Amarantine

A pallid Moon’s lonely pilgrimage
Interrupted –briefly- Her darkness.
But ever in this, borrowed light,
-As in all things Black or White-
She saw the face of Her Sun,
And in the morning wept,
Trudging along an elliptical triangle;
Etched out across the sky,
The story of you and I,
And you and him.
And as the light grows dim,
I see myself:
A lonely pilgrim.

Poems About Dicks

Ridickulous

.....................Tip.
..................Sensitive.
.................Happy-head.
................The epicentre
...............Of all pleasure.
...............And then we go
...............Move down and
...............Down below it's
...............More and more
...............Like a root or a
...............Tree or a tower
...............Somehow to be
...............A symbol of all
...............Power. The way
..............We shape all our
...............Bullets n’ trains
.....And then................you have:
...Two big balls..........that hurt when
..You get struck.........A matter of luck.
....Never quite............equally made
......One Big.................One Small.

.

.


Can You See It Too?

The recidivist Doctor closed his shop at dawn
His clientele was High and Fell, Happy and Forlorn.
Reliving bygone days he slept with pictures in his mind
He hid the cabinet key, where his wife could never find.
The pale-faced woman who was tied up to the post:
Gaunt face hollow cheeks the colour of a ghost.
His member Small,
He looked about;
Hatred in his eyes.
She saw his dick
In profile.



* (This poem, the one above, well...the purpose was to make a poem that would give a short account of a man with a small penis...as a criminal doctor generally is. The structure of the poem is such that if you look at the whole thing...the image of a small but erect penis is clearly visible. I mean...sure there are no artistic curves or anything...but I'm working with words here so just the general impression is what I'm aiming for. Personally I felt I'd done a good job and that if somebody says that the poem 'does not resemble a dick...' surely he is blind and expects too much. So with this apologetic footnote...I leave it to the ignorant reader to look back up again and decide whether my effort merits praise or not.)

Writer's Block & Other bits

And then there is this dry patch
Where all the best of us become hunchbacks;
So I decided that in order to hide it -like a true expert-
I would merely rollup my knee-length shirt:
Roll it up, till I look heavy; with-child; expectant.
And balance thus, this unappealing hunch -so repugnant.
A trick or two shall I then use to hide my faulty form;
If rivers cannot be found with ease…I’ll seed a storm.
I would force this patch of dryness into a pregnant pause;
Then steal a kiss from my sleeping Muse and break all laws.
-

Let justice be done...somewhere else.

I don’t want no…
Free judiciary
I don’t want no…
Free judish ree
Cause I try, and I try, and I try and I try
But I just want no
Free judish ree

Cause when I’m driving in my car
And a man comes on the road, “yo!”
Wearing clean white shirts below
Black-coat telling me I gotta know
Blocking my damn way to school
I want to kill you
God damn judiciary
No, no, no!
Get outta my way
That’s what I say
-

Bartholomew

I found myself in a room half filled with murky saltwater; here and there weeds grew in small clumps of waxy green. The kids were in bed but not yet asleep and both watched me with eyes wide open. I picked the girl up first, lifted her up till she broke through the surface of the water. ‘Breathe deep.’ said I and she opened her mouth and her small chest swelled with inhaled air. Then gently as ever I placed her back in bed. It was her brother’s turn now. He too filled his lungs with good air but before I could put him to bed, he said: ‘How’s about a story?’
I let go of him and watched him float as I scratched myself all over. The arms in particular can be really itchy under these circumstances, as well as the chest and the back of the neck, but mostly the arms. I had grown my nails longer specifically for the purpose of scratching myself satisfactorily but sometimes nothing works and all you can do is fantasize about tall palm trees that you could rub up against for a full body scratch.
‘What’re you scratching yourself everywhere for?’ asked the boy.
‘I’m thinking about a story to tell…I’m making it up from scratch.’ I said. The boy nodded as many things suddenly made sense in his mind. Meanwhile I thought of what to say.

‘Do you want to hear the story of young Bartholomew?’ I asked. They were both very sleepy anyway and would’ve agreed with anything I might have suggested. However, since the story of Bartholomew was one that even I had yet to fully understand, I decided it would be a good idea to relate this tale. Sometimes in the telling you understand more than you did in the knowing. Probably because when you have to tell a tale, it has to be in order and consistent and all of that and coherent and flaws in the plot become more manifest if you relate it consciously to an audience that might be sceptical. At least that’s how I’ve always felt.

It was a green place of slopes and hills all covered with close-cropped grass. As the sunlight failed, the landscape resembled a mournful green; a beautiful place it was. The scenery was marred in the opinion of some by the appearance of an unfinished building right in the middle of the green; the scaffolding, an ominous skeleton, a sign that life was at a standstill bearing witness to a crucial point in history: watching Bartholomew run for his life as fast as he could to prevent himself from experiencing a sudden yet quite possibly painful demise.
‘Thump…thump…thump.’ went Bartholomew’s panting heart as he ran in zigzags across the fields. Or at least he wished it were his heart and not the thumping of the giant monster’s footfall. He chased him relentlessly, silently, except for the thumping. Bartholomew jumped to a side and rolled in between a boulder and piece of machinery and then quickly crawled across a bit of hardened concrete to hide behind bits of unfinished something. He tried to keep from breathing too loud as the blood pounded in his ears and he felt this crazy desire to urinate. He was scared as hell but not yet out of his mind with fear; still able to think rationally. He knew he couldn’t stay here long; eventually the monster would sniff him out -the best idea was to keep running and keep dodging. The thumping grew louder and louder and then passed him by. Bartholomew saw briefly the outline of the massive beast; all green he was, wearing torn corduroy pants of a disgusting purple variety and naked everywhere else, not even wearing shoes. The monster’s foot was big enough to crush the bonnet of a reasonable sized car into unrecognizable mulch and nearly five times as big as Bartholomew’s head in length. The giant could easily snap him between his tree-stump like fingers like a toothpick and that was exactly what the monster intended to do…if he could just find him. Fortunately for Bartholomew, the unholy hulk that had been chasing him across the countryside for the last three days and nights, was completely blind and that fortunate fact afforded Bartholomew enough of a leeway to just barely survive. As long as he kept calm and continued to dodge in a totally haphazard manner, the blind green monster would not get him too easily. His sense of smell was not as acute as his sight had been, even though it was still enough to be a nagging problem even now.
There was a loud roar that shook the stillness of the night and sent scared birds flying from the tops of trees and nearly froze Bartholomew’s heart. The beast was frustrated. Again it roared. ‘I WILL FIND YOU…EVEN IF I HAVE TO SCOUR THE ENDS OF THE EARTH, I WILL FIND YOU AND CRUSH YOU!’ yelled the monster in rage. Something, however was throwing the beast off his scent. There were pigs in this area, wild boars. The more Bartholomew thought about it, the more it made sense. It was all predestined he thought.
-

The skyline of G-, all dark clouds split at odd ends by moon beams was partially hidden behind Wayne Towers; grim sentinels that silently watched over the city as it fell prey to what was now known globally as the Black Death...the second Dark Age. The tower in the middle had been the centre of all economic activity within the city as well as without for twenty-seven years. Now, however, it was a haven for all the degenerate scum that had taken over a year ago. The great anniversary was being held in the penthouse on ninety-eighth floor. Everyone was welcome. Everyone who was sure that he could arrive and leave alive was welcome. The deco was mainly dried blood and one year’s worth of amalgamated filth and grime. The windows were all smashed, as were the guests. There were about a fifty tables but most of them didn’t have enough legs and required volunteer elbows to keep them steady. Second-hand smoke was the staple with doses of third-hand smoke for desert. Somewhere in the dark room, behind toppled tables and chairs and passed-out hooligans, sat a lone man wearing a grey hooded jacket. Shrouded in shadows, he kept his silent vigil and watched every single man that came and went.

A psychotic freak with white marble skin and yellow teeth jumped from behind and simultaneously tried to stab him in the vitals whilst attempting to slobber spit all over his face as he hung upside down in front of his eyes whilst his knife wielding hand nearly sliced the man’s spine in two. The man was quick. Within an instant the pale freak was lying on his back upon the table with his right arm fractured in three places and the knife stabbed in his chest. Of course it wasn’t properly stabbed…just enough to draw blood. The freak laughed as his eyes grew wide. They were three times the size of a normal person’s and watching them was painful. The hooded man felt as if the freak’s eyes were screaming as he pushed him off the table in a crumpled pile on the floor where he lay for the rest of the evening talking to his arm. The hooded man resumed his seat. A group of cons in familiar livery laughed at his performance and one of them showed him a thumbs-up sign. A thin, moustached fellow in a black dinner jacket got up and took the stage. His name was the Doctor. They called him that because he was a tailor but the only suits he sewed were the ones that you were born with.
“Gentlemen…time is a bitch and I’m a bastard…but that’s ok…because I’m the guy who has the guns and the bullets and the torn parts of your spleens in my pockets. It’s been a good year. I’m glad you’re all here to celebrate with us…this glorious moment…this occasion…this miss spelt atrocity. Ever since the inhuman element reared its head thirty years ago…we and some of us who had our fathers before us…suffered. Suffered great pains, but now that the inhuman element has been successfully erased…”

“Why don’t you shut the f- up!” said a voice above the crowd. The Doctor fell silent and so did those among the pack who had been muttering. Nobody ever interrupted the Doctor. His speeches tended to be long and boring but nobody ever interrupted him. But perhaps more than the interruption it was the fact that its nature had not been inquisitive but rather commanding that caused alarm. Nobody commands the Doctor…at least no one from around here. The crowd collectively turned its head to locate the source of the sound. On the jagged edge of one of the smashed window panes, squatted a man. His feet, on one-and-a-half inch thick remainder of window pane, were balanced with inhuman control. Some people gasped. The man sat on his feet like a frog rocking back and forth on the thin edge s if he were weightless. He wore green clothes and his shoes looked like bits of dark green leather amateurishly sewn together. His golden brown face had seen much sun but apparently his day was done.

“Who…?” said the Doctor as if his delicate sensibilities had been affronted by this interruption.

“A messenger…I bring you word from Mr. Wayne.”

“Wayne is dead…I have his skin in a bag…do you want me to kill you or will you please just lean out that window?”

“You have his skin…but you don’t have him.”

“Gentlemen…please…” said the Doctor as if grown weary. The mob had been gaping at one and then the other but now at the behest of their spiritual leader got up pulling out revolvers, knives, clubs and all sorts of paraphernalia.

“Gentlemen,” said the green stranger as if appealing sardonically to the gentle in the men, “please…” he said in a guttural, low tone. Almost as if on cue a draft of wind blew the stranger’s green cloak and beneath it shone in open view, a fine looking bow made of wood. Within a flash he had shot an arrow and before the bunch of gangsters with automatic weapons could react or even blink…he was gone. The Doctor, lying on the floor of the stage, removed the arrow from the region where his heart was reputed to be. He always wore protection underneath. He got up on his feet and threw stray strands of his hair back with a flourish and unrolled the parchment that had been tied around the letter and read:

“Greetings,

Do you remember what you said to me? You said you were going to skin me alive and laughed. Congratulations on your success. Do you remember what I said to you? I said I will not die…I cannot die…and I have no choice. And you laughed. Do you know my name? Let the war continue. This time it will have an end. Watch the skies.

p.s. Next time…he aims for your head.

Yours,
B.W.


“Well what do you know…” muttered the Doctor.
-

The bleached pile of bones dressed in a cloak with the hood pulled low over the skull walked around G- city streets and pondered about many things. Too many were dead and now he was absurdly outnumbered but immortal. It did not matter what he was but what he had to do. But he could fly now. And that was something. Running, hiding his skinless face in ditches and sleeping in graveyards where no one ever came because there was no need to bury the dead when you could just feed them to someone; Mr. Wayne was tired and bored.

“I know who you are.” Mr Wayne turned around to see who could have spoken to him. A man wearing a grey hooded jacket stood at a distance of ten yards. Wayne had known he was being followed but nowadays it never really meant anything except that someone was hungry or lecherous or whimsical with a death wish. The man walked up to him but stopped when he got too close to the giant frame of once human form. Wayne could sense his calm as well as his hesitancy. “I can help you in your cause. My name is Bartholomew and I am a bounty hunter. I am the best there is or ever was. I have killed more of your kind than anyone else and I know things that you do not.” He was a businessman it seemed to Wayne: Someone who could change sides because he has none; with the profit motive at its helm, his ship would sail towards the same destination no matter what direction it chose. “What is your price?” muttered Wayne.
“That is to be decided later; for the moment it is just lack of entertainment that motivates me.”
“Fair enough…what do you suggest?”
“There is a cave…far from here…where the blind-one now resides. I suggest we pay him a visit.”
“The blind one? Murdock?”
“Ha-ha no…I took care of Murdock…no this is the only one whose identity I’m not aware of…the large green one. The monster…”
“Banner…yes...yes let us go then you and I.”
“We are being watched.”
“Don’t worry…it’s just a silly man with a bow and arrows.”
-

In a dark cave, wherein the only sound was the thumping of a monstrous heart that beat rather slowly, sat cross-legged the giant green monster. For a year he had trained himself. He had channelled his anger and his hatred towards the attainment of a goal: self perfection. When the night air brought an old hateful scent to his nostrils, he knew: His time had come and he smiled. And had anyone seen that smile, they would have been afraid -very, very afraid.

Soup, The Patient, The Stranger & Love Poem

Soup

Two hot birds, blind,
Hopping on the edge of a simmering soup bowl,
-As if drunk on vapours, around mist-concealed,
Chinese, embroidered rims:
Slithering patterns, of slim withered threads,
Like snakes that make their way through forest beds
And face their foes that mark their move ahead-
In a Drug induced frenzy,
In which silence was all that is said.

The dreamer swept his dreading limbs
And framed a final dance:
Nails dripped out his fingers; Teeth fell out his mouth.
He wobbled out of bed to find his Morning was still out;
Shook the breakfast cereal box and heard a distant rattle;
Shelved the empty box again and slipped out of his mantle.

One of the dancing hot birds fell headlong into the soup.
As they pierced its flesh -some shards in the broth-
It knew and it felt the fragments of his heart.

-

The Patient

And I was asked how I was and so I said how I were:
“Feeling weaker everyday whilst I piss out my liver,
I don’t listen to the doctors; I don’t hear what they say,
Much like a woman giving birth in the focus of the day,
As she stands there naked in the middle of a street,
Her child being stillborn gets crushed beneath her feet;
The second birth is due and her face is turning blue,
Surrounded by red cars and by shouts of, ‘f--- you!’”
They say, ‘you take too many pains to commit suicide;
You seem blinded in love of yourself and your pride.’

“It’s what makes me more Human than all the rest of you
Who do pretend that to pretend is not to notice that you knew
How well you do certain things, and how talented you are,
And yet to convince all the people in the room to be in awe:
A flock of natural birds has taken residence in your jaw.”
-

The stranger or The Princeling's Inheritance

The camels came to rest close by the camp.
Beyond the pregnant swell of a lit up dune,
The sky a sapphire blue: a gemlike hue;
Would that pearls of rain unleash the cure therein:
Protection from the perfidious scorpion.

Some men, who found it best to disagree,
Who drank the desert dew before they left,
They quietly killed his father by the dunes.
In the dreamy light of a melting evening sun,
The camels came to rest, and the day was done.

When finally the child was free to mourn,
The flow had stemmed, and turned spilt-blood to stone.
Upon his knees the prince then wept and prayed,
And fasted for his soul for seven days.
The longest years but were yet still to come,
For every night, his mind relived the sight:
Those lifeless eyes that once had shown such fight,
Reflected not a single thought but fright.

What cruel scorpion stung him in the heart?
What senseless dancer could create such art?
That night, the sandy winds began to howl
And all the desert knew the deed was foul.

A vision, one night, when fever gripped his soul,
Stole into the chamber of the boy:
The king appeared to him who was his son
“Paradise is for the strangers; now you are one!”
And in his hands he left a piece of bread:
A symbol then vouchsafed upon his line;
A burden to demure all passions blind.

In poverty would live, in squalor thrive, this son of man
A stranger he would be within his holy father’s land.
-

Love Poem

In the mirror, there reflects, that which would be:
One day in the deserts of my parched satisfaction,
I would observe miseries circle her life like vultures,
Swooping down, time and time again, to peck
Another eyeball out of her hopes and dreams;
I would hear her screams. And I would crush her children
Beneath the horses’ hooves of my imagination;
Lie naked upon a bed of her fresh spilt intestines
And laugh at the god who in spare time predestines.
-

Bunch of Words Written in 20 minutes to see What Would Happen.
-

It was the day my father decided to dress in a curtain that the family realized something was not quite right with his head. Normally a silent chap, unobtrusive, and the owner of a profile that registers just about as low as the WBC count of a leukaemia patient, he was suddenly found entertaining the infants by prancing around, barely managing to cover up his great bulk, in odd green curtains that had gone out of fashion perhaps twenty years ago. It was a cause for great concern; if the neighbours were to find out that we were in possession of such antiquated draperies and they were draping some unusual antiquities, it would raise far too many an inquisitive eyebrow for my mother’s liking. She had decided long ago that a couple of raised eyebrows every now and then on account of my father’s lavishly antisocial attitude were going to be -not quite but- almost bearable, but anything in excess to that would mean the special forces be called in: my grandmother and aunt arrived shortly after the initial cry for help went out, requesting emergency backup.
She was doing all she could to restrain my father from jumping out into the streets. His sudden joie de vivre had manifested itself in the most peculiarly atrocious fashion and it was near to impossible to get the old man to simmer down and wait a while before he explode onto the scene like a rotten mango. He tried to jump out of three different windows, one of them not even a window but a chalk mark out, where it had been decided earlier that a window ought to be. The poor man was bleeding in the head from a small but nevertheless conspicuous cut and with a sort of befuddled look on his face, was counting his toes in resentment. Just as quick as a sudden downpour, he began giggling and under the power of some unholy force determined to jump out of another window. This was all quite fascinating to us who were young but at the same time a sense of foreboding also presented itself. Judging by mother’s grave reactions and all of that, it was obvious that what was going on was not entirely a joke but perhaps something a shade darker than just 'good clean fun' on the part of my father. But be that as it may, we were jumping and squealing, all four of us, at the prospect of having the neighbourhood kids see that our dad had a sense of humour. With a sense of pride I watched my father bonk his head into a window as he drooled all over the green curtains, fondly wrapped around his massive body like an insufficient toga of sorts. Perhaps he was channelling the spirit of some Roman chambermaid who had contrived some kind of a ridiculous mental disposition; all theories are probable but no one knows for sure.
My grandmother and aunt, after witnessing the spectacle hanging loose behind an insufficient toga, decided that the matter was out of their hands…and a good thing too. My uncles were called, both of whom left their posts at their jobs and rushed over to see what the hullabaloo was all about and if pictures could be taken. Pictures were indeed taken even though my mother’s remonstrations were not altogether lethargic but the situation was far too much out of her control as it were. Soon the uncles over-powered my dad and forced an unpeeled banana in his mouth in an effort to get him to shut up singing some annoying jingle or something; we later found out that he had been trying to imitate my mother’s nagging singsong voice. The uncles subdued my father, removed the unpeeled banana, shoved in its place a couple of sedatives down his throat and then held him down till the pills took effect.
This was something extraordinary in many ways. The whole event had been unusual. My father became rather submissive after that. Not quite as vehement about certain things and not as opinionative as he used to be. On the other hand my mother became a lot more authoritarian; even her voice took on a certain domineering edge. He behaved himself afterwards and continued to do so till the very end. I’m not sure what had really happened. How he suddenly snapped and decided he was to be curtained no longer or that if he were to be curtained, he would make a big slavering deal out of it. That manic gleam that I had seen within his eye, never left completely. Sometimes an echo of it would resound through his moist eyes and I would know without a shadow of a doubt that behind this here silent, ordinary, unremarkable, shy and bashful sort of man, resided a powerhouse of lunatic energy. And no amount of totalitarian rule, inside or outside of the house, could ever rob him of the fact that if he ever wanted to, all he had to do was make a complete jackass of himself and confuse the living daylights out of his dictators. All he ever had to do was, if he wanted to, let go. My father had dug deep within himself to shake the foundations of his prison and had indeed felt the infrastructure of his slavery tremble at the mere hint of his potential. Slavery was not a physical fact, he decided, but an intellectual decision.