i want to stay in your pocket
for forever and a day.
til the world is spent,
the sun’s gone away.
i want to stay in your pocket,
for forever and a day.
til the earth stops turning
and the skies go gray.
pull me out like a mouse
who’s become your best friend,
show me the world in your eyes.
talk to me late at night,
when you just can’t sleep,
let me listen
to all your dreams.
when the sun is veiled.
the moon’s in a shroud.
the wind’s whistling around your ears.
let me sing you to sleep
til the rain’s ceased her beat
and the sapphire sky’s returned.
on the day you feel abandoned,
your courage seems to fail you,
the ideas your hand wrought come to nil.
let me sit upon your shoulder,
whisper to heaven, over and over,
the words your soul’s too full to speak.
when i’ve stayed in your pocket
for forever and a day,
and when the world’s been spent
and the sun’s gone away,
when the earth’s stopped turning
and the skies gone gray,
when Fortune’s lovely face
has smiled upon your pain,
the rainbow’s end has lighted on your scars,
then my work here is finished
my happiness complete.
i’ve stayed in your pocket
for forever and a day
My cousin Floyd was one.
He would prowl the night spots
When the moon was full.
One minute. Shooting the breeze
Next he would excuse himself to use the facilities and sneak
Out the bathroom window.
Quiet as a weremouse.
They say he was smitten
And bitten by the girl next door she
Was a bit hairy but.that's no reason to
Jump to confusions.
what about the gent in sheep's clothing.
When I was a kid if you were accused of
selling wolf tickets, you had a
poker face while holding a bad hand
Feeling froggy but having no hops was another
Lon Chaney JR.
howled at the moon in black and white
In that case his howl was worse than his bite.
this poem is lacking in teeth.
Suppose the North Star is flickering
at the end
How many men have set out,
machetes in hand
into frontier lands
to push back the darkness
by the wonder
of their hearts,
only to become lost?
Then that luminous stain
on night’s curtain
A five letter word
that beckons all sense of direction
with a fireball
light years away
So strange to think of how nothing
can save something
when we give it a name.
Strings of ones
flying out of zero.
A mathematical ideal
Owed to the lines we draw
between two points.
for the unsuspecting dancer
if it could be said that you exist
well here it is
until you fill the room
and their bodies finally know what it is to move.
i was simply a hand to hold
a comforting hug
or even a cheek to kiss
but to me
you were a flower
a beautiful delicacy held in my arms
and i was the anxious gardener
through the day and night
until it came time
to tend to my flower again.
I have often turned within my grave to ponder of the reason why
Upon the date of my birth, you took me to your secret hide
Underneath an aspen tree within the deadest of nights
You took to me like a moth to a ball of flickering light
With the devils own smile plastered upon your face and the slightest of hand
You produced a sanguineous jar of hearts and an ominous jar of black sand
You grasped my hands in your work enured and fairly calloused paws
Looked me in the eyes, and told me to forever leave my pale hands raw
"Never soil your untouched hands, your hands and eyes you shall avert'
"Never bruise, nor ever hurt, nor shall they be ever touched by dirt,
"Never touch a rose, nor touch a bee, as danger is an all you see,
"Close your eyes my little darling, and all of life shall be but a dream."
With the trust of a mothers child, I kept my eyes tightly squeezed
Wished upon the star within the midnight sky, wavering in the breeze
Held my hands up to my chest, hoping the fluttering and staggered slips
Not to be seen by your face within the light of moon as from the sun it dines and sips
Of a heart that had only once been given to me and should have forever stayed mine
But the greed inside all mens' hearts want, and reaches out to grasp a young new 'hind'
With another slight of those calloused hands, you took my life for your own pleasure
And stole what was rightfully derived as mine; a beating heart, you took your leisure
A working mind, once a clock, now fully had come to a skidding stop
You took my bones and my teeth and used them as a fertilizing crop
The very worst thing that you did, you took my pride when you took my skin
Shaved off clean with a diamond edged razor and worn as if you were mockeries twin
Burried underneath that beautiful aspen tree, I've been given the time to remold
But my life had been stolen, the soul forced out before the bells had tolled
In the time it had taken for my pieces to remold, I had realised something then and there;
There were always things that were meant to go untold, but the truth is ringing upon the open air
You wanted more than what was offered and had bitten off all you could chew
But if I'd known back then what I know now, I'd know real good men only come in few
with that lipstickless pout
her cat Léon
a "charmant" 2 bedroom apartment
and a once envied reputation
now deservedly sullied
and only getting worse.
Friends tell you she's got
at a sidewalk café
table wobbling on the cobblestones
carafe, glasses of wine
while she argues about everything
with old friends
and the stubborn ghosts
of those dead or gone.
You can still taste her mouth
a hint remains in your wet
almost spongy inner cheek flesh
probe it with your tongue -
late afternoon sun.
Her face ever immaculate
yet always foundation-free
a lesbian's wettest dream
no make-up grazes staining
anybody's Yves Delorne pillowcases.
When you fucked
you could often hear
next door doing the same
will she still whimper
when you make love
and get up to pour herself a glass
immediately after finishing?
When you step out together
later that afternoon
will you feel as though you
deliberately opened a door
into a dogeared postcard
or Truffaut film?
You know she's deceitful
runs to her own schedule
and clearly always had an expiry date
in mind for you two,
one she always kept
to herself -
"Those questions aren't
for asking, on verra..."
The cat has a tendency to yowl
at inappropriate moments
you wish she had a dog instead
or maybe just a goldfish
(there's enough dogshit
on the streets already).
Her apartment will still
smell of stale cigarette smoke
and the geraniums in the window box
and she has asked that you stay
for the full two weeks
(sentimental, unable to resist
taking old lovers back in).
Will she beg you not to leave
burn your passport
in the stained enamel kitchen sink
while you take a shower?
Or will she quietly close the door
behind you as you go -
suitcase in hand
your eyes turned
- - - -
For My Sister
Doll face, what does it matter
if you're ugly as hell?
If you’re short or you’re fat
Or your face is full of pimples?
Why the hell should it matter?
Sweetness, who gives a damn
If you tie your laces upside down?
And your left hand smudges the words on the page?
If you break down crying at the sight of rotting roadkill?
Who is anyone to laugh at you?
Who is anyone to tell you who you are?
I am sick and tired of seeing your red rimmed eyes
I am sick and tired of seeing what they do to you
I hate to see you hurt and I crave the very best for you
I want you to be happy in all the ways you can
Let go of it all and crawl on the ceiling, weightless
Darling, people are messed right up
And we've all got cuts and stitches and oozing wounds
But don't let the bruised and beaten up punks
the privileged warriors, the wait-listed mental patients,
the scummy lost wanderers, the vengeful aching souls,
Tell you it matters if you're ugly as hell
Please please please
Understand you are so much more than a shell
than an exoskeleton of a soul
You are a glorious, bruised and beaten up,
Ugly, pimpled masterpiece,
And it's a shame that they don't see it
I will start with a hello.
A handshake, an introduction, a beginning.
Then it will grow,
from an exchange of names
to playing mind games and discussing our fames.
You've always been the talker,
the initiator, the instigator.
And I; the listener, the adviser and friend
to give you a silent prod in the right direction
when the sidewalk comes to an end.
I take no form; no shape, no size.
I'm not the truth, nor the lies.
I am not a human, or a living creature.
I have no body parts, or any features.
But I can think, sure I can.
And I can act as any other man.
The reason why I still exist
is not meant to be a mystery
buried deep inside your inner abyss.
In fact, it lingers right in front of you
and dances before your eyes.
It isn't meant to be shocking news;
or an unforeseen surprise.
Even if you can't see me,
I'm always here as company;
the guest that never leaves.
And even if I wanted
to pick up my shoes,
get up and move,
my nonexistent feet
would stop me in my tracks
and I'd be heading back to your street
fast, fast, fast.
I'd be back before the count of two;
and if you wonder why,
ask yourself this:
why is it that we've never parted,
or even said goodbye?
Here is my answer to you:
We are bonded together by super glue,
joined by the brain, the heart and soul, too.
If that sounds confusing, I'll give you another clue;
you live in me, just like I live in you.
I am poetry;
metaphors and similes,
dotted i's and crossed t's.
So fill my cup with the wine of your words,
swallow me whole and be free as the birds
flying through the endless sky
as clouds and airplanes pass you by.
Stanzas and rhymes will flow down your throat
like that of a current, which carries a boat
and takes it to its destination;
the end goal, the aspiration.
They'll travel down with ballads marked in cursive,
with scribbled sonnets and haikus and verses.
Then when they finally reach the heart,
you'll know that it's no longer just words but art.
Because your poems are colours that brighten the walls
by splashing blank canvases and bathroom stalls.
I am poetry;
the pencil and the paper.
But you are the hand, the thinker, the maker.
So paint the world a picture
through your beautiful literature
because your words are your wand
so show us the magic and create the bond
between the fixed and the broken,
the sleeping and the woken,
the written and the spoken.
Pick me up and let me scrawl
down your words and then install
them into the minds of everyone
and they'll be stunned by the
brightness of your sun.
You'll shine with radiance and glory
so keep on telling your story
because your words are your life,
your victories and your strife.
You are the creator, the teacher, the reverend;
but this time, I will subside
because you are the guide,
and your words are your legend.
Tommy’s little, sure, but he’s
getting to that age
when he understands a little more
picking up things as his parents
take him shopping;
and hearing and seeing things
at home, in the backyard
and in the streets
but today poor Tommy
is caught in class
he’s about to explode
and he’s controlled it the last hour
“Please, miss,” he has the balls
to say it after all
“I need go piss!”
“You’re not going,”
says the pedantic Miss,
“until you use in a complete sentence
the proper English word
for your urge:
Poor Tommy –
he’s got the balls, but does
he have the brains?
Tommy thinks hard for a while -
one hand on his head
one hand on his pants
and then he blurts out:
“YOU ARE AN EIGHT
and Mrs Smith next door
who sunbathes naked in her courtyard
LOOKS LIKE A TEN. Now, can I go?”
*listen-watch this poem read by me on youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XX-ZhOSQIsE ...
I step in to the streets where my mind is clear
Nature feels my pain with her rasp in the air
Singing duets about a girl back home
Dreaming of my baby with her light blonde hair
Laying in the gutter with a knife in my back
Trying to keep warm with this bottle in my hand
I've got a reputation so I've got to keep it cool
I would take my life but there's the laws of man
My friend says "take a bump to keep your mind at ease
A coked up conscious will set your spirit free"
Trying to find God but my ritual is insane
Living my life through a lucid dream
Running through Salem with the wind at my back
They execute the sinners with a bloody axe
Got caught dancing with the ghosts of my past
They'll hang me from a scaffold for my witchcraft
My mind cries warning but my heart don't care
A dozen red roses with a note that reads "beware"
I want to rise to fame, I'm going to make a deal
The devil takes my soul and the reaper is near