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Poems and Prose


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For you.


I plainly see you in gilded frames

Smiling, you look through my gaze.

As though I was a window pane

Through which you watch the rain.

Your eyes reveal an autumn day;

A wishing well; a roundalay.

A simple pool as deep as sky

By which my heart abides.

Well you know I hit the bottom

And I smoked my last cigarette.

And the times we spent are somehow gone.

Lord knows I have my regrets.

Each day I gaze at frames of you

Your smile, your beautiful eyes.

Each day a passage serpentine

Paved with honey and turpentine.

Well you know I hit the bottom

And I smoked my last cigarette.

And the times we spent are somehow gone.

Lord knows I have my regrets.

Awaken me beneath a laurel tree

Tomorrow beside the sea.

And share my mind, and be my wine

A draught of which will end my rain.

Well you know I hit the bottom

And I smoked my last cigarette.

And the times we spent are somehow gone.

Lord knows I have my regrets.


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For you (reprise):


You are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen in my life.

Yes ... you.

I would respect, worship and cherish you for the rest of your life ... just because of who you are now. Your beauty is the spark of the ever-burning sun. It will never fail.

As days pass and life changes; as youth tarnishes and experience jades ... the foundation of my love for you would never fade. Because it is love I feel when I look into your eyes ... eternal and unchanging.

You can have it all ... for free. Never bought ... only freely given to you as an offering to my deepest and most humble Love for you. Prasad, my Love ... prasad will never be expected from your Goddess hands. Your side-glance stare is your only command.

I ask for nothing in return ... only your permission to love you with every bend and turn ... as Time passes my withering body into the eternal fixture of God's own hand


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For you, sincerely:


Contemplation of my ailing disposition reveals to me a deficiency;

an ever-present, hollow panoply that dresses my sallow, soulless frame

when I painfully try to say your syllable-less name.

This deficiency plagued me since before my birth, surely;

I know this must be true because of the depth of my rue in the search I have made

since my infant day; crying out the name of she who never came.

My memory is old and the same; a faded film with missing frames,

crackling past my reeling mind on scratched and blurry sheets of diaphanous cellophane.

Yet your face is close and clear; I just cannot recall your name.

It does not ease my misery knowing that, though you once were, you may yet never be.

I love you so much that when I see the spark of your soul in another’s eyes,

despite the reason, rhyme or guise,

I fall in love with the part of her that’s you I see.

I desperately want you to know that I love you with a love so tender,

and have been trying to tell you for as long as I can remember;

and from this pining, winding, heartfelt, binding need

I wish so earnestly to be freed.


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I'm going to let you guys guess what these poems are actually about:

What if?

What if you shut up?

What if you let someone else talk?

What if we wrote fiction?

What if I could sit still?

What if I was engaged?

What if I was interested?

What if you cared?

What if there was someone other than you?

What if the entire class liked this class?

What if I hadn’t wasted my money?

What if I could make myself care?

Too bad I can’t make you care.

You, you, you!

You’d drive off the road while interviewing yourself in the car because you don’t realize that there is a WORLD that isn’t interested in you. You’d slam into the car in front of you and be surprised that they weren’t dropping everything to let the world revolve around you. Self-absorption is not interesting.

You’d slam into the car in front of you and be shocked that it didn’t get out of your way when it saw you coming.

You’d slam into the car in front of you and be offended that they didn’t know you well enough to understand who deeply involved in yourself you are to move out of the way.

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Roses are red, Violets are blue.

That's what they say, but it just isn't true.

Roses are red, and apples are too.

But violets are violet. Violets aren't blue.

An orange is orange, but Greenland's not green.

A pinky's not pink, so what does it mean?

To call something blue when it's not, you defile it.

But aww, what the heck? It's hard to rhyme "violet".

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this doesn't have a title

Fear not the god of the god fearing man

We torment the priest and slaughter the lamb

Cast out from the garden they wandered and wept

Hidden in mist we quietly slept

Cain slew his brother and Lillith awoke

She sought him out and to him she spoke

When she drank of him they hid from the sun

By the light of the moon the change had begun

The children of Adam who dared to judge Cain

We fell on them with numbers like rain

Like a tide we consumed them, an ocean of blood

Mankind's destruction they blame on a flood

We bound them in chains while they prayed to their god

Long ago in the emerald cities of Nod

We feasted on flesh, flayed skin to the bone

Drank deeply of blood that was spilled on the stone

Violent beginnings with fang and with claw

Cain had become the giver of law

Hurt not the kine, they like cattle and sheep

Who toil the days of our ages of sleep

The finger of fate is a vampire hand

Man is given to us to command

The enlightened ones are kings among slaves

For we own them all, from cradles to graves

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While Turning Out The Sheets

While turning out the sheets I found a blouse

Abandoned when the bed was warm and sparks were flying

The scent of her perfume, her presence, adhered to it still

Breathing it in I felt my dull melancholy flutter up into my mouth

Into a bloom of bittersweetness

Like warm blood pumping into a butterflies powdered wings

Like a sweet taste remembered

Like ashes

I shuddered and she was gone

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I miss the way your smile lightens up my day

You've gone away

To someplace where I'm not

And I hope your return will come soon

So we can waste away

Precious afternoons

With each other

But if your return doesn't arrive

I will assume

That you're happy without me

And that is perfectly fine

In fact I encourage it

Even if I'm not there

And I too will find my true love

Who's someone else

And not you

Even though I may prefer


I'll have to settle for others

But who knows if that'll be fair settlement

I feel like

I'm born in cement

And I can't move

To the sounds and the winds

That grace nearly every afternoon

Afternoons that we used to live through

Aren't there


My life has turned into such a bore

How I long for

The return of you

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She it is, she that found me

In the morphia honeymoon;

With silk and steel she bound me,

In her poisonous milk she drowned me,

Even now her arms surround me,

Stifling me into the swoon

That still-but oh, how rarely!-

Comes at the thrust of the needle,

Steadily stares and squarely,

Nor needs to fondle and wheedle

Her slave agasp for a kiss,

Hers whose horror is his

That knows that viper womb,

Speckled and barred with black

On its rusty amber scales,

Is his tomb-

The straining, groaning, rack

On which he wails-he wails!


Dragon of lure and dread,

Tiger of fury and lust,

The quick in chains to the dead,

The slime alive in the dust,

Brazen shame like a flame,

An orgy of pregnant pollution

With hate beyond aim or name—

Orgasm, death, dissolution!

Know you now why her eyes

So fearfully glaze, beholding

Terrors and infamies

Like filthy flowers unfolding?

Laughter widowed of ease,

Agony barred from sadness,

Death defeated of peace,

Is she not madness?

She waits for me, lazily leering,

As moon goes murdering moon;

The moon of her triumph is nearing;

She will have me wholly soon.

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  • 5 years later...

From Ogden Nash (a distant relative on my Mother's side)

The Germ

A mighty creature is the germ,

Though smaller than a pachyderm.

His customary dwelling place

Is deep within the human race.

His childish pride he often pleases

By giving people strange diseases.

Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?

You probably contain a germ.

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