Shining poets

Could it be
that the anger we feel
towards life
is a knowing in our spirit
telling us
that all is not right…?

You rape and
Pillage. Storm my very
Heart! What is it you
Want from me? Is it my
Pound of flesh? I gave that
Eon’s back… You are
Never satisfied. No matter
That I give all I
Have.

Shy and curious at first. But as
Time passed the full
Gamut was experienced. And though
Reflection understood it was
Sorrow who held the
Moment… of time
Thwarted in the
Land of
Neglect…

Yes, I will undress for you,
Each garment slowly tossed aside,
And yes, I will confess to you
My wanting, without guilt or pride.

I were so very patient as

i slowely ran my toes along

your bottom

then your hip,

you along your thigh

across your knee

then your calf

i knew from these inti…

Another DeMoonification Production.

Here sits a wood and leather box
inside which lies a treasure.
I keep it there, for it’s not often needed.

Unfolding like rolled carpet
stretched before me
miles of unseen comings
knowing not what lies ahead
not peering with fear
only wonder and breathlessness
embracing the tomorrows
opening my arms to “y…

the city sleeps.

sin rises like a dirty
vapour from off the crazed
paving stones
and permeates the darkness

Blissful ignorance is
Ok
‘till it bites you on your
Butt.
‘oh right then it’s
Personal and you take
Note…’

Left to
Smolder on a heap. A
Bag of bones forgotten. Her
Heart torn out and
Thrown away… Her
Mind plundered so has fled in
Terror… And this
Corpse that was once

I tried to wriggle from you
Your kiss held me still 
As I let my self embrace
That suffocating thrill 
Of unwrapping the Territory
 that eyes had feasted on
But somehow invaded me like 
The melody of a song…

now that i am sixty five
time to retire whatever
that may mean…?
good to withdraw from
waged oppression
have time, find space
to set the good ship
of my soul sailing
on thought, on …

and i’m boiling,
dressed all in black like a crow or a widow,
wondering why i am where i am
instead of lying in your arms

Written by: Veronica Kattoula & Walt Whitman

O Whitman! My Whitman! My dear old friend,
Leaves of Grass, you’ve left behind, and this I commend.
I hear the melodious music through your delightful …

I’ll walk the walk.
I’ll talk the talk.
I’am who I’am.
And that’s not all…

If I can sense your smell…
I’ll fly like a bat out of hell.
I’ll come crash…

i still love you as
we are, not missing any
thing of how i luv ed;
what you said’s my love
and what i said’s my luv, seem s
to’ve been nil/nix close;
seems is but word, verbed
simulated/me…

Scribbles of a life well-lived are all this journal holds.
These pages, torn and tattered, sport coffee stains
and careless drips from a cherrydip ice cream cone.