This blog features two young, uncultured children of the world, who have no talent or significance, who have found the need to impose their stuff onto the people of Earth.


We’re born free from lies
Yet, as we age,white-lies,
get shaved down
cascade onto our skin;
spolied coconut on fresh chocolate.
Walls and buildings
Surround us,
physically keeping
us in lines;
where we can’t touch the
or play with the bees
as they
sprinkle life into the greens and reds
we want to see
but we love these walls;
by the time greenbacks
swim up,we forgot
who built any of them up

By Him


It’s Social

Not in boxes
Or potato sacks.
But, by Sheppard fences
Of our own creations.

Confining  us within
Invisible factory work.
Shaping taughts and
Defining our days.

Surface from the depths
Of their heads. Stringing us
along believing we learned
all we know all alone.

By Him

Help from a friend

I’ve see bad days,
And good days.
Dwelled  on unknowns
which spun my brain
a slightly  raw over-
easy. Enough questions
without answers
for short bits of
stubborn  depression.

Then i  met a friend.
So sweet and
words flew
like flea market
Toys. Jokes sandwiched
with love seasoned  slaps
carrying  charges of anger
and passionate cries 
qwelled by

A Process

Candle lite created cracks
Buring candor into paper
which rest easily on mahogany
while you smoke your tongue
with aged moonshine.
Lick your fingertips
of burnt
Ash you render onto
clean lines. Lakes of
Clear smudges muddy margins
both creation and livelihood.
Butts  meant for the fernece
left to char out in the cold
as  lungs stiffen  hands
and work-whistles leave it
all to peel year over without
eyes to account.

-by Him

Spring Time

A first of many more collaborations by both bad writers:

Spring called for celebration
and all the mothers loved
their children.
No burning, burdened gates
to close
Only, the pinpricks
of sprinkling sun-showers

Squishy dew grounds
As, flowers bloom
Whispering with full eyes
Engulfing sun rays, set
To synthesize the growth
Of children.

Under the moss,
Turned the worms and maggots
And all the mothers
loved their children,
Carried them, wet, across
the bridges, clopping and clicking
from sunshine to moonshine, and all
The fathers hid
In the pastures, where they knew
they’d never look

Keen memories,
winters Lament,
as father and children
Pasteurize  milk for
mother’s sun-lite
brunch. Bellowing of dogs
and cats, as the sun sets;
spurts of breeze tuck in all-
mothers, fathers, and children
all newly  spring time awoken.

By Him & Her

Lost Socks

I was lost
that one sock
stumbled out into the abyss
forgotten. Failures,
burnt-toast smog,
flood a room in
my stomach.

Intestines were fears,
fired with the lust
of lovers licking from
faucets not turned off all
the way. Then she
and fit in

the equal
sign, finding all the tumbles
of lint left
by straggling socks, who
crawl through absent passages –
no longer claiming to be

Mark J Blu

Morning writing

Woke up.
Wrote three
Words; spruced
With your
Willful flavor:
Wrath, romance,
Wry senses.
Worthless stains
Without your
Willful readership.

Mark J Blu

Self talk

I fled.
Not from you,
or any roar  from 
drugs. I ran from
crackling  whisper
which crept tenderly
out of my dearest

Mark J Blu


Cherry wine rose
Sedative with careful
Warm sexaul  caresses.

Mark J Blu

The rabbit hole

You’re told
Follow your passions.

What if your passion is a fleeting
Lotto ticket thumping at your heart?
Or schools of goldfish forgetting this?

You follow that passion down holes
That thrust your veins from simmer to Sultry sun blasting  dragons
Breathing  nirvana into the lungs.

Passionate people can’t cope with
over the counters charging their heart.

They want ardor ramblings
Stressing  social network stabilizers
As,they send out feelers with fervor
Set to strangle their world of desires,
Cultivating  a circle  where the
Nuclei unroll  past the membrane
breaking through crust held walls.

Mark J Blu