Violating a placid spirit
Memories transgress  
desecrating the sacred.

Memories are
the dark side
of a full moon.

Memories are unsatiated desires
couched on sorrow  
entangled in time
a perennial wrinkle on the soul.

Memories are trespassers
possessing neural atrium
wading saline sockets
slithering in to throbbing veins
tiptoeing to hollow spaces
burying all under their eerie weight,
Memories are an inescapable affliction.

In fragmented mindscape
Memories are violent winds
littering the past.

Lurking behind aches  
in ethereal garbs,
Memories are assassins.
Or sema
of a swirling dervish.

Hurtling within, Memories
is an avalanche
pounding the abyss
choking the void
one gasp at a time.

Memories are
nameless apparitions
fused as shadows
to the very being.

Memories are an assault
on identity and belonging.

to the lush old fields,
i walk back,
filled with young yields.
from where i shall take back
the never ending memories
of my childhood days, i thought
i used to sit by the window sill
all alone and still
to watch the autumn sunshine
that peeps into the pane
the big old oak
and the greedy rook
the cherry blossoms on that lonely lane
the blushing lilies and white poppies
that bloom around the shire
i came from a racing world
where love vanished and is filled with dare
where the sea churns blood
and from where humanity fled
we took everything from her lap
and left it bare of warmth and sprout
none have time now
to look back at the fallen oak
nor the rook on the shabby scarecrow
who guards the barren fields
so scarce the cherry blossoms bloom
as the world began to race
trials narrowed to that little falls
where the running streams
told their weary tales
walls began to build up
huge and strong
nor a drop now came
through that restricted site
climbing further
to the peek up north
my ears caught a dirge
which the nightingale sang
to the dying earth
coz now we have opened the pandora's box
and infected the earth
i wonder where the squirrels went
'fore it was their place
now we encroached it
and to rebuild the woods
of fawn , the trespassers forgot
now all that is left of the brook
is a concrete wall
nailed to it a new plastic board
with bold letters printed
read: TRESPASSERS NOT ALLOWED"

Let’s get something straight
I’m not
Or at least, that’s a situation in question
But that’s not what I’m here for, you see
The acronym LGBT has a terrific little tail that everyone tends to trip over
And the conversations that transpire when I attempt to try the closet door
Leave me frequently swept under the rug
Maybe I’m just a little lost in translation
But they should know that identity is not orientation
And it can be tricky to articulate, so I don’t mind the extra explanation
But I’m telling you there’s a tipping point where you can’t expect me to take it
To tally up the talks I’ve had tearing apart the phrase
“So, genderfluid is like another word for bisexual, then, right?”
Because there’s already this his-and-hers internal tug-of-war
So tying in other types of ignorance just gets tiring at times
And trying again and trying again and again to get the point across
Leads me down a tangled train of thought that runs off the tracks in unclear tangents
Because conversations transition without the intended amendments
Because these transcripts would transcend the usual transfer of data
Into transgressions and obsessions with more than I’m able to
Confirm or confer without temperamental reactions
Feeling entirely translucent overlooking their infractions
Wondering why more words aren’t composed in a way that allows them
To be transposed to neutrality or at least farther from
Specific definitions testing how gendered things can get
Wondering why I don’t make any sense yet
[Breathe]
Let me be perfectly queer
The acronym LGBT has a tetrad attraction detailing at least part of this
Just a trifle of understanding if you’re looking to comprehend it
And if you don’t care to learn then don’t bother to ask
But take some time from your day and I’ll try to make it fast
Go ahead and interrogate, I don’t mind all that much
Whatever trips your trigger, as long as it’s not pointed at us
I can’t speak on behalf of every transgender teen
But if you don’t know a word, I can tell you what I mean
I can text you a trillion terms to absorb
Or trim down the lesson to the basics if you’re bored
But don’t tell me that pronouns are a hassle to learn
When they catch in the throats of those just waiting their turn
To stop hiding their tears and be treated the same
Teaching one person at a time until the world hears their true name
Don’t expect trophies, but I’ll give you my thanks
Don’t tease us about the clothes that make our spines and souls ache
I want to wear this letter T like a cross from my neck
Saying the prefix trans- means across and I like it like that
Traversing the spectrums and binaries all mixed
Transcontinental, transatlantic, transfixed
By the beauty in boys and the glamour in girls
But mostly the neithers and boths in this world
Don’t tell me it’s a transient, temporary tale
Or that I’m totally enamored with getting off the most followed trail
I’m taking back traumas and tense muscles and taunts
Until tentative trespassers give us what we want
A presence, a voice, and all human rights
It shouldn’t be a privilege to feel safe at night
Don’t tiptoe around troubles, just stand with us here
Add a voice until we trumpet our triumphs and cheers
Take my hand, hear my voice
Listen, learn something new
Because LGBT has a cross and
Cross my heart
I’m with you

I am thankful for the trespassers.
for those who dared breach my walls
gently but firmly, who passed through
my locked doorways carrying candles,
determined to do no harm, determined
to raise me from the dead.

I wrote a beautiful poem today,
and then I frowned when I saw it again.
Someone had stopped by in the comments to say
their own sonnet; they put their own poetry in my margins.

I'll be brief, and I'll be nice, and I'll attempt patience at least.
Clear and concise: I want your poetry, but not on my lawn.
I don't want it in graffiti in the margins of my piece.
Leave your words in your "New Poem" section where they belong.

I promise I'll look at them if you ask, and if I have the time.
If you want to reach more people, don't use me as a conduit.
I realize I said I'd try to be nice, but it would be a crime
if I didn't put it as blunt as possible, and honestly?
          If you need to plug your work that badly,
                                                         it's probably sh*t.

          If I inspire you with my words, then respect that inspiration;
          Please cease. Hawking your wares on my turf reeks of desperation.

I have a sign on my chest
that says "trespassers
welcome."

It's written in red ink,
the cheap kind that never really dries
and with each new boy
that invites himself into my home,
the letters become smudged.

I try to remove the sign
but it remains there
etched into my skin
and the more I pull at my skin
the stronger the pain
in my chest grows.

Trespassers are only temporary
and I pray that one day
they will stop reading my body
as an open invitation but

until that day.
My chest
will be painted
​red.

Whistling through your teeth
What a nice body I have? What a beautiful face I have?
Wolves are always hunting but
I'm not 11, 16, 17 anymore
I'm not little red riding hood and
I will draw blood before you
Don't call me anything you wouldn't want to hear your mother called
Private playground
Trespassers shot on sight
Animals like you are hunted by girls - no
by women like me
My conviction rate is 100 percent these days
Wolf, one day you'll prey on the wrong princess
You can't huff and puff
Blow down a castle
Animals like you rot in cages
(B.N)

im shaking a snow globe and all flakes are stuck to the bottom.
i can't make it snow inside.
the smiling statuettes are broken and there's a hairline crack that slashes across the glass.

it used to wind and play the lightest tinkling music
like a jewelry box my mom bought for me when she wanted me to be her girl.
that's all over now.
i think it got thrown in the trash years ago with my pink baby blanket and the arching ballerina doll.

i used to be someone's daughter.
i used to be a girl shook up in snow with music ringing in the background.
it's dead quiet now.

my thoughts are stuck to the bottom of my skull
and can't be shaken up and the music crank is jammed and my heart is a silent overture.

i don't want to be a girl
or a boy or a thing
with limbs.
and i don't want a girl or a boy
or a thing as fragile as those statuettes with fractured arms.

they're still smiling even though they aren't whole.
how do they hold their pose so completely?

ive never been much good at that so i just watch with admiration at the
art of the inanimate,

cracking a hairline smile that can't stir my eyes.

i don't think i can shake you any harder and i don't think i can unglue those tiny flakes. after all, that's the whole ******* point, isn't it?

what good is a snow globe that doesn't snow or a person that can't love or a daughter that isn't?

what good am i to anyone if i can't be whole or good or correct?
ive been playing at the art of the inanimate and
those eternal smiles and pointed ballerina toes.

i thought if i was quiet as a figurine--
i thought.
i thought.
i thought.

and I'm shaking
shaking
shaking

and nothing is coming unhinged.
there's no music.
the hairline crack has become
formidable.

I can't tell anyone still
because of the complications of
this grotesque girlhood and the *** that hangs suspended between us
so artificial and illuminated.
do you see it hanging there? or is it another thing
that can only be
and never act?

im getting better at this
art of the inanimate.
and this veneer of wholeness
and manufactured joy.

smooth down my body in poreless plastic and close all entryways to trespassers

and the womanhood that fast approaches can't find me and the selfish needs of limbs will be void
and the human desire to destroy everything it touches will be curbed
if just for a moment.

i want to destroy you with how much I want.
how much i want the snow to fall. how much I want to be baptized in the cold and kissed in a vacuum separate from the world.

our own dimension of mistakes and quiet
where both of us can practice the art of the inanimate
in peace.

i see you performing it too,
and your own hairline smile that cracks.

did you think i wouldn't notice?

i think the snow is coming loose.
i can feel it running down my cheeks.
and im smiling even though it feels wrong.

the thoughts are dusting over me and resting in my eyelashes.
i see them every time i blink.
she's gone and so is he and
there's more than i can count on all my fingers and toes
that have left.

my knuckles turn white.
my fingers tighten.
the world is glittering glass
that falls like the first snow.

I’ve come to realise
That I find Lake Klinwel boring;
Ignoring the skies,
The flight of birds
And their curving dives.
This lake, drowned by eyes,
Instead choosing to reflect static towers
That are monuments to Machiavelli,
Where the financially ambitious
And their crisp paper voices spend
Their days, evenings.
Money in the bank for tomorrow
Plan ahead, plan ahead,
That what the lake said
When I visited.

What freedom
Such a wonder of nature
Has to manipulate and
Reinterpret the harshness
In lines that ascend until they
Scrape the sky,
That tears, simple as tissue.

And all the while,
Cigarette butts,
In an abstract delinquency,
Revise community buildings and council offices
Where surely they dream of hole punch
And green lights and confirmation and deadline for appeal
Whilst bureaucrats administer more paper cuts to the teal-blooded sky and Risk Assessments have given a score to death—
Awarding it a number five.

The lake can surely stay awake
Just long enough to show me ripples
And normality when I drop in a stone,
Just a sound that
Confirms this mind is still my own,
That the waking world is known to me,
Dreams are dreams alone,
They are the ripples reaching the sea
From my daring stone.
To be beside a lake, lyrically alone,
Brings a pain that is most obvious and physical
And so I ask once more for the
Most minute of tides for my sore, tired eyes—
Just a ripple of two to the other side
Where I see a figure,
Where I see blue eyes,
Where I see extravagant dress and
Hair so shapely they say and yet
I couldn't care less.
It could be a wig
But the wind tells me it is not,
And her nose sits among a gang of features,
Knowing surely it turns heads—
Growing heavier with each turned.

The lake spat on my shoe and continued
To reflect the tall commercial towers
Whilst this green space is vast,
Boasting bowers where I sit with a pencil
And I see the birds of paradise
Impressively dancing and dancing impressively.
Sublime in fact!
But I think they are trespassers
We should kindly send them back
Their hearts are excessively small
And no longer in paradise,
Not close to it at all.

I’m done with you, lake!
Lake Klinwell, lazy deceptive mirror!
Are you depressed?
Disenchanted?
Do I notice how you are growing ever thinner?

I heard news that our
Town is crumpling in certain corners,
It’s folding in two like a map closing.
People are dreaming with recurring themes
And the flowers bow their heads
Just in case.

Oh, you are a soft, sensitive lake,
Let me dip my feet.
Do not fear for the town we share,
Do not quake, dear lake,
And enjoy your daylit hours
In the company of the trees and flowers.

I beg you though:
One day,
When I need it most,
Reflect for me a memory:

Diana and I on the corrugated coast,
Careless on the rocks,
I failed to enjoy it at the time through fear
but she leapt, crossed a gap to get to me.
She landed with a kiss.

And if you could add a sunset,
The weather was terrible.

There’s a dark grotto
Under the sea
With shelves and shelves
Of bottles
Clear, glass bottles
All of my secrets

A carefully watched castle
The middle of a concentric series of impassable walls
Surrounded by a forest of kelp
With razor-sharp teeth
And then the narwhals
The narwhal guards
Armed to the teeth with halibut-slicing knives
Their three-meter horns
Gleaming in the moonlight
Guarding
All of my secrets

Skeletons, trespassers of yore,
Strewn about the seafloor
Bones picked clean
By the scavenging *****
No one can enter
No one can leave
The grotto with the shelves
Shelves and shelves of clear, glass bottles
All of my secrets

But as for the *****
For the first time in centuries
The sunlight warms the waters
Melts the kelp
Kisses the narwhals
Buries the bones and torments the scavengers
Clearing away the darkness
A nonstop route through the castle
Protecting
All of my secrets

The tendrils of photons creep along
Wary
Ready for a fight
The grotto growls menacingly
Unguarded
For the first time in centuries
But upon the first touch -
Light meets stone -
The sea shudders
Ecstasy
And in repayment for salvation
Out come the bottles
Floating to the surface
Bathing in the light
All of my secrets

"shop closed"
the sign never sat
perfectly on any hook
or nook
or cranny
you are an echo bounced
perfectly in every hook
and nook
and crook

"considered sold once broken"
consider it done
once dealt with the devil
his ornamental fairies
consider them whole before
they were bought

"trespassers will be prosecuted"
bedsheets spun out of cobwebs
sandcastles spun in of air
floorboards swallow you in
you dreamt of
anchoring yourself
to the ground

"wine house"
lustre of turbulent pirouttes
trapped within the walls
of wine glasses and
wine-stained dresses
in cadavers' masquerade

"emergency only"
they pushed you in the operating theatre
and cleaned their hands with soap
opera
amputate these phantom limbs
pain has been the only anaesthesia

"in loving memory of"
he is the protagonist
he is the antagonist
and all stories end*
(with)              
                     the former

As much as I am nature's man,
in spite of all my hopes,
I'm just a walk-on in her plan;
the one who interlopes.

solo piano and contemplation
songs in D minor to distract desolation
and turn it into poetry
bittersweet, solemn, raw emotion
encapsulated through rhetoric
into the sound waves, into the billows
a letter read aloud, a message in a bottle

with melancholy rigor,
and the finest of pledges to sentiment,
a vow to exhibition and art,
and commitment to fighting trespassers

but please, dear, don’t escape,
the woods of stability is for the wild
and those who are lifetime trained
so toast to passion, stay for the verse
delay the sojourn for the song and show
often rest is the answer to unsettling dreams

sip the grape vine, if you please,
but not forget the pen and paper by your bedside,
never neglect the manuscript,
not ever cease the creation

write away the man that left you,
destroy the character in your prose,
demolish the utopia he once yearned,
a poet’s fists are stronger than the fighter’s
for the writer’s battle continues beyond the ring

step out of the sorrow,
relay the violin’s lingering echo,
and one day the call outside will pause
for a tranquil summer day when you are not alone

What's so illegal about wanting to marry?
What's so illegal about not wanting that weight to carry?
What's so illegal about inhaling the pain away?
What's so illegal about not living another day?

Our choice, our freedoms, once all in the same.
Now apposed by laws and wars and the Government's games.
War on drugs, anti-gay marriage,
No more abortions might as well lead to "accidental" miscarriage.

Suicides and trespassers both shot in the head,
Hacking games and fake identities, you might as well be dead.
Everything we fear the pessimists then "amend"
Pretending to be gods as if their hands are to be a lend.

What happened to the world when freedom was a lifetime?
Not where fat bellowing rich men made ruling us their pastime.
A rebellion is out of the question,
For people are afraid of more oppression.

Somehow comfortable in homes where brains lie with matrix,
Merely made up of fools who are not creative.
Sick of living in these countries of lies,
Freedom is all I ask but it is what others despise.

What's so illegal about being free?
What's so illegal about being me?

This plot of ground
facing the waters of this inlet
is dedicated to the living presence of
Emily Dickinson Wellcome
who was born in England; married;
lost her husband and with
her five year old son
sailed for New York in a two-master;
was driven to the Azores;
ran adrift on Fire Island shoal,
met her second husband
in a Brooklyn boarding house,
went with him to Puerto Rico
bore three more children, lost
her second husband, lived hard
for eight years in St. Thomas,
Puerto Rico, San Domingo, followed
the oldest son to New York,
lost her daughter, lost her “baby,”
seized the two boys of
the oldest son by the second marriage
mothered them—they being
motherless—fought for them
against the other grandmother
and the aunts, brought them here
summer after summer, defended
herself here against thieves,
storms, sun, fire,
against flies, against girls
that came smelling about, against
drought, against weeds, storm-tides,
neighbors, weasels that stole her chickens,
against the weakness of her own hands,
against the growing strength of
the boys, against wind, against
the stones, against trespassers,
against rents, against her own mind.

She grubbed this earth with her own hands,
domineered over this grass plot,
blackguarded her oldest son
into buying it, lived here fifteen years,
attained a final loneliness and—

If you can bring nothing to this place
but your carcass, keep out.

The stars they soar
As your smile it shoots through my veins
Demolishing the remains
Of previous trespassers
And the imprints they left.
You brush away soiled footprints
With one swift kiss
Placed delicately on my lips
And in an instance,

I am cherry cola bottles,
Cotton candy, funfair rides
Without a care in the world
I am racing down slides
With you i am ebbing with the tides,
Not against.
I am nights on the town,
A princess with a crown,
A smile, not a frown,
I don't drown today
All because you say
You love me.

I am floating
Floating high, high as a kite
I am amongst the stars and beyond
There is no need for a magic wand
To make my dreams come true
They are all embedded in you.

Chemistry pulsates between us
Two women from Venus.
The looks we exchange put to shame
Any love sonnet or story
You call my name
And angels sing
The joy you bring
Unexplainable.

With you I am strong
There is no matter of right or wrong
With you I belong
I am the most beautifully
Constructed piece of literature, song.
With you I am alive,
And living
This love your giving
Oh this love your giving
Could feed thousands.
With you I am complete
And there is no need to compete
For satisfaction
Because with you I am always satisfied
With you I am ebbing with the tide
Not against it.

You are the fight I swore I had ran out of
Months ago
You are the sheer beauty, purity and excitement
Of glistening snow
And I know wherever I go
You will follow.
You are the gentle breeze
The moments I seize
With both hands
And tie tightly to my heart
Every day is a fresh start.
You don't weigh me down,
You lift me up,
With you I stand on mountains
I drink from fountains
I laugh and smile
And for awhile
I am me,
The me I always sought to be.

And though the sands of time
Sift peacefully between us
Your grasp it tightens
There is no need to be frightened.

There is a reason for everything
You are,
My reason for existing,
A ring, a promise.
Safe and sound,
Til the ground parts us.
We shall be partners.
In crime, worlds at a time
We dance, our romance
Something that could never be crammed into words
Or wrapped up in poetry
For we,
You and me.
Are infinite, eternal.
And what we share
Indescribable.
You will always be my first and final
Love.

Love, love, love
I love you.

I just stood there glued to a magnetic compass
that emanated from your eyes
to my crotch slowly rising
because you stared me down with that slant
and silly look that opened and shut
like a silky lipsticked kiss
that was stolen while your husband was busy watching
the Super Bowl of popcorn
cracking up the score.

No I was not guilty at all
Instead I felt for him like a brother
who just lost a squeezed lemon
**** with spoons of sugar
and a touch of vanilla lip-smacking
tongue touching sensuousness.
His games chalked up my own scores!

On the way home I knew
what you were thinking
because I could not resist a reverse
back to your place
but the lights were out
and the dog was snoring loose
the ***** tossing about
and I could not sing like Romeo
at anyone's balcony.

I went home and drew the boundaries
on my own property.

Author Notes
Oh! did I just own up?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, a month

My heart is a
crumbling mansion.
Hard to heat,
hard to cool,
dangerous wiring,
dubious plumbing.
It looks OK
in a haunted way.
It's dangerous
to let others in.
So I rarely do.

  ~mce

Upon the gate
Words inscribed
"TRESPASSERS BEWARE"

Behind me mist recedes
Steep cliff revealed
At the brink I tense

My footsteps echo as
The gate looms larger
Damp black rocks under

Hits me the tortured's howls
As I step across the threshold
Legs steady, eyes set

Dense fog obscuring
Flame and body
The torch flickers

A winding path I follow
Patient and unwavering
With sword unsheathed

Cold wind announces my destination
Before me the chasm yawns
From my hands the flickering torch
Fell boucing down jagged rocks

I grasp the hilt of my sword
Light refracting off the blade
I hold it outward through the fog
Its light dimming by the minute
And await the terrors to come

Rumbling from the distance
The gate crashes down
Darkness falls upon this realm
The chilly wind picking up
All sounds coming to a halt
I close my eyes

Steps unsteady as I pick my way
Not knowing how many
Gasping I pull my feet back
As it touched empty space
Then tentatively I inch
Forward with a heavy breath
Until I stop at the very brink

For a minute staying still yet
With a lurch I slip into the chasm
Cloak billowing above me I
Flail around in a frenzy
I feel the cool hilt still and
Point the sword downwards
Taking a deep breath and
Bracing for the impact

In the secret alley of Culver City, i saw a painting of my Mexican American culture being celebrated.
The lights in the secret city sparkled like champagne bubbles.
Flowing with the city's energy our legs carried us around "No Trespassers Allowed" private properties.
I imagined a life were we could walk the streets and not feel paranoid by each car that passed.
The ideal fast food American City where there's bars and restaurants on every corner.
The alley took me into hyperreality, for what is real for me might be false for others and vice versa.

I feel the comfortable writhing
deep in my ***** again
I'm not sorry

This is your fault
You touched me first

Somewhere in the back of my mind
You're feeling me out

Little Miss,
Telepathic
Trespassers
will be prosecuted.

...I'll put my hands
around your neck
so softly

And choke out
the words caught
in your throat

To the tip of my tongue
     all the right things flow

To the flesh of your lips
     and all in between

resonating your body
     with stories

stranger
than
fiction

little deaths end
where they begin

can
you
feel
friction
feeling
you
up?

Just how you like
To be
shaken
and
stirred

tossed
and
over-turned

This is me unleashing
some twisted fantasy
to my little therapist
enabling me

To self-medicate with star-stuff
To "Show me what you're made of"
To "Baby, bend over and take it."

Show me the fourth wall
Let's break it.

You'd have to know what you're looking for
if you try to figure him out.
You have to look past the shackles weighing down his ankles.
Past the staples holding his smile in place.
I try every day,
bleeding from my nails breaking off
while scraping the concrete,
trying to tear through.
You'd have to swat away the vile that the demons release,
attempting to scare away the trespassers of his mind.
The sorrow of his eyes will pull you in,
but with all your might you will have to swim.
I hold my breath until I turn blue and dive in.  
No way will I let this darkness intimidate me,
No, I shall shoo them away
and coo while I stain his name on my lips with a smile that says...

Cease the red dragon im stabbin'
deep in ya heart
mount zion is where my destiny started
but now im parted
deep in the land of the lost loss souls
still tryna find themselves
through religions instituted by man
i don't take no for an answer infectin' like breast cancer
epidemic flows thermogenic
causin' instant sweat terrorist threats so they keep on the radar
like navy ships take short dips
bang on beats like bloods to crips
i go on and on like Gladys KNight and the pips
skip skip over critics wicked sadistic mystique
with the style i send  comprehend
tryna find my way
back to Mount Zion but im blurred brain fryin'
from all the heat im catchin' to my intellect
break through the sweat it's war
we at the verge of a battle so girls stop movin' ya rattle
rode worlds saddle too long im stuck in the killin' fields
fightin' my way back to promise land with much contraband
haters trespassers will be hung
frontin' like friends but ain't down with Black Na-tion
it's the return of Mount Zion

The Value of life is measured by the price of fossil fuels.
Trespassers enter the periphery. They seek no mentor; they do as they please.
Looking for a seat in the dark; They crave fresh meat They roast Joan of Arc.
Sing all those whom wish to wash away the strife Those with the deepest dark shine.
Become one of the idols when you stare into the shadow of denial.
Inhaling the anesthesia, the French horn player develops amnesia.
The singer in a suit and tie wished for his forgiveness only to be denied.
He was the one who forgot while I was the one completely distraught.  
Crowded in back stage, the joys of the night doesn’t ease my aching feet.
Poetry accompanied by music, when girls are becoming bulimic.
And boys are receiving lobotomies all in the name of notoriety.
So once more sing of love and stars. See the sky glow red from Mars.
For this is the last of us, the means are now just.
Let’s adore each other, when we stand in the rain we are restored.
The romance of language carries with it a history of pain. You couldn’t tell from a mere glance.
TJW 2013

Face covered by a mask
you go to its house to ask
if it had spare something sweet
for you and you're friends to eat

To you this house feels different
this really should be significant
Just hope trespassing it forgives
as something evil this way lives

You had no invitation
and you are no blood relation
yet into its yard you enter
so in its mind you centre

Now you can hear it's breathing
it's too late to think of leaving
Just know your times defeated
your about to be Tricked not Treated


© One man

Short struggle to the floor, I sigh,
your wrenched fingers clamped
tightly around my pointed wrists
Your convex caps join thigh to shin
pressing mine through scorched earth
slowing seconds grab my breath
pushing further out, and drawing ever in.

Spasmodic jolts, kicks and flinches;
failed punches, rattled writhing, wriggling
under your smirking calm, this is
second nature. Third wind I strike again
with snake like prowess, your dead weight flipped
but inches. Obey or suffer, your knee rolls,
to my chest; laser precision, your other uncoils
on the blackened dirt, ash and soil.

Flat footed battering ram to my ribs
then throat, ever slower, ever heavier.
The pain goes, the knife enters:
over and over and under flesh
ripping, torn skin.

I pity not the wondering victim who trips
on my carcass. Face first, horrified glance
towards the sign that reads:
Beware trespassers, out here
nobody hears your screams.

I stand and watch the full moon rising
over the cherry trees in spring
In the solstice, I've been blinded
I hardly know the day or the time anymore

I am bleeding from within
I am shedding parts of me
that i can no longer hold

Trespassers in the front yard
Looking through my window

Blue lights in my vision
Fourteen hours that were taken

Trespassers in the front yard
Sneaking thru my dreams
Looking through my window
Watching as i sleep

Blue lights in my vision
Metal on the wrist
Fourteen hours that were taken
Freedom as a gift

Winters heavy burden
has left me indebted
to the state that i live in
and home thats been given

The cold wind reminds me
of the space that i go to
The place I exist in
in sadness and solitude

I come and go
Come and go

I dont like myself when im away

Climbing through barbed wire
Fence and into the
Trees and through the
Bogs and across the
Ice and over the
Swamp on my hands and
Knees in the frozen mud
With my nose near the
Paw prints of squirrels and the
Sound of the river rushing in my
Ears and then over my body -
Freezing and sharp to wake me
Up - then onto the
Rocks and past the sign which
Read "no trespassers" a little
Too late, then on up the
Road and over the
Guardrail
Onto the trail
Past the fields
Over the wheel ruts
And under the chain
Back home again,
Soaking wet
And very much
Happier
To be alive.