When the old die young,
And the young never see the dusk,
Know there is something wrong,
When the living, die, over dried husk.

Lost and alone my thoughts fall
through seas of doubt and apprehension.
I pace across desolate hall
wanting to fill vacant chambers with fruition
And yet lacking a quick tongue
to woo my siren who walks the earth.
Lacking a sweet song when sung
will kindle a fire to heat my hearth.
I search my desert husk
For those stray, shy words to light
a bonfire against this lonesome dusk.
I search for the rush, that if right
will bring a warming voice
and soft eyes so that I may rejoice.

A bright future lumes in the dusk. An overbearing mother that cares too much.This is my life! My life breaking apart piece by piece. This mass of unsinkable ship. I don't write poetry anymore. Haven't in years. Truely why? Why was never clear. Alone away from home, reaching from insanity. White walls and padded room. Night watches and conversations with the interns. I will give up my favorite form of art just to come home. Flight of rage, and the mother walks away. This is my life. Tall glass to fill with a face not handsome enough, and a body with fat to spare. Don't tell me I'm wrong. I'M ALWAYS WRONG! You misguided emotional wreck who wouldn't accept submission only to beat me down again. FURIOUS! Something is left unsaid. Alone again. I miss my love. She never was Alyssa to me. Simply my love. My heart, my hope, my chance at a different fate then all alone. Now I'm just too little too late. Too fat and too fake.

Boundless dusk above forsaken intuitions
Stones with ancient seeds
Yet the roots can breathe
The earthly exuberance                                                       ­                       
The naked secret of our song
That manipulates my tounge
Redden from you and I
The contract of our lips
Simulating my hunger for your groin
The nerves of my vertebrates  harbor your weight
As my breast shudder from your touch
Primal delicious desires
I thirst for  the fluids of your flesh

With nurture and greed
I moisten your fingers
Help you find my sensitive  pearl
Relishing the trail of the garden of youth
Primal delicious desires explode in need
Delicate softness of my mystical place
Lifting my body with much response
As my fingers dance, pinch and prod at my peaks
Repeatedly as you   seduce me
I gasp and beg for your caress
I shudder as I chase my wave
Reaching as I whimper into a climax

Simulating my hunger for your groin
Inflaming my pores
I enlarge you ever so slow
Working my hands holding you from behind
One swift lick of your rigid flesh
You pull in a lungful of air
Your hot flesh started to grow
I ease you into my mouth
Circling as you keep the pace
Against me you put me in deep
The sweet taste of you makes me weak
Intense intervals underneath
Between your thighs

Intoxicating the very layers of my juice
I enlarge you once again
Moist and ready
I open my sweetness just for you
As I arch down onto you
Your hands rest on my hips
I begin to feel my flower grow
Whispering shallowly from my lungs
We flow inside each another
Deeper in my heat
Your aggressive arousal
Provoking me to quiver
The barrier surrenders to you and I
Vivid blossoms of tranquil harmony
Through the gateway of my womanhood


As you nurish the nutrients you covet for
My protruding pale pink buds
Plump with need
I'd hollow out to place you inside
I'd linger in this universe to pave your delicious desire
As you surrender  pushing me down
You penetrate my mouth once again
As you reclaim my mouth soft and pink

Walking down the left hand footpath, a dry heavy dusk beginning in the midst of a blasting summer.
The buildings are an adobe kind of thatch, but modern, with some big square four storey clunkers amongst them. I’m near the edge of the inner city, it is opening out into a smoother, more human kind of chaos. The people are moving with a little more freedom. With a bag-snatch-on-bicycle kind of flow.
  I have a Chinese-made ak47 in my hands with a wooden stock. I don’t know what to do with it; I slide it under my long coat, wherever either of these came from.
  I am temperate and comfortable, maybe the sky is a little bluer now and the colours are darkening. Carefully drifting along.
  Feeling currents of deep panic, energized in the pavement, beneath the tread of my steps. This is a land ready, silently waiting for its return to birth and I don’t know what the fuck to do.
  An atm is across the road, one person attending it, one person attending them. I sense the inner city sort of chaos and I don’t know what the fuck, to do. I check the ak and tuck my chin down, keep walking. I pass the silent mugging, fearful, feeling weak, trying not to have seen a thing. But I did see, and the mugger had an ak, folded into his coat.
  The town is breaking up, smaller roads. Sandy houses now grey blue, some high walls, huts, caravans, some quarter acres of settled dust with some piles of smashed shopping trolleys and banana boxes and even more people. It’s cooling now, they’re moving more quickly, crossing in front of me either with pensive glances or staring straight ahead and accelerating, breaking into a run with powerlust in their eyes, reaching into their jackets..    
  Something’s happening. I meet with scared eyes and share half motions and half sentences. Loosely gathering, still moving as if not connected, happenstancing across each other’s paths. Backs turning away, looking outward, turning in, milling. Falling to the left or to the right of unity, water molecules with aks, sensing danger, nondescript, avoiding detection. Waves of sprinters fly through us and fleet away, through and around us and the huts and houses, over the walls and yes, into the night.
  Mobs. In wider land, sprinting through it with a kind of purity and an unfathomable but absolute purpose. Forming swelling and closing braids of curved laser beams in their paths through the terrain as I see them for a moment from a balloon, up in the cool sky.    
  Nothing solved, night falls and sleep comes cramped in a caravan. A tiny bastion of nothing much whatsoever with nothing known and nothing discussed, surrounded by flowing, energizing swarms.
  It is a blinding, bright morning. The caravan is a little in the distance, six or seven sprinters are in front of and around me. They stare at me with intent, waiting. I could take three, I wish, I want to think. But they’d still catch me, wear me down, turn me. I put the ak in my mouth. No blame. And yet after the shot, the first shot I have fired with the thing, nothing ends. The bullet has lifted out the back of my skull; there is a deaf searing heat above my nape. My eyelids are weighted but not closed. The sprinters are still standing around, staring. There is a rich Rothko black above ruby and I wait. An electric surge of hallucinogenic twisted warmth bolts and bonds directly to my groin as I observe the ruby Rothko. It is ridiculous and I wait. I always knew these silly, stupid things. Stumbling over rose bushes and cracking my head on a cool concrete path. Telling lies and staring at stars

It's been a long while
but I've no trace of time.
I'm covered in brown mud,
piled over with rusted red leaves.

I lay at the foot of, what now,
is an old friend.
It's not easy to get much sunshine
the large Oak's roots are what both isolate and keep my company.

I'd been loved a long while
but that story is an old life lived
a memory that became a fantasy--
Time stretched until it's bonds broke.

They tried to recover me,
for a short while
for something that seemed like commitment
at such a young and impressionable age.

They hunted in and out of trunks of the large Oak's home
Never to find where I lay;
embedded in October's leaves.

Yet, distance didn't make the heart grow fonder
I'd been lost and long forgotten
at the brink of dusk,
at the ring of a more warming love.

They came back,
once or twice,
to test the shaded wood,
the darkened dirt.

They came back until leaves covered me eye-high.
If they were still yelling for the track of my presence
I could no longer hear them.
Even if they were still scouring these built-down woods,
I could no longer see them;
allow them to catch my eye.
Even if they still loved me
I could no longer feel them
covered by cracked dirt,
and crumpled leaves.

The roots had become my lover now
grown to hug my rounded hips--
my heaping dirt-covered smile.

The wind doesn't play with me much
only to allow for a sweeping kiss of leaves,
or to pick the coat from my back
to go to a better cause;
the warming of a seed--
that tiny Christmas Rose.

So I quit listening
long after I quit looking--
looking for the boys that had once loved me.

Only then did he come--
sticky handed, dressed in metal,
and armed to save a princess.

Part way through his enactment,
poking swords at my Oak
demanding the emptied branches release his Rapunzel,
I saw him catch my rounded edges
I almost didn't notice
until I looked back up into those adventurous eyes.

He knelt, still much more gigantic than I
even at his youngest age
and plucked me so easily from my big Oak roots,
wiped dirt from my body
slowly and softly;
like I was new found treasure--
Like I was the gold every child hunts for in their own back yard.

He ran his rough thumbs on my edges
never lifting his eyes from his fingers on that short walk home.
He rinsed me clean
wondered about my own stories.
Then dusk came,
I was tucked warm under his protection
under that imaginative mind,
and the boy made me his own.

In a quiet mist is our heaven at dusk
and just beyond, a castle where you live
To ease my empty heart I will float just past
every cloud to try and see you just once more.
Your gentle words, though gone, aid my sleep.
In my dreams is the stronghold of a wild forest
I reach out to touch each branch with weary hand,
So the trees may know I, too, feel immoderately old.

The roaring thunder echoes into the breadth of deep dusk, the vaporous fog, immersing slowly into the air, chokes the droplets of rain pounding hard against the window sill.

I lay there, squirmish and young, beneath your warm, domineering body
trapped in your pleads, I stare wide-eyed, searching to find the depth encompassed within your eyes,
the depth you so hardly try to hide.

You kiss me hard.
trying to prove a feeling that you knew could never exist.

The thunder bellows, and my body melts slowly into yours,
grasping your back passionatley, I yearn to feel your sincerity.
            
Were entwined within each other, and you press me heartlessly against the sheets,
a hot tear escapes the pools of my naivety, and trickles stealthily down my cheek.

You hold me afterwards, letting my whimpers dissolve into the cloth of your ragged, gray shirt,
and I look longingly at you,
at the familiarity of your smirk and smile,
at your duplicitous eyes, and your lips, dirtied with deceit.

but, yet, I can only see a stranger.
A stranger who, now, I couldn't help but love.

sonder

n. the realization that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own—populated with their own ambitions, friends, routines, worries and inherited craziness—an epic story that continues invisibly around you like an anthill sprawling deep underground, with elaborate passageways to thousands of other lives that you’ll never know existed, in which you might appear only once, as an extra sipping coffee in the background, as a blur of traffic passing on the highway, as a lighted window at dusk.