Do angels need blessings.

Unfurl your wings somehow.
Your intention as sweet as your face now.
Noble ideals that take up some room
in your heart´s boughs.
 
Let your halo form,
your golden aura shine.
Be not distracted
by these subtle demons of mine.
 
Be your surroundings blessed,
your dreams well dressed.
Your body caressed with the hands
that create a stronger beat your chest.

Gesturing hand.

I demonstrate, the pen is my wand.
The magic is in my gesturing hand.
Differentiating a puddle from a pond.
My gesticulating expands.
 
My physical expression often froze.
Whilst under scrutiny I struck a pose.
Almost conjuring a lick of a sigh...
The edge of a gasp...
Eye contact flies.
 
My gesturing hand is the waves of the sea.
The hills of the land.
The hair of the dog.
The hungover strand.
 
It is my cry for help,
my attempt to enlighten.
The wavery flame of this rusty lantern.
 
My sure illusion ushered with fingers.
Creative pollution that only begs sniggers.
Two palms that open and close.
These...
Fists of frustration never meet repose.

I couldn´t finish.

I teach each minute trying to reach the deadline.
I speak as fast as an exxon oil spill leaks on seals.
I send the message, bend time but never get to the end
no matter how splendid I try.
I seek to share knowledge, I dare to forage outside
the dull material porridge.
No thanks, my drive´s on empty tanks, is it a dead horse
that my gesturing hand spanks?

Spoilt

Atop a scenic hill lay his luxury house.
Throwing out his unwanted emotions in chaos.
In great clouds that would haunt the hill suburb.
His luxury car entices on the freshly paved curb.
Soon to travel the world only to slip on glossy floors,
inside lame predictable overly expensive hotel doors.
His butler and maintenance man clear his tantrum-
damage invain.
Next week will create the same freak after going two days-
without cocaine.
So his butler walked outside to meet the gardener
and relate the latest scandal.
The freshly cut lawn glistened as they spoke at large
of the boys defects and how to handle.

Shrug it off.

From the frustrations that have built up,
Over the fervent days full of disputes.
If my patience was a hidden cup,
The overflow would spew.
 
All the curses people lay,
What they send to me in wrath.
I try to push it all away.
I learn to shrug it off.

Wet bag of bread.

Oh I´m not even qualified to tell you.
How you joke as I speak
my accent´s broke and my attitude reeks.
Just a little game with our foreign teacher.
Oh I´d love to really reach you.
How the troublesome in you woke.
Trying to implicate me as a freak
trying to see if I´d choke.
With your brazen cheek!
With this bag of bread I´ve left on the street,
Explaining to you while you poke fun.
Now my bag of bread is half soaked
I´m hard done.(by)

Outsider

Friends how they console each other.
Hardly blinking when I the outsider arrived.
At their yard working together like ants.
Hardly noticing me these years.
They all look the same save more or a lack of hair.
When they went to the shop as a minion
they all had the same opinion
on every product.
Repeating market viable adjectives
like duck quack.
Their women cling to them
like symbiotic creatures do.
Only caring for decor, gossip, cliche and shoes.
They compared themselves to soap opera characters.
As exaggerated as annoying talking parrots are.
See you in another few years,
where lifé´s just great and I don´t care.

Nothing left to say.

Throw another layer of tension onto us.
Another cloud of distrust.
Never knowing what to think.
The mind a soup of fuss.
Pleasantries could just about get us through.
When all our small talk starts to rust,
tension drains me when I see you.
The cobwebs in silence, the quiet dust.
Nervously our mouths shut, glued.

Haiku(self improvement, austere.)

Self improvement.
 The wise part of me...
Teaches the ignorant part.
narcissistic farce?

Austere.
 George who met a for,
looking for a similie...
smiles unwillingly.

Not intelligent.
 Not intelligent
For if only I was then...
I could deal with you.

That wee mushroom

That springs before the frost.
Autumns trip- a ticket to get lost.
Dropped ten and my telepathy´s volume
has been turned right up!
The mood of the room is exposed
in it´s naked colours and flavours.
Each chair and picture juxtaposed.
See my friends the onset of mad.
Intentions shine blindingly good and bad.
The flow of thought dizzying.
Intensifying the pleasant buzz until...
I need to meditate just to stay sane.
The strange feeling has my mind rearranged.
All from a wee mushroom?

Museum.

These locked doors I burst into.
Full of cobras and mongeese fighting.
Tacky entertainment and long roads to nowhere.
Apartments that hope abandoned.
The rules of decay for a rose.
The futile search for another worthy muse.
Mediocre windows and walls refuse me.
So I burst through these locked doors.

Filled them for us.

She´s full breasted allright.
Knowing the hard kick to a man´s back is his lust.
Half a dozen proposals a year inspite.
Men dreaming of the immaculate thrust
I´d dare to speculate.
So many men with their gloating
"between-conjecture" mates.
Silenced by her, punctually stiffening them.
Never erect too late.
Never revealing, if there was to reveal.
In our minds she is kneeling,
she´s well done, medium and rear.
Yes plastic breasted and radiant for decades.
Letting you think "maybe" through a glance,
though we´re not invited to the dance I´m afraid.
She made an appearance in your imagination.
In each man´s head like a radio station.
Broadcasting her flesh like it was sweet flowers.
Was that not her intention,
her subtle yet incredible power?

The wuff.

Why the clouds part,
the darkness passes.
Who am I but a lost poet.
Grace had escaped,
her cool friend charm too.
Want dominates.
Though after winning
she´s empty.
The way the sky is
before or after the sun.

Haikus- life, desire and self

Life exam.
 Enter the school gate,
mother mentor´s birth canal.
Each lesson beckons.

Desire´s muscle
 There´s a difference-
between knowing what you want
and being owned by it.

Self improvement
  The wise part of me...
Teaches the ignorant part.
narcissistic farce?

Slopes of Athalon

Under me is a board with small wheels.
As I shoot down toward the sea
in this mountain town.
The walls speak to me.
 
The paint whispers.
The concrete whistles.
Missing pedestrians by inches.
Burning the steep alleys as I...
Churn down them.
(metaphoric offensive, simonsive)
 
Alerting the provokative flock
on the roof nearby with the
with cat scowl of my wheels.
Yes I can see the shimmer
and the wharves.
(simon´s style zero intentional rhyming heroe)
 
The far off Islands
now begin to draw themselves
in yummy detail.
(haiku fiddle in the middle)
 
As I near gradient´s end
I bid you not to befriend illusion.
For the pain in falling is mere pretence.
Though be wary the joy in it´s amusing.
(limerick tone get your own)

In the background.

I´ve been fading out.
The hype has died down.
All that remains is painstaking me.
 
I´ve been absent even sitting in the same room.
Knowing my words and finger to the bone actions...
Will have little or no effect on her.
 
I´ve stuck my head into my notebook and scribbled.
Half writing and half invisible in the same room.
 
Hello´s and goodbye´s-
I witness as a tree in town square.
Nothing moves me but the breeze,
but that´s not her anymore.

Traffic jam (haiku)

Bending under wear,
Car seat fatigue- stand still.
Fume and horn lovers.
(second attempt)

Poetry.com poets(much preferred)

These are the poets that impress me everyday with
their great stuff.
And above all keep in contact by reviewing my work.
They are like mentors, nemesis´, friends and idols to me!
I love them all, for their support and for their great poems.  
George Miehle: Punchy, witty, provokative, concise
and sharper than a butchers knife.
Ludy buhrs: Insightful work, intelligent and fun to read.
poliglots are very welcome in my posse.
Gino valentine: Superflow, knows how to use imagery,
aswell as being a clever rhymer. And a fair judge.
Joyce Carol: Inspired me greatly with her earlier works,
still doing well with torturous accounts and spiritual pieces,
some of her work is amazing.
James Barnett: Insightful,
his work has an easy tone that people can understand, his talent is capturing love life and expressing it.
Doina mican: Highly creative and freeflowing poet,
very optimistic and upbeat sometimes a must for our sight.
John Lowe: His works are complete,
the best poems associated with combat experience war etc.
He is profound in his words and overall i´d say
he´s a wise rhymer.
Richard Azavedo: Expressive with all sorts of contraversy,
sometimes sporadic his work is highly relevant and often comic.
Curly putz: A british poet anti-convention like me.
he is a true word wizard and has inspired me to take poetry
more seriously, I love his style!
Paul E Harmon: Authentic writer, quite straightforward
in his approach he is an up and coming poet.
Tj hatton: This poet has some pieces I´ve loved,
very Quirky and skilled in coming across.
Asma tariq: Most notably a poet who loves to contrast,
worships nature and our old friend Phil,
This poet does have talent and I´ve liked reading 80% of her stuff.
Orshille wizengame: One of the most imaginative poets,
who is incredibly inventive in developing his verse.
Maria Shaw: Writes alot about love, her work is driven by emotion
and some of it has become appealing to me.
She has been wonderful support aswell.

Dust city

The bus turns and rolls lil screws fall out.
Rattling as they get off at their stops.
I got off the bus, clouds of dirt came in
like a crowd of people.
The dry silty surface of the pavements
kick up in the wind, into your face.
Into your lunch as you carry it.
Into your hair staining it.
Brown dust coats the walls
and have even written over the
graffiti.

Contradiction classroom

I say something.
Say it´s not true.
I affirm an idea.
It´s much opposed by you.
Contradict my teachings,
contradict my purpose.
Such a fickle creature,
My classroom´s worst curse.
I must tolerate this posture,
you hold in my presense.
Learning to foster,
ways to avoid getting tense.
As you continue your offensive.

Pale student.(your comments)

You question me without premise.
You´re red faced now but...
That ghostly pale skin conditioned to annoy us is febrile
and alive despite looking a dead lack.
Dark shadowy eyes of yours waiting to be attacked.
I´d like to break you apart like a gruesome G.I joe.
Indeed to meet your trunk self in forced humility,
cigar burns and urine.
To hook and snatch the irony from your pure grin.
Fry it for amusement like your useless questions.
Your underhanded comments stay in your mouth
festering.
I´m hoping to get enough flame into my voice
to burn you, then hook you on a hoist.

An apple overthrow desire.

An apple overthrow.
Overthrow me if you will.
You who has assumed apple of my eye status.
Astonish me- fire me.
New jobs await without you angel.
An eye glistens as the ear listens to the tone of your...
The eye watches the muse, jealous tickled by rage.
Where am I at for my age?
tempting bodies limber- smiles and dimples
that invite like the apple shines.
The apple flavoured dream wouldn´t see you and me
realize my hunger for the tasty...
 Wrapped in the silk of subtle fantasies.

Unattainable muse.

I can´t have you
even smell you,
touch your skin
or know your sin.
 
I can´t witness you
see the fitness in you,
open the christmas in you
I can only miss you.
 
I can´t get close to you
see the most in you,
be a host to you
I can´t even boast of you.
 
I can´t reach you
see what life will teach you,
get on top or underneath you
see you ripen like peaches do.

The plague of growth.

When something stops growing it dies.
I wish my lust would die.
But no I lean in and out
like a politician.
The only friend who would tell me the complete truth
I silenced.
The huge dark lounges with movie theatre screens
where lazy new generations cling.
The growth on the side of the house
a pink convulsing baby.
Expanding and letting out discharge.
Where was that new movie made
who were the characters?
Let´s play a new instrument
oh no they´ve been infected by the baby.
Like the strategies of videogames.
The chimney gods.
The only notion deemed valuable.
The zuckerbergs and bling wig mogul.
The petrol giants blinking between leaks.
The 50 cents with dogmas of money.
The sacks of gold that stopped the economy running.

How I came to be.

How I was made?
How did i come to be?
A bitter man and an optimistic woman conceived of me.
A man without a soul and a woman with an excess of it...
Let this child free.
A man with an axe and a bleeding thumb
all bashed in.
And a woman with a stirring spoon and compassion.
A man chasing the crowns and nobles written on notes.
A woman who measured bills invoices and quotes.
A man whose pride would beat him to sleep
and wake him anytime.
A woman whose empathy was hard to define.
In a garden of dreams and escapes.
In a garden of all temperatures and tastes.
That´s how I came to be.

Gorged.

Some brave beast with hunger and fury has
gorged me with it´s tusks.
It happened when I walked out of the forest at dusk.
The sun seemed to leave me behind like an angry friend.
Still 10 miles to my house as darkness pends!
In the paddocks there´s usually rabbits and fowl.
I can´t here a scramble nor a lame goose now.
I hear a galloping behind me, swallow up the night.
I feel my legs take to sprint I willfully choose flight.
Alas the game is done,
The beast is swift to swift to outrun me.
Is it a bull that´ll buck me or
a bear that´ll tear my throat.
No tis but the occult symbol
With sharpened horns, the tenacious goat.

The "blood touch"!

The disgruntled opens fire on his colleagues.
Their bodies are hoses.
Already on the floor waiting for
the inevitable perforation.
Their blood touches
across the school floor.
The red fluid flows a furious flux.
Two pools join from leaky bodies.
They had come here to learn,
now after the gunman and his bullets entered.
Alot of young minds stopped forever.
They used to touch on
the wonderful world of ideas.
Now their pools of blood touch, spilling into
eachother.

I´m the ghost.

I´m the true ghost,
when I thought my house was haunted.
I am the unsettled spirit glaring
up the corridor.
Standing in the middle of the garden
as if I didn´t exist.
Sitting in darkness contemplating
what could have been?
Scared to share my living space
with other injured phantoms.
I lurk and lurk,
only the sensitive sense me.

Tusimi showed me.

Tusimi and her japanese class,
I was there in the middle
of the organising.
Tusimi´s grandmother 102 years old
bragged about
having her grand daughter stay at the Ritz
In london.
Oh her daughter was furious
and took me by the van
to a steep street that needed cleaning.
Tusimi showed me noble slime
polluted streams that almost smelt
like a boast.

Sunroof garden violence.

The two sides of the train.
A raised see through roof.
With gardens above it.
A young boy deals with monotonous
hypocrisy,
tilling it with anger.
The soils rich for growing double standards.
He frowned and left me that day
as soldiers fought
on each side of the train.

Louisiana bridge

Across the deep cola coloured water,
A bridge on a country backroad.
Tabacco and wheat on either side.
My negro friend lost his money and wife.
He sighed and didn´t even let me convice him
to avoid dying.
 I watched him bob up and down,
though he was pulled under shortly after
by the mainstream
and it´s merciless undercurrent.
Lost my friend so...
down stream in the alligator infested shallows
I tried to find a piece of me.
Sometimes having to fend those monsters off with sticks.
The mud and sunshine made everything
look like brass.

Touch you

The country cabin filled with hate but.
You´re gonna touch us and make us love you.
Forgiveness and mornings between trees above you.
Your lesson, our life .
I´ve seen you.
On the jetty to the timid lake I saw you.
In the barren city.
Between awkward glances
and work colleagues.
Tight situations I saw your realness.
Drained me of so many things
I thought represented me.
But not one was true.
Touched me and showed me the palm of this land.
Showed me the magic of you quiet smile.
Worship ya.

In a pickle.

The way you weep scrapes this heart of mine.
It jars my sincerity.
Spends my hard earned compassion.
Now your Bawling your eyes out,
Prima-dona fashion.
The clouds part I feel a merry taste.
A sundried smile comes across my face
like a spider´s shiny abdomen so healthy.
How did that get there I ask myself.
A cheek lifting shiner full of joy lobbed.
As you sobbed and sobbed.
Expecting to darken my eyes
to join your solemn rain
and deep uncomfortable sighs.
Now they´re sprightly,
you can hear me chuckle!
The way you weep vinegar babe
OH YOU´RE REALLY IN A PICKLE.
you´re reaLLY INA PICKLE.

Washed away with my inspiration.

Inspiration wells up in me.
Like a flood I sweep across.
But parts of me are washed away.
The river itself keeps flowing.
Although I´ve changed it´s shape it still remains.
It has the same name.
My vital vigour ebbs off I´m left with
seldoms, inklings and scarcity.
As I get deeper- so does my volume.
Though I seem to overflow easily taking on water
too quickly.

Glen wants to be Italian

It was his choice of words!
His outrageous fetish with fettucini.
Clay roof tiles to his red cheek a likeness.
Shameless confession of his toscan like lust.
Spaghetti laughter Glen.
Too much basil! You´ve gone to mat oh.
Most of all mozzerela and other cheese
you´ve stuffed in for flavour.
Glen you can´t just be a country using
it to romantically compare, it wont fit.
You´ve rubbed italian over your forehead
as if you sweat a mixed drop of their sweat.
Stop becoming an Italian. Por favore.
Leave it to the cruise ship disasters,
corrupt burlesques and earthquakes.

Stiff faced AL

We can see your rigourous.
Rigid in big digits.
Severe ultra vigilance, super care.
Hard and strict sharp as a pr*ck.
Wooden face steel lips.
Shrunken concrete.
As emotional as a rock.

Exclusive autumn hill.

Northern Italy.
Grassy hills lead up to a mansion.
The semicloudy day´s glare hits the front of it.
Illusions of paradise.
All the way up are gin-traps rusted
 and sharp.
In that glistening tasty grass.
Private gardens radiating outside it where wealthy
 families
cook their quota of ignorance.
Well in the grand dining hall
of the mansion,
an infected baby is tended to by a treacherous
lady.
Your not invited.
Yet you look up from the driveway,
enviously.

Fate´s dirty corridor.

Dark tunnels leading out of the abandoned prison.
I brought it back to life.
I the six legged demon creep.
Old friends in Prison here.
Having their cigarettes
and contraband shipped in...
Hooks and bribes.
Fellons that never learnt.
I the terrible warden- almost arachnid.
Fraternizing with monsters.
Shards of light and crackling hopeful radios.
I go in and pull the curtains
and smash the radios all up.
I get commision for offering discomfort you see.

Happy pants

I´m going to blow myself up.
Next to an albino gekko.
Dig a hole half a metre down throw him in dive
on top and boom.
A piece of my liver candyfloss.
A piece of my brain confetti for your early exclusive
invites of the funky brands.
My faece covered legs should be delivered
first class to my muse.
Crab dwarfy dreams broke while she emitted perfume.
Crab dwarfy is all I wanted!
Now above a hole with a gekko in one hand
and explosives in another, I just lack the middle east.
I just lack your better judgement.
I lack my mothers hand and the cows milk.
I lack anger management.
I have petrol and gunpowder.
This gekkos going down and I´ll go down with it.
Puddles of me wash up on your pants
as the happy sell your soul truck-
passes by as it rains caramel from your...

George Miehle

A verse farmer whose punch has fame.
A haiku miller of clever grain.
Horns and beards and pupils that go sideways.
The stealth possesed cat ever stalking.
Rhymes that knock us around in different ways.
Poetry of poets and not internal dialogue talking.
Hitting us and making us giddy...
With your word hammer
and drilling comments that make us feel silly!
So please don´t say short but sweet...
For black and white he hits feathers that flutter
and silences tweets except those on twitter.

A contradiction of ugly.

Sitting there your numb.
Your half deaf and you might aswell be dumb.
Your days are dribbling moaning and muttering.
Your hair covers your face and you utter stuttering
that you´re hungry.
The nurse says with a honey voice "what would like sweetpea"?
Your brain just can´t keep up with her words
so you say "whaaat?" Hearing your own voice tone absurd.
Her false smile widens and she says "would you like Ice cream?"
You utter a "Nnyess" resigned like a bad dream.
Because you are beautiful.
You are trembling flesh, a nurse´s purpose.
A soft statue- nations from another dimension worship.
An existance moist and awkward.
No pain, yet a frustration that clearly defines pain,
translates it like an immaculate interpreter.

The devil in us.

Your anger burns your throat from the shouting state.
Your mind is full of reasons to hate.
Spinning a web of poisonous barbs in your heart,
the faun sits back and laughs.
The relationship ended now you sleep alone trashing-
in a bed of self loathing far from compassion.
Those hooves have kicked your heart in.
You spared no gruesome insult in humiliating
and hurting your loved one.
How quickly and disgustingly we transform into cocked guns.

A drop of god.

Waking up to god.
Waking from the strangle of sleep.
Knowing the quantity of goodness maintained.
Our struggle against Inner evil.
Each of us containing a portion of god.
Each of us drops of god, of life, of creation.

The blind begger.

The blind begger comes begging change,
with battered lips he pleads reassuring us we´re good.
Sometimes I wonder if god has got his hand out
and wants to see how much I want to shake it.
The blind begger´s curly short hair has been a carpet-
for an opportunist´s world.
His eyes as egg whites with veins, hard paths he´s trodden.
He roams this train asking for change.

Narrow sun.

The narrow sun hits me and drys me.
The incline of the city slope guarantees a coat of sweat.
The stomp and footfall of the public.
Their aimless stares to the ground or upwards.
the narrow sun obligates my hand to salute.
To parry the sun from taking my eyes
off the unpredictable concrete.
The narrow sun heats up the ground
and still touches us through the windows.

Turn a criminal.

What dubious syrup ushers us into criminality?
What tempts us, points the stick and dares us to embrace crime?
Puts the blade in our hand and the plot in our mind?
What is this hunger to break the law?
This desire to do evil and steal from our own kind?

Wear thin

I´d yell at you again and again.
Trying to get you to understand.
Never.
I´d repeat until I resembled a machine more than I already do.
No effects.
Learning to fit into society is as good as cutting pieces on a jigsaw puzzle.
And teaching you about life is...
Impossible.

Sold at birth.

Born delivered into this world.
How painful the slap.
The agony of the ween.
The shock and hurt of reprimand.
Cultivated like corn.
 Assimilated into schools.
Routine and convention extract alittle magic.
Crush it liquify it and direct it into the gutter.
Yes we graduate a semi machine.
Well conditioned by awkward vindictive systems.
Into the arms of the title you embrace,
no matter how unworthy.
Your disposition, behaviour and even vocabulary-
fits your job description.
The suit, coat or overalls become your skin.
The ant or the bee.
The illusions of politics, religion and sports teams,
occasionally distract you.
Affirmation helps, none louder than the mediocre joker,
who flatters you into a drinking binge.
Splash out on new clothes try to get others to identify you.
You spend it on a new car, one that shows the world-
who you think you are.
But you don´t know.
Thats why stuff sells.

Sailors mantra

My body, my boat.
Navigating through dark waters.
Treacherous currents and pirates extortion.
Great storms and craggy reefs.                   -Rocky peninsulas.
I open my sail to god.                                   -Angels and suras.
I pray that the easy breeze filling it...
Is indeed god´s breeze.

The bad news.

Hate to be the disease carrier.
 The infected that must spread this sick realization.
That must reveal the facts. For I´ve got to know patience.
My burden will soon be relieved.
But the eyes of the listener will surely feel want to weep.
The impact that will hit home with each my toned words.
They´ll wish they had an earlier warning first.

A tropical hello.

Waving at me, a floppy tapering subtropical palm tree.
The frangipani blowing me kisses.
It´s almost into winter´s hall.
Though here warm winds still blow.
What a tropical hello.
I don´t feel the cold at all.
The easy breeze brings treats from the equator.
Sweetening temperature as I find new ways to sugar coat the metaphor.
All year round tans shake hands-
and kiss cheeks.
Some things in paradise remain hard-
like coconut shells and parrot´s beaks.
The first quenches your thirst with a straw and a hammer.
The second welcomes you with squawks and perhaps talk in a cheeky manner.

Just the job.

She loves biology.
Physically like the body.
And romantically like the Amazon.
She´s put in the woman hours.
And her sunny disposition is a bonus.
She´ll get the job!

Train globin!

Roaring in the train.
Many hands are reaching to secure themselves.
So trapped are we all. So nailed, confirmed to our station.
Armpits and re-adjusting bags and foot positions.
As it rocks and shakes, screeching and bumping.
The stopping to change faces.
What a rush as the doors open and we flow out like blood.