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l a n g u i d F r e n z i e d H u s h

aromatic air
the ocean riding
its froth line
below the highway
salted tang
the motors tingle
beneath the wide

sky blue eyed
the world slips by
the wind fingers
trailing loose

sun faded carpets
orange peels
and cigarettes in the tray
there was beauty in
the travel of this day
safety at the wide swing of
the on ramp
the world ending at
the parellel lanes
swiftly passed an hour
that burning sun thrown
light up..tree tops
and overhead signs
whirling past

further and further into darkness
the dusk stretching like black
electrical tape rising up
like the field of stars and
coyote calls

the crush of gravel
sweet night air
in a valley unmarked

Editing stage: 


To dream of unmarked valleys and electrical taped black skies

I wrote you a very long comment on Crinoliner, I posted it and for some weird reason Neopoet gobbled it up never to return, I will endeavor to replicate it tomorrow night I am very tired and its nearly three am here but had to have a dose of Mr. Esker before bed :)

Sigh you make me want a cigarette, haven't had one in nearly three years.


love and hugs JC xxx

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

The way you describe everything helps me envision the atmosphere and environment. Great poem!

King of course in a hectic walk...always a pace
unlike the more esoteric works ...
I liked the raw....
like the itch of mosquitoes in their swarms
the etch of leeches in tannic lakes beneath
sun ridden skies
these burrs on walks on new mittens
favourite scarves

Rebecca Godfrey.s canadian novel stands out
still....somewhere in my few pack posessions
my 1972 Olivetti portable in its original case
her descripts of characters astonishing for me

horror was on television as a youth
pulp mags with monochrome middle spreads
stacked with novels and stan lee comics
archie and fortnight graphic novels then
still for children although with its dark morality
and the fairytales and picture encyclopedia
the bible with vivid painting plates in the
piano bench with loose family black and
whites....the color of kindergarten snaps
in their cardboard frame....lined names
penned in with my mothers hand

how it was hard being different and shunned
then..asthmatic and hypochondriac....crushed
asprin and sugar..cough syrups and medicines
shots of whiskey to put me to rest from the
nightmares and sisters brother resting peaceable
his friends and lively crowd waiting to settle
in with the rabble lot books toted
home and purchased via mail like everyone
else...i still remember the check boxes..the
money sealed in envelopes..

my characters are further then most
more defined....more haunted...more darker
the real darkness was ordinary
bitter and quick but ordinary at its face
value....lost in itself as it came and went
on this path

the beauty was the breathing in
florrid springs with its sunshine
mud and cool winds...the rains
sluicing the world..the loud hush
where for once everyone was equal
enthralled and afraid....and thrilled
at the power of something greater

the change

this poem does not mention characters
but a very vague brusqueness
storyline photo and imagery without the
like my photos of life i take
and i take good photos of people

i savor contacts
overwhelmed by it
and talk nonstop
to keep up that buffer
keep away that intimacy
with others

eye contact is getting better

figuring out systems...what was
broken was the quest and then
living with that broken was the story
was the life after a long evolution
into it

i love raveonette videos and now
arcade fire
white lies
and david lynch
stop action animation
conceptual reality
and now gaming
gta 5

when im very grounded i
sit in the library with the others
silent..facing each other
the windows letting natural
light fall on us and the overhead

faux leather....low and comfortable
its very beautiful
a surreal belonging
new yorker
municipal world
globe and mail
and the out there

but its been awhile
since i can not sit still
i prowl like a cat
its been said...

it was always how it was not entire chapter of missing
i hated it then and still do
and of course love it

one world to another world
like a moebius strip
twins who are not twins
alice and the looking glass
were just a mathematical parable
the mind converts space and time
in its own workings of which we
are just beginning to define
let alone map

its one of my great interests
the study of that

poetry was the edge
the gradient
when madness suffused
it still is

writing was like the mirages
which terrified me
like water which still does
to this day
like being alone

the poem is a perspective
completely cut off from
what is going on in the story

mystery in a world that has
desensitized to imagination
where the fear and paranoia
awaken the animals in all
the egos with trick locks

the raw humanity allowed to grow
around the cracks in the integrity of
laws of reason

all of that rising like a wind
and always there is something
awakened in almost all of us
something we take notice of

the poetry of life we love
the story of it evolving something
both the same
like twins
not twins

visage and montages

and yes...all of this to descibe

thank you

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