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    there’s time tho

    to stop; retract

    the word, your

    step, back

    to where/before you

    even thought

    of it. no

    sweat – the hand-

    gun is/ – and,

    gone.  a fact for a long





    know but not

    why, by what

    way you come,

    some chance!

    determines. or

    wanting discipline.

    the mind fidgets

    like a hand, as a

    spasm in sleep keeps us

    in/, the dark dark

    two poems –

     1. to know him is to love him


    what goes

    on but

    bone, flesh,




    stories I would

    tell. Go



    score your

    nail down.

    i fear

    tho i


    burst or


    like there’s



    stuff to hold me.


    2stuff                                                                                                                1 March 2018


    there’s now, & now; the rest is

    shadow-play, a dream –


    one day; you slip

    off, across the room &

    no-one knows you’re


    The River and the Wind

    She is anchored

    to this endless plain;

    her hair trailing,

    the dress a filling sail.

    The hills are a half smile

    reaching to a purple haze;

    the river peels the bank.

    She stood for a moment

    then reached for the earth.

    It blew from her fingers

    and she spun and raised

    her arms and her voice

    became the river and the wind


    DAMNED by Sonya Young

    He was a religion that no one followed
    A church with cold, empty pews
    He nailed himself to a crucifix
    Then waited sadly for good news

    He watched mankind marry the devil
    With no divorce papers to be found
    All these damned non-believers
    The emptiness to which they were bound

    The angels were bruised from falling
    Their wings were plucked and spare
    Feathers all blackened by brimstone
    Everyone gasping for fresh air

    He witnessed spontaneous stigmata
    People bleeding hope through little holes
    No help for the lost and lonely ones
    And no redemption for their souls

    Skeletons surrounded a makeshift altar
    Casting judgement with bony eyes
    The atmosphere was thick with hypocrisy
    So much hate, falsehoods…and lies

    His bible held no decipherable verses
    No respect for the long haired man
    No body of Christ, no compassion
    Bloated egos grabbing whatever they can

    The weary nuns all had bad habits
    And hearts that were devoid of love
    Anointed with a whole lot of nothingness
    Guidance sought from below and not above

    Demons dressed as businessmen
    Holy water sizzled as it touched their skin
    Heaven is full…please turn back
    No room up here for your sins

    A priest without a congregation
    Collection plate rattled with gold fillings
    They warmed their hands on Hellfire
    Taking a break from torture and killing

    The choirs throats were all tarnished
    Emitting nothing but shrill screams
    Hell was here on earth all along
    Tormented souls with splintered dreams

    how i got here

    My feet move w/out thinking.

    You pass me on the pavement.

    Occupy the back room of.

    I can’t remember – not one

    step; heart-


    felt –     ;


    how I got, the way I went.

    It remains:

    the weight of –


    One step – .I’m

    like a robot.

    Even now, & tho I’m conscious of it,

    my words are

    congenital; pre-


    disposed to.

    death of you

    POW! a man

    like me but

    much younger, out-

    gunned, commandeered.


    I’d cut you

    down from the suffering

    which humbles the spirit.


    You never recover.

    In London, wait;

    take orders, bow & later,

    alone with yourself,

    feel like a tool, &

    struck down at 50.

    You gave your wife


    6 children & 1 more

    to your girlfriend: 7 is

    my number.


    It broke you.



    Sleeping in a bed of futility
    Restrained by society’s rules
    The moon is surly and bitter
    Her heart stained with fury

    A goddess of everything shallow
    Seduced by invisible forces
    Her reality now tissue thin
    A plague upon her mind

    A portrait ….a masterpiece
    Canvas torn and the paint screams
    A smile ripped right in half
    Framing life’s grotesque illusions

    The casting couch made of concrete
    She with her red gypsy heart
    Spread her legs and sold her soul
    Grazed hips and dampened dreams

    Self esteem now found in a bottle
    Confidence a hand full of white pills
    Life is read from a screenplay
    Fame leaves a beautiful empty shell

    from Hail Gazers #3

    I used to have a drinking problem:
    I always ran out before
    I’d had enough. And
    I brought too much, and
    drank beyond the usefulness
    of alcohol—people getting drunk
    happily releasing as they go.
    I used to have a problem with unanimous.
    No day belonged to when
    I wasn’t really sure
    the Sun was not a Router— in a world
    built for fiction; I started off determined
    that this wasn’t Evolution
    but Addiction—people growing
    out of each other, copious in starlit,
    through disaster,
    and audit, and economies
    borrowing and borrowing,
    for warmth, for wart removal, the
    environment, the burrows
    and bunkers and stations,
    colliders, soldiers, the stalwart
    psychoanalytical conclusions
    made by leafy large windows
    about Pensions.
    I used to stand in lightning
    with a rod, a storm Chaser, a
    hail gazer in safety goggles,
    icy tic tacs loud in the mouth;
    I used to get my teeth bloody
    hot with the research
    of the habitats Conspiracy rabbits
    grew on people, ears and eyes
    tickled in radio interference
    from blood-sedated emotion-farmers
    addicted to determination—I like my
    non attachment, very attached
    I am, and I’d debate the scriptural
    declarations hearing you achieve
    Weather™ like thieves, seeking dominion
    by trailing your chemicals. I used
    to like the shadow from the frames
    of thought, the ribs of words used
    to prove a point. I liked to move
    the light source, so that what we’d been taught
    fixed, moved, as the light moved. I thought
    I felt as much. A ‘Cabin in the Woods’.
    The children have no tops on, swimming
    in air beneath the sinking feeling of a barometer,
    manipulated, sliding on a lubricated sheet
    down a grassy slope; the boys do not pay attention,
    at all, to the girls hardened milk ducts;
    there is one I am watching closer than the others,
    she has a dark beginning in her wet underpants,
    and where skin becomes a breast, there is a lift
    in her awareness, and will require a changing of the guardians.


    A BLOODY INTERVIEW by Sonya J Young

    You were an elegantly dressed
    and well spoken monster
    in your top hat and white gloves
    All around you, candelabra on every surface…. with hot wax dripping
    lazily like slow, greasy tears
    sliding down a powder-pale face…
    You looked out through gauzy curtains
    which hung from a four poster bed
    you relished your dark gifts and admired the ostrich plumes that decorated your coffin, your other place of rest….
    Outside, relentless steamy rain and endless pain and cravings that couldn’t be satisfied by pathetic mortals, no matter how hard you tried….
    Inside, an inferno of destruction and
    heavily fringed curtains ablaze
    Oil paintings melting like crayons as
    another unsuccessful attempt to burn the souls of the damned….
    Frenzied piano playing until the keys began to splinter
    Corpses hidden amongst the dolls began to reek, began to leak in the New Orleans heat…
    The yearning for the scarlett life-force of humans and animals, tormented your mind and soiled your fine clothes….
    A bloody interview, fascinating, informative and deadly and such
    a long tiresome existence for the un-dead.


    TILTED HALOS by Sonya Young

    Humanity is churning
    A seething mass, oozing around,
    at rock bottom
    The power had nestled
    Into the wrong hands long ago
    So the fear and intolerance
    That they imbedded into
    Your weary hearts
    Have caused the hate
    In your actions
    And now confusion
    Reigns supreme
    We are left
    With beautiful killings
    And ugly love
    Terrorism survival lessons
    For our youngsters
    In school
    Steel capped ballet slippers
    Have kicked the shit
    Out of your dreams
    Halos tilted at obscene angles
    Such cosy homelessness
    Across the world
    They slam imaginary doors
    In their hopeless faces
    The hems of your robes
    are fraying, God!
    I can offer a salve for the
    Rope burns that kissed
    Your neck
    Are we contestants
    in a race that can’t
    Ever be won?
    You are our spark
    Our forever….
    Please come down and do
    A little maintenance!


    WATCHING by Sonya Young

    I’ve been watching you people
    With your random acts of evil
    Fighting pointless battles
    With your glass swords…
    I watched the earth give birth
    But Mothers’ milk was rancid
    So you drank from the sea…
    The clouds and I have witnessed
    Your precious pain
    As rigour Mortis hardened
    Your decaying hearts…
    I watched closely
    As you crushed the skulls
    Of your enemies to dust
    And snorted lines like cocaine
    Now we have dry rain
    Waterfalls of fire
    And the sun is going to sleep.
    All those hours with gilded edges
    And you used them to spread
    The ugliest beauty
    And forgot all about love and truth
    I watched you become hellish creatures
    Lying in fields of beating hearts
    So now you swim in your worst fears
    With your feelings on life support
    And I will keep watching
    Your foolish rampages ….
    through my Bevelled eyes.
    I will reach out to hold hands
    with God….As I cry for my exquisite
    children …trying to survive
    In the harsh, bloated world
    that you left behind.


    THE CALLIGRAPHER by Sonya Young

    Sitting in front of a fireplace
    The size of hell
    Surrounded by musty
    leather bound books
    on old mahogany bookshelves
    the calligrapher pierced
    The flesh of his beautiful visitors
    With a gold fountain pen
    Stealing their stories
    Straight from their veins
    Before wiping his pen clean
    On an exquisite sheet of parchment
    He wrote slowly and methodically
    Using the blood of his lovers
    In place of ink….
    Outside, a suffocating fog
    Wraps itself around the old mansion
    Like a ghostly caress
    Visual imagery winds itself tightly
    Around his grey matter
    Like poison Ivy
    Squeezing the creativity
    From his mind…..
    Tinctures and potions are the precursors to feeling emotions
    But they unleashed a monster…
    The calligrapher walks up the hill
    To the frost bitten grave stones
    With their tiny life stories
    He burns a bouquet of flowers
    While planting the seeds of evil
    Then rests a while on a carpet
    Of decomposing leaves….
    Back inside he uses a red-hot blade
    To cauterise your wounds
    As a fever burns through his soul
    Then he continues to sit
    In front of hell
    Writing beautiful calligraphy
    In the blood of his lovers…

    Yes No