Only when the last tree
Has been cut down
And the last river
Has dried to a trickle
Will man finally realise
That we cannot eat money
And reciting old proverb
Makes you sound like a twat
-Banksy

How To Greet Death

Greet death
With your hands in your pockets,
Slouched back, cool,
Collected, and confident.
Wear a hit of a grin
And a dash of cologne.
Say What took you so long?
Say You're behind the times, man.
Say Dead is the new black.
Coffin is the new condo.
Pallor is the new tan.
La vida muerta.

Greet death
With a fistful of black-eyed susans,
Butterflies in your stomach,
And two tickets to tomorrow's sunrise.
Wear your father's cufflinks
And your mother's wedding ring.
Say, Kiss me, kiss me.
Say But wait until the sun comes up.
Just until daybreak.
I want to show you something.
Hasta le muerte, te amo.

Greet death
With a knife at your own neck,
Chin up, throat bared,
Cardiac in overdrive.
Wear nothing.
Wear nothing.
Say Bring it on motherfucker!
Say Only on my terms.
Say nothing
And open your throat.
And bleed to completion
El final, el final, el final.


-Gabriel Gadfly

How To Watch Your Brother Die
For Carl Morse

When the call comes, be calm.
Say to your wife, "My brother is dying. I have to fly
to California."
try not to be shocked that he already looks like
a cadaver.
Say to the young man sitting by your brother's side,
"I'm his brother."
Try not to be shocked when the young man says,
"I'm his lover. Thanks for coming."

Listen to the doctor with a steel face on.
Sign the necessary forms.
Tell the doctor you will take care of everything.
Wonder why doctors are so remote.

Watch the lover's eyes as they stare into
your brother's eyes as they stare into
space.
Wonder what they see there.
Remember the time he was jealous and
opened your eyebrow with a sharp stick.
Forgive him out loud
even if he can't
understand you.
Realize the scar will be
all that's left of him.

Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria
say to the lover, "You're an extremely good-looking
young man."
Hear him say,
"I never thought I was good enough looking to
deserve your brother."

Watch the tears well up in his eyes. Say,
"I'm sorry. I don't know what it means to be
the lover of another man."
Hear him say,
"Its just like a wife, only the commitment is
deeper because the odds against you are so much
greater."
Say nothing, but
take his hand like a brother's.

Drive to Mexico for unproven drugs that might
help him live longer.
Explain what they are to the border guard.
Fill with rage when he informs you,
"You can't bring those across."
Begin to grow loud.
Feel the lover's hand on your arm
restraining you. See in the guard's eye
how much a man can hate another man.
Say to the lover, "How can you stand it?"
Hear him say, "You get used to it."
Think of one of your children getting used to
another man's hatred.

Call your wife on the telephone. Tell her,
"He hasn't much time.
I'll be home soon." Before you hang up say,
"How could anyone's commitment be deeper than
a husband and a wife?" Hear her say,
"Please. I don't want to know all the details."

When he slips into an irrevocable coma,
hold his lover in your arms while he sobs,
no longer strong. Wonder how much longer
you will be able to be strong.
Feel how it feels to hold a man in your arms
whose arms are used to holding men.
Offer God anything to bring your brother back.
Know you have nothing God could possible want.
Curse God, but do not
abandon Him.

Stare at the face of the funeral director
when he tells you he will not
embalm the body for fear of
contamination. Let him see in your eyes
how much a man can hate another man.

Stand beside a casket covered in flowers,
white flowers. Say,
"thank you for coming," to each of seven hundred men
who file past in tears, some of them
holding hands. Know that your brother's life
was not what you imagined. Overhear two
mourners say, "I wonder who'll be next?" and
"I don't care anymore,
as long as it isn't you."

Arrange to take an early flight home.
His lover will drive you to the airport.
When your flight is announced say,
awkwardly, "If I can do anything, please
let me know." Do not flinch when he says,
"Forgive yourself for not wanting to know him
after he told you. He did."
Stop and let it soak in. Say,
"He forgave me, or he knew himself?"
"Both," the lover will say, not knowing what else
to do. Hold him like a brother while he
kisses you on the cheek. Think that
you haven't been kissed by a man since
your father died. Think,
"This is no moment to be strong."

Fly first class and drink Scotch. Stroke
your split eyebrow with a finger and
think of your brother alive. Smile
at the memory and think
how your children will feel in your arms
warm and friendly and without challenge.

Michael Lassell

Visions of Your Body

In the dimly lit room
I had a brief glimpse of bliss:
sight of your naked body
like a god reclining.
That was all.

Quite unaware
you got up to get your clothes

just naturally
while I shuddered
like the earth split open by lightening.

-Daisy Zamora

The Star

Twinkle, Twinkle, little star,
How I wonder what you are,
Up above the world so high
Like a diamond in the sky.

When the blazing sun is set,
And the grass with dew is wet,
Then you show your little light,
Twinkle, twinkle, all the night.

Then the traveler in the dark
Thanks you fro your tiny spark,
He could not see where to go
If you did not twinkle so.

In the dark blue sky you keep,
And often through my curtains peep,
For you never shut your eye
Till the sun is in the sky.

As your bright and tiny spark
Lights the traveler in the dark,
Though I know not what you are,
Twinkle, twinkle, little star.

-Jane Taylor

Life Story

After you've been to bed together for the first time,
without the advantage or disadvantage of any prior acquaintance,
the other party very often says to you,
Tell me about yourself, I want to know all about you,
what's your story? And you think maybe they really and truly do

sincerely want to know your life story, and so you light up
a cigarette and begin to tell it to them, the two of you
lying together in completely relaxed positions
like a pair of rag dolls a bored child dropped on a bed.

You tell them your story, or as much of your story
as time or a fair degree of prudence allows, and they say,
Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,
each time a little more faintly, until the oh
is just an audible breath, and then of course

there's some interruption. Slow room service comes up
with a bowl of melting ice cubes, or one of you rises to pee
and gaze at himself with mild astonishment in the bathroom mirror.
And then, the first thing you know, before you've had time
to pick up where you left off with your enthralling life story,
they're telling you their life story, exactly as they'd intended to all along,

and you're saying, Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,
each time a little more faintly, the vowel at last becoming
no more than an audible sigh,
as the elevator, halfway down the corridor and a turn to the left,
draws one last, long, deep breath of exhaustion
and stops breathing forever. Then?

Well, one of you falls asleep
and the other one does likewise with a lighted cigarette in his mouth,
and that's how people burn to death in hotel rooms.

-Tennessee Williams

1 am

she is the kind of shaken
that makes me feel perfect
pale and empty like the frames of barns
about to be torn down
but the girl isn't old
she bleeds green sapling branches
beautifully disheveled and harmfully ignorant
to how cold the winter will be

she drinks bottles of wine like excuses
and cries at stupid movies
she is good at getting what she wants
better at getting what she doesn't
fueled off chaos and lonely in silence
so she makes every blinking eyelash a collision

the first day we met
she kissed me drunkenly like high school
I couldn't taste it then
but her chest is a hallway
her head is detention
there is something burning behind her eyes
but her pupils sit like nicotine filters

don't give her matches
she will light them
don't give her sweat
she will drink it

she will break you
left alone, she will shatter your teacups
and ash on your love seats
sit shotgun as you drive on her guilt trip
switch faces like Shakespeare masks
she will hang up
stare dirty and
laugh crazy

she will wake you in the middle of moonlight
steal you from dreams of yellow leaves and iridescence
holding her mistakes like paintbrushes
as the blood drips solar systems on our kitchen tile
she will smile like empty clock face
laugh like the bottom of vodka bottles
apologize for over shooting 11 stitches

no, you cannot have a cigarette

I wish I was the one with the needle and thread
sewing with insurance paid fingers her miscalculation
I would hem her hands over themselves
so she would know how it felt to be helpless
embroider the word consequences into her forearm

she wears manipulation lipstick
thinks because she is a psych major
she can sweet talk the doctors

but girl, right now
there is someone being paid
to check up on you hourly
so take the attention
take the white walls ans the white linens
take being lonely and never alone
take being sober in a hospital ward

I cannot carry you
my head is heavy enough

this world is going to lose you
around and around in traffic circles
so take each person as a roadmap
we are not pit stops or bathroom breaks
everyday your faith is going to dare
your heart to stop beating
trick your eyes into crossing
reality is going to mug you in the middle of the street
steal back what you think the world owes you

please stop saying you're sorry
responsibility will come easily
the hard part is keeping it
owning it
like your finger prints on the bottle
and the blood stains on the blanket

no, I'm not laughing
no, this isn't funny
your ribcage is a harness
if you let it
life will hang you
we cannot catch you
we can barely stand to
watch you fall

-Sierra DeMulder

There Are Hundreds Of Paths Up The Mountain

There are hundreds of paths up the mountain,
all leading in the same direction,
so it doesn't matter which path you take.
The only one wasting time is the one
who runs around and around the mountain,
telling everyone that his or her path is wrong.

Hindu teaching

O cosmic Birther of all radiance and vibration!
Soften the ground of our being and
carve out a space within us where
Your Presence can abide.
Fill us with your creativity so that we
may be empowered to bear the fruit
of your mission.
Let each of our actions bear fruit in
accordance with our desire.
Endow us with the wisdom to produce
and share what each being needs to grow and flourish.
Untie the tangled threads of destiny that
bind us, as we release others from the
entanglement of past mistakes.
Do not let us be seduced by that which would
divert us from our true purpose, but illuminate
the opportunities of the present moment.
For you are the round and the fruitful vision,
the birth-power and fulfillment,
as all is gathered and made whole once again.

-The Lords Prayer translated from Aramaic into English, rather than from Aramaic to Greek to Latin to English

A Little Love Poem

Someone who hates scrabble.

Someone who sleeps on her back near an open window in winter, her breath rolling like a river into night.

Someone who wants me to wake her in the morning by reading ee cummings' love poems, giving a small candle-flicker of a smile just before opening her eyes.

Someone who appreciates the architecture of churches, but refuses to step inside.

Someone who has hands fit to hold hurt sparrows and robins.

Someone who threw out an her Alice Cooper records when she found out he loves to golf.

Someone who would swerve a new car into the ditch to avoid a frog crossing the road.

Someone who would tattoo my name on her arm in writing the same colour as her skin, so it would appear slowly from nowhere when she suntanned, people thinking her blood was telling secrets to the world of its own accord.

Someone who learned Spanish to read Marquez, or Lorca, or Neruda.

Someone whose hips whisper their own stories of the serpent and the garden of Eden.

Someone who bites the back of my neck like a leopardess carrying her kitten to safety.

Someone who'll make me wait for her to come out of the shower.

Someone whose smallest movements amaze me: her hair falling over her eyes, the soft swell of her hips when she ties down, a deep sigh when she sleeps.

Someone who maps every ticklish part of my body and then uses her knowledge strictly for evil.

Someone who paints our bodies black and makes love with me under the stars.

Someone who burns through my chest like that first shot of scotch.

Someone whose tongue, if we're kept apart too long, would nervously trace my face into the roof of her mouth.

Someone who practises her signature with her wrong hand, in case of accidents or a sudden arrest.

Someone whose fingrnails smell faintly of her hair.

Someone who reminds me of the soft tickle of fog.

Someone who would rush outside in the middle of the night, setting a spider onto the lawn, never admitting it's because she hates rain.

Someone who understands the unforgivable importance of ravens.

Someone wholl flicker into my lips with the ferocity of a dragonfly.

Someone who will open, thick, pungent and vital, like a Mapplethorpe flower.

Someone who has searched for me like a near-sighted woman groping for her glasses, stubbing her toes and swearing in Yiddish.

Someone who would understand why Steve and Dave and Paul and I sat in a bar staring at the mirror behind us for twenty minutes because somebody had asked what would happen if you looked at yourself in a mirror using a pair of binoculars unti1 we had to admit the question was too big for us, and we turned back to the safe optics of the beer bottle.

Someone who would just happen to cut my wrist shortly after reading Ondaatje's "The Time Around Scars. "

Someone who'll stare softly but straight at me, smiling reassuringly when I tell her how my 73 year old Medieval lit prof looked up from Chaucer, stared blankly over the class's heads and said that even the happiest marriage will end in death.

Someone who understands the efficiency inherent in suicide.

Someone who knows that love can be the thickest slice of hell we’ll ever taste.

Someone who would dance with me by the sides of highways.

-Andy Weaver

Light is more important than the lantern,
The poem more important than the notebook,
And the kiss more important than the lips.

My letters to you
Are greater and more important than both of us.
They are the only documents
Where people will discover
Your beauty
And my madness.

-Nizar Qabbani

Variations on the Word Sleep

By Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its water sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that will row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.

The Happy Virus

I caught the happy virus last night

When I was out singing beneath the stars.

It is remarkably contagious -

So kiss me.

-Hafiz

Too lazy to be ambitious,
I let the world take care of itself.
Ten days' worth of rice in my bag;
a bundle of twigs by the fireplace.
Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment?
Listening to the night rain on my roof,
I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out.

-- Ryokan

Blessings

Occur.
Some days I find myself
putting my foot in
the same stream twice;
leading a horse to water
and making him drink.
I have a clue.
I can see the forest
for the trees

All around me people
are making silk purses
out of sows' ears,
getting blood from turnips,
building Rome in a day.
There's a business
like show business.
There's something new
under the sun.

Some days misery
no longer loves company;
it puts itself out os its.
There's rest for the weary.
There's turning back.
There are guarentees.
I can be serious.
I can mean that.
You can quite
put your finger on it.

Some days I know
I am long for this world.
I can go home again.
And when I go
I can
take it with me.

-Ronald Wallace

Nocturn

Night comes, an angel stands
Measuring out the time of stars,
Still are the winds, and still the hours.

It would be peace to lie
Still in the still hours at the angel's feet,
Upon a star hung in a starry sky,
But hearts another measure beat.

Each body, wingless as it lies,
Sends out its butterfly of night
With delicate wings and jewelled eyes.

And some upon day's shores are cast,
And some in darkness lost
In waves beyond the world, where float
Somewhere the islands of the blest.

-- Kathleen Raine

im not a poet, but a complete lack of paints in the vacinity drove me to write this last night. I guess this concludes another interesting year...

Dusk*
Her night soft faded to his day
slipped away
barefoot through rainblue streetlight
shy- an indigo retreat
a forgotten lullaby

She merged with his horizon
-the perfect hiding place
whispered to a hundred, but nobody gave
chase. -a jaded ember gaze
In congealing honey haze

Her head she soothed in midnight
mud- in snowmelt earth she lay
moonsoup puddles still reflect
reflections of the day

*We are jigsaw puzzle pieces all floating out in the vacuum, and its not enough that in this 6.3 billion piece puzzle there are only 4, 3 or maybe 2 (if you are a corner piece) other pieces that can fill your gaps... and its not enough that you mabye maybe bump into that piece. The time the place the angle- all must be aligned before you can even touch edges, see if your gaps fill theirs... We will never see what the big picture is; there is no box cover to peek at...

--Faye Faye

Go away from my window,
Leave at your own chosen speed.
I'm not the one you want, babe,
I'm not the one you need.
You say you're lookin' for someone
Never weak but always strong,
To protect you and defend you
Whether you are right or wrong,
Someone to open each and every door.
Go lightly from the ledge, babe,
Go lightly on the ground.
I'm not the one you want, babe,
I will only let you down.
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who will promise never to part,
Someone to close his eyes for you,
Someone to close his heart,
Someone who will die for you and more.
Go melt back into the night, babe,
Everything inside is made of stone.
There's nothing in here moving
And anyway I'm not alone.
You say you're looking for someone
Who'll pick you up each time you fall,
To gather flowers constantly
And to come each time you call,
A lover for your life and nothing more,
But it ain't me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe,
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe.
-[I have just tricked you into reading] a song by Bob Dylan

Old skin wrinkeled with days of pain and plain labour, her hands have almost begun to look like cooking gloves and her face has crackled away with the heat of ironing boards and greasy ovens, her back is as crooked as a question mark which sits ontop of her head every day , day by day, its obsession leads her to not even think about letting it sit ontop of the tip of her tongue, her kitchen knife and eyes don’t even look at eachother anymore while in use. Her whole purpose is to make her loved ones lives a small speck better, with clean clothes, tidy rooms, warm dinners. Perfect family life, everything is automatic, even the emotion, theyre kisses are like garbage bins you haveto empty out for the purpose of them being full. Theyre hugs are like putting a coat on before you go outside because its raining. Her needs don’t exist, her cries don’t have purpose, her dinner plate is the odd one out of the rest, her clock doesn’t ring in the morning, she never comes home frustrated to talk about people she hates, her closet has fancy clothes she never wears, her coffe cup is held the most, her seat around the fireplace has a dent in it, her shoes are 10 years old and look new, no everything is a ok, nothing wrong , she having a perfect happy life, well every rose dies out at some point, which is why her vase fell and shattered into a million pieces, each one representing a time she has released salt water from her pearls,
she grabs her apren and tares it up into another million pieces, she brakes every piece of cutlery in her sight, she goes and wrips her prettiest dresses up, she goes and burns her face off with the iron, her hands bleeding from frustration now, she takes steps towards mother nature and begins to not think about life, bare footed on the grass, walking on splitters next to the river which she used to watch flow by when she was a child, no worried clockwork, happy with her life, she wants to feel how it must have been that river to be watched deadly flow by, so she lets go of everything and step by step lets the water lead herself into the stream, so her veins become tributaries and her eyes become water dropplettes, sick of her rerunning life, she lies within the river to let the water guide her, which goes always forward and never back, she is now a leaf held on the delicate skin of the water and her hair is seaweed in the liquid wind, she now holds a neverending smile going down that stream.

-A song by Slit Tongue

the city has a sister and the night time has a lover

This is what an indie kid would describe as existentialism
In reality, their only knowledge of the subject is their
shelf waster, "Nietzsche for Beginners"
which is really like those lame "the
essential" 2-disc CD compilations,
or that garage-sale video copy of that Jean-Luc
Godard film.. which one was it?
Assuming they read it was widely
considered as a hipster classic, it
was required viewing.. THAT and
it was about existential longing
and betrayal. Existentialism is
so deck, man.
somebody shoot me.
I am refusing to use my
talents to come up
with something that is
visually appealing PLUS
there is a picture of me
that leads one to believe
that which is not what is true.
The stars, the x's, the dark
livejournal backrounds
with the brightly lit
pictures of a city, or
perhaps a carnival. SO emo.
but ALAS! I am not emo!
I am providing you with a farce, a spoof!
so what would you call that? out of character?
the stars give it away. the red represents anger. the argyle
sweater just SCREAMES Weezer! and those glasses? OH!
Cat eyes? On a MALE? it's like he is freeing his long repressed
masculinity and letting it all out in one long Conor Oberstian scream!



it's whats on the inside that counts.

-circa the deviantART account mister-e