an unpardonable aberration
in possession of an adrenalized
dynamism of energy
which emerges
like that of the dirt on my face
but cannot hide
the strangulation of my hair
nor the red that fires my fingers
nor the desire or physical location
of my marvellous sexuality
or the ink that bleeds from my nose
when the excitement of creation
reaches its unmonitored theft  
of psychophysical *******
of writing upon the page
those elusive words that once written
become an imagined ****** fantasy
blurred but cannot be retained
for the words must be free
free to be the poem, to be themselves
to be ourselves

Alone, Forgotten, Lonely, Out Of Sight Out Of Mind.*
(Dedicated to all homeless and street people throughout the world)

Alone, forgotten, lonely, out of sight out of mind
Neglected by our society, rejected by mankind
The mentally ill, the homeless, the vulnerable, human beings are everywhere
Dozens dying daily;* drugs, drink, disease, deprivation, despair.

Languishing in the hostels, bedsits, dumps in need of repair
In places of oblivion where no one seems to care
Exploited by corrupt, unscrupulous landlords who look on with disdain
Their only real concern is of how much they can gain.

For others not so “lucky” who are looking for a bed
They'll turn to any place of comfort to rest their weary head
Alleys, stairwells, doorways, basements, any place will do
So long as there is shelter for one night, maybe two.

Another day is dawning, another day of doom
Where to move on next from the cold, the rain, the gloom?
Wandering about aimlessly, searching for a clue
To find a place of refuge for the many, not the few.

“No room” in such places, “Full up”, closed doors all around
It’s back to that place of misery the previous night they found
Danger, cold, wet, abject squalor beckons yet again
For the thousands in our society; vulnerable, teenagers, young women, young men.

But just how many make it to see yet another day?
Some will not awaken, found dead, frozen where they lay
Another lost, forgotten statistic which no one cares to keep
Figures of huge numbers, enough to make you weep.

And what about the others that those dead friends leave behind?
If you look in the right places, this is what you’ll find:
Sickness, destitution, chronic ill health are matters of fact
Deterioration of bodies, lost souls, minds about to crack.

Misery, dejection, deep depression is the norm
However strong the individual, whatever shape or form
Existing mental illness; minor, moderate, severe
Will clearly be exacerbated by torment, uncertainty, fear.

Confused, weak, weary, frightened, very much alone
Another day of hopelessness, another day unknown
Too tired to go on any more with illness, apathy, despair
It's time to say “Goodbye cruel world, no one really cares”.

One more death, a suicide, caused by complacency, neglect
Isn’t it time to treat our fellow man with a little more respect?
Help, care, understanding would certainly be a start
Act now to prevent more deaths Those-With-Power, compassion, heart.        

Let’s start to radically rethink, review our “Community Care”
We must stop leaving our vulnerable unassessed, unmonitored, unaware
Two years have now slipped by since the start of this disastrous Act
It's time to change this “system”, which is failing, that’s a fact.

So come on health staff, social workers, politicians across the divide
Get your acts together to stop this rising tide
Of needless deaths, human suffering, tragedies that put you all to shame
“A national disgrace, disaster, scandal” - who will take the blame?


*A poem based on vast personal insight, knowledge and experience.
March 1995 … What’s really changed in all those years?!

My breath feels empty
My throat is constantly chocking the screams I long to release
The idea of something so permanent makes me feel stuck in the present
This is not a distant vacation,
This is an emptiness in my heart that will last for the rest of my life
I am constantly apologizing to an unmonitored Facebook account
Forever is a long time to deal with this emptiness

cookies & cachéd data,
digitally-programmed privacy paraphernalia
     are carefully collecting information
     following your confirmation
     to allow the invasion
     of all forms of personal communication

((( it’s hard to ignore the intimidation
of the internet’s alluring intoxication )))

     but between you&me
     life beyond a screen
     never felt so free,
     an anti-digital reality,
     life in an unmonitored galaxy
     is something     only the mind can dream
                    # # # # #

Appetizing morsels of snack food leftovers, jammed down the throats of the gathering’s well-meaning occupants, trapped in place, paralyzed by purchasing power, co-mingling amongst a gossamer of plague ridden staff, exercising their right to a paltry sum, at the cost of worldly dignity.

Tupperware auctioned off at a silent word, while women with crow’s feet crevices compile layers of expensive, foundry concealer, birthing a new, more melancholic Pagliacci, only to be outdone by the next in line.

Sound equipment, purchased over market value, placed on the showroom floor, mechanically regurgitating a playlist of old hits as broken hips slaughter the concept of rhythm and cadence, dancing for their youth, embarrassed by their age.

Late husband’s life insurance, blown on a new make-up line tested on Lassie, bought for the sake of a cost-free gift, which would have the woman’s palm eaten out by a monetarily starved charlatan, rented out on an hourly basis.

Sprayed odors, mixing and merging as they meet on the undersides of veiny wrists, fumigating the stale air, weakening the legs of the participants, dropping them to the floor as sequenced lights illuminate in time with an ancient billboard tune.

Eight o’clock bedtime, difficult to impose, when giddy patrons stay drunk on the bliss of over-spending, knocking off to a land of nod in unmonitored broom closets, clutching at their purchases with the vigor of a lowly man in pursuit of his bottle.

The night slows, crawling in turn with a dead clock as it ticks in place, stalemated, flinching, but not forward, only in place.

Lights leave the room, and silence ensues, the visitors leave, weighted down to a lifeless crawl by their numerous, unnecessary purchases in overfilled, non-recyclable shopping bags.

My mother is a password,
my father is a desk.

I am a pen that moves across
the blue lines of this page
or
the clatter of the keyboard
on which these words are typed,
transmitting their collective zeros
and ones into the blue-black light of
the text that appears unabashedly unmonitored
on the monitor, the screen, the scene
of this machine
that wages wars on my melancholy,
destroys the depressive states,
guerilla tactics,
computer-guided, cruise missile
ordinance.

Ordinary?
No.
A one-man Civil War.
An opinion-piece, op-ed
megaphone manifesto.

Rights?

Rites?

Writes?

I’ve got ‘em all,
down the the most
microscopic minutia,
a miasma of Most-Holy
**** or Shinola.

My mother is a password
my father is a desk.
I am a pen,
the mightiest of swords,
a war within a warrior,
no better
or
worse,
just different
from the
rest.


*
-JBClaywell
© P&Z Publications 2019

I am disaster
With killing cuts in my face
For the drool when it rolls down
From a face held in place with staples and tension cables

My laugh lines are chuckles at best
Like a pity laugh at a joke that went one step too far
A mouth that settles down, literally
And strains to bend upward

Its so ******* heavy and I cant bare it
Pulling open my ribs to operate I can see this dark heart
Crusting over, hardening over with hate
Being petrified by all the things I distrust from happiness

Im pulling off those bits and pieces too necrotic to save
It hurts but it has to be done
Theres no other way to do it

Unmonitored positivism will dull my perception
While absorbed in this placebo state
I know that this heart will turn to stone
And buried beneath scar tissue, Ill change
Thats why a smile is the worst vitamin

The muscles used to form a cartoonish frown
Are not real, you have to try real hard to make that ****
But when your face is aimed downward
When your eyes are built for crying
And filling in the cracks with gold only makes your wounds visible

The weight of a smile is
A clown mask, over flesh burned from the inside out
Feeling like youre digesting a cannonball every hour of the day
Wanting to grab someone and hold them because the floor is falling out from under you
Feeling the size of your own thoughts crushing down on lungs too asthmatic to breath
Being acutely aware of every second of the day
The dying sun inside your chest feeling like it's going super nova
Being connected to a hundred different points, and seeing no change in distance
Slaying a sentence before it leaves your mind because you think no one cares
Being okay for everyone else because you cant be for yourself anymore

Each night
the sun goes down,
starts a fresh set of
coercion,
to return again
and let the birds scream
sharply, from spindly branches
at the squirrels somersaulting beneath.

No moment is free from little negotiations.
When you buy a house
or vehicle
it could be the one you die in.
So we agree
to avoid bridge abutments
and unmonitored open flame.
Dig a peace deep and
wide enough to maximize
the amount of breakfasts we see.

Once we understand people
can actually be gone,
wrap our head around the idea
there must always be
a never again, nothing
tastes that permanent
anymore.
A resting locust in the back of our minds.

We can see the ridges of handwriting
left on the backside of blank pages,
peer through the seams
until the ink
muddles
and merges.

Still, the moon hangs too splendid
to never see again.
Forcing a primal expertise at plain-sight
hiding. Burrowed in the desolation
pyre. Palms outstretched
as if cradling a child,
skin blistering in the shade.