i am an asshole

and I feel weird

all the time

and I have mood swings faster than the striking of snakes
and my rage comes like hurricanes
and my euphoria like spring rain
quick and furious

i am bitter like
wormwood

and i laugh at things
i shouldn’t

and i wring my hands
and bite my lips

and glare
i have no social grace
and i dislike more things in this world than i can admit

but i make you lunch.
and let you cry on me
burn candles
fill your pockets with lavender for luck
and witch bottles full of blood and my hair
and pour salt
and put on party dresses
and pick flowers
and bring wine
and i pour fire in the mouths of those who hurt you

and i abandon you for days
when the dark in my head
gets too loud
but not really

because

i think about you all the time

it’s just

i don’t want you to see the lightening striking and the

lion roaring and screaming in my mind
when i tally up my skin
and empty my stomach i

don’t want you to see
and

i don’t want you to abandon me

so don’t

fucking leave me

don’t abandon me

and i know you need space too
because i can be suffocating
but
when i disappear into my own head
people don't miss me
like i
miss
them

when i put so much effort into being
a some-what human being for you

Myself included
I wonder why
the poetic verse
of those who imagine
and dream
and are passionate
are of no comparison
to the days
of mastered
perspective
and literative
legacy?

Where are all the Ginsbergs?
Has anyone met their Kerouac?
Who has the balls of Bukowski?
Does anyone know where
they
are at?

Then a sad realization
rises
from the facts that pertain
to this time
and dimension.

The poetic scene
is running out,
I believe.

quiet minds lightly preoccupied
unspoken words that don’t need to be said
a white house in a white room
where all the light is green
pushed through an old bottle
just the three of us, like it used to be
    -minus one
naivety lost
it’s shadow still hangs in the dustiest corners of the room
i leap through velvet mountains
and dive through smokey books
no sounds can penetrate the walls of our silence
i can see the smile in your eyes
twisting your face for the first time in forever
giggles and remnants of the past
as we delve into years past
of white afternoons

Much too late
for thoughts
of what her father
might say

Fay went with you
to the Globe cinema
in Camberwell Green
a right fleapit of a place

but the film
you wanted to see
was on there
Daniel Boone

all about the Old West
and after it was over
and you came out
into the bright sunlight

your eyes felt
over whelmed
after the darkness
of the cinema

what did you think?
you asked
Fay said
yes it was good

not the sort of film
Daddy would have let me see
well he won't know
you've seen it

will he
you said
unless he asks me
then I'll have to

tell him the truth
she said
why would he ask?
you looked at her

standing there
with her fair hair
and lovely blue eyes
he might ask me

what I have done today
she said
her eyes beginning
to show signs of fear

maybe he won't
you said
just tell him
you've been studying

American history
she looked at her hands
he doesn't like America
or Americans

she said
well you don't have to
like something to study it
I have to do it all week

at school
you said
maybe he won't ask
she said softly

looking at you
fiddling with her fingers
distract him
tell him something else

talk about a butterfly
you saw on the bombsite
she looked at you
and smiled

you don't know him
he'll ask me
what sort of butterfly
and I won't know

and he'll know
I've been lying
and that will mean
being punished

she looked up the street
toward the bus stop
we had better be getting back
she said

he'll be home soon
ok
you said
and took her hand

and walked toward
the bus stop and waited
for the bus
if I told my mother

the truth all the time
she'd have a nervous breakdown
it's more kinder
to keep her happy

in innocent bliss
of what I get up to
Fay looked haunted
and was silent

she still held your hand
a fading bruise just visible
on her upper arm
where her dresses sleeve

moved
how about some ice-cream
when we get back
I've got a Shilling

given to me
by my old man yesterday?
she hesitated
ok I’d like that

she said
and when the bus
came along
you both got on

and sat next
to each other
downstairs near
the conductor

watching the scenes
of passing people
and traffic go by
but a special place

in your mind and heart
of Fay
next to you
quiet and shy.

no accident of language catches quite
the changing shades of meaning that reflect
not what is said but what we could reject
if well presented to our proper sight
but when we take as given in due right
and not as secrets of some hidden sect
they are the matters we have truly checked
and we are lost deep in the summer night
yet no one wonders at the altered state
nor at the clash of symbols that is seen
by those few waking through the starlit time
eager  to find a different sort of fate
but not to learn just what it ought to mean
nor yet the purpose of the long hard climb

he had blonde hair and a different bruise every time i saw him
sometimes his nose scrunched up when he laughed
and he kept his secrets in a secret pocket
in my limbs
and he never danced
he swayed

My mother told me
that God is everywhere:
in the music that she dances to
in the actions of others
in the words that I write, even.
He is the inspiration;
I am simply the means by which
He does His work.
But I don’t want it to be that way -
I want these words to be my own,
from my head, from my heart,
and so powerful on their own that they
sweep people off their feet with little warning and
make them think tender thoughts,
dangerous thoughts,
good thoughts,
and malicious ones, too.
I want
to make young and old alike cry
because my words have so much power.
But I want it to come from me,
not some deity
who hasn’t even given me the time of day.

I can’t make friends and I can’t make love so I will say good bye to this world
Open my eyes for the last time as I play and laugh like in the good old days
The sun will come down and so will the tears
Don’t worry you will have to let go I don’t say this to you I say it to my soul
I can’t make friends and I can’t make love so good bye I say to the sky who held my home
I say good bye to you and every one who knew my names
I can’t make friends and I can’t make love so long world
take care of you and the ones to come