So siplme and sewet
yet so nescesray
our letters juxtaposed
to make words non-imaginary
we read and define
strive to find the line
Where words stop being words
a literary crime
Our slang, out of control
tongues tangled, terrible truth
Txt spk bcmes natrl
It feels so uncouth
but what’s important is the form
of communication we seek
face to face, heart to heart,
a poem so meek
as to lighten the soul
and give hope to the lost
a poem is best
Baby soft scruff
Eyes, pacific and sultry
Sly yet honest
Childlike and sensual
Witty and innocent
Bring forth the animal
The infectious mischief
The lusty rhythms in darkened rooms
The stolen moments in Lower West Side alleyways
Long, piercing looks over a bottle of Dal Forno Amarone
Your eyes suggesting the next move
Bodies entwined in the back of a cab
At the bridge and we walk across
And I indulge in your juxtapositions
All the way to Brooklyn
the distance makes the difference.
staring out the window of a beat-up shack,
moon hear me now
trees look away
cat in the yard please come
nothing but a hollow existence
and a trail of Bugler smoke rising
the cat lies down like
all things do, pawing at the
like all things do.
is forever shared,
from the mountains of Tibet
to the cool confines of
the swivel chair.
from Dizzied by Chance: Poems of a Fringe Existence (2013)
two figures intertwined on a twin sized bed.
he rests in a blanket of tranquility
breathing deeply to the pace of a metronome.
his mind, at ease,
oblivious to the entropy beside him.
she lies on a sheet of apprehension
suffocating the gasps accompanying each tear.
her mind, distressed,
resenting the unconsciousness beside her.
In some ways we’re very alike.
Both our lives follow a similar pattern,
getting so far
but stunted for too long.
All I want to do is write,
but ideas, incentive, they come and go
when they please,
and you, it’s frolic and drink,
when you please.
Maybe it’s not as bad as I imagine
but you don’t tell me otherwise,
I rely on muted words that are pushed
downwards after a handful of minutes;
seen it all before.
Will you wise up when the city bellows your name?
they don’t call them the roaring twenties
Just becoming like the rest.
How so very predictable.
What on Earth am I talking about?
We’re not alike at all.
No wonder you don’t talk to me much anymore.
Explanation: A poem written quickly in my own time. Could be much better, so may be edited in the future.