Sweet Phillip, estranged brother o' mine;
what was it that drew you to a life of crime?
A half decade had came and gone-
since you hadn't reeked o' wine.

"My brother, what is wrong?"
I should've asked;
but- you hid so well behind that mask..
You hid those crying eyes-
and that, alone, led to your demise.

And now, sweet brother o' mine,
as I stand over your tomb- I realize:
there is no more time for you, - barely I,
to make new friends
or- amends with ole' ones.

We, two, have been bound to be murdered
since the, very, moment we left the womb.

It looks, as though, they got to you first,
and they left the ground blue.
Surely- it confused them
when they shot through-
your head and didn't see any red.  

What lies ahead?
How can the world be so mean?
An angel has fallen, down, dead-
unto the Muddy Waters
beneath the trees a-green.

The Death of Phillip Crowley in 20-16-
left dew in the eyes of the Faery Queen.
She will miss how his eyes did gleam
She will miss how his mind did dream.
She will miss him- and so will I.
            (sigh)

Good bye, my brother-
may we see one another,
another day..
maybe.

Oh, shimmering Jules!
What has happened, to your radiant glow;
and- why, dear, do you sound so sinister?

But- Jules, do you not know:
that some of thee most meaningful literature
has spawned out o' heartbreak and sorrow?

Has it not been shown: that- tis',
only, human nature to scribble scriptures
o' how we've lived beyond cloudy horizons-
and greeted each tomorrow with new wisdom
and a, truly, heartfelt smile?

  (A heartfelt smile.)
I hope to see one return to your face-
if- even- it takes a while.

Seeing you this jaded, my dear,
is causing my peace o' mind to begin fading.

I hope you begin to feel better-
and- a smile you can find in the mirror,
sometime, in this ever-changing year.

It appears you've gotten me all wrong!

Though, I'm not surprised:
this fluffy exterior looks quite domesticated,
  now doesn't it?

A predator caressed within sheep's flesh;
I've been in this rueful disguise, all along.

I feel: you'll be incredibly impressed
should I choose to unrobe, (and) undress-
my thick scraggly fur from beneath.

You see, you cannot make a mess-
of someone's body with a sword's sheath.
It takes a sudden pull to reveal the edge
of the blade that is so very forceful.

If force is what you want from me,
I will cause the rest of the wolves
to fear letting out the slightest whimper
towards mother moon.

Soon, my dear:
I will run alone in the strongest pack;
  creating an atmosphere
  that you are enthralled by -
  & beg to be my bad as' b'tch.

My eyes are black:
because sleep, often, defeats me
in the brutal Battle of My Bed.

The art of counting sheep
is one that- this head has not mastered.

So, as such, the damp tobacc-
o- keeps my lungs looking,
dreadfully, similar to my eyes.

The alcohol that keeps me plastered
is withering away my liver.
& death, one day, shall be delivered-
unto me.

"What's my message,"
   they asked,
"Underneath all your words, masked,
   what do you want them to hear?'

"Well...

Once our atmosphere mirrors
the one upon Mars and-
there's no longer anyone left to sit
& watch the stars...
Even then, shall my heart be in civil wars
with my head.

( The bickering will extend-
      long after I'm dead )

Once we've all left this space,
I'll still remember her face.

& once we all last say 'goodbye,'
I'll still be wishing that her & I -
were once well acquainted.

So, I suppose-
That's what I wish for her to hear...
But, I haven't anything to say."

"Uhm... Okay,"
   they say.

My thumbs have been bouncing,
back and forth, from the backspace
button since Friday evening.
Gazing upon my words in disgust;
going nuts- insane:
because I think my plane
has just derailed.

Upon an eighth floor balcony,
the wind whispers, such, silent screams.

He decides, under the moons beams:
to the gusts, he longer wishes to talk.
He rises to the edge, as the winds mock:
feet leaving the ledge, he begins,
  duskdreaming, pondering,

'I wonder, of the streams-
  in B.C.- in which does her heart lie?'

Upon the concrete sidewalk
below the eighth floor balcony:
  the wind's whisperous screams
   have been silenced, so it seems.

All the vile old men,
spitting fire at their peers,
are: (just) child poets
who've lost their pen,
over all (of) their miles and years.

I do a lot of internalized talking:
into late hours of the night.
so I'm bound to stumble upon,
  (Surely, I just might!)
something substantial- sometime.

How I wish: that she were enthralled-
by the idea of spending time with me.

"This petulant peasant- this, so called,
man, or boy, who dreams of thee
before and after- he go to sleep!"

Oh, me!
Oh, my!
  "The things I would do,
   to transform to a fly
   upon the walls of your room!"
   (Everything!)

Oh, me!
Oh, my!
  "Admiring you, I flew-
   around the pillow I wished was mine:
   the one lying next to you!"
   (Oh, how I wish!)

Oh, me!
"If only I could portray, so that you knew-
  all of the beauty, within you, that I see."
Oh, my!
 "What I would give- to be your guy!"
   (Anything!)

Oh, me!
Oh, my!
  "If only I could transform to be-
   a fly: hovering above thee." 
  (Alas, it's just another pipe dream.)

The Queen has received my request,
to bestow her with this peasants presence.

Oh- how I feel so very blessed:
that she has reviewed the plea's,
to embrace her in conversation,
within my maundering mind.

Oh, no! Is it what I sense?!
Is she going to ice me:
like the harshest of winds?!

Please, my dear, answer my message!
Even if just to say "God, no!"

I need assurance of the wreckage
that has just taken place.

I, merely, reckoned
I'd put it out there to consider.

The vessels within these brown eyes
have burst many, a, times- before;
and- I'm sure that it shall continue
happening, regularly, in the future.

As I stumble, ******, down the avenue,
I come to grips with something! I realize:
that nothing in life is eternal- (for sure)
and we all, eventually, greet our demise.
  
(Will you be ready?)

The beauty of it all- is ever so pure!
  This life is a mere interlude!
(& there is more to come after the show!)  

  Do not, when I'm gone,
   release mournful cries.

For I- will be flying away from Eldorado-
with such magnificent magnitude!

(Don't get it misconstrued!)

I have not died!

(No!)

I am the hues of purple
across the wonderous Western skyline:
if that is where you chose to see me.

What it would be
to make her my missus?!
(Magnificent!)
It would be heaven for me!

To her every word, I would listen-
(No!) hark- and concentrate upon.

I would drop everything at once,
if only to get to witness her eyes- a- glisten.

I dream of kissing her upon our lawn.
It's a dream going on- seventy two months!

I wonder if she, to me, could be fond..

I scream up to the Creator, in plea,
"My fare maiden, I beg of you, this is-
the only thing I ask! I am, merely, a pawn
but if you could bestow that queen unto this dunce:
I would be so appreciative!"

They say I may
have a substance dependency,
I believe they're wrong, my friends!
  You see:
'P. Crowley' is simply a figment
  of my innermost imagination.
  And he writes so much more diligent
-ly when my mind is in elevation,
  puffing upon pipes.. rather high!
Why, in the hell, would I-
push halt to his inspiration?
  --
Not worrying about when he will die,
he cracks a cold beer.
Isn't it national beer day?
Cheers.
  --
Oh, how I wish the Wednesday Woes
would whisper (Not yell!) & pass.
All I wish to do, Lord only knows,
is lie motionless in the Thursday grass.

Oh!

How I wish I could silence
these demons in my head!

These demons pray on violence-
& I think they wish to see me dead!

(Oh!)
No!

Your love was a cigarette:
burning bright for me after I struck a match.
I deprived myself of air,
to enjoy every drag.
Alas, cigarettes don't last long..
& now that you are gone..
I sit here, in a clouded room:
it's what remains of us.
Toxic lungs and a foggy mind!
Oh, cigarette lover,
how I wanted to make you mine!
Though: it seems what you had for me
was lust.
In your short-lived love, I put my trust.

I've been cruising through life,

having a good time.

Smoking my herbs

& sipping red wine.

And, I think..

'I feel fine.'

     ...

But as the fog rolls in

And you're, likely, with him..

I wonder..

Am I?

January 5th, 2016.
Five in the morning.
Red eyes caused by being up since
four (am) the day prior.
He stands in Winnipeg airport
staring off at all the people.
"None of them are boring,"
his brain tells itself,
"They are all exquisite stories..
sitting upon their own personal shelves,
waiting to be opened."
Be wary, my friends. 
Many of those who would like to read you, 
will only leave you with
a cracked & creased spine. 
His trance,
broken, as a hand taps his shoulder.
His sister,
ready to board her flight.
He says,
"Travel safe, good night."
With that,
back to the parking lot..
Back to solitude. 
Back to his thoughts of you.

As the trees do sprout from the soil,
small golden hairs broke through his face.
He must become a man,
in a world so turmoil.
If there is one thing
he would ask of the human race..
it would be
if everyone could, kindly, slow their pace.
Have Some Pat-
  ience.

I am Me.
Phillip Crowley.
Me is one who rarely has peace
in the back of his mind.
My smile will have you believe
that I glide through life with ease
& that nothing phases me.
But, you see?
I am in a state of constant worry.
I am in a state of over thinking.
Until the day that they bury.. me,
I don't think my mind will see peace.
I am Mr. Crowley.
Whose thoughts will make you crawley.
So, you see?
That is why you may never see,
inside my mind.
The Crowley you meet is jolly..
& kind.

My body cracks
like the wind upon
the backs of old trees.
As I stand, begin to tremble,
violently,
do my knees.
One thing I will say
swiftly and with ease.
"Surely.. this world will live,
   laugh & love,
   much longer than
   you or me."
This, I know.

I'm a Big Orange Cat,
needing something to knead.
Mislead me, love, until I recede.
Worry not about hurting me;
I think this might be the way
my heart was meant to be -- flat.

I guess what, it is,
that I'm trying to say, is that:
I do not wish to be an anchor
that tears through the beautiful ocean
that is you..
for, I would rather be the air
that pleasantly coincides nearby.

Noon: Her heart spilt out.
Six: Love from her to him... drought.
Midnight: Solitude

I will still be here,
reminiscing you, my dear,
right where you left me.

More specifically,
where you refused to take me
into your fingertips..
Oh,
the way you stroked me though..
I wish you had done something exciting
like thrown me
far out into the water.
Instead, you grazed your fingers
upon and past me
in search for the perfect pebble.

Grand & Abundant
are thee amount of times
my wheels have traced this cities streets.
Of me, it seems quite incumbent,
to keep moving, & brewing up rhymes.
My voice hits with such heat..
it comes from the fire that is inside me.

Gently shaken awake from my slumber,
I let out a nervous weep,
"Get your hands off me,
who are thee? Set me free!"
I slump back into my nest
as I remember that...
It is I,
with a gentle grasp
on the throat of my life.

I stand strong with my kin,
as a breeze, slowly, blows in.
I reminisce upon the travellers
that have been- & gone.
I remember each and every
one of their smiles & grins,
as I listen to the bird's song.
Just then is when it occured..
A sudden crack from a trunk
that has been, a hundred years,
so strong & sturd-y.
We may not be heard,
but my friends & myself
will certainly, one day, fall.
Or we'll be chopped down,
our space filled with motels.
Or, maybe, a good ole' mall.

I'm not being ghosted... (No)
I just get monthly visits from the dead.
I wasn't led on... (I know)
I just, stupidly, allow miracles to exist in my head.

My friends, reclucantly, drag me out
to some local clubs to drink ale & stout.
I try my best not to sigh, too much, or pout
but it all comes back
with the memories about- her.
I slip away from the bustling crowd,
crying, 'it's too much- too loud."
Slithering over to the old wooden stool
I kindly tell the bartender,
"Keep serving me these until I drool."
An unusual look upon his face as he nods.
I notice everyone in here puts up such facades.
I refuse to plank up my soul & heart
though, I would if I was smart.
So I keep
hiding all emotions
by sipping on various potions
& adding certain chemicals to my drink
when no one's eyes towards me
make any motion.

Strangers are the last of your problems
when you can't even seem to speak
the same language as the ones you love.

I opened my eye
and such familiar faces,
  suddenly, look odd.

Surely, I haven't gone mad!
(Constant thoughts of her)
I'm a sad lad sitting alone in his pad.
(Constantly thinking of her)
Oh- I see this ending bad- ly.

As The Chariot arrives 
in the dead of the night,
clouded over eyes begin
to spit fire.
Clearly, chasing a lost cause;
pipe dreams.
This seems to be
a mislead fight-
for what is believed
to be right.
Taught his ways
by a wise, old liar.
For failure, deemed? 
So it seems.

Captivating kisses-
from wicked witches.
Don't beckon one as your Mrs.-
for your heart will be left in stitches.

The rays of a crescent moon
carefully caress the curvature 
of her. Reckless, as we are unfamiliar-
with one another. Inevitably.. Soon-
our bodies are conversing
with no need of an interpreter.
Slightly bewildered,
we cautiously proceed.
We were taking turns,
taking the lead.

Such a silly fool;            
fallen victim to being    
  embraced so gently.

What you want from life...
you don't know.
You tell me,
"We'll cross that bridge
  when the we meet the stream below."

The orange filter
fixed to my fingertips
grazed upon my lips before
falling down
             down
             down
when she shook those hips;
Lit a fire in the place..
Or maybe that was her.
She'll do whatever you prefer
until late hours.. &,
then she's gone
                         gone-
                                gone.

Inhale, exhale- stop.
Be still; hidden from the Hawk.
Talons pierce your top.

I want to be occupied by her.
I want her to hang on my every word,
even if it's just a drunken ramble or slur.
Her beauty has my mind so blurred-
I can't think straight.
I want to spend time with her.
Til' eternity- I wait,
on a call from an angel.

Every sentence written will, inevitably,
eventually be forgotten-
forever and eternally- in time.

Cravings for poison-
not eating much else.
Too far gone for tampering.
Darkness. Avoid all the noise and-
stare at the staggering elves.
Unflattering & always scampering.
Constant metamorphosis.
Turbulent cranial fortresses.

Love hurts? I think not!
Vanity may be painful,
though, love: it is not!

Enticed by her eyes,
I release a deep, angst sigh.
Oh- my... I'm in love.

I believe it's, typically,
about two stout deep
when the thoughts of my queen creep-
into the vibrant spotlight of my mind.
These internal gears begin to grind;
this mind, slips my grip... I begin to lose.
Thus, & as such...
I continue sipping brews,
with such high amounts
of ethanol & yeast-,
for- you see- the love that I do love
lays her beautiful mind
about one hundred kilo-'s nor'east.

11:22, what a beau-tiful,
aesthetically, number!
On this evening- though,
it does, truly, prevoke
this mind to believe that it's time-
for a potent bowl of cannabis
& a very restful slumber.

Purchasing Maria
from random strangers downtown;
not a name involved.

If I were to, endlessly, ramble on,
about everything and nothing..
Would you revise them when I'm gone,
turn my scattered thoughts to songs-
and sing- in the voice of my memories?
Will you, forever, treasure me;
the way I do you?

Are you really yourself
if you're always having to ask
the addict in your head for his advice?
Can I tell you something?
You are suffice!
& you deserve more from life!