I, a woman of letters, have been waiting for you, a man of numbers. I’ve been fantasizing of the day when you would deliver at the porch of my heart your algebraic equation. The x’s and y’s merged systematically with all the symbols, forming an indelibly inked pattern that would finally make sense. I have been waiting and hoping and praying, but all I’ve got so far are your invalid equations, the confusion, the uncertainties, the unsolvable mathematical sentence that I want so desperately unscrambled. How can you not, in your genius, find the right equation, even as I now try to draft a coherent verse?

for j.e.
*013115

indigo dusk spreads across
inexhaustible country sky
torn wet clouds stretched blue at twilight
a big-chested wind comes howling off the lake
dissecting our immortal kiss
as the pink sun meets her planet-doom
leaking on my balcony like a falling curtain
blessed with an affinity for moonlight
lingering drinking pale wine
we took baths in lukewarm vanity

she is a long legged sorceress smoking a cigarette
half awake because i've got the covers again
goose bumps crowd onto her little bare *******
dewy legs sliding among mine
rousing my bones and heart alert
as the bright sun dances silent
like a new carnation dragged from bed
bringing a giant unscrambled sunrise
across my section of heaven's blue sea
but is mercifully eclipsed by the cream-skinned
breast of a purified failed angel
exploring the feather-soft mountain of my body

we drank cointreau in the early morning
against the collage of saxophones
expanding among criss-crossing body odors
and thin magic on my lipsticked neck
i'm gaining strength over my neuroses
all my fear and doubt disappears into joy
no longer huddled in paper misfortune
reintegrated with ecstasy
in the smoky labyrinth of her eyes
as her fingers light as dreams
draw complex patterns in the flesh
of my back and buttocks
like secrets written on wet paper
none of it       was            real        before          this           moment

the grass, leaning in the south wind , seeming
as if emeralds,   had sent tendrils up
to suckle at the yellow breast, now,   high above     inflamed...
over soft new grass  
      
like
strands of green gemstone,
as delicate as humming-bird tongues
teasing nectar
from a titan,
in the sky
                        
triumphant in the void,
a golden bead in the baffling blue !
cattails, curling in sway...and two brown eyes bob upon the surface
of a myriad fertilities.
as if
nature itself had known, one day
a poet would come ~
to roam the rambling renascence of these remote ramparts
in awesome humility ~ and so prepared
a path afflux
that ambled near

and yes !

an anonymous nomad
with nicotine skin and a scabbard of scandalous quills
would indeed
stumble in    as if returning home
to a mansion restored to glory
and seraphic randomness....
a place
              that in youth, sustained a quiet, soulful troubadour
              by gospels of granite and grain,  grass finch
              and faun - ennobling an oracle ... but now
              enticed a scholar  from his cot
              to jot ephemera
              of outlasting spark
              before dark-fall

and so... there
amid all allurement   and soft machines

              a word-smith gathered
              poesy and prose.
            
              muse-driven
              this one served
              an invisible
              sovereign
            
              one  

              of unsurpassed virility
              who charms       kaleidoscopes
              with  offhand sketches    
              rescued
              from
              a landfill
            
              a basket weaver,  
              that unravels to
              achieve pure
              forms
            
              a wineskin was decanted in dianthus and hollies -
              as ampules of anagrams
              were sold unscrambled, to dyslexics
              without hope
            
              a falcon   frolicked above the lowborn lilies...  
            
              with eyes  
              too keen
              to see a
              blur
              as the hand
              of god
            
              or a vole
            
              as a lifeline
              on his
              palm.

I just put out a cigar
I grab a pen and
start writing words and
I'm listening to a song and
I'm sitting at my desk but
I'm not here and I don't
know where I am. My mind
                               has drifted and this pen
                        gained life of some sort.
                                                                   Brilliant!
                                             Just brilliant. I feel light and
              I feel some sort of gravity in the tip of my fingers. I'm not in control but I'm in control.
                                                                  Words are spilled and
                                                                  thoughts are unscrambled
                                                                  and apparent random phrases
                                                                  are made and I make a full stop.

I read it,



I think it's a *******,
But am I right?
I just don't care and keep writing words and I'm still listening to a song and I'm lying down in a warm beach with dark waters and glass instead of sand and I see the moon, so big and so bright, as I look up and I saw only a ceiling, so big and so bright as the moon, and tears running down the walls and the beat of the song continues and the pen writes at it's own rythm, faster and faster as the song moves on and as the world moves on. Wars are made and wars are ended, revolutions are made and revolutions are ended, empires rise and empires fall, words are chosen and words are discarded, but what makes it art?
HONESTY.


If I said everything
what I think about
every second,
People would think
that I'm insane.

Am I really a writer or just form some words
Do you really understand me or do I just write for the birds?
Thoughts flow through my brain all jumbled and confused
I can’t help but unscrambled them and make sense of these floating words
Bubbles form above my head
Telling stories of reality that no one else said
Sometimes I feel like I’m not good enough to be on here
Sharing my stories of love, sadness and fears
So many words form into writings of my surroundings
I love sharing all of my feelings....
          Again,
Am I really a writer or
Just Wasting My
        Time....

The brothers Carmody, Jim and John
Were hooked on the keyboard wars,
While growing up, they’d never got on
It was always, ‘Mine, not yours!’
Jim would destroy his brother’s bed
John was more subtle than that,
He’d battery acid his brother’s clothes,
Burn holes in his favourite hat.

They lived just barely a mile apart
When they both left home for good,
If one ran into the other, then
They’d part in a surly mood,
So each had opened a Facebook page
To put the other one down,
Where Jim said, ‘You can’t control your rage!’
And John said Jim was a clown.

They both got married, their wives joined in
To this internecine war,
‘I hear your Betty’s seen round the town
On a bicycle built for four!’
‘Your Jillian picked up the second prize
When she won a date with you,
The ugliest guy in the neighbourhood
And that was the third prize, too.’

Jim sprayed bleach on his brother’s lawn,
John was as sly as a fox,
One night he crept to his brother’s place
Set fire to his letterbox.
The knives were out, there were no holds barred
‘Til the night of the power blackout,
They each paused over the enter key
With a message to chill them out.

‘I’m ready to bomb your citadel,
And nobody will survive!’
‘My crew is coming to do for you,
You’ll never get out alive!’
They hit the keys as the power went out
The messages couldn’t be traced,
They’d flown unguided from each P.C.
And travelled in cyberspace.

Three hundred years they would float adrift
The Carmody boys, long dead,
With thirteen generations of theirs
Not knowing what each one said.
Their words, unscrambled in outer space
Would alight on an alien shore,
Where the native Rogons got what they wished,
An excuse for planetary war!

‘They’re coming to bomb our Citadel,’
Said the Chief of the Rogons, Vork,
‘We’d better send out our nuclear fleet,
This Earth is sparring for war!’
The fleet set out on their ten year hike
On their mission through hyperspace,
The Orkon Fleet was heading on back,
They’d been to the very same place!

‘They sent a message to us as well,
Were sending a crew to attack,
They said we wouldn’t get out alive,
We couldn’t put up with that!
We blasted Earth to a thousand bits
That are floating out by the stars,
They’ll never be threatening us again…
Come on, we’ll race you to Mars!’

David Lewis Paget

A blank piece of paper
Unscrambled letters
Metaphors flying across the room,
Hypnotised.

A bucket of white paint
Whitewashed fences
The last knock on the door,
Crestfallen.

Thirty five cygnets
Moving in the same direction
I choke on the sea salt,
Frozen.

A thousand letters from you
Anecdotes and poetry's
Words still won't suffice,
Rusted.

i'd lap up an apology like it was saccharine nectar.
i beg for my self-worth to be untied, unscrambled,
unknotted from perceptions of
strangers and eyes, that linger
and push inward, scorching my skin.
Lo i remain,
pensive and fickle
begging to be your humble, healing servant.
Please let me help you. Please let me save you.
I'll dash my own bandages from my wounds just to set yours.
Tell me where it hurts.
I tell you to not think of me, i'm not worthy of the thought.

Im not sure what to think anymore.
Was it all out of bore?
Did I just need something, someone ,
To pour my emotions out on
I hope its more than that
Im young
Im reckless
Worry lines are invisible
But my worries are clear
You might be the first
My first, truly
Theres been others
But none like you
It might all be unscrambled soon

I just put out a cigar.
I grab a pen and
start writing words and
I'm listening to a song and
I'm sitting at my desk but
I'm not here and I don't
know where I am. My mind
                     has drifted and this pen
                  gained life of some sort.
                                                        Brilliant!
                                  Just brilliant. I feel light
and I feel some sort of gravity in the tip of my fingers. I'm not in control
but I am in control.
                                 Words are spilled and
                                thoughts are unscrambled
                              and apparent random phrases
                            are made and I make a full stop.

I read it,


I think it's a *******,
But am I right?
I just don't care and keep writing words and I'm still listening to a song and I'm lying down in a warm beach with dark waters and glass instead of sand and I see the moon, so big and so bright, as I look up and I saw only a ceiling, so big and so bright as the moon and tears running down the walls and the beat of the song continues and the pen writes at it's rythm, faster and faster as the song moves on and as the world moves on.

Wars are made and wars are ended,
revolutions are made and revolutions are ended,
empires rise and empires fall,
words are chosen and words are discarded,
but what makes it art? Honesty.

     If I said everything
     what I think about
     every second,
     People would think
     that I'm insane.

Thoughts.
Unscrambled to tell you what I want,
yet as the words are straining to be free,
I lose them again.

I want you to know.

What is this feeling?
Do you feel it too?

The subtle lingering of those words that are nonchalantly thrown around,
feeling that there is something there

Wondering.
Do you feel it too?

The chance that something could blossom,
but the terror of being renounced bubbled.
It threatened to take the happiness I could gain

I pushed it away.
Do you feel it too?

I reached out and gained a newfound flower
it bloomed strong and caring.
It bloomed freely and beautifully.

Do you feel it too?

There is a woodland in
My-
Mi-nd-
I escape there
Some-times.
There I find the girl who's
Thirteen.
Sometimes five
Some-times
I get trapped
In between.

There is
A foot-path
I like to travel-
I become to the ****-
Outlandish. Unscrambled-
Sometimes I think
This world
I
Cannot handle!
Until the forest in
My mind
I wind back up in.

This forest
Is my protection-
Nothing bad
Is ever
L
E
T
In-
Some days I know
The thick trees
Are just my sins
Though the soil-green-
Always refreshes
Who I
Was-meant-to
Be.
Sincerely a woman
With the past blown
Back in the breeze.

I’m afraid of heights. But I don’t fear falling. Falling is a freedom that’s never failed to run away from me when I’ve given chase. Falling is the wind in my hair. Clothes ruffling. The pure feeling of exhilaration. Of knowing that there’s still fear under that energy. What am I going to fall into? Or on? Is my body going to hit the pavement? Blood blossoming around me as if an artist spilled a can of paint. And I just happened to fall into it. Except my body will relax. Whatever feelings I had. Whatever thoughts I had leaked out through that pool of blood around me. And in my last moments of comprehension I can tell that it’s darker than I expected it to be.  But it’s still the same. It hasn’t changed any. I always fall into the pavement. It opens its arms as if it were a long lost friend. Calling my name. Making promises of peace and clarity. Promises that no one will be depending on me if I just come into its arms. That I can sleep and not have my dreams plagued with locusts of worry. And grief. And over thinking. So when I found myself falling again. I leaned back into the feeling. I leaned back into the wind relishing the feel of its fingers in my hair. Relishing the feeling of this peace. How could you have peace while you’re falling. I’m not sure anymore. My fear of falling the healthy fear of falling and colliding into something. Has been stripped away. Stripped away like an apple being peeled. Or cheese being grated into finer layers. I don’t fear it. I welcome it. With open arms. And an open. Still intact unscrambled mind. So when I fall through the sky. I only regret. That it’ll be over soon. This addicting feeling of freedom this adrenaline rush. Will be spread out in a bloodied halo around my head. And that’s the only thing I regret. That it can’t last forever. But alas all good things must come to an end. So I close my eyes. Inhale deeply knowing the impact is going to come soon. And hang onto the remnants of this wonderful. Blissful feeling. And then it happens. I hit something. And instead of it being concrete. I find that it’s another body. Another faller I guess. So when I open my eyes. Expect to see blood around me. But instead I see blue eyes. Not just blue eyes. Blue eyes that aren’t glazed over. Blue eyes that weren’t gifted the kiss of death. Eyes that are alive. And are also as confused as I am. Instead of falling into the opened arms of the soft gray pavement I’ve fallen into a person. A person who just tells me. That it isn’t time. To die. To come back. And fall again. That I have something to do and people that need me. And I need to wait for that feeling. I need to wait and stop craving it because I’ve become too addicted to the euphoria of it. It’s time to take my head out of the wind and sky. And come back to earth and live. I actually sigh at this. I sigh in annoyance. And roll my eyes. Because how dare they. That’s why. So hand in hand with this blue eyed stranger I go. Down a road carved and sculpted from the wind. From the stars. And from the ageless eternity of night. To whoever apparently needs me. While I shake trying to stave away the callings and whispers of the wind. Begging me to come and join it. To come back and dance the waltz that never ends. But with my hand in theirs. I’m anchored here and I can’t. So for now I block it out and keep walking. To the light that needs me. Because (apparently). I’ve chosen to live even before this day. And even before this exceptionally weird fall. I chose to live.

So I will.

When did the almighty put the bite on
me or did he?
isn't there too much going on to bother about what John's got going on?
and on it goes until it slows but don't let that fool you,
it's still clockwork here.

Monday and inspiration comes in sachets or is that sashays? and is that how to spell it?

Hey You!
yeah you on the other side of the clear view
how you doing?
(shades of Joey)
but we know he's not friends anymore

okay
now I'm unscrambled
rambling's done.

unscrambled brains look nothing like they should

I write
                  Real
Raw
                 Unedited
Feelings
                 And
Emotions
                 I sometimes write
What my mouth cannot say out loud
I write from the
                       H      E
                           A
                      R        T
Unscrambled the words from my brain
Unmasking a broken piece of
                   A
              R
        T
In my form of
P
O
E
T
R
Y

Pleasantly cleared upon the break apart
was the justice of silk built imprevity

So how often should braided legs of halls
laid with willow braids and wicker built baskets.

Lacked in the edges of eve was the unforseen
take of unscrambled
unforgettable
political action.

Even while waiting for actions in order to divert it.
Let it bleed and bellow out loud.

Let blood shout and and iron bleed
Let it need, let sounds shout and bleed while life
heeds warnings of hate and hell built will.
Let it lie in state still
and it be before will
let it still
let it be
Boughs, enact a bill