Thursday, November 2, 2017

Crash and Burn

Words are cloying.
Night is wrought
With indecision.
Who am I tonight?

Lucubrating intent
Odds swim in reverse
Cortical homunculus
Revisiting.

Indigenous needs
Perpetrating my flow
Hijacking the night
To bid its own due

To the right, then left
Beneath feet that resist
A bolt to soft corduroy
And a blue beauty nearby

The cast, in order
Of appearance, slave
The day and all her muses
Promised much to many

Intent, this is no
Shotgun wedding.
Jumping guns to get to
A golden finish.

This is hype on hype
Magnitude personified
So many secrets told
In plain sight.

Why not wither instead
On a vine grown, un-clipped
Unhindered, wild as will
Built on the purity of its very being?

Swapped instead for
Obscurity
Riddling the self
For a moment

To stretch and
Combine confusion
With tampered songs
Of how the heart cried softly

Profoundly aware of
The arms of denial.
So profuse in the employ
Of its own restraint.

Vindicated, perhaps
Blue Ribbon evidence
To laud the mind of its own
Admittance.

To what end is this
Voraciousness plummeting?
For soon, all trajectories shift
To crash and burn energies

Their conquests, revealed.

We hope, how we hope
To have lived enough
To die right; in relaxed repose
Hungry for more.

Wednesday, November 1, 2017

‘Blue Girl’

Plucked as she rests
On a lap that has waited.
Patience can sour
If wasted on useless palms
Resting idle

The strum of a soliloquy
Will not conduct itself
Finger glide gently
Over and on top of-
The intimidation of tuning.

Ink to swill the sound shared
A beckoning, long overdue
Fuck torpid stasis
And utilize redundancy
If that is what it takes

These lessons need banging
Hard and on drums, hidden
A dare to cognition
A fluctuation into movement
To steer the hand into song.

The ticket written, sent
And now read and acted upon
A tearing of throats and
peppered goats;
“Haha, She can sing”

And she will, she WILL
And the mornings will pass
As the canyon closes
New skills to meet old faces
As  Pink Floyd plays on.

Wednesday, September 6, 2017

And So He Sings...

"...there's certain things that I adore..."
Of those certain things, they placate nothing in recent years
The notes, the husky gripe, that pond-hopping drawl
Seduced, saturated in the fuse he's lit
From billions of particles that pass between us
And the lifetime we lead in distant significance
My drunken state picks up where he left off
Carrying that tune further.. into ears, into hands, into night
Muting all the noise but one- on shelves of furthest reach 

Lament is a chaotic, beautiful, graceful suggestion
To peak in a moment and push outward,  to share
Blowing those needs that squandered resilience,
And tapered nothing of the long need of sighs gone mad.
Knees, having forgotten to genuflect to the God of Skin
Dissolve in silence as the greys arrive- unplucked.
Hands wither as autonomous, mundane duties abhor their routine...
Stray trinkets of possible positioning, align nothing by way of stars
Angled movement fits badly in this heaven for one.

How many more blistered commas must segregate this, this...
This cacophony of corrupted, course-ground projections?
Segmented nonsense, punctuated by the poof of malaise gone sour
Cut myself some slack, for Christ's sake.
When did drowning in dissonance become the preferred method of travel?
Instead, carry that note of his higher, onto laps that breed warmth
And seclusion into pinker shades and the fortune of limbs
Beckoning touch- approachable, magnetic.. unencumbered
Carve the notch and all those, 'Certain Things...' will come.


Saturday, September 2, 2017

Naked as Adam

Brace the days with light
Penetrating deeply, effectively...
This hoard of ghastly uncertainty
The newest plague in Modern Life.

Some, they mate for life
Able to stay the distraction of flagrant devaluing
Catholic beginnings suggested I should
But Matriarchal inundation clarified otherwise.

If we speak, let us speak frequently and open
Naked as Adam in all his finery
And if there is no other half to this dependency-
I will speak alone, loud and with urgency.

I wade a lifetime in conclusion forming trust
That goodness be made of the mayhem endured
I wake and reach daily for that same outcome
And perhaps, in this now - it has become 'ineffective'

Needing to bat hard, the dust from what I have woven
With severity and insistance
That nothing shall ever again stand defiant
In apathetic discord of all my new hopes.

I am peeling from the burn of four decades
And taking long to heal.
Unhooking talons from the hostages crouched low
Is tedious; boring, painful... Necessary.

A Time within A Moment

I hear you. But then again, I don't.
I feel you, perhaps, is far more apropos.
"...end where we started..."
"...You and I were never too small..."
You are feeding that line that I tow.
Dare me, instead, to tear open the truth.

You come here and say just enough
To elude to the heat that roasts
And for an addict like me,
That steeps your lava in - in private
I bubble in angst at the idea of acknowledgment

Your succulent thumbprint pushes hard
It is a listless existence to not plug the prong into its best fit.
But it is the advocacy of integrity that corrodes the would-be cheater
And it is with the utmost, utmost, utmost respect
That I suck these imaginary bones between us
And savor the marrow that will never be mine.

We need, and we need, and we want
Taking nothing to balance the deficit of all the unpaid due
The reconciliation found more in acknowledged assumptions
Will be all that is required, to make it past the gates of destruction.

The deepest needs bake infinitely
In an oven that stokes itself
Bound by the respect of those that we will never know
And the happiness they will retain
As a result of a perpetually well-maintained distance.

Oil Paint...

Handfuls of misunderstandings
Pouring out of my palms
A trusted bucket, at best
This dismal vantage point - played out.

That transformational lie
Has steadfastly infected the weakest of my psyche
And aged dissent - some 35 years long
Oozes yet, with its darkened pathogens

I couldn't find my shoes last night
With eyes closed, my blanket, the fan
I spoke to relevant strangers
Their role - a murky meaning, dubious, perturbed.

In the secrecy of night, I am a buffoon to my senses

An algorithm of dust, bones and fluidity
Strokes locked into sadness, depression, seething frustration
Captured, ruptured, but stopped, stripped infinitely
In the finite action of well-preserving oil.

Indoctrinated, into the sun
The privacy, this solitude, this devotion
I hear and boom, I listen - BOOM, I hear again - shaken
Safe. In what? In here, this hide of dank loathing

Such dedicated attrition, prevailing in vain.
What mode is next...to satisfy the hunger of starvation?
More stagnant air - more colloquial nonsense
Sent to fuck me further?

A word like bereft should only be but used once in a lifetime,

Enough nocturnal exhaust.
The hours past midnight were created for two speeds
None-of-which a restlessness following gross uncertainty - applies

Isolationism is a terror of a circumstance
Disrupted- only, from the harmony of a resting heart-rate.

Knot

It occurs to me
I act out on nothing.
Subdued. Restrained. Stuck.
Stuck. Stuck. Stuck.
Stuck fast, dreams clutched,
Squeezed without yield.
Squeezed, squeezing, coddled.
Consoled for lacking conviction
To tie the know and swing.