he met her at a very strange time in his life. no, scratch that. that was basically a quote from fight club.

i.
but frankly, he did meet her at his lowest lows
when he wanted the vortex to **** him in so he could vanish and rest and maybe find peace-
for his girl was gone and left him to fend for himself in this chaotic world, scattering the past, present and future they’ve dreamt of in a hurricane before she did, one that ****** the life out of him
his girl, the girl of his dreams, the girl he dreamt with, the girl he dreamt for, the girl who shattered his dreams gone

ii.
he slowly opens up to her
and she slowly gets to know him
well mostly, his love story left to die with its tragic ending, another tale of an unrequited- now one sided- love
she doesn’t really mind for she’s known pain and misery,
known them enough to last almost half of her lifetime
she knows how having them as company turns living into the art of merely breathing
and so she refuses to take flight from this almost stranger who, because of the way circumstances have rolled she’s stuck with
misery loves company doesn’t it?

iii.
he has turned her into his shoulder to cry on
changes taking toll with time’s passing,
yet their connection remains constant,
their unexpected friendship unfazed
two people with the same wavelength, gliding with the same frequency,
relatively similar to soulmates
and they could end up together in the snap of a finger, voila
as easy as how random they picked up
but nothing easy is ever worth having

and try as they, she might,
it seems like it can’t be


iv.
she’s always there for him
she’s seen him cry, beat himself up enough times
she’s aware that he could be quite a handful
perhaps ignoring his constant “i need you’s”
and “please don’t give up on me’s”
and evaporating one day into the air and blocking his number would be the best option;
letting go could be her salvation
before she chooses drowning over keeping her head up for one particular boy-
she’s the one consistently found on his side
she’s the one with the 2am jokes when the world decides to act as his shadow
and the one with the random spur of the moment topics that never fail to amuse him

v.
sometimes he’s left wanting to lose the remaining sliver of hope he has for humans
so he makes her out to be just like everybody else
on those occasions when he wants nothing more than bottles of ice cold whiskey and packs of cigarettes from dawn to the late night hours, to cease existence
he expects her to appear and announce her leaving
and he’s left with this internal satisfaction all the time when she lets down his morbid expectation that she’s given up on him
she remains on her place in his life

vi.
but maybe she’ll never be the girl

even if she’s always with him,
always nagging him to get out of bed
and live this ******* up thing disguised as life
even when she becomes this bright light trying so hardly to outshine her darkness and his darkness
even when she manages to see the good in him
even after she lets out her “i’m here for you’s”
and “i won’t leave you’s”
and “i got you’s”

she’s still not the girl
there’ll always be this wall,
barricading the distance
no matter how little between them
all the while the lines get blurrier

vii.
she confuses him enough for him to get a grip
and even feel in the state of denial he’s locked in,
really looking through her remains his failure
even after it all, majority of her is still invisible
somehow she’s still a stranger,
just strangers who because of their own messed up loneliness,
bared their souls out to each other
and their needs and attachment
get in the way too soon blinding them,
thinking it could be something more,
something it’s not

viii.
strangers.
maybe that’s all they’re meant for

This word is unspeakably tragic.
Love lost is no love at all.
No sorcery, witchcraft, or magic
Can bring back love that is gone.
Orpheus thought he had found it
His music came oh so close.
But one glance over his shoulder
And true love truly was lost.

Love So Strong it Hurts SLAM Poem
1/22/2014

My mother loved me in the ways she thought she should.
Sometimes she drove me to school.
Her nickname for me was 'Cool.'

My mother loved me in the ways she thought she should,
as much as she could that is.

For who could love with a broken heart.
still hanging on to your dead husband
that day I died too.
I knew
growing up had to do.

Turned 12 and games stopped,
lacked desire to talk
just sat - watched the clock
run out
hands break
couldn't escape
so many times
tried to recreate
that night.

Let's go back
Christmas Eve, before 20 four-teen.
I visited the cemetery
Showed my father I had grown.
What would he think could he see what I had shown.
Would he be proud I finished college.
call my generation's music garbage?

What would my father think if I told him I am gay.
"Son that's okay?"
Or would he push me away and say, "Son,
I don't know where I went wrong.
Mother must have loved you too much,
she made you sing a different song,"

But that's wrong,
I don't even know how to sing,
and don't think my mother ****** up on anything.
Can't help but feel resentment though,
which I try my best to hide
deny verbal abuse left feelings' scars everywhere inside.

Suffered a lot from tragic death,
she took it out on me, with that big mouth on her head.
One day, she told me, "I wish you were dead,
I wish you had died, leaving my husband alive instead."
It hurt more the next day,
Drove me, then she started to say,
"Wynn, is everything okay?
You seem upset today.
Don't forget your lunch,
Hey!"

I'm talking to you!
She forgot just how much it meant
things said in fits of rage.
I wouldn't, instead,
inside I'd age and age and age
until I broke down into mush.

Need a walker,
please a little push
of emotional support
stranger to kindly escort
me
keep from falling further
into a world that needed me not,
but never had me forgot,
just locked
up in miscreant prison
a palace for teenagers whose youth had gone missing.


Maybe it had left me on that fateful night,
filled with cold air, *****, and fright.

December 24th, twenty-oh-four.
My dad woke up walked through heaven's doors.
At morning I fought with my brother,
father was a lazy guy, stomach big bloat,
wanted us to get batteries for his tv remote,
and I,
didn't know that day my father would die,
but I,
wish I didn't fight with brother,
march away, ignore simple tasks for another.
Wish I got the batteries,
I didn't know that day my father would die
I didn't know that day my father would die
but why would I?

I learned to be kinder
listen a little longer
made me feel wiser.

My mother looked at his picture on the wall
screamed, "******* leaving me alone with no money at all!"
Just because she wanted to take care of us small
people in a big house
with big hearts match her big mouth
and a slowed heart
match the red hot
fire of hers.
I never tried to start the fights
then again, my memories blocked out blurs.

My mother loved me in the ways she thought she should.
telling me become best I ever could.
Brag about me to her friends,
"Look what my little Wynnie did today,
got his first job at 12."
had no time for my happy hooray,
been working ever since,
make ends meet,
mostly just to hear her say,
"Wynnie is my little prince, he can't be beat."
But I'd go home at night
and she'd say, "You little ****." spit in my eye.
Where were words of praise to be
vanished before they could reach my face

Still I tried to please her,
loved her as much as she loved me,
needed the world to see,
we could make it keep spinning,
with persistent power of our broken family.

Did well in school, got a 4.2 gpa
started partying,
didn't hesitate
to tell her everything,

Because each piece of me
or part of me
became a thing,
and led to yearning
for satisfaction
of recognition
I have motivation

She wanted me to be
the **** best.
Scream at me
and plead for me
Beg me please
that I wasn't trying my hardest.
Couldn't help that it was shallow,
I'd dug up where my heart was long time ago,
filled in cement, escaped torment
of a dead father at age 12,
never wanting to delve
any deeper into tragedy
of life's greatest comedy.

Letting him die that day,
leaving his family
to **** each other,
deny thy mother
and thy brother
any future lover
the ability
to clearly see
what I could be
you here with me,
still,
still,
still,

my heart stopped still
ceased its beating
ceased it bleeding,
ceased its needing,
for toxic things like love
or lust
or any other must
have must not
can't feel
too ****** up.
for you
still,
still,
still,

Still, I hurt from being loved too much
by a mother who could never care enough,
to stop the screaming,
end the shouting,
terrorizing my dreams,
my sight, my hearing,
is still fine

Yet I still I hear her shouting my name
distant in an open plane,
or on airplane
a million miles in the sky,
way up high,
still hear her
hear...her...in...my...ear.
or in my mind
in my memories
never in my sight
because love had me blind.

Now all grown up
I guess I am alright.
Although skin does look kinda white,
bleached from the lies,
I tried to erase,
these scars that still retrace
when I think back to that night,
my father died,
and how I thought my family could be just fine,
if I let my mother continue to love me in the ways she thought she should,
because with a dead husband I thought that was all she could.

I hurt from your love mom,
today we're in a better place,
the way we communicate,
sometimes you still get irate,
I no longer let it penetrate.

Now I love my fate,
the way life sold my childhood,
for that I am great-ful,
to have been so wishful
someday I could stand here say,
I love my mom still,
and that's okay,
because she loves me more, each minute of every day,
sometimes she just shows it in the wrong way.

Transplanted to these '...fruited plains...', grandpa,
One of Gaia's fruits, what was his twinkle among
The countless stars? Here, millions have come
To stay, imbuing us with their place of origin,
Their souls dancing, flying, in a universal way.
For over 60 years Americans to be came through
Ellis Island, headed to who knows where West,
My grandfather, Uru, which means hero, a Fin,
One of three who left a concentration camp that
Fifteen thousand entered, did too, to NYC, NY.

Following freedom's beacon, its first light he saw,
The Statue of Liberties still unscorched torch, thanx
To Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, and the French. Of
Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom and a
'...Tabula ansata, a tablet evoking the law, upon
Which is inscribed the date of the American
Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.'
The broken chain of tyranny lies at her feet,
Upon a pedestal, wherein etched words are,
From Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus',

Which may rise again, only if we embrace them:
'...Her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
'Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!' cries she
With silent lips. 'Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'

Only 151 feet tall, she will ever stand taller, or
Be turned to dust with us, all of humanity and
Large mammals, as well as the Earth, tragic
Members of extinctions annals, if we don't stop
The permanent altering of weather cycles through
Overuse of fossil fuels, the degradation of the
Earth's orbit around the Sun. We can walk in
Nature's abundant balance again, humane beings.
Still, she gives hues to the vast canvas of what
The Big Apple, and its beautiful mosaics' art, can be.
I shine only because he, a Merchant Marine, did.

I live in a room full of toys
Broken and thrown about
Scratching the surface, I can't be missed
I don't mind telling you that I doubt
Will you ever understand?
You'll never understand

Surrounded by light, if I am not with it
I must be without it
The little cars whisper to me
The tragic fate their life depends on
A storm brews in my teacup
They say
I am your sugar, I am your candy
I am your crème, I am your dream
I am your sugar, I am your candy
I am your crème, I am your dream

So ready, I'm ready
So ready I'm ready
So ready, I'm ready

Music boxes fill the air
With foreboding melodies
These walls have been dead a thousand years
Spinning, and spinning, and spinning
Living twisting and twirling
I must be a criminal, I must be
Can't you see my body is cracked
My soul clawing its way out of me

Thank you kind heavenly host
You've given me so much to toast
This hope that light's my way
Too bad I wasn't blessed with a door
Thank you kind heavenly host
You've given me so much to toast for
This voice to talk to all the pretty things
Too bad I wasn't blessed with wings

Surrounded by light, if I am not with it
I must be without it
The little cars whisper to me
The tragic fate their life depends on
A storm brews in my teacup
They say
I am your sugar, I am your candy
I am your crème, I am your dream
I am your sugar, I am your candy
I am your crème, I am your dream

Oh well, that's a god ****** lie
If it would help you
I'll tell you the truth
You tell me everything's alright
Well, it's not
Can I trust you
I'll tell you the truth

So ready, I'm ready
So ready, I'm ready
So ready, I'm ready

Given the chance, I wouldn't change a thing
I wouldn't for the world
Candy, sweet faces, twisted smiles, the taste…
Do you speak under your breath
About the things I've committed
The spark behind your eyes
A signal that you remember
I was the one in the lies
The world surrendered
A mouth full of words
I don't mind telling you
These warped curves
Your sketchy nerves
What I've learned
Doesn't it burn
For just one more turn

I don't mind telling you
These warped curves
Your sketchy nerves
What I've learned
Doesn't it burn
For just one more turn

So ready, I'm ready
So ready I'm ready
So ready, I'm ready…

Ach so!* thou much-praised and lauded Milwaukee,
Thou delightful Wisconsin Stadt of boundless pulchritude,
Verily hath History endowed thy blessed name
With the noisomely beery breath of immortality!

And thank the benign Almighty in highest Heav’n
That thy delectable streets and arboreal squares
Doth remain heretofore untouched by unseemly civic strife,
Despite thy renown as veritable midwife to Sewer Socialism!

Yet, tear-inducing recollections have I of this dwelling-place
And herewith followeth heart-rending remembrances
Of what transpired when I inveigled a plump young Mädchen there
For a brief sojourn of untrammelled concupiscence.

Alas, alack, after gorging her impetuous appetites
On a gargantuan repast of mitteleuropäische delicacies,
Methinks her poor heart gave up survival’s uneven battle
And, warbling a soft piffero-reminiscent sigh, she expired.

‘Twas too tragic thus to depart this happy welkin in mid-prandials,
Emitting a final flatus, sweet adieu, from her rearmost aperture,
Leaving me, her poor forlorn swain, bereft and solitary,
Faced with mine host’s request for instant monetary rendition.

From that naughty place of my bereavement fled I,
Clutching to my ***** the contents of her silken purse,
Determined to partake in untrammelled ***** licence elsewhere,
Ere the chanticleer’s dawn croak wake the inebriated citizens.

Tragic characters in an empty theater
God doesn't watch us
God doesn't care
The passion we were born with fades to dust
With every cigarette we inhale so eager for our death
On the last night on Earth I will stand by your side
We can plunge to our death
In love,
You and I.

I guess you could call it poetic how by the age of 12 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue. Some would say it was tragically beautiful.
But it was not poetic, nor was it beautiful,  but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness is only doubled now that people see sorrow as glorious.  It is not glorious. It is not strength. It is a lump of iron in your chest and stomach and it eats you from the inside, out and you have no right to think that blood stained wrists are anything other than tragic. So very,  very tragic.

I.
Well you know that I sip on my sadness, my dear,
filthy palms, filled to the brim.
And I know that you watch trains
passing by, dizzy eyed, still drunk with sin.
Your teeth reek of reality lately,
You smile facts, figures and cracked calcium.
Now, once more with cupped hands
leaking, shaking delirium up to your chin.

Well I know that I’ve missed the point, honey
I should get it tattooed on my wrists,
but you know you talk like firecrackers
so flinching gets awful hard to resist.
I make believe that I’m right like craters
make moons believe.
So I’ll comment on comets and ignore
truths popping between parentheses.

My delusion has your lips liquored up,
but I notice your tongue...

II.
You say,
“It’s fiction we live in. You play in pastels
and fake hollywood rhythms and I’m tired,
staring up at your screen.

You're addicted to this diction. My voice is lost,
screaming these words you keep stealing
and twist for yourself what they mean."

III.
Your lips liquored up,
but I notice your tongue's not numb.
Drink deep, darling. Let's inoculate.

IV.
And you say,
“It’s fiction we live in. It’s intended for men
like you, bottled, up-ended,
but I've watched you drain out in my palm."

It's this clothing, from bedpost to box-spring,
It's all wax-coats and smoke screens,
live lit-candle lasting
When did skin begin to fit wrong?

V.
So they say, one day
Or, one day, they say,
we’ll find ghosts sewed to the seams
of Fringe Wolf bones picked clean
who waltz wicked and crooked a foxtrot to show
that sometimes loss is beautiful.
And when I ask for your hand you’ll look tragic
like this dance was only ever for me
and my feet always fall off beat
Like I beat off any discreet romancing
To pretend that this dancing was
Anything more than masturbatory.
I guess I do dance the way I drink:
Heavy handed and troglodytic
And a little listless, but I always fight it.
So while you walk away, I’m drowning drunk in cinderblock boots; Toe-tapping a slurred S.O.S. like some song you kept whispering.
You keep whispers like keepsakes.
You speak so soft but
Baby, your voice sticks with me
like sickness.

VI.
And you say,
“It’s fiction we live in. It’s intended for men
like you, bottled, up-ended,
but I've watched you drain out in my palm."

Alright, it's fiction that we live in
It's intended for men like me, bottled, up-ended,
but at best I just seeped through your teeth.

VII.
I stitched script to my chest like a scarlet letter vest that attests there's no Soul here worth Saving but ******* come save me anyway.
Your voice sticks
to my ghost-sewn, sea-floor bound foot steps like sickness.
Tread lightly, my love. Let's inoculate.

VIII.
So when they ask for me at the after party
With neon eyes and harlot tongues,
You can tell them I traded this stale air in
For forest fires and tornado lungs.
Because I’ve been reading up in matchbooks
how to dance with disastrous fate,
and I'm finding my rhythm so wake silent
or sleep long, my love. Let's inoculate.

The day was ghostly pale on which this tragic tale unfolds
The wind blew icy gasps of breath on crimson leaves of gold
What eerie silence sings among the blackened air so weary
What anticipation grows in frozen ground so dreary
From a sky of slate grey wonder
No weeping rain to cry
On heart heavy fog did all time wait
For the little girl to die
The charcoal paint upon her eyes leaks down her face of white
Her heart pours pain from scarlet lips
It aches this mournful night
The time ticks by
Bleeds aches from mortal wounds inside
Until her eyes of blue run dry
Until at last her soul is bare
Exists no hopeful song to care
At last she sees through drowning eyes
The melody of doleful sighs
From somewhere screams a blade of magic
To end this life of love so tragic
At last she knows what she must do
To **** these withered pearls of rue
Upon an ancient oaken desk
A melancholy knife does rest
And through two bleeding eyes of grief
The metal cursed with blessed relief
Lays waiting like some treasured key
The one last chance to set her free
No longer the girl in candlelight dim
Would weep for her lost thoughts of him
No longer would she endure the pain
That worsened with each dying rain
No longer would she have to stay
To bear her heart for one more day
And never had she felt such bliss
When thinking what joy would be this
For the day was ghostly pale outside
And she was tired of having to hide
Then once more the clock did chime
She hears it for the one last time
For a moment it pounds inside her ears
She stiffens with her deadly fears
Her fingers wrap around the knife
The stone cold steel to take her life
She stabs it deep into her heart
The last pain felt from the world she’ll part
And then with shaking hands of bone
The young girl dies there, all alone.

Across the ice a baritone
Projects his notes of steel,
A tenor’s harmonizing
Adds that melancholy feel
And the glory of the voices
Flows out through alders bare
And the listeners weep for Russia’s soul
And the tragedy found there.


The tragic melancholy
Found in every Russian heart
Liberated by the sadness
A fine harmony can impart.
Of the monolithic yesterdays,
Those forgotten fields of dead
And that fire within the *****
Which numbs the agony of the head.


Dark stains along the timber wall
Wood fire’s stones make steam
It fills the room with stifling heat
Which sweats the bodies clean.
Red wheals raised on shoulders
Birch branches whip the back
Whilst companion tones of maleness
Speak in vectors women lack.


Red larches in the foothills
Gold lantern light on snow,
The vastness of ancient steppes
Of Central Asia grow.
A viola’s velvet passion
Sighs beneath a cottage door
And the sadness in sensation
Brings grown men to weep once more.


The vastness of the terrain
The hardness of the land,
The bitter cold of northern wind,
Each freezing winter spanned
By Siberia’s lashing gales,
White snow is metres deep
And turquois ice as hard as steel
Beneath which... rivers creep.


Dostoyevsky,Kruschev,
Rasputin and the Tsars,
Great Lenin, Marx and Trotsky
And the swords of Horse Hussars.
Gorbachev the great redeemer,
Poor Yeltsin’s pale white skin
And the ****** found in Stalin's smile
Span the politics of sin.


This great Russian melancholy
Lies deep within the soul
It’s a legacy of yesterday
Of her history's brutal goal.
It’s a product of the suffering
Inherent in the past
Endured by legions of the people
Then  dispensed with…
With a laugh!

  

Marshalg
@theBach
Mangere Bridge
13 April 2009

Unable to breath
Unable to scream
Lost and trapped
Lost in a dream?

Murdered by love
Murdered tragic
Killed with agony
Killed like magic

Lying so hopeless
Lying unforeseen
Lost in your love
Lost in a dream?

Sadness infected
Sadness it grew
Murdered by love
Murdered by you

Dear Night;

The day breaks like a child's neck,
And there she is -
Like a fresh sand hills beckoned seductively
By childish poetry that
Rings off the fingertips like marshmallows
Burnt from too much *****

A cradle erupts:
Two deaths turning into one,
A turning sensation of philosophers timid to experience
We are what?
We are the writhing fiends caught on
By electricity sought upon by
The high priests of a no man's land
Billy the Kid

Tragic care giving fiends telling tales
Of naturality that grow like figs neath virgins
And we share the fragrance of foreigners
Dancing neath' their dead bodies for we
Are the store fronts of the epileptic rich

Sharing nothing, we forgive the dead angels that
Share in nothing but their own salvation
And we the nation hold their hands as they are handed
Their medals that shine and beat against innocent
Sun where we - Good Humans - will always feel inferior

I take thee for my own prisoner
Let's go and check out the sun for mine own
I said I was having sun...asleep
Mine own mind was bent, crooked, doomed
Warranted evil will of course be put to light

Teller tell me what I wish to know
You tell me the secret
You wish to hold, oh' you wish to keep
We are the children you asked for
But you are so unwilling up accept

But the press is something that is intangible
They are spread spearers that are accepted as they are:
A good german; a fair dutchman; a funny Chaplin;
Genius moving with insecure marijuana.

But she presses her own soul on the glass
Never lasting - a pure bread horse
There she stands, like an egyptian statuette incarnate
Breaking through the clouds like a pillar
Bent only for salvation and glory

A cool informant next to Hemingway that breaks
The next vinyl that's hot mixed with devil sweat
Someone breathes something on my neck and I'm soon
To wonder what the next place I need to be is
So...I wonder...Myself is the one to take care of this mess?

Here we are - stagnant - like a tombstone,
Wondering what we are meant for and wondering
Where we are not supposed to go.
We have our labels.
We have our names.
And, yes, we have our jobs that were
Given to us by companies that have no face,
Only a name and yet we obey...

Too push a confidence you have to ask me
What I wish to know for the assignment that no one cares about
After I get what people will listen too
What the truth is a very thing
I love the hash that beeps like a dead hyena on the road side
Howling like a lost lover without someone to love

The clouds curl over mountains cold and blue
and rains hiss whispers back to thunder's speak;
so all is mist and green and gray of hue
and in this land a child would wonder seek.
Cowichan coat warms her in its magic
with knitted forms of mystic dancing deer.
That she's alone might seem all too tragic,
but in her mind all that she dreams is here.
She holds an abalone , pearlescent grey
And wonders at the colours caught inside.
She lifts it inside out up to the day
and wishes every heartfelt dream applied.
The abalone then vanished all aglow
and in its place appeared the bright rainbow.

Behold the ringmaster of the reindeer games.

The trials set - all ****** to fail.

Hateful and manipulative thing

Champions shall ever prevail.

Bring this monster closer to god

And near your own martyr’s pit.

Sallow in self-pitied sorrows.

Take to your gold crucifix.


Build ‘em up - your epic disasters.

Spawn the grounds of the grandest battle.

Tyranny’s backlash not in mind

Subjects worshipping you like cattle.

Angels fall such tragic heights

Suffocated by this ruling *******.

Now these erinyes come to slaughter

Their manipulative treacherous master.



Concept of praise and deceit

Dire as death and defeat.



Build ‘em up - your epic disasters.

Spawn the grounds of the grandest battle.

Tyranny’s backlash not in mind

Subjects worshipping you like cattle.

Angels fall such tragic heights

Suffocated by this ruling *******.

Now these erinyes come to slaughter

Their manipulative treacherous master.



Appeasement of this demigod

Now all that is of consequence

Nothing else brings comfort now

All that exists is this false repentance.

i wander around your territory,
keeping my imprints on your skin.
a sigh of relief and a moan of satisfaction
take you where nowhere you've been.
flicker of my tongue,
the tremble in your voice
move closer,
closer as skin.
the smell of your innocence lingers
in my senses,
the taste of your fear excites me.
the look in your eyes
turmoil in your stare,
the awe in your face humbles my existence.
i a mere mortal in your sight,
a sight of the past.
the past is just a few seconds away.
an eternity will unfold,
walk my path,
uncloak my victim
stand in all your glory.
your presence hungers my foul
reason for living.
my tongue on your skin,
i taste you
you feed me.
your eyes provokes my inner peace.
what do you see?
is it life?
or is it death?
a swift movement,
a tragic death awaits.
my doppelganger sees how you live your life,
while i cant wait how to end it.
the beauty in my voice captivates you.
leading you towards your befall.
you yourself prepared my feast with
your false judgment.
i was never your reason to live
but you were mine.
you cling to my robe the way
you cling to your life.
too late mademoiselle i had your
tombstone made an hour ago.
i undress you,
and taste your love juice one more time.
ecstasy flows down your veins,
you moan in gratitude
i brought you wrath in return.
you cried in a bite-forced.
i smelled life,
i tasted life
but not yours alone.
intriguing i say,
so i sink both fangs deeper.
another blood of total innocence indeed
and it tasted just like mine.
you saw the horror on my face.
you smiled.
you *****!
you let out a soft dying laugh.
delirium hits like a speeding car crashing.
i have killed my own
you deceived me.
you knew my planned deception all along
and countered on your own.
you ***** old hag!
you let yourself get killed
so i could **** him.
a creature of my own,
floating inside your womb.

To be perfectly honest this was one of the more difficult poems to string together for the sheer fear of possibly jinxing it,
as there appears to be a pattern to every story involving a boy and me lately,
which begins with the same overrated butterflies in the stomach sensation followed by a poem,
sleepless nights, cigarettes, ***** and a tragic ending.
So having reached the poem stage my instincts and the part of my brain receptive to pain are already bracing themselves,
I can feel them clenching in my gut.  
As this three nights stand situation burns the lines between a *******, friendship with benefits and something to the extent of a budding romance,
my expectations are protesting against being so fiercely oppressed,
frankly they are getting out of control,
as the dislike of not wanting to be clingy, chivalry of not wanting to subdue to any labels nor the fear of yet another heartbreak itself,
are no longer sufficient to keep these rising hopes in place.
Ironically, when I think of you I think more of who I become when I'm with you, than actually you,
even though I do sincerely adore you. Very much.
I'm bemused by how comfortable I feel in my own skin,
naked and burnished, next to your warm, ivory touch.
Each time you trail your fingers down my body and take in a quick breath as if you were seeing me for the very first time,
I treasure the look in your eyes for later in the week when the going gets tough.
I idolize your rough, blistered, bleeding palms with all its calluses for they mirror my own much subtle bruises,
representing our shared interest, commitment, strength and transformation.
Your new found superpower to completely eradicate my necessity to socially smoke when socializing with you, speaks for itself really,
and we haven't even got to the laughter, the banter, the top notch sarcasm, the conversation, the warmest embrace,
breakfast ending in a ridiculously serious spectacle of coffee making,
which I thoroughly enjoy from the best seat in the kitchen wearing your shirt which fits me far more perfectly,
and the skip in my step as I head home.
So when the day comes for the revolution, of my expectations, overthrowing this rather tiresome governance of fear,
I just might pop the question, will you be my forever one night stand? ,
in the hope that you might just say yes...

SELECTED FROM THE IRISH NOVELISTS

THERE was a green branch hung with many a bell
When her own people ruled this tragic Eire;
And from its murmuring greenness, calm of Faery,
A Druid kindness, on all hearers fell.
It charmed away the merchant from his guile,
And turned the farmer's memory from his cattle,
And hushed in sleep the roaring ranks of battle:
And all grew friendly for a little while.
Ah, Exiles wandering over lands and seas,
And planning, plotting always that some morrow
May set a stone upon ancestral Sorrow!
I also bear a bell-branch full of ease.
I tore it from green boughs winds tore and tossed
Until the sap of summer had grown weary!
I tore it from the barren boughs of Eire,
That country where a man can be so crossed;
Can be so battered, badgered and destroyed
That he's a loveless man:  gay bells bring laughter
That shakes a mouldering cobweb from the rafter;
And yet the saddest chimes are best enjoyed.
Gay bells or sad, they bring you memories
Of half-forgotten innocent old places:
We and our bitterness have left no traces
On Munster grass and Connemara skies.

Now morning comes with her brilliant glow
Today, we shall go back to the time I was orphaned
I’m finally prepared to come to terms with my origins

One afternoon he found himself in an abandoned car
With an unfamiliar beast snoring in the backseat
Blood dripped from its yellow hide
Every home repeats a cycle
Endless circle
The is cage locked until show time
Now rest, rest
Carpet stains, cracks in the windows
Sweep the dust under the carpets
Many affairs stick on these sheets
Virginities lost in the comforter

Starving untamed animals prowling the sidewalks, breathing heavy
A monster chained to the lies of the town
The tragic fate of his father
Decaying on the winter’s avenue
He ran out of the city

       -Tommy Johnson

He headed north across state lines
Leaving destruction and annihilation behind
No second thoughts in his mind

Hurry out the door run
See
Temptation’s on her way
I cannot survive this, every time she moves in closer
I allow my wall to come down
Feel the cold fear on the back of my neck
The howl of the coyote in the distance

The coyote was jet black
Frizzed and hungry
And I was too frightened to even look
The blankets were steaming locks
And my love was underneath me
So beautiful my love
Her eclipsing black eyes
Her soft, sweet tasting lips

We are all here
The values and morals we all held dear are now gone

What’s your pleasure, what’s your pain?
Are you clever, are you sane
You don’t know and now it seems
That your soul cannot be tamed
The taste of fame, this is new
Now you thrive, now you lose
Now you fear the rule of two
Just play your role and make it through

Stare deep in the universal mind
The answers to ancient riddles you shall find
The sun burns endlessly on the city
Above and beyond its limits
And the green pastures beside the calmly flowing rivers
Underneath the silent other worldly shadows of
Weary mountain men, on the cliff just over there
Wild dogs congregating
Hieroglyphics, fallout shelters, new advancements in self awareness
Hold on
The dead still linger here
Don’t pause or make one false move
My suitcase and briefcase are on the floor
We’re heading for the door
And we’re leaving now
And I guess you’re coming with me

She can’t lift the curse
I am not the one
There are a certain few who can
Trust
No one


Fighting for their lives
Crowd is screaming "die"
Savages and thieves
Bringing victims to their knees
The innocent come but never leave
Some one

Come with me
Just trust me
Some one

We hid from the swarm of nonsense and swill
The rich hide in their mansions in fear
The dead are rotting and no one cares
And we’re just lucky to be left alive

Come to me
Trust in me
Some one

His time was cut short because he crossed the line
We should have seen it, he said he was fine
The three spoke steering wheel he was behind
Enraged and drunk out of his mind

Come with me
Just with me
Some one

There are people who live their lives without faith
Now a priest is on trial and charged with ****
By some one who thought he was somebody they had known
Then and there the answer was shown

Talk with me
Look at me
Some one

Run
Drown
Die
I will make you mine
Mine

It was the blackened coyote
It's chaotic tranquility

We came home from
Laconia and Meredith
El Passo disillusioned
We hurried home
Past the lakes and the roads
We returned home with
Our tales so tall
For ten years I tried
To live on the island of Elba
The mind games I played there
Now I have returned
To the place of freedom, bravery and wisdom
Mother, father of the west
Infant moonlight
Which of you shall partake in this commemoration?

Oh, Andy-
speak to me in paints:
red, yellow, blue

When I told you I wouldn't be good at this,
an inability to sketch hands that punched at everything leaving me weak.
Keane's sorrow filled eyes upon oil made more sense to me.

I was never angry or mean, just sad and hopeless.
Lichtenstein was more your speed with obscene images of ******* women
and dialogue of broken hearts.

Van Gogh never made sense, but his attention to detail caught my eye.
To not know what goes on in your own head is identifiable so,
my head is art crafted by Picasso.

they hospitalize you once you've lopped your ear off
when giving a part of themselves to a lover.
I'm not cut out for this- the starving artist,
the tragic sketcher,
or the natural- born painter.

I've calloused my hands,
shed tears on pages of sketchbooks
put paint that looks childlike
and nothing worthwhile,
in all the time spent learning,
I've never learned how to be an artist.

I thought it was the mantra to be pained and miserable,
but you accounted for bold choices and vivid primary shades.
I feel betrayed, that my art alone, isn't enough to be good.

They will never frame my name,
or immortalize flaws in which could never be erased.

Like our conversation in my dream:
"I can't be mean." -Me
"Killing yourself isn't much different" -You

So Andy, what is the color I'm feeling? If it isn't blue?

—V.H.

I watch our love go up in flames
Feel my soul catch fire too
Summer reminds of happier days
The face I once knew

Distance is dangerous wind
Fanning flames, vacant of your smile each day
Your heart so numb you cannot feel the burn
Hear it beat even miles away

Patience the quality I lack
Forget to give my feelings time
So these hasty decisions catch up
When it's too late to change my mind

In forgotten days when your heart was better
Pleasant, simple, and unaware
Friendship quietly develops rust
Photographs more than eyes can bear

Broken glass, shattered hearts
It has all lead to this dead end
Perfectly synced self-destruction
Beautifully orchestrated lies descend

Peeking through darkness, cartwheeling midair
No stars left in our sky
The night alive with melancholy
Sorrowful birdsong in gusts low and high

My heart suspended in tragic beauty
Soul dies a little more every day
Waiting for eyelids to finally open to the light
Radiating from the glow of flames guiding the way

Is he being serious?

I can't tell

Am I being serious?

I'm not sure

feeling on the brink of something

am I dying?

is this what it's like to die?

I had a lot of good words to say

they were going to come out like a sickly ball of ectoplasm

like a desperate clawing scream up from the floor

but now I don't know what they were

everything I consume is somehow related to who I am as a person

I've spent a lifetime

modeling myself after words, images, phrases, sounds

they are like little helpers

but they are not me

"don't be afraid to care"

"what did you see while you were there?"

I am bursting with joy

I want to laugh, dance, be free to love

my love is all ******* right now

it's all I know

the moon & sky so beautiful this strange winter

deadly sunsets and snow

crystalline space and stars

"how does it feeeeel?"

he asks & rolls over drunk, uncaring

I slipped her something mid-conversation

what was it?: a hint, a look, an eye?

I don't even know really

Was I being myself or not?

"the joke is come upon me"

at last, the irony is concrete

hilariously, beautifully tragic

& yet not at all; more like a lighthearted pun

"we all shine on, like the moon & the stars & the sun"

why & how did it become so difficult?

this is the struggle of every man

this is not my father's insanity, nor his father's

Thy verse is “sad” enough, no doubt:
  A devilish deal more sad than witty!
Why we should weep I can’t find out,
  Unless for thee we weep in pity.

Yet there is one I pity more;
  And much, alas! I think he needs it:
For he, I’m sure, will suffer sore,
  Who, to his own misfortune, reads it.

Thy rhymes, without the aid of magic,
  May once be read—but never after:
Yet their effect’s by no means tragic,
  Although by far too dull for laughter.

But would you make our bosoms bleed,
And of no common pang complain—
If you would make us weep indeed,
Tell us, you’ll read them o’er again.

To all the promises we broken
To all the tears we shed
To all the screams that still echoes in my head

I drive you crazy
while you curse me 'till I'm numb
Spitting hatred from our mouths
We hurt each other while we're together
why won't we just fall apart?

Because we we weren't meant to be, not destiny
We were just another **epic tragedy

I know we've met before,
At the cold sea of Atlantic
We kissed
We cried
It was sad, it was tragic,
We perished on the ocean floor

I know we've met before,
At the coast of Honolulu
We kissed
We cried
It was gloomy, it was blue
We perished as they bomb the shore

I know we've met before,
And now the world seemed so tranquil
We kissed
We cried
It was perfect, it was surreal
We perished when we're ninety-four

Humans accept the love they think they deserve...
and I hate myself.

Maybe that's why I always stayed.

I enjoyed the pain...
Thriving on the punishment... I abused myself,
so it never mattered if you joined in on the fun.

I crave the hurt...
desperate to feel anything at all,
the pain is better than endless nothingness.

Toxic yet addicted,
ruined yet held together... yours to destroy.

You’re drowning yourself,
In fear and doubt,
But too scared to sink,
So you held out one arm,
Waiting for someone to reach it,
To pull you up,
And it hurts to feel,
No touch on your cold skin.

A tragedy indeed,
Ocean of tears,
With no boat around,
Only your feet,
To keep you afloat,
A death wish,
Partially committed.

I
It's quite the tragic statistic,
when the last thing on earth
that approaches your face
is a patch of brown grass,
pale and dry from age,
dead from poor nourishment,
just like your need for acceptance.

And it’s even more destructive
when the scarlet sentences
shrieking down your face
were pulled from your bone marrow,
all the way through your thick, coarse skin,
by the dense and moldy weapon
swung in the hands of the town’s valiant savior.

Yes, there are rapists and fascists
living in each corner of the street,
looting their families of their dignity,
******* on the very words they glorify,
but the crooked joints in your limp wrist
might as well be a bull’s eye on your forehead.

The tides of holy water did not burn off an inch,
did not smother your facet of human nature.
You did not blindly agree with our fright-ridden hatred,
so the only and easy way out
is to induct you into our slaughterhouse,
all because you loved.

Can love be executed so poorly
that it awaits a death penalty?
In a Utopian tyranny, anything can die.

And they wonder,
with our dying breath,
and the dirt being shoved
against our battered faces,
why we declare a riot call.

II
I have sent a request
to all the white cone clad
twiddling their thumbs with menace
and hunting for their latest scapegoat
to mask their feelings of inadequacy...

As the **** on my garage door
slithers your hatred along
in the form of the word "******"
and the last three men who shook me to the core
have been reduced to front page casualties,
I beg to finally join
this league of humankind.

Please, ladies and cavemen, do as I ask
or I might just lead myself
to break
your double standard necks into thousands
of desperate times that surpass desperate measures.

I will no longer be reduced
to another strange fruit hanging
on the ******* tree, for I've seen
the shards of glass showering
like hurricane rainfall
over your Stone Age architecture.

Preaching your "manhood", your "sanctity"
on your altars as the color
of your wife's eyes
seems to slip your busy mind,
as your first born
reiterates your perspective
with a tape recorder ribbon
composed of tangled heartstrings.

It must stop.
Those sounds of you slinging
your fists and your speech
towards all, including
your own flesh and blood.

Our palms can't stay nailed to the wooden floor,
our lips can't stay sewn shut anymore,
angels writhing in their graves,
your time has run out.

Here, my friend, is your riot call.

For tragic is just a trapped magic
Let's try harder to break the cage
Where it dwells in
Just like the hopes packed
In a coffin

So come all jolly lads
and whimsical princesses

take out your torches under the streetlights
for the lamps have withered out
and nothing can save you
except what you believe in the unseen

so come all jolly ladies
and whimsical princes

dance with the revenant before they vanish
for nothing can be done unless
you succumb to the delusion
and the foul mess you created
for the purpose of self-destruction

So join in morticians and
Men of desolated sorority

Grab out your shovels to dig up the magic
Stolen by the faeries of the day that reside
In the caverns of gloom and doom
Where trickery binds our wrists
And lead us to the dead-end

Painted with magic

And will be painted again for ever more
With our tragic fate of trapped magic

So I say,
“Come, come, jolly lads
And whimsical princesses
Join in, morticians and
Men of desolated sorority
For nothing can be done unless
You have something to hold on in life
In darkness or in light
Visions of hell or heaven
Deluded or disillusioned”

To live is to research happiness
and homes for the pleasure of ending.
People, through illusions, can shape
happy possibilities from speech and position.

Don't write it out.

A life more useful than tragic
is original in a moment,
can transcend as well as
fall into mistakes and experiences.

To get your body to lean
as far forward over the
insurmountable bubble as possible,
Is to create magic that consists of gateways
and actions -- the outcome of which
can place a thinker with only few
leaps stranger than your enemies.

Always forgive.

Magic sometimes longer than a pause
between morality and naked minds
influences the two ways a relapse synapse will run.
The true temptation of safety can be
carpeted by play dough and play grounds.

It's better to not sustain interfering manufactors,
to not pirate the lies a man historically risks
on quality of thoughts,
But instead depend the nature of your virture
on exploration at the heart of echoes.

Why should you quit?

A human's greatest obstacle is finding the principles
we don't discover with the jailer listening and
men afraid to rock the boat.
Give better than you dare have.
Reset the age of the mind and give parallel
truths at the point of sweeping tides.

To understand the laws of popular drifting,
compromise the art of part establishing,
occupy an ambitious ideal;
You will lose an elevation over not being, not remembering.
Sometimes treading water becomes a nuisance,
and you'll lose a choice in the dungeon.

Don't abandon your force.
Don't regret the pursuit of circumstances.
Don't delude a reputation of bridges and evidence.

Empathy is traveling the world for imagination and salvation.
We are here for a spell; one equality
shreds the ears ready to get you in trouble.

I am a caricature of humanity
- a picture of its seething bowels.

I am its sloshing,
quivering, yet wholly earnest intestines
made manifest - I am,
the inside-out freak show
we all crave
dancing before your eyes
oh, and what a feast of eloquent gizzards you witness!

Feast your eyes, my friends!

I am what you wish you weren't
yet know you could be
as you yearn to be as free as me
all your shame and volatile desires
all your sadness and madness
all your dreamful bliss
I profess it daily
in an ode to you, my fathers and mothers,
in an ode of love for absurdity,
I am the cartoon character made free of its stage
the puppet made free of its strings
the loon, made free of his rage,
a benign insanity,
not capable of harming a germ.

Don't pass by
by all means
gawk
it's my pleasure that you do so
breathe my callousness in
shudder at the thought of being so exposed
having all your human nature bleeding there
like my crying eyes
as I tell you of all my past loves
and how I still love them
yes
even the meatloaf
still eating it
that baby towel
still snuggling it
that algebra homework?
Still completing it
and there's a missing grade somewhere
in a dusty book in a warehouse
imagine
how I'd creep in,
decades from now,
hours before my death,
open that tattered grade-book,
pen myself an A+ for my immaculately completed work
- fist pump the air!
Take that Ms. Cramsworth! I may not have beaten algebra,
but I beat you!

Die right there
in that warehouse
amongst all the other freaks.
There's Bigfoot, who slipped accidentally one day, got impaled by a branch, then called 911 - he had no health insurance, that's all she wrote. Bigfoot's just another disenfranchised-American statistic now. Bigfoot's last painful hours were spent taking selfies with holocaust deniers and people fashioning MAGA hats - some with rifles for effect - it was then Bigfoot regretted voting for Trump and only then. You were just rudely-awakened from having sympathy for Bigfoot, weren't you? Poor baby. Save our souls.
Then there are the cryogenically frozen heads of the Illuminati we're all worried about - they're trying to sleep until humanity can make them superhuman bodies.
A flying saucer that was alien in so far that it was actually a time-machine from our distant future that brought people back to warn us of an all-consuming genocidal calamity, but they spoke a language we didn't understand, had genetically surpassed us, and therefore were unrecognizable to our labs, and we took their highly-advanced babbling as acts of war when they tried to **** the Illuminati heads - killed the so-called aliens then, so tragic - ate their gizzards for research. Now we're all doomed to die... Their bodies were lain next to the Illuminati heads. Centuries later, the same couple, now janitors from the freak warehouse, see themselves, find the time-machine-saucer, and start the time-loop again... inadvertently causing the end of humanity because they messed up the timeline.

... and that's exactly why I never did my homework.
Humanity is doomed to die in some distant future caused by the doom-couple and so I refused to put a brick in the wall. I refused because all I was was a...nother brick in the wall and I hated it.

Because as fascinating as I am.
As absurd as I am.
As much of a human marvel as I am.
I don't matter. I matter the least.

And so that's why I had to die in that off-the-books warehouse,
full of priceless and unmentionable artifacts.
They wouldn't ever put me there, but I had to die with the legends.
I had to give my life meaning somehow.
If I can't live a legend, I will die one... by the way the janitors put me in the trash out back anyway.
I end up in an east-Asian landfill somewhere, kicked in the face by barefoot sweatshop kids who just so happened to make the sneakers on my very feet. Isn't that poetic justice? What a send-off!

And so isn't that all a satisfying and cathartic end,
giving closure to the most absurd poem,
with the most random details,
wasn't that fun?

She bleeds ‘all tragic steam work blasted mists
‘All hobbled clamped free fall for ‘all seasonal depression slump
She’s ‘all death knell cramp urgency and held back suffering kneeling
on kitchen floors ‘all like boarding school broomsticks lessons
with ‘all that theoretical **** the ***** save the man type
schlock shock rhetoric shtick
so ‘all I’ll be is her savage heretic wagon burner page-turner
on the hot coal back burner ‘all boarded up sealed shut in the walls
until she calls
Expecting me to be 'all combat ready
‘all back with a vengeance
while her thrift store hazard suit groups and droops
‘all over my haphazard dream sliced hang nailed hangover hands
hiding ‘all derelict style while between the sheets confessional
gets voided by social media air raid sirens
bringing me ‘all too close to rocks and crystals
and who ‘all needs another pathetic apathetic
junk punk when
‘all and ‘all
I'd rather die for you
because
I just can't live with myself

This is a lament it also is a condemnation of three nations ole glory your red and white and blue stands
Guilty with the Union Jack and the nation where the Ganges freely flows born in the first educated in the
Second and the third is nation of origin for your family so from New York to London then to Bollywood
The final wrap wasn’t on a movie set
The scene walk into her bedroom her face the lighter color of the Ganges when you are looking at the
Surface with the sun shining brown and light and then the glorious brown hair flowing down the
Perfect match dark black eyes that hold you in a spell with their depth and penetrating power nose and
Mouth and chin completes a fresh perfect face it says movie goddess or it did say now the only thing
Said in this black void the completeness of soundless brooding that only death conjures is a policeman
Says cut her down her life did not end here in the true sense it was voided when the American people
Scripted a different story they took a perfect foundation laid by the founding fathers a nation founded
On the idea and principal of a godly people being giving a nation where they would live by a Holy
Standard and it would be preserved and guide their posterity into the last generation what has
Happened is erosion and then a blatant sham proposing itself for the original therefore allowing the
Pretense and mockery of the Holy treasure that made us different and gave us the perfect atmosphere
For continuous growth now the fertile righteous land is a cesspool one of pollution distortion and
Dishonor every wickless is practiced openly when the word says if individuals or nations act so they will
Be turned into hell we left every semblance of right living then expect A Holy God to bless us individually
And as a nation what scorn we invite from Heaven and then with utter distain we maintain we are pure
Decedents of our forebears all the while we spit and spewed filth on their good names and then have
The gall to defame others as unworthy she was long dead before the noose went around her beautiful
Neck, rope was once braided by three strands in this case England and India is the other two strands
How proudly we hail railing is the truer word John Wesley and George Whitfield came on the scene by
Gods hand when England was at the brink and set to go over barbaric gin was the plague and Bain this is
How degenerate and cheap life was a woman killed a baby threw it in a ditch and then sold its clothes
For money to buy drink and it wasn’t just the poor it reached up through the highest and lofty corridors
Of the church hierarchy down to the lowest priest and the castle was not spared ether their acts were
On a course of self destruction and by Wesley and Whitfield alone standing in fields after they were
Rejected by the established churches sound familiar with Bible in hand and espousing Holy words they
Turned the tide of destruction in England where and why are their words not preserved today because
Men and woman refuse to be led and guided by that which is holy because their hearts are set on every
Evil desire from England’s new life in God William Carry a lowly cobbler stood on footing provided by
Faith alone and said “Expect great things from God, Attempt great things for God and on the blue river
Of Indigo blue dye India came to know the true God the great gulf was bridged false fire of heathen
Teaching exposed by the fire of truth forever and always will it hold back the darkness but only
When holy men and women sacrifice themselves through watchfulness and holy prayer this did
Not happen and this modern child of all three of these nations came to this tragic end know you
Not the hour it is your hour of visitation we don’t have to die the unfortunate way she did but
Without a proper response and life we will suffer natural and spiritual death which is called
Second death there is no escape the word says if we neglect such a great salvation

U have the Eyes, of the Stars
and your Lips, are crucial as Air.
U have warmth of the Sun and Mars,
and your Heart is valuable and Rare.
I Wish to Write a Poem on your skin
and illustrate every word I write for U.
Sail My fingertips on your gentle Curves
and trace them on the Heart I Drew.
If the Morning Sun forgets to rise,
U will be lighting up My Skies.
It’s both Beautiful and Tragic.
When I'm with U, how fast time Flies.
My Passions are coursing in My Veins.
As sweat appears on your Skin.
Heaven has opened it's Doors for Me,
So Darling......Please let Me In.

Chronic, demonic, eccentric, magic, poetic, tragic! Dreams it seems of comical or unusual! Visual sights of many sites! Plenty fights, heights, nights, plights and lights! Dreams it seems of chimes, crime, gleams and grime. Moonbeams, rhymes, screams and times. Dreams it seems as they attempt to tempt with contempt! Some become exempt
and unkempt! Dreams it seems of afros, arrows, buffalos, rainbows

and sparrows! Ample, purple-apples hung from chapels! Dreams it seems of hurdles and simple people as pimples jumping from steeples! Dreams it seems of the begotten, forgotten and rotten. Dreams and themes of cotton candy clouds! Crowds in shrouds! Dreams it seems
of the dandy and handy! Glories and gory stories of the holy or unholy. Dreams it seems of crud and mud! The loud and proud! The

vowed and wowed! Dreams it seems of blood and floods! Dreams it seems of amazing, crazing and gazing! I’m phrasing; “Is this a dream a scheme or hell?” Well I couldn’t tell! As I began to scream and
yell! Those streams of dreams that I dream… Dreams that I may, these dreams that I say. Dreams it seems in dreamy dismay.