Innocence is the days when
I thought that monsters
lived under the bed rather
than slept right beside me.

It was the times I feared
heights almost as much as
I now fear brooding stares.

Back when I thought
passionate love was the
only kind worth having
— that I now wish for a
lover who loves quietly.

Innocence was thinking
danger was an ill-advised
adventure, not a man.

It was admiring a tornado
heart and not realizing the
damage it would cause.

Along the Valley
Of the Mississippi
Bluffs and Banks
Covered in trees
Whisper barely
In the Summers
Breeze,
Content to hang
In the Humidity
As Fall Comes
With Oranges
Yellows and Russets
The Rustle becomes
A Whisper from
Tree to tree, of
The Coming Soon
Wintery, they say
Their Goodbyes
With Soft Leafy
Sighs, and Promise
In the spring to meet
And for those not there
They will Morn the Passing
Bringing Blooms to their Graves

He's sitting in
these rented rooms;
he's waiting
for the end.
He knows that
there are things
he knew,
he'll never know again.

The parting of
your lovely knees;
the glistening
of your lips;
the way your *******
reached out for him;
the lilting of your hips.
The time of lust
has drained away,
there's little
left to trust.

He's sitting in
these rented rooms;
he's waiting
for the end.
He knows that
there are things
he knew,
he'll never know again.
   -mce

Life is hardly a heap of joys;
ignorance works overtime here
in sheeple country.
The universe uses your own voice to complain.
The needy, tedious body diminishes,
but that devouring voice rattles on.
We wax eloquent in extinct languages
describing marvels to the dead
who are not impressed.
We recite entire dictionaries
of universal incomprehension
through every imbecilic night
until the very ears of heaven
drip weary blood
as every explanation punishes.
You cannot separate
what you have chosen
from what chose you.
So easy to know how to begin things,
unknowable how they will end
other than in a heap of not joys
or a prolonged spasm
of quivering delight.

Some memories i never write about, means they didn't happen.

Barbie's so sharp
she knows Ken is now broken,
he's just a token of
the doll he once was.

There are
words spoken from seashells,
whispers, but
wedding bells?
no,
the glitter shone for a time and
then faded.

It's gone in a flash,
too much ******* and cash and
nights on the lash with the boys.

Toys that we were,
but now Barbie don't care
she's got ****** and gin hidden
everywhere and
a rope that hangs loose,
a noose at the top of the stairs
no one cares,
not Barbie
not Ken and there's
no action men
anymore.

Everything broken
everything bust and
everything turns as I
touch it to dust,
except
plastic faces,
botox at the races and
never passing the post.

All we can hope for is
another shell on the seashore,
whispers,
for someone to see her.