The people party

The night goes on
Friends pass out in basement rooms
Those ******* in the garden
Stop by to say hello
The moon wanes
As I watch my girlfriend from afar
People glide and I stare
The spilt sticky floors
Can't stop them
Cold vicious air
They won't feel the change
Tarred up lungs
It goes on and on

It won’t stop

by your voice
I dream of your green eyed wisdom
floating metaphorically  
upon clouds and wind
your songs must be
there in blood spilled ink
I get high recalling
thy blushing cheeks
full lips quoting Whitman to me
softer on a hill than Autumn's calm
I fly high when
wings and turtle doves
by your voice breathe alive:


wildlife into life
you create
imagination so surreal,
your essence calms the storms,
growling rains,
beats back thunders and winds
in quickening heartbeats:
with green eyes
glance I remember there
on a page to
be treasured by I,
you and your dancing
so beautiful,
In trance I grasp

love. dance to your
songs

Taken from his tender lips;
A sonnet from his ancestor-
Clouding up the dim air,
With warm wisps of internal fire.
And he bequeath his last breath,
To the death inside the pyre-
That warm stew that brews within myself;
A testimony of joined desire.
Unravelling his soul from skin-
Heart hung on fleshy strings;
He beams with last repose,
And passes away beside his black rose.

On a hill untrodden
Lay hooves of animals forgotten
Hovering inches above
The tall blades of grass
That guard the crimson soil
From the deadly spoil
Of creatures with a heartbeat.

Neither human nor animal
Is allowed to trample
On the swaying current
Of carbon breathing forests
That sing in unchecked choruses
About a mythical life
That forever strives
For their listless existence
But always fails in the face
Of pure logic.

On the edge we stand
And there we will remain
If not forced to refrain
From ever being in unison
With life that knows no burden
Of the constant need for self-satisfaction
But somehow manages
To breathe without stealing air
From one less sanctioned
In a state unbalanced
Despite existing on a sustainable planet.

Even fairies stir in their leaves
When news arrives
That the hill still survives
Without their manufactured dust
And fake-winged lust
For something more mythical
Than themselves
In a world that revolves
Around their heads
And death is made of flower-covered beds
Of false remembrance.

Still you wonder
Why such splendour
Sits only in our worship and prayers
When it has no power
Over anything that enters its perimeters
Knowing however
That the thought it has inscribed
Into our minds
Will live forever
Even if it does not do so itself.