The stream (all workshops)
polished
I saw the glimmer
the shiver thrust
on the balls of your feet
Ive been in my coffin waiting
coming awake
with the streets sizzle alive
When the dust
sifts down through the
nettles
the buttons shoved through
the slots on the nails
like your erect happy nipples
the fire warming in the womb
stretched in the fine denim
As the Leaf trembles when
Wind Blows
I tremble as his voice
Echoes
I’m in With a Shout…..
I want to be a writer
but my heads not right,
a poets the best I’ll ever be.
I’ve always been a fighter
but this is out of sight,
shit, what in hells wrong with me
To hear the screen hiss
or the keyboard’s tap,
is something I’d miss,
also pages as they flip n flap.
No good, time for a nap.
Wish I could meet the creator of thought,
I think they’ve got a piece of my mind.
Do you think they’ve ever been sought,
bet no ones tried cause they’re hard to find.
the cosmos
microscopic and colossal
performs a dance of spheres
within it -
the cyclic journey between
Temporal
and Now -
a mobius strip
filled with
countless consorts
I watch, with ease
the Tide
lap my feet
the currents tug
to where the stories go
Asshole Bitch.
Cunt Douche.
Erroneous Fucker.
Grossly Helpless Imbecile !
Jive Klutz Loser.
Moronic Nuisance.
Oily Prick!
Queef Reject.
Sicko, Tosser.
Unwashed Vial Waster .
Xanthodont, Yellow. Zoaf !
All the crops are gathered in,
the barns are filled with hay
the formal thanks have been given
as late autumn finally gives way.
The flocks have formed and headed out
fleeing the cold for warmer lands.
We hear them as they honk and shout
while passing by in shifting bands.
Hardwoods stand naked in the cold.
They shiver in the northern wind,
their former cloaks once bright and bold
have turned into a bland duff's blend.
Smoking heavy past two years
the butts weight up with ash
and I flick if off with my right
hand
cupping the embers
I stare up and watch the snowflakes
land in the lighting from the lamp
trickling down across the space
the bulbs here and there
colorful exclamations
I dont know what the date is
or time
Im just out here having a smoke
phone not going to ring
and everything I was wondering
about writing in my books
are all there
stacked neat enough
drape your cold around my shoulders
squint my eyes, daring dark
pound your thunder into my moan
brazen my heart with lightning bolts
temper me mean
stoic, and hard
aloof from this
quiet desperation
The years gnaw away at the coastal fringe
Some cling, ringed and wretched, then fall
Others girth fear, then backwards they lurch
With their progeny, facing the wall
Was that guardian of time banal,
Right in predicting that all
Would succumb to the legacy given
And bequeath the pall darkened sea?
Boiling below, and biding its time
For those unborn migrants
Scrambling for land
Never free
Who dealt us this hand?
Did we foreshadow it?
Building bright spires
Lighting signal fires
They are building the structrures..the grown tied off gingerbread men
and work slow ungecomes where the heroes of old put their thick band
of worth against their cock on an elastic..
someone knocks
its for your head
your old lady
your stash
or your bread
of its just business
hired up on the shit
finding cooking moments
my baby could shoot me between the eyes
if she had too
but she loved me
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