I heard faint noises downstairs, and I decided to investigate. I pulled on a pair of cut-off jeans and grabbed the old pump shotgun that had served me so well in Viet-Nam from under my bed and crept downstairs to check. My Ranger training came into play, and I moved soundlessly, down the stairs and into the living room. An air of vague shadowy figures were searching through the cabinet that housed my collection of antique silver. I announced my presence in a sudden and intimidating manner: I merely pumped the action of the shotgun, then immediately moved to the right so if anyone shot, he would shoot where I had been, not where I was now. That sound was a language that everyone understood, including the two figures before me. They froze, and were still motionless.

"Mr. Steve?" one of the figures quavered. "Please don't shoot!"

I recognized the voice as belonging to Lisa, the twenty-year-old daughter of my nearest neighbor. I didn't know who the other person was or who else may be in the house, so I kept the shotgun pointed in their direction and hit the light switch with my free hand. Immediately a car cranked up in my driveway, and tires squealing, raced out to the road and away. I looked at my midnight visitors. I recognized Lisa and Julie, who was a close friend of Lisa's and a frequent overnight visitor of hers. They were holding between them a laundry bag containing most of my silver collection. I lowered the muzzle of the cut down shotgun.

"You sure know how to get yourselves killed," I stated. "Mind telling me who was in the car? You don't want to take the rap all by yourselves."

"Please don't shoot! That was Mike, it was all his idea! He made us do it! He said he would put us out and make us walk home if we didn't do it! Are you going to call the Cops?"

Now I could understand why the girls tried to burglarize my home. It was a fifteen-mile walk home in pitch darkness on a moon-less night for the two frightened girls. It was just what a worthless **** like Mike would pull. Knowing what I did about Lisa's boyfriend, I knew what he probably needed the money for. He was nineteen; the only job he had ever had was selling drugs, and I don't mean at the pharmacy. He was a charmer though. Girls fell for his good looks and his charm, and would do anything for him, and he of course chose the best looking one of the bunch, Lisa. She never realized what a slime-ball he really was. The problem was that Lisa didn't have a father to threaten to put a bullet in Mike's behind, and her mother was just as deceived as she was.

"You broke into my house and attempted to steal my belongings. Why shouldn't I?" I said with false sternness. I wouldn't really turn them in, now that I knew the situation. I would give the girls a good scare, then a ride home. Maybe then Lisa would see through Mike's veneer.

"Because we'll do anything you want," Julie offered, speaking for the first time. "Anything at all!"

Julie stepped over and ran her hand up my leg, pausing to tweak the head of my ****, which was hanging out of the leg of my cutoffs. I hadn't bothered to pull on any underwear. Julie was almost as good looking as Lisa was. Both girls had fabulous bodies, large firm ****, and smooth well-rounded *****. Julie had a cute face, whereas Lisa was absolutely beautiful.

"Yes, anything you want to do!" Lisa agreed.

The girls weren't wanton *****, but scared out of their wits and taking the only way out that they could think of. Of course they weren't virgins. It hadn't occurred to me to take advantage of the girls like this, and I would have declined Julie's offer if she hadn't fooled with my **** like that. You see, I was developing an outrageous *******, and with my **** hanging down the leg of some fairly tight shorts, the situation was rapidly becoming painful and serious. I had to get those pants off fast! Also, I hadn't been laid in quite a while. I decided to lay my cards on the line.

"You kids know me. I never had any intention of calling the Cops. I was going to give you a scare to teach you a lesson, then drive you home. Does that mean the offer is withdrawn?"

The girls looked at each other and both breathed a sigh of relief, big smiles on their faces. Lisa winked at Julie. "Nope," Julie said, smiling, "It still stands. Lets go upstairs."

I escorted the girls to my bedroom, pressed the magazine block on the shotgun, pumped out the shell that was still in the chamber, then put it back in the magazine. I tossed it onto the dresser with a loud thump.

I turned around and both girls were stark naked. Lisa came over, dropped to her knees, and planted a wet kiss on the head of my painfully throbbing ****. My ******* became harder still. I had to get out of those cutoffs! Julie solved that problem. She unzipped and unbuttoned them and gently worked them down around my rock-hard ****, allowing it to spring up to freedom.

"Lets get on the bed first," I suggested, "Then we have fun."

"Lay down on your back," Lisa insisted. "Have we got something for you!"

I complied, and Lisa leaned over and put my **** in her hot mouth. Her tongue swirled over the head, ran up and down the shaft, and started over again. I looked over at Julie and she was watching avidly. Not having anything better to do with my hands, I reached between her legs and caressed her ****. Julie gasped with surprise, then spread her legs. Her **** was already hot and wet, so I slid my ******* in all the way, then started finger ******* her and massaging her **** with my thumb. Her **** hardened and grew. Julie had her eyes closed and was erotically tweaking her ***** *******. She was slowly lowering her body, deepening the ******* of my finger, and rocking her hips back and forth, intensifying the stroking of her ****. Julie's hot ***** juices ran down my hand while Lisa's mouth was still working on my throbbing ****.

I began to draw my hand from Julie's sopping wet ****, but she grabbed it and held it tightly to her crotch. I pulled my hand now, and she came with it. I grabbed her thigh and swung her leg over me, so she was now sitting on my chest. I pulled my finger from her hungry ****, grabbed her ***, and pulled her ****** right up to my face. As soon as I flicked her **** with the tip of my tongue, she went wild, ******* my face, filling my nostrils with the sweet aroma of her **** juices. I thought I would give her all the licking she could handle. I rammed my tongue into her ****-hole with all my might, then gently nibbled on her ****. Apparently she had a low threshold, as this was all she could stand.

"Oh God, I'm coming!" she screamed, ground her **** into my face one more time, quivered, then collapsed sideways onto the bed.

One down, one to go. I looked at Lisa, still ******* my **** for all she was worth. I was nearing the end of my endurance, and I still hadn't had my **** in any hot **** yet. I grabbed Lisa's shoulders and pulled her mouth from my ****. I turned her around and held her up, her blonde ***** triangle just inches over my waiting tool.

"Give it to her! Now!" Julie whispered.

Lisa's **** didn't look wet or ready to take anything in it yet, but my **** was ready to take some *****. Julie reached over and spread the lips to Lisa's still dry *****, and began tweaking her ****. Lisa gasped her surprise at her most private place being touched by another chick. Within seconds though, her **** and inner ***** lips began to swell, and her juices started flowing. I slowly lowered Lisa to my rod, admiring her glistening pinkness. Julie guided my throbbing rod into Lisa's wet love hole.

"Please, be careful! Ah-h-h-h! Go slow, I'm so tight!"

I lowered Lisa very carefully, for her hot ****-hole was indeed the tightest ***** I had ever felt. With that in mind, I fought the urge to slam her down on my eager ****. As soon as she was down, I grabbed her *** and began sliding her back and forth. Lisa bit her lip as a tear trickled down from one eye.

"Stop, Mr. Steve! It's hurting her!" Julie commanded. Then to Lisa, "You haven't done it much, have you?"

"Just once, with Mike, and he isn't this big. It hurt then, too!" Lisa sobbed. "I wanted so bad to do it with Mr. Steve because he's been so nice to me, and I was so scared when I saw how big he was. Oh, it hurts!"

"You'd better get up then." I reassured, "I don't want to do anything to you that you don't want me to do."

"I want to go on, really I do! But don't you have anything I could use to make it easier?"

"Yeah, any Vaseline, or KY jelly, or something like that?" Julie asked.

"I have some KY jelly in the bathroom." I answered.

Julie jumped up and padded into the bathroom. I watched her naked *** jiggle as she left.

"You're gonna have to get up." I told Lisa. I gently lifted her ***. She bit her lip again and moaned as my **** slowly withdrew from her tortured hole. With a pop from her *****, a shriek burst from her lips as my **** sprung from her nearly dry ****-hole. She knelt on the bed next to me, softly crying, clutching herself where it hurt. I realized that she had been wrong in pretending to be so eager. A more gentle approach was needed.

I reached over, pulled her to me, and kissed her lips passionately. She ****** once in surprise, then melted into my arms, returning my kiss, forgetting the pain in her ****. I ran my hand around to her firm **** and gently stroked her *******, feeling them harden under my touch. I pulled my mouth from hers and kissed the point of each hard ******. She moaned and gasped with each touch of my lips, but from pleasure this time, not from pain. While I had her aroused, I lightly traced circles on her tummy with my finger, each circle going lower and lower, until I finally reached the blonde **** of her ***** hair. Slowly, I reached down and cupped her ***** with my hand, being careful not to press too hard or insert my finger. I would know when she was ready for *******. She responded with a **** and a gasp. I pressed again, and she gasped again. I kissed each firm ****** one last time, then started kissing down her tummy to her love nest, which was now warming and starting to respond to my touch.

I spread her legs and gently ran the tip of my tongue the full length of her slit. When I reached the vicinity of her ****, she reacted as though she had been shocked. She arched her back, pressing her **** against my face. Maybe she was ready. I probed again with my tongue, harder this time, hard enough to separate her ****-lips and tickle her ****. She went mad again, jerking and twitching in response to the touch of my tongue, moaning and panting. Then I felt her **** harden, her inner lips swell and spread, and her delicious juices start to flow. Now she was definitely ready for more. I probed her ****-hole with my tongue, licked all the way up to her ****, swirled it around, bit it gently, and then probed her hole again. When I started doing all this, she went even wilder. She spread her legs, ****** and reared against my face, and pulled my head tight against her hot cooze.

"Oh-h-h-h-h, **** me," she moaned, "I can't stand it any more! I don't care if it does hurt! Please, please **** me!"

I put her throbbing **** between my lips and gave it one hard ****, drawing it completely into my mouth, and pulled my head back sharply, causing her **** to pop back. She screamed, ****** her hips at me, and grabbed her sweating *******.

When she had subsided, her legs still spread, I mounted her in the traditional position. I started to position my throbbing pole for a gentle entry, but Lisa released her **** and spread her ****-lips with one hand and guided my tool to her sopping wet ****-hole with the other. She was much wetter now than when Julie diddled her ****, wet enough to ****.

"Please do it now!" Lisa pleaded.

I began to insert my **** cautiously, and found that due to her juices, entry was no problem. Lisa groaned like a ****** as I slid into her hot wetness. When she had taken as much of my ten-inch tool as she could, I still wasn't all the way in. But she began pumping her hips, causing the swollen head of my **** to ram against the back of her *****. She was as deliciously tight as before, but she must have been stretching, for with just a few strokes, my ***** were slapping against her ***, and I was in to the hilt. My tenderness and foreplay had paid off.

"Oh-h-h-h, that's good!" she purred when I began pumping to meet her rhythm. She wrapped her legs around my waist, and was pumping as hard as I was. With each stroke, I would completely withdraw from her hot, tight wetness, then shove my eager tool back in to the hilt, never missing her voracious target, always sliding easily in, jamming against the back of her *****.

Her pumping increased in tempo, and I sped up to match. Each pump became harder and more frantic than the one before. Lisa's breathing became harder and faster. She was about to come, and I wanted to come with her. I raised her legs over my shoulders so that I had a better angle at the depths of her tight hole, and started ramming as hard as I could.

"Don't stop! I think I'm gonna come! Oh-h-h, its so good! Come in me! Oh, please, I want to feel your load in me!" Lisa screamed. She bucked and reared and screamed incoherently, then went limp. I continued to pump. In just a few seconds, she began to pump anew. For more times than I could count, she orgasmed.

Once I felt my ****** approaching, I gave her one last hard ram and drove my weapon in as far as I could. I came at this point, spurting her sweet, tender Steve **** full of my hot sticky come, like an erupting volcano. She gasped, trembled, and fell back to the bed. I pulled out my softening ****. Our ****** energies were spent for the moment.

I glanced down at the foot of the bed, and saw Julie, whom I had forgotten. She sat in the chair at the foot of the bed, her legs spread, working a coke bottle in and out of her *****. She had found the KY jelly, then found us ******* away. Feeling left out but excited by the ****** sight of her best friend getting a good *******, she slicked up the coke bottle and began using it as a *****.

I saw that Lisa also was seeing something she had never seen before, her best friend's ****, gaping open, a coke bottle almost disappearing inside it. "Look how far in she puts it! And see how big it is to go in her like that. How does she do it?" Lisa asked, amazed.

"Why don't you get a closer look," I suggested. "Ask her." Lisa crawled down to the foot of the bed and sat on the end, astounded, watching Julie *******.

Julie finally looked down, under heavy-lidded eyes and saw Lisa so close. "Why don't you do this for me?" Julie asked.

"How?" Lisa queried.

"Just do what I'm doing now," came Julie's reply. Lisa watched for a few seconds more, then pushed Julie's hand aside and grasped the slippery end of the bottle. "In and out, and twist it a little bit. Oh, yes-s-s, oh, yes-s-s. Do it good, oh, that's so good!" Julie purred.

My **** was hardening again at the sight of one female ******* another.

I had an idea. If Julie was as promiscuous as she seemed, she might not object to what I had in mind. While Lisa continued to work the bottle in Julie's stretched ****, I helped Julie out of the chair and down to the floor, her heaving **** on the floor, her *** up in the air. She stayed in the position, crooning wordlessly, **** juice dribbling down her thighs, Lisa still ******* her.

I picked up the tube of KY jelly that Julie had used, and liberally covered my ***** rod with it. Then I stood behind Julie, straddling Lisa.

"What are you going to do?" Lisa asked.

"Watch and see!" I responded. With that I grasped Julie's hips and aimed my **** at the delicate rosette of Julie's ***. Using my **** like a weapon, I suddenly shoved my tool in as far as I could. Julie let out a scream, tearing out fistfuls of carpet.

"Oh God, **** my ***! That hurts so good! **** me harder, give me all you've got! Make it hurt! Give me more of that bottle!"

"I'm ***-******* Julie!" I informed Lisa, who was now completely mind-blown.

I needed no invitation, and neither did Lisa. Both of us gave Julie all we could, Lisa with the bottle in Julie's ****, me with my **** far up Julie's clenching ***. Julie rocked back to take us both in, then forward, then back for more. I couldn't see

She yelled out her back porch and into the alley as if one calling home the hogs. “Johnny! Johnny! You get home for supper! John—nyyy! You spend all day in that godforsaken tree that you’re gonna grow branches! Johnny, get home now!”

Up in his friend’s tree house, Johnny slammed his card down from his good hand that he was planning to win from. “****! She always does that to me”, he complained. “Just when I’m right in the middle of—“

Zack laughed. “Your ma’s voice carries down the whole neighborhood—practically to China!”

Everyone laughed. Iris’s daughter, Violet, said to her mom. “Grandma and Dad always butted heads.” She loved when her mom told stories of her childhood, especially when it was amusing.  

Iris’s good friend and neighbor, Bree, asked Iris, “I bet you never thought in a million years that she’d eventually be your mother-in-law”

“No, I sure didn’t”, Iris answered. “I am just glad that she liked me!”

Everyone laughed. Telling that small tale took her back to 1961 when her and her twin brother Isaac—known as Zack to most everyone—would hang out together with his best friend, Johnny Lindstrom. Because Iris was like one of the boys, she fit perfectly in the mix. Zach and she were fifteen and were referred to in good humor by their father as “double trouble”. It was that summer that they lost their dear dad, Ray Collier, and memories of him became as precious as gold. If it wasn’t for her brother and his friend, Iris be lost. Hanging out all day—from dawn til dusk—with Zack and Johnny was her saving grace.  Her mother was glad to have them out of her hair, not enforcing their chores very much.

“I was a tomboy to the fullest”, Iris told everyone. “I had long, beautiful blonde hair that I put back in a pony tail, and the cutest bangs, but I didn’t want to be seen as girly. I wore rolled up jeans and boat shoes with bobby socks, tied the bottom of my boyish shirt in a knot—but I guess I could still get the boys to whistle at me. I think it was my blonde hair that did it.”

“Oh, Mom”, Violet said, “You were beautiful and you know it! Such a gorgeous face!” She’d seen plenty of pictures of her mother when she was younger. Both Iris and Zack were tall and blonde. Zack’s hair could almost turn white in the summertime.

“Were beautiful?” Iris asked, giving Violet a concerned look, her hands on her hips in a playful display of alarm at her daughter’s use of the past tense. She may have been an older woman now, but she didn’t think she has aged too badly.

“Are beautiful”, Violet corrected herself. She leaned over and kissed her mom on the cheek. Iris was nearly seventy, and she aged pretty gracefully, and she was content with herself.  

They all sat in the living room sipping wine or tea and eating finger food. It was a celebration, after all—or just an excuse to get together and have a ladies night out. Not only had Iris had invited her daughter and friend, she had her sister-in-law—Zach’s wife, Franci—and her daughter-in-law, Rowan, married to her youngest son, Adam.

“Weren’t you going to marry someone else?” Bree asked Iris.

“Yes”, Iris responded. “We all wouldn’t be sitting here right now if I did. My life would have been very different.”

“A guy named Frank”, Violet stated. “I used to joke that he was almost my dad.”

Iris said to Violet, “Ha…ha. You know it took both your father and I to make you you. Everyone laughed at how cute that this mother-daughter duo talked. Iris went on, “I actually went on a couple of dates with your dad when I was seventeen. I was starting to get used skirts and dresses and went out of my way to look really nice for guys, but it was just high school stuff. After I graduated, I met a guy named Frank Hautmann, and we were engaged within several months.”

“What happened to him?” Rowan asked.

Iris sipped her tea and seemed a bit melancholy. “We did love each other, but it just didn’t work out. I know he eventually married and moved out of state. I ran into John about two or three years later, and everything just clicked. His family moved several miles away once we all graduated, so being best friends with Zack kind of faded away for him. But once I saw him again, we were really into each other. We took off in our dating as if no time ever lapsed. Soon we were married, and that was that.” There was an expression of “aww” going around the room in unison.  

Bree stood up and raised her wine glass. She announced, “Here’s to true love!” Everyone lifted their glass or cup in response.

Franci stood up next to have her own toast. She said, “Here’s to my husband and father of my three, handsome sons being declared officially cancer free, to Violet’s little bun in the oven soon to be born and also to my *****-in-law, Iris, for finally finding that pink pearl necklace that she thought was hopelessly gone forever! Cheers!”

“Cheers” everyone echoed and sipped on their wine or tea. “That’s some toast and makes this get together even more meaningful”, Iris complemented Franci.

Almost eight months pregnant, Violet restricted her drinking to tea. Her mother was so thrilled that she found out Violet was having a girl. It was equally wonderful that Iris’s beloved brother had recovered from his prostrate cancer, for throat cancer had taken their father’s life when they were young. So really finding the necklace that her mother gave her many years ago—that was misplaced while moving seven years ago—was just the icing on the cake to all the other news.    

Iris said, “My brother being in good health and my daughter having her baby girl is music to my ears. It trumps finding that necklace that I never thought I’d ever see again—even though it was the most precious gift my mother ever gave me.”  

At age thirty-five, Violet had suffered two miscarriages, so having a full-term baby in her womb was such a relief. It would be the first child to her and her husband, Paul, and the first granddaughter to her parents. Iris had three children altogether. Ray was named after her father, and then there was Adam and Violet. Only Adam and Rowan had any children—two sons, Adam Jr. and Jimmy. Ray and his wife, Lorene, lived abroad in London because of his job, and they had never wanted any children.  

“What name have you decided on?” Rowan asked Violet.

All eyes were on Violet who had quite a full belly. “Paul and I have agreed on a few names, but we still aren’t sure.” She turned to her mom and said, “Sorry, Mom, we won’t be keeping up the tradition.”

Iris was puzzled. “What tradition?” she asked.

Violet smiled. “I know it’s not really a tradition”, she admitted, “but didn’t you realize that your mother, you and I all have flower names?”

Everyone laughed at that observation. “That’s hysterical!” Bree noted. “Flower names?”

“That’s news to me” Iris said, not getting it.

“Me, too”, Franci agreed.

“Okay”, Violet explained to her mother “Grandma was Aster, you are Iris and I am Violet. Get my drift?”

The others started laughing, but Iris never even thought of this connection. She responded, “Well, my dad’s nickname out of Aster for my mom was Star.  I never thought of her name as something flowery but more heavenly…I guess. And I never thought of Iris as the flower—more like the colored part of the eye comes to mind. And Violet was my favorite name for a girl and also my favorite color—purple—but you can’t really name your daughter, Purple.”

The others laughed again. Everyone began to get more to eat, mingling by the food.  The gathering lasted for almost two hours, and eventually lost its momentum. Meanwhile, everyone took turns passing around the strand of beautiful, light pink pearls that Iris displayed so proudly in its rediscovery. It was a wedding gift from her mother in 1971, and Iris was painstakingly careful with it, swearing she’d never lose it again. She’d make sure of it. She prized it above anything else she owned, for she had no other special possession from her mother. Her sister got all of their mother’s items of jewelry, for Aster always felt it was the oldest girl’s right to it and this other sister gladly agreed.  Aster was never flashy or showy, and didn’t desire much. Her mother’s wedding ring, silver pendant necklace and an antique emerald ring from generations ago in England was all she wanted. Anything else was up for the grabbing by her two younger sisters.  

Iris learned the hard way to be mindful and not careless about her jewelry. An occasional earring would fall off and be lost, but any other woman could say the same thing. There was only one other incident that happened when she was a teenager that she never shared with anyone other than Zack. If she would confide in anyone, it would be him. Not even her husband knew, and she wasn’t going to tell anyone now. It was too embarrassing to share in the group, especially after tale of the pink pearl necklace that went missing.  

Bree told her, “Keep that in a safe or a safety deposit box—somewhere you know it won’t form legs and walk away.”

“Oh, ha, ha”, Iris remarked, flatly. “I don’t know how it ended up boxed up in the attic with my wedding dress. I sewed that dress myself, by the way. I guess too many hands were involved packing up things, and I am sure I did not put it in that box. Tore this house apart while it was stuck in the attic. Tore that apart, too.”
  
“And yet you didn’t find it until now”, Rowan stated. “It is as if it was hiding on you”.

“Well, I wasn’t even really looking for it when I found it, Iris said. “I was just trying to gather things for my garage sale, and thought of storing my old dress back in the closet. Luck was on my side. It’s odd that I didn’t find it earlier… but it sure did a good job of hiding on me.”

“Like it had a mind of its own”, Franci said, winking, “and didn’t want to be found.”

“Yeah”, Iris agreed. “It was just pure torture for me thinking I may never lay eyes on it ever again. All I had were a few pictures of me wearing it. I was convinced it was gone. ”

After a while, Iris’s friend, sister-in-law and daughter-in-law left one by one, but Violet remained with her mom.  They went in her bedroom to put the necklace back in its original case and in a dresser drawer —or at least that is what Violet had thought.

Iris placed the necklace into the case and handed it to her daughter. She told her, “I’m sure you’ll take good care of it.”

Violet’s jaw dropped as she sat on her parent’s king-sized bed. “Oh, Mom—no!” she exclaimed. “You can’t do that! You just found it, so why? Grandma gave it to you!”

Iris sat down beside her daughter. “I can give it to you, and I just did”, she insisted. “Anyway, it is a tradition to pass down jewelry from a mother to her firstborn daughter. And since you’re my only one, it goes to you. Someday, it can go to your daughter.”

Violet had tears in her eyes. She opened the box and smoothed her fingers over the pearls.
“Mom, you won’t lose it again. I am sure you won’t!”

“Because I’m giving it to you, dear. I know I can see it again so don’t look so guilty!” Violet gave her mom a huge hug, her growing belly pressing against her. The deed was done, for Violet knew that she couldn’t talk her mother out of things once her mind was set.

Iris shared with her, “You know that when I was born—Uncle Zack, too—my parents thought they were done with having children. My sister and brother were about the same level to each other as me and Zack were. It was like two, different families.”

Iris’s sister, Miriam, known to everyone as Mimi, was fifteen years older than the twins, and Ray Jr. was almost thirteen years older. Being nearly grown, Mimi and Ray were out on their own in a few years after the twins were born. Mimi married at nineteen and had three sons and two daughters, very much content in her role as a homemaker. Ray went into the army and remained a bachelor for the rest of his life.

“I never knew I was any different from Mimi or Ray until I overheard my Aunt Gerty talking to my mother”, she told Violet. “I mean I knew they were much older, but that was normal to me.”

“What did she say?” Violet had wondered.

“Well”, Iris explained, “I was going into the kitchen when I stopped to listen to something I had a feeling that I shouldn’t be hearing.”

Her mother was washing dishes, and Aunt Gerty was drying them with a towel and putting them away. Gerty said in her judgmental tone, “You’ve ended up just like Mother. You entered your forties and got stuck with more children to care for. How you got yourself in this mess…well…nothing you can do about it now. Those children are going to wear you down!”

Gerty was two years younger than Aster, and considered the family old maid, never walking down the aisle, herself.  She prided having her own freedom, unrestricted from a husband’s demands or the constant needs of crying or whiny children.

Aster replied to her sister, with defensive sternness, “Yes, I’ve made my bed and I’m lying in it! Do you have to be so high and mighty about it?”

“I couldn’t even move”, Iris told Violet. “I was frozen in my tracks. Probably was about eight or nine—no older than ten. I heard it loud and clear. For the first time in my life, I felt unwanted. It just never occurred to me before that my mother ever felt this way. Now I heard her admit to it. She didn’t say to my aunt that she was dead wrong.”

Iris’s mother came from a big family—the third of eight children and the oldest daughter—so she saw her mother having to bring up children well into her forties and older, and it wasn’t very appealing. Her mother never acted burdened by it, but Aster probably viewed her mother as stuck.

“That’s terrible. I don’t have to ask if that hurt.  I can see how hurt you are just in telling me”, Violet told her with sadness and compassion. “I don’t remember Aunt Gerty. I barely remember Grandma. She wasn’t ever mean to me, but she seemed like a very strict, no-nonsense woman.”  

“Oh, she was, Iris admitted. “I don’t even know how her and my father ever connected—complete opposites. Unless she changed from a young, happy lady to hard, bitter one. I don’t know. You would have loved your grandfather, though, Violet. He liked to crack jokes and was fun to be around. My mother was so stern that she never knew how to tell a joke or a funny story. Dutiful—that’s how I’d describe her. She was dutiful in her role—she did her job right—but I began to realize that she wasn’t affectionate. Except for your Aunt Mimi—their bond was there and wished I had it. Mimi was more ladylike and more like a mother’s shadow. Their personalities suited each other, I suppose.”  

Iris pulled out an old photo album out of a drawer. There was a black and white, head and shoulders portrait of her mother in her most typical look in Iris’s childhood. She had a short, stiff 1950s style bob of silvery gray hair and wore cat eye glasses. Not a hint of a smile was upon her lips—like she never knew how.

“Do you really think Grandma resented you and Uncle Zack?” Violet asked.

Iris responded, “Well, I’m sure my mother preferred having one child of each and didn’t wake up one day and say, ‘I’d like to have twins now’. I mean, she had a perfect set and my mom liked perfection. That’s all it was going to be—at least she thought. Nobody waits over a dozen years to have more. If my mother really resented getting pregnant again, now she had to deal with two screaming babies instead of one.  Must have come as quite a shock and she was about to turn forty.”

“It’s a shame, but woman have children past that age”, Violet pointed out.

“Sure, and some wait to start families until they have done some of the things they always wanted to do. But if I was to ask my mother if she wanted children that time in her life—which I never dared to—I think she’d have wanted to say, ‘not at all.’”

“It’s a shame”, Violet repeated. “Grandma should never have treated you two any differently.” Iris wasn’t trying to knock her mother, but Violet felt the need to be very protective for her against this grandmother that she barely remembered. Aster has been dead since Violet was six-years-old, and she had a foggy memory of her in her coffin, cold to the touch and very matriarchal in her navy blue dress.

Iris admitted, “I knew Mimi was her favorite, and I was my father’s favorite because I was the youngest girl. Zack and I we

how far must she travel
to rediscover
her purpose
her purpose
what a preposterous concept

neither rest nor return
are purpose

neither love nor hate
are purpose

neither this nor that
so then what
what is it
what is the answer
to this unquantifiable question

perhaps it rests
in the caverns of her dreams
in the caverns of her subconscious
synesthetic
mind
seeing colors for numbers
and mango puddles in the rain

it was always her imaginative spirit
that activated her forehead
which wrinkled with the tides of
hurt pain sadness glory god

and she was told
to soften that sternness
soften it until she was nonexistent

but instead she asked
what are these things
what are their purpose
besides drinking foreheads and wringing potential
and piping out excuses for this and for that
for crimson activities and
claret affairs

AH, that Time could touch a form
That could show what Homer's age
Bred to be a hero's wage.
"Were not all her life but storm
Would not painters paint a form
Of such noble lines,' I said,
"Such a delicate high head,
All that sternness amid charm,
All that sweetness amid strength?'
Ah, but peace that comes at length,
Came when Time had touched her form.

Behind the rough and gruff facade,
amongst the sternness and the pride.
Along with calloused hands and the scars
A little boy still resides.

in spite of responsibilities,
the hard days, daily grind.
There within a man full grown,
that little boy still hides.

In the crooked grin, stuck out chin,
mischievous twinkle of the eyes.
Crazy antics, chances taken,
a little boy joy rides.

Eat one more cookie before dinner,
spend all weekend, playing outside.
Put off mowing the lawn one more day,
that little boy decides.

Work extra hours to pay the bills,
don't let that "Honey do" list slide.
Do anything to see me smile,
His little boy is justified.

Knock knock on your door
knocked a thousand times or more
I hope for your knock in return
Just one knock
That's what I pray
Each and every night
Hoping you'll stay
Knock knock on the door
Knowing someone's home
On the other side
I'm not mad or out of my mind
Im just hoping you'll be mine

So knock knock on the door
I'm scared to turn the ****
I'm afraid I'll be turned away
By the sternness of your voice
In the color of anger through your skin
And the words of
"You're not wanted in"
So on the other side of the door I stay
Praying before my love life decays
I knock once more
with no answer in return

Great hawk enshrouds tiny ring;
swallowing silence in the reflection of spring;
Your shadow bemoans my gentle home;
where wax wings and iron legs of sternness roam.
Between shattered glass and petal's dance
whose schadenfreude--makes you sound like an ***?
Oh, what a ******* intellectual chore
when even poetry doesn't make sense anymore.

When I walk I’m deep with my senses, clearly drawn to people’s alluring glances.
So lucid they think, their eyes show the interest far from extinct from my stance in this world.
I feel that I’m respectively speaking, to say so the least.
I’m not recluse or a beast always wanting to feast.
If I had to say so the least, I’m as calm as the tree with the leaf, that stays calm when the wind turns to burn, while everyone goes with the turn.
Because it’s what the tree made them learn.
But back to the point I was making while you are sitting by this tree,
looking at me with such glances pointing at stances,
blaming the cause which in you is aloft,
making you soft to pretend in this wind,
moving you and the others to part sways in the matter the wind is racing.
When simply it’s all about the peace calming transparent flow,
less transfiguring your stance in this warming sensation. . .

When I stroll, I feel deep in my senses, just life of the sound I’m within.
I feel you friend, no need to misunderstand because I’m the kind,
only of a kind, truthfully speaking since the world is ordinarily laid but so many minds sillily played.
What’s the reason to hastily be placed?
Impatiently wasting the self through calamitous wind around you in its ways,
pulled of your senses to part in its flowing admiration to help you feel its position not what the tree has been foolishly placing.
The sternness of impeccable word, just blur through the blurry frustration fostering to break wind from word communication.
But back to the sound that’s within, that plays for me again.
I say its sweet in this miserable place full of faces with eyes that stick with assumptive cases.
I can sense uneasy feeling of their spiritual mirror, lost in their glance even unheard, why did **** **** **** such lovely bird?
So you see what I’m saying, as angry ***** would be saying.
All the angry ***** this part over will be playing. . .because even words turn swiftly by the wind, gripping around the calm of your leaf.
You feel yet what I feel?
Practice with the wind, don’t amend to the blend of practicality because some want one option for you to be planted to grow all over this world as attired.
Only feeling whole after past your time being retired.
How in this sense could we live in such life time without sharing simple joys that some used to uphold,
but then life changed with a fold, all you could is forget and be sold, just like I was.
Funny story, but no worry, I’m no worry for you to worry.
One day I’ll share with you this story.
Plenty time don’t worry. . .to those who die I’m sorry, but there’s more joy in this story,
your story then the idea they abhor to make you feel this squally worry.
Although your dead and won’t hear my story, life will tell you after. . .
But of your self that I've been listening trying to feel you in what you have been missing.
It’s funny to words I have been retorting to, to explain exactly the calm of the self, when the word can never touch on such imperfection as to why the word is always leaning towards this misdirection. . .
hidden deep down in its simple complexion, when its all misdirected with the imagery that comes with projected. . .that’s why ***** get angry at my use of such satisfying word deep under their ego -blistic wants. . .
never relenting their simple misfortune of always trying at preventing the complicated feeling of but resenting what’s to them so complicated. . .
for a feeling they never awaited, stopping into churches thinking its something one day be recon-stated, but when silly as a church where they put you under at your birth, without a will to simply choose the path really most tend to loose. . .instead sticking a mat under your body as if its going to be the least your life can embody. . .and your parents so meek to realize from beginning as it it’s meant to be. . .life of being peaceful, instead disgracing you later for your aspirations. . .in any way possible manipulating your gracious. . .Even this comes as a misunderstanding because some choose to feel my words out of tune in miscomprehending the essence of my stroll through this wind. . instead resentment in the form shows up in assumptive waves with negative impression of your ease for my self I could give **** less when from you I hear your impression, since moi it don’t displease. . .but I keep on strolling with my full senses at life’s mistaken glances shadowed down on the branch caressing with pretences, in which all jump into with a **** full of stances. . . .with my outmost respect I have for everyone in any sort of the trances. . .

You practiced
judo moves with Jim
on the grass
outside the farmhouse

where he lived
and his younger sister
stood on the periphery
watching the moves and falls

and she watched you
with her usual concentration
her eyes glued on you
her hands clapping

when you had Jim down
or made the right moves
and her mother
poked her head

out of the door
of the farmhouse
and said
Monica leave the boys alone

they don’t want you
pestering them
I’m just watching
Monica called back

not doing any harm
do as you’re told
her mother said firmly
and Monica slouched back

towards the farmhouse
cussing under her breath
kicking at the grass
as she went

I was only watching
she said to her mother’s
disappearing back
then she paused

and looked back
at you and said
you don’t mind do you?
no not at all

you said
but Jim said
pushing damp hair
from his sweaty face

go Monica
do as you’re told
and she smiled at you
but gave Jim

a look
in passing
of sternness
and icy cold.

blood boiling
causes chills along my back
hairs rise along lanky arms
skin pale, eyes swollen and red
eyebrows furrowed, permanent expressions of hate and anger create wrinkles matching the set dad has
he's blind to the fact he's creating them on his little girl
pain is associated with the secretion of substance P, and is relieved by the secretion of endorphins
anger is associated to the spewing of your words and the sternness of authoritarian disciplines, and is relieved in a year, with college dorms and distance of 453 miles
or relieved in an instant by running away

Sternness,
you earn this.
Books,
you burn this,
only because
somewhere silence says
"Learn this!"

It says,
"the only thing important is definition."
and it will remain so until the flames reach us,
washing upwards like waves on a beach,
claiming us
and burning, popping,
bringing blackness from our toes
upwards still
into our eyes,
leaving lineless husks of us,
like sea shells waiting to be found
and filled
with definition.
To be made a cup.

"Fill your cup with love!
There is no drought.
We’ve reached the wellspring"
and you see no difference in
light and liquid.

"The inside of a heart,
is this dark?"


Escape into,
Get out of,
And be release.

My heart bleeds watching the world's distressing moments
Shame that no one can help as the world sinks
Stinking around in a mess of heartlessness and lawlessness
How did we get here to be lamed and shamed even by animals
Who can save the world?

Killings and maiming on the loose in a senseless world
A world that is destined to die in the hands of a wicked soul
Why Oh Why Am I hear the dying child cries out in vain
Pain all over him with desperation aggravated by neglect
Who can save the world?

Why save a world that is heartless with no natural affection
The monkey laughs with ego of pity for a people without soul
The lizard pounds its chest with pride of sternness
In a world full of pain without pity for a fellowman
Who can save the world?

Hopelessness in the midst of crime, hatred and selfishness
Wars, hatred, bitterness, jealousy, acrimony and prejudice
And no man cares about the other and crooked to outwit the other
What a shame that goodness and mercy are made to go on holidays
Who can save the world?

I'm proud of my father
Who fought in World War II
He helped save the world
And the red, white, and blue
He brought me up with sternness
Kindness and understanding
And now I see the rules he had
Were there for my good standing
He is an American, true and blue
Looking back when I was a teen
In the nineteen seventies
I rebelled against war
And fought for the causes
Which I believed would change the world
For the better, not the better off  
So, when my father put me down
I had to turn and look at him
And say the only reason that
I do these things is because
I am an American

There's nothing I can hold against you,
there's almost a sternness in your voice
strengthening your steadfastness,
your eyes if they wished could rail
against light travellers.
Your own Mother who you asundered,
to supple perpetual altercation.
Dark, dark your hair will seek accord
The Ocra fields were you played
casts forth a margin of your secrets.
I pray our grave court
blinded by your  wonders,
serpentine and whistles
at the stroke of midnight,
whose union will shed
the growing embers

Oh, migrant solemnity
Take away this moment of horror
From us who wear wool socks
Who present expansive expositions
Within seven seconds
Who replicate Roman gluttony
VIPs of the vomitorium
And **** room
Remove this curse
From which we suffer
A morning of obligation
Expel our fright
Of the morning
Clear away the white light
Millions of beams
Of metamerism
Us
Them
We and our igneous
Lapardian bed
Our feet, callowness
And our shed
Composed murmurs
Delicate sternness
Will reject them
We were once facetious
Had condescending ways
They'd believe us
And remained stranded on unmapped cays
We have yet to gain
The downpour
The desert desires
But have been cast and thrown
Unforgiven and disowned
Enslavement resides in hungry empty pockets
With politics and corporation cracking the whip
In this oligarchy, capitalist catastrophe
Backed by a national
Dry spell
We're laying face up
On the floor of the ocean
Floating to the top
Of a wine glass
We've done what we could
What have you done to us
Here we go
Cold

I want to sleep until the moon is full.
To wait with closed eyes for something that's already here.

It's like your sadness.
It looks at me with screaming eyes
under uninterested brows
through black holes.
It scoops crystals under your couch
and doesn't hesitate to tell me
that it's happy to be here.

It presses piano keys with disdain,
beckoning sinuous  sounds of
catharsis.

What is this  
furnace
that burns us?
Why does this
sternness
turns us
worthless?

I want to sleep until the moon is full.
I want to sleep until I get back.
I want to sleep until I've found what's real.
To wait with closed eyes for something that's already here.

You could do with some shut-eye yourself it seems.

Five years and all I have left
Is her name and the feelings she gave.
It was a heinous crime, a theft.
Still, I want her on my grave.

On that day, the Sun shone,
As it always would.
This was before her throne.
A finer time, you might call it good.

Dubrovnik’s walls stood tall,
Yet her beauty couldn’t be contained.
The city would fall,
Her grace was untamed.

To the sky they flocked.
The birds of black.
Shining rays they blocked.
The sky would shatter, and crack.

Cobble streets and busy crowds.
Amongst them you were there,
The heavens were clear, no clouds.
Your gaze left me gasping for air.

One word lead to another,
Before you know it I was hooked.
She was something else, something other.
Something the Gods overlooked.

In my cage everything was perfect,
The real world, however, was not as joyful.
I left my world undefended, and got it wrecked.
Grief, misery, death and death!

After the collapse of my star,
The only thing which kept me sleeping at nights.
I dream of a distant place, somewhere far.
When I close my eyes I still see her shining lights.

My heart is now a furnace,
Dishing out black smoke, my love.
Its fuel is your name and its sternness,
It burns with the hate for the love I promised you, sweet dove.

some folks express how much I look like my father
around the eyes
occasional sternness
rarely though were our personalities
or character traits  
placed in the same category
until the puppies came –
ole Jimmy is 11 years old now
he and his brother were gifted by breeders
papered Labradors
10 week little ***** of fluff
had I known I was to slip into insanity
I would have never accepted the bounty
family of five
plus two chew monsters
leaving no part of home or possession sacred….
let the beatings commence –
I had watched my father discipline dogs
the same way he disciplined me
with a belt or stick…
though the dog could take far more raining
and damaging blows
than my adolescent body
between whiskey and unresolved anger issues
we were raised by hand –
when Jimmy’s brother got out of the enclosure
that hot summer day on Thomas Creek
the beatings had slowed
as they were outside pups now
barely three years old
still locked in youth…
the occasional slap would suffice as reminder
one day Roy took out down the paved road
trotting off into the sunset
I called after and started walking down the road…
dogs pick up on energy
and mine was foul turning unreasonable
he stayed 15 to 25 feet ahead of me
if I stopped, he stopped
if I ran, he ran…
so we trekked
and trekked,
and trekked
we reached the Bee Tree
which sat just at 2 miles from the house
when he gave up the chase
I got ahold of that ******* dog
and set to throwing punches….
I am no small man,
running six ,five, two-seventy
off in the distance I heard a car coming up the bend
I stopped hitting that dog and began telling him
how much more beatings would come after the car passed
I sat mumbling profanities at my dear pet for 1 whole minute
while the Subaru came into view
and then disappeared off into the hills –
I grabbed that dog after I was tired of beating him
and ****** that pup by his collar onto his tip toes
and fast marched two miles back home
cursing him for gaging and choking all the way…
when we got back to the farm I cut him loose in the fence
went in to wash up and get some water
about half hour later I went to check on him…
that ole pup walked up wagging his tail
sheepishly
looked up with two blood red eyes
as my dragging him home
had bust the vessels in both his eyeballs…
I collapsed and burst into tears…
lil ole Roy dog laid right at my feet
started to licking my face
trying to console me…
the farmer down the road shot my dog 2 months later
for playing goat herder
I have his brother still and a couple other pups
no doubt in my mind I will have dogs until I die
I also know Roy was the last dog I’ll ever hit….
I prefer to just look like my dad –

Tears ***** my eyes
The hurt, I try to blink away
A flutter of open and close -
Once, twice, no three!

My jaw is tightly locked
As I fuse my teeth together
Counting each breath,
Out and in, out and in -

Over emphasising the sternness of my jawline
In a hope to distract from the pain
That is laced through my eyes

My love, my dearest other
Who is supposedly at home sick

Sits at the table across from me,
With another -

Wondrous trees fly through the doors of my dreams.
The sun is that of shining black, and the moon that of dim blue.
Birds that dive to the depths of my eyes; fishing for cast away smiles.
Boulders that walk from ear to ear; releasing a sent of sweet, pouched apricots.
Grass that grows as ****** hair for the man that is the moon.
And flowers that bloom as coral in the oceans, coloured a violet hue.
Jumping clouds, and blissful sounds.
A lonely stool; untouchable to the madness.
Gray and bland; cold and stern.
The last state of sanity found within a single stool.
This is the torrent of my mind; the chaos of my thoughts.
And this lonely stool is the last hope of finding a place to blend with society.
But it colour of gray and it's form of sternness.
Is slowly fading to the abyss I have lost.
No worries I shall fear of, once all sanity has disappeared.
For a life with individuality is the reason why we life in a world that's full of rules...

He means the world to everyone,  especially to Me.
Eights sons , my mum and my sister and then I make three.
Three women to nine men is the way we have combined.
The tears, the pain, they joy, the strongest bond of love you'll ever find.

He is older now and weaker but his heart to us has not changed.
The same love, advice and sternness and control still remains.
Respect is the solitary line through each and everyone.
It's the one thing we hang on to from mother daughters through to sons.

the precursors of mourning have already begun -
the shadow is fleeing:
the eyes no longer show signs of glee -
where there were once two diamonds
in the skull's sockets... are but ambers of
dying frenzy -
               these are the precursors of mourning:
it's heightened since
a daughter is crying: her son is pretenisouly
solid - a harsh connotation...
she herself has said: by tomorrow you should
probably leave the house and let
me do my girly "thing" and wallow -
a girl tells a boy he's not supposed to:
as much as he might want to allow himself
to also tow along some tears: he's not supposed
to...
seems like: perhaps i was a boy then...
and the beloved dog of the family died
and one were allowed to weep over so much
animation and nuance in a bark:
but soulless the essence died... nonetheless...
even then... the man who is about
to die ventured to restrain himself in giving
me the news when i was having a sleepover
since: boys don't cry...
it's funny-numb: it's teasing tears that
are not supposed to be shed...
in the last years of his dementia he would still
remember... that same dog...
a mongrel-esque tease of an alsatian
by the name of Bella -
              me, him and the dog taking long
walks... me climbing trees
the dog barking up the tree out of concern...
he couldn't remember details
of the lives of his children...
but me being the solo grandchild...
well... aren't i just ******* special...
- and yes these past years i already witnessed
his death: we were once the graveyard
hyenas as i took him for a walk...
to his mother's grave... to his grandfather's grave
and he would also say:
this is where the two josephs with lie:
side by side...
              i'm hour away from visiting
the old country: dear "mother" will receive me
as she always did: a comfortable sensation
when landing in Cracow...
all that is modern and horrid and competitive
and obstructive to any force outside
of its cement - Warsaw passed-by...
   i'll travel to a little ****-hole of a town of my birth
from the warsaw western termnial:
where i will be approached by a mingling of
ukrainian "tourists": i'll probably spot one
or two mongols...
if it will be a sunny day: i will feel inclined
to savour the sensation that:
even Glasgow - at its most outer grim...
it would only require sunlight to elevate
a reaping presence of glum toughening -
               such this life bestows -
                         lottery, random chance...
purposively agitated wills composed
of a **** / reaping of life...
             until this choice plateau / plateau of choices...
it is unimportant for the lineage
of this man to have survived:
after all... i have not "bothered" to keep
it... rejuvenated... i had no... lineage
quest... no family name...
although... if i invoked my mother's
maiden name: Batuk... almost resonates
like Bathory... origins in the Czech sphere:
- and he implored me to call him
once a month to talk any sort of crap
with him - i hardly ever did:
we came to an understanding that
to talk... a conversation would require
****** features contorting, eyes...
probably some hands too...
is that a regret?
                  it could very well... but not
really...
i have to "man up"... there's the wait:
from the hospice to the shallows:
grave being the riddle and as he stressed
countless times: death the great leveller -
the only democratic auto- prefix:
that no one can "just" veto...
and by all standards of mortality -
born 1939: herr! bite bonbon! circling
around 82 isn't bad for a man...
it's already pushing the expectations...
so my tearing into a soppy-****-blind-poodle
wouldn't do enough justice...
after all: aren't we supposed to feel less
grief for life stretched to its limits...
even he conceded his dementia furore as:
all my friends are dead...
i sleep, i eat... i **** i watch t.v. -
i still vaguely recognise a crossword
puzzle... all that's necessary now is to
sometimes refresh myself
with a familiar face...
i do want to wriggle in feminine emotions:
still his contest:
make your heart small...
             hardened to a coil and inviting
a pebble to circumstance it further:
then you will have all other details in your
grasp, grit... boiling over crescendo...
how i want to weep...
but this impeding ceremony...
his jokes about being buried in uncomfortable
shoes: how he joked about the hebrews
being buried sitting down: so they would:
upon resurrection... get up first...
and not too long ago... a year...
my grand-uncle died: my grandmother's brother...
etc. etc.
how he joked:
             hmmph! a sarcastic sound...
this one disagreement they had:
the accusation was on the lines of:
he said that i was brought up by the communist
party (and the P.R.L.) while this...
semi-******* of a grand-uncle... one footed
with the lost foot a ghost limb:
after this daughter had a miscarriage:
newly converted to god, church and the law &
justice party mantra...
my grandfather will die: negating
any communist party affiliation...
                      so much for Poland per se...
what could possibly need to happen...
next up on the chop-a-block of: inevitable...
my grandmother...
and isn't that going to be a woozy...
a new definition of division...
my mother a daddy's girl...
my uncle a momma's boy...
           my father? abandoned by his parents
is beside stoicism:
i'd pinch a suggestion
at psychopathy - now news of death:
just this... working up to cul de sac certainties...
hours from now and i'll be
bed-side at the hospice talking
to a vision of a corpse not yet formalised...
to exercise the final testament of
his nigh...
               - point being...
his death is what i was anticipating...
              at the end of this rainbow is
the death of "my" tongue...
travel to Poland to speak some nativistic first
coming?
with strangers?
lined up they die and i will not need
to... that's probably as it always should have been:
i can't imagine engaging in
anglo-integration projects
where the tongue is first to die:
because: i'm sikh turban pronounced standing...
i could easily be mistaken for
a german: and that's hardly a compliment...
i have been a german many a times...

- but to be prescribed so much deadening
energy: for the most appropriate masculine
traits... unfathomability and a fortitude of
changelessness -
a sternness and a bleak blind certainty...
i wish i could allow myself the same...
mollusk-esque softness associated with
a pet dog dying:
perhaps i should focus on...
a vessel of a memory of me making this
world all the more hostile and
unfathomable...

from noak hill across three country parks
i ended up in chigwell row...
i admired the sensation of
feet forged to a marathon walked...
i muttered the most inaudible:
find me more aloof... more secluded...
let me join the ranks of those
already sentenced to the base reality
conundrum:
that death is a liberty and that...
i have no fear of dreams per se...

otherwise: thank whoever it is i have
to thank for the least of my talent being
exposed:
there is no: go gently into that good night...
blindness for one...
is not the cobweb of smoke
and mirrors of dementia: the latter...
i have to cherish the exactness of my
gargoyle face to keep these last remaining
tremors of life being gifted with:
an old curiosity...

i will not rhyme what's already
a technical matter...
that i want to wed my eyes my breath
with that of death impeding
and find him there: old joseph batuk...
while my father was "missing" from
me aged 4 through to 8...
because the western lands
required brain / labour drain...
i was the one who punctured his
bicycle wheel when he was engaging his
last days in employment...
that he was a drunkard from time to time:
well... i sure as ****
out-competed him...
i became a bigger drunk than he
ever was... yet by the vanity in me
owned... and by the diabolical belief
in the hebrew demiurge:
i teamed up with project focus
and spew such details... from time to time:

that it is somehow still only about me:
is because... i believe in being
reunited... in the sacred phlegm of Hades
were i have possession
of the most essential faculties to
entertain eternity:
but i no need for ****...
or for gluttony therefore no need
for taste...
i won't be needing these ******* sacks
or an islamic sacred garden harem
to satisfy my death-robbed blues
of unexcavated potentialities:

i want to catch death with its 21 supposed
grams...
how i meditated death of late
by merely walking: expecting to
chance myself with harp and
plough...
that i am forever reminded:
      to be sitting on laurels...
   as ever... to write this belittling of such
little... to be sitting on laurels
is to write poetry:
when one is expected to churn
out expectations with hammer, sickle...
and the brood's best interest...
of which: i can disclose none...

therefore to dance a romance with death:
i want to be there at my grandfather's
second birth...
when there's a fathoming for
a necessary eternity while he's my post-stamp
collector: which he was...
where so much of a year
is me and him preoccupied with
months upon end
admiring neptune...
sending vagueness via postcards
on sunbeams:

first came the atom bomb...
then the tightening cipher of a corrected
explosion in the variant of a beam...
of photons...
terribly accurate scientific verbiage...
if only my hometown assured me
a life in his line of work...
in metallurgy... well... the town collapsed
and so my father had to emigrate...
would be tree-chopper destined
to canada: stalled in england... present day...

death so... what a fine word in
quasi-germanic...
english...
   it sounds so much more horrid
in slavic: śmierć...
no amount of diacritical elevation...
should the same word resurface in
ancient: Ruś...
                            смерть...
smerts! ******* "smurfs" and all...

death o noun too hollow...
and if i didn't believe orthography existed
in english: only spelling mistakes...
well...

death "contra" deaf...
is very much akin to:

     morze: sea -
       może: maybe...
                
        but i implore to be forgiven:
since the english tongue doesn't employ
any diacritical markers:
from either above or below...
i never thought more of expressing
nuance, regarding it...
as the base: "spelling mistake"...
hell... to elevate such mistakes
to orthography status...
you imply i might demean all
that... metaphysical jargon focus...

a. g. barr's ice cream soda...
probably the only sort of drink
worthy of culprit memory...
mine own impressions
are mostly associated with soviet-esque
lemonades...
and turbo-chewing gums...
as boys we were supposed
to have this hunger for:
machinery tip-toe ***** envy
**** magnet:

ol' grandfather and me...
i liked to test horses for a gallop...
he would... tease some others with
an apple and a sugar-cube...

a life so completed but having
to leave one so ******* empty...
i don't care if death is so benevolent in her
praises of justice:
as blind as deaf and as tongueless as
she wants to stress herself to be...
i will not dare to cry...
perhaps... a year from now...
when my own presence in this world
is gravitating toward a new assemblance
of anonymity:
when... already...
my  neighbours are hollow ushers...
imps and diabolical idling...

at the hospice i want to see death
give birth...
i want to be this fairy-godmother
of clingingness and
obstruction...
fazing...
              for the ode of inbreeding
nuances of genes: which he didn't mind...
when he would reserve a stash of
newspapers for the "quasimodo"
that above him dwelled...
and how he would celebrate the antithesis
of inquiring for scissors...
slit lick and itching for a scratch...

you can't work around
having to employ cipher! not now!

the daughter cries for a father:
yet she's so estranged from him nd was...
this supposed: for the life to be bettered
by her offspring... mr. uno!
no... she's crying out of nostalgia...
i'm wanting to cry from...
a memory of me is about
to die within and with someone
nothing this world can compensate
me with...

collateral: lizard skins and hardening...
stone baron...
furthering of life is "nuanced"...
if this is the precursor of
son burying mother...
etc. in that quadratic...
i most certainly want to play
the role of coroner...
burning of bacon...

from the years 2004 through to 2007...
the summer escapades...
bicycle... fishing...
a man can become this completeness
in a memory that cannot be shaken...
obstructed with...
how i abhor readying myself for the
ceremony and the wake...

how the death of my grandfather
is less than
the grief already testified by his daughter:
my mother...
and how my father is this...
******* limbo rubix cube of cipher
decipher cipher decipher...
numb...
               when i supposedly burry
my father i will have to borrow burrying
someone else...

but before all that:
i want to chase death and laugh:
you's one siding antithesis shadow!
you's a shadow!
ha ha! i want to become this
inglorious... fester...
as to how death is defeated...
it's appreciated too literally...
it needs to be...
i can't allow death its grandiosity of
metaphors and church / clerical whimsical churns...
death is death is...
the beauty of the scents of autumn...

- yes, now that i'm scouting for excesses
of freedoms: i bemoan all those
readily cherished...
i have attired myself a beside:
this grievance of a "patriarchal" supposition...
by no way blinded
this lost excavation posit...
  death of "one" nearing the focus
stresor of selling... bubblegum...

death has to achieve a stature of mediocre...
so human yet so debased from man...
if i were to burn upon the pyre
of pagan worship... that death might
impart onto me a wizening...
a detail left in an obscurity of creases...

after his death i might "finally"
read Zły - leopold tymrand...
which i probably will: given how mediocre
all of knausgaard had to become:
celebrating flaubert's madame
bovary...
here is a detail and a corner...
a slab of death's riddle:
stone bound... epitaph thus missing;
but the immediacy so focused
upon a serenity of disclosure...

here lies the emblem of
the last carousel of life...
best kept impossibly immobile...
to lessen the creases...
and how one might...
appease the harems
of woo...
with french poodle jarry yoddles...
no one is to wed themselves
to my "unearthng":
sooner...
this poor rabbit blind...
en route toward my escapist
foundation furore....

to be "happy" is to be hardly
conceiving of... being...
inquiring...
to be happy is to be: dumb dumb
dumbfounded:
lost for words...
a limitless "etc"...
******* dim-wit... yeah...

last "things" i wanted
from the concept of completeness
was... "happy"...
for ****'s sakess with happy...
i don't want to be happy...
i want to be happy....
i want to be "sad"...
as long as i remain inquisitive!

i die or precusror: and therefore:
"button up"... i might fidget with
the nimble crow for all
that the curation of:
that requires the edible...
regal overtones overthrows
a h'americanana... of
a lasting... impossible... first...

and there's a "thirst"...
and then there's a "drowning"...
and an expectancy of
the... great... h'american way'vre....
veer into nill!           q?!

the god before me is but shadow, and to this shadow i feel inclined to solely bow to / die gott vor mir ist doch (adverb of the verb: to cast a) schatten, und zu dieser schatten ich fühlen geneigt zu allein neigen zu.*

a woman is an animal that learned
to speak...
      man... an animal that learned
to think!

there are but two impulses for
a... grr... a philosophical narrative -
systematisation and inconsistency -
perhaps i'll dare to add
                     in effect,
    a compliment - contradiction...
although the reason why
ridicule is so annoying,
  is that you are unable to contradict
yourself...
to ridicule is to make the other
party unable to make themselves
ridiculous...
              ridicule attaches the other's
sternness being mingled with a rigidity
of being unable to poke fun at
themselves...
                      the english are mostly
afraid of being ridiculed,
in that they are afraid of being unable
to poke fun at themselves,
retaining the stiff upper-lip...
             ridicule = to be unable
                         to be ridiculous,
or... recite a Monty Python sketch...
                   or sing a cheesy pop song...
i can't even begin to even understand why
some much of englishness has rubbed off
on me...
               why i desire their women
but would rather walk a dog.
- then again: to ridicule is to become
ridiculous -
             in that one cannot appear
ridiculous when ridiculing...
then again that extends into:
         i'm really ******* riddled!
so there's a positive outcome:
to be ridiculed implies that you're
riddling... in that you
are entertained by the wrong type
of humour...
namely experiencing
the other's hubris...
        yet you're still the riddle...
they're still far from
what's to come...
                             a humbling;
arch, arch over before your shadow,
my dear Quasimodo.

The smell of a cheap, sweet cigar mixed with the subtle staleness of his day-old Axe

The familiar comfort of being around him met with this unexplainable underlying fear

Unpredictably exciting,
Repetitively terrifying

My intuition, long ignored;
My heart, dreaming, unable to bear the reality of this ongoing nightmare

Pleading with him not to leave,
Just a few more minutes, please

The sternness of his voice,
My cue to silence

“goodb-“ cut off as he closes the passenger door, angrily at my “never-ending defiance”

He walks away, but then looks back;
nothing more to it than that

Stomachaches and fever dreams,
Memories that never flee

Years may pass,
But the heartache stays

It’s always those we wish to forget the most who never seem to fade away

Your other self watches softly
from the far side of the room,
a decade and a half or so
between you. I line you up,
placing one over the other
like wax paper for tracing.

More lines this time around,
more furrowed concern
and a sternness
in the pursing of your lips—
flatlining, discerning. I wonder

what has darkened your eyes.
If not time, something quicker
and more violent. It hangs
in the drapes about your face,
upholstery of the self, rolled out.

Nothing wavers in your gaze,
no candles dancing. Only smoke
of a dream, thinning, deferred—
snuffed out.

i don't get me... i woke up with a massive ******
****** into me face...
i get it... i get it... i like performing oral
*** on women...
i like the idea: it's non-edible...
i could be slurping on oysters...
i could be worried about tapeworms...
what else, could i be worried about?
old men that finally decided to write some poetry
because the prose train left a long time
ago?!
   you tell me...
    i just have this image in my head...
i'm slurping... i'm being sloppy...
as you do: with any available *******...
flowers are in bloom...
because the tender parts of the ****** are
at the top...
the... horrid parts... the impregnating parts
are down below...
implying fingers need to be used:
for insertion purposes...
       i have a broken "car":
i have an unfulfilled woman...
come on! come on! i need oil! i need
lubrication! what are you going to give me?!
tell me! tell me!
i don't mind slobbering:
teasing her **** with my nose...
no problem... give me more!
i need more!
i can **** all day and all night!
i can rotate my tongue with
all the anti-Copernican inventions!
more! more! more!"

no... fatherhood
or marriage is not on the cards for me...
i want to understand the rules
of playing Bridge...
if i were single for the many years
i've been single...
could i... would i... have been able?
to enjoy... the sort of diet of music
i allowed myself to ingest?!
truthfully?! no... i don't think so...

well then... thanks for the promise
of children...
but... this unearthed discovery of music
sort of overpowers me
in making "compensations"...
i still wake up with a hard-on
thinking up performing oral
*** on prostitutes...
not vegans... ahem... sorry....
   vegans are the new virgins?!

i wake up and think about... "think":
imagine... licking out anuses...
i'm sitting pretty...
sort of not pretty...
nonetheless discreetly: affirming my
unabashed sternness
of being: unmoved...
                 sure... move me...
move god...

     tell autumn to precede summer!
stones are stones...
mountains raise mountains...
seas are confused by rivers...
butterflies will never be as difficult
as moths...
      death is a riddle that life has
to be lived by effort: to a ****...
            everything lyrical best be im Deutsche...
or?! Adolph sings! ah ha...

   ha ha...

the clean house: the empty house...
the living dead... the dead supposedly living...
such are people...
            they're sort of morbid:
living... amongst them...
            i don't want to live in fear of life...
what's the point?!
            may i cite?!
die sooner! die sooner! die now! die now!

oh! the *** is an absolute feast!
i love *******!
i don't understand why monotheism abhors
the ******* in males!
can... anyone explain?
why does Judaism and Islam
abhor the ******* in male genitals?!
please...
  i just love suckling on the female genital *******...
i will: bring: your... gods... to... kneel!
or i will eradicate your
imbeciles of a supposed "people"...
i will devour with a pork's snout!

please please... remind me...
why do i enjoy performing oral *** on a woman...
she still has all the uncircumcised *******
on her ******...

this ******* PORKIE-PIE is going
to FEED! i'm going to feed off female genitals...
because i don't understand the secular
contract bound by American men
and their conscription toward being
consecrated on the altar of anti-kippah
and anti-niqab of circumcision...

       this pederasty of a deity is going to end!
this matriarchal deity of the Hebrews
and the Arabs is going to end here!
circumcise pigeons! cut off their wings!
this monotheistic god of women
is a horrible abomination!
she re-conjured him with her fable of
Frankenstein!

               darling... please die!
the sooner you die the sooner i might imagine
living for about 10 years...
before...
what bargain?! you keep your *******
while i'm robbed of it?!
thankfully i haven't been robbed...
hence?! i'm neither Jew nor Arab...
good!
        alles gut!
          which is why i enjoy eating out a ****!

these monotheistic gods will have to ****
at my "missing" *******...
while i eat out the vaginas
of prostitutes!
no wonder... inbreeding... low IQ...
sure... we need people to do deeds we
otherwise would not do...
no wonder we don't have any friends...
i don't have friends for the simple reason
that: i really don't have anything
to talk about to anyone....

oops... times are a bargain.