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I've Forgotten Flowers

 

Scents used to tickle the nerves
residing in this nasal cavity;
now, it seems that all that lives there
is a cavity, dulled to the splendor
of  Flora’s careful  handiwork,
her scratch ‘n’ sniff tapestry
swept away by the winds of Favonius.
The marriage of fragrance to my sensory
has long since been annulled by a
higher power—
higher functions deeming petals too
delicate to endure the affront
of a hard logical approach,
too yielding to stand against
the rigid structures that have
usurped their former reign.
Even with pistols, they could not
hold up a shadow of a thought
or a makeshift memory.
They’ve been lost to barrenness
of what my world has become,
a reflection of my mindscape
and the harshness it has adapted.

I’ve forgotten flowers
and now struggle to weave them
into the braids of my words.

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#42

As the wheel of time
   grinds compliments to dust
   Stand under the gaze of the setting sun
       and its champagne gold breath
     Celebrate this party of a life
     in all its brief flashes of vigour
  and live a drenched laughing life
                 as clouds roll by

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Polythene Ham

Well you should see Polythene Ham
It’s so good-looking when it’s smothered in jam
Well you should try it in gravy it’ll drive your taste buds crazy
Yes you should see Polythene Ham
Yeah, yeah, yeah

Get a dose of it in slices and strips
It sizzle-frizzles when it’s juicy it drips
Well it’s the kind of ham that makes the “News of the Pan”
Yes you could say it tastes the best served with chips
Yeah, yeah, yeah

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And the ghosts come marching in

Lately, there has been an influx
to the number of times
I have thought about you
in between days--

even at a more crucial time
when I try to forget
the little things that
made me write
pseudo-vignettes before.

        I. Silence was her weapon;
           one that broke my armor
           into shattered steel.

       II. And I am no smith.
     
      III.I am but a battered man.

      IV. Just a battered man.

Memory must be
a powerful thing--
to make your remember
without you noticing
it open the backdoor

letting the ghosts march in;
a number I am helplessly part of.

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she was made up of stolen words
words meant for other girls
other more beautiful girls, more popular girls
girls that had guys write for them
about them
she would read those words
all of them
and she would dream
and she would fantasize 
she would memorize
the way they rhymed or didn’t
or the way they sounded
eventually she would become these words
she would be lovely as a summers day
more beautiful than a butterflies wings
she would flow
she would rhyme
or not
one day she would be noticed
and loved
and others would read her like a book
a book they couldn’t put down
one day she would be a…
poem
she would be poetry
words that everyone read

but she would know better still

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LSD MICKEY D's

Picture yourself in a car in a drive-thru 
With marvelous menus and nice employees
Somebody calls you, you answer quite creepily 
A girl with eyes made out of cheese

Frightening French fries of yellow and green
Towering over your head
Look for the girl with the bun in her eyes
And she’s gone

Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Aaaaaahhhhh…

Follow her down to a clown by a table
Where people eat burgers of unbelievable size
Everyone cries as you jump in the bounce house
That throws you incredibly high

Greasy napkins appear on the floor
Waiting to wipe crumbs away
Sit on dirty chairs with your face in the food
And you’re gone

Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Aaaaaahhhhh…

Picture yourself in a bun in a trashcan
With plastic sporks and leftover Chinese 
Suddenly someone is there at the dumpster
The girl with eyes made out of cheese

Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Aaaaaahhhhh…

Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Aaaaaahhhhh…

Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Lucy in the fry with diamonds
Lucy in the fry with diamonds

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the best poetry is written at night
by lone candles light
with lovers who are never under the covers
of our beds 
but instead...with someone new
leaving us with nothing left to do 
but to write 
by this single solitary light
in this lonely room with a view
of the champion companion
the moon
our patron saint of broken and bent hearts
of so many failed starts
the best poetry is written at night
with flame a flicker
burning the wax much quicker 
than you thought possible
until reaching the end of the wick
slowly drawing it's last breath
a poet reflects
asking politely of the flame
a refrain
"please give me a little more time
to finish this last rhyme
before you leave me too
and force me to find love anew"
the best poetry is written at night
you know

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i will carry you

i will carry you
when you cannot gather
your feet under you,
i will carry you.

i will carry you
when your steps seem to falter
and your stride fails,
i will carry you.

i will carry you
when life becomes too much
and you lose your center,
i will carry you.

i will carry you
when you face any mountain
and through the dark of every valley,
i will carry you.

i will carry you
this i forever promise
and hereby vow to be true,
i will carry you.


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My burger brain is fried
from writing super-sized poetry
with onions on the side,
makin' me cry, makin' me spill ink
from my masked drunken eye.
As cool as a Kiddie Cone
and as hot as a Big Mac,
with a mind as jam-packed 
as a midnight
sweet chili chicken McWrap.
Chewing words, spewing writing
that goes unheard.
Bones grilled, art has been killed,
my heart is empty
but (at least) my stomach
has been filled.