FOREWARD:  THE WERELINGS

WHEN sun opens the skies above so opens my dreams –>  open greens
like children’s eyes :  all to be revealed.  

As where summer’s beside their secret glories sleep
oh flowing downward if they’ll or righteously flow
so(armies of enemies fighting like adults reveals)  will fall

this. that.  a(t) least dare and not a word to relate
of seasons is nothing but herself flustered in pain.
oooooh.

An open closet within the child’s room:  bombed by society’s war;
‘s gulped by fear –> and never knew ghosts who hold
the hands of the living________ whom cannot kill but give life.
As each, c umbs of our Now) oooooooh      yeeeeeeah
twiceauponatime we met the willbeus and the desert streams
of desert sands | kissing the angel of Imagination.

Werelings.  

:: 06.28.2021 ::


CRAZY ROADS

THE WORLD was made of bad choices.
  My love is forever and tainted
by flesh and blood.
My IS forever.

People get what they want.   YOU can take everything — i give
if freely.

AND THE SKY WAS VIOLENCE and the words of whores and male
bastards —  take my heart  tear it apart .
  Crying is forever.
They take and get what they want.
Go on bitches.  Take everything i had.  I grew a star before you
were thought of asshole.  How I hate humans.  I know.  How you are.
I hate you!!!! You take everything!

——————FORGIVE ME.
you could say i lost faith in ancient mysteries and the Holy Church and say
i lost my sense of direction. 😉  But if I ever lose my faith i say
there’s nothing to loose. Someone said i was many personalities — they can say
it on multimedia and how many politicians said:  game show host:  but if i every lose
my faith in you/then nothing else to lose]   then, if and when i lose my faith —
in you.


THE POET OF NO REGRET

Now another bird. My poem for those who, in a period of uprisings or vice, and want to depart with light heart and cheer.

Nymphea and Hymen! I see the tree of Hymen gleaming in the night, my heart holds fast to the seeds of the dream. Also Mars, that beautiful ant of war, I wish a cause to fight for; but love flies more far, and at least we may win through Cupid’s dart, which is a virtue.

So now, Charles Lamb, and Alfred Tennyson, and Leigh Hunt, and Robert Southey, there are three people whose poems are much overpaid. But, as a matter of fact, an independent mind (as mine) may be defended against such a charge, for with my poem in the Thistle, now our rightful equal, I fancy I speak, there is even room for Tennyson.

As for the man who wrote the Lamb’s Reclining; if he were to appear before me, I should feel obliged to speak. The world may as well own the Lamb’s as own him not. He cannot help that. But that I should call him truer than true — ss a proud privilege, and one which If I were to exploit unwisely, would tarnish the honor of true poets.

Other poems:

Among my compositions not read (i shall not waste my limited time) were a couple of portraits:
sketches of myself, as thou wishest me, of a madman and an old man; and now I say, that if I died this evening upon the ground, without tears nor regret.

:: 10.21.2021 ::


THE LUNGS OF THE FOREST

THE WORLD ate the lungs of the forest
and HUMANS escaped the pain to answer
this little WORLD who they made crazy!

Why do mouths lick their lips
and politicians line their pockets with
the blood of bleeding people’s tears?

The devil is knocking upon the living’s door.
. drop your religion of deceit and hate___
how is it when little creatures eat your feet
you praise their words and move on? Haze
and confusion and how i try to step forward…
is somebody gonna save the world? Save the World.

Angels falling — purer than purest pure
whisper of a whisper s0(big with innocence)
forgivingly a once of eager glory.no
more mi8racle may grow — praise god who has
many names and the devil has many more

i walked the miles and awoke the same. In the voice
inside my hEAD. Torturing the words of the rocks
rolling — the day i tried to live bruised my soul
all over. The day mother and father died i knew
we’re alone: say, ‘one more time to die? one more
time around this circus cloud of pain.

The pain was great and hated how my face melted the
paint i brushed across my pure face — so one more
time around, one more time around the joke of how
i tried to live.

:: 10.21.2021 ::


ONOMATOPOEIC WORDS

bloop
dribble
drip
drizzle
splash
spray
sprinkle
squirt
ahem
belch
blurt
chatter
giggle
growl
groan
grunt
gulp
gurgle
eek
moan
mumble
murmur
squeal
whimper
bam
bang
clang
clank
clap
clatter
click
clink
crash
crunch

:: 10.19.2021 ::

bloop
dribble
drip
drizzle
splash
spray
sprinkle
squirt
ahem
belch
blurt
chatter
giggle
growl
groan
grunt
gulp
gurgle
eek
moan
mumble
murmur
squeal
whimper
bam
bang
clang
clank
clap
clatter
click
clink
crash
crunch

:: 10.19.2021 ::


NON DORMIRE STANOTTE

LOST chances within deepest dreams
as then as now no sleep oh no sleep
i too, o princess within sad sleep
we peak into the darkest skies of night
and see trembling stars of love and hope
but though within my soul is all beauty!

No one knows the mystery inside my closed
mouth in me — that no one knows my name
i pray they know this love
forever as when light shines
oh, vanish night!
fire sets upon stars
fire sets upon stars
love shall win!
love always
love shall win!
within the expansive heart of lovers!


A HUNDRED POEMS – LXXIX

OH! Such fair weather and what storm-burst hearts!
When caressing heat-touch’d brilliant morning’s sun Each light drench-steep’d young child.
warring showers within the beautiful sorrows!

On a blue sky mourning my bruised heart singing
songs-blue jay melodies in meadows kissing me.

To gather the wood as we build a new nest
for our eggs and young birds. Sweet arranged new sun and sonnet new formed day.
All for love and hearts.
My beautiful love.  My blue feathered bird.
:: –  ::


A HUNDRED POEMS – LXXIX

OH! Such fair weather and what storm-burst hearts!
When caressing heat-touch’d brilliant morning’s sun each light drench-steep’d
warring showers within the beautiful sorrows!

On a blue sky mourning my bruised heart singing
songs-blue jay melodies in meadows kissing me.

To gather the wood as we build a new nest
for our eggs and young birds.
Sweet arranged new sun and sonnet new form day.
All for love and hearts.
:: 1019.2021 ::


ANDRE BRETON is VERY DEAD BUT NOT SURREALISM

THE PRECIOUS terror is realizing most adults are dead children
or like a day that folds itself into a basket of reborn night.
That long-necked geese and stiff necks are either pretending
giraffes or self consumed souls; ignoring the mirror
reflecting thoughts, introspection devours its own mouth.

Surrealism is hickey upon my heart

that bests freezer burn sunlight any

now. Kiss me you brilliant stupid fool.

:: 08-30-2018 ::


HOW LOVE DIES

WISH my heart soft Libra
i was rotting inside a cedar box
riding reaching North Star
— hey.  Oh.  Wait.  I screamed
i was forever hating the thick-backed
men raping my love.
OH angel fell; bellicose /tears\
lose my hate:  whatever.  I forgot
my childhood and became what i am.
Forever wounded.

raped mother.

I was locked inside my MOUTH-moth
maggot  lips eating cancer breath.
  Hey!  How we live.  How we die.
forgiving memories that melt life.
Your fire.  Inside my heart.

:: 10.19.2021 ::


THE POETIC APE

The ape didn’t like this idea. He tossed the pencil from hand to hand, because he didn’t think it was safe.

‘I’ll write nothing, I don’t care,’ he said.

‘For the first time in my life, I don’t care.’

But the doctor didn’t want the ape to fool him.

He threatened to show the whole world that the ape wasn’t a god, unless the ape wrote a poem.

So the ape started out, crumpling the paper, wiping away the blue ink as it trickled from the pen.

‘Don’t wipe it away,’ Dr. Bluespire said.

‘You’re only supposed to write something good.’

But the ape was too afraid.

He even made a few crumbs fall on the floor.

‘If you try to run away,’ said Dr. Bluespire,

‘I’ll send you to a psychiatrist.

And I’ll teach you how to write a poem.’

So the ape started again, crumpling the paper and sliding it across the table.

‘You’re not supposed to make the paper crinkle,’ said Dr. Bluespire.

‘It’s bad manners.’

But the ape was nervous.

He closed his eyes, and tried to picture what he thought a poem should be.

‘I can’t come up with a good one,’ he said.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said the doctor.

‘You have to start somewhere.’

So the ape tried again.

He crumpled the paper and didn’t wipe it away.

This time the doctor asked him what he was doing.

‘I’m getting it ready,’ the ape said.

‘That’s all I can do.’

Then Dr. Bluespire helped him get his hands ready for the pen.

‘Do you think the pen’s slippery?’ he said.

‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the ape.

‘But that’s what you’re supposed to do. Write something bad, so you’ll know how to write a good one.’

Then the doctor told the ape to start.

‘Open your eyes!’ he said.

‘Make sure the words flow out.

The ape wrote: “Could they be wrong about ‘god’ and the stories?”

:: 10.19.2021 ::