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guy scutellaro Oct 2019
The rain ****** through a darkening sky.

The man's eyes grow bright and he smiles. Softly, he whispers, " Man, you're the biggest, whitest, what hell are you anyway?"

The pup sits up and Jack Delleto caresses her neck, but much to the mutt's chagrin the man stands up and walks away.

Jack has his hand on the door about to go into the bar. The pup issues an interrogatory, "Woof?"

The rain turns to snow.

The man's eyes grow bright and he smiles, "My grandma used to say that when it snows the angels are sweeping heaven. I'll be back for you, Snowflake."

Jack shivers. His smile fading, the night jumps back into his eyes.

Snowflake chuffs once, twice.

The man is gone.



The room would have been a cold ,dark place except the bodies who sit on the barstools or stand on the ***** linoleum floor produce heat. The cigarette smoke burns his eyes. Jack Delleto looks down the length of the bar to the boarded shut fire place and although the faces are shadows, he knows them all.

The old man who always sits at the second barstool from the dart board is sitting at the second bar stool. His fist clenched tightly around the beer mug, he stares at his own reflection in the mirror.

The aging barmaid, who often weeps from her apartment window on a hot summer night or a cold winter evening, is coming on to a man half her age. She is going to slip her arm around his bicep at any moment.

"Yeah," Jack smiles, "there she goes."

Jack Delleto knows where the regulars sit night after night clutching the bar with desperation, the wood rail is worn smooth.

In the mirror that runs the length of the bar Jack Delleto sees himself with clarity. Brown hair and brown eyes. Just an ordinary 29 year old man.

"Old Fred is right," he thinks to himself, "If you stare at shadows long enough, they stare back." Jack smiles and the red head returns his smile crossing her long legs that protrude beneath a too short skirt.

The bartender recognizes the man smiling at the redhead.

"Well,  Jack Delleto, Dell, I heard you were dead. " The six foot, two hundred pound bartender tells him as Dell is walking over to the bar.

"Who told you that?"

"Crazy George, while he was swinging from the wagon wheel lamp." Bob O'Malley says as he points to the wagon wheel lamp hanging from the ceiling.

"George, I heard, HE was dead."

The bartender reaches over the bar resting the palms of his big hands on the edge of the bar and flashes a smile of white, uneven teeth. Bob extends his hand. "Where the hell have you been?"

They shake hands.

Dell looks up at the Irishman. "I ve been at Harry's Bar in Venice drinking ****** Marys with Elvis and Ernest."

Bob O'Malley grins, puts two shot glasses on the bar, and reaches under the bar to grab a bottle of bourbon. After filling the glasses with Wild Turkey, he hands one glass to Dell. They touch glasses and throw down the shots.

"Gobble, gobble," O Malley smiles.


The front door of the bar swings open and a cold wind drifts through the bar. Paul Keater takes off his Giants baseball cap and with the back of his hand wipes the snow off of his face.

"Keater," Bob O'Malley calls to the Blackman standing in the doorway.

Keater freezes, his eyes moving side to side in short, quick movements. He points a long slim finger at O'Malley, "I don't owe you any money," Paul Keater shouts.

The people sitting the barstools do not turn to look.

"You're always pulling that **** on me." Keater rushes to the bar, "I PPPAID YOU."

As Delleto watches Keater arguing with O'Malley, the anger grows into the loathing Dell feels for Keater. The sauve, sophisticated Paul Keater living in a room above the bar. The man is disgusting. His belly hangs pregnant over his belt. His jeans have fallen exposing the crack of his ***, and Keater just doesn't give a ****. And that ragged, faded, baseball cap, ****, he never takes it off.

When Keater glances down, he realizes he is standing next to Jack Delleto. Usually, Paul Keater would have at least considered punching Delleto in his face. "The **** wasn't any good," Paul feining anger tells O'Malley. "Everybody said it was, ****."

The bartender finishes rinsing a glass in the soapy sink water and then places it on a towel. "*******."

Keater slides the Giant baseball cap back and forth across his flat forehead. "**** it," he turns and storms out of the bar.

"Can I get a beer?" Dell asks but O"Malley is already reaching into the beer box. Twisting the cap off, he puts it on the bar. "It's not that Keater owes me a few bucks, "he tells Dell, "if I didn't cut him off he'd do the stuff until he died." Bob grabs a towel and dries his hands.

"But the smartest rats always get out of the maze first," Jack tells Bob.


Cigarette butts, candy wrappers, and losing lottery tickets litter the linoleum floor. Jack Delleto grabs the bottle of beer off the bar and crosses the specter of unfilled wishes.

In the adjacent room he sits at a table next to the pinball machine to watch a disfigured man with an anorexic women shoot pool. Sometimes he listens to them talk, whisper, laugh. Sometimes he just stares at the wall.

"We have a winner, "the pinball machine announces, "come ride the ferris wheel."



"I'm part Indian. "

Jack looks up from his beer. The Indian has straight black hair that hangs a few inches above her shoulders, a thin face, a cigarette dangling from her too red lips.

"My Mom was one third Souix, " the drunken women tells Jack Delleto.

The Indian exhales smoke from her petite nose waiting for a come on from the man with the sad face. And he just stares, stares at the wall.

Her bushy eyebrows come together forming a delicate frown.

Jack turns to watch a brunette shoot pool. The woman leans over the pool table about to shoot the nine ball into the side pocket. It is an easy shot.

The brunette looks across the pool table at Jack Delleto, "What the **** are you starin at?" She jams the pool stick and miscues. The cue ball runs along the rail and taps the eight ball into the corner pocket. "AH ****," she says.

And Jack smiles.

The Indian thinks Jack is smiling at her, so she sits down.

"In the shadows I couldn't see your eyes," he tells her, "but when you leaned forward to light that cigarette, you have the prettiest green eyes."

She smiles.

" I'm Kathleen," her eyes sparkling like broken glass in an alley.

Delleto tries to speak.

"I don't want to know your name," she tells Jack Delleto, the smile disappearing from her face. "I just want to talk for a few minutes like we're friends," she takes a drag off the cigarette, exhales the smoke across the room.

Jack recognizes the look on her face. Bad dreams.

"I'll be your friend," he tells her.

"We're not going to have ***." The Indian slowly grinds out the cigarette into the ashtray, looks up at the man with the sad face.

I met my older sister in Baltimore yesterday. Hadn't seen her since I was nine, since Mom died. I wanted to know why Dad put me in foster homes. Why? I had so many questions and you know what?
I didn't ask one."

Jack is finishing his beer.

"Maybe if you knew the reasons, now, it wouldn't matter anyway."

The man with the black eye just doesn't get it. She lived with them long enough. Long enough to love them.

She stands up, stares at Jack Delleto.

And walks away.


It's the fat blondes turn to shoot pool. She leans her great body ever so gently across the green felt of the pool table, shoots and misses. When she tries to raise herself up off the pool table, the tip of the pool cue hits the Miller Lite sign above the pool table sending the lamb rocking violently back and forth. In flashes of light like the frames from and old Chaplin movie the sad and grotesque appear and disappear.

"What the **** are you starin at?" The skinny brunette asks.

Jack pretends to think for a moment. "An unhappy childhood."

Suddenly, she stands up, looking like death wearing a Harley Davidson T-shirt.

"Dove sta amore," Jack Delleto asks.

Death is angry, steps closer.

"Must be that time of the month, huh," Jack grins.

With her two tiny fists clenched tightly at her side, the brunette stares down into Delleto's eyes. Suddenly, she punches Jack in the eye.

Jack stands up bringing his forearm up to protect his face. At the same time Death steps closer. His forearm catches her under the chin. The bony ***** goes down.

Women rush from the shadows. They pull Jack to the ***** floor, punch and kick him.

In the blinking of the Miller Light Jack Delleto exclaims," I'm being smother by fat lesbians in soft satin pants."  But then someone is pulling the women off of him.

The Miller Lite gently rocks and then it stops.

Jack stands up, shakes his head and smiles.

"Nice punch Dell," Bob O' Malley says, "I saw from the bar."

Jack hits the dust off of his pants, grabs the beer bottle off of the table, takes a swallow. Smiling, he says, "I box a little."

"I can tell by your black eye." O'Malley puts his hand on his friends shoulder. "Come on I'll buy you a shot. What caused this spontaneous expression of love?"

"They thought I was a ******."


2 a.m.

Jack Delleto walks out the door of the bar into the wind swept gloom. The gray desolation of boarded shut downtown is gone.

The rain has finally turn to snow.

His eyes follow the blue rope from the parking meter pole to its frayed end in the plowed hill of snow at the corner of Cookman Avenue.

The dog, Snowflake, dead, Jack thinks.


The snow covers everything. It covers the abandon cars and the abandon buildings, the sidewalk and its cracks. The city, Delleto imagines, is and adjectiveless word, a book of white pages. He steps off the curb into the gutter and the street is empty for as far as he can see. He starts walking.

Jack disappears into empty pages.


Chapter 2


Paul Keater has a room above Wagon Wheel Bar where the loud rock music shakes the rats in the walls til 2a.m. The vibrations travel through the concrete floor, up the bed posts, and into the matress.

Slowly Paul's eyes open. Who the hell is he fooling. Even without the loud music, he would not be able to sleep, anyway.

Soft red neon from the Wagon Wheel Bar sign blinks into his room.

Paul Keater sits up, sighs, resigns himself to another sleepless night, swings his legs off the bed. His x-wife. He thinks about her frequently. He went to a phycologist because he loved her.

Dump the *****, the doctor said.

"I paid him eighty bucks and all he had to say was dump the *****." He laughs, shakes his head.

Paul thinks about *******, looks around the tiny room, and spots a clear plastic case containing the baseball cards he had collected when he was a boy.

He walks to the dresser and puts on his Giant's baseball cap. Paul sits down on the wooden chair by the sink. Turns on the lamp. The card on top is ***** Mays. Holding it in his hand, it is perfect. The edges are not worn like the other cards.

It was his tenth birthday and his dad had taken to his first baseball game and his father had bought the card from a dealer.

Oblivious to the loud rock music filtering into his room, he stares at the card.

Fondly, he remembers.

Dad.


                                     *     

It arrives unobtrusively. His heart begins to race faster.
Jack Delleto rolls away from the cracked wall. He sits up and drops his legs off the bed.

Jack Delleto thinks about mountains.

When he cannot sleep he thinks about climbing up through the fog that makes the day obscure, passing where the stunted spruce and fir tees are twisted by the wind, into cold brilliant light. Once as he climbed through the fog he saw his shadow stretching a half a mile across a cloud and the world was small. Far down to the east laid cliffs and gullies, glaciated mountains and to the west were the plains and cities of everyday life.

The army coat is draped over the back of the chair. In the pocket is his notebook. Jack stands and takes the notebook from the pocket. When he sits in the wooden chair he opens the book and slides the pen from the binder.

When he finishes his story he makes the end into the beginning.



                                           Chapter 3


"I want a captain in a truck." The 10 year old boy with the brown hair tells his mom. "I want it NOW."

His blonde haired mom wearing the gold diamond bracelet nods her head at Jack Delleto. Jack looks up at the clock on the wall. It is only 9a.m. After four years of college Jack has a part time job at K.B. Toy store. "We're all out of them," he tells her for the second time.

"Honey," Blondie tells the boy, they're all out of them."

"YOU PROMISED."

"How about a sargeant in a jeep?

"OK, but I want a missile firing truck , too."

Delleto turns to the display case behind the counter. Briefly, he studies his black eye in the display case mirror and then begins searching the four shelves and twenty rows of 3 inch plastic toys. He finds the truck. His head is aching. He finds the truck and puts it on the counter in front of the boy.

"Sorry, we're all out of the sargeant," Jack tells the pretty lady. The aching in his head just won't go away.

"Mommy, mommy, I want an ATTACK HELIOCOPTER, MOMMMEEE, I WANTAH TTTAAANNNK..."

Jack Delleto leans over the counter resting his elbows on the glass top. The boy is staring at the man with the black eye, at his bruised unshaven face.

"Well, we haven't got any, GODDAMED TANKS. How about a , KICKINTHE ***."

Finally the boy and his mother are quiet.

"My husband will have you fired."

She grabs the boy by the hand. Turns to rush out of the store.

Jack mutters something.

"MMOOOMEEE,  what does..."

"Oh, shut the hell up," the pretty lady tells her son


                              
     

The assistant manager takes a deep drag on her cigarette, exhales, and crosses her arms to hold the cigarette in front of her. Susan looks down at Jack sitting on the stool behind the counter. He stands up. "Did you tell some lady to blow you?" She crushes the cigarette out in the ashtray on the shelf below the counter. "Maybe you don't need this job but I do."

"Sue, there's no smoking in the mall."

"Jack, you look tired," the cubby teenager tells him, "and your eye. Another black eye."

"I was attacked by five women."

'Oh, I see, in your dreams maybe. I see, it's one of those male fantasies I'm always reading about in Cosmo. You re not boxing again, are you Dell?" Sue likes to call him Dell.

"I go down to the gym to work out. Felix says I've got something."

"Yeah, a black eye." Susan laughs, opens the big vanilla envelope, and hands Jack his check.

She turns and takes a pair of sunglasses from the display stand. "You 're scaring the children, Dell ." Susan steps closer looks into Dell's brown eyes and the slips the sunglasses on his face. "Why don't you go to lunch."

                                        
     

It's noon and the mall is crowded at the food court area. Jack gets a 20oz cup of coffee, finds a table and sits down.

"Go over and talk to him. " Susan says. Jack turns his head , looks back, sees the Indian walking towards his table.

"Hello, Kathrine," says Jack Delleto.

"My names not Kathrine, it's Kathleen."

Jack pulls the chair away from the table, "Have a seat Kate."

Her eyebrows form that delicate frown. "My names Kathleen." As soon as she sits down she takes a cigarette from the pack sticking out of her pocketbook. "I had to leave. I told the baby sitter I'd only be gone an hour. Anyway you weren't much help."

"So why did you come over to talk to me?"

"You were alone, always alone."

"You've seen me there before?"

"Yeah, sitting by the pin ball machine staring at the wall, and sometimes, you'd take out your little blue note pad and write in it.
"What are you writing? Are you goin to write about me..."

"How many kids do you have?"

"Just one. A boy, and believe me one is enough. He'll be four in June," Kathleen smiles but then she remembers and abruptly the smile disappears from her face. "Sometimes I see Anthony's father in the mall and I ask him if he'd like to meet his son, but he doesn't.

Kathleen draws the cigarette smoke deep into her lungs, tilts her head back, and blows the smoke towards the skylight. Suddenly caught in the sunlight the smoke becomes a gray cloud. " I didn't want to marry him anyway, I don't know why he thought that."

She hears the scars as Delleto talks, something sad about the man, something like old newspapers blowing across a deserted street. She hears the scars and knows never, never ask where the scars came from.


                              
     

As Jack walks towards the bank to cash his check, he glances out the front entrance to the mall. It is a bright, cold day and the snowplows are finishing up the parking lot plowing the snow into big white hills. That is the fate of the big white pup plowed to the corner of Cookman and Main buried deep in ***** snow. At that street corner when the school is over the children will play on the hill never realizing what lay beneath there feet.

The snow must melt; spring is inevitable.

His pup will be back.



                                           Chapter 4


The 19 year old light heavyweight leans his muscular body forward to rest his gloved hands on the tope rope of the ring. He bows his head waiting to regain his breath as his lungs fight to force air deep into his chest. Bill Wain has finished boxing 4 rounds with Red.

Harry the trainer, gently pulls the untied boxing gloves from Red's hands. "Good fight, he says, patting Red on the back as the fighter climbs through the ropes and heads to the showers. Harry hands the sweat soaked gloves to Felix who puts one glove under his arm while he loosens the laces on the other 12ounce glove. He makes the sleeve wider.

"Do you want the head gear?" Felix asks.

Jack Delleto shakes his head and pushes his taped hand deep into the glove.

The old man takes the other glove from under his arm, pulls the laces out, and holds it open. Without turning his head to look at him, Felix tells Harry, "Make sure Bill doesn't cool down. Tell him to shadow box. Harry walks over to Bill and Bill starts shadow boxing.

Jack pushes his hand into the glove. "Make a fist." Jack does. Felix pulls the laces and ties it into a bow.

Felix looks intently into Delleto's eyes. "How does that feel?"

"About right."

"You look tired."

"I am a little."

"Are you sick or is it a woman."

"I'm not sick."

A big smile forms across the face of the former welterweight champion of Nevada. The face of the 68 year old Blackman is lined and cracked like the old boxing gloves that Jack is wearing but his tall body is youthful and athletic in appearance. Above Felix's eyebrows Jack sees the effect of 20 years as a professional fighter. He sees the thick scar tissue and the thin white lines where the old man's skin has been stitched and restitched many times. As he gives instructions to Jack, Felix's brown eyes seem to be staring at something distant and jack wonders if Felix has chased around the ring one time too often his dream.

"And get off first. Don't stop punching until he goes down. You've got it kid and not every fighter does."

Jack and Felix start walking over to the ring.

"What is it I've got?" Jack Deletto wonders.

"Felix puts his foot on the fourth strand of the rings rope and with his hand pulls up the top strand and as Jack steps into the ring, "You've got HEART."

In the opposite corner Bill Wain waits.

"Will he be alright?" Harry asks.

"Bill's tired, " Felix replies, then he tries to explain. "It's not about money. I'm almost 70 and I want to go out a winner." Felix pauses and the offers, he can hit hard with either hand."

"Yeah, but at best he's a small middleweight and he only moves in one direction, straight ahead."

"Harry, I love the guy," Felix puts his hand on Harry's shoulder, he's like Tyson at the end of his career. He'd fight you to the death but he's not fighting to win anymore."

Harry puts his hands in his pocket and stares at the floor. "Do you want me to tell him to go easy." Harry looks up at Felix waiting for an answer.

"I'm tired of sweeping dirt from behind the boxes of wax beans and tuna fish. I'm sick of collecting shopping carts in the rain. A half way decent white heavyweight can make a lot of money. It's stupid for a fighter to practice holding back. Bill's a winner. Jack'll be alright."

Felix hands the pocket watch to Harry so he can time the rounds.

Bill Wain comes out of his corner circling left.

Jack rushes straight ahead.

Felix winks at Jack Delleto and whispers, "The Jack of hearts."



                                           Chapter 5


The front door of the Wagon Wheel bar explodes open to Ziggy Pop's, "YOU'VE GOT A LUST FOR LIFE." Jack Delleto steps over the curb and vanishes into the dark doorway.

"HEY, JACK, JACK DELLETO," The lanky bartender shouts over the din.

Delleto makes his way through the crowd over to bar. How the hell have you been Snake?" Jack asks.

"Just great," says Snake. "You're lookin pretty ****** good for a dead man."

"Who told you that? Crazy George?"

The bartender points across the room to where a man in a pin stripe suit is swinging to and fro from a wagon wheel lamp attached to the ceiling.

"Yeah, I thought so. Haven't seen Crazy George in a year and he's been telling everyone I'm dead. I'm gonna have to have a long talk with that man."

Snake hands Jack a shot of tequila. The men touch glasses and throw down the shots.

How's the other George? Dell asks.

"AA."

"How's Tommy? You see him anymore?"

"Rehab."

"What about Robbie?"

Snake refills the glasses. "He's livin in a nudist colony in Florida, he has two wives and 6 children."


Jack looks across the room and sees Bob O'Malley trying to adjust the rose in the lapel of his tuxedo. Satisfied it won't fall out O'Malley looks up at the man swinging from the lamp. "Quick, name man's three greatest inventions."

"Alcohol, tobacco, and the wheel," Crazy George shoots back.

O'Malley smiles and then jumps up on the top of the bar and although he is over six feet and weighs two hundred pounds, he has the dexterity and grace of a ballerina as he pirouttes around and jumps over the shot glasses and beer bottles that litter the bar.

Wedding guests lean back in their chairs as strangers fearful of his gyrations ****** their drinks off the bar. Bob fakes a slip as he prances along but he is always in control and never falters. Forty three year old Bob O'Malley is Jim Brown who dodges danger to score the winning touch down.

When is reaches the end of the bar he jumps to the floor, pulls two aluminum lids from the beer box, and with one in each hand he smacks them together like cymbals.

Some guests clap. The bemused just stare.

In the back of the room sitting at the wedding table the father of the bride leans over, whispers into the ear of his crying wife, "If I had a gun I'd shoot Bob."

The bride raises a glass of champagne into the smoke filled air and Bob takes a bow but then heads towards the kitchen at the other end of the room.

" Hey, Bob," Jack Delleto shouts to the groom.

O'Malley stops under the wagon wheel lamp and turns as Delleto steps into the  circle of light cast onto the floor.

"Congratulations, I know Theresa and you are goin to be happy. I mean that." Delleto offers his hand and they shake hands.

"Thanks, Mr. Cool."

Jack takes off the sunglasses.

"TWO black eyes. Your nose is bleeding. What happened?"

Dell takes the handkerchief from his back pocket, wipes the blood dripping down his face. "It's broken."

"What happened?" O'Malley asks again.

"Bill Wain."

"He turned pro."

"Yeah, but he's nothing special. Hell, he couldn't even knock me down."

O'Malley shakes his head. "Put the sunglasses back on, you look like a friggin raccoon."

Dell smiles. The blood running down his lips."Thersa's beautiful, Bob, you're a lucky guy."

"Thanks Dell." O'Malley puts his hand on Dell's shoulder and sqeezes affectionately. Bob looks across the room at Teresa. "Yeah, she is beautiful." Theresa mother has stopped crying. Her father just stares at the wall.

O'Malley looks away from his bride and passed the archway that divides the poolroom from the bar and into the corner. With the lamp light above his head gleaming in his eyes Bob seems to see a ghost fleeting in the far distant, dark corner. Slowly, a peculiar half smile forms uneven, white, tombstone teeth.  A pensive smile.

Curious, Dell turns his head to look into the darkness of the poolroom, too.

At night in July the moths were everywhere. When Dell was a boy he would sit on his porch and try to count them. The moths appeared as faint splashes of whiteness scattered throughout the night, odd circles of white that moved haphazardly, forward and then sideways, sometimes up and down.

Sometimes the patches of moths flew higher and higher and Dell imagined the lights those creatures were seeking were the stars themselves; Orion, the Big Dipper and even the milky hue of the Milkyway.

One night as the moths pursued starlight he saw shadows dropping one by one from the tops of the trees. The swallows were soundless and when he caught a glimpse of sudden darkness, blacker than the night, the shadows erased the dreamer and its dream.

His imagination gave definition to form. There was a sound to the shadows of the swallows in his thoughts, the melody and the song played over and over. Perhaps he saw his reflection in the night. Perhaps there are shadows where nothing exists to cast them.

"Do you hear them, Bob?"

"Hear what?" Bob asks.

"All of them."

"All of what?"

"Nothin," Delleto tells his friend, "Nothin."

O'Malley doesn't understand but it does not matter. The two men have shared the same corner of darkness.

Bob calls to Paul Keater. Keater smiles broadly, slides the brim of his Giant baseball cap to the side of his forehead. The two men disappear through the swinging kitchen door.


                                          Chapter 6


"Hello Kate." Jack Delleto says and sits down. She has a blue bow in her hair and make up on.

"My names Kathleen."

She fondles the whiskey glass in her slim fingers. "Hello, Dell, Sue thinks Dell is such a **** name. Kathleen takes a last drag on her cigarette, rubs it out in the ashtray, looks up at him, "What should I call you?"

"How about, Darlin?"

"Hello, Jack, DARLIN," her soft, deep voice whispers. Kathleen crosses her legs and the black dress rides up to the middle of her thigh.

Jack glances at the milky white flesh between the blue ***** hose and the hem of her dress. Kate is drunk and Dell does not care. He leans closer, "Do you wanna dance?"

"But no one else is dancing."

"Well, we can go down to the beach, take a walk along the sand."

"It's twenty degrees out there."

"I'll keep you warm."

"All right, lets dance."

Jack stands up takes her by the hand. As Kathleen rises Jack draws her close to him. Her ******* flatten against his chest. He feels her heart thumping.

The Elvis impersonator that almost played Las Vegas; the hairdresser that wanted to be a race car driver; the insurance salesman with a Porche and a wife.  Her men talked about what they owned or what they could do.

Kathleen had never meant anyone quite like Dell.

She rests her head on his shoulder. "What do you what more than anything? What do you dream about at night?"

"Nothing."

"Come on," she says," what do you want more than anything? Tell me your dreams."

Jack smiles, "Just to make it through another day."  He smiles that sad smile that she saw the first time they met. "Tell me what you want."

Kate lifts her head off of his shoulder and looks into his eyes."I don't want to be on welfare the rest of my life and I want to be able to send my son to college." She rests her cheek against his, "I've lived in foster homes all my life and every time I knew one day I'd have to leave, what I want most is a home. Do you know the difference between a house and a home?"

"No."

Her voice is a roaring whisper in his ear, "LOVE."

The song comes to an end and they leave the circle of light and sit down. Kate takes a cigarette from the pack.

Dell strikes a match, "Maybe someday you'll have your home."

"Do you want me to?"

"Yeah."

Kate blows out the match.


                                  
     


"Can you take me home?" Kate asks slurring her words.

Kathleen and Jack walk over to where the bride and groom are standing near the big glass refrigerator door with Paul Keater. When Paul realizes he is standing next to Jack Delleto he rocks back and forth on the heals of his worn shoes, slides his Giants baseball cap back and forth  across his forehead and walks away.

O'Malley bends down and kisses Kathleen on the cheek and turns to shake hands with Dell. "Good luck," says Dell. Kathleen embraces the bride.

Outside the bar the sun is setting behind the boarded shut Delleto store.

"That was my Dad's store, " Jack tells Kate and then Jack whispers to to himself as he reads the graffiti spray painted on the front wall.
"TELL YOUR DREAMS TO ME, TELL ME YOU LOVE ME, IF YOU LOVE ME TELL ALL YOUR DREAMS TO ME."


                                         Chapter 7


An old man comes shuffling down the street, "Hello Mr. Martin, " Jack says, "How are you?"

"I'm an old man Jack, how could I be," and then he smiles, "ah, I can't complain. How are you?"

"Still alive and well."

"Who is this pretty young lady?"

"This Kate."

Joesph Martin takes Kathleen by the arm and  gently squeezes, "Hello Kate, such a pretty women, ah if I was only sixty," and the old man smiles.

Kathleen forces a smile.

The thick eyeglasses that Mr. Martin wears magnifys his eyes as he looks from Kathleen to Jack, "Have fun now because when you are dead you are going to be dead a long, long time."

"How long?  Delleto inquires.

The old man smirks and waves as he continues up the street to the door leading to the rooms above the bar. He turns to face the door. The small window is broken and the shards of glass catch the twilight.

Joesph Martin turns back looking at the man and young woman who are about to get into the car. He is not certain what he wants to say to them. Perhaps he wants to tell them that it ***** being an old man and the upstairs hallway always smells of ****.

Joesph Martin wants to tell someone that although Anna died seven years ago his love endures and he misses her everyday. Joesph recalls that Plato in Tamaeus believed that the soul is a stranger to the Earth and has fallen into matter because of sin.

A faint smile appears on the wrinkled face of the old man as he heeds the resignation he hears in his own thoughts.

Jack waves to Mr. Martin.  Joesph waves back. The mustang drives off.

Earth, O island Earth.


                                               Chapter 8


Joseph pushes open the door and goes into the hallway. The fragments of glass scattered across the foyer crunch and clink under his shoes. The cold wind blowing through the broken window touches his warm neck. He shivers and walks up the stairs. There is only enough light to see the wall and his own warm breathing. There is just enough light like when he has awaken from a  bad dream, enough to remember who he is and to separate the horror of what is real from the horror of what is dreamt.

The old man continues climbing the stairs following the familiar shadow of the wall cast onto the stairs. If he crosses the vague line of shadow and light he will disappear like a brown trout in the deepest hole in a creek.

By the time he reaches the second floor he is out of breath. Joseph pauses and with the handkerchief he has taken from his back pocket he wipes the fog from the lenses of his eyeglasses and the sweat from his forehead.

A couple of doors are standing open and the old man looks cautiously into each room as he hurries passed. One forty watt bulb hangs from a frayed wire in the center of the hallway. The wiring is old and the bulb in the white porcelain socket flickers like the blinking of an eye or the fearful beating of the heart of an old man.

When he opens the door to his room it sags on ruined hinges.

Joesph searches with his hand for the light switch.  Several seconds linger. Can't find it.

Finds it and quickly pushes the door shut. He sits down on the bed, doesn't take his coat off, reaches for the radio. It is gone

Joseph looks around the room. A small dresser, the sink with a mirror above it. He takes off his coat and above the mirror hangs the coat on the nail he has put there.

Hard soled boots echo hollowly off the hallway walls. The echoes are overlapping and he can not determine if the footsteps are leaving or approaching. Joseph grabs the crow bar he keeps under his pillow. Holds it until there is silence.

He lays back on the bed. Another night without sleep. Joseph rolls onto his side and faces the wall.

Earth, O island Earth.



                                           Chapter 9


Tangled in the tree tops a rising moon hangs above the roofs of identical Cape Cod houses.

Jack pulls the red mustang behind a station wagon. Kathleen is looking at Dell. His face is a faint shadow on the other side of the car. "Do you want to come up?" she asks.

Kathleen steps out of the car, breathes the cold air deep into her lungs. It is fresh and sweet. Jack comes around the side of the car just as she knew he would. He takes her into his arms and kisses her and they walk beneath the old oak tree and the roots have raised and crack the sidewalk and in the spring tiny blue flowers will bloom. The flowers remind Jack of the columbines that bloom in high mountain meadows above treeline heralding a brief season of sun and warmth.

"Did you win?" Kathleen asks as she fits the key into the upstairs apartment door. The door swings open into the kitchen.

Dell, standing in the doorway looking like the Jack of Hearts. "It doesn't matter."

"You lost?"

"Yeah."

Crossing the room she takes off her coat and places it on the back of the kitchen chair. When Kate leans across the kitchen table to turn on the radio the mini dress rides up her thigh, tugs tightly around her buttocks.

The radio plays softly.

Jack stands and as Kathleen turns he slips his arms around her waist and she is staring into his eyes like a cat into a fire. His body gently presses against the table and when he lifts her onto the table her legs wrap around his waist.

Kathleen sighs.

Jack kisses her. Her lips are cold like the rain. His hand reaches. There is a faint click. The room slips into darkness. It is Eddie Money on the radio, now, with Ronnie Spectre singing the back up vocals. Eddie belts out, "TAKE ME HOME TONIGHT, I WON"T LET YOU LEAVE TIL..."

When Jack withdraws from the kiss her eyes are shining like diamonds in moonlight.

The buttons of her dress are unfastened.  Her arms circle his neck and pull him to her *******. "Don't Jack. You mustn't. I just want a friend." His hands slide up her thighs. "I'll be your friend, " says Jack.

"*** always ruins every thing," Her voice is a roaring whisper in his ear. He pulls her to the edge of the table as Ronnie sings, "O DARLIN, O MY DARLIN, WON'T YOU BE MY LITTLE BAABBBY NOOWWW."


Now that they have gotten *** out of the way, maybe they can talk. Sliding her hands around his face she pulls him closer.

"Jack, what do you dream about? You know what I mean, tell your dreams to me."



                                             Chapter 10



All the windows in the apartment are open. The cool breeze flows through her brown hair. "You're getting too serious, Jack, and I don't want to need you."

"That's because I care for you." Jack Delleto sits down on the bed, caresses her shoulder and Kate pulls away. "I hate the rain. Come on, give me a smile."

"Well I don't need anyone."

"People need people."

There is silence, then, "I only care about my son and Father Anthony."

"What is it with you and the priest?" You named your son Anthony is that because he's the father."

"Your an *******. Get out of here. I don't love you." And then, "I've been hurt by people and you'll get over it."

The lingering silence. Jack gets up from the bed, stares at her dark form facing the wall. "Isn't this how it always ends for you?"

The room is quiet and grows hot. When the silence numbs his racing heart, he goes into the kitchen, opens the front door and walks down the steps into the cold rain.


"Anthony," Kathleen calls to her son to come to her from the other bedroom and he climbs into the bed and she holds him close. The ghost of relationships past haunt her and although they are all sad, she has she clings to them.


On the sidewalk below the apartment window Jack stops. He thinks he hears his name being called but whatever he has heard is carried off by the wind. He continues up the  dark street to his Harley.

High in reachless branches of the old oak tree a mockingbird is singing. The leaves twist in the wind and  the singing goes on and on.



                                            
     



The ringing phone.

"Who the hell is this?" The clock on the dresser says 5a.m.

"Jack, I'm scared."

"Kate?"

"Someone broke into my apartment."

"Is he still there?"

"No, He ran out the door when I screamed."

"I'll be right over."



                                         Chapter11


"How hot is it?" Kathleen asks.

The bar is empty except for O'Malley, Keater, a man and a woman.

"98.6,"Says jack The sweat rolls down his cheeks.

"Let's go to the boardwalk."

"When it's hot like this, it's hot all over."

"We could go on the rides."

"I've got the next pool game, then we'll go."

"It's my birthday."

"I bought you flowers."

"Yeah, carnations."

Laughing, Paul Keater slides the brim of his baseball cap back and forth across his forehead.

Jack starts for Keater, Katheen steps in front of Jack, puts her hands on his shoulders. She looks into his eyes.

"What is it with you , two? But as always you'll say nothing, nothing." As Jack tries to speak she walks over to the bar and sits on the barstool.

"It's my birthday," she tells O'Malley.

When Bob turns from the horse races on he T.V., he notices her long legs and the short skirt. "Hey, happy birthday, Kate, Jack Daniels?"

"Fine."

Filling the glasses O'Malley hands one to Kathleen, "You look great," he tells her.

"Jack doesn't think so. Thanks, at least someone thinks so."

"Hope Jack won't mind," and he leans over the bar and kisses her.

Kathleen looks over her shoulder at Delleto. Jack is playing pool with a woman wearing a black tight halter top. The woman comes over to Jack, stands close, smiles, and Jack smiles back.

The boyfriend stares angrily at Jack.

When Kathleen turns back O'Malley is filling her shot glass.

Jack wins that game, too.



                                                 Chapter 12



"Daddy,"the little girl her hands folded in her lap is looking up at her father. "When will the ride stop? I want to go on."

"Soon, Darling, "her father assures her.

"I don't think it will ever stop."

"The ride always stops, Sweetie." Daddy takes her by the hand, gently squeezes.


When the carousel begins to slow down but has not quite stopped Kathleen steps onto the platform , grabs the brass support pole. The momentum of the machine grabs her with a **** onto the ride, into a white horse with big blue eyes. Dropping her cigarette she takes hold of the pole that goes through the center of the horse. She struggles to put her foot in the stirrup, finds it, and throws her leg over the horse. The carousel music begins to play. With a tremble and a jolt, the ride starts.

Sitting on the pony has made her skirt ride well up her legs. The ticket man is staring at her but she is too drunk to care. She hands him the ticket, gives him the finger.

The ticket man goes over to the little girl and her father who are sitting in a golden chariot pulled by to black horses.

"Ooooh, Daddy, I love this."

"So do I," The father smiles and strokes his daughters hair.

The heat makes the dizziness grow and as the ride picks up speed she sees two of everything. There are two rows of pin ball machines, eight flashing signs, six prize machines. All the red, blue and green lights from the ride blend together like when a car drives at night down a rain soaked street.

Kathleen feels the impulse to *****.

"Can we go on again?" The little girl asks.

"But the ride isn't over, yet."


Kathleen concentrates on the rain soaked street and the dizziness and nausea lessens. She perceives the images as a montage like the elements that make up a painting or a life. She has become accustom to the machine and its movement. The circling ride creates a cooling breeze that becomes a tranquil, flowing waterfall.

The ponies in front are always becoming the ponies in the back and the ponies in back are becoming the ponies in the front. Around and around. All the ponies galloping. Settling back into the saddle she rides the pony into the ever present waterfall.

You can lose all sense of the clock staring into the waterfall of blue, red and green. Kathleen leans forward to embrace the ride for a long as it lasts.

Just as suddenly as it started, the ride starts slowy, the music stops playing.

Coming down off the pony she does not wait for the ride to stop, stumbles off the platform and out the  Casino amusement park door."****, *******," she yells careening into the railing almost falling into Wesley Lake.

She staggers a few steps, sits down on the grass by the curb, hears the carousel music playing and knows the ride is beginning again, and all the her dreams crawls into her like a dying animal from its hidden place.

And it all comes up from her throat taking her breath away. A distant yet familiar wind so she lies down on the grass facing the  street of broken buildings filled with broken people. From the empting lot of scattered thoughts the mockingbird is singing and the images shoot off into a darkening landscape, exploding, illuminating for a brief moment, only to grow dimmer, light and warmth fading into cold and darkness.




                                      
     

"Your girlfriend is flirting with me," Jack Delleto tells the man. "It's my game."

The man stands up, takes a pool stick from the rack, as he comes towards Jack Delleto the man turns the pool stick around holding the heavy part with two hands.

There is an explosion of light inside his head, Delleto sees two spinning lizards playing trumpets, 3 dwarfs with purple hair running to and fro, intuitively he knows he has to get up off the floor, and when he does he catches the bigger man with a left hook, throws the overhand right. The man stumbles back.

His girlfriend in the tight  black halter top is jumping up and down, screaming at, screaming at Jack Delleto to stop, but Jack does not. Stepping forward, a left hook to the midsection, hook to the head, spins right, throws the overhand right.

The man does down.

Jack wins.



                                                  CHAPTE­R 13

"It's too much," and Jack looks up from the two lines of white powder at Bob O'Malley. "I'll never be able to fall asleep and I hate not being able to sleep."

" Here," Bob takes a big white pill from his shirt pocket.

Jack drops the pill into his shirt pocket and says, "No more." He hands the rolled up dollar bill to Bob who bends over the powder.

"Tom sold the house so you're upstairs? O Malley asks, and like a magician the two lines of white powder disappear. Straightening up, he looks at Dell, "I know you 're hurting Dell , I'm sorry, I'm sad about Kate, too."

Jack becomes quiet, walks through the darkened room over to the bar. Leaning over the bar he grabs two shot glasses and a bottle of Wild Turkey, walks back into the poolroom. He puts the shot glasses on top of the pin ball machine. "We have a winner, "the pin ball machine announces. Dell fills the glasses.

"Felix came in the other day, he's taken it hard. Bill Wain knock down four times in the sixth round, lost consciousness in the dressing room, and died at the hospital."

"What's the longest you went without sleep? Jack asks.

"Oooohhh, five, six days, who knows, after awhile you loose all track of the clock."

They take the shots and throw them down.

"I wonder if animals dream," Jack wants to know. "I wonder if dogs dream."

"Sure they do, " O'Malley asures him, nodding his head up and down, "dogs, cats, squirrels, birds."

"Probably not insects."

"Why not? Sure they do, june bugs, fleas, even moths, it's all biochemical, dreams are biochemical, mix the right combination of certain chemicals, electric impulses, and you'll produce love and dreams."

                                          
     

Jack Delleto goes into the room, studies it. The light from the unshaded lamp on the night stand casts a huge shadow of him onto the adjacent wall. Not much to the room, a sink with a mirror above it next to a dresser, a bed against the wall, a wooden chair in front of a narrow window.

The rain pounds the roof.

The apprehension grows. The panic turns into anger. Jack rushes the white wall, meets his shadow, explodes with a left hook. He throws the right uppercut, the over hand right, three left hooks. He punches the wall and his knucles bleed. He punches and kicks the blood stained wall.

At last he is exhausted, collapses into the chair in front of the open window. Fist sized holes in the plaster revel the bones of the building. The room has been punched and kicked without mercy.

The austere room has won.

The yellow note pad, he needs the yellow note pad, finds it, takes the pencil from the binder but no words will come so he writes, "insomnia, the absence of dream." He reaches for the lamp on the night stand, finds it, and turns off the light. Red and blue, blue and red, the neon from the Wagon Wheel Bar sign blinks soft neon into his room. The sign seems to pulsate to the cadence of the rock music coming from the bar.

Taking the big white pill from his shirt pocket, he swallows it, leans back into the chair watching the shadows of rain bleed down the wall. The darkness intensifys. Jack slides into the night.



                                           Chapter 14


The rain turns to snow.

With each step he takes the pain throbs in his arm and shoulder socket. His raw throat aches from the drafts of cold air he is ******* through his gaping mouth and although his legs ache he does not turn to look back. Jack must keep punching holes with his ice axe, probing the snow to avoid a fall into an abyss.

The pole of the ice axe falls effortlessly into the snow, "**** it, another one."

Moonlight coats the glacier in an irridecent glow and the mountain looms over him. It is four in the mourning and Jack knows he needs to be high on the mountain before the  mourning sun softens the snow. He moves carefully, quietly, humbly to avoid a fall into a crevasse. When he reaches the top of the couloir the wind begins to howl.

"Da DA DUN, DA DA DUN, HEY PURPLE HAZE ALL AROUND  MY BRAIN..."

Jack thinks the song is in his head but the electric guitar notes float down through the huge blocks of ice that litter the glacier and there standing on the arête is Jimi, his long dexterous fingers flying over the guitar strings at 741 mph.

"Wait a minute, " Jack wonders, stopping dead in his tracks. The sun is hitting the distant wind blown peaks. "Ah, what the hell," and Jack jumps in strumming his ice axe like an air guitar, singing, shouting, "LATELY THINGS DON'T SEEM THE SAME, IS THIS A DREAM,  WHATEVER IT IS THAT GIRL PUT A SPELL ON MEEEE, PURRPPLLE HAZZEEE."


                                        
     


Slowly the door moans open.

"Jack, are you awake?" her voice startles him.

"Yeah, I'm awake."

"What's the matter, can't sleep?"

Jack sifts position on the chair. "Oh, I can sleep all right." He recognizes the voice of the shadow. "I want to climb to a high mountain through ice and snow and never be found."

"A heart that's empty hurts, I miss you Jack Delleto."

"I'm glad someone does, I miss you ,too."

There is silence for several minutes and the voice comes out of the darkness again.

"Jack, you forgot something that night."

"What?" The dark shape moves towards him. When it is in front of him, Jack stands, slips his arms around her waist.

"You didn't kiss me goodbye."

Her lips are soft and warm. Her arms tighten around his neck and the warmth of her body comes to him through the cold night.

"Jack, what's the matter?" She raises her head to look at him, "Why, you're crying."

"Yeah, I'm crying."

"Don't cry Darlin," her lips are soft against his ear. "I can't bare to see you unhappy, if you love me, tell me you love me."

"I love you, I do," he whispers softly.

"Hold me, Jack, hold me tighter."

"I'll never let you go." He tries to hug the shadow.


                                          
      *


The dread grows into an explosion of consciousness. Suddenly, he sits up ******* in the cold drafts of air coming into the room from the open window. Jack Delleto gets up off the chair and walks over to the sink. He turns on the cold water and bending forward splashes water onto his face. Water dripping, he leans against the sink, staring into the mirror, into his eyes that lately seem alien to him.



                                            Chapter 15


Someone approaches, Jacks turns, looks out the open door, sees Joesph Martin go shuffling by wearing a faded bathrobe and one red slipper. Jack hears Martin 's door slam shut and the for thirty seconds the old man screams, "AAHHH, AAAHHH, AAAHH."
Then the building is silent and Jack listens to his own labored breathing.

A glance at the clock. It is a few minutes to 7 a.m. Jack hurries from his room into the hallway.  They pass each other on the stairs. The big man is coming up the stairs and Jack is going down to see O'Malley.

Jack has committed a trespass.

When the big man reaches the top of the stairs, the red exit light flickers like a votive candle above his head. The man slides the brim of his Giants baseball cap back and forth across his forehead, he turns and looks down, "Hello, Jack, brother. Dad loved you, too, you know." An instant later the sound of a door closing echoes down the hallway steps.

Jack Delleto is standing in the doorway at the bottom of the steps looking out onto the wet, bright street.

"Hey, Jack, man it's good to see you, glad to see you're still alive."

Jack turns, looks over his shoulder, "Felix, how the hell are you."
The two men shake hands, then embrace momentarily.

"Ah, things don't get any better and they don't get any worse," shrugs the old man and then he smiles but his brown eyes are dull and Jack can smell the cheap wine on the breath of the old boxer. "When are comin back? Man, you've got something, Kid, and we're going places."

"Yeah, Felix, I'll be coming back."  Jack extends his hand. The old fighter smiles and they shake hands. Suddenly, Felix takes off down Main Street towards Foodtown as if he has some important place to go.

Jack is curious. He sees the rope when he starts walking towards the Wagon Wheel Bar. One end of the rope is tied around the parking meter pole. The rest of the rope extends across the sidewalk disappearing into the entrance to the bar. The rattling of a chain catches his attention and when the huge white head of the dog pops out of the doorway Jack is  startled. He stops dead in his tracks and as he spins around to run, he slips falling to the wet pavement.

The big, white mutt growls, woofs once and comes charging down the sidewalk at him. The rope is quickly growing shorter, stretches till it meets it end, tightens, and then snaps. Now, unimpeded by the tension of the rope the mutt comes charging down the sidewalk at Delleto. Jack's body grows tense anticipating the attack. He tries to stand up, makes it to his knees just as the dog bowls into him knocking him to the cement. The dog has him pinned down, goes for his face.

And begins licking him.

Jack Delleto struggles to his knees, hugs her tightly to him. Looking over her shoulder, across Main Street to the graffiti painted on the boarded shut Delleto Market...

                               FANTASY WILL SET YOU FREE

                                                 The End

To Tommy, Crazy George and Snake, we all enjoyed a little madness for awhile.
Jordan Hudson Sep 2018
It's collapsing from beneath us
Tearing us apart
Faster than light further from the start
Have much fright for this dangerous barren land
My words may end up killing every popular band
Where will we go, what do we do, when do we see
What we are really here for, save it for the tree
Those who question will go beneath everything, (let me show, let me show, yeah, yeah, let me show)
Further than we go, further than we know
Beneath all the islands and all of the Russian snow
Beneath all the Middle Eastern sand far as it goes
Beneath the American badlands (here, let me show)
Canyons, rivers, oceans and sea
Believe me, it's nothing, my music is free
Take these unjust words and listen carefully
Yeah, it may sound like I teach geography
But trust me, I'm just saying you have to be aware
Of what's around you, it just isn't fair
We stare at a screen that tell us what to do
Tells us what to do, yeah, tells us what to do
We stare at a screen that tells us what to do
Tells us what to do, yeah, tells us what to do
We stare at a screen that tells us what to do
Tells us what to do, yeah , tells us what to do
It's collapsing from beneath us
Tearing us apart
Faster than light further from the start
Have much fright for this dangerous barren land
My words may end up killing every popular band
Where will we go, what do we do, when do we see
What we are really here for, save it for the tree
Those who question will go beneath everything, (let me show, let me show, yeah, yeah, let me show)
Further than we go, further than we know
Beneath all the islands and all of the Russian snow
Beneath all the Middle Eastern sand far as it goes
Beneath the American badlands (here, let me show)
Canyons, rivers, oceans and sea
Believe me, it's nothing, my music is free
Take these unjust words and listen carefully
Yeah, it may sound like I teach geography
But trust me you have to be aware
Of what's around you, it just isn't fair
We stare at a screen that tell us what to do
Tells us what to do, yeah, tells us what to do
We stare at a screen that tells us what to do
Tells us what to do, yeah, tells us what to do
About phones taking over the world
Jolene Perron Sep 2012
What no one ever tells you
Is it’s gonna be real tough
You’re gonna wanna give up
You’ll think you’ve had enough


What no one ever tells you
Is your books don’t always go
With the classes you have picked
They’re outdated and too old


What no one ever tells you
Is that High School doesn’t compare|
To the Profs and the people
To the classrooms and the chairs


What no one ever tells you
Or what they say instead
College is a bomb
It’s a party, so we’ve read


What no one ever tells you
Or rather so they say
You can fly through College
Without showing up a day


What no one tells you
And what I’m saying now
I’ve been there two days
And I’ve figured out just how


Much that no one ever tells you
And what they never say
College is important
In every single way


And what no one tells you
Most importantly of all
Is never to give up
When you think you’ve lost it all


What no one ever tells you
Is that though you are debt
You need this education
You’ll get through this yet


What no one ever tells you
Is there are people who care
To help you through these years
Make it out fair and square


What no one ever tells you
Is this is a challenge of sorts
But prepares you for the real world
Makes or breaks you of course

What no one ever tells you
Is you’re gonna make it through
With support systems and time
And people who love you
Cassandra Forte Mar 2012
Reminders and meanings,

I need them to keep me going.

The wrist was the most painful;

veins rattling,

blood drying and crumbling,

pale, thin flesh violated,

permanently blackened,

but a pretty font.

Simple but powerful.



It tells me not to be like Her.

It tells me not to be like Them.

It tells me not to be Afraid.

It tells me to say ‘Yes’.

It tells me I’m not actually Dead.



The shoulder is stained, too.

A life philosophy

in the words of a literary God.



It tells me what to expect.

It tells me to stay grounded.

It tells me to keep caution.

It tells me how the world works.

It tells me what I am.

Complex but honest.

I need a little fun in there.

Hidden away, but

don’t take myself too seriously.



It tells me of my childhood.

It tells me of my friends.

It tells me I’m a nerd.

It tells me I’m a kid.

It tells me to remember.

Symbolic but silly.
J Jun 2016
What no one tells you about loving a writer,Is that they're nuts, man.They're slobs, they're hoarders, Have you seen my room? I barely have, to tell the truth.
Crumbled paper lines the floor, Ideas withering from the night before,
What no one tells you about dating a writer, Is that they're so moody.
We’ll try to play it off like some sort of
Artistic facade. Mysterious. Yep, that’s us!
But in reality, we’re probably just ******* wiped. We spent 3 days and 3 nights writing songs and painting pictures that you won’t ever see. And what no one tells you about dating a writer, Is that it is hard.
What no one tells you about loving a writer, is that they’re going to love you back. Hard. They might notice parts of you that you never have, they might focus in on each part and it might make you mad, But I promise they love every scar as much as they love every laugh. They might notice every freckle and how the ones on the small of your back, right there where you start to laugh when you get brushed by another, even lightly, make the little dipper, and how it might be cliche but it’s their favorite constellation. And they will try to connect the dots to make sense of your body, to create a solid thought.
Even if it does not come together like the stars in the sky, they will try and try and what no one tells you about loving a writer
Is that its hard. Remember what I said about us hoarding? We hold on to everything, letting go isn't something we do easily and we'll take in everything you say and do whatever we can to make you want to stay, we're messy, we're clumsy
we're odd but we will give you everything we've got. There’s a reason they have a desk full of half written poems, a reason they might feel so hard, they have a broken heart. Hearts that are whole don’t make art, We hate to admit it but it’s true so what no one tells you about loving a writer, is that you’re loving pieces. You’re loving Monday morning, Chaotic, panicked, angry, hungry. You’re loving Tuesday night, Tired, weary, shaky, sorry. You’re loving a Saturday afternoon when the week catches up and the bags under their eyes become a muse for a new piece they might spend weeks composing only to throw into the trash and what no one tells you about loving someone like that Is that it’s normal to throw away something that took so long to construct. But they won’t tell you that they’re used to that. What did you think made them write in the first place? They are used to that. Their whole lives have been building bridges with flammable wood Over barren lands. What no one tells you about loving a writer, Is that you’re loving two eyes, two hands, Two legs, two ears, and two lips but too many souls to try and control. Don’t try and control them, they’ll turn their back on you, they are conditioned to take their sorrows and turn then into words that can't be taken back, ones that make their spine stop chilling, Perhaps pass it on to another, what no one tells you about dating a writer, is that you will be that “another," you will have to absorb some of the energy, The forces that make these people soak up Every piece of sorrow in the world And make their heads heavy, And make their hearts scary, their hands shaky. What no one tells you about dating a writer, Is to be careful. They are broken and they cannot heal. Because they might stop creating, And their hearts might stop beating, Because their words bleed out of their skin, Their hands shape the world they’ve come to Live in, to love in, And their lungs are filled with every word you’ve ever said, And when you left, They took those words And wrote them down, And what no one tells you about dating a writer, Is that if youre not going to love the writer, At least give them something worth writing about. They will.
Tyler Zempel Dec 2018
The Entertainer

Warmth soothes my soul on this beautiful July morning.
A stark contrast to the dream I had the previous night that was the complete opposite of charming.
A violent storm tore apart my home leaving me in shambles, perhaps it’s a warning,
because the dread left behind in the pit of my stomach is concerning.
Tomorrow is my sons 8th birthday party, I fear it will be boring.
The last thing I want is for my sons’ friends to be unimpressed and fill my son’s ears with negative talking.
It may take a few stiff drinks but I’ll do my best to be charming.
A happy, gracious host can influence the guests into returning.
For my son Austin, that enough will be rewarding.
I have a man coming over soon who will provide me with details on what services he can provide to make sure all the kids view the party as being entertaining.
I hope and pray that he’s good at performing.
This is the first birthday I’ve had to plan on my own, so I’m sure I’m in store for some learning.
I’m hesitate whether or not I should pick up my video camera and begin recording.
I may record a complete failure or an event that proves to be rewarding.
Either way the children will be roaring
with either boos or cheers.

Food wise, I plan on keeping it simple.
Pepperoni pizza and pop to keep all the kids civil.
Two piñatas filled to the brim with candy for all the kids to lust over sinful,
while I watch from a dark corner letting out a giggle.
Still I need more fun things for the kids to do so that’s where the entertainer comes in.
To get a better price I might try to sooth him over with some gin.

Knock.
Knock.
Knock.

I answer the door to discover the middle-aged man smiling rather creepily at me.
He supports a trimmed beard along with a beer belly that sticks out rather beastly.
I have a sick feeling in my gut that something is off about him to a certain degree.
Having him makes me feel uncomfortable, I’m not sure if I trust his websites satisfaction guarantee.

He goes to speak, his breath reeking of cigarettes and alcohol.
His clothes are weathered, torn, smell something putrid and in need of a dousing of Lysol.
His eyes are bloodshot; it appears he has had a long night.
His presence here in front of my home fills my heart with fright.

He hands me his business card and tells me his name is Chester Pennyworth, entertainer.
It’s not in my nature to be a complainer,
but I wouldn’t hire this man even if he was my next-door neighbor.
I’m certainly not willing to pay the hefty fee for his retainer.

He hands me a booklet explaining all of the services he provides for children’s birthday parties.
I believe the only talent he actually contains is passing along genital ******.
I close the book as fast as he opens it and tell him I’m not interested in his services.
He snatches the book back from out of my hands laughing rather manically since I just deemed him purposeless.
I thank him for stopping by and for his time trying to be merciful,
but the frown that quickly appears on his face tells me he’s taking it personal.

I politely ask him to leave wanting to slam my front door hard behind him.
Chester then closes his eyes and begins to sing a hymn.
I forcefully ask him again to leave, he’s wasting valuable time I could be spending at the gym.
His eyes shoot open deranged; my soul instantly feels grim.
This man needs to depart from my presence now!
Him working my party, I simply disallow.

I go to push the man out of the door in an attempt to get him to leave.
He grabs my arm and squeezes my wrist hard, not the outcome I had hoped to achieve.
The forces me back into the house and with his free hand closes the front door behind him.
The outcome of this encounter for myself is starting to look grim.
He’s a large man, much stronger than I am.
Now I’m at his mercy, ****.

Now squarely in the middle of the living room, he squeezes my wrist even harder forcing me to my knees.
I look up at him as he admires down at me looking pleased.
He tells me I look good for being a middle-aged mom and am quite the **** tease.
I beg him to let me go and promise to hire him if he does so, in hopes he agrees.

With his free hand, the man drops his pants exposing he average sized ****.
He demands me to milk him dry and to end the small talk.
Hesitate, but with no other options, I slowly take all of him in my mouth.
I bob my head back and forth ******* him off while in my mind I pretend that I’m on vacation down south.
His manhood taste terrible, like he hasn’t showered in weeks.
I hold back gags as he pulls out of my mouth and slaps my cheeks.

He then shoves himself back into my mouth and I continue to ****.
I’m tempted to bite down and cause him misery but with the tight hold he has on my wrist, I’m afraid he would shatter it in retaliation, so I’m stuck.
*** starved, it doesn’t take long for his **** to fill up with cream and begin to throb in my mouth.
Excited, he moans and whispers that he’s going to keep this day as his Sabaoth.
He quickly blows his load down my throat and lets out a smile of pleasure.
It seems my mouth was quite the treasure.
I ask him if we are even and tell him I’ll let bygones be bygones.
He immediately frowns and tells me no, he’s going to put me where I belong.

He tells me to get back up to my feet and leads me into my bedroom.
He lies me on the bed, strips me naked and tells me he’s sure I have a nice womb,
but tells me my womb is not what he’s interested in.
He begins rubbing his hand over my leg commenting on my delicious smooth skin.
He licks his lips and tells me he bets I will make a tasty meal.
Panic cripples my heart as I plead with him to work with me and make a deal.
I have a young son who will be home from his friend’s house soon.
I don’t want him to walk in on us like this, I rather have in walk in on a cartoon.

The man, not caring what I have to say, climbs unto the bed and sits on my chest.
He places his right and above my left eye and tells me my son will soon be addressed.
Without warning, he slams ******* into my eye sock and rips out my left eye.
A loud piercing scream escapes from my mouth, God I want to die.

The sick, depraved lunatic smiles at me and shows me my eyeball.
I’m too busy screaming out in pain to be appalled.
He tells me the eyeball is the most delicious part of the human body and can’t wait to eat mine.
He reassures he won’t harm my son, that he will be fine.
He then sticks ******* into my right eye and rips it out as well.
The world as I know it goes black as I’m left in one terrible place to ******* dwell.
----------------------------------------------------------­---------------------------------------

The front door of the home squeaks open as a young boy enters, the son,
freshly back from his friend’s house where he just got done having a lot of fun.
The smell of cooking food enters his nostrils pleasantly, rumbling his stomach as he is hungry.
He’s a boy whom enjoys his food even though his mother warns him eating too much will cause him to become chubby.

He drops his overnight bag on the floor and yells out, “mom I’m home!”
She doesn’t answer, she always answers!  Something is not sitting right up in Little Austin’s dome.
He walks towards the kitchen then stops immediately in his tracks.
There is a strange, unrecognizable man cooking, wearing ***** slacks.
The man turns around and smiles, “Austin you’re home!
Dinner is almost done, please take a seat next to Jerome.”

Austin sees a puppet sitting in a chair at the kitchen table and takes a seat in the chair next to him unsure of the whereabouts of his beloved mother.
He’s not sure who this man is, a stranger or possibly his long-lost father?
“Where is my mother,” he finally asks.
The man flashes Austin a warm smile that disguises his true ugly identify like a mask.

“Your mother will be here shorty, she had to run and pick up a few last-minute things for your birthday party tomorrow.
She asked me to stay here and keep an eye on dinner you know.
My name is Walter and I will be providing entertainment at your party tomorrow.
Your mother only hired me for an hour although
so, you and your friends will have to make the most of that hour.
Dinner is ready Austin, o don’t look so sour.”

The man sits a plate of meat down in front of Austin then joins him at the table to eat.
The man tells Austin to take a bite and try it, it’s delicious meat.
Austin takes a bite and discovers the meat is rich with flavor and very tasty.
He cleans his plate rather hasty.

“Good stuff isn’t it Austin,” asks the man.
“Yes, what kind of meat was it?”
“Human meat Austin.”
Austin giggles thinking it’s a joke, “No really what kind of meat was it?”

The man drops his voice to a sinister low level and repeats, “Human meat Austin,
Your mother’s meat to be straight forward.
She did make one tasty meal.

Austin, visibly shaken by this revelation feels his heart sink in his chest.
He begins violently shaking and falls to the ground quite traumatized as you guessed.
He curls up into a ball and begins whispering to himself, “it isn’t true, it isn’t true.”
He didn’t want to accept the truth but deep down he knew,
his mother’s meat was just fed to him by a lunatic.
He now needs to act to save himself and act quick.

“You want desert Austin?  This is the best part.”
The man picks Austin up, sits him back at the table and tells him to have some manners and a heart.
The man places a dish in the middle of the table then removes the lid,
exposing two eye ***** ready to be eaten, his mothers.”

Screams echo around the house as Austin loses his composure and makes a break for the front door.
The man grabs Austin and tells him he still has to see his mother one final time in all her glory and gore.
“She’s still alive,” he whispers into his ear.
“It’s the only way to keep her meat fresh.”

“No, no, no, no Austin trembles uncontrollably as the man drags him into his mother’s bedroom.
A heart wrenching, ear drum piercing, earth spin stopping scream shatters the sound barrier as the boy comes face to face with what’s left of his mother.
Two ****** holes remain of what use to be her beautiful blue eyes.
Her tongue has been removed, leaving her unable to speak.
Her legs are missing from the knees down.
Her breathing is faint; death is nigh for her.

Tears fall relentlessly from Austin’s eyes as the man handcuffs him to his mother, forcing him to spend quality time with her mangled body.
-----------------------------------------------------------­--------------------------------------

The front door of the home slowly squeaks open as Dr. James Allen Burke enters the house.
His appearance here will surly cause a rouse.
Walter is sitting in a recliner in the living room, his eyes make contact with Dr. Burke’s.
Walter has been expecting him since he himself is one of the doctors failed works.

“Good evening Doctor, it sure is lovely to see you again.
Please tell me, your walking into the den of a mad man with a solid plan.”

“Walter, what have you done now?
I was supposed to help you control your urges, that was my vow!”

“Is that why you cut into my brain time after time, to help me doctor?
Because if you ask me, experimenting on my brain means you have no honor.
You’ve tried time and time again to get my brain right but each time you failed.
It’s about time I think that the police find out about your experiments and to a cross you should be nailed.
Do you want the public to know about your current experiment with your mother?
If you want my silence, turn around, exit the house and no longer ****
with me!”

“Walter, when I discovered you fifteen years ago, the police were ready to hang you.
You were lucky I was able to convince them to allow me to help tighten your screws.
You were found near death after being poisoned by your best friend Pete,
who was found with a bullet hole in his head from a bullet that was traced back to a gun owned by you that was found next to your body lying on the street.
You threatened to ****** your ex-girlfriend.
You threatened to ****** your son.
I’ve been performing procedure after procedure on you to fix your brain,
but all my attempts over the years, I’m afraid have been in vain.”

“I guess I should have been allowed to die in peace on that street instead of being revived doctor!”

“I’m sorry I failed you Walter, but I can no longer allow you to carry on with your rampage of destruction.
The crimes you have committed under my watch are too much for my soul to bear.”

“So you are here to **** me doctor, is that it?”

Doctor Burke, unfazed by his failed experiments aggressive nature towards him, smiles and nods as a gun shoot rings out.
A bullet, shot from a gun carried by Amanda who’s now standing behind Walter, hits Walter square in the head putting an end to the failed experiments fallout.

“Thank you Amanda for helping me…”

“Thank me later Doctor, there is something you need to see this instant.”

Doctor Burke and Amanda walk into the bedroom to the horrific sight of Austin handcuffed to his mutilated mother shaking and crying uncontrollably on the floor.
Doctor Burke takes in a deep breath greatly disturbed at the sight, he can’t even begin to enjoy the fact that Walter isn’t around to cause chaos and destruction anymore.

“Doc, the Woman is somehow still alive we need to put her down.
What do we do with the child?”

Doctor Burke takes the gun from Amanda and tells her he will do what must be done.
They need to clean up their mess to avoid and cops discovering their dark ***** deeds placing them on the run.
Doctor Burke points the gun at Austin’s head and pulls the trigger placing a bullet right between his eyes.
He had no chance on growing up and living a normal life, I’m not going to lie.
He would have been traumatized for life and unable to function in the real world.
Placing a bullet in between his eyes is a mercy **** and hope now his soul can be at peace.

Doctor Burke shifts the gun over to the mother and pulls the trigger,
also placing a bullet right between the dark holes of what use to be her eyes.
He looks over at Amanda and speaks,
“Let’s clean this mess up and cover our tracks.”
Tyler Zempel Dec 2018
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…
He…
He tells me things that keep me up at night
He tells me wonderful things
He tells me that I am beautiful
He tells me that I am intelligent
He tells me that I am unique
He tells me that I am inquisitive
He tells me that I am everything she is not
He tells me these things
He tells me things that keep me up at night
He tells me horrible things
He tells me I am not beautiful
He tells me that I am not intelligent
He tells me that I am not unique
He tells me that I am not inquisitive
He tells me that she is everything I am not
He…
Orpheon Jan 2019
These are the times,
That no-one tells you how to live.

The times when you wake up,
Hours early,
And your mind is filled
With thoughts of them
What they'd say,
What you'd say
What they'd want you to say
What you'd want them to say

No-one ever tells you how to live those times,
No-one ever tells you how to not be hurting,
No-one ever tells you how to silence the fantasy.

The times when you look up
From your own life,
And the world around you seems to have gone mad,
The stable society you trusted all your life
Seems to be breaking at the seams,
And the people in charge
Don't seem to know what they're doing,
Or care to listen to those who do.

No-one ever tells you how to live these times,
No-one ever tells you how to not feel hopeless,
No-one ever tells you how not to feel helpless.

The times when you go to bed,
And as your brain shuts down,
And all the civilised parts of you switch off,
You're left with pure feeling,
Loneliness
Hurt
Sorrow
Love.

No-one ever tells you how to reconcile those feelings,
No-one ever tells you how to deal with them,
No-one ever tells you how to live,
Without feeling loved.
Tyler King May 2016
With six hundred miles between you and the freedom you were promised,  the interstate speaks through your radio;
Springsteen tells you to hit the gas hard, to run and keep running and let the sunset try and catch you, cover the earth in dust behind you and never look back to assess the damage,
Joni Mitchell tells you to go home, to eat your pride and kiss your friends and to dig your life for all its worth,
Robert Plant tells you to go West, to firewalk with the spirits of those who came before, those who shared a vision and a madness and a feeling and who are waiting to take you somewhere beautiful,
Lou Reed tells you to go East, to disappear among the phantoms haunting New York streets and to let yourself become part of the Great, Inescapable Noise
Bob Dylan tells you to go forth with righteous anger burning holes in your pockets, to give back unto those who have been wronged, and to never trust the government
Jerry Garcia tells you to go forth in peace, with love blooming flowers from the cracks in your bones, to live simply and to hide your drugs well,
David Bowie tells you to learn which way they expect you to go, take a sharp brakes squealing U-turn and laugh as you speed away from everything they thought they knew about you,
**** Jagger tells you to stumble drunkenly down the path but never let them see you fall, to **** and fight for everything you want and keep them wondering how you survived,
Jimi Hendrix tells you that if you burn bright enough, turn it up loud enough, and bleed red enough, you can have them following you anywhere, burning the flags they wave and waving the flags they burn,
Jim Morrison tells you that the other side is within reach, that you can turn any lock with any key and reach Heaven without ever putting on a shirt,
Stevie Nicks tells you that whichever way you go, you better make ******* sure you're doing it on your own terms
Realize that you tread on hallowed ground,
This is the American night of the great mysticism, the holy vision of open road and unending sky, this is the night they drove Joan Baez down, the night that Janis Joplin collapsed under the weight of her own power, the night that Woody Guthrie cried his last bleeding heart tears because he knew the fight would not end with him, this is the night that you find peace in the great uncertainty,
With 100 miles of space left between you and this indeterminate future, the highway whispers to you;
"They will remember you too, if only you give more,
Your beautiful hair illuminated by neon halos, your body broken apart and taken as communion,
Your voice straining with purpose splitting nights just like this in half,
They will remember you too,
They will remember you"
Aubrey Jones Apr 2018
he tells me he loves me
he tells me he loves m
he tells me he loves
he tells me he love
he tells me he lov
he tells me he lo
he tells me he l
he tells me he
he tells me h
he tells me
he tells m
he tells
he tell
he tel
he te
he t
he
e
ev
eve
ever
every
every o
everyon
everyone
everyone l
everyone le
everyone lea
everyone leav
everyone leave
everyone leaves
everyone leaves e
everyone leaves ev
everyone leaves eve
everyone leaves even
everyone leaves event
everyone leaves eventu
everyone leaves eventua
everyone leaves eventual
everyone leaves eventuall
everyone leaves eventually
WE all have our places in this world.
I do,too.
I , am the rotten apple of the basket
.I stay in the basket too long,
i tend to ruin everything.
thats my place in the world.
that was supposed to be my identity till my last breath.
like the identity of my love is to unscrew him,
for my doctor is to do what no one else would,
for for HIM ,it was to smile and make the world
a better place.
its what defines us.

But that day when i had decided to do three extra shots of ***** and five extra drags and three snorts of ******* and then passed out after a seizure ,i  didnt know i would wake up to a new morning and to a new identity . i was in pain,in considerable pain,and there was just one person who still smiled at the rotten assemblage of human tissues that i had become,that person was him.a guy with the brightest of smiles and the biggest of hearts who didnt think anyone was bad inside.and for someone like me who has ten thousand layers of bad before the slightest of goof,it meant a lot.What would have happened had i decided to do that one month later? who knows ? i would have died,thats for sure.But i would have died a bitter,angry girl.**** am i happy now? will i be happy five years from now ? i dont know.Do i thank him for saving me? YES. do i feel good about being saved.? again. I'm not so sure.why should i be happy just bcus i have few years more to live,why should i be happy becausee i have more time with my parents? why should i be happy because my folks wont grieve ? For HIM,these questions,were the answers.Then why didnt she get those last few breaths? that extra few years?

AS i look at the empty bed next to me and the missing books adn the absence of his chirping laughter,i feel the world has permanently become a little darker,a little sadder.All i remember of him are his last words to me ' I'll be back.It will be okay.'
Well,he lied.I dont think i am forgiving him for that.Not now,not ever.

He left us behind to miss him,to yearn for him,to find things to distract ourselves from missing him.he is not there.he is not around us.i will never see that smile.he will not be on the next bed trying to irritate the hell out of me.he will not talk till my head bursts into little splinters and then irritate me some more.i have not me his doc Zaarah,but over the last few days i have heard stories. she told Arman that she was sure she he smiled at her long after her heart rate dropped and the lifeline drew a flat line on the monitor and the doctors failed to revive her.Armaan tells me that zaarah had spent the night at the morgue standing outside his frozen casket bcus HE was afraid of the darl.he tells me she had to be forced out before she could catch pneumonia or something worse.she tells me how every night Zaarah comes to both the room and terrace where they had gone for their first date.She tells me how his mother had fainted when she came back to our unlucky room no. 509 and how she  had to be pulled back from his bed by his father. He tells me his father looked like a walking corpse when he heard the news.he tells me how both sets of parents had cried arm in arm.he tells me how his dad comforted my crying dad,when i was battling for my life while their daughter was dead. Arman tells me that his father has nt said a word since the day he passed away on the operating table,lying on the side with his back cut open and a smile pasted on his face.it was painless,he tells me.

Does knowing that it was painless make me feel any better? it doesnt. he was no stranger to pain.he was strong and she would have picked pain and life any day over comfort and death.people like her arent meant to die.they never die bcus people never forget them.did he give us enough moments together? he would never have been able to even if he had died a hundred years later.people like him just dont live that enough. No matter how long,how fulfilling,how painless their deaths are= people miss them.Like i;miss him,and i hardly knew him,we werent even friends;we were roommates.



He dies. I live. I cry. Where is the sense in that ? i didnt even want to live.I thought the procedures,the medicines,the doctors and the drips were nonsense.all i wanted was to get injected with a few extra CCs of morphine n my drip and i'd pass on the next world,painlessly.i didnt want this.i hated pain.i have done everything i could find,to run away from it. i used to numb myself by injecting and snorting everything i could find.nobody wanted this. How do you think i will feel when i look at his parents,childless,grieving at his loss? how do you think i will feel when Zaarah crosses my path? We were in the same room.Same room!!! how difficult it was to have our fates switched ? how wrong can god get if there is one ? We were right there.how could he not see?

did i find a donor ? yes,I did. It was him. the perfect match.we were roommates.

But thats not the only thing he gave me. 15 days after my surgery wen i was shifted back to my room,the bed next to me was empty but for a little note on top of it.I opened the note which said.

' you were the best roommate ever.Now we're even. it 2-2.Dont waste it'
I cry.
Zaarah here was his doctor.and armaan was mine. I survived bcus he lent his life,his breaths to me,it was an unfair experience.
HE was suffering from ALS.godammit,he was only 19. And i had a major lung failure.why could god not switch destinies,pls,why ?

i hope this piece isnt boring to you?
1969 Hartford art school is magnet for exceedingly intelligent over-sensitive under-achievers alluring freaks congenital creeps and anyone who cannot cut it in straight world it is about loners dreamers stoners clowns cliques of posers competing to dress draw act most outrageous weird wonderful classrooms clash in diversity of needs some students get it right off while others require so much individual attention one girl constantly raises her hand calls for everything to be repeated explained creativity is treated as trouble and compliance to instruction rewarded most of faculty are of opinion kids are not capable of making original artwork teachers discourage students from dream of becoming well-known until they are older more experienced only practiced skilled artists are competent to create ‘real art’ defined by how much struggle or multiple meanings weave through the work Odysseus wants to make magic boxes without knowing or being informed of Joseph Cornell one teacher tells him you think you’re going to invent some new color the world has never seen? you’re just some rowdy brat from the midwest with a lot of crazy ideas and no evidence of authenticity another teacher warns you’re nothing more than a bricoleur! Odysseus questions what’s a bricoleur teacher informs a rogue handyman who haphazardly constructs from whatever is immediately available Odysseus questions what’s wrong with that? teacher answers it’s low-class folk junk  possessing no real intellectual value independently he reads Marshall McLuhan’s “The Medium Is The Message” and “The Notebooks of Leonardo da Vinci” he memorizes introductory remark of Leonardo’s “i must do like one who comes last to the fair and can find no other way of providing for himself than by taking all the things already seen by others and not taken by reason of their lesser value” Odysseus dreams of becoming accomplished important artist like Robert Rauschenberg Jasper Johns Andy Warhol he dreams of being in eye of hurricane New York art scene he works for university newspaper and is nicknamed crashkiss the newspaper editor is leader in student movement and folk singer who croons “45 caliber man, you’re so much more than our 22, but there’s so many more of us than you” Odysseus grows mustache wears flower printed pants vintage 1940’s leather jacket g.i. surplus clothes he makes many friends his gift for hooking up with girls is uncanny he is long haired drug-crazed hippie enjoying popularity previously unknown to him rock bands play at art openings everyone flirts dances gets ****** lots of activism on campus New York Times dubs university of Hartford “Berkeley of the east coast” holding up ******* in peace sign is subversive in 1969 symbol of rebellion youth solidarity gesture against war hawks rednecks corporate America acknowledgment of potential beyond materialistic self-righteous values of status quo sign of what could be in universe filled with incredible possibilities he moves in with  painting student one year advanced named Todd Whitman Todd has curly blond hair sturdy build wire rimmed glasses impish smile gemini superb draftsman amazing artist Todd emulates Francisco de Goya and Albrecht Durer Todd’s talent overshadows Odysseus’s Todd’s dad is accomplished professor at distinguished college in Massachusetts to celebrate Odysseus’s arrival Todd cooks all day preparing spaghetti dinner when Odysseus arrives home tripping on acid without appetite Todd is disappointed Odysseus runs down to corner store buys large bottle of wine returns to house Todd is eating spaghetti alone they get drunk together then pierce each other’s ears with needles ice wine cork pierced ears are outlaw style of bad *** bikers like Hell’s Angels Todd says you are a real original Odys and funny too Odysseus asks funny, how? Todd answers you are one crazy ******* drop acid whenever you want smoke **** then go to class this is fun tonight Odys getting drunk and piercing our ears Odysseus says yup i’m having a good time too Todd and Odysseus become best friends Odysseus turns Todd on to Sylvia Plath’s “The Bell Jar” and “Ariel” then they both read Ted Hughes “Crow” illustrated with Leonard Baskin prints Todd turns Odysseus on to German Expressionist painting art movement of garish colors emotionally violent imagery from 1905-1925 later infuriating Third ***** who deemed the work “degenerate” Odysseus dives into works of Max Beckmann Otto Dix Conrad Felixmulller Barthel Gilles George Grosz Erich Heckel Ernst Ludwig Kirchner Felix Nussbaum Karl *******Rottluff Carl Hofer August Macke Max Peckstein Elfriede Lohse-Wachtler Egon Shiele list goes on in 1969 most parents don’t have money to buy their children cars most kids living off campus either ride bikes or hitchhike to school then back home on weekends often without a penny in their pockets Odysseus and Todd randomly select a highway and hitch rides to Putney Vermont Brattleboro Boston Cape Cod New York City or D.C. in search of adventure there is always trouble to be found curious girls to assist in Georgetown Odysseus sleeps with skinny girl with webbed toes who believes he is Jesus he tries to dissuade her but she is convinced

Toby Mantis is visiting New York City artist at Hartford art school he looks like huskier handsomer version of Ringo Starr and women dig him he builds stretchers and stretches canvases for Warhol lives in huge loft in Soho on Broadway and Bleeker invites Odysseus to come down on weekends hang out Toby takes him to Max’s Kansas City Warhol’s Electric Circus they wander all night into morning there are printing companies longshoremen gays in Chelsea Italians in West Village hippies playing guitars protesting the war in Washington Square all kinds of hollering crazies passing out fliers pins in Union Square Toby is hard drinker Odysseus has trouble keeping up  he pukes his guts out number of times Odysseus is *** head not drinker he explores 42nd Street stumbles across strange exotic place named Peep Show World upstairs is large with many **** cubicles creepy dudes hanging around downstairs is astonishing there are many clusters of booths with live **** girls inside girls shout out hey boys come on now pick me come on boys there are hundreds of girls from all over the world in every conceivable size shape race he enters dark stall  puts fifty cents in coin box window screen lifts inside each cluster are 6 to 10 girls either parading or glued to a window for $1 he is allowed to caress kiss their ******* for $2 he is permitted to probe their ****** or *** for $10 girl reaches hand into darkened stall jerks him off tall slender British girl thrills him the most she says let me have another go at your dickey Odysseus spends all his money ******* 5 times departing he notices men from every walk of life passing through wall street stockbrokers executives rednecks mobsters frat boys tourists fat old bald guys smoking thick smelly cigars Toby Mantis has good-looking girlfriend named Lorraine with long brown hair Toby Lorraine and Odysseus sit around kitchen table Odysseus doodles with pencil on paper Toby spreads open Lorraine’s thighs exposing her ****** to Odysseus Lorraine blushes yet permits Toby to finger her Odysseus thinks she has the most beautiful ****** he has ever seen bulging pelvic bone brown distinctive bush symmetric lips Toby and Lorraine watch in amusement as Odysseus gazes intently Tony mischievously remarks you like looking at that ***** don’t you? Odysseus stares silently begins pencil drawing Lorraine’s ****** his eyes darting back and forth following day Lorraine seduces Odysseus while Toby is away walks out **** from shower she is few years older her body lean with high ******* she directs his hands mouth while she talks with someone on telephone it is strange yet quite exciting Odysseus is in awe of New York City every culture in the world intermingling democracy functioning in an uncontrollable managed breath millions of people in motion stories unraveling on every street 24 hour spectacle with no limits every conceivable variety of humanity ******* in same air Odysseus is bedazzled yet intimidated

Odysseus spends summer of 1970 at art colony in Cummington Massachusetts it is magical time extraordinary place many talented eccentric characters all kinds of happenings stage plays poetry readings community meals volleyball after dinner volleyball games are hilarious fun he lives alone in isolated studio amidst wild raspberries in woods shares toilet with field mouse no shower he reads Jerzy Kosinski’s “Painted Bird” then “Being There” then “Steps” attractive long haired girl named Pam visits community for weekend meets Odysseus they talk realize they were in first grade together at Harper amazing coincidence automatic ground for “we need to have *** because neither of us has seen each other since first grade” she inquires where do you sleep? Todd hitches up from Hartford to satisfy curiosity everyone sleeps around good-looking blue-eyed poet named Shannon Banks from South Boston tells Odysseus his ******* is not big enough for kind of ******* she wants but she will **** him off that’s fine with him 32 year old poet named Ellen Morrissey from Massachusetts reassures him ******* is fine Ellen is beginning to find her way out from suffocating marriage she has little daughter named Nina Ellen admires Odysseus’s free spirit sees both his possibilities and naïveté she realizes he has crippling family baggage he has no idea he is carrying thing about trauma is as it is occurring victim shrugs laughs to repel shock yet years later pain horror sink in turned-on with new ideas he returns to Hartford art school classes are fun yet confusing he strives to be best drawer most innovative competition sidetracks him Odysseus uses power drill to carve pumpkin on Halloween teachers warn him to stick to fundamentals too much creativity is suspect Todd and he are invited to holiday party Odysseus shows up with Ellen Morrissey driving in her father’s station wagon 2 exceptionally pretty girls flirt with him he is live wire they sneak upstairs he fingers both at same time while they laugh to each other one of the girls Laura invites him outside to do more he follows they walk through falling snow until they find hidden area near some trees Laura lies down lifts her skirt she spreads her legs dense ***** mound he is about to explore her there when Laura looks up sees figure with flashlight following their tracks in snow she warns it’s Bill my husband run for your life! Odysseus runs around long way back inside party grabs a beer pretending he has been there next to Ellen all night few minutes later he sees Laura and Bill return through front door Bill has dark mustache angry eyes Odysseus tells Ellen it is late maybe they should leave soon suddenly Bill walks up to him with beer in hand cracks bottle over his head glass and beer splatter Odysseus jumps up runs out to station wagon Ellen hurriedly follows snow coming down hard car is wedged among many guest vehicles he starts engine locks doors maneuvers vehicle back and forth trying to inch way out of spot Bill appears from party walks to his van disappears from out of darkness swirling snow Bill comes at them wielding large crowbar smashes car’s headlights taillights side mirrors windshield covered in broken glass Ellen ducks on floor beneath glove compartment sobs cries he’s going to **** us! we’re going to die! Odysseus steers station wagon free floors gas pedal drives on back country roads through furious snowstorm in dark of night no lights Odysseus contorts crouches forward in order to see through hole in shattered windshield Ellen sees headlights behind them coming up fast it is Bill in van Bill banging their bumper follows them all the way back to Hartford to Odysseus’s place they run inside call police Bill sits parked van outside across street as police arrive half hour later Bill pulls away next day Odysseus and Ellen drive to Boston to explain to Ellen’s dad what has happened to his station wagon Odysseus stays with Ellen in Brookline for several nights another holiday party she wants to take him along to meet her friends her social circles are older he thinks to challenge their values be outrageous paints face Ellen is horrified cries you can’t possibly do this to me these are my close friends what will they think? he defiantly answers my face is a mask who cares what i look like? man woman creature what does it matter? if your friends really want to know me they’ll need to look beyond the make-up tonight i am your sluttish girlfriend! sometimes Odysseus can be a thoughtless fool

Laura Rousseau Shane files for divorce from Bill she is exceptionally lovely models at art school she is of French descent her figure possessing exotic traits she stands like ballerina with thick pointed ******* copious ***** hair Odysseus is infatuated she frequently dances pursues him Laura says i had the opportunity to meet Bob Dylan once amazed Odysseus questions what did you do? she replies what could i possibly have in common with Bob Dylan? Laura teases Odysseus about being a preppy then lustfully gropes him grabs holds his ***** they devote many hours to ****** intimacy during ******* she routinely reaches her hand from under her buns grasps his testicles squeezing as he pumps he likes that Laura is quite eccentric fetishes over Odysseus she even thrills to pick zits on his back he is not sure if it is truly a desire of hers proof of earthiness or simply expression of mothering Laura has two daughters by Bill Odysseus is in over his head Laura tells Odysseus myth of Medea smitten with love for Jason Jason needs Medea’s help to find Golden Fleece Medea agrees with promise of marriage murders her brother arranges ****** of king who has deprived Jason his inheritance couple is forced into exile Medea bears Jason 2 sons then Jason falls in love with King Creon’s daughter deserts Medea is furious she makes shawl for King Creon’s daughter to wear at her wedding to Jason  shawl turns to flames killing bride Medea murders her own sons by Jason Odysseus goes along with story for a while but Laura wants husband Odysseus is merely scruffy boy with roving eyes Laura becomes galled by Odysseus leaves him for one of his roommates whom she marries then several years later divorces there is scene when Laura tells Odysseus she is dropping him for his roommate he is standing in living room of her house space is painted deep renaissance burgundy there are framed photographs on walls in one photo he is hugging Laura and her daughters under big oak tree in room Laura’s friend Bettina other girl he fingered first night he met Laura at party is watching with arms crossed he drops to floor curls body sobs i miss you so much Laura turns to Bettina remarks look at him men are such big babies he’s pitiful Bettina nods

following summer he works installing displays at G. Fox Department Store besides one woman gay men staff display department for as long as he can remember homosexuals have always been attracted to him this misconception is probably how he got job his tenor voice suggesting not entirely mature man instead more like tentative young boy this ambiguous manifestation sometimes also evidences gestures thoroughly misleading after sidestepping several ****** advances one of his co-workers bewilderingly remarks you really are straight manager staff are fussy chirpy catty group consequently certain he is not gay they discriminate against him stick him with break down clean up slop jobs at outdoor weekend rock concert in Constitution Plaza he meets 2 younger blond girls who consent to go back to his place mess around both girls are quite dazzling yet one is somewhat physically undeveloped they undress and model for Odysseus radio plays Roberta Flack’s “Killing Me Softly With His Song” both girls move to rhythm sing along he thinks to orchestrate direct decides instead to let them lead lies on bed while curvaceous girl rides his ******* slender girl sits on his face they switch all 3 alternate giggle laughter each girl reaches ****** on his stiffness later both assist with hands mouths his ****** is so intense it leaves him paralyzed for a moment

in fall he is cast as Claudius in production of Hamlet Odysseus rehearses diligently on nights o
Alex Hanna Jan 2018
Depression lies to you.
It tells you the only way to survive is to curl up in bed and hide from the world.
It tells you that what is "out there" is not worth fighting for.
It tells you that you are not worth fighting for.

Depression lies to you.
It tells you that you'll never be better.
It tells you nobody loves you, because how could they, when you can't even love yourself.
It tells you are unworthy of love...when is the last time you loved yourself?

Depression lies to you.
It tells you it will pass, to just be patient.
It tells you not to fear, but to be afraid of everything.
It tells you there is no use in fighting.

Depression lies to you.
It tells you to cry, but you don't know why.
It tells you to sleep when that's all you've done for days.
It tells you that everyone is better off without you.

Yes. Depression lies to you.
Daniel Regan May 2012
No one ever tells you how to avoid that painful fall, or how to pick yourself up once you’ve hit that daunting wall. No one ever tells you that regret stings like hell, and no one ever tells you to beware of where you fell.  No one ever tells you that sleep is hard to find, when regret is the only thing running through your ever-sleepless mind. No one ever tells you that your mistake will haunt you for good, or that you’ll see her face in places where both of you once stood. No one ever tells you how to make everything right, and no one ever tells you when it’s the right time to fight. No one ever tells you when sorry isn’t enough, and no one ever tells you that saying more is tough. No one can ever tell you when you’ll finally make peace, and no one ever tells you the right time to use some elbow grease. These lessons go unsaid not for simple neglect, but because of the uncertainty in life and when they take effect. They are lessons learn not through book nor are they taught at any school, but rather learned through scrapped knees and those times you’ll play the fool. And though you may kick yourself repeatedly and wish to start anew, the cliché you’re only human will simply have to make do. Because solace isn’t found in holding to your past, it’s found in in knowing your limitations and proving they wont last.
authentic Aug 2014
when a boy tells you he loves you
do not panic
every nerve in your body will tremble like a sinner on judgement day
not sure of where this is going
not sure if it is real
when a boy tells you he loves you
do not curve you lips into half of the crescent moon that lit up your dark nights, he does not deserve that yet
when a boy tells you he loves you** over the phone
because he can not muster up the courage to spill the blood looking into your eyes do not believe him
a phone call is almost promising but not quite
when a boy tells you he loves you
you will want to say it back
and sitting in your car the words will fall out of your mouth
and into your lap like spilled white wine
when a boy tells you he loves you
do not panic
remember that he is only a boy
a silly, heart-scrabbled, inconsistent boy
Jacobo Raymundo Nov 2013
Old Glory resiliently stands steady and silent
Yet tells a tale
Not of its darkest hours, days of doubt
But of hope
It tells of an ideal fought for, killed to protect
It tells of hope
That life will be granted with equality, freedom
It tells of hope
That no enemy shall bring us to our knees
It tells of hope
That lives lost in battle shall be duly honored
It tells of hope
That tomorrow will always have a brighter sun
It tells of hope
This is the house of Bedlam.

This is the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the time
of the tragic man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a wristwatch
telling the time
of the talkative man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the honored man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the roadstead all of board
reached by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the old, brave man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls of the ward,
the winds and clouds of the sea of board
sailed by the sailor
wearing the watch
that tells the time
of the cranky man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
beyond the sailor
winding his watch
that tells the time
of the cruel man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a world of books gone flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
over the creaking sea of board
of the batty sailor
that winds his watch
that tells the time
of the busy man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is there, is flat,
for the widowed Jew in the newspaper hat
that dances weeping down the ward
waltzing the length of a weaving board
by the silent sailor
that hears his watch
that ticks the time
of the tedious man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to feel if the world is there and flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances joyfully down the ward
into the parting seas of board
past the staring sailor
that shakes his watch
that tells the time
of the poet, the man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.

This is the soldier home from the war.
These are the years and the walls and the door
that shut on a boy that pats the floor
to see if the world is round or flat.
This is a Jew in a newspaper hat
that dances carefully down the ward,
walking the plank of a coffin board
with the crazy sailor
that shows his watch
that tells the time
of the wretched man
that lies in the house of Bedlam.
He was a boy dressed in green who flew into the Nursery one night.
He flew in to retrieve the shadow that had gotten separated from him.
He had his fairy and best friend Tinkerbell fly into the room at first.
He followed about a minute later and told Tinkerbell to find it for him.
He watched Tinkerbell fly over a dresser drawer & asked which one.
He ran over to the drawer that Tinkerbell stayed beside & he opened it.
He takes the shadow out & happily holds it in his arms and hugs it.
He tries to stick the shadow on by just putting it on his head and poses.
He then has to pick the shadow up from the floor when it falls off.
He tries again and then sees soap & says he'll use that to make it stick.
He rubs the soap on the shadow or himself & tries to make it stick.
He starts to get very upset because the shadow won't stick itself to him.
He starts breathing heavily & asks, "What's the matter with you?"
He wakes Wendy & she thinks he's crying. "Boy, why are you crying?"
He answers her differently in the recent version from the others.
He just stands up from where he is and bows to her in the other films.
He stands up in the recent version & says to her, "I'm not crying."
He's told in the recent film that he looks like a boy out of a storybook.
He calls himself a "brave adventurer" & Wendy says, "Who cries."
He looks at Wendy and says to her, more sternly this time, "I don't cry."
He asks what her name is, she says, "Wendy Mira Angela Darling."
He tells her his & says, "It's enough for me." when she asks if that's it.
He looks around & asks, "Is this a real house?" Wendy says, "Yes."
He doesn't ask that in all the other versions, they just exchange names.
He does different things depending on what version you watch.
He goes out in the hall in the recent film when a noise interests him.
He tells her some things about himself, like that he is forgetful.
"Second star to the right and straight on till morning." is where he lives.
He tells Wendy this in every single version when she asks him.
He's asked if he gets letters & says in many films, "I don't get any letters."
He says in the recent film, "I don't get any." with a little shrug.
He also says, "I don't have a mother." when told his mother must get'em.
He puts a hand up & backs up when Wendy tries to hug him.
He says, "You mustn't touch me." Wendy puts her arms down & asks why.
He says, "No one has ever touched me." and just looks at her.
He's told by Wendy, "No wonder you were crying." and looks at her again.
He says, "I told you I wasn't. I just can't get my shadow to stick."
He also tells her, "I tried everything. Even soap." points to the bar of soap.
He gets the shadow on with the help of Wendy & is happy again.
He gets a thimble thinking it's a kiss and gives Wendy one to thank her.
He tells her about Neverland & she tells him that she knows stories.
He tells her to come with him and says that they will both fly to get there.
He says before this that he knows fairies & Wendy meets Tinkerbell.
He allows Wendy's brothers Michael and John to come fly with them too.
He teachers everyone how to fly and then they are off to Neverland.
I'm sorry, I think I said before that I was on a Peter Pan kick. Don't worry, I won't write about him again for a little bit. I have other things in mind to write about. Thanks for reading and doing all the others things, or at least one of them, if you did :) Bye!
Still must I hear?—shall hoarse FITZGERALD bawl
His creaking couplets in a tavern hall,
And I not sing, lest, haply, Scotch Reviews
Should dub me scribbler, and denounce my Muse?
Prepare for rhyme—I’ll publish, right or wrong:
Fools are my theme, let Satire be my song.

  Oh! Nature’s noblest gift—my grey goose-quill!
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
The pen! foredoomed to aid the mental throes
Of brains that labour, big with Verse or Prose;
Though Nymphs forsake, and Critics may deride,
The Lover’s solace, and the Author’s pride.
What Wits! what Poets dost thou daily raise!
How frequent is thy use, how small thy praise!
Condemned at length to be forgotten quite,
With all the pages which ’twas thine to write.
But thou, at least, mine own especial pen!
Once laid aside, but now assumed again,
Our task complete, like Hamet’s shall be free;
Though spurned by others, yet beloved by me:
Then let us soar to-day; no common theme,
No Eastern vision, no distempered dream
Inspires—our path, though full of thorns, is plain;
Smooth be the verse, and easy be the strain.

  When Vice triumphant holds her sov’reign sway,
Obey’d by all who nought beside obey;
When Folly, frequent harbinger of crime,
Bedecks her cap with bells of every Clime;
When knaves and fools combined o’er all prevail,
And weigh their Justice in a Golden Scale;
E’en then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of Shame, unknown to other fears,
More darkly sin, by Satire kept in awe,
And shrink from Ridicule, though not from Law.

  Such is the force of Wit! I but not belong
To me the arrows of satiric song;
The royal vices of our age demand
A keener weapon, and a mightier hand.
Still there are follies, e’en for me to chase,
And yield at least amusement in the race:
Laugh when I laugh, I seek no other fame,
The cry is up, and scribblers are my game:
Speed, Pegasus!—ye strains of great and small,
Ode! Epic! Elegy!—have at you all!
I, too, can scrawl, and once upon a time
I poured along the town a flood of rhyme,
A schoolboy freak, unworthy praise or blame;
I printed—older children do the same.
’Tis pleasant, sure, to see one’s name in print;
A Book’s a Book, altho’ there’s nothing in’t.
Not that a Title’s sounding charm can save
Or scrawl or scribbler from an equal grave:
This LAMB must own, since his patrician name
Failed to preserve the spurious Farce from shame.
No matter, GEORGE continues still to write,
Tho’ now the name is veiled from public sight.
Moved by the great example, I pursue
The self-same road, but make my own review:
Not seek great JEFFREY’S, yet like him will be
Self-constituted Judge of Poesy.

  A man must serve his time to every trade
Save Censure—Critics all are ready made.
Take hackneyed jokes from MILLER, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A man well skilled to find, or forge a fault;
A turn for punning—call it Attic salt;
To JEFFREY go, be silent and discreet,
His pay is just ten sterling pounds per sheet:
Fear not to lie,’twill seem a sharper hit;
Shrink not from blasphemy, ’twill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling—pass your proper jest,
And stand a Critic, hated yet caress’d.

And shall we own such judgment? no—as soon
Seek roses in December—ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that’s false, before
You trust in Critics, who themselves are sore;
Or yield one single thought to be misled
By JEFFREY’S heart, or LAMB’S Boeotian head.
To these young tyrants, by themselves misplaced,
Combined usurpers on the Throne of Taste;
To these, when Authors bend in humble awe,
And hail their voice as Truth, their word as Law;
While these are Censors, ’twould be sin to spare;
While such are Critics, why should I forbear?
But yet, so near all modern worthies run,
’Tis doubtful whom to seek, or whom to shun;
Nor know we when to spare, or where to strike,
Our Bards and Censors are so much alike.
Then should you ask me, why I venture o’er
The path which POPE and GIFFORD trod before;
If not yet sickened, you can still proceed;
Go on; my rhyme will tell you as you read.
“But hold!” exclaims a friend,—”here’s some neglect:
This—that—and t’other line seem incorrect.”
What then? the self-same blunder Pope has got,
And careless Dryden—”Aye, but Pye has not:”—
Indeed!—’tis granted, faith!—but what care I?
Better to err with POPE, than shine with PYE.

  Time was, ere yet in these degenerate days
Ignoble themes obtained mistaken praise,
When Sense and Wit with Poesy allied,
No fabled Graces, flourished side by side,
From the same fount their inspiration drew,
And, reared by Taste, bloomed fairer as they grew.
Then, in this happy Isle, a POPE’S pure strain
Sought the rapt soul to charm, nor sought in vain;
A polished nation’s praise aspired to claim,
And raised the people’s, as the poet’s fame.
Like him great DRYDEN poured the tide of song,
In stream less smooth, indeed, yet doubly strong.
Then CONGREVE’S scenes could cheer, or OTWAY’S melt;
For Nature then an English audience felt—
But why these names, or greater still, retrace,
When all to feebler Bards resign their place?
Yet to such times our lingering looks are cast,
When taste and reason with those times are past.
Now look around, and turn each trifling page,
Survey the precious works that please the age;
This truth at least let Satire’s self allow,
No dearth of Bards can be complained of now.
The loaded Press beneath her labour groans,
And Printers’ devils shake their weary bones;
While SOUTHEY’S Epics cram the creaking shelves,
And LITTLE’S Lyrics shine in hot-pressed twelves.
Thus saith the Preacher: “Nought beneath the sun
Is new,” yet still from change to change we run.
What varied wonders tempt us as they pass!
The Cow-pox, Tractors, Galvanism, and Gas,
In turns appear, to make the ****** stare,
Till the swoln bubble bursts—and all is air!
Nor less new schools of Poetry arise,
Where dull pretenders grapple for the prize:
O’er Taste awhile these Pseudo-bards prevail;
Each country Book-club bows the knee to Baal,
And, hurling lawful Genius from the throne,
Erects a shrine and idol of its own;
Some leaden calf—but whom it matters not,
From soaring SOUTHEY, down to groveling STOTT.

  Behold! in various throngs the scribbling crew,
For notice eager, pass in long review:
Each spurs his jaded Pegasus apace,
And Rhyme and Blank maintain an equal race;
Sonnets on sonnets crowd, and ode on ode;
And Tales of Terror jostle on the road;
Immeasurable measures move along;
For simpering Folly loves a varied song,
To strange, mysterious Dulness still the friend,
Admires the strain she cannot comprehend.
Thus Lays of Minstrels—may they be the last!—
On half-strung harps whine mournful to the blast.
While mountain spirits prate to river sprites,
That dames may listen to the sound at nights;
And goblin brats, of Gilpin Horner’s brood
Decoy young Border-nobles through the wood,
And skip at every step, Lord knows how high,
And frighten foolish babes, the Lord knows why;
While high-born ladies in their magic cell,
Forbidding Knights to read who cannot spell,
Despatch a courier to a wizard’s grave,
And fight with honest men to shield a knave.

  Next view in state, proud prancing on his roan,
The golden-crested haughty Marmion,
Now forging scrolls, now foremost in the fight,
Not quite a Felon, yet but half a Knight.
The gibbet or the field prepared to grace;
A mighty mixture of the great and base.
And think’st thou, SCOTT! by vain conceit perchance,
On public taste to foist thy stale romance,
Though MURRAY with his MILLER may combine
To yield thy muse just half-a-crown per line?
No! when the sons of song descend to trade,
Their bays are sear, their former laurels fade,
Let such forego the poet’s sacred name,
Who rack their brains for lucre, not for fame:
Still for stern Mammon may they toil in vain!
And sadly gaze on Gold they cannot gain!
Such be their meed, such still the just reward
Of prostituted Muse and hireling bard!
For this we spurn Apollo’s venal son,
And bid a long “good night to Marmion.”

  These are the themes that claim our plaudits now;
These are the Bards to whom the Muse must bow;
While MILTON, DRYDEN, POPE, alike forgot,
Resign their hallowed Bays to WALTER SCOTT.

  The time has been, when yet the Muse was young,
When HOMER swept the lyre, and MARO sung,
An Epic scarce ten centuries could claim,
While awe-struck nations hailed the magic name:
The work of each immortal Bard appears
The single wonder of a thousand years.
Empires have mouldered from the face of earth,
Tongues have expired with those who gave them birth,
Without the glory such a strain can give,
As even in ruin bids the language live.
Not so with us, though minor Bards, content,
On one great work a life of labour spent:
With eagle pinion soaring to the skies,
Behold the Ballad-monger SOUTHEY rise!
To him let CAMOËNS, MILTON, TASSO yield,
Whose annual strains, like armies, take the field.
First in the ranks see Joan of Arc advance,
The scourge of England and the boast of France!
Though burnt by wicked BEDFORD for a witch,
Behold her statue placed in Glory’s niche;
Her fetters burst, and just released from prison,
A ****** Phoenix from her ashes risen.
Next see tremendous Thalaba come on,
Arabia’s monstrous, wild, and wond’rous son;
Domdaniel’s dread destroyer, who o’erthrew
More mad magicians than the world e’er knew.
Immortal Hero! all thy foes o’ercome,
For ever reign—the rival of Tom Thumb!
Since startled Metre fled before thy face,
Well wert thou doomed the last of all thy race!
Well might triumphant Genii bear thee hence,
Illustrious conqueror of common sense!
Now, last and greatest, Madoc spreads his sails,
Cacique in Mexico, and Prince in Wales;
Tells us strange tales, as other travellers do,
More old than Mandeville’s, and not so true.
Oh, SOUTHEY! SOUTHEY! cease thy varied song!
A bard may chaunt too often and too long:
As thou art strong in verse, in mercy, spare!
A fourth, alas! were more than we could bear.
But if, in spite of all the world can say,
Thou still wilt verseward plod thy weary way;
If still in Berkeley-Ballads most uncivil,
Thou wilt devote old women to the devil,
The babe unborn thy dread intent may rue:
“God help thee,” SOUTHEY, and thy readers too.

  Next comes the dull disciple of thy school,
That mild apostate from poetic rule,
The simple WORDSWORTH, framer of a lay
As soft as evening in his favourite May,
Who warns his friend “to shake off toil and trouble,
And quit his books, for fear of growing double;”
Who, both by precept and example, shows
That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose;
Convincing all, by demonstration plain,
Poetic souls delight in prose insane;
And Christmas stories tortured into rhyme
Contain the essence of the true sublime.
Thus, when he tells the tale of Betty Foy,
The idiot mother of “an idiot Boy;”
A moon-struck, silly lad, who lost his way,
And, like his bard, confounded night with day
So close on each pathetic part he dwells,
And each adventure so sublimely tells,
That all who view the “idiot in his glory”
Conceive the Bard the hero of the story.

  Shall gentle COLERIDGE pass unnoticed here,
To turgid ode and tumid stanza dear?
Though themes of innocence amuse him best,
Yet still Obscurity’s a welcome guest.
If Inspiration should her aid refuse
To him who takes a Pixy for a muse,
Yet none in lofty numbers can surpass
The bard who soars to elegize an ***:
So well the subject suits his noble mind,
He brays, the Laureate of the long-eared kind.

Oh! wonder-working LEWIS! Monk, or Bard,
Who fain would make Parnassus a church-yard!
Lo! wreaths of yew, not laurel, bind thy brow,
Thy Muse a Sprite, Apollo’s sexton thou!
Whether on ancient tombs thou tak’st thy stand,
By gibb’ring spectres hailed, thy kindred band;
Or tracest chaste descriptions on thy page,
To please the females of our modest age;
All hail, M.P.! from whose infernal brain
Thin-sheeted phantoms glide, a grisly train;
At whose command “grim women” throng in crowds,
And kings of fire, of water, and of clouds,
With “small grey men,”—”wild yagers,” and what not,
To crown with honour thee and WALTER SCOTT:
Again, all hail! if tales like thine may please,
St. Luke alone can vanquish the disease:
Even Satan’s self with thee might dread to dwell,
And in thy skull discern a deeper Hell.

Who in soft guise, surrounded by a choir
Of virgins melting, not to Vesta’s fire,
With sparkling eyes, and cheek by passion flushed
Strikes his wild lyre, whilst listening dames are hushed?
’Tis LITTLE! young Catullus of his day,
As sweet, but as immoral, in his Lay!
Grieved to condemn, the Muse must still be just,
Nor spare melodious advocates of lust.
Pure is the flame which o’er her altar burns;
From grosser incense with disgust she turns
Yet kind to youth, this expiation o’er,
She bids thee “mend thy line, and sin no more.”

For thee, translator of the tinsel song,
To whom such glittering ornaments belong,
Hibernian STRANGFORD! with thine eyes of blue,
And boasted locks of red or auburn hue,
Whose plaintive strain each love-sick Miss admires,
And o’er harmonious fustian half expires,
Learn, if thou canst, to yield thine author’s sense,
Nor vend thy sonnets on a false pretence.
Think’st thou to gain thy verse a higher place,
By dressing Camoëns in a suit of lace?
Mend, STRANGFORD! mend thy morals and thy taste;
Be warm, but pure; be amorous, but be chaste:
Cease to deceive; thy pilfered harp restore,
Nor teach the Lusian Bard to copy MOORE.

Behold—Ye Tarts!—one moment spare the text!—
HAYLEY’S last work, and worst—until his next;
Whether he spin poor couplets into plays,
Or **** the dead with purgatorial praise,
His style in youth or age is still the same,
For ever feeble and for ever tame.
Triumphant first see “Temper’s Triumphs” shine!
At least I’m sure they triumphed over mine.
Of “Music’s Triumphs,” all who read may swear
That luckless Music never triumph’d there.

Moravians, rise! bestow some meet reward
On dull devotion—Lo! the Sabbath Bard,
Sepulchral GRAHAME, pours his notes sublime
In mangled prose, nor e’en aspires to rhyme;
Breaks into blank the Gospel of St. Luke,
And boldly pilfers from the Pentateuch;
And, undisturbed by conscientious qualms,
Perverts the Prophets, and purloins the Psalms.

  Hail, Sympathy! thy soft idea brings”
A thousand visions of a thousand things,
And shows, still whimpering thro’ threescore of years,
The maudlin prince of mournful sonneteers.
And art thou not their prince, harmonious Bowles!
Thou first, great oracle of tender souls?
Whether them sing’st with equal ease, and grief,
The fall of empires, or a yellow leaf;
Whether thy muse most lamentably tells
What merry sounds proceed from Oxford bells,
Or, still in bells delighting, finds a friend
In every chime that jingled from Ostend;
Ah! how much juster were thy Muse’s hap,
If to thy bells thou would’st but add a cap!
Delightful BOWLES! still blessing and still blest,
All love thy strain, but children like it best.
’Tis thine, with gentle LITTLE’S moral song,
To soothe the mania of the amorous throng!
With thee our nursery damsels shed their tears,
Ere Miss as yet completes her infant years:
But in her teens thy whining powers are vain;
She quits poor BOWLES for LITTLE’S purer strain.
Now to soft themes thou scornest to confine
The lofty numbers of a harp like thine;
“Awake a louder and a loftier strain,”
Such as none heard before, or will again!
Where all discoveries jumbled from the flood,
Since first the leaky ark reposed in mud,
By more or less, are sung in every book,
From Captain Noah down to Captain Cook.
Nor this alone—but, pausing on the road,
The Bard sighs forth a gentle episode,
And gravely tells—attend, each beauteous Miss!—
When first Madeira trembled to a kiss.
Bowles! in thy memory let this precept dwell,
Stick to thy Sonnets, Man!—at least they sell.
But if some new-born whim, or larger bribe,
Prompt thy crude brain, and claim thee for a scribe:
If ‘chance some bard, though once by dunces feared,
Now, prone in dust, can only be revered;
If Pope, whose fame and genius, from the first,
Have foiled the best of critics, needs the worst,
Do thou essay: each fault, each failing scan;
The first of poets
RAJ NANDY Aug 2018
Dear Poet Friends, I conclude this series on The Enigma of Time by mentioning few important features about the concept of Time according to Modern Philosophy and Science. I have used a
simple format, and also tried my best to simplify the concepts for your kind appreciation. Unfortunately, there is no provision on this Poetry Site to show Diagrams to elucidate! If you like this one, kindly repost the same for wider circulation! Thank you, Raj Nandy, New Delhi.
            
       CONCLUDING THE ENIGMA OF TIME IN VERSE:
                      PART THREE – BY RAJ NANDY
              
              TIME ACCORDING TO MODERN PHILOSOPHY

UNREALITY Of TIME : Mc Taggart’s ‘A’ and ‘B’ Series:
Now skipping through the pages I come to Modern Philosophy, with Mc Taggart the British philosopher of the 20th Century.
He had acquired a substantial following with his 1908 paper on the ‘Unreality of Time’ initially.
With his quibbling argument he states, that moments in his ‘A’ Series of Time are either of past tense, present tense, or of future tense.
It is all about human perception, since we experience the past through our memories;
Become aware of the present through our senses, while future is pretty unknowable.
Here time appears to be flowing through us, as nothing remains stable around us!

In his ‘B’ Series of Time Mc Taggart expresses differences in moments of time as either Before or After,
Without using the tenses used in his ‘A’ Series of Time.
All parts in time can be expressed equally as points along a time line, in the absence of past, present, and future tense;
While here we appear to be flying through time in a metaphorical sense!
Thus in the ‘A series’ time appears to be flowing through us, but in ‘B series’ we seem to be flying through time on a timeline created by us!
Therefore, Mc Taggart finds both the ‘A’ and ‘B’ Series describing Time to be inadequate and also contradictory;
And he finally concludes that Time is unreal and does not exist in reality!

How Mc Taggart’s Theory Was  Updated :
Modern Philosophers have re-casted Mc Taggart’s theory in term of findings of Modern Physics.
His A-Theory is updated into ‘PRESENTISM’, which holds that only thing that is real is the ‘present moment’.
In ‘Presentism’ time has no past or future, and time has no duration either!
All things come into existence and drop out of existence, and past events no longer exist;
And since the future is undefined or merely potential, it too does not exist!

His B-theory is re-formulated into ‘ETERNALISM’ or the ‘Block Universe’, influenced by the later Theory of Relativity.
‘Eternalism’ holds that past events do exist even if we cannot immediately experience them, and future events also exists in a very real way.
The ‘flow of time’ we experience is just an illusion of consciousness.
Since in reality, time is always everywhere in an eternal sense!

Theory of Growing Block Universe:
It was proposed by the Englishman CD Broad in 1923, as an alternative to ‘Presentism’ where only the present exist;
And also as an alternative to ‘Eternalism’ where past, present, and future together also exist.
In ‘Growing Block Universe’ only the past and the present exist, but not the future.
Since the growing of the block happens in the present, with a very thin slice of space-time continuously coming into existence;  
Where consciousness as well as the flow of time are not active within the past,  
But they can occur only at the boundary of this ‘Growing Block Universe’!
Few scholars this concept did criticise, saying that in this theory the word ‘now’ can no longer be used to define Time!

But according to Einstein, this perception of ‘now’ that appears to move along a timeline, creating the illusion of ‘flow of time’, arises purely as a result of human consciousness;
And the way our brains are wired due to our evolutionary process, enabling us to deal with the world around us in a practical sense.
“People like us, who believe in Physics, know that the duration between the past, present, and the future is only a stubbornly persistent illusion,’’ said Einstein.

A poem on ‘The Paradox of Time’:
Now to lighten up my Reader’s mind, I present only the first three stanzas from ‘’The Paradox of Time’’, composed by the British poet Austin Dobson:
  “Time goes, you say? Ah no!
   Alas, Time stays, we go;
      Or else, were this not so,
  What need to chain the hours,
  For youth were always ours?

  Ours is the eye’s deceit
  Of men whose flying feet
     Lead through some landscape low;
  We pass, and think we see
  The earth’s fixed surface flee,
     Alas, time stays, we go!

  Once in the days of old
  Your locks were curling gold,
     And mine had shamed the crow.
  Now, in the self-same stage,
  We’ve reached the silver age,
  Time goes, you say? - ah no!
       Alas, time stays, we go!”
            
HOW LIGHT IS CONNECTED WITH THE CONCEPT OF TIME:
Brief Background:
I commence with quotes from the ‘Book of Genesis’ - Chapter One, along with my thoughts about Light and Time,
Before concluding this series with Albert Einstein’s concept of Space-Time.

“And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. God called the light “day,” and the darkness he called “night.” And there was evening, and there was morning—the first day. ……And God said, “Let there be lights in the vault of the sky to separate the day from the night, and let them serve as signs to mark sacred times, and days and years, and let them be lights in the vault of the sky to give light on the earth. And it was so.”
                                                      - BOOK Of GENESIS Chapter One.

Since ancient days, Light had acquired a religious and a spiritual significance.
Since Light became associated with goodness, intelligence and ultimate realty;
Light accompanies transcendence into Nirvana of Buddhist religious philosophy.
In due course the Sun began to be worshipped as an important live-giving deity.
As seen in the symbolic form of Egyptian Sun God Ra, and the Greek gods Helios and Hyperion as the Sun god and god of Light respectively.
In Hindu mythology Surya is the Sun god, and Ushas the goddess of Light.
Huitzilopochti, both the Sun god and god of War of the Ancient Aztecs was kept pleased with human sacrifice!

SOME PROPERTIES OF LIGHT:
Plato, during the 5th Century BC said that God was unable to make the World eternal, so gave it Time,  - “as the moving image of eternity.”
While some seven hundred years later St. Augustine in his ‘Confessions’ said,
That when God created the universe out of darkness with light, “the world was also created with Time, and not in time.”
Thus along with light, time also began to flow, while our scientists discovered a connection between the speed of light and time, few centuries ago!
To understand this connection between light and time, we must first understand something about the properties of light.
Light is the visible part of the electromagnetic spectrum* which can be perceived by our human eye.         (See Notes Below)
As seen in the red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, and violet colors of the Rainbow in the sky,
When water droplets acting like countless prisms break up white sunlight!
Now this electromagnetic spectrum also contains the ultra violet and infra red spectrum which our eyes cannot see.
But this entire electromagnetic spectrum contains Photons, which are discreet packets of zero mass less energy.
In a vacuum light photons travel at 186,000 miles for second, which Einstein declared as the cosmic speed limit, and as an universal constant.
When a photon strikes the eye, it is turned into electrical energy that is transmitted to the brain to form an image which we call sight.

NOTES : Gama-rays, X-rays, Ultraviolet lights, have shorter wave lengths & more energy than Visible light. But Infrared, Microwave, Radio waves, with larger wave lengths are less energetic than the Visible spectrum of light. Sir Isaac Newton using a prism had discovered the spectrum of visible light, & used the word ‘spectrum’ for the first time in his book ‘Optick’ in 1671.

EINSTEIN'S SPECIAL THEORY OF RELATIVITY 1905 :
In his Special Theory of Relativity of 1905, he stated that nothing can move faster than speed of light which is 186,000 miles per second.
This speed of light always remains the same, irrespective of its source and frame of reference.
Now the mass of an object would double if it travels at 90% of light’s speed.
But if the speed of light is reached, mass of an object would become infinite!
Since photons, the quantum particles that make up light have a zero mass, they move at the speed of light.
Even inside the World’s Largest Particle Collider (LDC), located near the French-Swiss Border,
Experiments are carried out only around 99.99% of Light’s speed, in accordance with the Laws of Physics.
Einstein had also shown mathematically that on reaching Light’s speed, Time will come to a standstill!
And should this Light’s speed be exceeded, then Time would start to travel backwards, which becomes a mind boggling concept!
Here we enter into the realm of science fiction, which has been described by HG Wells  in his popular novel ‘The Time Machine’.
But to become a time traveler shall always remain our cherished desire and dream!

NOTES: Only mass less particles like the photon can travel at light speed, photons experience no time, they do not age. Objects with mass cannot reach the speed of light since in that case its mass will become infinite. Also, one cannot see the fourth dimension because of Lorenz Contraction, which is also related to stopping of time, for at the speed of light an object will shrink to zero length! Also, particles interact with the Higgs' Field present all around to pick up mass, excepting photons which do not interact with this Higgs' Field.

Now Einstein’s theory of 1905 is called ‘Special’, because it explains how space and time are linked for objects that are moving in a straight line at a greater speed but which is constant.
Time moves relative to the observer, and objects in motion experience ‘Time Dilation’.
Meaning, time moves slowly when it is in motion, as compared to one who is standing still, -  a relative comparison.
This can be further explained by the ‘Twin Paradox’, where a 15 year old travelling in a spaceship at 99.5% speed of light for a period of 5 years,
Returns back to Earth to find himself to be only 20 years old.
But to his surprise he finds, his twin brother on Earth who was left behind, has reached the ripe age of 65 !

Limitations of Special Theory of Relativity:
It was confined to non-accelerating bodies only, and after ten years of deliberation,
Einstein added gravitational force field, space-time curvature, and acceleration, -
To formulate his General Theory of Relativity with satisfaction.

   SPACE-TIME & GENERAL THEORY OF RELATIVITY 1916 :
Isaac Newton during the 17th Century spoke about 'absolute time' and 'absolute space', accordance to the understanding of science of his Classical Age.
Space was the arena where the drama of the universe was played out, and this arena was passive, eternal, and unchanging no doubt.
Time too was absolute with an independent existence, and continued to beat independently like the heart beat of Space!
Newton also gave us the Laws of Motion, and Gravity, with more massive objects exerting more Gravity than a less massive one in reality.
Now one aspect of Special Relativity is that space and time are merged into a four-dimensional space-time entity,
They do not exist as separately as envisaged by Newton and Descartes during the 17th Century.
Some 250 years later Albert Einstein, defined Gravity as a curvature of Space-time.
Einstein also tells us that gravity can bend light, which travels along the curvature of this space-time.
Gravity is flexible, it could stretch like a fabric warping of space-time caused by objects present within it, in fact Gravity is the shape of space-time itself!
The Moon rolls around the curvature created in space-time fabric by the heavier object the Earth,
Just like the massive Sun which creates the depression and curvature around it for the planets of our solar system to orbit round the Sun. *

Einstein’s space-time has been likened to a stretched out vast rubber sheet,
Where heavier the planet, more depression it creates on the fabric of space-time along with its own gravitational field.
Einstein’s Space is not passive like that of Newton, but has a dynamic presence.
Interwoven with Time, Space tells Matter how to move, while Matter tells Space-Time how to curve - in this dynamic presence!
The constant speed of light at 186,000 miles per second, is just a measure of space of something which travels over time;
But both space and time had to adjust themselves to accommodate the constant speed of light!
Thus space, time, and the speed of light are all unified in the General Theory of Relativity,
We owe all this to Albert Einstein, one of the greatest scientists of our Century.
NOTES: **Planets orbiting the Sun do not fall back into the void of space due to the attraction of gravity, and also due to their individual speed of acceleration maintained in orbit as per Kepler's Second Law of Planetary Motion. Mercury has the fastest orbital speed of 48 km per second, Venus at 35 km per sec , and Earth at 30 km per sec. as their orbital speeds. Planets further from the Sun require lesser orbital speed.

UNFINISHED WORK OF EINSTEIN:
During his later years Einstein was secretly working to find a ‘Theory of Everything’,
Which would ultimately replace the erratic tiny micro world of Quantum Mechanics.
His Theory of General Relativity had dealt with the functions of gravity at the greater macro level of the universe only.
So he hoped to extend this theory to find an all embracing Unified Field Theory.
For at the subatomic quantum level, as the Englishman Thomson discovered in 1897,
The electrons inside an atom at times behaved in an alien fashion and were very unstable!
This world of the subatomic particles is a wondrous world where time becomes chaotic;
Where the position of the electrons cannot be predicted with certainty!
Einstein called this unpredictable and unstable behaviour of electrons as "spooky action at a distance"!
In the ‘double-split experiment’ it was seen, that the light photons behaved both like waves and as particles, -
Even though the speed of light remained constant.

EINSTEIN'S NOBLE PRIZE For PHYSICS AWARDED IN 1921:
Now despite Einstein's dissatisfaction with Quantum Mechanics it is rather ironical,
That the Nobel Prize in Physics was awarded to Einstein for his work on the ‘Photoelectric Effect’ at the Quantum level;
Which for the first time had suggested that Light travelled in Waves and also as Particles ( i.e. as photon)!
This observation led to the development of electron microscope, solar panels, night vision devices, at a later date.
Since his Special and General Theory of Relativity considered as ‘The Pillars of Modern Physics’, was still being examined by the Scientific Community;
And they could be proved and accepted only subsequently.

'STRING THEORY' PROPOSED AS THEORY FOR EVERYTHING:
During the 1970s the proponents of ‘String Theory’ had claimed, They found a Theory of Everything, following Einstein’s quest.
They claimed that micro vibrating open and closed looped strings gave rise to some 36 particles at the subatomic level;
But also required 10 dimensions for this 'String Theory' to operate!
In our Standard Model of Physics we have only 18 particles as on date, therefore due to lack of scientific evidence,
There was no Noble Prize for those ‘String Theory’ proponents!
Efforts are on to find a Unified Theory of Everything, and to understand the mysteries of God’s infinite universe, -
We finite humans have just made a beginning!

Now, to reduce the length of my composition I conclude with a short verse by the famous novelist and poet DH Lawrence, -
Who had shocked Victorian England with his explosive ****** novel “Lady Chatterley’s Lover”,
Which later inspired Hollywood, and a film got made.

               RELATIVITY
“I like relativity and quantum theories
because I don’t understand them,
and they make me feel as if space shifted about like
a swan that can’t settle,
refusing to sit still and be measured;
and as if the atom were an impulsive thing
always changing its mind.”  – DH Lawrence.

Thanks for reading patiently,
‘All Copy Rights Are With The Author Only’, - Raj Nandy of New Delhi.
PEARL SMOKE Apr 2015
There is a monster
who lives in my head,
she talks to me softly
she wants me dead.
She tells me this time
I'll stay in control.
She tells me not to let anyone know.
She convinces me that
no one cares,
she whispers the pain
is to much to bear.
She tells me how wonderful
I will feel.
She tells me she loves me
and it is real.
She tells me not to call anyone,
My heart starts racing,
she tells me it will be fun.
She tells me not to think of
past times,
she promises I can do it just
once this time
Who is this monster who calls me
by name,
crystal ****
shes waiting to start the game.
ILike This poem.
Marymay21 Mar 2020
468 days till I'm out of this place
468 days till I graduate
468 days till I'm out of this space
468 days till I escape

This place that brought me rules to follow
This place that brought me expectations to exceed
This place that brought me wishes to fulfill
This place that brought me dreams to give up

This place that consistently tells me that I must act prim and proper
This place that consistently tells me that I must have perfect grades
This place that consistently tells me that I must be involved in activities
This place that consistently tells me that I must stand out

Stand out
Stand out but not in bad way
Let your voice be heard, but don’t speak too loud
Show your curves, but not too much because that degrades you
Be smart, but don’t be nerdy, dorky or quirky

This place that brought me tests every other week
This place that brought me heartaches and headaches
This place that brought me back stabs and betrayal
This place that brought me all nighters to makeup for my lazy group mates

This place that consistently tells me that I must not ***** up
This place that consistently tells me that I must not waste my time
This place that consistently tells me that I must not have too much fun
This place that consistently tells me that I must not have infatuations

Infatuation
Infatuation is just an observation with a cost
Love your friends but don’t get too close
Have hobbies but don’t waste too much time doing them instead of studying
Befriend everyone but not with any guys

This place that brought me tears
This place that brought me fears
This place that brought me cries
This place that brought me lies

But i might miss this

468 days till im going to miss this place
468 days till i graduate
468 days till i miss this space
468 days till i miss this place i underrate

This place that brought me inside jokes and goofy smiles
This place that brought me song lyrics and theater performances
This place that brought me fundraisers and field trips
This place that brought me late night conversations on calls

This place that constantly reassures me that I am not useless
This place that constantly reassures me that I am not what others define me as
This place that constantly reassures me that I am not unworthy of what i tried so hard to achieve
This place that constantly reassures me that I am doing well for someone who’s only seventeen

Seventeen
Seventeen might be too young
Too young but i know what i feel is real
All the nights talking about everything about nothing
The birthday gifts we shower each other with

This place that brought me happiness
This place that brought me those brown eyes and freckles on his smile
This place that brought me boys now we call ex
This place that brought me valuable lessons

This place that constantly reassures me that I don’t need man to be happy
This place that constantly reassures me that I am beautiful no matter what others think
This place that constantly reassures me that I will be alright
This place that constantly reassures me that I will be ready for when I leave

Leave
All we ever talk about is leaving
Run away, as far away from home
Can’t wait to get out, but soon I would look for every excuse to return
Just wanna run away but keep coming back to this place

This place

This place that brought me memories
This place that brought me laughter and joy
This place that brought me friends and love
No other place like this
my submission for a poetry slam <3
Silence Sep 2015
He tells me he doesn't like relationships.
But maybe it's just with me.
He tells me he doesn't like commitment.
But maybe it's just me.
He tells me he doesn't like being tied down.
But I cut the ropes.
He tells me doesn't like titles.
But he told me a book is defined by theirs.
He tells me I'm beautiful.
But he didn't make me believe it.
He tells me he loves me.
But maybe he doesn't.
Xander Apr 2020
My brain has become my worst enemy, it tells me I’m worthless, and I know it’s true.
It tells me all I do is make people’s lives harder, and it’s right.
It tells me that I’m the **** of the earth and I know it’s true.
it tells me that the world would have been better without me, and it’s right.
It tells me that everything I do, I do wrong, and it’s right.
It tells me that other people don’t care, and they don’t.
It tells me not to get them involved, but I try anyway. And when it fails I’m not surprised.
It tells me what if, what if I was never born, what if I just vanished, what if, I was better.
To answer those questions, the world would be better, no one would care, and I need to be.
But my best isn’t enough. And I’m told I will never be enough, and I know it’s true.
it’s not me, except it is entirely me, it tells me I’m a failure and I know it’s true.
What if, what if, what if I could do something right, no, anything right,
then maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be true.
Because it tells me I’m worthless and I know it’s true.
Matthew James Apr 2016
Poem 3
How to raise kids

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

I got into to teaching to make a difference,
To add some joy to a kids existence,
I knew, so well, the hurt and pain
That kids in secondary school sustain
The tears and the fears and the dread and the...
"Ahahahaha! Look at his Nicks!! He thinks he's got Nikes but he's wearing Nicks!"
And how it switches you off and makes you not care,
Because you just don't want to go back there.
So, you wander into town to HMV
Til your parents feel let down when you only got an E
Until you failed Art and Graphics and Literacy
But at least you got an A in history...
Because academic subjects are "more important"

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

So I left 6th form and I needed change
And wanted to go to somewhere strange
(And new)
Somewhere away from all the drama
At 19 I went by myself to Ghana
"God bless our homeland Ghana
And make our nation great and strong,
Vow to defend forever
The cause of Freedom and of Right"
And I taught
Maths and English
With no books
And no training
And no observing
And I was ******* at it... Really bad
But somehow, i felt the change
Just because I cared and they cared

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

A few years later I started teachin.
GTP, hands on, straight in.
My teaching mentor was called Mr Hickey,
He smoked a pipe and drank down whiskey
(In school)
My first proper job was Bradford inner city
It was a bit rough and the buildin was ******
There we had a guy who was a lazy old ****
And he had kids tracing instead of learning Art
When I first got there I was overwrought
These weren't like the training lessons that I taught
These kids had opinions. They needed to engage...
To be taught in a way that suited kids of their age
I nearly gave up, because I felt so scared
But at the end of the day, I knew that I still cared

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

In my 3rd year I had this year 11 class
They wanted a good lesson and they wanted to pass
But they needed convincing and I nearly cried
So I tried and I tried and I tried and I tried
To listen
And react
To change
And Adapt
And those kids made me better
And for 3 years I got better
Our grades were sky high
The kids wanted to try
They wanted learn, they wanted to know "why"
But I got to the top and I needed to fly
Because I needed somewhere that I could ask the "why"

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

You have those moments sometimes in life, where you know that a decision is important, but you don't know why and you don't know which way is the right way to go with it. This was that point for me. Sat in the interview, saying I wanted to pull out but letting them convince me to stay. That was the point, I think where everything changed.

2010. New job. New government.

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

I was head of Art and I got noticed
Within a year I got promoted
Faculty leader of creative skills
This is the part where it really kills
What do you do when you just aren't wanted
When people are angry that you're there
When all of your decisions seem to be haunted
By the ghost of a culture where they just don't care
Where nastiness and gossip always bite
Resting in the coffin of a lost tradition
Kids so bored they're turning white
Beaten down to bored submission
And everyone seems to have given up the fight
But they're still convinced that their way's "right"

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

After so much pain, we were getting through it
We realised there was much more to it
No more easy working out of booklets
(The teaching equivalent of rhyming couplets)
But every time you made a shift
The goal posts seemed to start to drift
And this all caused a further rift
The final one I couldn't lift

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

Gossip and lies caused by others stress
Creates a catastrophic mess
Turns people's lives upside down
Gives off the sense that they're a clown
They're trying. They're just really down
Simply trying not to drown
Marriage ending
Friends unfriending
Children's lives are slowly bending
House and finance are up-ending
Mediation sessions need attending
Everything seems to need mending
And the pain seems to be never-ending

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

Professional life vs Personal life
Professional strife = Personal strife
Personal wife goes through professional strife
Personal strife =

"I understand what you're going through, but we need to think about the learners."

Stress in teaching is the expectation
Work life balance has no correlation
The pressures of a confused nation
Makes teachers into the poor relation

Goodbye btec, goodbye vocation
Hello Gove and his minds creation
Goodbye Gove and hello Morgan
Hiding behind a gritty slogan
Creating the pressure of pointless change
For teachers to correct and rearrange

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

But here's the thing. It's not their fault.
Sure, they've no idea MPs
They've less common sense than a piece of cheese
But all MPs really do is set
Some criteria that need to be met
A league table
Academies
Appraisal
Curriculums
It's nothing new. They've always done it
But it's given to schools to interpret
We don't lose money, we just get judged
We need conviction that can't be budged
We need to get a message out
To every parent, round about
And what this message needs to say
Is "we aren't doing extra maths today,
We're going to go outside and play
Because whatever MPs say
We'll do what's right for the kids
And here's why it's right you know
Cause we want to see your children grow
We're not just for levels, grades, progress
We're also here to relieve stress
We're also here to make your child feel
That happiness is something real
That in spite of all the crap you see
You can become head of art when you failed gcse."
Learn People skills
Determination
Creativity
Imagination
Honesty
Integrity
Sen­sitivity
And empathy
It's not an easy sell I know
You can't measure how people grow
You can't report or give a grade
But they're qualities that are heaven made
And maybe think the same for teachers
We're all very caring creatures
We care about how kids are raised
We don't need to be constantly appraised
Default 100%?!?
Like energy is heaven sent
Like when your kids are down with flu
You just man up, there's work to do
When you've got a quality person who just needs backing
Why give pressure and then threaten with sacking?

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

School - this week mark all your books
I need them up to date so I can look

Teacher - I've got to take my daughter swimming
I've got to see my son try winning

School - read through your teaching standards mate
And leave your children at the gate

End of the week the books are done
But head and deputies are overrun
"We'll have to put these books aside
To push our children down the slide"

And good for them. They work really hard. It's not a job to take lightly and they deserve to be there. But they don't have the time to step back and think "big picture"

Let's flip it round and just imagine

Teacher - I'm sorry, I'm afraid I'm ill
School - you can't be ill the learners will fail
Teacher - I need some patience, I need some time
School - the kids need work which is sublime
Don't they deserve that? Don't you think?
Do you really want your learners to sink?

And there it is. The teacher guilt.
Because that's the way that we've been built
We care too much
We try too much
We give too much
We work too much
And we lose too much
We get ideas above our station
About how this job is a vocation
When we stop and look around
The evidence just can't be found
Someone tells me what to teach
Someone tells me how to teach it
Someone tells me how to plan
Someone tells me when to plan it
Someone tells me how to mark
Someone tells me when to mark it
We work to targets, get appraised
Residuals to get profiles raised
It's industry. I rest my case.

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?

Or, put it another way.

I just think that teaching has lost all its common sense. And it's kindness. It behaves like an industry which is about getting results and meeting targets. There's nothing that measures people's happiness or how deeply moved or affected someone is by what they've learned. It just checks that they learned it. And we are given this guilt trip. That it's about children and that we are affecting their lives if we don't meet targets. We give up more and more because "teaching is a vocation"  "it's about kids", and yet schools use cover supervisors, cut subjects, limit choices etc to save money and get results. So the profession behaves like an industry but the teachers have to give their lives to it like its a vocation. It's not a vocation. At all. It's a job.

How can you raise kids that are in good health when you don't see the lies that you're selling to yourself?
Ellen Joyce Oct 2013
Still
A pregnant pause
Breath bated at thirteen
No line, check again, no line, check again, no line
And breathe
Just breathe through your nose it’s all fine
And seethe
***** rising, eyes streaming, toilet splatter splash back
Lack of self-worth self-respect at the end of a fist smack
My mouth bled from the depths of my womanhood
Then stopped.

And I was only thirteen
And then the doctor tells me I'm only sixteen
Then only eighteen, twenty one, twenty five, twenty eight
And the weight of dismissal in the onlys
Is the heaviness of my shameful heart.

Still
A pregnant pause
Breath – shallow, quickens
as the doctor, in his superior tongue tells me I have a shot in hell
Hell – that’s what this is
A pit of horrors where a man who spread me wide, looked inside and saw nothing
Dried his hands, and sent me on my way
to drown in a sea of bumps and gurgling infants to see a man who tells me
fertility treatments have improved.

Still
A pregnant pause
Swallowing Clomid to the tune of the patter of stomach cramps
And the dampening of hot flashes searing through my empty *******.
Then came two laparoscopies - and a new suction of hope from my heart
Teeth bared to the penetrating needle of the appropriately named Pregnyl
Poured into my body till I ache and bloat.
Nothing positive to note so he takes the Follistim and pushes it in
Till the weight of reality anchors in to my hips and spreads
Taking hold of my lungs, rasping my breath
And I call time.

Still
A pregnant pause
tears abruptly erupt whilst singing nursery rhymes to my nephew
I hand him to my mother and pour out the truth.
She says nothing.
She then tells me she has a friend whose niece’s best friend was infertile
And then one day BAM pregnant.
And there was no discussion only false hope.
As friend after friend tells me of some distant hopeless case that came good.
And my (insert obscure relation here) couldn’t have children but then
BAM a boy
BAM a girl
BAM twins
BAM triplets
BAM a ******* maternity ward filled with unlikely sprogs.
And still

A pregnant pause
A crushing aching longing that beats in rhythm with my heart
A longing that cannot be told as it is, for what it is
Because what it is, is what it is.
Becca Lansman Nov 2015
When he tells you he is sorry, do not hand him the feast.
Do not make him dinner like he never tore the tablecloth out from under the dishes.

You are not a menu item.

remember that his love is not a reward.
You are not a reward.

You are dinner for one.

Remember how you pulled yourself up on shore. Taught yourself how to breathe again.

You are no longer drowning.

you are the beach, you are the lifeguard, remember how you saved yourself.

Remember to say no.
Say it in the dark, whisper it in his ears, remember your body is not a love letter; it is not a vacation home.

When he says, “ I love you.”
 Do not mistake his lust for affection.

Remember how he ate pieces of your heartbeat one at a time? turned you into a carcass?

Made you believe you were road ****.

Remember how you put yourself back together? Mending each stitch carefully. Embroidering your heartbeat back one lull at a time.

You are still sewing.
You are still making dinner but it is ok.
It is ok to eat dinner by yourself.

It is ok to say no.

Tell him, you only made enough for one tonight.
Xander King Jul 2015
My lover introduced me to a girl named Ana today.
She is an emancipated horror who I am scared to know.

My lover told me he introduced all his exes to Ana, Ana will help our relationship grow
I ask if he thinks I'm fat
All he says is to get to know ana and Things will be better.

I shake hands with Ana and her voice Is intoxicating but I refuse to become addicted
She promises to let me be, only see me when I truly need.
Little did I know her fingers were crossed.

My loved coaxes me to meet with Ana more often
Run with her before school and sit with her at lunch
I hope she joins me for dinner tonight.

My lover praises me and tells me I'm becoming beautiful
But I wonder
Is he praising me or Ana
She's the beautiful one
And I am still fat

My lover tells me Ana made the *** better
As I screamed his name over and over again
In attempts to forget mine
And he loves that I no longer want the lights on when we do the deed
Praying the dark will hide the layers of chub clinging beneath my skin

My lover expects Ana to be with us at all times
I get angry at her and push her away breaking all her rules
And feeling guilty
I hope she'll take me back I learned my lesson
I crawl back to Ana

My lover introduces me to Mia
Says she'll be there for me when Ana fails me
Mia has scars on her knuckles and thin hair
But she promises what Ana denied me
And I gladly wrap my arms around her

My lover tells me ana and Mia are the only friends I'll ever need
I have to agree
My others have left me
My true friends tell me
It was because I was skinnier than them
But now I'm the fattest friend again

My lover is proud of Ana Mia and I
Tells me they've made me perfect
I can finally stop meeting them
I agree
And later that night the three of us rendezvous in the bathroom
To test the scale
And my gag reflex

My lover is angry at me
I've betrayed him with my meetings
He tells me if I don't leave them he'll leave me
Is tired of waking up to find me with my head passed out on the toilet seat

My lover is no longer mine
Left me for a curvy girl
Well that's fine with me
My only true loves are Ana and Mia
And I know they'll never leave me.

My new lovers make me pretty
And tell me I'll soon be perfect like them
I feel beautiful every time I lose the weight
But they make me feel useless when I don't follow their commands

My lovers tell me not to talk to a boy
Explain I'm not thin enough yet
Tell me to **** in my stomach when he looks at me
But I sense no judgement in his eyes
I tell them this is what they've prepared me for
And they scream that I'm not ready and he'll take them away from me
I'm scared to lose them
But I still meet him when I've managed to keep them at bay with leaf

My lovers are suffocating me
Shoving their fingers down my throat and slamming my wrist to the table when I pick up a fork
I'm scared they'll never let me be
Their eyes are hallow
And I can't find their compassion

My lovers are no longer beautiful
I see them as they are
Emancipated lifeless things
Praying for me to join them
They hold out their skeletal hands
Begging me to take them
Their lips are blue and voice raspy
And I want nothing more to run away but I'm stuck in place

I've left my lovers
They're still screaming
Clinging to my back with surprising weight
Hair falling out onto me
Whispering sweet nothings
Then screaming when I don't so as they say

My lover
Is a boy who sees me without fear
Does not scare away when he sees the girls clinging to me
Or the way my ribs jut out when I don't eat for a day
And I trust him every time he tells me
I'm beautiful
Even though the girls are whispering in ashen voices
***** I make you beautiful
Please come back and I'll make you drop dead gorgeous.
But I don't want to be gorgeous if it means being six feet under.

My old lovers are shrinking
Voices drying up every time I sip cream filled coffee
Arms weakening every time I lift the bite of cake to my lips.
They are dying with every meal I eat
Their voices getting quieter the longer I go without listening.
I only hope one day they do die
So that way I don't.

One lover introduced me to a horrendous disease. I'm not going to call them Ana and Mia anymore Because naming them is just a sad way of trying to control them
As if by personifying them We make them less dangerous Like a game or child's story. But this is a disease that killed thousands and almost killed me. One in five girls with an eating disorder die. I was one of the lucky few Don't be the one. Get help.If I can defeat this You can obliterate it. It won't be easy But it'll be more than worth it. Throw away the scale Burn the tape measurer You are more than a number You are beautiful. Don't let anyone tell you different. not a lover Or society Or yourself. Love yourself And others will follow suit. And in case you need to hear it I love you. Beat this I'll be here, Never be afraid to ask for strength. I don't have much But I'll give you all of it. If only to see you wake up in your bed instead of on the floor of the bathroom Stuck to the tile by sweat. To weak to sit up To tired to breath no matter who you are or what you've done No matter your lowest or highest weight Or how many ribs I can see No matter if I even know your name I love you. And if you ever need it I'll be here Just a message away And I promise I will give you all the strength I have just to help you get through a meal. Even if what you need is someone to sit and hold your hand and encourage you to take every bite or someone to tell you that you are beautiful when you can't bring yourself to fully believe it.
So please help yourself and Don't listen to others say "nothing tastes as good as skinny feels" because so many things do.
Fresh donuts with coffee on days you don't want to face the light of morning
Pizza with friends while playing ****** video games and watching even ******* rom coms
Thanksgiving turkey
Christmas ham
Hot cocoa with a lover who sees stars in your eyes
But most of all
Life.
Life tastes better than any number.
suicide self harm sad eating disorder
shy
he tells me peaches are purple
he tells me the sky is black
he tells me veins are green
he tells me people are blue
he tells me he is fiery in love
and i'm too shy to ask
"in who"
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Her bags were packed, left by the door. She looked away waiting for her ride to come. Waiting.

You met her on a holiday. You can’t recall who else was there. She’s moved along and left you holding empty air. Empty rooms and empty halls fill the days you've lost count of and left an empty bed alone beside you.

You met her one late-summer day, or was it autumn, who can say? Like falling leaves you fell one for the other. The mornings were the best of all. The evenings melted into dawn and dawn again.

And then one day she said goodbye. Without a word, she said goodbye. Her eyes had someone else inside. You asked yourself when this all started.

Now every girl you see instead, and every time you turn your head, and all the names on every street, the colors of the sky at night, your bed at dawn, days pass you by, whatever tells you you’re alive tells you that you’re dead inside.

You keep her pillow by your own, wake up late each afternoon but still you wake up as alone. And then one day you've cleared your mind, you bring her back and let her slide away again.

Now mornings fade from grey to green, and somewhere in the days between you catch an eye, she catches you and spends a night or maybe two. The hallway and the living room, the shower and the kitchen floor, what else had they existed for?

Now every smell of every flower, every early morning shower and all the songs on every street, the colors of the sky at night, her kiss at dawn, the rising light, whatever tells you you’re a man tells you you’re alive again. Yet stories like this never end like fairy tales.

And every smell of every flower, every early morning shower, and all the songs on every street, the colors of the sky at night, her kiss at dawn, the rising light, whatever tells you you’re a man tells you you’re alive again, at least until this fairy tale is over.
.
I'd love to collaborate with someone(s) to create a song from this poem.

— The End —