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“Blue Angels, Black Sheep, Monitors and The House of Random Penguins” 

The womb
is scooped like 
an over ripe melon
Time is the incorrigible felon,
the forgotten lost garden explored 
overturned and raked, 
neatly messed, 
in more ways than 1, 
never removed, not yet,
it would be too very much missed;
the once contained trophy misplaced,
the dreams replaced by monitors, 
such horrid and most feared entropy, 
place their sucking mushrooms 
like death caps on an electric fever, 
intrusively listening to reigning brain waves,
pitterpat pitterpat pitterpat, an umbrella please 
for black sheep and their watershed moment, 
a little death never once arrives
shaking the little darlings aside, 
those murdering marauding 
buds of come what may,
"Deep breaths", they say, "good girl..."
(the patient thoughts have other thoughts that over rule, 
which others no doubt will debate away in their shallow rock pools, 
small sharks swim in large schools in small oceans), 
"count backwards from 100", they say; 
before you know it you’re dead to it all, 
then unblessedly 2hrs in blessed eternity 
that unknown place, that dark fathomless other world, 
the Morpheus drops he injects in blue veins 
via canula speared torturously into cream skin, scarlet drops minimal,
the transport set, everything's gone in, commutes you by 3 seconds 
where eventually you awake, as if he has been in communion with Puck,
who now kisses your eyelids open with viola tricola drops
that luscious love-in-idleness potion, it’s as if 
Arden calls forth your name like a lover 
like an Echo he calls you forth far away
from the Lost Lovers' Woods, 
speeding down well lit white tiled relays, 
those cleansing light shining hallways, 
toreador corridors, above you float the faces of angels, 
strange gods dressed in their cream masks 
and their wings of form before function 
all hues of blues, call to each other like bugles, 
then their strong muscular arms lifting you up 
and gleeful chants moving over you 
trumpetting the virtues of some kind of matrimony in triage,
"Hysteroscopy, endometrial ablation, curretage bay 21", the bugles blast, "intubation"...a frenzied gaggle sharply atuned in a poetic moment, 
"write a poem," they say, "mention us", 
"low blood pressure here, not good ... good girl
(if you insist, she thinks, but so very not ... that kind of girl) 
slip this under your tongue," 
like a steel lollipop, you suck on the Monitaur gun, 
a little love profusion injected, drunkenly you pleading the 5th 
to random penguins housed tripping in all your dimensions 
biblically speaking like the 12, each a chapter seen anew, 
sticky beaks tasting the bittersweets dipped in honey, 
begging for the Cherry marachino romance central figure 
to sashay in to save the day, waltz through one’s pearly gates, 
sacrosanct that garden, once we all called it home, now mostly forgotten; 
come what may, romance is always on time, never late, 
in it the elusive one sashays to save the sacred beating heart of Love's daze,  the incorrigible felon, Time, put to good use, as always sincerely deviant,  
one cannot but help to think of the words, biopsy criminally hazed.

(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)








Penguin Random House
Monitaur / Monitor (Greek mythology/medical terminology)
Medical Entropy; other various medical terminolgy
Midsummer Nights Dream 
Morpheus
Echo (Greek Mythology)
Blue, Cream
Numbers: 100, 21, 12, 5, 3, 2 (is six numbers lucky lotto?) ... 1

Murder Your Darlings:
“If you here require a practical rule of me, I will present you with this: Whenever you feel an impulse to perpetrate a piece of exceptionally fine writing, obey it—whole-heartedly—and delete it before sending your manuscript to press. Murder your darlings." 

Light … and dare I suggest it... very dark






"Cell phone's dead, lost in the desert
(One by one I'll knock you out)
Eye of the sun is out of its socket
(One by one I'll knock you out)


(One by one)
This jam is real… that's right"
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