Huddle
And shiver
And scowl
                turn away now
from snow-sunburnt faces
in cracked and frostbitten window panes
A chance taken lightly
won't wash away so easy
when the years mislaid thicken
and lips no longer speak freely

So I'll age, here, in silence
and dance with ghosts of better days
cross yellowing pages
stitch Bighorn peaks to the snowy plains

Your brown eyes were wet.
My greyscale soul had shattered.
While you left and forgot me,
I divorced from all that matters

Teeth grind
                                        ears dull
                       days fade out

Shuffle
And stumble
Sit down
             hunch away, now.
A strange face in red light
dissembles truths out of frosting frames
A proverb so simple,
"Not all is gold which glistens,"
Could have lived in the shimmer,
but I never listened.

So I'll dream, here, out westward
sleep next to bones of better days
let my drunken memories
trace bus routes back up to Winnipeg

Your brown eyes were wet
as roadway stitches unraveled
My blue eyes filled with question marks,
then they hardened up into gravel

I'm echoing footfalls on stairs
                  in the night
You're our spectral laughter in summer
                  bathed in cups of wine

                       Fade out.

Teeth grind. Ears dull. Days fade out.

Pale scrapings of people
with lipstick ringed glasses
and cigarettes burning,
and laughter trickling up and down
their knotty throats.
What is this,
a gathering of henhouse critics?

My father's voice in the back of my head,
saying, forget that I'm dead and if you
can not do that than pretend.

I am standing
just outside the gallery
beneath the shadowy bough of a birch.
The moon is floating in the sky's dark lap.
Faraway I can hear the ocean sigh.

Now father, I am asking,
what smile are you wearing?
What color are your eyes again?
How many teeth have you lost?

Don't you think I want a kiss.
Perhaps I don't. Perhaps I don't
want to stand and pretend you
not dead while the wet, champagne
mouths of the living tell me how wonderful
your paintings are.

As they crook their fingers and strain their necks,
lose their vocabulary inside the artwork's depths
and colors.

Father, I want your reputation to outlive the pursuits
of others with their iron-on reviews after an hour's
worth of browsing at a lifetime of your work.

Father, are you crying?
Stop that sound.

I thought, "holy **** man, look at yourself". The only change I ever witnessed for 3 years was the scrapings left ringing out on the bar rail. Always reaching out to a pocket for god and finding nothing. "I guess you can't refund the drinks, right?" She didn't laugh. I watched my circle get smaller, tired of the antics and my drinking became the **** of a joke. I watched my circle get smaller, my vision blurred like the future lining with a black viginette and with every drink I watched the bartender familiarize. Another? tap tap an empty bottle uses its manners and mine, with a painted smile. Until close she would become my therapist, and the salary was almost the same for the two after I left. After close the cooks offered sympathetic invites and lackluster conversations at the ******* next door. They laughed and drank and like ***** hawks watched their prey scale a poll like the fire they were fighting was inside. I saw no spark, no love given, no love received. I found it hard to love, when hating myself was the only thing I loved to feel. The grease stained fries were tickling the back of my throat on the last night I went. I found myself puking next to a coke head doing key bumps and I asked through hiccups "does the smell back here not bother you?" he said "what smell?". I wiped my mouth and stumbled home somehow. I kicked broken pieces of pavement and scoffed at the curb-sides hugging garbage. I realized through the streetlights that my shadow wasn't the only darkness following me at night. Out of cigarettes and out of my mind I resented this city for having so many bridges. The screaming trucks below gave some sort of comfort with my feet tangling with the breeze. The stretching hands from out-of-place highway trees grabbed at me and I felt the world rotating. The night that changed me, a three am crosswalk flashed its hand at me, but I kept walking.

She was the face of the century.
We'd all believed the age of heroes was past
but she was the real thing -
brilliant, brave beyond belief and wise,
and the planet - the whole planet -
was proud to have her as ambassador.

And when the broadcast arrived,
proof that we had spanned the solar system
and set foot on another planet,
every Earthling eye gazed, every ear strained,
so as not to miss a word.

"..."

Martian sky.  Red dust.  Second transmission.

"...
"I know...
"I know you are watching me.
"I know that this is the moment,
"the moment you have waited for.
"Seven months ago I left you.  It's hard
"to hold your breath for seven months!"

Across the globe, people laughed and gasped.

"Seven months."

A pause.

"Seven months, and enough money
"To end poverty
"across most of the Earth."

Heads were scratched.
Where was this going?

"Well, everyone, here I am.
"I can see you, you know.  A star,
"A dot in the black - that's you.
"And that dot -
"Oh, that precious, beautiful dot!"

Eyes moistened.  Friends embraced.

"Where every speck of dust is a home
"for something.
"Where even the forgotten scrapings
"Of last week's dinner
"plays host to LIFE!
"Air to breathe!
"Water to drink!
"So many, many things to love!"

Thirty two seconds of silence.

"Why did you send me here?"

Fifty three seconds of silence.

"This is hell."

And with that
she placed the camera on a tripod
stood before it
and removed her helmet.

The once fierce eyes
quickly bulged and reddened
skin puckered and peeled,
frost scorched and suffocated
lips, best known for forming momentous words
turned first blue then purple
and blood flowed freely
from her nostrils.
She slumped, fell,
knocked over the camera.

End of transmission.

The whole broadcast had lasted just seven minutes.

She was already dead by the time we heard the first word.

Let joy shall crash upon you like the waves from the
sea, heavy and full of unexpectedness.

Let love drift to you like the soft smell of hyacinth
from the gardens below your window.

Deny not the furtive scrapings of passion always
clawing and biting their way into your life.

Allow life to be lived as life, not as scripted verse, not like this.

Don’t you want to
Achieve the vision
He said with eyes
So crystal blue
We can see it
Written on your
Face I sense
No connection
To these people
We can all be
Top performers
If we elevate
One another
Hey your onions
Cut too small
This is me
Elevating you
I smell onions
And tortillas
And vegetables
Oil dishwater
Carbon on the
Grill top scrapings
She has got some
Vague expectation
Written on her smear
Life is like a
Postage stamp
Her makeup is
Too thick crossing
Over leopard print
Tattoo underneath
Her left arm
Message managers
Are wondering what’s
Wrong with you
My gentle restaurateur
You and your wife
Are wondering why
A child this June
Another restaurateur
A new store opens
Every two days
Like a virus spreading
Smiles of cold blue skin
I dreamt last night
My breathless image
Of being caught
Inside an elevator
Of an old casino
I was parked on the
28th floor security
Was out to get me
I want to be
The tired reason
Your brand new magic
Realization
The dream you
Don’t wake up from
I want to fall into
Flesh disappearing
From the white spots
Of your eyes
No sounds heard
Settling in your head
Spread out among
The cold far reaches
Of your yesses
Coagulate like
Hot black venom
In your fingers
Be drawn into
The cracked corners
Of your lips like
Raised beds of
Cacti in the sun
Holy stolen
In your boots
I am no sinner
Cast me thru the
Farmlands of the
Black seed
I am going
Home to where
Your eagle’s waiting
Eyes of plenty
Vines that
Creep among
The tangled people
In their fever dream
Announcing lampshade
Shadows holding
Form from in the
Broken molding
Here I watch my
Not-self wonder
At the wretched
Timeline of reactionary
Heroes
Tired old mothers
Wandering up the stairs
To their misfortunes
Glasses brought back
Full of orange juice and water
I am drawn upon
A silver second
Lost into a fog
She is obvious in
The way that she is leaving
I am almost out of
Oatmeal and songs
Silver for my floors
Time evaporates
This instant
Like a clean and subtle
Memory of everything
You say or do or wake to
All your riches and your fables
Are a lamb sworn
Into custody
Of the same slate asylum
Battered boats near docks
Knocking water
Into snake holes
Wandered under
Painted bridges
Holding no collapse
Spending hours and days
Washed up on drowsy
Shoreline nettles
Chipping flint stone fire
Extinguished under floodlights

i cannot seem to write anymore.

gone, the days of furious penning
that delivered a trail of thoughts
to your door.

now, my inkwell is full of air
and dried crumbly scrapings
of purple berried residue.

and this paper? yellowed onion-skinned
husk of memory,  too flimsy to withstand
the heavy strokes of my pen.

no, i cannot seem to write anymore.

here, thought floats through my head.
i play ****** and grab, clutch at nothing.

swimming, swimming words,
a wispy film before my eyes.

If life was but a game
I might as well be entertained
But the masses of ******* stand out
Reluctantly,
I leave my thoughts to be someone it seems only you want me to be
An unbound book bound to the shelf
To see what is calling me
Is it just another confused memory?
You ****** me over and gave me every key i'd need
To make up the tale that love exists inside of meeeeee.

A whispered call to distant dreams
They have been wasted,
And where the pitch-black aisles of forest's night had hid eternal things,
My inspiration had run dry,
The moon is floating in the sky's dark lap.
Pale scrapings of people as far as the eye can see.
More excuses than imaginable

Mirror Image

The pallet of God’s true water colors we pick up the story of creation when God is putting on the finishing
Touches in the forever of his existence he has an inkling a beginning a persistent nagging there has
To be more something is missing as all birthing of the superb and marvelous don’t think it strange that the angels
They to see and feel like a question is floating around in the ethereal mist and it must be sorted out and
Addressed what would make perfection expand to a greater detail this vague formless idea continues
And from the thought formless God made a connection I need to form a world it has to be special
Rival heaven in a conventional way we seem to be shadowed by a noticeable degree of loneliness we have
everything provided for in every way I see to it that my arm of might has brought all this to our realm that’s
It what can be perfect if it’s not shared but where and with what am I not a preeminent father in
Creative acts we need this world and it will be inhabited by my own children yes a family will complete
Me that is the logical dilemma that sought a voice now I hear and I will dedicate all I have to give an
Answer so fine will be oh the shinning yes of course we can’t have them stumbling about in the dark I
Will make the most powerful orb made of gases that will burn without end the black void will be pierced
Its reach will have to be placed properly or disaster could happen even before we get started I don’t
Want to be foolish or have the angels snickering how disruptive what does disruptive mean in the whole
Well of course such a powerful light must have a counter balance thats it I will make a great white globe
To set in the division of light and darkness I will fill in its uses later in the natural event of things. So
Creation of earth once started speeds to a conclusion but we find God as we said putting the final touches in
Place as a master builder he does one thing well and then repeats it around the globe for our story we
Will concentrate on the northeastern United States that would eventually come into existence it all
Comes in a creative rush and with God’s orderly mind all is defined he understands such soil will have to
Be regulated the sky will be enhanced with clouds that will cary water this suggests a natural runoff it has to have a catch basin so our lakes were formed with
Deftness God takes the bottom of his palm dips deep and pulls away significant earth there now a basin this
Extra scrapings will do fine for a mantle to cover the lower ranges of my mountains that jut go high and
Free but their will need to be a surface texture or the water will make a fine mess and just fill up my
Beautiful mirror that reflects already created glory yes a small common plant I will call it grass it will
Cover the whole earth where it is dry well those steeps is going to create a forceful downward run off
There has to be more and they have to be sturdy and surly with heavy population I will have to have an
Answer to eventuality of pollution and need to make them strong and fibrous they can’t be puny and
Hold their own in identity or in usefulness against the mountain’s reign something to catch the wind as it
Passes creating a cleansing affect in heaven reeds front the Crystal Sea well just a little change using
Reed As the root word well tree of course we will give them grand branches the wind comes and then
Leaves poetically they will be known as leafs what more fitting place to put a whole lot of dazzle the
Earth will be turning on its axis this will make natural seasons what a time to bring out my color palate
Beauty will find its free and unequaled expression and the moods let me take a little rustic hue a blazing
Fire filled red can’t forget to give a subtle honor of yellow to the sun a little orange to fuse it all
Together now what has been so long coming back to the free coursing Euphrates I have my best work to
Do in a garden rich and full but needing that final element just like when I started all this my children are
Going to draw their first breath and be my wonderful family.

You ask me what my diet is
and I am reminded that for three years of my life
All I had in my lunchbox
were jam sandwiches
Single slices of own brand bread
with scrapings of red in the center
If there was anything there
at all
And I tell you that I've never had a problem
with portion control

You ask me again how I stay so skinny
and I think of all the days I spent
rummaging through bare cupboards
Looking for something I could have
for dinner
As I tell you that I have always
been like this

You wrap ******* around my
wrist and joke that a breeze would ******* away
and I can see myself now
11 years old and 5 foot nothing
Pushing my sister in her pram
up a hill on the way home from
school
Straining under the weight
And I tell you that my body had
never failed me when it wasn't windy out

You demand to know why nothing I eat sticks to me
But I can't tell you how my frame
hasn't yet gotten used to being full
of something other than rage
And I don't think I would recognize
the girl who wasn't starving
and stuffing her face
So I tell you that I just don't know

You can't help but ask why I didn't just buy myself something extra
And I smile when I think of the small
amount that I had to spend
and the fiver worth of sweets it went on
that I handed to my baby siblings as I shut the door
to their room
On the worst day I can remember
Because they didn't have to be hungry too
So I didn't eat a single one

But I tell you that skinny is just a memory I didn't get to give back.

I entered the world like most of my kind – whitewashed and nameless,
faceless yet searching for a face
to nibble on corn mashed scrapings of my time and place,
just hungry enough to pervade ignorance and grapple at the ripeness
of a more fruitful
truth
acknowledged in a vacuum
where dreams rot and decay and suffocate the eyes,
where an echo reverberates a menacing shriek
that tastes foul and perverse – dried sweat teared in blood
but it stays with me and my kind
alone in the haystack by God and his word
silenced by the power of an unlicensed scripture
these conditions fixate me, us
as they fixate the man behind the whip
as they fixate the land, the family, the working stick.
but I unlike most of my kind
have choked on an inch, and spit up a mile
and wielded a pen to inkblot a trial,
a trial constructed outside the vacuum
offering light, air and room to breathe
in the tangibility of humanity.

Before we read or speak or rest further,
you owe promise to a favor–

I want you to walk directly out of your door
during the most lucid scene of day,
or the most haunting moment of inner-night
Walk until your feet come to a
                        sudden
                        instinctive
                        halt
Listen to clamor, or
whatever surrounds you
Lift all volumes of your
                        puja
                        quietude
                        as a psalm
Focus on humanities scrapings
or the long graceful stroke of
matriarchal firman in her most
                        peculiar
                        stage
                        of cankered innocence
Lecture the calamity of her fictionless plot and
digest what the spiritually deaf cannot, and allow it to
find what triggers you the hardest
                        what
                        gouges
                        the prompts threadbare
It may be the indifferent hiss of cars passing
and it may be the expression plastering the jaw
of all of that unprocessed energy
                        ambling
                        on
                        by
It may even be the weather spilt
from her majesties
archaic entrails
Something will eventually do you in
but it ultimately
takes practice at varying degrees

I've done it when I was awake
I've done it in dreams
Either way
there's more mirrored in fragmented cohesion
                        than it
                        quite often
                        seems

Words were never spoken or exchanged.
"The GO Train is here."
The only five words anyone there ever thought they needed to hear
besides
they weren't words
they were mentality
the briefcases
purses
newspapers
click-a-clacks of heels
rustling of zippers and keys
scrapings of sandals
rollings of bags
sharp noses
blank eyes
all pointed at their exact target
click clack
click clack
a steady stream
of everyone and anyone
men with full black business suits
girls in Gouci and jeans
ladies in Reitmans
men in checkered shirts and khaki shorts
like ants they piled into the
green and white
snake
dreading the fatal announcement
"last call!  Last call!"
they accelerated
full grown men and women
whipping and thudding and click-a-clacking
the wind pushed them back to their cars
the ground screamed "Stop!"
but they didn't listen
a woman
all in blue
who could raise the dead
with her clacking
daintily ran as fast as she could
"DOORS SHUT!" the conductor's voice was muffled
and he followed through
in a spurt of perseverance
soundlessly
the doors closed
At least the adults knew one thing
no amount of noise could open them
so they didn't try
the blue-clad woman slowed to a stop
the GO train had gone
she slumped in the middle of the station
the wind urged her
but suddenly
the train came again
always there
always gone
CLICK CLACK
the heels revived
click clack
click
clack
clack

The summer sun's an auger drilling deep
To sap my will and hasten my decline,
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep.
From when its faintest rays begin to creep
Beyond the long horizon's boundary line,
The summer sun's an auger, drilling deep.
When morning comes, I'll buy my living steep,
But living wilts me 'till I can recline
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep
As if I died, as if I'd get to keep
The scrapings that I'd earned, as if they're mine.
The summer sun's an auger, drilling deep.
Each moment sowing seeds I'll never reap
Comes twisting down around my brain and spine -
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep.
All wisdom, wits, and words ring hollow, cheap,
Some wilted offerings at a broken shrine.
The summer sun's an auger, drilling deep,
And by the time night falls, I'll pray for sleep.

The ******* the train is nothing more
Than an illusion, or perhaps a delusion;
What is she, if not the bitter, bitter dregs,
The last of the burnt coffee, gone cold,
The watered down scrapings off the bottom
Of the cup we call life?

History of people

The stone walls and vaulted ceiling held memories the light seemingly superficial human identities have
Passed in and out like the outward wind that briefly buffets the outer structure then moves on if only

We could use a tool like the archeologist not to deface or change but take scrapings their work tells the
Grand story of people and place I would like the more personnel their struggles and their outcome we

Can and do learn from history and in time be able to take DNA when the science is stronger to take  
From these living libraries through test tubes and meaningful searches that will connect people even

Closer than ancestry search sites this shows your long ago relative was a silver smith and how impressive
If the very searcher himself works in a similar field someday I’m sure they will have applications that

Will be virtual it will be made in the same village you can set in your easy chair and have the unfolding
Of how it felt the highs the lows the commutable variable of life’s most cherished meaning what is to

Exist to be such time and effort is expended in the thoughts of this will serve our posterity what a
Precious stream flows from solid rock just like life giving springs in ancient and modern day where life

Would have to be deferred but out of a pristine valley not only nature but human enterprise is giving the
Opportunity to devise many wonders traceable back through time we lose essentiality when we don’t

Build bridges to our rich past cares can over run us or as they say they can provide stepping stones it is
So easy to defeat someone who has lost the chain links that tells who he is and where he comes from

This erodes his knowing and sense of belonging take careful measures to shore up the present with the
Glories others fixed in the earth as guide posts that will not fail no matter what the storm is now go in

These sacred blessings that hold back fire and flood in them you will feel your stature enlarge nothing
Will be to big you already have been given the mastery of them it’s told in the stone

(HORROR & FANTASY FICTION)

Screams of terror,
echoing through the walls.
Heavy chains clang,
and she endlessly sobs.

She shouts and weeps.
The castle remains deaf.
As night engulfs,
she mourns in great anguish.

More and more groans.
Grand voice becomes hoarse.
She stifles a cackle,
as dying hopes prevail.

Horrible fate,
merciless verdict.
Death within walls.
Her real nightmare gnaws.

Soon, mere scrapings,
no hints of cries within.
Handsome madame,
into a rotting flesh.

A living corpse,
between the lonesome walls.
In dark solace,
forever, she will dwell.

If I could impregnate myself with my tears
My children would be innumerable and divine
Delicate as the lilacs at my feet
And as giving as my mothers hands

My children and I would dance wildly to the sound of the shaking leaves
And laugh until we cried at the absurdity of the decaying frames of the eternal surrounding infrastructures

I would gather our collective tears and water my children
Careful to sift the salt and reserve just enough for future implantation

My babies would nest in the tight curls of my crown and I would rock them to sleep in the gentle curve of my lashes
Blinking slowly and steadily to ease the restlessness of their being

If I could birth my children from my ear
I’d rest my head on a pillow and never leave
I’d rest my head flat on the soft surface
Turning my head only slightly to the left to give a final shake
Releasing my babies from their sack

I’d let them snuggle against my cheek as I sang to them the songs of the old Gods
And the new
I’d warm them with heat of my breath and nourish them with the saliva of my tongue
I’d listen intently to their soft whispers inquiring about the beams of light seeping through the cracks of the walls
And
The vines sprouting through the floor boards and climbing pillars on the bed

If I could birth my children from the scrapings from under my fingernails
I’d tear at my flesh until there was nothing left but raw nerve and blood
I’d dress them in gowns made from the weaved patches of hair growing across my mons *****
And I’d make them sun hats from the shattered pieces of my toe nails

If I could sink into the soil and grow my babies from my decay
I’d sprout a row of sunflowers
And the many seeds in its ***** would be my youngins
They’d fall away one by one
Matured
And run off uninhibited into the spring

Little pieces of me
Drowning in the sunshine
Free

The chief's long skull smoking Pipe
Was filled
With smoke from human capture
With blood from his own scrapings
And with cactus from the western desert,

And as I took a puff....
                                        I kneweth the chief hadst put something magical his mine pipe.....

Because I felt and saw mine soul arise above the Colorado cliffs.

He sits, staring at the wall for hours at a time.
The paint is white, grey, cream, pink, green; peeling. Peeling in pieces, in chunks of time’s scrapings.
The way it peels reminds him of the time he scraped his knee against the raw pavement in the winter when he was seven. It reminds him of the scent of her fingers, held against his nose in the summer, after peeling the onions for their terrible dinners; she could never cook.
There is a cobweb, fine, dusty with greyness at the corner of the rain stained window, and he can see the muted silver moving from the wind the crack lets through. The sky is empty and full, slowly falling. The raindrops are letters; the raindrops are tears, making a sound against the windowpane, a sound against the roof- the sound he longs to hear, but cannot. There is only shuffling above him, the sound of water falling from the ceiling and into a metal bowl.
Tap, tap, tap.
The stirring of the ground above him would make him jealous, and if he could still feel jealousy, it would have been the reason for his insanity.
But he cannot.
And so he drowns in the darkness
Created by his mind
Created by his being.
He sits.
Staring at the wall.
Peeling.

I found a way to extinguish your fingerprints from the unapologetic blaze convincing my body to bend at the knees. I didn’t owe you anything. Forgiveness is sometimes convoluted in our heads while we bash them against our heart thumping chest, constant reminders that while we’re here on this earth we are selfish in our skin. We talked about the summer and took strides in sand we sprinkled on our heads like a heartache ending too soon. We tried stepping in footprints already bleeding in the mud, let the rain become a hurricane re-erecting the crooked we left in our bones. Whispers leaving the tingles in our goosebumps and hollowed out repression. It was the night we let the teacup shard blood stain the kitchen tiles, a Rorschach test we tricked wine and twilight into thinking was therapy for the bruises left behind our ears. You fell asleep when my fingers touched the thin parts of you, a daze of humid air lulling you limp in unsure desperate arms and honey dripping heart beat doubt. If there is anything I know about falling in love, it is that the entirety of your life suddenly disappears from memory, thought process suffocating by your cologne in backseat ambiance. I was afraid of this, of my limbs suddenly clutching to a boy I spent months never seeing despite heavy brown eyes locking on my doubt and formidable footsteps. I was afraid that the second you sank yourself into me my bones would leave it’s decaying white framed casket where I’ve let myself rot, reincarnate just to trip onto branches I’ve dropped on myself before, always stepping over but never picking up as if one day I’ll remember where I let the pieces of me stumble and break away because I’ll come back for them. One day. One day I know you’ll give me the option of stepping back into the clam shell barricade but your gentle hands will touch the lower part of my spine as if to say “Sunlight will let you breathe easy.” I dont even know you yet, not really. I just know you in sunset sunrises between shaking words and left over scrapings of our walls with dull knives and desperation clogging our throats. But in waning hours that left us too delirious to consider how we would feel in the sunlight, suddenly the world not ours to conquer, I gave myself permission to give myself an ounce of forgiveness I can hand to you now and say “For later, when I forget who I am and you’ve turned into someone who carries me when I’ve lost my way in this forest I never belonged in. It was handed to me, in car accident wreckage and razor bite rashes inflicting my courage and the steadiness of my feet. In case I forget to love you, or fall in love with you, or hold you together when I’ve scratched you with the brown thorns laying beneath us once again. Forgive me. Relinquish your fingerprints all over my frame, darling, forgive me.” Carry me home. Darling. Forgive me.

1.

In Springtime I recall the lilacs sweet scented
Growing up the right hand fence at the bottom,
Of a rather overgrown and swayward garden.
Each flower part of a composite bloom, opening slowly its tiny
Trumpet like stamens from where the bees suckled
Filling their back legs with yellow powdered nectar
Which made honey for sandwiches at teatime.

2.
On my way to infant’s school I would clasp
Handfuls of sweet cherry blossom petals
The tips of each petal turning brown in the sun
My shoes covered as I kicked heaps of this candy floss
Pink tissue paper along the road as I thought about school
And the day ahead, in my brown Clark’s leather sandals.

3.

The smell of the scrapings of new potatoes floating
In tap water in a blue polythene bowl in our scullery
And on my mother’s cracked, dry and sore hands
Ingrained with the dirt from compost and soil.
I loved these hands rough yet gentle to stroke a face.




Love Mary September 12 /201

THIS is the epitome
this is the empty me
I revisit the cavern
to see the small
scrapings, pigments
pulled from my flesh
the child version of all
that was eating me
wheat colored stone
the chaff and the grain
rock against rock
the color of pain
the greedy green
chlorophyll, the part
and smart of my brain
YOU there and I point
a finger like a paintbrush
of despair, yellowed by
the sun and turned to
soup by the falling rain
WHAT sort of thing
could lift me out of this
forever wanting?
a red leveled plow
of your heart digs
at my veins
He is forever
mister dead set
blues for my
pain

make some thing of the scratches and nibs,

home in on detail

and begin

to enjoy

the cuts and scrapings.

Pests- unknowables, question marks-
reverberations and scrapings echo
uncomfortably into the well of my drink

A weighty foundation in glass
fortified in process
returned in measure and esteem-
definitional product-
compulsory torture captured in static
kiln of expectation

The hardening cranes don't love unplanned winds

This thickness I feel
I've been inhibited
as if surgery waited
and you were
indifferent

cut away margins
of caring
boilt bone
and steam
an' I slough off

heaps of me
slagging down
upon myself
piles of mess
to be done with

and me hoping
for reinterpretation
of these scrapings
and small puddles
glistening with

On the face of it, one would
assume by the title, that this
is bread made by ones mother.

Not so, Mummy's Bread is a
term used for the discovery
of yeast in the pyramids.

At the point of burial, the
aristocrats were adorned with
gold, silver and urns of yeast.

Archaeological digs by geologists
have uncovered deposits of live
yeast thousands of years old.

Recently, with the help of bakers,
bred has been produced from these
scrapings, known as Mummy's  Bread.

Yahoo! Pigeon poo
Who could ask for more?
Spending a lazy Sunday afternoon
Scrapings away galore

But this time they're not guilty
For the leaking's in the flat just below
Puddles on the Balcony
With nowhere to easily flow

So have cancelled out the Pigeon Pie
Despite their messy habits woe
But i may well go slightly Cuckoo
If my Balconies rivers don't flow

This is a true story
Of my plight
On this day 11th April
Spent scraping up Pigeon ****/poo!
by Jemia