I want to be a tight man
a fight man
a get it when I can man
a hard man
a ladies man
a take when its there man
a bad man
a cad man
a wham bang and thank you ma'am.

I want to be a flirt man
a take a bit of skirt man
a **** man
a slapper man
a kiss em quick an part man.

I want to be a cheat man
a cheap man
a slip between the sheets man
a creep man
a street man
a leering ****** beer man.

I want to be a cold man
an ice man
but some say I'm too nice man?

room spins but i do not feel dizzy i am used to the spinning dancingon air i do not care i am painter yet prefer bare walls i am writer yetfavor blank page i practice yoga daily yet suffer angst a romantic withno one to love no one loves me we unheard voices sing to imaginaryaudiences world not yet born anyone who knows me knows i’m wildconflicted vulnerable mistake-prone trapped in lost boy skittish atsight of blood frightened by shadows scenes on tv movies terrified byviolent humankind why do people trust treasure animals? because animalsdon’t lie cheat steal talk ****** gossip why am i always beingmisconstrued misunderstood? why do women get so ******* at me theyyell slap slam door? why do i just want to not remember get numb die?what do birds see horses know dogs sense dolphins dream butterfliesremember soldiers want to forget? room spins but i do not feel dizzy iam used to the spinning

You hear those saint fainted swines? Slopping around ****** in muck. For hogs seeking bogs, bespatter the pink with thick mire. Dull sluggish foul smelled trolls, basking a bridges under cove, feasting on distant mare. But old boar’s belly’s’ under grown, he has not self meat to spare. Go elsewhere wise butcher. Go elsewhere. Grieve not thy ******* of purification, instead satisfactory of sales. He has not the soul to touch rare blood of a bessy hung by hook. Sars covered hands, sars drenched the feet. Not here butcher, elsewhere lay menial meat.

There's a passage in a story by John Buchan where a minor character explains how a good mystery story is created: take at least three random subjects or events and connect them together. Here goes.
 
A toothbrush
Covent Garden
Wildflowers*
 
Interesting to let the mind float free and subjects appear unbidden, thought Marcus. The moon had risen and out at sea its reflections caressed the swelling waves. Calm the night after such a day of being about.
 
Gregory had phoned him, early. Marcus had been lying in bed. Sylvia had just returned from the bathroom and had folded herself into his arms. Their collective feet had conversed amicably as early morning feet do. She was still tingling a little from the passion they had shared, stretching herself languorously like a cat coming into the warm after a cold night out.
 
'Marcus,' said Gregory, 'it's today.' And that was all. The line went dead, but that was all he needed to know.
 
He extricated himself from Sylvia who was intent either on sleep or further love-making. She was incorrigible, but so so desirable.
 
I'll just take a toothbrush he thought as he swiftly shaved. He picked a new pink one still in its packet and put it in his bag with the papers, a map, his camera . . .
 
He thought about Ripley as he steered the car onto the motorway. That character fascinated him and he wondered if its inventor Patricia Highsmith had ever known such a man; a nice good-looking man, but selfish and nasty. Marcus wondered if he was selfish and nasty. He reckoned he was.
 
When he reached Covent Garden, parking illegally in Jermine street, he wasted no time in walking directly to Turino's. There, amongst the tourists and the out of town shoppers was Greg.
 
'I have this little package for you. Don't open it until you reach Southwold. Park in front of the Lion Hotel. Do nothing until she appears, which she will do after her lunch with the doctor. Then follow her. We think she'll go to Ben's. If she does we want the pictures . . . and as explicit as possible. Leave the package.'
 
It's at least two and a half hours to this village on the Suffolk coast. Until Ipswich he scarcely regarded the early summer colours, the plaintive skies, fields stretching to woods, the occasional grandeur of parkland.
 
He stopped for coffee at a services and called Sylvia.
 
'Hi Sylvia it's me.'
'Where are you? I was hoping we'd spend the morning together.'
'Well Greg called . . . I'm on my way to the seaside.'
'Oh . . . no time for Sylvia today?'
'Not today'
'Tonight?'
'if all goes to plan'
' You journalists, you're all the same . .'
 
But he wasn't. He was different. He didn't just write, he could investigate, uncover things, hack into mobile phones, get the compromising images.
 
Yes, she was going to Ben's . North, on the Norwich road. No hesitation. She drove fast. He had to have his wits about him. When she turned off the main road to the mill he carried on, then doubled back and two miles further on parked within sight of the building.
 
Her red car was there the courtyard. He decided on getting in from the garden so left the road for an adjoining field. Waist high in a profusion of grasses and wildflowers Marcus made his way painstakingly towards a collection of outbuildings, the indoor swimming pool, garages, an office.
 
The pictures were good. Both of them, together. The architect and the broker. Lovers, conspirators, thieves. They deserved everything coming to them.
 
He had entered the mill briefly. There were voices upstairs, a little laughter and then silence. He left the package on the kitchen table propped up against a vase.
 
They'd been following her movements for months after he'd taken his suspicions to Fred. Yes, he'd been so lucky. A wine bar conversation, an aggrieved employee, a few leaked documents and it all came together. And now this . . . the ****** stuff the paper loved.
 
He decided not to go back to Sylvia tonight but walk by the sea, let the gentle whoosh of water on the pebbled strand sooth his ruffled conscience. He had done his job. There would be other intrusions. Investigations, revelations. Mr Nice but nasty like The Talented Mr Ripley, he thought.

THIRTY-TWO Greeks are dipping their feet in a creek.
Sloshing their bare feet in a cool flow of clear water.
All one midsummer day ten hours the Greeks
        stand in leather shoes shoveling gravel.
Now they hold their toes and ankles
        to the drift of running water.
Then they go to the bunk cars
        and eat mulligan and prune sauce,
Smoke one or two pipefuls, look at the stars,
        tell ****** stories
About men and women they have known,
        countries they have seen,
Railroads they have built-
        and then the deep sleep of children.

I don't brush my hair or eat my vegetables.

Really, that's who I am. The tall girl
with the little cousins splashing careless
in the tissue paper leaves of fall
who climbs trees and scratches her bug bites until
they bleed and comes home giggling
with grass-stained knees and dirt in her pockets.
Mom would smile at dinner and say I smell like
Outside.

The compliment of compliments, untouchable with
innocence revered.

Somehow, with a little west coast living and
men under my belt, I've changed. With pressure to
be domestic and beautiful, ****** and *****,
flourish professional and more successful
than my mother's mother who mothered 6,  
I have forgotten this. I fall short.

I fall
in love with men who quell Outside joys and bike rides
with money and ******* and touch me in the dark,
cooing and cawing and convincing me
I'm happier to throw a pretty penny
around, and here, take this pill, smoke this dope,
to not remember the smells and scabs and stories from
when you gave a **** that made you who you are.

I'm getting my hair done today at some high end place.
I'm waiting for blonde dye to set, reading about
world hunger in my National Geographic. Wait,
that's probably not acceptable.

Okay, I'm reading
about J.Lo's *** in US Weekly, talking numbly to the stylist
about I-can't-believe-they-wore-that, while some yuppie
next to me with her face stretched too tight
is reading something ****** in Vanity Fair and
won't shut up about the Kardashian divorce.
"I mean, not like I know her or anything, but it seems
SO like her to..."

I'm surrounded by flourescent lights and floor length
mirrors and ******* with their caked on makeup
whispering of affairs and debt the way
you inexplicably can to your hairdresser alone.

I look at my face in the mirror,
framed in foil, pop music pounding overhead.
I mean, I'm not as bad off as the rest of them, right?
I couldn't be. I
remember the bug bites, piles of old leaves,
pink-cheeked simple childhood, and I can't
breathe all the sudden.

I
click my designer heels to the counter
throw my credit card at the $144 bill and
leave, speeding, to get away, don't know where
to go, I just end up at a ritzy bar where I stumble in
and, out of habit, order a martini, clean, straight up with
a twist.

Then I look down and burst into tears because
really, I'm no different from them and
truly, growing up in this town is
such a cruel, long hurricane of loss
that you can try to flee, past tangled hair and untouched
vegetables, all across the great Outside but you
just can't outlast in hide and go seek.

I get off the Belt Parkway at Rockaway Boulevard and
Jet aloft from Idyllwild.
(I know, now called J.F. ******* K!)
Aboard a TWA 747 to what was then British East Africa,
Then overland by train to Baroness Blixen’s Nairobi farm . . .
You know the one at the foot of the Ngong Hills.
I lease space in Karen’s African dreams,
Caressing her long white giraffe nape,
That exquisite Streep jugular.
I am a ghost in Meryl’s evil petting zoo:
I haunt the hand that feeds me.

Safely back in Denmark, I receive treatment
For my third bout with syphilis at Copenhagen General.
Cured at last, I return to Kenya and Karen.
In my solitude or sleep, I go with her,
One hundred miles north of the Equator,
Arriving at Julia Child’s marijuana herb garden–
Originally Kikuyu Land, of course—
But mine now by imperial design &
California voter referendum.
(Voiceover) "I had a farm in Africa
At the foot of the Ngong Hills."
My farm lies high above the sea at 6,000 feet.
By daybreak I feel oh, oh so high up,
Near to the sun on early mornings.
Evenings so limpid and restful;
Nights oh, so cold.
Mille Grazie a lei, Signore *******!
Andiamo, Sydney, amico mio.
Let it flow like the water that lives in Mombasa.
Let it flow like Kurt Luedtke’s liquid crystal script.
We zoom in. We go close in. Going close up,
On the face of Isak Dinesen’s household
Servant and general factotum. (Full camera ******)
Karen Blixen’s devoted Muslim manservant,
Farah: “God is happy, msabu. He plays with us…”
He plays with me.  And who shall I be today?
How about Tony Manero for starters?
Good choice. Nicely done!
Geezer Manero:  old and bitter now,
Still working at the hardware store,
Twice-divorced, a chain-smoker,
Severely diabetic, a drunk on dialysis 3 times a week.
Bite me, Pop:  I never thought I was John Travolta.
But, hey, I had my shot:  “I coulda been a contenda.”
Once more, by association only,
I am a great artist again, quickly made
Near great by a simple second look.
Why, oh God? I am kvetching again.
I celebrate myself and sing the
L-on-forehead loser’s lament:
Why implant the desire and then
Withhold from me the talent?
“I wrote 30 ******* operas,”
I hear Salieri’s demented cackle.
“I will speak for you, Wolfie Babaloo;
I speak for all mediocrities.
I am their champion, their patron saint.”

Must I wind up in the same
Viennese loony bin with Antonio?
Note to self:  GTF out of Austria post-haste!
I’ve been called on the Emperor’s carpet again,
My head, my decapitated Prufrock noodle,
Grown slightly bald, brought in upon a platter.
Are peaches in season?
Do I dare eat one?
I am Amadeus, ******, infantile,
An irresistible iconoclast and clown.
Wolfie:   “I am called on the imperial carpet again.
The Emperor may have no clothes but he’s got a
Shitload of ******* carpets."
Hello Girls: ‘Disco Tampons!
Staying inside, staying inside!
Wolfie: "Why have I chosen a ****** farce for my libretto?
Surely there are more elevated themes . . . NO!
I am fed to the teeth with elevated themes,
People so lofty they **** marble!"
Confutatis maledictis,
Flammis acribus addictis.

So, I mix paint in the hardware store by day.
I dance all night, near-great again by locomotion.
Join me in at least one of my verifiable nine lives.
Go with me across the Narrows,
Back to Lenape with the wild red men of Canarsee,
To Vlacke Bos, Boswijk & Nieuw Utrecht,
To Dutch treat Breuckelen, Red Hook & Bensonhurst,
To Bay Ridge and the Sheepshead.
Come with me to Coney Island’s Steeplechase & Luna Park, &
Dreamland (aka Brownsville) East New York, County of Kings.
If I’m lying, I’m dying.
And while we’re on the subject now,
Bwana Finch Hatton (pronounced FINCH HATTON),
Why not turn your focus to the rival for Karen’s heart,
To the guy who nursed her through the syphilis,
That old taciturn ******, Guru Farah?
Righto and Cheerio, Mr. Finch Hatton,
Denys George of that surname—
Why not visualize Imam Farah?
Farah: a Twisted Sister Mary Ignatius,
Explaining it all to your likes-the-dark-meat
Friend and ivory-trading business partner,
Berkeley (pronounced BARK-LEE) Cole.
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

Oh yeah, Tony Manero, the Bee Gees & me,
A marriage made in Brooklyn.
The Gibbs providing the sound track while
I took care of the local action.
I got more *** than a toilet seat, a Don Juan rep &
THE CLAP on more than one occasion.
Probably from a toilet seat.
Even my big brother–the failed priest,
Celibate too long and desperate now–
Even my defrocked, blue-balled brother,
Frankie, cashing in his chips at the Archdiocese,
Taking soave lessons from yours truly,
Taking notes, copying my slick moves with chicks.
It was the usual story with the usual suspects &
The usual character tests. All of which I flunk.
I choose Fitzgerald's “vast, ****** meretricious beauty,”
My jumpstart to the middle class.
I spurn the neighborhood puttana,
Mary Catherine Delvecchio: the community ****
With the proverbial heart of gold &
A backpack full of self-esteem deficits.
I opt out.  I’m hungry and leaping.
I morph again, grab *** the golden girl.
Now I’m Gatsby in a white suit,
Stalking Daisy Buchanan in East Egg,
Daisy: her voice full of money;
My green light flashing on the disco dance floor.
I, a fool for love; she, my faithless uptown girl,
Golden and delicious like the apple,
Capricious like a blue Persian cat.
My “orgiastic future” eluded me then.
It eludes me still. Time to go home again to the place
****-ant Prufrocks ponder their pathetic dying embers.
Time to assume the position:
Gazing out from some trapezoidal patch of green
At the foot of Roebling’s bridge,
Contemplating an alternative reality for myself,
A new life across the East River,
In the city that never sleeps.
I crave. I lust. I am a guinzo Eva Duarte.
I too must be a part of B.A., Buenos Aires:
THE BIG APPLE.
But I am ashamed of my luggage,
Not to mention my baggage.
It’s like that last thing Holden Caulfield said to me,
Just before he crossed over the Brooklyn Bridge,
Crossed over to Manhattan without me,
Leaving me alone again, searching for our kid sister,
Phoebe, the only one on earth we can relate to:
“It’s really hard to be roommates with people
If your suitcases are much better than theirs.”
Ow! That stung; that was a stinger.
I am smithereened by a self-guided drone,
A smart bomb full of snide antigravity,
Transformational and caustic.
My meager allotment of self-esteem
Metastasizes into something base,
Something heavy and vile.
I drop to earth like lead mozzarella.

I am unworthy, unworthy in the maximum mendicant,
Roman Catholic mea culpa sense of the word.
I am now Umberto Eco’s penitenziagite.
I am Salvatore, a demented hunchback
(Played flawlessly as a demented hunchback by Ron Perlman),
Spewing linguistic gibberish in a variety of vernaculars:
“Lord, I am not worthy to live anywhere west of the Gowanus Canal.”
By East River waters I weep bitter tears,
The promise of a promised land denied.
I am a garlic-eating Chuck Yeager,
Auguring in, burnt beyond recognition,
An ethnic trope, a defiant Private Maggio
From here and for eternity,
Forever a swarthy ethnic stereotype
Trying to escape thru a small but significant
Hole in the ozone layer above South Ozone Park,
New York, zip code 11420.
That’s right, Ozone Park.
If you don’t believe me, look it up.
GO ******* GOOGLE IT!

And I just don’t know when to quit.
So why quit there?
Work with me, fratello mio, mon lecteur.
Like you, I took the LSAT so long ago.
Why am I not a distinguished American jurist
Asking the one question that seems to be on
Everyone’s eugenic lips today:
“Aren’t three generations of imbeciles enough?”
I am Charly from Flowers for Algernon,
A slow learner with a push broom, swept up in
Some dust from Leonard Cohen’s cuff.
Lenny: a grey-beard loon himself now, singing
“Hallelujah” for fish & chips in London’s O2 Arena.
“Suzanne takes you down, Babaloo!”
At last, I am Jesus Quintana—
John Turturro stealing the movie as usual--
This time in a hair net and a jumpsuit,
"Made of a comfortable 65% polyester/35%
Cotton poplin, you can even add your own
Ribbon leg trim and monogramming
For just the right look to be one of
The Big Lebowski’s favorite characters.
Mouse-over the thumbnail below to see our actual style
(Color must be purple). Style #: 98P, Price: $55.95. On sale: $50.36.www.myjumpsuit.com."
Fortunately, I am a savvy marketeer:
I understand the artistic potential, the venal
Possibilities of product placement. Go with me
To that undiscovered country.
The humanities uncorrupted till now by
Crass gimcrack television ads. That’s right:
******* commercials smack dab in the
Middle of a ******* poem. Why not?
Great literature has always been about
Selling something, even if only an idea.
Hey, **** me, Herman Melville!
We both know the publication costs of
Moby **** were underwritten by the tattoo artists &
Harpoon manufacturers of New Bedford,
Matched by a small research grant from some
Proto-Greenpeace, Poseidon adventure in some
Great white whale-watching swinging soiree.
Murray the ******* K, pendejo!
At last, I am The Jesus, a pervert & pederast,
According to Walter Sobjak—another post-traumatic
Post Toasty, like me, still out there in the jungle,
Still in love with the smell of ****** in the morning.
My bowling buddy, Walter, comfortably far to the right of
The Dude, and Attila the *** for that matter,
But who gives a **** if Lenin was The Walrus?
(“Shut the **** up, Buscemi!”)
“Once you hang a right at Hubert Humphrey,”
Said the streets of 1968 Chicago,
"It’s all ******* fascism anyway.”
That creep could roll, though, and as we know so well:
“Nobody ***** with The Jesus.”
Can you dig it, Travolta?
I knew that you could!

INCOMING!
I just heard from an old girlfriend who is miles away,
Teaching school in Navajo Land.
The Big Rez:  a long day’s interstate katzenjammer,
A Route 66 nightmare by car, but by email,
Just down the block and round the corner.
I had previously closed an email to her with a frivolous
“Say hello to my stinky friend.”
It was a total non-sequitur, an iconic-moronic,
Ace Ventura-mutant line from Scarface,
Which may have meant–in my herbal lunch delirium—
That she should say hi to some mutual acquaintance
We mutually loathe, Or, perhaps an acknowledgement that she–
My surrogate Cameron Diaz–has a new **** buddy,
Of whom I am insanely jealous.
Or maybe it was a simple Seinfeld “about nothing.”
Who knows what goes on in that twisted *****’s head?
She spends the next two hours in a flood of funk,
A deluge of insecurity.
A veritable Katrina ****** of self-consciousness,
Interpreting my inane nonsense in terms of vaginal health.

Hey, you want to ruin a woman’s day?
Tell her, her **** smells.

Nineteen years it's been

And after nineteen years of learning -
Nineteen years of
see-through models,
****** magazines,
and the jutting bones of
anorexics -
  
After nineteen years of whispered hate,
I believe I have forgotten, dear Mother
what beauty is.

From the seas he returns.
Our ****** feet, reunited, grind into the same grimy ground
He has returned threatened and escorted
He is the inescapable praying prey, cornered by im/mortal forces

I/we, the I’m mortal, the stunning Gorgon mask with
The dummy serpents squirming and lusting to be unearthed,
We march to bring justice to love and ***
We protrude the fiery blood red tongue at his feet.

Take flight, exhale, touch the sun
X marks the spot in the center, the bullseye, the end
The flesh creates the reality the squealers
shriek and unbolt the doors to reveal the contaminated stains of
truth

A pack of hyenas, we howl in a frenzy.
Set off by naught,
A twitter or flick and all is lost
To laughter in the night,
Engulfing us all.
Sides aching, my body keeps quaking
Free as a warbler, Screeching and Heaving
As the fire dies, I open my eyes
In a tent, we lay sprawled
Worship almighty Party Mix
Now ravenous lions, or kindergarten children
We claw and shove and dig into the loot
Faces full, stomachs pounding, eyes heavy,
Fingers sticky with snacky crumbs,
A sugary tantalizing coating.
Hounds we are, gluttonous fiends
Living for twenty dollars of sweetly goods
Bought from an otter.
All is forgotten as we sit down to feast
"Spare the jerky, we'll need it later!"
"You devil, its all gone!"
Oh well, no worries of food now
Sufficiently satiated we snuggle into sleeping sacks
Shadows play on the walls
Dancing as jubilantly as shadows may to the music we play
****** stories, crude jokes now met with sheepish sniggers
A fifth giggle is heard from our party of four
Unseen, yet someone is there
A screaming spirit, a lost loner,
A wily wizard, a carnivorous ******,
A balefully babbling banshee,
A sambaing Spanish sandman,
A dopaminergic, diamond-eyed dragon?!
Dare we ask what he be
As his wisdom calmed our carousing
We journeyed through eternity
Visions of it all so overwhelming
Our minds explode
Great kaleidoscopal mortars on a warm eve in july
Visions of dank alleyways, bums and drums
Pastoral sights with floral delights
Emaciated emigrants, there faces so slum
Whimsical unicorns cavort through clouds
Young boys in green turned pincushions by hot flashing iron
Jovial faces devour whole hams by candlelight
Hopeless faces cry and starve by moonlight
Weary we are as the rooster caw-caws for dawn
Wet with dew and naked we slip out
Crazed and dazed we walk in a haze
To witness diurnal beginnings
Pink tinges and orange singes
Streaming above the horize
Time now to sleep
In the crystalline shimmering meadow
Short morning naps
To ease madness since midnight
Dreams foggily drift in and out
Sun's rays fry the flesh
As we awaken to sickening reality
Had it all been psychedlic delusions
Surely it'd just been us four

There’s nothing like the lovely rustic charm
Exuded by the far flung lush green country farm
Where trees in majesty sweep heaven with their crown
And birds with celestial music, the surrounding valley drown

Where the air, so pristine and sweet like the forest glade
And Heaven with rich profusion bless the country wide.
Where the rural folk in relentless toil, values and pride
With their simple, artless and modest life reside

My senses have ere long etched every sight n’ sound
Of that country side wherein my childhood inextricably bound
To those days of bliss, I would like to retreat
And splurge in memories that cascade down in surfeit.

On a beautiful day with the sun shining bright
And the white downy clouds lazily trailing west
We walked down to the creek to catch the silvery fish
And waited for them to come to the surface with a swish

On the rocky bank, breathless as we sat
Looking for the fish greedily nibbling at the bait
We felt the hook line suddenly going taut
With something from the other end pulling it tight

Of a sudden reflex as we lifted the rod upright
To our wild uproar, saw a fish dangling and twirling uptight.
“Angling in a brook on a bright sunny day
Is so much fun for the kids”, we heard someone say.

We went after dragon flies, by the side of the pond
And all through the fields and the pastures beyond
Meandering our way, chasing butterflies              
That, from flower to flower do nimbly flutter by,

We pace up and down, ever eager for the best catch
To carry home that winged thing with no other match
To shut it in a glass jar to survey it close
And watch it splay its wings in resplendent gloss.

Back from school when homework is done,
Quickly, gathering friends, we move as one
To the open ground beyond the clump of trees
To run and play in the evening breeze

As black birds wing their way across the sky
And the ruddy orb in the west is about to die,
When shadows slowly shrink and shrivel
And the dusky eve spreads a smoky veil,

Only then, demurring, we leave our play
Cursing the elements that Time doesn’t stay
****** and gritty, homeward as we plough our way
We promise once more, we would meet the next day.

As hot summer fades and dark clouds gather round,
When east wind scatters dry leaves from the ground,
When elders announce the arrival of an impending shower,
Stealthily we plan to go swimming in the nearby river.

On stormy nights as we lie, listening to the splatter of rain
Over tiled roof with the clatter of a speeding train
How swift, we drift involuntary to the castle of Slumber
To be lulled asleep by songs of magical tone and timbre!

Now, staying in the mad rush of a steaming city
With people surreptitiously chasing goals so petty
How I miss those yester years that are fled
And yearn for the sylvan paths once more to tread!!

The moon’s pale light caresses me
My desire wakes by the moon’s glow
Dreaming under the Willow tree
The moon’s pale light caresses me
Passion is ignited and set free
Dark lust leaves me feeling ******
I dream of him in naughty glee
My desire wakes by the moon’s glow

Kelly Rose
© April 8, 2018

it's the smallest voices that scream the loudest
I've never been a fan of the trending hero
or the underground superstar.
slam poets make me sick.
your attitude is a well concocted ploy
to touch indie hearts and
I hate it.
I love the ignored
the militants
the trashman painter,
the gas station attendent that
makes ****** artcore ******
in her boyfriend's garage
the sixteen y.o. with a tape recorders
and a circuitbent casio
howling blood into an old
speakercummicrophone
slash and burn
leave your best work sitting
on a park bench for me
ignore the plight and shove
your fingers down your throat.
I love the broken. the hurt.
the misanthropes the schizoids
**** victims
homeless
suicidal
single mothers
drug addicts
if that fire is in your shattered
legs reflecting the age of
a
billion dead scaffolds
soul of revolution raging
knife in paw
I will fall in love with you
and sigh at the detrious
in your wake.
let me see you naked and crying
my own wounds fester quiet
when everyone else is asleep.
have a drink,
you earned it.

The ones we hurt the most
And the ones who hurt us the most
Are ours
Parts of us

Our beloved boomerang admirers
And they’re the ones who love us more than anything

Yugoslavian aggressively panhandling for depositions from unrelated denizens of the gin joint

A panoramic view of a wire tapped room with a lunatic with latent panic that is undisturbed

Hoarded handouts
Admissions
Acceptance
Embarking on a new flight of stairs

Pitter patter of foreign fitted shoes

Coming across label makers
“Jew”
“******”
“******”

Steer clear

Then those who memorize banned books and recite them
Who question the validity and relevance of tradition and old fashion ways

Finding things in common
Tastes in music
Fondness in wine
Alike minds that crave astonishing world widening writing
And thought provoking art

A libation to the collision of the alive and living

A somewhat scary visionary who breaks the black and white patterns of a wheel of fortune and misfortune with a lance of optimistic disregard

Stealing kisses and sipping on top shelf liquor

Smoking mystic cigarettes from Indian mountains

Idioms and vernacular

Dedicated guardian angels who hang their heads and rest their faces in their palms in puzzled disappointment

New visions
In music
In literature
In technology

But actually in
Self-expression
Communication
And progression

Stab a knife into the stuffy conservative dollar sign chasing guard

And let the prisoners of self-doubting overlooked misunderstanding go free

The complex complications of cement commitment

Walking out on an infant
Walking away in an instant
Instantaneous fear
Spontaneous combustion

A noose
Legendary
No
Not yet

Sing it to me
Play t

Lay morality to sleep
And raise yourself up
And proclaim a new way today

A jumbled viewpoint
That is brilliant and completely sound

Have a sip

Your hatred, look deep
****** it and rip it out
Then let it go

Busting up regulations and requirements

Creating an image that cannot be simulated
That is originated from the imitation out of respect from the innovative minds

Slow it down
Go
The lust
The envy
Two ingredients for a new story
All that’s left is the spilled blood and you’re done

Drift and go on a dimly lit trek into the subconscious and give birth to underived works

The world may burn, melt, freeze and shine

Surrender, transform, standstill then ascend

The ones in need fall into our laps along with the decision we all must make
To help them
Or pass them by

Click clack goes my keyboard
Revisits to the times before

With the aid of chemicals and inspiration
Mixed with ******* and crazed obsession

The feeling of being replaced
Like lying in bed on a cold night
Without a blanket that has some place better to be

My dear naval, nautical nincompoop
I miss you, you’re fighting pirates
Soon terrorists

You know it’s useless
You don’t want to be part of this nonsensical unholy fuckfest of political unrest

You’re a poet, you don’t write
Your life is your poetry
It’s beautiful, you want to live
Not just exist

Be wary, I have foreseen the pandemonium festering in your heart
You are lucky in your naïve exile in paradise
You’ve been hurt
Looking for love
Live, lend
And all the above

Fool proof plans
And ideal daylight

The suicide of the farmer’s daughter
California sushi roll
Burning embers
Red hot coals

Best of luck to you

No elegy
A eulogy
See it to the end

Distract them
Steal the vital piece
Then proceed to take what you came for

It’s okay
Forget what you’ve been spoon-fed your whole life
The greatest caper committed

Jam the doors
Skeleton keys
Skull and cross bones on the bottles
Take whatever you can carry

No man left behind

Leaving a not, imprints
For them to see
And know why we did
What we have done

Phony fame
Upper hand
Inclined
Shame

There is a time and a place for treason
When all is ugly and bigoted

For you will only be this young at this very second and never again

Shoot from the hip
Fly high on the seat of your pants

Grungy soap dish
Domestic disagreements
Empty reflections
Rapping at the window

Go away
Please
For your sake and mine
It’s insane

I expunge your from my life
Not in hate
But in agony
We both know it’s for the best

Don’t be spiteful
I hate being used
Just a tool to b left behind

Extraordinary shallow callousness

Let’s take a walk around the universe

I see two lovers showing their vulnerabilities to each other
I see a man and a man making love so pure
I see my friend traveling the world
I see an amateur addict about to take their first step into a lifelong dependency  
I hear the screams of those about to be murdered
Does that quench your thirst for reality?

Aiding and abetting
Guilty by association
Confession of guilt
Squandering money on bail

**** that
There’s a rat
*** wrap
****** wrap
Saving you from yourself
Following, no matter where you go
Always

       -Tommy Johnson

Others fail you
But you must never fail yourself

Drop
Down
Drown
Die

So many futile attempts
****** submissions
Preponderant talent

And that’s about it

Filthy, ******,
Who likes nutty buddy's?
Nutty bar you *****.

A strong rhapsodic feeling
when your face just pops
up for the billionth time.
Emotions just find their way
through and along with it
comes the impermissible pain.
I have started to find pleasure
in pain.
Dancing with the execrable
devil, bare footed on the pieces
of broken glass gets me high
on the poison my soul's dripping.
Reminds me how the wine in the
bottle was replaced with blood
and the scars you left on my
body remained untouched.
The night when I saw fire
in your eyes a feeling was born.
A feeling that brought excruciating
pain.
Fire in your eyes and stars in mine,
we overdosed on ****. We danced
all night on the dolorous monody
and bled to death.
Death was only the beginning,
the beginning of pain.
Sitting in a stygian place trying
to find a way to reach your ******
soul, I denied heaven.
I walked alone on the path that
led to you. That led to hell.
Loving you was wrong. It was
painful. It stung me and injected
venom into every single atom
of mine.
Pain o pain you have never left
my side, all the roses in my
hair have wilted and the violets
have died.
Just leave me alone. Just leave me
alone.

i'll take a look-see
yeah a look-see
just a look-see
ya see?

a quay by the sea
is what i see
a ****** marquis
gone to sight-see
magnificent silk trees

if we ship him to hawaii
he'll give us the master key
then we'll cut of head before his dying plea--

to take off his goatee,
at least to a tolerable degree,
which one might say will still be ******

LOVE AND PAIN (PART 2)

He crept tentatively up to the casket of glass,
levered up the fragile lid and peered right inside.
As in all the very best fairy tales,
He woke her with a kiss.
he stroked her face and kissed her hard.
but she was fast asleep.

He was just about to walk away,
when her little voice was heard to say.
what's going on,
I was asleep,
for you my eyes no longer weep.

He clutched a box within his mitts,
The box contained a precious gift,
A platinum ring with a precious stone,
meant for the one he called his own.
A perfect compliment to her coronet.

I came back for you my lady, said he,
Please my darling,
set me free,
come along and be with me.

Up she struggles,
with a sleep deprived smile,
yes my lord,
it's been a while.

Wandered off hand it in hand,
this time it was beneath the moon.
He once more bought her lovely flowers,
Cauliflowers,
cabbages and runner beans,
He was hungry,
loved his greens,
and somewhat ****** magazines.

His lady was his servile *****,
when chained up by the kitchen sink,
my goodness gracious me,
his truly romantic gestures really made you think!
(c) Livvi

Jack The Stripper
On the pole
Going down
To that hole
Lingerie ****** killer
It's a ****** paperback thriller

By: David W. Clare

She appears nightly in the window, under a fading out blue gel spot light sporting cheap lingerie...

Her red slapped **** fit a bit too tight!
I was strung out on Cutty Sark, the whole darkish day!

Thunder clapped overhead; the rain threatened the would be turn-out of bums!

Prima Donna, was her ****** stage name: she hid the newborn kid under the bar...

He resembled Jimmie Durante,
The baby smoked a cigar!

Live *** *** Show: read the blinking orange neon sign...

She pretended she was a road house star!

Her stretch marks indicated she had been tossed around...

Town to town, bar to bar!

Now she travels in a carnival trailer...

She drinks herself to sleep when no one is around: can't be seen crocthless!

Wide spots in the road are the small time attractions...

Her fat *** boss sells China made fake Rolex time pieces...

Character is all you have when no one else watches...


(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks

I was sitting in the waiting room at my GP surgery and noted that there was a distinct lack of reading material provided. Just a couple of leaflets about ****** and a few old Mills & Boon paperbacks.

Mills & Boon, a very strange corner of fiction indeed. A strange corner in which the sight of a ladies bare ankle can cause a dashingly handsome cavalry officer to positively swoon with desire. A strange corner where the mere use of the word 'hosepipe' can cause a nun to blush. A strange corner in which the heaving ***** of an 80 year old great aunt causes palpitations and sweat gland problems for her even older gardener.

Mills & Boon is a very strange corner of fiction indeed. A strange corner that makes Austen and the Bronte sisters  look like purveyors of ****** ****.

I reach for the leaflets, and wait.

I took pictures of happiness:
dead sharp intimate couples
And I felt like a peeping tom

This is how it went everyone
who viewed the series
No one's heart was opened

Not even from the cheerfulness
or the suppressed sorrow
of laughing people

nor from children, their play
their earnestness and their sweet looks
It was a lot, but no happiness

Then the winners, the jubilant
pleasure that spouts into the sky
with thousands of hands

and the ****** peace of sleep
the open mouths, saggy faces
and scary dreams, again

the absence of happiness
which only comes down
at the very last, in the morgue

You attended the beginner class
But I was going to get you to my level
When the kids got the
Hang of the lessons
It was time
To teach you
I knew that you wanted kiss me
I know
I wanted to but
The children where right there
So I tried to be business like
I tried to should how throw someone
Which was successful
But you brought me down with me and planted a gentle kiss
On my lips
I couldn’t stay mad at you
But I was
Stunned and surprised
The other students
Where floored
Making kid remarks
Embarrassing
So I cut the class short
And walked home
You my beloved
Went to your friends
But did not know that
When I got back to our love nest
I found a love note
Explaining that
I took the time to wash off the embarrassment
And then I feeling better
I put on sensual yet dark lipstick
And put on
The top of my uniform
Climbed in to the bed.
While waiting I read some very wierd books
Until you came back
You noticed that I read your ****** books but
Did not get angry
Instead you put on
What was an Indian bgade horror flick.
And some hard rock
The movie was not in Hindi
And it was a ****** mountaineer
Who hacked his love interest and other was with an ice axe
This was disturbing
To me
You said that I will get to like it
While the grosem movie was playing
You noticed I was still “dressed”
We kissed gently
Tenderly
And then we made love
I was repulsed by the movie
So I had looked at your many
Yet different tattoos
You kissed me and said that
They were everywhere on his
Body
I kissed them
As if they were parts of your personality
And
You said “Claudia, you’re lovely with just that top on and your fiery hair!”
You kissed my thighs and
Womanhood
You said you wanted my “forbidden flower blossom” and kept kissing me there.
When I It did blossom
I took you by the chin
And kissed you
You were feeling me under the top
And you were worshiping me
With love.
You said “my rose sorry for scaring you with that film
I though you would love it, love”
And
I jokingly told you to behave your self
In tomorrow’s class.
The next morning I got up
Looked at the slasher flick
At wasn’t in Hindi
Nor Russian
And definitely not English.
I then had breakfast
But you had a one track mind
Pinning for me to come to you
“I am a martial arts prodigy
I need to eat love”
When I was finished I
Came to you made out with you

Now When It Comes To Poetry...
Most Peeps’ Prefer To Read...
  
Poetry That’s... “ LOVELY “...
As Well As BRIGHT And SUNNY...
  
Well My Style of Poetry...
Deals With What Many...
See As..... UGLY...... !!!
  
And CRIMINAL Like BUGSY... !!!
  
NOT Quite Like Malone...
But Y’all Know That My Style...
Is... GOOD TO GO... !!!
  
Because I’ve Got Rhymes...
That... Flow And FLOW... !!!
  
That Sometimes Do Talk...
of How The Good Times Roll...
  
But... NEVER Resort...
To Refusing To Show...
That Humans Have Shown...
That We’re Gonna Pay Tolls...
  
For Making BAD Choices... !!!
  
When It Comes To The Voices...
We Choose To Make Moves...
  
In Ways That CLEARLY...
AREN’T... Nice And Snuggly... !!!
  
So What’s With This Need...
For What's... Light And Fluffy... ?!?  
  
In Poetry Written...
About How We’re Living...
  
From Gender To Women... !!!
  
When Roasting’s FORGIVEN...
And Is NOT Forbidden... ?!?
In Verse Built For DISSING...
That’s Clearly HARD Hitting...
And Quite UNFORGIVING... !!!
  
Due To... Opinions...
That Give Criticisms... !!!
  
That Are NOT...
... “ Light And Fluffy “... !!!
  
Well To Me Something’s WRONG...
When People Think ******’s...
What Makes Poems COOL...
And Good To Be Used...
On... Radio Shows... !?!
  
Instead of The JOKES...
Now Running Countries... ?!?
  
I’ve Said It Before...
ISN'T Poetry’s Cause...
To Feed Something MORE... !?!
In Its Subject Matter...
Than Frivolous Chatter...
And Poetic BANTER... ?!?
  
That’s DARK But LACKS PANTHERS...
Who’ll Stand Up To Those...
Who Wear Police Clothes... !!!
  
Who BREAK Peoples Hearts...
And Leave PERMANENT MARKS... !!!
  
When They Leave Lives SHATTERED... !!!
TATTERED And FORLORN... !!!
  
Isn’t THAT What This Art Form...  
Is... ACTUALLY For... ?!?
  
Is Critical Thinking NOT Cool Anymore... ?!?
Because Light And Fluffy Is Now What Is Poured...
Into The Psyches of Those Treading Lightly...
  
When It Comes To The Dummies...
Now Making BAD CALLS...
That Are HURTING Us All... !!!
  
Is It... BRIGHT And LOVELY...
When Their Plans ENFORCE...
... COMPULSORY Orders...
And PREJUDICED Laws... !!!
  
The MAJORITY Clearly...
DON’T See The Shortfalls...
And Future PITFALLS...
of Things That May SERIOUSLY...
  
Leave Freedoms FORLORN... !!!
  
Because of This NONSENSE...
That Seems To Be STOPPING...
  
Free Speech From Being RAW...
And A Critically POWERFUL Force... !!!
  
That Inspires DEEP Thoughts...
Instead of Fuelling WARS... !!!
  
But This CANNOT Happen...
If Critical Talk Is Simply Cut Short...
And NOT Heard Anymore... !!!
  
Because of OFFENCE...
That It’s Likely To Cause...
  
Well These Words MUST Be Said... !!!
What Kind of WEAK Thinking...
Leaves Conscious Thoughts SINKING... ?!?
  
When It Comes To This World...
And How It Now Turns... ?!?
  
This Pattern DISTURBS...
When It Comes To The Verse...
That's Fed To The HERDS...
  
Who DON’T Seem To Like...
... DEEP REALITY Rhymes... !!!
  
Because Their Faith's Placed...
In Political Games And Religious Faiths...
That CLAIM... " God Is Great "... !!!
  
But Then DISGRACE His Name...
With How They Behave... !?!
And What They’ve Embraced...
That’s Been Hidden Away... !!!!!
  
Until Those ABUSED...
Were BRAVE And Spoke TRUTH... !!!
  
I Hope That These Words...
Will NOT Go UNHEARD... !!!
  
Simply Because...
They Speak About WRONGS...
That Have Gone On For TOO LONG... !!!
  
And... CONTINUE To Do... !!!
  
So To ALL of These Crews...
Who Run Online Groups...
  
That Now Apply RULES...
That RESTRICT Certain Issues...
From Being... Perused...
  
These Words Are For YOU... !!!
  
There Is Much MORE That’s UGLY... !!!
Than There Is... Stuff That’s LOVELY... !!!
  
That’s Seen In This World...
That DOES NEED To Be Heard...
As Well As... Observed...
  
From Political Vibes...
To Those That Incite...
Some People To Fight...
When They Hear Words of Rhyme...
  
So It's Really NOT WISE...  
... To Try To DENY...
Verse That Speaks About Life... !!!
  
To Keep People ONSIDE... !!!
  
Everybody CAN’T LIKE...
What Another May Write... !!!
  
So RESTRICTIONS Applied...
Maybe Should Be DENIED... ?!?
  
Because What You Will Find...
Is That Within Mankind...
Everything Is NOT NICE...
And CLEARLY NOT Lovely... !!!
  
So STOP Restricting Lines...
Like Those of This Kind...
  
Because Poetic Vibes....
CANNOT ALWAYS Bring Smiles...
  
And Be... “ NICE “...  
  
... “ Light And Fluffy “... !!!

Racked up some debt on the plastic,
ate all the things I know I shouldn't,
Kissed the stranger and texted first.
Took the time to smell the flowers.
No fear of hay fever or a restless week of sleep.

Let the kids eat whatever
The neighbors screamed uninterrupted til their hearts were content
Painted the mural I always needed to paint.
Quit the job that was destroying my will.
Rang my Ex and told the truth. For once.

Held my lover and meant it,
Inhaled them deeply as if their scent would see me on my way.
Thanked them from the bottom of weakening heart.
Smiled until it reached my eyes.
Danced under the tree unafraid of the threat of lightening.

Pierced my ****** and dyed my hair.
Sang a song and released it,
Wrote down my warnings for the future poets.
Finally got the ****** joke my dad told me years ago.
I had one last laugh

To the emotionally estranged,

I’ve never known what was good for me  All I’ve ever known was how to tie my shoes and binge eat captain crunch  You place your finger tips all over my stomach  Padding each piece of lymph  Do you ever want to curl like those little pillbugs?  It seems like I haven’t seen one of those since you watched me eat dirt, and grass, and I’ve perhaps tried a dandelion  But I don’t think you knew  I’ve tied your shoes before  My big tooth fell out on the driveway  We searched for a minute, maybe two  I tasted blood in my mouth for the first time  It was like the early smell of gasoline  I appreciated it  And I said so  I walked down the steps and turned the corner  Your eyes lit up to see the seven year old wearing tights, long socks, a dress underneath a sweater and a thrifted vest, as well as a lost fedora found in the attic  I pulled down the decrepit stairs and you heard the whine of bothered steps  yelling up the stairs “what are you doing”  Feathered Fedora shall be lost again  The school’s Saint Patricks leprechaun stole it  Or so you say to avoid the bi polar of it all  The hospital was a new thing for me  You took me, I sat silent in the passenger seat  We played the radio (we never played the radio)  I didn’t know if I should’ve apologized or something for having premarital ***  But I don’t think it would’ve bothered you too much  You’d be glad a boy liked me!  Well, he didn’t like me like that  I don’t know why he chose me that *****, ****** night  You bought me a sweater from Michaels afterwards, it said something like “I believe in unicorns and Santa”  It was on sale since it was January  I won’t let you hold me, and how it needles you  Wake  I sang at her wake  An Adele original  I did it for me  And you  But also me  Everyone’s tears dried by the time we reached the restaurant  I wonder how they fixed the smash in her head while eating eggplant parm  Mortisions are magical  Some crimes I’ll never forget  Asked why I don’t talk to him or text or call or like  We will sit in this diner and recline in the giant booth that’s too big for the fragility of your body  You pray for me  Stop praying for me  I take up much time  I don't have the right virtues for all that  Don’t overindulge in god  Track me home at two am  Make sure I’m safe  I’ll keep tying your shoes, at the graduation, at the barbeque, at the talent show  anywhere  I’d fly home to tie your shoes  if you asked me to  if you wanted me to  if you'd let me-

With a sort of deteriorating eternal love,
Angel