Some of us are given to,
upon our person to secret
instrumentation to adjust
the patina of our facial tones,
lest the glare of man made light
lend a shine undesired and worse,
uncovered windowed pores allow
revelations undesirable into our souls.
In other words, a compact and its constituents:
puff, powder and mirror.
Observed a compact in use
between Act I and Act II,
the deft use of the mirror,
angled, moved back and forth
to provide perspective,
close-up and/or total.
The Gods of Metaphor,
Deities of Derision
force my unwilling reveal
thru the holy confessional screen:
I too have a compact.
My compact, a deal, a treaty accord
between the white rigors of life daily,
and spasms of black lies
to make appearances tolerable.
My compact is what I cover up
with powder and puffery.
Aged sixty two years, life nonsensical,
perversely inversely, the dependence upon
these cracked hands grows,
dying cells dividing like newborns,
worrisome weariness make the lies
come faster and more frequent,
which is why my compact has a mirror.
No matter what perspective enamored,
In the mirror, my reality check,
No powder upon my eyes,
the brutality and the joy,
of life is undisguised.
Nonetheless, I have more,
Morethanless, the balance
is favorable, the outlook positive.
My compact with you is to
remind us all, through
music, dance, words and love,
This is the only compact
with the power of human law.
See this is where I clear my mental
Cuz it's essential
Clean all the junk out of your knowledgeable box
Like fresh clean socks bleach with Clorox
I need to be clean
So I sit and look at Gods creation
As I fathom that it could save a nation
All hail thee Christ Jesus
Many people say they love him to pieces but never sit and marvel and His creation
Conquering king to civilization
Causing many allegations
No persuasion to the right side
So I'll abide in my many complex as I marvel at Gods creation
Tribe altercation to seek multiplication
So I try to change in the right clothes
Not naked to the fact He can still see me
Soul complete me
All I want is to bask in Gods creation
The love thing I constantly want her around
The yearning of your voice like a deaf man yearning for sound
Love you deeply down to each ounce, each pound
In God I trust, my faith a solid foundation, solid ground
Many search for love like this but how blessed that we found
God and designed us for this
Following his blueprint
Me and my wife, love makes sense
I want to wrinkle together in time
God, me and you girl mountains we can climb
If its storming I will cover you and keep you dry
If you happen to cry
I will catch every drop from your eyes
If your cold I will clove you, cover you, hold you
Grow together, God mold me, I'll mold you
The word love is more than 4 letters
Its timeless like 4 forevers
Hard as a rock yet light as a feather
Its emotion, communication, a spiritual celebration
Love between a husband and wife Gods beautiful creation
Let's make love, levels beyond physical
I'm talking our souls mating sexually spiritual
In Gods will our child will be formed
Your body expand for 9 months then our child's born
A brown bundle of joy
A precious little girl but God knows I first desire a boy
It Really don't matter just want either to be healthy
God, me, you and our future child refines wealthy
Gods and soldiers
were the heights of shoulders!
Did anyone love
undefined in my brooding years?
The sunrise is breaking,
tearing rainbows at their seams;
I am without elegance
in the flesh
to describe this
from lips that beat back smiles…
My ears, though,
elude to such sweet regards.
Without the pebble's presence,
the river's song
is but a silent one;
the soft wind wished it quiet
as I rolled out my arms
atop the grieving Fescue on the glen.
My breath escaped to engage
a sun's rays;
how brave I screamed the name
and in its end,
now lost with time.
My body burdens
the reaches of a Wych Elm;
I part with patriots
in a Whiskey serenade,
over my faithful wellies...
…pendulum of blood and booze
Better let her
slip into her skin free of feather.
In with vigor,
shocked by the rigor,
before boiling her in liquified leather.
on the Day of Thunder,
no gods could try to reach her.
A head unstuck
for a later fuck;
my angel met her maker.
✞ ✠ ✝
to reigns, taut tight,
Hell spawned a chariot that muggy night.
A fiery fright,
the figure was bedight
in a cloak of faceless souls and pelts of white.
Masked and dressed,
in death obsessed,
the menace mocked my mortal press.
Stake to chest,
I took my rest;
fell asleep with my bloodied knife, abreast.
See the riders
Rise to power
Watch the flower
Sprout the towers
Search the homes
Of trustless hearts
A world apart
Seek out the alone
To turn them narc
Replace their bones
With bestial marks
It is dark out here
But here is the torch
The path is near
But the sky is scorched
Lose it all
But take the most
Make the call
And act as host
Burn the blame
In viral hate
Do the same
And claim it fate
Relationships are not easy-peasy,,
Some take work, some, self-sacrifice.
Some must overcome defects congenital,
Obstacles so great that the Roman Gods
Are asked to intervene,
Send down those hotties, the fiery Furies,
who punished crimes at the instigation
of the soon to be frozen victims
So to the chase,
My woman's has true blood,
In solid state.
Her body is icy, permanent frosty,
And requires regular de-icing
Before Take Off.
This condition being true of her
Every part except, her prima facie.
Even the bed complains,
Whining creeks and groans,
Sometimes it even screams,
When she get in sans pajamas.
A bastion of extra human warmth,
As my poems bear witness,
Normal temp is 102,
I am the joy of her life,
For love, I make the
Her feet, medieval torture instruments,
Her bare hands, have
Killed lesser men and folkloric-ly,
Reputedly, she has flash froze and keeps
Some vampires in the basement fridge,
Suitable for reheating in the microwave.
You may think this charming,
This poem, an amuse-bouche,
But it ain't funny when I go to the
Emergency room for first degree burns.
Remember when Ralph's friend
Got his tongue stuck to the metal pole,
In "A Christmas Story"?
That was me, that was her!
But our together,
Approaching near five years,
Is a Survivor.
Two hurricanes, bitches named
Irene and Sandy,
A divorce from a mean spirited wbitch
That took so long
The Matrimonial Lawyers Ass-ociation
Had my portrait painted over their fireplace.
Even the icicles otherwise know correctly as
Have not come between us
When my lips kiss her neck,
Surgically remove heart with poetic scalpels,
Hold it, fluttering and with both hands, warm.
Her eyes close, and neuronic messages
Commence firing, telegraphed, messengered,
To the far corners of every Purim Persian province,
Let the wicked witch melting begin,
Commence the holiday of
If you think any man,
Could perform said feat of endurance,
You better checkout again the name of the
Man who authored this story,
For his name, with special powers, endowed.
I would like to say that i am one of those girls
who drink vodka shooters because ‘enough shots feels like love’
i am one of those girls
who like to drink
until my own miserable
lack of self worth and resentment slithers up out of my throat
but there are men who can smell
this on my skin
like a desperate pheromone calling
but i have a problem knowing the difference between
love and worth and the desperate scrambling of hands
on scalps and legs
because i love my fucking self
and have so much worth
that when men are repelled by my goddess
strength in my shoulders
and the fire on my tongue
i sink into this pit
and wonder why
i am not wanted
and the difference between worth
and being able to look into your own eyes
without seeing a monster
for ten seconds
and maybe that’s why i shatter mirrors
and carve tally marks into my own
because the monster in me isn’t visible
on the outside
so i let her out and let her
cough and sputter
and cling to people
and let her whisper in their ears
all the words i hate to say
and when i drink
she comes out to play
but she still winks at me when i am sober
and like the gods of old i only exist
when i am being prayed to
but the faith in me is flickering out behind the eyes of men
We are all heads floating in a tunnel,
For split seconds on ends, our shadows fit perfectly with the holes,
In the walls.
Let us cheer to the sweet decay in
our childish dreams.
Turn up the volume and carry on
Stuttering, sulking, seducing,
Snarking or just swim against the current with all of the baggage of the
Morning still crackling through your eyes.
Hold onto the rails, and dance across the nightmare of endless consumption
Sandwiches upon sandwiches within
We are all shadows in motion
To the gods of gravity and brevity
Our lives on hold a midst the commotion of gasoline tanks whirring
And, the forthcoming shortage of ambition.
The war is marching on
But who's got time for war,
In between the decadence of these slime-y streets?
Who's got time for war,
When you've got to put the kids
First one. Written at 11 years old...
The moon cast a shadow
on Mother Earth from afar.
I spoke with the kings
on top castles under stars.
My trip through this astral plane
has left me victorious.
Sleipnir could lead me on through to Valhalla,
for old legends weren't superstitious.
Long labored walks in this castle
have led my head astray.
A pondered pause on ideas of leaving...
the quest is not done;
I shall stay.
I sensed the old warriors
in the damp hidden dungeons.
Victory was great,
then in bludgeon.
It is when my last remaining days are near,
that the air is now stagnant.
A god-like uneasiness
puts tampered emotions on slant.
I cringe knowing I'll disappear
leaving magic and plumage forests behind.
I awaken in a world far away
where gods torture their kill,
and leave corpses of children to find!
I am but one lonely soul
wandering my Hell they've called Earth,
killing those who provoke me;
...Awaiting Satan's Rebirth!!
Use me and I'll show you
the magnificent power of our True Father.
Set yourself, within himself
leaving heart and soul to be martyred.
I reign as an entity
empowering worlds full of vision.
I'm determined to protect
those who possess the ambition.
Anton has replaced
your crucified "savior" in Heaven,
introducing a venom
plastered on swords with aggression.
Six feet under,
sucking dirt in my grave,
I await the lashings and praise from Hell,
spending eternity amongst the damned,
for my soul I did sell.
No more colors or worlds
No more seeking my doom
No more trips on the astral plane
No more smile in this vacuum
No more testing my patience
No more evil born from her womb
No more fires to snuff them
Now Hell is my home…..