Strong currents flow different ways
From where the bridge was, after the first plunge
Soothed the sun-burnt skin and the hay-splinters
Loosed the straw stuck in ears
After I left you under the porch light
Alone on the other side of the night
Where poplars reached for the moon and stars
And the cows chewed on bits of memory from when
In the cobwebs and calf pens
They were brought to life by your gentle hands

You crossed two worlds to find me in the darkness
But I was not the one you were searching for
You prayed for miracles while
God stood by, arms crossed
Just taking in the sunset and the clouds
Like an old tree beside a grave carefully fenced
To keep it disheveled amid tended fields
Thus the cancer had its way and I could not
Fill the void left in your heart or mine

With no more tears to soften dry leather
I put our hearts on skewers and held them
Over the bridge's burning planks
Too close and they were immolated
Not carefully spun to stay golden and warm inside
So I packed my own hollow heart full of nothing
Filled the passenger seat, until
There was only room for me and the steering wheel
And no way to turn

COOL TENTS WITH HOT FOOD
From the 10th diary entry of Stewy Lemmon's childhood adventures.

Finally, the day Smoochy and I had been waiting for had arrived. It was Saturday the 7th of March. The day we were heading off to the, 89th Boy Scouts & Girl Guides, combined World Jamboree. The jamboree was held this year in the Nevada desert in Las Vegas, USA.

My dad Archie, was the local scout leader for the Shimmerleedimmerlee 1st scout group and my mum Flo, was second in charge of the Barefeet Mountain 3rd Girl Guide group. Mum's friend was the Barefeet girl guides leader and she was named, Miss Alice Springs. Dad was making the trip with other local scout leaders and 11 of us boys. Mum and Miss Alice Springs were taking 11 girls from the local Barefeet Mountain girl guide group, including my two much older identical twin sisters, Emma and Jemma. Also coming along was my much younger brother, Lemmy and of course my grouse pet mouse, Smoochy.

Dad has been in the local boy scout group since he was very young and his father, John Lemmon, my grandfather, was also in the same scout group when it first began, all of those years ago.

There were boy scout and girl guide groups from all over the world attending the big camping and adventure event. People from far away places like Norway, France, Egypt, Australia, Holland, England, Brazil, Thailand, Hong Kong, Italy and of course the host nation, the United States of America.

Every group, brought with them their home nations own colourful flags and individually designed tents, based on their countries culture or famous landmarks. It was like having all of the countries of the world, all in the one place at a time.

The boy scout and girl guide group from Thailand had a tent that looked like a Buddhist Temple and also had an outdoor kitchen where they would make, such great tasting, but ever so hot and spicy, food from.

The Egyptian guys and girls had a massive high tent, that resembled the world famous giant Pyramid of Giza. It must of taken them ages to make the angles so perfectly straight and with extreme precision.

Holland's tent was a large and fully operational, colourful windmill. It, even had it's very own water tank. The windmill tent was painted with colours and designs that even impressed my very artistic dad.

He said, 'He might even have to redecorate his unusually built, outrageously painted, outback, backyard shed and use some of the bright paint colours and fancy designs the boys and girls had done'.

The next tent was very big and long from the boy scout and girl guide groups of, Australia. It had been designed to look like the, Sydney harbour bridge. But it didn't have a roof to protect them from the weather, while they slept shoulder to shoulder, across the wooden bridge road. But, like most Aussies with relaxed and casual attitudes they said, 'She'll be right mate, Rain, Hail or Shine'.

The guys and gals from Italy, had a tent that was leaning over to the right, just like the, famous Leaning Tower of Pisa. They assured us all that it wouldn't fall over. 'Trust us, they said'.

Hong Kong had a very long tent that was based on the colourful, cultural inspired dragon. It had a lot of tent pegs on either side, to keep it's ever winding position in place. It was the most colourful and coolest tent of all. But at the same time, the most scariest tent of them all.

England's tent was based on the very historic, Tower of London. It even had two very serious looking guards on patrol out front, made out of paper mâché.

Norway's tent was in the shape of, a Vikings fighting helmet. It had, two large horns coming out from the left and right hand sides. It looked like a raging bull, in a bizarre sort of way.

Brazil came up with a giant yellow and green football, based on their national sport and colours of the country, for its design. All of us just hoped, 'It didn't get a sudden hole in it and start to knock over all of our tents, just like a giant pinball game'.

France went for a super, duper structure, that was wide at the bottom and became thinner towards the top. It was in the shape of the Eiffel Tower, of course. It was the tallest tent at the jamboree camping grounds and provided the best views from atop.

While the host nation the USA decided to honour the, Native American Indians. They, had a large tent resembling an original and colourful Indian Teepee, with a hole at the top. The scouts and girl guides from, the USA, sent out messages to everyone nearby, using the old, but still very effective, smoke signals way of communication. They said, 'Who needs the Internet, Facebook and Twitter, when you can send messages and cook a meal on a fire at the same time'?

After looking at all of the great tents made by all of the participating nations, we sat down to eat. Everybody had made a favourite dish from their home country. All the girl guides from Australia made the famous and delicious dessert cake called, Pavlova. But, it wasn't any ordinary Pavlova, for it was in the shape of the very large outback rock named Uluru. Which, by the way, is located in the middle of Australia, near a place called Alice Springs.

So my mum's friend has a very famous name indeed. The girl guides from Australia named this creation, 'The Alice Springs Rock'.

The Egyptians had made a dessert out of shortbread, that took them hours to make. Each piece of shortbread had to be skilfully cut, with exact precision or the creation just wouldn't stay in place. It was named, 'Pastry Plate of Pharaoh's Perfect Pyramid'.

The Italian Boy Scouts, prepared a series of huge leaning pizzas stacked on top of each other, on very acute angles, just like their tent. They named their creation, 'The Leaning Tower of Pizza'.

The host nation of the USA, made some yummy hotdogs with tomato ketchup, mustard and cheese. They made the hotdogs, pop up from each end of the roll and placed wooden sticks on either side to look like American Native Indians were rowing their canoes.

Norway had created a tasty snack made with salmon and biscuits which looked like little boats flowing down the Fjords. Also the impression of large rocks in the water that were in fact meatballs for all.

Thailand had served up several spicy dishes, including the famous Pad Thai dish with chicken and the hot soup named Hot and Sour with Prawns in Thai you pronounce it as Tom Yung Goong. It was so yummy in the tummy the dishes from Thailand.

In the Brazil kitchen they made us their nations famous Churrasco or BBQ. It uses a variety of meats like pork, beef and chicken which was cooked on large metal skewers stuck into the ground and roasted with the embers of the charcoal.

France baked up some crescent shaped flaky pastry named the Croissant. They added some great tasting almonds to a few, while some others had dried fruits such as sultanas, raisins and even apples.

Holland had an assortment of plates consisting of Gouda and Edam cheeses with mayonnaise and mustards and other plates had a rich variety of fruits, freshly cut meats and nuts placed upon them.

Hong Kong had very traditional Chinese meals prepared for all to enjoy. They had everything from fried rice, to Chinese noodles to my dads all time favourite Peking Duck, so when he saw the duck he said he was in luck. Also they had a plate full of Dim Sums and a Hong Kong favourite snack called egg tarts and another of my dads favourite drinks named milk tea.

Finally England had whipped up my Friday night special, which is Fish n Chips with tomato sauce. It was so good that a lot of the other nations said they would make it for their families, once they got home.

In the morning we had such great fun and adventure while trying every nations favourite sport or recreation. We started by having team races on the river in Native American Indian canoes, Norwegian Viking ships, Italian Gondolas, Egyptian river boats and Chinese dragon boat races in the nearby river. The winning order was Hong Kong 1st, Italy came in 2nd and third of all was Egypt.

We even had competitions to see who could do the best smoke signals and we even had fun rope climbing events to the top of the Eiffel Tower, the Leaning tower of Pisa, and walking and climbing events up the Pyramid of Giza and the Sydney Harbour Bridge tents.

Then some countries had a football game after lunch with teams from Brazil, England, Italy and France playing for the Boy Scouts and Girl Guides World Cup golden trophy. Brazil beat England in the final 3-1, to hold up the golden cup.

Some other nations had bike riding races, which Holland won with ease. Australia did really well in the boxing competition. Everybody laughed when Smoochy came out 1st, wearing a pair of boxing gloves, before they brought out a plastic blow up of their mascot wearing gloves "Big Red" the boxing kangaroo which was placed near the ring for good luck.

Thailand dominated the Judo and the USA couldn't be stopped in the 100m sprints and also the mixed basketball matches. So overall, everyone had such a great time and we all loved the tents, food and different sports to watch and perform in, from all of the world.

The week went so fast and it was sad to say goodbye to all of our new friends from all over the world, but we promised that we would stay in touch either by using smoke signals or the new generations way, which is either by Facebook or Twitter.

He struts down the sidewalk
With a hint of a frown
His spoon swings beside him
Jaunty hat as his crown.

Childers peep with a gasp
As they watch him strut down
The musk that follows him
The stains on his gown.

There he goes, they whisper,
As the sun settles down
The Badass Chef, they say,
Of this Badass Town.

He pounds dough to a pulp
Whisking eggs beyond shape
Beets up on the salad
Stomping vatfulls of grape.

Skewers meat without thought
Chops neat through a bone
Flays sharks without care
Needs no sous, works alone

The Badass Chef
Of this Badass Town.

He hangs up his cleaver
At the end of the day
Dripping droplets of what
None have courage to say

He blows out his flambe
Spoon back at his side
Turns back to his war zone
Fists clenched with quiet pride

There he goes, they whisper,
As the sun settles down
The Badass Chef
Of this Badass Town.

beholden green
the hot road
rusting groundless leaves
icicle landscape

St. Four leaf Clover
Skewers on the grill
Candy on a trail
5th avenue in snow

Busting sprouts
Dandelion Wine
Harvest yellow
Yuletide fire flame

Rain filled creeks
Dried up clay
The last hurricane
Rains turns to ice

or how to make the eclectic concentrated,
how to make a zemstwa potion (revenge
potion) - long are the days of educated
Germans citing Grecian words -
my bilingualism gives me a patriotism
to use a language foreign to me,
and still embrace importing Church Slavonic:
                 but what a simple word
zemstwa is: less revenge and more retribution.

karakan: a ****** / dwarf -
but in an inoffensive sentence.
    people in the anglo realm always say
the phrases: where're are you from, originally?
and... how do you say it, properly?
        you first employ a knowledge of
syllable butchery: prophets of the surgical
procedure -
                 macron and umlaut both
akin in arithmetics -
                                  for what's later a comma.
Sartre plagiarised Joyce with *iron in the soul,
     left out all forms of punctuation,
akin to the English language leaving out all
forms of syllable punctuation in reverse -
      which goes against Socrates doing the
Kabbalistic methodology of sounds as atoms,
cut up?      so-  -crat- -es.
                                 Dr. Satan said: it's so.
        i already said that language is the most volatile
substance known to man...
             and that the only people who get to write
books in the west: are people who are asked to write
books in the first place.
      there's me, in a darkened corner:
a coroner's phrase -
                i would be a true idle drunk had i no
tenacity to write and drink...
   by now i'm halfway through a bottle of *** -
Bacardi - or Bacardí - acute iota to get a stress /
prolonging into an ee         - because
you rarely hear someone say Afrikaan: or
   Afrikān - they taught you punctuation of words /
compounds - but they didn't teach you
how diacritical marks are also incisors
    stating that there are two hydrogen atoms and
an oxygen bound to in a reaction with potassium -
or such guises lost or forgotten.
                    it's aesthetic in the informal sense,
in the formal sense: power.
                 no one wants a flower-power hippy cuddle
moment these days, it's true:
                   they want fierce knowing -
people want glasses -
                to possess the Galilean power struggle
stated with cyclops Jupiter being noticed
and saintly Saturn -
                      a different spirit rummages through me
and hence the differential vibration of
the hushed lynx: named Larry.
                     in flames: metaphor -
well, you know, you begin the night with
a change of tone: former barley murky gods' ****
                    amber - to Caribbean clarity -
you're bound to find a difference in shaky "the shadow"
stevens of your hands - i'm way past
the absinthe romanticism - sugar cubes alight
are like latex gimp masks: you start yearning for
the countryside hiatus of forever:
    David Attenborough-esque narrated *** scenes,
birds and the bees, and storks.
                       as sure as Moonday in a
monocle i say: the world events shouldn't drag you
into their narrative - avoid them - avoid them at all
costs: you're not a power broker in their final
summit - you can't change them, turn your attention
elsewhere, into niche topography of interest:
with a very minor demographic of shared coagulation
to express it... back when fame was less of a harrowing:
back when there was no personality cult activation:
a banker said to me once, randomly on a walk:
Newton, what a load of *******!
        and hence the ballistic missiles and that thing
about global warming: for every action there's an
equal and opposite reaction (3rd law) -
     Descartes thought would be part of the
conspiracy theorist columnal dogma reiteration -
doubt is wrong (albeit good faith)
         and negation is right (albeit bad faith,
as Sartre already said) -
     so in turn the tongue: the doubters turn the tongue
into the four limbs with boxing gloves included -
  waggle all you want, the pessimism is already
there - the deniers? they had clothes for their tongue
to make the most spectacular claims about
being naked, when actually dressed at Harrods
in that cheap **** that says: all pharaoh cool, cool.
i'll find more pearls in the reflection of the moon
upon an ocean than i'll ever see donned by pearl
necklace ladies at a fashion week goose-step stomping
anorexics show in London - and that's the truth.
     i'm not a biblical literalist - but **** me!
we were given a poisoned fruit, and told we would
be able to tell apart good & evil, but never from
the two divergent stances, hence the bundled up salad
of like for like -
                     this is Moses as poet, rather than
a general - before telling me he didn't exist
and was mere fiction: tell me he was a cunning poet
before being a cunnin general -
                  in a hundred years' time: you too will
be a myth, that's logically applied history after
being ignored for too long it cannot attract
september the 1st, 1939 - because mythology is
a form of history that detests exactness of dating
and hindsight - it happened: people didn't
really give a **** when it did, done!
     we really do not have a capacity to censor
*******...  not in life, on the street, on t.v., or in a courtroom,
           we don't!
                                   i treat it as a puzzle
rather than a fruit though, otherwise, to be stark-naked
honest: we'd be ****** gorilla boring and that would
be the end of our self-projection as questioning
the void we're in: it would have been blindly
nodded to - and ours': such a pivotal and yet also
pathetic rebellion -
                                 yet again, the world is going
into the shredder - looks elsewhere:
i'm looking at a poem by jack spicer -
he's not a great poet, meaning? he has a decency to
be one... which means he's not oratory
therefore he's implosive, therefore he's part of
the magnetic-enzyme strand of writing:
he attracts people to write -
                    he's not a Bukowski or a Ginsberg -
god no...
                  the seemingly mediocre is there
because of the paparazzi sentiment toe-ward
the greats (on purpose) -
                    you end up feeling:
i need to say something - instead of feeling:
a heckler! shut, the, ****, up!
      that's being perceived as mediocre goes:
it's a fatality of what not to adopt and improve;
like that line about the doubter's tongue being
dressed in fists and knees -
   and the denier's tongue being dressed in Gucci
and Dolce to look the part and
         hardly spread a cup of sweated over panic.
      pro-me-thee-us
      pro-me-thee-us
      five years
      the song singing from its black throat (Jack)
  sure... but it's pro-me-fee-oose - right?
this goes back to not having "punctuation"
flint sharpenings on atoms of lingua -
                 sure, have them between compounds,
but never ascribe them to letters?
  bound to be trouble....
             d'eh very point of fought over is to be
count, unawares: thinking.
then i picked up a very ancient text,
ibn sina / abū alī al-husayn ibn sīnā:
variation, properly?
i'd put a macron over y in al-husaȳn -
     otherwise it's almost like a question of
practising punctuation: which is a variation of
constructing from syllables, rather than
alphabetical beginnings - now let's look
at the variation "how do you pronounce it?"
         e-bin   c-n'ah       ah-boo       a'h-lee
              who-sane         e-bin         see-n'ah
this is how English looks like when undressed
from its lack of applying diacritical marks -
god it's ugly,
               get that Texan gunslinger drawl with
it too: like i'll ever be a cowboy: pff!
yes, there are people out there who enjoy
t.v. shows and look at them fish-eyed glassy -
then there are those that like football games -
but then the few of us look at something like the
following as means for transcendental mind-games
above crosswording:
(Kantian 0 = negation,                1 must therefore
                    mean affirmation, and 2 doubt:
as in: being of two minds)
   ibn Sana (tome of wisdom) -

            R  H
A  0  0  0  0  0  0  B
C  0  0  0  0  0  0  D­
            T  G
                                     this diagram is so idiosyncratic
it would well be a diaphragm -
                                   it's a scematic:
but it's certainly not a need to make language
trivia, in a sense trivial:
             it is a metaphysical translation of a pearl -
the same triviality can be applied to it
as our bewilderment ascribed toward the
analogous translation of it via avaricious people
and precious gems -
             it's not even a Xeno's paradox type of
looky-looky -
                 it's a sort of complete human being type
of scenario: an X marks the spot where you
     grow dumb with: does it matter?
      well: logic that's not restrained (on holiday)
produces such things -
                 such schematics:
   they are artefacts of a way to forget the daily
function of language between people:
as way to suggest: there is a way to get things done
by not getting them done.
                   i could have replaced the original
with a higher tier abstract, namely using less meaningful
encoding symbols, given that 0 - 9 are incompetent
of the 26 variabilities, and the why & i
            yumper and jumper,
   cat and kilogram                    cue, q, kappa -
skewers -     which makes it less than 26,
or the said: ∞      and a - z variation limit from
aardvark                    and   zyzzogeton -
zoo... in between.
                            i don't know what ibn is
trivialising / doing an original antidote to a crossword,
but i can say, given that i found the punctuation
scalpel in non-applied punctuation within letters
in the End-leash language - what i found stark
naked: by the way - the reason that philosophers
never applied grammatically categorising words
in their systems, is why we have that sort of
momentum of applicability in the field of robotics:
to categorise words by their noun or verb
is a reason why philosophy books never applied
such words in their reasoning - therefore the need
to write a book with such words being relevant
as translated into their precise irrelevance
and the relevance of the field of robotics.
never mind, i could have written
          
                     <  ≥
£           .   .   .   .   .   .  ≠ (÷)
= (x)     .   .   .   .   .   .  $
                     ≤  >                        thus the denial
of all plausible conversation on the matter:
and Herr Grinch and the rags to riches
fairytale - and the lottery, and the otherwise
grim simga of the yawning grey plateau;
did i get something wrong?
                 this is an example of an alter-crossword,
and the reason that mathematicians aren't
good at mental arithmetic is because
they have to learn mathematical shorthand
for their arguments, they become kindred spirits
of courtroom stenographers.

The green combusts, the cherry sclerotized mask dances above
the invisible paper carapace.
Stuffed full with Rotten skunk innards and burning,
tongues of heat sweat away its crystalline hairs.
Aren is hunched and crooked, all teeth and lungs,
under the mixed halogens of suburban porchlight,
being bathed in bluescale waves from the
strobe of the neighbor's telescreen.
Ropes of smog pour from the slats between his picket fence ivories and get frayed.
I drink the filth, choking down the viscera of the vermin.
It doesn't seem to get easier.

Stumbling inside, my feet detach and I throw myself on the door
until I've locked out the sickly tide pool light of dawn,
and I'm rolling toward his bedroom.
Jolting and sputtering, and
grasping at the hands of the clock,
listening for the steady metronome to
count me through.
And then numbness.
I know the feeling, and next come the
pins, digging into my
fingertips and the pads of my
toes, and then I'm all body and silent prayers.
And I'm whispering sick thoughts to Aren -

"Those adrenaline demons
will do me in,
and if only I could relax,
and my dear mother
used to have a stalker,
and I almost got run down
by a car on the highway when I was five,
and asthmatics are five times as likely to have a
generalized anxiety disorder."

The adrenaline demons gather my tendons in pincushion palms,
tugging at the strings,
panicked arthritis and my fingers are
twitching and curling backwards
while I glare on with shallow breaths and cataracts.
The organs moan in the cavern of my body,
with thick wet air pouring from the opening.
I'm standing now,
a fetishized devil doll,
shaking out the pins
and the needles
and the sick splinters of glass
and the long holy skewers
and I'm breathing again
and I sit and
I breathe.

no body thinks about us.

     they only care about what we puncture;

            the tasty meat, sweet fruit, and  the good intentions.

                      they never think of the sticky residue

                                                         left behind  

                                       and how we

                                                 will never be

                                           truly clean

                            again.

On wind torn cliffs
they hop and bound
these bright beaked birds
diminutive sweet clowns

They are prey to many a Gull
skewers do take them on wing petrol
cute and gentle they look to me
yet never to small fish of the salt seas

See them plunder the shallows
then rise from water cold and blue
watch them in their cubersome wonder
flying and flapping like humming birds


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

there's no need to bring
the wine in goblet
for I am so much drunk
seeing those eyes
and I lost my senses
and lost my sight
all I could see is ecstasy
all I hear is ecstasy
all I could say is ecstasy
all I wear is ecstasy
and since I have worn
this love's hairshirt
I put skewers in my eyes
and put my head in dirt
yet the immense beauty
doesn't stop to overcome me
and I live in ecstasy
I breathe in ecstasy

© Ali Ashraf

The hatchet starts it all.
Burrowing into the lower depths.
Spaces so small.

The layout underestimates, deceives us.
A need for freedom.
Attempts to resist are futile, outrageous

Then the sewers.
Murky, rancid and foul is the stench.
Senses dulling, aromas piercing like skewers

Don’t stop now.
Elbows, shoulders, calves are tense,
Faintly hearing the moo of a cow.

Just a little more
Finally the light beckons…….all hope is lost
The final barrage of bullets shake to the core.

You wake upon a carpet soaked in wine
to feel the walls around you stretch and shrink
and press against the pressure on your spine,
unbed yourself as tucked upon by drink.
Unwind the vise that clamps around the head
and loose the ***** that tightens at the jaw.
You twist the tendons, heavy as a tread
and strip the bolts that drive into your maw.
You wobble, wisen upright with a yawn
and warble, crooning, swooning to the floor
and crumble on the carpet with a coo.
Your cogs are locked; your curtains let the dawn
abound, secured unfirmly as the door,
as bright and strident skewers ****** you.

In the cavernous expanse gilded out of silicon robes of Greece flattened into the diminutive spaces between crags and rock, the swimmers of the natatorium embrace to plunge in transparency where they erred in covert chivalry
Knighted partially by association but yet unofficially born of sentiments rebarbative to the well-heeled, I linger like tar heels lamenting that the supernova eventually bequeaths the death of the ultimate chapel hill a shining city on a valley masquerading as a hill
From past and repast, the nurture of former presidents calumniates if also embraces the possibility of unfettered liberty and prosperous futurity, they simper in silent lugubrious reflection at lives shortened by liberty prolonged, of hearts opened but death devolved
Latitude and the caress of brazen attitudes corners the ***** in a tightened alcove of a restrictive forest of livid and limpid dastardly deeds, the arm of hunched idiots grazing with dumbfound idiocy at their own protective duty to shepherd the forest only for the singular trees as though disease itself is only a tease in a flirtation too exposed to believe
I joust with giants in a town that brooks lions and lyon estates with too many GrayZe superintending too many fain and valiant graves littering the stream besides the Pennsylvania forest in a past sunken in intrigue slipping in and out of an ethereal time invented by a harvest moon too attuned to be a lunatic any time soon
Whither is the outcome of a Shakespearean demise of prattle becoming the pasture of specious but solid skies, gleaming that a science fiction theater isn’t hailing a fuhrer or jingoistic furor any time soon hopefully I do too croon.
Militant tapestries of unhinged madmen craven in their disregard for every bent temptation, we witness the downfall of scrounged indecency and lonely hearted thieves contemned as they condemn perdition upon an unsuspecting victim
The victim is the hope of galvanized promise, a regal flutter of liberty tracing the skies elaborately for the flight plan most likely volitant and most destined to succeed
Corporate heads shake hands with desperate beds that Damocles himself wishes blood himself was yet shed or never shed but cutthroat collapse is avoidable with the recrudescence of provident relapse and rejoinder, asunder the ships may seem but now aimed so directly like a laser pointer
Titanic is a father to founding fathers only in the regress of avoidant times, sheepish of the whispered grime of inutterable blithe sublime time, limpid in partial acknowledgment of a wretched fate as avoidable as possible with the proper introduction and the right heeded date of a love better than choice wine and the wineskins of an indian province live as well just as much in a Skinnerian time.
Read the palimpsest, pittance proferred for every skeptical and undeclared bet that skewers the coffers of a criminal ring of Barnum Brothers in bed with burned asylum, a sanitarium wider and menacing like the most minatory lion
But the jaws of these aliens in time, whether specious or not thrill only those susceptible to the flattery of swank and the travesty to which we thank our deliverance and suspected exoneration
Flanking the outstripped malls that sprawl in the orbit of cities engorged like a skyscraping promise littered by Walled Ease and regaled bleats that belay down the cliffs of rigid insurrection only partially courageous to noble and partial inflections.

The courage of a wistful day slipping into the fathomless depths of dudgeon and pain the dungeons clamoring of insanity willfully reign, we clip the newspapers to the walls and scrawl our loves into the fallen scrawl.

Crimson red beneath the spangled spars, the author of debauchery immemorial that swills and wassails its own heartrending blues. And this movie squandered in limelight but buttressed by blithe regards for morally debased frights. Sting me the police and see the wasps nest infest your hollow diatribe to the extent you are hobbled in the depths, ennobled aboveground but nevertheless widely pitied.
The mathematics of love and loss, cravings for distrusted sacraments on a blue bus swiveling though the recesses of aleatory or controlled time. But then I lament that fully loved and fully lived is a fluff of sacerdotal emulation rather than the true authorship of heaven blanketing the earth.
Polished polity renegades and the rumpus of crumbled heaped ashes in a cremated time, where sand itself is eternal and sentience is somehow the door to nothing but despair, in their blinkered hubris that scales the lizards back in order to be lifted by olfactory graft.
In that light I see a bright whisked wind carrying the secrecy of portentous spared revelations and the spate of intermittent lightheardedness blows away my skepticism, but sides have been chosen and the bluster of the past emulating the culmination of an amenable future scares the birds from their chavish
Chiliads chill like excellency dissembled as the husk of an eternal monument of punctuated emphatic glory lingering above the ground with intransigent resistance to gravity and an slaver of better sincerity in the attempt to become beyond guileless tourists.
Dressed rankled blue swayed news, always operative in militant conformity to an eradicated sentience but simulatenously a wider sing song enlightenment. I struggle for words in this debased state of pitiable futures plastered all over every billboard that ever matters rather than the closure of closed doors trampled by intermittent dreams and seamless cows becoming the heifers of unified peace.
Smaller that the ants the infest the hills but more glorified than the quiet pristine ponds that outskirt the skirts that need less descent and more ascendancy.

Blitzkreig of cosmic wars swelters the torrid desiccation of a languor existing in human platitude but defiled of human gratitude. We swiftly wait for the erosion of sanity to become the author of a novella of craven deeds and bolted brimstone, serenading a rush towards sensation and an abandonment of rivers libation
Beneath which rivers flow, scrounged glowers endemic to a ruddy blush of sun-stricken grace, I clasp every remedy and every catholicon becomes more ecumenical and more rabid with stricken gaze of disordered streets in festivity but inured of nothing but lazy passions rather than sought rations
Dickens and hard hammers scribble the parched concrete with Chinese depths masqueraded as a suburban muse for canned applause and raucous crews relishing everything crude.
In the refinement the poet slings his garment over his shoulders and buys coffee for his ***** queen, and how to outfox such gallantry and how to temper so much enthusiasm. Only by the skullduggery of dead hands anointed with Greenwich bands.

Bright     blue      skewers      the      dark,
navy      fingers      grow­      into      nothing.

A   young   girl's   helium   squeal   hisses   high,
'oooh.....ahhhh.'
Emerald   gunshot   ends   another   life.

Velcro-splitting,
amber   glitter
sparkles   upon
the   night's   stars.

Toothpicks ***** the sky,
crimson ribbons dribble down
like blood dripping from a nose.

The orchestra of colour plays
before black devours them all again.

When it rains, it pours;
A downpour less frequently wet, sure
Dancing a shambling, ill-dressed manticore
Who has barely the strength to shake anymore
Find the only chagrin of the forecast is yours
But you bring some fine wine, a handle of Dewar’s
Your mind ascending from improbable sewers
Searing tomatoes, aged beef on skewers
Burned-off or absorbed during barhopping tours
With whom you lounged on Mediterranean shores
In your history head: Mongols, Turkmen, and Moors
It hits you again ‘til another drink floors you
Sleep on a sofa where bad weather ignores you
And somewhere inside a girl asks, “From who
Comes a voice (yours) at night ambling the halls?”
The friendliest ghost, not haunting at all
Who’ll likely come by if you give him the call
But leave in the morning before sunlight is tall
Out of fear of breaking some protocol

Despite this, you’ve certainly seen so
They keep you around as part of this scene, so
This is your life, just how it should be, so
Thank you my dears, my beloved Piso

Shalimar

Turquoise, luminescent
The waves pound tirelessly in
A coated fossil / gleams
from just beneath
And/ as the firs bend in the steady breeze
The light skewers the clouds, boldly.

Your laugh has a razor edge today
And your eyes are marbles, too
Reflecting the embers of the fire
Now growing cold
You light another match
it blazes gold!

...then blue hue returns
as if undisturbed
I watch closely
as the sands are submerged
Laughing still...
You always were a showman

It was then that you leaned toward me
and pronounced your love
Coral meets coral
I await a bountiful coronation
Doused in Shalimar and kisses
Silk transgressions/Cotton-made roses

This brings forth another memory
Equally jarring, though sweet all the same
Magnolias lined the walls of our house
Where Ivy once tried to climb
A glacial winter saw them off
Leaving our fragile home unbound

Your thin, tragic heart
Weighs heavy in my supple hands
But I cannot muster for long...
Enshrouded by moribund fingers
Time slips on, falling deeper, again
Velocity/pulls against my bones

You call against the hammering wind
Noiseless words halt like statues
My wordless adversaries hunker down
In my delirium they offer no solace
I reach for the glass/blindly
Seeing only sun and rain  

This is where I tread backwards
Fearing the mantle you now bestow
And as I do my love rages
For it knows I must relent
The (multitudinous) seas have consumed me
The waves took me in, gladly

Yet another memory -vivid this time
- Is fired into my sleeping mind
Diving deep into the cosy bay
You said fortune favours the ‘old’
But in these trees you are lucent
In my tears you are bold

My haunted love was your epiphany
Between the luminaries we shared
Impervious to any real pain
False soirées and canapés
Ignite the reverence swelling within me
Delight me again before I can remember

Your arms obstruct the light
A new day calls me/A harbour is prepared
The firs are swaying again
Do I take the Royal Path?
Or follow your cardinal ways?
Reflections are not always this real

I shifted out of the sun
And as I rose my feet left the earth
I spoke but my words hung in the air
Fashioned from the depths
Waiting to be emboldened
Then, they traversed the oceans between us

Reaching you as you turned to stone
Some lay dormant, forming a quiet valley of death
Your ghostly eyes looked at me, earnestly
And though my words were still ice
several burst through the void / and
even to my own surprise, said - "I love you too"

Blade grazes skin in horizontal hatred
teaching lessons in guilt and lies
crying truth that won't break the surface
which hides the tar that seeps
through a soul unseen

Prtty, Prtty smile
on a Prtty, Prtty girl

and the lines break surface tension
'twas all the glue would hold

Every turn a reflection in karma and self-loathing
perceived as an undeserved consequence
of a past that holds no regrets

One layer breaks free
and he fails to see her cracks
through the scars he was forced to stitch alone
with the rusted skewers of time

A second pass and the blade runs clean
as idle threats yield no change
a liar demanding truth of the one who gives it freely
as it has always been

Only seeing lies oneself would tell
unable and unwilling to realize
that the truth remains true
even when seen through one's own lies

Beaten into submission
that reeks of forced pity
only covers the truth
with lies that make one feel like

A Prtty, Prtty girl
with a Prtty, Prtty smile

This road is forked so I walk straight

Left is only right, but opposite

and right is only wrong, but different

I am talking in circles

I am walking nonsense

I am singing television

and watching harmonies in solitude

I am walking on my hands

I am writing with my toes

I dream in a reality

and live in a fantasy

what is right in front of me

comes at me from behind

a bullet skewers my back

while a knife shoots through my chest

I paint sculptures and statues with crayola

and I build Mona Lisa with bricks and stones

I dig to the depths of Mount Everest

I climb to the top of Death Valley

I dance in stillness to silence

I sleep in motion to beats

I talk to myself

I listen to you.

blue shards of time
inching and pinching through
some (hidden) remembrance
this stickilyooziness that runs in my veins
one lazy  drop
               by
             drop
collecting in a pensieve
shattering through the myths-
(that is where the shards came from)
The dreams are concrete
touchably real
the images swirl
their spinality affirmed
in the red ache that sears
recall on skewers
- Vijayalakshmi Harish
30.08.2012

Copyright © Vijayalakshmi Harish

October bonfires for Autumn lesser pyromaniacs ,
with Oak , Hickory and Fall leaves , ashes floating
in the Black Moon night , they ride into star clusters
then fade out of sight
Locked in flames allure , counseled by fire , glowing
embers , hypnotic flickering light , running nightfall shadows o'er the hardwood lines  
Gardenia perfume , warm coats , our uncloaked breath mingling with sweet smoke , cricket songs , hand-made skewers with
bratwurst and marshmallows
Trading stories , relearning one another ,
growing stronger , warmer , drawn into the wavering glow , crackling
tinder , white ash flurry , kindling eventide mellow* ..

A child starves to death in the developing world
where is the justice in that?
I don’t see none.
the world, round,
like politicians
rotates unbalanced in its axis
their skewers rotate in excess
we’ve got the means to fill a child’s belly with food
but where is the will?
there’s enough to go around for everyone
how long will this injustice continue?
those in power
happily sipping their floats
while millions of bellies bloat

why do we love
open the door to be robbed
raise the portcullis for invasion
leave our frail hearts open to the skewers and the pain
open our arms for an embrace at knifepoint
put our neck in the guillotine
feed each other our torn-up hearts?

for a smile or a kind word
in fair exchange?

the story of love is loosened ties and running mascara

Captured in the psych ward part 28


You see the HDU was celebrating it's
Annual celebration, you see it has been a year since Ron first opened this HDU and BJ Harrison was still stuck in solitary wondering why was he in this HDU but that was obvious of all the problems he has caused here, mind you Charlie was in the middle of helping celebrating the annual event and yes it's going to be a great barbecue lunch with heaps of salad, and Charlie had heaps of ideas of what salads that they should buy, and Ron got our of bed and had a shower and got dressed and also bought his outfit he wore for the opening and then he went to the corner where fran and dans was and because Ron was visiting grand children and he noticed that the shop has gone and he went over to the other side of the road to wonder if he is on the right corner and the man in that shop said they were busted for selling spiked food and Another thing too it, the public health inspector closed the place down and Ron asked him if he sells coffee and he said, we don't really open till 10-30 but I can give you a take away to take with you and after leaving there
Ron went to the hospital and had. coffee in the cafeteria and also had a vanilla slice  and had a chin wag with the people in there and one of the cafe workers said. Did you know it's the 1st anniversary of the HDU today
Did you know that and Ron said yeah, I remember that day like it was yesterday and we had Charlie Chaplin and I remember having two kids and those kids have just wanted to watch TV and Patty Roe who says he is George Washington, well he loves being loved and mind you all the nurses like him and also I normally go to fran and dans for coffee before hand but it ain't there no more and the lady said fran died
And dan moved to Adelaide to work in the Adelaide crows football club
Near Aami stadium and yes Ron said yeah it will be hard but people  move on and then went down to the HDU to clock on and say hi to the patients
And then say that the party is on this afternoon after the BBQ lunch and he went to solitary to visit BJ Harrison. And BJ said now buddy
Am I allowed to be a part of the party and Ron said yeah but you must behave and not annoy any of the other patients cause they see all here for their own reason and they made their own mistakes and if you do that, I might let you out for at least lunch, and BJ said ok I will promise I will harass bill once and Ron said, if you harass bill you miss lunch and then when the. Men came out to the courtyard to do the BBQ
Ron let everyone know and let BJ out but he had to be Chained to a
Officer but he will still enjoy the party, the whole thing and everyone including Ron were sitting in the courtyard and having a dip in the little pool yeah this wax a great party
And songs were sang, the songs were American pie and bohemian rhapsody and don't be cruel and also they had a punyata and BJ had the most power and got the most lollies and chocs and the BBQ had sausages and steak and skewers
And heaps of great salads like pasta and potato and coleslaw and the drinks were non alcoholic fruit punch and then the party went on till 5 pm and Charlie spiked the punch with his cough medicine which contains 5% alcohol and then Ron gave hey medications out and went home to leftovers and fall asleep in front of the box


Sent from my iPhone

Who I thought you'd be
Is not who you are

It skewers me.
Left to cook like meat on a stick
Leftovers that are never eaten
A flavorless piece of swine
Wrapped around miscellaneous produce

Eat me!
Eat me!

But I never will.
Keep in my fridge to eye
Watching as it molds...

...the skewer stays right in my heart
That once beat for you

Lord grant me the audacity.

To again be a 23 year old marshmallow
Partying every night at the campfire with a bunch of skewers.

The audacity
To feel outstanding
With an underdeveloped frontal lobe
Floating around in cherry bombs and Stroh’s

To survive being invincible and brave and strong enough to make bold and terrible decisions
And blessedly wake to another sunrise

Never grateful to be alive.
******* *****.
How does anyone survive their early 20s.

Sheer audacity.

no one knows when it’s our time to go
none has a magnifying glass into tomorrow
do we live in joy or sorrow
or thrive on time that we borrow

yesterday we could have been at play
is our life fully on display
the present is a gift a not to delay
or are we clinging on to stay

what do you do with all your time
do we corporate ladder climb
search out every penny and dime
or write poetry that we make rhyme

have we found that tender squeeze
that turns out to be a tease
and makes our life a breeze
or try to everyone else please

is taking that child out of a cradle
the same as holding a ladle
will there be time to paddle
or do we sit on our hands idle

how else do we joy bring
striding out in nature is that our thing
watching the early morning sun rising
or are we part of a crime ring

where do we get our culture
draw a picture
think about the future
or are we hovering about like a vulture

are we divers
sitting at the side of rivers
roasting on skewers
or have too many shivers

on a long summer’s day will having a beer
bring on friendship and cheer
especially enjoyed with someone dear
or is it all about fear

Andreas Simic©

Vampiric lambs feast on their Sheppard's herd.
Breaking bread of thy neighbor
How loves call of fertility
Now the bane Bull of consumption's horn.

The Sheppard ****** to death by panic.
Unable to guide or save, is now on the menu
Prayers silenced over the band of gargling stomachs
His papyrus stand of power dissolved in crimson soup
Milk and honey crossed out of the starving mans Gospel

Warp the plains in sabbath machinery
Capital becoming its own atoned staff
The meek claims of natures *******.
While drawing a line to the factory

The staff now a fork on the dinner table' crossroads.
One seat at the table for Perdition
Groaking civilized parallel.


No hope lies on silver dished entree
Cornucopia is the decapitated Sheppard' head
Apple fastened in mouth

Olive pits replacing holy eyes for edible sight
Pickled tongue to speak holy when the belly is full
Ears dehydrated for the holy word.

As said with Christ, we dine to forgive our sins.

Lambs forgiven
Vampires forgiven
Cannibals forgiven
Meek forgiven
Hungry forgiven
All is forgiven

We are organized and all is forgiven.
God forgives in his name.

For tomorrow, we cut out our new Sheppard from papyrus,
Tomorrow, we ***** his word.
Tomorrow, we take the skewers of the Kebab
And give the Sheppard his staff.

Tomorrow, we chastise the hungry.
For his spilled blood.
For his eaten flesh.

I am a ***** I am a *****
I am better than the men
The grown up silly men
I am a ***** I am a *****
I believe in partying and being a slob
I clean my house in my good time Just like s ***** would do
I don't do manly things
Like clean my house for you
You see mate I am a *****
A mighty mighty *****
You can't make me say I am not
I believe in making skewers and salad eaten the way a ***** does
I am a ***** a mighty mighty *****
I love the way I live life
You see I hear voices that are ***** related and I party too
I am a bloke I am a *****
And my best mate's name is robbo and I love life more than you
I am a ***** a mighty mighty *****
Cause I love life I love to party
And I do little work
******* mate what is your problem
I am a ***** and I love life
I slob my dinner with conservative ***** saying
Eat nicely I say no
Cause I am a *****
I am a *****
I am cool man cool you yeah cool me I am a ***** anyway
And you are a boring man mate
How are you going mate
You see you are a man and I am a ***** that is right dude

Debris on the roadway
Leaves in the pond
Trash stifling storm drains
A foolish marriage leaving pain
Candy apple autumn
Hot chocolate winter
The alluring smoke of spring barbecuers  
The 'goats of love gone astray' turning
on skewers

Auntie Janet asked me to say hi and that she doesn't blame you.
Grandad sends his regards and says he needs a little more time before he can see you.

Pete says hello and he'd like the long skewers returned if you get them back.
Mary sends her apologies and says you can keep the hachette.

Mum says you're invited to Uncle Bert's funeral if you're up to it. She'll deal with Uncle Arthur. 
Sarah says to thank you. She and the baby are doing much better.

Jim said he'll see you when he gets out. He owes you a major one.
Dad says you were right and not to beat yourself up. What’s done is done.

The nurse says you need to rest. It’ll take as long as it takes.
- Do you want those grapes? Don’t want them to go to waste.