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The stream (all workshops)
that lust was dry and consuming
like the wicked wind that stirred the
tins at night on the street
the Lamps cold light in the haze
An orange moon flattened like
the corpuscle slides
the slickness needed
sealed into the bottle beneath
the metal cap
Wallpapers lonely flowers shone
in the damp light seeping
down the wall with gusts
the ghost of a curtain dancing
like treats sugared
and bitter breath
I walked, crouched in steaming heat.
Dressed in drab cloths, all light darkened.
A point of reference dark as I, creeping.
My trusty weapon raised in triumph
There along dulled sights a soft vision
My eyes could see amidst the waving leaves
No breeze to adjust in this enclosed space
There was my perfection, as if singing
A face that will remain nameless for ever
I could never know his name, just a move.
The damage to me to know, would destroy
A breathless squeeze, and a slight twitch.
'''Love is your love... by this Loved''' by some poet
All is love
even when one is harsh
'tis meant to convey happiness
all its smiley way
but when one repeats
it three times
it places on one’s mind
a damn strain
does he really do it me?
alas in vain
none the less
let it come in
let it flow from
without to within
he who is lovely
by this sweet bard
you know what!
What curse is this thrown at my feet?
Is it to try my patience or to anger me?
Now look here whoever or whatever.
You are just making me smile again
Thinking of lost loves and my flings
Ha! You can’t steal those away from me
I am so long in the tooth I can’t be angry
Come on remind me some more of time
My time whatever is always full of my ways
Damn it I shall not tell, yet you push me to say
I have spent too long on this journey
Many have become part of me and some even mine
stained glass light,
invoking the laws of physics...
Threaded a muted conversation
through soup can telephones
into this delusional bubble
within the Novocaine fog.
in my comfortable illusion,
grating vibration buzzing in...
that secret chamber,
Only to find there are no treasures inside.....
upon the sprocket whirl
agog with the heady
crush happy girl
with a speedo spun
a crazy turn
and your daddies gun
you make them all
on your run
Turn and Burn
Beneath a ripe sun
the west coast
you have made
of smooth and
riot and wild
Excitement of back to school
Memories of long ago
Days long and hot.
Yellow school buses roared
Crack of dawn opened dark skies
Joy in expectation of the first day.
Everybody in their new clothes
Micheal Jordan's, squeaky hallways
Loud chatter filling classrooms.
Many faces, hated its to return
Others faces joyful its day-view
The hustles and bustles to educated.
They don't post much
as they are much
Altruism is the highest form of giving behaviour
They don't post on Neopoet much
as what they do is give, give, give.
They don't give much feedback
as they they know
that all will blow smoke up their asses
Paul doesn't give feedback especially
as his words will be given,
despite the best intentions of our objectivity,
a royal piss in the pocket.
Their humility and generosity
is the highest form of giving
Lennon Jesus Or Warhol….
Crabs run to the side we know
hard to catch their slimy shells.
While sheiks have halved the flow,
from their cities built on wells.
An oases for the few, even though,
they need us bred, us worker Ants.
Daily the oil demand seems to grow,
creating poison in our plotted plants.
We suck from the breast of mother earth,
creating new nipples as we command.
Now this is how we measure our worth,
when choosing heroes just like a brand.
Where does the rhythm of night flow?
Endless dreams of no real dimensions
Then awake comes the tears of things held.
Listen to them cascading into the clear air.
Only to lay for a second as the thought ceases .
There the tears are absorbed in another reality.
How can one drink of a fountain and still thirst
Water sweet, making more tears, memories flow.
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