That a poet is at the mercy of his muse, and that my love for her can not save me from the choice she makes to hide from us. What we were will always be before us. She will never be free of the moisture of me. I marked her for alltime when I bit into the neck of her soul to engrave my name inside her.
Wash me with your eyes my love, once more, before you take me to bed, that I may sleep beside your returning curiousity that turned me out.
I am unclean from feet to follicle, yet the unfed Raven nests on my crown of crumbs but she does not eat off me like the hands I once held inside my womb shaped heart when you hungered for my touch. Nurtured us in longing with the wettest kiss mistaken for hope.
My locks have been divided by fangled thieves of circumstance who add up my time and subtract me from you. The temple has been desecrated since I allowed you to enter me, with the gentle force of your indifference. And I have only you to wear though worn out by the distance between us.
Then become me, so that I am forever yours.
In my time, I painted pictures. Were the colours
bright enough to hold the gaze of your first
In our time, I told stories. Did the plot
stray from the sincere path? And substitute undefined character flaws for a happy ending?
Life is in the blood, and the cup runs over. Love covers a multitude, and the pen still wonders.
We miss you two
Though we are where you see us
Some people like to tuck their shirt in
Some drummers like to stay in the pocket
Some like to ride waves and rock boats
Some climb trees
Some climb mountains
And some prefer to take their chances
And walk across burning coal
Because they reason that their toes are still on solid ground when Achilles loses courage
And all of them have a reason to believe in the way they wear their hair
A One night sit
Sipped and swallowed
A bitter pill Washed down with stale saliva
The taste of luck on a blue Monday like those kisses that seal red letters
Guts in a whirlpool while you hide in the chaos of the clutter that describes your hobo life in a suitcase
Packed with emotion
Thrust with desire A strike that holds you down
And eyes to watch you slip through the four fingered tension that lives between your slender shoulders
Thrust with desire
A fragrant word sent to exile in the dreams where your fears escaped from love….
He who wears the paper crown is king of the crackle. Unproven.
Brandy eyes see undressed lies in bed with contrived laughter. Soberly and dripping wet.
Reconfigured finger pops the luck. Guns drawn before Dawn has broken, down baby, damned lady, seated upside out, beltless, love bulging, bursting, with tenderness, lust and found in distinguished denial.
The one you use when you say everything in the noise of silence.
Crackled grief and textured tears, too salty for truth, takes you hard and easy when you cry below the waist…ed words of indifference.
The one I use when I am merely your reflection without my beating heart.
They judge a man by the shoes he wears. Clean as they come to darken his day. His skin is stainless brown. He wears a plaintive face that hides history in a half smile that holds memory. Of all and none. He walks in my direction, holding my gaze in his shaded eyes. Faded out of view, I turn my head to loosen the neck tie of my intrigue. A lit cigarette in a righteous hand grips him tighter than his laces. The smoke is heavy. I can’t see him as he is behind his pose. He walks on the shallow perception of the disdain that surrounds him. Cool knows the envy of the dull. His feet are subject to the ground that curves around the lies he was sold. About himself. He stops and makes the sign of the cross. Some incoherent unspoken words escape into the world with his nicotine soaked breath. He continues his walk on the concrete surreality, paved with unfurnished dreams and fleshed out fears. Without ever moving his legs.
What did you see? Only the lie of everything I thought I knew. About people I will never know. It is the silence that knows my heart best and honours my pain. No bullsweat. No story to trade for my crocodile tears that part reason from deeply felt confusion. Clearly seen. I still stare. Thirty nine times I was a candle to the flame of fallacy and waxed lyrical just for sake of saying something. And I will never know exactly which long words chased away the feline that stuck me with daggered eyes in my day dream. I never saw her enter the way she left us. But I am awake now with a loaded cock. Pulling on my love, I will not shoot to cure the disease of wanting to be inside her. Let it fester, as time tends to an immortal wound.
Wide shut while you were open. Wide open while he was shot. The trojan Horse is led to water by the willing eyes that woke the fears that do not sleep. Needy eyes. Too open to see. Too close to everything that distracts their vision and attracts their confusion. Order out of chaos. Death controls them. Annointed eyes with the oil of sleep. You fear what you can’t control. Love.
Metaphors provoke the page, that words might march the field of battle to muddy the water of our discontent.
Eyes roam across the cold grass in search of the pearls that fell out of our mouths as we ran into wonder.
Discreetly. Ever so slow to open that door to right now. I already caught you, when you fell head first into my heart.
Found a throne for the uncommon man. A little rough. Greener surroundings are healthier than the hours unlived in hospitals full of throne rooms for the chemically altered, wired up to one level of existence. Parks do not service the bottom when the benches are occupied. Since I now operate on my own state of mind and manage a life of some worth between centres of healing or the placebo factories of private alternative health care, I spend what time I have accessible to myself to run errands for loved ones and I cook more than I ever did in my past life. Not too shabby. Not too clever. I like this throne. It digs into the bottom and thats as true to life as it gets.