the seeking eye that even seems to speak
of urgent matters at an early time
is the best weapon wielded by the weak

not in the option given to the meek
to keep heads lowered as the sweet bells chime
the seeking eye that even seems to speak

looks through a wall apparently unique
but hidden in its recesses and grime
is the best weapon wielded by the weak

a simple tool not modern nor antique
whose users have come under in their prime
the seeking eye that even seems to speak

and not been frighted they are past critique
able to know just where in the long climb
is the best weapon wielded by the weak

those who are able find they are to peek
in hidden places for the true sublime
the seeking eye that even seems to speak
is the best weapon wielded by the weak

How could I claim
you are mine?
Where do you end,
I begin?

A small aircraft, noisy intruder
cleaved the star filled night sky,
foolishly demanding more attention
than the brightest constellation.

When pins and pressure plates crawl into my spent shoulders
I clutch madly to crush the offending sinews.

When I’ve grazed the side of my tongue with an accidental death-threat
I revisit the spot and repeatedly incise, until I’m ******* crimson and tears.

When the she-squito shoots me up via serrated needle turning me feastlike
My fingernails compulsively scavenge out the adenosine deaminase.

I sniff the arid bottles of perfumes I love that are no longer manufactured.
I re-trace my lost friendships through the riverside paths we made.
I chop onions and slurp hot sauce until I’m dry.

Maybe that’s why I’m stuck on you.

Her wild tangled hair,
wearing a halo of  evening sunlight
like a majestic crown,
goes haywire,
when a sudden guest of wind,
in the manner of a ***** lover
play with it,
in every which way
one can imagine.
Waves of scent,
of freshly cut lemongrass,
emanating from her auburn tresses,
light wild fire
in his thoughts,
as they go down the hill,
through the narrow path
lined with trees full of roosting birds,
to the clearing in the forest
where stands
the lone hunters' lodge
where they'd spend the night.

so now we measure trust by line of sight
as all depart in wonder at the rain
not knowing what the new day might contain
but happy that they've made it past the night
just one more time in this uncertain light
no one is guaranteed surcease of pain
but all are pleased and they will not complain
out of sheer gladness at escape from blight
we are not clear just what is the true rule
with which to govern those who always tell
the human story from the underside
since they have learnt it in a horrid school
where life comes down to touch and taste and smell
and there's no room for any thought of pride

I had a dream recently,
where you were *******
me,
and it was so ******* hilarious,
because you were awful.


before waves, I used to imagine you
being the one to anchor me until the chains
ripped my skin to bone.

before sun rays, I used to think you
were the only one who could make my flesh
burn and peel and never ever heal.

before alcohol, I used to get foolishly drunk
on you. and you. and you.

i was a hunk of fish being hacked away by a
unsharpened butcher knife.
the hunks and guts splattered all over the apron.

you used to say i was beautiful,
and i guess i can’t believe it anymore because
you ripped my spine out only to place the bones
wrong and walking has never felt the same.

this dream never made sense, like the rest of them,
i swim through them with too much salt in my lungs
and the ocean keeps trying to drown. Drown. Drown. Me.

see you again, in a dream, in a wave, in a lie.
the thing is, i sort of want you inside,
but i only know you’ll crash.break.rip.stomp.
and my skin is already mangled