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Shakespeare’s Dog


in the theater tonight, the notion of a poem-potion
courtesy of Shakespeare's dog came unbidden

So when home arrived, was unsurprised that this
very peculiar pug was farting before my own front door.

get lost, I announced got what I need from your boss,
but before I could kick him across the floor,
the pug spake thusly:

this dog knows the boot too well,
it is parcel of this dog's life of no quality,
but if you give me shelter tonite, I will provide,
share some of Speare's un-Published Works
and you can claim it as your own!


kicked that dog across the room,
(having pity earlier I let him in and enter)
told Jim, (that’s what I called him)
he can stay the night, or long as the sun rises up
and goes down unbidden, but, if I ever
caught him plagiarizing, selling sonnets on the side,
I would report him to the ASPCA and the Poet’s Union.

The American Society for the Poets of Conscience Alive -
might have his low hanging ***** cut off in retribution.

he laughed out loud, rhyming funny, pontificating:

well mate,
thanks for the soliloquy,
me ***** long time gone,
but what I know and what I’ve seen
if tale-told you, and you were to listen,
you would keep me around as fodder
for your artistic soul.

in return chappie,
you need only provide me a rug, a fire,
A/C for the languid summer eves,
fodder for me body, and your boots,
far removed from my hindquarters.

We spoke much thereafter,
turns out he served his poet-masters
in many ways, more than a mere footstool.

his snoring keeps me awake some twenty years later.
his love for country music makes me put him on nice days,
outdoors, his headphones securely strapped round his double chins.

ugh that pug. became my best becoming love, old friend,
one of us will pass someday and an elegy composition,
the other devotee will furnish sadness utterly becoming.

so if a farting pug before your door you’ve  found,
take him in, give him water, an amply supply please
of Carrie, Trisha and Chaplin-Carpenter for his immortal soul,
but beware, he might try to sell you
some of my words, as your own.

We start in Greek Street.
Not any night,
But the end,
A grand finale;
Last orders,
At the Coach & Horses,
Before the corporate boyz move in to whitewash,
Where inky Boho Jeffrey Bernard drank,
And Gary Dunnington, the actor, and his mates are on the ****.

Meanwhile, a mom runs her hands,
Though my strands.
'Tell me everything,' she enthuses,'about your hair.'
But there’s nothing to say:
I barely wash it,
Never brush it,
And only finger combe it.
But she carries on in my locks,
Then off to dinner with her bloke.

We head off to Trisha's at 57,
A lively basement heaven:
In energy, in noise, in smoke.
I chat with Mark.
Got his heart broke:
It’s hard
To sever those traumatic bonds,
Thick as pillar posts,
When love ***** up,
Goodbye, the cocktail of toxicity,
That had you on a high,
The ***, the texts, the tenderness,
And, oh, the bliss.

Kass, a boxer musician, comes
And shakes our hands.
He’s in Armani,
And says,
His eyes dark little raisins,
'I prefers a poet over a bruiser.'
And, 'I don’t fight no more,
If I did - so I don't bother -
I’d **** ‘em.

In the corner,
Two girls with dreamy eyes:
So I read ‘em love poems.

Then Jessica Appleby's head pops round the door.
We hug and then swap tales:
'I’m all messed up,' I tell her.
'What not her, the one you wrote that poem for.'
'My man,' she confides changing the subject,
'All crazy passion and wild *** for two months -
Then nothing.
Just fizzled out like it was never meant to be.'

She exits.

'You alright Gary?'
'Yeah, you?'
'Fine.'
But I don’t buy him a beer,
A bottle of Peroni is £5.
'No, it’s £3,' he says, 'if you pay cash.'
I head for the bar.
Three times I explain to the barman, it’s £3 cash.
'Who told you that?' he says slamming the bottle down.
'Gary,' I say defensively.
'Well, tell Gary, if he doesn’t shut the **** up,
He’ll be paying a fiver, too.'

A young American artist, Kirsty, starts talking to me.
She’s trying to get ahead in art,
And says, that when she was a kid,
On a blazing Tuscany night filled with stars,
She walked out onto a stone balustrade balcony,
And knew in that moment,
She was no longer her mom and dad,
But herself, Kirsty.

The boxer musician shoves a tall fellow hard against the wall,
The altercation,
Is over before it starts.

Kass gives me a wolfish smile.
Mark buys me a drink.
Kirsty goes to the toilet.
The corner girls have left.
Mark slips his stool.

Everyone is cleared from the yard,
Just Gary and I linger
With a feisty young bar lady,
Serving the Bohos of Soho.

Drinking in their pathos,
Exhaling in the shadows,
Mingling in their juices.
My ****** up heart beats
With the Bohos of Soho.
Ahhh, the Bohos of Soho keep many an hour.
The Bohos of Soho,
The Bohos of Soho,
The Bohos of Soho,
Have many lives,
The Bohos of Soho are a good seed.
You and I,
In Soho,
For last orders.

Trisha and Danny,
With your love so sure.

Sometimes love is like
A whirlwind in the trees.
Sometimes love's a while,
Then scatters to the seas.

But your love,
It shines brightly in your eyes,
It's there for all about to realise,
It's there in both your lows and highs.

Yet you well know that love is more,
It's universal,
Eternal,
The kernel -
It's so old that nothing came before.

Love is the joy that makes us whole,
Love is the truth that fills our soul.
Love is the light that burns inside,
Love is the flame that you can never hide.

Trisha and Danny, recall this day,
Your family, your friends,
Even far away.
Danny and Trisha, recall this time,
May its blessings ne'er end,
May your love be sublime.

After cocktails at Luigi's Bar, and then The Golden Bowl,
I proposed we play a gig of jazz-inspired rock and roll.
We all thought we'd make the fans cry out for encores every night.
But our schemes were dreams that faded in the morning's ruthless light.

My blue guitar should captivate the people every night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
My dream faded out of sight.

Playing keyboards was Patricia. (Never 'Trisha', never 'Pat'.)
She'd a taste for gracious living in her small art deco flat.
She would practice chord progressions, sipping lapsang souchong tea.
Then she played away at weekends with her special friend, Marie.

She trained her dainty fingers to explore new grooves each night.
But the dream crumbled, the dream tumbled.
Her dream faded out of sight.

We had Ritchie on electric bass, with tap-and-pull technique.
Such a clever devil — Ritchie almost taught the bass to speak.
Ralph the drummer's backbeat cymbal crashes measured out the bars.
We agreed the speed — then found we could not play like superstars.

Would the crowd be wowed by passion from my lovely blue guitar?
No, the dream crumbled, as the band stumbled.
Our dream faded overnight.

The Blue Guitar Quartet
was as close as we could get
to our vision for the music of today.
But we bumbled and we fumbled,
our aspirations humbled.
So we slowly put our instruments away.

"The Blue Guitar Quartet
is down, but not out yet.
With practice you will crack it," said Marie.
"Let Patricia be your singer;
she's a musical humdinger,
and as soulful as a solo girl can be".

"She can improvise a blues
based on any riff you choose.
Let's have handshakes and embraces —
this quartet is going places!
Here's to jazz-rock, and The Blue Guitar Quartet!"

I stepped out from my tent into the night.
We had set up camp early, unusually so, but understandable. Getting for this solitary camping site was exhausting enough. I could tell that it was just half an hour after full dusk, but they were all sounding asleep. From across the campfire, I could see Trisha’s tent with its owner perhaps snoring a little too loud. Beside mine Daniele and Jomer’s tent. I’d never dare go there after I decided to try and pull off some prank at an ill time. Nor would I speak of its details. The others like, like Nicole and Ivan were also out.

I wore my hood and went off into the woods.

Despite my nyctophobic tendencies, I continued thoroughgoing in the woods, grasping transcendent perception of solitude. I would cherish the sound of the rustling leaves, the occasional sound of gale, and the melody of silence, however, after some time; I could not shake the feeling that I was being eyeballed. I took a quick look around the darkness, and saw nothing but the void of nature. I shrugged it off.

I reached the cliff side that still contained my other sleeping bag I left two or so hours ago.

When I lied down, I felt a pang of tranquility that seemed to resonate around my surroundings. Soon, the stars started lighting up. While waiting for coruscation's of light, I heard a voice.
“I also wish it were always like this”.
Feminine, soft, no doubt it was Trisha. The loneliness subsided, I felt dread, but yet I could sense bliss in her company.
“What brings you here? I’d hazard a guess that you shadowed me all throughout” I said apathetically.

I see no botheration in that, besides, we have similar interests yet also differences,” she replied, putting down a sleeping bag I just now observed. More of the white dots appear. I can almost see a streak of light lining the shaded sky, yet my energy reserves are draining.

Waking up at midnight, or so says my phone, was a godsend. The entirety of the galaxy has showed its entire grandiose splendor. No doubt the camp would be delighted if they were awake, but I wouldn’t want to take need for any of them, Even Trisha, who was still napping. I decided to give her a couple of shoves to try and wake her up, heavens know why. No success.

Now I’ve always wondered why the middle portion of the Milky Way looked like ominous cloud. I deduced like an idiot that it was sort cloud or some sort. Though it was unlikely. Despite the number of stars, I could spot some common constellations, like the Big Dipper. I knew where they were, pinpoint, The cluster of stars seemed to shine as bright as the moon, if ever it was here tonight.

A yawn was heard, a couple inches to my right. A response at last. When she came to her senses, I’d seen a side of her that nobody would expect to see. Ordinarily a being like me, she went into a panic berating me for not waking her up. And while I tried to convince her that I attempted to, it was a failure. It was easy to convince her to look up, though.

We discussed about the stars, my slight dislike for socialization notwithstanding. I’ve just now seen a part of her that was not the quiet, shy, yet strong girl she was. She is as eager as I am inside to my greatest surprise. Nebulas, main sequence stars, novae and what not, all these we debated and argued solemnly in the midst of the dark light that is our galaxy. I, for little reason other than none at all, asked her about the joke I’d done to her just half a day ago. Although she didn’t want me to discuss what I shouldn’t, we reconciled quickly.

Only now have I realized that there is a part of me that is satisfied by such knowledgeable talk, I knew for sure that I was the only person in my little bubble to be enticed by interesting topics, but with the advent of this hour, now it is not the case. Noticing my brighter aura. I decided to start stranger things, ones not for the eyes and ears for people like us, and again, I was fathoming her apparent knowledge and interest in it.

People are interesting, after all. Perhaps I should find more of these strange folk.

They were young high school boys at the time

Too young to know what they wanted to do with the rest of their lives

An ill fated night of fun and games with friends in the park

After the street lights had just turned on and it was starting to get dark

Unbeknownst to the boys, a female jogger was out for a run

An unknown man had come out of the darkness and knocked her unconscious

He committed horrific acts of physical violence and left her for dead

After police at the scene first discovered the woman bleeding severely from her head

They put out a call that “black and Hispanic teenagers” were out in the park “wilding” and up to no good

An order was given to round everyone up and to bring them in for questioning

At that point the young minors were beaten, terrorized, and coerced

By the very police force that had promised to protect and to serve

Family members were confused, separated, threatened, and lied to

The boys and their family members were tricked into signing false statements

Framed by police and convicted by the media even before their hearings

The boys didn’t stand a chance despite having the support of their community and good legal representation

There was no true peace of mind the wrongful convictions could have provided for Trisha, the jogger

There was no true justice that could be served in those two courtrooms either

Five innocent boys were convicted and served long sentences for a crime they did not commit

Korey, Kevin, Yousef, Antron, and Raymond now use their experiences to help others who should have also been found innocent

if he were to leave like
a passing storm,
tracked by a team
of experts,
but, swept out to sea,
forgotten by forecasters
but remembered by fish.

if he chose to
leave on terms
gathered,
saying goodbye in a
short note of giving:

“Heather,
Your pretty face wasn’t enough,
I saw the *** marks and
I actually feared them.
Mike,
You ****** at soccer,
the idea it was better than
baseball disgusted me,
Gail,
Your younger years made
my whole life whole,
remember that,
Trisha,
I always loved your pies,
blueberry, pumpkin,
who could leave out apple,
John,
I leave to you my
knuckleduster,
Fred,
to you my ’69 chevy,
Uncle Steve my
Who Pinball machine,
Helen,
my distasteful character.
Mary,
my married heart.
Jesus,
you know.

and my putrid eyes to a ****** of magpies”.

Rich
The place where America tells us to go
Rich
The golden flute blaring the joyous lie
Rich
The side step over a dead *** in diamond studded shoes
Extravagence over originality
Mummified dice rollers whose only thought
Is where to go and what needs to be sold
The fold of the deck the break of a neck
Rich Rich Rich
The human race is oh' so rich
Swimming in a sea of deadening shallowness
Hovering from the Earth by choice
A smile only brought to a child
When they have enough cash for that
Conveyor belts of broken down bodies
Headed to the incinerator
This place is not my home
I am just passing through
Headed out
Here I am constantly disillusioned disappointed and dismembered
A black dot on and all black screen
Age no longer matters love no longer cares hate spins on the tips of his high heels
Even poetry goes along for the ride, even this place I write on now
The need for richness in life used to be real
Used to be a smile from a girl from across the way
Some money here for her and maybe she'd have something to say
I feel as if I have missed out on what it meant to be human
And now
I am trapped in a maze where no one
No God
No Devil
No Man
No Woman
No sentence
Can truly set me free
Here in this place of raining fire frog dented horror
Alleyway murders where ****** named Trisha wished they woulda' kissed yah
Dank fire places with the wood all wet n' Uncle Jeff's trying to make a bet
Holding fear in the eyes of the one's that say they believe but lie
We are all animals with suits ties papers shoes laces and pressed socks
We are all animals with skirts heels purses eyes that glisten as the squeal
We are all leaf eating meat dripping cave furnished mutants
Who think we are better then the ones who have come before us


We aren't

I am an unanswered prayer,
Resting upon the hearts of,
The weak and wounded,
Like a seed that falls,
Flat on the earth,
Never to be,
Seen again.

You let me
sleep
by your side
last
winter so I'd
stay
warm from the
cold,
and even though
you
snored in your
sleep
I dreamed sweet
dreams
of you and
me.

Life at 21, do you remember it?
Things rush at you, hit you, from all directions.
Any small decision can turn into a major plot beat.

What are our lives anyway but the sum of our decisions?
Opportunities contract and expand around us, like breathing—
and what fills those lungs are our test scores and faculty opinion.

College is a land of dreams—we’re all dream catchers—on our own paths, but the paths are mazes shrouded in haze, tumblers in need of combinations, variants that we must learn and memorize though it drains our communal blood.

At test times, the silence in libraries and coffeehouses is deafening,
full, as they are, of hunched-back phantoms toiling on books or blue-lit screens. If it sounds stressful and dramatic—it is. It’s not a time to get raddled—it’s all a big test.

Your world contracts to the sterile and dry— the facts and the moments needed to gather and order them.

That’s why we love breaks. Fall, Summer, Christmas, Thanksgiving—any flavor—break.

In fact, Lisa and I are on break now, I’m typing, on a MacBook Air, in a helicopter, screaming towards Manhattan.

If we don’t die in this shaky, 250mph, 3000-feet out-over Long Island Sound, cricket-like contraption, we’re going to have a great time—if we do nothing but sleep, hug our families and eat turkey—a great time.
.
.
Songs for this:
Little Hercules by Trisha Yearwood
Constant Craving by k.d. lang

wondaland verses, 3 am, sliding thru fog
don't judge me, us, dem goons, eazy legs
mikey, coba cobrahead, **** 13.8, trisha
young are our martyrs, hyped my moves

burning shoes, raging thoughts, mad luv
veni, vidi, vici, viciously beatin em down
brothas and sistas, thank you all for coming
dusk creates nights of lambos and revenge

hihaho, the drumset drowns in dark water
monica matadora, deal, trance disciple
as glossywhite as onyxblack are the rocks
and gems in the voltgreen bottega bag

wondaland verses from the gp heritage
roots and boost of gangsta poetry, yeeeah