Cloudy, 70 degrees Fahrenheit,
Outside on the beach, and inside my head,
Weather, overcast, color and temp., coordinated.

Early risen like some other Jew,
The waves say:

Hey, Hey! Yo, Yo! We're available,
Walk on us and drown your sorrows,
If they're original,  we'll Jonah-spit you back.

Most likely, common enough, and we will
Keep your body, Mr. Word Sailor,
Recompense for suffering your trite insights,
Swallowing whole, you and your appetizer poems nobody reads,
Body and soul buried side by side
In the cemetery's ocean, just one more
Dead Poet to add to the Society,
Our very own collection.

No Thanks, says my pride, still got one more left inside,
Bait taken, gotta catch and release,
Cause I'm an environmentalist,
Or, at least, a plain old mentalist,
Whose words escape his body,
Thru his eyes, ears and fingertips,
Sustainability for a few more days.

Beach walking, my eyes are not deceived,
The shells, the husks, the dead upended,
***** and mollusks have hora-circled me,
Holding hands, they too, dance and sing their
Lamentations, as if I didn't have enough of my own,
To keep myself self-employed.

Look at us, turn not, Sir, disguised by word-stubble,
Face not away from us and our exposed-now, truths.

Upon Silver Beach, we preach,
This our death spot, our crematorium,
Hunted and gull-pecked,
Our shells, teenage broken,
Holed, shucked, stepped upon,
What ignominy for proud sea creatures!
Is this the death we deserve?

Why to me whine, wail and cry,
I, nothing to your deaths, hasten,
Do, did or done,
Though I plied the waters of
Noyack and Little Peconic Bay but yesterday,
Not one of your kind did I disturb,
For your kind,  my God, consuming disallowed.

Take your sad eyed tales to the under-towing waves,
Perhaps, they will listen, for they enjoy containing
Morted objects on their invisible sands,
The waters will take you and your plaints,
Soundlessly, you will be accepted, upon their plains.

No, No!
Instructions sent and well received,
You, poet, are the one, needs notification
Our doom is your doom, symmetry to
Your gloom, for one and the same.

What meanest thou, meanest creatures,
Commonality nor companionship,
Kith nor kin are we!
Our connectivity is but
This beach we presently share!

Guiltless in life, we but survived,
Hurting no one, no thing,
Yet, here we lie, ignored, unattended,
Yet, you fail again to see our connection?
You do not recognize us?

We are the shells, the husks of you,
Your poems unread, you labors unpreserved,
All wasted, for unless they are read, they die,
As you will too.
Some fast, by water, some slower, time-eroded,
All, ended, by drowning in the Sea of Who Cares!

Shell-shellacked, be refted, be reaved,
The be-each minions have crucified my anything,
Truth, the sword for ribbon cutting ceremonies
Risen up from these waters, to cut me down,
To complete my shame, the duo,
Wind and sand combinate to sting my eyes,
But succeed not, for I weep so copiously,
Their endeavors re fused, but what's the point,
For I am a results-oriented man,
My results, naught.

I know now where to go
When the silence external is needing coordination,
UnSound symmetry, with a silenced mind.

5:52 AM
Silver Beach
June 30th, 2013

Oh, sad Poet,
cartographer
of the heart,
mapping the geography
where sadness
is the topography
of your soul.

Oh, Cousteau
of the changing tides,
like an oceanographer,
an admiral  spying
the enemy on the horizon.
Your sorrow comes and goes.

Oh, builder of sad dreams
in your house of many rooms,
but one door. Like a grave,
a casket shellacked with
black paint, a mural
of a shadow on the wall.
Architectural sorrow.

Oh, you sad Poet,
open your eyes,
paint us a poem of a rose.

I like slandering your makeshift forceps.
I hammer you down with watery *** and then spill

the remainder on the couch. Yarg! A diamond’s
worth at least a small intestine, and you

are worth whatever’s left over after night
has upended itself, poured sideways out of its

shellacked crawlspace, and turned the basement sour.
There are remnants of you in the park,

some red stain by the baseball field where,
if you’ll remember, you watched little leaguers

build teamwork, and faint splotches on tree bark
from your lactations which, if you’ll remember, happened

every morning. I whisper your godforsaken name
and am slapped in the head. The children cry

when I smile. I cry when the children smile. Good
heavens. I forbid you from not entering my corridor,

even as I set up a barricade. I like my water scalding,
my passion chilled, and I like you in easy-to-

swallow doses. I like you in my eggs.
Ditto the faucet, keyboard, the occasional lily,

but do not mess with my pearls. I mumble of apodictic
meadows while I sleep. What can I say?

I do not mumble of unclogging your bathtub,
which has a certain foul repute, and has grown

heavy and ugly with your hair, which is everywhere,
just as you are everywhere, and wherever, and so

******* hidden it’s not funny anymore, we stopped
looking some millennia ago, after scouring the drainpipes,

kicking down your doors, dissecting your mattress,
speculating about your burial site, etcetera, and even so

we have not been really looking all this time, have we,
just blaring your name through the speakers,

putting wrong numbers on our calling cards, leaving
uncooked meat out on the back porch as if you were

a raccoon, oh, or a lion, which you are not, or not
quite, though, as the books say, you have honey

in your stomach, and if you could but be
ripped open we would taste and see.

Ah! how the memory of

those pretty green eyes

enlighten my senses

making them parallel to

round ***** of safety.



Ah! how those eyes

regurgitate and bounce

pupils widening whenever

my eyes meet their gaze

wavering and moving from

person to person in an intimate crowded group setting.



Ah! how those eyes

which resemble soft moss

or the slick flesh of kiwis

stare at mine catching like how

flypaper catches mosquitoes

accidentally but intentionally

awkwardly but inventively

and ultimately intentionally.



Ah! how the memory of

those pretty green eyes

throw me off balance

when they lock into mine

and for a good ten seconds

merging a little too long

unnoticed by the crowd.


Ah! how those eyes

are like ghosts in my

memories so valid and

plausible they seem to

drift yet knowing they

will be seen tonight

creates a fidgety hope

splintered and shaking

within this hubris heart.



Ah! how those eyes

are framed by the

curliest of lashes

so cute they bloom

ripe smiles within this

here empty chest cavity

which seems to be defeated

at the moment but somehow

waiting to witness

orbs of stegosaurus skin

shelled and shellacked and unbuckled am i

at just a smack.



Ah! how those eyes

are like a slap

to my psyche.

Every part a swirling mass

of unabridged uncertainty.

And no matter how it seems

those irises of gold and green

will always be downright dainty.

A mother gone
Safe warm arms
Stolen...
from her
two-year old
daughter...

New arms and faces
kindly enough
reach out to her

But she learns
...too late...
where her mother
went

Confusion and uncertainty
new faces and places
fear and
loss

no belonging place
to call her own

no okay safe place

and many very hurtful ones

...you'd better not tell

...of course not....
she forgot

she never learned to listen
no one ever heard her voice
they didn't know she had one.....
she didn't know
...she had one.

shellacked....

painted over
shoved down
no thinking or feeling
here
no talking
nobody home
covered up
with coats and coats
and layers upon layers
of
shellac
all sealed up
no life here now
no air to breathe
what life to live?
How do you do that?????

no one lives here
people look and don't see her
there

is she stuffed
like a doll?
Who is she
anyway....


new names and faces
over and over
no belonging here
no safe places

always trying

to find

acceptance

and

a place

to belong.......

Scattered Thunderstorms

The radar shows a band of multi-green storms,
Parallel running to the East Coast,
Stretching from So. Florida to Falmouth, Rhode Island.

Path-dependent, the edges skirt my present location,
Instrumented, but not weather resistant,
Water teases, invites me to a head clearing session.

Breezy gusts of overcast, caramel salty bay waters,
(weirdly calm),
Spray sprites whisper, scattered thunderstorms, starboard side

I am the only boat out, especially,
The only one going for sure aimlessly,
Radar non-discriminatory, stupidity legal,
So fools like me go out alone.

Scattered Thunderstorms,
Unavoidable, summer's favored annoyance of choice.

The melancholic platelets budding off my bone's marrow,
Forming wondrous clots of sadness,
Running strong in the currents of my veins,
Downtempo'd, there is no relief for
Inside of my radar scanned brain, the scattered thunderstorms,
Have arrived much earlier today.

What sourced this elegiac distich,
Too many poets, fully disclosing their downbeat, aroma of defeat?

The world is in a **** mood, not one of us, got nothing
Good to say, seems that love storms ripping hearts
With no trace of mercy, the radio has elected nonstop
Taylor Swift and Jonas Bro's
Just to make the point!

It is so easy to feel ******,
When the sun is unshining, elegant distich, **** me.

Thinking back, getting a good idea,
Found some long necked Corona overlooked,
Turn on the tv, pretend I'm a real cowboy,
And for god's sake, shut down poetry,
Good Bye Poetry, for the rest of the day

Value you more than me, but you've worn me down
My blood streams your anguished distress,
I cannot survive these scattered revolver-repeating
Anguish-Cries-For-Relief from the Thunderstorms,
That now having reached, breached,
That now, having infected my heart which started
This day brow beaten,
First poem of the day, already shell-shellacked,
Now, I must shut me, batten me, down.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The average lifespan of a platelet is normally just 5 to 9 days. Platelets are a natural source of growth factors. They circulate in the blood of mammals and are involved in hemostasis, leading to the formation of blood clots.

The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.

By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.

Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.

As the summer teases, she writhes ******-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.

She sits silently
Shellacked, superglued sans sound.
Cornered, Christine clenches
Claws covering cowardice
Comfort.
Taut tongue tangibly taciturn
Turns, transforms til truly torpid.
Silence caused transformation.
She is now an armchair.

I just saw a Man Who's Ego World Dwarf
All the Republicans who Have put forth
There announcement to run for the POTUS
And the Wisdom he Espised from the podium
Was shellacked with self spun bravada

His Claim to Fame in God's Name as
The Worlds Greatest Job Provider
Should in the Face of the Coming Race
Provide such Political Fodder

America he Said from his Enormous Head
Was nothing but a Nation of Stupid losers
The only safe Haven and path to the future
Was Guarded by a Caped Hero of the Dollar

In tights with a Diamond and T on his Chest
Red white and Blue Cape He Knew what's Best
He'd thru his vision change the Face of the World
And as he comes up with one, his plan will unfurl

As I watched CNN with a Chortle and a Laugh
If we Elect TRUMP for President its our own Gaff



All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack

A robust, full bodied cup of coffee
The resounding zeros and dated euphemisms
The criminal and large and I sitting
He has something to say I tell him to spit it out
He says he knows I'm holding out on him and tells me to cough it up

I adhere to his demand and pull out my rucksack and empty it out on the shellacked table

Cream of tartar
Cumin
Cloves
Bay leaves    
Clovers
Ginger
Mustard seeds
Anise
A plethora of extracts and Madagascar vanilla bean

I give in because this guy has a murderous track record nine miles long
While I have a lifelong loosing streak
I dare not try and petition him with defiant excuses and off the hook tones

He needed these things to prepare a meal for his dying father
He suffers from hangnails and trend followers
As his son follows a dark path that is a far cry from a path that will lead to a career

The criminal gathers the vials of herbs and spices with tears in his eyes and goes on his way
I sit and finish my coffee unfazed and understanding

To be continued...

The beat seemed toxic,
rapidly jumping
alcohol-fueled beings
with shellacked hair,
bouncing off the walls
under the spinning disco ball.
But it wasn't disco,
they had moved onto industrial,
trying to make sense
of the wasteland outside,
the wasteland
they called home.

through the thin veneer emotionally shellacked
lies appear, distrust with doubt, faith begins to crack
illusions formed in moments desperate for your truth
fall along the wayside like the years of misspent youth
hope no more for a time in minds eye I am seeing
put away the dreams I hide inside my very being
the last vestiges of trust I had have crumbled into dust
oh cold hard life, you win again, face you, yes, I must

The sky was dark, it was overcast
When the hearse rolled into town,
The people stopped in its passing,
And stood, with their eyes cast down,
Four black, high stepping, friesian mares
Stepped proud, ahead of the hearse,
While a man was following close behind
But sat on his horse, reversed.

His wrists were bound with a length of twine
Were tethered behind his back,
His eyes were well blindfolded,
Under his black top hat,
His leather boots had glistened and shone
And they rode right up to the knee,
There was something about his stately mien
That said, ‘Aristocracy’.

The horses were decked with ostrich plumes
Fine harness and plaited tails,
The coach shellacked in a shiny black
And fitted with silver rails,
The coffin lay on a satin tray
In the hearse, was covered in lace,
Inscribed with scrolls from the honour rolls
Of a noble house, disgraced.

And far at the rear of the slow cortege
Was a line of women in black,
Carrying jewellery fashioned in jet
As black as the coach shellac.
There wasn’t a tear amongst them all
Nor a smile for the ruined man,
The blindfold merciful, like a pall
In front of his ruined clan.

The hearse rolled into the cemetery
And stopped by the gallows tree,
A footman took off his blindfold then,
‘I hope that’s not meant for me!’
They dragged the coffin out of the hearse
And the man looked once, then twice,
‘I’m not your common old peasant, sir,
I’m the Lord of Mecklen Weiss.’

They dragged him ****** off his horse
And lifted the coffin lid,
‘You’re the Lord of six square feet of earth,
And the Lord of all you did!’
They ****** him into the coffin then
Encased his struggling form,
‘He’ll have some time to consider now
It were best he’d never been born!’

They lowered the coffin into the ground
To the sound of shrieks and cries,
But not one woman who watched it fall
Had a need to dry her eyes.
They say that some heard muffled cries
At that grave for a week or more,
But then, the peasantry always lies
For they hold the Lords in awe.

David Lewis Paget

My mouth stands strong.
Ribbon of drool match those in reflection.
My accolade full circle, royal undertow.
Vellicating in dishonourable mysticism.
Moving here & there.
Moving water, wine & a wisdom separating love from the ore.
Learning where musical savants & initiates dim the lights.
Inspectors test restraints, narrowing memory. Now forgotten.
Wake up, remove hairs sprinkled in hidden testimonial.
Misgivings in this shellacked house of homes.
Intellection. Ascending, bending bones. Fissured left-behinds.
To purify all your thoughts.
Resisting universal locomote.
Heels in foreign grease. Bare soles departed.
Movings of brilliantly painted soil.

Telephones relate & relay the balmy decisions you are making.

By: Cedric McClester

So what’s the basis
For calling him racist?
It’s the way that he acts
As a matter of fact
See it’s not an attack
It’s a statement of fact
Cuz those he’s shellacked
Are mainly brown or black

This isn’t a spoof
I have the proof
The evidence on the shelf
Speaks for itself
And his dog whistles
Are for the ears
Of like-minded people
Or so it appears

Cuz some do relate
To his message of hate
Which he places
In our collective faces
So believe and trust
He will divide us
Like never before
Which we can’t ignore

He does what he does
And he’s as he always was
A blatant race baiter
An unabashed hater
Spreading his hemlock
Wherever he goes
So don’t be in shock
Cuz everyone knows











Cedric McClester, Copyright ©2018.  All rights reserved.

I ask my father to play. He picks up
the varnished double tube of russet wood.
Keys click. He blows through a reed,

shellacked red **** with whining blast,  
and fastens it on the crook. Out come
startling sounds of amber and musk.

Funny scales, smokey tones. He plays
Mozart, Tchaikovsky, Prokofiev,
the grandfather and the sorcerer’s apprentice

made ridiculous with too many brooms.
And the world of magic comes to my eyes,
though he scoffs at magic.

And the world of prayer comes to my soul,
though he – who marched to set Dachau free– despises god,
and the truth of love enters my heart,

though I never know where his is
because he picks up his bassoon
and wanders elsewhere.

specified such so as to issue a rhyme,
but proceeded as this scribe
didst *** linkedin with the cutting crew,
mow or less feeling grassy us,
yet not the least whirlwind will offset
my b52 coiffed Hair style,
or hirsute shellacked beehive type do
the idler wheel is wiser than the driver
of the ***** and whipping cords
will serve you more than ropes will ever do.

No matter from what literary website,
an unsuspecting reader will accidentally
stumble upon a ewe
fo' mystic impression
wilt shame burr lean ache
shift shape about myself
some accurate ledge
gin dairy cowed horsesense
about me will ensue,
especially if I sheepishly admitted,
this beastie back street

boyz to men iz a genuine foo
fighter toward this former
stone temple pilot, wildly whizzing,
gurgling in age inappropriate burbling,
dribbling, flickr ring for a goo goo
doll to dare buffer end me,
hub bee of piggish,
ham handed, bay kin a poetic slop hoo
might at this juncture
succinctly cease reading

prior to putting
finishing touches on ma igloo,
when the remaining
portion of this dippy goofy,
slippery when whet,
trippy treacle G.I. Jew,
who would, more aptly
**** sitter himself hub
horn hug ken atheist, boot knew
not a whit about Judaism,

nor any other belief paradigm,
yet does get fixated
(usually in the loo)
about philosophical ideas,
which yet to be revealed
abstract notion came to me
while enjoying a plateful of moo
goo *** pan, plus other Chinese food
(a favorite cuisine),
now aye will try to new

dill back to the initial pretext
found me drawing blanks
(no not shooting) – ooh
aah, this theme
within guttersnipe noggin
more difficult to codify
than one who ****
constipated and try'n might
**** hard tip poo
anyway, the general premise

alighted, and fired
mine gray matter cause
major cerebrum perilous jam up
with sudden crackling
star bursts forced
great mind over matter
to set brainy bedlam
in an organized queue
so while attention of yours
might be moderately rapt, this rue

stirring, hen pecked spouse
best stop digitally squawking sew
the ethereal essence can beak *** comb
brought to cypher awareness too
and in a figurative nutshell,
when doth a wordsmith
know when to quit,
or tubby pointed rhetorical question -
at what juncture does any artisan
more prolific than yours truly

reckon that his/her
faux matted masterpiece
can no longer be perfected?,
cuz further ridiculous tampering,
to Potschke, or play footsie,
would induce dedicated followers of mine
to undergo severe urge to wanna spit
or throw FAKE *******,
subsequently they would feel ***
till late head, find this schlemiel
to end this plotz to whit!

FINIS.