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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.



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.



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