A breath possesses the sky
and stifles thought.
An angel wipes his halo clean
with a cloth
as a bird turns into the sun
with his wings alight with gold.
A feather glides gently,
floating upon more than air.
Something secret shifts.
A bird is walking.
The truths of all misery
engraved into the face of a rain drop
which falls in all directions
and none.
Jun 22, 2017
Jun 22, 2017 at 11:40 AM UTC
A precious piano stands silent and sovereign
in a room of obscure ambience that hangs from Heaven.
Gathered is a crowd familiar by name and face,
and name and face alone.
A prophet stands a step beneath the piano.
His emaciated ideals are better explained in writing.
The crowd uses his mispronounced prophecies as the material
for their mockeries and their jokes.
A glass ceiling makes them naked to ethereal bodies
that do not care to pay attention.
And if such bodies could speak, they would speak
nothing towards them.
Each soul in the room is selling some
stopgap prescription drug that will last a lifetime.
The preacher is selling God, with all His effete side effects;
the fascist sells purpose with some acrid aftertaste;
and the madman sits in the corner with a thousand low-cost answers,
none of which you can fact check.
“You will see!” the prophet exclaims.
His voice is weak in its strength.
“You will see the rubble of Man’s Creation,
and the fractured bones of God.”
Lucifer enters with a proud gait
and collects the silent.
Apr 29, 2017
Apr 29, 2017 at 10:15 AM UTC
I'm sick of these love songs;
these odes to romance
where a man loves a woman.
I love happiness but
she art an elusive mistress.
She visits me but she seldom stays long;
she never stays the night.
She never lays beside me on my bed
to ease me into slumber.
Come the advent of midnight,
she forsakes me in the dark and
leaves me to the cruel hand of insomnia.
I remain a praying man for
fruitless devotion is better than
accepting the void.
They would see my pain
if they weren't blinded by my smile.
Perhaps I hide it too well,
closing my eyes when I weep.
But the tears that should fall like rain
no one sees for they drown me inside
and never do they leave.
I love happiness
despite she being the misleading
and deceptive dame she is.
I love the fleeting moments of her sweet touch,
I love when she fills my hollow smile
and reminds me why I haven't ended it.
But she seldom stays long;
she never stays the night.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 11:38 AM UTC
Dogs play in the park
Wind blows through my daughter's hair
I look down, she's gone.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 11:24 AM UTC
They were sentenced to toil
on foreign soil; to leave
their homes for the Empire.
They were told to wallow
in the mire; too young to
understand the state of
Things: they were driven by the fire
of pride, love, and mateship.
Forced to age past their true
physical years; to see
young blood drip from young knees,
tears drip down old, pure dreams
of their homes allowing glee
in the dances of their own.
Let not that true, free fire
slip from our souls. Let not
their true eyes leave our own.
Let not their voices leave
our own. Let not their breath
leave our safe lungs. Let not
their calloused hands part
with our own.
Sentenced to toil on a
foreign soil: let not their
memory melt away
into dust and cold rain;
For they are ours, and, by
God, let not the wild and
rampant passing of time
dissolve them in waters
foreign to our own.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
I saw careless monks cut quotidian rocks into sepulchres for their gods;
I saw a girl pour the night into a bottle.
Her delusions sounded better in song, but she could not sing.
I saw a prophet look into her eyes and then resign.
She held a tongue of flame in her hand and demanded him to defy it.
The radio from her car played songs that could never be so quiet.
I saw her paradise interlaced with the night
as the ghost of her danced like moonlight on the lake.
I saw a boy hide and pretend that she cared for him.
She played her part, in case the dawn would forget the sun.
But when the day came, it shot out fire from its shotgun.
I saw her crying as the night lost the war.
Instead of singing, the radio advertised stories to her.
I saw her tears wrinkle in the sun
as she surrendered herself to the dogs.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
The moon mocks with distilled grace.
Its light bleeds through panes of glass
to reveal her to Heaven's judgement.
She lies upon waves that cannot cleanse her,
upon sheets of abandon
with devils dancing in deranged
circles around her mind.
She is naked save for the remains
of ripped vestures of white that once
contained all of her purity.
The harlots outside laugh with sardonic voices,
the drunkards laugh at the jokes that spike their liquor,
and the thieves laugh at their spurious wealth.
But they all laugh at her.
She hears the voices of another world
and even they speak to dismantle her;
to haul her down from her untempered flight
on facile wings of wax.
Flirtatious voices whisper
with the strength of God's divinity
but burn with the intent of the Devil.
A cruel air reigns over the room
and stifles her in its dominion.
She holds a handful of the deluge
and her mind is absolved of reality,
but she discerns no creases upon her paradise.
God's angels observe
and bewail her.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 7:04 AM UTC
Joséphine inspires faith
that even God envies.
Her voice creases the canvas of the sky,
her wink commands the storm.
Joséphine looks to the moon
to see her reflection.
Her suspiring imaginations dance
in ripples of conscious thought.
Joséphine grasps in her hands
a stray breath of Creation.
Her eyes capture the light of dawn and dusk.
Her halcyon sigh underpins reality.
Apr 25, 2017
Apr 25, 2017 at 1:34 AM UTC
Sing me a song, pretty angel.
Sing me a tune only God deserves.
Not that I deserve its blessed sound
but because God never deserved it either.
Lead me down a path built of the bricks
and mortar of Via Dolorosa.
And in the end turn my joy into ash
and drown me as you wash your hands.
Witness with your betraying eyes
the crucifixion of hearts that you parade
around in the halls of your lies.
You’ve the wings to fly away and free us from
the ball and chain but in your sickness
you choose to linger so that even the knowledge of
your presence rests torment and ruin and soon desolation.
I fear the day of rapture.
Judgement will be the falling of pillars
that will otherwise stand eternity.
I yearn for the day of rapture;
the day of release and relief;
the day that I come to the realisation
that my mind does me futile anguish
and the day falseness bleeds from my words.
Now, wear me around your incandescent halo
or the plastic ****** around your neck.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 12:08 PM UTC
She stands (central) in a field of whatever you'd like it to be,
her wrists ringed in silver innocence.
I can tell that the night offers up the stars to her.
And she borrows the light of the day.
No transcendence can carry her away.
In the end, the saints found time to condemn her.
With a smile, she sings apocalyptic prophecies,
holding the rain in a leash.
When her voice is tired, she implores you to sing for her.
But her tears are carved from the rain
and she says, "I don't want to explain".
But with words, there's nothing much you can promise her.
Take me home, take me home, take me home,
take me through the bleeding night.
Take me down the road so I can meet with her.
The moonlight reflects off her mirror-skin.
You make wagers that you might win.
But there's nothing (real) you can get from her.
Apr 24, 2017
Apr 24, 2017 at 11:54 AM UTC