There was a flutter in his chest

as he mounted the first few steps...

He had been watching this factory

from a nearby street,

he just wanted to be left

to his own devices, and make sure

there was no one

inside stirring...

Later on that night, by the streetlamp lights

he'd return through a broken screen...

Tim just felt at home in these haunted spots,

and right now he had felt at ease

to raise a crack pipe to chapped lips and spark up

as he squatted on the floor...

There was creaks and groans from the other rooms,

Places he'd never been before...

In the back of his head there was unchecked dread,

but he rarely tuned his ears

to his conscience now...

He was too far gone...

There was something at his rear

that raised a metal wrench

above his skull and smashed it swiftly down!...

It was some deranged old fogey who'd been living in his filth!

Tim didn't have any time to scream for help...

He was killed in the shadows and silt...

And the old man, barely paying notice,

ate off Tim's skin, his face, and his eyes...

Then he crawled like a spider to the dismal black

of the factories awful insides.

10/13/21

Bunny Villaire

This is not a place of safety and welcome reception anymore

Damn you Prose for losing your slim and athletic and very healthy aesthetic!

It's too idiotically stuffy now; too much damned stuff on it so that you don't feel attached to what you spit...

At least it's making me angry and forcing my words out again...

I wanted spill out my remorse for my dying uncle, but I feel transfixed and held hostage by this ridiculous new Prose that postures as a Suzy Homemaker I don't know what the fuck

with a sterile ugliness a mile long to keep the creative juices off the stage and out of the question...

Fuck you Prose and your gluttony for conformity.

Is that what happened here?...

A lack of commitment to patience and understanding for deeper words turned this place sour, and I'm going to have to retract and think again before I get on here for at least a little while.

I really don't what to say, but at least your stirring me inwardly if only with revulsion.

All the bodies milling 'round

tethered to their hallowed phones

are like sailors beyond light who've died

Cleaved and punctured by lake stones...

...Can you see them on the bottom, crying,

clam shell eyes, and coral nape?...

They were waiting there on billows rising...

...Stifled, sidelined frames that sank...

Now swinging though both hands are tied...

They will bait you to your tomb...

All one's got to do is dial them up,

And you are to the nth consumed...

...Can you see them on the bottom, crying,

clam shell eyes, and coral nape?...

They were waiting there on billows rising...

...Stifled, sidelined frames that sank...

That big line outside has got some pulse...

You'd be curdled to resist it's pull...

...Here's the monkey that scrawls every name...

He is drawing blood to pay his toll...

...Can you see them on the bottom, crying,

clam shell eyes, and coral nape?...

They were waiting there on billows rising...

...Stifled, sidelined frames that sank...

©

10/2/21

Bunny Villaire

Seems as though people are afraid of abstract poetry here in Prose, as if they think they'll fall into the shadowy abyss...

As for that and your internalized fears, all I have to say to you is...it's too late!!!!...

We're all swimming around in the abyss whether we like it or not....

I have to thank Prose for many things...It's praise and openmindedness, though infrequent at times has brought many magical results...The human eye is a many splendored thing because everyone experiences things in a fantastically unique way...Thank God or else we'd all be in a sci-fi movie where the powers that be were force-feeding us a unified way of thinking, and to deviate from this path would lead to death...As it is in America this is actually going on but at a much less accelerated rate as to barely notice unless if you're hyper sensitive(so, chances are, if you're on here and a poet, you have sensed it!!).

Poets have historically been called upon to fight the ever present bulldozer of conformity, and this is a constant and pervasive fight; although to many it is an unconscious fight!...

It's a fight nonetheless, and it exists like that woman I acknowledged yesterday at that car repair store by the gas station near my house(I don't like to name names) that I never knew existed until I deigned to acknowledge it's existence. Existence is silly that way.

What am I saying??? I guess that we should fight for our right to be better listeners, because it's hard to write a cutting edge poem, much less write a poem at all. Give a hoot, and try a bit of everything out; otherwise what's the point? Might as well be sanctioned to only eat bologna every single day for the rest of your life, That is all.

The close encounters of wet noses

led Theodora down a jaunty primrose path,

until she found another door within the gnarled roots of garden

that were designed to scare away the novice chasers of the truth...

The early abominations that would take it upon the world

to watch them falter

entered into a foolhardy contract with the devil, and to Hell

they were abolished.

Theodora came to break this tired pact, and write her own ticket

out of the wonky dungeon!...

Bless her, and her will to function, like a beacon of a light-house,

flaunting...

I see the soaring falcon fleeting over bluff and unending whole-hog dale!...

Burp up twice, someone aids your closet vice, latches to your cow-bell tail of fame...

Causes ripples in uh willowed wave of cinched dress,

and all is jest, and betited to, as you reap cents before cock-eyed crow crossed it twice...

I feel a constant yes or no descend over the smitten pack...

Wandering through the bleating purge of barren waste,

this desert of the common place

falls far beyond the chalk-lined range

of Theodora’s personal estranged

rules of appeal at this bloated and uneased windup of the century...

The close encounters of wet noses

led Theodora down a jaunty primrose path,

until she found another door within the gnarled roots of garden

that were designed to scare away the novice chasers of the truth...

Would you not, in heart escalating moments. have a fleeting,

yet distinct desire

to in one random passing of the breath infest

the rising crust of humanities unrest?...

The crawl-space where the seemingly escaped victims

scream out as the walls cave in...

There’s someone punching at loose dials in a frantic frenzy of a gesture,

and also flocks of some young you have not acknowledged in your epic quest of living

taking measures out of sight and mind from spilling

grains of sand...

...Much is learned, and paid for granted

in this land of milk and honey...

The close encounters of wet noses

led Theodora down a jaunty primrose path,

until she found another door within the gnarled roots of garden

that were designed to scare away the novice chasers of the truth...

©

9/4/21

Bunny Villaire

Sometimes my words roll out in waves

like grass that's kissed by wind from cranes

who rise up on a sheet of wind...

Rhymes come to bless me on a whim...

On other days I must go out

into the ravenous array,

and hunt my dinner down with tools,

and weapons of personal choosing...

You feel it on the air sometimes

just how the world gets with it's hoarding...

Will we approach this march of dimes,

or die beneath boarded up planks?...

I'm not sure which will be our fate,

I just know that I feel a pulse,

and there is something new and sure

emerging from the dewy blades...

Sometimes my words roll out in waves

like grass that's kissed by wind from cranes

who rise up on a sheet of wind...

Rhymes come to bless me on a whim...

I feel the sickly sweet descent

of falling leaves where blow-hards puff

themselves into a royal knot...

Their eyes bulge wide where horses trot,

and bandits of the world press on,

while those in blind-folds pay the price...

I know that life continues off

the map that some deluded prince

dreamed up to keep a good man down...

Gets hard to flail or move around...

...But maybe in this time of trials

where famine reigns, and truth gets filed

under the guise of worn out shoes

we'll find lost life midst shades of blue.

©

9/4/21

Bunny Villaire

We had fallen onto something real

that the others never tried...

We had tumbled off the beaten path,

past the arrows where paint dried...

There was sun that burned, and burs

that stung...

There were varmints at our heels...

All the wizened ones begged us not proceed,

they made countless vague appeals,

but we knew our hearts were screaming out,

and the sky said, “It’s your time...”

There was lightening;

all the signs were there,

so we left our woes behind...

We had fallen onto something real

that the others never tried...

We had tumbled off the beaten path,

past the arrows where paint dried...

Our canvas was as white and long

as an endless summer night...

Your lips were full,

your brow was tensed,

expectations were so slight...

All I knew was that I love you, and

my heart beat like a drum...

Following your eye,

we took one big stride,

and we launched into the sun...

We had fallen onto something real

that the others never tried...

We had tumbled off the beaten path,

past the arrows where paint dried...

©

8/12/21

Bunny Villaire

For: Mavia

The walls have eyes(and lips),

they are so intimately attached

to the energy we hatch

inside our egg shell shocked existence...

Bring your stretched out

grin,

your unrecorded glee

that shakes the pinnacles

of the highest peaks of happy

before it plunges headlong into darkness...

All your sadness, and your blackness

filling up a cup without a bottom...

We are all of us a perpetual Autumn

from time to time...

It will come to this,

and the walls will feel it, and save it, and claim it for their very own...

This is the very definition and parapsychology of spectral forms...

A ghost is conjured out of the storm of our routine...

And when I see you in the bathroom,

reflected in my mirror...

The walls will speak and we won't hear, unless they speak the dead, drying tongue of the sacrificed...

Speak to us, O walls, and set our sights back into present time!...

It is too bleak, and vacant

to live only for the future dealings

of the battered soul

of man...

©

7/28/21

Bunny Villaire

So strange how the body and mind

are like boats passing slow in the night...

So much is forgotten, and shelved

far, far from the porthole of sight...

Come awake with wide eyes,

when you’re shocked by black ether!...

The world has its fine ways,

and is vaguely defined,

like the raggedy doll that you use as a playmate

who’s been pounced ’til she bled...

What goes on in your head?...

Let her air on the porch

’fore she’s musty and maimed...

There’s so little to thought

in this lightening licked lane

that you choose to inhabit.

There’s a street light above

who is nightly romanced by

mosquitoes and gnats...

You sit under her glare, and you

gaze north and south,

Waiting for God to answer...

Is there something to all of this

sticking around?...

You could jump a fast train,

get a flat in New Brunswick,

or take a freak chance,

and fly down the West Coast!...

See Portland, or Anchorage;

City of Angels...

Though they say it’s

‘Lost Angeles’ you’re

merely a ghost

when you live just for sitting...

Marking time like a maid

so enslaved in her process of

inattentively knitting...

While you’d swear

to your habits,

you’re just digging your grave.

Ye, though there’s much to be said

about thick travel plans,

and they feel like a balm,

I attest that a scam

is facilitated by

your escapist desires,

always banking on fleeing, and

topping all spires!...

What about your insides?...

Don’t you want to own up?...

What within begs you fill

this insatiable cup?...

You can flee ’til your legs

are just flesh tattered pegs,

but you’ll never escape your

reflection in glass...

Now’s the time to turn ’round,

and start spinning your silk...

Aren’t you sick of the waiting?...

Find that push, shed the guilt,

and tear down green hedges

which comprise your life’s maze...

There’s so many more stories

if you’ll just turn the page.

©

7/21/21

Bunny Villaire

(Edit #2)

The sky skates down

and offers gifts

to those who hang

beneath its eve

Blink and the outside

enters in,

with knocking heart

and heavy breathing

The pulsing in the

temples,

gray and believing

each and every evening

Drops of sweat

can be counted on and on

like carpenter ants

on parade...

It is the blade that sinks

in the puckered skin and

causes the man behind the mask

to grow a grin

To twice betray

his grade,

as soldiers march

outside again

Lying in the grass

something whispers past,

the prevailing wind

of a living thing

Haunting the halls

of inspirations

advancing now

in orderly formation.

©

7/18/21

Bunny &

Mavia Villaire