Illuminate my eyes with impossible outcomes
oh, my imaginary solidarity
someday our angles will tangle
and we will be rounded
worn down to sawdust
from the friction of
rubbing elbows
but not today
no not today

I wanted to be the sky
I wanted my molecules to
terminate and permeate
into mush
I wanted many things
that I could not have
and looking down upon
this sewer city with
lights and rain puddles
I realize how far
from the ground I am
how far from the ground I
have come

sandy shores and seashell hands
i'm struggling with the idea
of rolling up my trousers
tucking away the clean fabric
or letting the dust collect
onto the seams and hems
into the creases
around my eyes
I do not want those things
that I can not contain

and I see myself free-falling upwards
into the ocean of seaweed and pearls
if only I dared more
if only I tried

oh I wanna try

Summer stands in shadows, silent.
She has reasons
Here in Autumn's dark-ning chill,
Here at the cleaving of the Seasons...
Some harvest in; some still to go
Before the staying cold,
Before the piling snow.

Chill in the air; hesitation in the breath...
Footsteps pounding on the hardening street,
A steaming sprite an opened door escapes.
Everywhere a tucking in, a tucking up,
A nervous shrug, a cautious smile denies
Winter's coming blast of cold.

Scent of wood smoke
Flares the nostrils
Evokes childhood rites,
Calls stragglers to the burning leaves.

What does happen in the night?,
where restless youths beg for a fight,
where women with all dignity lost, will sell you their services at a cost,

where men will pay for their hunger to sate and tell their wives they're coming home late, where knowing wives are sat at home, waiting by the telephone, hoping he has done what's right, but that's not what happens in the night.

The children cower in their beds, the fear of the night sat in their heads, imagining monsters, causing fright, but that's not what happens in the night.

The children do not know, why mothers eyes are red, why father is not home, tucking them into bed, but father is still searching for that which will excite, for this is what happens, in the absence of light.

I feel life from the words I write despite them being words I slurred over night it's like I fight but my pen is the sword of course I force myself into creative prospects I expect to wreck what in front of me is set
I wondered what would happen if I ruled the world gimme a shot at the top I'm not Clinton I only need one girl but seriously I hate this place controlled by industry it's ****** me up the environment and desire for right went out the window when the dead presidents kept talking from beyond the grave the money you made won't matter so cut it like a beanstalk

DaSH:
And fall into a pool of tears
From all the single mothers over all these years
Tucking youngins under covers
Undercover trying not to let the pain show through
This is the same strong woman that still holds you
Even though you're older and make your own decisions
Its gotten colder in the later years just wishin
You could go back to the beginnin
Back to when **** was simple
And all you had to do was listen
To another bedtime story
Next thing you know you're drifting
Away from all these problems and all these lights
Fluoride will **** our dreams they tell us to brush our teeth and cringe when we say reality bites
But I'm just trying to figure what's more important
Being myself
Or being Your kid
Just another thought from the tortured
I can feel the flames lick my body 'fore the torch's lit
Society's trying to burn us
And if they think they can teach us before they learn us then its straight out the frying pan and flying into the furnace

Nero:
I'm all alone like a watchtower my life turned sour but I'll devour any chance to **** up fools with rhymes perchance I'll leave you entranced with my writings but I'm sliding off topic so dash if you're ready then go a ahead and rip because we're cyphering on some poetic mafia ****

DaSH:
**** clips in the toilet with the ******* safety off
******* blood royal flushing with my king homie Alucard
All your ******* are old and lack any kind of support
So I'll hang em make their back straight with that ******* IV cord
If this cipher is random
Hope they deal with what I hand em
Four grenades a box of tampons
Watch these ******* explode while standing above the commode
Uncan them
The whoopass they deserve
Then im swervin in their hearse
Hopping over every curb
Speeding through every sharp turn
I love to watch their bodies burn
I love to catch every single ash between my teeth and eat them
DaSH is such a beast you freed him
By acting like a priest
When youre a demon in the streets
*******, capish?

Nero:
Alucard the damphir ******* blood like canned beer I'm near my apex others are below I'll free flow like arkham you won't question in a session when I leave your ***** barkin rhyme sparring call me Ali all these fools stay trying to Rock me like cheap Versace but I'm high quality leather built for your pleasure linkin words together you'll take home and treasure like Sinbad I don't sling crack but my rhymes are the pipe because reading this I know your *** got addicted tonight

DaSH:
Slicing high up on their frame
Like I'm aimin for the throat
Lots of gore on the floor
Need a boat to stay afloat
The walls needed more paint
You donate another coat
But I don't need your ******* charity
I'll stumble and I choke
Before I ever let you get to me
Before you start ***** you'll be history
How you ******* plan on ending me?
Just get Gone, Girl, be a mystery

Shrouded in deep purple fear and billowing clouds of crimson shame,
I sat on the floor, a trembling moth in still air.
I swallowed. The taste of bile remained.
My warmth flowed out of my body into the icy bathroom tiles, escaping rapidly through cracks in my split-open soul.
She sat beside me, quiet, waiting.
After an eternity, I nodded to her with a shaky breath.
She helped me gently off the floor and guided me to her bed, tucking herself behind me to become my tight cocoon.
With my head rested against her chest, I heard her blood pounding through her, but her breaths were slow, controlled.
The fibers of my muscles remained tense, straining to compensate for my spirit - raw, exposed, vulnerable.
Her small, soft fingers ran through my tangled hair,
drips of golden honey appearing as she began to hum.
Her radiant honey oozed from the smooth, full notes of her voice and dripped between sharp fragments of my shattered porcelain.
The clock tutted at us from the wall, approaching the third hour of morning, but she held my shards together tenderly and unhurried.
The fight drained from me as she sang her sweet melody.
A puddle of purple and crimson beneath me. Pieces, tenderly held.
Her pure, glimmering honey meandered through my etched cracks and between my too-prominent ribs to replace my purple and crimson.
She sang the life back to me, held me together with her sturdy grace.
She waited as the liquid gold began to solidify and I began to feel closer to whole once more.
She - who loves me laughing, who loves me dancing - loves me messy, too.

Your hands are not sandpaper
You can't round my sharp edges,
Or scratch away the good parts of me.
Your fingers are not cages
Capable of capturing my hopes and dreams
And tucking them into a dark corner
To be forgotten about
Until a rainy day
When I go searching for them
In every cardboard box stacked in the attic.
Your eyes are not black holes
That will **** me in
And spit me back out
In outer space untethered to anything
So that I may float around
Devoid of gravity
And responsibility.
Your hair is not a net
Which will tangle my limbs
And refuse to release me
Until I submit to your commands.
You are not a strong current
Beating me endlessly
Before sweeping me out to sea
Because I am capable of standing
On my own two feet
And walking up the bank
To dry land
And safety.

Shattered glass rains
down on my body,
each piece glittering
and shimmering
in the sunlight
like tiny gems meant
for the crown of
a majestic queen.
The chair that I
had thrown lies
limp, unable to
move until I gave
it permission
to do so.
I stood the chair
up and moved
it back into the
dining room,
tucking it safely
away from me
underneath
the table where
it belonged.
I sometimes
wish that I
were that chair.

Can you hear the strange noise in my heart? It makes vrruuuum, vrruuuum , vrruuuum every time you nap fondly on my pillow.
My heart is a spy,  tic tac by the clock, carrying  the breeze in the  ball of a thumb, while 's quietly de flowering your dreams, layer  by layer.
As if exists a collection of you in the ******* of mankind !
A small brute ,  the naughty child playing kalasnikov games and puzzlling the answers, the teenager tucking  the drums, loud in all  radios and smashing pumpkins on nirvanaheads  spooning  on MDMA flying .
The   grown up's ready for work, bored as Peter Pan growing and sometimes funny when  life's a *****. I just saw you drinking Madeira  wine in  public toilets, splashing *** on your toes  while  dreaming  in rainbows of plastic.

I'm the frame of your dream. I'm here to take care of you while you're the squeeze of  the  petals and  the whistle into the sound of the music.

Hold hands and march behind me, buckel up this is a new horror,
A living nightmare unlike anything you have ever seen
Looking at your hollowed out corpse over for the very first time
I saw parts Jeffery only wished while committing his crime.
I'm the piper tricking you along the way; I got you in my trap
And there’s now no escape from my funeral pallor.
Quincy, CSI Miami and even Dr. G,
Could have never prepared me with only what they show on TV.
Downed played and minimalized to the max,
Read my works I'll paint for you all the true facts.
First things first I need for you to stop staring at me
With eye caps and a quick squirt of glue I broke the trance
Good, now I can begin the process and start this slow dance.
Like always I shake their hand and tell them my name
This time was different I got my first squeeze back
For on your right forearm was stained in ink
The first two verses of Psalms one hundred and forty four
After I finished reading I had to get back on track
With an instant snip a stitch is then cut apart
Adding another three ***** to your collection
Pulling them apart I go in first reaching for the clear viscera bag
Holding it up I fondled it all around in the bright light
Looking for the brain I felt it and then saw it come into my sight
Laying out all the puzzle pieces I start with the center first.
So smooth and slick the inside walls of your cage
Everywhere else looked like a time bomb burst.
Feeling all about searching for your iliac artery
Once found you’re now connected to the vat
Using sufficient pressure filling your tissues to full capacity
Injecting first your lower extremities I now see the veins swell
After a six point fill you should look like you’re getting well.
From under the flap and at the root of your neck
I reached in your head and into the hollow space
Because it is now time to try and firm up your mortal face.
With a pair of clamps I kinked your spinal cords fountain flow
Massaging your headless face and then the head *****
All the fluid went right where it had to go
After the fill you looked like you had a new mothers glow.
Now the suction of the liquid residue that smelled fowl
Then came the pressing of a paper towel
Very pleasant smell of wintergreen candy in my nose cause the
Shaking of the can of Bex embalming powder was now to follow.
Pressing here, pressing there, trust it was becoming a pest
Trying to tuck the bag with all your innards back into your chest
Putting the sternum back on top proved it was a perfect cut.
Folding down the three ***** to the point of origin
Was like folding a piece of paper into a paper airplane.
Almost at the home stretch we took turns closing you
And with it a perfect baseball stich and with it a coat of sealer.
Trying hard to keep a secret from for your heads crown
There is no way to do it I can't play it down
Holding the pieces of your skull in my hands
Starring where it has to go back now and back together with no glands
Looking just like what is, "Sweeter than honey and stronger than a lion?"
Me and my youngest son solved Samson's riddle in the Bible,
A seven letter word now needs to be added into the book of Judges because
Together we saw the answer written from a vision in the deserts sand.
Pulling down your face and all the way down to your chin
I lost sight of your eyes I only can see their other side
I now see a notch and the groove where this piece has to go
Gluing it in place I gave back to you your forehead
Tucking and packing cotton towels is your makeshift brain now
With a round file I score four half-moons in the thin bone
So the skull clamps can hold it together and hold it in place forever.
Pulling and stretching your face it was sewed together and with no space.
Now that it's complete you’re ready for a military examination
After getting the green light it's time for the fitting of your uniform
in your aurora steel casket you played in there
looking like the sailor on a ******* jack box.
one last trick to go; have to pull fibers out from the bottom
so your weightless head will look and sink naturally into your pillow.
out the back of a coach with plates that say livery
and into the belly of a plane your shipping container was stamped
Special Delivery.....

(CARSr. 10-24-12)

Can you believe her? She was with me when it happened, when that perverted old man bought that chocolate bar. How do I know he’s perverted? Well he was wearing sun glasses, in a ******* Walmart at eight in the afternoon. I could tell he was looking right at my chest through those Smokey lenses. Anyways she was right there standing next to me, and she told the boss she didn’t see anything. We both knew he was wearing layers and layers of tacky bowling t shirts under his coat. What a *****!!
I’m sad to hear that honey...  What are you making for dinner?
Fred was watching the evening news on the small 16 inch Panasonic that sat on the coffee table they picked out of the neighbor’s trash. The McDonalds on sources road mysteriously caught fire earlier that morning. Black flames swallowing the restaurant and pictures of dead obese children reflecting off of his Smudged lenses, the reporters voice muffled through the television static. Fred sat there ******* on a green bottle as He crossed his legs, still wearing his blue oil stained shirt and pants ripped at the knees. While he Smiled hauntingly at his television set.
Fred was a mechanic by trade but like the average Canadian man he owned a couple vices that he kept from the world. He was avid reader, stashing shoe boxes filled with Hustlers and Penthouse magazines under the stares. He made Bird houses out of toothpicks and put together puzzles on his free time. He had a wife who worked at the mall and complained constantly, had ******* a nice *** and could sing like an angel rubbing her own ****. They lived in a single floor house in the quiet suburban jungle of Montreal; harmoniously working their dull jobs, surviving their boring and regretful lives.
Shepherd’s pie!
Would y-
Yes, yes extra cheese I got it.
It was the same thing every day; Change tires, headlights, the occasional brake job. Then drive home in his beat up old Toyota Pickup. Weave through schools of blind pedestrians, honk at aspiring race car drivers. Reverse the hunk of **** into the narrow driveway and kick the sweaty boots into the closet. Watch the world burn to ashes on the television, eat, drink and **** then off again into the night. He did this religiously but he didn’t mind his boring life all that much. Whenever he’d slide his blistered fingers across his thinning eyebrows he is reminded of what he really lives for. Whenever he sees them; the men in suits and noose cravats, he is reminded constantly throughout the day of what he lives for.
After a much needed meal and a coffee, Fred makes Unpassionate love to his wife, and waits for her to fall asleep. Staring at the ceiling while maniacally plans the rest of his night. Shirley is used to this, lack of *** drive and Insomnia was normal symptoms of depression. Little did she know he would wait every night till her tossing and turning would subside or die down. Then he would slowly crawl out of bed and tip toe down the stairs, something all too familiar to the middle aged man. He knew what floorboards creaked and how fast to swing the front door opened. He knew to release the handbrake and wheel the truck out onto the street before turning on the ignition.
Like clockwork he knew what to do, he’s been doing every night for years now and he wasn’t about to get caught. Fred drove slowly along the thin snow covered streets. The neighborhood was quiet deep into the night, not a soul outside except for the occasional midnight smoker. He made his way down the boulevard and into the intertwining back streets and parked the car far from his destination.
He had placed gas canisters in the snow around the perimeters of the closed coffee shop the night before and  As he held a book of matches tightly in his fist he made a prayer to a god he did not believe in. Fred wasn’t too sure of his motive, nor did he know his intentions, but he was well aware of what he was doing. He struck a match and watched the flame dance in the cold air before he dropped it into a trail of gasoline he poured himself. The bright fire was quiet pleasing to his squinting eyes and it grew fast. Unravelling itself as it engulfed the small building. He cracked his knuckles with the sudden bursts of satisfaction that pumped through his shivering body as he walked away from his work of art. Sat back in his truck spraying himself with the cheap cologne he’s been using for decades. He crawled back into bed with his snoring wife, tucking himself back into his dull redundant life;
Only to do it all over again tomorrow.

staring up at spot spackled ceilings
buried in fifteen dollar sheets
tucking toes under lumpy covers
and tasting cheap beer on your teeth

hiding under dim, midnight lighting
and tossing pillows on the floor
icy fingers entwined
swearing all's fair in love and war

making breakfast in baggy t shirts and socks
and eating cereal on a faded couch
maybe a little bit of day drinking
hoping word will never get out

blushing when you glance my way
and loving every minute
regretting every decision we ever made
but not changing any of it.

Swinging on a swing
Playground buzz all around
All alone
~
Now she can ride a bike
So much later than when everyone else could
But she rides it everyday after school
~
Climbing high on a tree
Can't get back down
A chattering crowd forms and teachers need to intervene
~
Friends turn on friends
And what shoes you wear matters
She doesn't like growing up
~
Her uncle buys her a sketchbook
She draws people, some crying, some smiling
In the back corner of her junior high lunchroom
~
First day of high school
Wearing the outfit she took forever to pick out
So many faces, so much noise, a new world
~
First date, and it feel like she's floating
A smile she can't shake until
He finds someone prettier than her
~
New boy who takes things slow
First kiss with his hands wrapped around her waist
A whole new kind of face to face
~
Graduation
A dress that slaughtered her father's wallet
Bittersweet goodbyes
~
Boy promises to write
They go off to separate colleges
But slowly grow apart
~
She hangs up the phone
After telling him tearfully it was too hard to keep up
And they stay friends but distant
~
Then one day not-so-little-anymore-girl
Is walking her dog early before sunrise back in her hometown holding down a job out of college
She's always been a morning person when her high school love stops her with his smile the way he used to
~
After the breakup halfway through college
Due to circumstances the feelings come rushing back
And numbers are exchanged before dawn breaks
~
White veil and red roses
Another dress to break dad's wallet
But she Is beautiful as the love she has for the groom, her high school love
~
Finally can afford a real nice house
Two little boys playing in the big yard
A little ******* her hip, daddy with his arm around mommy like he used to back in high school
~
Daddy comes home from the doctor one day
She is in a screaming match with her youngest little girl who has just turned 13
Daddy has news. One of these days, he won't be coming home ever again
~
Mommy gets a call after tucking the kids in
She drives recklessly to the hospital
But when she arrives they can't find any life in him
~
Kids grow up strong and healthy
Beautiful children who raise another generation of beautiful children
She is a grandmother, but she misses the would-be grandpa every second until one day she comes back from the doctor... numbered days left on her life
~
Swinging on a swing
Front porch in silence  
All alone

Repost if you know or are a beautiful widow
Please comment I love to read people's interpretations of my work!

i am from innocence.
i am from rainy days and lonely nights,
words smeared across pages because
i can’t get them out fast enough.
i am from stanzas upon stanzas and ink-stained fingers
as i dream of new ways to say what’s already been said.
i am from words of love, words of anger,
struggling to find the words
to describe his eyes, i can’t.
but that’s okay, because to me, he is poetry
and
poetry has been the one consistency in my life.

i am from travelling the world.
i am from plane rides-
from the mountains of Italy
to the city of Lisbon
it’s safe to say
i have lived.

i am from 4am small talk with my best friend,
questioning our life decisions
between cheesy rom-coms,
thanking Fate and the Universe
for introducing the two of us.,
i love her
for accepting me
when i couldn’t accept myself.

i am from my dad’s famous waffles,
from Tollhouse chocolate chip cookies fresh out of the oven
and cold glasses of milk coming home from school.
i am from my grandmom tucking me in,
my mom hugging me goodnight,
my sister and i staying up way past when the lights were supposed to be turned out.

i am from New Year’s Eve countdowns,
pots and pans banging on my front porch
as a new set of resolutions
hangs in my room,
waiting to be broken.

i am from a school full of jerks… that i fell for anyway,
empty words and velvet lies, luring me in
just so i can break my own heart
at the end of it.
but i am from believing in soulmates,
because two live in my very house with me,
23 years later and the flame hasn’t diminished-
i know
i will find my Prince Charming,
somehow, one day.

I am from creased brows and mild confusion
when the teacher asks for strong boys
to carry the desks;
i am from being resigned to the edge of the classroom,
implications that
i am weak.
i am from “sit like a lady”
and
“young women don’t speak like that.”
but actually,
i am a young woman
and i’m
“speaking like that.”
i am from being the only one in my karate class
with my toenails painted pink;
they have accepted me now,
i am just another black belt,
my long hair swishing behind me in a ponytail
as i kick harder than half the boys next to me.

i am from beautiful chaos,
like entropy
in a sundress. i think
my madness is magnificent--
like the prettiest mess you’ve ever seen., it’s true-
i am from a lifetime of figuring things out
and though i’m not there yet,
i’m a hell of a lot closer
than i’ve ever been.
-a.c.b

red: the colour of luscious lips
oh, the way it branded my skin
the touch of your fingertips
love letters in indelible ink

red, the colour of your cheeks
as I caressed your face gently
my, I wished I could take a lick!
of course, only with my pinky

blue, the colour of your bright eyes
a lovely sparkle of genius
like the soft glow of the sunrise
please, arise these tears not from fears.

blue, the colour of your summer gown
when you first said I was a dear
then you proceeded with a frown
tucking your heart next to mine, here.

brown, the colour of your long hair
as it fell in waves from your head
you clung like I was a stuffed bear
like a toy you would bring to bed

brown, the colour of our photos
the faded sense of nostalgia
has kept me on my tippy toes
that I'll see you again, right here

land of no responsibility
except to give in to that burning urge
that prickles up the back of your neck on waking
to be off out running under sun
barefoot as soon as out of sight
adventures wait and time belongs to you
you fish for sticklebacks in a field of golden corn
where farmers wave in anger at the trail to the pond
and take home tadpoles in glass jars on string
breathless at the sight of legs emerging
pick bluebells in the wood for mother
but then arrange them in old tins
in tumbledown cottage the gangs den
scrumping crab apples in overgrown gardens  
never getting that stomach ache all Adults warned of
roaming hedgerows looking for hedgehogs
hoping for signs of any living thing
all long fled at the collective noise you make
catching butterflies to look at their wings
putting crysillis in greaseproof papered jars
to watch them emerge for flight on glistening wings
when you return them to the wild
lifting up old drain pipes to look for slugs to race
not forgetting to put them back at races end so they dont shrivel
basking in hot sun after watching trails of catapillars
whose prickles mother later tweezers out
amidst a small flood of tears because they flame red
having a bath with bubbles then tucking up in bed
drowzy but anticipating  tomorrow is waiting

Tucking Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
into the bedside cabinet
of the cheap

Paris hotel
having cleaned
the greasy sink
and bidet

you walked out
on the street
breathing in
the Parisian air

smelling the perfume
of the restaurants
on the side walks
seeing the sights

taking photographs
as memoirs
drinking the wines
and beers

and that fish
with eyes still there
putting you off
you tried to get out

of the cheap cafe
but paid for the meal
you couldn’t eat
the fish eye

gazing up at you
dead eye
battered fish
and the Left Bank

and night
and you taking in
the sights and lights
and those ******

sitting in windows
like gifts
to have wrapped
but not take home

or the **** films
you never
went to see
in those cinemas

you just walked by
or the Eiffel Tower day
right to the top
the view splendid

the sight historical
or those rides
on the Metro
riding the wrong carriages

looking out
for the train inspector
pretending to be Aussies
giving it the yak

and later
in your hotel room
taking out
Dostoyevsky

and entering
the Russian world
of ****** and deceit  
and being followed

you imagined
by the detective
looking out
onto the Parisian street

from the open window
of your room
gazing at street corners
and shadows  

or remembering
that French girl
in the cafe
who served you

with bright eyes
black and white dress
and white apron
the fine long legs

and wiggling behind
recalling the old priest
who once said
too much ***
will make you blind.

Japanese temple trees no longer line the way home.
I left them behind.
But my mind still strolls that avenue,
and I still see
the light catching on the bare branches
and the sparse leaves of Autumn in The Grove.

The Woodhoopoes are still nesting
in the temple trees next to the gate
I don't enter anymore.
Their iridescent plumes
still shimmer green and blue
as their vermilion scimitar bills chatter
in the to-and-fro, to-and-fro
sway of their familial ritual.
What cacophony when one has won
itself a fat gecko—the chicks won't go hungry.

I left the haphazardly arranged feathers
in the wooden frame of the French doors
I no longer unlock and enter.

The two cereal bowls
left on the table
where we did everything
have been reduced
to one.
And the table simply is.  

Now I work among veteran soldiers—
Old Pigeons with crooked feet
caused by all the lines
they've crossed, all the twines
they've tangled with, but Pigeons,
they survive without their feet.

And instead of temple trees,
buildings line the way home—
concrete and steel constructions
among long ribbons of asphalt and . . .

From a distance,
up on the third storey,
it looks like a jungle out there,
but no, on the ground,
up close, it is just human.

I still keep the Owl's feather away from the day-birds',
but I no longer collect more feathers.

No, instead, I tuck symbolic quills behind my ear.

Sagittarius serpentarius

The image of the Secretarybird towers
over the rest of the symbols
on the Official Documents I peruse.
Contracts.
I walk away, tucking the quill.

In the land of the blind, there is a one-eyed rule:
close the other eye.  

I feel the rhythm of keys beneath icy fingers,
eyes tearing from the glare of the monitor,
retracted quills rising—  
unseen antennae erected on the back of my neck—
a human lie detector.

Type, type, type:
repudiation,
subrogation,
violation . . .

Hit the letters with the power of the word.

Noisy little twitter-bird to my left,
on top of her office chair,
she’s raucous like a hysterical Mynah:

"****-****-****-****...**** everything!!!"

Absconding the scene,
I stamp, stamp, stamp
AR numbers, CAS numbers, verified.

The African masks behind my workstation:
ugly metaphors for who I really am.

Sagittarius serpentarius

A Marching Eagle,
the Devil's Horse,
the Secretarybird;
sitting in a concrete cage,
my youngest would've died of starvation,
so I let her fly a long way from home,
but nonetheless home
with her Lily-Pad-Walker father.

Jesus-bird,

With legs like a crane but scalier,
a Marching Eagle doesn't walk on water.
It stands close to the grassland fire,
waiting for its prey.
Then stomping.
Then crushing bones.
Then swallowing whole.

Balance is unnecessary.
Just bend and kick,

backwards.

Saqr-et-tair: hawk-bird, hunter-bird.

He said his heart was a dreaming Red Hawk
whose eyes he wouldn't let me see,
and Bukowski's heart was a Blue Bird of pain.
I said I didn't know
what sort of bird lived in mine,
but it dreamt the same dream:
giant wings
breaking out of its ribbed cage . . .
long runway . . .
long runway. . .
then slow, deep *****
of----------of-----------of------------of----------------of
bad weather and . . .

I fear the day it tires of dreaming.

Offices. Soldiers. Pigeons.

I slip gunpowder pillulets under my tongue:
Homeopathic medicine for this virus.

There is a Barn Owl in my mirror,
steamed up. I dream
a ****** of Crows
alights on my brow,
but I am too feverish to catch them.
Too weak.
I dream a ****** of Crows
rising from the loquat tree
where my eldest was born,

across the road . . .

I watch them
from the third storey of a collection of cages,
and I know
this building
is a cold-hearted-thirty-three-eyed-soldier
with a dog tag for a tongue,
and a contract
bound to the crooked feet of the Pigeons I didn't feed.

As the light made islands on the water,
ethereal bubbles frozen with warmth,
tucking tired beaks beneath wings, pigeons saunter,
into sleep, on tesselated petals, going forth.
That summer aura which sparks from you and thrums
moving dials to a sanguine solstace in me.
Hitting cold skin, the blood rush is autumn;
cathartic capillary trees with loose fingers and red leaves
and in these veins speeds my guttural london estuaries,
to syncopate their tide beats with yours.
Those mediterranean wine filled arteries
will encompass my imperfections to pearls.
From my idealist sonnets hearts you come
fixed on air, a changeable paint that can't run.

Like newborn fern fronds you unfolded your words
cut with castanet syllables peppered in.
Sentences ushered on as pacified herds
breathed out plumes, rippled fire, wind-thinned.
I then learned a beauty untamed, is a beauty rare.
Those eyes indeed are coffee dewdrops pierced by sun.
Those lips are pronounced like unbroken waves that tear,
on the cusp of unspoken words braced for freedom.
Core bright, i see the rose through the street's ornaments.
From the slight rise of your nose to those angular cheekbones,
further a picture of stunning complex arrangement;
identity of locked cogs, in you, are the pieces of home.
Islands on the canal of time; forever moments un-faded.
We aren't seen in a new light without becoming more illuminated.

I remember when you tucked me in
and would kiss me on the head
you'd leave the bedroom door just so
the hallway light just touched my bed

The monsters would all stay away
While the light was on you said
They were stuck behind the closet door
And if they touched the light...they're dead

Now, the years have passed us by
And our roles are re-arranged
Now, I do the tucking in
But, the story hasn't changed

I tuck you in, and kiss your head
And then you go to sleep
The monsters all are hidden
In the closet....so so deep

There's times you may remember me
But, many times...there's not
Your eyes will barely flicker
You can barely hold a thought

The monsters are inside you
From the closet, they have come
You may not know just who I am
But, you'll always be my Mum

Now, it's time to get tucked in
And for me to kiss you on the head
I'm gonna pull the door just so
The light....protects your bed.

A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing.
Ecclesiastes 3:5.

long, long long
have I known
the contradictory meaning thereof,
for I authored it,
time immemorial

till the day came
when understanding parted,
left for another prophet,
another poet,
for this how the world's words go,
round and around

left me
re commencing
re imaging
re imagining,
new era words,
newer versions,
new heards
newer mergings

stones and embraces
ha!

"Two of my favorite things"

no, that's been done...

"Let's go get ****** and..."

nope, that's been done

So,
spark sublime divine
give me a second chance,
compose me a vision
that gathers these
mutual funds of
contrasting similarities
in a bow tied connection
singular, worthy of
song and daily recitation!

her embrace was a stone necklace
around my throat,
sackcloth was my shroud,
to the sea bottom was impaled,
by the stony apparition
of the unrequited embrace


Ugh

My beloved's embrace,
cracked the stones that surround
my uncaring register,
the cold still waters that hid it
now boiling from
her gathering me in

better.

one last try before I repent

embrace the stones
that obstacle the journey,
gather them in, together keep,
for they are the markers,
you have used,
you have been,
you have exhausted,
so long after the body ashed,
these words will trace for
those that follow the path
you marked with
these same stones
you gathered in
olden days of
simple joyous embrace*

this will,
must have to
do,
for the stones of
the angels of sleep have
arrived and undeterred,
upon my chest have,
inscribed and placed,
while bidding me adieu,
tucking me in,
gathering me to my rest,
a closing eyeing embracing,
in drowsy voices half clear:

sleep prophet,
the work done,
the words piled,
the stones now
mark your the
you final resting place
upon them ecrivez,
In The Future,
Keep It Simple Stupid

Lincoln green robin
hoodwinking the
greedy rich

Feeding the poor
robin red breast
flaunting credentials
robbing the lady
marion
the little birds of their
flimsy
filmy honor

Little boy little
man-child john
little mowgli
conquering the jungle
conquering the tiger
riding imperious
the stark grey brown elephant

And backscratching bear
sleeping in the greensward
dancing with milady
tucking into supper of
fast arrowed stag

Hung out and dried
between devil trees
and huts afire

Across the brittle
yellow beach into
the deep blue sea

calling out your name in the dark
It's become an excruciating custom now
An unquenchable thirst

daylight stings and moon hovers
dispassionately
over my head
heavy with laments over a fallen crest;

Still I imagine
still I dream
that you'll tune my painful screams
into a hushing lullaby,
with a promise of forever
you'd gift my gloomy tears a twinkling gleam;

But now I'm wearing this blindfold
refusing to see the light outshining this pathetic hope ;

You are not here yet,
Maybe you never will be,

But I'm not ready to move from you yet,
And I doubt that I'll ever will be free

From these painful lumps,
burning eyes
swollen throat
and prickled heart
emptying it's blood,
so slowly that years go by
And I can now feel the quitting of daylight
while my blindfold lets out a long sigh;
as if stating to end
this idiotic nonsense
of tucking heartbreak and love
under these lyrical verse;

early morning scavengers,
the street is their turf.
little shadows of a starving nation,
a beacon of hope on a leftover bread.
wake up, wake up Dear President.
how can you eat on a silver plate?
how can you digest a corrupted food?
put your television on, please.
for putting it off wont change a thing.
look at those ***** angels,
all smudged up and dying.
your ignorance and selfishness
are tucking their wings in.
knock, knock..open your door to them,
let them play and wallow on your floor.
let them have a taste of heaven
for a taste of New York wont make it even.
wake up, wake up you sleeping thieves.
how can you not notice?
how can you sleep?
roam around the playpen you decided to rule,
and see your toy soldiers disappearing.
as you fought for a position,
they fought with their lives.
and when you cover their remains with our flag
feel their courage you trembling ****,
see how their blood tainted our native land,
from a bullet the enemy bought from your hand.

(inspired by Former President Arroyo of the Philippines and her corrupt ways.)

Presumably the next big thing will be soles — socks with holes. Or maybe zits — pants with zips.

It’s made me wonder what else is ahead for us this season, so I headed to the mall to find out.

Topshop proclaims the return of triple denim (noooo!), the corset and coats worn as dresses. The latter should be worn undone to the waist and half falling off in order to “create a cold-shoulder silhouette”. Doesn’t make such sense during a Melbourne winter, I must say.

Topshop also has a very worrying item called a “monochrome gingham flute tie sleeve top”, which looks to me very much like a chequered table napkin worn backwards with ribbons at the elbows keeping the sleeves on. I’ll pass on that one.

Over at H&M;, winter’s “new mood” is all about “sustainable style” containing recycled materials. That means a simple flannel top is reborn as “conscious fashion” and a blue worker-style singlet becomes a “lyocell vest top”.

What would they call hi-vis? Apparently, the fash pack call it “haute reflecture”. Yes, really.

Most concerning is a shirt with “trumpet sleeves” so wide they’d need a separate seat at a restaurant. Even then they would end up dipping into the dinner of the person sitting at the next table. It may help you work out what to order, but it’s not likely to win you any friends.

At Zara it’s all about a “limited edition ballet dress” that will look perfect under a “moto jacket” Did they forget the r? Or are they too cool for correct spelling?

There is also something very strange called “over-the-knee high-heel sock boots”, which are $100. Give them to someone you loathe this Easter.

Zara also wants us to wear “Mum-fit jeans with side stripes”, which will no doubt just draw more unwelcome attention to the dreaded maternal hips. Who needs that?

They also have a velvet sack-style dress with a drawstring at the mid-thigh. It’s the style that doesn’t discriminate — it’s guaranteed to look unflattering on everyone.

So what other trends should we be running away from this season? Fashion insiders tell me “street-chic utilitarianism” is all the rage. That seems to involve wearing a flak jacket 10 sizes too big in a rotting-flesh colour paired with floral leggings with built-in shoes.

There’s also “new shirting”, which looks to me like the same thing as “old shirting” but has the added disadvantage of being just about to fall off your shoulders at the most inopportune time.

Trust me, you don’t need that and you don’t need an ironic-slogan T-shirt that tells the world “This was not a gift” or “This is a white T-shirt”.

I am also quite interested to know that “bra out” is apparently a trend and I wonder if that means I should stop tucking my daggy mum-bra straps into my tops.

Now, as someone who spent most of Wednesday this week at work with a large shop store label hanging out of the back of my skirt, I’m obviously not a huge fashionista.

But even I can see that never before has there been such a gap between clothes the fashion-conscious labels are promoting and everyday pieces we actually want to wear. You know, clothes that are well priced, well made, last more than a few seasons and aren’t made by five-year-old Bangladeshi orphans.

THERE’S no doubt something very weird is going on when there’s a waiting list for Yves Saint Laurent’s $10,000 jewelled boots and jewellery made of real succulents is being tipped as the next big thing. But really, who wants to have to remember to water their earrings?

Wandering around Zara this week (from where I bought the $89 skirt I forgot to take the label off), I was interested to see sale racks packed with off-the-shoulder tops, summer denim and lots of body suits. When are they going to learn women don’t want press studs up their privates?

I know that in fashion everything new is old anyway and that’s what really concerns me.

I’ve been around long enough to remember all the best worst fashion disasters such as pooh-catcher pants, velour tracksuits, trucker hats and platform sneakers.

Frankly, there are some items that don’t deserve to be wheeled out again. They include leg warmers — because your ankles don’t get cold when you work out, do they? And let’s not revisit male crop tops, because a hairy muffin top is something we don’t need to see.

Back to jindows. Just because Topshop tells us they’re “globally trending in the denim space”, it doesn’t mean you need a pair.

Remember. You didn’t need jeggings, coatigans, skorts or flatforms. And you sure as hell don’t need jindows.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/cocktail-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/bridesmaid-dresses

Fullmoon wishes made
Perfect match
Lovers laid bare
Lies
You tell only to your own heart
Are soon to crumble before you
You can run
But not from your soul
She is singing
I hear the sorrowful tones of neglect
You wear your heartache
On the wrong sleeve
Tucking it away
But I can see
For I am the one
Who casts the stones
And I will be the one to caress your tomorrows x

I wanna be the hero, I want to be the good little boy, but all this life has me down
and I can’t live in this little town, where everybody frowns, and people walk around with crowns
Looking down because you act a little different and weep yourself to sleep.
It may not be just this town the destroys little boys dreams,
But I’m not going to stick around to watch my home split apart at the seams

My first memory I told my momma that I was the ugly duckling from her story,
she whispered “goodnight son”, and rolled her head back chuckling
She must have known for a long time that it was truth
But she insisted on tucking me in so I showed her my pearly white tooth
Because I thought she made the world all better
But when she kissed my head she told me a lie, and It was all to stop the bed wetter.
And it worked for that moment of time
I was too young to understand that other people wouldn’t be so kind

And when my daddy read me stories the next night it was no different
I told him that I was the black sheep that cried wolf, but he was indifferent
He just told me his stories even louder to stop my interruptions
From breaking the perfect bubble they wrapped me up in complexions.
My father told me about the three little piggies and how I was the strongest of them all
Because the big bad wolf could never blow down my bedroom wall
But what he didn’t tell me that all along he was the wolf in disguise
He was eaten himself, and I was next to be gobbled up; a pig who won first prize

However, I never got the chance to go weeeee weeee weee all the way home
Like every six-year-old kid dreamed of on their first day gone.
Within ten minutes of being in reality, I was told that Santa wasn’t real,
That stories were just fiction, and broken hearts won’t actually heal
I ran home that day fertilizing the grass below
It felt dead inside the kick to my reality was low
The grass I ran home on had been bone dry for six years
But I never really knew what to name crying since Elmo never really showed any tears

I wanna be the hero, I want to be the good little boy, but all this life has me down
and I can’t live in this little town, where everybody frowns, and people walk around with crowns
Looking down because you act a little different and weep yourself to sleep.
It may not be just this town the destroys little boys dreams,
But I’m not going to stick around to watch my home split apart at the seams

From the crib to the high chair, from the training wheels to the big boy seat, I was off
Off to meet talking trains, dancing zoo animals, and bright smiling people lit like Rudolf
I wanted laser guns shooting at me, ninja stars whizzing past my face
And everyday boys like me saving the day from bad guys that I'd have to chase
But nowadays criminals are for the news crews, and fights were for action scenes,
Adventures and joys were six planets away in Pluto’s playful puppy dreams
But I distinguished reality as fake because your fake was my reality
That I so desperately tried to hold onto since it was more lively than gravity

I was told the easter bunny had died and my cat didn’t go to the vet to rest;
the Superheroes were just drawings on a piece of paper destroying the forest
Not fighting the joker nor galactic alien ships; not even raising a finger to save a cat,
But I watched thousands of people die on my kindergarten screen in a concrete grave.
Superman never showed up to stop either of the hijacked planes,
And Mrs. Burger, the only teacher to ever give me a red light, cried for at least an hour in pain.
Before this, I had no idea what death was, but it had become blatantly clear to see
That whatever it was, where ever it took people, I swore up and down It would never take me

Because I wanna be the hero, I want to be the good little boy, but all this life has me down
and I can’t live in this little town, where everybody frowns, and people walk around with crowns
Looking down because you act a little different and weep yourself to sleep.
It may not be just this town the destroys little boys dreams,
But I’m not going to stick around to watch my home split apart at the seams

Getting pretty for no one.
Standing in
the bathroom mirror
and the clock
ticks backwards.
Mascara smears
on painted hands and
that hair
will never
shine
so bright as it does
as on top of a cold city.

High in a penthouse
but, still
no one
can sing the sky to sleep
the way you
used to.

So,
Let’s continue to pretend
we are people
we are not,
wearing clothes that don’t fit
and tucking our wings
into our suits.

Black shawls over glass
To prevent staring eyes
From the hatred from inside.
Masks glued, taped, stapled, nailed on the faces.
“Is it true,
Self-mutilation prevents isolation?”

Why must there be pain?
Why must there be pain?

In foggy Tupperware, tinted pink,
Some firm rose jello. She did think
It spoke oddly, like a jack-in-the-box.
Walks, talks, mocks, shocks, paradox-in-the-box,
But no socks.
The jello wasn’t jello.
Jello breaks no hearts.
“He wasn’t the fellow.”

He was mundane,
It was quite in vain.

Lost in clouds of thoughts,
He saw faces in blurs, in purples and slurs.
Hiding in needles and giggles,
His heart is escaping.
He knows well bacteria multiply.
[Quite an education, for your information.]
His infection, anti-biotic resistant.
Willing, the suicide persisted.

He’s stuck in the chain.
“God, he’s in pain!”

So many broken, so many shattered,
Tucking pieces behind painted faces.
Cotton candy-covered black clouds hound
The carnival where everyone’s a clown.
Clown ashes, dolls, and masks scattered,
Behold a grand masquerade.
No kisses for Phantom,
He cut his lips on the glass.
It wasn’t random.

God, I’m insane!
I am sane.

I softly cradle and embrace
My deepest pain
firmly but not tightly
Holding gently
Kissing her forehead lightly
Sitting quietly  
Watching over her nightly

Tenderly tucking her up
Like a great army my
My Love surrounds her
I cherish her
Like my child
As I secure her safety

I sometimes whisper
Into her ear
Late at night
" you are doing fine treasure"
But she cannot hear

As the venom of the world
Falls like rain drops of acid
Onto fresh skin
As many holes are burnt
Into my delicate heart
As I feel her many screams
But delivered by many chariots
she finds her new streams

As we find the secret passage
the hidden path
The kept secret
To keep us apart
As we find the way
Up the mountain
That had long been forgotten

As I slide through the
Many layers of pain
I find much silver,
Gold
And precious stone
With all my deep down parts yelling
I also find a
Crystal clear diamond

As hell is not my damnation
But some how my salvation
Somewhere deep in my soul
Which I treasure and hold
As I find my wounds
Become my freedom
As all cages are broken

For I welcome pain
I say,
"Come on
Come In
Sit down
have a cup of tea
Feel human again"
As I live in deep comfort
With arm chairs
But no conflict

So eagerly I confront
My many wounds
And all my pain
Rushing quickly
Like water down a mountain
I walk through the valley
But carry no doubt
Carving canyons
That forever
Hold their Beauty

Walking the narrow path
Between sensitivity and pain
Is not an easy task
But with the MAGIC
word YES
You will gain
A twinkle in your eye
The many Stars above
And a Vast Ocean

Daddy are you listening ?
Theres some things i have to say ,
The things i think and pray about
every single day.

I want you to know i remember ,
So clearly that awful fight ,
You told us you were leaving
And drove off into the night .

At 5 it is confusing
To see all this go down ,
It took some getting used to
Not having you around .

Even when we'd visit you
You were never really there,
Another bottle , another line ,
Its not like you cared.

Isnt it odd that at ten years old i was
Tucking a grown man into bed ?
And isnt sad as your daughter ,
I couldnt trust a word you said ?

So how am i suppose to trust man
Who says that he will stay?
You said the exact same thing
And you still walked away.

Understand your actions ,
Have trickled into my life ...
Youre the one who desserted us,
Yet its your loved ones that pay the price.