squinting thru the smoky window

again

agonizing need for clear euphoria

I see that mountain

concealed

thru the window

that mound of dirty mud

piled higher than elephant shit

no desire to focus

dancing thru the dry iced dawn

I’ll take my study of avoidance

with one more breath drawn

and choking laughter

stinging eyed joy

correctional balancing of mind

revealing beautiful half notes

cradling the divine musical door

its wide open

hence rusty reality no user can use

the knocking pisses me off

turn toward momentary time

of tingles

arousing playfully

the lost child that’s willingly lost

in the maze of real truth

nothing and no where

is the real truth

the reality

the dimensions

densities’

hello 5^th dimension

I welcome you

my kind and gentle soft view addiction

with no judgment

no star tears falling like raindrops

and no mountain

just a smoky window

filled with glittering dust and sparkling diamonds

kicking off prisms of om’

again

written by Vanessa 13/11/07

no bus
is all I want
instead
truck stop
engines loud
carbines up my nose
old lady
smokes her roll
drum, up my nose
rubbish truck
noise and stink
pungent up my nose
old mad man
kisses the air at me
dirty old truck
dirty old man
fumes, noise, people
all I want is
the 035 home

written 13/12/94
vanessa

The Mislaid It was a strange October day, yet it behaved as that month does, blowing leaves off trees and filling gutters into fast flowing rivers where a child can launch a matchbox and call it a ship, it was just as I had misplaced something of value by my own carelessness and now it was out of my reach. Went into a bar, beside me sat a blond, big busted woman in her late forties, she looked like the archetypical barmaid, only she was a cook at the Excelsior Hotel, up the street, on her day off. I told her I had lost a thing of great sentiment, together we went from bar to bar looking for this nameless thing. Woke up in a strange bedroom, pink, and it had teddy bears strew around, mostly on the floor; I looked out of the window it was raining and remembered that yesterday was my birthday. The archetypical was sleeping, in the grey morning light she looked vulnerable and forty eight.

She searched too long with the trees and the woods

It was the hollow airy spaces in between that was

The poignant reminder that life was contrary.

The facets and nature of entwining weeds

Crescending and suffocating over

Earth and sprawling upwards

To engulf nature primarily before it –

To overtake the dinosaur – to destroy the native.

A want to be an invader.

Are we to be the crusaders?

Copyright Deana Platt 2001 (Emancipation Planz)

Come Dancing

The red fox and the black swan stylishly
Danced on the ice of the tarn to the sound
Lively Mexican music that has violence
And promise of sudden death deep within
Its speedy notes of hard played guitars.

A crescendo the finest spray of crimson
In winter air; the swan, with poise, bowed
Its long neck and the elegant fox did ditto
In the stillness that followed trees shivered
Snow of their branches in utter dismay.

Going Home

The white day was gliding into twilight details
clearer and shadows deeper, traffic lights sharp
green, amber and red and cars that had stopped
gleamed like a pearl necklace.
…
Ambulance and police sirens, there had been an
accident traffic down to a trickle, a small car
has hit a truck from behind, white sheet over
lady driver, her hand showed she had many rings.
….
Was she rushing home after seeing her lover?
an affair caused by the boredom of having too
little to do? Or just another middle aged woman
hasting home to make the evening meal?
…..
The pulse of the traffic is quickening, motorway
ahead car lights are on now the accident is
already forgotten, the woman was being careless
not thinking, we are safe and in our metal boxes.
—-

Humans designed for pain wee man thinks & destinations death, hollow legions capture our pavements gutter & lay lost, solitude found in question & interrogation the weak he still belches & answering the ego’s fears the fool stands faking his theory & he must need it, needs to know & leader wept & ambassador to his he finds some comfort & answer uncovers the jukebox den & his deceased soul hides behind his tombstone & needs to be shown sorrow & love “would anybody care, I was a somebody?” & silence seekers moan…fool crys & wonders when a tune is ever played for him - “who’s demeaning who?” sings wee man.

In my hands lays a life

In this life is power and in the power is the opportunity

And the opportunity is greatness.

How often as one small lone voice changed the course of history for ever

How often has one small deed done by just one person changed the lives of so many for so long?

And yet all this is thrust into my hands in just a moment of time

It is thrust in my hands in the form of the most innocent, fragile and beautiful creature that god has created – a new born baby.

A baby with no more or less chance in the world than the other baby that was born just the other day

A baby whose beauty far surpasses that of the father’s dreams and whose grace, discipline and potential shall be forged in the fires of life.

But what is it worth to forge a life if you can’t grow it in wisdom.

So to this new born baby with all the potential, and all the trust and love that the world could provide in just one person I say: “I shall lead with Joy so you can follow with glee”

(* dedicated in waves of love for the greatest Mammalian flotilla

This is a wail of a song not to die for)

One thousand wails

Southern Ocean sales

Guised is no deception

For a belly ton of indigestion

Spurious lashings of what’s for dinner

Served with the repetitious wail

The minke has got thinner

Japan you’re not a winner

Think environmental sinner

Have I harpooned on enough?

Does it echo my disgust?

via Cetaceans communicated calibrations

swum to intelligent sound deliberations

The minke has got thinner

Japan you’re not a winner

Think environmental sinner

Deana Platt Copyright 19/11/07

Mad men and muses on my screen appear
Scribes of pieces prized
texturalised justifications
neutralised
lobotomized
rationalised
war-tified

Afraid that wisdom may interfere

proud
loud
common sense
blurred innocence
a lost gust of grown-up tsunami fear

awaiting for a sanctity in madness
as they cry away their tears

Copyright Deana Platt 3/12/07

He sat in a rowboat, in the deep fiord, with
a bottle of vodka, a flask of tea, bacon butty
and an apple. A mild spring day and he was
fishing mackerel; many he hooked too, soon
the boat was quite full of blue, silvery bodies
writhing and painfully dying.

Tea and vodka he drank munched the butty,
ate the apple; lit a cigarette inhaled deeply
and enjoyed his solitude.

Bodily functions never stop, he stood up to
have a pee, slipped on his catch and fell into
the sea; heavy boots he soon sank down to
where the sea is dark and unforgiving; rain
fell on an empty bottle of booze, apple core,
thermos flask and fish that had lost their glow.