Black as the ink
imagine,
octopus's favorite.
But before
it has a chance to dry,
water rises up
and black as tar,
My client starts to cry.
Pen is a center-fold,
All that smudge,
and believe me, its cold
words that have meaning,
gets lost when water
splashes so angry.
Words blur,
like underwater
chlorine.
Its in a way that's squealing
in a world so good & wicked
piggy little found,
and its curly little tail,
Forced to run home,
but so safe & sound
in the storms of the hail.
Arms of a garden gnome.
Cars squealing,
Trees shivering,
Humans zooming across town,
Probably back to that ‘small but cozy…’ apartment in the basement of an LA complex.
Thing is..
When’s recess?
When can I go home?
And why do I never feel at home?
Where actually is home?
Perhaps we’re all searching for home.
As I slip into the void,
of this endless black;
a moonless sea séance;
there's no way back,
for black is black,
flack is flack!
The blues I stack,
into my backpack.
Are old bent music notes
of bottleneck-drawn cries.
Sung in well-past midnight bars
lamenting what I've misspent
in twelve-bar lag dues.
The sea and sky know why,
I'm not coming back.
They never knew me.
They just sailed right through me.
Like a freight train moaning
on a tear-stained track—
sending me flying away, flying away.
Why? Can't I say?
Why? They washed we away!
There's no anchor here
to belay my stay,
to make me rue the day.
So I can't delay
for another day, no no longer!
So I slip my bottleneck slide
down the frets,
screaming a high-note cry;
squealing to a high-end bend,
into the empty void,
of my black-hole blues.
Black is black, flack is flack,
There's no coming back
from these old black-eyed,
black-hole blues.
No coming back
from these old black-eyed,
black-hole blues.
squeamish squealing supernatural shroud
lightly lingering by a light pole, in no way loud
brilliant bumbling boos briefly bent and bowed
showing happy Halloween hijinks to the child-like crowd
Beside a red-wire pen I lean,
Loathing to hear the fuss
Of victims bound in barbed shackles
Squealing 'can you hear us?'
Yet, through thin bars of crying steel
I see a meadow bright,
With a sky of forty northward stars
Lighting such a rare sight:
A thousand hooves, claws and wings
Paired up in two and two,
March as a deaf'ning multitude
Of a grace known by few.
And for miles they line before death
Stored away without key.
Yet under skies no hand can cage,
Their breath may float free
And so I sing; a song of joy
That hovers o'er waters,
And inspires the doves and ravens
Who fly but once fought us.
In horse gone wild, fighting off
What for its own good
With soft brush, once roped, harnessed
Is calmly caressed
See in street-roaming feral
Kicking and squealing
Whose own touch, once lured back there
God's; pew's for stall's care.
brought my dogs out to enjoy the shade
in muddy water one of them doth wade
the other one begs me to go back in
until the neighborhood dog’s barking begins
both are more than happy to bark back
you can hear these harsh barks in Hackensack
now daddy is out and they are squealing with delight
they want out of the pen, but I hold on to them tight
She ate a so much of the couch that it was tattered.
Not from sitting, wear, tear, or despair.
Then the last crumb pounced before a vacuum could make its move.
Stuffing bubbling up.
It happened as fast as a catapult throwing severed feet into the distance.
She liked the taste.
And made no haste.
There was a sound like a trampoline with a dead body jumping all over.
Squealing yellow like mustard splatter.
She couldn’t eat the whole couch.
Not like that.
So she put on her cape.
And the search continued.
If you made me lasso an animal in coal,
a rooster or a chicken would be my goal
a cat is too sneaky, a cow is too big
and I am terrified of a squealing pig
by Khomotso Makitla
Squealing tires on a wet road.
Shattered glass, fragments of once comfort.
Echoes of screams could be heard afar, calling for help.
Those cries began to fade, yet people were closing in.
A helping hand was offered.
Shame and guilt struck, memories of once refusing a hand.
Helplessly, a tear fell.
A tear on the heart,
and sore thoughts on the soul.
Memories came flooding back,
emotions congesting my heart and my mind.
That’s how I collapsed,
my thoughts and emotions trembling as one.
Now my laundry hangs
for the whole world to see.
Help me, for now help I seek.
Keen to speak, for love I know I’m weak.
But now I know,
my emotions, thoughts, and heart
know when it’s time to ask for help
and to hell with love.
Heaven.
From its spout.
It’s so luxurious everywhere,
But I’m still somehow a puddle all over.
The alarms have been going off for hours.
This avenue used to be part of me.
It is now a street for others.
Fruition.
Other ideas don’t make sense here.
The ground is no longer earth.
And love is trickling through and speaks gravely.
Turn on the windshield wipers.
When you turn on the headlights.
Like a luxury sedan that I live in.
Traveling all over when there’s no reason to.
Heaven is random.
Squealing sounds of a violin.
Heaven grows exponentially.
So there is room.
Me and all my friends too.
Expansive feelings.
Spouts we don’t know of.
This avenue of alarms.
I have other ideas too.
Heaven has its own ideas.
Might someday turn us into raindrops.
Like my friend who got in too.
Panic attacks can seem…
Pointless.
Jumps up and down.
A sighing yet struggling feeling.
Sighing out so much.
Because it’s boring.
Like a pencil lead from a mechanical pencil breaking.
Then you put more in.
There’s something pointless about it.
I can’t describe.
It used to be a passionate feeling.
Knocking down all the books off the shelf like crazy.
But these days it doesn’t feel like much.
Like wearing one sock because I lost the other.
That pulling and spinning.
It doesn’t define me.
A panic attack is like…
A squealing beetle.
Now I know that I’m the beetle.
And I can crawl onward.
I’m taking too long in here.
This cart I am trying to steer.
Is squealing around corners constantly.
There’s nothing except throwing groceries in endlessly.
The wet floor sign is laughing too hard.
I still need to buy a thank you card.
But words don’t exist in the confines of the store.
Just lines and scribbles galore!
Ribbons streaming from nowhere.
Like sadness from a tearful pear.
I could leave this store at any time.
But not without an angry lime.
Not without doing something odd.
Like catching bags of chips with a fishing rod.
Eating a pastry from a display.
Jumping around to avoid the fray.
I’m taking too long in this place.
Where I can feel the freezer section’s embrace.
The cold is not the only thing in me.
I wish everything was free.
Free like a smiling flower in the floral department.
Which is beautiful despite dismemberment.
I wish I was free too…
In this store with too many tears undue.
They don’t make car parts at night.
The factory is open tomorrow.
I’m taking a walk.
Out of the house when it’s night.
I might eat breakfast.
Something rotting.
When it’s all over.
I’m not in my house now.
I learned to make car parts some years ago.
I’d rather be…
A car tire.
Squealing around, easily, treads last a long time.
They don’t make anything at night.
I should be asleep, but the factory is open early and…
I need to get ready soon or they might get me…
If I were a tire, I would be very happy.
People dream about work at night.
I should be dreaming of making car parts.
So I can wake up and make car parts.
Except when I’m awake my wrist hurts.
I’m awake and nothing is being made right now.
The factory is opening in four hours.
Everything I make in there is perfect.
They don’t make car parts at night.
How do I know?
Because I’m here right now.
See that clown going around town,
with his big floppy shoes,
an orange wig,
a red nose so bright,
a haunting laugh.
He pulls a rabbit from a hat,
making everyone laugh.
A balloon dog walks like a puppet
into the arms of a little boy—
squealing with delight and fright,
he runs off with his new friend under his arm.
The clown looks around.
Mascara runs down his face.
A big splash—a heavy tear—
falls to the ground,
opening a tidal wave,
a puddle growing around his feet.
The smile becomes a frown.
The love of his life,
his Earth Angel, is now an angel—
watching from above.
He wipes his tears and mutters,
“This angel is for you.”
And lets go of the string.
An angel with a halo
rises—up, up, and up—
engulfed in big, fat white clouds.
A distant memory
brings a tiny smile.
See that clown going around town,
with his big floppy shoes,
an orange wig,
a red nose so bright,
a haunting laugh…
The clown of an angel,
living in heaven.
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