Here you are,
with cold feet and
fingertips pressed tight
against cracked skin—
an archaic mantle for a budding soul
Beautiful is not what I call it,
the frost in your eyes—
black tongues underneath
layers of blue flames
It is vicious and delicate,
electric and fickle—
the flavor of rain
on the moisture of your lips
and the trace of summer
along the curve of your neck
Beautiful is not what I call it,
for there is no word to capture
the ease in the pain
and the ecstasy in the anger
when the sun and moon rise
in the same sky
The battle is won, the war is lost
And at what cost?
The heart of a boy
Only built to destroy
No matter what he tried
No matter who was right
Who was right?
No matter if he lied
No matter, there was a fight
There was a fight
And his war raged on and on
Lovers present and lovers gone
The battle is won, and the tears pour on
A wounded heart, a wounded soul
All alone in no man’s land
The enemy, strong, took its toll
Left his friends to disband
The girl in his pocket can’t save him now
From these hellish sights and hellish sounds
The battle is won, but the war is lost
And at what cost?
The heart of a boy
Only made to love and destroy
leather of codes
child of no garden I want to be trash shining metal bucket streets
echoes of his scars crash deeply from his quick glance and words
his crushed inner faces blow by me like shotgun shells flipping ejected
a warm burn enters my ear and falls to the ground like pure seed
there has been a siberian tiger heart perhaps
a trumpet's bright coming tip in the night is his voice
but night has no color, only the air of space and eternal infinite collossalness
he has not been there, he knows I think I have been
his voice hunts in silence the opening of his throat
I never felt my neck arch as though I were angelic spinning holy pollen
my feet are broken from my birth's uncertain angles
my white skin is somber to me and it dreams of thick, muscular hair
his back hunts me like a prowling silent perfect killer
he has no meat for me in his most beautiful kind thoughts, nor ice
I know he does not want my soul, its irrelevance like bad country music
he glares at me his eyes are beautiful in their transubstantial wizardry
as though I a child with no hope to ever be less or more
this is the way beer cans bounce of cars better than wet silken breasts may rise
he has felt his lover's wine fully enter him in his sweetest moments
I am a child of no garden he would have
but thoughts of exclusion are often only private codes of want
his serbian tiger motion is utter but I am child of no garden until I can dance
I know he so poignantly relevant would in some fierce and mad
teach me of my father
that I might be coddled beyond redemption my white skin
he wants to giggle a soft stance or a minion of pretense
I am fully truly what he sees, yet I cannot touch him
he has no time for me I would see my heritage's murderous take
he knows I bow down to his conspicuous innocence
he has forgotten the child he knows I think I have been
he wears a leather of codes I can never remember
Touch me there
Pull my hair
I want your full weight on top of me.
Kiss my lips
Make me buck my hips
Until I can feel your soul fully.
When we're both through
And I've taken comfort in you
I wanna be what you're still holding.
Whisper sweet things in my ear
Tell me everything that I want to hear
And stay even when it's morning.
This strange kind of numb has chased away the desolating pain
there seems nothing in the part where love grows
not in the heart or mind or soul
Is this what death feels like?
Every shred of decency you stole in that piss weak moment of betrayal
you shook the hand of the beast that gave the burden
the thief of my dignity
it was an inncent action between men who respect each other
you had had no right to placee all my shreds of respectably in his palms
to anialate me without provacation
to give me up to avoid confronting the truth
you let my pride die a silent death
the state of shock
and constant scraping up my self off the floor
it was because you found it easier to forgive, than fight for me
so I died A million painful deaths in that moment
like the love that swore it would die a thousand more
it vanished emphasising the nothing that I am
and you didn't even blink an eye.
I'm tired of writing the cheesy words I used to write..
I'm tired of listening to all of their crap..
I'm tired of not reading my own mind..
I feel like a balloon flying up high screaming to fall..
I just don't want to think anymore..
I believe that every truth comes from a lie..
I believe that I'm a lost soul in a pointless life..
Im nothing but careless bones smiling with no whys..
No questions to add just a soul sailing between clouds..
I lost myself once upon a time
in a place that was only whispered to me in dreams.
Where the fog is thick and threads through the seams
of street lights and street cars with bum fights and brillo bars.
I tell you I lost myself on the tongue of insanity
who swallowed my soul to feed its humanity.
I lost myself
in a city that found me;
San Francisco, 2013
Let me extend two points like two bridges
that begin in separate places but lead to the same thing.
I’m talking the people in both hands with countless art in between.
The people, the people, the people.
What can’t be said about the near million faces
sleeping on warm pillows or cold stones,
wearing top hats or traffic cones
because not every night are people thriving.
But they’re still surviving, getting busy living or getting busy dying.
In their eyes are stories being told
once you wipe those windows into their souls, deep.
You see it all,
Just like every star in the fall when the sun goes to sleep.
I gave a homeless man a dollar who gave it to another homeless man who then gave it back to me
Like we were passing a love note that said, “You need this more than me.”
So which one of us was without the home?
Home I soon found in the art of every step taken,
one foot in front of the next.
I can’t walk through that city discounting the side effects.
I was drunk,
but not from bottles or cans
I was drunk from the hands
that told tales with graffiti art to camera pans.
and countless other melodies
massaging bricks into the landmarks that spanned.
Culture sprinkling up and down the hills and between the cracks
Painting colors in the sky as the rainbows stacked,
Finding pots of gold by merely lifting my eye lids back.
There is so much to say about this city in the bay,
that is held in place by the people of race
and the vessels of art that encompass in its space
like stories and attitude,
survival and gratitude,
muse and expression
in delight or depression.
I tell you I lost myself in that city.
But I know now that being lost is sometimes the only way to be truly found.
Dawns gray tones sleep upon the rocky ridges
where bear sleeps long in winter dormant.
Wooden flutes call to the wild, spirits beckon
and all souls come closer in nature's wonder.
Fox huddles deep in the nest with her babes
the darkness is tender to hide deep within.
Small perfect pawprints litter about her door
though the night's fallen snow leaves little more.
The hunter walks encumbered with fur head to toe
snowshoes of bent wood are starting to show
the distances worn, the challenges faced
by this man in his journeys across his life's fate.
Curls of breath are the flames of the dragon
in the freezing cold winter, the starkness hard
inside and out. Survival of body through the soaring
of soul in the freedom of the wild like an eagle over forests.
He traps and he gathers, he travels and struggles.
His sled bears blankets, tools, and the rugged wants
of a man facing destiny, the call of his guides,
and the whispers of spirits to intuitively live by.
you say to me that 'to your Jesus one must come broken and empty handed'
but to the Goddess in the end, our soulswe come bearing our talents like fruits and she celebrates them with us
with eyes full of stardustnebulaes and a mouth full of leaves
and as beautiful and powerful as everything
she is everything and she didn't leave the world behind
( she's the beauty of everything in nature and the wonder of all the cosmos all rolled into one being; she is in the laughter of every small child and
not like "Your Great Merciful God"
(your Great Steaming Pile Of Patriarchy and Excuses to be Hateful to Fellow Souls)
but something that feels much better to be connected to that that hollow feeling when everyone looks around after an "amen" so make sure everyone else is sayingitfakingit too
something that feels much better so that i wish i could make these people comprehend it at least
because there is nothing that feels hollow about feeling Her
even though i made notes on my phone when i still had ideas
last saturday i had to go to a funeral for an uncle that i didn't know and it amazed me how much they tried to market their religion to you through even that
it made me so angry
"bruce has gone to heaven now but think about your soul? do you know where you're going?"
it feels odd sitting in an overstuffed chair with a skirt on that's too long surrounded by people that know you but you don't know them, and trying really hard not to roll your eyes
i knew where i was going when the portly pastor-man asked. i was going home and away from his bullshit.
when i got home i tore the house apart looking for my pentacle (i had to take it off for the funeral)
and my mother looked at me funny and asked "are you gonna put that on and go to sleep"
i sure fucking did
the air is thick with madness
blown in the wind like smoke
in time we all begin to choke
stagnation static clinging
wringing me of passion
rob me of compassion
like a black hole, devour
my heart and soul
now, in our darkest hour
I cry out, "save me!"
the silence is deafening
so loud my ears are ringing
I wander lost, alone and confused
a stranger in a strange, cold world
seeking peace and solace
finding nothing, I recoil
violently, like the raging storm
and the sizzling crackle
of lightning splits the sky
hear the sound of my fury
in the booming of thunder
the rage against complacency
the roar of my inner fire
I know there is more to life than this
it started off slow and subtle
in time the hunger began to spread
it began to divide and consume
the light and all that lies before it
at first no one noticed
now we turn a blind eye
overlooking our true nature
we are agents of destruction
devouring all in our path
discarding that which serves us no longer
and moving on to the next thing
it doesn't have to be this way...
we look to the sky for our salvation
but no one is coming to save us
from the nightmare we created ourselves
and continue to maintain each day
with the folly of our egotism
nothing but an illusion,
a ghost of the truth, that is
we are ugly deep down under
the polished masks we wear
and for what? What does it matter?!
cast off the persona weighing you down
become the light you were meant to be
let me tell you a little secret...
we can be our own saviors
of, pertaining to, or characterized by a manner of writing in which a character's thoughts or perceptions are presented as occurring in random form, without regard for logical sequences, syntactic structure, distinctions between various levels of reality, or the like