A sigh in the dark.
Past my jaded lips it rises
like a ghost, and I the host
of thoughts enamoured but unwanted,
unresolved.
Night takes my sight and unleashes vision
I watch (not my decision) the memories bloom to life.
Ethereal and hazy, those lazy summer days
Of hasty plans, promises, platitudes made;
childish to dream it could have stayed
the same.

Polite and awkward we shuffle in the light of day,
you think before you act and mind what you say
and if lucky enough you might get away
without blurting a thought from your head gone astray.

Why do eyes so bright bring such dark thoughts?
Why do we fear to take what we want?

A sigh in the dark.
Across chilled skin it spreads
like fire, this unspoken desire
between whispering sheets. Fingers grasp and twine,
I feel hers, she feels mine, as we search in the dark
together.
This night air we’ll share;
it's vice, and with vigour,
seeking the trigger
to release.
To resolve.

What is death, I ask.
What is life, you ask.
I give them both my buttocks,
my two wheels rolling off toward Nirvana.
They are neat as a wallet,
opening and closing on their coins,
the quarters, the nickels,
straight into the crapper.
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and moon the executioner
as well as paste raisins on my *******?
Why shouldn't I pull down my pants
and show my little ***** to Tom
and Albert? They wee-wee funny.
I wee-wee like a squaw.
I have ink but no pen, still
I dream that I can **** in God's eye.
I dream I'm a boy with a zipper.
It's so practical, la de dah.
The trouble with being a woman, Skeezix,
is being a little girl in the first place.
Not all the books of the world will change that.
I have swallowed an orange, being woman.
You have swallowed a ruler, being man.
Yet waiting to die we are the same thing.
Jehovah pleasures himself with his axe
before we are both overthrown.
Skeezix, you are me. La de dah.
You grow a beard but our drool is identical.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Today is November 14th, 1972.
I live in Weston, Mass., Middlesex County,
U.S.A., and it rains steadily
in the pond like white puppy eyes.
The pond is waiting for its skin.
the pond is waiting for its leather.
The pond is waiting for December and its Novocain.

It begins:

Interrogator:
What can you say of your last seven days?

Anne:
They were tired.

Interrogator:
One day is enough to perfect a man.

Anne:
I watered and fed the plant.

*

My undertaker waits for me.
he is probably twenty-three now,
learning his trade.
He'll stitch up the gren,
he'll fasten the bones down
lest they fly away.
I am flying today.
I am not tired today.
I am a motor.
I am cramming in the sugar.
I am running up the hallways.
I am squeezing out the milk.
I am dissecting the dictionary.
I am God, la de dah.
Peanut butter is the American food.
We all eat it, being patriotic.

Ms. Dog is out fighting the dollars,
rolling in a field of bucks.
You've got it made if you take the wafer,
take some wine,
take some bucks,
the green papery song of the office.
What a jello she could make with it,
the fives, the tens, the twenties,
all in a goo to feed the baby.
Andrew Jackson as an hors d'oeuvre,
la de dah.
I wish I were the U.S. Mint,
turning it all out,
turtle green
and monk black.
Who's that at the podium
in black and white,
blurting into the mike?
Ms. Dog.
Is she spilling her guts?
You bet.
Otherwise they cough...
The day is slipping away, why am I
out here, what do they want?
I am sorrowful in November...
(no they don't want that,
they want bee stings).
Toot, toot, tootsy don't cry.
Toot, toot, tootsy good-bye.
If you don't get a letter then
you'll know I'm in jail...
Remember that, Skeezix,
our first song?

Who's thinking those things?
Ms. Dog! She's out fighting the dollars.
Milk is the American drink.
Oh queens of sorrows,
oh water lady,
place me in your cup
and pull over the clouds
so no one can see.
She don't want no dollars.
She done want a mama.
The white of the white.

Anne says:
This is the rainy season.
I am sorrowful in November.
The kettle is whistling.
I must butter the toast.
And give it jam too.
My kitchen is a heart.
I must feed it oxygen once in a while
and mother the mother.

*

Say the woman is forty-four.
Say she is five seven-and-a-half.
Say her hair is stick color.
Say her eyes are chameleon.
Would you put her in a sack and bury her,
**** her down into the dumb dirt?
Some would.
If not, time will.
Ms. Dog, how much time you got left?
Ms. Dog, when you gonna feel that cold nose?
You better get straight with the Maker
cuz it's coming, it's a coming!
The cup of coffee is growing and growing
and they're gonna stick your little doll's head
into it and your lungs a gonna get paid
and your clothes a gonna melt.
Hear that, Ms. Dog!
You of the songs,
you of the classroom,
you of the pocketa-pocketa,
you hungry mother,
you spleen baby!
Them angels gonna be cut down like wheat.
Them songs gonna be sliced with a razor.
Them kitchens gonna get a boulder in the belly.
Them phones gonna be torn out at the root.
There's power in the Lord, baby,
and he's gonna turn off the moon.
He's gonna nail you up in a closet
and there'll be no more Atlantic,
no more dreams, no more seeds.
One noon as you walk out to the mailbox
He'll ****** you up --
a wopman beside the road like a red mitten.

There's a sack over my head.
I can't see. I'm blind.
The sea collapses.
The sun is a bone.
Hi-** the derry-o,
we all fall down.
If I were a fisherman I could comprehend.
They fish right through the door
and pull eyes from the fire.
They rock upon the daybreak
and amputate the waters.
They are beating the sea,
they are hurting it,
delving down into the inscrutable salt.

*

When mother left the room
and left me in the *******
and sent away my kitty
to be fried in the camps
and took away my blanket
to wash the me out of it
I lay in the soiled cold and prayed.
It was a little jail in which
I was never slapped with kisses.
I was the engine that couldn't.
Cold wigs blew on the trees outside
and car lights flew like roosters
on the ceiling.
Cradle, you are a grave place.

Interrogator:
What color is the devil?

Anne:
Black and blue.

Interrogator:
What goes up the chimney?

Anne:
Fat Lazarus in his red suit.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Ms. Dog prefers to sunbathe ****.
Let the indifferent sky look on.
So what!
Let Mrs. Sewal pull the curtain back,
from her second story.
So what!
Let United Parcel Service see my parcel.
La de dah.
Sun, you hammer of yellow,
you hat on fire,
you honeysuckle mama,
pour your blonde on me!
Let me laugh for an entire hour
at your supreme being, your Cadillac stuff,
because I've come a long way
from Brussels sprouts.
I've come a long way to peel off my clothes
and lay me down in the grass.
Once only my palms showed.
Once I hung around in my woolly tank suit,
drying my hair in those little meatball curls.
Now I am clothed in gold air with
one dozen halos glistening on my skin.
I am a fortunate lady.
I've gotten out of my pouch
and my teeth are glad
and my heart, that witness,
beats well at the thought.

Oh body, be glad.
You are good goods.

*

Middle-class lady,
you make me smile.
You dig a hole
and come out with a sunburn.
If someone hands you a glass of water
you start constructing a sailboat.
If someone hands you a candy wrapper,
you take it to the book binder.
Pocketa-pocketa.

Once upon a time Ms. Dog was sixty-six.
She had white hair and wrinkles deep as splinters.
her portrait was nailed up like Christ
and she said of it:
That's when I was forty-two,
down in Rockport with a hat on for the sun,
and Barbara drew a line drawing.
We were, at that moment, drinking *****
and ginger beer and there was a chill in the air,
although it was July, and she gave me her sweater
to bundle up in. The next summer Skeezix tied
strings in that hat when we were fishing in Maine.
(It had gone into the lake twice.)
Of such moments is happiness made.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

Once upon a time we were all born,
popped out like jelly rolls
forgetting our fishdom,
the pleasuring seas,
the country of comfort,
spanked into the oxygens of death,
Good morning life, we say when we wake,
hail mary coffee toast
and we Americans take juice,
a liquid sun going down.
Good morning life.
To wake up is to be born.
To brush your teeth is to be alive.
To make a bowel movement is also desireable.
La de dah,
it's all routine.
Often there are wars
yet the shops keep open
and sausages are still fried.
People rub someone.
People copulate
entering each other's blood,
tying each other's tendons in knots,
transplanting their lives into the bed.
It doesn't matter if there are wars,
the business of life continues
unless you're the one that gets it.
Mama, they say, as their intestines
leak out. Even without wars
life is dangerous.
Boats spring leaks.
Cigarettes explode.
The snow could be radioactive.
Cancer could ooze out of the radio.
Who knows?
Ms. Dog stands on the shore
and the sea keeps rocking in
and she wants to talk to God.

Interrogator:
Why talk to God?

Anne:
It's better than playing bridge.

*

Learning to talk is a complex business.
My daughter's first word was utta,
meaning button.
Before there are words
do you dream?
In utero
do you dream?
Who taught you to ****?
And how come?
You don't need to be taught to cry.
The soul presses a button.
Is the cry saying something?
Does it mean help?
Or hello?
The cry of a gull is beautiful
and the cry of a crow is ugly
but what I want to know
is whether they mean the same thing.
Somewhere a man sits with indigestion
and he doesn't care.
A woman is buying bracelets
and earrings and she doesn't care.
La de dah.

Forgive us, Father, for we know not.

There are stars and faces.
There is ketchup and guitars.
There is the hand of a small child
when you're crossing the street.
There is the old man's last words:
More light! More light!
Ms. Dog wouldn't give them her buttocks.
She wouldn't moon at them.
Just at the killers of the dream.
The bus boys of the soul.
Or at death
who wants to make her a mummy.
And you too!
Wants to stuf her in a cold shoe
and then amputate the foot.
And you too!
La de dah.
What's the point of fighting the dollars
when all you need is a warm bed?
When the dog barks you let him in.
All we need is someone to let us in.
And one other thing:
to consider the lilies in the field.
Of course earth is a stranger, we pull at its
arms and still it won't speak.
The sea is worse.
It comes in, falling to its knees
but we can't translate the language.
It is only known that they are here to worship,
to worship the terror of the rain,
the mud and all its people,
the body itself,
working like a city,
the night and its slow blood
the autumn sky, mary blue.
but more than that,
to worship the question itself,
though the buildings burn
and the big people topple over in a faint.
Bring a flashlight, Ms. Dog,
and look in every corner of the brain
and ask and ask and ask
until the kingdom,
however queer,
will come.

Again life cycles to a clutter, ideas thought through

don't anymore seem as though,

even when expressed aloud and not within.



Maybe they're right,

my ignorance is only withholding wonders

I struggle to actually see.  



Hypocritically, I find importance in self enrichment

and observing from afar.

and yet even from a distance you feel so close.



Is this an evolution or is it just another mutation.

Obscure out of any cultural norm, I resonate

impairing those who hear my words.



This constant metamorphosis has left me staring in the mirror for

hours, searching for the presence of my subjected  form.



Yet,



while I peer into the interworkings of my reflection

to observe what I actually see...



With all truth, it holds a boy,

an awkwardly timid boy.



Insecurely gazing back into the pupils

of his reality.



He's bellowing inside his

submerged mind.



Subconsciously Blurting:



"Do not turn back,  

their are cyclones that await.



And all that is required

to overcome this task



is to go forth without

pondering times long gone...





So here I am, engaulphed

in tidal winds.



I must break loose;



grow, starting from

below.

A desperate desperado shivering as the sun sets,
casts it's silky shadows upon the hollows below.
Beneath the cascading denizens of light,
a puff of smoke waltzes across the December sky,
a patient without his insurance with nothing left but
callous empty third-person reassurance,
"everything will be better" as she said.
But better is always easy when your hand isn't writing the letter.

Save your proverbs for an open ear,
this one is half deaf and full of itself,
despite your intent,
your lack of action perpetuates malcontent.
After all we're all just passing moments
gone and forgotten, evicted,
convicted of being a gutless mime,
going through the motions,
minus a true notion.

A confused calculator short circuiting under an oil leak
spitting out numbers, complicating already complicated complexities
subtracting numerals adding funerals
dividing families multiplying tragedies
It's just a numbers game, and we can't participate
we're just the studio audience, recorded live without any life.
Flashing signs tell us when to laugh and when to cry,
pre-determined automated messages contrived to convince.

And I'm stuck spinning in the corner,
with my hands on my head.
Senselessly blurting out: Why?!
But don't mind me, I'm just another lost soul
trapped with my head in the sky.

What comes next?
A fusion with brain and internet? *** text.
descriptions of positions and inhibitions undone
crawling down the screen,
like  morse code across the sea
or an old computer reading cards, blurting out silent sentences
passing lights on the screen,
then gone
or the News crawl passing on the bottom of the TV
without the repeats
all in our imaginations
the touches, movements, even some sensations
the connection of  two biologies
two living breathing human beings,
much more complicated than simple machines

But this is the computer,
the technology star
that brought us fame and power and wealth
Now seems a bit in ill health.
A downward spiral,
like a old rock star, playing at a seedy corner bar:
the technology that sent a man to the moon
and fought the Soviets until their doom
the frightening technology
of my childhood years,
big computers creating bigger fears
and now being put to good use
as I have my fellow in a metaphorical noose
our fingers go across the keys
and send signals to each other's bodies
connected in imagination with mine
and it's frightening how it works to well
Almost like reality, I can barely tell
but then it's over and in the after glow
A thought taps me on the shoulder, tells me I should know
that in the end the bond with the human being
has evaporated like silent steam,
Not because we're mean
But because he's not there
but now I'm aware
of a peculiar new bond with my phone

How ironic to not seek the tools yet drool on them
To see the instruments and break down like a phlegm
How naïve of us to use the gym as an excuse
To prolong it, as if it were drug use

Some call it dopamine others call it clarity
Most see an opening to showcase their barbarity
Called less of a man to those "better off"
Called less of a woman to those showing pictures with their sweater off
Lust driving companies to show children compromised
We see these plaything while revenue boosts the enterprise
Anime, video games, novels and Tv
Nothing seems too extreme for these mediums
Beheading, shredding, **** and made "Dream-like"
Topics have been explored beyond their tedium

**** is accessible and Ai makes your dream man
Merge yourself with your idol beyond the imagination of a regular Stan
Be praised for wearing Japanese ******* and condoning said behavior
Treat somebodies feet pics like your very own savior


The beast wins not with wit, but with a pattern
To catch us in the act frozen still like Saturn
Internet connections show us the milky way
And your hands remain adamant, your mind filthy

The beasts doesn't care of November, nor valentines or about your crush
It waits to clamp you, and turn you into dust
Too ashamed to seek humanity, too far gone to find morality
Repeated until insanity, Your mouth blurting profanities

And yet we blame the beast when our relationships end or we cant break a ***** habit
Then try to pray to catch up to the Sabbath
Why Lie to the beast and to ourselves?
To those who use their hands or run to cheap hotels
Is ******* more worthwhile than redemption?

The beast is with me as I type this, judging my every move
It laughs, uses slurs and denying my attempts to improve
It lives in you, no matter how content you are with your sexuality
And does its all to destroy your Mentality

It seemed inviting so I sat on the stool.
It made me uncomfortable the way he started to drool.
This place was a hole in the wall, a run-down that had started to fade,
a place where lovers and drunk heroes were made.

So I called to the bar keep and ordered a drink.
I'd take anything if it helps me not to think.
I downed my first and took a sigh.
I'd rather be anywhere else I'm not gunna lie.

The guy behind the bar clearly wanted to know,
and the anger inside was starting to grow.
"How about another?" said the bar keep.
"I know something that'll help you sleep."

I said "sure," and he passed me a shot.
I felt the bullet slide down. It helped a lot.
I decided that maybe this guy could understand.
I could feel my brain fall through the cracks like sand.

"Pass me another," I said with a frown.
"give me the hard stuff, don't let me down."
He came over and set it on the bar,
I felt the poison settle at the bottom of my stomach like tar.

He simply asked "How are you feeling?"
I could feel my eyes peeling.
"Not to good. I feel like ****,"
"my family hats me." I could see a cigarette being lit.

"Why'd they hate a nice guy like you?" he said with a smirk.
"maybe its the way I let my feelings lurk,"
"they lurk in the shadows full of anger and sadness."
"Maybe its to hide away all of my madness."

"Thats to bad." said the guy mixing my drink.
he set another toxin down before i could think.
"I didn't order this drink," I said a little confused.
"or did I?" I asked. I'm starting to feel a bit defused.

"Yes you did sir," he said with a smile.
"should i put it on your tab? will you be staying a while?"
"you can tell me more about your troubles."
"but if i keep drinking i'll start seeing doubles."

"don't worry about it, Ill get you a ride,"
"thank you," I said. "you'd be saving my hide."
"Then I'll have one or two more and call it quits,"
"I wont have too much, I want to keep my wits."

"so tell me more about the kids and wife,"
"is that truly what you wanted from life?"
"If they hate you so much, why do you put up with them?"
"Where does their hatred for you stem?"

"Is it what I wanted from life? Maybe not."
"Before our son, we just fought."
"now we do it when he's put and away,"
I don't want to keep fighting until I'm old and grey."

"Where did our wife start to misbehave?" I was unaware he refilled my glass.
I saw a guy outside smoking his grass.
I took the shot and thought about what he said.
"what do you mean 'misbehave'?" I felt as heavy as led.

"Well you know what I mean," said the guy.
"when she starts to cheat and lie."
"she doesn't think that you'll find out,"
"and when you accuse her she'll starts to pout."

"my wife doesn't cheat," I said confidently.
"she wouldn't dare do that to me."
"and why is that?" asked the bartender.
"what would you do if she didn't tell you the truth and surrender?"

"Well i'd-" I paused and pondered what I was about to say.
I wouldn't ever do that, even if our relationship has started to fray.
"I know what you're thinking and man is the bold,"
"but you do have your pride to uphold."

"Some relationship aren't that sweet,"
"some women are just meat,"
"they sleep around here and there,"
"then cry about how life isn't fair."

He set a drink and i took it right away.
I couldn't believe what I was about to say.
"If my wife cheated i'd teach her real good,"
"I'd hit her so much she'd be trying o hide her face with a hood."

The bartender just stared at my for a second and handed me a shot.
I was thinking about what the bar-keep had brought.
I've had six hard drinks and this would make seven.
I could feel myself getting farther and farther away from heaven.

I can't believe what I had just confessed.
I said I would hit my wife. With too much ***** I'm not at my best.
I'm not thinking about what I'm saying.
In my head the thing I just said keeps replaying.

The bartender spoke for the first time in what felt like forever.
"Some women need to be taught a lesson. what ever."
"sometimes it needs to be done,"
"they need to learn that there isn't anywhere to run."

" yeah you're right." I said without thinking.
Im blurting out words without even blinking.
I need to slow down on the drinks.
The bartender then replied, "Maybe you should go to your wife and work out the kinks."

"If she doesn't listen to you then do what you said and teach her a lesson,"
"you need to do it now before she grows in aggression."
"Maybe you should teach your son a lesson too,"
"beat him as well and show him why his anger grew."

"You should go now before your wife cheats again,"
"and before your son steals, so until next time then."
He gave me one last shot and said it was all on him.
I looked around and saw nobody in the bar. It looked rather grim.

I got up and headed for the door.
I stumbled a little. I felt pretty sore.
I saw a girl walk in and sit on my chair.
She started talking to the bartender about how her husband beats her and that life isn't fair.

Like the bar-keep said, he had gotten me a ride.
I wasn't driving so being drunk I didn't have to hide.
He clearly knew that I had been drinking from the way I was slurring.
I was having some trouble seeing. my vision was blurring.

The driver took me home in a rush.
My insides started to feel like mush.
I paid the guy and walked up to the house front.
I unlocked to main door with a grunt.

The door swung open and I stumbled inside.
I slammed the door closed with the strength that I applied.
I will never allow any sort of defiance.
There was a woman's scream and then only silence.

It's been a while since I've let my fingers do the talking
Subtle clattering intermittent between self consuming stares into space
Strange and conventional instrumental atmospheres driving fantastical thought
And that self indulgent need to be heard by people without discernible cells

I guess my poems are a hobby of sorts
A collection of ideas, observations and metaphors put forward (barely) structurally
Though I admit the process is more for introverted enjoyment than anything direct
What my tongue would sound blurting these words is a fantasy in itself

I try to stay optimistic in them
Holding on to my passion for the positive, despite the convoluted dysfunction of the day to day
I do it with the same eyes as speaking to others, trying to be someone who's worth being around
Ending with some ******* non-committal message about an approach towards tomorrow

I hope one day I'll get around to reading these poems
Hearing what my inner monologue sounds like in that quiet but intently occupied space
Taking the time off poor sods who'll listen, hoping that the messages mean more than just metaphor
But I'll get over it if life doesn't produce such idealistic circumstances

Thanks for reading what I've written
These white spaces have given me a quiet personal realm for exploring ideas
A place where I can explore my intelligence beyond academia
Indulge my passion for the written word by pouring out gallons of *******
And hopefully make someone, somewhere, smile in the process

things she doesn’t ask...

are they things,
she doesn’t know to ask,
or
are they things
to which,
she does not want to know
the answers.

my not knowing the answer to this puzzle,
drives me to distraction, her Mona Lisa smile,
accompanied by her noncommittal “whatever,”
hiding the answer, nearly leads me over a blurting edge,
but for my inevitable retreat, for the true question,
has a  truer answer, that comes as well, 
in question form.  

Why do I,


or do I,

want to know?

.

Laundry detergent
and love, broken hearted
Dark nights and witches
and dearly departed

Death in the front yard
with bright flowers blooming
Winter and summer,
all seasons are looming

Fireflies, evergreens,
balloons colored yellow
A beautiful woman,
an old grouchy fellow

The sun and the moon
and the stars that are shining
Laughter and teardrops,
occasional whining

Sunrises, sunsets,
the beach and the ocean
A walk in the park
or a magical potion

A bird on a fence
or a babe in a cradle
The dish and the spoon
ran away with a ladle?

*** that is sensual,
pain that is hurting
Humor and drama,
some things I am blurting

Long ones and shorts ones
and some in between
A king in a castle
defending his queen

Rhyming and free verse,
it’s endless and mounting
Ten words or haiku
and syllable counting

Written out stanzas
of how we are feeling
Even an orange
that someone is peeling

Riding a horse
or just crossing a river
Feathers and leaves
and all things that do quiver

So many thoughts
I have found that are waiting
Here on this site
there is no hesitating

To all the poets
with pens always bleeding
Thank you so much
for the poems I’m reading

For all of you
that I get to call friend
Here is a poem for you
I have penned

I imagine you to be a quiet person.
The socially awkward one, the one who likes the thought of being thought of as a thoughtful person, but one who ends up blurting out something irreversibly stupid.
I imagine you to be romantic, believer of true love. One who dreams of kisses under pink skies.
I imagine you to be intriguing and somehow delicate; like a cute little bird that needs to be observed from far.
I imagine you to be private, one who locks up not only his words, but emotions inside pages that are shoved and buried inside the depths of your heart.
I imagine you to be wearied by life, thinking about the future while you stir coffee.

Or maybe how I imagine you just reflects me.

I was born January 30th, which might explain my stares that are as cold as a winter night. People assume that since I am five foot eight, I should be intimidating although I'm the furthest from it.
You see, I have this vice where I chew off my fingernails when I get nervous. I suppose it's because I've somehow convinced myself that if my fingernails become minimized, my anxiety would too.
I know it sounds absurd but I enjoy laughing really hard at poorly composed jokes for absolutely no good reason. And, although I don't allow myself to cry as often as I should, it reminds me that I've still got fixing to do.
My mind works like a treadmill. Things are always coming back to bite me no matter how far I run.
I'm still running.
I'm still learning how to whisper.
You see, when it comes to talking about myself, I shout! I'll talk to anyone who will listen. However, even though I seem to open up easily, I have a fear of people getting close enough to hear my heartbeat.
I have this odd fascination with nature. I assume it's because no matter how persistent I am, the trees never argue back. I don't like being alone but when it's just me around the flowers blooming, the wind blowing, and the bees buzzing, I can feel my heart growing fonder.
I've never liked the idea of the military but I have this purple heart. I got it from beating myself up over things I have no control over.
Hi, my name is Emily and I'm still trying to figure myself out.
My hobbies include over-thinking until I give myself a migraine, blurting out my life story, and trying to convince my mind that my heart is worth listening to.

Find yourself in the sunlight
On an empty street
Where children clamber at you,
Crying out from behind bars
Parents watch your every move
Discreetly, through dark windows

Find yourself in a herd of people
Eating in the street
Defining by negation
Where they live and who they are
Standing at the top
And never looking up,
Knowing there is nothing.

Find yourself in nowhere
Where the world is empty till it sleeps,
Then comes alive on Sunday
For a modicum of prayer,
Then back to docile slumber
Till the buses come for kids

Find yourself in the future
Where your plans back in the present
Are all fruits in baskets high
Under piles of money, lifetimes lived
And children running by
Find yourself back there again
When present catches up
What little fruit was yielded
Has now rotted to the ground

Find yourself at the beginning
Taking off in seconds now
Slates are clean and records kept
Amount to next to nothing
Never will return be possible or necessary
Take the time not to forget
How things were back on Earth

Find yourself inside a moment
Never rid of its effects
Watching fate react the same way
Time and time and time again

Find yourself at the beginning
Find again what you had lost
When years of playing off the books
Has burned a toll upon your dreams
Remember how you first began and
Start that way again

Find yourself in someone else
Your mind still only faking it
When fate weighs down upon you,
Only you will answer, not he

Find yourself on a cold streak
Never making baskets, touchdowns or base-hits
Wondering if you even know the basics
With a secret and you know you can't erase it
From the way you move your eyes to the way you hit the pavement

Find yourself in brother wilderness
Dancing in the trees alone
Head adorned explodes with color
Body moving, out of control
Lossless clarity
Sympathetic delivery
Wickedness in elegance
Elegance in wickedness
Fighting off a demon
What a planet it must be
To host such proper honest people
Among such horror and corruption

Find yourself looking back again
Reaching out again
Letting down your guard
Missing out again
Find yourself cursing your shy blind eyes
Find yourself searching in foreign lands

Find yourself looking for losers now
Helping them stand up from the ground
Sort of like kicking them while they're down
Taking advantage of their unease
Discomfortable bodies
Earnest downcast eyes
Noble grasps for fitness

Forcing a needle in cold dead flesh,
Frozen and solid and rock-hard dead
Empty but for the last droplets there
Empty and thirsty for death to come
Empty and thirsty for life

Lit two hits with one match in the dark this morning,
Hidden in the bushes,
Lonely in the moonlight
Fearful of the shadows just beyond
Weapons all replaced with loneliness and freedom
Hoping for and waiting for and dreaming for the warmth of
Women in my gym class, women in my math class,
Women in my science
Women in my English,
Film class, lunch
Women in my film club,
Women hearing poems
Women eating people
Women smoking dank ****
Women in my last dreams

Waiting for the warmth of
Being high the first time
Getting drunk with women
Women making me come
Women having problems
Losing themselves to me
Smashing someone's head in
Breeding snakes in my bed
Breeding snakes in closets
Breathing down their necks and
Making them attack

Breeding snakes in e-mails
Breeding snakes in my school
Letting them all slither
Letting them in my caves

Find yourself outside a car, high on hella marijuana
Looking in the windows at the
Normal folks inside
See them have a good time with each other,
Somehow think you may have seen her
Eyes meet yours a moment maybe
Thinking of inviting you to join her in her world
You'd accept the phantom invitation in an instant
But you turn away and you just
Dream away, avoiding putting
Wishes on the line

Then when she peers into your world
Later when you read to her
She teases and arouses you to reach into hers too.
So you take this chance when your balloon
Is close enough to hers
To reach into her basket
And when you miss and when she looks away
You try to look as if you haven't
Fallen and aren't clinging onto
Your balloon by rope.

Find yourself a fortnight later,
Somewhere she can see again, she speaks to you, you blush and answer
Nearly blurting out your heart
Writing on and watching
Hoping she can see your mind just by the
Movement of your pen, hoping
She will be surprised, come on by,
Take you up on what you offer her, ask from her
And always hope to dream of her.

The elderly man sat reminiscing over his life
now unable to walk far.
Breathing in oxygen through a nasal tube
he knew it wouldn't be long.
Shortly after in his sleep he quietly passed
at his funeral the truth masked!

Outwardly thought of as a charming man
inoffensive and kindly.
Nobody knew he had once been in prison
for an unsolved ******!
Evidence against him they tried to seek
but it was too weak!

For all those years he had kept his secret
the body was never found!
They knew he had committed the crime
but they had no proof!
He had put it in the large leather chair
nobody guessed it was there!

Playing on his mind sitting with the victim
who was not at rest.
And in the end hounded him to his death
as in the chair it still laid!
Before long the furniture had to be sold
the dark secret still untold.

To the furniture auction the chair was taken
there a young woman was thrilled.
A real brown leather chair for sixty pound
what a bargain she thought.
Always wanted one of these she shouted
of this none doubted.

So pleased when it arrived at her new flat
it did look out of place.
Keen to show her boyfriend the purchase
he was on his way.
As she smelt the leathers strong scent
it made her content.

Sitting in the plush chair she felt important
for a short while.
A sick feeling filled her retching throat
through blurry eyes!
There a man stood struggling to her feet
managing to retreat.

Blurting out what had happened to her friend
together they returned.
Nothing was there on the chair saw a tear
pulling it a body part fell out!
Soon the police arrived to the address
to clear up the mess!

The chair for evidence was soon removed
the case against the old man proved!

The Foureyed Poet.

One day I will say it
Not because I will only feel it at that very moment
But because it's something I have so passionately been feeling since I met you that I can not go another day without blurting out.
I don't need to tell you, you know by the way I look at you, lie next to you, laugh with you, trust and confide in you.
One day I will say it
Not because I feel it at that very moment
But because I have always loved you.

I love you

They say that honesty is the best policy.
Be assertive.
Say what you really think.
“I feel hurt by what you just said….”
Let The Truth be out.
I try my best on this…
Though maybe I’m ready
For another Assertiveness Course.

But sometimes the truth seems too hard to give.
“Do I look all right in this?
No you look a mess”!!!
MMM No.
“You always look great, love”…
To tell a Mum she has lost a child –
Oh my.

I know some who lie through their back teeth
And even believe their own lies.
Annoying indeed.
But then again I cannot help myself
From sugar-coating the truth
With little white lies
Or simply keeping quiet.
Economical with the truth
To keep the peace.

For sometimes people make me feel naïve
For blurting out
What others will not utter.
And the PC brigade are always
On my case.

Mum brought me up to say
What people like to hear:
To fit in and
“Be normal”.
To be approved.
Always have the right coloured door
And keep up with the Joneses.

So the rights of this
Are obscured by mists.
And all I seek
Is some happy
Middle ground.

Paul Butters

Spare me some change hear me again. Loosen the grips. Find the suite that looks best. Set my mind at ease.
Or at least give me wits.  Like to hear your wisdom. This world i was given. I know was created. So show me a reason. If only three wishes. I would spread out the dishes. Giving me room to talk to you. In this way i commute with my genie. Blurting out my few requests. I would think over. Which would give the earth rest.  And for the others I would discuss each ones benefits. Till I land upon the one that fits me best. If such a time as this. I would choose to change what i have seen. Rotating around this ongoing cycle. My third statement. Was of great value. I compalined to the genie. Saying why do people die. Why cant we go back in time and relive our life. As he rose higher than my stove.     He replied with a sigh. The true question you should be asking, How have you chosen to live it. And with that the genie floated out into the dark streets outside.

When replaying conversations you had and words she had said start to make you smile like you just heard that your favorite ice cream shop brought back a limited flavor.
That's when you know.

When you start checking your phone, hoping that she might've accidentally sent something and apologizing for it, planning how you'd casually say 'it's okay' when you'd stop yourself from blurting "I've been waiting for you to say something."
That's when you know.

When a simple "I like your smile." makes you feel lightheaded because of how hard you try to thank her sounding oh so casual while your face would get oh so red.
When you wake up realizing that you've started to sleep text her.
That's when you know.

When you find yourself wondering what she thinks about you.
What she thinks about abortions.
What she thinks about marriage.
Premarital ***.
***..
What she'd think about ***..
..With you
When you find yourself wondering how her hands would feel going down your bare back
If her whispers in your ear would make your back arch
If your ears would ever let go of the sound of her kissing you
If her kisses would be gentle
Or if they'd leave purple marks over your body
When you wouldn't mind either or.
That's when you know.

When you find yourself wondering if she had thought about you too.
When you know that if she asked, you'd try letting go of the things that you've held on to for so long.
That's when you know.
When she's been in your head for over ten minutes.
That's when you know.
You're ******.

I've been told
to walk soflty and
carry a large stick,
so i tread among the silent,
blurting out
with a piece of asphalt
in my hands.

I like to keep them guessing.

we can't sing so much, but alive we deaden somber with aplomb.
we are remorse and ripe plums. tap roots fastened to air kisses and laudanum.
we congeal in our own ' thud '. a slow bomb coughing the alphabet's are off -
with our high noon lows; depleted aloft. we are One -
in the chamber of succinct
loss.

we carry on. drudging up the hillocks of our Pandemonious Love.

blurting the wrong devout; conjoined to the rip in our seamless joust
adjusting the rudiments of our lathe of fresh hell; to accommodate the actual constant
of our hateful esteem. the very same accursed of our mutual louse...
doubting the excellent **** of our divine Without.
we covet the reign seeds
of Love's Drought.

and as plausible honey
we comb tangles
into sunrays

out loud.

It’s a wrap like turban
i’m from a city, it’s urban
******* rushing to see me like it’s urgent
i need a definition for insurgent
so i can insert it into this freestyle to keep it going like surgeons
i hate to be washed up, detergent
before i even finish lyrically purging
i know right now you’re probably hissing and cursing
but later you’ll be shouting encouraging words,
i spit until i’m submerged and
holding my breath til my lungs hurting
i apologize for any inadvertence
don’t even know for certain
what i’ll be blurting next
going off the top like machetes to necks
May i add,
Don’t make me an accessory
just ‘cause you’ll **** for accessories that you see in ads
you’re the opposite of right, hypotenuse
yeah, 'you’re next', bring it, i will tighten noose
This is a freewritten, just going with the flow
keep punching keys until i can no longer scroll
don't know how to end this, so i'm just gonna go
and say farewell
drink more Ale and inhale till i begin to ail
if you're gonna die anyway, minus well