I am your liar and thief,
now those older brutal bullies,
bow at your feet.
Those brutal mountains,
" can I get one on the cheap?"
surely, serve me,
and tell a mountain to leap,
and it will leap.
I am your liar and your thief,
remember when you closed your eyes,
and still you could see--
those mountains slumped,
when you served them me,
inside my tent-heavenly ecstasy,
I can get you past the thorny gate,
by feeling wondrous joy when you bleed,
I am your liar, and your thief,
buy four, get the fifth for cheap,
you entered my tent--
now I enter your dreams,
you ran out of me,
hurricane season in Charlestown it seems,
one step outside my eye,
and you lose my golden beams,
remember that one time in my tent,
you closed your eyes and still you could see,
now tonight you go to sleep,
and you ran out of my golden beam,
the doctor in your dream,
was feeding you to lobsters,
and she was Chinese,
come back to me,
to your liar and your thief,
this time, they don't get the fifth for cheap,
and now you not the mountains must leap,
remember how pathetic you felt,
fed alive to lobsters,
by the female Doctor in your dreams,
stick to my dwindling golden beam,
mountains of wreckage on this Charleston street,
its just you and me,
remember when you closed your eyes and still could see?
surely if you have enough faith,
those mountains again can get the fifth for cheap,
but for now I will help you sleep,
its just you and me now on this Charleston street,
mountains sure will look like they jump,
when you are crumbling debris,
I am forever your Liar,
I am forever your thief,
I can get you past that thorny gate--
by feeling wondrous joy when you bleed. ;)
A charred , blackened, frozen thing,
a sunflower in the early spring,
bigger flower heads staring down,
at younger ones staring at frozen ground,
I so wanted this plant to animate,
like a carousel on a summer day,
but they only offered a paltry shiver,
these faces that have lasted all of winter,
a charred, blackened, frozen stalk,
a carousel in an abandoned lot,
so sad how those heads hung,
no longer turning to the warming sun.
I'm almost one with darkness,
So close this shadow thug,
I await the jerking tug,
Into its onyx sharpness,
And such a nightshade blade,
When returns the moon in wane,
The grabber and the stabber,
Are not one of the same.
And I skirt this darkness madly,
Because I am already bleeding badly,
Like the torment of a dream,
For a kiss you go to lean,
And you are lip locked with a scream,
The only way to end,
Is to rip yourself to shreds,
Then the only way to go,
Is hold your head so low,
So your love is never seen,
But you see you made a fist,
By trying not to exist,
Skirting nearer to darkness,
Your only parental kiss.
And it is when darkness is not doom,
Like the bright bullies of high noon,
You have hope in hooded darkness,
To stab yourself,
With the crescent dagger of the moon.
There is something about the cute brunette,
With long lustrous brown hair over one shoulder,
It is like the common brown sparrow that winters over,
So rare and so mundane,
Like the surviving American chestnut tree Dutch disease has not slain.
And in the branches I look closer, in weather that numbs me,
The sparrow, Fine face, elegant and comely,
The hawks would not feud with her
Lips, glossed with deadly berry of winter-juniper.
I want to kiss her ,as if a hungry chick in winter,
And such bliss, watching talons miss,
Brown hair parted mid air chasing off hawk as she babysits.
With long boots, and chestnut hair over the shoulder,
Such a vixen, a rarity--as I look closer,
this brunette beauty that winters over.
From top bunk,
"Why does he do that?"
" killed wife and kids
" Driving drunk."
The inside alarm,
A Taunting dawn,
" it is getting cold."
In dreams of long ago--
Hunted and destroyed
By flashlight on night patrol,
And self pity,
Is the only talk,
Of a horrid cough,
And only exhaustion
Turns it off.
And when my eyes
For the ceo,
Scrubbing hi and low,
Those tall white men,
Where does the money go?
it's cold outside"
Reaching for the light,
How a man,
Died last night,
"The pic of death"
common dying sight,
Finger to finger as
in Vatican height*
I will not go,
I will reach for
true dawn I know,
I'll awake to caws
Of crow I sleep below,
I'll awake by recluse,
With venom truth,
Tickling across my face,
To close for view,
I'll awake to frost,
In the Forrest dark,
As it swallows up,
My heated evil cough,
Finger to gloom
As I am consumed.
How can I be the closest to the Earth, and still unknown,
How can I be the closest to the Sun, closest to the scorch,
and still have the most icy landlords in my poles,
why can you only see me during twilight, embracing a lover while all alone.
How come from my surface, light does not work--light does not hurt, I do not blink as I think, even as the sunset pours lava forth, and that sunset is that lie of time, as you disappear in darkness, I almost disappear in light, then the stars scream across the sky, in a geminid shower rewind, in my unblinking muse, in the solar hues, the great inferno retreats, and the slower speed of Earth I view, And I see the astrologer, with his useless scope, trying to track my path, futile as the priests trying to invent my gold.
They cannot understand my core, with machines that are perfect because I am perfectly mercurial on the surface,
with the intense cold of my poles, and the intense burning solar gold of my repose, I view blinding light, then infinite starry night, and cold dark logic they are encased in--my deep dark basins, and the rolling truimph of my surface's relief, is from breathless standing ovation beneath. And they applaud in precious sand, a solar gift robbed in my barren lands.
Now is my region of my silver repose, no ovation no gold, just the stoic silver shadow from the starlight strobe, the shadows slant from every surface at the angle of an open volume being studied, until my dark volumes close due to starlight directly above me, then my clock strikes the hour, when my surface is reinvested with power, the oncoming of a sunset getting louder and louder, and in my face, cold lifeless blood, and on my stare, intense solar flare, watching graves start to to die, with the sunset looming, to sustain life by joining the great inferno's confusion, and becoming shadows from stars in my silver musing,
I am the twilight messenger--from my hazy theater of gaseous metal--where the applause can't bear to sit, , to the hall of my cold dark temple with long dead stars keeping it faintly lit, to be mercurial is my theater caused by applause, my temple's pale light of long dead stars. It is the sadness of a fire that will never start--my annual Parthenon in short lived geminid sparks.