A poster poem

#  #  #Finally here#  #  #

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             Depression!!

         Venue  A place you feel out of,not of choosing
         Time    Not of choosing,Running out of
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#       Price Appendant (Not per person)

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     Biggest attractions "Revaluation","Distancing oneself from being summed","the count from two to one"...
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#   Free entry tickets(for conventional abidance workers)-a 'deemed fit' organization initiative*
           
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                                                                                        *Terms and Conditions apply(not exclusively)

                                                                                          A Deep Sensible Pit production

                Sponsored By : "Life", "Love","Despair,"Death"

Grandma

I see the dark places between your hands when they come together
and can't,and i seem to remember my whole life

Is it not the right time to wax the sky and make your gaze seem bigger?

Nudge the clouds and let us give her the stage
For she wrote stories off them,about them
as they seem to blink back

I do not trust the flowers by your bed,if they may know you
I do trust your nails,and i trust the white hair
on your neck

I have taken to opinions

Would you refuse unrequited love or has this sailor pretty much sunk to know..
There is no child in your untidiness,may be not even in the unwavering
belief that good will come to things,unreasonable

like my distance

O Grandma what are those lines on your face, i haven't seen before

The new Age of lost Poetry

Before the sounds gnash together
of the creative drum..
the humdum, the hums and then the dums..
believe in that rhythm,
Do not say or tell about the new undefined prolixity
because time has been witness to greatness,
and we might be the only victims..

The Drowning Dog-Francisco Goya

                                                   "The Drowning Dog" by Francisco Goya

Painted directly onto one of the walls of his house "The Dog" is one of many dark paintings by Spanish Artist Francisco Goya.The art now sits in the Museo del Prado,Madrid.A link to the online gallery is here

Off chains
turning inside the sadness
of walls staring at each
other,across an alley
where the language mute ,
and the listeners too far
from a drowning dog,
and the sea that pets him to sleep

The mute history of catharsis

A catacomb like bar
Outside

     a man derived
   from many burdens,
applied to counting deficits
     in unfamiliar lives,
  marks men on their necks
   as They drop out
 bowing to the displeasure
    of light,
 the glowing bosoms
  of women of their histories
 the streak of dawn
    their inevitable rescues
 penultimate to their fall,their leaps
 honest confessions
        the nods of heaven
  the untitled, the unnamed
      all stones they bled upon
    

     a fissure between
 their memories,promising
       and waiting for them to fall back in,
      again

Cuckoo

The woods bundle under
my pillow as an orange sun
shafts from between
colossal branches that are now,undeniable
i sing my appraisal to the twig
upon who's arm the cuckoo rests,
not now,as i wait for him
and hear the forest repeat after me..

Bukowski's New Animals

i have grown tired of the stupid cat,
because i forget all about her
of the sheets of paper that keep flying off the desk
i don't even sit at any more,
The dog's chin touches mine
in a manner and at a time i can never remember
O how i wish there were bottles dry enough to drop your head in,
Without the throat and with my genitals hanging outside my underwear
all cold and too proud of their audacity
I howl to the sky every night,standing on a hill of dirt
it took me years to accumulate
The dog waits for fingers to be pointed up
His lazy ass not worth kicking at unlike mine,i think
i wonder if they agree with me on anything
except barking at the people in the streets below
and being subtle when you can't be smart..Aaahh screw that...and screw you!!