I'm a lil drunk
so please don't judge me baby
I had a tad bit much
of the UV Blue
but I can honestly say
you sure look good
I wonder if your lips they taste
just as good as the UV Blue

Be careful when you fall in love with a poet
Poets
We kinda don't really think in the same way as everybody else
If everybody's thinking outside the box, were probably the ones thinking on the box
Or with the box, or in another box
Yeah see that was kinda weird
We think in metaphors
We write with our own blood
We write about anything and everything that makes us feel
Which means we will probably write about you
And will continue to write about you even after we've broken up and you moved on and youve forgotten about us
We will still write about you
Because you engraved feelings in us which we have immortalized into words
Think of it like this
You come into our lives
You spill wet cement on the walls of our hearts
We write all the feelings we get on the wet cement and when you're gone it dries up

Be careful when you fall in love
With the girl who can compare you to the sun
One minute she can tell you that the sun is the source of life in this world and brightens up her day
And the next, she can tell you that the sun's UV rays are actually harmful and the sun sets too
While you are talking
She is thinking about how your eyes crease at the corners when you laugh
And how your smile is the most beautiful thing she has ever seen
And how your hair is the perfect mix of messy and hot
She will try to put all these feelings into words
And despite her vast vocabulary and experience in writing
She will never find the right words to describe you
Searching for words will be like using internet explorer as your browser
Or riding a snail
Or looking through a dictionary when all the words are crossed out

Be careful when you fall in love
With a girl who writes
Because you just might be the reason for her writer's block
And she will probably hate you for it
But at the same time love you for it
Yet you can also be the reason she can never stop writing
Because you are more than enough inspiration she needs
You will be the driving force of the pen in her hand against the paper
And that's pretty **** amazing if you ask me
She can turn your world into words
Turn your thoughts into lines
Turn your feelings into poetry
She will say the things you never knew how to say

Be careful when you fall in love with a poet
Because you just might be turned into intangible literature

Handbag~ 1994
exam timetable
£5 from my Mum
shiny key for the front door
fresh-mint chewing gum

Handbag~ 1998
keys for work
keys for home
£20 and a bit of change
photo of my best mate
and a bloke that's twice my age
lipstick~ lacy knickers
condoms~ ID card
ticket for a bus to town
UV sparkly stars

Handbag~ 1999
keys for work
keys for home
spare key for his flat
condoms~ contraceptive pills
No.7 powder-ivory/matt
VISA/Delta debit card
paper
gel ink pens
number of a bloke
who says our love
will never end

Handbag~ 2000
keys for work
keys for home
key for the gas meter
Teletubbies picture book
list of baby-sitters
new mobile phone
herbal teething gel
lipstick~ Anadin
vanilla impulse body spray
children's Nurofen
photo of my baby boy
really tiny socks
under-eye concealer
secret stash of chocs

Handbag~ 2002
keys for work
keys for home
pull-back-and-go car
baby wipes
mobile phone
estate agents' cards
picture of my little boy
list of things to do
Boots own brand pregnancy test
both windows coloured blue

Handbag~ 2005
keys for home
card from work
tissue full of tears
photo of my boy in school
that shows his gappy teeth
photo of my baby girl
and one of both of them
a ring that used to be my Mum's
Pro-Plus~ Diazepam

Handbag~ 2009
keys for work
keys for home
one SLIM~FAST bar
one Cadbury's wrapper
Haribo~ Calpol~ tissues
assorted Disney plasters
treasured stones~ special shells
sand and bits of twig
money to buy ice creams
photos of my kids

People write down New Year resolutions in a variety of categories like health, happiness, family and so on. I think beauty deserves a spot on that list too.

It’s my job to be beauty obsessed and I love it, but there are always areas of improvement for me, and maybe for you too. I think there are a few things we all need to do more of this new year. Some of them are things that you have heard me say over and over again (and yes, i’m not going to stop), and some you’re hearing for the first time.

But a new year should bring ideas, practices and habits that will make you who you want to be. Here are my (and some of your) New Year beauty resolutions for 2016.

1. Wear Sunscreen Every Single Day

I’m pretty good with this because I never leave my house without sunscreen on my face.

I use it underneath my makeup and then use my primer on top. I’m great with applying SPF on my face and all over, especially if I plan to spend long hours under the sun. But one thing I know needs improvement is being more aware of my neck, chest, hands and other areas that one might forget.

If this resolution needs to be on your list, I would suggest you apply sunscreen all year round. It is also important to add an extra coat of sunscreen on your hands when getting a gel manicure because of the UV lights often used to dry the nails.

2. Washing My Makeup Brushes

Speaking of brushes, I’ll like to mention their somewhat high maintenance nature. If you don’t wash your brushes regularly, not only are you leaving them open to bacteria, which leads to possibly breakouts, it also means that your brushes won’t pick up pigment and work as well as it should. I know, washing your brushes seems like an huge task, but if you use a brush cleaner, it is much easier and faster.

Personally, I’m going to set aside a specific time – Sunday afternoon at 2PM to do this chore every week. This will give my brushes enough time to dry properly before the start of the week. To help you remember every week, you can set a reminder on your phone.

3. Being More Adventurous with Makeup (and hairstyles)

It’s so easy to get into a makeup routine, but people like MakeupShyla do a great job of switching it up. Celebs on Instagram are a great inspiration for trying new things, gold eye shadow, bold red lips and more. Amrezy always mixes it up; glossy lips, matte, dark lips, Coloured eyeliner she isn’t afraid to try it out.

And why should she be? It’s makeup she can wash it off! We should all be more out there with out makeup looks and try out new looks. Bold red lips, more shimmer, cut crease eyeshadow – the beauty world is your oyster.

4. Book in for Regular Facials

Looking after your skin is a bit like looking after your teeth. While you may brush and floss regularly, you still need to see the dentist for a deep clean and check up.

I have a fantastic ****** routine and really good products I use on my skin, and even though this might seem enough, it just isn’t. I know that times are tough in this economy and it’s undeniably smart to cut back on extraneous purchases. However, here is my opinion on why a monthly ****** is a good investment.

Your skin is always on display and often has the power to dictate how good we feel about ourselves. Investing in proper skincare has a value that can be arguably more important than buying a new dress or going out to a fancy restaurant or even taking an expensive vacation (a ****** is a mini-vacation).

A ****** will cleanse the pores on a much deeper level, extractions/cleaning out the pores can help to maintain clear skin, stop acne formation, as well as help to change the pore’s size. Often times left unchecked, pores can start to stretch and widen with the accumulation of oil and dirt. So I have decided to get a ****** monthly, and I think it wouldn’t hurt if you did too.

5. Using Hair and Skin Masks

Hair and skin masks are fun to use and make a huge difference for soft, shiny hair and clear skin. I really love the dead sea mud mask from Pure Body Naturals at the moment. I love the way my skin feels after I use it – it’s simply amazing.

And I also love the Cantu hair masque – it leaves my hair moisturized and soft. I think I would use this once a month going forward, and also apply a facemask once a week at a time that’s perfect for me.

6. Take Care of My Natural Nails

As ridiculous as it sounds, a manicure is one of the first things people will notice about your appearance, especially if you work in an office.

For a while I have been using nail extensions and acrylics. While it looks beautiful, it also makes my nails underneath very soft. I would like to take a break from nail extensions and grow my own nails. Strong, long and healthy! This is also something you can adopt, your nails need the TLC.

read more:www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-brisbane

A gamma ray burst
Depleted the ozone layer
UV radiation was harmful to life

A decrease in surface dwelling creatures
Indicates it was likely UV radiation

Or was it a galactic bow shock?
Two of our planets mass extinctions
Occurred at about the time
The sun was highest above the plane of our galaxy

During the Ordivician extinction,
The UV rays could have caused
DNA damage and mutations

Wow, thanks YouTube
I learn something new each day
And that makes me gay

Heretical Poems by Michael R. Burch

Bible Libel
by Michael R. Burch

If God
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.

NOTE: I came up with this epigram to express my conclusions after reading the Bible from cover to cover, ten chapters per day, at age eleven.



Saving Graces
for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

Life’s saving graces are love, pleasure, laughter
(wisdom, it seems, is for the Hereafter).



Multiplication, Tabled
for the Religious Right
by Michael R. Burch

“Be fruitful and multiply”—
great advice, for a fruitfly!
But for women and men,
simple Simons, say, “WHEN!”



Wlly Nilly
for the Demiurge, aka Yahweh/Jehovah
by Michael R. Burch

Isn’t it silly, Wlly Nilly?
You made the stallion,
you made the filly,
and now they sleep
in the dark earth, stilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
You forced them to run
all their days uphilly.
They ran till they dropped—
life’s a pickle, dilly.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?

Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?
They say I should worship you!
Oh, really!
They say I should pray
so you’ll not act illy.
Isn’t it silly, ***** Nilly?



What Would Santa Claus Say
by Michael R. Burch

What would Santa Claus say,
I wonder,
about Jesus returning
to Rage and Plunder?

For he’ll likely return
on Christmas Day
to blow the bad
little boys away!

When He flashes like lightning
across the skies
and many a homosexual
dies,

when the harlots and heretics
are ripped asunder,
what will the Easter Bunny think,
I wonder?



A Child’s Christmas Prayer of Despair for a Hindu Saint
by Michael R. Burch

Santa Claus,
for Christmas, please,
don’t bring me toys, or games, or candy . . .
just . . . Santa, please . . .
I’m on my knees! . . .
please don’t let Jesus torture Gandhi!



gimME that ol’ time religion!
by michael r. burch

fiddle-dee-dum, fiddle-dee-dee,
jesus loves and understands ME!
safe in his grace, I’LL send them to hell—
the strumpet, the harlot, the wild jezebel,
the alky, the druggie, all queers short and tall!
let them drink ashes and wormwood and gall,
’cause fiddle-dee-DUMB, fiddle-dee-WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEee . . .
jesus loves and understands
ME!



Pagans Protest the Intolerance of Christianity
by Michael R. Burch

“We have a common sky.” — Quintus Aurelius Symmachus (c. 345-402)

We had a common sky
before the Christians came.

We thought there might be gods
but did not know their names.

The common stars above us?
They winked, and would not tell.

Yet now our fellow mortals claim
our questions merit hell!

The cause of our damnation?
They claim they’ve seen the LIGHT ...

but still the stars wink down at us,
as wiser beings might.



Practice Makes Perfect
by Michael R. Burch

I have a talent for sleep;
it’s one of my favorite things.
Thus when I sleep, I sleep deep ...
at least till the stupid clock rings.

I frown as I squelch its loud beep,
then fling it aside to resume
my practice for when I’ll sleep deep
in a silent and undisturbed tomb.



Enough!
by Michael R. Burch

It’s not that I don’t want to die;
I shall be glad to go.
Enough of diabetes pie,
and eating sickly crow!
Enough of win and place and show.
Enough of endless woe!

Enough of suffering and vice!
I’ve said it once;
I’ll say it twice:
I shall be glad to go.

But why the hell should I be nice
when no one asked for my advice?
So grumpily I’ll go ...
although
(most probably) below.



Redefinitions
by Michael R. Burch

Faith: falling into the same old claptrap.
Religion: the ties that blind.



pretty pickle
by michael r. burch

u’d blaspheme if u could
because ur God’s no good,
but of course u cant:
ur just a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant).



Defenses
by Michael R. Burch

Beyond the silhouettes of trees
stark, naked and defenseless
there stand long rows of sentinels:
these pert white picket fences.

Now whom they guard and how they guard,
the good Lord only knows;
but savages would have to laugh
observing the tidy rows.



Listen
by Michael R. Burch

Listen to me now and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone, screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.

Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black, and white is white, and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.

Does a madman choose his words? They come to him,
the moon’s illuminations, intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.

But listen to me now, and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell, and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,

but listen, or cut off your ears, for I Am weary.



fog
by michael r. burch

ur just a bit of fluff
drifting out over the ocean,
unleashing an atom of rain,
causing a minor commotion,
for which u expect awesome GODS
to pay u SUPREME DEVOTION!
... but ur just a smidgen of mist
unlikely to be missed ...
where did u get the notion?



thanksgiving prayer of the parasites
by michael r. burch

GODD is great;
GODD is good;
let us thank HIM
for our food.

by HIS hand
we all are fed;
give us now
our daily dead:

ah-men!

(p.s.,
most gracious
& salacious
HEAVENLY LORD,
we thank YOU in advance for
meals galore
of loverly gore:
of precious
delicious
sumptuous
scrumptious
human flesh!)



no foothold
by michael r. burch

there is no hope;
therefore i became invulnerable to love.
now even god cannot move me:
nothing to push or shove,
no foothold.

so let me live out my remaining days in clarity,
mine being the only nativity,
my death the final crucifixion
and apocalypse,

as far as the i can see ...



u-turn: another way to look at religion
by michael r. burch

... u were borne orphaned from Ecstasy
into this lower realm: just one of the inching worms
dreaming of Beatification;
u'd love to make a u-turn back to Divinity, but
having misplaced ur chrysalis,
can only chant magical phrases,
like Circe luring ulysses back into the pigsty ...



You
by Michael R. Burch

For thirty years You have not spoken to me;
I heard the dull hollow echo of silence
as though a communion between us.

For thirty years You would not open to me;
You remained closed, hard and tense,
like a clenched fist.

For thirty years You have not broken me
with Your alien ways and Your distance.
Like a child dismissed,

I have watched You prey upon the hope in me,
knowing “mercy” is chance
and “heaven”—a list.



I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

I’ve got Jesus’s face on a wallet insert
and "Hell is for Queers" on the back of my shirt.
     And I uphold the Law,
     for Grace has a Flaw:
the Church must have someone to drag through the dirt.

I’ve got ten thousand reasons why Hell must exist,
and you’re at the top of my fast-swelling list!
     You’re nothing like me,
     so God must agree
and slam down the Hammer with His Loving Fist!

For what are the chances that God has a plan
to save everyone: even Boy George and Wham!?
     Eternal fell torture
     in Hell’s pressure scorcher
will separate **** from Man.

I’m glad I’m redeemed, ecstatic you’re not.
Did Christ die for sinners? Perish the thought!
     The "good news" is this:
     soon My vengeance is his!,
for you’re not the lost sheep We sought.



jesus hates me, this i know
by michael r. burch

jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
"little ones to him belong"
but if they use their dongs, so long!
    yes, jesus hates me!
    yes, jesus baits me!
    yes, he berates me!
    Church libel tells me so!

jesus fleeces us, i know,
for Religion scams us so:
little ones are brainwashed to
believe god saves the Chosen Few!
    yes, jesus fleeces!
    yes, he deceases
    the bunny and the rhesus
    because he's mad at you!

jesus hates me—christ who died
so i might be crucified:
for if i use my active brain,
that will drive the "lord" insane!
    yes, jesus hates me!
    yes, jesus baits me!
    yes, he berates me!
    Church libel tells me so!

jesus hates me, this I know,
for Church libel tells me so:
first priests tell me "look above,"
that christ's the lamb and god's the dove,
but then they sentence me to Hell
for using my big brain too well!
    yes, jesus hates me!
    yes, jesus baits me!
    yes, he berates me!
    Church libel tells me so!



and then i was made whole
by michael r. burch

... and then i was made whole,
but not a thing entire,
glued to a perch
in a gilded church,
strung through with a silver wire ...

singing a little of this and of that,
warbling higher and higher:
a thing wholly dead
till I lifted my head
and spat at the Lord and his choir.



Starting from Scratch with Ol’ Scratch
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

Love, with a small, fatalistic sigh
went to the ovens. Please don’t bother to cry.
You could have saved her, but you were all caught up
complaining about the Jews to Reichmeister Grupp.

Scratch that. You were born after World War II.
You had something more important to do:
while the children of the Nakba were perishing in Gaza
with the complicity of your government, you had a noble cause (a
religious tract against homosexual marriage
and various things gods and evangelists disparage.)

Jesus will grok you? Ah, yes, I’m quite sure
that your intentions were good and ineluctably pure.
After all, what the hell does he care about Palestinians?
Certainly, Christians were right about serfs, slaves and Indians.
Scratch that. You’re one of the Devil’s minions.



In His Kingdom of Corpses
by Michael R. Burch

In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many enraged discourses,
high, high from some mountain peak
where He’s lectured man on compassion
while the sparrows around Him fell,
and babes, for His meager ration
of rain, died and went to hell,
unbaptized, for that’s His fashion.

In His kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to vent
in many obscure discourses
on the need for man to repent,
to admit that he’s a sinner;
give up s-x, and riches, and fame;
be disciplined at his dinner
though always he dies the same,
whether fatter or thinner.

In his kingdom of corpses,
God has been heard to speak
in many absurd discourses
of man’s Ego, precipitous Peak!,
while demanding praise and worship,
and the bending of every knee.
And though He sounds like the Devil,
all religious men now agree
He loves them indubitably.



Beast 666
by Michael R. Burch

“what rough beast...slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?”―W. B. Yeats

Brutality is a cross
wooden, blood-stained,
gas hissing, sibilant,
lungs gilled, deveined,
red flecks on a streaked glass pane,
jeers jubilant,
mocking.

Brutality is shocking―
tiny orifices torn
by cruel adult lust,
the fetus unborn
tossed in a dust-
bin. The scarred skull shorn,
nails bloodied, tortured,
an old wound sutured
over, never healed.

Brutality, all its faces revealed,
is legion:
Death March, Trail of Tears, Inquisition . . .
always the same.
The Beast of the godless and of man’s “religion”
slouching toward Jerusalem:
horned, crowned, gibbering, drooling, insane.



I AM
by Michael R. Burch

I am not one of ten billion―I―
sunblackened Icarus, chary fly,
staring at God with a quizzical eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I.

I am not one life has left unsquashed―
scarred as Ulysses, goddess-debauched,
pale glowworm agleam with a tale of panache.
I am not one life has left unsquashed.

I am not one without spots of disease,
laugh lines and tan lines and thick-callused knees
from begging and praying and girls sighing "Please! "
I am not one without spots of disease.

I am not one of ten billion―I―
scion of Daedalus, blackwinged fly
staring at God with a sedulous eye.
I am not one of ten billion, I
AM!



Snap Shots
by Michael R. Burch

Our daughters must be celibate,
die virgins. We triangulate
their early paths to heaven (for
the martyrs they'll soon conjugate).

We like to hook a little tail.
We hope there's decent ** in jail.
Don't fool with us; our bombs are smart!
(We'll send the plans, ASAP, e-mail.)

The soul is all that matters; why
hoard gold if it offends the eye?
A pension plan? Don't make us laugh!
We have your plan for sainthood. (Die.)

###

Unwhole
by Michael R. Burch

What is it that we strive to remember, to regain,
as memory deserts us,
leaving us destitute of even ourselves,
of all but pain?

How can something so essential be forgotten,
if we are more than our bodies?
How can a soul
become so unwhole?

###

Nonbeliever
by Michael R. Burch writing as Kim Cherub

She smiled a thin-lipped smile
(What do men know of love?)
then rolled her eyes toward heaven
(Or that Chauvinist above?).

###

evol-u-shun
by Michael R. Burch

does GOD love the Tyger
while it's ripping ur lamb apart?

does GOD applaud the Bubonic Plague
while it's eating u à la carte?

does GOD admire ur intelligence
while u pray that IT has a heart?

does GOD endorse the Bible
you blue-lighted at k-mart?

###

Breakings
by Michael R. Burch

I did it out of pity.
I did it out of love.
I did it not to break the heart of a tender, wounded dove.
But gods without compassion
ordained: Frail things must break!
Now what can I do for her shattered psyche's sake?

I did it not to push.
I did it not to shove.
I did it to assist the flight of indiscriminate Love.

But gods, all mad as hatters,
who legislate in all such matters,
ordained that everything irreplaceable shatters.

###

Alien
by Michael R. Burch

for  a "Christian" poet

On a lonely outpost on Mars
the astronaut practices "speech"
as alien to primates below
as mute stars winking high, out of reach.

And his words fall as bright and as chill
as ice crystals on Kilimanjaro―
far colder than Jesus's words
over the "fortunate" sparrow.

And I understand how gentle Emily
felt, when all comfort had flown,
gazing into those inhuman eyes,
feeling zero at the bone.

Oh, how can I grok his arctic thought?
For if he is human, I am not.

###

Crescendo Against Heaven
by Michael R. Burch

As curiously formal as the rose,
the imperious Word grows
until its sheds red-gilded leaves:
then heaven grieves
love's tiny pool of crimson recrimination
against God, its contention
of the price of salvation.

These industrious trees,
endlessly losing and re-losing their leaves,
finally unleashing themselves from earth, lashing
themselves to bits, washing
themselves free
of all but the final ignominy
of death, become
at last: fast planks of our coffins, dumb.

Together now, rude coffins, crosses,
death-cursed but bright vermilion roses,
bodies, stumps, tears, words: conspire
together with a nearby spire
to raise their Accusation Dire...
to scream, complain, to point out these
and other Dark Anomalies.

God always silent, ever afar,
distant as Bethlehem's retrograde star,
we point out now, in resignation:
You asked too much of man's beleaguered nation,
gave too much strength to his Enemy,
as though to prove Your Self greater than He,
at our expense, and so men die
(whose accusations vex the sky)
yet hope, somehow, that You are good...
just, O greatest of Poets!, misunderstood.

###

Advice for Evangelicals
by Michael R. Burch

"... so let your light shine before men..."

Consider the example of the woodland anemone:
she preaches no sermons but―immaculate―shines,
and rivals the angels in bright innocence and purity,
the sweetest of divines.

And no one has heard her engage in hypocrisy
since the beginning of time―an oracle so mute,
so profound in her silence and exemplary poise
she makes lessons moot.

So consider the example of the saintly anemone
and if you'd convince us Christ really exists,
then let him be just as sweet, just as guileless
and equally as gracious to bless.

###

Heaven Bent
by Michael R. Burch

This life is hell; it can get no worse.
Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse!
But I’m upwardly mobile. How the hell can I know?
I can only go up; I'm already below!

###

Shock and Awe
by Michael R. Burch

With megatons of "wonder, "
we make our godhead clear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

The world's heart ripped asunder,
its dying pulse we hear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

Strange Trinity! We ponder
this God we hold so dear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

The vulture and the condor
proclaim: The feast is near!―
Death. Destruction. Fear.

Soon He will plow us under;
the Anti-Christ is here:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

We love to hear Him thunder!
With Shock and Awe, appear!―
Death. Destruction. Fear.

For God can never blunder;
we know He holds US dear:
Death. Destruction. Fear.

###

Lay Down Your Arms
by Michael R. Burch

Lay down your arms; come, sleep in the sand.
The battle is over and night is at hand.
Our voyage has ended; there's nowhere to go...
the earth is a cinder still faintly aglow.

Lay down your pamphlets; let's bicker no more.
Instead, let us sleep here on this ravaged shore.
The sea is still boiling; the air is wan, thin...
lay down your pamphlets; now no one will "win."

Lay down your hymnals; abandon all song.
If God was to save us, He waited too long.
A new world emerges, but this world is through...
so lay down your hymnals, or write something new.

###

What Immense Silence
by Michael R. Burch

What immense silence
comforts those who kneel here
beneath these vaulted ceilings
cavernous and vast?

What luminescence stained
by patchwork panels of bright glass
illuminates drained faces
as the crouching gargoyles leer?

What brings them here―
pale, tearful congregations,
knowing all Hope is past,
faithfully, year upon year?

Or could they be right? Perhaps
Love is, implausibly, near
and I alone have not seen It...
But, if so, still, I must ask:

why is it God that they fear?

###

Intimations
by Michael R. Burch

Let mercy surround us
with a sweet persistence.

Let love propound to us
that life is infinitely more than existence.

###

Altared Spots
by Michael R. Burch

The mother leopard buries her cub,
then cries three nights for his bones to rise
clad in new flesh, to celebrate the sunrise.

Good mother leopard, pensive thought
and fiercest love's wild insurrection
yield no certainty of a resurrection.

Man's tried them both, has added tears,
chants, dances, drugs, séances, tombs'
white alabaster prayer-rooms, wombs

where dead men's frozen genes convene...
there is no answer―death is death.
So bury your son, and save your breath.

Or emulate earth's "highest species"―
write a few strange poems and odd treatises.

###

Flight
by Michael R. Burch

Poetry captures
less than reality
the spirit of things

being the language
not of the lordly falcon
but of the dove with broken wings

whose heavenward flight
though brutally interrupted
is ever towards the light.

###

Winter Night
by Michael R. Burch

Who will be d-mned,
who embalmed
for all eternity?

The night weighs heavy on me―
leaden, sullen, cold.
O, but my thoughts are light,

like the weightless windblown snow.

###

Tonight, Let's Remember
by Michael R. Burch

July 7,2007 (7-7-7)

Tonight, let's remember the fond ways
our fingers engendered new methods to praise
the gray at my temples, your thinning hair.
Tonight, let's remember, and let us draw near...

Tonight, let's remember, as mortals do,
how cutely we chortled when work was through,
society sated, all gods put to rest,
and you in my arms, and I at your breast...

Tonight, let's remember how daring, how free
the Madeira made us, recumbently.
Our inhibitions?―we laid them to rest.
Earth, heaven or hell―we knew we were blessed.

Tonight, let's remember the dwindling days
we've spent here together―the sun's rays
spending their power beyond somber hills.
Soon we'll rest together; there'll be no more bills.

Tonight, let's remember: we've paid all our dues,
we've suffered our sorrows, we've learned how to lose.
What's left now to take, only God can tell.
Be with me in heaven, or "bliss" will be hell!

I do not want God; I want to see you
free from all sorrow, your labor through,
a song on your tongue, a smile on your lips,
sweet, sultry and vagrant, a child at your hips,

laughing and beaming and ready to frolic
in a world free from cancer and gout and colic.
For you were courageous, and kind, and true.
There must be a heaven for someone like you.

###

I, Lazarus
by Michael R. Burch

I, Lazarus, without a heart,
devoid of blood and spiritless,
lay in the darkness, meritless:
my corpse―a thing cold, dead, apart.

But then I thought I heard―a Voice,
a Voice that called me from afar.
And so I stood and laughed, bizarre:
a thing embalmed, made to rejoice!

I ran ungainly-legged to see
who spoke my name, and then I knew
him by the light. His name is True,
and now he is the life in me!

I never died again! Believe!
(Oops! Seems it was a brief reprieve.)

###

To Know You as Mary
by Michael R. Burch

To know You as Mary,
when You spoke her name
and her world was never the same...
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom.

O, then I would laugh
and be glad that I came,
never minding the chill, the disconsolate rain...
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom.

I might not think this earth
the sharp focus of pain
if I heard You exclaim―
beside the still tomb
where the spring roses bloom

my most unexpected, unwarranted name!
But you never spoke. Explain?

###

Peers
by Michael R. Burch

These thoughts are alien, as through green slime
smeared on some lab tech's brilliant slide, I gr0pe,
positioning my bright oscilloscope
for better vantage, though I cannot see,
but only peer, as small things disappear―
these quanta strange as men, as passing queer.

And you, Great Scientist, are you the One,
or just an intern, necktie half undone,
white sleeves rolled up, thick documents in hand
(dense manuals you don't quite understand) ,
exposing me, perhaps, to too much Light?
Or do I escape your notice, quick and bright?

Perhaps we wield the same dull Instrument
(and yet the Thesis will be Eloquent!).

###

Gethsemane in Every Breath
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, we have lost our way, and now
we have mislaid love―earth's fairest rose.
We forgot hope's song―the way it goes.
Help us reclaim their gifts, somehow.

LORD, we have wondered long and far
in search of Bethlehem's retrograde star.
Now in night's dead cold grasp, we gasp:
our lives one long-drawn rattling rasp

of misspent breath... before we drown.
LORD, help us through this spiral down
because we faint, and do not see
above or beyond despair's trajectory.

Remember that You, too, once held
imperiled life within your hands
as hope withdrew... that where You knelt
―a stranger in a stranger land―

the chalice glinted cold afar
and red with blood as hellfire.
Did heaven ever seem so far?
Remember―we are as You were,

but all our lives, from birth to death―
Gethsemane in every breath.

###

A Possible Argument for Mercy
by Michael R. Burch

Did heaven ever seem so far?
Remember-we are as You were,
but all our lives, from birth to death―
Gethsemane in every breath.

###

Birthday Poem to Myself
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, be no longer this Distant Presence,
Star-Afar, Righteous-Anonymous,
but come! Come live among us;
come dwell again,
happy child among men―
men rejoicing to have known you
in the familiar manger's cool
sweet light scent of unburdened hay.
Teach us again to be light that way,
with a chorus of angelic songs lessoned above.
Be to us again that sweet birth of Love
in the only way men can truly understand.
Do not frown darkening down upon an unrighteous land
planning fierce Retributions we require, and deserve,
but remember the child you were; believe
in the child I was, alike to you in innocence
a little while, all sweetness, and helpless without pretense.
Let us be little children again, magical in your sight.
Grant me this boon! Is it not my birthright―
just to know you, as you truly were, and are?
Come, be my friend. Help me understand and regain Hope's long-departed star!

###

Learning to Fly
by Michael R. Burch

We are learning to fly
every day...

learning to fly―
away, away...

O, love is not in the ephemeral flight,
but love, Love! is our destination―

graced land of eternal sunrise, radiant beyond night!
Let us bear one another up in our vast migration.

###

The Gardener's Roses
by Michael R. Burch

Mary Magdalene, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, "Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him, and I will take him away."

I too have come to the cave;
within: strange, half-glimpsed forms
and ghostly paradigms of things.
Here, nothing warms

this lightening moment of the dawn,
pale tendrils spreading east.
And I, of all who followed Him,
by far the least...

The women take no note of me;
I do not recognize
the men in white, the gardener,
these unfamiliar skies...

Faint scent of roses, then―a touch!
I turn, and I see: You.
"My Lord, why do You tarry here:
Another waits, Whose love is true? "

"Although My Father waits, and bliss;
though angels call―ecstatic crew!―
I gathered roses for a Friend.
I waited here, for You."

###

Kingdom Freedom
by Michael R. Burch

LORD, grant me a rare sweet spirit of forgiveness.
Let me have none of the lividness
of religious outrage.

LORD, let me not be over-worried
about the lack of "morality" around me.
Surround me,

not with law's restrictive cage,
but with Your spirit, freer than the wind,
so that to breathe is to have freest life,

and not to fly to You, my only sin.

###

Cædmon's Face
by Michael R. Burch

At the monastery of Whitby,
on a day when the sun sank through the sea,
and the gulls shrieked wildly, jubilant, free,

while the wind and Time blew all around,
I paced that dusk-enamored ground
and thought I heard the steps resound

of Carroll, Stoker and good Bede
who walked here too, their spirits freed
―perhaps by God, perhaps by need―

to write, and with each line, remember
the glorious light of Cædmon's ember:
scorched tongues of flame words still engender.



He wrote here in an English tongue,
a language so unlike our own,
unlike―as father unto son.

But when at last a child is grown.
his heritage is made well-known:
his father's face becomes his own.



He wrote here of the Middle-Earth,
the Maker's might, man's lowly birth,
of every thing that God gave worth

suspended under heaven's roof.
He forged with simple words His truth
and nine lines left remain the proof:

his face was Poetry's, from youth.



Post-Nashville Covenant
by Michael R. Burch

We love our God.
We love our guns.
We despise the weak.
Don’t call us Huns!

We love our kids.
We love our schools.
We love our guns.
Don’t call us fools!

We pledge ourselves
to the strong defense
of the Constitution
and our Mensch.

Once re-elected,
Trump will rule
with God and guns
and safer schools.



Wonderworks
by Michael R. Burch

History’s
mysteries
abound
& astound,
found
(profound)
the whole earth ’round,
even if mostly
underground.



uv been had
by michael r. burch

uv been had;
ur Dad’s a cad;
His priests are mad,
His pastors lying.

they only want your money, chum,
so why play dumb
and give it to ’em?
give them the boot and send them flying!



Come Spring
by Michael R. Burch

for the Religious Right

Come spring we return, innocent and hopeful, to the ******,
beseeching Her to bestow
Her blessings upon us.

Pitiable sinners, we bow before Her,
nay, grovel,
as She looms above us, aglow
in Her Purity.

We know
all will change in an instant; therefore
in the morning we will call her,
an untouched maiden no more,
“*****.”

The so-called Religious Right prizes virginity in women and damns them for doing what men do. I have long been a fan of women like Tallulah Bankhead, Marilyn Monroe and Mae West, who decided what’s good for the gander is equally good for the goose.



sonnet to non-science and nonsense
by michael r. burch

ur Gaud is a fiasco,
a rapscallion and a rascal;
he murdered lovely eve,
so what’s there to "believe"?

and who made eve so curious?
why should ur Gaud be furious
when every half-wit parent knows
where our kids will stick their (k)no(w)'s(e)!

no wise and loving father
would slaughter his own daughter!
ur Gaud's a hole-y terror!
CONSIDER THE SOURCE OF ERROR:

though ur bible’s a giant hit,
its writers were full of ****.



twin nuggets of ancient ****-dumb
by michael r. burch

oh, let it never once be said
that love for Gaud is dead!

wee love the way he murdered eve!
such awesome love! wee must believe!

wee love the way he sent a FLOOD
to teach wee babies to be good!

wee love the zillion births he aborted!
such awesome love cant clearly reported!

(so never mind the embryos
who died in their mommies’ drowning throes!

the unborn babes, the unborn lambs
all drowned for Gaud’s divinest plans!)

“do as I say, not as I do!”
cruel Hippo-Crit! does Jesus rue?
(if Christ were good he’d rue Gaud too.)

no! wee must love our abusive Father
and follow hymn meekly, mild lambs to the slaughter,

or he’ll burn us forever in Hiss terrible hell.
it’s so much safer to tell hymn he’s swell!

thus wee love our Gaud so loverly
hovering over us so smotherly!

wee love the TITHES his cons abscond.
wee love the Big Fish in Hiss pond.

And so wee say “whee!” to all this and that!
PS, also the earth is flat!



Why do faith, hope and love
always end up PUSH and SHOVE?
—Michael R. Burch, lines from “Christ, Jesus!”



Yet another Screed against Exist-Tension-alism
by Michael R. Burch

Life has meaning!
Please don’t deny it!
It means we’re ******.
Why cause a riot?



Evangelical Fever
by Michael R. Burch

Welcome to global warming:
temperature 109.
You believe in God, not in science,
but isn’t the weather Divine?



Peers
by Michael R. Burch

These thoughts are alien, as through green slime
smeared on some lab tech’s brilliant slide, I *****,
positioning my bright oscilloscope
for better vantage, though I cannot see,
but only peer, as small things disappear—
these quanta strange as men, as passing queer.

And you, Great Scientist, are you the One,
or just an intern, necktie half undone,
white sleeves rolled up, thick documents in hand
(dense manuals you don’t quite understand),
exposing me, perhaps, to too much Light?
Or do I escape your notice, quick and bright?

Perhaps we wield the same dull Instrument
(and yet the Thesis will be Eloquent!).



The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch

Here I am, talking to myself again . . .

******* at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!

Still, I remember when . . .

planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity

worth a chuckle or two.

Philosophers, poets . . . how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft;

Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew;

Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!;

Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through . . .

for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem
content to write, but not to dream,

and they fill the world with their pale derision

of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,

reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all ******.



The King of Beasts in the Museum of the Extinct
by Michael R. Burch

The king of beasts, my child,
was terrible, and wild.

His roaring shook the earth
till the feeble cursed his birth.

And all things feared his might:
even rhinos fled, in fright.

Now here these bones attest
to what the brute did best

and the pain he caused his prey
when he hunted in his day.

For he slew them just for sport
till his own pride was cut short

with a mushrooming cloud and wild thunder;
Exhibit "B" will reveal his blunder.



God to Man, Contra Bataan
by Michael R. Burch

Earth, what-d’ya make of global warming?
Perth is endangered, the high seas storming.
Now all my creatures, from maggot to man
Know how it felt on the march to Bataan.



The Less-Than-Divine Results of My Prayers to be Saved from Televangelists
by Michael R. Burch

I’m old,
no longer bold,
just cold,
and (truth be told),
been bought and sold,
rolled
by the wolves and the lambs in the fold.

Who’s to be told
by this worn-out scold?
The complaint department is always on hold.



sonnet to non-science and nonsense
by michael r. burch

ur Gaud is a fiasco,
a rapscallion and a rascal;
he murdered lovely eve,
so what’s there to "believe"?

and who made eve so curious?
why should ur Gaud be furious
when every half-wit parent knows
where bright kids will stick their (k)no(w)'s(e)!

no wise and loving father
would slaughter his own daughter!
ur Gaud's a hole-y terror!
CONSIDER THE SOURCE OF ERROR:

though ur bible’s a giant hit,
its writers were full of ****.



Heaven Bent
by Michael R. Burch

This life is hell; it can get no worse.
Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse!
But I’m upwardly mobile. How the hell can I know?
I can only go up; I’m already below!

“Heaven Bent” is a pun on “being bent on Heaven” and the heaven/hell thing being bent into a different version, with the dying escaping hell here on earth. That would make death “heaven” even if there is no afterlife. “This life is hell,” “upwardly mobile” and “how the hell” are also puns that can be read two ways. I wrote this poem in high school, around age 16 in 1974, but was unhappy with the third line and forgot about the poem. I stumbled upon it on on July 4, 2006 —ironically, Independence Day — and the third line occurred to me.



The beauty of the flower fades,
its petals wither to charades...
—Michael R. Burch



the U-turn poem
by michael r. burch

Life so defaulty,
Life so unfair,
why do wee prize U,
what do U care?

LORD who lets unborns
drown in a flood,
CELESTIAL ABORTIONIST,
r U sure Ur understood?



Hellion
by michael r. burch

cold as stone,
cold to the bone,
so cold inside even icebergs moan,
such is ur Gaud on hiss icy throne.

lines written for a luverly Gaud who cant be bothered to save pisspot peeple who guess wrong about which ire-ational re-ligion to believe.

“Hellion” is a pun on “he-lion” as in the “Lion of Judah” and “hell-lion.”



yet another ode to a graceless faceless Creator albeit with thoughts of possibly rescinding prior compliments
by michael r. burch

who created this graceless universe?
why praise its Creator? who could be worse?
why praise man’s Berater with obsequious verse?
job’s wife was right: he’s nobody’s nurse.



ur-Gent prayer request
by michael r. burch

where did ur Gaud originate?
in the minds of men so full of hate
they commanded moms to stone their kids,
which u believe (brains on the skids)
was “the word of Gaud”!
                                         debate?
too late & of course it’s useless:
please pray to be less clueless.

The title involves a pun, since the “ur-Gent” would be the biblical “god.”



THE ur POEMS and the GAUD poems

The "ur" poems of Michael R. Burch replace the pronoun "your" with the primitive "Ur of the Chaldees" which is said to have been the birthplace of Abraham and monotheism. However this "Ur" is uncapitalized since human beings are diminished by the three Abrahamic religions: Judaism, Islam and Christianity. This "ur" questions the nature of everything: itself, other human beings, Nature, and an egotistical being called "GAUD."



& GAUD said, “Let there be LIGHT VERSE
to illuminate the ‘nature’ of my Curse!”
—michael r. burch



reverse the Curse
with LIGHT VERSE!
recant the cant
with an illuminating chant,
etc.
—michael r. burch

Can the darkness of Christianity with its “eternal hell” be repealed via humor? It’s time to recant the cant, please pardon the puns.



Christianity replaces Santa Claus with Jesus and coal, ashes and soot with an “eternal hell.” — Michael R. Burch



day eight of the Divine Plan
by michael r. burch

the earth’s a-stir
with a GAUDLY whirr...

the L(AWE)D’s been creatin’!

com(men)ce t’ matin’!

hatch lotsa babies
he’ll infect with rabies
then ban from college
for seekin’ knowledge
like curious eve!

dear chilluns, don’t grieve,
be(lie)ve the Deceiver!

(never ask why ur Cupid
wanted eve stupid,
animalistic, and naked.)

ah-men!



pretty pickle
by Michael R. Burch

u’d blaspheme if u could
because ur GAUD’s no good,
but of course u cant:
ur a lowly ant
(or so u were told by a Hierophant).



dust (II)
by Michael R. Burch

wee are dust
and to dust wee must
return ...
but why, then,
life’s pointless sojourn?



if ur GAUD
is good,
half the Bible
is libel.
—Michael R. Burch



since GOD created u so gullible
how did u conclude HE’s so lovable?
—Michael R. Burch



limping to the grave under the sentence of death,
should i praise ur LORD? think i’ll save my breath!
—Michael R. Burch




Religion is regarded by fools as true, by the wise as false, and by rulers as useful. — Seneca, loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch



Non-Word to the Wise
by Michael R. Burch

The wise will never cry, “Save!”
The wise desire a quiet grave.



sonnet to non-science and nonsense/nunsense
by michael r. burch

ur Gaud is a fiasco,
a rapscallion and a rascal;
he murdered lovely eve,
so what’s there to “believe”?

and who made eve so curious?
why should ur Gaud be furious
when every half-wit parent knows
where bright kids will stick their no’s(e)!

no wise and loving father
would slaughter his own daughter!
ur Gaud’s a hole-y terror!
CONSIDER THE SOURCE OF ERROR:

though ur bible’s a giant hit,
its writers were full of ****.



We Know It All
by Michael R. Burch

We rile. We gall. We know it all
because we’ve read the Bible,
which tells us genocide’s “God’s will”
along with bashing in kids’ skulls
and other forms of libel.

The earth is flat, our Book says so!
The Lord will torture our rational foe!
(We lack the compassion to tell the fiend “No!”)

God’s on his throne, the Angels are winking,
applauding our lack of critical thinking.
We’re drowning in crap. We’re stinking and sinking.

Eve once petted friendly T-Rexes!
A “witch” should be ****** for unprovable hexes!
It’s a “sin” to make love if one’s lover has exes!

Girls were enslaved and ***** by their “masters”!
Our Book is the source of so many disasters!
The earth’s overheating? Let’s burn it up faster!



God Had a Plan
by Michael R. Burch

God had a plan
though it was hardly “divine.”
He created a terror:
Frankenstein.

He blamed death on man:
was that part of the plan
so hard to define,
or did he just cut his losses?

Now sleepless he tosses
hearing the screams,
the wild anger and fear
of men in despair.

Just disappear!,
he cries to himself
on his fearful bed,
tearful, afraid
of those he misled.

Ah-men!




Yet Another ****** Ditty
by Michael R. Burch

Here’s my ditty:
Life is ******,
Then you get old
And more’s the pity.

Truth be told,
We’re bought and sold,
Sheep in the fold
Sheared lickety-splitty.

But chin’s up,
What’s the use of crying?
We’ve a certain escape:
Welcome to dying!



Hellbound
by Michael R. Burch

Mother, it’s dark
and you never did love me
because you put Yahweh and Yeshu
above me.

Did they ever love you
or cling to you? No.
Now Mother, it’s cold
and I fear for my soul.

Mother, they say
you will leave me and go
to some compassionless “heaven”
I never shall know.

If that’s your choice,
you made it. Not me.
You brought me to life;
will you nail me to the tree?

Christ! Mother, they say
God condemned me to hell.
If the Devil’s your God
then farewell, farewell!

Or if there is Love
in some other dimension,
let’s reconcile there
and forget such cruel detention.



Listen
by Immanuel A. Michael (an alias of Michael R. Burch)

1.
Listen to me now
and heed my voice;
I am a madman, alone,
screaming in the wilderness,
but listen now.

Listen to me now, and if I say
that black is black
and white is white
and in between lies gray,
I have no choice.

Does a madman choose his words?
They come to him:
the moon's illuminations,
intimations of the wind,
and he must speak.

But listen to me now,
and if you hear
the tolling of the judgment bell,
and if its tone is clear,
then do not tarry,
but listen,
or cut off your ears,
for I Am weary.

I desire mercy, not sacrifice.

2.
Listen to me now: I had a Vision.
An elevated train derailed, and Fell.
It was the Church brought low, almost to Hell.
And I alone survived, who dream of Mercy:
the Heretic, who speaks behind the Veil.

3.
Listen to me now: I saw an airplane
fall from the sky. And why should I explain?
The Visions are the same. It is my Heresy
that I survive, because I sing of Mercy,
while elevated "saints" go down in flames.

4.
Listen to me now: I saw in Nashville
how those who "soar" will plummet―Fame in flames!―
and fall on those below, as if to k-ll them.
The lowly, saved, will understand their names.

5.
Listen to me now: I heard another
say, "That which died shall Resurrect and Live."
An angel with a Rose bestowing Mercy!
What can it mean, but that my Visions give
fair warning to the world that God wants Mercy.
My Heresy is that we must forgive!

6.
Listen to me now: she heard god calling―
O, who will love me, who will be my friend?
Does he want Perfect Saints, the whitewashed Purists,
who frown down on their "brothers," without end?

7.
Listen to me now: you are not perfect,
and your "wise counsel" helps no one at all:
unless it's sweetened with the sweetest Mercy,
it's pure astringent antiseptic gall.

8.
Listen to me now, and learn this lesson:
If God wants mercy, why dig at the speck
in your brother's eye, when even now the Beam,
your lack of mercy, spares, no, neither neck,
becomes the Hangman's Millstone. We're all children,
all little ones! Be patient with the fleck!

9.
Listen to me now: for the Announcer
explained that wars have given Presidents
the precedents to soon assume all Power.
Vote, citizens, or be mere residents!

10.
O, listen to me now: I saw the Warheads
stored safely underground, except for One.
A red-haired woman with a bright complexion
seduced the guard. Translucent blouse, red thong,
white bra―these were her fearsome antique weapons.

I saw the Skull and Crossbones! Heed my Song!

11.
O, listen to me now, and hear my Gospel:
three verses of such sweet simplicity!
God is Light: in Him there is no darkness.
In Christ, no condemnation: Liberty!
God want no Sacrifice, but only Mercy.
O, who could ask for sweeter Heresy?

12.
Theology? I swear that I disdain it!
If Love can be explained, why then explain it!
If Love can't be explained why, then, should God,
if God is Love? Nor hell nor cattle ****
is needed, if God's good, and God's supreme.
Ask, children, what "re-ligion" truly means:
"return to *******! " Heed the bondsman's screams!

13.
Heed, children, which Theologies you dream
when Hellish Nightmares wake you, when you Scream
for comfort, but no comforter is there.
Which Voices do you heed, which Crosses bear?
If god is light, whence do Dark Visions come
which leave the Taste of Venom on your Tongue,
with which you **** your brother for one Sin
you do not share, ten thousand underskin
like Itching Worms that Squirm and Vilely Hiss:
"Your brother's sin will keep him from god's bliss,
but You are safe because god favors You! "
If God is Love, how can this voice be true?

14.
For God is not a favorer of men.
Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen. Amen.

/                                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.

Scrapers will no longer scrape.
Fighters soon to lose the short fight.
Pilots are forced to surrender control.
Snakes on a plane will bank into a roll,
a scene that really no longer is scenic.
Leaders still read while getting a scare.
Huge landmarks that I swear were once there,
bridges in shortage are counting the tolls.
Dust that eventually will never be settled,
liquid support that used to be metal,
big bad crude that never was good—
things impossible suddenly could.
Answers quickly try to be drummed.
Future conflicts guaranteed to be won,
particles blocking our UV death sun,
days become decades and turkey is done.
Brave individuals are no longer bold.
Families’ histories are quite often told,
a baby’s bottle empty with no one to hold.
Government figures tilted but somehow sold
parades in protest with a circus in town.
A tiger got out, but why can’t he growl?
Seems that the cat’s got somebody’s tongue.
Another channel covers son after son,
numbers mounting, but not the right ones.
Cabbies still nose their thumb after thumb,
training centers destroyed one after one.
We should’ve just played “Drop the **** bomb!”
Fear is good, and of course good is feared;
it’s the only thing that drives us way over here.
Just like the Bible, it’s mostly made up.
The supersonic jet has just hit a rut.
The dirtiest of bombs versus our Smith and Wesson.
“Come on gang, why would you even question?”
Like death and taxes—there’s none that’s more sure,
but then there’s the free upcoming history lesson.
“Ain’t gonna do it” acting just like his pop.
This rancher really means it when tossing the slop.
“Still can’t find him—he’s with boys in Brazil.”
What’ve they done lately to lighten the till?
It’s time for the Allies to storm up this hill.

Before-
“Run! Come on their gonna catch us!”
We really messed up this time.
Whose idea was it to smash
the mailboxes? Deface the school
parking lot? Jesus Ch-
“Is that mom’s car?”
JESUS CHR-
“Nevermind.”

After-
“Three for seventy or five for seventy-five. Best deal in town.”
We really messed up this time.
Who forgot the lighter and
and cash? Where’s the hell
are the papers? What the f-
“Are these sugar?”
WHAT THE FU-
“Nevermind.”

Before-
“Shut up! He’s gonna see us!”
We really messed up this time.
Who thought throwing popcorn
at the cute movie theater boy
was a good idea” Oh sh-
“He’s looking over here!”
OH ****-
“Nevermind.”

After-
“***** tastes better straight.”
We really messed up this time.
Who bought Smirnoff? We
wanted UV. Where are the
shot glasses? Son of a-
“I think this stuff is expired…”
SON OF A B-
“Nevermind.”

Before-
“We had a test?!”
I really messed up this time.
When did we even take notes?
I don't remember the what
we even went over. God da-
“Yeah, he said its worth 20% of our grade.”
GOD DAM-
“Nevermind.”

After-
“What is going on?!”
We really messed up this time.
The room smells like substance.
Curtains closed- eyes closed.
Broken orange bottles- Bu-
“He took too many!”
Burn-
“He’s not waking up!”
Burno-
“Call someone!”
BURNOUT.



“Nevermind?”





Before-
“This is the best day of my life.”
We are okay this time.

People always call anxiety
Butterflies
in your stomach.

but my anxiety,
feels like a million butterflies in my chest
all trying at once to fly out
when I open my mouth

or, my anxiety
feels like being surrounded by butterflies
all pushing, flapping against me
the wind of all their wings enough to wound
and I can't breathe
because when I open my mouth,
it's only butterflies.

and Butterflies,
Butterflies can see colors we can't
peer into the ultraviolet
to the letters written on the leaves
in the shades we can't comprehend
and things we can't begin to see
you could say,
they live in a whole different reality

kind of like my anxiety
they see things that aren't there
things that other people tell me,
them,
aren't there
but like the butterflies
I can see the the ultraviolet rays
and they're coming down on top of me and,
(isn't UV bad for you?
isn't UV how people get cancer??
isn't that how people die???)

but you tell me,
I'm afraid of things that aren't there
but like the butterflies
I can see it  
I can see the other colors
only,
when I open my mouth to tell you
to say I live in a different reality,
only butterflies come out

perhaps a hannibal lecter interlude...

  after all... pronouns... are they really: all that important...

the first the second the third wave
of secularism...
fine... fine... make religious artifacts
dunce...
               make iconoclasm...
make it sacrilege...

   islamic stessors on: no images...
         you'd think: high praises for grammar,
orthography and all that...
"orthography": without diacritical markers:
a technical term for something pretty
pedestrian: a spelling mistake...

pronouns... i much prefer prepositions
and conjunctions: the sharpnel of the whole affair of:
a sentence structure...

the liberal, atheist, secular cuddly toys
can have everything... except for the grammar...
since... i **** on {[( and }]) and whatever
bracket >            and < is invoked
to "reinvent a piece of paper"...

pronouns... pronouns...
      i am for: remembering that an aardvark is...
not... and is...
i like to bank a lot of nouns...
i truly do...

             if it can't be settled with the already
in place: crown pronouns...
e.g.: one should think so...
                as in i...
veer into: are we being... addressed?
  the royal we.... the crown of one...
hell... even schizophrenics have better
days than dealing with a pluralism...
the horde does: and the host...

trans-     meta-           cis-       ortho-
               para-                hell... is this a chemistry
lesson? with this prefixes?

the royal use of the pronoun...
because of the... visible entourage...
hence: is one to think so...
are we... being addressed?
   a very, a very very different mind-spatiality
to the inconvenient cork
or nail of the common, labouring:
plumber...

                i's dot and no dots further:
nonetheless does so...

trans-gender lessons in grammar...
i know an older lesson...
trans-******... buffalo bill lessons in pronouns...

it rubs the lotion on its skin...
   it rubs the lotion on its skin...
   or else it gets the hose again...
it rubs the lotion on its skin...
   yes precious: it gets the hose...
    it rubs the lotion on its skin
or else it gets the hose...
  it puts the lotion in the basket...
and it does...
                         (greenskeepers... lotion)

                  we are living in very curious times...
which leaves alluded to...
supposed or otherwise suspect "schizoid-bilinguals"
looking for the chance of playing
poker and someone looking over our shoulder...

have all the religous trampling you can
muster... but grammar is the new religious
dogma... it's the new orthodoxy...

                        it's the old orthodoxy...
a totally wonky pancake of a buffalo bill trans-sexuality
becomes easier to understand than
all the trans-gender-                 -ism...
another -ism another -ology...
              
          **** in the church take a **** on the altar...
tell a ******* like marquis de sade did:
to desecrate a crucifix by reinventing it into
a *****... whatever...

but grammar? can't anything be sacred these...
days? royal pronouns: one should hope so...
are: we being addressed?
    
a grevious faux pas -
      looks something like this: hey presto!
why?
         the colon is a prefix to italics...
     i.e. looks something this: hey presto...
but given the bad choice of e.g. -
i.e. it's also a punctuation mark...

             point being: not like this...
              yes: like this...
              and yes... thus...
                       but....         :        and its
hardly a double emphasis...

    O the low hanging fruit... since:
there's nothing controversial to be said...
this is just the pretty much crass...

     i was sure there must have been a writing
to "compete" with the runes...
that st. cyril had to work with something...
before the romans... well... when the romans
never came...
but the southern slavs
moved into the territory of former jugol...

ⰏⰀⰃⰉⰀ / ⰏⰀⰃⰡ
what once was...
and became:
                        магия...

           well... so much for: "out of africa"....
concerned with the complexity of scribbles
                       and doodles...
so much for those chinese tattoos...
the base is above: the word
is the same...

मघ / मग     and that's just the consonants MG...
it's not magic: it's... magia...
or: "or" magja...

          seems like the greek Π is the roof...
     out of india: perhaps out of africa...
but when did people start writing?

     now for the vowels...
                                   मआघइअ:
म   (m)                
आ   (aa)                      अ
घ    (g)        alt.
इ     (i)
अ     (a)...

                   the H is a surd: a shared
detail of both english and sanskrit...
but i think... मघ / मग... the latter is better suited....
e.g. 'atch: well... there's also
that surd of a G and a K: knived a gnome heart
out... laughed: ah ha ha...
and...                     journalistic insomnia
couldn't care for better days...
or UV paranoia: "paranoia"...

ergo...

                                   मअगइअ:
म   (m)                
आ   (aa)                      अ
ग    (g)        alt.
इ     (i)
अ     (a)...                      

this is still not magic... linear! thank "god"...
    well... this pepper... this perpetuated
thrist... which doesn't leave one satiated...
never completed... just more and more...
disastrous... keep the ship afloat...
while i start to nibble on the anchor!
and take ol' 'aptain down with me like:
a mermaid!

Three years ago four words crossed the threshold of my ear lobes and hypnotized me into a comatose state. only to be awaken by the sound of their sweet puncturing i rewinded these words with hungry haste
rewind rewind
play
these words swan through my canals
  relaxed as they finally found a home once more;
a home they might have already unpacked in,
                                                            p­erhaps in another life.

As they peeled their cloaks and unfolded into the folds of my lobes they sighed with content,
for my revelation was their new beginning
finally finding meaning once again in a universe where you cant live if you don’t have money,
  a sick sweet sour fabricated fact that penetrates the core of their solar plexis
                                leaving them unholy when the money structure takes over
                                holy when thought towers once again

With the ability of a person to move forward these words do no harm inflated with hope perfection honesty, embracing a utopia,
a now reality that you cant find on your starched TV.

Three years ago four words locked in a brassy compass whispered to me change the way you dream the way you perceive and what you do everyday and make sure you let your feet drag the mud behind you as you tow through the thick swamps of hate on the uprising paddleboat plays of justice.

Without her stark voice without The wandering jewess, Jesus-like Judith playing spells on my ears life would not have found a place where it holds comfort in the tempest.
These words like a shelter are my umbrella
but no ordinary umbrella covers here no,
no this umbrella knows when to open its arms to pour oms down my neck when drops are warm like skin on skin
and sunshine is bold like in black and white stills.

When wine is under trees these words will reflect in the crystalline stream I found in my inner cosmos when I was fourteen.

The people will have risen and Cain will have been banished and lovers will still lie limpid and hungry for the words of the storm eyed woman to ring like bells in towers above their heads again.

They are looking for paradise but they don’t know they are already in paradise, paradise now, paradise is now
They are searching for the words they have already heard they just don’t know what has occurred and sweat drips down their stems as they run in their minds to the revolution that has already freed us from the legacy of Cain.
Not for all,
But for us.
      A revolution of the mind.

These words will wake up sleepers and make the banks run after the money no one cares about.
These words are almost too holy for me to say out loud in only one voice they play and in one voice they say,
“TO DO USEFUL WORK”
Those words sing like they are of the angels like they have wings
Those words take their homes not only in my folds by in the white blood cell donuts of my fingertips, defending me from the ****** that say art cannot be my food.

The wandering jewess, Jesus-like Judith carved those words out of freshwater pears for me to drape around my neck like the arms of an infant crossed over the nursing chest.
My fingers wrap around those words like they are the scripture they are the word of my god cleansed by the salt water winds of wooden ships rummaging for rapture and something more than themselves.


Sometimes, wanderers find a home when alphabet fingerprints find a match to their long lost story

And sometimes, the UV rays hit your lens just right so that you can pass through a prism and come out a rainbow

And sometimes, gumballs come out the color you want,

the one that you patiently cranked for.

Plastic plates bowls and cups
loaded on recycling trucks.
You've had your party thrown it away,
Less to wash up at the end of the day.
But few fall out they blow in winds,
Escape the grasp of the recycling bin.
Not all bags are renewable plastic,
Less strong now not so fantastic.
So write a note for a new tote,
Handles far stronger less likely broke.

It's not our problem it's goods we buy,
There wrapped and packaged to the shoppers eye.
But when the seas are less serene
Choked on plastics and polystyrene.
Death tolls rise numbers of sea life plummet,
Dont ya think its time we do summit?
To a turtle or whale a tasty dish,
To dine upon the jellyfish.
Not a bag for life that passes by,
That binds them to starvation before they die.

So the seas bob in colour of plastic pollution.
Times running out what to be a solution?
Its high time we started a clean up revolution!
To use less packaging to educate all.
Before the tides continue to rise and we loose them all.

The ice caps are melting at an alarming rate,
How long before for all it's too late.
Eco systems absorb UV,
cool the world for nature to be.
Polar life need ice to remain,
In cooler climates to sustain.
But as they melt and tides continue to rise,
Am losing hope for their demise.

Leave the jungles and forrests for self restoration,
Less fossil fuels and deforestation.
The trees keep falling from constant felling,
With palm oil growing; plantations swelling.
Our orange ancestors the orangutan,
Has been their homes since the jungles began.
To break life cycles whole eco systems,
It's time to change the world with our wit and wisdom.

Else what do we leave to the future generations,
Man on earth just viral abominations.

Tighten your braces with yellows,
UV lights in police cars,
your high socks and new crewnecks,
steep all your worries in the cellar air.
The kitchen crew necks you,
steps over your extra vertebrae on the floor.
Exchange Red Sox caps and collaged cards for
iron oxides and spare joints,
an apology gift for the knees of a Titan.

Gilt neckties and stockings
hard hits over first base,
infrared silhouettes waving goodbye
slip on the steep porch stairs.
Your personal marching bands
sleep in shopping carts.
Your postcards lost in the Andes
written in purple pen --
everything’s smells like guilt.

Harts stagger behind
stags that hope to tiptoe around your toes,
scouting the suites in South America.
Back roads hastily swept under dining room chairs.
Necklaces of burned out light bulbs,
players sock the suited callers.
My bird house is empty.
Your world map is crumpled,
stuffed into the left ventricle of my heart.

Knaps of your wrist bones
fill the endnotes of my biography.
Bottlenecked bus loops and
windsocks left deflated in broom closets.
Your left hand in my kitchen sink,
catches my pressed shirts,
your clothesline melts into the sidewalk like lightning.
Bracelets on marble sculptures.
After you, I need a nap.

Littoral instructions spelled out in sand dollars.
Purple sunflower seeds caught in my turtleneck,
ghosts of eyelashes begin
to whisper wishes,
sockets for wrenches and ankles.
Blue hair braces for the midnight smiles,
the low tide of flowers,
the daily newspaper full of ocean currents,
your lips were too literal.

Lumbar dimples and goose bumps,
the rubbernecking waiter waited for the lights
rubbing his eyes.
Your playful dialogue
makes my plate shake.
Your safety is never on,
eyebrows marking my fifth disappointment.
I usually hate piano solos,
your voice is unstable, charred lumber.

Mince the pages of the dictionary
to make kindling for your irises.
Necklines defined as jade stamps
at the bottoms of the Chinese paintings
above last year’s birthday card.
Connect the dots to see the ruins of Rome,
your arms after the final battle,
crude stitches on undone sweaters.
Your pockets still full of dinner mints.

Canvass the imprint on the inside of
your leg from where the stitching folds over,
your jeans, unwashed in my laundry hamper.
Still overflows from knee socks and potted plants.
Microwaves compressed into my glass of water
the high tide seashells in your pantry facing
your ego in mason jars on shelves.
You’re tired of white board marker promises,
your skin a poorly cleaned canvas.

I'm well aware of your existence, orange-skinned fitness aliens.
You mask yourselves with the power of cosmetic force.
Tanning beds are your temples and Snooki is your Goddess.
Say goodbye to your ******* self of natural beauty. For you now have a shiny, new, orange-colored meat-coat that people can admire and laugh at you about. Congratulations, the Sun is now useless in your eyes.
Welcome, UV-A exposure. Goodbye, UV-B exposure. They never bothered to know you and for that, the Sun is jealous of your own insecurity. While chemicals are seeping into the very core of your being, others can't wait to hop onto your fashion train and bed of self-proclaimed beauty. Bravo! I'd give you a pat on the back, but you might scream and my hand might start glowing orange. Others are a nice white, bronze, brown, black, red, but not you. You're on a whole other level of society. Maybe you are an Oompa Loompa created by ***** Wonka.
I think you have separated yourself from the rest of humanity and created your own race of beings. If that's so, than this poem has made me out to be a "racist" *******, but alas, I must digress.
Hey now, the Metro Fitness competition is calling your name. You orange people, go forth, with your brawn and beauty. Your bulging triceps and rippling deltoids have sprayed sardonic smiles onto our faces, much like some of your spray-on tans.
Some of our hearts may be touched, but your pride is intangible.

Sun-dried it was, with freckles and pimples each individual size and cause
Mixed with strange colors from the blue UV
A canvas for sweat, where I’d sleep, drink and eat
The surface I treat like a marble dream I walked upon without slipping
Like those shoulders I gripped when you made me feel little
And I begged you for more

Was I cinnamon to you, not perfect all the time like her
The vanilla that she is, pure and classic
She is the real porcelain inside and out while I am ceramic
My cracks don’t show at all, then all at once
But the scariest part is that I haven’t fallen yet, I live on
And you’re on the other ******* side

It’s another day, the sun’s left a twisted mess of vigor-less dreams and wishes faintly seen.

I’d lay down and cry if I saw any meaning to anything, but UV bleaches my guts and everything.

By now you would’ve realized, the sort of world, cruel and curious, we seek to sow.

But how can anyone walk around stating what they know?

And the pain seeps cold at night.
Aspirations, lies I hold tight.
Maybe not tonight.

Days bleed by, numb and opaque it heeds and blinds.

The pain seeps cold at night.
Aspirations, dreams I hold tight.
Not tonight.
Not tonight.

The epiphanies of my failures
and the reaper of reputations
strip me to the bone
strip me to the bone, and leave me bare to dry
licked repeatedly by the incinerating
UV rays of humanity.
Care not for me.
Care not.
Hold me never.
Laugh, laugh and walk away.

Left to my own, my ingenuity.
I build myself, I create myself.
I unbrainwash myself!
Years of reconstruction.
I succeed to emerge a greatness.
An inner entity of amazement.
No one understands.

Failure?  I wonder..
Pain always lingering in the depths.
Inadequacies, *******.
I push past, deal with, and battle face to face.
To leave dismembered on the floor.
Step on it, stomp it deep.
plunge it down to surface again in light.

ME
hold me, love me if your able.
Never take for granted,
my soul, not of this life.
This place, these people, this society.
I am light.
Capable of so many inconceivable things.
I am light
I need only when I let myself need.
I need you, only if to see me.
The true me,
The me no one can possibly see.
I cry, I love, I feel, I am awakened!

© Crystal Erickson 11/24/07

Love vis-a-vis Hate ..
Electric storm sweep the planet Love from Moon ,
thousand light years passed ..
a blue heart stuck under a big stone on Mars..
Souls floating on the cosmic sea ..
muffled scream, heart socking ,bleeding love
in cosmic UV Rays ...

Secret desires Lost in milky ways ,
wishes  barried in space...
Big bang changed the Universe ...
Love blind universe.... as if a landscape of tears ..

Hearts eagered ... skipped beating ,
in every disconnection of retinas ..
Our hearts failed to colide ...
explosion caused us seperation .

Cosmic vibration...
Waiting for another big bang ..
A new stelar structure .
where every galaxy ,planet ,
milky way axis to love ..
Evolution of a new Universe  Love ...
Apocalyptic of ' Hate '...world...
Blue heart got his soloar system back
with planet love and moon in orbit...

By Mahi -Galaxy

have i become so dependent
that i cling to the microfibers that form in your dryer
and stick on your sweater

because for six months
seven months ago
i tasted italy and salvador
and corn tortillas
and teeth
and missed ***** mexico

and for three weeks
about two months ago
i spun around the washing machine
until my fibers were stuck and someone detached me
and i lay there soppy
and i lay there wet

and i blame the machine
its sheer power and ability to wipe clean the stains of engine oil and uv blue you drank in the garage

and i have lost dependency
because of its lack of sustainability
i miss my baby
all my babies
every baby
and if you need me
ill be collecting the microfibers
that form in your dryer
and stick on your sweater

Mystery girl, let me make an ansatz about you:

You are like an anti-gravity wave -
the farther I go, the more I pine for you.

Some kind of growing exponent:
yes, you are the solution I ignore in my

quotidian root-finding mission;

Ah, the annihilation, those killer eyes!
Now I see, we inhabit orthogonal planes.

Your *uv, to my uw, you are IR to my ivy.

Wonder-woman, let me make an ansatz about you:

You are elegance. Ripple-play at pebbles,
those dimpled cheeks.

Deliciously symmetric. Alpha 180,  no Beta
at all - well not Cartesian.

Guess it's subterranean, Artesian,
in the k-space, transform domain,
my mind-space, where, girl,
you are a wonder of beauty and grace.

Magicienne, let me make an Ansatz about you:

You are the particle for Love waves. A lovelet.

Dressed in that kaftan when you walk in,
I will sublimate. Ether-maker, you solve
the Hamiltonian, I see now how matter's made.

Among summer so cruel
With heat grazed by the darkest brawn
What sun giveth life if blue or scarlet, need life live so
To name thy frith upon such UV life, such ultraviolet sight
And in UV thou love without flaw
On what corner the street so narrow, the intersected and the intersection
Eyne come not forth, make way for the immortal heart
Parley not for mutual love, thy earn is thy gain
And with growing grief thou spill thy blood in rivers of outness dreams
Lie not in the roseless garden
Be or be not as thy nature thou swear
Be, so mayst thyself is sworn
Lovely love, we canst not ever die
...if we ought to be, in ultraviolet light.

I feel the summer
The heat
The UV
The flies

I see you in your bathing suit
and I fall in love

It is a quarter past June, and
          already it seems like a record setting summer.
Sprinklers and the scent of chlorine filled pools,
          as I walk in my street-worn shoes to my sanctuary.

The lifeless blacktop park where
          my will and the heat-embracing pavement meet.
A well-manicured backyard tree hangs its verdant leaves
          just over its owner’s fence.
Like a lifeline for life reaching out to me.

I stick and I move,
          as the sweat cleans the dirt and despair from my face.
Like a sunshine superman, I drink UV rays into my bones.
          Alone I feel whole.
The disinfecting flames of summer
          have begun to melt the cold rot encasing my soul.