In the black spheres of another’s cavernous
eyes I lost myself amidst the seep of my own
light patterned into strange foreign orbs

drinking heavily of I
am borne on the winds of imagined hands
sculpting me awake. where I can dream-in
the voids between lust, where the nothing
seems happy, the night is my friend

in the convex meniscus of another’s iris
perhaps I can dream of rebirth in the titrating
wound in the womb of lust

makes my eyes search the ether. In the
womb of my lust there is wind in my wings.
In the womb of my lust there is more

to be found. to be woken into equilibrium
perhaps I must abandon the forked tongue
of independence, so that fanged loneliness

can die of happiness. the snake becomes
a docile bird when fed. the castle of self
becomes a womb in the kingdom
of entwined, sleeping hands. we are born

many.

It was years ago , A fellow writer who felt it was there duty in life to judge others wrote me.

Dear John

I have read a few of your works and believe someone needs to tell you to save you the embarrassment .

Your antics are not talent your
words are muddled at best .
And your gutter sense of humor is childish and truly a embarrassment to us serious writers.

You should probably seek out a workshop or look to your fellow writers for some tips or maybe just stop writing altogether .

I read the message and laughed .
I have over thirty works in publication and far more on the way .

Opinions are like *******.

And to that writer I shall leave unnamed .

Who's words fall flat on the sidewalk like a **** from a mongrel dogs ***.

Hope your doing well.
I never listened then and I **** sure am not listening now.

When you hand out advice you better make **** sure your standing on solid ground before you cast a opinion

Keep writing is all I can tell you .

Through the rejections and the people that tell you to give up .

You will pass them all by eventually.

******* are not a dying breed.

Cheers

Gonz

I hung on her laughter my bad jokes kind of filled the void between us.
Like a fog of ciggertte smoke that cast its illusion over the room I sat as we spoke over the phone.

My drinks flowed and my words slurred .
She hung on the line.
The best kind always do.

It was the simple flirts that keep the soul young and the liver well its a sad customer to begin with on my side.

I imagined are time together in person.
And she shook her head , Wondering was there more beyond the train wreck of a person on the other end of the line.


I poured another .

"You should probably slow down don't you think?'

"Yeah probably but with company like your's sweetheart who would ever want the night to end".

She laughed .
"Your so full of **** ".

"Tell me something I don't know sweetheart".

Even when I was drunk I was a first class ******* artist.
And a grade a smart ***.

I kept her laughing and although she would't admit she was having fun.

She was tired though and me I  was a night owl besides I was never eager to face the silence of a long night ahead.

"I'm so tired lets go to bed"
She said half asleep not realizing the words she had spoken.

"Why darling I thought you'd never ask "

She busted up laughing .
"You know what I meant good Lord your just gonna have a heyday with that one aren't you"?

"Oh now sweetheart would I ever give you **** bout a simple slip like that"?

"You ****** I bet you write about me saying that you watch"

I pretended to be mildly insulted joking the whole time.

"Me exploit something said in the  privacy of are personal conversation darling"

"I'm shocked you would ever think I could sink so low ".

"Goodnight John".

She said said as she hung up the phone and the warmth I felt just turned a tad bit colder as I faced yet the rest of my night alone.


Be careful what you say to writers.
The red light in my minds always recording.

And this rose is for you my dear.

Sincerely your favorite fiend

John

Often as adults we question everything where children care blindly without remorse .

The jaded no longer control the meek and we all find our own way somewhere in between.

Nobody has the answers , just a few are far more gifted at selling lies as answers .

We are strangers locked within the same tomb.

Castaways from are truths so we covered ourselves from their lies .

Lost within and somehow standing beside others we have little hope for.

Do we settle for the comfort or embrace the truth to understand all with little to show .

So close even the rejection can be sensed without a word spoken between.


Manipulation with ***** fingernails and dry tears cease to effect the outer shell anymore.

Numb and faded by the games that are played finding that hiding is the best we can do.

Fear of;  the unknown rapes my senses to the point of slamming all doors while painting lamb's blood across the entry.

Hence casting away all menacing shadows of past demons.

This isn't a life, but in being spent, broken, and abused I simply can't afford more than hiding.

Can you?

Gonzo

Is often called a barroom poet slash outlaw .
Who's work has been featured in some mags that clearly do not care about good taste or morals .

When not living as a total recluse drinking his liver silly and watching ****, He often enjoys long drives by himself picking up hookers but enough bout his ex wife.


His short stories usually revolve around some demented ******* much like himself .

He currently resides in hell or as others call it North Carolina .
Where him and his dog share drinks and take turns being the designated drunk driver .


His work will probably give you a contact high or at least the clap.

Enjoy .

And stay crazy .

Gonzo