I have but one qualm with the shirts,
It's cause a stroke, well, nearly,
Why do these shirt have washing instructions?
That strikes me as silly.
If they are Unwashed t shirts,
What does this really mean?
Provide me with some guidance here,
For the answer I'm keen.
Does it mean that they're Unwashed?
Wash them before you wear?
Or does it mean they should remain smelly?
Is that really fair?
On a personal level though,
The shirts are really cool,
They cause the kids I teach to,
Lust after them and drool.
Little old ladies just stop and stare,
Upon my shirt they gaze,
It reminds them of their childhood,
In the "good old days".
For back then there were no gadgets,
Electricity was a dream,
the best scientists had not imagined,
The automatic washing machine.
So, washing was done less often,
And often then by hand,
The clothes suffered just a little,
I'm sure you understand.
I have strayed from my topic,
As I'm prone to do,
One last thing before I go,
BlueCross we all thank you.
For you sweat, tears and blood,
Well, at leat your time,
The Unwashed are now fashion gurus,
But that opinion's mine.                                                    

Cheers from the Land of Oz                         

Hands
Touching, seeking
Searching for a warmth I cannot feel
Grasping at air that holds nothing

Fingers
Bending, tired
Writing things that I cannot use
Pushing words out of my mind

Nails
Polished, chipped
Costing me money I do not have
My only vaniity , besides my hair

Hands, together
Holding, rubbing
A spark of contact with my love
Tying me to sanity and family

Fingers
Probing, stroking
Seeking places upon my body
Places I won't talk about on this board

Hands
Reaching, Touching, Seeking
Our conduit to our lives, point of realization
Our lifeline to the reality we have

Welcome to our noble group,
You'll find us really nice,
We are the gaming answer to,
Those Bristich Girls of Spice.
You've been answered by my colleagues,
On your electronic quest,
About rank and title and other stuff,
Their advice has been the best.
Just do what comes naturally,
Contribute what you may,
We'll be interested in your contributions,
So you can have your say.
Night Owl mentioned the Poetry Bastards,
I had to say hello,
I'm one of that mentioned group,
We're really nice - ya know?
Just one little things remains,
An Unwashed type of trick,
Doom will have to annoint you,
With The Pointy Stick!                                                    

Cheers from the Land of Oz            

I close my eyes
let a tear roll by
for memories
that I’ve lost and
memories that’ve died,
I see a memory
and my heart skips
‘cause there’s
a smile on her lips,
but then my sight
fades to black
within a pane
of glass
before me,
in the mirror
an aged visage
glares back,
and my heart skips
‘cause there’s no
smile on my lips,
and behind me
in the mirror
more memories
most blurred
some clearer,
I reach out
just to touch
and the mirror
shatters
glass shards
speckle me
with red dots
as blood seeps
through tiny cuts
and spell a
myriad
of things
I even see
some memories
in the intertwined
spidery tracks
marking the passage
of time,
remember death
once had me
in his grasp
and I would’ve
been his
but something
made him release
my soul back
to the vessel
I’ve yet to learn why,
but I see in the
darkness the
twining bloodlines
and remember
yet another
that fades soon
after it’s made,
even the best ones
trickle away
crumble, crack
and age,
like an old photograph
or a newspaper
yellowed by time
and weathered poorly
disintegrates as you
gentle cradle it
in your hands
and you’re left
wondering
what little bit
of history
it held.

Poem: Entiteld: This is not a strawberry.
Gravy on my hands.
Gravy on my feet.
Gravy meats the body.
Gravy thorugh the heat.
My hands are coverd,
in gravyiouse delight.
My hands are coverd,
don't be quick to firght.
Gravy gravy
on my toes,
Gravy Gravy.
Where it goes..
hands and gravy, everywhere.
Gravy is, in gravys hair.
Gravy gravy, like the murky depths
Gravy on my hands so wet.
From gravy, not sauce nor pepermint.
No sailors in my garden tent.
Gravy on this poem spill.
Gravy from my hands to nil.
Naught, or whatever you wish.
Gravy is top 'o' the list.
Hands come second, hands come first.
Gravy coverd, eternal thirst.
Etheral mist, the hands of time
Turn and twist, the gravys vine.
Eat it on a silver platter.
Eat it off a burger, splatterd.
Use it as a topping, on your food of choice.
Gravy is the masters voice.
Gravy from a plastic tube.
Squuezeed by skinny hands (so few..)
Liters , Galons, Tones and more.
Gravy comes , in many forms.
By hand or by maschine,
Gravy comes like molten stream.
Of lava or, another thing,
palm trees swinning, in the wind.
Cats are here, they always are.
I think they eat gravy.
but I havent seen thus far.
Gravy comes and gravy goes
but altogether, no one knows.
Gravy through my hands.
Gravy through my feet
Gravy meats the body.
Gravy Through the Heat.

~Fin~

Box Dweller

I live in a box.
It has four walls,
Peeling with dried white paint,
And chipping with age.
I forget how I got inside,
But they wont let me out...
For there is no opening...
And no end to the walls...
I run and scream at them,
Pounding and scratching,
But nothing happens...
Someone told me,
I could use these words,
To bore a hole through...
I tried it for a while...
It didn't work,
For I forgot that people,
On the other end of the barricade,
Had to be listening...
In order for me to be free...
But I don't see,
That happening...
Anytime soon...

24 hours to live
22 years alive

Quality of life poor
Living a full life

Low Intellegence
Straight A student

A contridicting life,
A life of Chaos,
My life.

Walking late at night, coat flowing around me as I look at the stars, thoughts running through my mind, my mortality... the people who are better then me... dying all around...

If you like me,
you tempt fate

If you love me,
you will surely suffer,
My legacy of death,
My Brother,
My friends,
My Girlfriends,
My Grandmother.
All a memory
all a dream...

Rest in my arms my dear,
for I am death made flesh
and my kiss is deadly.