Wiffle balls all blue, orange and
red ride bicycles on children with
blue striped skin tipping flipping juggling by
green square trash cans sinking on piles of
grassy playgrounds dying with
broken branches falling under
false illumination drifting touching slapping
electric fences like two prisons standing.
Wishing well water on hands
skillfully bounce balls while
tossing bodies bestow the
graceful expression of tearing
young crippled trees between here and
there without shade.

Poison ivy wrapped around pillars of white.
To look finds beauty, to touch finds hate.
Redrum, redrum; droplets on the floor.
Ivory skin stained with red; slumped against the door.

Who is she? Unfamiliar.
Is someone missing her? Looking for her?
Is she someone's daughter, mother, lover?
Or just another cover?

Her head left upon a stick, matted tresses dangling.
Loose lips get stitches, to silence wagging tongues.
Prying eyes that cover lies, blinded by the knife.
A tragic end to a meaningless life.

3 a.m. actually, it's 3:39
I'm awake and I wonder why?
I'm searching for a reason
so tired, I want to cry

A special number, is it?
I think it may portend
a time, a date, whatever
I have questions without end

I wonder if I've missed
something putting this to rest
I feel I am forgetting
although I've done my best

Why should these numbers
mean so much to me?
Are they magical, these digits
Like nine, is made by threes.

ism is not a prism
nor is it a prison
it's not established
until before it's finished

if all I knew were isms
I would more than likely
be solely alone and unlikely
like if I was into Marxism

which I am not however
so I say to those whomever
pull up your trousers and be aware
it's coming from over there

the diabolical aneurism
antidisestablishmentarianism

Soft grey winter twilight
Creeps slow down from the hill.
Carters, backs bowed, lead horses
Another day's toil fullfilled.

Plough traces sing in frosty air,
Hooves splash and plod through mud
Down lanes spread thick with icy slush
Past thatched roofs dark as blood.

A day free on the moro,
The day of our saviours birth,
A day free from hard toil
But for farmhands little mirth.

The face in the mirror is a cruel temptress.
A faint spark burned out with sadness.
Replaced with lifeless, hopeless madness.
Given away by black shadows under my eye.

Emotions wrap around me,
like a python squeezing its prey.
Suffocating, nauseating, devastating,
why can't they just let me be?

Who wants someone with three kids and a slew of pets.
Love is fleeting, hard to find appealing
when you have nothing to offer,
except being good in the sack.

Tick-tock the clock.
Tiny hands spinning
minutes into hours.
Life's cyclical song.

Down, down the rabbit hole,
the hours turn into days.
One second, you're young and full of promise,
the next you're waiting to die.

Speed away time
in the rear-view mirror
Red-shifting days
gone is the year

Think coming months
I beg of you
Oh, crimson tide
shift now to blue

Nicotine yellow tin ceilings
dark cupboards, blue-white table top
I see them now, in my dreams
with the love that never stopped

Gran's kitchen shared with aunt Kitty
The smell of something sweet
swing music from the radio
the gentle tapping of her feet

My world was there, heart of the house
or in the dry grass of the yard
I have lunch on the porch with my sissy
she falls asleep; from playing too hard

T'was the night before Christmas,
Papa Noir's firing up the hearse.
The back's filled with a coffin shaped sack.
A happy Holiday curse!

The skeletons dangled
from the closet with cheer.
In hopes their final ride
would soon be near.

The halls are decked
with fingers and toes.
Even the demons stopped by
to kiss the Mistlehoe!

Cookies laced with arsenic
followed by a vodka chaser.
The party's just begun.
His festive bag encased her!