Sheet music for the uninitiated.....

Tis like a foreign language inked out
Aligning the page from left to right
Spelling a noted curiosity. For those in the know
‘Get’ the inside story, know the melody it plays
Yet it shuts out and discriminates the uninitiated
It closes in and becomes a circle, a clicky cliché
A secret sect for them and not the rest
The page can be left open for the uninitiated
And its secret remains safely intact
Even as eyes are cast over its score
There’s a silence, a secret coded verse
Playing and taunting you, unashamed
To reveal its melodic soul, fully knowing your
Not invited even if you want to be

Until tis ready to.........

/                                america, july 18th:
  and the utter media shambles -
like ****** and steroids
for the uninitiated -
     tongues without the rattlesnake
trill of an ᚨᚱ:
   numbed w'ah w'ah peddling
of woe to row the sinking boat:
maniac adult funfair
attempting a nostalgia
for the playground game
of bulldog...

                russia, 25th march:
the kemerovo fire (siberia) -
          children frying, screaming,
perhaps even hoping -
  a shying herod, the example
of: as moloch descended...
          prayers in the fire
                  by the innocents...

england, july 19th -
   alternative to rehydrating
using water...
    a generous 5 hour sleep -
******* on the remains
of last night's lemon
     used to infuse the subtle
smoky of bell's whiskey,
playlist:

- the jon spencer blues
  explosion (bellbottoms)
- britney spears (criminal)
- twenty one pilots (heathens)
- calvin harris (this is what you came for)
- camila cabello (habana)
- rihanna (disturbia)
- birdbrain (youth of america)
- ghost (ritual)
- focus (hocus pocus)
- edwyn collins (a girl like you)
- the guess who (american woman)
- the knack (my sharona)
- cronica (herr mannelig)

and then onto buckling in
4 beers and thinking
about black holes as the pin-head
of antimatter -
a dead sun...
     dead, but not dead...

   and the first, crude graphic
tomb raider game...

   rather than having completed
it...
     since only owning
a demo...

                 investigating
the possibility of 2D objects in
3D space...
       well: the universe isn't even
exactly 3D: it's hyper-3D...
    but in the tomb raider game
you could walk up to a minor
detail in the game, a fern,
and observe two-dimensionality
in a "three dimensional space"...

   namely: the ferns were all 2D,
and rotated within a "hyperbole"
of the eye -
   however you observed the "object"
it rotated round and round,
never allowing you to see
    its demoniac otherside -

i can only expect dead suns to
behave in such a manner -
   two dimensional objects in a three
dimensional subject matter -
almost paradoxical -

     rotating at immense speed...
invigorating a near but not quiet
a postportem of a death...

       and you really can see UV light
surface
staring at a glaring hot sun with
a naked eye -
   and see the same hyper-rotation -
it's almost like looking at
molten silver, but with a hint
of violet - i.e. akin phosphorescence:
but in the daytime...

and who said you need to
ingest hallucinogenics -
    and enter the labyrinth of a short,
short, history,
    of the chipmunk caveman?

i'm just drunk, you're probably
sober...
    but those guys doing
a timothy leary sermon?
   they're...
     gone.......................... gone -
     they hit the tangens curve.

"In Heaven
The Water
is Shiny Gold"

In approach of a clearing /
Vernal-Volcanic-Bagpipe-Intimidation-Collapse-Arise-/
empty hopscotches fade with rain, remembrances of my foiled return
lent to after-rather haze mingling line by line
with eyeglasses fogged up

I relinquished the panic of your absence one week ago today, but it wasn't easy, being caught in such swelling strings once desiring to wake in Gold

I was guided by my dream family which led me thus / glimpsing premonition Wyomings sprawl with pine & geyser
flat land fire
down river /
Spring Snow and tribulations sound with elemental reverberations of Spirit colliding with Stone
pirouetting upon a newfound expanse

My restless and uninitiated Tulpa stirs and screams
(I am owed this one) delving to ancient territories of attractive chaos
emerged unkind
but tender enough to fold into my next dressing, appropriately remote

II

By June I ascend further via Nepalese staircases carved from Mountain rock, Sun-showers resplendently endow this band of rattling Sherpas with grace
to hold, to wrap around their necks and deliver to my private Summit

(where many have died, where many have given their flesh to this
Golgotha Sagarmatha)

Sneah Yerng !
away you mortal entity death !

I consume you with Himalayan tea and the heavy sensation of my boots planting their weight to frozen earth - listening, attention to the foreground Chorus exhaling harmonies of Khmer which give further texture to the native brush

(We were once kindling set perfect across the ground - to blaze & become heavenly together - instead subjugated by time's feral will, you - now a Mother and a stranger to me, Myself - continuing & following this sense strangeness which is always present but flickering like cosmic frequency magnetically luring me into a breadbasket of fire & weeping intermittent, into a cycle, a snake - surrounding magic Islands of self-past and self-future
which whirl-about searching feverishly for a path - now that the one preceding has been lost or misguided, you're bound to this breathing child who's not ours - but yours)

This is how our story ends. Where we diverge and become Actual -
carrying separate but respectful momentum in each Epoch of life in all it's various & flowing Identities, just as I'd once predicted in an Altenburg Kitchen reading Rimbaud and sipping hot water quietly, disturbed - knowing, somehow, that we'd irrecoverably commit to being temporary conflagrations in the lives of the other. The end of A summation. Events that in many ways were born there, it is forcibly behind me now.. I was the result of these things. A sword carved from heat, and pressure.

What do I do with this?
So worn with necessity - living
Enjoying occasional rain, timely - capturing passing loves
refusing to stale and finish as Petrarchan - Madame George and Myself as two ambitions which acted both honorably & dishonorably at times. As human nature dictates, as I'll know, a branded truth from now on -
I am proud of you, I love you. I will cherish you, always.

We curate and amend – understand
each other's impossible profundities

(Shh! lights go out unexpectedly ! Your remainder hovers by the door for just a few secret and sacred seconds/ gone...)

These poems have been as much for you as they were for me - But I must exit this vacated place of only peering into the beyondness of things that have outgrown their form
open, step - deliver myself to:

Down the ******--
Adventures of Feral Children

If there has to be a gate, I suppose I have always had my own theory that “The ******” was one of those places through which God pulled Paradise inside out.  I was always wandering there, pretending-- playing sometimes or searching for something-- the exact moment that spring begins, or the place of my secret dwelling where I was in charge, where I was queen.  Always hoping for the constant surprise of beauty, a lady slipper-- stunning last year's leaves, a meadow of white violets-- May snow on green?  Or was the startle of of seeing my first scarlet tanager in the saplings-- still too cold for leaves?

To the uninitiated The ****** was nothing more than the meaning of its name, a bending tube of woods with a brook tracing along it-- like snake's spine.

Not a practical place for a housing development, it had an ether of history as some “Valentine Park” and playground, and I guess that was true, judging from the ruins of bridges, stone half-penny steps, and the overgrown lima-bean shaped pool.  Huge, stone block stairs had faced each other, lining the entrance of a spring-- a fountain once, covered now with moss.  It loomed at dusk like an ancient temple.  Even the course of the brook had been maintained by giant, redstone slabs-- long-since tumbled in the wake of hurricanes whose names I've forgotten....

...Like a snake's spine... always there for a thousand years, wearing its steep banks ever-deeper into the guts of city till oaks, hemlocks and white pines became sentinel giants, far taller and older than their genes had ever intended.  In the war for sunlight, they through up an unwitting wall against all-- but the most daring encroachments...

...Like say-- like say half-grown people, cigarette butts, broken bottles, and underground “forts” with their smells of stale beer and musty clothes, old mattresses-- echos of giggling, the aura of explored forbiddens.  To us who knew her, The ****** could outlive remembrance but not rumor.  Like an old graveyard or an abandoned house, it was the place to go with our bags of candy, pea-shooters, and fire crackers!  We'd go there to fake-smoke punks-- we either were or wanted to be--
  
Somebody's parents always leaving their lights around....

We came there to delve into our made-up mysteries, like the one about that antique car that had rusted in “The Swamp” for centuries!  ...that someone's dead cousin drove off The ******'s cliff side one night... drunk as a skunk!  ...right where The Diamond Match's got this big pipe that spews all that gray **** into the brook! ...right where we used to swim and play on the hottest days since we couldn't use the city's Paddle Pond (folks were scared of polio in those days), so we played at “The Pipe” --making “Indian pottery” with the neighbors,  Gary, Davy, Shelley, and Sandy.  Red clay cups and ashtrays on red hot afternoons-- making wild polluted Indians of Jew and Irish kids alike.

Now I almost forgot.... I was telling you about that antique car-- the one some cousin of Ross was supposed to 'ave driven right off the cliff into the swamp and died... Well... His ghost still lurks there! ...and goes into 'iz cousin's body-- Ross, that is....  Let me tell ya!  Ross could sure mess up an afternoon's good time by his appearance!
                                          __­__

  
But The ****** wasn't just for spooks-- not if you were into spraying girls with rusted cans of rotten Reddi Whip, kicking skunk cabbage (same effect), or finding frogs eggs under lily pads,  Gary even discovered those curious old Italians picking water cress barefoot in The Frog Pond.  Intensely curious, he was not afraid of their funny speech and ways.  He had gallon cans and pickle jars for raising pollywogs-- so he was on a mission.  But best of all, Gary had a backyard that overhung The ******'s swamp!  We could even view The Pipe hurling runoff ten feet out into the basin!  Our aberrant Niagara after a good storm.

Then there was the time that Tarzan swing just appeared!-- Like one of those convenient vines in the jungle movies!  It hung from a pine on one of The ******'s sheer sides, and was capable-- when wrapped around the trunk and given a running start, of providing one helluva-swooping-good ride-- out over the brook, into the sunlight and back-- with a thousand terrifying variations.  Took me a while to work-up my nerve-- a little longer to be really fine!

Tommy Gireaux fell and broke his arm.  Our swing was nothing but a stump of rope next day.  Twenty feet up, dangling fun, cut off and left-- to remembrance of times so real Tarzan made personal appearances!

______

Like Falcons, Kestrels and Hawks
They swoop low to look and stalk
Holding breath for silence sakes
Looking for gullible easy prey
Talons around the throats of the genteel and shy
Uncaring of flowing tears, they make them cry

Recalling a sunny day so bright
When clawed and swooped in delight
Not knowing the heart that would break
That day, piercing ties did penetrate
Learning others spirits would wound
As the Falcon made his way around the night for doom
As his blackness did loom
All were hurt, tears were shed
Face after face he did skim
Heart rending cries that were abhor
For them no tears no more
Never spoken to again, they might
the evil kin do they despise
Torment and cruelty they do throw'
Gnashing one's teeth thinking about ado,
Bruises of blue they carry, bleeding of heart
A cold sweat trickling down the spine, apart.

Take away the face oh please
leave life alone, let all be in peace
Pain and heartache that  created, O' bemoan
Saying and caring, oh no just want to be left alone ...
For the uninitiated, lonely hearts
Lending tears of sorrow, leaving soul debased
Romance here, a wild goose chase
Holds so many as the Falcons swoop again ...

Debbie Brooks 2014

That droll, little romance
was my first cigarette
an Indonesian clove cigarillo.
A year or two gone now,
but I still remember the sensation,
all the adrenaline and the drugs!

It was that nice, accurate drag,
that perfect ****
of smoke and nicotine.
Love was a potent buzz.
It had laughter.
The high.
It - the passion and ardor -  
...so good.

And the subsequent addiction!
I craved it,
took more than there was.
Smoked it to the ****
so fast
it was over before I realized it.
All that remained:
the fizzle of tobacco embers,
the quick-to-dry sweat
of the uninitiated.

Then the desperation.
I wanted it to work!
I smacked my lips for more of the sweetness.
Searched desperately inside
for only a sickness in my stomach
and poison on my tongue.

I’ve stopped smoking now,
but I will always be
just a little closer
to death
than I should be.

Pub poetry is a form of performance poetry consisting of the shouted word which has developed in UK urban pubs, dating back to the 1940s and 50s. Words are typically yelled over ambient haphazard rhythms which are not especially chosen for the piece of poetry, rather the poetry is performed over the generic sound of empty bottles and part filled glasses and live samples of patron conversation that will be familiar to those frequenting hostelries around the UK.

Sometimes the audience will employ call and response devices to distract the poet, such as calls of "W##k-er!', with the traditional response of "F##k-You!" before the pub poet continues with his yelled out verse, often read from the beer stained back of an overdue envelope.

The pub poet usually appears on a chair or table, surrounded by immediate family or work mates cheering him on.

Invariably inebriated, the pub poet may not appear to make any sense to the uninitiated - but once you too have availed yourself of your 4th or 5th pint, the words become clearer and easier to appreciate.

No musicality is built into pub poems and pub poets generally perform without backing music, delivering chanted speech with pronounced modulation, broken-rhythmic accentuation and dramatic, though random, stylization of gestures, often resulting in the pub poet losing balance and sustaining a head injury thereby losing consciousness and bringing the evening's entertainment to a premature, but often welcome, end.

It is often noted that many pub poets are remarkably shy and retiring when sober.

Muhammad  Ali- Poster,personification and Palsy
-----------------------------------------------------------­-----------------

When I was young,I had posters of only two;
Bruce Lee and Muhammad Ali ,you.
I was uninitiated to understand Che Guevara.
Frankly,my dear; I had no clue.
Rest in Peace, Muhammad Ali ,Sir.
A part of my childhood and adolescence goes with you.

From Cassius Clay,the champion
to Muhammad Ali,
With the whole world as his nation,
You were an awesome thing to happen to religion.
A  naive thought-One may argue.
But I was small then,
it was a child's view.
                    
My young mind questioned,
how could you float like a butterfly
and how could your punch be
like the sting of a bee?
It was you who made me understand,
what Metaphors do.

You began to move slow.
I saw you shaking too.
Your body suffered,
but you remained unshaken.
More than what it could,
You allowed me to know,
What this 'Shaking Palsy' could not do.

Rest in Peace,
I bid adieu.
It all feels strange,
this world is new.
But the World is not that brave.
Muhammad Ali, Sir,
without you.

This woman is a chameleon,
how her hues change!
she is the conqueror-
wearing the false hues of the conquered;
a desire for perfect conquest, in disguise.
                            She instinctively find
what she wants to conquer,
from among the smiles
identifying the heart of her like,
from its invisible presence,
from  a distance.That one moment
qualifies her as a magician of heart strings.

Her studied indifference now
is a tacit invitation
to get near her,
though concealed in many layers.
She makes sure he doesn't
miss the message,
but for the uninitiated
it goes invisible.
Sly looks he send now and then,
when she moves closer, his whisper:
"Don't you hear what my heart says?"
his half smile is being reciprocated,
what was made to look like reluctance
was in fact a challenge
for him to go and get
what he wanted,
not as a gift, but
as a hard earned asset.
He thinks she was the best
he has ever set his eyes on.
They hit it off in a bit.

Time to Get Serious: In the Poet's Nook
Originally posted here on
June 9th 2013

Yes it is verifiable, just as prior alluded to,
a few frayed and weathered Adirondack chairs,
wizened gray, like occupant, all seen better days,
overlooking the Peconic Bay,
where inspiration glazes over the water

Despite prodigious production o'er past weeks,
ditties, love laughing tributes, silliness aplenty,
these works of dishes washed, Paul Simon,
what to wear to your funeral, knuckle kissing, etcetera...
Though some contained soft shelled, mints of juleps hints,
little sundries, items for sale re suicidal thoughts,

no one takes-tales you serious

Be it tormented rain, intemperate gusts
whipping lashes of sand
excuses real, manufactured and yet,
despite opportunities always existed,
but you answered the question unasked,
you're unready, more likely, fearful.
to pen in the Inner Temple, in the nook.

In the nook, the poems float by, you need only extend arm and
grab them whole, ripened by the delivering breezes,
If you unmask pretense, and wear a seat belt

But here I am, and the welcome I receive is the one
deserved, for one who has joined the ranks of deniers

Favorable prevailing breezes service the sailboats pleasantly,
turn surly and unmanageable from neglect and disuse poetically,
they mock this coward, taunting:

We have waited, fall and spring, for you, our sacrificial lamb.
Your return we smelled, the odor of barbecue and suntan oil,
We observed your beach touring, your eyes upon the moonlight
Highflying, highlighting the path you follow when walking upon the
Water when nobody knows, nobody sees

You scarce provided the deep reveal that is our woeful provenance,
So, having returned, unleash or leave,  expose your La Mancha countenance,
Fulfill your daddy's curse,#
Portray the siren shriek of our gulls insistent,
the blood cold words, as of now, yet unfastened, un-cast,
the forge lit and fired,
Are you ready, self-appointed, poetry smithy, wright-man?%

On knees bent you should have approached,
For the inspiration, years rendered, unpaid, and unacknowledged
But most of all because of these interlopers attached to you,
So many children, green shoots, babes visiting the bay,
New friends hoisted upon us without permission!

Do they understand despite the solemn serenity
of the place you attend,
This is the observatory
where the stars and scars,
undiscovered and unexposed,
become our property to carry-cross the ocean?

Do they comprehend that black is the only color permitted and the
sunshine coverlet is meant to keep the unmotivated, the uninitiated,
who think that writing poetry is easy,
unaware, and far away from us, the truth purveyors

Nothing produced from this place
where routine means the gorge tastes bile,
When surcease is welcome relief,
Where dancing on ice in bare feet
Is step one to ripping your chest open by your own hands,
The toxins thus released rejuvenated by salted air,
Can be finally be transcribed onto paper
And realized.

Warn them once and then begin, you,
Get serious, delve, with hurricane unambiguity,
to torrential words upon the unsuspecting,
let them taste the rawness, only the truth provides,
let them know salt tears so briney,
They will flee this place, n'er to return.


June 9th
2013
Late afternoon.
#What ya do for a living he asks,
A little of this and a little of that,
All of which, ain't no **** good at!
So I spend my cold, hard time
laying down cold hard verse,
Can't stop, cause it's my daddy's dying curse

Rise up placid moon,
Through narrow bands of fiery cotton *****
From indigo to cobalt blue sky
Your motion, docile and free
And that sliver of silver light
Your cycles are said to guide the uninitiated
When you are full, they burst
For you are the light of the underworld
Full to new, new to full, and everything in between
Your shadow hides a secret as does mine
But yours is easier to reveal
There will come a day when earth shall release its bond
And you will be free from earthly influence
Just as death will discharge this soul
To meander from our earthly bodies
Free from the confluence that is body and soul

To be ginger in a heatwave
is to know that a surfeit of energy
that enthrals the populace
has consequence

Like any addict with an allergy
landed on a thing they love
you learn to skirt and sample
knowing sickness follows

The uninitiated will gorge and fall
swearing off the juice for good
and withdrawing a raised voice
which is bad

Pace yourselves for the longness
of an unexpected summer
so that when winter hits
we continue to burn

Thoth,
with the teaching of the Head...

First Scribe,
seated at the edge of Evenings Dark Listening..
Fear Sign to the unInitiated

Next, a Horse.
Clear attribute of Equus
A Flash of things Past and Present,
Love seen in instant replay.

And Finally, the Trophy.
Sweet reminder of the Temple of Artemis
Now Gone..Sacrificed by the many...


White Shadows Arrival,
as the Head of A Goat...
Reminder of Gods Life.

Hidden Message:
Growth Sacrifice.
Now Built: Fearless Head of the Ram

Chi,
Drawn, for the Fish within the river
And  X,
Burnt Offering,
for the people within the Cross

Growth Offering,
Destroyer of  Flesh
and Origin of All Life

Now Is Your Witnessing Victorious.
For the Body has been taken
But not the Head

Who so ever leaves such Knowledge lying around
Is a Fool to another Man's Victory.
and a tear, in the Heart of God.

It was a new day,
As I suited up for battle,
A new campaign,
Something sure to leave the uninitiated rattled.

A polo shirt to defend against the piercing stares of haughty individuals,
A thermos of coffee,
To brain the sandman with when he arrived with reinforcements mid morning,
Neatly combed hair to camouflage myself as just another drone,
Plucking away and invisible to predators.

As I sit down at my desk
I take a look out the window at the rain,
And imagine I was out in it,
For the rain is much more enjoyable.

But fear not,
I still have my secret weapon,
Devastating to the enemies of fun.
A power so great it will ensure that I will never fully succumb to the forces of drudgery.


I raise my pantleg a bit to take a peek at my crazy socks,
Instantly making my day better

Occasionally one may feel fear's fast grip
But let us not be governed by its restrictive embrace
So the fear of death may not control our actions
May the fear of living never penetrate  our minds,
And depart from whoever's in which it resides
Let the fear of our temporary state scare us not
Let the fear of the uncertainty of our tomorrow govern us not
Rather, let it's constant ******* at our heel motivate us
Motivate us to believe in the abilities we have,
And to learn new ones as well
Motivate us to reach heights inconceivable to those whose minds and hearts have not been freed
Heights which only a man freed may attain
A man freed of the darkness that inhabits everyone's soul
Freed of the fear of the unknowable nature of our futures that consumes us all
Embracing that fear so he can transcend death,
And be remembered beyond the many years he will grace this earth
Remembered for the heights he reached
Remembered for the people he chose to lead up to join him
Because he did not succumb to the malice of condescension
But was a Sherpa to the uninitiated
Giving these freed minds a new perspective
That they may soar to unimagined places
To which they will lead him and us in train
Perpetuating the chain of incredible events
Till we can finally reach our Elysian dreams
Started, not by a people of untold knowledge and wealth,
But by the one who decided to live without fear

Do we dare to tell
Our secrets to the uninitiated
Afraid to dance
We took a chance and it backfired
I know that sometimes
I can be impossible to tolerate
And if we congratulate ourselves
Too often, we will be mistaken
For unfaithful lovers
So please do not awaken us
No matter what time the clock says

Ardently you sought me, your perfect partner
in the planned, ****** crime extraordinaire,
all I needed to say,was "yes I am game"
Nothing more than our bodies commanded,
yet, I did that because it is you, who'd be in
the other side of the bed, that pleases me a lot.

You were an unknown and rare perfume
that I long sought, but failed to lay my hands on,
every amorous eye, falling on you,would attempt
fornication,vicarious, but all were in vein, of course
then, your eyes fell on mine, though you'd have loved
it to happen the other way round for more perfection.

Both of us are, those ones who walk that extra mile
in any kind of ****** adventure, without inhibition
if the idea originally occurred without instigation.
for us "Kamasutra"in it's real potential,is yet to be invented.
You always had thought that you were the game changer,
but now realize, things aren't  the way you expected!

How could you imagine, I still am uninitiated
in this genre,passion play we put our body and mind
a flaw you should have avoided, in  the  first place.
Now,make up for the lost time.Do the thing in earnest,
why don't you ascertain the facts before begining?
One presumes that things  move the way one plans
with out considering the significant other playing!
playground of cupid remains a field of pleasant surprises.

A song only heard at night
A fragrance that floods the mind with lost memories
A soul of obfuscation
Transcending the ways of man

Staring down the duplicity of happenstance
I crawl through a landscape, alien to the uninitiated.
In strict cadence to the night song
The smell of burnt sandalwood emasculates the soul

Afar off, you glimpse a shape that once meant something to you
An amorphous shadow
Do you give life to a memory?
Or Ashes to Ashes

Are you regularly transcending your ego?
Is doubt interfering with your intentions?
Can you dream dreams and envision a future,
that are aligned with His plan of Salvation?

Will your dreams manifest into your reality?
Have you discussed your purpose with Him?
Can you claim that you’re making progress?
Are you imploding from events that are grim

and seeking to pull your soul downward again?
Are you applying Biblical principles often,
to your personal, family and professional lives?
Are you kind toward others, with a heart soften

by the joyous message of God’s abundant Love?
Are you involving yourself in high-energy levels
of appreciation, reverence, trust and optimism?
Or are you sacrificing at the feet of devils,

who have stolen your Life’s sacred, first Love?
In the midst of your brokenness, does Light shine?
Can the uninitiated and unsaved, see any evidence
in your behavior, whereby your life is a shrine

that proclaims the greatness and goodness of God?
From agitations and disruptions, do you find release?
Can you stay clear of commotions and hullabaloos?
Are you living… in turmoil or staying in peace?
.
.
.
Author notes

Inspired by:
Psa 24:1-10; Phil 4:8-10; 1 Cor 14:33;
Eph 4:4-14; Job 12:10

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.

The uninitiated pandering to the lowest common denominator,
the clean cut ******* in sophomoric rhetoric,
"Sick" he says,
"Addicted" he says,
Like,
"I haven't seen the girl I have a crush on in almost 24 hours and I feel.......like......
Withdrawing.
Itchy,
Nauseous,
Angry,
Vomiti­ng,
Like I've got insects EVERYWHERE,
MY BODY IS THE ENEMY,
OPEN REVOLT OF THE AFFECTED CELLS,
(THEY'RE ALL AFFECTED BY NOW)
There is no escape there is no relief there is nothing to be done but wait it out,
One day clean,
Two days clean,
Three days clean,
Maybe, this will pass,
NO IT WILL NOT
Four days later, a glimpse, relapse, progress undone, back to 0, the sickness is inevitable, I'm going to die like this"
When was the last time you looked into the ravenous ****** eyes of the masses, and what did you learn from this?
Not enough
Grow up.

What if the town of Mayberry wasn’t
Exactly “white”?
Some of it would be of course
But what if most was “not quite?”
And whom?
They all look the same.
The same arms.
The same hands.
Creamy, milky blanched and not exactly pink even in soapy dishwater.

It does explain why there aren’t really any children.
That would give one away
That tawny skin
That curious hair and inky eyes

Aunt Bea, her nose is a little wide perhaps and yet...
Well Sheriff Andy sure can sing and his hair has just the slightest suggestion of a wave.
Otis’s lips are full and plump.
His face is round not square.
He is the most unassuming and
gentlemanly of criminals.
He locks himself up at night when it’s called for.
Sshhh
Is this why everyone is so frozen?
Not one foot put wrong even
in a solemn country way?

The secret getting out?
People wouldn’t understand.
And they’re out there far off by a stream
There could be trouble
And who’s who?
And who’s what?

We sit and watch the glow of quiet spectacle.
The pantomime of the solicitude.
The church raffle.
The apple pie.
The charade where no one knows the answer
If you were uninitiated maybe you would never know.
Imagine the stillness.

Now Opie you stay out of the sun!
But Pa!
I mean it. Now go do as you’re told and get ready for supper.
Oh alright.

They sit quietly around the table
Drinking iced tea and smiling
Nothing’s moving.
You sure know how make a fine piece of
Pie Aunt Bea!
Oh Andy!
No elbows on the table.
Why yes Sir.
Why no Ma’am.

Look, my hair is blond
And my eyes are a funny golden brown
I have a lot of freckles and when it rains
my hair does not know what to do
I wear it in a long braid down my back, tight
Someday I’ll meet a nice blond man and he’ll take me away from here.
I’ll stay out of the sun most days and our children
will be perfect.

It's to **** early and I wanna go back to sleep

I hide myself from everything, early in the morning.the debating of my day to come. When all the world proves black and glib.

I hide

Moments in the morning, when the streaks of light fight though shades cast low. I war with time.

These moments mine.


Uncorrupted early moments
the  thought of uninitiated meditation

Best that can be done
With the media to come


I refuse to be diluted.
I dismiss the deluded


Dare you  intrude  

Glass boxes.
So smart
Just phones
Bank loans
Bad backs
Five k
Starbucks
eBay

That in a minute
And the sun is still fighting
The room has no lighting
The belt is now tightening
The shoes are now laced
The heart is now raced

And the coffee tastes like ****

Now ,
Empty you
Now ,
be something new
The streets are all packed

And again your alone

Would it be better then
To have never have left

The thoughts are still there


And stands, at this moment a million of you.
All on the move

Dismissive Batista's
Cold savage bosses
All the moments losses

The darkness could not follow
Or hold the fools at bay.
And mirrors of you do they appear
The corners cut at expense of sustainability.
Of ability
Of acceptance

And the systems down
But Susan's wearing that dress
My hair is a mess
This moments just right
My collars too tight
She doesn't care
And she walks away
And I try not to stare
And my coworker laughs
And the moments just good
Cause were back in the zone

It's half and half past 1
Guzzle the coffee and run
In a couple good minutes
Which shatters the dull
The dull and the ache

The ten minute lunch
is more catch up than much

Agent of time

Numbers to crunch

Meandering Mandarin melancholy dream

go to bed and be unseen

Anger
Awake

Awake and I shake

And the phone is aglow
For this
6 o clock rake

Round and round.
With ends meat to make

I can be enchanted by how sunlight
through your windows filter brighter
around dirt. Everything out of
your open doors screams self-less "I!"
How the architecture astounds
and enlightens ignoramuses, balconies
bear shortcomings of the uninitiated.

I bought your portraits of
rising from the garbage
left you from those
who ******* you over.

How many people could praise you enough?

Ungrateful, to believe
your enemies and other frauds.
I dare doubt your methods?

The castle surrounded
by gas lamps and
gas lighters can not
burn down
so long as mirrors show
only the beauty of your
astounding heart

-shaped head.

Today I contemplated suicide.
Today I succumbed to the shadows
And pondered the unthinkable.
My muse of late takes the form of death,
Assuring me that my next
Will be my final breath.

To the uninitiated this may seem
An easy route out,
But my convictions far outweigh
Their self assuming doubt.

(The bugs crawl
across my shoulders
scaling my neck
navigating my ear
entering my head)

Today, I begged for there to be a God
And for that God to be fair in judgment
And for that God to look down and
Witness me…motionless…startled…
Disoriented…solitary…
…scared;
To take pity on my micro-concerns,
Maggot-like in my manifestation;
And to arc down a single clap of thunder
Which pierces the water
And drags me asunder,
To depths way down
Past my own experience,
Down past the devil
And his pitiful allegiance,
Lower than the time
When he invited me in
Only for him to realize
He’d never met real sin.
There is comfort to be found
In self loathing.

(The bugs crawl
across my shoulders
scaling my neck
navigating my ear
entering my head)

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2015