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The stream (all workshops)

This is the stream - you can see all poems on Neopoet, live, as they are created.



The old traveler takes a pause
beneath an oak of age untold
whose roots grasp the earth like giant claws
near to a spring that's clear and bold.

A declining house with roof of tin
broods silently with empty windows,
a remnant of the world" back when"
whose roof flaps when hard winds blow.

For now that wind comes from the west.
It smells of moss, of leaves....of years
setting my thoughts on a vague quest,
loosening some long still gears.

And there she was

And there she was, a light in the darkness
an oasis in a desert place;

and all the others faded into the distance
my eyes hoarding light only for her.

I watched as she danced, saw a celebration,
an outgoing of joy and warmth and love.

And when later I looked full in her face
I thought, “how beautiful you are!”

Fag Kitten and Little Dead Girl

they danced in a dream
of bending shadows
face down
begging ass
all hungry back door paradise

ankles strapped on a foot worn floor
paint faced in Ubangi nights
with pin needle eyes
blood crimson neon's
cut curtains
like kissing claws
so their bodies wouldn't forget
dark pleasures lightening
and biting tantra tantrums
they swallowed mad bitch blossoms of hell candy
breathing the others inhalations
foot sniffing ballet arch
in fastened Japanese melting red slippers

I KILLED Him (Suicidal Thoughts)

I'd have knit these words in princely tongues
And cloth it with royal attires,
But this is not me writing.
This is a beta version of me trying to reach out to you,
A mental state borrowing a familiar mind,
So I leave this long note.

Drey Hommies would say this is not a poem, that the line are unfit. You know it, you all know that at least, that he'd disagree a line has to be this long. That the flow is abject and the rhythm is lost and the structure is an injustice to poetry, I mean how can you combine prose and poetry?

Ideology of the Cranes

the group's absurd March to understanding
Lee Chang-dong ripe cries April
sensations high fall

June group therapy--slanted, webbed cow, an ex-abbreviation for thou--
lightness silly girls down beating, humming at the elite--
sanctuary denied--all the cow girls cried: exceedingly tanned!

black labs growl gruel on the brink of hammered jazz, why?
Basic German cells slam shut bang--what maneuver do you require?
Wallander Kenneth improvises to the croaking of nails...

Our Twining

I imagine these lampposts
Have roots
Tangled beneath the concrete

These buildings
With foundations
Stories beneath the ground
Like massive glaciers
In and out of water

The country, the garden
Is not the only
Land of substratum metaphor

We walk freely
In forest or burrough
But so much of us
Is sucking nutrients
From the place we are

The familiar news
Of a gang
Related death
The store or shelter
On 22nd Street
For years


Mornings infused with autumn now,
vestiges of night cling damply
in dawn -light glow...
... birdsong echoes in hollow rings
through thin pale mist
curling down the ever-green hills...
Just beyond her kitchen window
a tree fern stands
like a one legged triffid
thick moss adorns his southern side
- still damp with early morning dew...
Strange days, she thought
- sweeping rain
heavy showers
scattered sun
gusting winds
- four seasons in one...

A Ghostly Dream

Last night I was visited
by lost boys, I once knew.
Long ago when we were young
their lives were spent too soon.

Taken by a wicked war
the ground soaked with their red
while a government's only interest
was in the counting of the dead.

In my dream their specter
was a ghostly grey and white
all that was left of how
they suffered from the fight.

Then, one boy, I recognized
stepped forward close to me
in vivid living colors
I remembered him instantly.


The old truck grinds to a slow stop
as the eastern sky's stars start to fade.
An old man exits, no hair on top
a scant hundred yards from a small glade.

Back straightens out with a few groans.
He shoulders his rifle, grasps walking stick
starts down woods road which a friend owns.
slowly, quietly that's the trick.

Before too long he's at the blind
built a mere eight feet off the ground
a few years back when he didn't mind
how climbing made his old heart pound.

Heaven Be

Heaven be...

Cannibals and Succubus
talking a blue streak
Wasps in global air space
Everything Bog Standard
No Asians
or accommodation for nyctophiles
All the booze-fairy theorists
Button-holing you
Worrying who is your "Long Wife"
Noahs Ark with all the slugs and slaters aboard

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