I am no poet nor elysian saint.
I am nothing more than a
living record of transgressions:
odes and testaments of
tarnished gold intentions.

it is for naught: sincere
folly to search for an
elusive inner meaning.
I cannot ascertain if
any exist. take heed to
proceed with caution

there are years which
answer; providing insight,
clarity, a gateway to serenity.

yet there are the years
yielding naught but
empty questions

   e  
  c 
    h
    o  
   i    
n  
   g

soundlessly across
the starless horizon.

these hands are riddled
with memories of all
that I burnt, broke
and dismantled.

scorch marks
embellish my skin:
lamenting cries tasting
of ashes and insidious intent.

whenever home is no longer
hospitable; the foundation
crumbling under derelict
decay and dilapidated
compassion. empathy
common sense.
boundaries.

where does one begin
unravelling the shards of
broken bonds, presuming
to eradicate the distorted
fragments of fermented
claws, kisses, and teeth?

I am a storm with skin:
volatile, tempestuous,
forever untamed by
human hands.

do not misinterpret
the agelessness of
my Soul as a catalyst
for destruction.
chaos is no longer the
joy in my heart.

Head spinning
Ears ringing
Skin tingling
You sleeping
Me existing

Another stolen night
Another hotel room fight
Another hotel room ****
Another run of bad luck
Another bottle of scotch

I watch your torso fall and rise
Remembering the lust in your eyes
Listening whilst you told me lies
You “Love me” what a clichéd surprise
Yet, still I cannot say to you “goodbye”.

~for better days for the poet betterdays~

mournful tunes play silently, but still too often,
eyes wet but in corners kept, recurring then the
memories, keepsakes, letters, books, small trinkets,
not dusty, but dusky, resting on in-between ledge of a
mountain-sized twilight of well lit shadowy haziness,
edgy dark brilliance, a comprehensible contrast non-comprehendible

tunes that bless with equal measures of grief,
comforting, by memorable card flashes of good relief,
a dividing line, hazy and frequented crossed, a sort of path,
with no destination signaled, as if the path itself was an end,
to a meaning, a solution, with no clarity divined, a division
of sight and insight, providing an ill fitting reconciliation

mourning is electric, morning is electric,
letters, words bottled up in evaporating perfume bottles,
seeking the comfort of dissipation unto a larger atmosphere,
the scent in everything tangible, stronger still yet, in intangibles
that can erode but never ever fail to return instantly when voked,
by vision, odor, a particular child’s smile, line in a poem volunteered

recovered, uncovered, a post first writ to be written, discovered,
when time and place coincidentally breathe together, at last,
beckoning you to places where memory serves only as a pleasuring,
upright mind marker, decorated in chains perpetual reforging,
absent pain, gleaming dreamings full-replacing longings for pasts,
new verses composed, passing, a grand addition to a child’s legacy