We meet again
The crimson spider webs of bloodshot eyes
Crying for help
To avoid one’s own gaze
Becomes harder when the eyes in the mirror
Are those of a stranger
I don’t know you
Why do you keep coming back?
Confessions of a bookbinderI never cared for the smell of ink
Black acid tears on white silky skin
Letters, branded without consent
The pages scream, but only I can hear them
If the birches and oaks only knew
How writers, poets, critics and fools
Would tarnish their flesh in self-importance
I reckon they would have remained seeds
They enter with their abominations
Gleefully proclaiming their excellence
And I am left to dress them up
To make them pleasing to the eye and touch
And I dress them to perfection
The smell of leather pleases me
But no one seems to notice
No one seems to care
They look beyond my seams of careful devotion,
And the fine golden jewelry around their necks
And see only the filthy smudges
Upon their white silky skin
The treehouseI built myself a treehouse
High up above the ground
Extended open invitations
But people never come around
It is made from solid metaphors
I picked them out myself
It took some time to find them all
Among the dusty shelves
I thought I’d be a dying shame
If they stayed hidden out of sight
So I cut and shaved and varnished them
And thought it turned out quite all right
For nails I used those little words
That critiques so despise
But when building using metaphors
You have to compromise
When I stood back to behold it all
I felt a tiny sting
This simple sloppy craftsmanship
Could never house a king
I thought about just burning it
All, down to the ground
Why even build a treehouse
If they will never come around?
It wasn’t ‘till I entered it
That I had a change of heart
I was ashamed for even thinking
About tearing it apart
I felt so safe within those walls
As safe as I could be
And if queens and kings won’t feel the same
What matters that to me?
I built a treehouse o
On the moveFifty miles from home
Twenty miles from condemnation
And so many miles I cannot count
On the road of contemplation
A million miles from love
Means a million miles from heartache
And would you risk that lengthy walk
Just to see a lonely heart break?
A hundred miles of tip-toe
As not to wake what's in the shade
And a lifetime then of running
In the dark through which you stray
Not a single mile of respite
Not a moment yet to pause
And to look back through the blackness
The road behind - forever lost
The destructive powers of imaginationWe shackle ourselves
In a cage of limitation
Every bar in our cell
Is our own creation
It’s not the lacking, but abundance
Of sly imagination
Turning minds against themselves
It’s a self-mutilation
Whatever enters a mind
That hungers after creation
Will be created all the same
There’s no room for hesitation
Even if you let loose
They will fight you tooth and nail
For their own preservation
Because a mind that is free
Is also free to rebel
And a rebellious mind
Can be a living hell
Human natureDusk and thoughts that do not sleep
The snowcovered treetops
Bears a golden lining
In remembrance of the sun
There was never enough pain to consume me
And the drizzle doesn't scream of fury
It only whispers
Of past and future
The now was always lost
The grass doesn't stab at my feet
Green shivs licking my skin with tongues of dew
Only taunting, tantalizing
And the venomous snakes slithering in its midst
Only crircle my persona
Perhaps not bothering with someone intent on
Endurance is not the opposite of defeat
The cool spring breeze and the furious winter wind
Could spend years in feeble attempts to move mountains
And deeds undone will forever go unsung
Why do you even write?
To answer the who, the what, the when, the how
Before the question above all others cloud your mind
That reversed echo that is the bane of your existance
Why? Scream it, tear the sky open
Let the floodgates unbolt and drown in it
Why can't you lose yourself in your words
Like raindrops in oceans
A two person operaThe overture starts
With beating hearts
Percussion is essential
In this work of art
At the pluck of a string
Every hair on your body –
Hear the arias rise
The libretto written
In wordless cries
The finale draws near
This is the masterpiece
That will make our career…
Just naturalFrom apple seeds grow apple trees
From apple trees grow apples
From human fear grows false belief
From beliefs grow mighty chapels
It seems to be quite natural
To seek shelter in the blissful lies
To shape in artificial molds
And cover them in pesticides
A marble pendelum
Dragged back and forth
By the clockworks of space
Counting down to the impending
Brought on by eternity and
The gazes of men
Yesterday and yesteryear
Time is old
Too old to be excited
By the changing of seasons and
To plummit and fall
From gravitys grasp - Unthinkable
The sum of earths' mass
Will win - Terra
Too strong its pull and
To wish you goodnight
Although a circle has no end
The spaceman that never wasThe curtains often whisper
Stories of storms that never were
But no one listens, no no cares
I'm a spaceman that never was
And a poet too
But I never engraved my words
On the surface of the moon
So they don't listen to me either
First you must become
Then you get the hammock
And invite them over for a swing
You can point to the sky
"You can't see it now, but there is mars" you'll say
They'll believe you even if it isn't true
If someone points to me and says
"There goes a poet...and a spaceman too. You just can't see it now"
No one will believe
Not even the painter that never was
He'll adjust his marine-blue tie
Pick up his shiny black briefcase and be on his merry way
Even though he always prefered orange
And fiery acrylic sunsets
And in this dark harvest of season
My life has completely lost reason,
For which or against to decide.
All lost in a savage and endless, bleak tide
In sadness and in kindness
In light and in darkness.
In a boat made of hope
I shall sail to tomorrow,
In a winding hurricane
Made of treachery and sorrow.
There's a spear, endless, and colossal spear...
Piercing, slashing though my head.
Starting somewhere in heaven,
Ending somewhere in hell.
Fighting, burning, crying, crashing.
Are the armies within.
In my head they are all thrashing.
On the heaven's and hell's whim.
To be light or to be darkness.
A perpetual array.
It's not merely my choice,
But the choice of the way.
It's an option of the voice,
It's a thin line of gray.
Is it a choice forced by fate,
Is it a pre-set time and date?
Or a choice to which I myself sway?
But here's our story anyway .
"Nothing that I do will matter.
As all things will merely shatter!"
All my hopes thus darkness scatter,
As it shoves me a decree.
As it si
Apocalpyse ChildStanding alone amongst ruins of rubble
Waits a little angel with eyes expressing fear.
She wears a dress of shining so light and clear
And in her palm she holds her teddy so tight;
Whilst scarlet skies turn black to herald trouble.
Flames fly high over her raven crown without care;
Scorching grim ground beneath her feet,
But this is no angel that any army can defeat.
She'll break bullets with breath of a terrified sound
And she'll tame those who torment with her stare.
Standing alone amongst wreckage of war;
Sings a little angel with hands howling pain.
She walks in boots of mourning so brash and vain
And in her gaze she wields her hate so harsh;
Whilst grey graves turn red to blind disaster.
Explosions erupt low under her toes pale by pity;
Burning stagnant skin revealing her mystery,
But this is no angel that anarchy will have victory.
She'll crack courage with cries of a mortified sin
And she'll humble those who hurt with her ferocity.
Standing alone amongst concrete of carnage,
enduring biopoiesis getting over it
in quick gasps of rabbit fur
and valley tangles
we would have
had such darling
strung out on fake roses
floating on our sun-striped backs
but we're so
some world-children cutting
out, tuning in yet
I think of youAs suns set afar and mountains flame
And eagles, turning, turn to fire
Ash cold, alone I lie
And think of you.
air conditioned lovethis is not an ode to
the man belting out
eighties love ballads
on a beat-up alto saxophone.
this is not an ode to
girls with tight cornrows
and flowered skirts
tugging their mothers
along the platform.
though pained, the people
laugh - i count them as if
they are the things i have
lost and not lives with bodies
that sway against the
sweat gleams on my forehead
as we ascend the stairs and
break into the whining
humidity of new york city.
love bites into my heart
and spits out the seeds,
i bite into the big apple
and spit out blood.
i curl my fist around the
last words i said to you,
my fingernails pulling into
the sticky palm of knowing
you aren't mine to miss.
Dance with the DevilStep into the circle
and dance with the Devil
in the song that never ends.
Let him take your pain away,
think of nothing more than this moment
Come dance with him in the circle
and forget all your troubles
they won't matter anymore.
He just asks for that simple price
I'm sure that you already know.
Come dance with the devil darling
he'll take all your woes away.
Swing in the circle
to the beat that never ends.
Once you take that step
and enter the dance with the Devil
you'll never leave it again.
Sell your soul
and dance that eternal dance
Dance with the Devil
to music's soft embrace.
Sing along with the song that never ends
and just give your soul away.
Nothing shall matter anymore
as you dance with the Devil tonight.
me, mirror, me, Betweenthere, mirror,
legs, arms, two red eyes
on the chest.
curves like tea.
the limbo between attractive, real,
ly lacuna. who knows?
the mirror does.
you can watch time and language
go backwards in its obedient gaze,
watch your hair flip to the other side.
egofall. confidence rise.
adolescent nudity is less about supersex
and more freedom. when a crystal is there,
in front of darting eyes,
gazing at your identity,
take it, make it something else
than privacy in bathroom.
empowerment does not consist of tiles,
weight. length. height.
strange how eyes define
your intrinsic symbolism.
definition is inadequate,
hold your breath.
harness comfortable dedication,
from the cobbleroad that appears
on your chest, faithplateua, thorax,
stream wine instead.
Dionysus deserves a break
for fermenting Me.
watch the ice in front
melt to potentialake.
All Hallows EveThey say that on this night the witches ride,
that spirits walk and churchyards spew their dead.
It isn’t true.
It’s said the stench of hell infects the earth
and healths of heated blood are downed.
But Hamlet lied.
The dead know nothing, the living less.
There are only poets with blood-nibbed pens;
souls hung between high heaven and deep hell.
Not My Kind of Fairy TaleDon't give me the Knight
Whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the Knight,
Whose armor is dull and broken.
Whose horse is weary,
Whose heart is heavy.
Give me the Knight who looks at the dragon with pity,
For that dragon has done nothing,
And is just as imprisoned as the princess he guards.
Don't give me a princess who only wishes to be saved,
By that Knight whose armor shines so bright.
Give me the princess who wishes to escape yes,
But wants to free the dragon,
Who does not wish to marry her savior--
Nay, give me the princess who wants to explore,
Who wants to live and to learn.
For the years of imprisonment only made her yearn,
Not for the Knight whose armor shines bright,
But to see the world and live in the light.
Do not give me the evil dragon,
Whose soul purpose is to give that bright Knight something to fight.
No, give me the dragon who is weary,
Who longs for the freedom of the sky,
Whose leg is burdened with chains,
And whose heart aches for the princess he must guard,