begin end begin he writes come to party in my room ashtray spilled on sheets mirror smeared clothes scattered everywhere i’m reclining on floor pulling on ***** hair writing lonely-hearts poem i don’t care about your photograph i just want to know will you come to party in my room? i have confidences to share secrets to reveal no one to give my body to i need to feel warmth of another there is food if you are hungry i’ll just watch listen to you will come won’t you? please this is no prank are you there? i just wanted to invite you to party you’re my only guest i need you i sound desperate you want to know how long i’ve been this way kind of let myself go grown used to this room that keeps my secret used to sleeping alone in big double bed i think i shall go take hot bath don’t come another night perhaps i can do it quite well myself thank you you probably would have felt out of place anyway - london 1971

nothing wrong with beating off but i prefer female sometimes pretty thing replies Odys you have a way with words actually he prefers woman all times tends to be too impatient rough handling himself needs woman’s gentler slower adoring touch

i wouldn’t mind wife if she is simply **** in residence leaning against doorway posing between me and kitchen he considers let’s get cruel in cruelty one finally realizes one’s own true self-interest who am i? am i cruel enough to be sick-hearted *******? am i capable of oppression torture? do i honestly desire *** slave? do i believe all hope of becoming normal human is gone? he hears her words i have cuffs crop leg spreader flogger hood paddle cane like swelling bruises on my *** never touch my face arms legs i like to be spit on while you pull hair i like servicing man who takes pleasure in giving brutal intense pain *** on my face **** **** on me i'm looking for white muscular egotistic man who is into sadomasochism i enjoy abuse part just as much as *** part is he lightweight no stomach for collared sadism? He mumbles to himself bottom line i respect love women this existence is killing me ignores his thoughts sings aloud we’re used to being rude to each other used to getting crude with each other come on now pretty thing sit next to me

female fantasy number 1 man’s ******* is like handle on slot machine if woman pulls it right way 3 cherries line up in his eyes ***** jingle ring money shoots out ***-hole female fantasy number 2 science invents way in which more money woman spends shopping more weight she can lose

i imagined you were plateful of pancakes you giggled when i poured syrup on your face i smiled pondering how lovely you would taste we sat for a while gazing into each other’s eyes until you got cold rubbery i didn’t want to eat you anymore

maybe he is not so charming anymore maybe Odysseus has become blunt  difficult he tries to be respectful but sometimes he is excessive self-willed time place names have lost any mearing during lively discussion with pretty thing creativity versus craft he confronts original invention requires destruction surely you realize that? pretty thing replies Odys i didn’t realize you were so dominant you seem so playful puppy-like in daytime i never would have guessed you’re such a chauvinistic ******* he questions chauvinistic ******* what’s that suppose to mean? i don’t know what you’re talking about she answers don’t play dumb Odys i know you’re smart at semiotics he asks semiotics what does that mean? I don’t know the word listen you’re right and i’m wrong i apologize i didn’t mean to get so argumentative he reaches for dictionary on floor next to chair pretty thing crosses legs speaks i’m very careful to use simple words everyone can understand but i’m just sign painter isn’t that right Odys? what would i know? he pleads you’re not making any sense we both use brushes paint similar techniques that’s beside the point i apologize she insists you’re way off the subject Odys he begs you’re right i’m wrong whatever i said made you get so upset please forgive me her voice cold terse i need to go home Odys you scare me you’re way too fanatic

thinks to himself promise her anything but give her the finger just when she’s finally starting to fall for whole scam give her the slip 6 to 12 weeks is average life expectancy for modern romance it’s fast world we’re all expendable can’t hear what you’re saying music is too loud rule number 1 no matter how beautiful she is there’s always someone who’s sick of her rule number 2 why would you even be talking with her if she didn’t have *****? rule number 3 they’re all ******* ******! he tries to recall if Bayli ever behaved like ***** he concludes no never did she become one?

in restless sleep he dreams someone tells him Bayli is working at ******* bar he goes to see her Bayli looks young beautiful wearing thong nothing else many men are pursuing her he excitedly approaches but she seems to only vaguely recognize him she questions do i know you? he answers Bayli it’s me Odys! she answers my name is not Bayli Odys who? where do you know me from?” he pleads Bayli, look at me Bayli smiles hesitantly as she looks around for support points finger towards Odysseus 2 bouncers approach shove him against wall force him outside bouncer barks her name is not Bayli now get hell out of here you freaking loser! they go back inside slamming door as he walks away neighborhood kids throw apples at him wakes up confused sad from dream

he vows i don’t need love love is for those too lame to stand alone bear solitude self-avowal love is sign of weakness compliance control love is contract made between two people too spineless to take pleasure in own freedom love is way to take advantage exploit love is convenience pact for mutual security love is cumbersome weight tied around athlete’s neck love is suffering love is a lie illusion cover-up for everyone’s petty lame problems

1984 chicago suffers harsh winter furious winds blow across lakefront Mom and Dad take Odysseus to dinner at posh new restaurant in art galleries district on the way Mom and Dad argue about parking Mom wants to leave car with valet Dad insists they first look for space Mom gets annoyed the wind will ruin my hair drop me and Odys off at door then do what you want Dad says you’re going to miss me when i’m gone Mom snaps we’ll see when are you planning on leaving? Dad wears navy blue blazer white shirt burgundy foulard silk tie he is in good spirits winning personality keeps table lively Mom wears beige cashmere turtleneck darker beige wool skirt brown alligator high heels gold earrings she waves then greets roths weissmans who are led by young hostess they walk past table make brief polite conversation after several rounds of drinks Dad speaks you know, it’s about time Odys are you dating anyone in particular? Odysseus hesitates confesses he has had ****** relations with hundreds of girls his knees begin to shake under table he admits maybe I’m incapable of sustaining intimate relationship with one woman i’m conflicted blocking all these feelings inside never learned how to love can’t hold on to anything all i know how is **** and run Mom interjects don’t use that word! she suggests he travel get some fresh ideas Dad becomes irritated lights cigarette waives to waiter orders another Absolute on the rocks bursts out what the hell do you mean you never learned to love you grew up in a house of love *******! didn’t you learn anything? are you purposely trying to ruin dinner? you watch your step mister or i’ll whack you right here at the table! you make me sick with all your excuses one of these days you’re going to wake up Odys and I hope it’s not too late Mom immediately glances at roth’s weissman’s table then glares sharply at Dad she snaps Max lower your voice! people can hear you we’re in a restaurant can we please change the subject? she instantly regains composure continues i spoke with your sister Penelope today and she let me know she might be landing a new account she’s being wined and dined this evening by c.e.o. of prominent san francisco agency later waiter clears entrees asks if anyone wants after-dinner drink dessert Mom orders coffee apple pie with scoop of vanilla ice cream Dad orders coffee Mom asks what do you wish for in your life Odys? who do you want to be? he exhales long breath answers i used to dream of becoming renown painter but now i’m not sure sad to say don’t know what i want sometimes i think of priesthood but i’ve done too much sinning Dad grows irate who puts these ideas into your head? you ******* ungrateful kid! what the hell is matter with you? Mom interrupts Max don’t lose your temper we’re in a restaurant she glances at roth’s weissman’s table nods with big smile on face Odysseus feels entangled in web of desires deceptions debts he vacillates from one aspiration to next grown comfortable in his failures distrust

Tiger, Tiger they all called him.
Faces marked with smiles grim.
Office buzzed with word tiger, tiger.
He was one but many they were.

Full day continued insincere flattery.
End of month 'twas, day for salary.
Then story took melodramatic turn.
Like tiger he moved, demeanor stern.

Outright he announced party that night.
Everyone attended in clothes bright.
They gossiped, danced and dined.
Happily they all boozed and wined.

He sat like a tiger circled by coterie;
And the total bill was half the salary.
I looked through magnifying glass;
And saw pack of wolves and an ***.

The very first thing I learned about you was your ex-communication from Mormonism. Did you really try teaching a preschool class that Jesus was a Rastafarian? Or was that one of your many big fish tales told to me over the years?

This was when you were only a mischievous high-schooler. Not the cynic you are today, worn down after choosing the safest choices life can offer. When did a clever person like you acquiesce to such homogeneity? Somewhere between your Economist-reading days in undergrad and law school? I know you claim the reason was something about getting your heart broken one too many times. And yes, I know I whacked it around like a pinata... as you did mine. Because that's what reckless kids do. Will you ever accept this as an excuse? Or will you always use it as the reason to avoid my calls?

Back at the age of 15, though, you could do no wrong. A shy smile was all you'd see from me, but I'd go to bed dreaming of all of the clever things I wanted to say to you. My friends would later say you exploited your teaching role as my debate tutor... but me? I was totally, utterly, and blissfully enamored by your explanation of Foucault and FoPo. I'm convinced the reason you fell in love with me was because I wrote a letter to Crayola pretending to be 5 in hopes of getting a free pack of crayons. You liked that kind of smart *** behavior because it was the kind of stuff that made you come alive. Which reminds me... do you still have the "#1 bestseller" sign you swiped from the grocery store? You wore it in your back pocket while wearing your "I spoil my grandkids" t-shirt.

How appropriate that our first kiss was on the debate room couch. I'm glad kissing was, in fact, better for you with your braces removed. And how appropriate that my first date was you taking me to the high school musical, "Kiss Me Kate."

What is it about first loves that make even the most mundane so magical? I can't tell you the number of times I looked out the window in hopes of seeing your red Ford Escort pull up. It took my breath away more than any Mercedes could. Who knows what we'd do when you did come over--probably play Donkey Kong Country, or watch some ironic movie like Donnie Darko. If nobody was home we'd make out to the Disney "Fantasia" soundtrack.

Back then you were always intrigued with the whimsical. Nowadays it's 1940s classics, malt scotch and Coachella concerts. I think your career ***** you so dry of life that you overcompensate with your expensive tastes. The wildest you'd ever get was smoking a hookah. But the guy I remember? He liked pocket watches, Rufus Wainwright, and Harry Connick Jr. I know you're a responsible tax-paying adult now, but I still see you as the wild-eyed wholesome troublemaker you once were. I prefer you that way, even if it's mentally dishonest of me.

Since you, men have wined and dined me at world-renowned resorts and have taken me to presidential *****. But none of these dates have given me the same rush of euphoria as sneaking out and spending the night with you in the home you were house-sitting: That night, we were a pair of 16-year-old rebels. At least we didn't get caught by the cops making out in the high school's agriculture department parking lot. That would happen in a few months' time.

Then you left for college, to gain an education and have experiences that sounded overwhelming for my sheltered ears. It didn't matter that I left for Europe that year--you had left for college, which was a distance in my head that couldn't be measured geographically.

I could recall a thousand barbs exchanged from then until we both finished college: you dated her. I dated him! We made promises. We broke promises. You'd come home for summer. We relished in the relatively new-found art of *******, mostly perfected on each other in our youth. We'd hate each other. We'd love each other. Your friend would hate me; my sister would hate you. On it would go.

But there were such sweet times. We saw Harry Potter together and we sat on my roof, imagining that one night could stretch til forever as we looked up at the stars. It was then that you dedicated Coldplay's "Yellow" to me. And no expression of love was greater than seeing you in the back of the auditorium, waiting to drive me home after my 6th period drama class.

I honestly don't know the person you are today. Sure, you give me snippets. Usually when some girl breaks your heart and you need to vent. In truth, I know you saw me as your plan B. Always. Shame on me for playing that part so beautifully for so long. Could we have worked out, you and me? I smile, knowing that some things from the past should stay firmly rooted where they are. There would always be a part of me that would feel like that freshman trying to impress you, a senior. All the while I wouldn't feel funny enough, cool enough, witty enough by comparison. No, we simply wouldn't work.

You know the rule, about loving your family because they're the only one you've got? I think the same is true with first loves. When I reflect on our oh-so-ordinary relationship, you--I mean, US: we weren't so great. Nothing special.

But my heart sure seems to think you were... even after all of these years.

She blew into town like a hurricane.

Back into our lives after a long excursion into the world of modeling and amateur wrestling. She showed up at our door after promising to arrive six hours earlier, negating whatever plans we had planned for the night and putting us on the edge of a bad mood that would prove to be harder to recover from as the night proceeded to move along.

She brought us food from a local cafe where a client of hers had wined and dined her for showing him an hours worth of affection, the kind of trade she had sworn she was moving away from but old habits die hard. She wrapped her arms around us in a bear hug a person of her stature seemed would not be possible to do but did anyway and planted one of her too soft tender kisses on both of our cheeks. Small talk ensued before she sat down at the kitchen table and rolled a blunt while We ate slivers of chicken and salmon with rice. Washing it down with some *** flavored lightly with coca cola and lime.

She rambled upstairs and perused thru my vast book collection noting in the way that she does that I have very few feminist authors. I am a guy was my typical response. She smiled and giggled. Talked of her love of names and two-stepped the steps back down the stairs where she picked up her blunt and waved it around as one does when they capture the flag in childhood war games. Shall we smoke she inquired and we agreed with a certain amount of hesitation that went unnoticed.

The truth was that we had weaned ourselves off of addiction only a few months before and while eagerness was bound we were still weary of smoking particularly with such a manic woman in our presence but we followed her down the stairs anyway and as she chose her seating we chose ours. She tore a piece off the end of the blunt and handed it to me to light for old time sakes.

I took another long sip of my dwindling drink and lit the end of the piece while inhaling and filling my lungs with poorly flavored mango smoke. I held it in for a few seconds while the blunt finished its lighting and blew the smoke at the tip to put out the flame that had grown and passed the blunt around, right to left.

We were short on words having spent all our day in wait but she was long winded and had a hell of a time on the road and proceeded to tell us a story of her adventures on the west coast using obscene hand gestures when needed and punctuating certain words with her voice while doing her best to imitate Zelda Fitzgerald at her craziest moments.

She nursed her drink and we drank our drunk as the blunt smoked and dwindled down to a stub she asked my opinion on a matter which I had nothing relevant to say so I went to the garage for a pair of pliers for use as roach clips but decided I had had my fill of crazy so stayed upstairs instead, finishing my drink and pouring another one.

My peace lasted for only a few moments before they came upstairs and sat down on the leather couch and flipped thru the television channels before stopping on some show that would have been canceled years ago had it not been for the beautiful girl keeping it and the cast still working. I lied down on the couch while they messed with their phones, one looking at food recipes and the other playing some of the worst pop music that I had ever heard.

She asked if we were hungry and tho we had already ate the effect of the **** sat heavily on us and our stomachs growled. She suggested pizza. I said we had some in the fridge. she said she would buy some from a place that delivers.

We contemplated about toppings. She said she likes weird toppings. We settled on half pepperoni and half pineapple. Her choices were not weird but i let it slide. She ordered a pizza using her prize money from some wrestling match or **** photo shoot she had done the previous day.

We ate.

We drank some wine to wash down the taste. We talked a few more hours, ending the night with glasses of water to cure the early headaches and speed up the feelings of sobriety so that the night would come to an end because we all had an early start the next day.

We said our good byes at the door and muttered a good riddance beneath our breaths and sighed a sigh of relief as we realized that some people no matter how great and mad can be intolerable to be around for longer than a very short night.

I took Death out to dinner last night,
dressed up
in my favorite costume.
Dripping diamonds
and champagne tear-ducts--
I clogged my pores
with soggy make-up.

We wined and dined
and wore out our shoes--
I told him my secrets
He nodded and listened.

We shuffled down side-streets
and looked into mirrors--
I shivered in darkness
He drew me in nearer.

His body a bone-yard
Lovely but broken--
I heard his soft breath
I felt fingers stroking.

But crawling back homeward
Aching and tired--
We parted by day-fall
I watched him shrink inward.

With farewell promises
to meet again soon--
I swallowed the sunrise,
I cursed out the moon.

One mile down the drunken river
I lost my mind in her midday yellow haze.
Residues of the river-wind-kiss lingered saline on my face,
Wild sun on the wild river scathed my skin copper,
And I glided upstream in blurred eye sweat
Losing and finding the river’s mangrove shore.
My mind in delirious mess wondered
What it was that wined the river, made her a swirling detachment,
Bearing all with the endurance of a drunkard
But embracing nothing like an all foregoing monk.

I dreamed adrift one more mile and then another
Till I was windswept and wined like the drunken river.

Women are always saying, why are there no good men out there anymore?
I say there are plenty of good men out there.
Good men with great qualities.
Might not look like Brad Pitt but strong enough to never quit.
You can't wait for a George Clooney you may go ******.

You chose to go out on a date with that handsome man.
Who drives the fancy car and wears that fancy watch.
That handsome man wined you and dined you.
Took you back to his place where you ended up staying late.
You left in the early morning hour, heading home for a shower.
A few days have gone by, that handsome man never calls.
You're feeling sad and rejected, thats what handsome men do.

A good man would not have rejected you.
A good man who drives an old pickup truck.
Who worries when the rents do.
A good man working to make ends meet would sweep you off your feet.
Good men aren't hard to find.
Just open your eyes and you just might find.
That there are a few good men out there.

So much talk about me; my dreams, my goals, my desires
So what then; when, how, who can realize the change I require?
My yesterday, my today, my future all entwined
My kids celebrate me, but have only wined and dined

Listen faintly, to a bit of my life’s story
As a colony of empires I was; my history!
I was birthed to treasure seeking hunters
Merely over-shadowing the fore-fathers

Merged and named after a flowing River from within
“Nigeria” was and is; Nineteen Hundred and Fourteen
I would have to call this, my naming ceremony
I sensed motley feelings; no empire, no colony

Crowned as the giant of Africa; behold, my birthday
Perhaps, this started the beginning of my future today?
Outdated assumptions; are the thrown away weights
Our economic growth the world watches and waits

Stop the whining yesterday; start an act today, and stand
All we have to do is look into ourselves, our hands
Overlook the past, create a change today, you and I can
Yes!, you, me; we all are “Nigeria’s Future”.

I stand in lines
and wait for better times.
The sun shines,
We **** on limes,
tequila on our minds.

There are all kinds.

So I pass out my dimes
to pay for the ******* fines,
as we listen to the chimes
and the pretty, pretty rhymes.

Yes, I have been wined and dined,
but I have also been worked to a grind.
I'm no mastermind,
but I have tried hard to align

the faults of the self
with the faults of the rest.

             Stones from Heaven              ---pourles enfants de Haiti            "Whatcrime what sin had those young hearts conceived              That lie bleeding torn on a mother’sbreast...             The human race demands a word from God."--Voltaire, " Poem on the Lisbon                                  Earthquake"  (1775) the flesh of the city blends its blood with the dust ofearth's gravethe devil quake broke the bones of their beds with itsterrorist bombthey could see the day light of death in the beaten air feel it in their prayerful souls as the some time glad daysun fell into forever's darkness and all the all reeked with theashes of fearwhere is the loving God of married hallelujahs? all the poor man's houses falling falling "amid thedeepening gloom"into a tomb for sons of promise and green daughterstheir pleasure and pain drowned in a ghost of tears lost like raindrops on the grey face of the bottomless oceanvanished like the passing shadows of stories in theimagination of  cloudswhy oh darkened God of stones God of the Word God of Heaven? in the once bright light of a schoolyard's promise silencenow bleedswhere young eyes yesterday shouted from their books a beliefin tomorrows now the living dead carry their bodies with loving worms on the gallows of their bent backs wander the veins of thebeaten streets chanting horror's verbs black angels mourning the flesh of222,217 in mass graveswhere is the open hands of God the prodigal Father? they lie down forever in the weather of their sorrow withthe innocent deadweep for the seed of their breathless children in the bloodlit city of gospel sorrow no glad to be home families no wined friends with hope'sholiday songs no loving child's prayers or whispered shut eye no sweetgood nights no these good soldiers of Jesus' hosannas are the inspiredblind no moreto the womb of endless night no to the forsaken God of theirbrambled *****  

FAKE FRIENDS

You call me a friend, as you pull out a knife
You stab me in the back, not once but twice
Friends for life, but that’s a straight up lie
You aint gotta clue, about Ride or Die

I’m surrounded by wolves that are dressed like sheep
Telling straight lies, dry snitching on me
Claiming it wasn’t you, behind the line up glass
You straight pointed out me, to save your own ***

I’d rather sweat buckets, to search out peace
Than spilling gallons of blood, fighting demons in me
The battle continues, frighten the anger within
It’s a full time job, dealing with FAKE *** FRIENDS

Ever time I think I know, what you’ll do next
You end up selling me out, for a yard or less
You made you a dollar, so I’m screaming again
You’re a straight up punk, a FAKE *** FRIEND      

I can sit and formulate a plan in my head
Take a ****** shot; make your FAKE *** DEAD
Now I’m on the run, a fugitive at large
Aint a FAKE *** FRIEND around, worth taking a charge

Their a dime a dozen, you can find them anywhere
Just don’t be fooled, because its buyer beware
It’s a known street rule, don’t say it wasn’t said
Because FAKE *** FRIENDS, usually wined up dead

But ill take what GOD gave me common sense, and walk away
It’s a soft *** move, but Ill write another day
Not locked up covered up, dealing with my sins
Nothing wrong with cutting off, a FAKE *** FRIEND

Aint a chick or dude around, can’t relate to what I’m saying
We all had friends, which were straight perpetrating
Saying they got our back, all the way to the end
Same ole same ole, just a FAKE *** FRIEND

So now I ride solo, I know it’s a risk
If push comes to shove, Ill add my girl to the list
Now I’m RICH and FAMOUS, and you wanna make amends
But as I told you before, **** FAKE *** FRIENDS!

we see the dying die. i walk down the stairs and give them nothing everyday. as i was walking down 8th ave one afternoon, i was approached by a girl who was about my age. she was screaming indiscriminately  
"please sir! can you help me?! i have no idea where i am and i don't have enough money for a bus ticket home."

i drudged a drunken look up at her
i was tired
i wanted the bus ticket home
and the beautiful new york city girl you sit next to
you know
the ones they keep up in front
but they sit in back

she told me she had gotten on the wrong bus and wound up in new york city
just by accident
that she didn't have any money
and her family was worried and needed her back home

8th and 43rd
she wined at anyone who passed
with a terrified look
as if she was to be eaten or sacrificed

her story was unconvincing
i gave her twenty dollars to get home
i truly hope she did
but in my heart of hearts i know she spent it on drugs
she was a good actress
and should get what she deserves

after i handed her the bill
she asked
" oh my god , can i give you a hug!? please?! "
she grabbed me tight and was almost crying
she was so beautiful
in trouble
as if i had given her life itself

our elders do not understand the affect of there traditions
upon the truthful way of life
so we sit here and wither
victims of just being tired

The Love Song of a Struggling Writer

It's strange that words are so inadequate.
Yet, like the asthmatic struggling for breath,
So the writer must struggle for words.


Let us go then, you and I,
As phrases dance across the sky,
Like a poem scribed upon a table
Let us go, through empty deserted minds
The thoughtless finds
Of restless nights when words have left
A dreamless sleep upon the empty draft:
Debts that hunt through bills and mail
Soon caught, no avail
To lead you to an overwhelming dilemma
Oh, do not think of it, “When will I be in print?”
Let us go on borrowed time lent.

Deadlines often come and go
But do I care? Not really…no

The words that never come to be
And phrases never uttered beautifully
Butchered at the hand of the creator
Lingering on the cusp of success
Never brought to fruition, lest I digress
Many ideas I’ve never said
My fingers haven’t moved in hours
Anger builds till I see red.

And indeed there will be time
To taste tendrils of victory
To kiss the lips of a well written acquaintance
There will be time, there will be time
When publishers knock down your door
And ask for my autograph in store
And time for typewriter keys to bend
To rust and break with age
To break hearts of which I cannot mend
Keeping secrets triumph won’t lend
Reveling in the thought of glistening diction
Before the taking of pictures and Ads


Deadlines often come and go
But do I care? Not really…no

There will be moments
To wonder, “Do I write?” and, “Do I print?”  
Time to turn back and edit my drafts,  
With run on sentences littering the page—        
[They will say: “How his grammar is horrid!”]  
My morning coffee, and scone for fuel
My pajamas wrinkled from late night frustration—  
[They will say: “But how his style has declined!”]  
Do I dare
Disturb the publisher?  
In a day there is time  
For discussion and revisions which a day will reclaim.  

For I have read them all, scanned every line:—  
Have known the evenings, mornings, late night walks,  
I have measured out my life with writers block ;  
I know the diction dies as my drive begins to fail
Between the lines of another story.  
So how should I continue?

And I have known the public already—        
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,  
And when I am on display, such a fickle crowd,
When I am blinded by camera flashes and set lights,  
Then how should I begin  
To spit out all the inspiration for my literary creation?
And how should I continue?

Shall I say, I have visited New York and L.A.
And watched the heels smack and clack the pavement  
Of lonely writers sipping their grown cold tea?…  
  
I should have been a published writer
Pounding the pavement in glittering achievement.

And after work sip cocktails with various big cheese!
Wined and dined with sticky fingers,  
Asleep, awake the thought still lingers,  
Stretched across the printing press; an ocean of you and me.  
Should I, after punctuating and correcting lines,  
Have the creative juice to write another?
I have pondered the many ways to generate fresh material,  
Though I have seen my hands become gnarled and thin,
I am no writer—and here’s no great literary work;  
I have seen the moment of my success pass,  
Having flown out the window with expanded wings,
And in short, I failed.

And would it really have mattered,  
After the pens, the quills, the empty ink,  
Among the typewriters crevices,  
Would it have been worth while,
To have never written in such style,  
To have pondered my very fortune  
To compact it into a simple sentence,  
To write, to be in books and various magazines,
and see my picture on front pages of best seller lists
  I Should say:
“I will never be in print, no prizes or ribbons.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,  
Would it have been worth while,
After the interviews and company meetings,  
After the novels, after the cover art, after the payment plans—  
And this, is there no more?—  
It is impossible to say just what I mean!  
I shall sit in the dark, alone, and brood:
Would it have been worth while?  
If I had ever submitted just one great piece,  
I’m left gazing out the window; still in refrain:  
  “I will never be in print,  
         I will never see my works published.”

No! I am not Stephen King, nor ever will be
Sad excuse for a writer or so they say
I think I’ll end my career today
Placed down my pen and ink,; No thrill,
Cannot say which way I’ll go
Words, Phrases, Plot, will change
Soon as my thoughts cease to flow
The meaning of life could rearrange
Another failed attempt, joy ****

I grow old… I grow old…
My written soul will never be told.

Shall I scrap my stories? Should I burn every page?
I shall write in fantasy, and script my dreams
The chimera call, nothing is as it seems

I do not think they call for me

The fantastic is irrelevant
As my mind does fade with age
Take piece of mind; internal war I wage

I have dared to enter realms unwritten
Have ventured past words unspoke
Which suffocate; against my throat to choke.

Sisyphus,
who was a King and not a disease
another easy mistake to make,
pay attention at the back
there'll be questions later.

I could relegate the delegates
to second class
or pass a hat around
earn a shilling, get a pound
buy a tea,
coffee's one pound 50p.

Can't  hang about
things to do
boulders to roll
what about you?
do you want to roll
a boulder or two?

First time I looked into his eyes
my heart sighed, now that I
think back he made my soul
cry every time I felt him by my
side, especially when his hands
would glide gently upon my
thigh.

Opening my mind's chasm;
while he whispered how he'd
always love me through the
test of time, fore, he loves to
hear my sultry whine; as his
eyes wined and dined upon
each curved line.

And tingles ran up and down
my spine; those are the days
he blew my mind, purring like
a kitten; I knew from the first
time I looked into his eyes I'd
be smitten and those days I
wouldn't be forgetting.

His allure is so, sumptuously
fetching, my breath is still catching;
remembering his lascivious
twinkle and ***** smile; my body
reels back in time causing me to feel,
what he had in mind; I still crave
him like a connoisseur, the woman
he worshipped and adored.

Laying here in revelry thinking of
all the deviltry we partook in makes
me take a second look into my mind's
eye and long for his dreamy eyes to
feast all over again and I'd begin to
sigh, fore, as he slept those hands
would rest upon quivering thighs.

And I'd listen to his sleep laden sigh
dreaming of me his gentle rose; fore,
I'd stand in his eyes reflective pool and
pose; while he'd breathe in the scent
of my aromatic rose.

I knew an old man  
Who tried to act young
He popped a blue
pill on the tip of his
Tongue.
He slicked back his hair
and put on a White suit
He tried to style like Travolta,
one more grey and hirsute
(It wasn't much as illusion
but it sure was a hoot)
He danced till his hip ached
then had to recline.
The lifts in his loafers
had betrayed him this time.
He tried to impress
with a big *** of cash
But the young ladies knew
his best days were long past
He loved them, they left him
He wined and they dined
He tried to romance them
but was always declined.
At the end of the evening
and the last of the wine
He conceded to age
and resumed his decline.

Startled ends, the consummation
Of hours, last days sparkle, begin,
I was made and I, was cast away,
Unsaved, born of oceans drowned
Pressures unwaved, unfounded
Yet strung alive, blood draining,
Torn inside and your voice, supple-
Clarion, your little hands roping mine
Subtle vines, tangled in unrest
Provisioned, sweet song, poison
Wined, what sorcerery, what shame
To forget ones grounded name,
To live, now only in shadow, sun
Only in shade where every room
Remains—
Empty, the golden light washed
Out in the seeping tides of ruin.
Though I was spent open, betrayed,
Always waiting, deaf hope listened
For deaths' floating midge of feathers
Drop, wish I never knew, never ran,
Came by you, never saw the mirrors
Ends, only wish for peace, day lights
Dull untold innocence.

Across the room I followed his eyes;
a look that whispered a need to be
at my side; sideburns and mustache
beckoned to tease me, already
tingling with throbbed hunger; a physique
that rippled with each finger I wanted to press
into sculptured muscles as his mind licked
me with slow dips into my soft muscular lanky frame.

I knew we were meant for one another, especially,
when those same eyes seem to say I want to marry
you as soon as we get to know each other; which made
me slowly want to whimper into his open mouth; inviting me
to taste his emanating ambrosia, his intoxicating scent;
making me swoon into his arms; wrapping me within
his alluring warmth all I could utter is hmmm...

Week after week just touching and tasting drove
me out of my mind; wanting him to have all of me,
the way he walked and talked left me trembling
inwardly, but, I held my lusting mind, wanting
us to both be introduced physically and mentally
with the same need and want of one another; I
myself knew I wanted to spend the rest of my
life with this handsome specimen, the most
alluring thing about him was his intellect.

His conversation even had me drooling, I was
falling...no I won't say falling in love; I fell in
love from the look in his eyes way across the
room, eyes he only had for me; at that time
and moment put me in a trance.

We wined and dined, movies, shopped and
even enjoyed the atmosphere of an arcade;
I even allowed him to beat me in bowling,
he was/is just an exquisite man.

Another month or more goes by no physicality,
just loving mentally with a little petting now
and again, but, we both agreed to discover
our likes and dislikes; I was so, enamored it
didn't matter how long we waited as long as
I was in his presence, touched.

Then one night; after heavily tasting one another
we couldn't contain ourselves not one more
minute and he slipped a ring of friendship upon
my finger; a lip quiver and a tear rolled down
my cheeks as he explained he still wanted it to
be a transition of getting to know everything
of each other; tears blinding me, all I could do
was smile and shake my head in agreement.

Our love bloomed for two years before we
actually got engaged and then married a year
after a long courtship of bliss and wanton
hunger grew into an enraptured lust that is
still strong until this day...My Lover & I.

A most beautiful Rose

In all that beauty, that of a rose
To see, its scent, may I propose
A sonnet or some rambling prose
To compliment it as it grows.

A pink, a yellow, blood red verse
A turn of phrase to intersperse
A sanctuary where I immerse
A once off bloom not to rehearse.

Be great; be graceful in your bloom
Posy soft, petal pantaloom
Life’s union of young bride and groom
So vibrant in their special room.

Such dreamy gentle lines that find
A paint brush, colours intertwined
An ******* for creative mind
Natures gift thus wined and dined

All fifty years, each well walked mile
You still reduce me to this smile
So radiant flawless in your style
Fill fifty more, it’s all worthwhile.

Puppet master you tried to play
For years holding srtings that have started to fray.
Oh poor puppet man, how will you ever stand
without the strings in your hand?
I'm sprinting away without a shadow of doubt.
I'll go in this way, and find my own way out.
Finding my own water when I get thirsty
Rinsing clean all that makes my mouth *****.
Vast desert landscapes have nothing on me
For I am the one that's creating the heat.
You can throw your stones and tell me I'm weak
but your stones will just shatter and I will still be.
So much power is packed in my fist,
for I've wined and dined and conversed with Jesus.
I've seen white lights that you will never witness.
So go on, Puppet Master, keep working those strings
that are tattered and broken, ******* to nothing.

There are many rules to dating 1st rule you don't date in the circle because exes usually can't be friend and that puts the crowd in an awkward situation.
Next rule you don't date exes of friends or family. There's boundaries that need to be respect.  It just ruins friendships if you choose a relationship take that chance at your own risk.
Dating has changed before men wined and dined women now a days most women want to be miss independent so they shouldn't be made setting double standards.
I thought men asked women out now a days women slay men like they have some kind of dominate conquest. I'm not sure how things work but I've been observing since the late time I dated.
If a girl likes you that makes it is winning a girl over is like asking her to give up what she loves. I've learned to not ask for much.
The 3 date rule I don't oppose it but hear its out there women want you to flaunt them and respect if not they'll find someone who will.
I've heard what women like and want but never end up with the product they speak of it starves my curiosity.

She sat there and drank
As the Titanic sank
And the people were running about

"There's no need to worry,"
She said without hurry,
"I expect to be wined 'til they're out!"

The waiter dropped tray
As he scampered away
And the champagne now flowed on the floor

The woman looked down
With a sizeable frown
And gargled and belched, "I want more!"

Eb pulls back, he holds his peace
he's done with Flo, he's wined the beast
and as it's said, 'don't tread where sands are shifting'
ebb and flow, they come and go
ebb draws us out, the tides are low,
but as we yearn, return, and stop our drifting.

i stand on rock, alone at last
and mourn for what is done and past
but still, with broken heart, recall the surges;
the times when you were out at sea
and when you finally wrote to me
I laugh at how you satisfied my urges.

The words we shout from distant shore
the ones which fall on heavy oar
which make the trip back home far less than pleasing;
far better are the words on wing
which land with olive branch and sing
a song of love which keeps the flow from freezing.

but even in the closest knit
where scarcely will the piece not fit
there's comes a rhythm known as ebb and flow.
and marriage is a special bond
and Eb and Flo they looked beyond
and understood the way it had to go.

and through the laughter and the tears
and late night dances, sharing beers
they always knew the highs would lead to low.
and now Flo waits on lonesome shore
for time apart was forced before
as time would have it, 'twas Eb's time to go.

I've poured over books of science
Studied hard the ancient arts
Even spoke with bearded Guru's
On the peak of mountain tops

Taken classes from learned professors
At top notch universities
But if Jesus isn't brought up
What good are they to me

I've rubbed elbows with Hollywood Stars
As they've rehearsed their lines
Had discussions with dignitaries
With Presidents I've wined and dined

I have watched the worlds top athletes
Some of whom I'm their biggest fan
But if Jesus isn't in the process
It doesn't make any sense

I've seen a man walk on the moon
Plant a flag beneath the stars
Heard men give the greatest speeches
Watched men drive the fastest cars

You could say I've about done it all
And in that you would be right
But without Jesus in the mix
There's not much good to life

When my mind tells me "Yo, time to work,
there's that pile in that aisle needing work
you've got stuff to *** done
while we still have the sun
and no reason to live here but work."

I'm inclined just to do as I will
but that calling to work holds me still
I feel guilty as sin, it's a state that I am in
to relax means it's time that I ****.

I have worked long and hard to recline
just sit back here and type the next line
and convinced that my soul
cannot bear to be whole
I just told it to shut up or whine.

and it did that indeed, yes it's wined
on a glass of RELAX and then dined
on some club crackers doused in the applesauce housed
in the bottom fridge drawer, what a find!

Now I'm not gittin' anything done
yet my life is a barrel of fun
I can do as I may ,I've got no hell to pay
Thank my Savior, this battle is won!

And my work will just wait to *** done.

Startled ends, the consummation
Of hours, last days sparkle, begin,
I was made and I, was cast away,
Unsaved, born of oceans drowned
Pressures unwaved, unfounded
Yet strung alive, blood draining,
Torn inside and your voice, supple-
Clarion, your little hands roping mine
Subtle vines, tangled in unrest
Provisioned, sweet song, poison
Wined, what sorcerery, what shame
To forget ones grounded name,
To live, now only in shadow, sun
Only in shade where every room
Remains—
Empty, the golden light washed
Out in the seeping tides of ruin.
Though I was spent open, betrayed,
Always waiting, deaf hope listened
For deaths' floating midge of feathers
Drop, wish I never knew, never ran,
Came by you, never saw the mirrors
Ends, only wish for peace, day lights
Dull untold innocence.

You don't know what I've been through
To wined up here.
The constant words hurled in my direction
Now all I do is run,
And when the night falls and all I want is you,
We start the fighting just like my mum and dad would do.

All the times they promised I would be okay,
Turned into empty words so I would feel safe.
But their words you see meant nothing at all,
As his fists would fly just as much as words.
I know you would never lay a hand on me, like they did
But I cant stop the fear that I'm too far gone foe you to stay.

I go down the same road everytime,
Lost in a river of painful memories
And I know its weak to be so scared all the time
But these things they hurt me and broke me down.
How I wish I could just be honest with you,
I'd love to tell you the truth of what I've been through.

Eb pulls back, he holds his peace
he's done with Flo, he's wined the beast
and as it's said, 'don't tread where sands are shifting
ebb and flow, they come and go
ebb draws us out, the tides are low,
but as we yearn, return and stop our drifting.

I stand on rock, alone at last
and mourn for what is done and past
but still, with broken heart, recall the surges
the times when you were out at sea
and when you finally wrote to me
I laugh at how you satisfied my urges.

The words we shout from distant shore
the ones which fall on heavy oar
which make the trip back home far less than pleasing
far better are the words on wing
which land with olive branch and sing
a song of love which keeps the flow from freezing.

but even in the closest knit
where scarcely will the piece not fit
there's comes a rhythm known as ebb and flow.
and marriage is a special bond
and Eb and Flo they looked beyond
and understood the way it had to go.

and through the laughter and the tears
and late night dances, sharing beers
they always knew the highs would lead to low.
and now Flo waits on lonesome shore
for time apart was forced before
as time would have it, 'twas Eb's time to go.