When you feel buried under cosmic expectations, just remember that stars burn out too.

Speak to me beyond words,
The languages of love that have no name.
Reveal your presence to me,
in the tongues that are only known to us.
Eternal bond with no chains.
I call you by your name but you are my indefinable, indescribable lover. In every astral plane, every existence, coursing through every vein, sweet silence.
For love is the language of infinite words and no words at all.
Sweet lover I am beckoned by the call of the unspeakable,
unbearable, the sinful and terrible, the soft and stoic sonnet.
The star crossed, pragmatic, didactic ode.
Lover let your presence be known.

Go in the direction your heart pulls; resistance is pain.

Living feels like  I’m constantly raging against the nothingness of existing,
like I’m living with all the bounds of humanity, that mean nothing,
to find a purpose to waking up, and breathing and being, other than slowly dying along the way.

And I spend all my energy trying to build a bridge between the duality of life and death, that constantly keeps me a raging builder and an awful architect.

Slug,
oh you bug!
Bugging the earth to spin faster.
Slug along,
in slow strides when it’s your time to strike and take this life in your hands.
Watching ants march by,
won’t join them on their way.
You sit on the sidewalk feeling sluggish today.

It comes and goes,
the time we spent wearing hardly any clothes.
Smelling of cigarettes and peach perfume.
Long hair in tangles from night swims,
and tired tongues from talking for hours under blistering sun.

Midnight moons, waves hitting dunes,
and spending everyday with you.
It comes and goes, and these feelings will fade,
like the taste of peach marmalade on our tongues.

Today I will dance on the sun,
For tomorrow I may become the earth.

The truth is that  truth is no concrete,
back beat leading  the universe in every verse.
Truth is that  truth is obsolete,
exists differently for you and me,
and her and he,
and they and them.
Truth is not to regurgitate and repeat.
Truth is what we accept to agree and to say we are free.
Truth is found when we are unbound, interpretations of common creations.
Truth is.

I spend nights in dark places,
Dim face, black lace,
Subtle street lamps, shoes that stomp,
Legs that run and romp,
I am youth, unbound

Dizzy from energy spilling,
pulling towards unknown paths,
and yet I’m holding back.

Dizzy, she stands feeling the eyes of strangers peering into her soul,
when they will never know her past steps and her regrets.
She spins in the sea of sentimentality’s and  reality’s.

We flow like rivers coursing through the valleys of time.
Flow on, no time for rapids to rewind.

We are not mere fragments of the earth,
crystalline shards of cosmic greatness.
We are the embodiment, in its completeness,
of the universe.
Simply manifestations of eclectic energy's.

I am,
Truly.
Nothing,
It means.
Say it,
I won’t.
Leave,
I’ll go.
“Goodbye”
I’ll say,
But I won’t say that I am ...

In the night,
you and me,
we,
become stars of distant galaxies.

Moonlit skin,
reveals exoskeleton.
All the Words kept hidden,
And I want to read more.

Love is sold, passed through hands that hold.
Shackled by passions and blind ambitions, you hold my hand so tight.
Warm and bright feelings flush, covering us in gushing lust.
It binds us and blinds us but teaches us strength and kindness.
These knitted knuckles and soft chuckles, whisper to me thoughts of tomorrow, let us be one.
Boundless, love has found us, and our energy’s intertwine, as rivers will wind. Love is sold, in these contractual hands I hold in mine.

My flesh,
carnal,
coursed with Fire.
No shame in desire.

Ponds of piety become lakes of loathing,
and lost rivers filled with restless, rebellious souls.
Flowing rampant rapids,
becoming radioactive words,
that will crush the unsuspecting fisherman with their nasty recoil.


The soul changes like water,
and a broken one will change that around it
like a dam breaking from overflow.
Swim not in these waters, for you will drown in their
unstable, untamable waves.

He is god when he takes his land,
and when he plants his seed.

She is god when she speaks her truth,
writes her words, and bears her fruits.

Deity's are dead,
birthed from our heads,
we are manifestations of god,
and for that I say amen.

Tears are bound to fall in the winter time.
When thoughts becomes frosted over, frozen,
outside of the primordial locus
of fleeting, flashing feelings.

Dew drop diamonds on cheeks,
Become icicles,
That stick out like vampire teeth.
Painfully piercing through the gums.
Early morning cigarettes leave a permeating sting.

Icy thoughts of weakness,
How we won’t make it through
this frozen tundra,
winter,
with its thrashing and bludgeoning.

Yet,
Hopeful for spring,
That icicles will crack their caterpillar  cocoons,
And our tears will ride bicycles
on sunny days,
and board wayward trains
to far away destinations.

But For now it is December….
Fading into a soon forgotten January.

San Fransisco, I’d been here plenty before, but the embers of the city that glowed faintly in mind we’re made up of imagined scenarios I’d lit in my head, a bonfire glowing in the future I dreamed existed outside my parents house.

Now July has come, and I had long ago left the room of my parents house behind, and I  had spent the last year experiencing dreams in my waking life in a mountain town.

But in July, the bonfire of San Fransisco, that had become embers in my mind, roared right before my eyes and I walk the city streets, awake in a world of made up dreams, that keep me thinking I’m asleep, and waiting to awake, standing knee deep in my waders, in a river or stream in the mountain town I had to let go.

We rock off the socks of all the kids down the block, who  come out to the shows to get away.
and we play music sweet like honey dew  but our instruments don’t talk the way money do.
We play sounds that pack a punch of the kid who’s parents don’t love him enough to make him lunch, so he hits the kid just doing his best until his stomach is fed and his starving heart is all that’s left.

And when the man with the sweet tea smile walks in to collect, he will line his pockets and pat us on the back with the hand that just stole a nights meal cause what left will go to the rent.

The starving artist will die by a needle tip, because he tied off his urge to eat with a band on the arm. Said he was injecting inspiration into his veins so he could write a new song to play and cover up his hearts hunger pains, and feed dying dreams.

But Look mom Im in a band and well rock your socks off down at the local club, and feed the hungry pigs that keep us as pets, cause they make good company for starving artists that live for dreams and fear dying of regret.

We root ourselves deeply to guard our souls,yet we remain as fragile as flowers that grow by the river pools.

Please no more sunlight.
Bring your thunder,
Make the sky quake with your wonder.
I am your earth to Pilage and plunder.