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mark john junor Dec 2013
sunbelt in winter
circular pathways
but some grinning thief
has made off with every aspect
of direction he could pry
off the roadsings
so the soft hand normal Joe's
all just pile up in a corner looking worriedly
at the passing crowds
hoping to catch some mental relief
for their moral delemias
and tickets to ride the soft ride
they are the nine to five crowd
and its hard for them to digest all
this street kid lingo
all this dark of night dumpster dive

she squats in the road to pass gas
and pick her own pocket for its
semblance of change
the hover kings stand round and
keep a wary eye on her proceedings
after all its only natural
they are depending on her for cash flow
but all she has managed so far is to
get tears flowing
she thouse one of thouse break
your hearts over and over kind of faces
she rescues the normal Joe's sends em on their way

the sunbelt in winter
and after all the barnburners
have packed up their stainless steel plastic wear
and formed a caravan of semi's headed ever south
into the industrial lights of miami night
it comes down to people like her
and her very human open hearted approach
to make this day worth living through
its her rough but realistic hopes
that make this day worth believing
changed title
Continue reading...
Rangzona Aug 2014
Untitled
Constent sound
That's all I hear bickering
They say it's not there
That I'm a white boy ther be nouthing wroung with me
They say all I seek Is atenten
That can't be it since I suffer in silence, cry alone, and to finely stifle the noise, I Speek allowed to them so at less one voice would exit the 9th layer of hell I call my mand
They will never see and I will never Speeking of the voices which drive my imaginations into contplations of zombie ends and thretical debates,  that will shake your minds, hell it cripples mine, the constant debates of there's ******* my mind,  so all I can do is stifle those two words that would not make a lick of a difference, for if I let them slip people will just look at me, and think I'm rebelling "o he's a white boy, he must think our talking is beneath him, he will never know true pain like us minorities"
Ye,ah That's me the majority seeking ******* of minority, causing hell since I never experience it. I am nouthing but an anarkish heaven that sees nouthing but the color of ****, a complete pestmistick
They don't under stand; hell I don't understand my mind ether but to say I'm the majority, is dead wroung, what makes them minority, collor, religion, these I been taught means nouthing and nouthing they are Becuse there thoughts, their harts binds them to all races, not one thought or filling is independent to there race, these groing minority have sunken to the idea that they be the minority but no that is me, the one who can't sit in silence, with out rocking with pain, the words "shut up" forever on my lips dripping with mumbles of zombies and flames as high as buildings with me on top of the talist yelling I'm not insain I'm not insain I'm not insain Until finally I'm lost inside the flames.
And if they knew what hell was in my mind that would be worse, they will try to find the problem with scans and question. Did your dadie **** you? Is your brain ****** up? Why don't you just stop this shirade?  
And when thier questions just lead me screem more at them than at my own head they try to fix me for now I'm a danger so they imprison me for something they coused.
So they put me on psycotic medison , and the voices they continue but easer to with stand. But I'm not me any more I'm different I loss so much but can't grasp what it is. They say I'm a success, and I agree because I want to leave. I don't tell them I still hear voices becuse I don't want them to sedate me agin. I don't tell them I've lost the intelligent young man I was or the insitefull guy that could help people with problems that he him self never had but they would not cair all they want is me to be like them because that all they wish to see.
As soon I'm out of the jail I ditch the mids and I return to my insainity. O how the voices seem to be louder as if they was ****** I locked them up..... But I'm me agin or am I them I just might be them but is that a problem i lie to my famly "yea I'm fine," " yea I took them last night," "I'm happy". They believe me not becuse they do but becuse they want to. They never saw a problem befor yea I was strange but functional but as soon as soon they heard I had a problem they jump on it for it means thay have not failed.
But they have not failed the doctors did they saw a man with a problem that need to be cured when there was only a man who had a problem that he needed to live with a problem that made him better and strange a problem that made him different.
With my problem out in the open I become better at hiding my pain until I get back to my to my apartment where I scream, cry and argue but never in that order. Nabbers never new I was different for I sound proof this place.
And that's how I lived, paying for pills I never used, never confinding in anyone for I feared of going back to jail, and I just knew if I ever got back on thouse meds that that when I get off the voices will drown me and I would not make it a night befor I just decided to end my abnormal life
Continue reading...
mark john junor Nov 2014
kristen stewart
kristen is a magazine girl
beautifully portrayed in the glossy pictures of fashion
wonderfully articulated on silver screen
down to earth girl with a wickedly beautiful presence
thouse green eyes are simply magical
in paris fashion lace she is delicious
but her beauty is best illustrated in t-shirt and jeans
down to earth girl full of life
she shines in spite of hollywood
standing beautiful in sunlight rather than limelight
dreamy poet and artist
weaving her hearts light into beautiful visions of ink
legendary magazine girl
kristen stewart is one of a kind
Continue reading...
mark john junor Oct 2013
royal palace motel
she had a dignified sadness
in her dark eyes
a dignity to her stately walk as she
walked on down to the beggars lot
a vision of class in her step as she was pulled
down onto the worlds darkest places
by the circumstance of betrayal

he drank his coffee from the paper cup
in the motel room
by the main road
the summer night shadows playing out on
the stained walls of the cheap room
someplace not far a TV played far too loud
but you can never determine a word it says
she thought as she lay there
mute with him on top of her
  meant not a thing to her
but his closing the door as he walked away
meant everything
seemed so final
seemed so fitting in this ***** dark place
a single tear escaped down
the perfectly carved features of her perfect face

a quiet dignity like a shawl wrapped round
her thin frail shoulder
clinging wet and hopeless
in this dark place
a inconsolable sorrow in her eye
as she looked on without seeing
down the beggars lot
at the darkest places in the world
how did she fall so swift
so far so fast
from all the dreams of girlhood at hand
to this horrible place where they feed on your very soul

in the morning
its ugly light reveals the beggars lot
littered with the used up and cast aside souls
littered with the worlds price for false freedoms
and false saviors
careful of thouse come sellin you pretty words
of dreams of what will be
she goes to the well and with tender care
washes the night from the delicate lace of her dress
and with a single tear
escaping down the perfect features of her perfect face
she remembers him
not for what he truly was but for what
her girlish heart saw him as

he sipped his coffee
from a paper cup
in the royal palace motel
up in denver's dark heart
watched her undress
took her in every sense
and then abandon her in every sense
closing the door softly
as he went
i would save her if i knew how
i would save her if i knew where she was
Continue reading...
mark john junor Oct 2013
dead batteries
the setting moon
slips close to its watery grave
and she finally appears
walking slow carrying her broken shoes
she says that the night jumped her
and she had gotten lost in the
vast differences between what she hoped
and what the world always left her longing with
tears spread from her still young innocent eyes
i held her to reassure
but as i wait for our fears to subside

i see the lights approach
of thouse who would claim lordship over her wallet
and over her soul
bankers of the material world
doubling as demons from hells coldest corner
no fleeing the version where you need to change batteries
they are dead as the souls who manufacture them
she slips a pair of double a's from her
pocket rocket personal massage device
and plugs her mind back into the need to get on with her day

the moon has reached its last gasp
and she has romanced her way out of her dress
and you out of your noble intents
we all reach this impasse
with our pen and page
having sold off our forward momentum
for a desperado gamble at claiming that elusive perfect written word
we flounder at waters edge
unable to pull ourselfs back
unable to manufacture method to crawl further
we make mad dashes round and round the
proverbial gallows pole
hanging on a single idea or ideal
trying to express it clearly
it need not more clear than it is
in mind's eye
but her face lingers in your soul
urging you you recapitulate your dire love
to craft a better master plan for tearing yourself down

the moon has reached its invisible zenith
on the worlds opposite side
and you have yet to reconcile
your good natured laugh
to her dark predictions
she slips away again to seek
her rightful place in her world view
and you are the captain of your sinking rowboat
once more
sexton in hand
plot your thoughts
and row king james home
the moon will rise soon
and you need to be home
when she comes in need of a hugs
and a shoulder to weep on
the line is supposed to read "urging you to recapitulate..." my editor is off somplace making out with a spike and im not in the best of health...so....mistakes will go uncorrected.
Continue reading...
mark john junor Sep 2013
imperfections in time
relentless
the kitchen clock ticks
and without grief it lays out the
meat of night
bloodless and small
delicate in its twisting features
its bone thin fingers on spine
soft touch like fire

she is doubled up by
the toilet in a puddle of tears
and the sadness you feel is so complete
and completely yours alone
for she has gone beyond caring about inconsequential
thing like appearance
her lips cold
roll over broken words
puncture the hard surface
of her blatant thoughts
coarse and black with grease
a grave of concept
a concept of graves
interchangeably pattern

hours spent here
days and then you realize
its a lifetime
in the space between broken window
leaking frigid air
and the burning heat of her bed
the darkness that never lets
that is never abated by thouse who pass
thouse who tread with such care
hoping never to be seen benith the archway
benith flickering light
of the ***** trail

she laments
to no avail
pauses in her song to stare at you openly
without a word
she resumes the dance
of tale and blade
of knife and tongue
till they are one and the same
till her voice is the thing cutting into you
until her voice is consuming you
and its dark juice is feeding on you
imperfections in her vision

(part two)

it is now him
the pornographic box of her mind
is full of her noise
her voice distorted into his
her thoughts melt into his
until she is him
and she no longer feels lost
she feels hot sticky and wet
she feels like fresh paint drying
slow wicked and tense
like a serpent coiled for a strike
at his heart
the exact center of his beating heart
she will see it cease
she will be a ******
she will be an ****** of imperfections

his lazy eye
wanders over her wet form
clawing at bits of cloth
gnawing at the fundamentals of her flesh
consume the parking lot of her brow
where her doubts show
in neatly lined rows
devour the candy samples of her lips
rose colored and tasting like rivers of cherry
where her words fall from
like molten razors

his ***** fingers
caress her clean thin wrist
bracelet golden
with painted jewels pink and cheerful
paint slopped outside the lines
he inspects its every inch
marveling that she could have imperfection
his lazy mind wanders all over her
and his greasy thoughts leaves trails of
butter smooth filth
and insects eating ravenously of the
stench and disease

this is no fantasy
its a disrobed natural kernel of truth
up from dark city street
Continue reading...
mark john junor Aug 2013
happenstance of providence
a wicked thought in some dark corner
of the illustrious mind
round and round it spins
in the the background of all the sunshine days
benith the surface of all the joyous times
for all thouse years
like a cancer of the soul
like an apocalypse of the madness inside the sane mind
i have walked to the edge of the abyss
i have looked the beast in his dead eye
felt his cold hand in my heart
and i knew him
iv seen this and know it holds nothing for me

she slips into the street
a shadow that walks in the bright sunlight
and prays as she walks for a happenstance of providence
but even to mortals
her lips are stained with a tiny traces of blood
she is seen as a culprit
she devolved into her separate parts
and she never was right afterwards

like a small doll stuck on broken
her every day
her everything is a razor blade to you
but she only hears a symphony of color
she only sees a tragedy of tears
all shes known was the rat race
she aspires to nothing more

a wicked thought in the darkness
and inspite of asking that it delay its maniacal  desires
the illustrious mind bends in on itself
just because nobody can see
doesn't mean no-one knows
what is the hidden thing
of spirit and of mind

impossible nature of my being here
in this awful place
this dark harbor in shades of the unnatural misgivings
the crazy ones pace the room
in silent trek eyes nailed to floor
each step slowed by hungers of fortune
and the angst of regret
the impossible nature
of my being here is dictated by circumstance
by the romance of mistaking happenstance for providence
but i am making headway
at escaping
myself
Continue reading...
mark john junor Mar 2014
like a creature of the night
the room is devoid
but she sits there with a weak candle flickering
its barren carpet reeks of death
but the trails in its dust speaks of life's presence
water falls through the open window
and along the line of its realm things like children grow
but they are children of a dark wood
and their frightened faces make methods of
fleeing the sun
so we can neither aid them nor deny them passage

she waits and watches this theatre of the macabre
and except the plate of food and the mug of ale
nothing but the pages she has burnt remain
on the oak desk
thouse pages held within them a world unto itself
a seaside town where a man lived once
a seafarer and scholar who had understandings of
these things like this accursed room that holds her
in an addiction to the corruption of souls
she hungers the dark
and dreams that deaths kiss is warm and loving
she dreams that she is a creature of the night

drink of the ***
drink of the wine
but you will never wipe away such visions
they will remain near to thy heart to the end of your days

and the stair with the wood about
is a midnight palace of the legions of mighty creatures
that cannot be seen in the light of day
moonlight is her companion and her friend

i sit in the easy chair
with the refuse of a thousand years of learning scattered at my feet in useless protest at the futility
to love someone who loves death
her slow daily death is her complete pleasure
its a death that crawls slowly up her tender bare skin
like the caress of timeless lover who's sharp teeth draw blood
who sup's and drinks at the deep well of her soul
like a creature of the night

its a death full of dark romance and pleasures endured
like she is a creature of the night
and her words are written in magical verse
unsettling to the ear to behold
but brings such fires to heart
bring such longings to the bitter cold night
in the north yonkers weddings park
that she walks in with such beautiful life in the arms of death
have him as a lover
his cold hands finding the delicate lace of her tongue
and in his forever kiss
she breaths on
like a creature of the night
(for the north yonkers girl with the keys to the wedding park...
for thouse familiar with the legend of untermyer park in yonkers new york (i lived in yonkers several times) will no doubt get a bit of a laugh out of this little ditty, everyone else will think its just dark poetry.)
Continue reading...
mark john junor Oct 2013
howitzer
this King Richard III fate
so unlooked for
disconcerting
i too should have perished in battle
...there are times
overwhelmed
i cannot see anything
but the darkness surrounding me
cannot see anything
but the desperate loneliness
of my tenuous perch
i seek out the eyes of thouse around me
only to see
ridicule or disdain
i turn within where from
time to time iv simply
been able to find strength and resolve enough
but its not always there
sometimes its simply not enough
this is one of thouse dark hours
in a hospital bed
facing death
alone
for my friend from hastings...soon to be departed
Continue reading...
mark john junor Apr 2014
handbill in a summer brezze
a warm breeze walks a handbill
up the empty street
from the show which had been
on the outskirts of town
all lights and fury far into the cool night
just a dusty track now fading out
just taffy wrappers and dime fortune teller cards
leading away
into the mornings highways memories
just photographs of awkward smiles
and plastic dolls won as a prize

she came through town that way
some years ago
and she had caught your imagination
and your heart
in a velvet dress she bid people come
to the edge of town to see the wonders
to see the might of the weak man
see the small heart of the big man
come see the wonders of the wide mysterious world
seven wonders for seven cents
she was a pretty thing
that you would think to see
in the finest company
with the prettiest jewels

but you would see her at the end of the show
her hair let down and flowing like a thick dream
prettiest you've ever seen
with the weak man in her arms
the kind if lovin grace to her eyes
just then you couldn't find the heart to disturb them
with your questions and camera
so you let her go
just to be one of thouse memories
that the highway holds dear
places far away
people strange and true
of the worlds prettiest girl
and the worlds weakest lucky man
(i sold t-shirts (as an independent) at several carnival shows, and got to know several carnies...especially one girl in particular who took care of horses, she will always have a special place in my heart)
Continue reading...
mark john junor Aug 2013
betrothed to your wicked game
its winter  
its night in the minds eye
you saw me
you did not speak
you didn't reach out to me
as i passed slowly by
carrying my hearts apocalypse
bleeding from the bitter mote
of that one moment memory
of that point which contact was lost
of that tender touch that remains the last i shall ever have
lean on the steady
but the weight sweeps you off
your newborn feet

the all seeing eye
is really blind
nobody seems to care tho
they all carry on as though knowledge is known
and peace is unattainable

his Buick breaks down on a
far distant backroad
benith a billboard
advertising the end of the road
for all thouse foolish enough to believe
that redemption can be purchased
with a few slick words in the right ear
no confessional tickets
to the great beyond are accepted
in this king james version

there may be a gap
in the knowing
but there's no hole in my heart
there's nothing but love here
for thouse iv shared my road or bed with
for thouse who had a better seeing
of who I am and who I am becoming
in my everyday adventure

i was never really here with you
it was just a vision
of my slowly walking by
carrying the apocalypse of my heart
i was never your intended
never your groom of your forbidden desperation
never meant to be betrothed to your wicked game
i am miles and century's distant
and following the folly or fortune
of my own making
Continue reading...
mark john junor Oct 2013
opera house
the absurd
and the cynical
the elegant
and the beautiful
have all spoken here
voices raised in secretive hope
of being the one heard above all the rest
being the one to rise and soar
unfettered and unleashed
the night is filled with these
thousand fold whispers
these untold tales
clothed in the fine silks
and filthy rags
a ballroom dance of silent partners

the grand opera house
its silent hall so strange to tread
where hours before was filled with
the rushing stream of chatter
now echoes the hard shoes of the nightwatchman
the empty seats mute witnesses to the
loneliness of this passage of hours
the passages backstage
filled with absent bustling labours of
the arts lovers and
children of the arts lurid steamy affairs

the art itself
lingers all around this hallowed ground
it is more than the lines and scenes
of thouse who nobly take the stage
more than the curtains and lights
of the labours of its love
the art itself is a grand and
beautiful creature
a dignified and noble creature
hard taskmaster and passionate lover
for which time itself has no meaning
it is here in the wood of the stage
it is here in the bones of the world

the nightwatchman
treads this quiet place
and sees a face of the art few get to see
her quiet home while she rests
her repose before the curtain of
tomorrow is raised
before once again they all gather
for the art of live performance
((i was a nightwatchman in a venue for a time...an experience that i shall never forget))
Continue reading...
mark john junor Dec 2013
her smile implied
in the dim light
her smile is implied
but its warmth is genuine and clear
a talented soul is never marred by the worlds lack of vision
i think if i could sum it all up
all the hopes all the dreams
all the things iv fought so hard to build
  thouse wonderful things as a child i dreamt of
all the magical things that i felt were waiting for me as a young man
i would not be bending the phrase
to say she is perfection
in dreadlocks and patchouli
for thouse who have never had the privilege
real hippie chicks are
all the beauties of summers day
and all joys loving warmth of summers eve
she is wonderful
i love you woman
Continue reading...
mark john junor Jul 2014
emo-warrior princess
she has dangerous thoughts
in her hello kitty slippers
she shines when thouse around her can only sparkle
there are dark angels in her stuffed bear collection
shes a gothic stoner emo-warrior princess
she wants to be heard
and its dreamy things shes gonna say
shes sketched in beautiful ways in my heart
#lover #emo #goth #stoner
Continue reading...
mark john junor May 2013
dump ducks to herald
lost horizon
daylight streams down her face
liquid it expresses her hope

a ship adrift on the open sea
with only the dump-ducks to herald her passing
her tiller tied off on a course for the Flemish Cap

deep in the rolling North Atlantic waves the
sounds of the sea begin to speak to you
they weave tales on rainswept deck
they sing shanty's on the lines for the mainsail

the sea is a living thing
with her many moods
and utter crisp beauty

in a dead calm, middle of the Atlantic
no clouds
the stars reflected perfectly off the water
and you are afloat in a sea of lights
iv never seen anything more moving

but beware my friend
she is friend and a foe
i lost a friend out on thouse endless miles
his ship adrift
tiller tied off on a course for the Flemish cap

if you go to sea
be respectful
of the grand dame
and she will show you wonders that will
capture your soul
for my sister Maggi....the sea shanty fan
Continue reading...
mark john junor May 2014
the rain is thick
the rain is thick
and bright in the minds eye
captures the wandering and
turns skyward all thought of walking
seek shelter under tree
but its stirs the leaves and
resides on your skin in a
damp codependent relationship with you
up close and personal

the rain pours through the phone line
making her damp voice warm with invitations
and layered with the hearts silts
each woman ever loved has left her trail upon the heartland
each trail become a river of regrets and wishes on her leaving
each leaving having dried like tears with time becomes a layer of silt
that the hearts home is built with
the sum of the hearts who have come
and gone

the rain slows
as the phone line falls to a stillness
a lack of words between two who know far too many words
none of thouse words can change the color of a sunset
none can unfly a flown bird
we make small talk till even that slowly fades
we say goodbye
the rain begins in earnest
Continue reading...
mark john junor Mar 2014
salt sailors song
gulls and terns spin in the air
as waves lullaby the sleepy dreamers
with grand tales and rich promise of paradise to be
found just over the horizons edge
sailors eye to the swift wind
sure hand to tackle and line
hearty men of salted liquid soil
grown to giants in the breakwaters thunder

but gentle that hands heart
when the tolling bell calls out the names of the lost
and the sea has swept away all but her witnessed tale
to leave the widows and forlorn child to
carve name to wall and mourn

past midnight now
a dead calm
and cloudless sky reigns
with a majesty of brilliant starlight
upon this sea reflecting the heavens slow march
i lay like a supplicant muted by the spectacle
to souls hunger this moment and place
shows a deeper meaning to thouse souls with eyes to see

a dead calm
and cloudless sky reigns
with a majesty of brilliant starlight
the old salt sailor breaks into deep song
that sooths and lends hardy meal to the heart
hold fast young lad hold fast

the morning rushing forward brings
the breaking wave and unfolds sail with quick wind
and the sailors eye rejoices with
merry songs to measure the hour
and jauntily bring our fair seabird
back to her warm home
sea and sand in the salt sailors blood
and a kind heart guides the way
#love #heart #beauty #smile #sea #dreadlocks #magic #sailor #hippie #salt #gull #seafarer
Continue reading...
mark john junor Nov 2013
medicated mothball
this dim light room
you protest the error
which must be why your here
but not even a flicker of interest
passes the faces
gather in the moment
digest its very essence
with an eye to its taste and texture
can it be such
that while you see the logic
thouse around only see the flaw
you protest the confusion
she laughs dull witted and mutters
that confusion isnt allowed
without proper paperwork
therefore there is no confusion
sit down and shut up
you stand and try to leave
the hired hand
stops you with a gentle hand
no friend we cant have that
sit down go with the flow
the tragedy is in her eyeless watching
she just lingers there in the shadows
with a television at full volume
cartoons of americas empire building days
running marathon back to back
with the guy who teaches how to paint
one a masterpiece of tragedy
the other a tragedy of masterpieces
life is a ironic love affair of
joyfull young pretty college girls
and the bitter old men they hide
dogeared books of poems tucked inside
old leather jackets
misery need not apply
Continue reading...
mark john junor Nov 2013
the hollow man
the hollow man come calling
his crown of fig leaves
is tinged brown with decay
he carries a scent of late fall
and the woodsmoke of homestead cookfires
he bears with him a satchel made of skin
inside are the measures of madness
and the tools of his craft
he comes calling
to your door
sit with him at you table of plenty
and let him feast at his leasure
let him bide his time
and take his rest upon your finest linens
give him your silk shirt
and your skilled leather boot
fore this hollow man is one
who's displeasure you care not to seek
the hollow man come calling
to the headstone and the friars chapel
the hollow man and his empty echo of words
speaks in pig latin
foretelling all and yet nothing
his cold touch is bone thin
and he leaves behind a
letter handwritten on parchment
that smells faintly of bandages and
a metallic cinnamon
the letter gives the day and hour of your passing
and the ultimate meaning of your life
the cost of all the things you accomplished
and the regrets of all thouse you have loved
the hollow man
is waiting
for each of us
with a letter addressed to each
he is but a delivery boy
for the inevitable
a day late and a dollar short for this poem some might say, but i was waiting for the hollow man, and he is running late
Continue reading...
mark john junor Sep 2013
sightseer's monotone
all the poster perfect girls like her
are out in the field chasing firefly's
old men from the town look on with awe
they pause in collecting
all the eyes upon them in mason jars
to resell on the boardwalk by the seaside
to the tourists so they will only glimpse what they
will want to sightsee

you tell them that you had borrowed
your buick and a rose colored jacket
from a ribald singer from the ancient city
and her beard confused you into believing
that her favors are something rare and fine
like bone china from from Florida south coast
but its just semi-naked co-ed selling cookies
under the guise of a better world
one donation at a time
she sings softly to you
please mister lean in a little closer and make
all the world a better place

all the world is watching or so it feels like
and your step is light and full of imagined stars and sparkles
as the couple in the next room violently kiss
they are into the world and to them
the world is into them
laugh as hard as you can
laugh till you cry
the world takes no notice
she sings softly to you
please mister lean in a little closer
and comfort thouse who need it

the night is full of people
out strolling and laughing under summer stars
and a penny whistle player keeps the tune going
while she sings a ballad she heard in the far west
and dont it seem like nights like this are so perfect that
you could wrap em up and send em out for Christmas

the poster perfect girls all fall asleep
in a soft warm pile benith the moon
and you unload your burdens and lay there too
in the beautiful company
as the penny whistle player turns to a stronger tune
that gives you dreams of the sea
of the time you spent nailing Captain Kidd to the floor
and now hes one of your best friends
this life is a dream
and while its not always what we'd want
it never gets dull
she sings softly to you
please mister lean in a little closer
and make the dream true
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mark john junor Sep 2014
her singsong voice
the quick natural boys run fast in the the shadows
powerful to the truths of their age
young with wet cowlick face i ran too
holding a dogeared book
of her gentle phrase
felt like the world could have been mine
gentle breeze stirring the faded leaves
and all thouse bright summer faces
who's names have now gone

so strong she took to wing
flew so high saw the sun unadorned
so beautiful this elegant one
her quick smile had no cracks
her clean eyes were full of loving joys
so like the majesty of night
softly entrance
with such gentle caress
so strong took to wing
soared above the green world
swimming in the summer skies and clouds
bathing sweetly in the heavens
with stars for jewels
with moons for toys
so beautiful elegant one

tight the young hand
on the broken book
where her singsong voice was captured so beautifully
could see the worlds mystery's
with such young clarity
she had a way about her
that explained to my young head
all the fresh young boy things i would need
to be with such a strong beauty
with such an elegant promise fulfilled
so i ran like wind
ran like compassion and lightening
fast as the summer sun
strong as winter whispers
for her
my sweet her
in my heart
while her singsong voice captured me in every way
(tribute to sylvia plath..my sweet her)(edited)
#tribute #plath #sylvia
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mark john junor Jul 2014
my kryptonite
floyd and the skinny kid skate round
me like vultures looking for table scraps
today im all about just keeping the head above water
try all night to sleep but just climb walls in my head

my kryptonite came round again and she was full of smiles
even tho i could feel things crawling round neath that pretty face
couldn't help myself just ended up humpin leg
while she just laughed counting bills outa my wallet
just really skull **** myself over and over
like to trade my life in for a simpler one

distill the hours down to thouse moments
when i escape the circus of my own thinkin
when i can sit and soak up some sun on the beach
without all the headnoise crowding out my goodtime

floyd and the skinny kid circle round me
but i got no use for virtual vampires
and they just manage to annoy
i got prettier things on my mind
hoping to distract
just hoping to distract
#selfish #tired #bored #lonley #distracted #wallet
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mark john junor Mar 2013
middle of the night (cannon fodder)
there are bold words spoken in haste of the moment and heat of inner battles
but thouse bold words evaporate into the haze of morning
as bleary eyed we emerge from this hostile thought
to the new day….

bold words to challenge the heart
to incite the mind
enflame the senses

but it falls to some girl loading the cannon
in the bathroom
and such folly comes to light

she is no friend

she loads the cannon with care
and shoots you
you thank her
this is one of the three poems lost last winter when i lost my blog...the other two poems are mia...C'est la vie
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mark john junor Dec 2013
porcelain doll
her subtleties and jewels
are billboarded for the drawing of crowds
but the faces sketched by the grease lights are not
the kind that such an exquisite artwork of womanhood
like her should bring out on such a soft spring night
so they fold her up and pack her away
careful not to crease her fine linen soul
and place her neatly away in her cedar chest
knowing i will sneak her out later for wine and ballroom dancing
bring her back to the circus of the obscene
just as dawn creeps into the cool crisp sky

a single tear in her eye for her lost teenage years
when she only wanted to rebel a bit
but spent the time posed neatly like a porcelain doll
she was a lifesize lovesick reproduction in technicolour of herself
all thouse years ago
better to have gone away
better to have been a roadside companion
of the weary walkers
than grown old as one of the window decorations of the world
shes there now in the sun faded backdrop to the shopping season
but ill rescue her someday
well live in somerset and sell glass trinkets

her introspection is the short film version
but her poems are the epic novels
of such sweet romance
it sways the most hardened to the tender embrace
to the love of soul to soul kisses

she weaves such a tender tale
but her nights are spent alone
watching a winter moon
cross the summer sky
her hand aching for the hand that once held it
aching for the love that abandon her to this fate
i hope someday to fill that void in her world
wedged between the cardboard cowboy's forever smile
and the caped crusader sleeping off his drinking binge
hodgepodge...that's it...hodgepodge! that's the name for my next cat...hodgepodge!
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mark john junor Jun 2013
***** dusty limbs
her languid face stirs slowly
from its lines
and within it harbours an echo of alarm
as the thoughts like distant thunderstorm that rises on the sky
awaken within her

fleeting moments chase each other across her eye
each one bearing the weight of meaning a little further
than the last until the final one gasping
and sweating it lay its burden to a fitful rest
on the doorpost of her denials
like a blood stained accusation
like a scarlet letter

she greases her hands to the task
and works muscle and bone against the tide
but it is a idea birthed in folly
it is a concept of true lies

harrowing tales regaled around table
of men who strove and men who wept
thouse who slipped benith the waves
with desperate plea sent forth having failed
and thouse who triumph plays over and over in old age's eye
but none were ever told
that did not bear her tainted signature
ink and sweat in fine carved lines
on her dusty limbs

she now sees that she too must one day face
fates indifferent game
must one day choose
and risk all at the hand of chance

her hands greased to the task
her true lies shatter resistance
break stone
tales to regale tonight of the maidens
ink and sweat delicate lines
on her ***** dusty limbs
on our way to florida

edit: minor changes
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mark john junor Aug 2013
chior of the dammed
the wall quietly bleeds
the conversations of next doors
distorted masses
five loose angry souls
sound like a choir of the dammed
milling about on the wood floor
of their own personal private version of hell

she interrupts the process
of your steam engine thought pattern
seeking the real depth of a summer day
looking for the bottom of cup of coffee
in all the midnights you've wandered through
naked to the truth
naked to the waiting for revelation of the greater being
but she cant get past the church she sees in your eye
inside your own version you are
overrun with fast thoughts
little ones that are like nervousness fingers
they get into every crevasse of your vanilla mind
push them away but they sneak
round and come from the sides
come at you from the depths of her eyes
at you from the heights of
the big boss mans neatly pressed carpet
at you from the Red Barron's little plane
that used to hang from your brothers ceiling
all thouse years ago

to her truth is a defense of last resort
to make normality reduced into a *******
the beauty of half measures
to be the nirvana of her lifestyle is to be a moral *****
whatever treasure of slogans sells the best today
is the one she spreads with her abnormal disease of love
her spiritual life is governed by popularity and brutality
she has told the same lies for so long she even believes them
she is what she is
not quite death incarnate
but an animal of the same fur
a face holding the same memories
a brother to the madness inside her
the truth is never far away
but it might as well
be lost in the mountains of the moon
'mountains of the moon'  reference to Hunter/Garcia of the grateful dead.

iv never been more alone
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mark john junor May 2013
shelbi and wholigan515
and there in the lace filled lights
there in the rose hips
and paper flowers
she built a world of her own
and a few friends
and she was a soft summer breeze
that always guided you home
she was a plate of cookies
and a soft feather comforter
wrapped round you like a hug

it was with her that i learned
how to make life a home
for more just yourself
but all those you love
that there are things more important
than appearances
than what some other person thinks
its the people who love you
thats who matter

all her yesterdays (the lace girl)
she fumbles with the dollars
that i spared up from from friends
and mumbles a thanks

her white dress
long faded to grey
but it still has its lace edge
just like her
i remember when i first met her...
in her pale shadows


of the room she shared with a cat
the lamp was covered with a lace cloth older than i am
the window leaked cold breezes
but they were defeated by her warm comforter
that she wraps round you as you enter her world
hug away all your darkest thoughts
leaving you to talk for
hours it seems on the meaning
of clouds shaped like bunny's
and bunny's made marshmallows
and what it meant to be 'chill'

do what is right for you and thouse you love
cherish the people you care for
and cherish every moment of laughter and joy with friends
and family
its what makes life worth living
edit: amended title
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mark john junor Jun 2013
road lizzard
twist on the woven fabric of her
vision within the the broken phrase she just
spoke softly into the darkness
it spreads along the pattern of her days
like tears spreading thru her years
she never seems to escape them fully
they are allways a moment away
from her delicate smile
from her soft butterfly of a laugh

break at the waters edge
and draw in a last gasp of the wave and wind tainted air
her voice comes to you
slowly in thick accented phrases
a passion play filled and ready
for sweating hard erotica
in the shade of this palm tree

tattered edges bring me sorrow
but its the untainted heart of her hearts tapestry
is  where i attempt to find a secret home for my
embittered soul
a quiet place from which to shout my poems
down to thouse who would listen
to thouse who could hear
in the morning draw the curtains
shut out the light
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mark john junor Oct 2013
rubber duck treason and plot
his infamouse words still echo
dangerously in my head
'quack quack'
his rubbery skin chaffing my mind
as he trundles through my waking dreams
his beady little painted eyes
dont fool me
behind thouse innocent baby blues
this rabble rouser plots
world *******
through mans dependance on bathrooms
a rubber duckie in every household
a rubber duckie to rule them all
the all seeing duckie
'quack quack'
i see him there in the bottom
of the tub next to my girlfriends hairbrush
grin painted on his
ugly little duckie face
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mark john junor Nov 2014
a resplendence knight
leaving my destitute pocket
filled with her own dusty words
she is a  student of the unnatural behaviors
so its no surprise to find her on hands and knees as
she rakes the barren carpet between us
for the scrapmetal shavings of my many colored beast
as it sweats profusely in the close quarters screamfest of my mind

personally i give the carpet a once over for conversational pieces
a resplendence knight of such shining armor
i search for deeper meaning in the darkest depth of her laundry bin
cause know i could just as easy be the reviled stain
as i am the cardboard king
my broke down chevy just another hunk of detroit steel
so she and i wrestle into the night over the tea kettle cast off's

lay me down by the river
where the wild boys go
where the summer birds sing sweetly
in the thicket and in the sun
while the waters flow swift and clean
cool to the hand dipped in by traveling man
close your eyes neath shady tree on the sandy banks
let yourself slip into thinking
of the long ago
of the far away
the remembered faces come back like a tender song only the heart knows
the remembered years that fall silent like snow in the hearts darker places
these strings that bind you to your desires
are one in the same as thouse that tie you to your fate
kind or cruel
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mark john junor Jul 2014
thick and thin
up ontop of a milk crate
standing in a three am parking lot
serenading while
she sat on the curb smoking a rolled cig
laughing with a sparkle in her eye
later when the night sets us drifting
the quiet back streets
walking hand in hand
thick and thin
till the stars are washed away
till the beautiful summer days have faded away
this is our time so lets not waste it on words
step outa them jeans babe
show me some of thouse tender moves
show me that tattoo
and she just smiled and said
sure nuff
sure nuff
#kiss #smile #lovers #tattoo #laugh
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mark john junor Jun 2013
footfalls in the dusk
racing a vanishing sun
his running shoes tap up dust clouds from
the hardpack sand
entranced by such a strange sky
enchanted by her dreamy voice
whispering distractions
in his minds ear
like her immoral thoughts
or her tunnel visions of nevermind illusions

like a distance runner in a cascade of tropical rain
focus on each stride
each care placed footfall
ponder the sand and coral in the shade of a tree
ponder the depth and breadth of a soul
wonder at thouse who live out their lives never having
known love

footfalls in the dusk
and the distance between his todays has grown narrow
as the gap between his sense of reality and the image his reflection lies to him with
footfalls in the dusk
echo with slight delay
as if he were being chased by a shadow
and he thinks to himself
"how true dat"..."how true dat"
his small brown pet keeps pace
but exhaustion is written in its threadbare bones
and it looks at me with such fear
as they sweat past at slow run
racing a vanished sun
and the strange skies
azure with dust clouds and deep with dreams

he feels alone
but he has become too accustom to
the pace and while he is burnt out but cannot cease
she may return someday
with her long brown hair flowing in a florida coastal breeze
so he keeps running slowly up the roads
running slowly in the shadows of a hasty sun
that was too quick to flee into the night
f%&k-nuts; i rhymed in this one...ill come back and fix it later, so dont worry, i wont go compleatly ape-s@%t on it and hack out a bunch of lines like she would have
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mark john junor Nov 2013
St. john's bluff
i lay down to rest
after the long toils of the day
and as i slipped into slumber
a ray of sunlight did touch me
and within it i did perceive
a great host of marching souls
a vast column of men in ordered lines
and the cost i knew would be wrought upon them
the price of the free
the young and the old
the brave and thouse who's stout heart
the battlefield robbed them of life
looked into their eyes
saw there my brother father friend
saw the strong and the good brave men
marching off to defend hearth and home
and as this great host passed by
with a thundering din
of marching feet
i did stand with my head bowed
and tears streaming for the young who will
be entombed in the ranks of graves of the fallen
and for thouse who came back with their lives but
never to be whole in limb or mind again
for all of us
that such a terrible price must be lain
at the alter of freedom
lest we fall to the hand of tyrants
lest we fall to the hands of the
lesser men who create greater evils
we can only hope and pray that our path
has not lead us astray
that this precious blood was not spilled for naught
that freedom has been defended
from a terrible fate
((dedicated: for the men of both army's at the battle of st. john's bluff,  october 1st through 3rd 1862 between union and confederate forces in duval county florida...and for all the brave men and women of america's armed forces who have with stout hearts lain their lives on the alter of freedom.))
((corrected mistakes))
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