Aur kitnay kaffan uthayein gay?
Aur kitnay bichar k jayein gay?
Aur kitnon ki qurbani dei
K ye sanehay khatam hojayein gay?

Aur kitna hum seh payein gay?
Aur kitna khoon bahayein gay?
Aur kitnon ko hum bhool jayein
Tou ye sanehay khatam hojayein gay?

Aur kitna sog manayein gay?
Aur kitnay ansoo bahaein gay?
Aur kitnon ko hum maaf karain
Tou ye sanehay khatam hojayein gay?

Kya hum bhi muskuraein gay?
Kya hum bhi zinda reh payein gay?
Ya hum bhi ab apni jaan de dein
Tou ye sanehay khatam hojayein gay?

In walked the manmade entirely of Graham Crackers."Get out," I said, "this is my room."But he wouldn't leave,So I threw the milk at him.

Golden shawls envelope
flushing, blending fabrics
which billow 
under the waxen blackbird's
silky braided feathers.
Heaven's vault, a celestial sphere of blue yonder,
a swirling palette of oils
suffusing and dancing,
wrapping their ringlets
into one thousand spirals
which signet shadows onto the 
slender impressions in the sog.
Illuminous, voluminous salmon
bleaches blushing black tissue
to pale primrose promising the cobalt then marrying to aquamarine.
Stained glass fingers barely protruding from aurelian pews.

Rush, Rush!
Gunky plush bagog
Nugget sog
Peedle glog
Plundering down the boulevard
I saw what seemed to be a Schmagtap
Slukavard.
Under his  buttons, there grew his
Mutton.
Mutton branch, penal franch
Sogging down the grittle bog
And briggenfagig squeezing a bib,
Soaked in carrot juice frib
Muggafloo

Plubderp.

Schmubderp.

If when the thistle wet drip on my log
If when I throw the stone down to flip on my pog
If do the wet log, sog, gets to the gog
Then the bog twist suckle nutted left on the bar

If a man is prized by the dead wind buttel
If it is a sprig of wheat tugging on the chug narg
Then flark my tizzle, wet the bed
Put the thick log on my head
I am not a sped
I just dread the nut
Put it on my fat leg
Put it on my fat one
Oh yes
Oh yes
Now drip the salt, salt my boney

I'd wanted to see the moon again –
Pockmarked and ivory, entering and
Innuendo, like crisp leaves under foot;
“Crunch, crunch, crunch,” and so went
The cereal before sog. Parallel, the same
Suffering’s smeared come my bones
Under foot, under cloud and ‘ever as I’d
wander empty if even with you. You've
Turned back and continue to study,
“Away.”

I'd wanted to see the moon again -
Come the scent of fried wantons and
Neon glance; “Crackle, crackle,
Crackle,” like hot dogs over fires, only
Hindered, the hiss of a boy’s tears atop
Flame, so long as I'd understand empty,
If only with you. But your two’s atop
His lips, a smear upon the line we call,
“Horizon,” and so continues, this study
Of, “away.”

And I'd never see the moon again – So
Silence became the sun, a blight, a
Bright, the, “shiny,” I'd wish banned;
Like the eerie, like the day dad’d packed
His bags or day he'd finally died; If only
To accept this solitude, miasma
Subtracted you, with everything else,
But emptied you. An impasse atop
Endeared eidetic, as I’ll try and I’ll
Recall and I’ll fail, this test to finally
Forget.

So I’d rest with an, “F,” he’d rest in
An urn and you’d rest, simply rest, at the
Top of your class, without fault, and a
Graduate, your study of, “away.”

Autumn trudgings lurk the air
Searching for a soul to bare
Their weight upon, so heavy
They break from trees in heady
Harmony, brown and sog
Yet crisp in the fog
mist mornings which creep
Into road as an early sun peeps
Above our golden horizon folding into
Faded merry-go- round and blue.
Autumn days are fairly sad
As you wait for dormant trees to sag
And groan
As their coverlets are blown
Onto the soft down
Of concrete frown.
These are the autumn days to me
Brown, melancholy, mahogany.

MINESTRONE NIGHTS (on the summer of 2018)  
              
Deep in the incubus of fantasy
As torrid painter makes its art
Rips a flash of an epiphany
A plaintive whisper of the heart
Hobgoblin summer full of slobber
Beget febrile reveries unkind
As dance character’s macabre
A three-ring circus in my mind
Each minestrone moldy night
When body craves boreal slumbers
Akin cat on hot tin roof I fight
Dank sog my sleep encumbers
Comes morn aft time eternal
Half charged at start of day
Abscond sodden dreams infernal
Tormenting orb is up to play
I was hot before I even knew
Never really did cool down
Too warm again, for morning dew
Vague slumber’d avec frown
Haven't slept for an age or eon
Cadaver tacky to the tepid touch
Arise, trepid to perspire, like peon
Labour in this broil is just too much

©pofacedpoetry (Billy Reynard-Bowness 2018 – All rights reserved)

six a.m. her eyes popped wide open,
stretching her body, she closed her eyes for a a few minutes to
adjust her mind and prepare herself for another dreaded Wednesday working day:

"oh gosh, mid-week" she grumbled.

six thirty a.m. her kitchen was filled
with the smell of sweet honeyed french toast (with a slight smell of overcooked eggs).
she packs them nicely into her paper bag:

"hope it won't sog up fast" she thought.

six fifty-six a.m. her bus arrives promptly,
the commuters seemed oblivious to her
they start nudging and pushing their way up the bus:

"i'm in black and so i'm invisible?" she questioned.

seven o'one a.m. her seat has finally warmed up,
her hair was still damp from her morning shower,
and she looks to the front blankly:

"what's new" she mumbled.

n.y.

“ash”

a swelling fills my chest
it sounds like heavy waves crashing
against jagged cliffs

     stars stars stars

silver spears descend
   i am pierced


        here

through my clavicle

the rain-swept streets waft with reminisces
  like stale perfume on a black wrinkled shirt

            my head half
submersed in water


                tickling my ear

        I can hear my nose breathing
                  heart pounding
                      throat gulping

body floating

                         dismembered
                  

                       in this liquid abyss


               like a spirit lost
                        in the neon-green ether
         of absinthe

                            lips
              press against my shivering skin

                 a warm palm plunges

                            clasps my numb hand

   a light delves

                            into the obsidian chasm

                   pallid faces

      innumerable

materialize

               from a cavernous distance      

fiery orbs combust

              crackling

                                like dry wood

                               in a snowy forest

smoke billows
                                     towards the fathomless night
                            
                             rising

                       rising

                rising

                   chest

swells
                      
waves

     crash
    

lungs

            bells
                          

eyes


ash...

II

“Shadow-Play”

The shadows in the corners of the room
whisper my name
they are the same shadows
by alley ways,
            behind tombstones
       beneath beds
inside my head

over the plains

the highest and whitest of clouds
cast darkest hues

the brightest of suns

i think of you

                         the whispers get louder
                         the curtains flutter
                         the air turns colder

somewhere a murmur

                         shhh

be still   be still  my dear

the rope hanging in the attic
                        the vague visions through the static
                                    the tremors of the addict

shhh
  be still
      my dear

                          love casts its pallor
                                blood on pale collar
                                  i hear you call her


                   by candle lights
                        as rain drops
                               and winds howl
                                       and wood creaks


      
               icy razors lay on warm tubs
                            guillotines fly through the air                
                    birds fall from thick heights
               like notes of despair


don't shake your head
it will all end
soon
in the corner of the room
There
where the shadows call out your name
like the wind sweeps the rain


               pull out a smoke
                    drag over a chair
                          sit by the window
                            and stare


there is the world    there is the world
   you are not a part of
                there is the world
            full of cruel love
        there the children laugh and play
like you never have
or ever could

   It’s understood

                  the rain floods into gutters
                       the once crisp leaves drift
                          they sog and they shudder
                          from spring-autumn skies
                                 down down sewage drains
                                     all truths mask in lies
                                          all love in pain      

shhh  shhh

the shadows the shadows

   they whisper my name

III

“eternally…”

I see your spectral silhouette
   hovering on the sea's horizon
      at midnight

  as the surf struggles and collapses
     before my feet

    it's so **** cold
     my gut convulses
      my hands shake
        my being shivers

              your hair whips
                 the dark air
               like thunder

                           the wind lashes
                         my numbed skin with coarse sand


            and it's so dark

                    the moon oscillates wide rings
                            of pallid skeletal light

                               and you flutter there exactly
  where the sun set
       six hours ago

                                 when its afterglow
                    disintegrated
                             pixel x pixel
    

                               your shadowy figure
                                   now beckons

                                      join me
                                    this night
                                and every night

                                    hereafter

                                      love
                          
                              I close my eyes....

                                    ...

dancing and sweating

  we lay in my room

             under burgundy covers

                      reeking of cheap beer
                               and dirt

your ******* still slightly moist
    flung on my chair

  my sticky shirt still emanates smoke
     like an industrial factory

you arms wrap a

Rainbowed mirrors mask checkered lives
Implant the satin, if you will
But beware of the baker's staple,
For a thousand tablets could not portend
the Infatuous Sog

Rainbowed mirrors mask checkered lives
Implant the satin, if you will
But beware of the baker's staple,
For a thousand tablets could not portend
the Infatuous Sog

No matter how I tried to beg
Dad put his meds to soak in eggs.

Not liking the resulting sog
He tried to give them to the *DOG!

it starts with the masses.
heaped upon one another in grey, wet bodies
and from the amalgamate of ruined life
rise the silver, brilliant winged
filthy sog and bones sludging off
their unmatched, magnificent light

like shooting stars they ascend
to the enormous white clouds
garnered with the span of their great feathers
wearing masks of divine neutrality

and we

in the masses

stare so longingly at those divine heavens

some of us with patchworks of feather and bones- hopeless things we can barely call wings-
tattered and ripped but still determined, like the writhing of a starved beggar-
flatter unsteadily up
groping desperately at the clouds
with bony, aching fingers
only to meet
solemn and unforgiving
stone

and pushed
back,
tossed

back

into the masses


and like comets, they
rain down

                                          the fall of the inadequate




crashing into the hideously wet festering:
into the decay of the mundane and ordinary


and thus the procession commences
great silver wings nailed with dignified
steel stakes
graceful hands and feet
mangled unforgivingly with hammer and iron

we, the inadequate and mundane and ordinary
we wail, we scream we cry
for the destiny of divinity
in anguish and desperation, our cacophonic chorus
becomes
the great symphony
of the decaying and dying
bathed grotesquely in the light of the holy
we continue to beg and shout and call

the opera of roaring voices:


                                     the crucifixion of the prodigy



as we continue to decay
the weathering, spreading
and becoming, morphing into something no longer
recognizable


slowly we die off
each of us, clawing and howling to our very last moments
in succumbing to mortality
the symphony, melting in its desperate, rabid energy
until the echo of the last
haunted cry-

silences


hence closes

the fall of the inadequate

the crucifixion of the prodigy

and


                           the decay of the mundane and ordinary

How contradictions play a vital role in life, to a point where you become soft buttered bread, about to sog into pantyhose and made to look like a fool. While everybody mocks and laugh you stare into vastness wondering why? why cant I fight?

i can usually feel it coming,
a bit like watching a glass being filled
with the usual contenders for my mind...
but at the same time,
i write from within the prompt
of memory...
   this bulgarian *******
with a tattoo on he shoulder blade...
and her words:
- you haven't changed!
and then she enters a realm of tears...
and i just have to stop doing
what i'm going, and think to myself:
what change is there to speak of?

to write poetry, is narrate: proper -
in the proper sense of the term
that is... to somehow become
         the central figure in the story...
       for numbing the current affairs
of narrators...
how predictable with their
she said* / he said "events" -
         that generic style of inviting
characters...
    isn't that the basis of "good literature"?
that the narrator is mundane,
and that the characters are peacock supreme?
well...
               strip away the fluidity of
literary fluidity within the mundane:
god is very much like this -
      he narrates like a boring sog...
but then exfoliates with the bards akin
to shakespeare -
                 to finally rest
among the poets -
      and yes: rhyming is cheap poetry,
to stress rhyme
   is like reading a tabloid newsopaper!

poets require no need for puppets...
     they move via the chasms of
historical figures, unable to express
a will of confiscation -
of all the literary mediums,
all high school students are put-off
the art, because it is under a surgical
scalpel of investigation!
            it's borderline with the schooling
of linguistic precision...
        i can't see as to why there is no
guarding motto for poetic expression -
             a string of words that can
protect it from certain enemies it seems
to have conjured to defy and redefine it
as a useless art form:

    or one that can be at least treated
with contempt,
disdain,       ridicule.

poetry is, after all: a constantly revived
theory of written tongue -
short, sweet, i gather, esp. given the oriental
haiku: barren for a year,
                 succinct for under a minute:
surely we can add this to the times:
years, days, hours, minutes, syllables, seconds...
are we not implied in realm of
        the space-time parabolla to say so?

poets become anemic when trying to conjure
characters,
   the he said / she said architecture of a novel,
what with the anti-irish / anti-polish
loss of immediately talking,
   not abusing the ditto markings "
   but instead implying the swift winds
   (a conversation in ulysses looks like this,
  jimmy and paddy talking respectively):
- toad's a two day bargain.
- aye! and a claim tow two weeks
                       of *****!
- aye!
    poets don't really need puppets,
          the poetic "narrative" is always
necessarily non-descriptive -
             do we really describe within the framework
of: a matter of fact?
   no! the landscape is always a view
of a metaphor!
                        but poets are
puritan narrators... in that:
        it's very hard to conjure up characters...
the self-invited fascination with
  the barren-wasteland of fictional narrators
is what pushes us...
        no, it's no longer a concern
for song...
                          as to be sung
given the exfoliation of black (classical) jazz
and white (classical) classical -
               not so much the pivoting
on a word, but merely psyche...
                  ars poetica est ars narratio:
mind you,
   a cohesive narratives takes time to
be established into something akin
to the bros. grimm, or a h. c. andersen -

why wouldn't stephenie meyer
cite the poet-general moses in her first
book twilight from the book of genesis?

we're a multitude of narrators -
  only because poets cannot conjure
the bland narrator -
  and the supra-human characters!

i can't become a bland scribbler of
the descriptive method, i can't play chess
or draft puppets within a bland
narrative...
            that's ******* excruciating!
i'd rather run a marathon!
  and believe me: i have been wondering
about this for a long time: give or take
10 years (and counting) -
  
i simply can't forsake my mono-presence
(alone), and become some omnipotent
omnipresent (etc.) ******:
i can entertain a self-voyeurism,
but to invent characters i can manage
like puppets, or chess pieces?
     i have an ****** inability to perform
such feats!

let's just say: i an entertain the idea of
missing characters and plots -
   but i can't entertain the idea of a nullifyingly
boring narrator
   that requires prompts for character
study, ending with a mouth piece
and the need to state a:          he / she said.

no narrator ever becomes self-conscious
either...
               not like this they don't:
to me fictional literature is nothing but an
exfoliation of the bardic tradition -
beyond the obvious mouths and limbs
of the theatre...
   and why wouldn't i be critical?
            of the entire content of a novel,
how much is actually worth a cinematic /
memorable application of, regarding
the digested content?
            
                           i'll be kind: i'd say a third;

and this has bothered me:
   what is the worth of narration
           in literature of imposed fiction?

funny that, sidelining the question:
there is more truth in fiction than in
real life...
     people will always believe in fiction
than in what a heinrich harrer
wrote about his seven years in tibet -
maybe that's why poetry is so vilivied
and how poetry is only read by
poets...
                    maybe real life truly is
so mundane, that for nature to fill the vacuum
of the everyday mediocre,
poetry had to be born?

              hard time explaining homer though;
i hardly think that life in that aeon
was boring...
      only that:
  as life moved us to the present -
we have the exact mirror before us -
  that mediocre times, breed mediocre poetry...

in summary?

                         i rather see poetry as a mirror -
          upon the blank slate of a self-imposing-defeat,
with my words: like contortions of my face -
   telling me, of beauty, disgust...
              fear...
                              and ******* on lemons.

Now I am in/tense -
hy-per-activ-e sand-pit of at/oms,
     Take these breath Flames,
   paint the wa-lls with them,
your rauCous redec-oration.

Now I am nebulous, standing fog, canines of ice, vacuum me up in one brush so I sleep, sleep, sleep

Now I     am iridescent
rainbow of     unnamed shade
ribcage glow     and  letters
that hum     along doorways
as though     injected neon

Now I am sog
gy
wet dog
cheek
to your wh
irl
pool of whis
pers
that salt smell
net
tle sting

Now I am drowsy,
arid mind makes tumbleweed night,
digestion dilution,
an absent something;
bathroom mirror memories,
green fraction of a voice,

The Freckled Frog
The freckled frog
Went cra-rog ca-rog
Sitting by the sandy sog
Of the bog
The dappled  dog
Went fa-rog fa-rog
And set about her business
She silently slid slippering
Closing closer clumping
Sprightly springing
Mighty mouth munching
That frog was no more