(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 24, 2014)


A few nights ago my parents and I watched an HBO movie called “Phil Spector” starring Helen Mirren, (did you know she’s the same age as Cher?), Al Pacino, (in one of his best performances IMHO), and Jeffrey Tambor, (for those fans of “The Larry Sanders Show,” “Arrested Development” and, if you’re old enough, latter-day “Three’s Company”).

The moral of Spector’s involvement in the Lana Clarkson death-story can be read as “appearances are deceptive.”

Being beautiful, being rich, being happy.

The moral of this HBO movie could be read as movies themselves are deceptive. The HBO narrative tried to tell a story about how to tell a story about reasonable doubt. The movie itself left out some pretty pertinent facts about the case, such facts as Spector’s defense team might have left out, facts that may have been used to convict Spector later on… in the part of the story the HBO movie did not tell.

Facts around the periphery and facts mingling in the mix.

(The ****** towel in the bathroom, evidence of attempts made to clean up the scene, incriminating language said to a driver and then later during questioning by police.)

Shaky, addled hands can make mistakes. But then, appearances are deceptive.

Then there was the doubt, somewhat reasonable, a kind of doubt that hovers around the line, quavering, moving both ways.

Experience would indicate that sometimes barking dogs do bite. The headless and the dog-bitten will tell you that. The infamous Wall-of-Sound gun-pointer. The boy who cries wolf often finds himself in a pickle. Or a prison.

See? I use my experience to argue a point, to “sway the jury,” in another words to “deceive.”

Reconstructions are stories are usually deceptive.

A bullet in the mouth is less so.

Whether Phil Spector murdered Lana Clarkson—that is neither here nor there. A story will not tell you that.

So then what will?

“You know the worst thing I ever saw?” He asked.

I sighed to myself, took another gulp of beer and fixed him with a look of half-interest. He was drunk. A complete ****-up and a bore when he's drunk. I don't know why I drink with him. That said, he probably thinks the same.

“What's that?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard.”
“Ye-what?”
“Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“The homeless. Right.”
“I'll get us another drink.” he says, “then I'll start where I left off.”
“Oh, good.”

He comes back with two bottles. We drink and we start talking about football. We're just about getting by before he raises his palm to his face.
“Aw, ****. I forgot, yeah. The worst thing I ever saw. I never told you.”
“You did. Bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah yeah, but that doesn't really say much, does it? You're probably wondering to yourself why that would **** me off so much?”

Not really. He's the type of no-action, all-caring, bleeding heart that sits on his fattening **** every day, 'liking' rhetorical captions over pictures, and signing petitions to axe some ***** politician or other.
“I guess. Shoot.”

He shoots.
“I wanna burn down the churches. Seriously. Stupid ******* religious folk. I bet they go home and post pictures up of themselves, all busy in the soup kitchen, ladling minestrone into some poor *******'s styrofoam bowl.
“They'll never touch them. Always at arm's length. You don't wanna breathe in the pathogens of the anti-people...”
He slurred a little, went to carry on, but took another gulp of beer instead.
“What does that have to do with bedsheets over the benches in the church yard?” I took a gulp myself, this time watching him with a little more interest. Probably just because he looks like he could spew at any moment.
“You're not letting me finish...”
He finishes his beer, gets up, almost bumping into his piano-***-keyboard. He's off to the fridge again. I have a look around while he's out of the room. I can hear him ******* in the kitchen sink.

I've seen the place a million times before but it always has a whole bunch of new **** tacked up on the wall or else bundled in the corner. He's no hoarder, just gets bored and throws out all the stuff he bought the year before.
There's a framed picture of himself on the wall, cradling his Fender as if he's a master of the arts. It's signed, too.
I've seen him play. Probably will tonight. Wouldn't be surprised if he's written a protest song called: bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. The old **** can't even hit an F major with regularity.
He'd decided to put up his vinyl sleeves on the wall like a 17 year old would with an array of **** pop-punk band posters.
Blink and you might think he's the new John Peel or Phil Spector. Stare, and you'll realise he's twice as crazy, yet half as talented and half as interesting to listen to.
His room is like a CV to show to interesting, young indie women. Shame he's hitting forty now,and hasn't been to a club in about 3 months.
Last time we went he just sulked in the corner and got too drunk. He cried in the smoking area about his job before going round and asking attractive girls whether they think he's too old to be out. Most didn't even bother to give an answer. Probably best.

He comes back in with more beer.
“A-anyway...” He says, groaning a little like an old man as he settles back into the chair. “As I was saying...” he sloshes beer on the carpet, rubs it in with the heel of his shoe. He spits on the mark and then rubs again.
“What I was saying was that the church would be a whole lot more useful to the homeless if it was burned down. A condemned building is a whole lot more useful than being looked down on by holier-than-thou, middle-class, white Christians.
“They go home after an hour, bolt the church doors, and then watch TV in their brand new conservatories that they spend several thousands on. Just give the losers a place to shoot up and sleep in safety. That makes sense, right?”
“I guess so.”
I couldn't think of a change of conversation. So I just drank some more and pulled out a cigarette. It's nice to smoke inside for a change.

“It's a ****** ******* awful thing. If people were actually religious, they'd throw open their ******* doors for everyone. It's what Jesus would do, right?”
“Right.”
“He'd have all the **** in his bedsit, piled in like sardines, spreading TB like wildfire.”
“And that's a good thing?”
“Well, it can't be any worse, right? Sleep's important. I learned that the hard way.”

He didn't learn it the hard way. Not really. He's a self-motivated, self-harming insomniac. He spent his teenage years listening to bad music and staying up too late ******* over his French teacher. I should know, I mostly did the same.
He hit the **** pretty hard during college. Never really looked back until recently. ****** him up worse than you'd reckon. He couldn't sleep without the stuff. Man, if you'd have seen the poor guy whenever he couldn't get hold of some for the night. Eesh.

“...you know what I mean though? I'm sick of charity. Those fun-runs you get. A load of women in pink pretending that they care about breast cancer, before posting a million and one pictures up of them in ankle warmers and a kooky hat...”
“**** of the Earth.”
“Yup. Right up there with the women who have 'mummy' as their middle name on Facebook.”
“Yeah.”
“Honestly though, it's the laziest form of charity. Throwing a couple old, mouldy bedsheets out on some bird-**** bench made of wood and ancient farts...”
“It is pretty lazy.” I drank some more.

It was getting late. We swallowed three temazepams each, moved onto the cheap shiraz once we ran out of beer. We leant back in our chairs, barely talking and letting Tame Impala supply the conversation for us.

“You know what?” I ask, pretty much out of nowhere. His eyes have narrowed. He's not sleepy, just ****** on ***** and tranquillizers. He takes a moment.
“Huh?”
“From what you were saying earlier... you know, about the bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, why don't you?”
“Why don't I what?”
“Burn it down.”
“The church?”
“Well, you go on about being lazy and ****. Here's your chance. Help the homeless. Break the locks, pour the petrol, take out a few bottles of wine if you find any...”
“Now?”
“I guess so. Homeless folk are dying of pneumonia out there. Not a second can be wasted.”
“I dunno. I didn't mean I had to do it. I was just saying...”
“I guess they were just saying too.” I felt like I was being a ****, so I changed the subject to women I haven't laid.

I stumbled home leaning on my bicycle all the way. Daylight was just about visible off in the distance. I passed two homeless guys on the way back, gave one of them a fiver, the other one my big mac and the last of my cigarettes (well, leaving a couple for myself).
They said thanks, god bless you, etc, etc. I carried on walking.

I woke up the next afternoon with a mouthful of sand and in desperate need of a hangover ****. I hadn't shaved in about two weeks and there were dark circles under my eyes. I thought about going out to the diner for a full breakfast, but strange people were beyond me.
I ordered a pizza full of meat and grease and garlic sauce instead. I text him to see if he wanted to come over and nurse the hangover with a little ****. Watch a film. Get drunk again. He still smokes it on special occasions, and this ******* of a hangover was pretty **** special.
No reply, and I end up rolling up a joint for myself, smoking it by the window and watching the magpies peck around the grass. It's nice out.

The pizza guy comes. He's holding the pizza up like a map, calls out in a bored sort of voice: “Hello sir. I've got a large Palermo Pizza here, with a side of chicken strips and a can of Dandelion and Burdock?”
I say yes and he hands it over.

I tip him with the coins still left in my wallet from the night before, and he sheepishly says he picked up my post for me as well.
I look down at the pizza I'm holding, and there's a few envelopes that look suspiciously like bills, rival takeaway leaflets, and the local paper. I say thanks, give him the best sort of smile I could, and then close the door.
I turn on the TV. I forgot the England match was on. I turn over to something more interesting. There's nothing, so I switch back over. Before I open up the pizza, I take the paper. A small-town existence, nothing ever happens, but I could do with a new job.

The front page is on fire. A church has been burned down in the early morning. A forty-something man has been arrested and then taken to hospital for severe burns to the face. A load of children's art has been lost, along with countless Bibles, prayer cushions, and vaults of cash.
“****.”
I read through the article. The whole place was gutted. Nothing could be salvaged. Nothing could be redeemed. In the corner of the picture, through the red, green, and blue dots, I could just make out some bedsheets over the benches in the church yard. For the homeless.

The thrumming clunk of shocked wheels
Eat up road worn smooth by big junking beasts
Smoking up crisp air
Hungry for a taste of stunted freedom
The rush of wind the pained panels
Pulling a mass of curls with sticky cold fingers
Raking across my scalp

Shaking in the silence
In wake of thought
The bass drum barking out a numbing melody
Sliding like thin blade into the back of my mind
Enhancing melodramatic mood
Touching my tender heart

Fresh from the lash of lonely
Bludgeoned by the deadpan distance between
My soul
Snack sized bit of flesh clinging to the slick walls  
Of reason
Hammering in my chest
Still riddled with the mark of your claiming
The imprint of my nails still bleeding
In refusal

But claim it you did
Snatched it up out of my chest
Trailing arteries and the copper stench of blood
Empty cavity
Filling up with dreams and the sweet taste of your breath
Leeching into my limbs and whispering love into my being

But this road is ceaseless
No matter how many times I visit
That long stretch of highway
Promising me  the Spector of your memory
The ghost of your touch
Warmth of love
Acceptance
Renewal of my existence

The green glint of freeway sign
Showing me where I would have found you
Down that dirt road
Swing hair pin turns hearing your laughter as it chases me closer to where you should be
Were you will always belong
Where I could have found you had life been kind

Your savage dissection of my soul keeps me yearning
Reaching out and grasping my independence hostage
Where you have become a necessity to whom I am
What I am
And who I will be
Hinges on your well being

Fading into nothing
Where I am defined by you
My angularity is tethered down
But the road yields no answer
Only the Spector
The sad shadow of memories that refuse to fade
Die instead of rotting
At least with death it can be buried
Living with the death of my heart
A tragedy I would not allow to part

clinton rebukes israel over east jerusalem homes obama nasa plans catastrophic say moon astronauts alaska wolves **** woman's teacher out jogging ireland frees 3 cartoonist plot suspects sarkozy and brown attack u.s. over protectionism pope benedict's former diocese rehoused abuser priest chile puts quake damage at $30bn winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela climate change makes birds shrink in north america dr rowan williams is honored for work on russia weymouth ridgeway skeletons scandinavian vikings live bangladesh v england michael schumacher pledges to raise game in bahrain can the u.s. vice-president broker middle east peace? sarkozy's party faces socialist drubbing remote indian state set for development new york dust victims split on 9/11 deal  german tells of childhood abuse by catholic priest a step closer to the american dream? lehman: how $50bn was buried in london ba strike union announces dates in march china's oil demand increase astonishing says iea china warns google to comply with censorship laws net clash for web police projects hsbc admits huge swiss bank data theft phil spector ****** conviction appealed sir david jason to voice cbbc animation climate change 'makes birds shrink' in north america thalidomide effect mystery solved blood pressure fluctuations warning sign for stroke winnie denies interview criticizing nelson mandela mogadishu residents told to leave somali capital same-*** couples marry in mexico city by mistake i clicked on wrong button and lost everything

The sun comes up and
the day goes down,
down, down the mainline,
escaping to some solace
pressed between the thighs of the sun
and the curls of the moon;
the lovers of the sky
and all our feeble perceptions of time
waltzing behind our dew drop minds.

I press and dry my mind
between stains of earth and
prefabricated wood pulp, dried to a
leafy crisp that will singe with enough friction.

There are no echoes of ourselves
but i have my laughs
with the anthills of our skyscrapers
and the inhuman city sounds.
These things aren't precious,
that's just a predisposed opinion,
but they do exist more than i do.
Even right now i am not here
but something invisible presses down the fabric of a chair
and my soul fills with sorry
for the life it will never have.

This morning I woke up intent on living morally
I had pizza for breakfast
I then took ten minutes to decide if my diet was part of my morality
I am clearly not ready for this conversation

In the family I come from God has only ever been the fastest way to count to twelve
In the family you come from God has been a source of peace, joy, love, purpose
My sense of purpose comes from Regina Spector’s voice
And my peace is in Amos Lee
My way is not better than your way

Let go and let God
Or as we call it Step Two
Is scrawled on so many scraps of paper
Half started journals
And carved so deeply under my fingernails
I’ve made letting go an art
I just haven’t got to letting God
When I was in pre-school my teachers told me how impressed they were with how quickly I learned to count to twelve
I told them I went to church a lot
They were confused

My dad likes to skip steps when he counts to twelve
My mom is really good at two through twelve but can’t really remember how it starts
My sister has counted to twelve so many times she forgets how important it is to go slow
The only reason I’d ever have to count to twelve is to feel apart of this family

It has been seventeen years since I have last said the name Jesus with ants in my pants sitting on uncomfortable church pews with my mom’s hand on my shoulder
And since then I have only ever thought to go to church three times
Twice in Memphis when I was trying to find Al Green
And the third was the first real conversation you and I ever had outside of Mrs. Kidwell’s class when I briefly thought if I found a way to go to church you might go out with me
However, I quickly came to the conclusion that if that worked I’d have to continue attending church to keep going on dates with you

When I was twenty two I tried to read the bible
I never made it past the begetting
That’s not a joke
So I tried to have someone explain it to me
That plan failed

Most days I can get by
I can be happy
I can turn the radio up and dance myself into peace
But on the days when I lock myself in my bedroom
Grey sweatshirt and basketball shorts
Tubs of Ben and Jerry’s all over the place
And The Spill Canvas at eleven over my stereo
I sometimes consider turning down the music
Getting on my knees
Putting my hands together and giving it a try
But I always get tongue tied just thinking about it
So I make a playlist full of songs that have the word God in them and hope that counts
Because some days you just need help and no one is answering their phones
But I don't think that's how God works
So I text you about your day
And you say something about a movie,
Book
Song
Something some little kid did to you
And I swear I might as well be in the front row of the First Baptist Church of Macon Georgia
Because I am filled with the Spirit.

Not every text message to you is a trip to church
And you’ll never know which ones are
So please don’t worry about it
I’m grateful to know that when I can’t figure out how to talk to God
I can find a way to talk to you
Because in the seventeen years I’ve been forgetting hymnals
I’ve come to one conclusion
Salvation, Heaven, Faith
They are where you look for them
They are what you want them to be
They are yours when you call

Sometimes I make myself imagine a world in which I was the kind of man, who could imagine, being a man, who could dream, of having the guts, to possibly, one day, be the kind of fella who would make the kinds of choices that would eventually catch your fancy
It is hard to do
I am not that kind of man
And that is okay
I will never be that kind of man
That is also okay
This is more than okay
I'm not here for that
I'm here for me

Tomorrow I will attempt to live morally
I bought Honey Bunches of Oats so hopefully I’ll make it out the front door
It seems I may never be ready for this conversation

The steps to the museum are many ,
Won’t you help me up the stairs ?
There’s a program with every item ,
every ***** of me .
Up the steps through the open door ,
how many rooms are here ?

Now a chair stands all alone with no pictures on the wall ,
In the middle of a room ,
my heart lies behind that glass ,
a Spector ,
a ghost behind a wall .

Won’t you see how  this blood runs from traitors gate ,
with
bread that’s long gone stale,
for judgement falls and my axe draws nigh ,
from deaths daughter must I fly ,
her lips are near ,
her crimson touch
not that I should dwell ,
Never a traitor ,



nor a Herotic
not i ,
Should ever be ?

If my head said yes and my heart said no then is there a life for me ?
What foolish thoughts my mind portraid
that were   my very own ,
a complex web unbeknown could that stranger now be ?

The words are so beautiful and their truth no heart can see ,
and yet my heart with holy spirits and angels with keys surrounded me .
How my dreams go back to that same old place  how sweet the’re
sorrows tell ,
of fields of bluebells and butterflies,
and all will be well .

I walk into the sun ,
then the sun hides behind a cloud and my world goes dim ,
no Light my heart has fled to a thousand differant things .

Here I sit ,
My heart on display
a traitor a heretic ? ask my heart not me .

Solid as a ghost,
You couldn't be more spectral...
Unless you were dead.

The steps to the museum were many ,
as you helped me up the  steps ,
views to every room every living ***** of me .

You bought a program,
you called it art !

one chair in the gallery ,
my heart behind the glass ,
no paintings of fine art on display .
My heart a Spector ,
lies a ghost behind the wall ,
to burn ,
torcher ,
leave on the rack !
only then

and so might it bleed ?

It’s blood flowed down from traitors gate ,
I ate bread, long had it gone stale ,
for you judgements axe hung above me ,
and for once was about to fall .
Deaths daughter her crimson lips  did I touch .

A traitor ? not I .
A herotic maybe ,
for her touch was like no other ,
her words so beautiful your truth I could not see ,
though angels surrounded me with locks and keys ,
their sorrows tell .

Give me a field of bluebells and butterflies ..... and all will be well .

We walked down the steps the doors bolted behind ,
as evening cought the suns light high on chimney tops as
my heart found capture in you’re smile .

I am young but old
Not chasing the singing dragon out into the night
Dumping the dragging lull of liquor into my being
Like it will fill the cracks in my psyche
Thwart the emerging of my being like some slick spector in the recess of my mind
Gobbling up my intellect one atom at a time

Relevant only to the tantilzing beat of the bass
The ghetto melody making me elated to the fact that
A white hick hippy want-to-be can never be a ****
I am young
With the knowledge that time is in my favor
Wild wanton ways of youth touch my limbs with excitement
Too much drugs and drunkin dancing in the streets of small time city lights

Where I float on the blissful bubbling blunders of slurred words
And harmless touching that we all know means more than the numbing
Fuzzy fingers of inhibitors want us to believe
I am young

But I grow old
With the acheing feel of gritty mornings
Class time drool-drolling onward towards the final accumulation
Of my efforts
How the liberation of my mind feels fresh and shiney
But at once I feel a regress into old thoughts old beliefs and the worn out mentality of those older
I am old

In that my soul longs for the love that it is denied
Beaten down by the distance that holds it hostage
My tendancy to find rust and petinal signs of age beautiful
Long talks with my mother give me joy
I am old
In that I taste the test of time and see wonder in the generations past
Hoping for the sweet lull of a good nights sleep

Feeling and emoting a progressive approach to a dieing dicotomy
Loving
  Hating
   Saddended by things that will never change
I am growing receeding and more importantly changing
Looking to renew the implications of the word normal
But above all the old
The young, fresh and vibrant
I will forever more be
And always be me.

The smell of sulphate,
            emanating from that
accursed thing, its aura glistened,
                  seemingly smouldering .

But when the  breath of life
                    died beneath sunset,
A Spector of ill conceived retention
                                             contemplated.



Daybreak was mutilated upon the sight.
                                            established placidity..

Inside the walls of my citadel's
keep, i wander haunted halls
and rooms, broken images of
continuous life flashing light
randomly around, an epileptic's
nightmare, beamed in from
beyond, playing dangerous
paranoid games with my mind.

My grandfather's apparition
stalks me silently,
inching to the couch,
guarding the bathroom,
verifying the existence of
gravity behind door
number three, on the bed.

He approaches!!

SQUEAK-SQUEAK!!...RATTLE!!...

(Darth Elder and his walker)

SQUEAK-SQUEAK!!...RATTLE!!...

i evade his ghost of Christmas'
passed, darting to the porch and
in another entry door.
Each time i look up, his
spector stands frozen in
silhouette, spurring my adrenal
response, yet only imperceptibly
creeping, ever closer...

SQUEAK-SQUEAK!!...RATTLE!!...

He is everywhere!
EVERYWHERE!!!

Frozen in time at various locations,
practicing being dead on his bed,
re-living the now, back then in
his head, inside my head!!

There is only one solution.
i have spoken to the others:
no Christmas tree this year,
we will wrap grandfather
in colored lights and
garland, and help him
celebrate life in style.

A slightly motile tree, a
blatant festivity.

Spector I Control The Sector
Ha Ha Ha I'm Ghostly
I Insist That I Don't Exist
I'm Heavy Duty
Your An Amateur
A New *****

His morning sun just cracks awake,
up an at 'em she crows happily,
looking down on him gawking,
so cozy in that lazy plush bed,
while soft yellow lush sunshine,
says "wake up you sleepyhead"
as she rests easy on his shoulder,
as it blazes through,
and her fury getting bolder
burning holes in his tired brain,
and yeah it does make him happy,
sometimes regardless,

Of where and when,
all things same or not,
save for presently,
this sunshine is burning hot,
where he sits pensive,
in this melancholy morn,
as that sunshine is trying,
her heart it must be torn,
and in her torrid,
and dear desperation,
in a friendzy guy kinda way,
acting crazy just to stick around,
just a chance to have him,
take a grasp the bright,

And shiny illusion she's trying,
to force on him -
molesting his memories,
caressing with spindled refractions,
offerings of her warmth to shade,
truth slipping through,
the complex damage,
created rifts maze his mind puzzled,

Faulty places they say,
probably weakly built with no real,
chance of a brighter day,
no access to better materials,
some doubt his sincerity,
maybe it's just his way,
flawed in creation possibly,
fractured by grievous trauma,
definitely he's affected though,
by the endless seaming drama

What could it be this haunting,
an unbearable long buried truth,
to uncover it to daunting,
or perhaps a recently breached,
mausoleum of memories,
was looted in hate forming,

That creature lurks behind corners,
sneaks up to scare even the bejesus,
tapping him on his shoulder,
softly darting away and back,
eyes BULGE like he's looking at money,
or high on his other white lady,

Light now curving,
becoming more seductive as the day pains,
in the tempting sun's light,
remaining and creating,
a silky dark silhouette,
moving in a lovely shape,
in a shape shifting pirouette,

Beautiful dark ebony woman,
shadows form enchantresses,
sirens in traces of old wolf,
grey skies drift in the air,
of smoking cigarettes and ****,
an he's high flying too on these,
as nicotine-stained tongues burn,
wishing for the night,
his heart will always yearn,

Before he's feasting heavy,
being a glutton for punishment,
savoring thoughts on what never was,
as his alter ego now dances,
seductively for her daylight,

In an iota of darkness expanding,
blots and traces of ink stained,
hearts with crackling finish,
pigments revolving and rotating,
a ghostly apparition appears,
diluting the light forever,
and alleviating any fears,

Terrified though he is so still,
it looked so nice outside,
and now it seems she's broken,
down his only needed will,
who could have known this,
everyone is about their day,
he's so haunted and alone,
an that shiny lady has gone away,
as this heavenly highwayman,
has come to find a home,
a real menacing spector of yesterday,
just takes completely over,

He realizes and submits,
to the possession of his body,
forever becoming his shadow,
to wear it well that's too gaudy,
better to be who you were -once,
than nothing at all,
he figures looking into the mirror,
at his new "normal"
and gratefully bowing down,
to the cold truth of his life.

Ma Cherie  © 2017

I awoke
during the witching hour
& felt her presence.
A full moon
creept dim light
into my room
revealing
a ghostly
feminine-apparition
floating wantonly
above me.

I was terrified,
unable to move,
felt an icy grip
as this ****-spector
lowered itself
onto my lap.

Immediately I rose,
became scared stiff,
lying on my back
meeting the earnest demands
of this sensual-fiend.
The tempo increased,
the rising and falling
of this ravenous-being
was reaching an
******* level.

On and on it went,
hellbent on satisfaction.
I lay dripping with sweat,
breathless,
pushing my
hips harder and harder
into the air,
filling the
midnight visitor
with my hardness.

Simultaneously,
the ticking of the wall clock
stopped as
I exploded
a steady stream
into the shapely-mist.

When I finally
opened my eyes,
the sensuous-spirit
had fled,
disappeared
into the dark.
I was totally alone,
but the presence remained.

Outside, I heard
owl hoots &
something
howling at the moon.
That's when I remembered,
she said she'd haunt me forever,
come back and do me right
during the witching hour,
in the middle of the night.

And, I can most assuredly tell you,
there's nothing frightening
about these nightly hauntings.
In fact, I crave them,
every chance I get,
I look for ways to conjure her...

Standing on a strange street corner waiting
Knowing that soon you will be better has you anticipating
The wait is only minutes but they feel like hours
No umbrella despite the rain showers
Then you see him coming and feel ecstatic
But as he gets closer,his behaviour seems sporadic
Then the exchange goes flawless,excitement begins to grow
No words are spoken,not even for show
You finally get back to your safe place
Getting your rig ready is like a feverish race
The draw up goes smooth
And you tie off above the old faithful groove
As you poke to find the right vein,
When you can't you panic and it feels as if you are going insane
You finally see the beautiful red mix with the brown
As you push it in,you feel like a King would wearing his crown
But this time it's different,something is not right
You fall out instead of taking the flight
Friend finds you unresponsive and calls for help
Your mother arrives and lets out a blood-curdling yelp
You are aware of none of this because you are now dead
Leaving friends and loved ones filled with dread
You may cheat the Spector many times
Like a Judge,he has taken you for your crimes
The funeral comes and it goes
But the pain for your family continues to grow
Before you decide to selfishly satisfy your needs
Remember all the family you left to grieve
It is a smart Demon and it's easy to listen to
Just remember all the people you left behind that love you
It is an everyday struggle for a lot of us human beings
But next time you pick up the rig,try putting yourself in their shoes and see what the are seeing
Live every day as if it is your last
For the Reaper strikes ferociously fast

I'll tell you more than the truth demands
Of a land hidden in the sands
A city only spoken of in tongues long dead
Whose name will linger like a spector in your head
And I must confess
That you will obsess
For half a century
From my curse i shall never be free
I don't know what keeps me going
Even if i die without knowing
I know it's too late to turn back now
I wipe the sweat from my brow
As the heat strangles the air
My companions and i all stare
They've all been with me for years
As our hope slowly disappeared
Only our friendship remained
We stared at the sands until it became ingrained
deep within our brains
it fanned the old flames
one more try, one more excavation
I should have chosen a different occupation

Where there are fields of corn and wheat
and where the river whistles down the spine of the land,
loneliness waits, frigid and limp,
hovering with harmony as he parts the sea of grass.
He nervously grips the pole of an umbrella,
dodging the sun rays,
and shuffling through the postcards in his pockets.

He’s a quite spector.

On board with an unlikely train
of foul, bitter, and loss.
lumped together with
the unpleasant, unfavorable, and alike.
And there he travels,
sipping at tea, and eyeing biscuits.
waiting to fill another field.

Loneliness, who or what is like you?
What goals can you obtain for us?
Why must you travel?
Where is your heart?
Is it there?
Is it beating?
Can you condition mine?

Where there are fields,
just beyond my back door,
cling like a scarecrow no more.
Come inside and get warm,
let’s talk,
but eventually, Loneliness,
I know you must leave.

By the silent night's sky do we lay awake,
Beneath the luminance of the wholesome Moon,
Shall by what-once hath shall forever mourn in wake,
When all's adieu, had we farewelled far too soon.
But sapphires alike her eyes -- a pearl of the sea,
Yet these shores shall forever separate her from me,
And too may we wander aimlessly in this corridor,
If she's indeed an angel then can we do no more,
For we are but lone souls, seeking meaning in this simple life.
A spector, a membrance, a love will you be ---

In ourn own rein we shalt dance **** as tiny innocents,
In ourn own fame we'll make one another famous,

In ourn own heads we shalt fantasize of one another,
In ourn own homestead we shalt dive the rainbow Spector!!!

In ourn own way,
                                We won't care what the world may think!!!

in the rearview mir\r\o\r
- everything is clear (n)er -
it was always all. about. you
Just-A-Breath-Between-Disasters

i was.so.sure. i could keep you
(then//It was all that seemed to matter)
your leavingwassudden
...your damage was g. r. a. d\ u\  al...

trymybest to drink-you-away
the ghost of your smile
is a per>sis>tent>spector
(and I know/no/now)
How-Much-I-Do-Not-Want-You-Any-Longer

O<but>h~-

how-

you _have __

ling  er.   e          d

i wouldnt know whats under my skin
its funny
when you think about it
i thought i knew myself so well
like the back of my hand
but to be honest
i couldnt tell the back of my hand from anyone elses
i couldnt tell my face apart from the crowd
i couldnt tell myself that im something new
i keep on losing myself again and again
it cant ever end
ill keep on drifting, pale as a spector and eyes like flat stones
with a heart of coal that keeps burning blacker and chars my breath with its smoke
soon it will run out
and then when death invites me with sweet embrace
maybe they'll notice me as i lay still in the coffin
for the first time, i wont be such a ghost
for the first time
ill be me
maybe then ill know whats under my skin

My reasons...
Lack reason.
Shared paper/words/
wants.
Con\nec\tions...
...SNAPS and ...dots...
Don't.know.what's.missing.
Until... you... find...it...
//Own my heart//
Own/my/thoughts
And I never had you at all
...But how I  want you
    So.little.time.
spilledwords---spilled wine
On paper <insignificant>
...I suppose...
holding hands by holding rhymes
If marked in tempo...if marked in time
...Barely a cursive i
Still//stillness... I,...Left here...
...am haunted
{Spector of your smile}
-ScribblingMyVitals-
Prose to quell the ache
....finally awake....
Left to linger in the wake:
the joy of your hello;
Deceives the
...the s l i c e of/your/
good//bye.
...minutes too slender
Yet my skin... knows...
the bite.

The Day Narrows

Shadows in the curtains drawn
show gray by afternoon
Falling clouds darken the sky as
Geese hurriedly fly past
pale windows, streets are left empty,
sounds of steps extinct,
sleet begins to press icy fingers
against rusty lamp posts while
tree branches snap and fall to
slippery paths below
Now as the spector of the long night approaches,
there is no one to hear him