There is Always a Love Story

((you had you were you had lovely eyes, you had you were you had lovely eyes))

the droplets were parachuting
from the tips of the leaves
of sycamore trees
moving to the missions of the wind and breeze

as we

were mythic
never to stray
scattering our sermons like amber waves,
sucking out the marrow from the imperialist haze
and gaze

at the fetal dove
strung up in love
constantly distracted by the media maze
lights and magic from knick knacks to cabbage
on the outside of our window panes

as
the veins

popped out yer chest to my behest
it would never be the one you ever stressed
guessing and confessing while the moon decides and chides
whether you or I
or him
or why
would i pick him or the sky

I said neither because I

-hip hop flow-
am the fibonacci sequence hyphied up on speed
hear the pitter patter mimic its numerical creed
while weaving through the sequence of infinity's weeds
growing under the canopy of your watered trees

go around and around but the fog's making me see
the apartment in the horizon coming up on me and
the hills still hide the path where you and I were almost "we"
the notice on the door staring back at me
as we

were mystic
fair
game

spoken--
with my phone passing over our apartment like a fighter plane
and the car's sitting idle
the nights events blur and blender the title,
in the lobes of my whacked out brain,
in many ways, I don't feel the same, I feel disconnected, spiraling all around, above, looking down on creation with the sun above, already burnt away and gone, ash to ash, never meant to last, but look, the light keeps blinking

at some erratic pace,
never a pattern to decipher, only to focus on paying the piper
with only two blinks left,
can we at least try and erase?


--fast, intense, with feeling--

the minutes become notches
engraved and saved for a rainy day
while the grey rises like flies
buzzing behind our ceiling, revealing our fights,
our fury, the slights and blurry figments
the mention of our memories

then or now
it was so real i can feel
you blinking on and on
behind the fog
a ghost, a premonition
calling me towards you
as you
move
towards me and I breathe you in, and
hit
repeat

only to listen

to the same damn song

again

poem about goin to Behr and the light blinking,
very quiet, desolate poem, very quiet like that moment

About the Author

Curt Allday aka Catastrophe God aka Kurtz aka Dik Lizzard aka Galactus 3 currently resides in San Francisco, CA working towards his graduate degree.

short poem-

taking off masks, masks of mystery to uncover the villian
use picture of Abu Gharib with picture of person in that black sheet, but have an xray skeleton layer over- get clint to make

trick- least amount of words- have person gettin skin after skin, face after face, peeled off, until all there are bones- a metaphor for war, for the surfacing of info, for the push to out do one another with weapons and the like- it strips humanity of its face and there is nothing left but the skeleton of a dream

This is the first little short poem- maybe have 4 short ones on one topic?

EDIT:: Captain O'Reilly and the Blackbeard Brigade

by Curt Allday, Pharmacy P3

In the palms of their frozen, shaking hands,
a carefully placed rifle aims
at the backs of their throats
swollen shut by moldy bread and custard,
as they muster up the courage to attack
with arms flailing, with guns raised,
entering into the last stage
to make their final keep-
to prove the majesty of heavenly miracles
and
storm
that
beach.

and enter into the tunnel of tomorrow,
through the eyes of their ragged shoes,

the look of warning reflected
in the whites of the eyes of who
are the needles with the threads tightly woven
soaked with dyes an odd shade and hue,
leaking over
in every line,
in every stitch,
in every groove.

in step, in beat- they move-

onward across the snows of the departed,
to finally conquer and defeat
while vengeful units keep
on changing into possibilities
trapped forever in decoration and bloom
ready to bare the fruit,
until infinity, they knew,
they could never shy away
or retreat.

No, there was but one option,
they must
storm
that
beach.

As circulating and rippling demagogues of disfavor,
they are tattooed by the slaves of cheap labor,
creations that only he can remove
with lost arks and ancient relics
harnessing past glories in bold and italics
Courier editions characterizing the weakness of the willing
never left to savor with haste

then prune themselves with
propaganda and cartoons of extreme distaste
assimilated from the center
of the Republic's ripe peach, as
someone screams out to,

"move out and never
trust
that
peace!"

it's the Captain,
he's mumbling something while
bullets become clouds of bees
moving their stingers
along his windpipe
whizzing closely by his skull,
but there was only one thing he
seems to be able to speak,

"we gotta keep on until
it's safe and captured,
we gotta
storm
that
beach!"

And with every reoccurring episode,
their brethren disappeared,
one by one
gun by gun

with the noon coming and going

sun by sun
the cry of the last chicken hawk

run by run

the rushing waves crumbling open,
what's

done is done,

and in his last glimpses
he saw them break through and reach
as they progressed, rushing forward
they had

stormed

that

beach.

Add Four Horsemen + Two G's and Get to Three

Their legs swayed underneath them
as they stared out at the fog
moving over Mundar Lake,
the fake one built by the mayor in 2058
when the answer came to them, over this transistor radio
from the saturated orange glow of the
gallant galactus
filling the yonder sky with eyes
meshed with shadows of spiraling galaxies
spraying from his gaping mouth
touting his own agenda
about how we have
until the clock strikes the stroke of naught,
and then the four horseman will ride
and fires will rain down
and the world will flip inside out
as we are swallowed by the zeal
as we become the meal for this large
gargantuan minion, a flashback, a vapor trail
of a time long past
in all that he is, they are

and as the locusts start
to tune & prepare for another mid day symphony
by the lagoon of the smoky lake,
these 4 lads said to another while one standing on the docks
in the lone area not rotten all the way through
by the chattering woodchips dispensed by the termites,

-dialogue-
"Hey Guys! Guys! Listen up! Listen.
We ought to go and do it! No....really! We should go and meet Him head on!
What? Shut up, Martin!

Ok?

It's not stupid.

Listen,

I heard about this secret gang, the G's,
the people with the kind of clout
we only heard about
or saw in the movies, up on TV, you see we need
to devise a plan and strategy!
I don't know how we ever grew to be,
this weak people waiting for the end
to everything in ten years time, cause
Guys, it's up to us, we gotta go,
we gotta travel to where
His heel meets the Red Sea,
and wade through its salt, past the reptilian monsters,
I want no more of their
lies! I'm tired of how they keep avoiding us, saying,

'Perhaps we should reconvene next week? I mean, we mean
to find a cure to this, but all in good time!
There's no rush, no hurry,
we're bound to find the solution, before all that began soon ends.'

But guys, we don't need any of their absolution
to bring the bloody Galactus to his knees!"

They were mere teenagers, but
knew they must reply,
not through sounds
but out loud
they must seek it out,
find the secrets
long passed down,
known only by the Two G's,
hidden behind their symbols and rituals
their numbers and heritage
their truth in golden trinkets and silver rings
disguised in the fabric of all things
destined to change the brawl into a fight
into the one idea it could only dream to be,

stumbling upon their lazy God, Bela Lugosi,
eating grapes in flowery coats and hollow institutions,

"They say you want a revolution!
Oh well,
you know,

we all want to change the world"

They stayed behind to say
they want
another
evolution
another impossible feat,
that anyone could pop or hatch
and stumble upon the catch, and that
will be the way out of this
pervasive doomsday
weighing over
their bent backs and reeling knees.

As with anything of the natural or organic,
hidden in the history long ago written,
during the Age of black clouds and
soot covered demons erupting from the cover of the galactic fog,
the ancestors hit the earth's virgin gravel
they stumbled out, and
in their last breaths
they laid it out to the founders of the G's
the answer to be passed
along from the
previous Three planets humans had eaten and devoured-
but somehow were able protect and value this viable escape plan.

A new way, man-

for an entire species
to become one with ancient relics,
pods of a precise definition
and durability found
deep beyond the Rift Valley,
in the midst of snakes and
alien skulls, long ago crushed
by the mantra of the meek

these cats left their keep
their prized possession
for us to find
when it is time
for the galactus to become hungry once again
and destroy what we created,

the aid comes in the form of a blueprint

or so they say-
the G's supposedly do, anyway,
as they conceal themselves
beneath the bee hives and cities
sucking nectar from the oil
of the milky wall street tycoons
shuttling out in new spacecraft
moving past the silky moon, spending
all their money, all in gluttony,
to finally picnic
on the plains of Mars and eat cavier
that's where it all started,

It was the loudest explosion
the mind could ever conceive of
take leave of
the perils of creation
captured in the kindling
burning late over the horizon
it was all eclipsed
by large, gigantic eyes
whose gruesome sties
were stars raining down
a message glowing
for all to witness and behold

the great galactus-

And so it began,
and so these four kids began to set sail
through the primordial oceans
and lands, to reach the
mysterious ices of Mundar
not far from the coast
in the caves overlooking
the tides of the great Black Sea-

as only four, they are four

and

as we are, they are, too,

and so as the engines rattled
for the next Great Move, where humans
clear the air from their pollutions, they knew,
scared as they might be,
the seekers of the G's must stay behind
and unwind the truth now before them
to become a part of the

TWO G's


to venture out

and bring this

sucker

all
the
way

down

maybe do a poem dealing with kids
on the mission
on the trip
a new type of goonies
a band of ruffians
fighing for the geppetto gestapo
emulating their heroes
off on a mission to take a piece from the
galactus heel
as it is said
that it holds the map to the
blueprint for the escape module, pod so to speak

so these kids, 4 of them, all unique personalities
set out

maybe this is too good for this, but do the poem
and then use this story for
Plans of the Planets




















he once searched through
the shelves and shelves
of books
all behind the comforts of
the carefully hidden nook
where they consummated
the love of youth
too shallow to be forgotten
to transient to be remembered
in the silence of their stares
as the clue unravels
their search merely the mystery
of loves obscene and ridiculous bonds
upon bonds bought and sold
bonds bound to platinum and gold
circulating as their minds spun
from above
from a pearl harbor
from a hiroshima
the demons were out to get them

but in the search for the answers
to the genius of the conspirators

in each other's arms
knowing it would not be real
tomorrow

they crossed streams
to enter the mouth of the river
into the beating hearts of the
hominids

0needs work0

The Man from Vigilante County
(for my dad)

"He was a cowboy out from that booming gold rush, San Francisco,
which didn't mean much to us
as, afterall, we weren't quite sure
what kind of place it was to begin with.
Most likely full of the
crass and dissheveled;
liberal good for nothings trying to save all them
bears we killed, who filled the night
with the screams of our lambs and sheep.


Folks who should have noooooooo
right to vote or peep
their eyes around the good graces
of the noble south, beloved and cherished
by God Himself!

"See, they litter our great state with the
mirage of a princely affair,
while we stare into their disguise and never
complain or glare.
They have the taste and refinement of a pauper's
scene and tact, and they will sneak off
only to pack their suitcases with the Aztecs'
long lost gold, not payin a cent to
our great nation, 100 years now old!


Oh yes, my friend, the devil is alive and well.

"But let's make our way back
to the intentions of this story! Hell,
it has to do with the glory of a
valiant gunslinger
dressed like the archangel
himself waiting to slaughter God
on the very day he was meant to judge.
With boots lined with the pearls of vengeance,
still he was covered with it,
from the top of his
spider silky hair
down to his boots
with the silver spikes
and elephant tusks for toes,

sir, i tell you,

he was bad to the bone.

"My friend, this man would go right up
and just about throw
every good for nothing coward from
the comfort of our bars,
and so you probably ought to know,
he'd fall on a knife
to save your goddamn soul!
A very complicated man, I know,
and so why did we leave?
Go on down there and you'll see,
off to the scene of the crime, where
all of time seemed to freeze,
like the frozen over steam
erupting from the screams
of their rigid, curling mouths

with their pistols appearing out
from the cover of their shrouds
with eyes of fury they had
flaming, golden dragons
shooting across the blizzard
painting the landscapes
a nice shade of milky way
way
way off behind the trail of smoke
out from their Colt 45's
their wrath was denied by
the snow of Vigilante County's great fury
hurling towards their chapped, flaking lips
like pips in an apple
like our old hens with Groucho grins,
he proceeded to lay out a group of about ten
with nothing more than his gun and a pin
that once said sherriff
but now a-days reads- it reads:

"Vigilante County"

I mean, he was damn near mayor of that whole city
even with a bounty on his head
from every gang from Texas to the Midwest, ya know, the lot
who sang 'Dandy Jim of Caroline'
after each train was utterly sublime,
they robbed and offered no clemency!
Robert, they have no common decency.
Yet somehow, they are a piece of me,
after witnessing that gruesome display three days old.

I muttered upon entry, "Someone should say a few words,"
but no one could speak.
We all knew who these men were,
they were the very ones who would sink their
tarry teeth into a piece of our pie.

"Why, you ask? Well, it was the supplies
we were carrying along with the miracles
we were moving with the
glittering grains of mystery
and all science
a new kind of science
kind of like the
silence that held us up
as we moved their bodies
into the ditches
long ago dug, what only a few hundred
days ago? Because the man from Vigilante County
knew damned well
these boys would have the audacity
to show up.

"And so there he sat,
a map of misfortune and revenge, with
the deeds of that day
left only in stains of red
spread all over his face, hands, and clothes,
that would not be spared,
it covered his eyes
his pupils becoming sunsets
crimson colored mirkats scuttering
below the hillside, moving around
to the sound of him breathing,
which catching my attention, and
not to mention, but
he's been there the last 3 days,
ever since,
staring off into the direction of where
he shot, point blank,
the man with the scarred right cheek.

So that day, we go and take a peek.

And yep, he's dead, deader than any man you ever
seen.

Again, we said nothing, as he did not answer
our conversations.
He was icy and catatonic,
harboring loaded guns strapped
to every part of his body.
I'm sure he had some words
he probably thought he should have said.

But it's sad, really, that there
gunslinger from San Francisco,

Vigilante County,

only a few hours ago,
pointed his 45 up to his head,

and now, quite frankly,

he's dead.

So go on ahead, you get the next round."