This is my collective! welcome!

Feel free to comment, critique, hang out, discuss, ask questions, whatever, just do something of service that's on topic.DO NOT troll or flame myself or anyother poster. Don't like it, get out.


List of Poetry Via Form

:::Abc-something or other... I'll figure out the real name later.:::
I Really Shouldn't Be Dealing With This Anymore



:::Ashurii::
I Fucking Hated Highschool



:::Blank/White Space:::
Some Meaningful & Special Title Is Suppose To Go Here
Show Me Your Cards
When Mother Nature Fell For The Fallen
Vestigal Love
When You Cut The Ropes Loose
Untitled so far



:::Free Verse:::
I'm Loving It Aren't You? (this post)
Freedom
Untitled
Birds
It's All Babel
Will You Be My Doctor On Call?


::: Pantom :::
Requiem For A Slave



::: Paradelle :::
It's A Swing Or Sing Romance
Atomement: Seven Deadly Sins



::: Petina:::
What Is Home?
My Necrophilia Addiction




::: Shape Poetry:::
challenge shape poetry



:::Sonnet Redouble:::
"Letters To Him" Parts 1, 2 & 3[/U]

:eager:

YES!!!! So, I finally got around to revamping my thread and putting up exactly what this is here to do and what I expect from people. So without further ado:

This is basically a mission statement:

Right, I want my poetry to be an examples of different styles of writings. I have been doing poetry for 10 years and was self-published by a high school club which was distributed at local SLAM meetings. I'm currently getting offically published with my book and all that jazz. That's me. That's what this is for.

RULES:

• Don't flame me or any other poster.
• Follow the ToS
• Keep cursing to a minimum, unless it refers to one of my listed poems.
• Only construstive critism allowed.
• I'll take any kind of comments though.
• Please do ask questions.
• Yes, I will write for you, but at a price.
• Yes, I will accpet random PM crtis.
• Have fun and learn.

All poetry is copyrighted by SMK

I'd love some crits please.


I'm Loving It. Are You?


Tune me.
Tweak me.
Time me well
and I’ll spin you anywhere.
Purple haze holds no comparison
to the heights we could reach.
How can you call game when
you haven’t even lit up the torch?
Maybe if you didn’t trip so hard,
I’d get to see those pulsar eyes
radiating with my daily fix
of romantic gibberish.
Your hand in mine slips up

and grasps instead your pants.
Yes, I’m sucking up for the next
time you pipe me butterfly kisses
under the smoky sheets of your thoughts.

Puppet me.
Perfect me.
Promise me tonight
is not just another speeding escapade
that shot the moon and missed the
exit. It’s high time we get going
back to that shimmer in the sky.
So I fly, but I’m only trying to
tempt my angel further to grounding.
Acid-ink blotting away charming times
making me wish to join your star-strung-out
roadway. How am I to hop on if
your hand in mine slips up?

Any comments at least????

Requiem for a Slave

But all I remember are those eyes-
oceans outlined in dusk-violet,
skecthing my bare, moonlit figure
among wicked bedtime stories.

Oceans outlined in dusk-violet
bring me back to your bedside.
Among wicked bedtime stories:
I collapse, on the window's settee.

Bring me back to your bedside,
twist me in your catacomb sheets as
I collapse on the window's settee.
Don't let me walk away again.

Twist me in your catacomb sheets as
I contest your neck-nipping lure.
Don't let me walk away again;
bind me in your booked, olden ways.

I contest your neck-nipping lure
powering this hold over my raptured senses;
bind me in your booked, olden ways.
You said I had only to ask it of you.

Powering this hold over my raptured senses
was your poison: a metallic taste.
You said I had only to ask it of you,
but when I called, you never came.

Was your poison a metallic taste
drained from a pulse? I heard you,
but when I called, you never came.
I dreamt of your final words

drained from a pulse. I heard you
sketching my bare moonlit figure.
I dreamt of your final words
but all I remember are those eyes.

Very intense stuff here. It makes me itch, in a good way. I think I like the Requiem one best.

Originally Posted by Mirielle195

Very intense stuff here. It makes me itch, in a good way. I think I like the Requiem one best.

They're both about past lovers. I think Requiem is better choice also, but only because it's more like when I wrote it I was still in love with the guy. He's passed, but he's still here to me. I tried to convey that as best as I could in the poem given the form I requriements I used.

Thank you very much for your input.

Awwww, well, don't stop writing. It's a good way to get one's emotions out.

Lol. I never stopped writing. And while I agree it's a good way to let your emotions out, I actually want to make this into something. These poems are not journal entries. They're actual works of art that will be published some day.


Some Special & Meaningful Title Is Suppose To Go Here

1) I resisted!

2) 'I'm falling in love with her' I thought.
Or he did, I mean.
...
I'm starting to wonder if you
're elapsing my mind ..... & ..... that
was really about me. Can
't really tell at the moment. Give me
time to decipher all this.

3) I'm not lost.
Not yet, anyway.
Come back in a week and I
'll perplex you then. Something
harder to chew on may stop
your teeth from rattling on about me
and what we 'are(/n't)'.

4)We're sleeping together tonight,
Right?

5)We may be mammals,
but nothings going on between
these sheets that spells anything
out(wrong)right - correctly.
I just want to lose the game
and give in. All I ask is
'adore me'.

6) i see you
[throw on those outdated eyes;
the ones that still butterfly my
heart-string leading to you]
're leaving again.

'I'm falling a .......... part in him.'
............................ we know.

Lovers, you're only allowed one thread in the poetry forum, and I see that you have two. I'm going to merge these two threads together so that you have one thread.

Let me know if you have any questions. :)

WTF?!?!?!!?!

Thank you so much Sizzla. I'm sorry for the confusion my threads caused. I do apologize.

What Is Home?


Bricks stacked high in four walls
inner lined with scratchy pink filling,
a creaking sounds and I know you're home.
I catch my breathe hearing powder blue carpet
shuffle then the sudden click. Must mean a clam day
for this forbidden need of mine.

You're better off in your room, mine
but inches away, with sage green walls
between us bouncing back our silent day.
Stale air stings down my throat filling
with assumptions of why the carpet
is stained ugly red. I once knew home

to be a sanctuary, now "home"
simply means a bed and meals. Mine
and your discomfort scatters across carpet,
spilling over door ways, splattered against walls
as yellow ribbon wraps us filling
this place with seedy eyes at the end of the day.

That day...
was shown a new meaning of home.
There was hard contact of flesh. Then trash filling
your mouth as I dared you to take mine.
You lunged, slammed me against the walls.
I felt 'it' roll away in the old carpet.

And there, crumpled on carpet,
was every grudge worn that day
we left our discrepancies smeared on the walls
so when they arrive to an empty home
it will be understood that mine
was lost in yours filling

up to the brim 'til release, filling
the unanswered. Covering the carpet
in the heat of the moment was all mine
and yours. Our secret spilled that day
when we couldn't avoid each other at home
causing needs to echo off those walls.

This was yours and mine, that lust filling
our veins, knocking boots against the wall. Carpet
cushioned our fall that day when we made a new "home".

Not a problem. :D I'm kind of new to Lit Spot, so sometimes I do confuse things. Again, apologies. :D

It's all good.


Show Me Your Cards

The black blots on white cards,
each one a new world of expression
followed by a monotone,
iiiiiii“So…
iiiiiiiWhat do YOU see
iiiiiiiin this one?”


I iiiiiiiiiiii stare, studying
a girl walking though
falling cherry blossoms.
Her shadow r
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiu
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin


iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiin

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig,
splotching the iridescent scene
with watery looks and pasted smiles,
as dyed-blue roses and baby’s breath
clip back ringlets. Her uneasy breathing
caught in the ribbon trailing off
a white, spring dress while bare feet bleed
from the orchard floor’s splinters.
A late thought topples her back;
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii iihe
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiileft
me.


The flash cards stop animating
my mind's movie, so my lips part
in a sigh as my sight drifts out to the windows.
“I see
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiinothing.”

((I'm Triple Posting Because It's Such A Long Poem))

Letters To Him Pt 1


I. First Letter – Mise en Scene
Dust impact severs battered cloth restraints-
stripping the journal of all privacy.
I write to you with busted locks, damp paints,
blotted kisses and new found memory

etched in dewed grasses. I’m still unable
to garden daffodils and not notice
your umbra like a bad green house effect.
Pictures; faces infected with mold mists,

are but fuel to their nitrogen-rich soil.
I’m following the caterpillar trails,
finding Spanish moss about to spoil
the daisies in the living room; dwellings

made of feathers and sticks from birds hoarding
our papers efflux over walnut courts.



II. – En Famille
Our papers efflux over walnut courts
so here I write you on gilded leaves
seamed and bound in leather hide. Mushrooms wart
walls trickling dewy outlines of sleeves.

Carpeted stairs track tiny faun hoof prints through
infested oak doors to rutted, paper walls.
See! Families overran here, lasted; grew
like our scrapbooks ingrained to shelves all

webbed together by the spider eggs laid
in out stretched butterflies swaying in spring
breezes - things you swore to exterminate.
Or maybe you meant the pinked and sheared things

in the fire pit ashes, lining frayed,
so overgrown ivy greens air raid.



III. – Terrible Laissez Faire
So overgrown, ivy greens air raid
hothouses eclipsing a swing romance.
It’s ropes unbraided, bolted to nightshade
as Venus’ jaws uprooted the chance

to bloom jilted eyes photosynthesized
in yesteryear. Brick paths pebble Amazon grass
now. The Crab Apple went hermit and hides
against gasping riverbeds let go last

August when the Willow wept it bursting
against the hush we left. Weather beaten brush
dances gypsy light bugs retelling firsts
and lasts. The seeds quenched, waiting for the rush

of tangled limbs to till virgin lands, tort
the passion savored once as pages warp.



IV. – Coup de Maitre
The passion savored once as pages warp
cradles against fresh threads. Coal covered canvas
basted in oil stands in for wood short
of tint. Powder blue ceilings stretch and kiss

paint tipped forest green chandeliers sunning
the dinning table set for midday tea
as you had planted in daily routine.
The gardener asked where you stayed leaving me

to stutter a clumsy smile. I swayed
in the chitchat pedaling old time talk.
His hair has peppered, his memory hazed.
All the while I felt your felt tips walk

over my sea foam skirts, goose bumped skin craved
and crumpled under fingers; flowers raved.



V. – Jeunesse Doree
And crumpled under fingers, flowers raved
greetings pollinating an already
well nourished stamen sending buzzes. Caved
in and caught red cheeked, we perfumed that May

with luscious scandals and forget-me
-not petals followed by shoes, socks, and shirts
with each breath making the humidity
melt like the thick brittle blankets we skirt

-ed to. I remember the 'I love yous'
scribbled across black and white photographs
time-lined over the year. Dandelions strewed
across our handfasting. Giggling past

fear of running free to our new home mocked
in multihued moss sheets you had debauched.

((I'm Triple Posting Because It's Such A Long Poem))

Letters To Him Pt2

VI. – Affaire D’amour
In multihued moss sheets you had debauched
butterfly kisses snaking forbidden
fruit across my cherry pressed lips first hocked
in some oasis black market. Laden

in sediments and your sonnets fluttered
on my tongue like nectar salivating
my then new born loss. Cocooned, I shuttered
reservation in greener grass waiting

for the next hidden garden you’d unearth.
Our virtues fell, raked and pagan favored,
broom hopping to a new time spelled in mirth.
The pages exiles descending silver

lining- climax out lasts sky castle fate-
for me; deliverance of something great.


VII. – Par Excellence
For me, deliverance of something great
had sauntered higher, fixed sight lewd and flushed.
Lips chirruped dulcet sermons into late
day. Apple petals accent your new tux

like how illuminated I’m in white.
Our consummation delved in cotton shrouds
coupled inside a core sprouting delight.
Do you remember? Our limbs reached clouds;

roots nipped rain that day budding me anew-
so new I bordered exotic on your
thoughts. Weighing the photographs, who knew
then you moved on greener pastures? Before

I sat among tarot cards your hands, clutching
my tealeaves, ached the lacking eager touch.



VIII. – Arriere-pensee
My tealeaves ached. The lacking eager touch
infiltrated sheet after sheet veining
endeavors to blotch out reluctant hunches
that this novel’s tailed by stitching refrains.

Summer’s heat gusts against sun-kissed harvest
piling stillness on the table between
us plating the grasses bronze. I grew fond
of that; only achieving third it seemed

myself. The tumbling days etched a retreat
for Zeus’s brighter smile, but He’s not
yours so I doubt you noticed the defeat.
Did I, this Lithe, run folly when Eve caught

your Adam’s apple as dawn tricked early call?
Should’ve realized your Eden would fall.



IX. – Coup de Grace
Should’ve realized your Eden would fall
drawing stale air from your rewritten word.
Only perfected ideals made recall
since you weeded my Shadows*. Once I heard

the stairs creek your name I couldn’t contain
the clouded faces; wrenched glances sidelining
these potted feet from dashing to the shamed
final chapter where you stood only finding

a dirt covered shovel. Our hard work plowed over
in the midst of trampled poises; fresh buds
turned in from her hands and knees. The clover
lost luck before it was page pressed. It’s mud

caked our memoir smudging revelations
between my entries overlooked by pens.



X. – Pis Aller
Between my entries overlooked by pens
I six-sensed your habitation, but fled
scribbling away screeches. Bandaged and pinned,
sat All Hollow’s costumes the in old shed

where bats narrowly squeaked by flooding light.
Black and orange still garnish the site, ribbons
silhouette the ceiling cupping dust mites
far from the crystal below. Oh, the fun

we had stepping wicked tunes. Red wine stained
our tongues and you idolized me then
in my witch’s rig. My runes laid out claim
of tomorrow’s theory. Must have missed when

you were lost to parasitical maws
and bugs; the vermin that consume recall.




* I put this here because not everyone knows what a Book of Shadows is. The best way I can put it is a Pagan’s diary and spell book.

((I'm Triple Posting Because It's Such A Long Poem))

"Letters To Him" Pt3

XI. – Sauve Qui Peut
And bugs; the vermin that consume recall,
chomp the remaining brush towering eyes.
Dirt starts muddling just woven carpets hulled
to be stowed. Cream linens unroll good-byes

as they drape the décor. Again, spiders
weave homes in damp corners sucking smiles
from our portraits while caterpillars
spit tapestries covering your idle

eyes peering past wallpaper peels. Do your
clouds still know my form even with her light
shining past all my patches? Those blind, poor
sights haven’t returned repelling my might

to win you. Guess I neglected mountains
of seasons spent beneath twigs by fountains.



XII. – Mal de Siecle
Of seasons spent beneath twigs by fountains
I miss most your mind. I don’t wish to fall
back on changes rolling down the mountain
sides only to clutter your ears from calls

of not so long ago and actually
pretty up close incidents. Piling
the gutters you claim as your halo, please
remember to divulge to your Christ files

paper clipped to the photos once damned. I
relied on the future to counter-act this
past as we astrologically aligned,
but no counting of numbers could stop this.

Your blunt interpretation only lends
this (sod heart parched of leaves at) autumn’s end.



XIII – Savior-faire
This sod heart’s parched of leaves at autumn’s end
so I’ve returned-- but to what? Snow-capped ache?
Frost-nipped words crystallize chapped lips offend-
ing the truth captioned in footnotes. The fate

challenged to us is lost on blue tinged ears.
You threw down the sword long ago, I know,
while I continued for the Grail. Fear
replaced by desperate feet that only go

forward pulsing for that eternal drink,
but forever would not rewrite romances
we depicted. Your scribe’s permanent ink
blotched attempted edits. I quit! What chance

is left? These letters simply prove the end-
your eyes blow winter’s brittle and tossed winds.



XIV. – Bon Voyage
Your eyes blow winter’s brittle and tossed winds
this way; my pen quivers blurred hello’s and
useless good-byes. There’s no stair to transcend;
no fatherly advice to help these hands

blistered and painted to make following
the lines that much easier. But the easel
expressing blue hand printed steps can’t show
the way. I received your prayer book. My soul

was saved the day you offered my secrets
to the bedroom fire pit. Enlightened, I
set new flame to your book-bound ways. Commit
this to false saving waters as I float high

casting a miracle departure. Faint
dust impact severs battered cloth restraints.



XV. Last Letter – Dernier Cri.
Dust impact severs battered cloth restraints;
our papers efflux over walnut courts
so overgrown ivy greens air raid
the passion savored once as pages warp

and crumpled under fingers. Flowers raved
in multihued moss sheets you had debauched
for me -- deliverance of something great
my tealeaves ached. The lacking eager touch

should’ve realized your Eden would fall
between my entries overlooked by pens
and bugs; the vermin that consumes recall
of seasons spent beneath twigs by fountains.

This sod heart’s parched of leaves at autumn’s end.
Your eyes blow winter’s brittle and tossed winds.

When Mother Nature Fell For The Fallen


It was...
It was...the summer of some year
It was...in some once upon a time
It was...celebrated green lady's life.
She leaned lazy
against the breeze on a hill
she claimed her mountain top throne.
Skimming the egde as the sun fell,
city lights clicking on in some secondary
musical;
click on
....click off
..........clap on
................blow ......out
a rhythmic silence from enegry savers
a rhyt and if they only knew how they lost
a rhyther; their maestro,
a rhytto sizzling lip locking tales.
Those long nights spent
dancing in wild grasses and standing
on the edge of that florencent cliff
blinding her from the highway below.
The honking knocking thoughts around
The honking knocking thoughts a
The honking knocking thoughts arou
a
about
aboutfall
about falling
about falling off
about falling off or
about fallin back
about fallia
abogainst
you
wishing grass leaves encasing her
would spread that same warmth.

youShe waited crowned in dasies
and dandilions wanting every
FLASH
Z I P
ZOOOMMM
to be you speeding in your damned glory.
Wanting
Wanting to drive off in those flickering
false stars; her earthy scent reminding you
of the castle you left behind
for a metal and motar celestial
light show below ground.

It's a Swing or Sing Romance


I, little rumble, used an umbrella romance
I, little rumble, used an umbrella romance
to escape among a fanciful, cascading wave.
to escape among a fanciful, cascading wave.
A fanciful romance rumbles among cascading
waves which I used a little umbrella to escape.

Playoffs bruised a singsong life ending
Playoffs bruised a singsong life ending
becoming boring with talk of charming rocky.
becoming boring with talk of charming rocky.
Singsong playoffs become a bruised life
with charming talk of boring, rocky endings.

I have, yet aside from a fake reality,
I have, yet aside from a fake reality,
a prince which I sit out to see melisma for.
a prince which I sit out to see melisma for.
I sit aside a fake out reality (which I have
yet to see melisma from) for a prince.

I sit aside a melisma singsong romance playoff
for a rumble among rocky waves talking
about what life becomes with out a little bruising:
a boring, cascading fake used to umbrella
a fanciful ending of which I have yet to see
a Prince Charming escape from to reality.

My Necrophilia Addiction

I hear the horror intro on the radio,
an alarm hatching puss-filled moans of things
remembered. A clenching below forces veins open-
air escapes these aging lungs- desperate
for the warmth you promise under
the moon's romance, that beat

I crave. My nails dig, beating
my grave in the hard-core thrashing of the radio.
My arms rip though, letting yours crawl under
this body claimed by post-mortem. Spectral things
declaw, finally releasing me from the earth. A desperate
soul crashes, fluttering my stitched eyes open.

Baby, I will be your living dead-girl, opening
me to a whole new world of you. Your heartbeat
fills my chest as my lips close over yours, desperatly
forcing gasps in my chest as hips move to the radio.
Your hands trace boiling heat up and under
the rags I bare. You show me new tricks-n-things.

The smell of chicken blood and otherworldly voodoo things
lofts to my nostrils, frilling them to your lust, opening
the door to gor[e]gous need. Will you let me take you under?
The idea of this raises coagulated blood to grey cheeks. Beat
me harder against you, making the rhythm, match the radio.
This desire is making my new-found breath desperate.

Ignore splitting skin, the smell of rot and dust desperate
for the dark it spooled from. Your senses won't recognize things
like an arm missing and the bullet hole in my head. The radio
takes your mind off raw skin flaking, as I scratch open
your back. Only listen to this raspy beating
of broken vocals as we slowly rock under.

If I'll be your living dead-girl, will you be my under-
taker? Taking me over and over, desperate
for what's left of forbidden flesh. I'll be a persistant beating
in the hollow of your mind, forever a reminder of things
that go unsaid even in your journal. But I'll always open
my casket door, lulled by our song on the radio.

This "Living Dead Girl" beats in you. A thing
always there on the radio, a desperate
scream you can't keep under the covers. So keep it open.

Atonement (Seven Deadly Sins)


You, sloshing on down each set of pulsating steps bound in
You, sloshing on down each set of pulsating steps bound in
revenge while I pry myself from about the mirror.
revenge while I pry myself from about the mirror.
Sloshing myself about down the set of steps, I pry from you
while bound on each mirror in pulsating revenge!

I shrug the dared vigilantism lusting off your fiery eyes as
I shrug the dared vigilantism lusting off your fiery eyes as
you sluggishly gulp of every starved heart beaten to the floor.
you sluggishly gulp of every starved heart beaten to the floor.
Shrug your dared eyes sluggishly beaten, starved
of the heart lusting to you as I gulp every fiery vigilantism off the floor.

My own hand ignored how masterfully you have sewn over your
My own hand ignored how masterfully you have sewn over your
outstretched lie. Where, what is this priding sin? On hinges, you glance at
outstretched lie. Where, what is this priding sin? On hinges, you glance at
my hand priding over how you have masterfully sewn on outstretched
hinges. You ignored where and glance at what is sin. Is this your own lie?

Have you ignored my own beaten and outstretched hand(heart)
sloshing about, lusting over what is pulsating your sin?
I gulp down each set of fiery steps priding myself
on how masterfully I pry off the hinges as you sluggishly shrug
your sewn eyes from the floor where you lie bound. This vigilantism
is in revenge of the starved while you dared to glance at every mirror.

Freedom


Your poetry, dripping imagery, w

*************************a

**************************f

***************************t

****************************s

off the page like my pipe’s smoke
just before I realized that living wasn’t
LIFE.
It wasn’t the tickle-my-thoughts
feeling rolling in my lungs
while retching up the want
to simply **************************facetheFUCKingfacts
and the pride that wouldn’t let me
do it sooner.
I wanted to float like rose petals
decorating your pen, perfuming the paper
with olden time’s hopes of candy-filled
eyes and bursting-open hearts.
But the bleeding weighed down my feather-self
as if someone was only chanting,
“Stiff as a board…”
Damnit I was!
I
**was
******solid.
And I realized
that that essence I spewed high
Was.Not.Life.


Life was my personality’s civil war,
contradicting itself mid-sentence--
before the words to form it
were ever thought. Life
was drinking down the lovehate
his presence ached.
It was the delirious hope that
tie-dyed daises would suddenly sprout
the world in glorious harmony for real;
the knowledge that was a child’s dream.

ButThatIsLife!

****************But
********************that
*************************is
**********************************************LIFE


So roll this psychedelic ink on paper
and tell me how good it feels.

Untitled

I found the Energizer Bunny overrated
because in my two-score plus a year
nothing lasts longer than the day
you're currently living in.

I discovered privacy was a joke
when you displayed me - gl(ass)
and everything. I'm not that
open-ended and your closed mind
landed me heels-over-head back-ass-wards
looking to you for cover.

This newly realized contortionist
wishes you would spin her right 'round
face-forward to your truth. My battery
is leaking from too many cirus acts-
the acid eating at the window to a world
you showcased me to. I tapped only
needing your assistance.

I noticed, as my walls collasped,
that you already had your dusty
hands consealing another new-improved
girl. So, standing in the second ring,
I summer saulted off the stand
to the floor. No glass will hold me now.

Vestigial Love

Fingerprints?
1111111111Smudge marks?
11111111111111111111111Love bites?
Let's try you fuckin' BEAT ME-
mashed this hurt past skin
until my mental bone broke.
Your presence pounded worse than
migranes against my brick head.
H(e'll)
A(utomate)
T(he)
E(nd.)
is comfort medication to
keep me from b1u1c1n1111f 1the walls
111111111111111111111o
1111111111111o1n1i1g111f
'n' drinking down your toxic disposition.
Baby, I love you
but this,

1111111this hurts.

Suddenly we don't play games
because your manual is for surgery.
No, no baby, put down the fuckin' scapal.
I'm not fucked up.
I'm just fine.
I was relased;
doctors, they had the time
to diagnose what you think's wrong,
but all they read were your
trademarks on my arms.
I'M FUCKIN' SORRY, BABY!
I'm not your1111111111111111perfectLILGIRL.
And I don't wanna be.
I'm not a dress-up doll.
Go play in traffiic,
I here that's fun to dodge
[Better than the bat
you chased me with. Oh, wait!
We were playing ball.].
Yeah, you heard me,
we'll play hide-n-seek;
I'll disappear, 'n' we'll see
if you'll ever find me

Birds


Ring 'round the rosies,
pocket full of poises,
ashes, ashes,
I think, I think I
was struck down and
forgot my place among
the mortal men.
Why'd you allow me to
believe I could rise above
the occasion flittering
about the Slyph Cities?

Blinded by the lighted
Tower of Babel, my
eyes refuse to understand
your parting lips. [Maybe
a penny for your thoughts
was too much to ask for.]
You fried my nervous
system sparking neurons
in the wrong directions giving
off this euphoric belief.
DAMN IT!
I could of flown through
your veins like oxygen.
My wings cutting down
calories (can't let you
get fat off my sweetness),
but instead I was released;
falling to the floor bloated,
dizzy from the coastering ride.

Was I so high that I had
to land so low? Watching
the birds shifting though
the clouds I realized that
your God Complex just couldn't
take me under it's wing.
You're a solo ride, unfit to
make the lovey-dovey journey.





It's All Babel


They said you were a nickel a million
or something like that.
Well I thought you were some pair
to this romance-high writer
lost in 50's films. I couldn't
have busted your seams that bad.

I remember driving a P.O.S.
where you attempted song with
flawed poetic rip offs
in monotone keys. You skipped
parts unknown
mimicking a duet with silence.
After smoke cleared,
my mind let something snake past
dressing my face in a cheesy grin.
"Baby, when I get the money,
you'll be getting lessons."

>>>> [I thought that before
>>>> in a dreamland reality.
>>>> More like last months fucked up trip,
>>>> the wind mocks with
>>>> an angelic chorus in behind
>>>> singing of that denied land.]
>>>> But that is past
>>>> and you, baby, are future addiction.

Why don't you just
(build a tower
of your flatened ego
so I can hear how my giggles
float out fallen walls) stay a little longer.
Maybe tomorrow I'll withstand
one sober moment with you.
We'll take that stingless bass
for another ride
and this time the music's on me,
just like it use to be.

They said I was a dandelion
in a field of weed(s),
but aren't those the same thing?
You corrected it humming I was a rose.
Then my drugged escape repotted me.
(Drive back and pick me out again.)

Will You Be My Doctor On Call?


I'll cry sanity tomorrow
when you successfully de-puzzle
the image giggling at you
in the mirror during that pick-me-up
call. Scream and louder and I'll lose
my less than well-handled grasp
on your mind's caricature
of myself. Crazy,
but in love [no, maybe
I just love lonely
and you think it's crazy.]
with the person you raped
of personality a year later.

I'll cry sanity to this new, improved
you against the dial tone 'til I'm
piled up and brought home.
It's only slightly less appetizing
and more along a hit and run-off
my leftover system -- now morphined
by the misconception that everything
has blueprints with a certain way
to function. (But you switched
yours out!) I still feel your brick wall
smashing in the hesitancy of you.
[I really did lose it to you!]
No wonder doctors question
the capacity of my mind to adjust
to your changing neuron flows.
Your brain frequency's partying,
stopping, doubling, restarting --
a fun house doesn't need hallucinations.
Stay two steps behind causes
vomiting.

And you thought I'd cry sanity
after you so aptly spun lies
cutting off poignant lapses;
even the CAT scan printed mental error:
void of stability,
mentality,
plausibility,
anything-ility
My prescriptions read --
trick him into taking so he'll stop stepping
in circles and maybe donate himself
to your cause. Then equilibrium will
settle down for the night.
Baby, I just want to come home!

Then I'll cry sanity in hope of remembering
where the ribbon fell so I can replace
my head and have you sleep with me.
No, don't feather dust my feet
with rope ends. This jacket's
not that kind of bondage so just lay
with me in the gentle trials of the straps;
the cold buckles against your back.
Me, rocking in an 8-timed flow
of your breathing metronome
tick-toking away what's left
of me regressing to the
stillborn baby in
a cradle.

Ghost-cold; night-lighted in the back
of your mind [mine cannot hold this];
you're gone again twirling punned romance
leaping for another four-posted bed.
I'll wash the hospital sheets when you
get home waiting for another visit
comatose with anticipation of which piece
you'll have removed next. Then you can
cry sanity if there be a morrow for you.