fROM THE dESK OF THE pOET**

I'm embarrassed to admit this. The night before last I ate an excessive amount of Sour Chewy Sweettarts. If you've ever had them you know that just one or two have enough toxic chemical dust sprinkled on them to make your mouth numb for several minutes. Well I got into a rhythm of eating one, then adding one to it, then another for three, then four, then five, then  six all the way to seven at one time. In that experiment alone I consumed no fewer than 26 Sour Chewy Sweetarts and even that was after having warmed up with several single helpings.

Sour Chewy Sweettarts were at one time marketed under the name  "Shockers". Let me tell you they should have respected the truth in advertising inherent with that label. The intensity of tartness conferred from all these ***** Wonka treats was remarkable and very well could have been the most face-squinching sourness I've experienced in my fifty-plus years.

The unfortunate downswing of these hijinks is that I developed a chemical burn that spread across the entirety of my tongue all the back to and including the area where my uvula hangs.

It's my own stupid fault. I could feel the chemicals eating through too many layers of cells long before the administration of candy pellets had reached four, even five-count multiples. By the time I had the seven pack ****** down to gel the burning was so bad I had to squint my eyes. The question that found priority amongst all that came to me at that moment was "how long is my mouth going to be so alternately sensitive and numb that I won't be able to eat my beloved jalapenos and spicy vittles?" A couple of days later and that answer still has not been found, although progress has been made to the point where I have faith it WILL indeed heal...you know how paranoid I can think sometimes, surely my mouth will never heal from THIS god forsaken self-inflicted injury, after all, I deserve it, hence the term "SELF inflicted". It's nothing but payback being it's usual self. If I never get to taste the wondrous seasonings of a well-mixed chili recipe cooked to perfection by someone who really knows how to make chili...if I never sigh with uninhibited satisfaction after downing a swig of Dr. Pepper or Miller's High Life or Guinness Stout...if I never again will be able to tell the difference between prime Angus beef and succulent Maine Lobster it is for good reason that I've been deprived of these tender mercies. It's because I knew when to stop and I kept on eating, though tears had begun to form.

No, it's more than that. It's because Universal Forces were all the while begging me, whispering in  my ears, "Stop! Stop! Enough! No more!" What would have happened if Joseph had ignored the Lord on that cool December night? Gabriel let Mary in on what was going down, what do you think would have happened if she'd gotten jealous of Joseph and disregarded the angel because he didn't have quite as much clout as her husband's Messenger? What would have happened? Nobody knows. But I know what would have happened if I'd heeded the advice of the benevolent spiritual  beings who were trying to warn me to lay off of the Sour Chewy Sweettarts. I wouldn't be sitting here typing on the hp laptop about how I got the chemical burn from hell.

But it seems like valuable lessons may be learned at every turn. So it is that with almost every experience I am resigned to also look at this one as the hard earned silver lining. Just what exactly have I learned? Well, first of all I've learned that it would probably be a good idea in the future to regulate severely the amount of Sour Chewy Sweettarts (aka Shockers) I eat in one sitting. If I ever eat them again, If the emotional scars of the chemical burn will free me in my sweet tooth's cravings for Wonka Sugar to ever again opt for the sour stuff. I learned that eating Vlasic Kosher Dill Pickles with such a freshly de-sensitized/throbbing chemically-scorched tongue is a prospect that shares much in common with a full day of taste-testing ghost peppers. Only on a slightly smaller scale does the briny pickle juice pack it's own searing acidic punch.

Other lessons? Oh I'm sure I could fill a book with lessons this has taught me. Writing that book might be the most useful, benevolent gesture I ever offered my fellow man but I don't know if I can do it. But if I did, this would have to be the first couple of lines on the very fist page:

Make sure you're going to have a LOT of alone time the morning after.

But that's just plain good advice.

I knew the orange on the orange tree
you had an ache in your shoulders
uncomfortable in an unnatural way
yesterday I passed you talking to flowers
you hadn't moved you hadn't strayed
but hiding in the leaves was a forced disguise

the omens told me something quiet and unceasing
reminding me of a slumbering domesticated cat
dreaming of cutting yourself loose from truncated ease
dropping down from the branch with panther steps
licking fruit lips ripe with revealed acidic petals
riddled with a past you revelled mixing in with zest

shocking chances stepped in for the next dance
sleep taken aback by wings cut from a dark sky
the sidewalk pitted and cracked beneath the pounce
relief escaped the twigs with a spring like waking prey
pressing into night foliage shaken from a nice balance
as I saw you take control with nothing to mask your face

on the surface too smooth for violence
was laughter of glowing gloom to embarrass
and deter such rebellious arrogance
with a twist struggling from a lame curse
its flavours sharp against your sweetened perfume muscle
expecting you to build a limestone shed for tears
rather than take on the night with a mind to wrestle

the outside aches for your physical attraction
gaining courage from the purpose in your eyes
tense as the tightness of your dress' intention
demanding that my hands draw from such lines
the sinuous heat of pulsing flesh's invitation
curved upon seeds not chaste but not quite refined
which I try not loving with some cool disambiguation

you left me the taste of syrup of grenadine
too reputable to ripple vain red tipple eyed
on a table spilt with pink gin and mandarin
sharp teeth tingling a tartness into my hand
sliding slowly at a tilt like drops of sweat on skin
focus dwindling into the clasp of an escaping shade
wrapped carefully under soft rice paper and then
tucked under a heel with a pointed kick like a blade
only to feel you relent and burst open
soft in appeal again and again

Firm, ripe, temptation red,  
the pale green-yellow flesh
floods my mouth
with Sweet juice and the sting of tartness
like a gift from a serpent
I know I should be ashamed
but I have been bitten.

Raspberry pip boy lingered and hung around,
He was sweet, but with a tartness that juiced up your mouth,
He flowered in Spring, and swelled my heart up through Summer,
And I plucked him, and I ate him, and I begged for another,
But as I chewed up, my heart slid down my back,
As I was gulping down raspberries my tooth had cracked,
The raspberry pips had sunk deep and rooted
In between my poor teeth, how I hollered and hooted
"RASPBERRY PIP BOY ISN'T AS SWEET AS YOU THINK,
HE STAYS FAR TOO LONG, I'M STAINED BY HIS INK.
I CAN'T WASH HIM OUT, BELIEVE ME I'VE TRIED,
THAT RASPBERRY PIP BOY HAS JUST RUINED MY LIFE!!"
A former tooth model, my contract was lost,
To that Raspberry Pip Boy, his seeds, and tooth rot.

three ripe figs: maiden-mother-crone
fresh and green, not fully grown
gravid, blushing, ripe allure
nut-brown, wrinkled, sun-matured.

which of these the sweetest be?
high upon this old fig tree
maiden tartness bright and young
full womanhood upon the tongue.
drooping breast and brown age-spots
spurned by youthful hungry thoughts.

adolescent, first one picked
complex taste is not quite fixed.
plump and ready, sun-touched mother
ripe fig flavor like no other
ignored by most, her dried-up skin
sags dessicated on the limb.
with sweetest nectar deep inside.
never plucked and never tried.

I look down at some sour
Fruit candies for an hour
But I must say to most
It tasted awful.
Not any tartness taste.
But at least it was novel.

!LEPRECHAUNS' *****!
(for the glorious M.F.F.)

Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden

all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.

We never able to make up
our minds whether we

liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.

Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating

the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is

the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."

But despite being armed
with this knowledge I

pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...

lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.

Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when

summer hath no ending
and everything was only

a beginning
and there was such a thing as

leprechauns' *****.

An alien fruit
on a low hanging branch,
she swings invitingly
flaunting her color,
that pulled me near
what an adornment
you would be to my
meager fruit basket,
inebriating scent emanating
overpowers my senses.

Your design, I certainly smell
I hear the whisper,
the disclaimer to entice me
to your side, "I don't like him,
the keeper of my orchard,
he pretends he owns it
but does he know the truth?
it's different, fruits aren't
his passion, just a hoarder
he doesn't enjoy  the ripe fruits,
and I am a **** fruit,
I see yearnings play hide and seek
in your eyes, aren't you the kind of guy,
I've been waiting to come this way,
take me, soon I'll forget him,
throw away your qualms
like fruit peels to the dumps"

I can't now discern,
what I now think,
no, I am no purist
who detests tartness,
I like the taste of vinegar,
this fruit offers so much,
this is a taste I relish,
but I am not game for this,
like to chase and hunt,
fruits from higher branches,
"wouldn't touch a carcass,
even if it promises much"

Bits of tar rolling down my throat
and into my lungs
used to make me feel alive
His lips tasted of metal
and his of cinnamon
and hers of freshly picked strawberries
I would bring food to my mouth
and ingest
hoping one day to feel full
To bite into something
that would not leave me
wanting for something
Drops of burning liquid
would numb my wet lips
and then my heart
the tartness of meals
led to an aftertaste of
bitterness
until I brought my lips to yours

Desire the sound or hope,
deluding minds in darkness.
Daunting through its scope,
deluged no more in tartness.
Elope into the morrow,
envelop me with reason.
Enclose me now in sorrow,
easing against the legion.
Longs for succulent remonstration,
laying waste to ardent night.
Lopsided in spurn demonstration,
languid with delight.
Only now will I protest,
owning nothing less.
Opening now I detest,
one more time to bless.

©Michael P. Smith

LUST is a juicy fruit
the seeds of impurity cover it like a blanket
once it is bitten into, the taste of desire overwhelms the senses
enveloping them, a euphoric cloud of fantasies
which are played on repeat in the head
press play for a demonstration of frustration and regret
as one remembers the taste of sweet strawberries
the lingering tartness of pleasure
the tangible bitterness of self-interest
the juice is dripping from the chin
of those who indulge in this enticing sin
ensnared in the fury of so-called passion

two lovers, caught between silk bedding
fighting for the covers, bare skin breathing through fibers
whispers dangling in the room's stale air
a clock ticks the tempo of passion
the lovers feign an argument about something trivial
laughing, they resolve and go into fits of happiness
outside, the leaves on the trees rustle in the wind
somewhere, a school bus blares its horn
the world is waking up
but our lovers are still in bed, dreaming lazy
she wakes up in a delirious haze
he coos at her and she purrs in delight
finally she stirs and rises to make breakfast
whole wheat banana pancakes
Jack Johnson variations

Talent show
Whimsy is our art
Our taste in methods and sights of owe
Welcome us to your town, a hay day with time to smarten

Catch a rising star
The pout of energy realized, remaining in view
Is our call to excellency, a closely required more
To the stir of when passion, has the sense to live for who

Carry me to the stage
The show is about to start, a seeming melodrama
That when served, is the callous voice we saw rage:
The tartness of life today, is tomorrow ours for a better dilemma?

Which in wolves eyes, the taste of complexity is ours
For a knock, a door, a calling hour; to achieve a known
Place of redoubt, that has no ear for wishes, beyond powers
That claim the world for a note, of courage come too soon?

A heated conversation, now is a readied mouth
With courage to take the lead, in round paces of what went
With the moment we know, the coping stare of another, proud
And silent, until a shadow of doubt, has become meant...

Through the longing, the strength of a need so refined
Wealth of a thought, is our reward
To tell a tale of composure, that has seen the times
And given the cue of adroitness, has become a life to guard...

Audacity
So simple an argument, for a watching eave
Tell-tale heed, to groom itself in lights, worth nativity
And with austerity to care, the faces of destiny in love, never leave

Speak to me in your honey suckle voice,
Eyes bright like blue lavender laid out to dry;
I want to be drenched in the stickiness of love.

Sticky like a fly trapped in a spider’s web
But unwilling to try to escape.

Croon to me in your apple cider voice,
Lips puckering at the tartness;
I want to be warmed up in the heat of love.

Hot like an egg frying on the pavement
Ready to be eaten with salt and pepper.

What Can A Muslim Woman Be?

Bobbing
On the misogynistic sea
Of inhumanity

Muffled by
Mandatory muteness
Veiled in artless darkness
Horrified by heartlessness
And tasting
A terrible tartness

A gauntlet of confetti stones awaits
The rule breakers
And mistake makers
Equivocation
Or twisted motivation
Can cause a horrid hail
To happen
At any moment

I wonder
What can a Muslim woman be

Sean Hunt Windermere 2016 May

A woman has a certain right to her delusions. Her dolls come to life, and they talk to her. They tell her that there is a world of unending beauty. They tell her that there is a prince there, and that he loves her. This prince is her lover.
She has a certain right to choose her lover. To choose that prince to place beside her in the dollhouse, on the never-empty throne. She has a certain right to love him in her Candyland.
The prince has no flaws that would offend the spirit of a woman. The prince is unapologetically sensual. The prince is to be made a king by the power of a lover's inspiration. She is that lover who will make him king, in her dollhouse. In her Neverland.
She knows he isn't real, deep down. He is a reflection of a human man on the pure water's surface. Perfect for a dollhouse. The human man is danger. The sensual human man is death. She can only hold her breath so long, and she will never come up for air if he keeps her. She dies happily-ever-after in her mind, but is often left a bitter specter. Let her have her mind, her garden, her delusion.
Let her have the visions of an unending, beautiful together. Let her have the dreams of making love underwater. Let her stare through him to the shiny king on the throne. Let there be much hot blood spilled.
He is no prince, but a king already. He reigns over a kingdom of hidden things. They would burn her hands and thighs with volatile reactions, she can never know them. She sees them, and longs to place them in her lap and admire their heat. She would scar herself for the beautiful pain of the fire of his passions.

And so, I'm not so much silly as I am female. I'm not so much crazy as I am woman. I am plagued by my need for fire and my lust for pain. How could I ever be expected to sit and stare at walls? There is no oxygen in this box, and so there can be no fire!
The little throne in my dollhouse was burned to ashes. I wanted no king, nor did I wish to rule. I only longed to be touched and handled. No queen can rule in a state of hysterics. What would the people make of my hands and thighs?
I have a certain right to choose my lover. I have a certain right to burn down room after room in the dollhouse with the flames of my momentary hysteria. I **** the marrow of my lover's passion and leave him a husk, for he often hasn't much. I am a witch, draining the blood from him with every movement of my hips, using his essence in rituals much too taboo for discussion, eating whatever remains. I do it all in my dollhouse.

There is a Wild King. I fear him tremendously. The Wild King has the power to overthrow the pile of ashes. He is an unstoppable force, and I am merely painted as an immovable object.
In my dreams, he is a wolf, I am a lamb. He grabs my throat with determined jaws and thrashes nearly all life from me. I no longer move, yet I still breathe as he finds the softest part of my abdomen to start his feast. I feel every piece taken, and think "yes, yes..."
My fear of the Wild King is eclipsed only by my lust for him. To be a lamb for his slaughter is my only fantasy. To be his feast night after night is my only desire. The sensual human man is the sweetest death, and I can only hope  to taste it.
Wild King! I'd bet he tastes of wild strawberries, sweet with a kiss of tartness. He is passion and tenderness in tandem. He is a heat that melts the resolve slowly, like chocolate. A witch such as myself could never dream of claiming such power.
I wait for the Wild King in my scorched dollhouse. At night, I can hear him howl and sing. Sometimes I imagine he is closer than the night before. Let me have my delusion. He is not at all mine, but I pretend I could have him. My greatest fear. My only lover. The only lover I dare not choose.

Under the moon, near the groves,
grows the summer's bitter fruit,
plumping for harvest.

We are bound to them,
thirsty for their tartness.

I know nothing of farming
these lands or caring for
elderly children, lost
inside their own minds.
I am only an observer
in these fields, destined
to carry my share home.

When I left my wife I felt
the angst, but underneath it
was the overwhelming
relief that I didn't have to
pretend anymore that
two halves could ever equal one.

I watch the bitter fields,
under this moon,
only an observer,
adding up these fruits,
counting these bushels,
knowing that we've all
our own fields to tend,
serfs that we are.

!LEPRECHAUNS' *****!
(for the glorious M.F.F.)

Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden

all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.

We never able to make up
our minds whether we

liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.

Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating

the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is

the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."

But despite being armed
with this knowledge I

pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...

lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.

Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when

summer hath no ending
and everything was only

a beginning
and there was such a thing as

leprechauns' *****.

Behind her veil'd facade
she writes her memoirs
enticing nectar'd touches of a woman
pickled with tartness & zest of a wanton need
closes her eyes when she takes her quill
upon her honey'd *******
scripts love letters of a past sinful lust,
seasoned times she can reminisce
  in her foolish head she had a dream,
    blinded by desire, was never meant to be,
in her rush to be discreet
    her scarlet letters smear'd
emboss'd her mark upon raised braille
despair'd should anyone find her
             true heart's intentions,
one final evanescent indulgence
  of a poison pen'd sleeping beauty

cherry pits held in my cheek
blackberry juice stains on my teeth
sticky heat and the tartness of love
the golden honey glow of your peach fuzz
the taste of summer lingers on the tip of my tongue
august sun fills me up and i come undone

You left your cup on the kitchen sink.
It was still filled with your sustenance.
There it stood, staring at me so plainly
that I finally lifted it to my mouth
and rested my kiss on the rim.
I tasted you again.
Nothing wakes me up in the morning
quite like a glass of you.
It was like a burst of molten sun--
an explosion of tartness
spreading itself sweetly across my palette.
I swear, the rim of your cup is sacred.
So after I sipped from your morning brew,
I left it alone in the basin.
It's waiting for you to lift your flavor
from its Holy surface.
I'll sip again of your sweet mouth tomorrow.

None of clothes are right and so I am not human. Only cold winds and crazed neon. I sometimes shine a flashlight under my fingers to remind myself of my bones. But they're as breathlike and photonic as the plastic tears I will never be given the right to have.

We know that **** ain't real.

How brittle a (we) can be. What sound is my voice allowed to have other than the violent dance of glass on concrete? My happiness always hangs from the end of a baseball bat.

And that's the way things are.

Of course, my mantras are just idolatry or faggotry. Systems of oppressive heat and chemical equations either pat me on the back or slap me across the face and I can never quite seem to catch my breath or feel an embrace, not really.

My forehead burned, but I closed my eyes.

How heavy must my skin and eyelashes and all the things that encase me, engender me, hang about me before I can finally count myself beloved? The question is as impossible as my own humanity, and my existence is not so self-evident that kiwis taste like queer fruits. So until smiles lose their tartness and I can breathe at last, *******.

!LEPRECHAUNS' *****!
(for the glorious M.F.F.)

Gorging on goosegogs
stolen from Granny's garden

all the sweeter for the stealing
despite their inherent tartness.

We never able to make up
our minds whether we

liked them or not
but loving 'em all the same.

Mary and her mind games
trying to prevent me eating

the last one
informs me that "...goosegogs is

the hairy green testicles
of leprechauns."

But despite being armed
with this knowledge I

pop it in my mouth
proclaiming it " De...

lic..ious!" all the same.
Mary looks at me with disgust.

Goosegogs the eternal
taste of summer when

summer hath no ending
and everything was only

a beginning
and there was such a thing as

leprechauns' *****.

Onwards
stomping against the tufts -
grass
older than me
The knots
of a time long passed
I walk down
I walk down

Stinging kiss
of a nettle leaf against
my knees; unprotected
I walk down
I walk down

Brambles tug
my hair and arms
but I am rewarded
with the crisp tartness
of a berry.

Spitting on my hands I pick up my courage and face the dawning day.
No-one told me it would be like this,
This feeling of powerlessness,
The lack of control.
Today someone gave up their seat for me on a bus.
Why? Does my fragility show?
I am no different to yesterday,
When I was young.
When I am old and wiser, and worthy of respect
When my hair and skin are grey
These changes creeping quietly
Will mask my still young heart.
In my head I'll hear rock music roaring
Drowning out the years
While my smile belies the tartness of my tongue and
Poison wit.
Remember, we do not really change with age
We just grow older.
We just grow
We just
We
Die.