Those tight cheeks,
Oh sweetie.
Vampires can never
Drain the red off your
Face.

There lies your grace.
Stuck in between
Frames and shame.

***** anything real
And call it truth.
My daffodil:
I love you.

The hopeless ask only for a morsel of it;
they gave them their crumbs again.
Despair is disguised as long legs and delicious lips;
She gave me her crumbs instead.

Tongue tied behind barbed wire fences and tacky
cheap cologne from a father now dead.
His sins became my weight to carry up that hill;
I do it with a smile and the smell of cheap cologne.

Whispers of death or sanity travel from your mouth;
touch my lips with that mouth instead.
Lies and crimes and sigh and whines mix well
for a youth unable to become a man of this time.

I asked for forgiveness or pleasure, and instead;
they have me their crumbs instead.
Suicide is only the scream that cannot be heard.
I spit out their crumbs and took it all instead.

The mad man
Mixed
With gin becomes
A praying man.
A dark man tied
Down to the awful
Stench of boredom,
Tired of playing
With others he has
No choice: he becomes
Death.
Transfixed and alone;
Come play with him.
Oh god and devils
Sidekick; stop it.
I asked what words
could not truly
Express. Is he dead?
Alive?
Or is he in the purgatory
Of his mistakes?
Listen to his voice
And ignore it.

He cried when the
Moon ran away.

The time of the world;
The time to formulate
Emotions is dead.

It's always been dead.
He's always been dead.
July was a mistake for him.

These slick people dance as
If they're off to war;
Fighting because
instead of
A cause.
There's blood in that.
September's ribs break under my
Rotting hands.
I have to try before the moon
Runs
Runs
Runs away.
My corneas are tired of seeing
And choosing to twitch at the thought
That this moon...
This very moon belongs to anyone
Else but me and you.

Armies died for you;
Medals were rewarded on
That white hill.
They say God stood here once.
We did too.

I'm sure those bronze medals are worn
Proudly around your neck.

All those soldiers are dying or dead.
No real difference to this or that.
Armies fought for us.
The axis won.

Depression wears a black dress,
Embroidered with silver smiles.
Every man has his nights;
Every lust has his crimes.
This skin manifest straight from hell.
(You're hot to the touch.)
You lift your dress even higher;
I see your denials
And I smile.

These things are never me or mine.
These clocks ticking are a maxed out card.
You
       run
             as if you knew you were the mark.
The collective outweighs my lies.
July rains;
September moans.
August though...it whispers:
"Order in the court!"
Control and substance are married lovers
whose pits are tired of the night time sun.
Those type or miracles don't have a place
in my head to make sense
(It has
           it's own bed
                                 inside my head.)
The stitching in my heart is slowly coming
undone under that night time sun.
Mothers can only do so much before their
hands crust over.
These months run cold now,
unaware that they each have cousins,
waiting for their turn.
July 20, 1987.
There was a mistake on that day.

Windshields hide Him from me.
The touch of man; the sin is mine.
The accident left me buried at fifteen.
Death came from me then.
Again.
I thought death could not reach me
through these ***** windshields.
IT can though, the death that lives.