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Pastimes : A Poetry Corner -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Robert Douglas Hickey who wrote (1)	7/23/1998 7:00:00 PM
From: Robert Douglas Hickey	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 1582

MY BITTER BED Glowing golden on stolen afternoons her goldenhair a halo on my pillows my bed a sunlit sanctuary, an altar consecrating angelic carnality. A golden soul delighting in our delight consistently petitions our fusions until in the heart of a heat, riven with ecstasy we call it to us, our flash is fleshed. Golden innocent, ripped from trusting slumber exposed acknowledged discarded. Tarnished now my bitter bed bears love grown mundane, reduced to routine glorious union now the scratch of an itch dreams on a shelf, or in the garbage. The golden one that made us giants is lost we walk the earth forever diminished poet prince or pagan queen forsaken.

To: Robert Douglas Hickey who wrote (1)	7/23/1998 7:05:00 PM
From: Robert Douglas Hickey	Read Replies (2) \| Respond to of 1582

TOILETRIES Not a breath, a sob. Breathing clears the mind, but a good cry clears the soul no, no time for that now the compromise of sobbing has to do. This must be done now while no one else is home. Toothpaste, toothbrushes razors and make-up five bars of hand-milled soap all of the toiletries are in two piles on the floor, between an empty box and the empty cabinet. The cabinet shelves need cleaning the box could stay empty, all the toiletries could return to clean shelves. Shifting sunlight strikes the fuzzy bathmat creating a pool of warmth just large enough to curl up in.

To: Robert Douglas Hickey who wrote (1)	8/23/1998 9:44:00 PM
From: Don Martini	Respond to of 1582

Robert, I perceive you to be a man acquainted with sorrow. How fine of you to start this thread with your lovely poems! My wife runs a charity, Mission Possible, dedicated to the destruction of Aspartame/NutraSweet/Equal/Slimfast: You may enjoy this: LAMBS TO THE SLAUGHTER Sittin in the shadow of a polyester tree Musin' on the wonders of a world of chemistry Sippin' a libation from a thermoplastic cup Deciphering the label of the potion that I sup Once a time real lemons were picked for lemonade Now citric acid and aspartame are that from which its made With several other additives to get the flavor right It tastes a lot like cheap perfume, or paper roses might You see the real problem is it costs another dime Unthinkable consideration in our mercenary time The Board of Directors decided FAKE will simply have to do It's profit they are there to make, not lemonade for you So settle down and drink it down and soon you'll say, it's true That lemons give a funny taste ... sort of artificial too! And so you saturate your frame With chemotoxins, such a shame But your can tell your Doctor friend You were a consumer to the end The profiteers endless proclamation With terminal mental constipation "All is well! All is well!" So lure our land and health to Hell Who is so blind that will not see This pathologic travesty The simple truth, all argue done We buy what they advertise till we're done And never dare to doubt or question Mesmerized by the vile suggestion That not to buy is heresy So lambs to the slaughter, tragic, we By: Don Martini Visit: dorway.com to save your life Don