"Mama... Mama!"

Mama sometimes doesn't wake up when I want her to.
Mama must be dreaming about the ocean.

And there are waves in the ocean.
And the waves are outside my window.
And I hear them.

Swoosh... swoosh... swoosh...

I draw the waves for Mama everyday.
They are squiggly and big,
like the messy lines on Mama's forehead.
Mama's forehead is big, big!
And the waves are big, big like Mama's forehead!

They are blue like the sky.
The sky is blue because blue is your favourite colour.
I like blue too, because Mama loves blue.

I want Mama to know that there are waves outside our house.

I can hear them swooshing outside the window.

Papa says: "It's just the wind."
But he's wrong, Mama.
Wind doesn't swoosh like a wave does.

I know, because I hear it.

You hear it too, right, Mama?
And you dream about the waves too.

And in your dream, the waves are swooshing outside your window.

They are squiggly and they fill our room with the big ocean.
They can even touch the sky.

And the window can't hold the ocean anymore,
and their hands go-
BAM!

Mama mama,
The waves are coming into our house.
Wake up.
They're coming.

They're coming in Mama.
The room is so small, and the ocean is so big.

Wake up.

Isn't blue our favourite colour?
Don't you want to see the blue sky again?

The waves outside our window are coming in.

And you sleep like they don't.

Mama.
Do you know?
I can hear the waves in you
Deep, deep inside you.
They are big, big like your forehead.

Bigger than the bed you are lying on.

Sometimes
you don't wake up when I want you to,
But it's okay.

Mama must be dreaming about the ocean again.

Strangers known
by shared room
Honey voiced , high cheek *****
no less, no more

Licorice words pounding
on a chest
scrambling to wrap fingers
around a single perfumed breath
Two days dragging on
pulled through mud
stuck in fog
seconds are hours too long

Then ringing came
answered by drops of syrup
pouring out a reply, yes!
drinking it in with big gulps.

Mirror reflects practiced hellos
swishing hair put in place
teeth and lips splitting
breaking through stone face

Pacing back and forth
frantic footsteps pounding
crushing carpet in a line
south, north, south, north

No ring, no change
red blushes fad grey
phone silent, gaze up
stare blank



Is the swooshing hair the wrong way?
Is the grin too toothy?
Is the face not constructed right?

Stood up and let down
sailor on a ship
already sunk and drifting
off the starboard bow
Stood up and let drown

by the honey voice
the high cheek bones
Failure in hindsight sighing
“I should have known
I should have known…”

That single leaf flutters by
with the wind swooshing it right and left
until on the ground safely it lands
my feet click and clack
with the pale concrete floor
and so do yours
just next to mine
The wind pushes softly
playing with both our hair
you joke and i giggle
you smile and i blush
The wind is more violent
the clouds are more gloomy
the wind pushes your hand
right into mines, you claimed !
and my heart smiles
never like before
off the ground lifted i feel
like that leaf swooshing
in the warm windy air
you glance at me softly
and agree with my thoughts
But to ever land
back on the concrete ground,
shall I?

In the light of the new morning,
He opens his eyes,
The Devil gets his warning,
And the heavens start to cry.
She utters a quick prayer                
To always keep him safe
The Devil weeps in despair,
And a smile warps his face.

He was always quiet,
He was always kind,
At a young age the Devil tried to find,
But his mother’s prayer always declined.
One day she began to cough red,
The same day she breathed,
And the same breath she bled.
He clenched her on the bed,
She said her finals words and fled
The heavens began to dread,
The day the Devil would enter his head.

She looks beautiful walking down the aisle,
He greets her on the stand with a smile,
The priest begins the trial,
On Sunday the heavens sleep a while,
The Devil creeps out of denial.
She watches her son from above,
A tear rolls down her cheek,
She hears the Devil speak,
She tries to warn him,
But the heavens silence her screech.

The clock ticks,
He looks into its eyes,
His heart stops,
And the heavens start to cry.
He kisses her on the lips,        
He cries his tears of wine,  
The Devil feels fine,
Such an act must be sign.

He runs his fingers across the blade,
He looks into its eyes
He remembers his mother’s prayer
And his conscience begins to cry,
The tears of heaven begin to dry,
Like cancer it spreads across his mind,
While he begs the Devil to make him blind.


He looks all around,
His mind is deranged,
The Devil knew this was bound,
The heavens start to change.
He looks down at what could have been
He looks down at his biggest sin
The Devil only laughs,
While his world no longer spins

She comes home and it feels colder inside,
The man she loved has died,
And the Devil has taken his side.
She sees herself in the pool of red,
She sees it motionless on the bed,
She screams her scream of silent pain,
As the Devil slowly opens her vein

The wind is swooshing outside,  
His heart is the Devil and his conscience is the Eye,
He gets up, weak with age,
The Devil cries his tears of sage.
His life is slipping away,
He goes and lies down in his grave,
He covers himself in his own pain,
The heavens begin to obey,
All in all, in the Devil’s cave.

glimpse of repressed desires, in rain
as i met dominique northstar on a platform
life trains passing by in slow motion
and we are smiling at each other

end of existence's hectic, silver heaven
leaves flying around her head, swooshing
two hours later, her sounds, my *******
and we talk endlessly, films, food, songs

the following weeks are waves in our souls
we don't sleep with each other, but laugh
in times of hunger are we gathering greed
a massage here, a soft embrace there

northstar starts to glow more often
one day, she wears a darkyellow blouse
telling me about it, throwing tender codes
and i catch them, and we get closer

sleeping with you is wordless, dominique
last night i dreamt, you would write to me...

Eros

Eros was named after the Greek god
He was large, black, and hairy
He was a Newfoundland
and a new-found love
to everyone he met
He weighed 155 pounds,
half of which surely was heart
There was no creature that displayed more love
or more character than Eros
He loved most everything and everyone
But more than anything,
he loved a cat
He followed that cat everywhere
He would have done anything for that cat
But the cat showed no love in return
She would turn her cold nose up at the sight of Eros
She dreaded his clumsy stride
Always followed by a wet tongue
dripping drool and a heavy tail
But Eros loved her nonetheless
He followed his heart wherever it led him
And the world was a better place because of him
Eros' heart never failed anyone but himself
Because of a heart defect
he died at the age of eight
Seemingly everyone mourned the loss of Eros
Everyone but the cat
The cat went about her business
The same cold, finicky cat
that Eros loved unconditionally
It seemed that the cat felt no loss at all
Don't be fooled
Late at night, once in a while
The cat can be seen and heard
perched atop a window sill
Looking off into the darkness
In the distance,
a dog barks
and her ears focus
Listening for the clumsy footsteps
and swooshing tail
of a ******* dog
With a long wet tongue
and a big bad heart

A wide open field
Where grass blows in the wind.
A narrow stream gurgling,
From a distant waterfall bubbling.

The dancing umbrella cut dress,
Lined sleeves with ruffling frills
The swooshing long tail of a neatly tucked bow
That follows her toes wherever she goes.

A beige sheet of starched cotton spread
On the grassland by the dried riverbed,
A bottle of water glistening
With the spring sun listening
To that song that floated around
As she moved on her toes;
Round and round and round.

Wild flowers lying low
Swinging with the water flow.
And the song goes like this:

Only if I could have a kiss,
Now that is the only thing I miss
From your lips to mine
Under this spring sunshine.

Because I love me in this dress
As you loved me in this dress,
And made me love you
By making me fall in love with myself.

As they dance the ruffles caress my face
Which reminds my cheeks of the trace
That you left with your palm,
Caressing me till I become
The girl who loves herself because
There will be, there is and there was
Within her this overwhelming love
Of a kind whose definition she didn't know of.
This makes my feet dance in joy...

...Because I love me in this dress
As you loved me in this dress,
And made me love you
By making me fall in love with myself.

And there were feet on the grass
Turning round and round.
And there was a song of love
Under the spring time sun floating around.
And then there was a dress with ruffled sleeves.

The hose snakes, benign and cool, over the fence and into the yard
And water pours soundlessly into the familiar dirt beneath the dying dragons
It wets the burning asphalt
And it is the smell of the hot asphalt and cool water that is home
It is also the half a dozen strawberries dripping with cold tap water
It is the scrape of sunwarmed pavement after dark on bare toes
It is the sunset that makes the trees glow every different color
And the distant headlights swooshing in the dark of too early morning
The tap of fingers on keys in the between of today and the next
The scratch of paper and pencil and the smudge of a ***** palm
The sticky childish joy of ice cream
There is also the promise of crumbling leaves
And rain tapping on the roof at midnight
And wind gusting through treetops and hair
And the constant threat
Of impermanence

If Dexter's Parents had not divorced and he had not moved away with his mother,
Who was beautiful as I recall, today would have played out or worked out or turned out
Differently. Very differently, considering that little twist in my six-degrees of separation base pattern
Hapt seventy-years ago, or so,
----
Watch starlings, if you have starlings, or watch congregations of kippers on Netflix.
Their steering is on auto. Do you agree? Then we are in Agreement, which is an odd place to find one's self in the midst of so great a cloud of witnesses.
-----
'e goes a gain a ginning, grinning all the while
Aye, and radioman turned on just
Now listen -Radio Mumbai

I meant, you and I agree schools of sardines and flocks of gulls are all on auto-pilot-propulsion-maintenance programs,
Right?
I thought so. The code in a gnat must be so much more elegant than the vast terabytes of programming in the GPS constrained self-drivers evolving on earth. Gnats never collide and are nearly impossible to hit, unless you have bat tools, which you don't. Nobody wrote that gnat code, right?
Of course not, evidence of programming only appears to be programming, evidence of design only looks like design it's not design. Right? So says Carl Sagan, Richard Dawkins, and all the people so called to win the battle for the minds of **** Sapiens Augmentatious, lest, as the confusion of Babel subsides, those minds should begin to reason together more clearly in light left after the lies standing on men's minds are revealed inferior to what our senses sensationally acknowledge. Whew. Long thought.

I meander, but you do as well. That is how things flow.
Not over immovable objections, around.

One life that was connected to mine in boyhood friendship was severed about half-way through my sixteenth year.
He died. I don't remember how. Alcohol-related, I can imagine. I did not attend the funeral, though some acquaintances did; one of whom was later my lover. She is dead now as well, too late to tell me anything. She had a baby less than a year after I returned from Vietnam, more than nine months later. That is a heavy thought, but not one I think does much good now.

So little of history is noted. So few lives function to trigger generational unctions that devolve into wars against imbalance, iniquity, slavery and death.
Fraternity, Egality, ******* *** the mob all riled-up, burn , baby, burn.
Whole people die in history's whims,
If whims they were.

Rebellions…

Watch the starlings steer through 4-d patterns eternally random,
fueled by bugs they convert to food for the soil itself.
Their life is their work and they do it beautifully. As one.

Can Boeing-Raytheon-L3 et al build a self-propelled, self-refueling drone that can fly at top-speed, maneuvering millimeters in each direction from other self-propelled, self-refueling drones while dropping their payloads without a single friendly-fire crash, ever?

Starlings don't **** on each other.

If war-profiteers could build such things, would you watch such things perform and wonder at the minds that built them, or deny such minds played any role from concept to creation, and ask who authorized development and deployment of such an expensive fertilizer distribution system that fertilizes wild weeds as well as gentled weeds?
Which would you say: "Wow, how did those get made, who paid?" or "Wow, look what billions of years and energy alone can do against absolutely insurmountable odds and impossible physics, with chaos and corruption always on the job?" Holy entropic bad moon.

Are ye not more precious than starlings, or sardines, or gnats. Would a sense pertaining to immediate locational proximity, evident in birds and fish and bugs, not be apparent in Adamkind, at least as a metaphor regarding benefits gained in knowing where you are relative to your own environment, regardless of any sense of personal purpose?

I can see it in the fact that we can agree, for good or ill.

As generations mature and regenerate, might there be patterns in the tumbling of the powerful and the powerless populations. Patterns depicting group or herd preservation by fully mentally equipped populations of mature and maturing Adamkind are detectable. Facts now overflow the cup of knowns. These are those days when knowledge is increasing and increasing and increasing to the point of being a destructive force in tightly closed minds.

Name dropping, rather than restating, Helen Arendt, "The Origins of Totalitarianism"(1966), Bertrand Russell, "The Problems with Philosophy"(1912), Pankaj Mishra, "The Age of Anger"(2017).

These three books and some browsing of names and titles the authors drop, have spurred me over the top of a rise I had not seen coming. My path had become gradually uphill without my noticing. I was interested in other things and ignoring notices from my body that oxygen stores were being depleted more rapidly than current inventory of red blood cells and nurse lymphocyte-bots can recycle the quadra-monthly disassembly turnover, H2O stores for sweat heat-dispersal systems and plasma regeneration and digestion of what little remains to be digested are now at "caution, think about stopping" levels. But I saw that from the top I might see to the top of the next rise before I chose the downhill part of my path. The down hill path determines the uphill path.
In the desert, you can see trails marked in many ways, mosses grow in least-heat zones created by angular location relationships with the sun. Breezes whisper into shade puddles by ever slow slight temperature inequilibria shifting some heat to the triggering of my sweat system.

If you were compelled to reason about every step you take in life as if it were your responsibility to regulate and control every function of your flesh vehicle in which you abide in relationship to all around you that you could harm or that could harm you, you would be mad. {mad?} illusion of reality

assumes reality is friendly here. I'm okeh
with that improbability aside,

implied as self explicatory and unfolding life…
examined,
for what its worth in words redeemed may be,
in the future, when this is what they thought,
you think, and I say know,
I thought this,
on a bet. Or an oath, depends on the fret.

Crazy mad, but angry auch. That would be unfair, because you don't know how to do what you are being compelled to do. Reports of persons who can control ****** functions not commonly consciously controlled are easily found. Such persons spend their time so countering the rolling rhythms beat by heart doors slamming shut and swooshing open in response to electricity, that, we, Adamkind, have yet to truly understand. We've no need, that which concerns us was
to be perfected, not by us.

If my use of Adamkind offends you, the reality of my benefits, wrought from my comprehension of my relation to Adam, will likely make me your enemy, in your own mind, not mine.
Ax'em, do they love po' o'hate rich?

Believe one chance in practically infinity of current evolutionary-nontheistic thought being the way things must be, then multiply the number of times you make that bet by the number of insects on earth or even by the number of mitochondria in your kidneys.

Ignoring life's delicate imbalances in light of what can be known today, breaks our minds's ability to agree perfectly. The social dichotomy that seems to arrange adamkind's affairs over eons and eras: rich and poor, have and have not, mean and meek, is ego-driven, self-benefit seeking and not part of the original program.

Contemplate the sweet influences of Pliades, silently questing the truth of hope and matter. There is more power in this stream.

Chapter end.

Linking the ritual chronology of the past few days in accordance with 'The Boy's' 21st birthday. No longer a boy, but not quite a man, but unsure if that was the ambition at all. Linking the rites of spring with the rites of summer, endless summer, indian summer, endless ******, no longer sure, were we ever, and did we ever want to be?

The seasonal threshold coupling the brutality of summer freedom. All those years on the bench in systemic education, waiting, counting the days until the breakout of summer, the breakout of the nation-wide epidemic of drips of sweat rolling down foreheads, cars racing up and down the highway going anywhere but home, if only for a few minuscule hours of freedom. Not really knowing what to do; the only certain knowledge; that doing anything is better than doing something, whatever that means.

Proud proletarian patriot, hating with every inch the structure and the scaffold, the zephyr swishing and swooshing over the surface of the storefront, while the air condition whirrs away, in a little town on a little island in a massive inlet in a vast sea, tossing and twisting, raging and blistering with the toils of work, throwing rhetorical fists in the air like-you-just-don't-care, with drops of Digital Ink. –with that strange symbiotic disharmony that emits from the boy's fingers, fuelled with every every-day stimulant, caffeine, nicotine, THC; Trembling Hallucinogenic Creation. The ongoing tremble of uncertain fingers, searching for a certain certainty he knows he'll never see.

And therein lies the tragedy
But also the beauty.

Life is spinning around and around, things keep circling around and around, we all are moving like a whirlpool swooshing in our feelings until we thrash through enough to feel better.. but it just repeats and repeats.

She is no heaven
She brings no hell
A tender mess of earth
She smells of pure mud

Up at the sky, I look at myself
Burning inside with zillions stars
-Just to light her up
-Just to see her shine

She revolves in way
-such mystifying
Alluring with those twists,
swooshing her hair of curly forest
,eyes with reserved invitation
Refusing to shine on my lights

Its not mere coincidence
when stars fall on sky
Its me , my egos falling
its me, my gods getting high
its me, falling on my knees

pulled by desires of temptation
to smell the rain on mud
to get drowned in ocean of love
To whisper under her hair
close to her eyes
at her dimples
swirling round- dizzy and elated
With time stuck
all stars at brightest
moons lost
heaven crushed
hell forgotten
vanishing
anihilated
with breath that will take forever
I whisper words... to be forever true
aahhyi lloveee yyyyyu

I walk outside and the harsh winds greet me
The combustible clouds are eager to meet me
Tears trickle gently from the sky
Pleading with silent cries
The leaves fall from the trees
Swaying and swooshing like the seas
The sky starts to yellow
Oh, how I am a silly fellow
For this is the calm before the storm

The swooshing of an aircraft
as I struggled to image paint
not knowing that all of my body
is the sailcloth, a masterpiece

My eyes is blinded by madness
and I would blame an empty head
and the blade that was my weapon
is used to myself instead

Who will defend me, a woeful being
will you sacrifice your creed?
If the waves of the ocean water
they will drown you to your death

I am the moon lover
and the rain is my mistress
When they see me together
I am the king of chains

And we all will gleam simultaneous
the light, the water, and flame
oh! the two of them outshined me
still, I am bewitched.

Ideas are bulletproof that is why they are harder to win over,
Especially when affirming instances come one after the other.
The body succumbs while the mind knows better,
Hopping from one stone to the other hoping we get to a constant somewhere.
Throbbing wind whispers a beep,
Rushing cars swooshing their trip,
Her voice looking at me knowingly,
“You know it but here’s the story.”
The high improbability and the comparisons,
The stretch that echoes unfounded sounds,
The conversation that could’ve been,
Shall and must remain as a romanticized fiction,
Started, peaked, jumped, risked, failed, hoped, failed, and left for the conclusion.
As you have absolutely no choices,
To raise your eyes and ears is something to give your best.
Everyone’s kinda moving,
It’s not a race but for everyone the road is ending.
I would still have that grin, whisper, and crookedness,
Inasmuch as nothing of those are even close to any semblance of realness.
I must remain the best parts of what I have to offer,
A refined, mature, swaying, itching, panacea of everything you wish I wish I could cater.

A beach day is a great day the bright hot sun beating on the smooth white hot sand the sound of the waves swooshing and slamming into the shore the feeling of the wet sand under your toes the pungent smell of the salty water yes a beach day is a great day

I miss being around you all the time
A longing I couldn't even begin to describe
That holiday with you was something else
Something I do believe I've never felt
From sunrise to sunset
From kissing your shoulders
To getting our feet wet
As we walked along the beach

Hand in hand and heart in mouth
The tide's swooshing hisses
That soothing feeling; what life's about
I should mention
I don't really like the ocean
On the surface it seems barren
Yet it can swallow anything whole
But in your company, the world, the sea and all of its untold misery couldn't really bother me

It's like the warm breeze was your love, I enjoyed it in moderation and in abundance
I miss that feeling of you squeezing me
Tighter and tighter
On the back of that quad bike
As we rode down that mountain
And in to the night
I was probably a bit over zealous
What can I say, that's what I like
To live fast and die a part of you
Would be my happily ever after

Swimming pools, night clubs, bars, restaurants, shopping, walking, riding, drinking and dining
Were all just fancy ways of saying
'Spending time with you'
In thirty degree dry heat
At the hotel in our room
After an argument or two
Recovering from extreme partying
...and too much sun
I would try to lay close to you
When even the silence screamed I love you

I will never forget it gorgeous
These memories of us I cherish

A girl sat on damp grass all alone at night
The Moon was glowing with all its might

Cool, scented zephyr blew petals and leaves
The only music was that of the swooshing trees

And an occasional howl from far, far away
Nothing was even the slightest bit awry

Except for that girl, who was lonely and sad
The dew had wet the attire in which she was clad

Her big, glassy eyes stared glumly at the moon
The long winter night seemed far from ending soon

Feelings of envy were sparking inside her
She thought how fortunate the moon and stars were

They knew exactly what they were supposed to do
They didn't have to figure out what was true

In this messed up world filled with illusions
Around every corner there are deceptions

Tears trickled down her cheeks as her patience gave way
She wanted to seek her Lord but knew she was far away

Her existence was shackled in frailty and hopelessness
She felt as if nothing could save her from this distress

How was she supposed to keep track of her whole life?
It wasn't a bed of roses to deal with this strife

Good and bad sound easy to choose from
But in reality web of life is spun way beyond the norm

The worst thing was that she had to do it on her own
No one else could go in her place to atone

For the sins or bear the agony of the punishments
Which she would be subjected to for her transgressions

Her forlorn desire was to achieve redemption
But she was afraid it might never happen

Life was too elaborate how could she resist?
The temptations and illusions enshrouded her like mist

Waging a war more fearsome than one can imagine
Against the desires in her heart that were lodged in

There was majestic light and there was awful darkness
She knew, light she had to embrace and the dark, harness

If she let the darkness win she would be lead to ruin
Giving up was, in no wise an option

She knew not what the future would be
All she could do was try and leave the rest be

Would her worries be over and her goal achieved?
That was something only her Lord cognized

The ambiguity of death
biting at scars, etched
from swooshing bullets
blurring past remembrance.
Swallowing pain, long forgotten
in the passim of distant lands-
holding relentless men
cutting at peace's attire;
sealing wounds with
letters like bandages
warring memories of
the gentlemen's song;
gulping tears, shed of blood
fearing never to be home.
Lost in the forgiving arms
of a brothers hope and
a tender woman's dream,
but babes in the abyss,
poppies of the field!



ELEETE J MUIR

the train came into the station a loud rush
people hurried again
getting off and on
luggage and people scurried
a roar

the bus rushed to the bus stop
air brakes hissing
one lady got on
two got off in a
rush to go where

seems travelling is our ambition
go from here to there
ethereal maybe
how I just sit and watch

no rush
I hate the pressure of air brakes and train
whistles
I like sitting and
watching it all

the lovebirds coo
on the wire overhead
the trees swish in the breeze
like a cymbal swooshing in
the greatest song ever

I get where I want to
eventually
and the train has a schedule
the bus too,
I am more like the
lovebirds

just on time forever

today i watched the clock tick in front of me
it was 1 am.
i watched a clock's hand run around in circles,
and funnily enough, it started running backwards.

time went swooshing by,
i exhaled before my inhales,
and i spoke after i thought.
i met you,
i missed you, even though i had never seen you.

time passed by,
but it was eerie.
i knew exactly how it was going to end,
it was deja vu.

it got better,
oh how awful it was in the beginning.

there were demons,
but not under my bed.
there were screams,
but they were in my head.
there were scratches,
but they weren't from the neighbour's cat.

then i was happy,
then i got small.
i did not know what was going on,
but it felt right.
i was content.
i let out one last scream,
then went up and left this world.

I could see the pain in
my mother’s eyes, the
trickling tears rolling
down her cheeks, as she
stared at my shadowy face,
damaged diction floating
on ice, chilled chemistry
cracking in meaningless
mazes, smashed equations,
wrecked waves swooshing
off into diverging directions.
She was devastated and couldn’t
seem to understand why I had
chosen to live my life as a
homosexual guy.  To live
in the darkened dungeons
and never see the light,
to escape into the endless
nights surrounded by flowery
seas and sparkling breezes,
seeping inside intoxicating flesh,
brilliant bones of blossoming
bridges, flaming passion far
from the unknown.  She couldn’t
digest the thought of another
guy kissing me, climbing on
top of my body, touching me
in secret places beyond boundless
borders.  How could I make her
see that being a gay teen was not
the end of the world, to see that
I was still the same young boy
holding her hands when I was
a child, a smart and intelligent
superstar strolling in society
with spectacular style and great
artistic creations, seamless flight,
channeling crowned nouns
into crystal-clear vowels, captivating
conjunctions, gerunds glowing
bolder blue in the nighttime horizon.
I was alive at this moment in time,
aware of my emotions and the
glorious oceans flowing through
my beating heart, the sweet
scent of ruby red roses growing
in gardens – so smooth to the touch,
so exquisite and full of dreams.  
Still, she was waiting in the dark
for her little boy to rise out of the
flames and return back home fully
changed, to listen to the rhythm of
tall trees and leaves, how when
the rushing winds stream throughout
the landscape, there was a familiar
voice trying to warn me that this
wasn’t the life I was meant to live.

There is a sort of romance one can find at a bar
A mysterious sense of love
Removed from everyday life
From work or phone calls home
If you close your eyes you can hear it
The clacking of ice-cube
The clacking of glass
The slow pour of a beer
The faster swish of it being
Slid down to your hand
Bumping once or twice on the uneven wooden surface
The slightly cold drip running down the side of your glass
These sounds are romantic
Hemmingway wrote at a bar
Odds are your parents feel in love in one
First kisses and embraces with friends you’ve missed
They happen at a bar
If you close your ears you can see it
A dingy light from over head
A spotlight for a pretty girl’s smile
The colors that the last sip of whisky
After they’re watered down with ice
The swooshing hues of red and white
Inside wine glasses from a couple a few seats down
The hand of the bartender covering yours
As you hand them their tip
And in that same second lock eyes
Before quickly looking down
A love in a life before this one maybe.
One can find romance in a bar
In the littlest of things
When paid attention to
They hold a sense of mystery.

an old, decayed mine, far from civilization
psychotic warriors occupy alleys, resolutely
this here is their last match, the death match
only one survivor remains, bloodbath

walls are covered with intestines and *****
fuckburst killed five, a female voice moaning:
double ****, multi ****, mega ****, ultra ****!
each increase is arousing our speaker

unreal tournament, land of fun and gore
your addiction is called "flag canon",
"rocket launcher" or "monster ****"
i'm all in now, no worries, no regrets

bloodshed covers you in bloodred
but i don't know the truth, barktooth
we are drinking silver-blue fantasies
as bullets spraypaint your apartment

you switched the game off, but the
monsters are attacking you, warrior
vibrating echoes and their dark voices
in rainbows, in rockets, in repetitions

shadows eat up your courage
motionless, swooshing swoosh
you are trapped inside their thoughts
no chance to escape, you get crazy