Hunger is the cancer with a cure
bread lines are hiring open mouths.
The discarded pass with empty bellies,
an outstretched hand reaching for crumbs,
that never come.

Money is the panacea of poverty
prostitution wages are tax free.
When she opened her thighs
the world shifted on its axis,
AIDS was paid forward.
Play that on a Trojan commercial.

Freedom is an illusion
painted by white collars.
Section 8 homes are speakeasies
of the downtrodden.
Cardboard boxes are the architects *******,
and trash bin bonfires come calling me.

Winter blasts,shrieking as pierced crystal in moonlight,
her figure trembles by the brinks edge.
Striking the center of her mind was a lost knight,
grabbing her sobs with tears frozen midcheek, before free falling from the ledge.

Spring, she wished to forget, when maid and man met,
stolen glances,verbal advances, a skins breach of indecency.
A single solitary evening was set, a tryst between Lachlan and Lizbet,
a tangled two caught in treasonous secrecy.

Blistering and bold, the summer, unforgiving,
imprisoned Lizbets' waist increases.
Lachlans' fate--no longer with the living,
a Lord may punish adultery as he pleases.

Fall, where all surrender to die,
a babe forced out silent, the demise of labors hope.
Barely clad the woman lingered, as did her lie,
the sentence one of repugnance and a length of hanging rope.

Your pity is a cheap thing, I realize injurious truth
tattooed on pale canvas are illustrations
I should have never seen
and without bending I display them
on the outside of me.

Your pity is a cheap thing, I wiped myself clean
stinking of rancid perfume, oh former lovers
spectres that plague my bedsheets
when I'm beneath you saturated
by the outside of you inside of me.

Your pity is a cheap thing, I sizzled against you
whirlwind speech absorbed in clutch pillows
moisture betraying my timid refusal.
What is it that I can't beat
the power in you, subduing me.
You only pity things that come cheap.

Heroes, processed in baths of blood,emerge spotless,
Oaths lanced on battered helmets and dirt dusted fatigues, the Hand of God upon the lawless,
Never let the barrel lay its head to an enemy, the shell casings remain fixed and fearless,
One solitary act propels man to sacrifice, it is still, timeless,
Remember the mark is invisible, carried on fitted sheet flags, to us, faceless.

Leaves cling to branches
pressed among siblings, and
wither in earths' lap.

Soot and ashes are the platter from which I dine,
the pool of my flagellation is the outpouring Merlot.
I forget to breathe through the lash,
rending the sackcloth until my nakedness is set before you.

The bells harken, the pendulum keeps time,
my requiem is set by your pulse.
DO NOT dismiss me, DO NOT neglect to
render my salvation in parcels.

Level after level of purgatory the holy grail
I imbibe and drink in ruin.
As the shredding of my skin with filaments of rope,
dislplay a journey of persecutions selfless ardor.

Crouching I beseech, I grovel,
forming steepled hands.
Oh, humble penance
slips my parched tongue and crippled lips.

Sweet King, Soveriegn Lord, Merciful Master,
I cower in my nothingness,
wrapped in the robes of bleak shame.

STILL I PRESS FORTH,
through decadent chambers,
in filth for a glimpse of your being.
For the simple gesture of uttering
your name.

Does your crown sweat with the bulk of my sobs?
To wipe your brow,
smear your worries on my bodice.
Enticing you from your throne to love...
a slave.