No Where But Here

I need a knife

I'd rather slice

My wrists than enter that Cult-like sweat lodge

I try but he won't let me dodge

Stuck on a pew under a steeple

With demons and people

All like paper doll cut outs

With plastic smiles 

And all the while

They snicker and boast

Eat their food, they toast

While people starve 

In their own back yard

It's not me! I scream in here

Because I dare not voice my opinion when he's near

So I'm sorry this is more rant than poem

I've ....no where but here. 

Niece of the King

In another life, she was the daughter of the brother of a great king.

The brother who would most likely never inherit the throne.

For the great king was strong and wise.

So the brother fell into drinking alone.

A frequenter of pubs.

And he traveled the realm of fae.

Sampling of all kinds suds.

And collecting all kinds of tales.

Which he became the re-teller of.

His nights were filled with merriment and mirth.

His mornings mostly alone.

His name became Sudskins.

And most forgot he was brother of the great king.

He was much beloved for his laughter

and for the tales he spread like seeds.

The tip of his beard tickled his belly.

Which had grown portly with ale.

And one day he met a woman

From the empire of men.

A woman of beauty and warmth.

A women bewitched by his tales.

And the little girl that followed

after a hot tempered fling

they bequeathed with the name Sudsillory

And she was the niece of the king.

(not by me) but ...As told by my favorite writer in this Universe.

Out of the Picture

It's better with me that way, night or day, I'd only be in the way... for it's better with me...

Out of the picture.

The Canvas

Pink paint waiting, yearning and burning to run if only that

one streak of life for the moment it streams down the canvas and shrivels up.

Thumper

Tick tock goes the clock,

the clock of life inside.

Pumping crimson through the veins,

until the cells collide. 

Weary and tired it wants to stop,

It throbs to finally rest.

And if it quits tonight in bed,

I could say I've had the best.

The pain it tries to rear its face,

When the moon is hanging high.

If only I could sprout some wings,

I'd join it in the sky. 

So now I lay me down to sleep,

I'll shut my crystal eyes.

And if I wake to see the dawn,

It'll be a big surprise. ;) 

Declutter and Butter

Diet gone to hell in a hand basket so lay on the butter while I declutter my mind, my life, my heart, my health..as the candle burns a bright blister into my eye drops against the blue walls the crow calls at my doorstep where I keep the broom to bust the dusters, the leaves they cluster this time of year when the deer drink dew frost and this week the Hawks lost. Declutter bring the butter, I jump for joy, find a lost toy in the mystery meat megacrap this place had become...time to clean up. Love fall. Love this time of year. Do I make that clear? I think so. Now if only one day I could live to see a tree covered in color..it's on my bucket list!  

Tiny World Open Door

The universe spins and rotates,

and funnels it's energy,

toward a tiny world,

toward the city of Jacksonville,

and the power descends,

the law of attraction, 

where random is no longer random,

and self creation defeats fate,

and odds are defied,

because she draws from the well,

and she knows what she knows,

what she has always known,

and the kavorka fills her cup,

and she drinks,

and a miracle which is not a miracle,

opens a doorway to a new world.

By my good friend Kev

A Trash Can and The Way I Feel

Hurt and battered, splattered and splayed, almost betrayed...when you give someone the world why can't they share it? I mean sharing is caring in a world of pink possums that hang in a row like love bugs that take tow, smashed on the grill of life, their hell without Halloween, once a queen, always a pauper, a beggar, a talker. A lover of the unloved, as gentle as a dove but mad as a wet hornet and the words damn scorn it, because if I could REALLY say the way I feel right now....the words would do best in the trash can....in never ever land. 

Three Acts

Being left out is an emotional drama that unfolds in three acts: discovery, distress, and, if you can get there, detachment. Being left out is the dark side of friendship

12:03

Past midnight, but the time of day is the month and date that I was born into this shitty old world. I wonder how many other times I've been born into this place and if I would've said shitty old world at that point and time. Eating myself into a sugar coma, compromised with a handful of xanax and a wonderful Angry Apple Orchard because it's fitting I think. The Angry I mean. I'd like to scream out about a hundred cuss words, maybe fall on the ground and pitch a terrible twos fit, or smash all the plates in the cabinet into bits...but none of it would make the pain I feel right now go away, would it? He comes in here and sits behind me and stares. He has no clue what I'm doing or why I'm doing it. And sometimes I wish he'd just leave me alone. The only man that loves me and I wanna push him out. Just go away and let me be depressed tonight alone. Guess it's my destiny. Not everyday is black. Some are blue.

Bones That Hold Me Up

Held aloft by two hundred six bones, like a thousand tones of skin color, layers of epithelial like cellophane packaging up what makes me me. But what if one flaw in my structure went unnoticed and this one flaw could make me topple at the slightest gust of wind without warning? What if God fucked up? On me?  

I Wish I'd Done Better

These are the things that matter most, I have to raise a toast to these folks that are part of me that only I wish were more a part of me, in the forest of life, we get lost, lose out paths, crawl under rocks, fail to look at the rainbows and blossoms, only come out with the possums, and plunder in the trash because trash is what you feel like sometimes when things get rough and no one is there to listen to the listener. I would give my last cell to spend more time with the people that matter most in my life. I only wish I'd done better.

Free Therapy Til Never After

Turn around and fix your eye in my direction, so there's a connection, I can't make a sound, staring at the reflection, the mirror crumbles into croissants with no butter because butter makes you fat and fat is ugly to the eye of the beholder, crush them with the biggest boulder until blood squirts in the eye of the criticism full of sarcasm and pride like a dive off the deep end of the ocean and blue is the color of the sleep that will come like a bolt of lightning in the frightening forest I feel so alone....
But I'll write until the lights go out...
because words last forever.  

Entering The Flesh Again

The color of blood like a flood,
Into the cauldron of continuity, 
Timely transmigration of the soul,
Is it half empty or half full?

A universal progression toward death,
Governed by Karma herself,
The existence or non existence on self,
Unchanging, floating on a cosmic kaleidoscope.

Might you survive death itself?
Based solely on your karmic inheritance...
Irrelevant to the point of returning,
A Druid's rebirth...give me my wings I say.

WTF?

A huge array of sensory information, degradation...
a segregation of sadness and sacrifice a race to suffice being nice and getting trampled like a beetle under a bull's hooves, 
as expressive as a loaf of white bread in a spread of clouds like a dripping faucet, indulge in a rainbow of chocolate, lest you slip a blade along your tongue, but lash out at a lizard in a landfill of lofty imaginations, temptations without the temptress but the paws of a princess in a faux laced up corset, I fight to stay awake but can't force it...
Swallow the blue to Purdue with dreams like buttercups and truffles damn I hit a ruffle in the chip of sadness where the fuck is my gladness, in the dark you were my eyes, in the forest you were my guide, what am I now but dust in the windfall of circus and cities of walls I can't climb but fall for the last time...I dream in a scream of rusted rage, words fall off the page like liquid lava without the lamp of life the strife it eats me up until I cannot find a single oxygen bubble in a sea of seamless hydrogen hypocrites talking and stalking me until the dawn never comes and the sun doesn't rise and there are fatless fries and endless ketchup....what the fuck is life anyway? 

Love Secondhand Serenade Songs When I'm in this sort of mood...

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Suicide To Your Existence

Don't ever get to that point where you are ashamed of being you just because someone is ashamed of you...to do so would be suicide to your existence. 

Leadership

One of the best paradoxes of leadership is a leader's need to be both stubborn and open-minded. A leader must insist on sticking to the vision and stay on course to the destination. But he must be open-minded during the process. Simon Sinek

Those Words, That Voice

When only those words,
that voice will make everything better,
why is it so hard to find?

Pain-tidote

I need an antidote, as I float on a sea of pain, the urge comes like rain in a bottle of poison fit for a king...make my ears ring and my tongue bitter, no fitter than fatback in a time rack pulling every limb into orbit, the stars and sky, blackness in the rye...the catcher's in the light, calling me I might, when time's run out and it hurts for the greater, and it's sifted me in bits from a lover to a hater. A bullet on a dime, pushing back to the time when a step was free, no need for a key for a skeleton no matter, somehow I got fatter. I grow tired with weakness, no more derbies or preakness just hold me my friend... don't let go 'til the end.

Lump Sum

Working like a slave, trying to beat the grave until the lump sum doth come. I rise to the occasion for the pen I do push, climbing and fighting sometimes I fall on my tush but there's plenty of cush and I trudge on beyond the gray skies there is blue but somewhere over the rainbow isn't true unless you lick the monkey that flies into a spider's web with an ebb tide that overtaketh go write until you maketh and submission is key, must I flee to the sea that swells with sunshine and tastes like moonshine in a dime's fancy feast, call the priest before my last breath's been had, I scream from my lungs when will it finally come.....
                                                                                                    .....that promised lump sum?

Push

                                                                 


Do not push me...
.....like she pushed you.

Cuz I'm close to the edge, and I'm scared of heights, and I don't like falling or crying or hurting anymore. 

Plus One

Who could it be?

This plus one, that follows my silly words of absurd meaning I'm leaning towards my plus one. My sick sanctuary, this place I come to drink and think when nothing's right and I have no fight left but to push on against the blindfold, feeling like Helen Keller where is that feller. Femme or foe, don't stump my big toe...a smile across my face as up the hill I race for an audience I have none, but I still have my plus one. My light in the night.

Inspiration

What makes the writer pick up the pen?

How does it begin?

By discipline? An endocrine?

A whim, a whisper in the rain? A pleasure, a pain?


What does a writer do when writing has left the realm of its desire to acquire loneliness and fashion becomes a lack of passion for the light is night and eyes cannot see the path of the pathetic, a jagged little pill, a diuretic.

Branches snap underfoot as the mind fills with soot, like a chimney sweep in the deep darkest carcinogen blinding like hallucinogen.                                                        

But could even the master  clean this disaster?
                                                   
Send me a London Fire I scream in the char or a drink at the bar, my  mind is lost in scatter God stop the clatter that  evades my..

InSpIrAtIoN.

Flogged and Hog Tied

Like a noose snuggling round my windpipe after I've stepped off the chair of despair...used and abused and not even fused for what is a slave anyway? Someone to be beaten then eaten, flattered than battered in steel rope binding intertwining paying for dining in the dim dew of day lilies licking the wounds of puss and disgust as I decay like rust among the dragonflies with ripped off wings once kings, only to sing a sad lullaby of reaping a reward of discord when blood spatter matters and welts wash the wicked flesh and that mesh that feels the chain beating  like rain then the hogs squeal at the latest appeal....taking advantage of disadvantage and weakness won't win the Preakness even with fancy hats and mint juleps, on my knees planting tulips, for once  a slave always a slave longing for the One who won't mind, loosing the bind. Besides, who needs a glass slipper when you have the big dipper and cherries only madder in the moonlight.

What Was of Me

A magnificent wind ripping through my brain cells, if any were any at all, even the angels did fall but it's not fall at all. Fresh flowers in bloom, to bandage the gloom that pulses through even the slightest unimportant single-celled organism sending orgasmic thoughts foreboding, corroding my gray matter, a splatter against my soul, I search for a mole, is it even me in the end? A foe? A friend?

Vanity or sanity oxidizing..mesmerizing from a daydream or is it an illusion? An ocular delusion? My ideas purge with magnetic repulsion, a solvent or emulsion, or has my very sanity taken a pathological flavor? A lick of honey, the tongue doth savor.

I beg for the sifter, go get the drifter, in the rye or is he just a sty in my eye... for it's time to sift the phantoms from physical reality, Dying from depravity.

A diversion, conversion squishing me into the box, the flock, herding us into huts of the same color, no bread, no butter, pumping me full of berm not sperm making but breaking forever....

...what was of me.


by dena mckinnon

Computer Woes

Away from the keyboard for a time not forgotten ...why must these machines hate me so? Hopefully I'll have a computer again soon!

~Peace Out~

The Night

Choking on a splinter in the night...the plight...I need to write like a fighter needs to fight, but my computer electronically decomposes when my insides are twisted like muscodine grape vines strangling a hundred year old live oak..the irony in the name when at a hundred it's so close to death.

If only I could sleep, not weep a wound into velvety blood, running o'er, stop the Goddamn flood. Weary and weak, the sunlight is bleak in....

...the night.

Sometimes

Sometimes....I miss him.

A Weed In The Wind A Friend & The End

Fickle and free, I look in the mirror and think...when did it become so aesthetically fucking cool to look so damn disheveled and careless? Not dirty, but messy. Disheveled and right at home in a home where nothing stays in its place not even me. Flighty and flowing like a  breeze or early spring rain spattering from the sky into a puddle that runs into a million little rivers down in the earth only to be the catalyst that turns death to life, springing forth like time lapse photography verdant vegetation that I may become the beautiful weed in someone's garden if only for a certain time until the weed is replaced by a cunning rose bush covered in red budding blooms like velvety blood in a flood...

....but the weed was a seed and the rose has thorns. 

So the little weed goes back to a seed and drifts in the wind until it finds another special place to bloom where there's plenty of room and the smile of a friend means a time to begin and life starts allover but with each blossom and seed the weed never forgets he who smiled upon her that time in a bottle where life was a throttle...and it doesn't hurt anymore for when she looks at a rose she knows he's better off lest he feel the thorn.

And There Lies the Sun

Tearing through the fog like a horseman, galloping into gridlock, nigh is the blackness, the fatness of hogs flying into neverland. A wing and a prayer, grab your sword if you dare because it cometh like death, the night, the fight...I close mine eyes, pray for light, but there's no rest for the wicked in a thicket of thorns thirsting for blood, I burst from the snare of the evil one's glare and am blinded in blunder...flying through the sky like Lucy with diamonds,  a heater against my feet, I look down beneath...
                                                        ....And there lies the sun.

Back Away or Bother...

Back away or bother? There lies the question, the answer  a needle in a haystack hardened like a new

.corpse in Canaan that passed into dust whilst seeking sweet forgiveness on a splinter for winter came too fast, that cold arctic blast but why must the cold caress the Crusader when hell hath no honeysuckle that sweet dripping daylight turns into darkness  thicker than clouds in a cottony candy lane like a labyrinth laid in lilies we feast on the sorrow of a thousand wrinkles in time on a dime, grey matter screams with decisions much fatter than fascination or any imagination could muster even under the  moonlight to... back away or bother.

Sleeping Man and a Corpse

“All I know is that while I’m asleep, I’m never afraid, and I have no hopes, no struggles, no glories — and bless the man who invented sleep, a cloak over all human thought, food that drives away hunger, water that banishes thirst, fire that heats up cold, chill that moderates passion, and, finally, universal currency with which all things can be bought, weight and balance that brings the shepherd and the king, the fool and the wise, to the same level. There’s only one bad thing about sleep, as far as I’ve ever heard, and that is that it resembles death, since there’s very little difference between a sleeping man and a corpse” 
― Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, Don Quijote de La Mancha