Luvanogre

The city of Thet smells to high heaven, but the inhabitants don't know this. They have no noses. And, no ears, no eyes, no heads, no arms, no hearts, no legs. At least, none that can be seen. The skyscrapers have long since crumbled into dust (Nobody could reach the buttons on the elevators anymore). So what remains is an endless march of concrete sidewalks, crossing back and forth across the city. The inhabitants don't mind. They walk along, oblivious to all but the hard stone under their soles. They wear all types of ridiculous contraptions to protect themselves: boots, sneakers, high heels, something purple with a puffball, loafers, things

Glimpse a glance of demon. Look them in the eye. These monsters of the heart and mind. Stop them, tie them, bind them, Tape them to the floor. Put up walls around them, Seal the iron door. Build the walls still higher, Lock and guard the gate. Hope they do not come for you, Watch, and hope, and wait. The walls have crumbled, bonds won't hold. Demons run rampant through your soul Searching, questing, trying to find you. Pull you down and lose you, Wrap you up in broken thoughts, And scare you into a nice, safe box. Glimpse a glance of demon. Look them in the eye. These monsters of the heart and mind.

The sestina Makes me think of Pretty ladies With flowing dresses, And dancing men With shining hair. Old, graying hair. This sestina Speaks of blind men, Telling stories of Soft, silk dresses Worn by ladies. Pretty Ladies Who scent the air With perfumed dress. This is a sestina About nights off The path with men. A naughty man Who likes ladies That tell him off. Fingers waggle in the air. A sestina Of fancy dress. These women dress To torture men. A sestina Of seeing ladies With scented hair Still speaking of, Questioning of, How is this dress? What of my hair? And many silly men Tell the lady A sestina. A

With a poem, I can make you laugh out loud. I can turn the solemn corners of a frown Upside down. I can bring tears to bitter, dry eyes. I could set you in motion to Take on the world, or Leave you to rot on the side of the road. I can take you places you've never seen, And even more that I've only dreamed. I can make you see oppression and pain, Or draw a veil just to hide everything. This poem here is a treacherous thing. I can say what I mean, or else preen Myself on the buckets of lies You gulp right down like pumpkin pie.

The wind blows through the Empty silo and stirs Forgotten dust off a Long-lost clock. The clock ticks on, Forgotten gears whirling the Empty years past Long-lost bones. The bones crumble silently, Empty of marrow, they have Forgotten the souls that Long ago filled them. These souls were Emptied out onto the crest of a Forgotten wave of violence that has Long since spent its last. The violence of the desperate and Forgotten. The burning rage of Empty eyes and the hunger they Long ago ceased to feel. The hunger. They grew used to Empty stomachs, until, the Forgotten fought back; wreaking Long-deserved havoc upon t

You are the silent one, who cries in the depths of the night. You are the one who drifts in unannounced at the last minute to save the world. You are the unlikely hero, the anonymous giver. That name which no one knows yet takes for granted. The shadow, the whisper, the secret. Because you deal in darkness, no one sees you, believes you, trusts you. And yet, You are all that stands between them and the ultimate destruction. You, who have no name, and at the same time a plethora, given by various peoples throughout the ages. The everything, and the many, and the nothing all in one. You, who are immaterial. You, who are older than this world an

Praise the fools, the silly, the idiots For they make the world go round. And if Laughter is the best medicine, then Let it tinkle out across the rolling hills and soaring skyscrapers, And laud the stupid, the ignorant, the fools.

In the black hole, through The wormhole, out the brown hole, Into the white bowl.

Happy, orange disks click into the machine and Fly out so happy, orange hunters can shoot their hearts out. The box says: BIODEGRADABLE In large, friendly letters. But, I cannot get the reek of sulphur out of my nose.       Sure, They're biodegradable. Too bad they're TOXIC.

In a fairy tale, Boys go out of their way to love you, The guy of your dreams really is, Help is always offered when it is needed the most, And love lasts forever.        If . . . . Life is not a fairy Tale. When needed most the hand will not be there as promised, The one you trust will break your heart, And no one will ever rescue Rapunzel from her tower. She will have to climb down on her own damn hair. Since . . . . . Life is not a fairy tale. Love and chivalry and romance have receded, Flying back to the myths of old, And we discover that the celebrated King Arthur Was a tyrant, glorified in the passing eons By the drea