My body was found in an autochthonous cranny stinking of death,
between the hookers legs; burned
with a magnesium flash- of the bulb popping.
It illuminates mere shapes
resembling humans only remotely;
the way a copse of bracken burnt conifers' resemble matchsticks.

I am young- small,
youthfully slight and skinny
with grasping fingers.
You turn your back to me
and begin trudging away.
All I can remember is
reaching to hang onto your apron laces-
wrapping my fingers in it
and being dragged along,
my feet leaving furrows in the soft ground of spring.
You don't look
or acknowledge me at your back-
only prompt quick steps as
we pass in peace to summer
with the sun high, hot on our skin.
I let loose of you and dance amid
green pastels smeared with grass glistening wet.
I stretch my legs now found strong
with lengthened stride
and I spin circles around you
never focusing on your face.
With the vanity of adolescence
I forget our journey and become
vociferous in play.
But soon the skies, they darken
and my grasping skinny hands, they find.
Clutching for comfort -- apron strings
your careful bow tie
and chasing the rabbit knot.
Under sheets of rain that knock the leaves from the trees, we walk.
Silent--
among the howling of nature.
I grow taller than you
and my body matures.
You look small and fragile now,
frail in the whipping wind
as fall freezes into winter.
We are cold and hold hands,
alongside each other in lurching momentum through the long hours.
I am a man now--
tall, lithe, and toned.
Full of imperial inflection
as if the vicissitudes of spring once again overtook me,
I fill the empty air with vibrations.
The chatter of blue jays join
still you stride forward,
though stumbling here and there.
And I can hear your knees pop,
the joints grind, the mouth grim.
Snow melt wets the tongue
and water drips from beard
as I still follow you.
Sometimes at a distance,
other times huddling close in your emotional shelter-
we walk
past my wedding
and others now journey with us.
We become a pack
a group-
yet,
you're always out in front.
Pressing on, one foot after the next.
Single minded and silent
as the sun once again dawns on yet another spring
I see your goal and shout
and scream
and cry
and run to catch
to hold
to stop
prevent
block
but you're walking faster now
I wrap my grasping fingers
in your apron strings
and I pull hard as my muscles can
As if metal caught in a magnetic force
I am dragged toward your grave
And in your maddening march
there is true intent
as you topple.
Eventually I know
that I will awake and it will be this day
For now I know, I cannot handle it.

Do you know what it means to have a moment encapsulated and remain enthralled with an utterance for what seems a century?
Or more?
It isn't your voice or your beleaguered indiscretion
it is not your rounded shoulders and body (language) speaking of consequential truths
its the way your words round my hard thoughts, softening and falling to slide off the firm curve of my breast.
Feeling each individual letter glide delightfully around my mouth
after being in yours
and I taste something new amid
a festival of enunciation.
There is false bravado in me and you
slip it off, along with my clothes.
I'm left naked and shy
almost hiding now, what I previously
wanted to share so much.
Almost, as your tender words guide an
embrace
I fall in love for the first time with a word
knowing you can only ever possess me physically.

My words have been ripped from me
uncovering my naked body below
and I bemoan the cold or mayhap
just existence
My pupils will not focus, a lack of dilation
I am not entombed in life
for I blink with each inhalation
I am subtly encased in flesh
not suffering
simply slipping
Mourning the loss of my language

and when I dream
death pervades my visions
when I wake,
I'm approached by none other than heartbreak
at my most fearful perception

Strength isn't to forcefully remove temptation,
but to resist temptation daily and survive.

A man doesn't reflect until he is imprisoned,
and limited by an external boundary,
I re-forge myself within the internal foundry.

A drugstore pallid in waning light, always illuminated in halogen halos.
I am earless with music.
Black metal loud in clanging sets and blows-
foreshadowing the smell of cleaning solution,
air freshener and the outside
sweet at my back
all steeped deep in the rip roaring undertone torrent of cigarette smoke
blended with cheap perfume until I cannot tell the difference.
There is a limp familiarity to the underlying odor
born partially of personal encounter and-
nestled in the hive mind of social experience.
A distillation of regret and remorse,
of lonely,
of irrelevance;
this black hole swallows my voice the way of my ears,
eaten by rust.

Four cans of beans,
kidneys,
in cans squeezed without any power against sagging swells
melting into other curves
and I swerve close and around guiltily,
noting you only as the source of this pungent spring.
You are smiling apologies
ignorant of my apparent inhumanity-
blind to my selfish hands..

Pinioning belly flesh,
flattening,
reaching
and gaining attendance from a better man
retrieving every dropped can.
I’m retreating,
shaken,
tense to alternatively slacken.
My sweat slippery palms with whitened red sharp fingers feel foreign
and I am surrounded by razors then shaving cream,
moving from shampoo to conditioner,
the whole store is infected with smell.
Staring at nail clippers/snipers clipping touch smooth sooth my tense mind-
don’t look
don’t
look
I can sense little else but dread
drawing closer
you are now crouched so close I’m gagging,
taken forcefully-swept away in an olfactory flood
roiling in rot,
currents of solitude exude from your smiling sullen appearance when I turn to you
fumbling
with my electric ears,
surfacing
in a breath of Amish silence
broken with simple request
and I want to scream at you that I am not a man to ask opinions of
that it does not matter what fake nails she glues to her body
that she is excluded and I don’t know why.


I choose swirls of cream suspended within watery milk,
over childish lady bugs framed by yellow
or dots of red alternating to black,
an epitaph to a lifelike effigy.

I wish to peer at Paris, under-dressed and ***** in all of its neoclassical splendor.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I wish to see a prehistoric forest, verdant, overgrown and jumbled.
Before evergreen mysteries I would be ever humbled.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I wish to see Rhodian gardens and from them, smell the flowering fig and taste succulent honey suckle.
I wish to glimpse zaftig temptresses dancing twenty thick amidst courtyards of ancient Persian palaces.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I wish to be blessed into an inenarrable life on an unalike mysterious planet.
I wish for an Atlas resembling and proportionate soul.

For that, there are things I would give up.

I've demanded an even temperament from my unruly emotions.
I've settled for continuous disbelief at the loquacious ignobleness of humanity.

For change, there are things I would give up.

I've sequestered my innocent dreams and bloomed monetary means.
I've avoided death narrowly, my fingers gripping, fear will always transfix, while barreling down 36'.
I've inhaled profits and installed transformation.

For change, there are things I would give up.

I've burned my midnight oil, taken offensive slander, and burned bridges with gratuitous candor.
I've witnessed coal falsify a beautiful gloaming sky.
I've had gasoline dreams filled and fuming with intensity, all drowning under an ocean of oil.
I've envisioned bleached beaches to hide stained soil.

These are moments I would give up.

There are things I've realized outside my reality, outside my internal soliloquy and physical tactility.
I've come to understand my words are nothing more than symbols on a closed door.

You subtly strum soft passionate symphonies of pathos
and are wordless in casual relapse
to canals of bliss
and carnal bane-
Schisms of cannibalism eat at my soft humanity
with cries of animalism-
that are ****, animated in oil.

I consume you on dull nights
because you are there no matter what
And I hate the way you purse your lips
a stenosis of encapsulated disapproval
even pursed in pleasure
Your closed eyes give away more than
any assuming part of fleshy eyelids
slits of white shine as unfaithful mirrors
reflecting my own narcissism.

Afterward in comfortable silence-
two quotation marks still hang naked
trapped in the smell of sweat,
wrapped elaborately around
            "I love you"
standing like an alabaster sentinel
but acting more as a crossing guard,
dictating my need

I am staring at the red hand demanding stop
in a mostly silent rushing manner with any
urgent notice for the blind lost in the crushing banter.

And there is white hot anger in me
at the flamboyant capsules borne along to be seen
it is Soylent in essence proudly proclaiming to be green

I am flaring at the steady hand pandering
hot in a most heady hushing stammer.
Myths nay jerkingly, quoting for us
the signed history and sing lush slander.

And there is white hot anger in me
at the clairvoyant ape who is now born
chain-smoking and mean;
it is annoyance in adolescence rowdily
claiming to be clean.

We lay, you on your right side and I
on my stomach

  you can   hear  waves   crash
(steel girders twisting under stress)
An ocean of mercury, sloshing lightly- less than silently.
Ripples radiating as waves collide and
a drop is flung free,
into the perfect moment of    separation.
As the bauble is balanced,
I float momentarily flawless- circular with surface tension;
my wagging tongue wrenched free and swallowed whole
in the moment while I wait
for your answer.
I asked
are you in love with me.

We are all oblivious in our own attentive way.
A babylon of fanaticisms call, in a dark song you must pay.
We are all content in our own entangled day.

A bravado of neologisms appall, in a stark verity you have kept.
I'm removed from society, in insouciant splendor, I wept.
A creation of serendipitous intent, in a dream impending you have crept.

Listen closely and hear our collective vernacular in a state of constant mitosis.
Live and see our language begin to rival our own complexity.
A myriad of inter-connecting word highways with more twists,
turns and travelers than that of any physical road.
A body of thought massing in our collective conscious,
an infinite man-made addition to our finite physical reality.
Every addition is another color, another taste,
relative to the user in enunciation,
becoming ever less limited by geography.
Emotion attaches and tints the tone of individual words as we grow with age.
Without it enabling us to define ourselves, we are left ignorant and insular.
Memory accumulates casting a shadow and adds depth,
communication cultivating perception to leverage change in corporeality.
Pulsating slang spreading locally with fresh life to be globally colloquial.
A wordsmith may use this power to celebrate
or condemn their perception of reality,
more still- will wield words like plowshares
and escapism flourishes with such an expansive field
where all of humanity is brought out to play.


And sometimes-
for me,
it is just barely enough to grip a word with impunity.

Day eleven, I'm missing you
and I'm feeling like sinning,
maybe I should start from the clement beginning.

Day one, I see no more sun for I am alone
contemplating how I accrete age
and how many seeds I have sown.

Day two, palimpsest problems
weigh in heavy on my choices
and my mind has many voices.

Day three please don't look inside hollow me,
the pregnant wasteland of my heart
has been growing ruin from the very start.

Day four and out all my emotions pour,
I'm breathless from a sight of you
and my whole world returns anew.

Day five is crepuscular in nature, a perpetually playful night,
authored by your omnific fingers
and hidden behind the curtain, a sun just out of sight.

Day six, I've uncovered a skeleton making me love you even more
and I asseverate promises,
becoming blurred by family uproar.

Day seven is driven by a sensation of imbrication
and we know an end is coming,
lost in the easy salvation.

Day eight starts with our bodies huddled and our minds muddled,
you are a plagiary of my emotions
forgotten in loo of body illustration and soul cultivation.

Day nine is propelled by the intoxication of an end,
conclusion of what extent?
and filled with eristic thoughts of surrender to this utopian ascent.

Day ten and you're caught,
in my arms is where you ought to be,
and I keep hearing how just awakened you sought for me.

The transvestite
in the corner
sauntered over to me dripping ******
while I tightly gripped j&b; on the rocks in a heavy glass

ignoring myself

and he whispers heavily in my ear
after colliding with the bar, sitting down hard
"I want to be treated like a woman, and ****** like one."

The ****** next to us at the bar,
Thin legs crossed, drinkless and bruised
                      hearing this, turned,
Saying around a thin menthol on a long filter

"Oh' honee'y"

Making a small 'tch 'tch 'tch noise with her tongue seductively.

"You don't **** us, we *******."

We cannot seem to understand
that one perceives personally with limited scope,
a minuscule allotment, a slippery vision of time.
We believe to hold witness to a great single minded river,
this metaphor is bought wholly
and sold solely to sweeten our short life-
As one word often leads to the next,
a parent sires child
thinking this is the most powerful measurement of truth
we use to falsely foolproof our assurances
and assuage any feeling of being a victim,
eaten by time.
It is a shared dream of the dead man's final words-
they carry weight, meaning and purpose.
Needing to be painfully comprehended and carried self evident.
A literary reflection of our need for death to matter,
to have matter and be of substance is a view of ourselves linearly,
as a line drawn between birth to death
then- maybe
a cathartic eternity.

I am a
plenipotentiary
of your heart
but not your tongue
Which whips
with shout
Inflicting
all this
doubt
--
Try not to see my glaring mistakes
when uncaring I am trumpeting arrogant aches.
--
I became lost in channels of the self and now-
I have smoothed out my spikes,
inverted my aversions, diluted my delusions-
I have incrementally expanded my positive mentality.
I am the Xenolith within the conglomerate
uncomfortable with chafing sand.
Displaying dependability with the straightening of back,
gone is lithe youth's unbecoming stand.

I shall trust inappropriately and love exponentially.
I shall treat you, The Stranger-
even stranger
like family.

I miss being filled with a sense of here and now from
the unclouded mental vision of youth before
the eclosion from adolescent reverie to
adult delusions.
Every moment thereafter
being crystallized with serene debasement of self.
With age eagerly gripping the hand of heartache,
will you worry about losing relevance?
survey says, an astounding "YES"
Frightening,
knee-knocking
shoot the stranger who walks at dusk questions arise...
How long will my mental faculties survive this torment of existence?
How long till I am the stranger blinded and in the dark?
How long till I am the fly caught in a web of ineptitude?
Forever the convalescent,
I revel in and reveal the depths of human insolence.
For, ever striving to be the emotion-less outsider,
I become buried beneath the
inherent
ephemerality
of
cerebral
acuity.

The cause of ignition is inconsequential,
no trigger to let loose the hammer- Only,
I become a passenger, a **** cur.
Softly as a dancer, on swells of change,
undulating to the jangle and clink
of lives being unlaced,
splayed apart  in bitter irony,
displaced into objectivity.
You take it personal,
as if, I am just a faltering piece of personality.
Dropped like salt in the Devils eye,
I'm just over shoulder- needing the fall
into comforting familiarity.
I'm unfeeling, mute and defensive-
peeling self back to where we merge.
At the base I know I am one
but cruelty makes our hands feel like four.
I am my own dark passenger depersonalized,
sloughed off in stress and
bound in unrecognizable life.

A Mass Inversion.

I have lived to witness an Apple
become a juggernaut
see the followers nod their heads in belief,
walking segregated on the streets
unaware of their own worship.

We have not yet realized
that the largest religion in the world
is no longer faith based,
technophiles fill our rural
and metro quintessential sprawl.

Their numbers swell
and burgeon with new converts
that give funding rank and file,
whom are taught to know indulgence
in name only, mistaking desire for need.

This technology based obsession
is without age or gender restrictions,
without race distinction,
it asks not for ethics,
       pride,
morality,
intelligence or privacy.

It is all-consuming
just as any ideology-
as any religion,
answering the same fervent questions,
demanding tribute and changing the way you think.

-

The View Outside.**

Among the whole, the slow mass conversion,
there is occasional dissension,
some who glorify a golden era or fill with nostalgia
for something they may not have even experienced,
an immaterial escapism of the present
furthered by a childish inability to accept ephemerality
and our irregular morality.

Sometimes amid this denial,
this abstaining,
there is a seed of anger that grows with gnarled roots
that twist throughout with nary a cry or shout.

It is a quiet anger,
unconditional and baseless but for an intensity,
a burning sense of being wronged,
an infection that spreads without exception.

And when your self-righteous halo eventually slips to catch
in your now flapping jaw,
your anger will fade as you choke on hard etched resolve.

I am quiet in front of the ambient lights.
Confronted among these Ambien nights,
with alluvial life, a hot bed of technical idolatry-
It is hard in the valley of the sun
the people who over-extend
self, carry impotence and
a loaded gun-
The land of geriatrics filled with frolicking snowbirds
who cast out their alcoholic offspring
to grind under gears of the economic machine.
Modern man is genuflecting in the sanctimonious pantheon of self.

There is insincerity in my electric praise,
regardless of response I drip cool pools of soft cloth on floor
and utter abstruse succulent phrases.
Even with all this, I am insipid in lending lip service to ***.
I absently inhale acrid smoke because
I never pretended to be a hermetic socialite-
because it is a socially acceptable
form of self hatred.

Obsessive animality has become
disinterested sexuality,
I have done anything
ever asking "what then?" and
everything done:
has me **** in the eyes of men.
Gleaming ideals of ******* girl,
feverish licking,
slick sweat dripping and all this
boredom:
the initiated
subjects of whoredom
come undone with the gripping of slippery moans
and now lay soiled in sheets
where hearts beat fast,
striving hard,
deep in keeping the motions of man.
We are stripping off flakes of soft humanity,
which we feed each other to watch it melt on the tongue.

So very unlike writing,
*** is hard wired,
it needn't be learned-
only practiced with intent for perfection
and when the edges bleed together within the edacious mind,
all is bared
unclothing only sloven swine.
The truth is:
I only deal with shadows and
align them in a malignant play of poetic puppetry.
I outline a silver coated tongue
seen to deliver elaborate loquacious lies,
I **** deep at cultural control
and I huff full lungs of the social soul.

the Exquisite Executioner.

What kind of organic golem
of engrammic man am I,
so cold as to make you quiver.

You ask what hides under
my thin veneer of vernacular?
A bullshitter.

Caressing a mind swollen with Superego
I'd rather be traveling Home if only
I could just let

Me
                    go.

For
I am the ****, leftover from
your irate iron decisions.

I am the sepulcher, wreathed by
your iconoclastic tongue.

I am the maw
trite in humanity
partite in hunger.

I am not found loud in revelry-
in the noise of the night I am quiet
without the distinct need for rioting definition.
Not to debase their need
or to glorify my sweet bashful greed.
For peace, is something I crave, unsatisfied- I am unsavory.
The noise brings meaning to:
Ring in the New Year.
I find your little cries delightful, a better noise:
the groans of sleepy pleasure shrouded in night-
which is full of cupped spoons soon to be rinsed clean.
Deemed sparkling humanity,
with the presence of goodwill
presenting a better side of selflessness.
It is good medicine for a creative ego.

I despise names and
call them the false handle-
that they are.
A grip of pre-molded proportions,
framed in impertinent memory.
An acerbic peremptory command of character
stamped neatly at birth,
a great girth of foreshadowing
left pregnant by passing humanity. Crystallized now,
dutifully,
by the willful populace,
which we the children- bear in baleful ignorance.
You cannot help but have an altered perception and
unconsciously define,
as if,
a title was the crux of my character.

I'm likely to breath in
diesel fumes on Sunday
than ever the soft efforts
of spoken word saints.
Burnt out eyes from blue lights
and empty coffee cups full
of muddy rings.

Melatonin bleeds out blending
a wasteland of words.
Off season is
oft spent without thought,
gone in subtle joy.
Heavy knee across inhale
in a flesh crush,
so much, so maybe
it is the best moment I've ever had,
or heeded, until tomorrow
is sought for with a fresh smile.
I do have morals regardless of god.
I peel off layers of time,
hot and reeling in exertion.
I'm putting together something and
it just might be me.
As it was the time before,
but each time- a little better,
at least in this moment.
You say live in the now,
as if I should live in fear
of a future gone sour.

I don't fear a loss of power,
of limbs sawn off,
psyche sent scrambling, insane.
We are all in the red rend,
whole and writhing
ripped from lapsing grip.
I rasp that, for now:
it is all mine.

And with hot branding, I name the end, it is unknown Obadiah, it is uncompromising Demosthenes, it is ambuscaded Agamemnon,
it is crafty Cain, it is able to pull lightning down from clouds to electrify a world beset upon by forces of great magnitude, vibrations ricochet off of each other, quaking knee's knock as earthquakes rock tectonic plates.

In this final hour what was once to edify is now to petrify and once let free the fire is an esurient monster after being kept so long locked behind the now yawning earthen gates, witness even the most pluvial flourishing plain blister and boil, witness unyieldingly the flesh bubbling in flux as if from extreme cell proliferation, another soul abdicates its husk.

Mayhap this life will lead to another, as If there will be a choice project an air-less voice on the matter, will this If, insist on this If,
hold your breath in front of polyonymous Death, let without a moan a trembling icy finger trace lips of now great pallor and make the word-less decision known, no more cyclical reaping of our worn souls says humanity and beg on the now naked ruth for our sanity.

I strip you naked,
leave you firmly fixed to the spot
in the cold
encircled by a metal
fence.

You're rooted to that spot.
Without me, you'll never
leave
and with my cold metal devices
I will find the disease in you.
Driving it out
for fear it will reach the core.

--

You're curled inward,
dense limbs jumbled  
hindering my stare.
Arms overlapping,
heavy with dew
clinging to each blond hair.

I carve voluptuous curves
out of your jagged exterior,
slicing membrane cleanly.

My body is worn thoroughly
and I want so badly to stop,
wrists sore, plastic catching
anything I drop.

--

Everyday is aggravated
by the sweltering sun then
you're purple in the aging cold
and wilted you sleep half done
in the embrace of dark.

I worry in the morning
I will find you gone,

but I don't burn with it
rejoicing for you have no
tongue.

--

I have untied you piece by piece
from your wire and wood cradle,

and will with loving care
hang
you.

In the nebulous dark
a train rumbles distantly
in seconds a whistle blows
and later as quiet settles back
the whippoorwills call
as if in belated answer
while crickets rustle amid the grass
in the lukewarm tranquility of morning.
The earth,
moves with eluviate grace.
The baby,
weeps lonely with tears sparkling
on a weak wobbling chin,
and me,
I just hold my bones still and quiet.
The poet,
he tells me to shake the dust off,
but I take every moment I can
to let the dust settle evenly
in fine layers across coarse body hair
and sun reddened skin.
I take solace in moments where
the almost constant clarity is lost-  
adrift in the absolute essence of silence.  
Detached,
the field of time is shown to be relative
to velocity,
to gravity, and-
to how far away I am from you.

I forgot my life as I lived it.
I forgot my body as I died.
I forgot my shadow
as it was burned on the wall.
I forgot then and now
and will forever after.
I forgot the sky as it was blue.

I remembered the sky as it is now,
still dark and brooding--filled
with the truth of our downfall.
I forgot that the bombs

had already exploded.

I forgot.

While I drive left-handed
you scratch at the white clouds
drifting out on the growth
of my fingernails, and
rub salient fire down tendons
toward fingers of gnarled roots
and less a hand, than work incarnate-
in essence of character. In lines, in
worried skin and flattened bones:
the misshapen unity of labor in lengthened phalanges.
You speak to me about how getting older means:
you can always remember a better time than now and
about the city of angels who never sleep,
staring open eyed, hazy with intangible halos.
How is mans great struggle now with society and no longer himself?
As the sharp angles of the road drive our skin to tight contact,
I find myself in the air between your breath and sweat slickened palms.

It does not matter
if you know
there is no time for this
just- this is all you have
this:
one second.

As snow flurries fall-
the thick memory
of winter, reminds us
that life is the long breath and
every single moment is so precious
I make sure to throw each away-
individually,
carelessly crushing them underfoot
impulsively,
as the small boy does
stepping on flowers beside the beaten path.

The finger oil glistens in wide smears across convex glass
and the tired man in ***** Carhartts
asks the price for a rack of beef ribs.
The deli woman answers, his vision
quavers from the gristle and grease
as he dismisses the possibility of a feast,  
it just looked so good
he comments,  almost
pained or embarrassed.
She offers to cut it in half as
Dave the BBQ cook calls to me
across the fray and I wonder
if he wants my company,
for we talk long
about recent literary conquests
and our love of atypical diction.
The middle aged man
in the old ***** Carhartts
who walks
with the upright pain
of enduring parenthood
through poverty
refuses the meat with wry hurt
and wanders out of my life.
I drive one handed,
twelve ribs covered in tin foil
clutched dripping
as I peel back a metal edge
and gnaw flesh from bone.

Tired of prostitution, please give me money.
Your blackened eye on display for the masses to see, blanched wooden faces sweet as honey.
God bloviated, etching people like words, now procreation run rampant, filling the streets.
Tired of prostitution, my swarthy skin isn't the object of scorn, no color wars, just ravaging perceived meats.
Hot pink boots with long legs, cold pressed suit and an unused umbrella, zoo humans press in for comfort in numbers even when they themselves are the feared hunters.
Please give me money, you've exchanged selling of body to prostitution of pride.
Was it mental illness or drugs, lost hope, a long slippery *****, maybe ill fortune, lack of education, "I didn't have a chance", you didn't fight, who's on your side?
I stand in broad daylight and watch the magnanimous, blinders for lost brothers, sisters, friends, all cardboard screams "why have you abandoned us?".
An overweight black women sits on a bench, in a sea of voracious minds tempered by forced tunnel vision, holding a cardboard sign, I'm tired of prostitution she says, please give me money.

My opalescent dreams hang just out of reach, milky, spoilt with waking.

Burlesque imaginings wishfully realized out of the breach, fantasies of my own making.

Voluminous clouds of confusion cover our weighty decisions with the familiar sheen of normality.

Maybe you’ve just woken now, part way through, awakening with surprise at the life half lived.

I am trying to pick up a thin unforgiving object
with my over-sized,
disjointed creaking hands- again.
Plastered smooth,
flatly white and plain,
sharply contrasting the oaken ornate table beneath.
A pointed creation - filled from within by an impossibly pulled pin
n' covered simply
in slim thinly soft skin.
I want to tear it off
but my hands ache and cry out- soundless.
Time hasn't meaning anymore,
when you are gone and I am old.
Twice folded around inside,
the cocoon is layers of pressed arrested rough hewn life,
wanton against my finger tips,
that are bloated and gnarled with corroded bone
all angles
and absurdity.
Aged pages will be riffled raw by my papery epidermis,
squirming in earnest and fear of your leering senile words.
I want to tear it off but it holds like glue
And-
as I remember, you are beautiful
sold into sleep, bought in too deep
with twitching, itching delicious skin,
between golden strands that at times stand stiff with tension
caught hot underneath our bodies.

I choose not to remember as you are now
alone
in a crone crowded home.

Languid light fell eery through the fulgent fog bank.
Crows called, wheeling in the glare.

We swing on rubber and chain
taking turns calling back
the chattering challenge.

I do not falter as your fingers find mine
while we walk, shoulders brushing.
Framed momentarily
in crunching autumn leaves.

For a while, I am completely happy.

Boorish words fall out of my mind across a page so white.
Is this what great poets accomplish, a drivel of the mind, a sludge that distends from me to you?
No, this is emotion wonderland, a through the rabbit hole tumble to the topsy turvy world of Ben.
There is no great poet; only man, no contemporary English genius in hiding within I; only me.
A curvy frame belies an interest in the obvious.
You’re distracted by the pretty girl, and her enormous ******* hang in your vision.
Maybe there is nothing beyond her *******; a seemingly infinite reality is etched on her soft flesh.  
A reality of many options, luminous statues roped off to the touch.
The bent frames of a social enterprise, thousands of years of thought piled in a heap, reach for the stars!  
What happens to the old ideas?
Where do my metaphors go to die?
I hope it’s not my imagination, littered with already lost initiative, now running from my searching eye.

I'm tired of Love lost,
of cookie-cutter me missing you
and all of the ridiculous rhymes that ensue.
More and more I am fed up,
plainly sick of inflated ego's insulated by chosen ignorance
or inborn imbalances,
maybe a history of inbreeding
from a catalyst of parochial need.
You are a parody of mental health
shaping the shifting black and white
to propound cheap love, I feel this as a slight.
Committing any wisp of originality
to become an unconscious marketing ploy,
you're looking for glory in methods unlearned
now butchered, bleeding clichés
to stain pages and pages
with your sullen insecurities.
For that I name you an idiot,
a slavering jowls dripping greedy soul.
Comprehend there is no invalidation of your emotions,
just a damning of self neglect and hidden pride in suffering  
all laced with the unspoken demand for my respect.

As you **** and jiggle
hop and knock
slip and giggle
keep a foot forward
and the other forewarned.
Slack jawed and hackneyed
you're endlessly forlorn
slack kneed and jack knifed.
High on strife and ******,
car crashes on black rock
cracked streets and hard
sweets lined teeth so
stained with self love that
your internal apathy fits
glove-like and I am hungry
struggling against your
thundering angry words
filled with fifty year old
angst ugly with stretch
marks but more from
the sadness dribbling
down your philtrum un-wiped
like I was and the only thing
I now want cleaned off is my
memories of you smeared
erratically and etched eternally
onto my life.

I, in isolation find my own humanity.
Surrounded, you have given into vanity.
I, in mirth smile with soft silence.
Hounded, you’ve adopted gratuitous violence.
I, in perfect mimicry pontificate Love.
Grounded, you’re blooming flowers of a deep red undreamed of.

Your weltering words do not interest me
with its lack of true clarity.
Just your tongue
and all the inhuman noise it can make
Oh' schlepped out- sleeping son
you are the ever tediously coveting one
ungratefully burdened by soft sin
as if it does not alter the personality within.
Scrape gingerly the bottom of a bottle,
in despair carelessly compare disease
to your displeased humor, wash logic
along with blood from lacerated hands;
broken bottle pieces rasping like last words
empty of regret- with every sweep.
In blind acceptance with little malice
you slice ties cleanly as memories of allowance
have barely slipped and
menial wage paychecks become the sole script.
Only little things are still swingin'
but no longer with style,
limply dripping you are simply pathetic and
knowing this is the first step toward the corner mart,
wallet in pocket and to- locking all cold thoughts away
but you continuously fail to remember,
total absence is equivalent to suicide.

I rarely cry, and I cried in public today, many of you looked away.
The only sound I could make was a sigh, how many days were never lived?
Too many gone for a simple goodbye
the public was made to feel like a ****** to my tears,
but all I could think is "so much laughter was stolen".

It stuck with me like cold steeped megrims, or something deeper.
Think of those averting eyes, diabolic men’s whims and all those souls for the reaper.
I never heard the screams, or have seen those man created seams.
Huddled for heat and from the long day beat, can you really perceive?
I tried, and I cried today.
Thoughts like the ink permeate my soul and being too late, I grieve.

The numbers surround me, and do you really see?
For you its art, a thing of which you can choose to take part.
Responding to their urgent behest, would you have joined a protest?
If you hadn't, steeped deep in silent sin would you be able to live with yourself?
Think, could you have dug a pit for your kin?

I speak of these sorrows and dream thickly, of children burned and crying out sickly.
This is history, her story, our story, our horror, our creation in which men fight, finding death and glory.
I cried in public today and you may have looked, ashamed of my display.

The city eats individuality like a baby bird the offered worm.
When you look at me as you do, it makes me squirm.
The hug softens my reality like a sung song tempers the heated mind.
When you look at me as you do, I know you are the one I've wanted to find.
All the noise eats away at my focus and faceless strangers blend in time.
When you look at me as you do, I show all of my love in rhyme.
Your traceless touches leave marks on my soul, burying the city's heavy toll.

Look to the gloom,
yielding no depth of distance,
only pinpoints of light
blaring the selfish madness of man
and beast alike.
Look to oval eyed Saturn, and
notice not the opalescent crenulation
of teeth, or
the rigid celestial body
inflated and bloated-
floating in the absence of fettered air;
all that is important
is the lifeless bodies
cannibalized and
invariably stuck in an endless orbit
of the greedy giant.

The cold metal grate calms her, as supple flesh conforms
into the crenellated ridge of many miniature rectangles.
With widening eyes focusing so goes her mind into spasms of elastic thought.
Unleashed imagination simulates the mass of steel and
plastic encapsulating her in a headlong tumbling orbit.
She lingers lonely as the space station spins.