Tuesday, September 23, 2014


Wrung with enough torque to tear into tendons
Taught taken far into the danger of implosion
Skin, gone greyer than the hide of petrified preservation

Skin is useless
Nothing more than an untrained atom
Threatening explosion
Running off the impudent whim of immaturity.

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Lovesong of the Detached

("And if that is how it is...")

How to pry oneself away from these lyrics
Acting like substitutions that wish to 'put it mildly'
To seek and destroy the destroyed,
To tear the drought of the drought in two
To liberate the limbo of limbo
And fuck off the fucked fuck's that led me here.

("Under your cover of blue......")

The drive past midnight was my party
Alone and pounding out the quiet with decibels that attacked me
Night won, with her musky cigarettes and skin therapy
The blunt tomahawk was all the metaphor I needed,
To get the fuck away from there...
As incontinence broke free from another's domain.

("Do you give much-")
("Do you take more-")
("Do you know what's good...?")

Yes and no and all too well.
Give until the slate runs clean
Taking in enough days of without, in the hope that 'yearning' retires.
What a useless possession, clutching vacancies drawn up from the deep well
What is good is all relative and in that revelation, it is good to go down...

Down to the warm grove, below the fruit tree,
Where braided hair loosened itself, ("...and we lay, nocturnal...")
Amidst the trust of shy smiles and freckled flesh...
Down to that layer of enigma, where energies mix and consume ("...speculate what we feel...")
And vomit up, that last bite of Adam's apple.

("...move with confidence...")

Into the hate that sun-bleached meat abhors
Vital organs have sloughed off sincerity
Only the salted sea grants reprieve to these weightless bones
As the aging sun dies behind the horizon
I crave rain to accompany my soaking, dilapidated memories
Festering in the blistering nothingness of dismissal.

("I could go wild and free, but God forbid that you might envy me...")

Irascible erogenous zones would have me stoned had they possession of this cockpit I control
Philosophers, beware, you do not have within your prowess,
The answer to voids that double daily, the farther they walk
(...fly, seagull fly................) Away from me.
I've traveled too far to detour into complacency, yet the urge to 'fuck it' ensnares.

("Under your cover of blue...")

The truth is, I'm covered in sepia, burnt umber, parchment white and black
Trapped bristles in the pigment hang tight, seeking permanence
I promise nothing. ("...what I've done (s) not enough to hope you oughtta here...")
At best, I can entertain the idea of delirium reached, when left in a dark room of hinted undertones
Where, into the hands of another, I can lay my reins.

("Under your cover of blue....................")

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

'The Fault in the Keys'

The rain dance within the daydream is not entirely imagined
Rather, remembered. Significance in meaning, warm shower descending.

Elbows propped on knees, hands capped at the bend
What ideas are fumbling through, in a mind that keeps more to itself than it speaks
Walking through days with scuffed up knees, I am sharing less
And shouting more.

Detachment evolving on a regular basis
The stipend paid is costly, minutes in the distance
I know, are slowly forming hours that will sink away time
Quietly eradicating longevity.

And the guardrail grows ever-stronger.

I am smelling the energy of articulated limbs through plastic;
Even if I licked the wrapper of assumption
With intent to suck and savor its 'made to love' contents
I am still tasting nothing but what little memories afford

History 108: here, ignorance is bumbling about in the dark
Immigrants know more than the half-stuck mind of entitlement
Where here, a man belts facts out that rustle my eardrums.
 While the rest of us wonder, "Are we all trapped in this cycle of spin"?

The abstraction of the morning leaves my coffee covered tongue trapped
Dicking around in an alley of indecision
With painted nails and layered hair
My 41 year old body asks, "When............"?

And POOF! Just like that, the warm shower descending turns to ice
To curb the sweat that coats the untouched skin.

This muggy Tuesday morning is laboring
From sleep that didn't come soundly,
The makings for discrimination assemble themselves
Looking to crack the resilience
Of a mind bent on virtue.

The fault in the keys is a likely story
So again, I turn to my preferences
And pour the abstraction of my nonsense
Onto paper and its pristine privacy.......................

Friday, September 5, 2014


The pause, stretched beyond recognition
Stretched to record volumes
Of nothing, into a ledger made of nil.
The same words circle over me
Like vultures, nervously drooling over flesh that rots under the heat of day-

I am- unused
Stacked in the stale, unshared air of my personal space
Plodding along, dedicated, demonstrative in my abuse
To only one set of eyes; my own.
Peering into this fucking void of a woman
Widening in the madness of time-inconsequential.

Here I am again, world, unused.
Looking to diffuse a little frustration through words:
Soundless letters that form a rock-solid nothingness
Belted to my waist.
Uneaten, unused...
Waste, infinitude.