This words are my own to
scandalize, throw it directly
in your face, scream them
encrush them and swallow
in silence as a pois a porter
at a tabooed cablooed bar
drinking bottles of brewed
cougar gulping bitter pills
small tokens of forgotten
abandoned little peoples

Taboo Words:
heartbreak, blob, writersblock
anguish, drunkdead, motherfu

the droplets of water are singing a trail down the bricks of the houses
through the alleys of the glassy-eyed broken people with soft hearts, a pre-disposition for death
weaving a tabooed trail across the sidewalks that when gazed upon reeks of obscurity
and leaving faint lines on the creased skin of all the sinewy fatalities
the mildewed rain peaks across the rusted windowsill that sighs with familiarity
it sloshes against the children’s playground and slaps at the pavement with a sudden clarity
it empties itself into the spiked maze of the tree branch hoping the leafs will cling onto to it dearly
it mellows into a pond that breaks apart with sharp staccatos when mushy feet run down the street
and it hurls itself into the bitterly sweet lips of two frost-bitten lovers who will soon meet
it daintily steps into the burning embers of the flame, only to be flushed out in shame
it turns to the shower as a last resort, but whines in dismay when it’s slurped down the drain
it embraces the eyelashes until it’s shaken in misery and then watches wearily as it’s blinked away in positivity
it lumbers down the path of the bruised ego, a shattering of phrases that leaves the person’s mouth
and before it has the chance to drop it is scooped up and chastised until it moves no more
the tears and the rain drops wander listlessly for all of eternity
only to be hastily thrown away or brushed into cotton for fear of a restless divinity
it is never to reach a destination and only doomed to be forgotten
and so it seems dear friends, that raindrops are simply you and me

...............................................  on the.................................................
            ­                            moth eaten pages,  
                                                   i pen
                                            the discovery,
                                                i dread
                                             my existence
                                             in this world.
                                in the abode of black men,
                               among the filth of mankind,
                        scattered in those dimly lighten ghettos
                            relaying an unforgivable legacy
                                                i stood
                                   as a moss covered relic
                              silhouetted against the light
                                             a moppet,
                                born in this tabooed world
                                    a scar upon my kins
                                who likely preferred a boy
                                                biped,
      ­                           standing alone in the moor
                                          beheld a future
                                        turned into debris
                                                like flies ,
                                  swarming around a glare
                                  many a cold hapless eyes ,
                                                   i met
                                        hovering over me
                                      eyeing me - a hellion
                                 and soon they drew my fate
                                                every door
                                         shut upon my face
                                                forcing me
                                        to creep in to corners
                                                  and live
                                          under the shadows
                                   to defy them proved grim
                                        only to be hugged
                                    often by heartless whips
                                 or burnt by cigarette thuds
                                          thus like a ****
                                      amid st the bean stalk
                                          they uprooted me
                                             from their lives
                                      and thawed my efforts
                                           to seek the world  
                                           after all who am i
                                                     a girl
                                                  yes a girl
                                                   a taboo....
                                               or a disgrace?
                                                 i was killed
                              murdered...in my mothers womb
                                            my blood spilled
                                            before i was born
                                            before i could see
                                         before i could breath
                                             they choked me
                                                   to death
                                                   from life
                                                    from
                                                       me ....

Ariadne
liked her *** best

on an armchair
or the sofa

with her lover
Bernice, in charge

of the *** games,
especially

those involving
sweat cream being

slowly licked off
of her body,

or a warm tongue
moving between

her naked thighs,
which, through pleasure

over again,
brought the warm tears

to her dark eyes.
And in moments

reflecting back
to her childhood

and her father's
cruel sadistic

abusive ways,
she wondered how

over the years,
she kept intact

inside her mind
and injured heart

and tortured skin,
the deep seated

capacity
to allow love

not to be spoilt,
or the places

he had tainted,
to be tabooed

to her lover,
especially

when she slowly
slides her finger

along her spine
or between legs

satisfying
her paradise,

her pudendum,
as her lover,

laughing, calls it.
But most of all,

despite the past
of abusive

hurts and foul touch,
she still has that

ability
to overcome

the dark years,
to love her hot

lover, Bernice,
that **** *****,

all too human,
and all too much.

we tripped up the stairs
when we were kids
not knowing it was a metaphor
for what was to come
together, we huddled over laughing
when we reached the top
since the stumbles
left bruises on our knees
but never on our souls
unlike the steps we climb now
that take us to floors
we never meant to go to
and though I have seen you fall
so many times, my brother
each time you rise
with a grace that triumphs
your exhausted eyelids and
burned brain, remnants of
the tabooed chemicals
we made pinky-promises
never to do
none of it touched
the sincerity behind
your crooked smile
the boy that walked me home from school
when our mom was too busy
is still in those baby brown eyes
that wave at me
even over the telephone
to be honest, my brother
you give me more hope
than any self-help book
through the struggle, sorrow, and Celexa
never surrendering
to the stairs of life
and just like children
you hold out your hand
to help me up
though my knees are too sore
my heart too battered
one day I will join you
on the second floor

for all the things labeled  
in the exterior mirages
of turpentine reeking layers
worn lavishly by red lipstick
and silver tailored suits,

light illuminating marble counter tops
dusted by the next-thousand-block immigrant
the mother of four beautiful children
she clashes with the detriment of money

which filters back to champagne of that red lipstick,
the silver tailored suit a million floors above
encased within their own skeleton
they peel their skin so not to feel a thing

stuffed in a daycare tabooed because of its door handle
touched by mothers working wage to meet end's meet
children skipping their shoes
on the stains of the concrete underneath their feet
and not realizing a thing

the mother bustles through
alone but surrounded by grease
seething into the cracks of her heels
while her children grows by the tick
into the template configured by society

the smear of red lipstick
the wrinkle in the silver tailored suit
the system of trickle down economy
have gone down the throats of so many lives
as a diluted joker waving a flag sewn with white  

this age of decadence
chooses to blind its kin
reality has been remodeled
into a Hollywood basement

His bright, white haze had always held him trapped,
Kept him blinded in hallowed embraces,
Scarcely breathing, trying stiff to adapt,
Teasing him with glimpses of tabooed places.
He lusted for freedom from perfection,
To fly vaguely in dangerous waters,
Incessantly gaining disaffection,
For the lastest fictions he had uttered.
Another offered a chance at freedom,
Skeptical of the darkness surrounding,
Clouded mind knowing that accepting him,
Results in a contract always binding.
Exhausted of sacred blessings he turned,
From angel’s love and in Tartarus burned.

anger was tabooed to death.
but it never meant to hurt anyone
it only wanted to protect ....
After the funeral someone had to replace the  job.
after the burial of the emotion
depression moved into office

Tabooed twice
Makes me want it double
Oh the trouble
But I’d get in it for you
I don’t know how it works
Opposities in every way
Yet the magnetism is of massive proportions
The fireworks we lit
Were right under us
We soared high into the sky
In order to fly
We must sacrifice
But the pinks and purples the yelllows and reds
Make me see only you
It’s as if you see things with crystal sharp sincerity
And seeing you from across the room just knowing your presence is equivalent
An ice bath of stardust with somehow still steam
Just compares to nothing
You are my dreams

I am the word
the glyph, the rune
that speaks and sings
through time, in tune.

I am the hive
the bee, the bonnet
the couplet, haiku,
verse and sonnet.

I am the book
all pages turned
accused, tabooed,
torn and burned.

I am everything
and nothing at all;
the scroll on which
a kōan is scrawled.

The mundane nature
Of something
That can be maintained
By the force of nature, and the pressing matters
All fall into some kind of unconscious wiser self
That, your own nature
It isn't tabooed by your ideology
By simple tautology, you can make the logical connections
Some kind of fluid motion in the large but infinite place
There's your hope in your own self
It's your indecision
That makes the entropy of the universe
The chaos that presently brings
Tomorrow is your own perception of this hope
Maybe, if you can take your time
If you tried
You could probably think that this void
Is filled by that point of view, and it gives you acknowledgement

The architecture set me free
It delved deeply into my soul
Keeping my mind occupied
And body an arduous vacancy
It was the Sistine Chapel
And the paintings were someone's
Draconian nature painted in
Snakes slipping through dreams
Of Adam with his manliness
Complimenting Eve's comeliness
Serried with innocent dreams
Slipping into as Biblical studies
As tabooed
**** entities
Ever been considering
Of Adam
Couldn't leave God's Index
It was recorded
In benediction
It showed strength
In liberty