a wordsmith
true

fluent in argument,
disdain, and the king's English

humorous and entertaining

yet, wryness, wit, and whimsey
(adorable little playskool tools that they are)
cannot, in and of themselves,
construct substance

a wordsmith
fine
but as far as being a writer,
we respectfully decline
to offer a bid

that being said,
it's apparent you've been called
but regrettably
not chosen

Hanging paper…

They hang paper from white washed bill boards,
then string their words together like barbed wire.
Allowing them to ingratiate all subliminal hordes,
trapping those with an awareness in it’s quagmire.

The leaders have rolled inside their cosy webs,
finding comfort as opposed to our terminal terrors.
We as citizens are but numbers, treated as plebs,
blown around on big brothers wind like feathers.

PROSE ABOVE ..removed
POETRY BELOW...remains

There is some reason
for all kinds of madness
some remain dormant
some explode elephantine,
but the fun in remaining anonymous,
lies in the fact
those women call me Honey
and
men take liberties and call me Lovely.

We'll go back to the beach one day,
and I hope that it won't be too long,
to watch the sizzling tourists lay
while listening to some sixties song.

In the salty surf we'll splash and play
then stroll along the wide boardwalk
just as we did on our last stay
when we'd pause and quietly talk.

We'd watch shadows creep out toward the sea
when evening breezes came around
as we sat upon the balcony
taking in the gulls' sad sound.

Without absorbing too much time
I've a mindset way, too stuck;

I've seen reality bite much, harder
than it's second cousin, "luck".

I've seen pagans stop, and pause to pray
wishing the day was gone, and done;

myself, I'd merely float high in the sky
where I'd burn forever, in your "sun".

Plus, I wouldn't have it any other way
it's all good, it just plain, must be;

for, I'd spend forever and a day
if you'd please save the last dance, for me.

ruse it clever baby

fuse it with your cleaver

the hard candy receiver

drenched in your fear and sweet sweat

wet slather and yes

I would rather

Pump it Pump it
Nitro scene
the fabric crawls
its taut obscene

the broken glass
like glitter death
expound the drones
and fuck the mess

Born from dust we paint a picture,
Time turns and the wind blows
the picture we create is our own.
For some solitude is a DEMONS LECTURE,
For some solitude GRACE
For some it's simple ALONE
For some its MADNESS
For ME it is the essence of SADNESS

.
with cadence of a mournful, howling hound
the whistling wailing wind torments the trees
a ghostly shriek, a hungry, haunting sound
with cadence of a mournful, howling hound
who lies upon a new dug mound of ground
and whines lament, for missing master pleads
with cadence of a mournful, howling hound
the whistling wailing wind torments the trees

.

Taming Of the Beast

this creature lives
inside of me
feasting on
antipathy

the naming of
my dark twin
I hold at bay
just beneath my skin

it lies in wait
below the seeming
of my flesh facade
of my distressed screaming

its foul breath
could etch tempered glass
a poison brew
could kill en masse

still on its chain
I give receipt
of paper and pen
to spew dire deceit

love him
many women hanker
in the twilight for they desire
to see the sunrise effect
from last night's sojourn
but they can't reconcile
where the manliness of man had gone
and
left the warmed up oven forlorn
the morn of a dying kind surfaces
when some go in for IVF,
at least small mercies
God's gift to unwed moms
at times prove best

see the sun as a rising one,
its setting too somewhere that's true
but a positivity
I'd wish to imbue, in you.