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Serious to Experimental Poems

Timothy Ballan

© 2009

Contents

Acknowledgements

3

Disclaimer

4

Experimental Poems

5

Nonsense Poems

15

Semi-Nonsense Poems

23

Imaginative Poems

44

Serious Poems

63

"Maxims"

75

About the Author

81

Acknowledgements

I would like to acknowledge my friend Molly Kienzler for helping proofread this book.

Disclaimer

I refuse to use quotation marks in such a way that envelopes any

commas or periods not suggested by the quoted material.

example, quoting a child saying the words "I don't want to go now",

I did not put the comma within the quotation marks, as the comma is

not suggested by the child's words. On the other hand, I will end this next sentence in a different way. As someone once said, "Use your head, not your rule book." With a similar emphasis on clarity over convention, I also follow dashes with commas at times. Even if preceded by a dash–– as I will now demonstrate––, I retain commas that retain usefulness. Beyond just punctuation, though, I'd hope abundant clarity pervades my writing, from word order, to sentence structure, to overall presentation of ideas.

For

I. Experimental Poems

Experiment in Rhyme, Meter, and Timbre (Not a Title)

Ocuci le cantor somori, angsfuto selemin orfithe, Il sortu comlefin, onstru alfin lefenin, ornibthol sontorna. Zangst orsi alphene, on t'ua benin lefifino, Torlei min corlefinastor, aie stron fo'lequinstro normi-trolle.

Torlemin, torlemin, alfortin quinstro! Eifenstron, eifenstron, nebisquonti stronto!

Normon equonilon eishtontay qualefin, Eiminilon oquinstror, fiendor lemento.

Poicu foo'poi vihalin apoi ci phav'pohe-chof, achpo pac fore soj, poa'ofoie sma'ootolin. Riehnd ihd'li shime or-piohf, fjoh mofhor doif-dijifoi, ra' ofoe dohlitoid'tie feihthro ieg'th ofrefoh.

Epho-aiifit sohf e'pa appth'sro yigh'thit, aph'toiheto ol satiepous, doe sohfi dippe diht, oihtdhi t' diohes'tioe, n'evieglemin, trochitroi.

Experiment in Word Creation with Only a Few Letters (Not a Title)

[sad puas f'ou pofap, [ou pufu sud foa odspo podsa fup.

[doufs daos s'da fudoas, [o fuspo dapo fuads, uf dasfop podas ufop dupo fudas.

[po asdop fuas updouf, [pofua afud-fas dapof opdasu douas. [fuds doufo dap usfo, [puo sadouf pasdu fopsdau opus pufsa dopuf poasdu fosdau. [fopsdauf pouasdop dufa posa sapod, [fasfu aspu adfu daopuf pasdo foasdu pasu sopuf.

[fopu dasop adsfu aspofu, [pofu puas opfu fuodas ofpaus faupudu. [pofua fopdaf faposduf ou aduf apofu adso p'fuads, [oupo p'fousa, pof dofuas d'puas uas opfua sadadu sofupo asud f'padus. [f'pousdaf ousda poasud f'po, [sadu fopasdu sodauf pa sodu, [apofu adspouf asp, [d'spoufa paosduf spado, fusd'pou sda pofudas p'fadus fopusda foasud [ousda poasdu podsu poudsa, d'fou spod fu s'daou ps'dau poasu dufa fop asdopfus.

[poaus d'uop fu

Shickemee Pliverings

Shickemee Pliverings Eissenberg Wuthernugs; Eissenstein Heatherflurrs, Eissen-Fierr; Wassworthhockhenhash. Merramee Wackernacks, Merramee Forfafoss, Bobbalee Fatterback, Batterbee Hugalee.

Grabbenhist Hardeleece, Tanishmuss Smoothenstub, Kissenfur Bellabee, Smellakin, Beautafin. (Eissenfeim Witherknor, Upselteim Anthrogreebrian. Fabberlee Instreigleforb, Nissernath Embrattlebee. Bobbaloo, Babbalee Long Brattlebash Bill Langostroforth. Bingtrampher Fangrattlefee Nottlegnash Angsselstrand.)

Morrow Borrow Poorish Pilk

Morrow Borrow Poorish Pilk Piddly Scromfroom Lorry-Lory Jook; Finite liddul bees, forish hee-lilly lie-fie milk; Cacks and cramperfores, heigh-feigh hook:

Morrow Borrow, Morrow Borrow, Morrow Boorow Poorish Pilk!

Clengenfoher

Clengenfoher

D'Treminste ineinstreife bessci'coun.

Deliverinstreemort'l feig'heig'nelter'streif.

Morangt'hro foreansteetine Liberaccio enteltta everfleuore

Ca'Meordia en prisenfloe en daestro daestro flee.

Moreance, moreance, mil fancro ob'til entestrino

Frehenchiorio deleberiton!

Is That a Cow?

Is that a cow lying on top of a large coat button floating in outer space? It's the bottom of a flag pole––assuming we are looking at the same thing.

Stoobie

stoobie groobie hoobie noobie stoobie groobie hoobie noobie woobie snoobie groobie hoobie toobie woobie loobie

A Question

Why you be mean to him if I was and you and thought I am and was but not really him and pretend but think and if but not sure but misunderstood or misinterpreted?

Omoe

Omoe.

Imig.

Litterlei'beigh

atiggly-tug.

Eiger-eiger

liegers

eddlez'berg;

bliezz'n'iee. Nyce.

phigh'leine

bliu'bliest

My Great-Grandmother from Detroit

ca'll

bie'd

heiff-heifferz

My great-grandmother from Detroit fell out of a tree, but an antelope broke her fall. The antelope was okay, but he later killed

himself.

Did You Know?

Did you know that Mother Lucy was a Grindle-Beir? Did you know that Uncle Tommy used to push me?

This College

This college ain't not not have a film deree, bu it has many courses availing in vido experimention and producting.

What If?

What if you weighed yourself and found that you were hundreds of pounds heavier than you thought?

Kid Gloves

Are "kid gloves" made FOR kids or made FROM kids? I mean human kids, not goat kids.

What Would You Do?

What would you do if you were a pharmacist who received a prescription for "poison"?

Evil Doers

evil doers wanted are hopeful, so therefore, let the limelight go.

Old Stupid Certain Hope

Old stupid certain hope

Bumbled sharp hot poop Old stupid certain look

Have You Ever Had a Moth Fly Out of Your Mouth?

Have you ever had a moth fly out of your mouth? How about a mouse?

Timothy

Timothy is writing a barbecue wilderness there or is not a clever kindred milder.

When You Go on a Trip Overnight

When you go on a trip overnight, you don't need to bring a bowl for eating food.

Go Now

go now and eat the mables of the horble sconchy crusterly foul moon!

Online Personals Ad

Paraplegic middle-aged gay man and intersexual baby couple seek third.

Orgie

orgie horgie dorgie morla morr dorla born bonn swerr

swerlie funny baa dorgie

Hi!

Hi! It's Mary from CHINA! I'm in a dungeon. Please help me! :)

The Dime

Introducing The Dime:

Smaller than a penny, But worth ten times as much.

Hey

hey, what's the name of that story where the hen bakes the bread?

My Favorite Screennames

preppyasian

iamallalone69

putitinmyass777

Not Sure

I am not sure about what I am thinking about.

Nostalgia

nostalgia (different from recent "memory"/"dream"/"art" poem)

This's

this's ofed and anded on abstract in long ined like othering.

I Just Saw Something

I just saw something recently, but it had rust on it.

My Message to a Celebrity

Do you realize that you are as fake as your tan?

Rename

rename uglyly volunteer in RI before March 4

Norman Devall

Norman Devall was also on the windshield.

Be Careful

I need to be careful so as not to get hurt.

Click Here

no, click here!

no, click here!

I Find

I find that

I cannot stop time.

Whitney

I

watched Whitney eat a white moth.

Thirty Percent Less Sugar

you have thirty percent less sugar.

Love

Love doesn't matter if you're ugly.

My Cat

My cat never brushes her teeth.

Jesus

Jesus is my Pussy-Cow.

No Flashy

no flashy is not up

Goldenly

goldenly checkled with black

Disasters

I hate disasters.

Bibbly

bibbly bloop parade

Spencer

spencer bologna people

What's Left

What's left?

Lamaroo

lamaroo

tamaroo

Harpees

harpees.

Climp

climp.

II. Nonsense Poems

Did Go She Where?

Did go she where? Wish I I but did didn't her, I see. Little world no in there's one the that I my than cat miss more. Spirit no soul hope I bears eat her will or her or big. Amen.

Amaji's Letter

In unmetered precedent and everthought wingfthing joymetercat, There— There, There, There, There is what we say is under the house and beyond our expectations. What we call for is between what is never said and before the unexpected tailgates of housed fatherflee.

You know, it was not your thought that counted— it was the prior neverthrore of fountain eagle societies, on prounce denouncing all that for which you stood and never will upon the grasp of meager housed potential. Blessed as known, you see and never will, for on the freed updown— you'll never here then or ever be will'd escape.

Blood,

Amaji

frozen lakes

frozen lakes and pepper stakes and roseade a la did me

frozen lakes and pepper snakes and rosie the law did me frozen snakes and peppered lakes and rosie and all did me frozen lakes and pepper stakes and roseade a la did meet

I Know Not Where the Skies Lie Pitting

I know not where the skies lie pitting,

but I see for whence thy hart is knitting; Upon thy brow, There lies the rub, not in or for Stangst dusty Pub! Inside hearts' cries long crowds and chicken friends There lie within and weary stars and morning Frows,

I win, I begone;

In far worlds along in lostwheir principle, Einfrow digesting all in sorzing prayer Please––climb the forest until Where you are is where you naught to be.

It Is Made of Cheddar

It is made of cheddar in whittled lupus as young mothers sitting in the night. There is no waiting or wishing, for I am the world in a salamander's jelly, bridled in sittled sepulcher, curled in cochlear canals, untwined as an ostrich egg layered in swirlded crushed cacklings undwerorped.

There are only countless seashells baked into time never unburied, within the world of caked enmordener,

a soul uncovering the unpattering of Deninfor.

Her neck is outstretched as to hold her slender brain, bending in a gracing dip of jutted turned beak––

it is resembling of a corkscrew on wheels––

a streamed reticular flow in glorious feathered fashion.

Morrow, there you support her fiends unsheltered, though they but willfully enable your branium caplite heroings. There you will see in favoring waffle light an enubrious foretaste of corlindome.

In sordid decrastancy, durined pleasure unfoiled, clandid cuttles import your own dependent waters unwhittled, where unhearthy clans unite your supportive unfeathersome.

I Ain't No Liar

Here I sit and sit I be or or not taste of dreii bur'hham:

I sat and sat and did not more but sat and widdled the Peisten score.

But there oh there oh there they lat in fime and frein in diddle-dehm

stack!

(I watched and waited and waited so far, in streim they lat and

lacked on the floor! Oh what a sight a sight to see aboudst the lights

of brardle did be!)

I ain't no liar but a liar I be; a liar is a friar for bartles and me.

Hiddly Honkers Stank'm Staak

Hiddly Honkers Stank'm Staak, Liddly Lankum Splee.

A world sang of Bobby-Camp Lass,

a wishy-wash Stankum Bee.

He was a little bobby-cat, one whose mother was a bat;

that way, they all would eat a cherub fat,

a little lizard-faced elliot-spah Quee. Then he went to Fascher Fore,

a land where angels ate some dore;

none were Cherubs, so some more,

he ate a Banglung and a Dangk't,

a little old lady without a back.

Then he went to Biggadore Boo,

a late-hold Leprikaan, one misunderstood.

(Stang a little bumblebee, and the little cat sang a song of hope.) The end is near but will never come, for a little bat and a mouse named Rum.

Bee Willy-Winkst Stam

Bee willy-winkst stam, angst for in bibbly-o, ang-filly wink-wam shee,

a story once there was of lost and sure there zee. (The litter blast billy-bam angflor-flee, is but a billy hill-a-hore figgly-flo three.)

Ling-Lost Flee

As Mallory sang in the dirt, she ate a butterbird blee.

It blang a billy-bore blop-bloe-blam-blee,

and banged a liddul biddly-bomb bishboe-bam-bwee.

Dikky dikky Drangthorm, linglosh bwee,

biddly biddly Bandershappe, ling-lost flee.

I and Her and Lisa

I and her and Lisa sang,

in porcheez drang in forfthlor flee.

She sang about a long-Troubadour, one, who'd be lost at sea.

I mustard sang and fill thy blang,

a billbore long-life flee.

La loola lang lass lore ply plitty-plast,

a droolorng, lost at sea.

Bitty-blang, bitty-blang, lore lost flee,

a time is whether-hored in himngst,

an angered mother-flee, lore-lost be.

Prenendire Olives

I went to the oil lily

another day, upper house when I sang there, wonderful, whence, while prenendire swagged, Silvio Grimaldi.

Loosely Copperential

I sing the favored raoh,

against a forborn terlocin,

So when he wings upon his laohs,

A forlorn wait arrives,

awaken.

Streams Abore

Streams abore and brothers taken,

a milded fore and ne'er fle'er raken.

I not you nor I am swelled,

a buttercup meldheld untwer standing;

you were there a bunch 'n bladder. You were once a mild lild hatter; you were there an empty soul,

a place where you could fly nor flatter. Heigh and hore and laize up streif! Thou has't not nor angst nor knife.

Hope None Will Eat Her Heart

Hope none will eat her heart in there. If she were ups still in four vines, there'd be in rockets above all our kittie pocket dwellings-by. Hope the world isn't over in the world of worlds in above in hearted kithren forbston. But, if she, will were still in ups four vines over over in, will you know not in all our or in if if if if if? Can't in be for our our in ops in uls in forests of liquor dwells her she little little one ups in four four? Doctors in and out in forbes forbes forbes penitentiary does that does will meaning of in in in in. Working, heated, hurt in forster west we see in rocket dwellings over and over over ups in four four vineyards of dead kitties.

Sappering Substance Enwatered Falium

Sappering substance enwatered falium; there is never another as bright as the soul. Enharted, enwithered, enhaunted benithering, for lost in your hartaste are far-dollared store.

Collective, unmassive with none but a heartache you reach out and suffer in harm's light. There in your own sandal you see what you've offered:

a rattle of flitter sustained thus in dark.

Drank Hope

Drank hope and water and eat the world his father is rather Opstoremain. I ain't a wotter or a willer but a Craffer not a teller; I ain't your mother or a cantor fat old lass of Kilar Mashtermaigne.

Drank the littles and the lasses and the foremens and the Feedles, They then cranked the Forbies And the larbies And the mothers too. Blank aBlank aBlank aBlank aBiddley Bleiburgh Stew!

Yah!

Quaakers and Fiddlecakes

Quaakers and Fiddlecakes lament the Stew of Dreidenstfier. If I were you and you were I or I were I or you were you I

I you you am am be be about in store and dreighchenleischtte!

Don't fret, Don't fret, Don't fret, Don't fret, it's horrsteim leibeisch in qrimes duelette! En Feingst en Dwellste there letters be, in Breid in Forgst in Feibelentree.

Blaspheme in forkes; in blate en Bee.

I Think That I Sat

I think that I sat but I learned out that the inside was about and torn

like the melted sticker of gumby dead. In a box-like figure it ran and in tight in deepening subway still and reset, there then in and a green yellow light which under it sits is bright beige nothing and is eye like a dark of ovular stickness but still, in the way that a path. And then, there has some mouth that seems like go but it won't

stand over here and that the things that stare on angry and are whistling rather like a sound that's and moaning of the lights that pressure are silented in your taste that's a ceiling, you know. (I'm sorry.)

Undwerdst Beneath This Cataract

Undwerdst beneath this cataract I do indeed remember flack,

a place where all the inward strew beyond that which the windress flew,

a place in which the Ungerbird sang and starry palms they flew and flat. In on beyond the words were none but kept unweighstreing waterin strack. Straing, straing, straing-straing-straing-straing, they all would sing and none could hear but then the whirls of upstream voice would all become the endless woo:

the world in upside letters of vow in corl and chraistle the lingrid non-fool. We'd all be silent for none could know and know was to one but there was of none,

a place where lines and corners drew none. :There was a place where there was Tenn, abide, abid, adone, and now.

Do not bestow a place unheard or else it never is But unheard; this place is gone and never unstood for these own words do die (its death).

Go to a place where upward winds are none and all the merrymack, they ate the Grande in feelings slack, they aim to foretaste all in that.

Leila Angstrom Leeigh

Leila Angstrom Leeigh,

In

hydorn Angthrflow Fleigh,

Is

about and in your trees in high'de,

A

forest in they mlee.

:Boobador in treignstand,

In foreflesche angsthrsdor

I drabeeindor lynge flascyenentorchees,

I beining throflee Ion Dwarsheez.

Death to the Anges

Death to the Anges; Maritime Underbelts; Forfthling't Underbeinsts; Edderbig Hungernimps

III. Semi-Nonsense Poems

What We Were

It was a round table at which we sat, yet hardly all we knew with our itching ears of late; and most began to disappear from our midst even within our sight. They said it gave them "half the happiness, but twice the longevity", and we just sat and listened whilst they once again sang to us over and over their love and life.

I heard someone say, "Where are we going?"

and another reply, "People disappear." There was a quietude as we sat in feigned contemplation, though it would be difficult to say we were sitting at all.

But then again, even if waiting and understanding the left unsaid, all we really knew, was that the horses are in the kitchen, making soup.

Eline, Eline, Surfine

eline

eline

surfine,

I cannot deny the wailing of that piece.

as need be, I wait so that we can remember some story in realness.

but then we wait, unfortunately blind, thinking how horrible it is to be a toy.

Preferred from "New Microsoft Word Document3":

Instructions:

Make sure that you staple the improvisation notes together as well as two pages of chicken. It is surmisable to portend to keep any legs of such understood note(s) under your mat(s), but make sure to rather lick the upheind and keep it in its own "rank".

Thank you.

Sincerely,

April Lavinchina

A Voice Note Reminder

Make sure that, right before the desert scene, the piano isn't too loud, and, when we come back to the picnic with the girl and main character, when the glockenspiel drops out––and make this a poem too and put that in there and that––, make sure that it has less of a presence.

To Drive More Slowly

I subconsciously choose to drive more slowly than I could,

to be closer to the car behind me,

because it's a lonely night and this is a rural area.

A Bird

There I sat and sat I did when a little bird came and yes a-fluttering upon my nose and back and between that crevice of that ridge below my forehead he flut' and a-twittered

agayn and agayn.

He wopped and wiffled and there and yes

I sat and waited for what I knew I knew. Whenever I knew before or heard this, and yes, and did it did again, that my nose collapsed into a deep hole dried out disintegrated bone cracked and crumbled––a deep hole back into my skull, like a mouse's burrow some hundred years old.

Oh, well, I knew and will always live with a hole above my nose and a hole through my brain, and into the back of my skull. In the mirror I saw cracked and crumbled dusty bones, no blood, and a shadowed ancient skeletal figure of a broken, crumbled twittered and tattered bird.

I'll never know or know to naught what were and when and in and now, for then upon that day, I swore I'd never let my bird escape. He sits aback to this very day–– if I let him out t'disgrace would be.

He rests inside my head and were it should it is and as a resting place,

I mourn.

Where'd the Snow Go?

Where'd the snow go? Did someone clear it up? Who took it all away? Why did they have to?

I don't really care,

but I sort of do, not really. I'm not sure.

The Conundrum of a Cookbook Made of Cheese

I found this cookbook that was also a block of cheese.

Each time I cut into it, I found a new recipe, but I didn't know how thin to cut to find more recipes before the block would begin to come apart. It was starting to get moldy, though, so I thought I should soon use the cheese for a recipe.

I continued to cut, searching for a recipe to make fried cheese sticks, but then I thought that I might as well keep the cookbook for future use even as it became moldier.

I really wanted fried cheese sticks though, and the only cheese I had was the cookbook, and I knew I may not want to refer to a moldy block of cheese in making recipes in the future. But I could not find a recipe for fried cheese sticks.

Blenny-Blenny

Her name was Blenny-Blenny, She wandered the hills of Wally-Wallibear all by herself, Half bear, half person, half zebra, and, half wonderful.

I would give so much, just to taste her eyeball now that she's gone. All but me perceive my love as some lucid fantasy, But I know; I know. It's the dilemma of a lifetime.

And, what makes it worse is that no one ever saw her but me, Even when I showed her to them. So now I will play this song for her:

Heroic Couplets

If I were to one day turn into a pumpkin,

I would call myself Allie Lynn Lumpkin.

If instead I became a frozen swordfish pie, I'd convince myself I'd never die.

What if I turned into a chicken, though? I'd tell myself: better a chicken than a crow!

One Time

One time,

a goose ate a sheep,

who ate a lamb who ate a ghost who ate me-toots, who ate a lobster made of crabs and Dorothy-eggs, but not the kind well-known, who ate a ham, who ate a clam-bone and dinosaur and a goat-sucker, who ate a lot of pizza, and my soul, and the wee-little twinkle in my eye.

Thankfully Not, or Thankfully So

Thankfully not, or thankfully so Grandpa came and so did Flo. Thankfully not, or thankfully so Grandma sang and sung with woe. Thankfully not, or thankfully so

Grandpa came and into Flo. Thankfully not, or thankfully so Grandma slit her throat and flowed.

Peeing on a Whistle

Peeing on a whistle makes it slick as a pumpernickel, Baby in the morning or a sun in the sky, Eat an angry chicken or a car or four-leafed clover If you never live your life, how will you know?

Erica Frenchfry

Oh, Erica Frenchfry, play your harmonica, and dance with Sheena, oh, you stuffed Lynx and clown!

Stories I Wrote As a Child:

1––After the dragon melted he ran outside the castle and he fell and noticed he was still frozen.

He broke in half and a sugar crystal came out. The fairy took the sugar crystal and she ate it.

The End.

2––Once upon a time there was a beautiful kingdom of Hilia.

Within Hilia, there lived something even more beautiful than the kingdom itself.

This

beautiful

creature

was

Princess

Li.

Li

had

a

pet

korookadoodleoo monster.

3––Don't worry the Latin Birds will sing some day! The jack on my fingers and not on my toes. It helps out a lot if everyone knows. If only love and joy would mix, the world would be a better place. I'd love to live in a world where people respect your feelings. Especially when ya danta flaga mourana la realm! That's all the fire my fee-ee-eeli-ingsss knooooooooooooooooow!!!!!!!!!!

4––"Sorbit Mountain"

It was a treacherous stormy night. A strange woman was passing

through a clearing in the forest with something unknown set in a basket held close to her body. She approached another grove of pine trees with several small log cabins at its edge. Ah! It was the third house down the woman was heading for. The house of Tangual Marshibia! Twice she had knocked on his bug-infested oak door. Finally the door opened.

A cheerful voice answered.

zdep inzuide heer now!"

"Hellooooooh!

Oh deer now den, let'z

Wet and soggy, the old woman stepped through the door while removing her draping cloak. The young lady who answered the door was so astonished at the stranger's appearance that she almost completely tumbled over. The strange woman did look quite startling with balding dull grayish hair, a permanent wrinkled face in the shape of a grimace, evil deep-set eyes, and a sharp hawkish nose.

Her hard heels whacked the floor almost leaving indentations as she

spoke, "I am here to speak with the count Tangual Marshibia. his annual medicine dealer."

I am

The young lady quite hesitantly replied, "I dant truly rememer

Tainhooal havin' no menizin' deeler––beein' 'iz zurvit fur yurz doncha noow––"

Sharply cutting the lady off from rambling on anymore, the old woman demanded Tangual. When he finally was brought to the woman she acted as if she was in a great hurry. The woman pulled out an old bottle filled with fizzing dark liquid. She gave instructions and basically ran out the door without a single good- bye.

Right after the stranger had left, Tangual sipped half the bottle and instantly fell to the floor. The last thing that was ever heard of the woman were her cackles far off in the woods.

A Great Play

"Carolina––I'm searching for a fish by the name of Hilary Jackson. Have you seen her?"

Glaringly, "Death. Death. Only Death."

Stunned, "But I thought only you traveled through Bologna Fields––", metacognitively, "for", building in certainty, "the purposes of rejoicing in the contemplative prospects of your mother's dire illness! ––All in theory, of course." Suspiciously, "But, I wouldn't follow in prospect to that. Who would? I doubt

anyone could desire partaking in the presentation of such situative

idealism, except the likes of

Hilary Jackson."

"

"

"Of course, of course, I see where you belong.

condemn the worthiness of your hands, in abstractive theorizing,

understated?

misconstrued, in forbearing a misfortune of sleepwalking such as

For in fact, there ought to be great sorrow, though

Why wouldn't I

hers. It is true that Ms. Molly would have purposely taken advantage of our darling in such a way as to convince her to consume her own ankle, thinking it her daughter's? But why ought there to be any resemblance here to the agriculturally formidable trading system of South Africa?

"Why–– How dare you contradict the felonation of Saint Dorris's philigamy––and in such a manner! You ought to be––in the most

unprecedented of fashions––with or without the slightest pity here,

and then forevermore Scoundrel!"

Dorgle's Mary-Ann, I reprove thee, though.

"But, who art you to judge in this––"

"Only on your account, only your head. But why sacrifice such nonsense amidst anciently escaped philanthrophers running about–– even in a climate such as where one would be apt to offer up a rusted pail of dandelions––", fading away, dreamily, "on the top of a bare hill-top, all alone "

"But, why descend into such maddening clamoritivity, especially when Dorothy is currently appealing to assume her reign "

"I am only avoiding the representation of committing to your dictatorial ralphanom sordinization!"

Bitterly, "Don't defy me."

After a long pause, turning away, and then walking while speaking, "Death. Death. Only in death."

Georginia's Letter

Hello Emille,

My name is Georginia, and I'd like to tell you a little bit about myself! I come from Saharan India, where I crop on waters not far from our village, Tavia. For the moment, I prefer dancing with little octopi and visiting splendid children rather than over-employing my skills by pursuing what is not profitable for our company. Other times, I fly the northwind up upon the ferry wingdrop alventhrough! How delightful it is here: Have you any daughters of your own? What greater than the milking-tangerine smiles of such precious creatures of the night. I simply then float on stars!

Oh, Emille. You simply must hear my designation: I've never visited the Sakuri River, but on one day I'll eat my leg if I don't. Have you ever seen the inner dynasty? I don't think I could imagine a descentable life without one. I eat a peach, smiling on a log. And it is sweet and wet and happy like my inside feelings! Right now I'm toward the center of the moon where all around is preborn volcanic ash older than my mother, I've heard it is! Mother never informed me of such a decision, but I suppose no one's been there before.

Without delay, I propose to light a fire, an endless fire of the night. I will seat it upon my head and walk the rivers of my country so that the little birds and animals can be warm and have a little lighting at night. That will be enjoyable. But until then, I assume life here will have to travel in its assumed patterns of expectancy, wherein all else is fatal. And no, mother-of-felia, I don't intend on porchifying my lip upon any calgaries! Without you, I wouldn't be unhappy. Your smile looks beautiful in your picture and I hope to send you one of my wood paintings later on. I hope your weather is kind and that one day you will visit my homes!

Dorothy

Too Much Thinking Can Be More Dangerous Than Too Little

Karen,

Me was just about e-mail you let you know about me phone! But then me thought you think me up too late when you got it in

but then me remember it not that late and then me saw

that you had sent a message already right before I checked my messages a few minutes ago, probably around the time I was thinking of e-mailing you before I decided against it. Although, I'm not completely sure of the exact times that those thoughts occurred in my mind and how they corresponded to the time that you sent the e-mail and I don't even think that I know the range of probable cause of lapsing times abounding about through the air that is really light but I think particles energy but I guess I or anyone that is or can be but I'm not sure if that is there or not but I will conclude that I can't be sure that you aren't a piece of tape or a grape.

morning

Dr. Nathan

Hi, Dr. Nathan.

I'm really glad you got to respond to me today

because I really have been needing to talk with someone who can help direct me to the necessary resources concerning some acute treatment to get me back on track. I've been feeling myself approaching that place where it seems I lose touch with reality. This usually happens after the anxiety, as I'm feeling now, builds to a sudden "breaking point". But, thankfully, I haven't crossed that threshold and am confident that I will be able to maintain a sense of grounding until I am able to speak with you tomorrow. Being able to see the light at the end of the tunnel always seems to help people––no matter of whichever challenges they faced––hold on just that extra mile. Hopefully talk this and.

Thankfully, however, I have, thus, contacted you, my happy squirt, and in this, or, rather, therefore or instead of it, I will avoid starting to eat the ceiling and the ants that are driftwood but not quite yet nostrils on the plane of interconnectedness of pen caps. Naked.

Goose.

––Bubble-Blood-Boot

Note to Heather

Heather,

I ate a story, and her name was Walla––Walla-Walla Bear precisely

(though some write her last name "Beah"; yeah, it's funny). Other than that, the girl fell through the hoops, as well as "feel"! But none other than the rhino Timmy ate a quilly, pickly apriotapple. Yeah? I said it; so there is a snooper in her own barn house.

A Problem

She has a problem where bullets randomly shoot out of her butt, so she must always wear a bucket like a backwards fanny pack, but tilted at such an angle so that bullets hit the bottom of the bucket and ricochet toward the ground, instead of back toward her butt.

I Won a Baby

I won a baby in a contest,

and I don't know WHAT the FUCK to do with it;

it keeps on like meowing.

A Story a Girl Told Me

"So, I was just looking at my poop, which I seriously don't always do––though maybe I should!––, but, anyway, there was a SUNBURNT BABY––VERY badly sunburnt! Like 18th-degree burnt!––that was BREADED with seasoned bread crumbs!

"Apparently, there's been a puffin-bird sneaking around in and out of my ass recently, looking to store things that she wants to cook! But, since I didn't want her to cook this baby, I sent a request to the local parole office to have all the local puffins' cases reviewed–– they are ALL screwed up! They ALL seem to have––rather, I mean DO have––horrible criminal records!

"So, sure enough, this little puffin that lives across from me was responsible, and it was sentenced to live in my eyebrow again–– sorry, I mean the CENTRAL CORE of a hair in my left eyebrow. Thank GOD!"

My Mom

"My mom just killed herself."

"I know that's not ideal, but one thing's for sure."

"What is?"

"

"

Four Text Messages to Matt

Clue number one: It only takes one axe to hurt a premature infant. Clue number two: A boy named Teddy once ate three pineapple cookies. Clue number three: The old Webster Infirmary is closed on Wednesdays and on weekends.

The answer?

Love.

Transcription of an Unfortunate Event Described to Matt Over the

Phone

(Inaudible)

"What?"

(Inaudible)

"I have a really good story."

(Inaudible)

"I'm looking at Paraguay on the globe right now. But, um, I'm recording this because I don't want to ever forget it, so––and you're the first person I'm telling.

"So, I was taking my pills, and, recently, the past few days, I've been gagging on my pills for some reason, and today I––and yesterday the same thing happened; when I took them, I felt really sick like I was going to throw up, but I didn't gag, well after I gagged actually,

I did gag.

"And then today I gagged and then I felt sick after I took them, then

I really gagged and I threw up twice but I was over the sink. And

there were chunks of chicken in the sink and I hadn't had chicken since two days ago. So it clogged the sink, and––um, so I went out to go get breakfast while I thought it would unclog itself and then I got back; it still wasn't unclogged, so I had to take my dinnerware, a glass bowl and my spoon, and fish it out and put it into the toilet, and it took a long time––and I got throw-up everywhere though I was trying carefully not to spill.

"And then I had to dig down deep into the drain and take out the––I didn't think to do this before but––the drain stopper, and there was hair from the previous tenant and wrapped around a hair-tie, and it

was in my throw-up, so I had to put that in the toilet with my throw- up and flush it down the toilet, even though it was hair and a hair- tie, and it was really gross, and then I cleaned up everything."

(Inaudible)

"What? Huh?"

"I said, that sounds like a good story."

Wall-to-Wall History Between Matthew and Timothy (Written by Timothy Ballan and Matthew Barbis)

Matthew: I love Tow Trucks

Matthew: If I was going to eat a small country it would most likely be Brooklyn NY because that's how hard the lord told me to hit you. Only we need love if not to love but be loved and see the face of the emperor or doom in the small cartons of milk left in the cafeteria.

Matthew: nope

Timothy: Let's stop it. We post too much on each other's walls too much. Love, Grandfather Goose

Timothy:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YPr6gw0wi9E

––

Yogi

Matthew:

Thank you for being a dirty whore when I needed you.

TICKLE ME!

Timothy: I need help! How do you retract a "friend request"? I'm scared! Also, you are almost 1! (I had a dream that this girl was talking to me and it turned out she wasn't even 1 yet. She was smart.)

Matthew: No idea. Make me a smoothie and meet me at the river so we can write a poem about the life and death of the human emotion.

Timothy: Adiposis dolorosa (Dercum disease) is a rare condition involving multiple painful lipomas, swelling, and fatigue. It is generally seen in obese, postmenopausal women.

Timothy: You're worldly; beauty is volatile.

Timothy: please.

Timothy: Did you know that Mother Susan was a Grindle-Beir?

Timothy: Did you know that Uncle Tommy pushed me?

Matthew:

toilet maker

Did I ever tell you that one day I was tipped over by a

Matthew: Please

Timothy: I just found out something horrible. My doctor just confirmed that my hips are too narrow to give birth. Please pray for me as I seek the Lord's guidance in this of my darkest hours.

Timothy: Grapefruits. Ya, I said it.

Timothy: You, well, you're big, black, and beautiful.

Timothy: Have you ever worked for the Migglish Foundation?

Timothy: I'm going to sneeze.

Timothy: Did.

Matthew: Slip.

Timothy: This is how I laugh: "BOP, BOP, BOP, BOP". This is

how I cry: "BOP, BOP

BOP, BOP

".

Matthew: HAM.

Matthew: I miss you.

Timothy: Please delete your status at 1:26 AM on December 1st from your history. Thanks

Timothy: This state of affairs lasted only some ten trillionth of a ten trillionth of a nanosecond before the particles we see now "condensed" out and froze into space-time.

Matthew: Lucy and I would like to invite you to a very vampire Christmas. Bring your fangs!

Matthew: Please be aware of falling hermaphrodites on parade.

Timothy: Everyone's dead. EVERYONE. Just thought I'd let you know via this medium.

Matthew:

Stop selling slippery sandals to sleazy sailors for seven

snippets.

Matthew: Abdul?

Timothy: Gypsy Horses SALE - gypsyelite.com - Spectacular savings on Gypsy Vanner horses. Must go NOW. Make an offer! http://gypsyelite.com/

Timothy:

Hey, have you seen my friend?

He was asleep, wearing

blue jeans, a plaid hooded jacket, and a helmet that he wears to protect himself from harm.

Matthew: fat. slut.

Timothy:

picture doing?

You should date Russ.

He sounds nice.

What is your

Matthew: Matt will never know your secret plan. He's fat and a whore for naked sea gulls.

Timothy: nooooooooooooo

Sexy Song

If you wanna baby, Don't you wanna mama, Don't you wanna gramma, Don't you wanna baby tonight? Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Hey.

Poopies in mah panties and I'm singin' a song,

I gave up a good house and I don't know what did went wrong,

I said hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Hey.

Hot mama, Give me a chance, Give me lot a' watah, Give it in me underpants, Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, Hey.

Okay.

Lullaby to a Sexy Cat

Molly, Molly, Molly, You're my toy, Molly, Molly, Molly, I'm your boy, Molly, Molly, Molly, Don't you cry, Molly, Molly, Molly, Don't you die.

Lyrics to a Really Good Song

Baby! Let's forget about it Baby! Let's let it go! Baby:

Let's forget about it I'm so sorry that I punched you, girl, but now it's time to move on and on!

My Life

This is my life. First part is I have an eardrum. The second part is my name is Tim. I smile sometimes. Third part says once I fell down. The first part says I have to open a door. Then I take a breath. Then I have hair on my head. The next step is that I was in school for a while. Then I fell asleep.

Third thing is I am a good person. Sometimes I walk.

I walk on the sidewalk.

Then I take another breath.

I think that's what happened in my life.

IV. Imaginative Poems

Land for Sale

What if they made glass tanks in the shape of each continent and placed the tanks over each one? And what if the tanks were tapered to the landscape and were high enough for all the water in the oceans to be held, distributed between each tank? What if they took huge pipes to drain the ocean into these tanks so as to invert the oceans onto land so we could live in the pits where the oceans used to be? Hopefully all the sea creatures would fit through the tubes.

Sirisilla

What do I call the place I go when time is lost and recall fails and all around is reddish glow and the ground is softer, plusher, lighter,

where stars shine fast even on the grass and wooden people crouch behind boulders, where water falls down from floating trees, and, through some drops stuck in the air,

I see underground tunnels dug by babies and peahens,

apples crawling upon the walls, and crumpled paper growing on the ceiling of these dens?

Where is this place that it seems

I am felt strayed, and yet, at once, found?

My name is Marilyn

My name is Marliyn; Wrapped in silken garment, streaming fair, Seated I loned upon my ostrich friend, I ride in the desert, the Sewers of Standrofore, Apart from the bewildered appropore of men, Across the hidden valley of the country's due south or winter's end, There lies a secret which only I and Salzee know; Withstanding all in fleure, My heart becomes the world in a soapdrop.

Lullaby

to fly with the watermelon moon in the midnight sky as the lily bears pass me by

apart from Winthrop and caterpillar tea among all, in the midst of me.

in this dream I see by and by in woven, all must be is the midnight sky—

[—in dreams we counter to share a thought— an apple upon a palm, upright— foreto all within an old meandering lullaby]

I

Am the Alien Creature

I am the alien creature,

queen of glass, all my kingdom existing in bubbles within bubbles in these surrounding high trees. Tubes of plastic and bridges of log and twine connect the glass bubbles within bubbles. I've designed this place, a dreamer's dream, pipes and fiddles all made from the sap and needles and leaves and sticks. There is food from nuts and water catched in the hollows of dead but sturdy trees as well as in the leaves.

Comforting Words from a Tree-Dweller

you have come to the place far up (safe from the buffalo) nested by the feathery jades (apart from the broken paths that trip and trick) basked by the silver disk (high above the mourning deer) where you can trace the paths of fiery worlds and be sung to sweetly upon the morn'

Shariboo

even if the communes came apart in the triangle world of shariboo, there is always its meaning that one may come nearing further than you think.

Harriet Jefferson

Harriet Jefferson was working in a mineshaft. When she fell and and never came up again and again forever: in the snow falling and never returning up as far as the eye can see. There is a way that floats on the wind and is icy cold but ever-loving. It is what is here and never aback, a world upside and over, in interest and in flow, and in heavenly abolishment. (It is blowing and agone and warmer than warm.)

Insand and Liquaboa

Insand and Liquaboa, Intrangegated, Efinilated, Aporboreated. Lintogea. Afroacia. Dilineaquinfinscent.

Don't elaborate in unknownst forms of the lands of everescent marshes, dark and sordid––fast and feberling. Honest, though thou art, in dark mystery, engaged in perplexed pacifications, you should and did indream only quietly and sometimes outloud.

Deep waterforest eternalle. (But now, only quietly.)

Glassy Castle

Peapods are not going to rescue her paybees, only the empty goose with which beyond nothing will find whirlpools, through delicately shifting oily air rises a vision into some rusted dusty desert,

then into a glassy castle for her to sleep and smile.

An Old Theatre

An old theatre with no performance but dim lighting for several minutes, but then spattering rain on the tin roof above the stage seen also in front of misty mountains past a wall of windows that forms the back of the stage. Soon, two young adolescent girls come in from opposite sides of backstage and sit facing each other on a dusty couch at center stage, whispering like the rain. They hold hands and stay while two adult men crawl naked from where the girls came, but so slowly as to maybe never touch. Even as the lights remain dim, a large woman adorned in feathers and flowing white enters from the left of backstage by the windows to sing uninhibitedly operatically in sonorous to shrill tones.

The Night When Eyes They Ran

They in my eyes entwangle in red flashed rumplings a twisting migren strew:

they upst my horst and grate the tree I see and cannot sleep in Weigh! They take your eyes, and under them, they show a peek of some Undwelling:

a place in where the mind unfolds and flops of dough and spout and snout.

They the mind they laugh a lot and trees with spikes they fall and flap and couches lift and chairs do rest, but heighst they strain and never can forget the night when eyes they ran.

Steaming Orchids

Amber-steaming orchids shut up into Hell, yielding ionicized honey-leaves shadowed to recite glovingly ovaled eulogies in obliviolized convincation, singeringly swallowing into frost in miscertained trucing with an invisible God.

cathedral of the woods

entwined with curling twigs come creeping pipes spewing sound from a chasm's deepest crevice where alone sings a lost and frail maid

The Birth of Pity

Where is the world anymore forgiven in the depths of timing? Where is the turning stillness in its forming of turning centered? Tell me, is it in your quietude that the hearted has fallen? There it is appearing stormed in torrents draining, and in deepening graces in strength romped so inward.

This is the birth of pity:

When the walls of inward hope become whence and all is drunken circled.

Beneath the crest doth Torrents reign, unseen apart from bending. And this is the birth of pity, the everlasting tail of lostness in its desired undercurrent.

A

Concept of Heartache

It

was upon the cherry limb she wept,

A

tiny girl and an eighty-year-old collection of bark

One forcefield between a ninety-year-old gray whale Who began singing starry dreams into her heart.

It was only a narrow hole in the desert,

But an impossible obstacle for a human-like plant From seven hundred galaxies removed.

A year walk away would be a field of wheat,

and there a small child, saved from the crush of a cherry tree limb broken by the waves of a song in her mind.

She, and each, heard the sound

Of a distant saddening groan and a plaintive song,

or

the fall of tears, or a pained future cry.

A

concept of heartache,

It

is the strangest things we follow.

June in Amsterdam, New York

Swaying with motionless limbs,

whose scratching twigs and branches claw the corn below, turning with the thousand drummers hidden in his ashy cloak,

as the light pushes the lord's water,

a blackened stump still lies with its hissing ghost.

Children's Storybook

On one sunny day in Springfield, On Sunny Road on Springfield Hill, There were seventy-seven kittens who were born.

One of them was named "Springfield", And the rest were named "Sunny".

What to do with seventy-six kittens named "Sunny"? Well, all of a sudden, on a day that wasn't so sunny, All of the kittens named "Sunny" seemed to have disappeared.

The only cat around was named "Springfield", And he had a funny little problem:

It looked like he had one little stitch on his shoulder.

A stitch of what?

Well, all of a sudden, seventy-six kittens came out of his stitches, and they started eating at his skin. Then, all of a sudden, Springfield turned into Hell, and then everyone in the world killed themselves by eating themselves, and blood filled the universe.

In the Open

In the open middle of a dimly-lit pale grey-blue-carpeted family room with a rather high ceiling painted as white as the walls, a man sweeps back and forth and twirls two long stockings tied together, accompanying graceful dance moves to sparse and dainty piano music of Erik Satie. A manic runt Boston Terrier chases and sometimes tugs on the swaying stockings.

The man and dog make a sudden shift, bolting out of the room into a darkened hallway hidden from view behind the perspective of the audience. Timed exactly with their disappearance, the music ends, but at some semi-cadential figure not evoking complete jarring surprise.

A split second or so following the music's end, as suddenly as the

man and dog ran off, the perspective of the audience shifts to a half- shadowy room where another man shoots up from bed maniacally chanting, "Someone killed me! Someone killed me! I don't know who but someone killed me!"

The audience's perspective widens out from focus on the man in bed (in a room that is mostly light yellow with white) and overlaps into an even wider perspective and also widening, and then several more levels of widening perspectives. It soon becomes obvious that the room is very large, open, and empty.

No Absolution

What if you were locked in a room, a room with all the things you could ever want, a phone, computer, TV, supplies to live off of for the rest of your life, and all the things you could ever need for sustenance or medical aid? But you were told that you may be let out in either a few minutes, never, a few years, several months, a few hours, several days, a day, several years, a few months, or several minutes. And, upon being let out, you could be tortured for years, a day, granted the life of a king for years or a day, or something in between these extremes. And there would be no way for anyone––even high government officials––to access this information or interfere with the computer inside this impenetrable steel door keeping you in your bomb shelter from the world you may never see again.

Her Prayer

Upon the rage of miserly enhoused potential, She ran within the debt of time. It was just throughout the rain she cried, with visions of Sequarians biting apples dripping upside her throat.

Sitting at the table, breathing,

there came upon a thought, that it was time to try, to sit and think up her own escape.

But, as time gradually shifts into the terror night, She can only behold the tired spirits To which she prays for death in bed.

Crazy Scrap Idea I Found, Describing a Crazy Man with a Scrap

Crinkles paper of homework in rage, the last printable page, to "punish self"; then realizes bad and puts weight on it for while to re- straighten out; then he senses he likes to punish self (/remembers he does/realizes it's a good situation to "punish" self) and repeats the crinkling and re-straightening––where semi-tries to "redeem self" then semi-following a pattern to feel "worse and worse"; this pattern plays out until paper is in horrible condition and rips up; but then he tapes, but following the same pattern with this attempt to "redeem" himself, taping less and less with motivation to salvage things in between further crinkling and ripping.

The Abuse of Molly

I once knew of a mother who was so protective of her daughter that when she would walk by someone she didn't know in their local marketplace, while tightening grip of her daughter Molly's hand, she would quite boldly say "stranger danger".

Tucked neatly in her darkened bed, after finishing another nightly lesson about the threats of the world, Molly had made up her mind to introduce herself to the next person her mother labeled a dangerous stranger, but through song.

Just before the next day's very first ceremonial chant designating an unfamiliar face, Molly tugged loose from her mother immediately upon feeling a slight lessening of grip, the slight recoiling of her mother's hand in preparation for tenser clenching as predictable as the receding of the tide before a great wave.

Her mother was so overcome with fear that she began to shake and shout nonsense words that were jumbled crossings of "stranger" and "danger". All the while, the stranger in the trench coat, fedora, and slippers beckoned a shy but willing Molly closer and closer.

At the point where all this seemed like a dream twisted and garbled enough to allow Molly surreal invincibility, she began to quite boldly sing, inspired by the songs of the radio she would sneak in here and there away from her mother's ear, as her mother fainted.

"Hey baby stranger put it all in my mouth, tee-ti-tah Hey baby stranger put it all in my mouth, tee-ti-tah, tee-ti-tah, tee-ti-tah, tee-ti-tah, tee-ti-tah Hey baby stranger put it all in my mouth, in, my, mouth. In my mouth."

Debilitated Woman

a debilitated woman with no eyes, no hair, broken legs never healed, arms sawed off (but with cauterized wounds), spits and gurgles from her mouth and eye sockets, wailing on the corner of main street, until the busy world-members force muffins down her throat so she chokes and remains quiet, until the next morning.

An Experiment

But if he stopped now he could live, and still even days from now. He may need to use life support and remain in a coma, but he still could live.

He began this slowly, first with staying in bed even though he wanted not to; this encouraged him to further test the limits of what he could bear while still remaining deemably "normal". But that barrier soon broke, around the time he lost his job for giving business executives messages different from what he knew to be true, and for plucking out all the hairs on his face on site. From then he worked on testing the boundary between moderate pathology and debilitating derangement. To extend at least basic functionality as long as possible before truly collapsing, he would cauterize his self- inflicted wounds to prevent levels of bleeding preclusive of meeting day-to-day demands of an independent though low-functioning individual.

But even now he holds his breath for periods enough to further damage his brain and body, though mostly paralyzed otherwise. This was his experiment to betray his self-protective instincts and prove his own freedom. But he only proved to be heavily ineffective for his own and others' purposes.

I

Am Taboo

They whisper apart from me in their darkened hollows and corners, their fingers coil and stomachs tighten. Aching minds do not see but shudder in their own places, intruders to their own lives:

It is recognition of fragility that defies the crowds and denies their boundaries;

I live harder. What is thought unapproachable

I have tread over and conquered;

I am taboo!

Forty-One Were Left (Part of a Flowing Dream)

At first, it was about building pressure in a water-heating furnace system, and we were trying to escape from the cellar where some main pipes and sorts of barrels were, but I guess the doors at the top of all the stairs––even the hidden staircases––seemed locked, but the more immediate problem soon became potential lava flooding, lava rising from deep underground.

Thankfully we found our way out, though we soon found the house surrounded by a parking garage flooding with lava too, and faster, faster because, somehow, we had actually descended further into the ground by leaving the house.

As we ran from the lava up the curling garage platform, we met a roadblock––some immovable cement blocks stacked as high and wide as the passageway that would otherwise be. It now became clear that we could only either return to the lava or wait for it to rise to us; we chose to wait.

As we waited, I encouraged everyone to sing. No one objected, and we became increasingly enthused in our chosen song even as the lava steadily approached. The flow of the lava seemed to slow the higher it rose, though––it might have taken even a year, but we didn't notice; we just focused on our song and the time we had left.

Eventually the day came where we each had to face our imminent fates. We held each other's quaking hands, but firmly even against the heat rising from the pavement and through our arms.

As the lava approached us, it seemed to begin moving more quickly. And, even while some were much further from the roadblock behind us than others, we chose not reposition ourselves and change the order of our deaths.

I saw Marge's, and Michael's, and Tareise's faces, their youth and

character lost even with their first few gurgling and thrashing shrieks, shrieks persisting even out of their unavoidably tangly- dripping melted and torn jaws, screeches forceful even out of the broken pipes of a furnace system left abandoned behind their blackened, garbled faces, but sirens soon silently swallowed by the fluid whose undying approach began to crisp my exposed skin.

As I watched my friends' faces melt each at their own pace, from Marge to the twenty-second in line, the quaking of our chain of hands grew into its present convulsing. Soon our chain began to flail with our fewer and fewer bodies, though our feet somehow remained planted until the end. I was thirty-second.

Dear Old Rotting Hand of Mine,

Everything here is so pretty. There are so many shiny wires like at the dentist's, where I get candy.

I like the candy better here, though, because I hurt less when I eat it

more and more! My new friend lady here says I will never want to go back home, and she's right!

I don't need my arms anymore, and tomorrow she's taking my legs so I can stay here forever and ever! She said there's not much candy left, but I don't believe her because she's funny. She painted a funny thing here on the wall:

I want to trap you here,

watch you wiggle in pain, as I scrape away your beauty day by day until the day you would have become a woman.

I will keep you alive with the least possible tissue and most possible pain every minute of the life I have left to help. I'm doing an experiment.

Cold Images

To watch bones protrude from skin and faces grow mold

is to rejoice in symmetry and organization

dismantling,

the corruption of biology; it is to drink hot blood.

I'm Not Sure If I'm Dead

The loudest voice I hear says

I am still alive

yet, as I walk through life

I only see above my body

and feel no pain as I smell the stench of my rotting flesh.

My Friend

It's only ever night when I see him, through the clothes in my closet.

I see that he has no eyes,

bones protrude through his grey papery skin, and a dark liquid emits from his mouth

as he whispers truths to me that I do not want to ever face.

A Dark Place

And from this invisible ghost she ran and ran and became forever lost.

Where I Died

Mommy, that's where I died!

What Curse

A flashing and fading dream as I awake,

A large man-like creature in a black cloak far into the woods still walking away from us,

A man shouting from behind us but with a voice gone unheard,

"What curse?

What

curse??

What

curse?!

What curse?!

What curse?!"

It Was There

It was there, that night afore, a place I'd ne'er assume you'd be.

I walked on silvern shines and twiggs and all that growed was glow'n with moon.

In some such heartened light it was your lost and saddened face I mourned.

A tiny child four yards hence, turned back to glimpse but then away,

from some glen's grave returning.

I called,

and once again you turned, and with your stray and weepy face you whispered, "fearly".

I heard it so lettered on that deafened night,

not just with my ear, but tighted chest and winding temples. My emptied stomach drained and swallowed in some hole, between my heart and endless'd darkened hells afar.

Waved rippled poundings of aching retreat and torn longings rushed you once again from me, whilst questions, where you'd go and what you'd feel or be, lay still.

I knew you called me,

in my coldest skin and searing hairs.

You hollowed and stole me that night; for what I'll never know.

It's Hell Being a Zombie

What could it be just beyond the edge of these darkened woods but a world I know so well, just unlit? But I know of so many creatures of the night I have never and may never see. And these woods could veil those of night who intend never to be exposed.

What would there be to fear in the steps before me? At arm's length, a few feet, or not at all, the subject of possibility,

everything wonderful to horrible.

But you don't prepare for wonderful things, just to save yourself from harms and huntings. And, mostly, a ghostly image you cannot understand.

A weeping woman consoled at the loss of her young adult son, who later stands by her bedside but for an instant, simply to report, it is hell to be a zombie.

The Signs

The oceans have been replaced with blood and crops have turned into rusted metal. Doors are only locked and only guns will open them. Where cars once were, mice and flies create skeletons from carcasses once girls and boys. Fewer and fewer screeches are heard through a deep red smog.

I fear I am the last one left; but as the moon falls further out of orbit and the sun further dwindles out, this thick scarlet fluid seeps through all crevices and drowns my lungs.

The signs have come and, instead of the possible retreat to Mars, we have learned to extinguish ourselves.

This Is the End

Where have the gallows been for they have returned and suddenly, fire and storm interplay as we retreat into the forest now burning, filth rises from the ground and engulfs my life,

gurgling replaces whimpering.

V. Serious Poems

A Just and Magical World

Life is good because everything happens for a reason. Children who only know suffering until they starve to death help people who are strangers to pain better appreciate what they have.

small god, a small world

a

They have a small god who they understand through simplistic rules of how things must be even for this god who they refer to as large only in holding invisible solutions to unavoidable contradictions present in the extracting of the dimensions of what must be, what must be even for this god, from an old, tired document;

the fault of an unimaginative system is a sense of enclosedness that, though bringing comfort, offers little freedom for questioning, learning–– exercise and development–– and causes enemies, and, ultimately,

a small world

The Attempted Brain-Washing of an Intellectual Youth

I see no wonder in their blank yet angry eyes

even in their songs to an infinitely magical creator.

In my helpless cage I sit in silence, seeing the chandeliers crashing through their skin, so I could leave and be respected for my own thoughts, thoughts that address a real world where there is real magic.

Yet, even in their writhing pain with torn and smoldering flesh, even then there is no wonder in their eyes–– they know where they are going with such certainty, but they retain the pain of contempt for those who would disbelieve and belittle their tiny minds.

Polemic for a Good Christian Woman

You have once apologized for the way I feel. If I were to apologize for your feelings only, that is not enough. To you, the way you feel is not just that; it is justified in an immaterial reality by your own holiness as connected to an invisible god.

I am to blame for a flu,

Your sister is to blame for her schedule,

I am to blame for an intense bout of OCD at a dinner table, Your roommate is to blame for her commitments, but you remain, in your mind contorted by parasitic vines of emotion, blameless as an imaginary lamb.

I and all in your life who exist apart from your whims of fancy

repulse and deserve from you not just hurlings of mucusy venom, but a damnation until we bend or forget, while you do neither nor forgive, and all this even unlike you are taught.

Yet your cult feeds you lessons mostly about trusting feelings to believe what is not real but feels good, as trusting feelings allowed your silly faith to rise, and as the most natural horrible inclinations of humans like you are encouraged by or exemplified in it.

You trust what you feel and condemn all outside of it, trusting also the feeling to condemn. You are the embodiment of a piggish stupid child, enough to scoff at a Unitarian hymn not of magic,

but only of thoughtful values you have never possessed.

Love Not Just for a Watching God

A man, kind, generous, and humble died vulnerable to the

distortions of history, to an unkind, ungenerous, unhumble man insecure in his own thoughts enough to lie for the cause of an inane religion. Invented letters between them showed the man who died to be exactly his opposite, exactly the man writing the letters, but for a tie to religion. Thus, through a loud voice, the stupid masses were convinced further to hold to often-maladaptive emotion and emotional reasoning rather than reason and reasoned love.

Small Towns, Corporations, and Protectionists

When the bluejays came into town, they invited the starlings and sumac and the squirrels; they chased out the orioles and weeded out the orchids

and all other delicate beings that once blessed this place with sensitivity. But it is the strong who survive, which is why I shot the strongest bluejay,

but then somehow became deemed worse than he.

Time Alone in the Woods

I visited the street where I would walk out onto from explorations in the woods behind my old house. But this street was now connected to new streets in place of the woods. As I walked toward the new streets, it became difficult to see through some increasing light. So I retracted some steps and then was able to see again.

The light once reflecting trees now reflected windows, screens, and mirrors. Once I saw this, I felt more confident to walk on.

I ignored the pain of the light, buoyed by the many places I saw my own reflection.

I came across a few of my old schoolmates who used to live in other places across town. They looked different from how I remembered them as children, though. As I began to think how they were different, I began to notice the brightness of the light again that I had forgotten about. And as I tried to think more, the light became intolerable enough to force me to run away back to the other street.

My old friends laughed and I felt again like a child on a playground. But then I remembered that, even then, when I ran away from them,

I was also running away from the gleaming monkey bars and metal slides. And, after I took a last cringing look at the neighborhood of the crowd I always envied,

I began to think more, but there was no more light, so it didn't hurt.

As I thought, I realized that, though older,

all my once young neighbors were really now only walking, talking carcasses of children dressed in socially acceptable identities of mannerisms, styles, and titles.

I suppose I could have become this, but I always managed to find a time and place to think undistracted by my own reflection.

Without time alone in the woods, there is neither a discovered connection with what is beyond human nor what is human within you.

Parade of Chariots

Falling not, but disorganized, they took to their boots instead and stood in line. They marched to Hell and back, and in fury, gained discipline, and became the Devils, only to fall.

It Shines Through

whatever it is you do it is the sadness that shines through

Psychotic Entanglement

I am trapped in a maze of mazes,

using a faulty mind to distinguish confused thoughts from sane

ones,

all the while wanting to communicate some sense of deep beauty,

only to bewilder or be misunderstood.

Retreat of the Mind

I hide in the shadow patterns within vortexed labyrinths and am safe, yet think myself to sleep.

Obsessing Over Philosophy in the Student Center

I'm on the brink again My hand shakes as I hold my pen There's no one here but me And I won't even get up to pee

Sleep Now

Sleep now, child, for day is waking and all that was is not forsaken.

That thou hast lost in battle strong

is but a weary eye in evening song.

A morning star will rise again:

You will sleep, but soon will wake, for you some unseen form will take.

(All this, you know, is ill-lived brattle; silent thoughts, once spoke, unravel. Just imagine as you die that something's worth it, something lasts.)

Tearful Old Dying Man

I

was stationed in China

and there I had a pet monkey named Curly, and he sat on my shoulders. He was this big.

Found Letter

I found a lost letter

apologizing for lost love, and am burdened to relay their message that could change a life or keep a dark life so if not heard.

Dream of Beauty

I have traveled days and come only here, to this cave filled with ice.

Yet at least it overlooks some grassy field where some berries may grow. But it is far and I am weary. So as I leave the cave and approach a hill of snow,

I let myself sink,

and as I suffocate,

I dream of beauty.

Hate Crime (Gay-Bashing)

Flesh was marred, an insult to the body used to physically connect with others in hopes of connecting with them more deeply, to ever-approach intertwinement of their two conscious experiences made possible through communicating messages of both primal and

complex natures, communicated in necessarily both primal and complex ways, aiming to transcend the physical nature of all communication

The Expanse Behind

I look at his picture with the sun just past setting through the window behind him. The times we spent are colored brightly in my mind just as his face and the sky blend together in some whirled aurora of light, a mix of simple materials and energy, yet deepened by colors of emotion

in the knowledge that the past only fades.

The Silent Universe

The silent universe Holds its secrets And those who call to it in question, Who cannot claim anything While the universe claims all, inaudibly

A Song of Loves

When the universe began, the separated stars swiftly glided through the sky without song, without connection.

When humanity began, each isolated voice slowly learned to sing to others, no longer apart, no more alone.

When war began, the soldiers' songs drowned the sound of suffering, and began to restore to all a state of separation.

At the end of things, the fading last soul sang a song to mourn love's loss, so the stars, in sadness, began to softly sing.

Shunned

Shunned for who I am, yet loving myself,

I am lonely,

but for a greater good, so I relish the taste of my tears, seeing beauty through and in them.

Beauty Unbeknownst

I tried to explain this to the giant bear,

and my diagramming and charading didn't even move him, that he was only on a floating globe

gliding through and past others and never in the same space, and light is always present somewhere, in our world and in others. As he stared longingly into the dark distance,

I let him be,

even as the sun set on another world.

now and the end

tragedy, displeasure, distant feelings, happiness, all combined, rotating, layered, morphing, hovering;

threat, despair, meaninglessness, color, swirling, each to be heard and webbed, or else swallowing and consumption in fear, falling, emptiness, or blindness instead of preparedness, appreciation, rest, and depth.

to disappear, to become lost, to be nothing, to go on, each considered in balance creates overall good for us now.

An Imagined Little Boy Trapped in the Hardened Sediments

Extracted from the earth's depths, only minerals in patterns. Yet I am still witnessing the evidence of past life, staring into the remains of their souls.

The Lesser Tortoise

for ages long he sat on a shifting shore

and sang to suns of obscured curled skies.

he spoke with ancient birds and stones and dust

from realms and spaces barely dreamable.

he sat and was fulfilled in knowledge and in calm

all the while needing nothing but sustenance.

Realistic Imagination

Hiding inside the fully-enclosed realm of a well-received artful film on gay rights history,

I feel a personally-unprecedented warmth in picturing my growing old with James Franco's presented character.

Slowly and sadly re-emerging from this realm filtered through visual craft, music, and some sexiness,

I at least happily remember the possibility of learning and aiming in my own world; Though I cannot transform myself or my environment with magical imagining,

I can through realistic imagination.

a conversation

despite a connection where two sides saw each and proportionately doubted and believed as were not wont to,

a warm linking of the eyes, the two part and continue in stride for the sake of sanity, as if they did not exchange souls for a time

The Deer

It was under the linden tree she birthed a tiny skeleton, where the timid giant doe approached from the pines and offered the gesture of slight touch, her nose wetting the cheek of the weeping mother who thanked only an empty field upon lifting her head. And yet through the shaded grove's edge bellowed the small cry of a lone newborn deer.

There was not a chance of thanking for the most soulful and perfect of gifts, but these who sacrifice the most think least of thanks.

I Touch You

I touch you now as you read,

as you touch me now as I write;

I know you will/are read(ing).

Dream of Peace

Fir yews still between golden blossoms floating from the highest pines As I lay swallowed by some dream of peace.

The Perfect Sphere

I don't care about anyone

so I stay in the bathtub though it's not written in the vapors and schedules and papers;

The eklohn and elkohn with their resplendently white deer skulls spoke of the Oracles above them and then only the "Terror" above them whom no one knows––

I want to go where I saw dots of blue and pinkish lights swimming through slowly shifting metal spokes that are somehow "stars".

I turn to the circle towel ring

and see the vicious bony face, and now all this is somehow one thing––

but only in the wall behind my head, though the wall is also some galaxy at once.

I allow a subtle electrical tone to shake me as I urinate out my spine and hands, and then I am glowing dust and disappear;

I whisper,

"You'll be ok because everything is only the Perfect Sphere."

Worthy of Pain

How can one not hurt more than themselves by dying? You have healed in the past, and You can again. And you can once again find moments which you will, knowingly or not, narrate with a thought:

This is worth all that pain.

VI. "Maxims"

Everything is only the never-ending nightmare of Nothingness.

we bind our lives together with pieces of string that often break or don't hold well to begin with

All we have and are will soon be tiresomely told history to future generations.

We are the feces of the sky (and unobservable universe).

The universe will not cry for the end of humans.

Every day new authors purport to have a/the answer to a huge problem/everything, usually by rehashing old ideas while adding in a good amount of increasingly fashionable "spiritual" mumbo jumbo. Every day it becomes a new contest about who can out-do the previous day's new authors in terms of ridiculousness in opposition to common sense yet appealing to a sense of desire for freshness/uniqueness and even magic.

history's supposed lessons are really the ever-popularizing opinions of an ever- growing majority unquestioned, history as a static answer instead of a multitude of elapsed nows

We speak most loudly against what measures least against our standards, as the least moral of people speak most loudly against the most obvious, usually accidental, of wrongs.

The one somewhat liberal voice on Fox News appears to be old and out-of-touch while all other individuals appear charismatic and smartly convinced of their rightness. However, maybe the authors

of subliminal messages here didn't realize that, because of their displayed self-righteous anger and disrespect for those with whom they disagree, though they may appear with-it and animated, each such individual appears to be an asshole.

In the dust of partisan clamor, the facts remain.

Invent all the clever acrobatic explanations for the holes in your faith you can; it still sinks under honest scrutiny.

Of course anything is theoretically possible, but I don't need to treat all ideas, no matter how absurd, with equal consideration. "I'm agnostic toward the 2-ton pink kitten in my right nostril" makes about as much sense as me saying I'm agnostic toward God. Just because many people believe in God doesn't mean I should revere such a silly idea any more than the large feline in my nose.

What appeals to the emotions requests that you not think.

with faith, all things are possible; with faith, the most unreasonable claim can be seen not so.

Faith is no virtue.

Trust nothing enough to think for you, trust yourself enough to think.

The vision of science is to save, lengthen, and enrich lives.

There are no ultimately irreconcilable issues.

To search for explanation with a life of only such searching is to chase the wind with neither known direction nor supportive ground.

There are those who believe nothing matters and could go on if only they looked at the smaller picture–– not just of this planet, but of their species on this planet, where things, though fleeting and maybe ultimately meaningless, matter a great deal.

When you feel "beneath" a person, remember that they also–– however briefly––examine their feces on pieces of toilet paper; there is no classy way to do this, unless they have hired someone to do this for them or they never go, where it should become even more difficult to feel "beneath" this person.

While it is a great injustice to be misjudged, everyone must settle on conclusions about others at times, disallowing further pursuit of knowledge of the other, a pursuit that is in itself not necessarily leading to accurate knowledge.

We each strengthen or weaken different causes with our lives without having been able to think through all our beliefs to the point where it would only then seem reasonable to act on our beliefs.

We are all the same in that No one can hold up a sign which All would recognize as good

Be slow to form an opinion that may be wrong, and be hesitant in that it may be unhelpful to hold, robbing energy from better pursuits.

Behind anger is often mere misunderstanding.

Out of a decision made even partly in anger, as and if the anger fades, guilt grows proportionately.

There are no enemies outside of interpretations of relationships; we all are individuals unique.

All these lines we use to describe types of people intersect so many different lines until points where near-infinite lines intersect to create each individual.

there are basic needs and desires that we all have, yet there is some variation here and there warranting boos or praise, but there still should be equal respect on a basic level for all because there are basic needs and desires that we all have.

everyone needs to feel that they have some glimpse of truth

everyone's life story could be a classic and inspiring movie.

People have such different ways of understanding the world that, even if I found myself to be articulate in describing some beauty and good that I feel and how to achieve it, no one would feel the same things I do––yet they may feel similar things; so at least I can connect to people on some level.

Leave this world attached to nothing but hope for humanity; then you will feel free to die.

To appreciate life is to be surprised each day you remain alive.

improvements in technology, medicine, and societal organization increase the illusion of safety, allowing the flourishing of blind fulfillment among peoples,

death and pain held at distance as a matter of supposed necessity; but, to value an honest fear of the hovering threat of all that is dark in conjunction with fulfillment is to maximize the experience of all you love.

From the moment of our conception, we must feel pain to know pleasure, and we must know tragedy to know healing.

Someday is today.

every day that certain things stay the same, consider yourself lucky––every day that certain things change, consider yourself lucky as well

we do not disappear, we are not replaced. we impact, and so do those that we impact so that our impact is never lost

Hope is not empty but is the focus on the vast good possibilities over the vast bad. It does not wallow in pain, but, acknowledging it, learning from it, not desperately avoiding it, resorts not to self-pity, but lives for the good in the now and the certain good that the future will bring as well as the greater certain good that it may bring.

While they are frozen in spacetime eternally, do not live these limited moments waiting.

Cherish the past, anticipate the future, and see the present as it was once anticipated and will one day be cherished, your life by you and your world by far past and far future generations.

Your grandparents and theirs and theirs were not just their oldest years or photographs or paintings of their younger, but each moment of every year, none worth dismissing in a pursuit of an improved life

that may never come or stay.

The sadness of our small time in the universe, being nothingness before and after, is so beautiful that it can breathe into life deep emotion, appreciation, and awe.

Even more than to revisit a nostalgic circumstance, to salvage what of it thought lost is one of the most beautiful things.

Let nothing, no knowledge from any science or philosophy, ever subtract from the near-infinite complexity and untouchable depths and breadth and intricacies of the universe, Earth, the human life and mind. We are wrapped within some folded windings that trace the shape of snails around snails across the smallest grains of sandy shores to the largest scopes of space and time, from which we can never escape and must never reduce in our minds. If we can find patterns, these are still the least of seas within seas of the unreached realities that, when acknowledged, are affixed to beauty.

Everything that exists is the substance of the never-ending dream of sleeping nothingness.

About the Author

Timothy Ballan is a composer and writer who currently resides in Western Massachusetts. As a composer, Timothy mostly writes accessible classical music. As a writer, Timothy mostly writes plotless stories, atmospheric vignettes, poems, and non-pretentious philosophy. When not composing or writing, Timothy leads several musical groups in urban youth development programs, teaches private piano lessons, and tutors youth in various academic subjects. In his free time, Timothy enjoys driving on country roads, hiking, watching scary movies, and sharing time and an absurd sense of humor with his human and mint-flavored bobby-pin friends.

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