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The In-Between

"The In-Between"

I ripped the pages of 
that tired old story 
from the heart, a body of work

buried the misdiagnosed slanders
then wiped their mouths
with the back of my spoon

the feed they found,
passed the disingenuous time;
some found it hot, others -

scratching the surface 
paltry yard confounded,
some alarmingly amused 

when true meaning rolled-over 
plunging headily nude
and recklessly to cool

taken out of their high chairs,
they too walked like recalcitrant infants,
drunkenly pressing their faces into walls

with the paper cuts 
missing from their hands
thoughts were their stock exchange

a symptom of the sharp discards of 
their anxious waiting, watching 
the sands slipping through slim hollows

of that metronome marking glass 
worldly and worrisome wisdom 
drop second-by-second like falling pearls 

broken to the floor 
in their Godiva nakedness
then strung back up again

placed around their necks
noose-like, a new halo 
around the throat satin-like


there, they ride 
their minds astride,

to be 
and contrite

expensive reality 
cast aside in the reflections 
of their better selves

bouncing back from what sits 
upon their reclining laps, 
warm and comforting 

crystal menageries 
trustworthy, always friendly 
encased in durable plastic 

there, their controlled angels
and controlling monsters sit
whispering seductive tomes

peeling away at the keys of 
their duplicitous yet noble glass onions, 
artificial loyal reliable friends, always -
until their fuse blows

loyal like a ball and chain
in fairweather and Faustus foul
dealing cards with their worst
and better selves

stories baked and swallowed 
each dream-like melting moment
"cupcakes are us", domesticated
and fast rule acquainted

sincerely recommending, 
never play outside the lines
forays with the obstructing abstractors 
molluscs are an acquired taste, best avoided

shucked fleshy, quivering with life
they understand jazz too implicitly, trumpeting, 
down that mother-f***er fast

they take comfort in the mistakes 
they're beat-ups in the short, 
yet long-lived walk home

eating up the waiting time
like some sensuous 
solace-laced luxury 

escaping through each open gate
and playground sucking emotions 
like tootsie-pops

calming the errant child
hard candy blowing tears away
swinging bare feet

with The Others,
phantoms who sit silently 
stitching soliloquy, missing in action

those viciously cool ingenues 
writing new recipes, feasts that hungrily
let loose their calmly explosive mind fields

a cause of leaving 
the rigid body of beliefs behind 
in the comfort of their cloistered rooms 

cassocks tossed off 
where they duplicitously agree
with the inclement climate

of their tight shifts 
and uncomfortable pants
breath spinning in the great in-between 

they make a new game 
of love and misconceptions 
their personal detour maps labyrinthine

ne’er a point in time irreverently wasted 
in that churning washing machine 
the missionaries’ positions are all cursory 

wrapping legs of a journey 
around spontaneously perfunctory 
and non-rehearsed now and then mind-seductions

fresh bodies of work 
flip the sheets necessary to
massage notes of love, regret and wry genius 

left tames right 
along the way, 
bittersweet and torturous 

wanton and spot on
better days are spent surely
in the lasting, lusting poetic 

Les Liaisons 
dangereuses affair
bee-stung words passionately sting

honey is always meaningful 
in the gloaming time 
gallantly holding space

en tendre 
le chanson 
du luminer

en chantant

(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)

Nostalgia 77 - Fifteen (Best of) [Full Album]

"What fresh hell is this?"

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