It was confused and dark, dark, so dark,
dark like when Charlie got drunk for the first time, came back, and stumbled-open the door long after Sam had screamed at everyone to leave her the f--- alone.  

And Jesse is standing there, swaying slightly with the beer and the pounding music, and Charlene feels her ribcage shiver with each bass beat.  The pale light oozing off the stage silvers Jesse’s angled face like water, soaks the black shapes around her, pools in each eye as the constant ripple and shudder of the crowd shifts her hips.  Somehow her thin, bare shoulders speak her excitement, and in the dim shuffle of the audience she’s half drunk and lovely.  “You know that calc test is tomorrow,” Charlene screams over the straight roar of chaos. “Don’t remind me! God!” Lovely Jesse laughs and her hand sketches a lazy gun that jerks at her head -- don’t remind me, God don’t don’t don’t --  and Charlene clenches her eyes shut and still that flashes, dark dark dark, her loose-jointed fingers flicking up, twitching in sickening unison with her mocking head, again again again-- don’t remind me, God,
don’t remindmegoddon’t remind megod god oh God,
Sam loved drinking herself sick, stumbling home with her arm ‘round Charlie’s neck, slurring alcohol love and despair to her ‘bes’ fren, besh’ roomate evr, Charlene a.k.a. Charlie.  And “a.k.a.” as Sam loved to call her, was always there to pick Sam up and clean Sam up and sober Sam the **** up.  And every stupid drunk party night that semester she told Charlie over and over again: ‘listen, a.k.a., here’s a funny story: a girl went to buy her mother aspirin cause her mother had a terrible ******* headache and she bought some from her dear second cousin Kurt the cashier who was a trublueblooded Eagle scout mama’s boy back from college, that sonofabitch and she came home, but her momma didn’t have that headache anymore and gave her a mostly delicious popsicle and it was red strawberry, the end.’  And every stupid drunk party night that semester Charlie watched and listened as Sam made up new stories about aspirin (always ending with popsicles).
See, Charlie was always there. Charlie never drank.  And Charlie, she always listened to the stupid f---ing drunk-strawberry-popsicle story.  And Charlie never gave a **** about Sam, did she? She sure didn’t, no, Charlie didn’t.  

“I’m gonna go find the bathroom” Charlie screams into Jesse’s ear and plunges out into the sea of dark shadows circling her.  The door struggles open, then she’s crushing it shut, crushing splinters into her palms, she’s bending over the counter, both hands white-pressed onto its imitation marble, choking down these sharp sparks of nausea bursting like fireworks inside, and the music’s faded out, its just the thud of that ******* drum that pulses over and over and over --god stop it-- fills the room, rattles the stalls, over and over and Charlie’s convinced its a heartbeat, its Sam’s heartbeat, thud thud thud, god its going on and on and pounding, OH GOD, charlie screams, IT STOPPED, no no no no SAM no SAM SAM SAM OH GOD it stopped no no GOD
next song. drum starts again. and the room is inside of the drum, it is the inside, the taut air’s quivering with each beat, taut ribcage quivering with each beat. Charlie is inside a drum. beat beat beat drumbeat heartbeat thud, thud, thud,
god I look awful, Charlie’s looking at her face in the dim vibrating mirror: blue shadows under her dull eyes, pale, dead-tired, dead-drunk, and so f---ing dead-alive,
she goes back to Jesse, wriggling through the black lumps: lovers making out, heavy spellbound listeners, uneasy loners, angry drunks, drunk as-- drunk as Charlie’s first drunk night.

Sam was so ****** that night and Charlie dragged her home to their dorm, sick of Sam’s tangy alcohol breath and her sagging, skinny weight on her shoulder. “I’m sick of your breath, Sam.” sick of it, god Sam, just stop it, wish that breath would go away, I mean,
it was blowing all over my cheek Sam, cause your **** beautiful face was lying on my neck-- that’s why I said that, I didn’t mean that, Sam.
And then you said ‘well, all right Charlie, I’ll tell you a funny story Charlie,’ and I said ‘oh god Sam, not again,’ and you said ‘no, its different this time’ and you said ‘one day there was a little girl who went to the store to buy aspirin for her mom and the cashier took her into the back of the store and hurt her and she came home and told her mom and her mom slapped her and told her to stop talking ***** and shut the **** up and then that little girl’s throat sure did ache, Charlie, even after a popsicle it did. And Charlie, Charlie, a.k.a. Charlene, sure did hate her breath. see, that’s my story and isn’t it a funny story...”
you drop your drunk roommate on the gritty hallway carpet, give her the key say
‘’bye Samantha", goodbye samgoodbye, bye bye Sam, "I’m going to go get drunk don’t be too much of a ***** while I’m gone.’

floormates told Charlie later that Sam screamed at everyone “hey, all you motherf---ers, leave me the f--- alone,” then laughed, slammed the door. and they did leave her alone.
Charlie came back *****-drunk, touched the doorknob and heard the shot, the door opens,
Sam’s falling and Charlie watches her beautiful, bony wrist flick back as she gets blood all over and ruins her face and Charlie sobers up really f---ing fast.  She always was good at that.
There's a note on the desk in Crayola washable marker (purple): "well, a.k.a., I guess I am being way too much of a ***** while you’re gone. you’re welcome. sorry for ******* it all up again as usual"
*Thanks for that Sam, thanks a lot Sam thanks thanks f--- you

Do you know that girl who smiles all day?
Do you know that girl who likes to play?
Do you know that girl who's outgoing?
Everyone knows her
Cause' she's socially flowing

That girl is the same girl who...
Cries at night
Dies at night
She hears the lies with ears
And with sight
Despite
The fact she's trying to be strong
For long
But the memories are brought bck
By RnB songs

Hs a hard surface
But she's soft inside
Gave up on love
Left her heart behind
There's a whispering voice
Acting as a reminder
Never failing to remind her

Insecurities fill her head
In her mind
She has the coldest bed
Her hunger for cuddling
Remains unfed
And her wrists are covered
With red

She hides her pain
With the fake smile
Thinks love is in the form of
Doggy styles
She thinks the pain is temporary
While
It is stored
In the medula oblingata file
Well...
I told her
I see through your pain
Let go cause' there is
A lot to gain
Whether sunny or rain
Whether washable
Or long term stain

Negativity starts to grow
It physically starts to show
Emotionally she starts to blow
She covers it up
That's the reason why
Nobody knows...

She turns on the water and tips the bottle of bubble bath. The syrup flows a slow stream out the end of the bottle and slides into the steaming liquid. The bubbles swell and fill the tub.

Returning to the stereo she picks a CD and hits play. James Blunt will be the man of the hour to serenade her in her sensuous delight. "All The Lost Souls" seems somehow fitting tonight and having felt the urgency in some of his songs and the wanton plea in others she believes him to be the perfect choice for tonight.

The cupboard is opened and she reaches for a larger than necessary wine glass, the romantic one she likes to use for a long soak, an indulgence designed solely for herself.

Striking the wooden match on the side of the box, 2 candles are lit; one for the counter and the other open flame to dazzle and dance on the edge of the tub. The glow is enough to light her way as her eyes quickly adjust. Pupils growing wider, breath growing slower, anticipation wets her.

Placing the glass of white wine in the corner edge of the tub she lets her satin robe fall to the floor. The white fabric puddles on the rich brown tile as she steps from its folds and into the soft awaiting bubbles that fill the tub to the brim. She slowly lowers herself into the billowing cushion and feels the searing heat torch her skin. She knows the heat will dissipate so she tolerates the almost too hot water in the beginning.

The bubbles are full around her womanly curves, engulfing her, tickling her skin as they break in movement. She sinks in fully, releasing a long relaxing sigh. Her eyes twinkle in the dancing candle light as it bounces off the bubbles and the shiny walls of the tub. Sipping the chilled wine her body finds relief from the hot water. Slipping it down her throat and resting the cool glass on her dampened breast.

As she slides and rolls in the water the bubbles weaken and break. The flickering flame exposes glistening skin as it is visible through the openings in the bubbled shell. A raised leg, the soft mound of a breast, the ***** of a shoulder, the curl of a lock of hair silhouette in the candle light. Knees bent she pulls herself toward the end of the tub and gently smiles as the water caresses her skin while she pushes away. She runs her hands over her body, silky from the bubble bath but her hottest parts slippery of their own accord. Wet before but more wet now.

She hears a slight sound and turns to the door. He is standing there, silently watching her. How long has he been there? What had his gaze enjoyed? Not that it isn't ultimately all his to enjoy anyway. But now that he is there she shall play out her private time to his audience. He loves how she is confident in her own sexuality, how she finds enjoyment with the body she has been given and how she freely gives it to him. It is moments like these that he could explode for her in lust but hangs on not wanting the magic to end.

He steps to the tub and hands her the glass with the last sip of wine, watching as it cools her and slides down her throat. He holds the over sized bath sheet open for her and she steps from the tub. Folding her in the soft cotton he wicks away just enough of the water to stop her from dripping. A breeze coming in the window skims her damp skin and her ******* harden, fully *****.

She is about to get ***** all over again. It's a good thing she is washable.

mouth to mouth-
crystalline tiny cubes of light
into tasting pieces of acid and spill them all over
your black spaghetti straps
tugging at the bottom of your machine washable
dungeons
you purr words of inconsolation and inconsequence  
stream-line savior
savour the swift
elongated tongues
of amateurs -
sky machines
sent to lick the blood right off my feet
and from the streets-
swimming into the soft-tailed waterfalls that spill over
cavernous eyes

I paint myself with yellow paint.
Very bright,
very nice.

I run around in the daylight sun,
all bright and happy and cheerful,
all covered in yellow paint.

I see people looking.
I smile,
I wave.

The paint begins to chip.
The dark navy blue paint that is underneath begins to show.
People are looking.

I apply another coat of yellow paint,
along with a smile.
Bright, happy, cheerful.

I keep painting on the yellow paint,
coat upon coat.
The only thing I have to hide is the blue underneath.

At night the people stop looking.
I wash off the yellow.
Dark, sad, forlorn.

I am covered,
head to toe,
in the dark blue paint.

I am always covered by a shield of blue paint.
The yellow paint is washable,
but the blue is permanent.

The sun rises,
the people are looking.
Once again, I cover myself with yellow paint.

Girl for sale: scars all over.

Nobody told me scars weren't washable.

Remember being happy? Yeah, me neither.

Called CPS again. No justice made.

Please stop staring at my arms!

You remember being friends? I do...

Do you love me? ...no reply...

My face is up here, stupid!

Tried writing poetry. Failed miserably.

Walking dog. Car. No more dog.

I was driving, and then I...

Where did I put my hope?

She watches smoke curl from the mouth of a plastic gun
Careful now, or the toilet will run
Like the blood trickling down your leg
She said something about a square peg
Or was it a round hole?
Doesn’t matter, my bedroom is dull
And my brain is served fried
Since my favorite actor has died

I have too many magazines and too little space
I love the look of weddings with lace
I am a lamb of summer, my father said
I used to build sandcastles on my bed
Washable school glue stains my dress
As I stand in the pews in my Sunday’s best

Our laughter was loud and our mouths gaped
Her mouth was full with wedding cake
Tumbling out, like white fluffy *****
I looked and saw he was sitting right on it
One night I woke up and was lying in sweat
Turned and saw a boy I’d never met
I grew up and found myself in the same position
Starring at a shelf with my Barbies lined up,
Wearing those colorful gowns, all Special Edition

Me Being Me

Time is a wasting,
things I've been misplacing,
but still, I'm amazing.
Just playing possum,
love being gruesome,
but still, I'm awesome.
A bit ridiculous,
remaining anonymous,
but still, I'm fabulous.
At times very dramatic,
never enthusiastic,
but still, I'm fantastic.
Never ever cheerful,
down right dreadful,
but still, I'm wonderful.
Got no talent,
way to arrogant,
but still, I'm excellent.
Somewhat distant,
always very different,
but still, I'm brilliant.
Sometimes depressive,
a bit too excessive,
but still, I'm impressive.
No six pack abdominal,
mouth very washable,
but still, I'm phenomenal.
Always horrific,
never specific,
but still, I'm terrific.
Sometimes heartless,
live in total darkness,
but still, I'm marvelous.
I think you all get the point,
so go roll a big fat joint,
because like always, I never disappoint.

I was that boy bobbed in blonde hair
smiling for the world.
Catholic tie and attire draped on my corpse.
I once felt the beat of the sun
as I trotted to church in navy dress socks.
The twilit sun roused my tiny frame,
smile dressed prim when day meant infinity.
I was a new born.
Isolation befriended me.
I used to crave for the corners of a stable room.
When I made friends
I forgot them at the school parking lot.
I played by myself when the other children turned to ghosts.
My blonde hair gleamed in the reflected glistening of the sun,
dripping to the floor like washable paint.
I forgot friends and I adapted to a new school.
I don’t make friends,
I fool ghosts to keep me from playing by myself.
The moon was bigger when I was four foot tall
and everyday was forever.
There used to be memories in those middle school class rooms,
there used to be living children.
I laughed because my hair had long since dulled in luster
and the universe finally noticed me in that corner.
The furniture migrated to newer houses,
but I haunted each one like it was my own.
My bones reached for the skies.
I painted masks under my skin.
And the universe bowed over me in that corner
where the shadows are too shy to answer
and gave me a special game to play.
I developed a sense of self under that cloud lit canopy.
Everyday swallowed into eternal.
I left friends at the door so I could walk to them.
The night licked the eve, and the universe gave me sickly.
High school wasn’t a fantasy,
I figured it out in my sleep.
The house looks best on new soil,
and the room’s never felt so expansive.
I trot along the tile,
universe at my every step,
it’s eyes already know mine.
I built a machine
or a demon to feign myself.
I had a smile that carried a soul in its arms.
I’ve never disowned that corner
where the world came to me.
I meet ghosts everyday,
the very few I invite home.
I’ve made love to philosophy and science before I counted the stars.
The universe ponders my shoulder
and gives me a glory to behold,
and a pencil to carry.
I used to be a boy of blonde hair and innocent grin
and day used to mean infinity.
I used to be the fragments of me.
Now I’m the boy that was me.

how do you become
comfortable with
the bogeyman when
he lives inside your
lungs and brain and heart?
how do you tell him
that your lungs must pump
that your brain don't work
that your heart can't beat?
do you pray to him?
write little notes that
say "please" and "thank you"?
do you beat him til
he gives in and goes?
do you hug him close?
does he know how dark
it is inside there?
can he even leave?
is he permanent?
is he washable?
can you scare him out?
can you swallow down
poison and force him
out of your soft parts?
can you cut him out
with scissors or blades?
can you smoke him out?
can you drink him out?
can you throw him up?
is he there because of you?
do you really want him gone?

you're so vain
you think i would wait around
wondering aimlessly though life
unable to live on without the thought of you
you left me stranded on an island
where not one part of my life was clear of your traces
like your footprints were un-washable, tattooed, and stained
but now i have grown stronger
you are a distant memory
a faded image; a possible mirage
however, i do not regret you
i know those three years held a purpose
they changed me from a wild teen
to an actual human being
but the change did not come from you
it came through you, but from the inner depths of myself
you were my life jacket; but i have always known how to swim
you were my lifeline when things got rough;
but i never needed you.
I don't need a dish towel of a person
to keep me standing.

Scratched the stall
Yelled at me in sharpie
From some non-washable preacher
Spelling out the lives of others
Or dictating to me
My own existence
Below pen wielding atheists
Wittily drew back
(or else not so)
Scathing remarks
In hen pecked hand
My thoughts overwhelmed
enveloped
By the smell of *****
A wonder
As to who decided
They needed to drop
Yet another five pounds this morning
Scarred linoleum stairs up
With odd
Unpredictable faces
Like ink blot tests
Deciding upon sanity
Sighing I dig into my pockets
Grasping my own
Trusty ink fed sward
Adding in my sentiments
‘People without lives write on stalls’
Pondering for a moment
What others will think when they read this
As much as I am
I am not a vandal
It is as much art
As this
As much the same
Sinking feeling
That goes with the fact that
I just want
To be
Heard
I just want
To be
Me

or it breaks you,
life,
so they say,
this or that,
not both.

life?

it makes you
breakable,
grindeable,
unmaked
in maked up,
washable,
faded faces.

it makes you
unbreakable
broken-born ones,
blended
into crepuscules,
bent rainbows
to the absence of light.

You broke me.
and you had me convinced
that the only way to piece me together
was by the glue
crafted by your empty compliments
and counterfeit love.

Where did i learn that you can heal a **** with a knife?

Probably where I learned that if something sounds true, it is.

The song named after you lulled me to a peaceful sleep.
My ears unfailingly grasped
the soothing rhythm,
the reassuring beat,
and the promising harmony;
but disregarded the ominous lyrics.
I shouldn't have been surprised when i woke,
******* by the rope of your unfulfilled promises,
silenced by duct tape with the words "I didn't want to hurt you" written across it in washable ink,
and with a gun I had given to you for your protection aimed at my head.

I wish you would just shoot me with that gun already
It would hurt less than waiting
But you wont
You keep me at the perfect distance
to where you're comfortable
and I'm falling apart.

At first it hurt like the waves.
the crashing, overbearing waves
that were shaped something like your lips
when you said you needed time.

But now it hurts like a splinter.
the kind that you don't realize you have
until you return home from the wooden playground
and the excitement-induced adrenaline fades
and you realize what seemed like harmless satisfaction
sneakily left you with a burdensome wound.

the kind of splinter that you try to remove
and realize it hurts less to just let it sit there.
even though everyone says that
"if you just get past the pain of removing it, you'll be completely relieved."
all you can feel is the pain of the extraction
so you decide to do nothing
and let the lesser pain stay.

All the classic adverts a lot of them are missed
Adverts that are made today the producers must be ******
They're nothing like the classic ads I'm afraid I must resist
There isn't any flare or finesse so please would you desist
The same adverts are always shown there's no surprise or twist
Adverts are not liked these days I hope you get the gist
Your all just sitting there with you ***** clutched in your fist
Messing up your nice pressed suits with a swift one of the wrist
New adverts bore you to tears but it's all that you enlist
Cos your making more backhanders it's why you still persist
Stop relying on the sponsors we know there **** is kissed
And take particular notice of the old ones on this list

A skeleton with video tapes told us how its gonna be
Re-record not fade away with Scotch's lifetime guarantee
Whiskers was the food of choice according to the stats
It was preferred by at least eight out of ten cats
Noodle Doodle twisted spaghetti into motor cars and houses
He twisted it into butterflies and eek noodle doodle mouse's
A hippo made a fruity drink way down in the Congo
He danced a dainty tango and a rhino called it Um Bongo
There was only one Tea that could make you go OO!
Sue Pollard and Frankie Howard found out with Typhoo
But those little Tetley Tea Folk know without a doubt
That 2000 perforations would let the flavour flood out
You knew what to do to put the freshness back
Every time you vacuumed and did the Shake and Vac
Don't wake up and go to town use the one all over smell
Insignia's shampoo and deodorant, aftershave and shower gel
Jeremy had a roaring toothache again he liked to many treats
he could have had a crocodile smile without eating sweets
She was the Right One she would skate to get it there
Nicollete Sheridan delivered Martini anytime anyplace anywhere
A second class ticket to Dottingham a misunderstanding caper
Tunes could make you breath more easily with its Menthol vapour
Milk in every half pound one chunk lead to another
With a glass and a half for every Dairy Milk lover
Muhammad Ali and Benny Hill knew their coming fate
They watched out with a Humphrey about, drinking Unigate

If your into protection with your Mate's or a Durex
You'd get that rubber feeling during penetrative ***
Unless your like Fred Brewster and Geronimo was there
A friend that was washable and like an inner tube to wear

A chocolate bar sang about everybody's case of the Fruit and Nut
David Rappaport could tell it was Tizer when his eyes where shut
Kia Ora's to orangey for crows, it was just for him and his dog
Spuds wanted to be Smiths Crisps and not an average Joe Blog
Bars Iron Brew from Girders the Scottish people like
A second thought at junctions think once think twice think bike
You Crossed your heart for a better figure with a Playtex Bra
The Renualt Clio had a certain flair for Nicole and Papa
Flowers delivered from Interflora making your day bright
It was a taste to make you shine ohhh ohhh Vitalite
Sainsbury's world war one solders shared and called a truce
Maynard's Wine Gums set the juice loose aboot the hoose
Why would you have cotton when Galaxy was silk?
It was cool for cats when you woke up to Milk
The man from Del Monte loved fresh fruit so he said Yes
Frosty's where Grrreat, Tony Tiger expected nothing less
But Esso was the only petrol with a tiger in the tank
A galloping black horse was the icon for Lloyds bank

Its your life with Tampax you jumped around and skated
Jack Dee had John Smiths, was his Widget overrated ?
Flowers where given on Impulse hoping the ladies dated
Mr Soft loved Trebor mints a strange world was created
Flake was the Crumbliest chocolate was that understated?
Marmite was the kind of spread you loved or even hated
Michelin Man was made of tyres he was rubber weighted
A family always had there diner, with Oxo it was plated

Castlemain Four X wouldn't give anything else, Australians would preach
Unless you where Paul Hogan and Fosters Amber Nectar he would teach
But Heineken would refresh the parts other beers could not reach
Strongbow was strong straight and true made from apple and not peach
Broad at the shoulders slim at the hips Big Bad Dom Domestos Bleach
The Jolly Green Giant loved Sweet corn with his ** ** ** speech

Please broadcast something good, instead of all your trash
There is No Cornetto's from Italy! none shown from this stash
Like Cadburys and Nestle or the robot men from Smash
You had a break with Kit Kat and convenient packet mash
No Dr Whites ***** Pads I don't mean to sound so brash
Where is Castrol GTX or Buzby there's not even a rehash
All Gambling and Insurance Ads tying to get our cash
No concern about the national debt or any loan backlash

Rolf Harris teaching kids to swim in the water they did love it
I bet if they where around today they'd tell old Rolf to shove it
I felt sorry for that poor Churchill dog I admired his endurance
To put up with Rolfs wobble board that isn't much insurance

Jimmy Saville talked of safety he clunked clicked every trip
But Jimmy's mind was somewhere else thinking who he'd like to strip
And British Rail where unaware when he was trying not to slip
With Jims intent with his Railcard to get you in his grip

You may think its controversial, you may think its the wrong call?
I Guarantee the companies thought they where on the ball
I bet these ads are a blot and drive them up the wall
If they'd have known about these guys they wouldn't feel so small
These companies would not have hired Jim or Rolf at all
It doesn't matter if they're the ones who are not standing tall

Why cant new adverts be like the old ones that we had?
What's happened to production why are they so bad?
They are all so boring and there really rather sad
None of them are out there that make you feel so glad
Why do you insist on showing ones that drive us mad
Your viewers are so ******* board more than just a tad
everyone is getting annoyed even our mum and dad
stop showing the new adverts stop ruining our pad

We don't want life insurance or sponsors for every show
We don't want Go Compare adverts, the Gtech can surely go
There are no Classic overtones they've lost that certain glow
Its boring seeing the same adverts shown in the same row
Phone commercials are not wanted it may be quite a blow
Loans and expensive Sky packages the people should say no
Please would you take some advice stop keeping these in tow
And bring back all the classic ads and stop going with the flow

Blood.
Its stains the ground.
With a devils sign.
It has no need for a specified shape.
For the evil to be seen.
Just the splatter,
The pool,
The staining drop.
Of its sickling Scarlett hue.
It paints an un-washable picture.
On all colors that shine bright.
That is why the chilling color of black.
Is what I chose.
No evil can be seen,
When contrasted together.
Black is an invincible shade.
To to the devils touch.
For seen as blood.

I like elephants, wood, and rust.
I like elastic feelings and good, clean filthy textures.
I like peaceful rage and boxes with glass (broken or not).
I like detailed abstraction and smells that make you sick, but not literally.
I like words that are shaped like people and wind that doesn’t move or make a sound.
I like gravely voices with sandy tones, meaty bones, and eyes of stone.
I like chalk and dust and asking questions without words.
I like structured flow and red-ripple eyes.
I like amputated thoughts and snaking through forests.
I like the words ‘expunge’ and ‘spleen’ and coarse vengeance, but not together.
I like egg-shaped objects and touching washable whiteboard erasers with my cheek.
I like all human faces but not all human people and unnamed creatures we haven’t seen, in places we haven’t been.
I like writing secret thoughts and making words emboldened with my tongue and lips.
I like real life fiction and burning bridges to places I’ll never revisit
I like pencils, but only HB or above. 5H can **** right off. F makes me unsure.
I like the smell of poison from the lips of disturbed creatures.
I like people with cats for a head; tigers, lions or domestic.
I like the theoretical idea of punching a horse, for the way it sounds and smiles at me.
I like pegs and what they bring to the table and comedy that takes itself seriously.
I like circles and all their relatives. Even ***** Uncle Oblong.
I like how language makes my breath smell and squeezing hope out of sponges.
I like to name things that are mine, but then use things that belong to others. Staplers mainly.
I like darkness and light in all measures; even when drank from a well in a shoe.
I like climbing into clouds and discussing anything but the weather.
I like how randomness is a concept thought of by someone else.
I like to unravel thread and then eat the evidence.
I like the fecality of machines and cogs that catch rain.
I like to listen with my mouth and reply with my veins.
I like the honesty of chaos and the cynical nature of fingers and toes.
I like swinging my mind fluff at innocent bystanders.
I like falling into gold by tripping over dead-end roads.
I like round numbers that are sharp and spiky and hurt when applied freely.
I like getting trapped by my own volition and eyelashes that live alone and care not what you or I think.
I like it when clouds become aggressive and spit disdain on the revolution you started.
I like slatted fences that don’t let things get them down; except falling dust that is just a thought.
I like universal understanding of things nobody understands and how your blue is my yellow and you stole it, so give it back.
I like how the letter Q is so shy, despite its ***** size.
I like to find the veinality in all things; with my eyes and then my sweaty blood pen.
I like stealthy science that is really a ghost we invented in a room made of futures and pasts.
I like forced relationships; especially if a monkey or a spoon are involved.
I like to glue my face to walls to see if anyone watches. Don’t worry, they always do.
I like reaching milestones only to find someone has scratched out my name and replaced it with an arrow pointing backwards.
I like big licks that are really lips that got kicked.
I like wrinkles that twinkle when sprayed with the slap of life.
I like that we all pretend that we know what’s going on, but that if we did, we wouldn’t have eyebrows.
I like hidden rooms that hold everything we were trying to hit. Except that horse I punched.
I like to drive a truck gently down a stream, only to tickle a deer on its belly with my headlights when I get there.
I like finding things that are so me, it brings painful heat out of my smiling face holes.
I like reflections in glass, of things that aren’t happening now, but will after lunch.
I like the rhythm of word *** followed by the ******* of a donkey-punched idea.
I like the iron will of freedom and how the camel **** of life sends us all back to the ***** sea.
I like the familiarity of a number and how they let us down, but we kiss them anyway.
I like pockets of air in black-like snowflakes in the fog.
I like seeds, Velcro and moon sand.
I like burnt umber, but only because we once were friends. He stayed. I left. *****.
I like paper and news, but never together and strings on rings dancing like feathers.
I like visual echoes and all other types of see-sounds.
I like stories both fat and tall, but not hairy-backed. I’m not an animal.
I like the sounds comics make and soundless comets that like me.
I like how one rule is made to break another, like a seagull might be used to grout a tile.
I like how a hundred things can be small or big, depending on whether you are lying down or on crack.
I like indents and outdents, but nothing beats a trombone.
I like scissors and their forgotten cousin the compass. They weren’t really related after all.
I like inflammatory statements such as ‘best before’ and ‘backspace’.
I like toast and brittle confidence, especially as a mid-morning snack.
I like chilli, flutes and harmonious ornaments.
I like running a mock and mocking a run. Oh and raspberries.
I like over-elaborate job titles invented by under-elaborate job-nockeys.
I like a pinch of this and a pinch of that. But if you touch me, I’ll cut your fingers off.
I like red apples and the smell of disappointed parents.
I like peanut shells in their own personal hells that are destined to do well.
I like sabre-toothed sauces and burlesque mornings
I like tree bark rubbings made from the fallen bodies of birds.
I like reaching for the hips of a star and releasing gristle from my teeth, in equal measure.
I like that swans break arms but never a sweat.
I like cherry protein and scratching an itchy thought.
I like snake skeletons, spider ***** and darkly lit minds.
I like half a man wrapped inside the womb of a stag. Why? Because I just thought of it.
I like divining a feeling with sticks made of rope inside houses of hope.
I like running downhill on palms of marbled ham.
I like cosmic justice in my box of tricks, with tea and biscuits.
I like making it worth peoples’ while, all over their face. But not with cheeky juice.
I like coming to an end, turning around and sleeping.
I like animals that have people for a soul and speak mythical wisdom by staring.
I like drawing what I think and making sandwiches that sing.
I like resting on my morals and dancing on yours.
I like stains on both the mind and my table.
I like visual symmetry, left aligned and crooked; valuable teacups and sage.
I like one-worded concepts like ‘calculators’.
I like appendages that swing and drinking *** from a tin.
I like water and vinyl and female urinals.
I like having no favourites, seasoned chips and music.
I like delving into lives like a fish flying on the back of a bird. Business class.
I like tapered limbs but not jeans; roasted egos but not beans.
I like scary hares laid bare and children being horses without sticks.
I like magic which is smooth and soup that is crude.
I like ninjas in shelters and watching shadows paint pictures.
I like how nothing ever ends, but everything bends. Even teardrops.
I like puzzles that sting and seaweed disguised as hair.
I like to leave people with a thought. Not you though.

Moss green wallpaper splashes past my open deck,
swirling and shooting like a dulled electrical current.
 
The gray sky is dripping in anticipation and fermenting with the washable universe,
covering us in a soft embrace that nudges our edge to a wonderful glow.
 
Flowers reaching, leaves bursting, hearts opening to the beautiful possibility of
dance throughout the day,
one step, then another, then another, twirling upon buoyant beds of Earth until the sun sets and we retreat into a bed of peace.
 
Slumber, hold, touch and discover; settling down to a deep place of dreams and joy.

Yes….

I think I'm a porcelain doll that fell off the shelf
I need someone to pick me up and dust me off,
Straighten out my arms and legs
Maybe they'll repaint my eyes
Something dull, grey with a dull finish
I think they'll take away my red dress
Replace it with something Victorian and lady-like
They'll force shoes on my feet

I don't really know where I went wrong... Maybe
They wanted calligraphy instead Comic Sans
They wanted the hundred instead of the ninety-nine
They wanted to name me something simple, like a number
I wanted to be named after the wildflowers on my old dress
If I drew them on my arm, they would wash them off with a scratchy sponge and harsh words
I wanted my walls to be yellow but they made them white,
Sat me on a shelf I couldn't reach
With my legs crossed and my spine straight

When a mother came in to buy a doll for her daughter,
She chose me
Because I am an example of a lady
Lifeless pale skin
And shoes that would break my ankles if I could stand
But they didn't teach me to stand by myself
They told me that I had to be held
My mouth opens only when somebody wants me to speak
My eyes close when you tip me backwards

When I tell someone how I was forced into submission, they say
"No! You were manufactured that way."
I have a number printed on my back, just like everybody else
No matter how hard I try to rub the ink off
The only marks that rub off are the ones I make

They gave me one pen and said,
"Don't worry! It's washable."
As if I were afraid of the impact I might have with a permanent marker
As if I were afraid of having my voice heard
My voice wouldn't be graceful
I couldn't put a child to sleep using lullabies
But I could start a revolution with a single sentence
As if I were afraid of a revolution

Maybe it would crack my perfect skin
All of the hairline fractures he painted over would become chasms or even tattoos
My Victorian dress would catch fire and become red again for a second
Just before turning black
Something bold
Maybe the grey would chip off of my eyes and somehow-
They'd be green again

Maybe my heart burns because I can feel all of the bleach that you are pouring on me
Trying to scrub me of your memory
Like I was a stain on your life
A mark in your history you were trying to forget
You wrote I love you on a broken window with washable maker
And we expected it to survive the storm
We were like a house flooding from the foundation
Kitchen sink shower faucet
All running
Leaking regret over our eyes
While we stood still letting each other drown.
Our sheets tangled up in each other's bedrooms.
Leaving our hearts in each other's chest.
To emotionally invested to leave.
Even though this Broken home of a relationship was killing us.
A slow silent beautiful death.
Like the way the water made our pictures bleed.
Like our memories were weeping or each other.
Pulling out the ink.
Ripping out each and every piece of you out of my smile like teeth
like tearing off the photos of us from the walls of our home
Water up to our necks.
Shallow enough to convince us that we could still be okay
Water slips in our mouths.
Like all of the, I’m sorrys
All of the, I love you’s
It pours into our lungs
Knocking out the air in our chests.
Just like every fight ripped out our breath.
Floating in our personal ocean.
Encompassed with broken walls full of your face.
Full of all the waltzes of our words.
We are ghosts suspended in the memory of love.
Refusing to accept that we were floating in an ocean of things that we are incapable of breathing
Pictures and sheets.
Hearts and oxygen
Orbiting around us.
While we silently give up like the most beautiful tragedy.
Like a house slowly flooded.

(Bongane)
He speaks of an unbearable pain
That walks at night,
While his eyes close like a dead corpse,
His feet start to move in a motionless movement.
                   (Bongiwe)
His senses go senseless as he tries to sense not.
The cold breeze of the night carries the words of silence.                         
Oh silent night, scream no more.
I can't bear the frequency of your sound waves
                (Bongane)
 While the truth sparks up,his mouth
Starts to open so ridiculously confessing the truth of a night walker,
As the moon and stars listen,
The walls start to whisper so silently
In a vacuum like manner

               (Bongiwe)
He starts confessing sins he's seen
They flash in his memory like movie scenes
"Oh Father forgive their sins" he thinks
As he walks past what looked like a dump site for the young souls that have grown skin deep wrinkles.
Sweaty bodies rubbing against each other
****** fluids sending silent request for immediate release.
Chemical infused blood rushes
Followed by a gunshot and blood splatters.
The dark night seems to bring corpses in platters.

                 (Bongane)
"Oh dear Father" he said while his eyes sees blood all over,
His hands drip with souls of unsaid confessions,
Whispering of what he saw that was never told
As he kneels to pray for forgiveness
A voice said "confess my child."

                  (Bongiwe)
"Father I saw him. He creeps at night offering door to door services.
His target market are women of all ages.
He always walks out with an appliance as a reward and satisfaction for his uncontrollable dark urges.
Night after night he jumps over a fence,
He blends so perfectly with the dark you could easily mistaken him for a shadow."

(Confess my child)

"Father I saw her. I know her face on day light but at night she wears a washable mask.
Then parades the streets embracing dusk.
She has so much for the eyes to feed on
Envoking lust in the dark corners.
She loses herself in her saviour for the night in her search for wings hopefully to take flight."

(Confess my child)

"Father I saw it. It crossed right in front of me. I asked myself what it was but before my mind could figure out what to make of it, my fear had already solved the equation. I felt my courage surrender shamefully, Father it's face gave darkness a darker meaning. Father I know the face of synthetic death sent by heart that has been befriended by jealousy with a drop of hate. I was lucky that it wasn't my turn yet, I guess my success isn't good enough to die for"
 
(Confess my child)

"Father I've seen so much...
Sins this much...
They weigh me down
I know it's not my place but I thought maybe should lay them down.
Father they are not mine but the guilt is burning my conscience
Let me confess on their behalf before my conscience is extinct."

"As I start my night shift
I wish the night shifts faster than my heartbeat.
Forever adrenaline ready
Father this is heavy"

"Father I don't want to be one of them
I swear I see more corpses than the nearest graveyard.
Those who's lives end at every exhalation.
Father I saw it,
I swear I saw it.
Father is this the Genesis of the Revelations?"


...........Dawn & Bongiwe.......

A Take Away from the Take Away Steak Fingers

King Henry II: Forks?

Thomas Becket: Yes, from Florence. New little invention. It's for pronging meat and carrying it to the mouth. It saves you dirtying your fingers.

King Henry II: But then you ***** the fork.

Thomas Becket: Yes, but it's washable.

King Henry II: So are your fingers. I don't see the point.

-Becket, 1964

Encapsulated in bivalves of foam
As bottom feeders in the fast-food chain
Small fragments of a poor dead cow, chopped, shaped
And formed into cow fingers that are not

For it behooves the diner thus to know
That cows haven’t any fingers at all
But the dear diner does, and digitally
Renders the cow fingers as nutrition

And that is all there is about cow fingers -
Not a topic on which the gourmet lingers

Emotional breakthrough
Strains at my insides,
Physical and mental fatigue
On a roller-coaster ride,
Lost, wandering souls
In a bookstore at night,
Rampage through the writings
Of love, death and fright,
Titles blend
They all become one,
The moon will give in
To the rising sun.

Mood altering chemicals
Endogenous dreams,
My heart cries in agony
A nightmare of screams,
Who would pursue
Such consummate pain,
It may appear washable
But always leaves a stain,
And after a while
The background just fades,
Personality tinted
By several gray shades.

Thank goodness the sun
Rises each day,
Because the night of the soul
Can hold the heart-song at bay,
Squelch the fires of love
And the passions of pleasure,
Effectively burying
The beauty you treasure.

I think I figured out my health woes
and mental ones to boot
It's salt rinses until I can leave it to the tooth extraction professionals
Why is it so difficult for me to make the phone call
Do I still fear I'll be yelled at like I was child?

I want parental validation to ward off these unknown strangers
but I've been getting to know - for 10 years now
I'm smarter than my folks at home
The horror

The trick is to have the childhood faith you once had in them
in yourself - and in everyone else when you're not there
"These idiots will get along just fine. Why can't I?"

I'll make the tough phone calls
Post vulnerable pictures and songs
Deep down, do I just want a partner again?
Dog sitting alone
If I was trapped in my childhood home for a weekend
with some gregarious girl opposite of me
I would be a wholly different person
as I was in the past - 3 or 4 times over

This is the soberest I've been in a year
"Had my tea today without any sugar, no difference"
Except I see the fear and laziness as infinitely surmountable

You're up against propaganda promulgating passive lethargy
on all fronts
Sometimes you need to admit you're better than the herd
and swat away the crab claws dragging you back down
into the bucket of schlop  
Stop feeling so bad for using a few paper napkins
when you couldn't find a washable cloth
You need to break some eggs when humiliating the charlatans
and their fans out of this cultureless slump