The Nerd

 

Is there anything more, profoundly, disgusting...than a 'peanut butter and mayonnaise' sandwich? Aside from vinegar flies showing up in my school locker, I used to get those in my school lunch. It really impressed the pretty girl, I had 'hots' for, next locker over.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: google pic

The Perfect Fool

Do you have any idea, how hard it is to fit in at school, when your shoes are two sizes too big, pant's are three sizes too short...shirt sleeve cuffs are half way up your arm? No one at school will be remembered, but I will never be forgotten. Thank you God, for making me the 'perfect fool'.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: google pic

Desert Eden

 

In our desert Eden, here...we remain. Birds of every kind...all colors come, to peck our grain. The clean green straw, I give to them, they lay upon...they gather, rabbit, coyote , horned toad, lizard, squirrel, things that crawl. 

Hawks fly on desert updrafts...soaring high as eagles in our thunder clouds. The desert speaks, in tongues of wind and lightning. Humming birds and butterfly's, float on wings, so small about us, proofs of wonder from the tiniest of all, the ant's, the insect's...buzzing in the morning sun...our menagerie of fun.

Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: google pic

Battlefields

In the wars of words, of the deeds of men...where the field was full of armor, a poet can always tell when his pen has hit the mark...for all in the meadow lay down, entire...nor muster of rejoinder. Ye poets, listen...listen well, for some malign...or whisper. Nay...only be, the sleep and wind; on years to come...they, whole defeat lay rusting in the grain.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: John Constable, Stonehenge

No Other Gods

I know you wont say, but you see. I see, you know...too. So, play your petty silences, your amalgam's of poise...the phony smiles, as truth's sour grapes and rich ones too, burn like bitter testicles upon your tongue.

Pretend to lay awake, to think...because, you wouldn't touch my love...with a ten foot pole. Pretend to dig my junk, but I wouldn't know...for I haven't felt your hand that way, since...so long ago.

You flee the fact, you've studied everything I've written...as you fly and rage, within the cage you built yourself. Then, you line the cage floor with the words, and tear at them...as angry birds.

You cannot mock what is really free, when you are not...for it is brass, and everyone will know. What can you say, for you are caught, on your own horn? I would say, that silence is...the only 'tack' you've got.

Yet, you can stop, and turn around...to ask the way. That's right. I'll only say..."It's a long way back." I've come this far. You know I have, from the garden there, to see you trip and fall and grow.

I don't want to watch you end...so, I'm going home.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Thomas Cole 1828, Expulsion From the Garden of Eden

The Watcher's

Erotic content on blog site:


About 'the watcher's'. How does that work? They've watched the movie 'more' than once, so they know how all this shit will end? But how does that help, the faces on the screen, and what have they ever done, in this world of 'camera', to make the script a better thing? And, so...they were there, before the show, with their popcorn bags...and their soda straw, bored and elite, sleeping in their pew...drooling on the script, as we live our lives in vain...believing we are real. But what have they ever done for you? Not a blessed thing. Who put them here? Were they sent to 'gawk', to 'feel', every little pain? To 'perv', to 'set up' selfies, unaware...with their 'favorite histories?' Who the hell are 'the watcher's', who would let us die a thousand times, who always choose a bitter end? There's something better out there, than the watcher's and the silver screen...there's something alive, that has a heart...that isn't 'stuck' in the same re-run, masturbating away our lives...however false they are. I'm going to find. I'm tired of this show. Anyone want to come along?

Maybe that's why they watch at all...to find a real one.


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: google art

The Girl With The White Mare

The most magical love, I ever met, was a girl selling her white white mare, on a great hay mound. The boys and I looked on, but I doubt, they ever saw her there...and none of us laid her down. She said the mare could be had, for 50 pound. I hadn't a sou, to my name. What can you do, when you meet your love, and you're asked to pay, for a thing, you'll never have?


Written by Bruce James Clyde 2016, at Deming, New Mexico

Art: Google art