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Madeira

Madeira, grapes with a wreath, nnn.. no wrath

Color lends to the squished
acidity to wrap the tongue
each time every time
an expectation
aged vintaged
barreled and Bacchus fermented
Final vessels glassy & crystalline
prior to the palate being teased

Meandering as inebriated
prepare to hand over reins
in percentage
to Eros(love) , Ares (war) and simpleton buffoonery
(I have embraced her with open arms but I can't name her)
in parts
Spirits as reformist filters
they Manifest faults

But not for me
fruity ether as suffrage
is an assist to daydreams

Tripartite persona

Tripartite persona
of the woman
with my balls on her palm
when she is either with the sages,
rages or the ages

Sauntering with the sages; often times:

Moribund

Fangs in
now the coil
bone crushing.
Lungs attempt swells & waves
each a last, lapse, gasp
another tightening from the coil.

Sitr, stir, please stir
any limb
little digits caress the darkness
woo it a little
sing to it, lull the hurt
lullaby yes mother, yes mother

Break me or break the grip
rise life, sire strife
thumping finger correct
the inner vibe

Braille felt steps, climb
Serpentine see my might
oddly enough in a Germanic accent
“I am szmall but I am zstrong”

All compasses are not

Age: 8ish -9
Tail to sibling tasked off to the butcher.
Era was spaced out, tailor made clothes,
even get to pick
the critter for culling.
Unhinged the chosen chicken,
headless yet alive, rummage
in purposed smallish corral.
Constriction in my heart
noggin on my neck in a tizzy.
Crumpled to the floor, oblivioned.
Vegetarian interred.

Age: Teenish
When
all compasses are not.
It’s an arrow
from my feral instinct
to your heart.
Exuberance with a smile
to self.
Such confidence that I know
I will make it stop.

After, I stare at the feathered
corpse.

Toddler memories

Toddler memories, siblings,
older squabbling over rights to read the
news,! Every morning!
Odd and gone.

Glass of milk flying over a
swiped weekly rag.
Funny and gone.

Waiting my turn for the comic,
first only the colour made sense,
then I knew the bubbles had words
when I could read.
Anxious nostalgia but still gone.

Aroma when you lift the teacozy,
slink near grown up knees to catch
the whiff.
Sweet and gone.

Find myself staring at my pups noggins
what layers of memorabilia
to reminiscence
their treasures.

Cyclic but unique nothing is ever gone.

Learning and then lessons

Esoteric, autistic spectrum bubble
An ideal learning spot, let the words pour in.
Some read to you, others gleamed from institutions,
Most absorbed from loved books.
Ideals, isms and instilling the will to go
Beyond the defined and imagined so far.
That’s learning. The light for your path.
At some point the vessel is full, time to
Exercise the will, lend a name to a theorem.
All the whiplashes in the the process are
misconstrued as lessons.
When you keep the learning well lit
Add to it your two bits, to pen
Or pass on without the mention
Of any whiplash

State of being

Unconscious, instinctive and a practiced movement

my hand on her belly

Ensconced, cocooned, in a glove

seems each time it is in it

not on it

homed, nestled,

happy.

Toddler memories

Toddler memories, siblings,
older squabbling over rights to read the
news,! Every morning!
Odd and gone.

Glass of milk flying over a
swiped weekly rag.
Funny and gone.

Waiting my turn for the comic,
first only the colour made sense,
then I knew the bubbles had words
when I could read.
Anxious nostalgia but still gone.

Aroma when you lift the teacozy,
slink near grown up knees to catch
the whiff.
Sweet and gone.

Find myself staring at my pups noggins
what layers of memorabilia
to reminiscence
their treasures.

Cyclic but unique nothing is ever gone.

Generational misogyny

Generational misogyny a societal act

often swapping nurture for lesions.

Initially (she) tasked with transferring verbal skills,

gene coded to repeat lessons that must get across.

First acts of growing out of the brood

translate to mundane talk back

wrath borne, without

malaise, contradictory yet true.

The habit forming rebel has grown up

but she exhibits abrasions

way before the empty nest

reverential slot is slated for the

seemingly quieter, yet unthinking

man about the house.

She, delegated as God of random

and too many thoughts,

Pent up

Pent up

before it hits the ground any free fall is a potential

the wind rush universally a thrill

the shattering moment

a stop

did the potential just divvy up in multiplicity

orgasmic, ejaculate, shared or unshared

or

?

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