you enchant me with your soft, glowing light

there are others.
others who whisper sweet nothings in my ear and sneak their hands onto my thighs.
others who try to break their way into my mind, enter my thoughts, search for any way to connect with me.
others who laugh at my jokes, a deep roar that implies simply that they think their laughter will make me let my guard down.
others who breathe life onto my neck, who kiss their way down to my passions and motives, who try to slip themselves into me looking for answers
sometimes, i play along, looking for a little excitement.

but it’s never the same.

because what the others don’t know, is that it’s always you on my mind.
you are always in the back of my head, reminding me that nothing anyone else could do would ever compare to you.

The priest puts his trust
In martyrs and miracles
Clutching his rosary and his celibacy
To his bursting breast
And humanity walks
Through a series of cages
Every day

The ***** puts her trust
In bordellos and bodies
Clutching her money and her condoms
To her brassy breast
And humanity walks
Through a series of cages
Every day

The lawyer puts his trust
In regulations and rules
Clutching his charters and his decrees
To his dusty breast
And humanity walks
Through a series of cages
Every day

We each put our trust
In roles and rituals
Clutching convention and convenience
To our timid *******
So humanity continues to walk
Through a series of self-made cages
Every day

                 By Phil Roberts

This unnatural light
like the last summer
before the last winter
sends the grackles
into the cedars
rattling their wings
in the evergreens
making a sound like Ishmael
casting his bones
on the deck of Ahab's ship.

often tough times taught us to write.






© pax

what little light that’s left, we need to keep it sacred
i know that you’re afraid to let all the dark escape you
but we can let the light illuminate these hopeless places.

if I says I hot for you and you shout go away, hee
at least I won't stay in a dream wondering, that
is the good thing about brash
no false hopes hanging dangling down
to impede me or you as I go to next
in line make her slap me , haha,
red cheeked not by being shy her *******
hand hurts but not as much as pretending

archeologists brush dust away from bones,
like memories from empty homes.
here i sit among rubble and ruin,
amidst broken picture frames strewn.

this is the scene i remember the most.
my words are written, jagged,
in a notebook forgotten, ragged am i
as my eyes shine like broken glass.

my bones turn to rust, to dust.
i brush away my remains from this grave
of a home i no longer remember.
among portraits i am no longer a part of.

november comes around with its bells,
bellows loud that i am not welcome here.
it brings fallen petals of blood red rust.
i am stained with agony and painful lust.

for a time that does not forgive,
and as the cold sweeps in i know,
november is the time of sin, for me.
i was born in a time that does not forgive.

the picture frames will not let me back in.

i / am / absent / here

i slowly cave in on myself
and the sky smells of falling stars—
i can taste it, leaking in through
the cracks. i ascend, like a hot
air balloon, my body filled
with moonlight, the dust
falling off the trail of a comet.
the night is dripping paint,
navy blue and black, the ravens
are cutting holes in the air and
neptune shines through, a minty
frost, ice and starlight. my feet
are far above the clouds—an
icarus floating in the dark,
dark sky, and i reach for cygnus
—no more light pollution here.
lyra plucks its golden strings
and the moon sings a lullaby,
sweet and slow like drops
of mercury. and there, as
stardust glows through my skin,
replaces sore organs with light
and swallows each aching bit,
i sleep.

to sing one love song
before eternal silence.