I am a trebled teen;
Living the life of the kids who dare to play their music too loud.
We walk the halls and tickle our snares
While the clarinets whinny
And the flutes whistle a melody out of tune.
We purse our lips
And squeal a note or two:
We play flat and sharp but
We don't care.
My grades aren't the best
And I might hit the reef,
But music is there for me.
We spend Saturdays on a bus
And march in the cold,
Only to watch half a game and then head on home.
But we don't care about any of that
Because it's the music that matters.
It's the music that kept some of them around.
It's the music that lets us be who we are.

I am a trebled teen.

I’d hazard a guess there aren’t many folk who don’t know the tales of Harry, Hermione and Ron
and how with a cast of a multitude of friends they defeated Voldemort with aplomb,
rightly these heroic adventures are held in the highest regard,
and will be told forever by musicians, singers and bards,
these stories will be remembered, people will talk of those courageous and brave
and how they turned the evil tide of The Dark Lord with everything they gave,
how they dispelled the magic of horror with the strength of the Gryffindor lion,
but less well known than this wonder is the fable of Tayrn and her Ryan.
R and T arrived to Hogwarts  10  years after He Who Can Not Be Named was vanquished in the great struggle,
Tayrn was pure wizard born whereas Ryan was pure muggle,
both took to wizarding school easily and did well in all their classes,
of course Tayrn was a hit with the lads and Ryan a swoon with the lasses,
but it didn’t matter they gave all folk in their year at Hogwarts an involuntary love shudder
because ace Tayrn and Ryan only had eyes for each other!
Their wonderful sweet love was easy and went without a hitch,
spent Saturdays gazing at each other when they should have been watching Quidditch,
hand in hand they skipped around The Forbidden Forest, their romance knowing no rift,
saying hello to a friendly centur or a flying hippogriff,
they galloped around Diagon Alley, their souls full of cheer,
or sat relaxed and tranquil in The Leaky Cauldron sipping butter beer.
T and R were ace at spells, Tayrn’s best was with a wand swish creating healing
and Ryan’s wonderful arty prowess was painting The Sistine Chapel on any ceiling;
yes they were each other’s equal in the way they weaved the magic from above
and this is one of the reasons they were very much in love.
One night T and R were going on one of their romantic walks
and decided to have a jaunt to a wonderful clearing just near Hogwarts,
they sauntered through the darkening evening with a song on their lips,
swaggered along the green with the music of love on their hips,
as they got to the secluded clearing they were anticipating with glee each other’s hold
but then all of a sudden they started feeling very cold.
They both noticed that the summer grass was covered in a blanket of frost,
the trees were looking pale, freezing, withdrawn and lost,
the air was filled with frigidity and held the hints of scare,
the flowers were wilting with chilled terror, bloom given way to despair,
as Tayrn and Ryan wondered what was the cause of such floral bad health
just a few yards away  the answer revealed itself;
over a hill came a hooded figure that immediately brought fright to the fore
as Tayrn and Ryan paid attention in Defence Against The Dark Arts they instantly recognised it as a dementor,
but they noticed something different about this one, it was nearly trebled in size,
and had a deeper blackness where should have been it’s eyes.
Being skilled at magic they knew what they had to do to avoid any harm
so both quickly fired off their best Patronus Charm,
but these spells had no effect, the huge dementor merely shrugged them off
and they could have sworn beneath it’s hood it let out a derisive scoff.
The enormous dementor hovered over Tayrn and Ryan and from its mouth emerged a hiss,
as it prepared to give the two lovers their final goodbye kiss,
but as it stooped over them with it’s awful deathly hue
T and R looked into each other’s eyes and figured out what they were going to do;
they remembered in one class learning about the bravest man Hogwarts had ever knew
and how he was able to hoodwink The Dark Lord with a love strong, solid and true,
how Snape drew on his love of Lilly to ride through any storm,
even on his darkest night it was what kept him warm,
so Tayrn and Ryan pushed their wands together and thought of beautiful Severus
and how they both too shared the romantic love buzz,
and channelling the wonder of that special feeling thus
they both pointed their wands in unison and screamed Expelliarmus!
Emitted from the tip of each wand was the half of a love heart projected from each soul
that both came together to create the fantastic whole,
in the shine of such love the vast dementor instantly recoiled,
knowing that it’s draining wish was in no doubt foiled,
it writhed around and in the glare of joy did it’s nefarious purpose erode,
every bleak and blank about it started to corrode,
the dementor slowly ebbed away until all of it did go
and in it’s place was left a striking brown young doe,
it bowed it’s head to Tayrn and Ryan and then it flew into the trees,
gliding with majesty on the sweet night breeze.
Awed by what had happened Ryan and Tayrn turned and started to walk back to the dorm,
aware of what occurred was special and not the norm,
but then they stopped in their tracks and at the same time both did say,
“oh my beautiful love, I know  I’m going to marry you someday!”

'For myself alone, I would not be
Ambitious in my wish; but, for you,
I would be trebled twenty times myself;
A thousand times more fair,
Ten thousand times more rich.'

His old mare cantered into to town
The covered wagon followed
A boy's first trip to town alone
He took it in, and swallowed

Penny candy dreams last night
And sarsparilla floats
The ladies' parasol fineries
The men in pinstriped coats

Perhaps a whiskey, what the hell
Today he was a man!
But first the livery stable for Brownie
For oats and a water can.

The .30-30 saddle gun would come with him, of course.
He also grabbed the belted Colt from the pommel of his horse.

The warped board sidewalks led past stores
His worn boots clopped along
He strapped on the .36 Navy Colt revolver
And fastened down the thong

He clopped down to the first saloon
Laid his rifle on the bar
A sporting girl sat next to him
With the unlikely name of "Star"

"A milk for the lady.
Myself as well,
Barkeep, if you please!"
A cowhand howled out raucous laughter,
Flipping up Ms. Star's dress, to well above her knees

"That little pup, he wants some milk
So Star, give him yer ****!
I'll bend him over, spank his ***
And then give YOU a treat!"

The young man's vision doubled, trebled,
The shame clear on his face
As tears welled up in big blue eyes
A witness in every soul in the place

"Aw, the little ***** is bawling! WAH!"
The cowhand bellowed out
And all false mirth left his expression
And he gave the boy a clout

The boy just sat and sobbed and watched
As Ms. Star joined in the joke
But cowhand was already 3 bottles in,
In a flash, her nose was broke

Cowhand reached across the boy
To grab that sweet, sleeved rifle
The boy grabbed cowhand's wrist just then
And twisted it just a trifle

A yelp and howl from cowhand's mouth,
"YOU BROKE MY ****** WRIST!
NOW you're ******, you little sprat"
He took a swing, and missed.

Red faced, clumsy, humiliated
He drew leather on the boy
Dead to rights, he had the kid,
He realized, with grim joy

An explosion, a thump, on warped pine floor
Blue smoke curling in the air
Utter, vapid, vacuum silence
Patrons cemented to their chair

The tears were gone from those blue eyes
Blue steel as his gaze fixed
A hole had grown in cowhand's head
The size was .36

Stranger than me, or too much alike
some wrangle upon toilet papers
plastic cups out of place or lost time;
peering past, another wanders on.

Tinkling wires and rainbow faces
hearing, seeing, perchance aurific speaking
the namer among ten-thousand petty things
or squinting upon the verge of time, espy a sequal.

Step by step to round the universe
or being fell-swept away in cubboards
seem or act unseemly, like or dislike
played to the order in the round, circling about.

Why so familiar these drabbed tones of ant trumpets
or wineskins grown old to leak and sputter?
Tis the wish and will, holding like ****** to the ropes
great gales n frothing nothingnes storming on.

But We, blown upon the Aether of the Soul
a great conquest of rousing dignities;
here, under nooks, behind secret doors
or bounding past, lightning speed, relay some wonder.

Shock of waking, or dulcet tones in the Alarm of life
our shadows twist, there on the lintel of private hours
our care, held through the Night kinder endearments
then danced over reeling waves for sweet inspection.

Here unalone a look, a voice and laughter ring the ears
a crying out, or trebled inward sigh, too close to trembling-
Who is this Sojourn Friend?

Perhaps our best of self combined
no more allied to faithless days nor dark an empty smiles-
strange wastes some carelessness invents to wrack the hours.

But We, no stranger to the Sojourner's faith, Are One.

“You are not special.”
We are not special.
“You are the same as any other person.”
We are the same.
“Science says you are the same.”
If science has proven it, it must be true.
We walk with the Clan.
We breathe with the Clan.
We are Clan.
###
The science is truth.
The science is all.
Repetition, repetition, repetition.
We were born to work.
We were born to serve the Clan.
We must work so we may survive.
The Clan must survive.
###
We gaze into the gray wall.
The clouds are unmoving, unyielding.
The light-globes reveal the path home, to sleep, so we may rise again to serve the Clan.
The logic is clear.
We must serve the Clan if we are to survive.
We must survive so we may serve the Clan.
More techniques are needed, more ways to harness the Unseen.
Only the Exalted may witness it, for all others who were not chosen for it would perish in its fiery embrace.
We must work.
We must work.
Work.
###
Each day leads to the next.
Each street leads to the next.
The path is clear.
Work until nothing is left.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock.
We have worked well today.
The new project is finished.
A vague, fuzzy part of the brain attempts to resurface, but it is squelched easily.
We will eat well tonight.
###
“We are not special.”
This day, a new project.
This day, a new group.
This day, a Sweeper tripped off the skyway and splattered in front of me.
It is of no consequence.
Another will be cleaning the refuse by tomorrow.
###
“We are the same.”
The long walk home.
Work on the latest project is finished; another will be brought in tomorrow.
The Unseen is being harvested well, but only for a time.
Various other gray shapes shuffle past, heading home.
The school is on the left, the eating center is on the right.
Suddenly, a commotion erupts.
A siren wails, and people scramble from the front of the school; a flash of black is visible among the masses.
The crowd breaks, an Enforcer visibly seen in the center, beating a boy with a concussion-rod.
“What were you thinking?” The Enforcer screeches, “Do you wish the Clan to fail? Do you wish the Clan to starve?”
“No!” The boy of perhaps eight winter’s old wails, “I just want to go home!”
“You are nothing! There is only the Clan!”
The Enforcer, of perhaps sixteen winter’s old, descended upon the boy, shouting, “You are worthless without the Clan! You had your chance, and you threw it all away!”
The Enforcer beat the boy for several minutes, until the Enforcer realized that it was pointless to further beat the mass of pulp in the street.
The Enforcer rose, exclaiming, “This is unacceptable! The Clan does not tolerate insubordination! And we are all Clan!”
“We are all Clan,” we repeated.
“We are all the same!”
“We are all the same.”
“The logic is truth! The logic is law!”
“We follow the logic. We follow the truth. We follow the law.”
“Now, go home. There is work to be done tomorrow.”
As one, the gray shapes huddle towards home, avoiding the mess in the street.
Maybe the new Sweeper will clean it.
###
“Science says we are the same.”
We work for hours, days, weeks, months.
The day of rest is approaching, and final preparations are being made.
The parade of the Exalted, in all their glory, will feature our new project to harvest the Unseen.
Again, a faint buzzing at the base of the skull, but it is ignored.
Models are built of the various projects of the scientific departments.
We build a Collector, another builds a Transporter, and another is working on a model of DNA.
It is not known why DNA is still being researched with so much else to do, but we do not question orders.
After all, it is said that DNA proves we are ninety-nine percent the same, so perhaps they are studying the remainder.
The parade approaches, we must prepare.
###
The day has arrived.
No laboring for one day, so we may enjoy the work of the year and prepare for the next.
The building-sized models are rolled through the streets, to display the Clan’s capabilities.
Vaguely, a sound is heard from the back of the procession.
A model of a giant metal orb has broken its restraints and is rolling down the street.
The crowd scatters like vermin before the light, and many take refuge in a building next to the skylift.
The skylift is near and the mob approaches, so we bolt for the skylift.
We rush inside the glass box and the door hisses closed behind us.
A blur of motion is visible outside, but suddenly the skylight begins ascending!
We begin to panic, since we are forbidden to travel to the home of the Exalted, but it is too late now.
The gray wall approaches closer and closer, as we huddle in fear upon the floor.
Nothing is outside except the gray, impenetrable wall.
Then, with a sudden jolt, a brilliant flash of radiance enters the small glass box.
The sensation is overwhelming and nothing can be seen nor heard for a time.
Slowly, the brightness dims, and we look about the box we rode in.
Outside, great floating towers with Collector arrays seem suspended in time, slowly revolving to follow the radiance.
The doors open with a whoosh and we find ourselves on a smoothly polished deck that is abundant with bright benches and plants that grow without hydroponics.
These sights are a mystery, but thoughts are scattered as suddenly we notice two figures standing before us to the side of the skylift.
The glow emanating from the beings themselves glistened and rippled with a silvery sheen.
We stared in awe at the raw perfection of their features; the smooth bronze skin, the clear eyes that pierced deep.
“What is this? Why are these Workers here?” one Exalted questioned another with a deep, booming voice.
“I don’t know. Perhaps the Enforcers know of this?” the other Exalted responded in a clear, trebled voice.
The Exalted snorted, “I doubt it. Those children are full of themselves. They are just bitter because they cannot join us until they pass their Ordeal.”
I? What is I?
“It is no matter. Let’s just stick it back in the skylift and let the Enforcers take care of this,” the Exalted continued.
The Exalted approached us and fear overcame our senses.
We backed up into the skylift and watched as the doors closed before the Exalted could touch us.
We watched as the wonderful plants and buildings flashed past, until we descended into the gray wall.

###

We thought.
We saw.
We felt.
Nothing was the same.
Our thoughts clouded, our mind scrambled.
Our work was pitiful, the reprimand was fierce.
Still, this question remained.
What is I?
We thought and thought, but nothing made sense.
We made the trip finally, to search the Records.
We requested a definition of I.
Thousands of responses came, overloading the senses.
We read and read.
It was wonderful!
It was spectacular!
But it still went against the rational mind, our thoughts, the Clan’s thoughts.
How can we be I?
How could our ancestors have been so blind?
Could they not see that to not be one was to be nothing?
But then, there was still the doubt.
There is always that doubt.

###

We moved through life, slippery as soap.
No one must suspect that things were not as they seem.
Every day, we viewed the skylift with envy and curiosity.
Every day, we approached it to ascend through the gray wall.
Every day, we turned away and went home.
Finally, the day arrived.
We resolved to enter the skylift no matter what.
We boldly entered and stood as the doors shut.
As we rose, our knees swayed.
We did not know precisely what awaited us at the top, but we knew that we must see it again.
The Unseen must be seen.
We rose and rose, and so did our spirits.
The pounding in the ears, the raw feeling of energy overcame us.
Now, rising through the gray wall towards the Unseen.
Now, rising towards salvation.
The wall was coming to an end, the freedom was coming.
The radiance burst in again, no less dizzyingly than the last time.
Once we stopped at the flat level again, we tentatively looked around, searching for signs of any of the Exalted.
With none in sight, we bent over and sprinted to the nearest cover, which was a large, fruit-bearing tree.
Now, this was an oddity, since the only plants we ever saw were grown in factories, and they were suspended in water.
We reached up and plucked the nearest fruit, which was about the size of our hand and had a smooth, red exterior.
We split it open, to find that within, it was moist and somewhat white inside.
Slowly, carefully, we placed a bit of the fruit in our mouth and chewed.
How delightful!
It was sweet, moist, crunchy!
We proceeded to devour the rest of the fruit, except the seeds, which were hard and small, and the small twig atop the strange, amazing fruit.
Once finished, we cautiously walked down the central path around the curious, floating buildings that radiated gold light, and pondered the burning questions in our mind.
What if our ancestors had something?
Was their downfall because of individuality, or was it the lack of it?
What if that one percent difference is what matters?
We did not know for certain, but eventually, we had to turn back, because the radiance began to fade and night would soon come.

###

You are not special.
“We aren’t?”
You are the same as any other person.
“Are we really?”
Science says you are the same.
“Is science really so infallible?”

###

So it became routine, to leave work and go up the skylift, to eat the globe-shaped fruit, which we discovered were called “apples”, and think.
Things below the gray, misty wall became less clear, less defined.
We saw the people around us, but it was as if they did not see us.
The gray walls, the gray shapes shifting from home to work, home to work.
Are they blind?
Was this how life has been?
It was uncertain, but thoughts began to form.
The others must know.
They cannot remain ignorant.
All the things they must know.
Above the gray wall, it was clear.
The purpose was clear.
We must leave, gather the knowledge, and teach the others.
We must plan.
We must prepare.

###

We thought, and we knew.
I am unique. I am not the same as everyone else. I think, breathe, eat, and exist for my reasons and purpose, nobody else’s. I will not submit to the will of others. I think clearly and for myself. I will be set free.

###

On the final day, it really wasn’t that difficult.
After work, I began to walk, and never looked back. I approached the edge of civilization. No one stopped me. No one even looked at me. Only the blankness was there. Before me, an endless, barren landscape, devoid of life. Behind me, the same.
I vowed to return, however; the people behind me would know what it was to feel, what it was to see, what it was to live. The Exalted were not so special as to leave the rest of us in the waste and filth. People would be given a chance for redemption.
Time grows short; I must hurry.

ummm!! I'm gonna take his
blindfold off for him to savor
me with his gaze, eyes roam
touchin' me in silent awe; finger
tastin', the unthinkable, straddlin',
squeezin', teasin' and grazin' nips
leavin' wet trails of pleasure upon
briny masculinity; listenin' to his
heart race, ignites lustful tremors

stroked insanity, slippery slit teases;
thoughts throb, as thickness swells,
swollen senses breathe deeply of
soaked scents; flickin' bud betwixt
achin' petals...****! Oooo!...yes!!
soft, ebony fingers assault and swirl
elicitin' moans and sighs, takin' nips
betwixt teeth again as fingers enter
swollen honeycomb; overflowin' in
sweetness

sweat rolls off our body, bitin' nips
eruptin' sparks of long awaited aches,
dominance partakes its desire, slitherin'
along bouquet thighs, blossomed scents
flow; emanating moans givin' reason to
beg; biting silk sheets, tonguin' his treat
actin' like a freak, lovin' me cheek to
cheek; playin' me like a symphony
strummin' thighs, releasing melodious
sighs, sensual cries in sultry lullabies
in trebled tempo's in and out of wet
tightness, as I blindfold him; complyin'
with his ****** whims...takin' me again and again

Trebled arms surround—
Drowned in seabeds by cuttlefish,
Threadbare were my bones.

Thou, my Helsinki, art but none like the whimsical England;
A sultry bruise in its own pretense and fear of foreign lands,
A sordid gate through which oneself ought not to fall,
With curses and dominions of souls awaiting by the wall,
And for we hath none there to live on and feed and exist,
That I had but to restrain my ripe taste for exotic bliss;
I could put neither my mind nor countenance at rest,
All fed from wealth, and churned an insatiable hole in my chest.
My heart is lost, and with a love gone for too long,
Misery has become too good, and cries are far prolonged.

My Helsinki is too sweet, unlike the ****** sun;
Perplexed only by my art at first, but not my literature.
With you, Aurora, all ice shall become ardent and lighter:
My sins shall fade as they penetrate the laden fun,
And the griefs that wash away shall quench the fire,
Returning to me my young snowstorms, and lyre.
I shall long to stride across thy satin-like blue mud,
Keeping my peace at pace within a salubrious heart.
All is thoughtful, my Helsinki; all is wicked but pure inside me,
That I can but love again when fate is too close to see.

Thou hath encased in a little lily my English violet,
A purple evil living on within a shiny swollen pocket.
In a place that is so laden with the promise of death,
Let’s forget our fallen fate and dream without breath.
Let us mock the rolling stars in the sour, unkempt sky;
To believe that England is not alive, that ‘tis but a lie.
To see that England is but a slithering little mire anew,
And a mire among beautiful mud like thee, wise and true.
To hear, or but to see that I can knit a new story,
That thou hath always had conscious faith in me.

Thou, who hath brought the sight of joyful days,
And the promise of such hath entertained me;
The vanished boughs of England once seemed real today,
Which my eyes found too unmerited for us to see.
All the squandered fate to me shall mean nothing,
Nor their grace shall carry the luck of the unknown.
All the wasted feasts that were once everything,
The past hath gone, leaving no absurd reality alone.
To me then, all of my England is oblivious and utterly dead;
That with a salubrious sweat, I shall send it into thorough death.

That the mind alone, of the poet, never loses its imagination,
That the fits it celebrates shall keep the delirium eternally;
That with delight shall celebrate poetry’s reincarnation,
In a daring love and human thought seen at the edge of Helsinki.
Where but did England’s spirit forsake me, every now and then,
I was beneath no love and the care of apparition friends,
That know not how to penetrate a crowd beneath its cheers,
Nor console the sick right in their hearts, all was too weird.
I was dwarfed in those cold whereabouts, I was unloved,
That even my favourite winter seemed too harsh to laugh.

You will tear me away from such despair, I believe;
Grab my hand, and lull it to sleep by the wealth it sees,
Make it rejoice at the fortune for which it writhes—and lives,
Make it love the days for whom it was devotedly decreed.
Ah! For just this once, I shall deliver my congratulations to you;
You have been the cold flower that spoke so clearly and true.
You are the fond memory that woke me from the steep sleep,
The depth that surrounded me in my virile anger, and weeps.
You are the quiet splendour that my mind boasts of, and conceives,
You are the trebled grace that my spirit strives to believe.

You are the one with the trident on the throne;
And you recall all my salubrious and tired moves,
That you say my love is sour yet fresh as warm vinegar,
That my love is a warmth to thee, much less thy solitude,
A solitude that hath been left clueless at its heart,
A solitude so magnanimous and cheerful like a flute.
You are the one who shall consecrate my love,
Make it as firm as the benign loving throne,
You are the one who shall feed from their naught,
Cheer, pamper me with a feat so real to me alone.

You are the one whose fiery fate shall contain me;
That rejects the bad and keeps to me eternally,
No further mist of love hath drifted by me, and all hath been vain,
Thou shalt but catch the one for me; and the colds that remain,
I shall be the first to crave for the form of my love, my man,
I shall be the first to witness the emergence of rain.
I shall be the first to look behind the heatless statue,
To see first the form of a man so definite and true.
Thou shalt me grant a life and solitude far better, not worse,
Thou shalt idolise me as thy special Goddess of words.

And guess who shall but take hold of my pleasurable arms,
The night’s chamber hath lost its insatiable moans, and warmths;
Long since, they all melted down on an antagonistic sunny day,
Riveting as it was, lethal in too many narcissistic ways.
Ever since, they all never came back in any lifelike form,
They are haunting each other in their own abysmal dreams.
That is, nonetheless, just how it should still be,
To be the charmed poet I am, to fathom the world as I do.
That too, my love, is how my poetry shall ever want me,
That a love, as I did know, shall only ever come from you.

Hail! Hail! I feel so newfound and beautifully charmed and true,
Thy wind hath tossed me about like a pink-cheeked village child,
There is no spirit with freshness and joy, indeed, like you,
You gleam like a star, even on the summer moors so wild.
Everyone lives—the idea England seldom wants to confess,
Everyone lives on our art, for everyone and art are at their best.
And guess who is to swim into the heartless, shadowed sea,
For all is not cold and merely awake in our imagination.
The seas, which stir to life on the breaths of a sunny day,
Vitriolic attempts they make, much less their thankless ways.

Hail! Hail! I feel my imagination is about to be restored;
That all wrinkles and pains and worries shall but fade,
I shall again sail to the autumn breezes and daylight cold—
Facing my auburn destiny that ne’er comes too late.
Ah, Helsinki, whose hundreds of Christmas dusts shall overwhelm me,
Open my heart in a fun satire, full of delightful joy.
I seek to celebrate the clear day in thy ice of victory;
A beauty the sun shan’t thaw nor lay nor destroy,
Ah, Helsinki, so beautiful are thy majesty and cordial rains,
A pyre of stars by agreeable mountains, and dramatic friends.

Hail! Hail! My Helsinki is melancholy from what I hath seen,
It appreciates much the work of heaven in worried poetry,
That all solitude is passionately brewed, and born again
Within the real magnitude of love and festive sanctity.
My heart was too young and frivolous to follow the tender nature;
To gain what poetry truly was, nor share its sensible culture,
That once a call of tempt sloshed flippantly over me;
I became corrupt and unable to see the light in thee.
That I was wrong, I was too lighthearted to be wrong;
Bring me back my art—wash me with your newborn love, my Helsinki.

She stood at the gravestone a shard petal
Fell cutting upon the air. It littered the floor
With tears of wine, falling and spilled on the
Found staining the memory below. She gripped
Upon its stem in a hardened stance of tears.

Her cowl draped over her soft hair in the
Scattered winds it flowed and from her
Grief did vengeance flourish. shadows
Granted form trod upon the ground.
Beauty in darkness bled upon the land.

Hooves trebled on odours that were seeping
Scent bleeding a trail on the land below.
There onyx alicorn cut into the wind tasting
The vengeance that would bleed upon there
Moment of satisfaction as shadow feed cold.

Hooves were separated, as the hunted greeted
Foe, shadows were separated and in to mist
They seeped back to the cloak. Fibres torn
From the impact and bled darkness on all
It graced upon. She felt each of there pains.

One still galloped on, ever seething in connected
Grief of its fallen parts now concentrated in its
Raging torrent of remorse. Each that had fallen its
Location bleed into the sky showing each the
Position of vengeances handle well grasped.

Rapid breath did concentrate on a veil of
Misted wisps as in site that which felled the
Love of one in shadows trawl. Now as blade
Swung for a third strike hardened by fallen
Before it glided on concentrated form.

Majestic beauty seethed in onyx fought for
What was owed in blood. It  needed to be fed
Upon its quivering movement, not sullen as
Before, for each learned from the fallen before
Swifter and fluid motion formed and flowed forth.

Her main was cleaved into oblivion as wisps
Drifted off. Hooves took on to flesh and connected
In true form. blood urged to be released as lips
Gestured forth and expelled raindrops of pain
On self and the watching earth silent below.

It clipped with its etched alicorn flesh tight
And willing to be cut upon, as tears of life
Draped ever faster she was called to this
Calling to venture into the known finishing.
In elegance she edged slowly forth unto him.

I was in a beat of another draped in essence of
Loves grip. You stole the heart that held mine
And it fell shattered into dust. I claim the right
Of loves vengeance on that which was taken
Now entombed  in eternal stones grasp.

As the last steed faded into recollection and
Joined her cowl now whole. Its horn now
A knife of blood rose thorns ready to drink.
He went to venture words but her finger
Silenced anything seeping forth.

"Love was my light and you extinguished it,

"Now darkness collects it dues on that death,

She plummeted it into his chest and it drank, as
A husk knelt before her then dust graced the
Gentle wind and she stood alone once again.

"My love as yours was stilled,

"Now they do not breath breathe,

And she hilted her dagger and once again
Stood over the stone that held silent thoughts,
And a heart that still beat but not of life anymore.

Dear God:

Re Eva Cassidy

Been waiting/wanting to write you for a long time
About Eva Cassidy.

Had to let the anger settle,
Had to find the write words.

Many months have past, perhaps years,
Since I stumbled across the voice of this angel,
Memorial Day, it seems like the write time to
Try once more.

But my anger has not settled, it has trebled,
It has risen and is unquantifiable, irrevocable,
a line crossed, a feud, that can never now be amicably settled.

I have a retinue of good curses, experienced friends,
Looking to meet up with you, who understand that
Blessings and curses, for full effect, should be rarely used,
Especially inside a funereal poem honoring the truly great.

But for Eva, there's no question, you dude,
Got a fleet of F bombs coming your way,
When the children have gone to bed.

When Eva sings "Imagine,"
The purity of voice, miraculous,
I know you were afraid
And so took her young,
Lest her voice raise a generation of questioners.

Imagine there's no heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today...

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to **** or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace...

You got the power,
You make mistakes,
We all gotta die sometime,
But you better not take the special ones too early,
Or I may stop writing to you, and then,
What ya gonna do? Who will comfort me?
Eva will, that's who,
When we walk together in Fields of Gold...

Shelter Island 5:00pm
May 26

indecently the night tasted like staccato light
and trebled, bassing the fluxing notes steeping
off the amber pools i crushed deliciously
under foot mounted bracket
a mountain
of love
she shoved unseriously in my face
and my winter blossomed spring tides new heat
it bubbled between every nothing spurting
terribly roughed dancing
and calves pumping bounce
we all moved like stones
jittering motionless suddenly erupting swoon

My precious Baby
My wonderful child
My headstrong teenager
Gone radically wild.

My breathtaking grownup
My source of delight
My hope that tomorrow
Makes everything right.

The decades have trebled
My efforts have failed
My key cannot open
The place where I’m jailed.

She’s made me a stranger
To the life she’s created
She claims that she loves me
But I sorely debate it.

She married in secret
I’ve not met her groom
I don’t think we’ll ever
Be in the same room

She says I am toxic
All know I am not
Her shrink is the villain
And ought to be shot.

I live on the outside
And only look in
On the life I created-
A game I won’t win.

I’ll swallow my heartbreak
As I’ve always done.
Still reach for redemption
And settle for none.
ljm

now hear this! sing this! you constant Cade, you
choral breakneck in a single sum of man,
brackbreaking in the chaos-rinsing rite of ashed religion!—

choke now, for you used me. a tossing stave to ward off sins
of fratting simpletons and their unsyncopated singing.
—all sixteenths through roughshod roads of wrong-be-gone righteousness.

and why? because i vaped some trebled color to the gray.

oh! what is the
madness-misering measure of a middle-aged man
who through the din of dampened doing, of desperate
dancing on two left feet and wrinkled writhe of witlessness in the mid of being been should shuffle off and coil himself into a crimson cross?

you did it why? for friends and for the fissure,
some bald breach of banality beyond the stoic peach—
and for a frosty flame?

what waste of was you were, and still accomplished are;
that god-grappled greed should unhinge your soul's Sophia
and ever the future fraught.

there is not bracker brine than your bishops ex-cathedra,
for all the feast you fête, and friends you turn upon a spit;
you're hungry for a food that's never fed.

poor witless starving pitchless sum; your death is all my make into an angel, as you so quickly from this earth will shred
and songs adduced unto the celebration same.

To a man, my
Guides agree - I
Drip with electricity

In certain lights. This
Scrap of flight, of
Gilt and gold on moonless nights

Exceeds all dreams
Or simile:
We've trebled what was meant to be!

I take a breath and close my eyes with pride.
His comments seek a lodging in my soul;
The hurt I feel from all he spits, I hide.
He’ll never know he’s found my numb heart’s holes.

“Forever” was his biggest lie to me,
One word, a feeble promise left unkept.
My heart should learn the way his drums beat free.
I’m captive to the trebled tears I’ve wept.

Do you recall when Whitman said “Beat! Beat! Drums!”?
Too bad the drums could always beat, beat us.
At least I got kisses ‘tween rounds of ***.
But still, to him, I’d grown superfluous.

I simply craved some adult discussion.
I guess  he preferred to play his percussion.

pre-dawn, the creased ear
throat’s trebled tessellation
feathers, gathered moths

phenome, paired, woven
nests wanting the glaze of dew
wing beats heart’s small drum

the distant echo
of symbiosis rising
in hued, petaled tones

ephemeral, the poured glass
of dawn’s edge in flight

******* you and your beautiful ******* music.
My heaven, now my hell.

Bass drops.

Heart stops.

Trebled tears.

Your soul floats in Slow Motion.
Your face appears in the Midnight Train to Georgia.
You shot Bambi, Paul.
Every day Feels Like Rain.
I Get Overwhelmed.
I'll never again see you in the Morning Light,
Never again in Luckenback, Texas.
If You Keep Leaving Me,
Every melody begins to Grow Old.
Who knows if This Too Shall Last.
He's Never Failed Me Yet.
I'm Not Okay (I Promise).
There's A Tear In My Beer.
How long do I have to Wake Up Alone?
So much Pain.
You might be Gorgeous, but this is Delicate.
Tiny Dancer, you Lady, You Shot Me.
Would you even care If I Die and Slip Away?
All I Could Do Was Cry.
I've Got It Bad And That Ain't Good.
How Can You Mend a Broken Heart?
A Long White Line?
When can I Pass the Vibes?
I want some Real Love, Baby.
Guess I'll get In The Waiting Line.
Maybe you're not my Destiny.

******* you and your beautiful ******* music.

I saw your garden
For the first time in months
All the perennials had
Trebled in size
The agapanthus, by the wall,
Put out many heads
And by the fence
The large poppies
And fluted penstemons
Flutter in the breeze
Which sways the hollyhocks
To and fro
On that same windy spot.


Love Mum to Victoria ***

My father is saying nothing.
I know it, he knows it, and it is here,
the inevitable farewell but not quite.

I have told myself I am ready for this.

That I shall not be wrenching Bombay Bad Boys
from the shelves of an alien Tesco
to gorge on while On The Road remains unread.

That I shall not be downing shots of lurid liquid
with friends whose names do not yet exist
in warm bars where the toilets are pockmarked with sick.

I have assured him, and my mother,
and the punnet of mates I’ve accrued
this will not be my life circa one month from now.

The luggage has somehow trebled,
the back seat obese with a calamity of items,
an unboxed IKEA lampshade, unused cups from home.

In a second, a pat on the back,
a proud of you son, perhaps, isn’t that what Dads say?
He will worry, but mustn’t.

I think of my mother peering out the living room window.
Her eyes are flustered with tears.
The car seems to have stopped talking. I open the door.

Trebled fountains and lenient trees
Swift in their purity from the ground
Fondles the earth and all its mysteries.

Grapes, crushed and given a reason to live, or a raisin. Aren’t we all
living in dissonance?
It feels, and we know it does.

Towers landed from the skies of our imagination,
the earth solidifying into architecture and sterilisation.
The sky cries for us.
Our obliviousness perpetuating us into oblivion.

We rushed being distracted, and we rushed being in love.
We rushed our existence into a world unrecognisable.
Our brains absolved of sin by
nature regrowing under our noses.

We will rush everything,
until everything rushes us.