Sleeping Near RADA

19 Apr


Forming a city block, the Bonham-Carter House has a narrow, pensive

main entrance that, although inviting, blends with the rest of the street.


These buildings on Gower are people: sedate and old, with noisy pipes.

Their walls occasionally bleed, especially under the orifice windows.


We enter her; check in at a melancholy brown and black front desk

where two cartoon-eyed girls extend mirthless greetings, stamp our books.


Glancing about, decades of décor mingling, interbreeding with scuffles

drawing and redrawing Arabesque boundaries between conflicting styles.


You have a nervous excitement rising. It always shows itself as static

electricity in your pale yellow hair, caught in your eyelashes and brows.


Our black duffles rest more lightly on our shoulders as we climb the stairs.

Four weeks tramping France and the U.K. to settle now in Bonham-Carter

it’s the delight of weary limbs nearing rest, craving nourishment and warmth.


We emerge on the fifth floor huffing air, muscles done for now; dim hallway

a straight line moving away in seemingly endless space toward room number 524.


This is a quiet, timeless vortex—slightly buzzing with ghosts from busier times.

You dance-walk ahead, sliding fingers over silent doors trying each handle.


Halfway along we find a large open arch; this floor’s bathroom and toilets.

It’s an expansive, high ceilinged room with rows of magnificently sculpted

porcelain shower and toilet stalls, sturdy as if built for Roman gods.


At the opposite end there’s a tall window and a rectangle of sunlight mirrored

on the wide, tiled floor; we drop our duffle bags and strip down to bare bones.


Cranking large, chromed faucet handles full on, hot water spray steams our

cold skin as we jump from one stall to the next, drenching hair with warmth.


I’m tall, like 6’3” on a good day, and the jutting nozzle is above my head,

slick pale tiles extending higher than that; steam magnifies all lines infinitely.

You appear as a white wisp of lithe flesh, with blond hair straight and long.


Those hard nights sleeping in parks and doorways vanish, lifted away in vapor

as our bodies meet again in the middle, under a stream of charged, stinging

hot hot hot water; fingers now sliding along naked familiar spaces, rediscovered.


This is the perfection of travel to foreign places, known but fantastically new.

London is like a cousin’s kinship one remembers from photos or crisp paper

letters, handwritten as a child in a voice projected to capture a future positive.


Facing the door to room 524, we’re still damp under our half fastened clothing.

You slip the large old key awkwardly into the peekaboo style lock and turn.


We’re here, toppled onto the unmade bed, like fallen flowers; our eyes at rest,

duffles tossed toward the only window—showing a sunbaked courtyard below.

This is Not a Love Song

14 Apr

Not a Love Song Image

“Lyrical Door” by K. Shawn Edgar 2014

This is not a Love Song


Unnecessary Quote:

This is not a love song….” – PiL


Eyelash pucker

curving up and back

falling down and back

drilling inward sensitive skins

mining the diamonds of dermis

fracking with every sizable blink

a blood-spattered fresco on plaster

Or a Mona Lisa with tears of O -

wearing a plunging gallows neckline


I will understand you from hindsight

I will know you from the craning

of my neck—long as it is—unbroken

This is not a love song, not a sonnet

It’s a letter to the Editor, a summons

a court date—from the crypt

The Spectrum

3 Apr



Parking Lot Image

“Contained Within” by K. Shawn Edgar

The Spectrum

I’m not a perfect circle man. Its aesthetics fail to please. I’m not a spiral shooter, either. I prefer straight lines and ninety degree angles. There’s a certain type grid most suited to me. It’s laid out in white and asphalt grey.

I sit in my car in parking lots for long periods of time; three four five hours, just thinking and writing. You start to feel the heaviness and beauty of the place, the spaces. I’ve always known I’m contained within the autism spectrum. Even if I’m an outlier, I help to define it more than it defines me. It is my category; it is my vessel. But as a rib helps make a ship, the ship isn’t the rib alone. The rib is itself, and it’s a part of the whole.

In a parking lot, it’s similar. The white lines contain me, comfort me. Here—within units paralleled—we each have our own slots and I fit into mine. In the slot on either side of me, there could be a genius or a professional bowler. Only it doesn’t really matter what they call themselves. We all help to make up, and define, the lot at any given moment. I enjoy watching it change around me.

Most people don’t seem to stay long in their cars. That’s part of the reason I do. A larger part, though, is I don’t seem to be able to help it. I pull in, perfectly parked, and can’t get myself to hop out immediately. Ass just won’t leave seat. Crude, I know. I can feel the rising pressure of the unassigned movement required once I leave my car. Walking across the lot. It’s so free-form. To me, I imagine, it’s a lot like walking in outer space is to astronauts. Except, moving through the lot, everyone else has better, more accurate thrusters on their space suits.

I bump, or nearly bump, or feel like I might nearly bump every other person I pass. Or who passes me. Like meteors. They zip. I weave. Or, does it just feel like I’m weaving? I can’t tell. I can’t know for sure once I get out of my car. The safety belt’s between the white lines. Slotted, I can gather my false selves, my wholly contrary voices, jabbering self-conscience fantasies about other’s impressions, into my one true safe harbor ship: My mind. The actual me. Between my lines. So I sit for hours in my car in parking lots.

Tear it with my Teeth (Toof!)

31 Mar



skater Image

K. Shawn Edgar (2012)

Tear it with my Teeth




Cars stall,

trees fall,

knives lose their edge.


It’s like that,

the bag remains closed,

no go,

no flow;

the contents sealed in plastic,

as if universal truth

veiled in space-time folds

could be knowable with scissors.


Lost in the old house of broken relationships,

trapped by the fate of angles,

stuck at the back of a kitchen drawer;

damn cheap pressboard and staples,

when one needs metal cutters, choppers, shears,

mysterious folds of overlapping reality are nothing

compared to ill-fitting tongue-and-groove construction,

with scissors stuck in the small universal gap of regret.


Cars stall,

leaders fall,

people lose their way.


It’s like that,

the bag remains closed;

the chocolate chips no flow,

no go; veiled in the universal space-time folds,

just an elusive desire to commingle ingredients,

sugar and salt, until I tear it with my teeth, and

that bag of chocolate goodness opens.

So I let it flow.


K. Shawn Edgar • Writer • Humorist • Mad AssAssin



Making Kittens

24 Mar

For some reason she won’t stay in one place.
Likes to tantalize him with her cat calls.
Over here, big boy!
Come and get me, if you can.
I might just scratch your face off.
He doesn’t seem to mind, though.
He’s after the Hot Queen of the Neighborhood.
Follows her into the neighbor’s yard,
Pursuing Princess Cocktease with his prickly package.
As well as a little privacy.
You know he’s going to get in there.
Things might be happening right now,
If audio evidence is anything to go by.

Love City Trickle Down

21 Mar


There’s an easy bliss when words play body-double to meaningful action. It’s a flip chart smooth roll on paper, and anything’s possible. Screen-wise, all shines open. Our letters can stack up to supreme skyscrapers, all inclusive, or tumble to alleys of secluded debris. Love City is built from a cascade of candles. We burn to see the light. As unattached meaning trickles back down, drip, drip, shapes grow—flame and wax dancing—we never intended. The realities of understanding remain but a dream of fanciful fonts—tilted, emboldened, slashed through—pouring into the empty spaces of bedazzled sky, land, and water. The effect lampooning our hearts but capturing our eyes. We are addicts who create to manipulate. And in that process, any sense of unifying truth is buried in our colorful wax.

Sexy Candle Image

“Sexy Love City” by K. Shawn Edgar

Shot from my iGun into your bulletproof devices: K. Shawn Edgar•

The Desiccation of Fred Phelps

21 Mar

Starving evil
Drained itself
To desiccation
Feasted on its own
Blood dry flesh
And died choking
On its own dust


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