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(Half Drunk Muse) Half Drunk Muse has submitted the text to our publication, but has been delayed in getting us the authors name and the city, state, country of the author. Contact us with the title of the totem, first line of your poem, and this important information. We will be happy to give proper credit to the writers. The mind is a powerful thing A strike to the heart gives a painful sting These deep seeded emotions, some say, come from the heart The truth of the matter is the mind is the place to start Life lends us only so much time to live to the fullest Will love ever knock at my door and take a rest? I wear these bells proudly My availability screams loudly I hang my head in dismay Why has my life turned out this way? - Heather L. Gambrell, Belton, South Carolina NOW is the time to hide those memories of yours under- hat neath a kisses have expired and caresses gon 'to hiding and let this hat cover your family and the curtains fall about your ears doff't only to the one who'll turn yo ur key oo'll jang- le your bell as well and draw the curtains about you together with- out jettison- ing your mind or forcing sentiment down into the shadows at the expense of your body encircled in folds of cloth sentient caressed aware Travis Moore, Auckland, New Zealand (Half Drunk Muse) I. The Ancient Walls Of Fire Fall, A Sacrifice temperature escalates, and the sun splits your hand. rays blossom off each wall confused and sparse, flying past your ears, your eyes reaching the blades of fans and die. a horrible sound where windows bend, where ceilings give in and lights fade to apprehend every step you take. they build upon each other, enclosing you in, making it hard to breathe with so little skin to guard your lungs. and they stare, they stare and you are the only one, for the one that knows is the one that runs, past churches in disguise, past children left behind, With Blades in Eyes and Shield in Hand, a Head of Dreams, running with the lightning of a lit sky, of a tremendous vacuum inditing the fierce and brutal actions of just one, it always takes just one. one suggestion, quietly suggested, sometimes a question, sometimes not always unleashing the oppressed of oppression. Just One. and now, one night you are awake alone while the whole town slept, and escape knowing of their silent deaths and helpless cries within their Dreams. You Witnessed, You Witnessed, and You Witnessed and You Witnessed..... The Dying Breath is to Breathe. and you collapse: before a City aflame, before a Sky of soot, forced by the smoke your body drops, your eyes shut to a tundra for a brief second, where you dance the design of spun webs on cold blissful ice, so far away. II. The Passing, The Passing of Rest; A Savior Born, A Dream Scorned in the breath of a cloud your thoughts lay, your head sleeps, at the mercy of INHALE, at the mercy of EXHALE, and the function of your lung fails in Their Eyes. You Are Down In Their Eyes. there are no gloves to grip a smooth treadless bar, a hand slips, just as the glove fits so seemingly well. And The Hand Does Lose Grip. and it's okay to fall thousands of feet, and it's okay to sleep to save those asleep. and she, She Awoke - a placid scream rupturing every cave and canal in the bones of your skull, an immense discourse beyond language, beyond images birthed. From Inside Your Head - the ground was her ship, and bark was for hire. she sailed steering trees. (Half Drunk Muse) Screaming in silence I can’t help it…I over enthuse. I dive headlong into the shallow waters of what seems like ever after. I don’t feel love, but passion is something I feel. I want to capture that moment and hold on, like the last breath before diving into the water. I want to swim in the sea of romantic harmony. I want to feel laughter in the truest of forms, I want to smile without the feeling of obligation. What have I become in this tattered world of scorn and hatred? I plaster my face with a smile that everyone could love. I am on the voyage to self-discovery, but what I hold the most dear could banish my soul from my spirit, crashing my heart into my head. Am I truly ever able to love, or is it the feeling of empathy that overwhelms my being? For what I hold the most sacred, passion, only lies within the surface of myself. My passion cries out to be set free into the artistic entwining that wraps itself around me in a cocoon of obsession. What will become of me? (Half Drunk Muse) prodding finger clouds above an architecture of human ground earth balances his feet in awkward lurch, "why can't we float?" "i want to see the body work into vertigo and the tree tops pose as ants." the cheapness of waking lacks lust or the exaltation of larks. the morning scents crumble under her thick eyes and the lines of a dream resemble the comfort of a well engineered hat lined to absorb clothes dropping. a voice in the wind grows soft and dawns the fabrics of great symbols singing in the tones of falling marionettes . he rings a bell to begin his adventure perhaps he is the first line of a love letter addressed to no one or anyone, the key to growing corporeal. maybe he handed over his eyes to a lovely child so the light may run onto his nose and flash spasmodically into the vast horizon of rain. (Half Drunk Muse) Though time may heal, precious idealized memories it is so compelled to steal In time you may be with another... But Once Upon a tender Time you loved me like no other... The clock marks the hours... The bells toll and you are gone- the dark red curtains drawn, no more thoughts of warm shared snow showers... Time is tainted, time is both necessary and unfair... In time I may remember, that perhaps you were never really there (Half Drunk Muse) "Harlech Lamentations" The eye’s not looking at you. Perched atop the sawdust and graying upholstery that shelters a geriatric monarch exercising jus primae noctis and his young entertainer posing as if she were something more; he imagines that her dreamwater is unfiltered, sparkling purity that Aquafina has raging hormonal jealousy about. And it is—her family prays for Divine Regicide. And since it’s not an eye, but merely a BIOHAZARD bulging influenced clock, It can’t possibly see you dripping what you thought you lived for out the starboard helm, bells attached to your waist and each oscillation building And building And building more than you ever agreed to So your eyes flicker as you’re hoping that any moment they’ll show you Home: where the heart vacations. there was a time when you didn’t wake in the middle of day and forget that you weren’t Branwen uerch Lyr but destroying two islands isn’t cost effective when your soulpledge will do just fine claw your way out, bandaging your precious incisors, your sensitive weapons you’ll live to see the voyage home, maybe remember how to pro-noun-ce your name and you’d better hurry because judging by the turbulence, you’ve got 6 minutes. Maybe 7. (Half Drunk Muse) The Demon "Liberation" swept me off My broom, and raised me to this heady height Where I may view his puppet kings who doff Their crowns to queens who reign with equal might; And though I yearn for chains on foot and wrist, The Demon merely hangs these tattling bells Around my shoulder, where, if I insist On turning back, why then he simply tells The others how I'm letting down our side. Forbidden are the shoes that pinch my feet. The broom abandoned, neither ride nor sweep. Forbidden ravishment, ashamed, complete, The fear and rapture that became a bride. I'm free at last: I'm free to sit and weep. (Half Drunk Muse) he media is my god Telling me what to do think and say Selling me insignificant make believe dream roles to crave and portray Trying, trying to play a part without a script little experience, no heart Imitating purveyors of the latest trend or fad Living an insane lifestyle without going mad If retro time travel is out of the question and surgery too expensive to mention, What’s a girl ever to do? Declare suicidally, “I’m through” Recaptured youth that’s all I want To be seventeen and once more to flaunt my Lolita innocence and ignorance of who I am not Back again, back to when, I know I knew it all To be whom I believe and think I can, Not, who I truly am Being brave and being bold, Not a lost and insecure thirty-eight year old (Half Drunk Muse) O, Sybil I turn the key in her forehead one full revolution when she is asleep to unlock her dreams they come tumbling out like bees from a cloud like water from a pump I don’t know if she is my one true love or if there is such a thing as true love I don’t question why she is sitting on the edge of my hat or why her dreams intersect mine like pigments that run together to create magnificent browns and blacks the cow bells my jealousy tied to her hips are silent as a doorbell at midnight what stardust there is on her lips I have licked clean like icing from a knife and tasted my own blood I am the mad hatter who serves a mad cup of tea my eyes glow like headlights below my hat where my entire brain lives like another being I can barely communicate with now on my hat the dial of prophecy spins like a combination lock the hand of time parts the curtains to reveal our one kiss that takes place thirty years into the future then we part like an old married couple grown forgetful of each other but she is here in my brain in my dreams a foxfire that consumes the tallow of my love until it is gone and I wake (Half Drunk Muse) Elizabeth, pneumatic; puffing wisps like crippled song-birds, peeping breath seething through lotus-teeth, perfumed. Lioness, paws outstretched and muscles coiled, coyly. Oh Elizabeth, what of this broken wing? A stale limb or teetering appendage sycamore stump, scaled like pristine cod. We will sail, my Elizabeth, your eyelashes pulsing soft like feathers flipping on the cardboard of my lips, whiskers beaded like frosted trees. Elizabeth, how cold the stream your eyes reflect, pupils greyed like lidless sewers, starless and clouded. Elizabeth, you thunderous drum-beat, what of this broken skin? Oh Elizabeth, you chirping wonder how silent you've become. (Half Drunk Muse) Love does not conquer anything Except our spirit in the end. Throughout, love is but a mask That people hide behind Until they crave to be a different person With someone else. (Half Drunk Muse) I try to seduce the tears away And star roughly into blank space. I avoid every mirror, Reflections that turn such moments raw. The outline of my body exudes an ominous halo. I am a character yet to be described, A distant knockoff of insanity, Stretched out in all its loveliness. Here I am, wondering at the man Whose body laid a shadow above mine, Waiting as my vulnerability dwindled, The curtains parted by loving hands. Thus my egotistical shortcomings, Swept up, exposed, awkward honest confessions. He stowed them away as unforgivable memories, I await my sanctity to return. Love that loves to emblazon my faults. Or maybe it is I who has mounted my own scaffold. Prostrating to every selfish whim; The key of my own demise. (Half Drunk Muse) I have unlocked him before. I could filter him again like sunlight through cloud cover, rest in the warm settle of his arms while he whispers combinations. Hours are stolen like jewellery. I wear them on my hips like a warning each time he comes close. I am the key to endings, yet I spin clockwise, wait for the click. These are my failings; his weightlessness, the gliding lift of an idea against my lips, me; closing curtains, stealing. I could lose myself here-- the view would devour me. I try silence like a worn hat against bad weather, but these things can't stay underneath-- they air themselves on the rim, beckoning. I brush away want like a fall of leaves, hope for calm in the taste of a memory. E V Brooks, Southampton, United Kingdom (Half Drunk Muse) Winding down, finding now, Waiting was not worth it. Key to your heart, now lodged in my head, Our time ticks persistently past. My alarm finally goes off, Swirling memories of minutes, Solidify into this moment: Layers of legs, lace and lies, Suddenly too heavy too bear. Evidence is no friend to denial, As it slips off with her shirt. Back turned, but view blazes on. Intimate images burn at both ends. Scarred retinas seek solace, Fading into false darkness That insists on shedding light. You and me, you and she, Rules of the universe rewritten: You can divide two By three. (Half Drunk Muse) I’m the classic version Of the girl who’s available For every guy to come over And dump on I’m suppose to deal with your heartache Over another All while smiling and dealing with my own Over you And maybe I should be more positive More proactive So this shit won’t rein over me Your shit Is all that matters When my heart is twisted in the chaos Of sex that’s just good enough To keep me coming back So call me a poet Who should know better 'Cause I'm so smart As long my heart is not involved I'm ridiculously brilliant When I'm alone But when it comes down to it I'm the only one there to notice And let the record stand firm Let words be the judge I'm the classic version Of the girl who's available For every guy to come over And dump on (Half Drunk Muse) The way it felt it felt as though you were watching the two in a silent film. That’s the way it looked, the way they looked, the way it felt. Maybe it was even filmed in black and white, and was grainy. So they stood across from each other, face to face, and holding the same bar above their bobbing heads on the L line. The car, it jerked back and forth and so briefly once in a while they leaned in or were thrown closer together continuously. She wore her purple wig, the short one because she was like that, and he wore his dark tweed jacket with the lapels because he always did. They would look at each other and there just wasn’t any sound. Only at first, there was sound. At first they could hear the people around them like so many voices and like one solid voice, and they could hear the opening and the closing of the doors, and the sound of moving along the tracks, the change of pressure from underground to above. But this was only until it wandered off, as if the white noise itself had stepped off at a previous stop. The way it felt it felt as though they looked at each other and everything went mute. The way it looked it looked as though their eyes were electric, drifting in and out of each others eyes. She would blink slowly, heavy dark lashes, hiding her eyes before she quickly looked back up. His eyes were steady, held her drifting gaze, taking her in, taking in her hair, her lips, he would blink fast, close them for only a moment. By the end they were standing very close, their hands overlapped on the bar above them, and their feet stood coupled. Sometimes it seemed as if she were falling asleep, her head drifting down to meet his shoulder, on a trip that seemed to last much longer then the length of the train ride, drifting closer and closer till his tweed touched her pink cheek and she was home, burying herself in him and his scent. He stood tall over her bent neck and looked on over her slumped shoulder as though he could take on the entire train, as though scolding, as if to say ‘be quiet, she’s sleeping’. At moments, when they looked at each other, her face rising from within him to look, his head tilting downward, there lips would brush and their eyes would close softly, their cheeks met. But it was all so wispy, all so surreal. It was as if there was no real contact at all, like a dream filled with silence and warmth, where you wanted very much to reach out but couldn’t, and there wasn’t even any color. A stop came and they left the train together, hand lightly in hand, hesitating at first. As they walked, took the last step upward from underground tunnels they were greeted, lit up by setting sunlight. They took turns till on an uncrowded street and they walked and swayed, moved back and forth like a breeze across the sidewalk slowly, casually and gently pushing each other their bodies one way till another. Now and again they were silent and now and again they talked, or whispered. The way it looked it looked as though now they were walking and talking even in slow motion. Her mouth would turn close to his ear or his ear dropped down close her mouth. She would laugh and when she did she threw her short purple wig hair back along with her head and her teeth shone bright in the black and white and her eyes outlined black and he watched and smiled and watched her and made her laugh. Everything about the way he looked and the way he talked and the way he walked seemed to match. His arm somewhere along the way had placed hers upon it, or her arm somewhere along the way had rested upon his. So they reached a corner where his home sat and a moment so quick came and went that they both almost missed it. The two instead both caught it. It in which they could have said goodnight and parted ways like they sometimes did but knew now it had never been in black and white before, it had never not had any sound. So that moment was fleeting and they felt it take off in the soft light and he whispered to her goodnight quietly before he pressed his lips against hers, and they embraced for the first time and she went inside with him after they stood that way entwined on the corner below a street lamp, lips to soft lips for a long time. They went inside wrapped in each other and made love still laughing and smiling, in silence, with longing, and slowly. He held her and asked her to make love to him once with the wig on and she told him she wanted him to be on top. It was now he became something, something beyond powerful to her, something safe and strong, and her free and true to him. He held her, inside her, and told her to take off the wig, that it wasn’t her, and she said she wasn’t sure who that was anyway but that when he was that way, inside her, she felt alive, and special, here and at home. He said she was, and she said I love you and he said I love you too. And the way it felt it felt as though the two were in a silent and black and white film in slow motion that was fast approaching the end and color and sound. They slept slightly and conversed and had some drink and made lots of love and when the morning light began to shine into their room through open windows covered by drifting thin curtains and covered their naked dozing bodies they awoke together and they made love again. They showered, ate toast in bed. And fast approaching was a new day and a peculiar sadness. And the way it ends it ends with when he told her that he wanted her to stay there in his home with him forever, and replied that she could never in her wildest dreams do that, and yet she knew, they both did, that they never wanted to leave. (Half Drunk Muse) beyond nothing iron penetrated through the front door releasing sacred chemicals locking memories away never to be graced as they once were let me know when you've figured it out when the demons dance past our history trudging through our memories dragging them smearing them like shit on shoes and how did you know me so well? and why couldn't i see? (Half Drunk Muse) Traveling Hat she smells the must of her mind, aging back to a world in which she is still a young girl, each tick of the heart brings her closer to the ether of then. strange creatures bring her tidings of pasts unlived. weird winds take her strength to the ghosts of others. it is almost now. she wears her peach dress with the ribbon. she readies herself for a long journey, smelling the cobwebs encasing her eyelids. the joints of her arms and legs settle like bricks. she surrenders, knowing that this time the heaviness will lift her into the ark of her imaginings, protect her from the sinking grains of time uncounted. once she was afraid of the shadows and the dust disturbed her. now she breathes deeply, taking in the sweat of her life. she plants her body in soil, sighing the breath of the justified. she puts on her traveling hat. (Half Drunk Muse) Exposed is where Alice sits, crossed- legged on the brim. Karma locks shut her eyes, though and though below her heart a belly swells, by and by three belted bells will break. A timer rings in 40 weeks, here lifts the lovers’ hat to union tales where parents’ fail and a broomstick not laid flat— a bastard in breeches becomes her fate. She thinks, I’m late! I’m late! I’m late! (Half Drunk Muse) Running circles around past adventures hoping one burns bright for as seasons fade this ever changing sky defies the photogenic side of euphoria's face GOD YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL IN A SLOW MOTION CROWD The sweet sound of cancer committing above and the sour taste of (mis)diagnosed love Standing apart water mirrors the relevant sutures of last good fight, but we were too young to die yet too old for such a decant pace GOD YOU'RE UGLY WHEN YOU PAUSE TOO PROUD The sweet sound of cancer committing above and the sour taste of (mis)diagnosed love When we were on top of the world Our hearts refrained from the caution And remember when our hair is to hold a curl Penelope dispersed the true corollation between honorary organs and you Because it's natural to love you senseless, but my nature is to leave you defenseless Caskets open from the bottom of the sea And we desire to die alas seal this goodnight goodnight Tactics aspire for the dire need To steal a manual on how to fly a Kansas City kite I was just kidding myself with you, when I should have been just ridding myself of you (Half Drunk Muse) Headlights In front of your face Eyes betrayed Time ticks Want to sit On the brim of a hat Stick sad things inside No more magic tricks No bunnies to pull out The curtain will close Show’s over Weeping clover Young flower no more (Half Drunk Muse) It starts seemingly simple but begins to feel so complex To pull the sense out of the past love with all the highs and the wrecks The strength now is in the knowing and memory of all that was to be a part Of all the times and travels of the soul and the heart (Half Drunk Muse) "Alice for Lack of an Apron" Alice, my dear, with the bells on where are you flying today? to the top of my personal tower where you'll perch til evening is gray? Alice, I can't light your bells with my windows the men are at home for the night shush with you now these tears aren't allowed you'll give the poor pigeons a fright Alice, my dear, with the bells on the monsters don't climb here no more they fear the negation of male aviation and so open a comic book store it's been lonely, it's true the shuffling diffidence of man's minute hand each hour ticked getting sloughed off the line like lumbering moose or slouched ampersand Alice, my dear, the timer's gone off the bells all agree – you've stewed long enough and the street cleaners have done what they can we'll shave the soot from your legs and carve wooden pegs with the faces of those you can't stand get dressed, morning's coming and it's in a dead heat I'd race him myself, but I'm already beat there's glass things to scrub new bodies to love and a thing like a door too long ignored still a-waiting its key (Half Drunk Muse) i suspect at half past never perspective shifts and along the borne guilt made dim by distance held fast by habit it is everything and nothing crammed into thoughts unwitting and hopes all ending there futility speaks by exaggerated association in full participation correlation falls wayside and continues etcetera, etcetera the emitted anxiety of admitted fix junkies needing again and again to what end too long i work this mind box within box never unlocked rule ever changing so what besides this kiss? (Half Drunk Muse) He’s with her, and I am turned off. This isn’t the first time. He doesn’t even make much of an effort to hide it now. I’m just a puppet to use between his flings. What am I, after all? Just a wife. Sitting on the edge of reality Watching the time pass by. As the dim light of the television flickers. I reach for a remote, but I cannot find one. The television’s old. It has a dial. He’s with her, and I must accept. But I can’t. I’m teetering on the edge of reality Hiding behind the cloth of obscurity. Nothing but a wife Who cannot even move without him knowing. He used to hide them from me And I would approach, thinking to catch him. But each time, he would hide them from me As if he knew. I was the cat Belled from making mischief. But one time he made his error. The child is now with us The mother has left town. He called her a whore. A brazen hussy. He cared about her more than me. But how can I leave? There is the boy, and he will not care for it And the mother is gone. So I raise his once-lover’s child And balance on the edge of reality And I think back on what was. What could have been. I keep saying it will get better Like a wind-up toy, I repeat myself And let him keep hurting me Because he’s with her again And this time He hasn’t even shut the door. (Half Drunk Muse) saw a woman so beautiful She blinded me Not physically but spiritually You see her beauty is not One you see on TV or in a magazine Her beauty came from inside She spoke of racism and how It was getting out of control She lead a whole city to seeing There ways of sin And in return the world Came to her side Tears rolled down my face For I knew that I too was guilty My racism was not From color of skin but from Judging others before Looking at myself I wish I could take back many things But you cannot relive life You must go on In my last thoughts to you All I can say or do Love one another no mater what We only have one life to live Be kind (Half Drunk Muse) Wild sights, rearing their heads, the view. Shot through the mind, how we see things, creatures unknown behind the rims of eyes, brims of hats, tipped to hide, the view. But there is light seeping from below, two headlights coming down a road too dark to see where they're going. Open the doors to the darkness of view. There is a greater truth in the unknown than there can ever be for the known. (Half Drunk Muse) dear corpse under the bed, months have passed since your departure and still I linger . . . so but I hope this spring to find the strength to move you once decay is forced to slow as i've plenty of space in the closet where you'll have good company and you won't be bothered dear for I keep that key hid well in me then on some rainy night when comes that stinging reverie- we'll take you out, love and i'll polish and fawn upon your smooth white bones and perhaps by then even a dance or three. . . by candle light of course. . . ah, to dance again (Half Drunk Muse) Inter lochen beauty Beheld in force to The bronze gods Its dry combination of Kisses, bemoans A handy likeness to Find a frozen goddess. We send our thoughts, So wound up, Streaming beside us For heavens inside us Cloudlessly glide us While beaming beneath The brim of laziness We stand a number Unto others In force, to the gods (Half Drunk Muse) Peace of Mind What is true marriage But a fusion of the anima and the animus Making the feminine and the masculine Aspects of our psychology To cancel each other out Allowing you to declare your spiritual asexuality And to whisper the answer 'I am' to the question 'Who are you?' This is the journey of life But I'm still in darkness For the feminine facet Of my psychology Is still trapped in the mechanisms Of the suppressing and controlling devices Of my inner patriarchy. (Half Drunk Muse) With the right combination of sweet nothings the mad hatter arrives He might say its the best of all worlds but he still wants you to wear his special t-shirt Maybe its time for spring cleaning Even Daphne will agree with you but at what price? (Half Drunk Muse) On the stroll, you can't see the soul of my sisters working for the misters. Quick lovin honey, quick money. I earn my own keep, Big Daddy's watchin over me. Tonight her spurious relationships leaves a weight felt within her hips. The clock ticks specifying the the time, left she will have to spend on her spine. Don't whine Sweet lady don't whine. (Half Drunk Muse) Don’t give it up Don’t give it up On the morning dawn alarm we feed Our plush headrest the self bliss bleeds. Open ears for bellicose greed Plague purge our innocent seed. Don’t give it up Minister minds work weak hearts Meat does graze from shopping carts. Yeast uses our eye and out art Proletariat consumption from the start. Too Late (Half Drunk Muse) Zelbvrick Moyemtorts handlopped yir seelander omer yie waysneck. T'waslen't enny moobs nat yie forenged omer yir moony hardblubber. Eya, culd yie nemer slorf yie franchester, nat werf olly frompish croobs hammin' operdots omer yir creebfrandle? Nak, nak; yir colomester wimpipe hamen't yie vairdot kor nomple emmix eya fromp coulder. Emly yir masp hardfeller kin fellop yie pram blastish grendlebob. Tarn fabish! Yie scruping gloms kin sald omer yir corbic helmerclob, hardin swameck! Nak yir colm, nak yir weepop, nak omer yie carmie hompeep kor yie poobepper! Almish toks, yie gorvems; yir zane dol omer yir cander hamen't yie flucks kor olm poonstack. (Half Drunk Muse) while searching through a monochromatic landscape, leaving thoughtless lovers in his wake, he found the key to melancholy Alice, wounding his exposed heart inadvertently, when his mind went mad for a little kiss. What's left of him should now be swept away. (Half Drunk Muse) “Atmosphere of Glass” She becomes a window, and showcases the blossom of her interior. It takes courage to ache audibly. What are words anyway? He explicates her focus in Phosporic light: dry, balanced-- a prophet of perseverance. Isn't that what we were made to do? This tongue of wax she is, knows no other place to unravel in, except in the starched circle of his sleek arms. she gives him volumes of syllables, knowing her generational stem. In his sight she becomes a flower: trimmed, precise so much of thorns to kiss with certainty. This girl with tiny hands, he holds her slivers in his hands, inviting the mental mirage of completeness to fuse in his palms. She, who compromises the window with the hairline break, knowing too well the ongoing battle of impermanence of her-- the legs, the stems. Withering, from conception, hope by hope. Somewhere there's a plant that dies instantly from a human touch. This is her lineage, her frosted apathy, the last breach of light. (Half Drunk Muse) My memories unlocking I sit in despair Only time can heal (Half Drunk Muse) M.N. From her breath we breathe. Life into our souls. How easy it is, to cherish our world. Harmony, portraying unity. Destinies, more precious then gold. Spirits living, breathing, feeling emotions. Enhancing through time. Energies searching for answers. Leading them towards, ever-living ever-after. Shadows unfolding, Another whelm kept secret. Immortality lies. When our hearts decide. We listen... (Half Drunk Muse) He hadn't the time To help her unlock her mind Too many old fish (Half Drunk Muse) The Machinist’s Hands The Machinist’s hands, Heavy with old, thick flesh and deeply scarred, Smell of soldered metal and grease. My silvery tongue reeks And sours at the shake of his many keys. (Half Drunk Muse) She is that thing I dread the most, That thing that could take it all away, Not due to me, or what I might do It’s her, all her. She is the looming shadow of the past, A past of passion and human history, A past I can’t contend with. She holds the power and the key, Her timing is impeccable, The minute I feel safe, Here she comes again. 1 call, 1 look, 1 word, What I have, what I had is history. It’s the history that gets a page in a novel, A chapter if I’m lucky, Their history, Her history, Is a novel, a trilogy, it’s infinite. She terrifies me, I lie, I say I don’t care, I do care. He runs to her, Not me, She has his heart and I never will, So I guard my heart tight. If I let him in he’ll break it, But if he breaks my heart theirs my novel, Hundreds and thousands of pages on the one that got away. My story will revolve around him His around her It’s the proverbial triangle. 2 is equal, 3 is not, So in the end, 1 has the power, 2 loves the holder of the power, 3 is left alone. I am left the odd 1 out! (Half Drunk Muse) I sit on the side of my secrets Attempting to curtain a love That cannot be spoken Bells of remembrance Ring around my waist, But my vision is locked So I cannot see the way Our bodies fit together Or what covers this heart (Half Drunk Muse) I came for the luxury of a single night ashore; you came to ply your trade, disturbing me with a song and dance I've heard in port for twenty years and more, asking if I'm new in town and won't I buy a girl a drink. Now, I lie awake and think of tomorrow's work while you doze under a borrowed roof like a feral cat hunkered down for the night with no thought of the days to come. (Half Drunk Muse) “We go to India.” Harry broke the news to his wife.”On tour with the company. And that means you too.” “Me?” Maya said.“Never.” Harry laughed. He, the mind magician, bent his shrew of a wife to his will. He simply concentrated on her thoughts. They went to India and Harry sat with the holy men . He prayed with the fakirs and learnt all their Hindu secrets. Learnt the ultimate ones of controlling minds, changing Maya into a doll-like shell of herself. She took up an existence wound-up by Harry, obedient to his commands, as if a silver clock-type key turned in her head. She became the perfect automaton. Maya certainly changed her ways but was recognizable by her softly styled blonde hair and her always closed eyes. People never noticed where she sat as they were already captivated by the magic in the Olde Time music hall. The audience watched bodies drift in lazy relaxed states across the stage obeying Harry's will to levitate. They gasped at his tricks ,only catching a glimpse of his dark smouldering eyes peeping out below a Voodoo type 'Mamma Ka Poohcha' hat with tiny red pulled back curtains. Behind the pulled up T-shirt intrigue existed and always out of sight. That's magik. They glimpsed the love-birds kissing and wondered at what they saw in the hat. Impossible. So too was the tiny object resting in the brim ,the blonde doll with a ticking device in its forehead and styled hair. The tinkling of honey-bells hung on a silver chain around her slim waist added to the sexual allure. Maya looked cute to view. No Bard's play this; rather the taming of the view. -Cleveland W. Gibson, (Author of Billabongo) Faringdon, Oxon, United Kingdom |
