I speak
& dice
roll on
my tongue.

I move
to kiss
you
& my
mouth
is filled
with
sevens,
sevens,
sevens.

The golden rule never gives change.
And gamblers only drink champagne
Losers can’t afford it
Don’t play poker with medicine men
Doc Holliday's a sore loser
It goes with his obsession
He's a dentist by learning
A gambler by profession
An' a renaissance assassin
A Medici Faustian bargain
Playing the green baize table
Where ten’s the changing sign
The alchemist’s calling card
The card of transformation
A card of changing of beds
And a change of friends
They could even be enemies
Fortune changes for the worse
An’ losing is a winning gamble
When hands like feet change direction
Losing yourself is the smart play
Sooner’s so much better than later
In time the world loves a loser
But gamblers hate a debtor
I.O U’s don’t spell for less than A an’ E
They’re just vowels without provenance
Gambling cashes in on culture
Money is the 'lingua franca'
Of a very deadly silent economy
No really one talks about it
An’ you can’t keep your eyes off it
But sure as hell everyone
Listens to the silence
Ten’s the calling card of consequence
A very suitable number
In Fire Earth Air and Water
They can be quite soulfully pedestrian
You never know what’s in the elements
A good card to keep up your sleeve
But lose your shirt you lose everything
An’ it goes without saying a lot
Not a good card to be found naked with
Be careful with a nine in any colour
It’s the most deserving in the highest
Nines, sleeves and gambling
Are a triple tray of troubles
Heads have been known to be served
On a tray of trays
Nines can be very Trinitarian
And quite John the Baptist
A good card to lose in haste
But eternal if a friend,
There’s none better
Eights go on forever
The Via Dolorosa of numbers
They are a sacred journey
Only the compassionately beautiful
Gamble with an eight in their hands
Eight is a sacred mystery
In any suit it is never cut
And always woven
From a seamless gambled-for cloth
Eight never gambles in suits
Only in garments
Never gamble with an eight
Unless you’re gambling with redemption
Hand life and soul have been
Eternally lost or found on an eight
Truly a gamblers card
And sometimes a calling card
As every gambler knows
A card of consequence and karma
When it calls keep your eyes on the dealer
Sure as hell a deal's been done
An’ all the blue eyes are on you
Sevens like fives are a journey
Good cards for travellers
Wanderers and shape shifters
Seven seas and five continents
Suits those wandering souls among us
Two solitary prime numbers
Indivisible onto themselves
They can be quite pedestrian
Fives can be over confident over land
But they shouldn't try to be seven
Walking on water's a mistake
Unless you’re an avatar
Treading wine is better and safer
Fives and sevens are a journey
Good cards to keep in your shoes
Sixes are sixes by themselves
An’ they don’t go with sevens
They're the card of reflection
A scriptural card if ever there was one
A card dressed in a triple mirror
Vanity and vexation in the curves
A card to turn and turn
And turn your eyes again
The number of this card
Another Trinitarian consequence
Is reflected in the mirror
An image of ourselves
The card has an identity problem
Don’t knock it, you might need it
It’s your friend in need of friend
An’ with friends like that
It's just as well that any three
From any four sixes
Is the sign of a winning hand
In a loser’s smile
And the best part of a full house
A card of Jezebels, angels
And mirrors, on reflection
Don’t you just love sixes
Five is five and let’s not talk about it
It’s an assassin’s calling card
It goes with its own territory
A card that doesn’t take prisoners
Fours are strangers at the door
Every one with a Matthew birth mark
In the image of John
Like four seasons they arrive
Like pilgrims then are gone
To change themselves to be
The same again, another season
Another fall of leaving calls
A card for all weathers
And shelter in a storm
You are kind of pleased to see it
But you don’t know why
Also cards of mystery and obviousness
And only fools an’ fours
Can tell the difference
It’s the ‘maybe’ card
You never really know with fours
The proverbial knocking at your doors
But sure as hell
They’ll never ring a bell
A tidy card to send to acrobats
And other kinds of well-balanced people
That’s what fours are for
Commitments tailored to your needs
And the occasional highly wired friend
Don’t go out without them
You never know if you might need them
Threes are trinities and divinities
Fathers Sons an’ Holy Ghosts
And more usually the cause
Of a quick divorce
The world moves in threes
Sattwas Rajas and Tamas
The triune dance of the universe
Light, Action and Inertia
It even grows on trees
Every one’s a traveller
Some are even gypsies
A good card to keep in your shoes
They can be an invitation
Or a visitor from a distant place
They're the taxi cards of the pack
Call them when you wanna go
Somewhere, they'll arrive
They're the calling cards of falling friends
You'll never be lonely on journey
Of five and sevens with a three
They’re the crucifixion card
Unless it suits you otherwise
To be so amused
Deuces are twos, the mirror card
Duality’s their basic business
They really are a wolf card
Always travelling in packs
Not sufficient to be dangerous
An’ just enough to not be lonely
They really appreciate your company
It suits their reflective existence
To travel in togetherness
The faces are places searching for aces
Jacks in a pack never look back
If they can possibly look sideways
Concealing their knavish tendencies
They’re quite the well-tailored card
Fine raiment maketh a fool attractive
In very unfashionable circumstances
Treachery an’ deceit on each turning face
Sure as Clementine’s your long lost darling
An Ophelia never got her hand in time
A gambling Hamlet is a sight to see
Jealousy rage and a ferocious anger
Writ upon a countenance looking back
Beyond the cardboard eyes of the beholder
Dumb broads are never dumb
And seldom abroad
Sometimes they can be
A very home loving card
Two jokers live in every pack
One out front the other looks back
They’re the magpies in the deck
Less in sorrow than in joy
They cover every missing face
The hooded birds deserve their place
Their reputation precedes them
In black and white they are the night
In colours they’re magnificent sevens
And they’ve really got your number
In spades it suits their harlequin fashion
To be a veritable grave digging charmer
In jewels they ***** the precious deck
Two diamonds and they’re everybody’s
The vagrant royalty rules the roaming pack
Their world is another creature’s finery
Gamblers are such snazzy jazzy dressers
If you have to lose a shirt do it in style
Second hand clothes and second hand hands
Aren’t so much a misfortune more an affliction
Desperately seeking a lost occasion
Well-heeled fools engrave it on their heart
Better be dead in your gracious threads
Than kicking in rags of common comfort  
They’re the card that always looks back
The face in every hand smiling at you
Looking at them with cardboard eyes
Then there’s the precisely tailored box
The transient funeral parlour
In a good-looking box like that
You can die an’ dine anywhere
In reasonable style
If you’re tailed a toss head first
Into a losing situation
Cards never call they beckon
And if they speak it’s a good idea to listen.

There are only two ways to truly know someone: sleep with them or take them bowling.
Phoenix Aime was the woman of my dreams. So, I took her bowling.

Paid for a game. Rented shoes. Got the little, sticky bracelet thingy that said Slippery Joe Lanes.
That way if we got in some sort of accident on the way home,
the guy at the morgue could identify us as bowlers. Anyway, here's the bulleted list of what I knew about Phoenix up to that point:

• She looked like Diane Keaton circa 1972
• She talked with great pretension concerning craft beer
• She only patronized two restaurants: Denny's and IHOP
• She was eight years older than me
• She kissed my sister once on a dare
• Her shoe size was 7
• She was perfect or a near synonym

The bowling alley was empty save a World War II vet in a wheelchair and his wife at lane six,
and they were barely there. Country music played over the loud speaker. And I felt cozy. Predictable. Like a payment plan on the QVC.

That was until Phoenix said, "I forgot something. I'm going to go talk to Mack real quick."
Mack worked the front desk, according to his name tag. Talk to Mack. She just talked to Mack. Mack was sleeping with her. I untied my shoelaces. Oh, Mack, love your red polo with blue tiger stripes.
I pulled my sneakers off. Oh, Mack, I love it when you dip your finger in nacho cheese and feed it to me. Slid my right foot into bowling shoe. Halfway in with the left, and my socked foot struck something plastic. A stick of tiny deodorant. Like unsavory truck-stop-to-truck-stop deodorant. Oh, Mack, I love it when you deodorize -- so hard. Pull the strings tight on the left shoe. Oh, Mack, rub the deodorant until your underarms are SO CHALKY AND WHITE.

"You okay?" Phoenix asked.

"Yeah, what do I look like something's wrong?"

She carried a seafoam green bowling ball with a ****** Mary insignia. "It looks like you triple-knotted your shoes there."

And I said something dumb like, better safe than sorry.

"Sorry about leaving you all alone. Mack holds onto my ***** for me," she said.  I bet he does. "I hate talking to that guy." What? "He's a vegan."

Now, at that time in my life, I was a vegan. And had planned some stirring remarks about the processing of sweet little piggies into cancerous hot dog machines on the way to pick her up. Thought she would think me full of passion, "on fire" for a cause, you know? The wise thing would have been to say, oh well, I'm a vegan. But instead I asked, "What do you mean?"

"You know serial killer's get a last meal before they're executed, right?"

"Right." Where the hell is this going?

"Well, have you ever heard of someone on death row requesting a last meal that didn't involve some sort of animal product? Gacy had buckets of chicken, Bundy had a medium rare steak, even uh, ****, what was his name, McVeigh, Timothy McVeigh he had two pints of mint chocolate ice cream. Dairy."

"I'm not sure how this refutes veganism."

"Nobody is a vegan for their last meal. Nobody. I'm not going to subscribe to a diet that I can't follow until the very end. Live every day like your last, that's my motto."

"That's your motto." I said. To be a great listener, just repeat the last three or four things anyone says to you and raise your eyebrows a little bit. (Examples: "My dog died." -- "You're dog died.", "I never ate breakfast burritos again." -- "Never ate it again.", "I love you." -- "You love me.")

Over Phoenix's shoulder, over by lane six, the wife wheeled the World War II vet up to the lane. And he tossed the ball. Good team, I thought. Want to know someone take them to the bowling alley.

Phoenix removed a glove from her pocket. She had her own ball. Brought her own badass, jet black bowling gloves. And if her carnivorous tendencies hadn't already put a ***** in the Golden Days of Josh and Phoenix, that glove did.

She typed her name first on the scoring computer. Didn't ask if I wanted to go first. That's fine. Approached the lane, three fingers inside the ****** Mary. She brought her bony arm back with the grace of a ballerina tucked away stage right in the shadows. Mary cut from grace slid down the lane with a spin.

Strike. I couldn't really see the pins from my angle. But I recieved a transmission via the "yes" and arm pump. That was two marks against her, and I was going to three. I'd call it strikes, but well, the whole bowling skew.

Here's a bulleted list of what a "yes" and arm pump immediately taught me:

• She takes bowling serious.
• If you take bowling serious, when do you relax?
• She'd never relax.
• My life would be tucked shirts, matching belts and shoes.

For six frames, I picked up fours and sevens. Phoenix, though, nothing but strikes. I threw a gutter on frame seven. Like a normal human being, I shrugged. Made a face out the sides of my mouth. Kept it light.

"I thought you were a grown *** man," Phoenix said.

"Me too."

What happened next, I willed. I'm not god or anything like that. At the time, just cosmicly ******.
Her step stuttered. 7-10 split. "Mack!" she screamed. "Floors are slicker than a used car salesman's hair."

From across the alley,
"Sorry, Phoenix, baby. I'll bring you some nachos. That make up for it?"

"Ain't gonna knock down two pins is it?"

"So, uh, no nachos then?"

"Actually, go ahead and bring those."

She lined up. Back straight. Legs together. She rolled her neck. "You're about to see how it's done."

And I didn't. She broke it down the middle. Field goal. In that moment, that holy moment, I was knowledge plateau. Vindicated.

For about 10 seconds.

Mack swaggered over, nachos in hand. "Phoenix, sweetie, you okay?"

"Do I look okay?"

"No, that's why I asked."

"Just give me the nachos."

"Ah crap." Mack had gotten his pointer finger in the nacho cheese.

"Let me see it."

And right there, right in front the ****** Mary seafoam green bowling ball, she slurped the cheese off his finger."

Frame seven, a good as time as any to call it a match. The wife of the World War II vet kissed her husband's forehead. Handed him a ball. As I walked by, hand on shoulder. "Struck gold, dude."

I write my twos differently now

And sometimes my sevens
I always thought I could use better handwriting

I like the page to look neat, put together
But as you can see my letters loop and swivel
Inconsistent

Can you really tell something about someone by the way their scratch looks on paper?

Can you tell I can't think of much to say?

I almost feel numb to the idea of this being real
I've watched for many years as boys hand me flowers, kiss my cheek, and give me an apologetic smile before they dash out the door, leaving all of their guilt and regret behind along with me

So it's hard now to see things the way I've always used to
I feel like there's a mask over all of the feelings I have ever felt for you
A mask that even I cannot see behind

I should feel excited, overwhelmingly happy, intrigued, and a little afraid but the only times I ever feel anything it is when I'm with you

When you hand is laced with mine or your lips pressed to my forehead

and in these moments with you, I know that when you leave
And leave you will, I will have a hard time looking forward

My perfectly crafted page will appear messy once again and the letters will continue to loop and swivel just like they always have

I just hope that my twos and sevens remain the same

I've grown quite fond of them

The Avro Vulcan, a majestic big old iron bird, sublime,
was to do a flyby for just one memorable last time.
Maybe with a jet fighter or a Spitfire on each wing, who knew?…
Unthinkable to miss it… almost a crime.
Thousands turned up every year, always a great day out -
but this year would be special, there'd be no doubt.
The last flight of such a legendary plane made it essential…
So, after the flyers’ break for lunch, the crowd filled out.

The entry fee to occupy the field was heinous. 25 quid!
That was for adults - and a fiver for each kid.
So, many more than those that paid, sat happily outside pubs.
Others found shelter in the perimeter’s trees and... kinda hid.
Now, to see a Vulcan fly anytime, anywhere, was magic…
She was a Leviathan of the Cold War,
that held players in the planet’s power games in awe.
And this would be her last time doing the rounds on the air show circuit -
Seeing this locally was hard to ignore.

Mark (a nephew) was a window cleaner by trade.
A regular, down to earth, happy go lucky guy.
…Saturday comes and the kids all voted "McDonalds"…
“A Happy Meal!” they’d cry.
He said that was fine - they’d all go after he’d nipped over
to the airshow to watch the Vulcan fly.
No idea whatsoever, of course, that just by going to Shoreham
just 5 miles away, for half an hour or so… that he might die.

He told his fiancé he’d only be an hour or so…
be back in time to take the kids for a burger and, "NO!"...
He wouldn’t stay. He was the only one in the family
who was bothered anyway…so he wouldn’t ****** up their day.
So, in haste, because apparently Chicken Nuggets & Fries
was much better for the kids than a load of old planes,
he cranked the best out of his bike along the 27 and,
once at the lights by the Sussex Pad,
he pulled over to the kerb to watch from the bushes.
Good view? Well not bad!

Andy Hill was a flyer of many years. His weekday job,
flying for BA.Taking holiday makers, business folk, transatlantic in Seven Four Sevens...
A flight deck maestro, soaring up, just under the heavens.
He’d done Shoreham loads of times… it was exciting, exhilarating... almost sport, his game!
He was off the hook,  became an ace. It gave him that 15 minutes of fame!
Free to thrill - a hero! Standing out from the crowd with every daring step. His aim!

He wasn’t just a petrol head… this bloke had aviation fuel in his blood.
Adrenalin on tick-over. Nought to 60 in 2.7 seconds with 22,000 Horsepower under the hood.
He left Epping full of fuel, just 90 miles away, so in two ticks he was with us, fully loaded and, the weather? It was good.
First up after lunch at half past one… he streaked across the crowded field.
Over and out and up, up, up… Little did the spectators know that Andy had forgotten he was flying a Hunter…
He thought it was last year’s aborted routine in a Jet Provost… The one they'd stopped part way through being, too risky.

"He’s not gonna make it… I can’t look!" There was a hush… a nanosecond’s silence and then the rush,
the whoomph that said it all… that hush! The ground shook!
And the eleven - plus others injured - went up in Andy Hill’s very own fireball!
No, of course, Mark wasn’t the only one to die that day.
Ten other ‘innocents’ left us in pretty much the same way…
Maurice, Dylan, Tony, Matthew, Matt, Graham, Mark R, Daniele, Richard & Jacob.
Mark T, our Mark, had the distinction of having two funerals, not just the one…
More remains were discovered, analysed and found to be his!
Even after he’d…already well... ‘gone’.

The injustice that eleven spectators or just passers by should die
when the survivor, the off target driver, who sped too low from the sky, should, after a suitable pause in this ghoulish game, be exonerated and not take any blame.
Well it’s all sort of things… It's ridiculous, pathetic, obtuse, a joke… who do they think we are?

But the great and the good deliberated, scratched their heads and worked hard to make everything look ’right’…
Tolerance for the bereaved to grieve, platitudes, condescending attitudes, a memorial service.
Thanks - genuinely - to the emergency services… Not just a little buck-passing… But the public often judged them. Arsing about - to cover their corporate backside.
They can’t insult me (or us)… intelligent people have tried…

Andy Hill was judged to be not guilty of 11 counts of manslaughter by gross negligence.
But he claimed he blacked out in the air, having experienced ‘cognitive impairment’ brought on by hypoxia … possibly due to the effects of G-force…. Of course!
The 11 were either hit by the plane or roasted in a fireball caused when the jet flew too low and too slow. But if it wasn’t Andy’s fault then whose was it?

Surely this can’t be the end of this travesty of justice!!

BUT, there IS a new memorial to the dead. And, trust this...it’s a good one too…  The best that money can buy - and that anyone can do.

But there's is also a very bitter taste, still today…
that somehow... just won’t go away!

Morning is lovely and cool
puppy is scratching himself
kitties await being fed
goats in their stall want to browse
chickens are seeking new ground
doves cooing soft in their cage
I want to go back to bed.

There are feathers in your step
and sunshine in your smile
inside your freezing baby blues
I see my life in piles
of dust and ash and compost heaps
and endless worls of no
guilt beyond the guilty ones
and looks as cold as snow
It's sad inside those seas of blue
beyond the world I know
I'm lonely loving inside you
and what was high is low
I'm staring at the sky so blue
the clouds all blend in one
I'm coming to your dead rescue
I'm bringing back your gun.
I'm reaching out and touching skin
fingers laced between
hands behind the backs of him
ripping back the dream
my thumbs are in your beltloops
awake i'm waiting for the day
curled around you in the morning
keeping 9 to 5 at bay
goosebumps grace my fingertips
your breath is in my hands
a sound so much like heaven
i'm not strong enought to stand
tomorrow is so far away
from what we have to do
but have a little patience
i'm still trying to swallow you.

I pity anyone visiting us with
A language besides English;
Who tries to understand the words
We like to use with relish.
We seem to say so many words
Just to keep our lips busy.
It occurs to me the so much of it
Has never graced a dictionary.

Upscaling, downsizing
Offloading the whole magilla
The whole nine yards, bottom liine
The big honcho, the whole enchilada
I was completely plussed and then
I had my self a hissy fit
I didn't know I had a flabber,
'Til someone went and gasted it.

Hanging out, kicking back
Into myself and whatever
***** it, man. I am like, wow.
And y'know, yodda yodda yodda.
Some mean kinda fudpucker
Betcher bippees, yabba dabba doo.
Mazoomas and headlights,
Totally hyped megabitch, too.

Talkin' about 'sup bro
Stufflike windas and winders.
Jammin and gittin widdit
And sumpinbout pillas and pillers.
So, I goes and he goes,
And I'm all jazzed and by golly.
It really rocks, rad to the max
Get down to some serious party.

Sixes an sevens, p's and q's
What's your point? Get real!
It's pretty much a ******
So, what's the big deal?
Too much, I mean it's tough,
And stuff, and really far out, man.
Twenty three skiddo old bean.
Just a flash in the pan.
It *****. It blows, It bites, big time
A wicked righteous mindfuck.
Get jiggy with it. Kiss my crank;
Slob my ****, Lord Love-a-duck.

Hands tied
Blind folded
And in pain
He sat there
As she explained
Explained to him
The rules of the game

“Every day I’ll cut off one of your fingers,
And you’ll count back
From one thousand by sevens.”
Going through her drawer
Of clampers and tweezers and scissors
She said
“Now let us, rehearse?”

She took out one of her knives
And oh so calmly
Chopped off one of his fingers
Asked “What’s one thousand minus seven?”
He couldn’t hear her over his own scream
She asked again
“What’s one thousand minus seven?”

“Nine hundred…nine hundred and ninety three.”
“Good! It isn’t that hard you see?
Now I’ll be back tomorrow
Oh, and this is just an experiment
In ten days, we’ll see what you become.”
He sat there crying in agony
Wishing tomorrow never comes

But it did, and he counted
“Nine hundred eighty six.”
“Do you know why I’m making you count?
It’s a trick.
I’ll tell you about it in the end.
Don’t bother trying to figure it out, you won’t.
So just keep counting till then.”

Days went by
And he was counting
“Nine seventy nine.” “Nine seventy two.”
As he was screaming and shouting
He lost all hope of freedom
At “Nine sixty five.”
Now the only freedom for him, was to die.

After ten long days
He finally knew what it was about
At “Nine hundred and thirty.”
She finally let it out
Unashamed as she explained
*“You see?”
It was all just to keep you sane."

You always take away my confidence
You sometimes leave your condescension
No genuine communication, just leave
I sometimes leave my insecurity
I'll always take things to heart
No such thing as compromise, just stay

Ain't got no job, money's drank
All dropped out, face is blank
All ya got are the clothes on your back and a pocket full of hope
Took the job, then ya quit
Not worth your time, repetitive
You'll never have a future, a life, a love or a home
There's something telling you it's time
Time for you to go
A little voice saying that it's time
But you still don't know

Inspiration
Gotta move leave my life's station
Get to the other side of the coast
Home is where you make the most of it
The tough get going, so I better get
So I better get
I'm out

ABC
123
IRS
911
FBI
411
UFO
0...operator?

There goes The Moonchild
We're all waiting
We're all staring
Here's The Moonchild

Where is my loving heart?
The world flashes at my yearning hidden under her umbrella
My life flashes right in front of my eyes, up to the moment I die as I live it
Thank you so much, what is the cost for me to eat my heart out?

Neurotic Nina thinks shes possessed
Makes a mess trying to sort out her life
A substitute trigonometry teacher
Looking for a spiritual healer
Bought Ayahuasca from a dope dealer
Silly girl

Two towns over is Elliot
Lives for the hell of it, but sees no point
They both go out for some coffee
Pumpkin spice lattes so frothy
Nina was upset that it was so costly
Out came her spastic demeanor
That Neurotic Nina

Look at Elliot though and the funk he's in
Looks a little like Bob Dylan
And **** man, he can sure play guitar
He's gonna go far in his new red chariot
You go Elliot
Noise, noise, noise

Wearing stylish clothes
Getting high but feeling low, as they hang off his bones
But he's one of my favorite friends
The chill vibes he sends
Where ever he wanders and roams

Oh, who could that be
Aw no, it's back!
It's sliding under the front door
Wiped its feet on the welcome mat
We never thought we'd see it anymore
Never thought we'd hear from it again, but now it's back
We never saw it coming
It never crossed our minds
And now sevens eating nine then asks if I'm hungry
But I already eight

It wants to be boarder
It will pay rent when it is due
Take in this disparaged disorder
We must thoroughly think this through
Against our better judgement but not our will
We let it in, our joint decision
To tolerate it we take these pills
Won't rid us of the cause but combat the symptoms
And now sevens eating nine then asks if I'm hungry
But I'm afraid I already eight

This is how you love
To find yourself
You must love yourself first
Smile, this suffering won't last long
I'll play you a song

Man, just let it go
It ain't worth the stress
Girl, just hold on
You ain't seen nothing yet

You'll let me have your body
But never let me have a good look at you
I wanna know what you look like
On the inside

Oh yes
That's it
That's the way
How you feeling today?

Breathe in
Love hard
Look up
Run long

And so it is
As you live, you also die
Before your eyes, lays your life



That janitor is soft spoken
I wonder what's on his mind
That reserved kindly custodian
I wonder what's in his mind
I wanna have a beer with him
Wanna crack some jokes and see him grin
The maintenance man behind the broom
I wonder what goes through his mind
That quiet caretaker
I wanna get inside his mind

I am the monarch of the Sea,
The ruler of the Queen's Navee,--
When at anchor here I ride,
My ***** swells with pride,
And I snap my fingers at a foeman's taunts.


And so do his sisters, and his cousins, and his aunts
His sisters and his cousins!
Whom he reckons by the dozens,
And his aunts!


'I am the lowliest tar
That sails the water.
And you, proud maiden, are
My captain's daughter.'


'Refrain, audacious tar.
Your suit from pressing;
Remember what you are,
And whom addressing.'

For I am called Little Buttercup,--dear Little Buttercup,
Though I never could tell why;
But still I'm called Buttercup,--poor Little Buttercup,
Sweet Little Buttercup I!

Fair moon, to thee I sing
Bright regent of the heavens;
Say, why is every thing
Either at sixes or at sevens!

He is an Englishman!
For he himself has said it,
And it's greatly to his credit
That he is an Englishman.

May the itinerary of the day
Be necessary towards May

Tempest to drought with slumber
To ironic thirst for summer

Winter delicacy and calamity
Snows falls amidst humidity

Thwarted before leaders,
And solely present to be there

Finally with protocols complete
And words rested, drama just won’t delete

Saturated is all we all become
Just a breaking point of pressure, could succumb

Suddenly all repeats, clockwork till night
Morning beauty wakens us and soothes us by tonight

Every Seventh is a Rest.
The Day after the Seventh Sevens, a Renewal.
These are the Sevens of Days and Years,
Of Time marked by the Sun and Earth.

The Sevens of Moons is a Recursion
Every Seventh, a Seven, and is Half a Time,
The Fullness thereof, a Twelve.
And every Seventh, a Sacrifice.

One shot two shots three shots four

Five shots six shots seven shots floor

Tiny bubbles in my whiskey

makes me happy makes me feel frisky

seven and sevens on the rocks or sours

whiskey has some magical powers

Harvey Wallbangers In Times Square was
her teaser, a Mai-Tai bang in Taipan, once
or twice her kisses so, sweet he trembled;
as she let him taste her Irish Coffee making
his Rob Roy so, **** hot and bobbing.

It sprang forth with a twang for her Firewater;
engorging the Latted Espresso between her thighs
as Egg Cream threathened to explode,
dipping into her lustful Brandy Alexander;
spillage between her Champagne Cocktail,
cheek to cheek.

She asked me if I wanted a sip of her Coffee Royale;
I said I wouldn't mind being coated in her behind's
libation, drowning ourselves in lust of a throbbing
nightcap; while I slap each cheek in rhythm in a state
of osmosis.

Drinking from her Schnapps; my mind sailed the
sevens seas of her lubricious ocean; riding her Schooner
as waves pushed me within her lagoon with each motion,
slinging Deep Shots; full of emotion, moaning baby! your
Snifter is so, **** wet; swilling your Dom Perignon
and me, just before morn, intoxicated in your elixir
of life; smiling a lopsided smile still tasting your
luscious liquor.

So, we staggered back to bed; laid bulbed
head in inviting peninsula on the shore of
Demon *** Isle and some more I smiled,
absorbing in slurps her coveted Olive Martini,
lapping like a newborn kitten smitten with her
Mint Julep's robust lips; while Lime Rickey
dipped his straw in ebbing shores; sipping
as we eagerly explored, clawing my back.

I in gentlemanly fashion opened all her doors,
as she infiltrated me in every light; mouth
covered in Hot Buttered ***, tasting from
Highballs to every Gimlet of body with skilled
tongue of a bartending artist.

Tasting salt rimmed glasses with hungry tongue
lashes in places so, naughty I flicked out Mickey
Finn; nibbled her in bites of delight front to end,
such a naughty appetite we fed; breathing in heat
like Green Dragon's brew, going down south of
Manhattan's lower eastside; drinking up her **** hide.

She said baby! it's time to ride; Igniting each of her
rooms with Bullshot Cocktails in flaming explosions;
I couldn't get enough being drenched within libations
of her ***** ocean.

Drowning in waves of ardent spirits like a bolt of lightning
poured through us from head to toe we flowed in slow mo';
sweet bon apetits of ecstasy complete, swallowed nice and
neat; spent, bathed in Brandy Smash of a contented bash,
inebriated in slumbered splashes.

wasted in her folded sashes...

Chances!

Faith in an empty space.
Blazing maybe,
After a perfect kiss.
Loving perhaps.
Given half chances.
After gone issues.
Spent like chocolate pennies,impractical.
In wild romances.
Chances are wishes and kisses are dreams.
Nothing at all is what we perceive.
Chances are odd.
Not even the evens.
Dressed up to the nines, but only find sevens
Where nothing else matches.
When nothing else matters
In the sentiment from the diligent delicacy.
As only women bleed.
****** tears bless face.
Enigmatic smile retained!
By ladylivvi1

© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)

buy me on the black market like the instability I am.
watch me hurtle through negative space backwards,
the planet-wide catastrophe of a sun-sized storm in me.
Call me Carbon-14.
it’s the latest piece of my galaxy-sized identity, another chemical
small enough to wage nuclear war.
you’re witnessing my radioactive decay,
the deterioration of everything I used to be into
everything I might be,
a kind of reaction that happens when one of my ‘downs’
becomes an ‘up,’
no aces up my sleeves or full houses of face cards in spades,
but I’ve got straight sevens,
protons neutrons electrons, carbon to nitrogen.
beta decay, the mass production of passive procrastination;
second in command, sidekick sidetracking heroes.
Call me Nitrogen standard 14.
watch me decay into the air that you breathe,
seventh most common gas in the Milky Way galaxy,
keeping things fresh and stainless like my steel armor,
try and make me combust but I’m fireproof, bulletproof,
balanced and on my toes in a defensive position,
fists raised for the fight that you’re going to put up.
my axis is more stable than yours. step into the rings of saturn,
ring the bells to start the rounds, champion takes home the stars,
wraps orion’s belt around their waist and buckles it tight with nuclear waste.
everyone loves an underdog story, but only when they know,
positively, that the underdog will win.
with you and me, it’s a 50/50 on who exactly has the upper hand
and who exactly is going to win, but I’ll make bets with the elements around me,
the carbon that I used to be hashing out 20’s and oxygen
claiming she’s not one for gambling.
baby, you’re in my lungs, you’re in my corner of the ring.
she’ll slip in a 50 like my chances, and I’ll pretend that I don’t notice.
phosphorus is too fiery to root for me,
he’s more of a heavyweight believer than me.
Call me contagious
when my knuckles bloom across your jaw and knock away
all of your sensibility, stability, bruises like moons
as the mirror shatters every reflection of who I used to be.
Call me Carbon-14, but know that I am radioactive,
actively changing, reigning champion of breaking perceptions,
and you’re just the impression of the death that I’m carbon-dating.

Twilight, the early black some may call,
Is upon the horizon, on the hem to fall;
And I see a swarthy bat round the belfry,
As I shudder cold, wrapped in a peltry:
What madness this is, I think I know;
I've been here before, not so long ago.
Could I be on the fritz, at the edge
Of Sanity -once more at the selvage?
Come with you where? The Asylum?
Yes! Yes! I do want a slice of delirium!
But please do loosen these **** buckles.
I can't breathe-- -& neither can Chuckles.

Seven
Stay lucky, get lucky, feel lucky
Seven has been just the opposite for me
Still a beating reminder of required change

Even when time has paused itself in your presence
Eternally, the seconds tick in my mind with
Endearing memories and happiness that felt like our
Endeavors would be infinite

Verifiably distraught with knowledge of the
Vacancy that soon would destroy both of our
Vessels that held hearts, hands, and futures we in-
Vested in each other so certain, so real

Either the number or the letters within held
Experiments with the chance of the game or our
Eyes could not see what exactly was in our hands
Eradicated the problem to reveal truth

Never had the trail felt continually
Narrow, the unraveling rope formed
Nooses in the number that haunts me, he
Nurtures the time, while I stay standing

Seven months since you left me.

Sixes and sevens
Mark new beginnings
The after-burn is bittersweet
A full rose moon lights my way
Maybe after
When the breathing's done
I can pretend
To sleep

Anybody etches the longwave, tadpole lyrical,
and its a poem   (woa- teakettle, tweaker)
Satellite poem, thunder poem, ******* poem.
Sevens sluttiest angel writes a eulogy so beautiful that we give her the title of funeral director.
We just give it away. (Its still only a eulogy)
I have ten toes and ten fingers. Ive counted on them. I wrote a poem about getting
a bikini wax, and its still only a poem. A joke. Only tadpole lyrical. I wish it had a
revolutionary hermit to choke it with fingers that taste like black pepper and motor oil,
and then to rake its fall crumbles into ruffles,
and then all aboard the sci-fi fantasy. /Radiant,
radio the masses, raffia slipping, I got the zipper of my winter coat stuck in orbit, you sea/Ive got a poem to
write about synthetic jungles deep underneath our cities, lush with fiber-optic
wire, you say. Air rich, the mountain.
Find yourselves in dungenous traps: dead-blue thou art.

Birds like airplanes like crosses in the sky
Give me strength and weakness at the same time
The trees a loft for the first realm of heaven
A grid of sixes beneath the mighty sevens
He was the firstborn of every creature
And the last of all the great teachers
Thirst for his word, cleansed by his blood
Rise out of the ashes like a lotus in the mud
Glorification means being ready to die
To submit to the rainbow throne on high

Heavy-handed-slit-lidded, I’m casting those bones
- didn’t play my game as close-chested as I should have, though –
And now I’m throwing with higher stakes than I’d known prior,
starting to regret the forced nonchalance of trying to “keep cool.”
Cast and weighted as I could,
but don’t watch: I’m blind to the hustling pit and
eyes-dimmed of hope-glimmer, I’m resigned against
double-sevens and sacred fourteens, anticipating instead
the triple-ones and maybe solo-fours of feigned failure
- they’re the usual roll, anyway, but I’m standing, moving, gone –
I can’t watch this.
Black/whites give rise to new metrics of haste,
the cubes bouncing and dancing on damnation,
and as the headsman’s axe falls, the die settle:

This routine moon
Spells my doom
When it's a dragon's tail
Of a day that's failed
Like the rays that bailed
My time turned stale
When the moon kept appearing
Like the echoes I'm hearing
When I wake in the morning
To see the same plot forming
I try to escape back to sleep
For the repetition makes me weep
And curse the indifferent heavens
While waiting on my lucky sevens
To get me out of a life so mundane
I feel the constant need to switch lanes
But the routine moon haunts from above
When the routine life is missing all love

Today is the third Day
Even as everyday is Sabbath
When the Son rose, the world
received the promised Ghost

      First of firstfruit blessed
         day after the Seven
         when it was still dark
      And the kingdom came
         day after Seven Sevens
         yet hidden to this day

For a week, Israel wandered
For a week, bread is unleavened
Evening of the Seventh approaches, fast
But time shall divide, till not one is lost

.

I play my guitar,
now crying in sevens
a cold vacant morning
with rain on the ground

Sorrowful chords,
on the strings of emotion
in three quarter tear drops
where sadness is bound

                                   And the storm clouds they form
                                   on the edge of tomorrow
                                   with thoughts ever yearning
                                   for your melodies

                                  dreaming of yesterdays
                                  caught in the feedback,
                                  out of tune longings
                                  in lost harmonies

Breathing in silence
of fret seperations
seeking a songlist
of lyrics unfound  

A chill strums my heart,
sitting empty and hollow
I play my guitar
and there isn’t a sound

Do you ever feel down
Painted face of a sad clown
You tell me in secret you do
But out in the streets you wear sunshine boots
Am I the only one who howls at the moon
Who curses the day I was born
(Of course not, they all curse that day, sweet child
They all throw their scorn your way
They all adorn their walls with your picture
They insert a crown of thorns
They would never mourn if you left
But don't look so forlorn)
What they don't tell you baby
Is that insanity is insanity
Insanity is (In)-sanity
You're in the deep realms now, baby
You're in the deep, dark night of the soul
But don't let them tell you you're crazy baby
You're just immersed in it All
What's in a name?
Oh, the locking away of it all
But who's running your country?
Who's building those pillars, babe?
Who's offering discounts of faith at
Five hundred & fifty-five feet of the world
They're just acting sane, babe
Oh, like everyone else
To be sane is to maim, babe
You're above all that now
It's just ol' Babylon, opening the gates
The devil's coupons give
Cheap entry
But don't lose hope, babe
Say "night" but not "good-night"
Cause buildings rise like phalluses
But you got your own sweet palaces
If you only look right, babe
No, look left
But look left the right way
Drink it all up in a golden cup
But don't raise your pinky to heaven
Lightning will strike on your grave, babe
Beware the cruel duel sevens
Oh, don't trust in mood rings or moon-beams of old
You've got the might of the brave
Don't let them lock you in dungeons so cold
Filled with white sterile walls and beds
But if so, remember that dragon
Oh, that sweet dragon in your head, babe
He'll knock down the walls
And if you just want to give up
Let out one last heavy sigh and succumb
Know that you're not under anyone's thumb
The pen can beat the sword, babe
But these days they got smart tools
They'll try to write on your mind, babe
They'll try to bend all the rules
Slay you with pin-sized compacts, babe
Inject blind Braille on your skin
Insert a button to trigger your fears
Try and teach you a lesson
Always gotta be on your guard
Always gotta prepare for attack
No longer playgrounds and nursery rhymes, babe
There's some forces out there that don't slack
Sinister ministers and diamond jacks
You're just a sheep among the wolves
But they'll be there in another life, babe
Looking for handouts and handshakes from you, babe
And inside you'll feel a yearning of vengeance
A strange, creeping feeling of righteousness
But if you don't want to deal with the weak, babe
Don't strike them down, just turn the other cheek
I say now,
Just get out, just get out, just get out
Smash all your mirrors and don't look back
You're no one's marionette
Good luck, babe
Good luck

Maureen the mean lottery playing machine
when I see her  I mutter something obsene.
sometimes it's seven am on a Saturday morning
and she shows up with no warning.
"ill take a three number on the daily,
I could call her a loser and she can just pay me
behind her there is always a line
and when she buys donuts that's a bad sign
because she's always camping out in her car
And she never goes very far
when she comes back in I can feel my heart sinking
she's my reason to maybe start drinking
"I really have to go shopping"
but not before dropping
more money on tickets  then I make all week
because fortune is what she seeks
she smokes basics but only the hard packs
when she hits the million I hope she doesn't have a heart attack
"these tickets are terrible." she keeps playing
There's a disconnect between what she's saying
and what she does
but that's because
she has a terrible affliction
a gambling addiction
"two brown cash two silver sevens and one golden spin
the odds are stacked against her so she can't win
maybe she can't see
what it looks like to me
she's blinded by a tiny prospect of glory
but sadly this is just one telling of a popular story

“Can you state your emergency?”
“There’s been a lung collision.”

He’s stealing your breath, darling I can’t feel your lungs
What an aberration, forced to bleed the river of an emotion
You were never taught to feel growing up
I think nobody told you how to feel a colour so hard
Crimson on your neck, on your chest
But I cannot find a wound
Your breath feels like knives
But it’s funny, you’re dying

You’re trying to tell me something
It sounds like the kind of thing you would say right at sunset
Slurring your sevens like you have mints on your tongue
But you are only gasping for air

Marble gazes
Your eyes are lolling back
They are the same eyes that have cut through me
The same eyes I’ve always thought were beautiful
When you were sad

You are weak and you are failing
Completely unlike the times
You would walk in like a sandstorm
No less powerful than a serpent
Beautiful

Now you are trying to speak
“Feels like a fishbone dislodged in my lungs”
And you laugh
You are laughing and you are dying
And this night still feels like day

I tried scraping out the difference
Between guilt and self-loathe
But the answer only lies on the blade of this knife
Maybe I could tell you I don’t know what I did with it
The reason we are not sure from which wound
This blood is seeping from

It wasn't just a lung collision
It was the explosion of a galaxy in your chest
When your ribs bent and cracked
Now they are broken, dust
You are breathing in rust
But it does not matter because you are dying

In the distance there is the sound of sirens
They are coming and they might be far too late.

in the surveillance of our story, 850 seconds perhaps, in glorified memory,
little jews open their eyes amongst the flaming sculptural spire
and the third of her name, Jerusalem, (is it him?)
(artistic was her surname)
unfortunately, her ID, consumed by torch & flame (.........)
another mourning, another brown, & soggy & tasteless ******* day
in which to despair at the state of her very purposeful Occidental ways
surrounded by fake patriotism & fourteenths & sevens & May
contrast the Marseillaise's rightful sudden death
     [ violet haze ]
the saddened by the tragedy
have more to lose at stake