I was barely 21
when I ran with this older crowd,
(they were between the ages of 30-35,)
and I thought it was something cool,
something special,
I thought I was someone
real grown up and mature,
I thought age had something to do
with sophistication
so, I tried to impress them with Bach & Beethoven & Mozart
while drinking rotgut whiskey out of cheap tumbler glasses
because that’s what I thought grownups
were suppose to do
but instead they’d say,
“this isn’t that kind of party,”
and then they’d exercise their drinking prowess by guzzling down a whole bottle
of Rumplemintz and chasing it with a case
of Icehouse while blasting Screeching Weasel so loud that my neighbors couldn’t exist.
my forethoughts of adulthood had been marred by the stench of reality
and despite the headaches and hangovers
that paired with the morning sun,
I continued on anyhow,
matching them drink for drink
like it didn’t phase me
because I had something to prove;
I wanted to show them
that I was cultivated,
that I could hang,
that I was tough,
that I could run with the big dogs,
that I was all that was man,
(whatever that means)
all I wanted was their approval
that I was something
after so many years of being told
that I was nothing
and I wanted it to be known that I had endurance and stamina
but those addlepated simpletons were too vapid and clueless to notice the ****-stains
in their pants let alone what I was doing.
we were an odd pair, different yet the same;
we shared the same desirous need for intoxication yet our levels of class
were on a parallel universe.
but as time went on,
the framework of realization took shape
and I began to see they were just a gang
of losers with no place to go.
they used up my living quarters
as their party sanctuary:
people getting tattooed in my kitchen
people snorting coke in my bathroom
people ******* in my laundry room
people throwing up in my closets
people ******* in my living room
and it grew tiresome after a while.
so, I had to kick them out of not only my house but out of my life for good.
decades went on, I reached my 40’s,
they reached their 50’s,
and most of them are dead
but the few still living are more dead
than those buried in the ground.
they’re out there now,
enduring a midlife crisis
with bed-wetting regression;
peering down from the hills of nostalgia,
sprinting towards their
social media platforms,
losing their minds over
things they can not control,
smearing opinions around
like **** as if you asked for it
and gnawing away at the bars
of their enclosures for one last taste
of the honey, the pleasure, the folly, the glory
because they’ve become
embittered with world;
a world they hadn’t envisioned
a world they weren’t ready for
a world that’s changed forever
and after all the wild and lawless nights
and after all the rebellion against authority
and after all the broken glass & cigarette holes
they’ve became like everybody else:
unable to face the inevitable.

alright, alright, the records sound good
and the mulled wine tastes great.

everything here is tidied up;
swept, mopped, vacuumed, wiped down
to an immaculate degree

it matters very little though
when your utterly alone
on Christmas Day
in a clean house
without anybody
to ***** it up
again.

all I have are these thoughts,
these tiny flashes,
you appear,
then disappear,
then reappear
once more.

I can only imagine you bringing us a drink
while we laugh at the same movie
we’ve seen for the 400th time
and the kids are playing at our feet
with their new toys and board games
and eating oranges or chocolates
or walnuts on a white cozy afternoon

but looking around now
while dipping into the 5th scoop
of wine from out of the ***,
there appears to be
nobody here.

I add cranberries, an orange slice and a cinnamon stick
as I switch the record to Leatherface or Joy Division
or The Shocking Blue or Black Sabbath or
the collected works of Richard Strauss
but it doesn’t help my melancholia,
only suppresses it
for a while

and as the dog stares wide-eyed
and the cat leaps out wildly
and the gloomy clouds roll by
and the poem writes its obituary
to a silent response,

the music grips my heart
and squeezes it like the
blood of an
orange

and I am
utterly alone
without
you.

It's a thousand things--poetry-
    like the myriad themes of a symphony
    embodying all aspects of life and human nature
    the beauty, the joy, the angst, the pain, the fever-

   mankind in search of meaning and purpose
   in its inexhaustible and unbearable thirst
   dim and deceptive is the horizon
   vision and sense of direction are stolen-

   where's the light to be found?
   Where's the firm holding ground?
   What will follow on the morrow?
   Would it be the re-visitation of joy or sorrow?

    It's the perennial role of poetry
    to remind us of our dignity and humanity
    to look squarely at the face of nonchalant time
    to reach out to the stars to live a life that's sublime

My poetry
finds and defines me

as long as
I stay with it
we're a unity

to it I'm tied
in continuity

faith, the utmost faith
is required
in this mutual loyalty

when I'm sinking
it will embrace me
as I step into finality

The stars
The dark
The silence
The empty streets
The night

While I dance in the cold
Music taking me over
All of them
In their wonder
Are on my side

America got talent
monkey playing  violin
audience mouths agape
24/12/2024

Don't forget
    your way home
    after your travel
    wide and long-
    nothing out there
    can compare to
   where your heart
  does belong-

   scenes you've absorbed
   how soon they will be gone!

   Trust not your senses
   your fancies do reality distort
   your memory will be short
   your fancies will fade along-

   your way home
   never should you forget
  your garden has since bloomed
  waiting for you to celebrate-
  let home-coming be your beloved song!

Money speaks louder than honour and morality

Manipulation, there's no prevention,
you know I keep coming back.
Keep pretending, you are helpless,
while you play with my heart.
My obsession is my profession,
I can't forget you, but I can lie.
It's all illusion, my confusion,
you are never gonna stop coming back.