My days are grey, my nights are treacherous
I've spent so long sleeping but paranoid
Too many vices, I chose temperance

Vapid flings give way to the perilous
My slow conversations with life devoid
My days are grey, my nights are treacherous

One edge is straight, a knife, my preference
Trivial suffering makes me avoid
Too many vices, I chose temperance

I've cloaked myself, remain ambiguous
So, in midday, I have tempted the void
My days are grey, my nights are treacherous

No addiction equates to elegance
What is the point in a teen self destroyed
Too many vices, I chose temperance

With depression, I remain decorous
My mind flirts with bloodstains and carcinoids
My days are grey, my nights are treacherous
Too many vices, I chose temperance

There is an electric hum from traffic lights
Barely audible to the people waiting at the corner
Overwhelmed with confusion over the former
Condition of the economy in spite
Of the surplus of traffic signs
So they stare at traffic signs
The signs don’t mind
They stare right back and watch and contemplate crossing, too
But the signs will stay behind
Because people go
As they please
Under an ashy sky
And flickers
Of lightning
Appearing in the clouds

Consider the aerodynamics of taxicabs
You wish humans were so streamlined and yellow
We’re not so bad!
Said a fellow
Accountant using an algebraic formula to attempt to derive
Why you smile for us and I’ve
Noticed, though no one else has, the electric storm churning
Miles above
Polarizing the sky
In silence

They tremble, these, the not-so-poor
It’s that fearful tic, the one we’ve seen before
But you tremble, too
Do you see me quiver
We’ve got that quick jitter
Like a prickling under the skin that’s pulsing through
Our blood the way that caffeine does
Or the wattage exploding in death throes or birth throes
Above us now
Hypnotic
And powerful
Though I cannot tell
Exactly how far away

As twilight descends on the city
Bright lights adorn the cityscape
As if the stars have come to decorate
The bustling party, where everyone is invited
Streets, alleys, pathways, boulevard- sparkling
With electrifying wattage, reminiscent of the celebrations
People returning home after a hard day’s work
With a slouch, after the backbreaking toil
The city lights up to entertain the weary passersby
Gives some solace to the mind, before another day beckons
The grim reality of the fast-paced city life is forgotten
As it’s time to celebrate another evening
Despite all the hardships and bickering among each other
There is always the dazzle of city lights to bathe with life
Rejuvenate us and entertain us; helping to cope with reality
The city crowd is amazing, where there is always a crowd
Despite being surrounded by people, yet we are alone
People flashing a forced smile to greet each other
Food stalls are a great leveler, where global cuisines are served
Bringing the flavors across the world, to the local taste buds
Everyone is in the limelight, under the city lights
Even the dark alleys and treacherous places align seamlessly
Yet, the city sees so many segregation and prejudices
The city lights don’t seem to illuminate all minds alike
All said and done, let’s be a part of the city’s party
As we are all invited, and revel till the city lights burn bright


© Amitav (Radiance)

dedicated to all of the women~poets here I love not-so-secretly*

early to bed, early to rise,
stunned to sleep by a superhero trio,
sunset extraordinaire, food and drink,
but, nonetheless  I am awakened
by a poem birthing,
water breaking,
now in full labor, burning borning,
inside a man's womb

full wattage, thus empowered,
the moonlight
nudges me awake at 300am
with something real
halfway between a slap and a tonguing kiss
of pure white ****** light

This night sun has an entourage
clouds in attendance,
attend-dance, exactly,
so many fawning, that the bright light
upon the water, normally a claro path,
tonight, but, just, a moon spot
smudged by the shapes of
cloud interlopers intervening
tween me and she...
(nature is female,
everybody knows that!)

yet, the night sun is so overwhelming bright
that everything is perfect outlined

edged sharp in relief,
the stand of six,
our bedroom guardians,
six oaks strong,
are quiet, at-attention still,
their leafy dress uniforms
perfectly pressed,
as I am too,
at full attention

now I understand why soldiers
award themselves oak leaf clusters
as medals of decoration, bravery

poor man's mind weak with admiration,
plots alternative W courses,
a. Walk on water as invited
b. Wake her with your tongue,
in order to put her back to sleep,
                                       (with your tongue)
c. Write a poem with eye light
d. W-all of the above

unable to decide,
no, that's wrong,
incapable of decide,
I do the bravest act,
self-decorate myself with a
white badge of courage,
go back to sleep,
thinking I should not
drink so much wine on weekends,
but write of love and desire,
moons in July not June,
like the inner kid
wants to

and I look at the title this poem gave itself,

Full Moon Woman Life

wondering where the commas should be placed,
then realize it is all
one word

Motions croak in crimped t-shirts
Peace hurts the leg of 3 wheelers
Spit in a book, carefully holding hands over healers
Frosted articulation of bricks hitting off buildings
The doctor resumes surgery on the filming
Actress gummy mouthed backpacker sharing rooms with a jet-lagger galvanizing goo
If I phone myself, I’ll phone you too
Ad-hoc hop around dentures holding saxophones, laziness is the common king around here
Match the sketch with the deliriant fear free freedom and sneer
Shut the promo drunk and dolo
Potions of pogos bouncing so low
Both bones focal, keeping in a smile from an eye perched over the edge spitting on the populous
Attacking formulas with cruel gruel from the oesophagus
Wilting oxalis wooded in obelisks
Mortal coil in amphetamine greed for the sleep
Positioned slightly awkward and barely out of reach
Been seen being dreams piercing holes in the purple of the seeds
Peace is deemed green, free me from the iron between the sheets
Coins flipped in a river and an etude rings out with a profound sense of urgency
Won't wake up faces blindly painted deranged by a 5 sided box that gave fame to what was contained
Warp the wattage, walk in nervous
Hold cosmic stardust in one hand
Another a phone to call the best man
To marry the two hands and I’m sure the priest will understand
Hairs on the ceiling float through the window and provide an outspoken account of how they are feeling
Canisters of friendship huffed in the backs of vans till passing point seizures explain themselves
9mm film reel candy bars and ring modulation skeletal structure cat gut harps
Never finish a walk to work without beginning the start
Trolleys of Dolly Parton facelifts
Knife cutter butterfly anaesthesia makeshift
Hollow bellies of pardoned mop heads becoming a commodity
I can't say sorry if I begin to speak so oddly
I’d say probably yes if you lit a fire beyond the fence where the old man gambles drop-***** with 50 pence
Bite down on copper, synchronise the action
Winter comes and goes like conversation going out of fashion
Morbid, terra-fin switches waterbeds
Hints home at spit-roasting ostrich heads
Cost and effect, cause and intellect
The castle puts his foot down only to find a horses neck
Zipped up in honey, the combs hive mind should reconsider its self lucky
Unorthodox autodidact naturally diffracting compound eye composes paranoia and lies
The patronage of the savant is murderous and contrived
Its better out than in
The constant metaphor for unluckiness
Is where we begin
Radiance in a hot water semi permeable membrane crescent
Strokes the backs of frogs in the desert, stars iridescent and sun bears a weapon
Hammocks, ****, sweat on the brow, split lips on cornerstones of the solstice in the dead of now
Space-age ape on the country road lets out a cough
Caution to the hissing hills ****** in hidden zygotic havens
Actors have no time to cut themselves shaving
Austro-Bavarian chemical burns Molotov cocktail sewers
Crayons let me draw this face on, paint the day on and on, it gets newer
Its the context at which you and I notice the separation, that cues canned humour

Grandmère = Grandmother

Peter and I are in Paris, we arrived this morning. We’re staying at my Grandmère’s Champs de Mars residence - near the Eiffel Tower.

One of my Grandmère’s oldest and dearest friends is a Catholic Bishop. When I was little, he was ‘Monsignor Jean-Marc’ but now he’s ‘Bishop Jean-Marc.’ He’s been around so much of my life, he’s almost part of the family. I wouldn’t be shocked to find out that he has his own apartment somewhere in each of her houses.

Jean-Marc is old. I think that’s fair to say. He’s white haired and the kind of short that comes on slowly, with age. He’s a disciplined kind of thin and his deep wrinkles are tanned from years of gardening. His teeth, always visible in his salesmen’s smile, are as white as altar candles.

When I first glimpsed Jean-Marc from the hallway, he was sitting on a cream satin settee, in conversation with my Grandmère. I knew something was up because he was wearing his red trimmed cassock and red sash, instead of his usual black suit.

What I couldn’t see from the hall, was that the room was packed with matronly ladies, dressed in matronly dresses of glittering white, glittering beige, glittering yellow and glittering gold. Argh! I was wearing a white Polo tennis dress, Keds mini canvas sneakers and my hair was ponytailed. I wasn’t dressed for a social. I swiveled to give my Grandmère a sharp look, but she took that moment to be interested in the drapes.

As I’d come into the room, Jean-Marc stood and greeted me cordially saying, “AnnAAAas!” raising both hands up over his head as if he were channeling the pope. Ok, I thought to myself, this is happening. I offered my most innocent smile. “Bishop Jean-Marc,” I said, while performing an involuntary curtsy, conjured from somewhere deep in childhood reflex-memory.

I don’t like priests. Slam me, sue me, **** me. When I’m around a priest, I’m reminded that I’m a sinner and I feel guilty about not feeling guilty. It’s the worst kind of guilt for a Catholic, because we don’t earn any credit for it.

Opp! I just thought of Peter, so there’s lust, right on queue - that’s a sin. Unfortunately, Peter’s not here. He and Charles went on a chauffeured driving tour of Paris. Envy - there, another sin, I’m on the road to hell but I can’t seem to stop, one thought just follows the next. Where’s a priest when I need one? (to confess) Just kidding, there’s one right in front of me.

The bishop began asking me a string of unimaginative questions, like an old friend catching up. “How’ve you been? How's university? As he grilled me, slowly, like a steak in a smoker, the herd of matrons ambled slowly our way, closing in to listen in. It was a scene straight out of the walking dead. I wanted to escape but my Grandmère held me in place, with the full wattage of her proud smile.

Ordinary boredom is an un-experience and all you need to free yourself is a phone. High society boredom is one of Dante’s circles of hell, because you have to interact with strangers when you could be doing something fun instead. The gathering finally broke up about 7pm and I was free to go. I was starving, my throat hurt from talking (about myself) and I hadn’t heard from Peter. When I checked “find my,” it showed him there, somewhere. So I went in search.

Peter was in his (our) room, on his back near the edge of the bed, one shoe off and one shoe on. He was as still as a corpse but a soft snoring suggested he wasn’t dead. I leaned over him, his black hair was somehow more disheveled than usual and his lips, moist and slightly parted, looked invitingly ready to kiss. I didn’t do it though, that would have been asking for trouble. Instead, I smelled his breath, slowly and deeply. Cognac. Charles had gotten him drunk. How helpful.

Once I tucked Peter in, I went looking for Charles, only to find him shooting billiards with Jean-Marc. He looked none the worse for wear and the gleam in his eyes told me he knew what he was doing - avoiding me with the bishop.

As I prowled the room, trying to decide what to do, while picking up objects and weighing them as objects to be thrown, a server brought in a tray with three bowls of cassoulet,* which smelled incredible, my stomach growled, and I remembered I was starving.

Charles, sensing a shift in the mood, said, “He (Peter) needed to reset his body clock. He’s young, he’ll be as good as new in the morning.” I just laughed. Charles knew I’d come looking for him and he’d ordered me dinner. I can’t stay mad at Charles; he knows me too well.

The cassoulet was to die for.
We’ll start our vacation, for reals, in the morning.

Your touch, a thousand amp wattage
pulsates me into partial paralysis
Our kiss makes me feel like a
slickly, sweet tongued succubus
winged with wicked truth
brings my devilish inclinations deep
down in my core and cuts to the closest
undulations of my undisputed desire

©ShawnaRenea

I'm waiting in the Starbucks line-
Homework due in an hour.
I realize my clothes don't match.
I also realize this is a lot like
what love feels like.
A letdown.
A constant urgency.
Insecurity that a deadline will not be made.
Making small stupid decisions based on your addictions.
Then the coffee I sip tastes like ****
all because the line to get it was super long-
too much ice and not enough coffee.
I drink it too fast and it makes me sick-
I'm thinking it was because of the pills
not so much the coffee this time.
And I continue to think about love.
How I never want to take that many pills again.
How I never want to play tic tac toe
with every negative emotion I have
I don't think I ever want to find love again.
Because this type of destruction should not happen more than once-
but to me, it's happened more than that.
Even the worst things in history are often repeated.
That's what being in love with you feels like-
A used history book too worn and used
to even show any inherent value-
But you love history and what it has to offer.
So you tape back the broken spine
in hopes of salvaging what you love so much.
But it's never enough to make it readable
it's never enough to use for notes later on
or to read your favorite chapter
and all you can think about is how wonderful it once was.
When you were pulling back each page
so filled with joy about what the next had to offer.
You had a lot to offer-
but all you saw was your broken spine
and torn apart pages.
I wrote my name inside the front cover
etched in pen so everyone would know it was mine-
but I guess my name faded and now it's all just smeared ink
you can't even spell out what it says anymore
maybe because I lost myself inside of you.
I'm again looking at how my clothes don't match
and how much time I took to put this outfit on
but the lighting in my room is dim
and when the actual sunlight shows more things
than the darkness of faded counterfeit wattage
you start to see the things you're missing-
like yourself.
You would like to send someone out to find you
maybe your parents or your friends
but they're all too busy in their own lives
so you look for yourself-
by yourself
and you wonder how you got this way.
How two nights ago you happen to be the same person
you were six years ago-
even the worst things in history are often repeated.
I'm starting to think taking this medicine
wasn't such a good idea.
But the only reason I did it in the first place
was because of how crazy I felt with you.
I didn't want to be crazy anymore-
I wanted love to work for once.
I guess you can't teach yourself something you've never seen
like how I taught myself to swim by watching my brother
and I taught myself how to tie my shoes watching spongebob.
No one ever showed me love-
no one ever put on that play for my young eyes to see
so now I'm searching and searching for something
when I don't even know what the **** I'm looking for.
I think I would rather look for myself instead-
I'm sure I never want to look for love again
but what happens when I try to love myself?
How can you achieve something so foreign?
God could be a fat, black, lesbian jew
and how would we know, we've never actually seen God..
That's kind of how I feel about love.
It could be a giant hurricane destroying everything
because that's the only love I've ever known.
I can read about it until my eyes are heavy-
I can watch it in movies until makeup is stained on my cheeks
but none of it ever means anything to me
in a world where I never mean anything to you.
Love is kind of like starbucks-
it's convenient because it's everywhere
and everyone is waiting in line to get a taste
most of the time it's not what you expected
and it's usually just bitter-
but sometimes you get lucky
and everything is sweet-
the way you wanted it to be
until it's empty.
I am empty.

No tinkly tintinnabulation of children’s songs precedes him;
The vaguely Sputnik-esque speaker on the van’s roof
Squawking out Ernest Tubb and Hank Snow,
(The ice cream man is a hillbilly fan)
Tunes so out of time as to be almost beyond time itself,
Not unlike his ancient, off-white conveyance,
A vehicle of no particular make or model,
Bearing license plates issued years if not decades ago
(One thinks that the DMV would have insisted upon their replacement,
But the ice cream man likely retains them through force majeure,
And it would be no surprise if he did not find himself subject
To such notions as licenses and registrations.)

His arrival is not subject to any calendar but his own.
When his truck announces itself for the first time,
It is, by definition, the height of spring;
You notice the leaves have become a fully-formed green canopy,
And you eschew a bathrobe
As you saunter out to find the morning paper.
The next ten, perhaps twelve weeks are a blurry kaleidoscope,
Rife with cones and bomb pops, drumsticks and choco-tacos,
Dispensed with a high-wattage grin and a hearty Mind how you go!
But the ice cream man is always searching the sky
(Sometimes, you would swear he is actually sniffing the air)
Seeking clues like some ancient trying to ascertain the future
In the pebbles and small bugs in a crow’s innards.
At some point, be it late August or mid-October, he is gone,
Leaving you to instinctively grab a windbreaker
If you leave the house after suppertime,
And the shorts and t-shirts are consigned to some large plastic bin
As a matter of course.

Invariably, at some point during his curbside season,
There is the urge to ask him where he goes
Once he determines that his time has ended for another year;
Surely, he cannot live on the quarters and dimes
He tucks into his improbably white apron,
And he must have his obligations to banks and landlords
Not unlike any other man, but somehow the idea
That the ice cream is under the thumb
Of coupon books and past-due notices
Is oddly unnerving, indeed unseemly.
In our minds, he has always been and most likely will always be,
Engine hacking, sputtering, then implausibly purring
As it pulls away from the curb,
Its confectionary conductor
Humming some long-lost Cowboy Copus tune
Which trails off into nothingness as he disappears from view.

Drivin' in my top drop
Chillin' in the scene
With a gangsta lean
Liqour shivers my spline
Wait for the light to turn green
Smoke some green
So i can see things
Grazin' in the skies
I feel something lookin' me in my eyes
A fear of unknown intentity
Or is it my conscious ******' with me ?
Nope im not a emcee
Im just a guy spittin poetry
Dont let the bs bury me
Im hotter 20 degrees times the heat
Of the sun
Im disastrous harzardous
Then ill waste ya
Bring ya back like Jesus did Lazarus
Rhymes i mastered it
No one can spit and hit
Im mixed with particles of a cobra n pit
My bite is vicious venomus
Plus i leave your mind spacious
Now ya drawin' illusions
Cuz ya brains in confusion
I couldn't wait for satans intrusion
God gave me the sign
Now i punish all the asinine
My mind
Is nothing but intellect
Select what you reject
Eject
Metaphors
That even make the wisest sore
Solomon he wasnt even tempted
Before i got exempted
Out of birth cherish on earth
Grew up now i know i got no girth
No to hang on too wanna to be
Next hardest one man crew
My shadows got shadows
If ya chase me ill still be in the back of you
Out smart my opponent
******* gets haunted my guns be flaunted
AMERIKKKAZ MOST WANTED
see im hated by many loved by a few
The ones who claim they the realist
Down you??
And the ones labelled fake
Is the realist one for you?
My enemies come out the blue
I block with my telekinesis fiber optics
Burn up hot media topics
**** capitalism profits
I glow like an eternal wattage
Rhymes manifest in the darkest hour
In my cottage
You thought if was over
But ive only begun
War has just begun im returned as the luminous one victorious
N if you envy dont worry
Cuz nobody will take you serious
Im furious got you delirious
Say my rhymes is ****
But fools peepin' my ****
Got em curious
Come on!!!!

this tired militia of existence.
the burlesque jeepney stallions
   its metal anatomy. its belch-***,
its slur of alloy clanging like hundreds
  of men for tacks buried deep
    by a cornucopia of strikes –

thus is the heart, a boy in his seventh year
  dragging along a kite;
the soul is a bus ticket torn by the conductor,
  thrown away into Novaliches.

to wish it true, its gliding silk
  of air – it was only beginning

when people meant we are finished,
  we were only just starting

tonight as the night wills it, a boy

   fishes for brine in the shallows of dream
padding the small of his back
with a hunt of green: his equal self.

   the day, loose in the wind, perfect as perfect
   can be,
   yet still not quite, like when mother said
   the light dies, its low wattage in the hour,
   the prize of the candid moment: dimmed. darkled.

two hundred and eighty seven hours
i have two hundred and eighty seven hours and one minute
to convince myself to open my mouth and mind
because i was not going to let myself lose an opportunity  
which is what i do as often as the sun sets

the only thing i can think of is how the first time i saw you
i remember thinking that maybe the cliche stories of love at first sight (that were as believable as a man claiming he has never sinned) were actually true.
the smoke rises and the lights come out and the vibrations in the room raise and all i want is for you to hold me like the girl that is in your hands right now
and all i get from you is a step on my jazz shoe and a look on your face that speaks "i'm sorry" and then a smile of 100 watt light bulbs

and i think about how light bulbs come in different shapes in sizes, and we are both the curly q bulbs with twists and turns and heads of curls
but we never were too daring with using too much energy and didn't make much noise

i needed to know you like the man needed to reach the moon
like the woman needed to find a perfect shoe
(unnecessary in reality, but extremely important in their mind)

now there's two hundred and eight six hours and forty three minutes
until the wattage dies and the sun will set

A.


  drone this    day empirical
  from where we were once  the we
  rained from,    a high excursion
   which savvy the drop, weighing in, a fault

  trying to convince   the day when Sun
  embellished from the   ravine  of your hand,
  a catacomb   secured   by the  rolling
     of your  body like   a boulder   keeping
  a minute   sacred, christened an evinced noon

   that    was  your  repetitive finding.   onto
  
    a netted    frame   caught,  dripping out of
   a felt   space in    need   for graphs  to measure
        from,   a well unnamed  which  presence
          resembling  your body,  resounding
   the     fluency of    what  the  physical  ascribes    
        an   iamb    of    a crowd  inverted,  diminishing
                 and inflected in   a day's livid sigh

     housed        in  a  jar that   is  a mouth
        words   assemble    an  ikebana willing
    a     delayed     color  that  was   a   lack.
                  held   a  device  that   was    a  sky
        or   a  gleaming  face with   a high price
    claiming       a  solstitial  --  when    I  went
                   to your   home  it was   Saturday all
   week   inside  my   ribcage  chiming  worship.

   plastered   to   a  sheen all is  equal  underneath
           equatorial   tracing    a   sphere    when
     I    found  stroking   the   innards   of   a calendar
               it   is   November.     it  is   Saturday.

B.

   he   comes  from
   low  wattage this  night's  post
   a wonderful polyp
   to   begin  a
   blight
   apparently  so from a cut blackest gutter
         carrying an ample   water  virulent
             when  taken  in  and   again   in

    a  savingslight  of     metamorphosis
       climbs   vertical   so  the winged moon
              
              is    a  black  bird   in   the   blackest
       cage /  baltic  a different  fraternity
       of    land    with   the    same   pictorial

     this   lovely  stillness   calling   it  work
   a  flood   could  mean pernicious   is  blood
              brewed   from  this climate
          it   is   here  past Mandaue hillsides   dreaming
                 if place were  rumored  as  same-silent.

Some telephone calls are never answered leaving people on the edge of a thought that was urgent to be said at the time but a voice mail never means as much as live audio
Your name is only an old recording that I refuse to delete
and it is no longer a valid word in my vocabulary
I refuse to let you go and I'm still not sure why I love you
but even as a light bulb runs out of wattage
my love for you will run out
So when your name becomes one of many others
and I no longer stop to stare
I will call you
and I hope it goes to voice mail
So that you too will have a useless recording of me
that you refuse to delete

you stand on the corner of your just-gone home, dirt from below the torn-up asphalt making its way beneath your sunglasses, the distance between now and then something you can no longer stretch your knees and step over. your first love is boarded up across the street, succumbed finally to the burn of nineteen’s shallow pockets and standing in the way of a new apartment complex. you walk on, humming so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. it’s a strain on your ventricles, loving and losing and owning and letting go, when you’re here again. knowing the porch’s soft wood at number 18 while the door is bolted and a stranger’s boots line your closet floor.

it’s not all lockouts and dire prognoses. your tomorrow professes to accommodate a higher wattage than the sconces in your old room, and your visits taste like love and memory and breakfast, and his bed is warmer than your own because he’s in it, and he welcomes you home like that’s what it still is. it feels like he’s not wrong to say so—sometimes, you still belong there. cold coffee in hand from the farthest corner where they know your order still. an opinion on which pizza joint has better marinara. a favorite bathroom. an indelible mark on your old library desk. some of it is yours.

but some of it isn’t. some never was, and some has slipped through your fingers. you hum a little louder as the months go by and the boarded windows give way to a brand-new storefront—one that never knew you at nineteen—so you can’t hear the heavy step of all that’s taking your place. but you keep coming back.

and in that moment the wattage of the light bulbs died with one last flicker of energy, and the sun set like the days in autumn when it was pitch black at 5:30. I was still fog and he was still a light bulb, shining pretty for another girl. fog was yearning for a chance to ascend once again and become a cloud, her last hope in becoming meaningful. she wished to carry rain drops to heal droughts and move to display sunshine

Obsessive compulsive disorder/
Reconstructed self-immolation ash/
Just add wattage/
Neuromance of old flame/
Crackling synapses going haywire/
Desire staging a hostile takeover/
Daywalker with the darkest impulses/
Do think twice/
Turn a pair of minds into a facemelter/
Mentalfund electrical fire/
Ballpoint pen to the socket/
Eyes sore from all this ugly fake light/
Life as migraine/
Iceman boiling chest heartburn/
If you don't laugh, you cry ****** ******/
Gimme ******* mania, and alienation/
Space invaders get shot down/
Everyone's a narcissist/
Still got the white tongue/
Feverish nervous-energy teeth/
Zombie conscience/
Sick ******* thought brewery, everyday/
Distressed by the weight of the dunyaa/
Endurance test/
Holding on by a thread, in a needle/
In my head, that's unravelling fast/
Flammable wickerman, having a blast.../

Allspark./

Watch my stance. Peripheral glimpse impossible glance.

  Figure it out. When you can't brain storm I'm the cure for the DROUT.

This rain.

is for the brain

when you bust a vein.

        The radiance of the mind will destroys those that shine.
      Words from the oddest, Increase the Wattage to bring them to this realm of time.

Customized the lines of string theory, the ling-gum  linguistic correlates with this
Mysticism turning it to a probable infinity.

It wasn't that the light was left on over night.
It usually is.
The sun swept into the bedroom.
It was an electrical feeling.
Awoken by an eagle of light.
Now as darkness falls, it's dragged down,.
Carried by a raven of night.
A black cat's endeavour.
To chase it away .
The raven absorbed the cat.
Streetlights flickered.
Low in wattage,
Retain the cat's eyes.
And still they're trapped.
Last time a glimpse.
In the midst of tonight.
By tomorrow,
Last night's cat will be alright.
(C) Livvi

flapping butterfly wings inside the wardrobe with the skeletons

fireflies circle the bulb

a low wattage casts small shadows over this thing
                         over this everything
of empty petrol station forecourts

wastelands of concrete where shoes hang from telegraph wires
and of all the stereotypes I know
  how many of them are true?

she frantically searches the book shelves for the answers and writes angry letters to the council about the lack of WI-FI at the local library

she sits on the roof to get a better view of the constellations which she can’t see from down here

Every grassy field
In the middle of the day and at the end of the night
With your baggage galloping circles around us
All those car rides
With melodies that sound like that forbidden word
And silence that swallows shaking wrists
Your skin, your lips
They feel the same as country skies
My eyes
An ocean that you swim, still mastering that cross stroke

I ache to unlock that door of your mind
I know that every receptor is golden
And every lobe glows violet
Our brains
Always intercepting, collapsing under memory's warning
It seems we'll never give in

Just as you look away
Just as I'm learning to lock myself out
That solar heart exposes us
Descendents of icarus will always need more
your veins
They run with the same fire as mine

I have a plan
I want for everything real, I want to take a bite
Out of the whole world
I want to absorb everything bright
And reflect it at a higher wattage
I dont waste my time on silence
I dont beat around the bush of modesty

I know when I need to grow
I know the right time to dive
And the right time
To give up the gun

I've finished hiding behind dignity
I see no point to playing coy anymore
My vision blurs when you enter a room
I won't pretend I dont know what that means
Not when i rely so heavily on my sight

So go ahead, let it tear us apart
I've found the cure for a broken heart
In poetry and sad songs
And a sunset soaked lake
So here goes

Even if I told myself I'd never say it first
With the feeling of that moment
Spent between the cliff and the water
Even if it means no more good mornings
With the feeling of your hand on my thigh
I am afraid
But i think that makes me brave

I cannot satisfy myself with flowers
Out of fear of never seeing the trees
Swim in puddles
When I know that I ought to dance in the ocean
Selfishly, I'm not sorry now
Though I may once have been
If you are niether as tall or as deep as these
But I want no wattage less than sunshine
No new life born of less than me
You will learn this quickly, perhaps
That I am a proud and patient sort of being

Do not expect the morons
to see the obvious, its not in their nature
low voltage minds neither reasons nor rationalizes
not a processor, it merely ignites and carry wattage
thus, merely a repetitive uno-conductor, electrical parrot
a switch, basic and simple , on off, on off in circuit frame
overloading an advanced mind, I think not from a mere tool
a cannon fodder task for cannon fodders ain't worth the time
triggers obsolete, hinges and anchors only applies to simpletons


A sane realist knows a positive union is two ways
the onus is not just from one side if it were real and sincere
they cannot see that's where their drama leaks like a torn sieve
in their world a one sided currency note is genuine and real kosher
and they would keep it to buy their mothers a pink scarf and roses
or perhaps save it to attend the puppet show for the blind and dumb
or buy that bestseller, ' How to win Enemies and influence Nothing'
Ah, the snowflakes and snow-minds and snow bodies all frozen cold
life on the piste, ******* with their **** heads all amiss in tizzies

Hahaha.....hahaha......hahaha.....hahaha

So many of you with that
        10watt mass in your head.
Can generate so much,  
          out there, to be read.
Garnering likes, loves, and
          repost, that spread.
Making me post, my attempts,
          with a sense of dread.
Hopefully pushing my own
           wattage to a "nine."
I can manage, to generate,
            a usable line.
Afraid my watts, don't know
            what's unless I rhyme.
Again I'm afraid, I've wasted,
            everyone's time.