail has bought blue principality province. lowe i have agreed purchase when fun returned for my tao and my michaels.

gina was croan in china.

laura (y) married fleep.

dree took beth's money by pretending royal blood.

dominic (b) was poland of the ancient worlds his charm was nina and she was the curl. nina was so beautiful no man could ever resist, deceit could not destroy them there would always be a whirl!

This was just published so it is copyright 2015 by Holy Cow Press ~ mce**

Poverty is the fence around your life. Poverty wakes you up at 4 AM only to whisper meaningless slogans in your ear. It is the school of Piranha nibbling at the back of your brain. It is two hours waiting in the anteroom of despair for $22 worth of food stamps and being glad to be there. It is changing your phone number frequently because bill collectors are such boring conversationalists. It is the empty space your heels used to fill. It is letting your hair grow long and scraggly and your grizzled beard sprout because you know that although you sleep in rented rooms tonight, the street is not far off, and you want to fit in when you arrive. Poverty scalds the lint from your pockets. It is your private Treblinka within which you rage but are crushed. It is desperate prayers against dental catastrophes, blown tires, surprises of any sort. Poverty is when everything you own is frayed including your nerves from sleepless moments spent trying to solve the equation that will make X number of dollars cover X + ? number of bills, knowing that such math would defeat Newton or Einstein. Poverty is eying the cat's kibble imagining that with a bit of sugar and a splash of milk it might be fine and then eyeballing the cat himself thinking of protein of last resort and trying not to measure him against the microwave door. You ration your cigarettes; whiskey is a fading memory. Passing a diner on the street, you catch a whiff  of burgers too expensive to consider and experience a Pavlovian  moment. Poverty is trying to keep your head up and then remembering you pawned your neck. Poverty is watching the needle eat your last few gallons of gas. Poverty is the archeology of despair. It portends the death of irony. There is nothing ironic about a car with 217,000 miles and no insurance on it. Facts are facts in the world of poverty. Poverty is the last quarter reclaimed from beneath the cushions. It is too much time and not enough quarters. It is the specious logic of the self-righteous proclaiming that you deserve to be poor because you are, which in Amerika passes for wisdom. Poverty makes each day like the next because nothing does not vary. It is who you are and where you are going, although you won't get far. It is the life you lead inside the fence. It is the sum of what you lack. It just is.
   - mce

Anytime my coffee gets cold
I can't help but think of you
It scalds my mouth as I drink it too fast
But the pain doesn't compare
To that I feel missing you

The firefighter explained to me
My brain was still aflame.
I have to water down my thoughts
If I am to be saved.

I focused hard and pondered on my
Faults and past regrets.
The firefighter’s eyebrows raised
And, in fear, began to sweat.

He said self-remorse would scorch my flesh,
And forgiveness is my water.
To stare beyond this choking smoke,
My vision must be broader.

And as I thought of all I’ve done,
And all I’ve yet to do,
I couldn’t help but sear a tear
For the scalds I’ve singed in you.

My head blew up, my heart explodes,
An inferno in my mind.
So he arced his axe behind his head,
And buried it in mine.

Three summers ago
I loved a boy
who's hair when moved
by wind or hand
was always magical,
who possessed tanned skin
and eyes so blue
they were waters to drown in.
Around him I felt enchanted
and he was enthralling.
He captivated me,
turned me into a slave of my emotions,
with words and promises
I knew he couldn't make come true.
"Run," my friends urged me, "as fast as you can."
But without him life was jaded,
their warning
had been voiced too late.
Already I had pricked my finger,
on a spinning wheel
and fallen head over heels
in that chemically induced slumber
we sometimes call love.
He opened a door for me that led straight
into a world filled with
bushes of roses
and buckets of sunshine,
I promptly forgot that too much sunshine
scalds the skin
and turns it a burning, vivid red,
almost as vivid
as the crimson blood
a touch from the thorns of roses draws.
I knew I had been warned so I stayed there
bleeding and burning,
swearing to myself as I suffered
that I would never again
give my heart to someone
who would not give me theirs in return.

This summer, three years later,
being around you
means feeling like being able to combust spontaneously
and I cannot forget
the sensation of my skin in contact with yours.
It made me realise
that though I have always loved you,
I started loving you a little bit too much.
You are my every thought.
They say you never make the same mistake twice,
that it is your own stupid fault the second time around.
But if it really was a choice
why then is it
that I spend all my nights these days
pleading with the universe
to let me unlove you.

193

I shall know why—when Time is over—
And I have ceased to wonder why—
Christ will explain each separate anguish
In the fair schoolroom of the sky—

He will tell me what “Peter” promised—
And I—for wonder at his woe—
I shall forget the drop of Anguish
That scalds me now—that scalds me now!

We step outside and even though
you were only one option out of many,
I chose you.
You were perfect
for a seven minute fling.

Your milky white skin burns instantly
to my fiery touch.
At first, you play rough.
Your breath scalds my lungs
with the promise of a shorter life.
But as you ease into a pattern,
you begin to mellow me out.

Now we are halfway through
and your tan lips
are starting to soften
at the thought of this fling
coming to an end.
As the seconds whine forward,
you send me one last shock of ecstasy,
and then in a puff of smoke,
you leave forever,
with me wishing
that you would come back.

They say a seven minute fling
will take seven minutes
off your life.
I sit and ponder this
but still I hunger for more.
And although there are millions
of you out there just waiting
for their own chance at a seven minute fling,
the time you have given me
is as good as it ever will be.

She is the cold fire that snaps at my skin
Making me long for the heartburning
That scalds and scars the flesh within
Dark hair dark desirous eyes
Dark nights of passion till I realize
That she has drained me
Supped the juices from my lust
Drunk from all the fury my love gives
And suddenly she lives
Like a vampire
Mesmerizing
One blood drop at a time
She slurps me up like I am some cheap wine
And I swoon under her power
Consumed by her hunger
As she completely devours me
Till I beg for more

There is a dull ache in the pit of my bossom-
maddening and riveting as the alcohol scalds
my tongue, my throat and settles in my stomach.
Far away,
In the different weather and scent of-
streets, alleways and my bed not quite the same.
Long way from home,
Amidst a place not quite my taste-
missing and kissing in the the corner streets.
Epiphany as the place; that is not quite the same,
reminds me that it is not the missing piece;
Rather, that I am the lonesome traveller.
A stranger, a moribund
In this far away land of sorrow and of memory.
Long way, homesick in the vast expanse of-
memory lane;
A place not quite the same as the one left behind.

my imagination scalds
with violating stains
of contemptuous familiarity
agonised shrieks
confront my mouth
with an unremitting combustibility
while a frustration like a volatile tornado
engulfs me with an hallucinated savagery
detonating unrelenting explosions
within my consciousness of perception
causing a hurricane of momentum
bringing such oddities to my mind
as such precludes their proper elucidation
yet a tempestuously implosive inner cosmos
is located a volcanic insurgence
the accelerative storm on which
the poem like Valkyries rides

A vast unfeeling sordid breath,
That scalds my naked doubt
Grazing the space unfilled.
Lost in the waves
The summer an oppressive embrace,
Infecting this town.
And I am alone from here.
The stagnant tsunami,
Creeps up from the depths
Untiring in its attempts to overwhelm me.
But I'm already so tired,
Bone-weary.
I give up on my fight to the heat,
To the eternal god that glares
So balefully from beneath heavy clouds.
Have done with me now.
Leave me to the tide.
To the uncaring winds
Anywhere beyond the sweat of bodies
And incessant hate
Of the sun.-

i. you will miss him in drizzles and monsoons, in swells and tsunamis. you will listen to his favorite song for hours; it will hit you every unexpected moment. it will hurt, stab, ache, and you will suppress constant screams with strained lips.

ii. you will collect everything he gave to you and wonder if it is dimensionally real. you will sleep in his shirts, retaste saltwater kisses, and reread conversations as if there's something you missed the previous thirty times. absence does not make the heart grow fonder; it rips it apart and you cannot stitch the ragged halves with no thread.

iii. you will feel his touch presently in everything you do. it will be soft and cruelly comforting. it will constantly and inescapably linger. it will haunt you in early rainy mornings and dark lonely evenings.

iv. you will read endless musings on love and philosophy. you will entirely understand foucault's prison. you will live in steinbeck's tide pools and stars, and relate to simon bolivar trapped in his labyrinth. you will wonder why everything is like this, ugly and broken (and also if you are becoming delusional).

v. you will drink tea that scalds your tongue and stand outside on freezing nights, numb and overfeeling at the same time. you will ask the silent moon a thousand questions. you will see him and blink, head swimming, heart pounding in surges. the stars will wink and the wind will mock you.

vi. you will have blissful afternoons you forget and sorrowful nights you remember. it will still consume you in bouts, devour you in spells. nighttime will become both your enemy and remedy: it will wickedly remind you, yet help you heal.

vii. you will try and fail to make sense of him (and the universe in general). you will grapple with reality and yourself. perhaps you will never know why he stopped loving you: you will keep wondering how some things can just be left broken.

iix. slowly, slowly, you will sprout on your own; you will be tender and nearly whole. most importantly, you will realize his love brought you an entirely different kind of happiness.

ix. you will stop worrying and trying to piece together an empty puzzle. even the deepest scars find their way of fading. your mom was right: stop picking at the scab and your wound will heal.

x. you will learn to love yourself in ways he never could have loved you.

If this were a stainless life, where my wishes outran my dreams, I would be your Muse. You would be my consummate liberation. Pure. We would be two impeccable and intricate halves to a Whole.

I would delicately whisper the perfection of your thoughts. You would always know that every throbbing second of missing you scalds my chest like a straight shot of whiskey. I would always be guarded in your warrior arms incessantly, while your trembling fingertips fumble & untangle the strands of my hair. This, my love, parallel with your parted angel lips, perishing to ******* skin like deliverance. But instead, let me savor the deep sighs of your soul as you read me poems of Us in an embrace that vows timelessness. You would always deeply crave to flicker your tongue on my **** with the barbarity of a dragonflies' wings. (******* & Button too, please.) Our Love would always be frail and delicate enough to cradle a wounded sparrow or a bruised robins' egg. I would kiss away-- the raw heaviness of the world, the look of disquiet on your face during a restless & riotous week, the howling tears and grieving weeps on your cheeks that you never knew how to cry, your sad eyelids goodnight when a sinuous and cruel current of doubt tries to wash us out. The words we spoke to each other would always be used as a sanctity & a solace at all times and never to rage or destroy or damage. I would revel in the chasms of your heart when I heard our childs' laughter. We would float when you held my hand. In the mall. At the grocery store. In the car. On the sofa. Everywhere. We would always remember that every sky is not pale blue, that every rainfall is not tame, that every grin does not always radiate truth, but if we have each other we will always be pacified. We would never cease to see the fate of our boundless love with every docile or rowdy or concise kiss. We would reconstruct the phantoms of both our pasts into worthless and abandoned yesterdays, so they can never define Us. I would always appreciate the little things with you; Our harmonized breaths as we sleep, the pull of gravity when you take my breath away, every note in our favorite songs, the faint sunlight in Autumn that pierces your eyes to make them crystal, the crust of the moon in the cloudless night sky as we dream in each others arms, every precious word that is conceived behind your sinless lips, every wave and surge of ecstasy of every crescendo in the raptures of our frenzied desires, every smile that is illustrated by you. I would never stop reading you, interpreting you, learning you, saving you, holding you. I would anchor our wary hearts, fasten our hopeful eyes, meet you at every opened door, walk with you down every path of life, and never stop collapsing and descending and falling madly, deliriously, wildly, deeply, doubtlessly in Love with you. Sometimes we would cry ourselves to sleep until the weight of our pseudo laments turned into vigor. I would try my very best soothe every hurt, heal every scar, fight every war. Take every battle and make it mine so that you never have to fight. So that you never have to try. So that you never have to struggle. You would sing me to sleep; soft and quietly, out of tone and raspy, whispering and sleepy. We would just be, simply, us.

Hands that look sunburned
at first blush
count the silent ticks of a cognitive clock
grasping and releasing in stilted syncopation:
one-two-three-five (must avoid the four)
Did I remember to lock the front door?  Out
of bed—again—freezing feet tumble
down
     into slippers
awaiting the circular inevitability.  Again, again.  

Pad, pad, pad:
light shuffling accompanies the one-two-three-five
pounding in the head; that mind ricocheted with worry—
worry about the front door, the evil intentions of four,
insidious germs and subsequent scrubbing-scrubbing-scrubbing
in bleach and Comet.  Pad,

pad, pad to the front door.
It’s one hundred and thirty four steps, so take a baby-shuffle:
still avoiding the four.
Cold, unyielding brass ****.  Locked.

Deadbolt? Check.  Creeping black.
Chain lock?  Check.  Crawling germs.  Oh, god.

Pad, pad, pad to the kitchen.
Clorox-fume greetings in the sparkling sink
from twenty-three minutes before.  Never twenty-four.
Clorox on the cracked fingers, blistering
out that imperceptible blackness I know it’s there
blackness choking, bleeding in the bleach.

Scrub brushes, pumice, and fingernail files
wear down the nubs where the blackness may hide.
“Shh” the steaming water soothes
as it stings, scalds.  “Shh.”  Burn it all out;
conclusion so comforting.  So predictably round.

This is the last time I can do this tonight.  Pad, pad, pad
back to the bedroom.  Downey quilt beckons in lover tones,
pleading pillows nudge against that head, that infernal head
still panicking amongst the softness:
*Did I remember to lock the front door?

Now I lay me down to sleep
ready for my soul to dream,
but it's hard to rest when I hear
everyone singing the Tomorrow Blues Lullaby.
My parents sing "We're just waiting for retirement,"
My 9 to 5 friends sing "I'm living for the weekend"
a few of them sing "I'm looking forward to football"
my brother sings "I'm looking forward to Breaking Bad"
and the banks sing "Save for today so you can live for tomorrow."

I'm not too fond of this song,
it makes my heart race, my face twitch and my breath shallow cold.
I can't fathom living to be old with mountains of folded quid and clothes
dinning on modified tomato corn sandwiches inhaling CO2
and watching housewives on the tube.

I dream of living near a babbling stream in the woods, or atop a quiet mountain,
something peaceful and away from it all.
But the elder Generation X and baby boomers
like my parents tell me I've got to pay my dues,
they tell my Generation Y peers and I are spoiled and entitled
with more gadgets and toys disturbing the system
cause we all think we deserve the world cause we've been taught "you're all special."

These bitter, harsh notes in the lullaby
keep me awake; like a chord-clashing siren song
causing heartache and migraines.
I prefer passive words but this burning breath
ruptures my throat and scalds my veins
smoke rising and flames dance along my tongue
as these choking words burst forth;

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry we're not blindly walking down the same roads
like the days of old sending loved ones overseas as soldiers in Afghanistan or Iraq
killing each other instead of building our own path.
I'm sorry we're staying awake instead of "living the dream"
in a conveyor belt system of school-job-live-die that you built for us.  
I'm sorry we're leery of trusting banks and the invisible electric money
you helped "print."

But most importantly, I'm sorry
you're upset. You have every right to be.
You're starting to see what you build holds no interest for them or me.
We're building another ride, one where we can be free and one with everything.
So go on, call us names,
tell us we're not special despite teaching us we are.
While you're trying to push forward in housing, pharmaceuticals and gas
we're starting to wake up  from this dream to see
starving children and diseases yet to be cured
all the while seeing what we've learned from you
is just absurd and untrue.
THIS HURTS US TOO.
We know so much sweaty, sleepless and stressful hours
were put into this path, but at some point
will you realize it's going in the wrong direction?

And if I loved you more than you loved me,
would anyone in truth of it be wise?
I measure you not in soliloquy,
but how you hold me when I start to cry.
If all the world did freeze and cease to turn,
the sun, and moon, and stars exit stage left,
the feeling would be something like this burn
that scalds me as you take up my time— theft.
We laugh, we cry, I hurt, we hug— but see?
I know that doubt will live here in my head,
so long as you share not your heart with me;
it’s easier to fade away instead.
I love you still, but needing to be free,
I’ll take the heart you left; it still belongs to me.

this will be an off the chest one,
a long one,
a crazy (and) derisive one for
we
who once were
i
are now foregone.

we sit here
writing -
startled by the addition of
LOUD
music(?) to my library;
not my taste -
pink floyd
leaks through my
head phones from
the coffee shop speakers.
tea scalded tongue,
she did
warn me,
did she...

- a break,
thats where we
find
ourselves and
wondering what will come
of the fu-
tu-
re
furthur out from
now?

we quiet now,
find ourselves
lulled through
into
another plane
of which -
break end.

this year -
bitter winds find
necessitation in
her
fixation -
as last year
as next year,
til time
cedes.

we write with open head
and fluid mental
projection,
a reality
created
from each of ours
and one into
the next;
'our universe is
vast'
some cry,
of course we
know
it is.

tea no longer
scalds
(
to burn
the flesh away
)
as twangy
guitar follows
snappy snare,
tap tap
tip
tap,
blues wail
away.

- - - to take a ****
to take a cigarette
to take a lover - - -

lover missed,
though
so did the
****;
currents retain
fluidity.

we're done.

As love as life purely be
The newborn does clearly see
So is the Treasures ripped of me
And with the lead, I into the thickening sea
Deep sea diver, who’d dream of submarines
Remembering to forget what ought be
And into thee illusions and relative delusions
As we agree to agree unto our identities
So the child would play into the surreal
Reality they say, but in plain sight
Would the greatest they steal
Life is hot and scalds as all accepts
When in your mind you don’t learn
All the right steps
As you were as you were three
And not another just like Me
In exuberance to conquer
Those who conquer about and not be
But for the few and synergies
A fairytale of sugar and spice
Not doing great harm because your nice
Deep sea diver in your submarine
I am the sky
Would you come out
And breathe with me
Your story is of remembrance
Of all you once were
And ever could be
Pure Love that is seeing perfectly
The mountains that melt into the Sea
And reality becomes Love
In your waking living breathing Dream
So shall the song of life be
Growing up
Growing down
Weaving your Love story all around
Our greater home
Where all are found
And find every angel does serve thee
As we decide what they be
So mind what you mind
Mind you if I am heart
And mind you be
Your great calling is serving me
As I am servant to all of thee
I am knower and will not deceive
Nothing has power over thee
Upon mountains or depth of sea
You are the Dragon
Who fire breathes
Whose song and dance
Is what is Heart
Not of other chance
O what Joy be
If every girl and boy
Simply be and see

Let your words linger on your lips
As the wine drips from your pores,
Forming a puddle of blood
Upon the crimson stained floor.

The burning red reeks of love
And acidic sin scalds the rug,
The carpet scorched and house ablaze
But yet you still return his gaze.

And though the embers fall like leaves
With fiery passion amidst the trees,
The night will cease as though your lust
Left nothing more but washed up rust.

Had the ocean swept it all away
So morning could arrive with peace,
You wouldn't let this dream decay
Although it was the last you'd ever feel.

he is a shock to the senses / like the first sip of hot chocolate / the way the sweet liquid scalds your tongue / like the icy air that wraps it's bony arms around your body / when stepping out of a steaming shower in the early morning hours / he is a sharp inhale when your torso touches the blue water of the swimming pool on a hot Texas afternoon

i am a lot of things
to you
i may read as an
amateur poet
perfecting her art
to my parents i am
their failure
their too much and not enough
their daughter who acts
their "why do you fake everything?"
their "why don't you sing anymore?"
their "how long have you been smoking ****?"
their "i'm disappointed in you"
their "i knew you were going to be a ****"
their "bisexuality is *******
why is everything with you for attention?"
their "why can't you be perfect like your brother?"
their "pretend you're happy or cry in your room"
their "cry in your pillow i don't want to hear that"
their "why must you fake every ******* thing?
if you want to act audition for plays
i don't want your ******* in my house"
but i only fake happy
the joy that lights my face
everywhere but my hollow
eyes
and you see, they are only hollow
and dark
because i walk the shadows
with my left foot stretching out
in front of me
i've walked the shadows my whole life
with a cane on my back
and blood etched into my chest
you see i
am a **** victim
there i said it
what i've denied for so long
in hopes that i could be strong
and carry on
and just get over it
like i was told i should
but i cannot trust anyone
or anything
because he always said
my 9 and 10 and 11
year old body
was appeasing
so what do i do now
now that i am a young woman
who's growing into these
"great things" he always said i had
but i never had
not then
and i know you will hurt
me too
i know you will hurt
me too
but maybe this is just a
nightmare
perhaps i am a butterfly
and my PTSD is just a jar
or could it be that i am
not real was never
real
because i do not feel
real
i shrink from my own skin
because your handprints are still there
i am a walking skeleton
afraid of having a body
yet i yearn to have a body
but i only wish
you did not have eyes
god do i hate the fact that men can see me
because i can see the despicable things
that rack their lustful vision
tear my feathers
clip my wings
pour bleach on them
make sure it stings
2 years later
not a second goes by that
i did not eye
every suspicious man
who followed me when i walked
and i started to get over it
it wouldn't happen again
i repeated
every
single night before my eyes closed
and you stomped through my dreams
cutting all of my seams
i was 13
the day he offered me a drink
and some ****
and of course i obliged
because i know him
i know him
i see him every day
and his flesh is plenty real
he is real
and i wonder
if he stole my real
when he stole everything else
i drank until the bottom of the bottle
looked like a pool of blood
i could sink into
i smoked until my throat
was black and charred
like all of my unworthy pieces
burnt until they are ash
he told me
words i can never scrape out of my ears
out of my head
i want them out of my head
they are pills i digested
that stuck to my kidney
my body never forgave me
"i am only here
to get you drunk and *******
but i'm not doing that this time"
and now i live in constant fear
*** you a cigarette and a light
so i don't have to hear
your voice crackle like a fire
that burns too high
it scalds me
i am a lot of things
and i do believe
that weak
is not one of them.

I've been breathing in everything I hate
Such as the smoke from fire that bellows beneath my feet,
It burns and it scalds and yet,
I do not learn my lesson.
My lungs have become airbags- deflated, charred
It hurts me to breathe but yet,
I do not learn my lesson.

I have been shown the sweet smells from the valley,
The honeysuckle kisses against my dried lips
But nectar is far more vicious than tar.
For it sticks to you like a bad memory
It will coat you in a sweet sickness,
A birth from a joyous hospital room
Honeysuckle kisses upon dry lips,
While they pump you full of the tar.

So while my lungs cannot heave anymore,
And my organs coated with depression
The nectar does nothing but upset my stomach
It causes it to wretch like a screaming baby
Lack of honeysuckle kisses fuels the fire.
I will continue to burn and scald my feet-
But I will not succumb to the iridescence
That will one day leave you sick,
And sticky sweet.

This throat is raw
From the fire in my heart
It scalds the esophagus
As it works its way up
And makes it hard to
Tell you the way I feel
And tasting you isn't the same
And I'm choking on every word
I didn't say
Vowels and consonants all fail me
And stupid girls
Don't win a ******* thing
Except self destruction anyway
And there ain't no gift receipt
For that

The splendid southern sun lights the land
     breeding the greenest grass
     exploding the fairest flowers
     reflecting the widest seas
     feeding the richest soil
     and the kindest people
The vast open ocean soaks the skin
The soft white sand scalds the feet
The breezy air is humid
     saturated with ecstasy
     but damp with opportunity

But as I venture north
     films of simple nostalgia conceal these memories
     escapes to the southern sun now intermittent.

Bliss is overcome with solitude.
Reality refracts the northern lamps
     replacing the herald of each new day with a sobering awakening.

Every day passes slowly
     as the factory of life once again begins
     as the iron cogs of monotony turn
     in their recurrent spin.
The last bursts of escape are torn
     ripped between the brutish artisans of monotony
          like scraps thrown to the dogs
          a loaf dropped amongst slaves.

This is the limit of our blessed lives
     Endless toil and fleeting happiness.
If not, show me more
     a rescue from these binding shackles.
But if so, may I dream
     of the southern sun?

bruised knuckles on aphrodite.
beating fear in the pawn of love.
candle wicks bloom in the heart of the mighty.

guillotine lips whisper the call of the dove.
casted wings of beauty melt.
when asked to care, angelic shoulders shrug.

gasoline of her words--heartfelt--
poured onto my pyre.
these flames, before her knelt.

beauty that scalds those who touch its fire.
human nature made it a liar.

You are the salt I crave
That scalds my skin & brands my mind

I hunger for the oblivion of your lips
The famine of your naked skin

Imprisoned by the trance of your eyes
And swallowed by the gentle abyss of your voice

The cruel perfume of your forbidden skin
And taboo of your musk

Your warm thighs wrapped, butter soft, around me
I ache for the drowsy tangle of our joyful limbs

The sculpture of your arching back beneath my trembling touch
Your drifting hand, lazy traced across my cheek

I hunt at night for the dream of you, to feed my soul
I hunger for the moments when the universe dissolves & we float untethered, alone, together
Consumed in our feast

© Alfa Fido 2013

her cold stair,
blank nostalgia draped with silent intentions
scalds me when her name is mentioned,
behind strained wishes,
taunted behind distant wants,
all caught up in my broken heart
subsides in my stomach tied in knots
all delicately laid in such a way
as to barricade  who I was
from getting to who I wanted to be
while day after day I strained looking
and trying, hoping and crying
until the moment I burst forth
in glorious flame they called me phoenix
I remembered my name
I gathered my strength mustered
every ounce of my courage and
let them go, tiped the scale, domino
tore the seem of my reality, gave my self
some room to grow.

My words are bland compared to yours
And that scalds me
like fresh coffee on open skin

You're no cliché though
despite your skinny jeans
and catalogue fashion taste

I listen to your words like a
gentle tinkling of a piano tune
that erupts into a Bach symphony.

The heavy weight of your words
crush me. I fight for breath
and recently I've realised
I'm the only one not strong enough
to hold them up.

So at night I realise
the sky doesn't shine for me.
It shines for boys with a mind
way beyond his time,
For boys whose heart
leaks through the ink
of his pen like
an embedded vein.

Every night I realise my insignificance,
and the death of my poetry
whilst yours
beats strongly;
eternally.

So I'm sorry I write things because I only feel like it, okay?
But not everyone can explode
into a smattering
of stars
and
flames;

Like you do.

Dear god, his touch is like fire.
His fingertips leave burns on my skin, every place he lays his palm blisters
It's mesmerizing
Everyone knows the flames will hurt if you touch them, but they are oh so pretty
And he just so happens to be  gorgeous, the type that I can't take my eyes off of
It doesn't matter if every time my skin meets his, it scalds my heart
None of it matters anymore
Because he provides the most addicting kind of torturous pain that I could ever imagine
But as soon as he takes his hands away, I turn cold as the ice I was born from
He is full of fire and I am made of ice, and oh he makes me melt