Some things are better off dead
Buried in the ground
The memories stuck in my head
Spiraling around and around

My soul sits in its tomb
My hopes are the coffin it lies in
My inner child is the surrounding gloom
My dreams are the flowers lying on the stone

My trauma make up the walls that surround
My pain is the drawings underground
My soul was buried with the shackles that bind me
I had to bury it all so it would let me breathe

You have to stop looking behind to look ahead
That’s why some things are better off dead

The day’s hours were worn down and a sudden sunset, that resembled a master’s painted glimpse of Valhalla was upon us, its majesty of deepest blue, blood red and black.

From our tenth-floor skew, the river looked, for all, like a wrinkled sea expecting a storm. Boats moved to tie up before the dark body of windswept clouds arrived trailing a wall of downpour and flickering, electric thunder.

Our study group had run over, as they tend to do. Most of the members urgently moved to pack up (they’d be campus bound). An unpropitious rumble and fierce flare of light revealed that mild twilight had swiftly faded to a darkest stormy night.

My pinched-pleated curtains thrashed before this tempest for the almanacs, feigning a life they do not possess, like twin ghosts stirred to wrath.

“We can order in,” I offered, waving a menu from the downstairs bistro, as I closed my French, glass doors. “Why not eat here and wait it out?” I shrugged, “My treat,” I offered, “and I have wine.”

A pleasant embracement of relief and consent followed. What held more power, I wondered, the society, natures coerce or the gratis fare?

Later. as we parted, a young man paltered, repaying me with a quick hug and cheeky kiss. The valueless touch, was itself rewarded with a small grimace of a smile, but the sin did not overset the mood.
.
.
Songs for this:
Riders on the storm by the doors
Stormy by Classics IV

tremble is becoming familiar
falling over too

dropping things for some time
ah well could be a lot worse

ageing a kindness
more time given not to everyone.

I saw you walking away from the sun
In the stinging wind and a coat of dust
Through the star juniper and bitter sagebrush.

We watched the sun spider for hours
Splayed out on the concrete wall
Like an ancient relic unearthed -
An Alexandrian myth.

We laughed at the thought of death
How does it bite?

I knew your laughter was deceptive;
Something hidden, aromatic and bold,
A breathless groan uttered
By the old -
Obscuring sadness.

I still looked away
And you were gone.

I’m waiting for the day to come
The winds continued through the night
I want the cleansing soft rain and wild sun to
Soften sirens crowing tired travelers into light
From the aged hotels
Weighted down in feminine wonder
They groan, light a cigarette and look off
To the sea.
Overlooking the graffiti covered park benches
Placed like museum exhibits, like mahogany patched feral chickens pecking into the deep
Cement cracks.
The old poets are long gone from this paradise. They became the homeless - surviving and mumbling in the hidden coves
Of the banyan tree
She grows roots and chokes them to sleep.

so the bear has become a companion.



of sorts in times of stress

and needlessness.



i call him darling sometimes,

not often.



some days he stays in bed ,

not often.



some people are witnesses, study

the evidence.



i prefer the bear.