Childhood was the greatest time for Timothy, and he remembers it that way. No disposition on the fact that his parents divorced when he was eight. Just old enough to develop a mental connection with the idea of a union. So when he was ten, his father remarried, moved to a farm in the southeast, and tried living off the land. The topic of an ecological environment had hit the internet heavier than global warming hit the ice caps. And everyone was pursuing happiness with steep drops in city living, and an up swing in rural living.
Timothy's mom refused to believe it though. She wrote about such cultural climates, the invasion of neo-british pop boy bands, the decline of football, and the hippie lifestyle clawing its way back up the columns of big city papers. So when the recession hit, and it suddenly became cool to dress like a homeless person, she saw the disgust, moved overseas and focused on the world-political spectrum.
“Societal fads be ******! I'm going to do something that actually matters.” And she did.
Timothy Glasser, age 82 looks back on that moment with pride.
“There was a sense that she had the ***** to change the world. With Russia building up Imperial popularity, it was cool to be big. America was on the decline by the word of all the heavy-hitter magazines.
“That was when I started to take my life serious. She had shown me all the would-be Bob Dylans, Lennons, Hunter S. Thompsons. She would say, 'These kids have all the brass words of a ****** who can bite down ******* the world, but they don't have the actual brass. Men who are not recognized for what they've done have the brass. Hell, women have ten more pounds of that kind of brass!'
'I would laugh, but she was serious. I think she thought I was too masculine to understand what she was saying.”
When Timothy's father moved him and his little sister, Sunni Glasser out to the backwater community of Oggta-Cornelius, there was a certain relief in his demeanor. In a matter of months the country way of living had worn down his impatience to a sluggish pace.
“Greg was my father's name. He's been raised in a similar place in the Midwest, but the slowness of that life got to him in his teens so he left for the city. I guess when he met my step-mom he found the good ol' girl that he'd been trying to cling to since he left home. And it was Sunni's choice to come with us. She always had the same kind of 'brass' Mom had, but there was a closeness she shared with Dad that adventure couldn't break. It's a **** shame too. But once the slow pace of the backwater hit Sunni, she rebelled. It was a catastrophe to watch her and Dad argue over the most petty things you've ever seen. The way our step-mom, Claire would fold clothes or how early she had to wake up in the morning for school. Five o'clock, five days a week, and sometimes Dad would wake her on Saturday just to punish her for talking back. There was always blood in the water.”
Timothy's face settles, his lower lip curls, and his eyelids clinch for a moment before he changes his position in his chair.
“Is everything okay, Timothy?” I ask.
There is a pause, almost as if he is reliving what he was just describing.
“**** has always been real, you've been fantasizing.” I hear him say. He refuses to look at me, let alone answer my question.
“Mr. Glasser?” I ask again.
He exhales suddenly, eyes watery, and lets out a sigh.
“Let's talk about Sunni. I never really talk about her much, and I think now is a good time. Don't you?”
I nod in agreement and try to give him a smile.
He still refuses to look me in the eye.
“When Sunni was in first grade, she was beginning to prove to be a bit of a handful. There was a small patch of corn out back. Maybe half an acre Dad keep for us to put up for the winter. Sunni was about seven years old around this time and she had the idea to make crop circles. Now I was out with my friends, played football in those days so I didn't have the time to be home all the time. Dad and Claire kept themselves busy with the work about the place, so Sunni got bored real fast. One day during the summer, Dad went to the store to get some groceries. A friend of his came up to him and said, 'I was up in the plane yesterday and I saw something strange in your cornfield. Like some kind of crop circle. Weird ain't it?'
“This rattled my Dad's brain for a few minutes until he got home and saw the two-by-four with rope tied to either end of the thing. Sunni was staring at the clouds and Dad walked over to her, and yanked her up off the grass. 'What are you doing flattening my corn for? Don't you know that's goin' to save us money in the long run?” She just stared at him. Not dumbfounded, just intrigued.
“That was kind of the starting point of their bickering. She had blonde hair running to the base of her skull brushed down neatly. A subtle blush in her cheek from the sun. And she always wore a dress, especially if it had sunflowers on it. She brought life to that house.
“On her tenth birthday, Mom sent her a touch screen phone, an iPhone, I think it was called with a two-year contract. It was so long ago minor facts like that seem to hang on for no reason.”
Timothy shuffles in his chair. Then clears his throat.
“Would you like to take a break, Timothy?” I ask him.
“I ignored most of the arguments Sunni and dad had after I graduated high school. As soon as fall semester started at Cornelius College I fled the backwater and started by life near the OceanFront. Oggta-Cornelius was divided into two sections: the Backwater and OceanFront. And like a sports rivalry there was always trash talk about the tax bracket you were in or how much you worked. After the first few weeks for sneaking into bars and partying on campus, the fun died down because of the arrests. I almost got caught twice, but my sixth sense for trouble tingled at just the right time. When the middle of the semester hit I was over-booked with mid-terms and reading assignments. I actually lived in my dorm then. Never really left the place. And soon fall semester was over. Nothing worth mentioning now. Sunni and I texted often, but she had become a brat and I wanted alone time to learn what I'd read. For everything literary to go beyond just test and quizzes.
“But right towards the end of the semester, one morning I was walking to an early exam and on the ground was a kid, a little older than me lying there looking up at the sky. I had the urge to walk up and ask him what he was doing, but it felt too rude so I left him. I kept walking and heard a voice call back to me, 'Hey, guy.' I turned around, 'Yeah you, come here.'
“I walked up to him, he motioned for me to kneel beside him.
'What day is it?
I told him it was a Monday.
'Really? Wow, must've fell out watching the stars with this gir--'
He reached to his other side, feeling for a body, but no one was there. He never broke eye contact with me.
'Well, with his lovely imaginary girlfriend I have. Her name's Elsie. She's a charm.'
I helped him up and he left without much of a goodbye. A disrespectful mysteriousness. And I didn't see him again till the weather warmed up in the spring semester. Which was a repeat of the fall.”
Timothy asks me for some water. I started to feel like I'm one of his grandkids. How far in the trunk of memories is he going for this information?
“Thank you. Now the next time I saw Alan was in a smoking gazebo along a walking path on campus.
'Hey, guy!” he shouted, getting my attention. I walked back to the gazebo, coughing as the smoke roughhoused it's way into my lungs. He had those circular shades on, like the one John Lennon wore back in the day. A tie around his head, a light blue button up shirt that hung loose off his think frame. His hair was long and parted, and he sported a straggly red and black beard.
'Top of the morning, ta ya.' he said, putting out a cigarette on the tray. I opened my mouth, but all that came out was coughing.
'Course, the Irish don't really say that. It's actually quite racist, but I'm half Irish so no skin of my knuckles. I'm a mutt.'
“He smiled with such pomp. The arrogance was so natural, it fit him like his face. Other people around him were having conversations about Samuel Beckett, John Irving, Stephen King, and Jimmy Hendrix tripping acid together in the great T.A.R.D.I.S. in the sky. I remember laughing at that. They were all smiling at the ludicrous actuality of it happening. And it was late evening.
'Stay! Be silly and merry with us!” he shouted. I held my breath and sat down. I never made it to the rest of my classes that afternoon or for the next week. Alan and I chilled in my dorm, burned incense and plotted a protest. The whole time I was telling him he had to be literal with the cause. It couldn't be just because the college bookstore sold shot glasses, but confiscated any paraphernalia they found in the dorms.
'*******,I say. It's hypocritical and a scam. Like police pulling you over for going two-miles over the limit because they need to feed their kids. It's a Darwin rip-off.'
“Later that week he took my phone while I was sleeping, got my number, and Sunni's too. He never asked if he could come over after that night. He just did.
'I thought it was cool since we had a good time.'
"I didn't know what to say so I let it continue. His reason for stealing Sunni's number still baffles me. He said he thought she was a girl I was into. She was my sister, he was right in his own way. It was a while before he ever texted her.
“The next time I saw him he told me, 'I feel like a clockwork man running on thousands of gallons of caffeine.' I laughed at him and told him to stop reading Burgess.”
I stop Timothy for a moment. “Anthony Burgess? The author of A Clockwork Orange?” He nods and goes back to the story.
“You know, with the Second Cold War flaring up again I don't think it's wise to be worrying about an old man like me. This has been a century of second fillings. There are still Hipsters running about. This makes me feel no better. I want to go home.”
“Alright Mr. Glasser, but can we reschedule? I need to finish this article.” As he rises out of the chair, he agrees and goes for his coat.
“One more question, Mr. Glasser. Can you give me another quote from Alan? A bit of closing for this bit?
He turns around and looks me in the eye for the first time since the beginning of the interview. He squints his eyes at me and says, “When we would hang out at the gazebo where we actually met for the first time, and after that week I got back in the habit of going to class and doing my work. As I would leave I'd say, 'Alright man, I'm off to class, to learn and stuff.' He'd moan about it, and say, 'Look at him now, growing old and dying young.' Behind that same pompous grin."

I catch the rapido train from Milano and edge slowly westward through the stops and starts of frozen points and village stations. The heating fails and an offer of warmer seats in another compartment. I decide to stay here. I put on my coat, scarf, hat and gloves and sit alone. In my grieving time, I feel closer to the cold world outside as it moves past me, intermittently. Falling snow in window-framed landscapes.            

Sky gun metal grey
shot through
with sunset ribbons.
                                                                                                          
Dusk eases into black-cornered night. After Maghera, the train seems to race to the sea. It rumbles onto the Ponte della Ferrovia, stretching out across the Laguna Veneta. Suddenly, a jonquil circle moon pulls the winter clouds back and shines a lemony silver torch across the inky waters. Crazed and cracked sheets of ice lie across the depthless lagoon. The train slows again and slides into Santa Lucia. I walk into the night.                                                                                               
Bleak midwinter      
sea-iced night wind
bites bitter.
                                                                                                      
No. 2 Diretto winding down the Canal Grande.  The foggy night muffles the guttural throb of the engine and turns mundane sounds into mysteries. Through the window of the vaporetto stop, the lights of Piazza San Marco are an empty auditorium of an opera house. Walking to Corte Barozzi, I hear the doleful tolling of midnight bells; the slapping of water and the *****-***** of the gondolas’ mooring chains. Faraway a busker sings Orfeo lamenting his lost Eurydice, left in Hades.
I wake to La Serenissima, bejewelled.                                                                                                                           
Weak winter sunshine
Istrian stone walls
flushed rosy.
                                                                                                          
Rooftops glowing. Sun streaming golden between the neck and wings of the masted Lion. Mist has lifted, the sky cloudless; I look across the sparkling Guidecca canal and beyond to the shimmering horizon.          
Molten mud
bittersweetness demi-tasse
Florian’s hot chocolate                    

I walk the maze of streets, squares and bridges; passing marble well-heads and fountains, places of assignation. I walk on stones sculpted by hands, feet and the breath of the sea. Secrets and melancholy are cast in these stones.                                                                  

At Fondamente Nuove, I take Vaporetto no.41 to Cimitero. We chug across the laguna, arriving at  the western wall of San Michele.  I thread through the dead, along pathways and between gravestones. At the furthest end of the Cemetery island, Vera and Igor Stravinsky lie in parallel graves like two single beds in an hotel room. Names at the head, a simple cross at the foot of the white stone slab. Nearby, his flamboyant mentor Serge Diaghalev. His grave, a gothic birdbath for ravens, has a Russian inscription; straggly pink carnations, a red votive candle and a pair of ragged ballet shoes with flounces of black and aquamarine tulle tied to their the ribbons. So many dead in mausoleums; demure plots; curious walled filing cabinets, marble drawer ossuaries.
                                                                                                      
Bare, whispering Poplars
swaying swirling shadows
graves rest beneath          

I walk to the other end of the island and frame Venezia in the central arch of the Byzantine gateway.  I see that sketchy horizontal strip of rusty brick, with strong verticals of campaniles and domes. It is here, before 4 o’clock closing time, I throw your ashes to the sea and run to catch the last boat.                                                                                          

Beacon light orange
glittering ripples
on the dove grey lagoon.

© M.L.Emmett
First published in New Poets 14: Snatching Time, 2007, Wakefield Press, Kent Town SA.
To view with Images: Poems for Poodles https://magicpoet01.wordpress.com

He sat in a small compartment by
The window, on a train,
The passengers huddled around him
Saying, ‘Tell that one again!’
He spoke in a low and measured voice
As they held their breath, to stare,
Watching his hands, as they described
Vague circles in the air.

There wasn’t a sound outside, except
The carriage, clickety-clack,
A sound that would tend to hypnotise
As the train sped down the track,
In every one of his listeners
Was a picture, in each mind,
That spoke to them of that better life
Which had been too hard to find.

And seagulls circled the skies above
As he primed their minds with ‘If…’
And led them all in a straggly line
To stand at the top of a cliff.
The sea was blue and the clouds were grey
And the rocks below sublime,
As they teetered there for a moment where
They stood, at the edge of time.

For then he’d show them a garden, with
The form of an only child,
Who seemed to be so familiar
That most of them there had smiled,
The scent of a pink wisteria
Had wafted the carriage air,
And then their tears rolled back the years
As they whispered, ‘I was there!’

He showed them a woman in mourning
With a cape, and a darkened veil,
Who knelt alone by a headstone,
Each listeners face was pale.
The bell of the church began to toll
As it sounded someone’s knell,
His face was the face of the gravedigger
As he held them in his spell.

The carriage was filled with waves of fear,
The carriage was filled with joy,
He’d tell of the death of a mountaineer,
Of a child with a much-loved toy,
Their tears they’d dry as the train came in
To the tale of a Scottish Kirk,
And one by one they would rise to leave
And head off the train, to work.

But the Storyteller would stay on board
And close the compartment door,
His restless hands were trembling still
As his eyes stared down at the floor.
The train heads into the future while
The past is deep in his well,
He sits and weeps in the corner for
The tales that he doesn’t tell.

David Lewis Paget

The Image Left in the Gutter


This will be a hard read but only if you pay attention to what it says in a dream I found myself in a
Perilous situation on a dark city street I found myself looking down the gun barrel I have looked
Down a lot of them sighting animals while hunting its a lot different when you’re the prey but with a lot
Of   fear and trepidation I just spoke a name and when I did this dangerous person just melted away
But his image a cruel large face long straggly black curly hair and burly body and the arm with the gun was
Quiet visible gleaming up from the wet cement street just a face with crazy eyes a Charlie Manson type it was as if it were painted there
I know you don’t recognize him now but you will it will become clearer because I did you could say an
Exaggeration not much of one we all know we Have a dangerous enemy and we all have heard our worst
Enemy looks back at us from the mirror I had such an enemy he knew as much as I did but with a twist
He used my weakness to his great advantage I have gone to church for a long time but I never deluded
Myself into thinking I would make heaven but like the image that criminal outlaw that ruled my life was
Rendered just a frozen image through my writing it became evident that Christ really had overthrown
The enemy outwardly that had my soul bound by evil at a dark point when all was truly lost truth
Couldn’t be denied but into that shame and disgust he stepped into my life and took every bit of evil
Out and filled it with Himself I finally knew what the word meant if you know him you can’t sin my
Writing was the first indication a particular distasteful thing happened well actually a friend died it elicited many
Feelings anger being the most prevalent I set down to write and I was fired up as they say well it didn’t
Go as I intended the most beautiful words started to flow and the end results people that were hurting
Were blessed and comforted now a new development not to say I’m a coward but yellow brick road
Does spring to mind the problem I have been border line diabetic for a few years but over the holidays
Swollen feet and legs then I guess they call them lesions I call them big bee stings and then like someone
Drilling holes in your legs a little more than irritating your entire mind only thinks about that its hard to
Concentrate on your writing then the unknown double amputee well my feet have been numb I call
Them dead for the last five years but it’s funny how I have a new fondness for how they work now that
They Are threatened and the saying lean on God is just empty words until now as anyone else over the
Years I have had to lean and never has he failed there was a time I was in jeopardy not so much ******
But I was young and this man was just was released from a fifteen year stretch for bank robbery as I talked I
guess he didn’t like my religious ideas he started to give it to me good but a funny thing happened all of
a sudden I felt my backbone have a feeling of turning to hardened steel I looked him in the eye and said
what you might not get but he got it because he just did the numbers for fifteen years I just asked him
where he was going to be in a hundred years he was all ready sixty plus the grin died on his face and we
had a couple of hours of serious talk about God that just before was so offensive I lost contact when I
moved to California I heard about his death I don’t know what he did about his soul but I know he
already faced it that night when God showed me I can handle anything or anyone with Him by my side

The Image Left in the Gutter
This will be a hard read but only if you pay attention to what it says in a dream I found myself in a
Perilous situation on a dark city street I found myself looking down the gun barrel I have looked
Down a lot of them sighting animals while hunting its a lot different when you’re the prey but with a lot
Of fear and trepidation I just spoke a name and when I did this dangerous person just melted away
But his image a cruel large face long straggly black curly hair and burly body and the arm with the gun was
Quiet visible gleaming up from the wet cement street just a face with crazy eyes a Charlie Manson type it was as if it were painted there
I know you don’t recognize him now but you will it will become clearer because I did you could say an
Exaggeration not much of one we all know we Have a dangerous enemy and we all have heard our worst
Enemy looks back at us from the mirror I had such an enemy he knew as much as I did but with a twist
He used my weakness to his great advantage I have gone to church for a long time but I never deluded
Myself into thinking I would make heaven but like the image that criminal outlaw that ruled my life was
Rendered just a frozen image through my writing it became evident that Christ really had overthrown
The enemy outwardly that had my soul bound by evil at a dark point when all was truly lost truth
Couldn’t be denied but into that shame and disgust he stepped into my life and took every bit of evil
Out and filled it with Himself I finally knew what the word meant if you know him you can’t sin my
Writing was the first indication a particular distasteful thing happened well actually a friend died it elicited many
Feelings anger being the most prevalent I set down to write and I was fired up as they say well it didn’t
Go as I intended the most beautiful words started to flow and the end results people that were hurting
Were blessed and comforted now a new development not to say I’m a coward but yellow brick road
Does spring to mind the problem I have been border line diabetic for a few years but over the holidays
Swollen feet and legs then I guess they call them lesions I call them big bee stings and then like someone
Drilling holes in your legs a little more than irritating your entire mind only thinks about that its hard to
Concentrate on your writing then the unknown double amputee well my feet have been numb I call
Them dead for the last five years but it’s funny how I have a new fondness for how they work now that
They Are threatened and the saying lean on God is just empty words until now as anyone else over the
Years I have had to lean and never has he failed there was a time I was in jeopardy not so much ******
But I was young and this man was just was released from a fifteen year stretch for bank robbery as I talked I
guess he didn’t like my religious ideas he started to give it to me good but a funny thing happened all of
a sudden I felt my backbone have a feeling of turning to hardened steel I looked him in the eye and said
what you might not get but he got it because he just did the numbers for fifteen years I just asked him
where he was going to be in a hundred years he was all ready sixty plus the grin died on his face and we
had a couple of hours of serious talk about God that just before was so offensive I lost contact when I
moved to California I heard about his death I don’t know what he did about his soul but I know he
already faced it that night when God showed me I can handle anything or anyone with Him by my side
-----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------

Everything fades as you slowly walk with your feet cushioned underneath by tiny particles of softly shaded sand.
The ocean waves mist you as they gently collide into the thick mass of denim-blue water—
Strands of straggly hair get tangled in the quiet, gentle breeze.
Your mind clears as you walk into the distant sunset of gorgeous colour.
Nothing can come between your spirit and the peace and harmony.
You feel so free and majestic; it almost seems as if you’re soaring over the ocean blue—
Like a pearl white seagull with nothing better to do.
You halt and splash into the sea for a fresh fish meal.
Feeling slightly heavy after indulging the innocent creature, you flutter your wings, slowly ascending into the night sky.
Down below you can hear the tiny footsteps of a strange, little girl.
She notices you as you float down and land on top of a small, wooden post a few inches in front of her.
She stares into your bright dandelion-coloured eyes.
Something very bizarre and unusual happens, a weird yet fascinating connection.
Your feathers crackle, and the girl cripples.
Both of you form into one beneath the sand and wait for another lost soul to come across you and join the cycle—
The cycle of peace through a demented one’s eyes.

Darkness engulfs me and I sink deeper into a sea of sorrow
Summered by the hope of no tomorrow
Heart beat is faint pulse is weak
Will this pain induce my eternal sleep
Liquid emotions run from my eyes
As I look into the mirror at this pitiful demise
How could anyone love such a worthless existence
Costly a straggly with suicidal persistence

When Christine heard
that he'd tried
to hang himself
in the men's crapper

desperation bells
began to ring
inside her head
then she saw him

on the locked ward
sans laces
or belts
or anything

he may use
to repeat
the performance
and he sat

in the big chair
his eyes dull
and his hair untidy
and with that loose hanging

dressing gown
minus belt
and in pyjamas
like some

Auschwitz guy
and she said
what the ****
you in here for?

sitting in the armchair
next to him
broken heart
broken love

lost love
soul crashing
through all gears
to get back

to base
who knows?
he said
like that huh?

join the club
for what it's worth
we're all ****** up here
like driftwood

on a lonely beach
on some deserted island
she said
he gazed at her

disinterestedly
as if a gnat
had landed
on his hand

they lock
the doors here?
sure do
all the time

what about visitors?
once a week
Sundays
he looked at her

at her dark
long straggly hair
her dull eyes
why you here?

he said
some ****
left me
at the altar

all dressed up
like some nun
in white
she said

he must have been
mad to have left you
anywhere
he said

well he must be
because he did
opposite
an Indian woman

sat crossed legged
picking
at her toes
a red spot

on her forehead
dressed
in long gowns
of bright colours

a plump woman
walked by smoking
eyeing them
suspiciously

foul mouthing
the nurse going by
so how long
you been here?

he asked
week or so
how long you staying?
until they say

I can leave
when will that be?
when they think
I’m better

or cured
or able to be
balanced again
when will that be?

how the ****
do I know
she said
sorry

about the language
anger gets
to my tongue
before I do

you're not going
to hang yourself
again are you?
she asked

don't know
who I am any more
don't know jackshit
about myself

whoever myself is
she nodded
looked at his
handed in slippers

the scar
on his left wrist
not your first time then?
she said

touching the scar
guess not  
he said
welcome to Purgatory

she said
he sensed her finger
on his scar
the female touch

he wanted something
whatever it was
something
to hold on to

O
so very much.

She leaned propped in the corner,
That elderly lady with the long straggly hair,
apparently unwashed.
Her hair,
it wasn't shiny white liken to her dignified friends,
it was almost dreadlocks,
It didn't smell bad,
nor did it smell good,
surprising I hear you say.

The handsome guy,
He dashes in.
He grabs her round the waist,
He chucks her head in a bucket of water,
pulls her hair and rings it out,
chucks her hair on to the floor,
and rubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed some more.

The linoleum now,
is glowing clean,
pristeen,
sparkling,
smelling fresh,
looking like it's nearly new.
Just amazes me,
what a good looking younger man can do,
when playing in the lady poet's imagination!!
(C) Livvi

i have seen you
in different
unfavorable moments

after waking up
with sleep in your eyes
doused with water,
straggly hair, a drowned rat

after long days
completely exhausted
sick, with a feverish glance
during ***, totally caught

in poor light
in awkward poses
unfavorable angles

it does not matter.
it was you every moment
and anytime
i loved you

A sweet, chirping grey jungle tree;
Stirring up bloodied doses within me,
I hath been abducted by morose darkness;
And its fetal, yet obnoxious messes,
For t'is flowered cave smelling just like death!
And to me, death is more like an obsession
In a glaze this phony, and dripping wet
Cold that I hath met about, in person.
One that hath fascinated me; with wronged tears
A single soul is not yet there to hear;
And lurking pools of fears, all blended
Into the versatile skin of the unfriended
Moon, being the beige universe, and evil—
Although he knows not how I should feel.

I, had been enslaved by the worst sun;
And tied to the post of unwanted salvation.
I, not being the privilege of Life now;
I shall go tonight, and not return tomorrow.
I had enough love, but with no love to be,
I shall not halt to see this side of me.
And hark! By the solitary lights of the moon;
The Earth was once my saluted destination;
But who could fight for a savage battle
In an attempt to experience rebirth,
Born with no contempt for the world;
But with Remorse bludgeoned, and hurt,
As though I had committed but treason;
And living was just to hold a vain reason.

For such reasons would be censured venom;
To them, who raved not at my longest poems,
And my guilt’s blood would be their songs,
They had committed justice, and no wrong;
Which a dour soul could adore at a lonely night,
Whilst being mute towards the shifting trees,
Torture and denial were the nail of Sunlight,
Waking me up to the enchantment of ragged bliss.
Had I, another day, woken up to another peril;
I acknowledged my embedded fate as an Evil,
To recite the spells that had infuriated me,
An indolent vice that had but been meant to be.
An insult, that such straggled **** may hate;
But so, forgiveness is far a threat too late.

Such fortuities, I hath not cornered to embrace;
And I shall not be back to sing conned waste,
And by being gratuitous and to *******,
I want to be the handsome rebellion to my fate;
Had I found myself trapped on the defunct floors;
I could not escape marked death at Midnight's door,
And at that sick moment I had been flawed,
Frightened, slackened to my rawest flesh,
By the metal edge of a cut sword, and then;
I was but Death at the rotten night, my friend!
Such fiends, such rage—were far in their summer bliss,
And yet I but grew as a faint shadow in peace;
I watched their flaked nostrils from inside my tomb,
My tomb, and its scraped walls—my quiet home,
I could not breathe now, nor bend towards a kiss;
I was the soul the Earth had forgot, had missed;

I, roused again now as a darling apparition;
I wear a black mask and utter repetitions,
No soul shall want to collapse in my steps—and bolt!
I hath entrapped many daydreaming in sloth,
Those with looser complacency, and breath
In their nostrils lives such straggly wrath;
And in such hair so ricocheted and unkempt,
How canst one but find a stranded scarf, a lamp?
With the odour of blood I can taste, and yet
Makes my hungered mouth groaning wet,
I hath drunk from too many souls, and I
That shan’t live any more, nor shall I die;
Ah! Now I shall ****, and begin with the dirt—
Cleansing such Earth off of malignant worlds!

What a disgrace, a scraggly—yet resilient disgrace!
A bend in the road had I been, and was I mean
To the world but sought not to know me?
And at times of need, their race but leaned to me;
And their fair promises, and royals, had not been true—
Unlike the verity of the justice I had found, and knew.
Unlike my bosoms, that had faced too much sorrow,
These ghastly sighs and temptations shall know now;
I hath found the world to lay my head silently,
With no love to be, and cut my love reverently;
That the stars should watch us meanly, but sure
They would not be a stale aura to my picture.
But to die, to cease demurely without a certain name
Shall be one that feels not my pool of shame;
And t’is crime is no exception, o my lover—
I am exempt now, from the insolent love, forever!

What an imbecile, that we embraced to softly!
What a butterfly that cannot fly in me;
Not a life that holds my chest, nor my blossom
Not a purity that holds clear my poem, o thee!
An ink on the page, but yet ‘tis my story
That I want freedom to writ my fierce destiny.
What a blurred visage to my vision such is,
What a menacing world to want a kneeling kiss!
With no love to see, and with no called name,
They hath no trifling tales nor misspelled shame;
That I had perhaps been too morally confused,
That Death was ethereal, but coldly infused;
Ah, thou, so to thee Death is no exception—
Having not thought of my hurt, my inflammation!

For a living fate can be unassuming, and uncertain;
For humans can die, and be nauseous;
For such lives are a demerit; and for a friend;
For a destiny that can be true, but tedious.
From a love that I am already free,
From a love so ubiquitous; and in unison,
I am obliged to no merits, nor tragic beauty;
I shall seek and give no compassion, nor reason.
And in a vain attempt had I hastily tried;
And in a vain triumph had I sullenly dried;
And in bewitching the silky skies had I died;
So shan’t I return to the boisterous Heavens,
The Lord bitterly misplaced me, and lied
To me behind the graves, and rained gardens.

For in the days that followed my death, hath I sworn
To kidnap back the life that had been blown;
And be the Black Spirit they would find pertinent
To hear the trespassing of death, and their moments
To crunch the life of the ones before me;
Amicable as they were in their apposite defence,
But not as the lush presentation of their beauty;
That I should entrance and ****** them, hence.
Who couldst defend my murdered youth but me;
Who couldst strongly step on my bursts of anger;
Who couldst restore my prone poetry but ******;
Who couldst live but I, who lives forever;
Who couldst separate my from my agony;
Who couldst live but with ill fate, and be?

For the age that I hath lost, and thoughtless’ burnt
And of being grace, and kind hath I not heard;
And with delight, shan’t I stop and turn;
For no obvious reason, for no maddened alert.
I am stronger in my rebirth, and with sharp, strident
Steps, hath I grown more braced and confident;
For no reason, for no further light hath I doubted;
For no marks, nor discourse hath I faulted;
For such apologies, and humility are obsolete,
For my imagination of such is clear, and yet;
I hath no more obligations so, to be met—
And with such unwavering strength crystal clear,
And everlasting sleep to me so near,
I am to grow out of the vines of my grave;
And descend carefully on the midnight’s cape.
And yet, who is sleeping sweetly in his wife’s bed;
I shall soon send him into delicious death.

For the life that had been obediently drawn;
For the miraculous night that turned to dawn,
For the life that had belonged to me, and so
I am to be above the stars, and ever in the know
All my victims so sternly, thoughtfully, and deeply
I am to **** reverently, and by sweetness, vigilantly:
“I am to drink the redness, and be the Sun’s equal”
My voice singing through the forest’s damp halls.
And now yet, with the futile man dead in my arm,
I fling myself into another chained woman’s charms!
With her blood so capricious dripping down my throat;
I can feel myself furiously sweat, and sweetly float;
I am to rouse in transparency through the roof;
And be the midnight, no more aloof!

And to be the Spear of the universe, and hell;
I would like to wish every fault and demerit well;
Soon, there shan’t be the raucous singing of jingle bells,
Death is in everyone—eating off of their shells.
Ah! My lover’s flesh, that I am devouring eagerly;
Now is but a piece of provision so sweet to me;
In which I canst indulge in but a locked pain;
Feeding off of his blood and its red rain;
Ah, I am so hungry, and those eyes are for me!
He gasps, and I am free now, as the flannel sky;
I am free to haunt and grasp all about me,
I can feel their smell descend about so nigh.
My lover, and his vain woman of the scorched past
Are now in death, far from their sly voices and hearts!

And to be the Sword of the Space, and devils;
I feel honoured to be part of the evils;
And be the taunt and haunting to all men,
To all this Earth’s visions, emblazoned fiends!
To me, all of their deaths hath been inscribed;
Ever since I was grown from dead, and my lungs
Hath been imbibed with more pronounced vibes,
And choruses more awesomely sung;
I am to assimilate those humans, now, ha-ha!—
And be a creature of the night, the Hailed One,
They shall bow to me in flash, and in my old Stanza;
All murders are to be spoken, to be done!
My enemy, and his once powerful screeching speech;
Gunned down into his last breath, the gospel’s ditch!

And the vitriolic dream, now, that is too high;
I shall not stop until all petrified souls shall die,
There, above me, the afterlife writing in agony,
Justified in every sense, and be the last poem
That I shall write in my dated prose of destiny;
I hath become the Satan to destroy, and numb
All the rhymed births and breaths of life, ah!
I hath been ****** into this fate, of my own;
And be I never a praised, nor a soft wife—
Yet I am impressed already, by closed immortality;
And my youth forever, with its endless passion
And latest bursts that happen in eternity,
I am to counter and cure all my halted questions;
I shall go and return, I hath all the time in me!

And Ruthlessness, then, that is too holy;
I hath admired thee with all the blood in me,
And to restore the humanity in me prominently;
I shall **** all, and make their deaths permanently!
For all deaths are idyll to me, and my abode,
An abundance as I roam, and float about!
What hath happened to my human, and bold songs,
For they hath not been a sky to me, all along;
What a condescending spirit a human is,
For they think what a fierce not is;
Whilst all that is thin is bold, and a rose;
What a singing displeasure to my prose!
Ah, to **** all, and cherish all their dyings,
I shall cut and devour with my heart singing!

Then, into the skies, as I ascend I hear
All flowered flesh is but towering so near;
They hath heartbeats and clueless rainbow;
They are not to fight me with violence,
They hath no tyranny, nor are above my shadow;
They hath no abode—but my impertinence!
Ah, and blessed am I, so meekly blessed;
This is but the best day I hath ever had,
For so anger and betrayal are not unwise at all;
And so holy are miseries, and miseries are ******.
I am to **** more, and bring my joys to Fall,
I am to eat, and devour more in summer.
I am to drink more, and bleed in winter;
To celebrate deaths, and merry more in my walls!

Then, into the Earth, as I descend I see
That I descend with a later moon, and be
For all who loved me, there shall still be death;
For I shall arise amidst these unhearing walls,
For the many teardrops that were shed,
For the shrieking pains I shared, and their toll;
For the world, that hath not been too exquisite,
For the crowds, that hath all along lacked such wit,
For the Sun, that hath ne’er been a soul sweet;
For a love that ne’er had a single beat!
For a love that I hath fragrantly cursed,
For a love I hath determined to make worst.
I am to eat, as though I am the Sun, the West;
I shall put its whole black pit to sleep, to eternal rest!

With all good cheer hath I spoken, and thus I turned
To see further stomachs and chests lying down, churned
And eating off of them is a swarm of butterflies
That were stirred to life by my own puke of frights;
And I, spitting out but flames and fires from within me
And my mouth that hath burnt thousands of thee,
I am not afraid to claim my rights, as I please;
And to destruct far more indeed, as I wish—
Which I celebrate as an ordinary gift, and yet
Hath made and shall render all conscious souls mad!
And all about me hath gone to precious sleep
In their admiration of my prominence, and weep;
And all about me hath turned to obstinate death;
Ripped down of breath, and any traces of life, of late.

With sainted grand glory hath I writ, and rejoiced
The merry and cordial pleasures of deathly bliss;
For such splendour, are not lovingly present every day,
And the vanished worlds have become dear to me today;
That now, as I devour another’s wrist, and arms
I am absorbed within death’s knocking charms;
And his limbs offer farther delicacy than the stars,
And his soul be a playful drink two worlds apart;
Another one, that tastes like those fine vines,
And grapes, and the fruits smelling like Truths.
Ah! I sit there, leaning softly against the Cedar Mine;
Sipping his blood by the humming Eolian lute;
His veins dry and graze me, sickly, too fast;
I hath not had a drink and feast too vast!

And with deadening love hath I lived, and existed
In the world into which Faith hath not fitted;
Like the ode in me, trying to tie the Moon
Whilst such dimmed favours laid in the Sun;
I had been crafted only, but in vain
I had been transmitted also, but in pain
And all despaired, with my talents, to death
To be woken again in renewed hate;
What a fault of thine, o thee, and perhaps mine;
At times a rustic stupor to me, and yet is fine!
I am the Evil to be, and Satan so free,
At peaceful hours shall I come to thee;
Finding my ecstasy in Death and ******;
My civilian songs to the Earth, forever.

My love, my sweetheart
she is as white as cold milk
at will as transparent as glass;
her lips are red, as red as dripping blood

she wakes me up each night
with a newly-plucked out
still-beating heart
of all varieties of human emotions:
"Breakfast in bed?" she croons

O her every word is a scream
her every look burns the spirit
she shrieks and groans and moans
enough to raise me up to the clouds
O her very touch is icy cold
her embrace is as delightful as being
in the arms of Queen Winter -
O...Ooo...wwooooh...should I compare her in a sonnet to a Winter's night?
but that would be groundless
for she excels
every unpleasantness
and horror, and she breaks all form

My love
she screeches like car tyres in a sudden stop
she scratches down my back
like a tractor on farm land
her eyes are hollow
and we exchange worms when we kiss;
her ears pop out
of her dry, unkempt straggly hair -
O she drives me into long howls, that wild wild
ghost of once a woman

O eternity,  eternity with my cold, cold love
O what would I not give to be always
and always
in spirit with her -
O I could die forever
to be in the cold, cold embrace
of my hollow-eyed screamy love

you extra fry in the bottom of the bag you sleeping in on a tuesday morning you good hair day you all night drinking with no hangover you warm towel straight from the dryer you new friend in the back of a new york taxi cab you misinterpreted abstract art you lost concert ticket you frost bitten fingertip you half dranken water bottle you misspelled word you unwanted bouquet on valentines day you deadline yesterday you uncashed check you college rejection you cannibalistic praying mantis you paper cut from an envelope  you coup de tat you cat got your tongue you swallowed words you split lip you straggly strand of split ends you broken vase you five missed calls you broken necklace clasp you half hearted apology

She didn’t want her to be with him,
She wanted Anne for herself,
Since ever he had been on the scene
It was like she was on the shelf.
Anne never called for a girl’s night out
As she’d done in the days before,
So tears had streamed in her nightmare dreams
And Cathy had said, ‘it’s war!’

She painted her lips and shortened her skirt
And tied her hair in a plait,
The hair that now was a lustrous blonde
Not the straggly brown of a rat,
She sprayed some perfume under her arms
And more down under her skirt,
Then pulled on stockings with straightened seams,
A suspender belt that hurt.

She rouged her cheeks till she looked quite flushed
Like an innocent girl at play,
So when she wanted, it seemed she blushed
Pretend to be looking away,
Mascara darkened her cunning eyes
And dimples formed in each cheek,
A pencil arched where she’d plucked each brow
And her lips would pout when she’d speak.

She tried it out when she went to town
And bumped right into her friend,
For he was hanging on Annie’s arm
Like a drunken man on the mend,
He clung so tight it was surely love
She’d be lucky to tear them apart,
And Annie smiled as she told her friend,
‘My man has a lovely heart.’

But Cathy stood in the fellow’s way
Her bodice spilling her *******,
He seemed to stare at  her open cleavage
This was the ultimate test,
He didn’t flinch then or look away
And Annie gave her a frown,
But patted him on the wrist, to say,
‘He seems to be looking down.’

Cathy turned as to walk away
But then looked down at her shoe,
And bent right over, her skirt rode up
He looked, but what do you do?
‘You should be careful,’ then Annie said,
‘You’ll show someone your behind,
It doesn’t matter to me, or he,
My darling lover is blind!’

David Lewis Paget

Smashed windows and ***** doors
Broken exhausts on uneven floors
Uncouth youth making a noise
A sorry reflection on decent boys
The Magpies stumble on straggly grass
Clever birds avoid the glass
Wandering around with beaks up high
In busy times it's off to the sky
The Magpies flutter and roll along
Black and white wonders seem to belong
The Magpies talk in their own little voice
They say this place is a little bit choice

The day came to an end as the fiery embers of the burning sun hung low and hid behind bruised clouds, setting into the darkening ground far off into the horizon. I looked down and checked the aged and black shaft of the arrow that I absentmindedly twirled between the worn life grooves of my hand. It had been shot many times and taken just as many lives but still remained true and sturdy. The broad head could have used a little sharpening but was still sharp enough to tear and rip thru the thick flesh of most big game. I muttered softly and straggly as I checked the nock. The hoarseness in my voice telling me that it had been a long time since I took a sip from my flask. The smell of courage hung in the air of my breath after a few small gulps; enough to feel the warmth spread evenly over the taste of my tongue and into my bloodstream, coursing it's burn thruout the extremities of my body. I watched out of the broken tree limbs, thorn bush, and **** grass makeshift blind and kept my eyes peeled on the decaying sunlit landscape for any signs of movement as the hunger in my stomach grumbled it's ache aloud. I took another drink to quiet it down and notched the arrow onto the string of my Hoyt compound bow, reading the arrow and my nerves for the **** that I had been anticipating and waiting for the past twelve hours but had also been waiting and anticipating for many days of my long and tired life...

sometimes
when i feel really lonely
i dream of your lips
so soft against mine
noses rubbing
and your eyelashes tickling my cheek

i dream of your moans
small gasps for air
as you bite your bottom lip
trying to control yourself

i dream of your hand
clasped to mine
of your laughs and giggles
or your tears and shouts

of your amazing body
immersed in warm soapy water
your hair straggly and wet
and your cheeks red with heat

i dream of your voice
quiet and velvet like
as you whisper my name
and the pronunciation is perfect

i dream that i know you
more than i know myself

A guitar case with no music in, owned by
the old woman who can't sing.
He sweeps the comb through her straggly hair,
What no money and nobody cares.
He wipes the burning tears from her pretty eyes.
Listens to her worried sighs.
She's concerned about a lack of dosh.
Christmas is coming, oh golly gosh.
He, is the fellow with the overgrown belly and the beard of white,
Waiting for Christmas eve.
Bring on that night.
His name by now you must be aware is really Santa Claus,
This year he's really scared.
With no toys for his haversack.
Due to lack of funds.

A sleigh in need of service.
Reindeer nibbling rotten carrots.
**** Horrible.
And the sprouts are full of wind.
His workshop staff redundant,
More silent, than a winter's night upon a turkey farm.

Outside,the local families gather beneath last year's yule .
This year, everybody's skint
Lit the bonfire with stones of flint.
Perfect purpose,
Free fuel.
Carols echo noisily outside the house next door.
"Disappear" she said in a very loud voice.
Wait a few weeks before you rejoice.
It's way too early,
"Go", she said.
"Please, please, I beg of you no more.
As yet, at least.
It's much too soon.
Wait until December, to have a cheery feast.
I guess it's your choice."
(c)LIVVI

I saw Enid’s old man
go off into the Square
cigarette in his mouth
swagging on his way

I watched him
go down the *****
and out of sight
into the evening's
dimming light

Enid was on the balcony
just over the way
she waved to me

we met
on the concrete stairway
with the electric
light bulb above us

he's gone out then I see
I said

yes to the pub for a drink
she said

why did you watch him go?
miss him being there?

she looked up the stairs
then down the stairs
no just making sure
he went
she said softly

the light bulb showed
a bruise on her chin

been at you again?

she rubbed her chin
hit my chin on a door
she said

the door he pushed at you
or the door he pushed you into?

she said nothing
but walked up the stairs
to the balcony
outside my parents' flat

I followed her
she leaned over the edge
and gazed into the Square
it was quiet
the kids gone indoors
the moon bright in the sky
stars shining

it was an accident
she said
he didn't mean it

I studied her
the dark hair straggly
her dull dress
her eyes rabbit-like
in fear

mustn't tell no one
she said
looking at me

I won't
(I told my mother later)

she rubbed chin
with her fingers
it must be me
he doesn't hit
my big sister or brother
he glares at me
she added
in a whisper

I moved closer to her
she smelt of damp clothes

if I were bigger
I’d punch him
down the stairs
I said

you're 9
she said
he's 35 and twice your size  

I looked at her
and smiled
I had him in the sights
of my six-shooter gun
the other day
and when the cap went
BANG
he nigh on messed his pants

she laughed
then looked worried
did he see you?

he looked up
but couldn't see me
through the metal grill

she relaxed
and leaned her head
on my arm

next time
I’ll use my Wyatt Earp rifle
and get him in the back
she nodded
and I gazed
at the sky
turning black.

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read

Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.

Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,

For the world was intent on dragging me down.

And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,

A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play

He stood right before me with his head tilted down

And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"

In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,

With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light.

Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,

I faked a small smile and then shifted away.

But instead of retreating he sat next to my side

And placed the flower to his nose

And declared with overacted surprise,

It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.

That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."

The **** before me was dying or dead.

Not vibrant of colors: orange, yellow or red.

But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.

So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need."

but instead of him placing the flower in my hand,

He held it mid-air without reason or plan.

It was then that I noticed for the very first time

That ****-toting boy could not see: he was blind.

I heard my voice quiver; tears shone in the sun

As I thanked him for picking the very best one.

You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,

Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.

I sat there and wondered how he managed to see

A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.

How did he know of my self-indulged plight?

Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.

Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see

The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.

And for all of those times I myself had been blind,

I vowed to see the beauty in life, And appreciate every second that's mine.

And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose

And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose

And smiled as I watched that young boy, Another **** in his hand,

About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.

I’d seen her wander along the street
A number of times, or more,
And know I should have approached her then
But she might have said, ‘what for?’
I could have asked for a date, but then
I left it much too late,
And saw her then with a guy called Ben,
But he looked like spider bait.

He had a straggly beard and hair
That stood up straight in spikes,
I don’t know what she could see in him
For my first response was ‘Yikes!’
His frame was thin and all caving in
And his clothes were contrabands,
But he clutched at her with a bony paw,
With hair on the back of his hands.

She went to stay at his cottage, which
Was set at the edge of the wood,
More of a tumbledown shack, I thought,
Not right for that neighbourhood,
It lay half-hidden between the trees
With their foliage hanging down,
You had to push past the bushes that
Enclosed the whole surround.

She’d sit out on the verandah with
The sun about to set,
While I would creep in around there
For a glimpse of her, Colette.
I thought, perhaps if she saw me there
She might come out to see,
And once I’d managed to talk to her
She’d fall in love with me.

But Ben would never let go of her
Nor let her out of his sight,
He kept her there by the spiders that
Would weave their webs each night,
From every dangling branch there hung
An orb web in the breeze,
And in each centre a spider that
Would make Colette’s blood freeze.

I think he must have been breeding them
He seemed to take delight,
In pointing out how the thousands seemed
To weave there every night,
Then she began to withdraw from him
And refuse his coarse demands,
Whenever he went to reach for her
With his scrawny, hairy hands.

The webs ballooned and they hit the roof
Formed a blanket from the trees,
They covered the little cottage and
I heard her frightened pleas,
She couldn’t leave the verandah though
She said she’d have to go,
He said that he was a spider man,
And that’s when I heard his ‘No!’

She didn’t come out again for days
And I heard her cry at night,
‘I hate this place, and I hate your face,’
But he said, ‘You’re my delight.’
A week went by and I heard her sigh,
The last sound that she made,
So I burst through all the gossamer webs
With an old and rusty blade.

He was knelt beside her form supine
In the corner of the room,
While she was wrapped in gossamer fine
And looked like a large cocoon,
I lashed out with the rusty blade
And cut off his evil head,
When thousands of spiders scurried out
From his neck, and over the bed.

I cut her out of the tight cocoon
And peeled it back from her face,
She hugged me in the gathering gloom
And said, ‘Let’s leave this place.’
I’d like to say that she went with me
But I’d left my run too late,
‘I’ll never look at a man again
Since he made me spider bait.’

David Lewis Paget

Mud brown eyes and bent nose
***** skin and straggly hair.
Calls unanswered
Ignored and unwanted.
2D, flat, plain and uninteresting.
Nothing to contribute
A collection of roles, services rendered
And monotony personified.
Empty, devoid and boring.

I can only tell you
what I have told you before.

The rain drops
from the smoky sky,
pewter pellets.

It is quiet
except for the sporadic
crackle of a shout
from a neighbour.

The postman is a bloom
of red outside the window.

Straggly wires sprout
from my chin,
the phone rings
and nobody answers.

Headlines slide
across the television,
repetition.

Newspaper stains
my fingers,
a journalist’s black
perhaps inaccurate words.

Another day
becomes another day,
another month.

The sun rises
and falls,
indecisive light.

these years go quicker
than you would’ve believed
five years ago

now the others
seem to be doing well
this one other

I look at the pictures
they have elected
to wallpaper

their pencil-case sized
portion of the web
and yes

between the shots
of leafy streets
meals reflected in mirrors

an emotionless selfie
one in every six
it is clear

they have gripped
the big city
or the other way around

and here
in your own mirror
straggly tufts of hair

glints of silver
sewn into teeth
thin crimson pitchforks

in the whites of the eyes
you wouldn’t know a life
like that if you walked into it

shook its hand
over a strangely-named drink
in a poky but affable bar