A hundred pounds I have saved,
A rather moderate store;
No matter I shall be content
When I have a little more.
Only 40 years old.

Well I can count five hundred now,
That's better than before;
And I may be satisfied
When I have a little more.
50 years old.


Some two thousand, pretty well,
But I have earned it sore;
However, I'll not complain,
When I have a little more.
60 years old.

Ten thousand - sick and old,
Ah! life is half a bore;
Yet I can be contented to live,
When I have a little more.
70 years old.

He dies, and to his greedy heirs,
He leaves a countless store.
His wealth has purchased him a tomb,
and very little more.

To clear his head
he strips dark and light,
smudging charcoal
across the white.

He renders me
with edges lines,
scratching bones
until they shine.

To unblur the mess
inside his head,
etching softly
while words unsaid.

I have something sweet to tell you-
But the secret you must keep-
And remember if it isn’t right,
I’m talking in my sleep.

For I know I am but dreaming
When I think your love is mine,
And I know they are but seeming
All the hopes that round me shine.

So remember when I tell you
What I can no longer keep;
We are none of us responsible
For what we may say in sleep.

My pretty secret’s coming,
Oh! listen with your heart;
Then you shall hear it humming
So close it will make you start.

Oh! Shut your eyes so earnest,
For mine will wildly weep;
I love you, I adore you- but
I am walking in my sleep.

I walked home coated in his smell,
it's under my skin.

His whispers are cutting,
little slices down to the bone.

The Earth chokes in weeds,
and his tongue is a dandelion.

But he's the shadow I leave on other men,
a darkness that rubs off me
and sticks.

I can see
how men fall irrevocably in love
with women
with so much soul in their bones
that it must ripple, and fill out living flesh
women who possess thoughts
that could bring down the sky
women with platinum eyes and satin skin;
willowing waifs and dewy dreams.

But how they fall even a stones throw
for women with
sallowed cheeks and deserted eyes
who paint themselves out of freckles and blush
women with
minds that contemplate only as much as the mirror reflects
and mouths that open to unwittingly break a misleading silence
women with
not an ounce of longing or lust
or love
in their veins, just a crimson thud
without a beat.

This spider's web
wasn't made to catch small flies.

The spiders had conspired to create a web
that could catch bigger prey.
Instead of delicate tendrils of silk,
waits a net of secrets and lies and confused loyalties
designed to hook, deceive and ensnare.  
With the truth still fresh on your lips
and the shock still sharp in your eye
caught.

There's no enjoyment in the catch, though,
they too are entangled in the threads they wove.
This web
is where spiders catch spiders.

You think
presents are promises
words are warrants
kisses are contracts -
but I give gifts
to conquer,
hold you in my debt,
and tell knots
twists of reality
that wouldn't hold up, Your Honor.
Can't you see how I crave loopholes,
how I search for them
in the arch of your lip
and the contours of your tongue?