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swoon tide
on a frozen day
we rode the hurry
bus whose engine
stopped purring
clamboring hills
and buck dales

the aged and the
filly youth
cursing behind
as we sped
past crevasses
full of morning

streaming in
its luscious
the embroidered
jewelled like
wings of butterflies
from the wickedness
of winter
we were hustled
the engine snarling
vibrating through
our boots
and limbs
tufts of sequin white
burning hot and clean
against this ache of

from dreams
of salvation
to the beasts
of lonliness

burdens of
black leather
smart phones
sliding on plastic
and men
full of conquest
while the trees
awoke split
by the hand
of an arctic muse

Editing stage: 


streaming in
its luscious
the embroidered
jewelled like
wings of butterflies
from the wickedness
of winter
we were hustled

for me these lines are just gorgeous...

G'night thanks for the read its always a pleasure

love JC xxx

("Always and Forever") - (Never lose a holy curiosity.-Albert Einstein)

but i write of pleasure and darkness
beauty that barely exists
or if they do it...its not to be trusted
madness is seeinng rapture
in the sweet beauyty
the aged and the withered by life
with eyes too quick and alive
a sunset too cold
a lake too still

poetry IS to be written
thats why i do it\
somerone has too
crazy people bash away on
an olivetti
they make so much noise
going on and on

i dont use it..everyone threatens to
throw it in the back of our santiation
trucks if i do

i think of those that must have laughed
at jk rowling
and marg atwood
intelligent people
oh you must marry sucessful
or have a trade a doctorate
give up that silly poet stuff
wizrds are old hat
gone like dungeons and dragons
and dracula


whats wrong with ordinary
day to day poetry

so much crap going on in the world
people let slip through the cracks
power mongers everwyhere
pushed out by agressors
when the ones that care did a great
job...but everyone buys into
the faster dazzle..

i write good shit
beause everyone wants the good shit
and its hard writing
anything good
day in and out

since i quit drinking
after doing this for more then half my
life with disaster after disaster
i wondered if i could write at all
thinking like some of the poets said
drinking gave them creative ideas
their muse etc..

but im still writing
i dont have to die to write

sunlight like a pierce
butterfly wings..
on the bus...
and imn not staring like
a madman i have intense
eyes yes...but just taking
it in in asweep
there is so much to see
color of peoples eyes
incredible in the proper

its not important
its the colour

and black and white shots
pics im taking now
its so much
going on in my life


very tired
staying grounded
these visual things
its like a drug in my
creative mind
my heart jumps
scene word...random thing
like brain sparkles
without having to take drugs

i take drugs to keep normal
perhaps i tested this or that
for this you lose that over
there....lkike cat in the cradle string
game.....same length of string
so whats the magic

i live with what i live with
and i write as far out there stuff
that relates in some way or another
the best way i can to poetic describe
what i visual aural sensation
sunlike rain cold wind etc

thats another story
i got lots of poetry to write yet


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