tailing off / trailing off poetry, or signature poetry prior sleep
is usually filled with too many prepositions,
and by being filled with too many prepositions
the prepositions tend to be repetitively used;
nonetheless, a study of language is provided,
not everyday you get to see language
in such quanta; yes, quanta, because
physicists will not get away with smartphones
by mystifying words with all those theories
in the subconscious working on the word idiot
consciously in argument with an antagonist;
well it would be hard not to express mystification
of a word in the standard vocabulary package
of conversation, without having so much quanta quarks
stork butter and curd cheese to mash up:
for a thrill in the trill... yar yarn pi's randomised counting rates.
because not everything you read is technically
within the framework of an addressee, or read aloud,
and no one wants to read **** like a bog standard
newsreader prompt on auto-queue of flimsy pages of lies:
i mean, it happened on a monday, but not a joycean monday,
it was 4pm, one gun shot was heard a minute prior,
but then jules anno domini came along and said: stern!
make the eyes stern! then gregory the pauper of paupers
said: it was actually 9am and the gun shot was heard a minute after:
but still the man at the market shouted: '*** yer bahnanas,
toe fo' 'un, *** yer bahnanas - toe quid bunches fowl's worth!'
yes, the h in english is an elongation "umlaut,"
now say it *****, say it *****: bahamas.*

most people wash their faces in the morning
for the eager 9 o'clock slap of reality
for the bossy 8 hour toothpaste feel
on the vertical, without the whips and chains;
i only wash my eyes, knowing that
i'll probably "say" something *****
but see all too squeaky;
then i fuse a hangover with a bit of alcohol
to ensure the hangover stays longer
and feels like the previous night's binge;
we apache and aboriginal down here,
we don't ask for cruise shipments of thoughts
on the sunny side of starboard with the pensioners
under blankets of deceit.

so the first time they tried to **** me was
in a hospital cot,
the nurse almost suffocated me, gave me a heart
condition, fearing the monster with the chernobyl
birthmark.

the second time it was my childhood companion
conrad, who pushed me into a deep dark well
but having clung to the edges i managed to not fall
and climb out, conrad's mother was there too
(sunlight in a sugar crystal, or the punkin for a
pumpkin in canto xii from chicago breezy,
now the poem, reflected with the pumpkin in mind,
or that rowntree pastille twinkle of bleached tooth
and thumbs in thumbs up the ****
for things sold with audacity past the use-by-date;
cold-air balloons nearing titanic!).

the third time? south american poison, brain damage,
the entire prompt for my writing expedition
into ***** wonka's factory of candy tooth smiles.

or as i say of darwinism with relief: am i watching
the athletics or am i simply watching a chemistry experiment?
shouldn't it be called anabolics instead?
a needle to the puzzle muscles of aesthetics without
greek ship oar, *** horse reins, the scythe of wheat,
and we turn protein into carbon dioxide covered
by some plastic surgery on the sheen of lost wrinkles
in balloons on film - well obviously - given the tractor
and the aerodynamic future of fifty hundred different
speed mechanisms - the lax and laze of the populace
requires constant intellectual stimulation:
the 100m record was downsized from 10.5 to 9.5seconds
over the past twenty years, the mob rule is?
talk talk talk.

the bottle twists
glass falls in drifts
and air parts like flesh

there’s a terror beneath this city
trucks enter from out of town and shake the power lines
passing without pause

sometimes birds gather for days
chirps grow exponentially
before tailing into silence;
heather and brimstone
little bodies roll to the edges
and burst on the streets in red regalia

a somnolence keeps the city forgetful
time flows in fits
a streetlamp; a raven; ten gravestones
it all runs without moving

vessels dilate
hands hold themselves

there’s nothing to breathe with
an empty chalice, turned on the hour grants
heaving clenching writhing
an ocean of rust
bulb shatters, blood spills out her
mouth cave head turn faith
the world remakes itself
*******
the colour of sunflowers
bicycle chains
thirst
colonialism
wet paint

emptiness over emptiness
act without agent
lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack lack
peel the flesh and find flesh
always more flesh
don’t stop they know better
chirp chirp chirp
turn
exit
substance
purpose
nothing

She used to smile for all the right reasons
But now it's not only at the irony
When another thousand pound straw is laid across her back
And another unspoken slight wipes it off her face

Her eyes used to sparkle
But that green has faded to gray
Up close you can see it
She's not the same anymore

She smiled and her whole face lit up
Now it's a faint turn at the corner of her mouth

She straightened her hair every day

Now it’s pony-tailing seven step and half-kids to school

Now it’s sitting at home
She was bullied into “place”
He’s losing his shape
And everyone is going crazy

Everyone is fading into Mom-jeans and pullover hoodies
Silent tables

This was never what eating dinner as a family was supposed to look like.

She doesn’t like cooking
But she learned **** quick.
A glance at their marriage makes her stomach turn sick

He started smoking again

Food on the table
*** in bed
She’s saving her money
And getting ready to leave

But this time...
Tailing half as many kids behind

A feeling, an ocean and a dream to describe:
It’s another mid afternoon morning and the sunlight billows through the windows and pierces my eyes; they fight for consciousness and after some struggle with my two-ton eyelids, I managed to pick myself up and stagger off to the shower. Twenty minutes later, cleaned and clothed, I make my way downstairs to see what faces still linger in the house from the night before. With each step from under my feet comes a cold shrill scream; the nails, with a century of twisting and turning wiggled themselves free. With the slightest exchange of pressure, the nails give way and plunge back into the body of the stair from which they had escaped.  
It’s quiet downstairs. There’s not a sound; no voices of laughter echoing from the floors and off of the ceilings, not a sound of friends or strangers’ feet as they scramble to rustle up their clothes and belongings from the night prior. I had grown accustomed to hearing this in the morning and in all honestly, I’ve grown quite fond of the array of faces that had made camp here for the night. Usually this means front row seats to a race track where they all spin and run into one another to get started on their endless lists of routines and obligations. For the lucky few who get to vacation rather than push papers on the weekend, this meant a new companion and hopefully a day of company. Unfortunately, today the house is hallow, so empty it could make someone dream.
After pacing the house for a bit, the stillness starts to settle in; the leaking faucet growing unbearably ever more predominate with a slow crescendo of slurred reminders, drip no one’s home, drip you’re alone, drip what are you going to do? Drip, drip and the deafening silence like a parasite is crawling its way up and under my skin. My feet and hands get restless so I grab my acoustic guitar and head for the door.
On the porch, I take refuge on the cool concrete and light a cigarette; as the cherry churns the paper burns slowly, mimicking the melody of minors strummed ever so softly. My mind starts to wander, slipping into its self, lofting away like the ribbon of smoke from the cigarette. How funny it is that the greatest of men and minds have achieved the unbelievable; they unraveled the wheel, the moon met man from a tin can, empires leveled by the push of a button and as a tired heart’s tick softens, a surgeon’s scalpel cuts open and easily replaces it. With all the trophies brightly polished placed on the mantle of man there is not a space for the trophy that is truly worth parading; a cure for emotions. Irony, like a well aged whiskey, drunken my humor and ferments my appreciation. As a disease loneliness infests like a tumor, endlessly growing. The thoughts that once retreated so easily at the first hint of war are now back, glowing with vengeance tailored with armies; and they’ve got me cornered, it begins.
I start sinking, farther and farther down, unable to swim in this brackish abyss; any attempt to kick my legs, swing my arms has become a day dream, perhaps its only momentary paralysis caused from my leap of faith from my raft of hope that in my mind I had been previously enjoying the warm weather and smooth sailing; until the vessel caught a flame and was swallowed by the ocean of despair.
The light that once danced all alone up on the surface has retreated from fear. My lungs now burning as they cling to my last breath, they swell with anger, splitting at the seams from the pressure of the ocean’s hand gasping my poor lungs, tension alone compressing my entire chest I can feel the sharp pains as they are growing nearer and nearer to exploding, I clench my already squinted eyes from the burn of ocean’s salt. In some last attempt for survival with my eyes firmly tightened, just as the water starts to creep its way down my throat into my lungs I can feel the water begin to thicken.
No longer sinking into the great void of salted rift tides but resting gently on a mattress of sand. With my back exposed, the sun quickly heats my sopping wet T-shirt, my bones fill once again with life. Have I, by some lottery of luck, washed up on the beach? Scrapping the sand from my eyes in pursuit to unravel this mystery, the sand has magnetized itself to pruned skin and drenched clothing. I clear my eyes to the best of my ability, I can still feel the sand gritting in the folds of my eye lids and after a few fresh breaths of air which fill my sore lungs with relief, I roll over to sit up and dig my feet deep into the sand. I look out shielding my eyes from the blinding sun with my hand. I look to the left and then the right and quickly darting back and forth from each position, there is no ocean in view. What was my inevitable aquatic ending has now vanished; no longer sinking but standing. I am alone in what has become an ocean of sand; a desert of wandering and mystery.
With the blistering sun and vultures circling over head as constant reminder that this is in fact real; I began to stumble about for shelter. After what seemed like hours of hurdles the moon flies high while the sun sleeps in the southern sky, I find myself under a cliff of overhanging rocks; sitting down the rocks are warm and almost caressing. This bit of refuge reminds me of my mother; as a child I remember straying from her in a department store. Unknowing then that she had not been tailing me like a blood hound, until I turned around and as far as I knew she had vanished from the earth. After sprinting and retracing my steps like map I see her, the site of her from across the store fills me with joy, still sprinting I run to her, eyes like a fountain they poured into her arms as she held me there in her arms; they were warm and safe.
A faint smile crawls its way onto my face and the same tears of relief rain from my eyes and floods the ground; the sand now flooded starts to move vigorously from side to another. Out of the mist of their rumbling out gets pushed a blade of grass, and then another and another one by one pull their way out of the sand  to the surface; as the flowers start to blossom the slumbered sun awakes to a lush field of flowers filled with life. Within the field I move freely about, running in circles of familiar joy; the large sunflowers sway in the breeze of my arms as I run past them. The garden is beautiful with explosions of color all around held by peddles of flowers, and a small pond in the very center; a garden this perfect had to have been birthed by a gardener with the most beautiful of hands; Hands much like my grandfather.
Kneeling down beside the pond I splash some water with my hands on to my face to clear the filth from my pores. A gleam catches my eye from the mirror of the water, and I’m staring myself in the eyes. The pond isn’t reflecting what’s circled around me, but it’s reflecting me as a child, a bit older than the child crying for his mother; my face in the reflection, so precious and young just beaming full of life.
As if the pond were a movie screen the memory that had started to fade with age in my memory is playing crystal clear. I can see that little boy surrounded by familiar trees and flowers with the fields running farther than my eyes can see. That little boy is laying on the equally little wooden bridge that stretches over the little pond, my father laying beside him on the bridge with their heads and hands poking playfully over the edge of the bridge. Through the eyes of that little boy I can see a stick in hand trying to catch the nonexistent fish just as his father had showed him. My father looks down at me with a smile flooding his face as he says to me, “you know, Chad; I’m very lucky to have you, you’re all I could have ever asked for in this world. You’re a beautiful boy, a perfect son and I love you very much”. I remember watching a tear roll down the side of his face and watching it fall and disrupt the surface of the pond. Back on the other side of the glass; as his tear hits the pond the ripple breaks up the memory and just like the garden, the pond with the little bridge, my father and his sweet child; they all disappeared just as they had throughout my life. This time things felt different, not the cold touch of my bitter friend loneliness, but seeing that memory polished, shining new brings peace to my heavy heart.
A sharp sting burns my lips, the cigarette now burnt to the filter rips me back into body leaving the army, that ocean, the desert and the garden all behind. From footsteps behind me “I hoped I’d find you here”; I turn around and there she is, standing silhouetted by the sun, my angel. Charcoaled hair and island sky eyes, she had come to rescue me. “Hey you, I was hoping we could spend the day together; are you alright? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!” I smile and nod my head. “Aright then come on.” and with that no longer in the vantage point window watching, but through a door and living.

Outside an average sort of house
Upon a quiet street
There stood a man of honest heart
All grim and weather beat
His face awash with bafflement
A letter in his mits  
With Lots of Love from God himself
And golden twirly bits

He'd read it over breakfast
Then read it on the loo
Considered re-addressing it
For number forty two
Within the silver envelope
In angel script, embossed
Were plans to build a massive boat
Materials and cost

It seemed, he'd have to build  it
As the letter looked legit
So off he sped, to B&Q;
To show the holy writ
The manager was confident
The price was mighty bold
Delivery on Saturday
For every item sold

So late, on Friday evening
He popped out for a walk
Upon his road, he drew a boat
In vivid yellow chalk
When morning dawned, a knocking
And some paperwork to mark
For a thousand tonnes of timber
For construction of an ark

He set out with his hammer
And he smote the nail and tack
By afternoon, the road was blocked
With traffic tailing back
A keel was just discernible
Beginning to take form
By evening, the media
Was whipping up a storm

Up marched a bold reporter
From the Three Times Weekly Herald
He said "So you'd be Noah then?"
"Not me" said he "I'm Gerald"
"I got this 'Oly telegram
And God has chosen me
I fill a boat with wildlife
And sail the salty sea"

By night he was a laughing stock
On YouTube and the news
But a sturdy man, was Gerald
And most vehement in his views
When asked to show the letter
He graciously refused
"Just have a little faith" he said
"We'll soon see who's amused"

The church were being skeptical
And held the press at bay
The Council sent him letters
At a rate of four a day
The hull was soon completed
And he laboured on inside
Constructing some amenities
To house them on the tide

A swimming pool for waterfowl
A wall of rodent wheels
With bowls for every kind of fish
And a big one for the seals
A filing box for butterflies
To stow them all away
A pigeon hole for pigeons
For the bees , a large bouquet

A puzzle for the monkeys
A wardrobe for the moths
A lion for the antelope
A jacuzzi for the sloths
A fully fitted nursery
For when the ewes had lambed
The wasps would have a picnic
And the beavers could be dammed

Through night and day he toiled
He relieved himself in shifts
In time, he built a sauna
And a pair of turbolifts
The council grew impatient
And the neighbours were in fits
They begged him to remove his boat
Entire or in bits

Then promptly, after dinner
As he sat upon the deck
There called a suited doctor  
With a badge around his neck
There followed many questions
With a host of funny looks
While outside went from 'fine and warm'
To 'just the thing for ducks'

That night, began the deluge
So Gerald found his crew
He robbed each local pet shop
And attacked the nearest zoo
Collected every animal
And fastened them in tight
The waters coursed along his street
As dawn replaced the night

'Twas then a thought occurred to him
A kind of mental swerve  
His road was more a crescent
So his ark was on a curve
But just then the currents took him
He sailed off along the bend
For six weeks, going round and round
To land at home, The End

**

the foxes rounded the wolf into a hunt they once claimed to be victims of; i only started to pawn my face for a paper mâché mask when, reason being: i couldn't look at your reminding "human" face capable of a white wine toast over dinner to scone and clear a conscience: for a jam lodged pauper in being fed the sweets jelly.*

a dry call of a fox couples
itself to a wet cry of a wolf:
the smoker's ha woo
in fox in him
compliments
the northern aquatic frozen
tonne waved in
the atlantic forever in
guised goodbye;
the fox with its dry claim
mates aired, relieves
the lost wolf the lost land
to crave once more
a ripe 1 primed on the digit.
so many foxes
surround the one howled remark
of wolf;
dried up orphic of the one
night song suggested
to the human tongue
lost among fears and onomatopoeias
sojourn with autumnal
gravity of darkened brown
rekindled next year.

My french lime shirt,
tail flutters in the wind,
the ocean waves of teal,
continue rolling in.

The boat's spray is salty,
I taste it on my lips,
we bounce  up and down,
as we race on wave tips.

Slowing now to troll,
looking for exposed tails,
the seagulls above,
flap like winds in the sail.

Sliding in the water,
cold, causing a gasp,
a long 8 weight fly rod,
now firmly in grasp.

Bronze flashes in water,
tail shining in sun,
the bait swirls around me,
this is about to get fun.

Whipping the silver fly,
in a long backcast,
now flying forward,
landing soft and fast.

Twitch it now, ripples,
a V cuts the bay,
the hunting, tailing red,
is now on its way.

With a mighty splash,
it swallows the fly right down,
the mud is churning up,
the water turns brown.

Stripping line and reeling,
in the shining sun,
nowhere else could I be,
having so much fun.

In a constant battle with myself
Visible to anyone
Noticed by few

At times I wonder if I'll ever  level up
I feel like Mario due to these castles

We're all cattle
All just rattle-swinging
Trying to shake the past off...

a letter came from Ukraine
tailing the newspapers' grey accounts
faster than the cloud of fallout

there were three smudges
from a child's digits, between the stamp
and my address

prints of proof you were there,
eating the Hershey’s I sent, though
your mother scrawled my name
and safe, numbered place I live,
a planet away  

the letter yet sits
on my desk, quiet, perhaps
waiting to be opened

I planned to surprise you
in your sluggish summer, with a visit,
and American Girl dolls

but April lasted forever  
for you, who happened to be walking
close to the melting kiln, looking
for spring’s first buds
on a Saturday morn

It’s open window
It’s closed
Running circles into old sheets
Once was something worth knowing
I’m dreaming old pains
Aged misery with replays
Of people I once knew
Losing nights, losing sleep
It’s all too real for my head
Painted memories on a canvas
Agony plays pretend
And I’m thinking too much
Wandering mind loses touch
With everyone
Claiming once was, once loved
I’m chasing echoes
Tailing happiness
When will I catch up?
I’m too scared to start this flame
I’m remembering
All the times I burned, hands hurt, stomach stirs
I’d rather chase shades
Than face a hope so easily snuffed
It’s almost enough
Almost
Those bedside talks ain’t coming back
The rattle of bone chilled teeth
Those winter nights
Breath and fog, we were
Dawn’s kissing sun
You breathed a life into me
Blossomed colours, set a fire with every retreat
I don’t think
My heart can take it

Walking along the bank
    of the  prancing village brook,
lined with screwpines
in full bloom spreading
                  musky scent
                 and shamelessly imitating the color of  your skin,
thinking of you all along,
on the way to Krishna temple
you frequent,
I see a surge-
a bevy of giggling village belles,
your ***** friends,
march forward,
holding the hearts of young men to ransom,
teasing me on the sly,
for courting you so ardently.
Who can stop them,
a barrage breach of
Cupid's darlings,
tailing me by chance.

   My eyes searched everywhere,
                    but but missed you so much,
     today they miss,
the crown jewel they deserve,
to be in the middle,
that can be only you always!

On the imaginary crown of them
you would have shone,
added charm and embellished
their victory lap,
in the guise of temple visit,
to worship the Lord, lover nonpareil,
whose love life is our lore.

              On long black tresses
they wore garlands of jasmine,
    can't help pity their haste
and muddled taste,
    you would have told your brood,
how jasmine would have felt,
     unless perfectly adorned on hair, those
incomparable blessing in fragrance.

i do remember the scorn your encountered by the next of kin, for not having memorised the alphabet, to some stupid degree of accuracy, fetish of the french i call it... why not put all the vowels first and all the consonants after? so why care for the diabolical aristocratic monopoly on these symbols, having to cite a, b, c, d, e, f, g... rather than a, e, i, o, u, b, c? idiots! or should i say... ***** *******?*

i see friendship as a two tier system,
a friend allows you
to forget your reflective nature,
spelled out in the affirmative (
not compounded): your self...
but allows you the medium
they know you by, in a sense
the reflexive nature, spelled out
in affirmation: yourself.
the reflective nature of things stands
in unison with all the things
required: photosynthesis for example...
god still remains a complexity of language,
or how far language can complicate
matters so that no horrid activity can
fester... god is a word presiding over
the complication of the expression
of language, everything else is dumb-struck
deity orientation where we can laze
for an eternity: drunk, or gluttonous
or otherwise... but find me a drunkard who
composes on the additive? how many
drunk and therefore violent fathers
have crossed the threshold with drink
but wrote no single poem by medicating
on alcohol as an active sedative?
and how many partied on other drugs?
and dumb things drinking, while
the legislators caste in shadow of neither
vishnu blue, scandinavian bleach
hair and ivory skin or the african with
chocolate and auburn and short tailing-off
of curls turned to scorched frizzle of afro...
where among them the true identity of legislators?
nowhere... the masked identity to involve
a hidden tidal wave of the many,
later disrupted by a collective-consciousness
that democracy is, preceding jung's theory
of the collective-unconscious,
democracy is not carl jung... but it's its chiral
composite pair...
so friendship is the allowance of the self in reflex
akin to knee jerking or heart peeping into
rhythms escaping a finality / banality of
the measure of stone of standing still...
there is no friendship when the self disengages
from its reflexive naturalisation into social
circumstance (spelled yourself),
and engages in the reflective naturalisation
into anti-social circumstance of
body tiniest like among jupiter moon alaska
and all other shares of size (spelled your self)...
so then the inverse numerology:
C, one hundred... there is no T unless it be
the time concerned suffering on a crucifix...
but then there's the XI... eleven...
turn numerology on its head...
peer into something abstract associated
with the twinning of words, words twinned
to a bare minimum... so akin in misguided
uses as to appear so akin as to be readily
misused, upon the matter of twinned-pronunciation
without a necessary dichotomy that's already
there, for the optics dare not like,
but the tongue makes a porridge of the sound
then usurps the twinned sounds to opposing
spelling that the optics finds appealing.

My roommates and I congregated in our suite's great room and we’ll head out for dinner soon.

“Have you ever eaten dog food?” Leong asked Anna.
“No,” Anna answered, “it smells like chicken - it’s got chicken in it”
“OOO!” Leong pounces, “Busted!!”
“What?!” Anna reacts.  
“How would you know that then?” Leong asks, doubtfully.
“My mom told me!” Anna cries, in self defense. “She’s a vegetarian too.”
“Your mom told you.” Leong said, like a prosecutor raising an eyebrow for the jury.

“I just took my last English class,” I report, pony-tailing my hair, “my teacher told me - privately - that my writing destroys.”
“Nice,” Lisa says.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling and grooming with pride, “I thought that was a ballin’ complement and I’ve been riding that high.”
“No doubt,” Anna says and nods.
“My English professor..” Leong says, exasperated, “is driving me crazy, I’ve written three final papers so far and she’s rejected them ALL.”
“Huh?” I gasp, “Show me one!” I demand, wiggling gimmie-fingers at her laptop.

“Here’s a question,” Lisa asks the room, “What would you change about your childhood?”
“I would have never grown up.” Sophy said.
“When I was in third grade, in the UK, a girl in my elementary school, was murdered,” I reveal.
“What?!” Anna says.
“Oh, my GOD!” Lisa gasps.
“Spill” Leong demands.
“Her name was Kennedy,” I begin, “She was in another class, I didn’t know her but I started to imagine that I’d known her. I’d think of her playing on the swings in a yellow dress, in daydreams and in nightmares.”
“I can see that,” Leong said.
“I was flummoxed, at the time, how a family could lose a little girl and a president.” I added.
Anna looked confused.
“I was in third grade,” I replied, ”what did I know?”
“Go ON,” Lisa prompts.
“We heard that she was walking home and got snatched,” I continued.
“Jesus,” Lisa said, shaking her head.
“Although I never walked home, I was careful not to be snatched for a while,” I summarized.
“I bet,” Anna agreed.
“That’s what I’d change,” I said, “Poor Kennedy.”
“People ****,” Lisa pronounced, and there was general agreement to that.

Feeling the duanting cry - aloof.
Like a violin with its haunting strings.
I was in a coma-like state of sleep.
The knock at the door.

The dead swan on the butcher's block.
The brilliant faces and signed will.
Borrowed cigarette in the back seat of
the black Mercedes-Benz with Bette Davis.

I stunned in my black suit and silk tie.
I noticed her blank stare from behind
those huge sunglasses. I sighed deeply -
high tailing my heels out the door.

The dead swan on the butcher's block.
I lingered in dismay (I felt paralyzed),
stroked by the rapture of the male swan.
I prayed. Bette Davis is dead.

Counting beads.

...and now on their way to tomorrow, today, and who is there to say
cease fire
someone will turn in to the driveway of hell and burn in eternity for these iniquitous deeds,
it's a deforestation of souls, a population control by those who have sold out to Satan,
the only freedom out there is death from the air and it comes in screaming as if it's a baby leaning into life and falling,failing,tailing off and dropping,
dead,
like the scrolls unrolled that wither away on their way to tomorrow,today,
to cry and to die without understanding why,
population education?
I'd sooner be stupid,
play cupid to the factions but
it's destruction not distraction
they want.

Running Blind Madness
Eyes Wide Heart Pounding
Spirit Lifts Senses Live
Theres Thunder IN THE Atmosphere

This IS A Free Arena
A Gateless Auditorium
Open Fields
Open Wide
Forking Lightning ON THE Horizon

This Natural Inebriation
IN Dynamic Resonation
Anticipation OF THE
Consternataion

Hells Beasts Abound
Snarling Snouts Sounding
Heavy Hoofs Pounding
Crazed Dashing Hounding
IN THE Chaos That'S Surrounding

Hells Beasts Abound
Torso'S Writhing Flailing
Grit Bucking Flailing
Crimson Flow Tailing
THE Gore OF THE Impailing

I'M Knee Deep
IN A River OF Blood
Fleshen Heap
IN THE Reddening Flood

Sodden WET Flesh
Whip AND Turn
Trace THE SKY
With THE Carnal Rain
WET THE Earth
With A Reddened
Stain

Sodden WET Flesh
Whip AND Turn
Trace THE SKY
With THE Carnal Rain
WET THE Earth
With A Reddened
Stain

Sodden WET Earth
Besot With Death Mirth
Drown THE Earth
IN THE Afterbirth
Every Beast THE ****** Herse
DON'T RID ME OF THE ******* Curse

IN AN Ever Rising River OF Blood
Causing Chaos With NO Remorse
I AM Power IN Full Course
Wreaking Havoc

Sump
WET
Dripppin'
Torn
This Bloods LET BY MY Horn
I'M Sopping WET
MY ****** Horn
I Feel Like I'M NEW Born

Drumming Quakes Pounding
Shaking THE Foundation
Lifting Spirits IN THE AIR
I AM GOD Everywhere

Helter Skelter IN THE Chaos
This IS Pandemonium
Freedom Forms
IN THE Void
Electric Flux Obliteration

Pure Intoxication
AS Evil Incarnation
This Revelation
IS Anihilation

paris...
no american in sight, or how i just see utopia...
songs on the steps of  sacré-cœur, kissing
an american girl, then cheese and wine
next to the Eiffel tower, laughing, joking, trailing
and tailing off with talk of nabokov,
the nightclub scene with ping-pong ecstasy dances,
youth, youth, youth,
of youth that congregated once in those places,
parisian girls congregating for a game french hushes
with the chinese whispers  and anglo comic charades
learned from the conquering normans...
paris back then, what wouldn't i have given for it,
but i learned of starving north,
where lecture upon lecture repeated david hume,
and i said:
                   it's the 21st century after all!
                   make edinburgh the new paris!
oh paris, but paris stay intact,
with the eiffel tower in my palm,
where all love met no love
but love met love all the more fictive,
written with a million reincarnations
that once told a tale of warring fractions known
as factions,
and it was told so: paris of my past where
i walked the streets with the compass height
ordaining coordinates that the tower was
to thus learn:
in times of panicky sentencing est mort,
people congregate in hawkish gaze
at monuments of their bone and marrow
turned into cement and irons of scaffold,
and there they congregate to ogle a new hope
when encouraged by a new fascination
of those that are less amazed by the phonetic
simplicity of animals than those who keep them.
oh paris, how i too wished things would have
remained a truer you begging truancy
from international press coverage,
how that one summer i became embedded
in taking to sleep on rock that felt like
woollen napkins filled with duck quills.
and in the memoriam altar two boys played
this song: as entombed by the title.

The Abuser

Driving down a quiet road just leaving my job at the *******,
looking forward to going home and taking a relaxing hot bath, I’m in need of a good scrub
since perverted old men enjoy putting their hands all over my assets while providing them with a lap dance.
At least I don’t have to follow a script during my dance and am allowed to freelance.
I make great money and enjoy a relaxing life that didn’t come about due to circumstance.
It happened because I wasn’t afraid to step out of my own shadow and take a chance
on myself, that I’m sure through the eyes of judging others will be wrote off as melancholy happenstance.
**** them, my life is great besides missing a bit of romance,
and besides, these same judging ******* always come to me looking for a quick cash advance.
I’m financially set with a nice house and car all at the age of twenty-three.
Kiss my ***, kiss my feet, bow down and ******* worship me!

My attention is brought back to reality as red and blue lights begin to flash behind me.
A cop is right on my ***, I guess I must have been driving a little too carefree.
I quickly pull over hoping to get a quick ticket and get on with my night.
Hopefully he’s a nice cop and not one of them rude one’s who’s always pulling people over looking to start a fight.

The officer approaches my window; taps on it to indicate he wants me to roll it down.
I quickly roll it down and force a fake smile trying hard not to frown.
The officer asks me if I know why he has pulled me over.
I tell him I assume for speeding, apologize and tell him I should have been driving a bit slower.
The officer shines his flash light into my face and tells me speeding, and I crossed the center line some little ways back.
He tells me my eyes are red and my car has an odor that smells like I’ve been smoking crack.
I tell him I’ve just got off work and I’m not on any drugs or alcohol, that my eyes are red from being over tired.
He gives me a glare that tells me my answer came off as uninspired.
He asks me where do I work since I’m getting off very late.
I tell him I work at the ******* and that my shift was supposed to end at eight,
but a girl called in sick so I had to stay to cover for her.
I’m completely sober and just tired from a long day of work I reassure.

I officer asks to see my I.D.
He looks at it quickly then asks me to step out of the vehicle.
He leads me to the back of the car and has me lean against the trunk.
He asks me one more time if I’m on drugs or drunk,
then asks if he can search my car.
I have nothing to hide so I say yes trying not to act bizarre.

The officer begins searching my car starting in the front.
This is all a little bit extreme to be blunt.
He has no reason to suspect me of any wrong doing besides driving a little bit too fast.
Whatever, I’ll just play along with his stupid game and comply with every demand he asks.

A few minutes later the cop exits my car and approaches me carrying a bag filled with a white substance.
He tells me he found a bag of ******* in my car and that I’m busted.
“*******!”  I yell, “I have never done ******* in my life, you planted that bag in my car!
Hell, the only drug I’ve ever done was some **** in the bathroom of some run-down bar.”

The cop, now angry, grabs and twists my arm turning my body around so I’m facing the trunk of my car.
He forces my head down hard onto the trunk and whispers into my ear, “you’re lucky I don’t light up a cigar,
and place it against that pretty check of yours until it’s nice and burned.
So, here’s a lesson you need to learn,
never, and I repeat never, accuse a cop of planting drugs on you.
You are in a world of **** right now and your future is not looking good,
so, if you want to get out of this with your freedom intact, play along with my game and I’ll let you out of my neighborhood.”

The cop places one of his hands on my *** and begins to feel it up.
He tells me I have a fantastic body and can get out of this mess by exploiting my goods.
“I know a quiet place we can go to where you can use your ***** holes to pay off this debt you find yourself in.
You’re in for a treat yourself, I still have my *******,
and have a nice 8-inch mass that knows how to please you like a man and not like the little boys I’m sure you’re use to *******.
So how about we go to this quiet place I know and you can start this session off with some *******.”

I tell the officer I’ll do what he wants.
I just have to keep my cool and act nonchalance.
The cop laughs and smiles and says we are going to do this his way.
He tells me finding me tonight has really made his day.
He places his cuffs on me and leads me to his patrol car,
where he places me in the back seat next to an acoustic guitar.
He tells me the place he knows is just a few minutes away,
so, it will only be a short period of time before we can begin our play.
I tell him that’s great news, because between you and I, the sooner I’m out of this situation, the better,
then I can begin my own endeavor.
I’m going to go after him for what he’s doing to me here tonight.
Abusing your power, regardless of your positon is so not right.
He has way too much confidence that he will get away with this, that leads me to believe this is not the first time he has done this.
I’m sure most, if not every night while on patrol, he pulls over a young unsuspecting girl, sets her up and forces her legs to do the splits.
They are ***** and probably too terrified to ever speak up.
Well I’m not terrified; I will have my revenge.
Go ahead set me up with a bag of *******, use that advantage to **** me, but in the end, I will be the one laughing at your trail,
as I testify against you so you are locked away forever for your heinous crimes!
---------------------------------------------------------­----------------------------------------

The patrol car pulls up and parks in front of a dark, seemingly abandoned house.
The officer was right, it only took a few minutes, all the while he ran his mouth off about the *** I was about to experience with him while I remained as quiet as a mouse.
The officer gets out of the car and walks to the back of the car where I’m located.
He opens the door, guides me out still in cuffs and tells me not to be afraid.
I’m not afraid you *******, just upset a man of the law would do such a horrible thing to an innocent person.
I hope once exposed to the light of the world, the knowledge the world will have of your misdeeds will cause you a great burden.
I hope you suffer greatly for your perversions,
and suffer so dearly that not even the holiest of sermons
will be able to soothe your heart and end the hurting.
What you plan to do to me certainly leaves my heart burning.
One thing is certain,
contrary to what you believe, I’m not so inclined towards introversion.
And after I expose you, my actions will be viewed as a public service.

With the officer pushing me along, we make our way to the front of the house where I notice and house has been sealed off with police tape.
Wait…I know this place, it’s been on the news, the sick **** is taking me here to carry out his ****?

The officer takes out a key and opens the front door to let us in.
Once inside, I notice him supporting the largest of grins.

“I know whose house this is officer…I’m sorry I didn’t even get your name.”

“And my name you won’t get and if you think you’re so smart, then whose house is this?”

“This house belongs to Chris Morris, the man who took two young girls prisoner and ***** them repeatedly.
And you brought me to his house to carry out your own ****, do you always act so conceitedly?”

“I brought you here because the house is closed off and no one will discover us here.
It’s a good place to go to if you just want to disappear.”

“Speaking of this house, did you guys ever find Chris Morris?”

The officer walks into the kitchen intentionally ignoring my question.
He opens the refrigerator and cracks open a beer as I await his confession.
He walks up to me and stares into my eyes with a blank, soulless expression.
I’m not sure if he’s about to act calm or explode on me in a fit of aggression.
He’s staring into my soul and sipping on his beer like I’m his obsession.
This ***** sure decided on the wrong profession.
He should have gotten into **** and acted out some **** fantasies if this is his thing.
He does have a huge ego, likes to be in control and probably views himself as a king.
I wonder what he would enjoy more, pressing his lips against mine and kissing,
or by being a sick **** by placing me on my knees with my mouth open with him above me *******.

He finally speaks, “We will find Chris Morris, don’t you worry about that.”

“I don’t understand, how did you guys managed to find the two girls but lose the suspect?
You should have had someone tailing him constantly to make sure he didn’t go unchecked.”

“He wasn’t here when we discovered the girls and he hasn’t been seen since.
If you ask me, he probably fled and country and is now hanging out in some **** hole place like Port-au-Prince.
Enough of your questions, now we are going to start this session off with me snorting a line of ******* off of your ***.”

“So it was your *******?”

“Of course it’s mine, it’s my dark secret, besides taking advantage of hot young women.
Now let’s go see how good your ***** is since it is the way you make your living.”

“I’m not a prost…”

The officer slaps me and pushes me forward towards the master bedroom where I’m sure Chris had his share of fun.
How I wish I could make a break for it and run.
The officer forces me into the bedroom where he pushes me violently onto the bed.
He laughs and tells me I’m about to be bred.
He uncuffs me just long enough to turn me onto my stomach and re cuff me to the bed posts so I have no way to escape.
He pulls my leggings down and off of me and tells me my *** is in perfect shape.

He begins licking my *** checks while rubbing his fingers against my ***** before removing my thong with his teeth.
He moans softly to himself at the sight of my naked bottom and takes a deep breath.
He takes out his bag of ******* and lays out a line on my naked ***.
He at least could have provided me with some high-quality grass,
so we would both be on the same level for this encounter.
I guess he only cares about himself and having his way with my precious flower.

The officer places his nose on my *** and sniffs the line of ******* up as fast as he possibly can.
He shoots up quickly and yells “Whooooo!!!!!” Pleased that everything is going to plan.
He tells me he wants one more line so he places another on my *** and sniffs that one up as well as quickly as possible,
all the while I remain cuffed to the bed acting docile.

The officer gets behind me and begins licking my smooth ***** with his tongue.
He has to be in his mid to late 40’s, but he likes his women young.
He sticks his tongue all the way inside me and begins tongue ******* me over and over again.
He mumbles, “you taste so good I want to take you and get married to you in Spain.”

For what seems like 20 minutes he goes to town licking and tongue ******* me.
All I can think about is how I want to **** him and dispose of his body in the sea.
Now tiring of eating me, he pulls his tongue out of my ***** and puts yet another line of ******* on my ***.
This man truly has no class.
He snorts the third line just as quickly as the first two,
then climbs up onto the bed and whispers into my ear that he’s ready to turn my ***** black and blue.

The officer takes off all of his clothes then mounts me from behind.
I hope I don’t get pregnant, is all that’s going through my mind.
I’m not on birth control and he plans on finishing deep inside me.
If only there was a way to break myself free.

The officer now rock hard shoves his eight-inch **** violently inside me.
I let out a loud, pain filled moan as he lets out a laugh in glee.
He tells me I’m super tight and feel great as he begins to breed me harder and faster with each ******.
This is why police are so easy to mistrust.
They can’t follow the laws they are sworn to follow and protect.
Not all are bad but most are, I know I’m correct.

After a few minutes of increasingly violent thrusting, the officer stops ******* and tells me he’s in trouble.
Without warning, he falls off of the bed and lies motionless on the floor.
The ****** just overdosed and died on *******.
That’s what he gets for not using his brain,
however, I’m still cuffed to the bed with no way to break free.
No one is around to even hear my pleas.
Not a single living soul knows I’m trapped in this house.
No one at work will even know I’m missing until tomorrow night but will have no way of discovering my whereabouts.

HOW THE **** DO I GET OUT OF HERE!
I’M GOING TO ******* DIE HERE!
WHAT THE **** HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS?
THIS IS THE ONLY ******* SCENARIO WORSE THAN BEING *****.
I’m stuck here…
I’m stuck here…

Blazing down the dirt road,
nothing but sky and and and

renegade on the run
like my loose tailing past no longer matters
like everything I was
am
will be
is lost in the dust burned trail
nothing but sky and and and

it is found again some
forgetful Sunday
when the air smells of
dry salt asphalt
spring mud, river,
racing rapids
bound to lose
nothing but sky and and and

don’t look for me
I’ll be home soon but
don’t look for me
when there's
nothing but sky and and and

me.

I saw the great change in him
After he saw the nyanga
As if something was tailing him
Something sinister from the Okawanga

He wanted to gain mental strength
That was why he sought witch doctor help
So together they went to great lengths
To summon the Tokoloshe for this whelp

Born of ****** and sinister thought
The foul creature was called to this world
And a wake of ill doings it brought
Causing fear in each boy and each girl

With this new friend he didn’t need me
But he still needed praise and accept
So he brought me along just to see
How he ***** a girl whose blood he kept

In a bottle for pride in his deed
After he killed her and chopped her up
“I was brought there to watch her bleed”
That’s what I said, when I told the cop

The Police came and took him to jail
But the Tokoloshe followed him inside
Soon he vanished, no trace, not a trail
And rumours said Tokoloshe helped him hide

No one saw him for several days
But a rise in disappearances occurred
And soon he revealed his wicked ways
He stole belongings from his victims, I heard

So, he was caught again but not held for long
His Tokoloshe had not finished yet
It was his purpose to match evil with wrong
And **** and **** whomever he would get

18 months he was on the loose
Sometimes aiding police investigations
He would help them pick up the clues
So he could re-live the gory exhilaration

They could only find partial remains
Tokoloshe had made him use his axe
Rather thoroughly and thrown them off trains
He made sure souls would never relax

When they caught him the final time
He was smiling with satisfaction
He felt no sense of remorse for his crimes
Now he hangs as the judge’s reaction

Tokoloshe is still hiding somewhere
Coming out at night when your dreams are deep
Wreaking havoc and causing a scare
Biting toes, ****** women in their sleep

If it's not the **** they keep emailing me
the police that keep tailing me
the system that's failing me
what is it then?
what can I see?

The absolute ******* they spread on the TV,
shows like Dallas or Dynasty
and god forbid it be
Jeremy Kyle because he'll be the
******* finish of me,
what is it I see?

There's a blind spot from blind Pew,
get one of those in your hand and
you're *******.

On the radio where I go on
a slow night
it's all *****.
Nothing new, **** all to do
minimum wage,
no wonder I'm blue.

The postman a third dan, some
judo, plays ludo with gusto and
I want to **** him for bringing me
bad news, black spots from
blind Pews of which there are many.

It'll go in the end or send me quite ******
if they stop with the **** mail and
the police tail and
let me fail
on my own.

You abandoned me
You left me like a useless old puppy
What happened to all the love we once used to share?
The love that once brewed in the summer air
What about all the good times?
Times spent cuddling as the bell of love chimes
Now it’s colder
Chills have blown over
Sending solemn vibes my way
With every glance, I fray
Eyes that I once melted under
Now pierce my heart with spears you plunder
My slowing heart is dying
Your every touch used to be so exciting
Now I am lost
I used to chase after you at all cost
Tailing you as we followed our heart
But now, you suggest we part
My yearning to go with you to ends of the earth
My past belief that you’d stay at my hearth
Built from the once roaring fire
This burning feeling longing to respire
You left me like a useless old puppy
You abandoned me

I was always looking at you, always at your back. Watching your every fall and every rise. It's too unfortunate I'm too close to you. I can't see your face because I'm always behind you, staring with my eyes from afar and with my heart from nearby. I'm afraid that if I touch your back, you'll turn out to be the person I wouldn't have thought of. I can't say hello just to say goodbye in the end. I'd rather have us stay this way, me tailing you and observing you grow. It is better for me not to get to know you and be disappointed with just myself, than have known you and be disappointed with you and myself. That way I can leave easier.

The harried life of truck driver ..
An eye witness account of kinetic America
Of supercell thunderstorms , Winter blizzards
The lonely byways of Texas , Oklahoma
Blue ridge mountains of Kentucky and West Virginia
Cornfields of Ohio , Shores of North Carolina ,
the turnpikes of Florida and Pennsylvania ...
To roadside eateries , bob-tailing at six a.m. ..
To family gatherings , special occasions minus a hard working
provider in the picture , running hot , enroute to Baton Rouge and
all points west , trying to make a decent living ...

As time began to peel back new chapters of life, the people we were faded away and new people emerged. Maybe we bring out the worst in each other, which is worse for the both of us.

Two different paths and  two different people try to walk the same road, but we bump each other off the path and we stumble and we fall. We stop along the way and argue about which way to go, and sometimes we talk about separating. No decision is right, so therefore every direction is wrong in its own way.

You want to stop and savor the journey while I want to get where we're going. Even if we both got our way we would still be in this struggle. Maybe it's just who we are.

We started on this journey together, not knowing where this path would lead us. And even through the mountains and rivers, we held each other's hand and somehow made it through. But this feeling has never been stronger. And I truly believe that when we started this path, the future ahead was bright, but now all I see and feel are dark clouds and I don't think there are sunny days to look forward too.

I might be able to trick myself for a short while, and I may believe my own deceitfulness, but I know I could never fool you. And would I want to? I know how you hate wasting time but I'm still figuring it out. The checks and balances are hard to weigh. They are difficult to think about and make this walk very depressing.

I walk in front, with you right behind me. It's a quiet day and cloudy, but just the right temperature. There is wind, but I don't feel it and I can't hear it. But I know it's there by the way the trees move. I wonder if you can feel it.

I kick the rocks as we walk and sometimes I wish the path was big enough so that we could walk next to one another. Sometimes we pass others and smile. The first smile in days. Their smiles look genuine though. But I guess you can never really tell.

This path looks and feels like a million dollar forest painting with beautiful landscaping. The path is not set for us, is one that we must make on our own. Some paths make more sense than others and sometimes it feels more like a maze. I will always fight for my way and dispute why my path makes more sense, but every once and a while you will do the same and I will have to follow your lead. I don't particularly like this and I will often find myself talking back like a child, but I follow regardless because it's better than being alone.

The forest is a big and scary place and when it turns dark I hate to think about what I might do alone... I mean really alone, physically. Emotionally, I am already there.

Sometimes I think that if I were alone, I might not feel alone. I might enjoy the path I make for myself and maybe even stop to pick a flower because I can, and there would be nobody tailing me. Just me.

Nobody to tell me what to look at and what to smell. It would be my decision. It would be because that's what I want. And there would be nobody to try and tell me things about myself that aren't true. Nobody that tries to bring me down for what I think or feel. I could uplift myself and walk faster if I wanted to and I could sit on the riverbank and dip my toes in the water if I wanted to and I could sing if I wanted to and I could ... Because I wanted to. No regret. No shame. Just peacefulness.

It sounds so nice, but would it turn out to be as nice as imagined? Probably not. It never is. Just like this walk with you. It sounded nice. But it isn't.

Wind pushed along the clouds..
The same way I budged myself through the light of day..

My thoughts have become a cliché..
Deemed, my mind is soon to decay..

Hazy.. lazy.. 
Shadowing time.. 
Tailing this lure.. through dusk and dawn.

I'm jaded.
I'm faded.
This world has got me shaded.

There's nothing I can do, 
but fight for my virtue.. wherethrough, dusk.. and dawn...

well, if i found a self-administrative
anaesthetic for celestial tyrants that
are so glorified by historians over
the ages, and only dream darkness,
or dream ******* up that not even
Freud could stomach...
and i teach them how to take it to
do the opposite of what they did in life,
and leave them hungover and
slightly prone to despair, i'm sure we can
have a timetable of when they go cold
turkey, and turn into little budding Buddha...
adenosine and that acetyl thing...
or i got it completely wrong...
how else you going to keep frying
that chicken... obviously you'll have
to keep cutting corners somewhere...
obviously the little budding Buddha illuminations
everyone will resist... i mourned
the fact that a boy encouraged me to throw
a hamster off the stairs telling me: he's
wearing parachutes... i remember that
face... i remember the bloodied snout
of the hamster... makes me a Hindu then:
to have mourned the passing of a petted
animal makes you Hindu...
you can claim having converted the day
you mourned your pet cat passing...
honest to Brahman... like me an Ernest
tailing our conversation into
childless couples who don't want the
murk of a genetic Rōnin ruining
their happy abode even if nurture tries to
overcome nature... dog, man's second child
i inquired... i don't know if i was
elastic enough to call that poetic, but i added:
once you take to the trivialities
of having animals as your children
in a theatre of grievance, the little concern
the animals need, and the way that families
with children belittle the concern of people
with animals as animals making them Everest
summits... well... the joke is: the little
problems of animals dwarf the problems of life...
which is turn makes the childless couples
who have animals as incubator replacements
of pets look at child aplenty couples look a bit daft,
the equilibrium of dwarf and titan combine,
the childless couple incubates a resistance
against the titanic problems of life, or rather the world
with whether their children have autism aged 6...
well, if they don't have play-friends outside of school
where every child's imagination is on equal footing
and there are no educators present to
separate the sheaf from the staff, the wolf from the sheep...
sure... by the age of 8, a child will adamantly
become brutal in his or her individual...
the problem in england, as in America is that
children do not have outside-of-school play-friends
to relax with... it's either all school with social hierarchies,
or all familial bonding, or literally ******* it up
with Oedipus looming...
the funny bit? i remember childhood from 1990s Poland
like Ernest remembers it from, what, 1940?
HA HA HA HA... funny as ****... where's this
unconscious uncoupling then? licking the plates
like a dog starved for a month?
i love the English maxim: got to be cruel... to be kind.
no wait... he said his elder brothers
made their debut... that's the 19... 30s! god...
western Europe is Darwinism on amphetamines.
you can't get play-friends in school...
that's why we have the Cure and the Smiths song...
so much angst at the fact that no one bothered to
build close sky-rise communities...
trying to build them in the 1950s with a Colonial
past? crime... whatever else?
what with those on those estates saying:
my children too! in a semi-detached!
how they ***** Poland with Pope John II at the front...
what a bunch of scummy ratty wankers...
*******... bending the pirate ship's plank wankers...
i'd do them in Kentucky if i had my way...
apparently the recipe is out an all good for the
public eye to see... sometimes civilisation
makes you a natural cannibal by the mere thought of it...
you can't expect children in western society to
not fall suspect to some psychological malnutrition
when their only play-friends are in an institutional
environment, might as well put them in psychiatric
wards and tell them to play razor quickest to the wrist
wins! i do mean that from your neck arteries.
they don't have play-friends outside of institutions...
maybe it was the suburban labyrinths of identical
housing that mismanaged the chance interaction
of a group of children... but in 2 square miles
of where i live, i've seen more biodiversity than
i'd care to see in the Amazon rain forest.

Checked myself yesterday
wondered if my soul was intact
that, and the seams that hold it together
its sense and social competence
its gait and many faces
its sainthood and devillish endeavours
and all other things

Washed down everything thoroughly before
I reckoned I was ready to see you
the perfection down to the littlest detail
at least, what passes as perfection
glazing over and stopping short
of reeling and swooning at
the mere whiff of your scent

Cleared the hoops between
the long sidewalk jog of endurance
hearing the cars whisk by and wishing
that they'd give me a lift - for what seems important
that brief moment when my eyes find their sockets

The sun will rise as I
slowly make my way into the compound
find the snug spot between the walls that they
seem to have left empty for me
while I might watch from the window panes
wonder if you would look over
and pay me some attention
though often, I
pass the entire day
watching but never found

To work the night shift and spend the daytime waiting
tailing your silhouette like an empty vagrant
grasping onto nothing as the world ignores my presence
like they did always
like they did yesterday

In the unbroken smoke, where the cream on the coffee can choke
an unwary cat
that's where I'm at.
I didn't look for it,book it,get this life at cost,so **** it,
I never asked to be here,
the price I must pay is too high and I fear I will die.
The sanatorium,
humorously called a
gated community where
electrodes are placed on my brain,
is that normal or sane?
what kind of people are these?
I can walk as I talk with the trees in the garden that's known
as Gethsemane
where I feel all alone but know that nurses are tailing me.
The smoke drifts away
there'll be no shocking me today.
Napoleon comes by and he waves and says 'Hi'
I say,
'not yet'

As I slide into my little red dress, I glance at the mirror on the side wall and notice it's slightly crooked. I quickly adjust my view, grasping my hair in one hand, and "pony tailing it" with the other.

"How could he raise a hand to this fine body?" I think loudly, as I rub my firm round hips.  Smoothing away every wrinkle visible that might distract from my hour glass figure.

As I'm dusting my face with the finest of powders, I make sure my subtle lips are moistened with ruby red dew.

Blowing that final kiss in the wind, I grab a little "Oscar" to splash on my visible *****.  

"He loves me right?" Closing the door behind me, with keys in hand, I lock her in - the abused woman.  

No one will ever know (or care to meet her).  She just is.

I think of you
Every time I reach
For my pack
Fit snugly
In my pocket.
Steal a smoke,
Put it gently
Between my lips
And light it up
Just to take a few
Hits; filling my
Lungs with tainted
Air I wouldn't dare
Wish another
To breathe.

Exhale to the left
So it goes
Along with the
Wind toward
The mountains
And away from
The memory of
You. I remember
How that day
Driving home from
school, windows
Down and a smoke
Between my fingers
Hanging slightly
In the open
Air, when I was
Distracted by the
Sight of your
Car tailing me
All the way home.

Remember how
You kissed me
So tenderly
As to distract
My eyes from
Your hands
Slowly moving
Down my side
Making me
Shiver in anticipation
Expecting more
Like we used to do.
Instead you
Sneak my Spirits
Out of my
Grasp, taking
My crutch away
And all I can ask
For is just
one more.

You kiss me for
A second time.
I say that is
Not what I
Meant and you
Know it.
You smile
And tell me
That's what
Addicts say.
I remember you
Getting out
Of my car and
Break every single
Smoke in the pack,
Finally throwing
Them away and
Look at me.

I don't look
Back. All I hear
Is your voice
Saying words I
Tried to tune
Out but couldn't
Quite get the
Ringing of the
Love I felt when
You finally
Told me I was
Better than this.
I promised I
Would stop and
Your stringing of
Words gave
Me the strength I
Thought I lost
When I first
Started
Killing myself.

Five hundred and eighty-four
Days I stood by my
Word until I broke
And you were no longer
There to pick up
The pieces.
I think of you every time
I reach for a smoke.
No longer keeping
Track of days
Because I have
Been stuck at Day 1
For too long
To know how it felt
To be free from
A crutch I don't
Know how to
Give up.

Or maybe I
Just don't want to
Because every time
I bring that smoke
To my lips to
Take a drag, I feel
Guilt and dread
And no
Self-worth
But
I think of you.

Air right front side to side cuth hand relaxed
Texture cold ghoul, see per person heart pierce
Magna seer, trials true down & Peer say angst
Hidden waves fly soon nerve endings concourse
Luck bare tailing virile Abe, ebb & remorse
Pearl once afar dragged near spirits across
Angel crime states left exempt never cross

I would love to release whatever unspecified mess, and display whatever inexplicable emotions erupting within my chest..
I would love to be carried away by the eerie winds of despair, whistling throughout the weathered bones of mine.
I would love to erase and disintegrate the haunting memories of past and present times.
I would love to regain innocence, and tackle the constantly inconstant clockwork of my mind.
I would love to embrace the abyss tailing the lightened end of a tunnel, leading to the lightened tunnel beyond the abyss.

I know he's a star
a fantasy
but I won't give up
I want him to love me
I'm good enough
I just need the chance
my sparkling personality
and a little romance
Now I'm no stalker
just love from afar
that wasn't me
tailing his car
I know it's not real
but I don't care
nothing else in my life is working
I'm not the least bit scared
I'll live in my dreamworld
I'm safe and cozy there
and dream of his blue eyes
and long silky blond hair