There’s nothing I remember, so I shall invent a life.
It all starts with a dichotomy. Speech, lack of speech.
Logos, preceded by the lack thereof.
A heartbeat, maybe, echoing to form a vowel.
And then a sigh, with inexplicably twisted tongue.
“I”…
I…
I’ll tell you. Raising a finger from my desk.
I’ll tell you how it began. I was in the dark, and decided I had had enough of it.
I flipped on a lamp at my side and began to write.
There weren’t any words yet, but there were symbols for sounds, and that was close enough for now.
I pressed enter, and the message flew to a compatriot.
Or an enemy. This flush dichotomy of forms abounds!
I hold my breath and wait.
Waiting, for a response.
Waiting, to imagine words I’ll never hear.
And the light hums.
I…
What is it, inside that filament
which speaks?
What is every minute morsel of matter telling me about my beginning?
I’m not sure I want to read it, when my phone shakes.
But that’s what that behavior dictates.
A laugh, a cold analysis, a response.
This could go on indefinitely.
I don’t even know where you are in the world.
I’ll never see you.
I think of a more advanced dichotomy, I read about.
It was attributed to Freud.
A baby masters the objective universe through two utterances
in a ball game.
Fort… gone.
Da… there.
For now, these words are silent, but if I were in a crib
You would be the breast I long to devour,
The meaning I would choose to fill my mouth with
Muffled exclamations:
DADADADADADADA!
And I cry. But I don’t know what this all means to you.
Because I haven’t told you with electronic signs.
I’m not sure the word “to cry” carries any meaning.
It just stands in for fear.
Fear of being alone in the world, with the dark,
And no logos.
But I could go on for days reading walls of text on webpages developed by people
who have long since died.
I can summon the likeness of every celebrity onto a screen
rubbing my ***** while I look at them.
I can hear the music—
I CAN HEAR THE MUSIC—
Of all the world, vibrating. Rhythms contracting, like vulvas after birth.
And the silky, black discharge is this emotion in my brain after I think of you.
I created you with my words.
I illuminated my world with the thought of you.
And now I have nothing to say to the creature I created.
I am in horror before you.
Fort, fort, fort, away!
You have left me, without ever being present.
You were here, you were gone, I had no control.
And when I weep, the fear drowns the sun’s luminescence
The clouds hide the sky
The air sculpts my lungs
With emptiness
after words have come out.

Everything is wrong about, not in sync, so dysfunctional, your hair reeks of pink
From the tips of your silly red shoes, to the very top of your dry, dreary head
I can't stand you, even the sight of you
Your beady hazel eyes that sink of flatness and superficiality
Only glinting when you mock humans galore,
Your voice needs to be beaten, your mouth sewn shut sore.
I can't stand you, even the sight of you
Your pathetic frame of 5'11'', acting as though you're a 6 foot beast
You have nothing to use to please.
I've seen your ****, there's not much there, besides pudgy ***** hair.
Pink little head and useless *******, desiring to stick it wherever
But never thinking about actions.
Silly, unnerving, a warped mind.
Have you ever looked in the mirror?
I may not be perfect and there may be more to eyes and spies,
But the way you speak forms a body so vapid and impure,
It surprises me you even think you're justified for little less, forget about more.
Vapid, shallow
Eyes carved by doughnuts and ******* sites
You want double Ds and hairless vulvas,
Aren't you reaching?
Pathetic.

I'm a woodpecker
And a still life
Barbed tongue goes
BRAAAP BRAAAAP
Between legs and
Between that place of inhibition and...
Want
I'm a terrorist of young girls hearts:
Machine gun rattatatta  against ventricles and vulvas
I'm the things that go boom in the night
BOOM BOOM BOOM
Just loud enough to Muffle the sobbing
Like an explosion, I gather the local news and bored housewives
But the noise leaves a vacuum
I'm the woodpecker

i know nothing of you

but that you are anthropological
when you are inside unexplored diversities
that are not plums or peaches,
that you are a white siren with red nails  
and that you want my knickers
sent enveloped, and sealed with
plastic cobalt kisses.


i know nothing of you

but that when they say poets are not in season;  
you pluck me out lime-coloured and prematured
and tell me to ripen beside your afternoon tea
because you demand embryonic words
and pretty phrases that will keep you
animated and high.


you make me know not-

ions are unmarried clouds pregnant with ink;
yours are metabolic and invisible,
injecting sugar into my fallopian tubes.
you press your mouth against my sternum
and interweave your tongue with my heart,

                                                      we mould into a double helix.


you make us into nothing

but a genetically mutated flower
with two vulvas, collapsed between two pages
of a book that a ***** slapper would read
in the rain at two ams in between
****** acts and neon sunsets.

Excuse my bliss-trance
I've been seduced by the fragrant floral pheromones flooding the air,
The lilac-laced wind has wrapped my lips in splendor and
Left my eyes heavy lidded hazy
Enraptured gazing at the velvet vulvas of lilies.
The blossoming world casts it's spell of subtle sensuality
And I am left stunned in a stupor,
Heart oozing out of my orifices,
Falling in love with everything I see
Simply because it exists.
I'll caress every snapdragon to uncover it's mysterious caverns,
Stretch to kiss the slender necks of tulips,
And weave violets into my crown so our essences intertwine.
My collarbone is blushing crimson
And my head is drained of reason -
Tis the season for romantic abandon.

No Pictures Taken
I see the pictures sent to me on my Facebook page of places
I have not seen yet in countries I have been to as a ******
who join the sea out of poverty at home and offered
an education no importance and factory pipes spewing smoke
smelling of sardines and cod liver oil
I recall Costa Rica a small town in a bay the jungle appeared
near and lush ready to hide the town should be human activities
stop. And the cockerel crewed as I got up from Maria's trafficked
bed running down a winding road to the docks and on my ship to
the routine work with sleep -walkers who like me and only saw
the beauty of the land in glimpses of dreams a Paradise lost.
Saddening, there were never any lazy days to walk around and
to take pictures we were not tourists.
Part Two:
Alone in a beautiful park and felt like the eternal wandering Jew
hoping to be accepted by the locals. There was never any time to
know anyone;  guiltily I found my way back to the bars, the music,
the Marias willing vulvas' oily route; ***& coke sleep in a woman’s
arms inhale her scent another Paradise lost before the **** crewed.  
I look at the pictures of contentment, actors on a stage of life playing
happy to play the tragic roles they need a bit more experience.

On Modern Art

Art is in the eye of the beholder,
Modern art is especially troubling,
Since when anything goes, nothing matters,
When everyone's an artist, art is dead.

Splotches on paper art? Yes if you wish,
And so are vulvas rendered in a dish,
Mother of God submerged in dung and ****,
Men urinating in men's mouths is bliss.

Who are the arbiters of this grand farce?
Why art critics, of course, for they know best,
And we, the unwashed masses, must all yield,
Our sense to what their wisdom will reveal.

Filtered through their ego art is revealed,
Through platitudes delivered with great zeal.


Redemption

Even in lost souls,
Embers of goodness remain,
waiting to be stoked.

With a gentle nudge,
Our better natures can rise,
Purified, renewed.

We can save ourselves,
Make amends for our mistakes,
Choose a wiser path.


The two poems above are inspired by two short stories from my Echoes of the Mind's Eye collection.

la·bi·a
ˈlābēə/ noun
  plural noun: *****
1.       ANATOMY         the inner and outer folds of the *****,
at either side of the ******.
2. [                         ] plural form of labium.
la·bi·um
ˈlābēəm/noun/                plural noun: *****
1. [                                 ] ENTOMOLOGY
a fused mouth       part that forms the floor
of the mouth of an insect.
2.          BOTANY
the lower lip                    of the flower of a plant of the mint family.
late 16th century (in the general sense ‘lip,
liplike structure’): from Latin, ‘lip’;            related to labrum.
***** to    la·brum
ˈlābrəm,ˈlabrəm/                                          ZOOLOGY
noun: labrum; plural noun: labra
a structure corresponding to a lip,
       especially                   the upper border of the mouth
          parts of a                 crustacean or insect.
early 18th century: from   Latin, literally ‘lip’;
related to labium.                 ****·o·ris ˈklidərəs/noun: *******;
                                        plural noun: clitorises
                                        a small sensitive    & erectile
       part of the female genitals
at the anterior    end of the *****;
early 17th century: modern Latin,
                         [vul·vaˈvəlvə/
                          ANATOMY
noun: *****; plural noun: vulvas
the female external genitals.
ZOOLOGY     the external opening of the ******
or reproductive             tract in a female mammal
or nematode. late Middle English:
from Latin, literally ‘womb.’
          from Greek kleitoris

u begin w/      ur ****
& end in ur  coccyx

The coccyx             is a triangular
arrangement           of bone that
makes up the          very bottom
portion of the          spine below
the sacrum.            It represents a
vestigial tail,         hence the
common term        tailbone.