At The Fiddlers

Nights of dreams unhinged, thoughts untamed, possibilities without word count unleashed on the unsuspecting and their expectations, travelling miles of wonder on the band stand or at a table where laughter cuddles up with sullen faces. And we exhaled.

Charge a man for what he has yet to see. Try a man for all he hoped to be. But don’t despise the girl at the edge of her seat, when she runs her hand through her hair and catches the light of your fixation. White faces filled with the black ink of reality can’t afford to hunt with bare eyes. Open up a trust fund daddy dearest of hugs and kisses to bruise cheeks with tenderness, and learn how to live on the compliment of silent gestures. And we prevailed.
And at the bar a Loonat gambles her heart away with the fiance close by, watching hawk like, careful lady, be good, careful as you play in full sight, watch the men that delight in you, skip past the lies into your vacant soul, but he watches, and like Time, learns the proximity of her hope, drives his hands into hers, and closes the door behind you. And we sighed with relief.

Once In A Blue Moon

Once in a Blue Moon
She turns around your whirlwind frown
and sits beside your lonesome guile,
whistling down the wind.
She blew down houses to get to you-
to get you to notice her.
She dressed her hair to grace your smile.
She buttoned you up to undress your fear (with warmth)
You climbed her kisses beyond burnt bridges,
and crumbling walls.
Your world was ruined, but you escaped into her embrace.
And time forgot to forget you for alltime.
Once in a Blue Moon
She reminds you to remember.

Care Free

Napoleon at age 8 or 9

There you were. Before they got to you with big words like Love and Sex, with games of seduction and rules of attraction. Not content to contend with the charade of maturity, you learnt to wear a mask too tight and simultaneously loose around the questions that grew too wide for your infinite imagination. Careful to not be careless without a care in the world that’s not care free. There you were, and so was I.

Bathe Away

Bathe away. Babe in arms. Let it go. Down that stream of consciousness. Tired eyes swim through it. Bathe away in the filthy water made of sweat and fear and frustrated sex, discontinued when we touch it where it hurts. Bathe away, bubbles blown apart, the morning starts before you sleep with naked hope that you wake up in the wet of dreams. There you are, turning, stirring the pot, making it rain, running that river down the rocky path. No way baby, out of this. We lay it all down in that holy place. That water takes us in the middle of our struggle. That dirty water, fucking us into submission. Liar. Take us with you. Take us down, all the way baby. Spread it wide. There, there. There she is. There you are. And inside of you, find my love in the multitude that race to erase you from memory.

Mr Marshall

They say you’ve died. They say we won’t see you humming your tune and waking the smile out of frowns behind counters anymore. Yeah those ladies loved your sunny disposition, long behind a counterfeited expiration date, or maybe you just couldn’t wait to escape the pain that was eating you alive. But I don’t know if its true. I still see your face in the presence of my mind. I still hear your accented voice. The cheer in it. The life thriving in the tone of its warm Island sound, that rises to catch the transient express of fleeting daylight joy. And I have yet to shed a tear. It would not cost much more than a moment, but I’m saving it for your absence in the days to come, when they say that you are alive, in the memory of those that remember you as you were. Not as you could have been. A man. A friend. A father for better or worse. A giver. An optimist with a melody in hand. To me, a symbol and a stranger, but oddly enough, more familiar than the faces that I have made a closer examination of. And if you are dead, the misery of the agony that came to know you so well, will be the first to abandon your Temple for another sucker of the breast milk of life. Not for the love of company. Like hate it feeds on dark necessity. Pain does not like to sleep alone, but its a selfish lover, that commits to keep you a prisoner without pleasure. And where the pain excites the life it throttles to submission, we can only hope that your heart did not surrender without a struggle before you exhaled your love. Your last breath in exaltation. Your first words in…..

I Can’t Find Your Name

Paved in stone. Engraved. Embalmed. Footsteps trespass. Distress wont get it tonight. Blame the vain in you and your two headed horror of an attitude, lives beside lonely in the multiverse with mistress mirror tacked on. 

Tacky tactics with tactile execution, she blew me a kiss before I watched her die inside her laughter. A barbed wire mystery dressed to tease, concealed her pain with red lipstick, cuckold the prick of needles let loose on the needy old cock that crowed when she played her finest trick (you fell for it too).

Two whores in a harlot system governed by well dressed fear barely making it past the Pavilion cafe on stilts, throw curve balls when gun play is headed their way. And only one sees it. Swinging hard on her wave length he reaches out a hand to gently persuade tears out of her eyes. And she wonders who’s zooming who. 
Trespassing footsteps embalmed with the ointment of sorrows, loaned for a lifetime or a lunch hour, unforgiven by the debtor of dubious deeds who engraves tombstones of the soon to be forgotten and your name, not your handle on the matter at hand when light bends the truth. And love might yet find it.

Goodnight Blondy


Corridor of lights, felt something on me, moves the handle, to attention. Squeeze me hard then leave me at ease, alone with my freedom thoughts. Uncontested heart ache like a tooth, we do the biting in here, but you’ve never been bitten by a thing called love.
Swift as a vanishing whisper wisened by sorrow, and the masterful teacher of mistakes, we trigger war heads when we lean against eachother, to repel cold comfort with a touch.
Skin so soft it hurts like friction, the motion of minds that think as one but betray a trust, in waves of passion. Can we escape this fatal meeting of assembled words we speak with eyes which conspire against us?
Rhetorically ravished by questions that haunt the loser with the dabbler’s hand, till he dies against the grain. You don’t spit when the swallow aint so heavy and conjested like there’s traffic in there, and you might even enjoy the ride. Tied and tested, tried then rested. Not enough, Tied and tried and we come to mean nothing in the aftermath when dead or arrested.
So deep, the blade is so clean, slices straight through our…………………
Promises broken