If I could ever see,
a woman that personifies,
the symphony of this bliss,
I would cry,
and feel no shame from it.

If she spoke,
with the restraint-ed passion and grace
in the tune of my emotion;
I dare say I would be lulled into a dream,
the romance of which,
I could never hope to realistically pursue...

Rebellion isn't death-defying.
No, it is the scythe itself:
the keen edge of derision
sharpened by subversion,
tested by disadvantage.

Down with the patriarch
but if you can't beat him
join him
betray him
enslave him...
Never ask:
is he the problem?

Each patriarchy is a tower
of tradition;
each brick: another tower;
each cell: another tower,
imprisoning
dignities and dignitaries
of fairer facade or form?

Fair would mean equal
but no man is made equal,
so why debase to elevate
why elevate to debase?

Down with the patriarch!
His ways have blinded us.
He asks too much.
Let us remake him,
that relic of bygone era.

Is power not what it is...
to be human?
No, it is not.
Love is that identity.
It is the total pleasure
it is the pain elixir
it is hidden beyond greed.
Greed for control.

Freedom is not control
Freedom is comfort
for one, truthfully, is only
ever
not free
when one is in pain.

So yes, destroy the patriarch,
but
don't destroy the man.

They dragged me
screaming
down the highway
to their sacred hell.
My torture was a whisper
to their grinning
over fires
that fester.

Nothing in nature
can rewind:
naught but the hand
of God.

Upon retaking my first
steps
anew
I mounted the struggle.
Peace my birthright.
Truth my shield.
Bold conviction
became shaking steps
ascending
the stairway
to heaven.

With my folly transparent,
I witnessed
the cackles and claws
of the demons
to be mine own whip.

I set down the weapon.
I let the ashes of despair consume it.
I do not look back,
for the stairway is its own guide.

Bittersweet is the rasp of envy,
and gratitude: the beckoning of peace.

No lover alike.
A chill, but a respite
from summer's dogged
immolating
bite.

I recant the blessings of summer.
Autumn hath a kiss
that I fondly
remember
or can't
forget.

Wishes of plenty
promises veiled in wintry charm.
Mother nature tames the land:
Spring and Summer the lofty arms;
Autumn and Winter the legs,
giving longevity to the work
of creation.

I beg of thee,
gentle season.
Kiss me softly.
Reap my lips of the memory,
but fulfill me in the reaping:
let me rest in the heavens;
a last kiss for the dreaming.

All the sins
washed away.
So was wrought the grace.

Wings, like lovers arms, enfold.
White as light.
Healing flames.
Passion pure.

Such was the kiss of forgiveness,
upon this newborn soul.

The dregs of insanity
don't fade.
They linger in the drain,
bubbling viciously.
I watch them choke the
innocence
from the stone.
It seems to blacken
and I wonder:
"Was that my flesh?"

It is still my flesh.
I am still a sinner.

Yet, by the power of this...
bankrupt insanity.
I float over the past
to embrace the future.

Without such tarnish
to strangle my soul
I smile...
it is a child's smile.

I sit alone.
I taste the bitterness
of my tongue
and somehow
life is more bitter
than this stale breath;
more empty than my cold bed
less comfortable, than my bleeding heart
more drowning, than nonsense
and less appetizing
than my own
rotten
mind.

Now I sit in two.
I whisper to my friend,
or,
what he desires to be called...
I tell him:
I wonder if there is
a primitive man
somewhere
in another world
absent
of the
vainglory
of future man.
Primitive man sits, nursing a wound
He stares into the night sky
and dreams of my life
he hopes his wound would be
as superficial as mine.
He imagines the weight of my wounds
as mere foundations for greatness.

All the while...
I dream of him

My friend chuckles.

I say:
Imagine how I see him.
Imagine his mind absent of media,
as if the universe
cured him of some life-threatening wound.
I tell my friend:
He was made perfect, you know.
I tell my friend:
That man could cure the world if you gave him a chance.
He would be a god.

My friend gives me a sideways glance.

What?

He offers a gesture of non-confrontation.
I relax. I sigh. I simmer in my somberness.

Imagine him! I declare.
The things he could accomplish in my life and me in his!

My eyes glaze over.
Instead of a deer, I'm an insect.
Instead of a car, it's a train.
Instead of headlights, it's the sun.
I'm not frozen, I'm petrified.
Because:
maybe, at the end of the day, he and I are the same.

That primitive man.
He would bumble around society. He would be consumed by the media before having the answers. It would devour his perfection. In the wake of its *******, the carcass of his potential mastery would be a mere ornament in the media's MTV mansion.

And I, society's specimen of advancement and culture?
I would be devoured by that primitive man's natural world. I would be reduced to moaning and wailing, crawling like a stuck pig, hoping to find a highway, all in vain. Why don't I just lay there and die?
And that nature? It wouldn't leave a carcass. It's too efficient. It's too...
Monstrous.

The primitive man. He's the god of his world.
While I. I can dream of being a god, if that helps.

But will the void mumble.
Will it turn in its sleep?
Will the god, in some slumber, whether dream or nightmare, ever
ever
dream
of being me?

Well.
Then it's in for
a rude awakening...
so to speak.

13th October, 2016
To all this will concern:

I sit alone.
I just sit.

When I breathe, I try not to stir the air
and make sails out of cobwebs.
When I breathe, I urge my chest
not to furrow my shirt.
When I breathe, I almost die
so that I'm barely breathing.
For who should want my breath
to be more than a whimper?

If I breathe,
butterflies can take the day off,
for my breaths will churn hurricanes.
They'll cause wars in the far reaches of the universe.
They'll make God sneeze.
"Oh, I'm sorry... bad breath."

If I breathe,
I'll be presumed alive.
I'll have to work.
I'll work for big tobacco,
or BP
or the mafia: whichever one.
My ecological footprint will be the bodies
of your loved ones.
I'll do this because, if I work at the grocery store,
who knows when I'll sell food to the local
serial killer.
I'll be aiding and abetting the 9 to 5 of Freddy down Elm street!
Who wants that?

No, no. Yes, I'm right, it's better this way.
And if you push me.
If you so much as touch me.
Millions, perhaps billions, of infinitesimally small parasites will swarm your body. You'll sneeze.
"I'm sorry. I haven't showered for thirty days because: the oceans, you know?"

Action has consequence and, after so many years of trying not to be a burden and, somehow, still being a bigger burden, I'm convinced its time to go.

I've decided to be a sack of compost... Grade A compost.
I'll mail myself to a respectable farm (non-GMO mind you).
I'll pray to all the gods and living, semi-living & unconscious entities beforehand to straighten things out that I'm signing up with Jesus: nothing personal, I just don't think the rest of you have good benefits (you have to be cordial. After all, I'm going to be something important one day. Grade A compost isn't cheap.)

The last step was to write this letter. Digital, of course. Don't want to waste paper mailing this to everyone. Yes, I'm not stupid. I paid all the different energy companies in the world the exact dollar amount per second it would cost someone to read this each time the page is accessed until... well, the end of this website. Have to be practical.

This is a strange suicide letter, I know, but bare with me.

My method of choice.

Well, I don't want to leave a mess, so I'll just wait until I'm dead.

How did you think this was going to end?

Leave pity behind
don't ask for the help
for if you do
there'll be a yelp
and a brand new, gleaming
branded welt

But I did ask
for something new
then came the belt
numbers one and two
Now I've got what I asked for:
my welts and bruises
A slave must ask
A free man chooses

No child may bare
the weight of decision,
but teir keeper may strike
if the child is useless
So devil may care
May care for the children
If the parent does not
he'll boil them in cauldron.

In youth there was a dream
to find the key
but age has worn it down
so abandon the plea.

In form alone
in shape it thrives
it shifts and shouts
it lies in terror.
I wonder where
I know it from
and who it is
and where's the gun...
But the body it held
the secrets it whispers
I cannot know
for my tongue's like a bell.
The final knell
that soul did hear
was grave and sharp
that much is clear.

Solutions are like dishes.
They have ingredients
and once one is found
you can make it again.
Yet, my lonesome irksome
won't pass with time
and since there's no reason
I guess I'll just rhyme.

I've been to the ocean
its embrace like the grave.
When you're caught in its arms
you're too lost to save.

In somber dreams blue
I do think of you
and drift on a draft
of winds that I knew
Without you I'm there
in oceans not fair
my weeping's a flare
an SOS' glare...

Isolated I am
a man in a maze
No matter where I turn
I am forlorn
solutions are infinite
but momentary
and worn.

Even as we danced,
there was no echo
of lovers lost...

The lake
was as a sheet of
glass that I thought would
crack
if we lost
a step.

The music
was the rhythm
of our hearts,
slow, but fierce
calm, but alive.

I taste the tearsdrops of
the heavens
bathe me in serenity.

I've known beauty,
but never perfection
not before this moment
melted my heart
and spread it like butter
over her love.

Yet, in the quiet
rapture,
there was a darkness.
Heartache troubled the
solace of the dance.
I drew back the blackened veil
and to my surprise
I found myself...
my identity...
buried for too long
in the misery of
flames of ire.

It was then
I knew
she
I would cherish
with abandon.

I stared
into her gentle eyes
I held
her trembling hand
I kissed
her doughy lips
and I loved
like sorrow
eclipsed.

The day begins when
moonlit sky
smothers the land in darkness
while sun
is shy.

I light
the hundred candles
slowly
gazing into each one
one at a time
time, the measure of
each flame.

Time is that length of stride
It is the path upon which
all life ambles
fighting the mysterious current
but unable
to avoid
the departure we call inevitable.

Each candle's light is power
it cannot be measured with the mind
we ask time of the flame's life
but
does the flame truly ever die?
I see a hundred flames and
from where did they come?
I imagine them as humans.

Does a man, born into darkness,
imagine the convenience
of sight?
Does a man, born alone,
imagine the blessing
of another?
Men dream of an afterlife
of a god
of an in-born purpose to one's life
so,
what is so impossible about that?

We measure the machine's intelligence
by its ability to think for itself,
but
surely the irony
is in what gave us such ability?
Or in whether thinking for ourselves
"is" life?
It is too much for a man
to give in
to imagining
the true power of creating,
when to create,
a man can only put carved wooden head
on carved wooden body
and **** the strings
in so doing, create life.

The atheist
will latch onto the popular reason
against a father
and will tell us that
we must not believe in anything ruling over us
believe instead that this made us
this
anarchy
luck
randomness
something
I don't know
lets theorize
let's not answer the question yet
let's not fool ourselves
let's not trust that book
let's make our own
let's make ourselves
let's change man to woman
let's ignore the conscience
we're not alone in that
laws are meant to be broken
when we can't make anything new
let's...
let's...
let's...
destroy the world,
because that's also an unbroken rule
and humanity
is already
broken.

I scratch my head.
What do I know anyway.
After all, I'm no one important.

The herd moves:
he who leads the herd, is no less the herd,
than he who worships the herd.

The first candle goes out.
My eye cannot measure its lacking.
Candle... after candle... and the next candle
snuffed in its own time.
It is only when the tenth candle goes that I notice the difference.
The room grows darker, like a misguided world.
When the last candle fades,
I feel the shame of destruction weigh heavy upon my soul,
but,
then I see it,
reaching beneath the door.
I ****** open the windows
and a wondrous dawn's light floods the room.

Yes, I forgot.
Where does the flame come from?
I will never know,
but I know, whenever it seems darkest,
something will catch fire
and the world will be illuminated
once more...

Spat out from the maw of carnage
slick with the battle's bile:
a coat of blood, black and foul
for war is hell and
hell the churning
chastening
chilling
gut
of a beast beyond reproach.

Yes, I was there...
I fought
for you
for your freedom
I fought so you could sin another
day
I fought so you could curse my
name
I fought so you could scorn your
savior
and wonder why it is I love,
you.
Tell me:
who is it that suffers greater?

The toil, is heavy
I lumber forward,
scars, like woodgrain, nest my body
I am born of battle
in my chest
my heart does rattle
empty
for there is no room for weakness.

I form pillars of truth and justice
I forge the righteous from
weakness, purpose
and all the
while
they grow
stronger conviction
in the unyielding dreams
that bolster all men from breaking.

Yet you lob laughter at my prophets
and greed is your only profit.
**** my champions
**** my children: men and women,
with your lust and lustre,
no matter,
for in recompense
for all your thoughtless vengeance,
I pay in kind...
Soon, you will envy,
the blind.

I woke bitterly
I'm bruised, evidently
poison stings elegantly
when I think of your face

Nothing can replace
the feeling of the chase
the constriction of desire
the elation of loosening lace
a life of loneliness burning on
the pyre
but when I wake now
all this is as the murky floor
the bed of dreams and irks, a distant
past crammed and burried in the fogotten
Footfalls stir the watery gloom of the
swamp whose surface breaks
only when I sleep and
thrash.

In the distance
a glow, an inviting
innocent thumping so
warm and benign,
I know It's you.

I grasp your heart
a thing whose fist
I thought I knew.
Words as sharp
as fissures of guilt.
A voice as hard
as jails of stone.
I thought I knew
your steadfast
heart, but now
in feeling its
warmth and
sound, I doubt
my anger.

Of course,
I can't be talked down
I won't be convinced of forgiveness
my pride still hangs in rags
my heart still beats like abuse
my throat is still taut from every word I hung on
and, yes, I hung on, while you shook
and shook and shook
until I let go!

I stab your heart
the skies erupt with lightning
my face caught in a mixture
of pain
and delight
and fear
and remorse
a confusion I cannot identify
but will haunt me in every silence

In my twisted glee,
I expect your heart to bleed
to wither
to perish,
but the waters of life flow forth
and I feel
you weeping

My body slackens
I feel disgust wrack my nerves
"How could I?"
but you lay there,
hoping to embrace me
your love still drawing me close
is all I had ever wanted
I kneel, I fold, crying my own nonsense away
you wrap your arms around me.

How is it that only humans,
will love each other more
after going to war?

"It was just a fight..." you whisper in my ear,
"Only I can **** my love for you."

I ain't got no money
I ain't got no time
I ain't got no talent
but ability to rhyme

Lost friends in the gutter
lost lovers in the winds
I only seem to hold on
to this bottle of gin

Too busy with nonsense
too drunken to care
There is no evidence
of my copious despair
but I have an idea
that will turn it around
a crate full of beer
in which I will drown.

Face first
into the pasty mud
too weak to crank myself up
too ashamed to continue hugging earth
but we all hug our mothers when we're hurting.

Finally risen from the pit
Face up, proud, and defying
I gave him my stony gaze
Face caked with loam

He sneers
I could swear there are
canines in all gum roots
as he speaks
tongue dancing to farce
I hope he guillotines the messenger

He utters
you look pretty when you wear
the ****

He thwacks me deadly
I tip and tumble
right down
down

It is the betters years now
I've soared up, up
up
and now people wear mud
for me
not on faces
not that I'd care
I'm paying them, after all
after all, I'm not buying their souls
after all, they want to be here
they're happy
and after all I've been through
It's high time someone takes the mud
for me... and then
I see her

Red hair rippling in radiant sun
casting glints of desire I catch with
hungry eyes
Her skin pale as pearl
Her face speckled like rich mineral
Her features delicate and strong
Her eyes, sharp and bright and silhouetted, like
windows to a garden,
yes,
green eyes.

I've tasted never
I've spoken never
of such quibbles as love,
but her beauty is the embrace
I've never known

It's all a shimmering flow
a cascade of fluid memory
the quenching of things
not known to be thirsted
My eyes open to a path
I've just found the will
to traverse in peace.

Yet, like Jack and Jill,
we go tumbling down
down
the hill
and...

It's a wedding anniversary
not ours
because silence
and delirium imbibed
is preferred on such occasions

I smile
She glances
and sighs deep
unearthing cavernous
voids
of misery
caked on memories
of bittersweet mysteries
called love

It is only in the mirror that,
with those windowed eyes,
she gazes with scorn, pity
a truth meant for me

Shame crushes my heart
heartbeat pulsing like
a crumpled soda can
rattling on empty road

With languid brushstrokes
she applies the mascara

You look pretty when you wear
the ****
I said

The pin drops
and with it
the canvas...

One man's trash is another's face
We can find solace in the
shattered remnants
of our dreams,
or we can challenge
the very precepts that
assured our rightful happiness

I lay bleeding in the crevice
trying to scream the pain away
like a fiction, was noble bliss
I closed my eyes to end the day
and along came the man
that would silence my fears
bandaged wounds
skins of beers
dirge of tunes
smiling, "Cheers!"

I could walk when morning came
shake of hands
sharing names
Eljago, he said proudly
I cringed admitting my name
regardless he called it fitting
I said much the same

With Eljago's farewell words,
he strode in danger's path
Mount Death on his horizon
I looked on, "Absurd!"
walking after him,
"Why head there?"
He said love tests all men
but for some, there is a fare
"I'll join you on this quest!"
Looking mournful, he said,
Beware...

Long was the journey!
'Neath forests, o'er hills
Nests of creatures, exotic thrills
Barbarian territory
Witch's lands... chills.
"I tire," I complained
Eljago urged we continue
"My wound gnaws me!" I shrieked.
Still, he pushed us
I collapsed, swamped in sweat
Angered, he chided me
and warned of the danger
I languished despite he
There was no roar or crack of twigs
no arrogant warning
the creature's maw like a cave
came to swallow us, darkness
blinding
Eljago swift, his might awing
cleaved it in two
while I sat bawling
Like two halves of a hill
each side flattening trees
the forest hushed in chill
as the beast was no more...
What did he use,
to fell the monster?
Eljago pointed to Mount Death
he insisted we go faster

The Journey was longer
than I could have known
at a faster pace
you'd think I was thrown!
I twisted an ankle
Eljago gave it strength
I fell over
He picked me up
I puked
He fed me
My legs gave out
He carried me
I wept
the air was so thick
I could barely breath
He finally stopped
He told me stories of his love
On an island constantly devoured by the sea
Eljago was loved immaculately
Her name was Vailloria
she came from the sea
they had ten children
but angered the Gods
for Vailloria was wed
despite Eljago's perceived odds
to have her for himself
he had to face Dragado
God of lies and darkest shadow

I told Eljago of my life
in laborious
excruciating
detail
and how I'd fallen to die...
Eljago, my savior,
began
to cry.
He had never heard a story,
so mired in turmoil
adversity made him strong
but it made me so weak.

Eljago carried me further,
to the top of Mount Death
There, I watched him approach
the throne
of the Shadow
of Death.
Dragado stepped out from shadow
his features made of bone
he looked down on Eljago
and laughed a roaring drone
"Is this what she wants?
That pathetic adulterous crone!"
Like thunder was the strike
right down on Eljago's head
never had a blow
filled me with so much dread,
but Eljago stood for glory
Eljago stood for love!
In fact, where was Eljago?
There he was, above!
His strike was like an eagle
or an axe
or something mighty
it split Dragado quick
but there was something
fishy
a puff of cloud and shadow
no residue of anything messy.

As the mist cleared,
Eljago glanced at me, confused.
I shrugged, scratched my beard
hoped the fight would be continued.
Eljago dropped to his knees,
clawing at his chest
"What's happening to me!" he cried.
I rushed over at his behest.
It was sudden,
it was cruel,
no honorable way to end a duel...
The shadowed hand of Dragado
burst from Eljago's chest
clutching Eljago's heart
failed was the test.

Eljago smiled,
he looked into my eyes, relaxed
he handed me a little scroll
"Find Vailloria..." and passed,
before his last words were said,
but I knew what we wanted last.

Dragado sat smiling
on his spectral throne
For once, something brave I said,
"Take me to Vailloria's home!"
Laughing, he obliged
A dark door opened
I walked through with confidence
and emerged on an island's bed.
There was Vailloria, waiting
beauty radiant as a breath of heaven
around her, children played
I walked to her right then
I handed her the scroll
She read it with her children ten
Who was Eljago, to you? she asked
Thinking of his tears,
I said, "He was my true friend."

I never used to feel haunted.
Until I lost what made me whole.
On my arm, she I flaunted.
Now she's gone, where is my soul?

Where is it? Where is the music?
My foot lies flat, no way to use it.
Now she haunts me day and night,
in the hollow where I hear the blues.

There's no music, like a funeral,
still, she plays the blues.
I'd held out hope still knowing all,
until I heard the news.

She's dead, not the way I am inside,
because I can still kick buckets
and there are no more dreams for her.

It makes the haunting deadly
what if we were wed? hic!
why aren't I dead, too? hic!
We'll never be together now...

Who is she, you ask?
She's my muse, who sang the blues.
She kept my feet and hands in tune.
My muse knew of all the birds in June,
their calls cataloged in stacks like dunes.

I don't know where she went,
but the haunting is severe.
She speaks in the hollow of my soul,
but, if I'm alive, why can't I hear?

Solemn hands, led by somber mind, raise the instrument of silence, putting it to sober lips, and softly the silence reigns, but soon abates.

Poor hands lower the instrument as gentry waits.

Rich feet tread upon buoyant ground, an island out in a storm, awaiting judgment.

Forces fail to ****** the veil from feeble foes between the toes of giants tall and giants small that fall from forty-five hundred miles above, fists rattling, jaws chattering, buried in the collision.

Perhaps nails are this way when they affix me.

However, I quickly pry myself away from the cruel, cruel day. Singing lost languages, listening languidly, plying myself candidly through clear and cloudy skies, alike.

Journeys over just lands, burning in my dust-hands are strands and strands of whiskers, plucked from lions’ maws to build an antenna.
My hands shape a needle weaving itself into the sky.

Yet, the collision of derision upon my mind will affix me to my madness, and there is no escape from a box that I have been told to call humanity.

I don't want you.

I don't want your love born sweat to conquer my onyx tower,
It crumbles still, because I shake from a withdrawal,
Caused not by intimacy, but by the mere fantasy of you.

I don't want you.

I don't want your sickly sweet hive juice, oh Queen of sweet nothings,
But a pestiferous hunger felt by I and every other before me,
Allows us to follow you just by scent, twenty eight days after hearing you.
And we shuffle still to the tune of your voice, collecting the pollen,
We find ourselves selling our bodies to you without hindrance,
And we commune in the afterlife singing your praises,
For only heaven compares, but we still linger in your presence.

I don't want you.

I don't want these tears I shed to convince you that I'm weak,
But my heart is already broken and in the healing that you administer,
It breaks again, because your touch is so gentle,
The ecstasy hits like a hammer, and I writhe in silent ******,
Only knowing that this will end, but holding onto the feeling still,
As if it is the only thing keeping me afloat in the monsoon of life.

I might want you.

I've written eight thousand sonnets and every one is about you,
But every one is different, because I appreciate how complex you are,
And I'm driven mad by the love you claim to be capable of,
The shadow of it tames me and I lose my will to fight you.

I don't want you.

Fear grips my heart in the dissonance of your desire and my worry,
And the drumming of ancient rituals berates my consternation,
A ritual I see as forbidden is nonetheless more alluring,
And I claw at my cage, wondering when I can let,
This hunger be sated, let the rabbit run free.

I don't want you.

So close to breaking the hermetically sealed barrier,
So close to losing all recognition of moral oversight,
So close to breaking down the walls that coddle,
So close, so close, so close, to ultimate sin.

I want you.

Suddenly a weight shifts and the fall is too fast to feel.

I want you.

Like light banishing darkness my pearl is let loose,
And the line that was drawn cannot be real.

I want you.

And I'm proud of that, even though God will strike me down,
But someone told me that rules are meant to be broken,
I understand now that you are the candy,
That my mother told me would cause cavities,
But if I don't eat the candy,
If I don't have the cavities,
Someone after me will never hear my story.
They will do the same.
If I don't break this rule,
Someone else will pay the price.

I am your cautionary tale.
This night of passion will make that certain.

Watch the rain wash away wishing for new sprout to take root
Smiles and traces of kisses on your face, I wish love weren't moot

Do you remember, through the fog and haze, the sun shines bright?
We spread our wings and, holding hands, the sky is where we take flight

Radio waves and satellite rays illuminate our trails across the heavens
Look to my lips as I try to plant you with my love, my voice beckons

I tell you of your beauty and, like a mirror, you tell me we're alone
Tell me more, tell me alone is a bitter fantasy, love is deeper than marrow

Stars explode and light evaporates into crystal tears tearing fabric
Life can be more than a dying sun, it can be more than just words

We're like batteries you and I, burning and fueling the engine of industry
Let's forget where we came from, let's forget who we are truly

I want to be lost, I want to be broken and shatter, can you fix me
Can you be all the queen's horses and all the queen's ******?

No. Maybe we're here for no reason more than Humpty Dumpty is fiction
So I will sit under the ruin of the willow tree and mumble stories of my silent addiction

He must imbibe, he must throttle their fear.
Father to tribe, demons hold him dear.
This drunkard devil, this fiend to sin.
What cage shall they next hold him in?

His throat is parched! Their vessels full.
If he took one bite, would it be harmful.
These animals, they litter the streets,
For what good are they, except to eat.

He roams the towns, he roams the dale.
To satisfy him, no man may prevail.
His cold red eyes, his calloused hands.
He will reduce the world, to empty sands...

The marching procession of his feet.
Mounting, fleeting, death, upon all he meats.
Blood drips from his hair, tears in his eyes
To this feral man, no one tends to his cries.

There he may ****, and here he may choke.
Blood he may drink, as if milk were a joke,
But why pursue his death, when you are worse?
You are no victim, he suffers insatiable thirst.

Those who cross, this nighttime terror, will be sure to know his name,
From ocean blue, to Timbuktu, the ghost of the man is to blame.

He rides upon, a howling steed, he sets women's hearts aflame,
He will dismount, only to pay no heed, to the life, the gods call, 'game'.

Beware, oh Bandit, do not pierce, the eyes of the open believer,
For what you have seen, on the journey of one, has made thy soul, cleaver.

Hated still, the tainted will, of the man who rides, in the palm of despair,
Points his fingers to the sky, in faith, that the heel of truth will be there.

The bandit will leave less on hands and feet, when he comes through,
Yet, he will leave more than tears, when with your ******, he must make do.

So true is his arrow, nailing to the tree, the reigns which he has overcome,
Out of sight, he is a patriot to the desires of his heart, serving no one, but one.

Where will you go next, bandit, what treasures will you next seize?
What of the riches in your heart, crucified by forgotten responsibilities?

He searches, this bandit, for the one elusive key to his caged soul,
As if it were on race ahead of himself, always out of reach or toll.

Aghast! He halts in treasure cove, at odds with the sight before him.
What layeth on the ground, is a sight that attempts no boredom.

Here! Is a sight for eager eyes, here! Is the quencher for desire.
That which is in front of him, will extinguish his mind's wild fire.

One foot, in front of the other. As if he had no longer the ability to walk.
Made the bandit, his way over. To the treasure that made him gawk.

It lay in fragile casing. It had a lustrous stare.
Even though it was alluring, it should have made the bandit beware.

But, oh! He was too hasty. For the jewel, evidently tasty,
Incited him to grasp it firmly, like a gluttonous man upon pastry.

What was it, in the cave? The treasure that could powerfully ensnare?
Oh child, I cannot tell you, for fear, that you will go there.

From the depths of the sea, they came. Homeless.
Creatures of hapless form, and formless bodies.
Animals carved in the nature of blindness,
without godly supervision; deities.

Convicts they were; that which is wrong,
Leaving behind a world lost to them. Alas,
Their crime is that they did not belong.
But even in exile, they hold debt to their past.

They flopped, they crawled and oozed,
Out of old skin, they became something new.
So the years passed and frequently bruised,
They became gargantuan and further still; grew.

Inhabiting a land, once uninhabitable; now tamed.
Creating dominion over raw nature, they climbed.
Hills, valleys, mountains, volcanoes! They claimed.
Even in the face of annihilation, they climbed.

Above it all they choose to rest, touching the sky.
The creatures learned time, then they chased it.
Always pursuing it, always getting one step ahead. Fly,
They soon did, faster, faster, faster, they chased 'it'.

Until they broke out of the awesome surface.
Like once before they made prints on lands once untouchable.
The creatures are creatures no more. At least not all.
But, soon. All the creatures will float away 'pon solar winds.

I look back on the first of them all. The scared,
Unsheltered and curious creature of the old world.
It looks upon me, with questioning, unaware of destiny. Unprepared,
In its dark eyes, I see light. Light that I am closer to taming. Knowledge unfurled.

The ecstasy in the harmony created by the symphony 'pon my guitar... the chaos rending quake, of a glass breaking in the kitchen as melodies echo into the void caused by aging seconds. Part of me. Living in a utopia of sounds; the other, startled by a panicked accident. This is the nature of coincidence. This is the nature of the world. Harmony and discord, sharing the same cup.

Weeks spent searching for an answer.
Inside, I've only been finding cancer.
Grow strong, you'll be a dancer.
"You're wrong, that's not the answer."

I'll grow into a crook, roaming streets.
I'll crack open stores, like nuts, for eats.
Prostitutes will be my daily conviction.
My homes will slay me with eviction.

Little did I know, I'd become a legend.
Like Bilbo humbly living at Bag End.
Plenty stories to tell, mistakes to defend.
Dragons I've slain, lovers in deep ends.

Yet, it's all come down on this bluff.
I'd always believed I was a tough.
I'll have you know, it's just a bluff.
When I jump, I'll fly into the rough.

I see her passing by like a shooting star.
How rare these moments truly are.
What purpose that drives my heart to devotion.
Devotion, driven, like swimming across the entire ocean.
Fate prepares before birth's first light.
Was it love at first sight?

I stole a rose from her garden.
At first opportunity, I gave it back to her.
"Oh, the most beautiful rose I have ever seen!" she admires.
It was once her's, dare I say she is in love with herself?
I was wrong, I see it this day, she is in love with me,
Finding excuse to attribute wondrous things to me.

I can't be foolish, I must be strong.
At second opportunity, I cannot be wrong.
"Just as the lake reveals to me the truth of my face,
Dear queen, you reveal to me the truth of my heart."
She delights in my words, but there is doubt in her heart.
A thorn I see there, but gifted with the proper acumen I am not.

At third opportunity, I come prepared.
To seek out the thorn, to vanquish it, but she is scared.
She has grown used to the pain of the thorn,
Now removing it is the true thing of scorn.
The operation begins and I am lost forever,
"Familiar it is to you, and you thought you were clever..."

"Whatever do you mean, fair queen?"
The thorn, it is poison, a dagger unseen.
"You put the thorn there! It was you that maimed me!
Your poison that's trifling, the ailment that claims me!"
I stare without word, I'm pale to the touch,
How cold I appear to be, confusion as such.

"If ever I did, and I do not say that you are wrong,
Truly it was another man, and not I that broke your song!"
She quivers with anger, the spittle is rain as she speaks,
I am drenched in accusation, unable to evade the shrieks.
"You broke my heart! Your rose was evidence of that!
Had you not stolen my innocence, you would still be a rat!"

They have fallen upon willing ears, her words.
No more opportunities, flown south with the birds.
"What will you have done, my queen,
I am undeserving of your mercy..."
Our eyes met and diverged from meeting.
Our hands, once acquainted, are strangers once more.

She says the words pronounced like kung-fu film fists to the face.
"To, the, guillotine, so, it, is, quick, and, clean, post haste!"
Her judgment is clear, I await the deed.
Taken to the pit where it is to be done, dragged by her steed.
I look to her and her eyes no longer reflect love, but doom.
She is the last thing I see, and death my last moment to bloom,
Like a red, red rose.

Sometimes, when I let go of you, I fall.
I fall into a wood chipper and cry sawdust.
I fall into ******* and bleed lust.
I fall into gold chocolate and I eat rust.
Nothing's more painful than letting go of the truth.

Sometimes, when I leave you behind, I forget things.
I think the touch of your skin is like slug slime.
I think of your voice like a broken nursery rhyme.
I think these wounds will all heal in time, in time.
Nothing's more regretful than being human; losing youth.

Sometimes, when I drown with you, I'm good at math.
Factor in all the times you made me lose the path.
Divided by the times I boldly faced your wrath.
Multiplied by that time I quit you cold turkey.
Nothing equals: why do I even love you after all?

Sometimes, when I dream of you, the other stars fade.
The secret to loving you explains how the universe was made.
The sun and the moon make love, eclipsed nightmares evade.
Venus and Mars make pillow-talk a banquet of bliss.
Our signs aren't compatible, but why trust the zodiac?

Sometimes, when we fight, there's a silver lining.
I mine for it and melt it down, polish it and wear it.
I'd never sell it, but I would brag about it.
I'd never forge one, but I caught you faking it.
Conduct a survey of my affections and find it unanimous.

Sometimes, when it's over, it's just beginning.
I see you on the horizon of dawn escaping the wake of sunset.
I hear you playing the harp of loneliness in a crowded cacophonous room.
I taste you weeping as your new love docks in from an ocean voyage.
Nothing's more dissolving than the nature of your serpentine carousel.

In short, never have I ever never gone a day without thinking of you,
Without wandering the wastelands wondering when I'll next see you,
Without my heart aching under the heartbreaking realization that you,
The edifice of my pining, are exactly who I thought you weren't, you,
Are healing poison, and I'll only drink when I wish to die whilst feeling alive again.

Have you ever had a bad cherry?
At first, they're succulent.
You feel thrilled, almost salacious.
You burrow for more.
You fill your hands with their gravity.
Red ones, dark one, even better.

Then you find it, it looks like all the rest.
You're ravenous, unable to pull your lips from its surface.
You expect to crunch down on its soft supple skin.
You find the horror within, it's bland, the taste is thin.
But each one before, held a marvel within.
Your heart is riotous, it looked like all the rest.

The anger has me writhing with a tempestuous din.
The sound of heartbreak yelps from inside.
How could it be that one?
How could it be that little thing that seditiously winks without eyes?
A piece of my soul it takes but it doesn't leave by any window.
It dies within, leaving my gut to wash its sin.

Sometimes you are that bad cherry,
That beast that brings mourning.
I sleep with the scar and heal in the morning.
The cherries look too good today to pass up.
But another bad cherry looms in the wake of my deep thirst.
Just as with you, there's always another day.

They ponder still, of the will, of the open book;
Better to be judged by cover, or by page, I await answer.

Foreign ink drops stain my words.
Eager notes scrawl my organs.
Passioned fingers, sweat my bonds; loose,
Like wings in the wind, my knowledge flies,
Unbridled.

They question more, the empty score, of the read bible;
Simpler to be believed, than misunderstood, agree?

Mumbling misfits, chant my contents in crazed ecstasy;
I made no commands, I wish for no harm;
I seek no justice, I want not blood, for fluid.
I wish for eyes and eyes alone.
Give it to me, these pleasures; alone.

They pass me down, the procession quick, and change me, day and night;
I am no babe, I need no milk for life, I have not mouth to feed, I need minds to seed.

The whispers they make in my presence,
behind closed doors is atrocious.
Do they ponder of me still,
to question my answers?
I care not, no more, for now, I am fractured.

For if you read, the broken pieces, the shards of my once reflective ode to wisdom;
You will gain naught but, an unbearable ache of the mind.

I know what she wants, I know what she needs.
Without my banana, she no longer heeds.
She spits out all of my winter seeds,
Down the river and caught in the reeds.

Primitive urges and sophisticated boredom.
Too much mail, not enough cats to sort ‘em.
She wants parlor tricks, not whiskey *****.
She wants sweet nothings, no liquorice sticks.

She’s a snake charmer in plural disguise.
Her double standards will be your demise.
She wants handsome, tall, not short and wise.
She wants musclebound, no porridge thighs.

She’s not sure about that or puzzled about this.
She has her way and you’ll do anything for a kiss.
She wants you dead before she becomes a pumpkin.
Smart as you are, you don’t know what she’s thinkin’.

**** a spider for her, spy for her, same difference.
To see her happy you’ll spare no expense.
To see her mad, all you need is common sense,
And to return to the frog you were forth hence!

She wants a man, a boy I’ll forever be.
All the world’s dreams are lost to the sea.
She doesn’t know that men don’t exist anymore.
Neither do women, growing up is a forgotten chore.

Betrayal, is like the mole in the pasture.
You thought you knew all about it,
when it popped its head up,
but god knows what it does underground...

Sooner or later, you find out, the mole was blind all along.
Didn't even really know you were there.

So how do you trust a friend who has no eyes to see.
How do you trust the uncertain problem solver, the maverick.
How do you trust the truth of Lady Justice, herself,
Sheathed in ragged, blood-stained cloth of the innocent.

Maybe the real question is, how do we trust ourselves?
Aren't we blind, when we live half our lives in darkness.
Still further, we live most of life in sleep,
Where our dreams are luxurious secrets, even to ourselves.

No one speaks of their lofty dreams, they stay perched in limbo.
To speak endlessly, until not spoken to, if only life were so simple...

Why can't I fly? Because, I am caged in the bowels of bitter, deceit.
Why can't I dance? Because, my body is bound to the gravity of unacceptable, honor.
Why, can't I sing? Because, my lungs are choked by this haute reservoir of insanity.

But, the Trapeze, artist...
The trapeze artist, climbs the ladder of awe, itself, and walks the silver lining of death.

Why can't I write? Because, my hands are bound in the filth of my past,
meddling with broken things.
Why can't I speak? Because, the honor I am bound to, is to live, life, behind closed windows.
Why can't I see? Because, the blindfolds that sheath my eyes from sin, are more sin than any satan incarnate.

But, the Trapeze, artist...
The trapeze artist, climbs the rungs of the narrow road, and walks over the pit of doom, to save itself.
There is no explanation for this act.

So, why can't I shout? Because, I am voiceless to the concerns of the audience.
Why can't I beg? Because, the world has no room for weakness, fear and more loss.
Why can't I scream? Because...
Because...

Because the Trapeze artist dropped off the high-strung ledge of wonders...
And plummeted into a darkness, that has robbed my audience, of all conscionable thought.

Because... the Trapeze artist, is dead.

I bought the shirt
to tell you I was there
when the electric slide was
cool,
when I wore dandelion
hair.

I knew the words that could
school
your mind so that you'd
stare.
With your electric hide
you can go
anywhere,
but imagine your jealousy
when I'm in all the photographs,
not noticing I don't fit.

In the millennium's decade
I wove webs at bars
I healed dames their scars
and gave them my brand.
I told jokes with slight
of
hand;
left coats with nowhere
to stand.
Oh, I was the border patrol,
******* pockets,
though none could pass.
My security measures were
long and vast,
probing questions
slick with crass,
I'd lead them to pasture
epiphanies from my grass.
Yes, I wore the hat,
compliments, too,
but my hat wouldn't fit
no matter what
I told it to
do.

All that time,
searching for something to fit.
Keys slipped out of locks
Numbers ripped off of clocks
women deprived of their... talks,
for my language was divine.
That was the problem:
how could I be divine?
Was I the branded fool?
Was I truly sublime?
A prince I was, set to inherit the world
till misfortune struck, disaster unfurled.

I couldn't fit into my home
or wherever I'd
roam.
I couldn't fit into school
now a blunted
tool.
I couldn't fit into work
Who's that?
****!

No, no, don't feel sorry for me...
After all, I'm only 3.
Three things you wouldn't
want to be.
Too round, too soft, too... me.
I'm not the sort of peg
that fits in at any degree.

I'm just the laughing stock,
that you put in your wok,
who tastes bad next year,
that much isn't clear.

Yet if I live in the past,
I'll eat my own tail,
so in order not to fail:
into the future, fast!

Someday I'll find,
that fitting is not the key,
it's learning to
relax,
in something bigger than I'll
ever be.

Two phoenix feathers.
They lounge about a bar:
the man a ravenous flirt;
the woman arranging skirt.

She looks up to barely notice
The man's poultice of charm.

Alarmed she couldn't be
A strang-ed warmth in the knee
Her straw mind lit with glee
for the stallion to consume.

What of the body dear swan?
The man looks away to yawn.
Her desire becomes an agony:
fire building like dragon's breath.

Indeed, she pants for more...
Phoenix feathers burning galore!
Another look and she melts,
such bewitching spans veldts.

He looks away again, he's mixed.
She wonders if she's been tricked.
Indeed, from shadows another slinks.
Let us depart "adult" hi-jinx.