Drip....
    Drop....
Drip....
    Drop....

The rain starts to sing
My toes catching wet kisses as they stick out from under my shelter.

Pitter Patter,
    Pitter Patter,

The rain picks up,
Using the leaves as cymbals.
The street light becomes a spot light,
The green grass sparkling, twinkling in the night.

Crunch, Crunch,
  Sploosh, Sploosh,

Hooded figures walk past through leafy puddles,
Unknowingly joining the symphony.
Their shadows creating an interpretive dance.

Drip....Pitter Patter....Crunch....Drop....Sploosh
Drip....Pitter Patter....Crunch....Drop....Sploosh

* silent applause

on this october night, while i ponder on the crisp toilet seat
and feel my body shiver from the awful lack of heat,
one single ****, compact and long, from my ******* falls,
and into then rank toilet water it splooshes and splashes.
on the porcelain i clench my feet and moan, it echoes through the halls,
my *******, it burns! (lo, how it burns!) as if a ***** went in full with scratches.
how i pray to God Almighty, "forgive me Lord for I have sinned",
in this ****** place i sit aroused and weary, The light is dimmed,
from the corner of my eye, my end nigh: i sigh, Lord. i sigh!
the toilet paper is gone, i cannot handle the vapor (nor my **** gaper).

Sploosh!
An interweaving stream of fluid burgundy falls fast
Slipping from the tip of this crystal clear glass
Flowing down through gravity 'till it makes contact with the exquisite white spongy strings
strung together for the sole purpose of sale.

"Shoot!"
She exclaims
As she seeks to supplement a spill with her own soul
not noticing that neither wine nor bleach
stop the spinning cycle from spiraling down
southbound

The shock and pop of thunder,
rain drops,
rolling down smooth skin like
peals of thunder,
broken lightning streaking through the sunshine.
Polarity bringing a smile to my face,
even while acidity burned and scrunched my face to conceal my eyes,
the swirl of twigs in puddling holes in the driveway making me
ponder,
soaked,
getting up to hear the sploosh and feel the wave of a full gutter.
To look at the leaves stuck between my toes.
Breezes raising goosebumps and giggles.
hair dripping and clinging,
eyelashes catching drops upon drops.
Light reflected off car windows and tree leaves,
gusts of wind causing intermittent rain
fall,
crack,
shudder,
I whip my hair
back and forth,
and wipe the water from my face.
I am the sky's lover, and it is mine.

In a losing
there is not much architectural
panaché.
It’s a
dislinear philanthropy.
The sort of desolate impala predator in recycled NatGeo covers;

The last time I saw my grandma, she was in a lucid litter; her bed a dwarven vault umbrella.

I was yet to understand blood.

When she passed, she left without much weeping. My father-
A people’s baboon- sailed in still ebbing.


In those feralities, there's a lack of certain
strategy, blasphemous is the antelope's unpinnable traversing,
                 all but for
the mountain beast
who still lurks in the weeds. Crimson then often filled those pages.


There were a lot of funerals in mere naming; curtsies of fathers
of fathers of classmates.

I didn't know them much more than in movies, as described
then to me,

they missed a certain mark(frequently in the appetizers.)


In splatter and sploosh, in spilling and splash maroon- the droplets - danced in
my drowsed peripheral; imagine the photographer, it feels, that in every such photo, it is the same one.

So when you were lowered, I did as those films, and wore black-tie cotton and hugged,
and hugged,
and I wrote a poem, that I should think, you would hate, and implored that you heard the rummage
in the sighs of the snow and the cracklings, and that you read the other poem and scoffed less. Only now have you begun
to leave and it's most hideous, my friend, that you do so,
so spectacularly underwhelmingly.

And it is the grey that is left, which I find most tasteless; ghasting in recurrence that ends in a
lump, upon which the camera lingers on, for it is
feebly
glass.

i went about the down and cleand own b yth ec l ea n
lithe bony bay ribbing the asphalt skin chuckTaylors'
and by and by the astute angle of the seas daunting
tailored skinny notch a grommet of sun ****** through
the scaly tremble of wispy ***** clouds spunting and breatheing
casual volumes of aromatic fluid bumbling out their tired
mouths and ******* on the lax pavement some of the heavy
drops "sPloosh!' wenting the ocean did and going "
whOosh ! "     the waves are munificently scrambling all about the rough timber
of the agile dock sitting sorely all alonesome and fickle
    so i gave it my feet
and wattled to its precocious face
and slid into the big
       blatant crumble
:      THE WATER

The dream of illusion is the searing wrath the mind can impose
Mind, Break me out don't Break me down

The belief of truth is like wind
whoosh..............

The dream of today is like rain
sploosh...............

The thoughts of now are like quick sand
smoosh..............

You know you only breathe to inhale more bubbles of illusions
The bubbles slide down your throat hot and smooth
Then one day will come and your body was covered in foam, and suddenly
Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

The stinging sensation of air will hit your body
The truth will hit your mind like a swinging pendallium
Which reality will you float to?

Have you forgotten, old man, the wild youth?
Zephyrs will knock you back, zooming, stumbling drunk on power
All these children, worshipping speed in constant flux
Face-first, papercuts from paper cutouts all around,
I went crazy, old man, my mind exploded in wartime plumes;
You once called this yours, too, under hahas and rough guffaws.
Illuminating all, what remained unseen, with iron grip, I grasped at straws,
Remember old man, because when you forget, it wins all over again.
I beg you, salty old sinnerman, soaked in the spray of the silver sea,
Shine your lamp this way, but don’t dare Gaslight me.
Old man, our body was a wonderland, you’ve turned it a junkyard,
Salvage; choose optimism over efficiency,
Monumental, recycled effigy.
Our father told us he’d be dead by 27,
Remember, old man, he would roll spliff in the barn,
The green and brown, offered for lost time;
Creaking joints whisper family secrets,
Wheezing lungs paint a portrait over a mirror.
I thought I’d be dead by 27,
Dented and chipped, different ways to cheapen;
Trans-Am aspirations but a body of a bicycle; semi-collapsible.
My nose long since hollowed.
What will we be, will we see 27?
Clad in armour of words unspoken,
Polished in appearance like the bottle from last night.
Old man, you’re so funny, hungry and hard,
Leathered skin suits you well.
In these jean short summers, Be not afraid.
Twisted metal blocks out brains,
Tanning our shared skin,
Revealing our blood,
Secrets embodied,
One Grandmother madonna, another a *****,
High cheek-***** olive skin,
Contrasted with Viking lovers.
Different pieces welded together over generations,
Tones and textures,
If there’s one thing we know, it’s that there’s no shame in sleeping with a Frenchman,
Gushing like the first time, when we were 16,
Silent and guilty eye contact, Sploosh.
Old man, some things never change.
We can be so much better.
We have been so much better.

I watch
     clumps of wet sand
snuggle between your toes,
     water cuddle our ankles
before running away
as if it’s done
something naughty.

     You launch a grey pebble
towards the scorched horizon,
lands with a ‘plop’,
     and another,
     a plump rock
goes ‘sploosh’,
guzzled up by a wave.

Next, with a finger
     you scrape our names
on the beach,
our temporary graffiti,
   squash your hands
into the surface
like we’re at the Walk of Fame.

I listen to the candy-*******
sound as you move,
    look back and count
    the footprints we’ve created,
know by morning
they’ll be gone,
like we were never here at all.

when all was told and done,
family and friends will lie within,
nothings gonna matter,
about the ****** weather,
just a speck in the flow,
a grain of sand
of let go
realizing that life is short
oak or willow
how will you be -
will you bend or will you break
the oak will break
but willow will bend
thus common knowlege
that line i said.
hold on tight to the water
though it is liquid and a bit
'a bother
hold too tight and youll have nothing
hold to lose and watch it sploosh
a speck of knowledge
wasted

Raindrops falling on the ground.....
Whirlpools that spin round and round...
Waterfalls , rivers , streams
Puddles , ocean and seas.

You know how it sounds during downpour?
Like pearls falling down from a necklace you adore.
Water droplets speak to each other in melody...
Sleeps during rainy nights are heavenly.

Overhear the conversation when two waves meet...
They speak a language that is way too sweet.

Ripples , trickles and burbles
Sploosh , slosh and gurgles....
Splish-splash and pitter-patter
I love the sound of water.

Silence is a strange noise
Trees applaud my solitude, boisterously ruining the moment
Or maybe it's the distant insects and frogs that break the silence
I can't seem to find them, constantly at the very edge of my
      perception
There's a plop to my right on the bank
(or maybe it was a sploosh... too noisy to tell)
but other than that the river is keeping its mouth shut
That same cool breeze riling up the wood whispers in my ear:
nature's static; she says everything and nothing

I wonder long and hard about their thoughts,
their hopes and aspirations and fears
and whatever else may occupy the silent minds of my companions
are their thoughts as loud as mine?
Does that little voice ever ******* shut up?

Sploosh splash.
Quack,quack.
Gos the duck,
at the fish.