Special to MVPL

Goodbye.
by: Dahl Cook

Hush, don't speak, I cry.
Hold me, love me, I die.
Life, love, a lie?
Love, life, goodbye.

Crazy, insane, deranged.
Sanity, lost, exchanged.
Denied, shunned, estranged.
Fate, destiny, prearranged?

Tired, weary, lost.
Nerves, health, cost.
Sleep, abandoned, exhaust.
Cold, chilling, frost.

Fading, empty, gone.
Cold, quite, alone.
Darkness, light, drawn.
Guided, pushed, pawn.

Death, embrace, end.
Conclusion, cannot, ammend.
Spirit, flowing, wind.
Fear, falling, descend.

Love, life, goodbye.

Farewell Hedley

Why are we sad when when an artist dies?
Is it because we saw some spark of ourselves in them?
Or is it more like we adopted a part of them into our consciousness?
Does knowing that they have reached some vague finality mirror our dread of it?

You made life more bearable through many a shift,
Many a hard task, many a sad time.
Mel's crew members have been departing this pale blue dot for many years,
But somehow your leaving stings with a more solemn blade.

You lived among a culture that does not particularly reward comedians as artists,
Yet by that same token, we seldom ever blow their brains out in a theater.
You made me laugh, now you make me cry.
Mongo like Hedley.

Special to MVPL

Bushmills

Original smooth & mellow

light sweet crude.

My engine is so thirsty

I loathe this dismal mood.

The malted spirits satisfy

until again I'm dry

and mad as hell

I fill from Bush's mill

till feeling stops again.

-BCM

Childhood Memory Fragments 1

Armed with walking sticks and packing an exotic lunch of boiled eggs and M&Ms, my Aunt Esta and I would plunge into the forest that bordered our farmland throughout the warm months during my early years. There where many landmarks in those woods, most of them forgotten by me when that troubling yet seemingly necessary haze started to cloud my recollections as I grew older. A few I do recall were Hoot Owl Hollow, Raccoon Ridge, and Possum Flat(or something). Velvety moss provided us with deluxe rest stop seating along the way. After lunch and during the walk home we would hold hands and swing our arms back and forth singing "de oodle, de oodle, de dum dum doodle. De oodle de oodle le oh..." Good times.

Transmutation Groupie

I never knew I was changing until the day the mirror shrieked when I tried to shave.
Your love had grown so strong that I hadn't noticed how I was becoming different in the
ways in which I interacted with my friends and family. No wonder you became a necessary nectar, quenching my inner cravings. The johnny part is that now I'm finally self-aware of the change-I still like it, but I don't like you.

The only thing is, now that you have bent me into a different balloon critter from the shape I was born in, I need much more room, more myspace, to expand in. This multi-act, burning my own private Idaho's Holy of Holies, can't be limited to your single scene immolation of wildfire. I'm my own thermite firebrand now. The best thing for your personal nirvana is to go "back to the howling old owl in the woods, hunting the horny back toad,"* bitch.


*Thanks Sir John

special to MVPL

One Teardrop

by: Dahl Cook

One teardrop fell upon my cheek today,

With it my dreams were washed away.

You were so near all the day long,

I was even blessed by your beautiful song.

One teardrop bearing a sad message to me,

Of how my hearts desires are not meant to be.

Though my heart aches for your sweet loves touch,

I came to see I was expecting entirely too much.

One teardrop filled with so much pain,

Left my heart stripped and broken again.

I love you my lady, and will never stop,

But my future was revealed in one teardrop.

One teardrop was sent to clear a wide path

For countless other tears, heartbreaks aftermath.

The future I saw isn't set in stone it's true,

But my future, my love seems to exclude you.

One teardrop I wish I had not shed.

Made my heart feel it had never been fed.

My heart is now vacant, an empty well.

I wish sincerely that one tear drop had not fell.

I'll always love you.

freE HARMONY

Try Us Out For Free...
Think about it, isn't that just a little um-
Desparate? Disparate? Wrong?

Open communication,
But you must be a paying member to view pictures-
Yeah, let's fall in love and call it blind faith.

Warning signs plus red flags equals run, Forrest, run.
Check it out, this question has a built in answer,
What are your body-type preferences for your mate?

The real closer comes when you manage to
Actually get cut off before you have even met-
Without a doubt the antithesis of speed-dating.

This is an actual "must have" selection I got at no cost,
Traditional.....I must have someone who is reserved
And traditional in their sexual needs.

Traditional compared to what? New Guinea cannibals?
Dark Age Vikings? Emancipated Republicans?
I humbly bow to the importance of just what the meaning of is is.

Spending a weekend with the disturbance of anticipation
Is not that bad until you realize, resignedly, that
What you lost from technologies gain can't be rebottled.

Stand by Your Plastic Band

Dr. Winston O'Boogie,

You
didn't
die
the
right
way


to rate a decent biopic.

activist
musicians
that
d'ono't
o.d.
d'ono't
get

im moral
mortal


I Z E D


( the great spirit of AARP )

Et Tu Harkie?

Three episodes of The Sopranos and six Coronas made August Brown realize that he too should be a warrior poet, so he rode over to the Jiffy mart and bought the winning lottery ticket and built his very own Versailles on the Tellico River. It was a striking modular home made from the finest Penteli marble that Greece could offer. The golden chain-link dog pen was a photo fave of the pale-faced touists that seemed to be the common denominator of modern Talikwa culture. August was a man of few words and that suited his neighbors just fine. He spent many evenings feeding the mosquitoes by the river and revelling in his new found fame, fortune, and free cable.

Things were going great for August until June 10, 2007, when a triumvirate of events crushed his aspirations to become a true river baron. First, the revered Tony Soprano ended their mano a mano dialogue that HBO had so cleverly disguised as a cable drama series. Secondly, a local chapter of that grand old fraternity, the kappa kappa kappas, was miffed at August for trying to build a Charles Bronson museum in town square, when everyone knew that that actor's parents were ferriners from Russia or some Red place like that. The last straw came when the local paper dropped Brown' s "Football Limericks" column in favor of namby pamby self-help articles.

The fall of August was so notorious that it has easily outlived his poetry. Faced with the loss of his own Mentor Emeritus Tony Soprano, the failure of his Bronson Museum project to gain a foothold in his fledgling community that was still bitterly aching fom alpine rejction, and the ultimate slap across the face for any man of letters-being dropped by the free paper, August was left with only one recourse; after leaving instructions with a New York lawyer for the conversion of Versailles into a Huddle House, he left his river home at ten past midnight, without a word to anyone, and moved south, where people knew what a good football limerick really was-Florida.

The Funeral Train

Cold fog wrapped the mourning, waiting,
As the dew rose up in pain.
O'er ocean, land the sailor's body,
Coming home on funeral train.

Sisters three- two aunts and mother,
Huddled on the depot landing.
Look out hard beyond the track bend,
Hearts are weary, tired from standing.

Old black crow comes diving past,
Roosts upon a shattered dream.
Loud steam whistle booms at cattle,
Its drowned out by Dixie's scream.