do you drink the blood like i do? do you feel the venom the veins
do you feel demonic birthing pains
is there madness to her? is she the motive? the moral?
insanity in the mind, (the mind) not oral because
morals aren't found in red lakes, only found where girlish girls and cheesy cheese are called fake
only found where love rides the sheep costume for hate
searching for shepherds and morals, but of late
the motive ran away when you looked in its face
asking why the boy drank madness on trains
asking why people let venom run through their veins.

up from luminous dream,
in the soft hours
of deep night's thrall
suddenly discovering
I am in
          our small corridor,
no longer
                  a narrow hall
for now, to my wonder
it is stretched into
milky-way cathedral
walls robed in
flashes of
     lit-up nostalgia
                 on black
I float, eyes wide
mind open, a-light
naked skin splashed in
the cool nocturnal breath
and before me,
    a vast gallery
          of memories:
faces in frames,
some long gone
some now turned from
round baby cheeks into
vibrant adolescent beauty
delicate curls on toddlers
now muscular,
                fire-talking angels
ancestors who I never knew
but who I am named for
stare in sepia elegance
their eyes
piercing my soul
I am a warrioress
clothed in memories'
sub-conscious fabric
my weapons,
the love
that backs me up
so full it oozes out
            from the ether
spews from geysers
soaks up through
                      the earth
stains beaten feet
my fingers feel it
in strokes of
wind-whipped canticles
generations standing
behind me,
before me
ready to rise
holding staffs
live epitaphs
ready to split the rock

My center is lit up in
past and present voices
                 echoing prayers
I feel them in my
            heart-tunnels,
                     reverberating
they turn
future ponderings
into endless possibilities
I let them all in,
absorbing strength
into deep tissue
and the hell in my spine
opens its scars
like
    flowers of
               the
                  night

I want to write a poem that smells like perfume
that flits and that flips through a rose-tinted room
all wispy and wet and cosmic and cool

I want to write a poem that omits all the grease
the fierce firing squad, pimps, perverts, police
to tickle your fancy and make you go guuguu

I want to write a poem that moves through your veins
like sweet fairy dust not shackles and chains
be part of the pop cult, feel the pulse, feel the pulse

I want to write a poem that travels lit-up highways
with no broken bulbs, no sirens nor slipped gears
without red-danger zones nor emergency phones

I want to write a poem with soft cuddly toys
and trinkets and things that make no loud noise
to nibble your chin and that sort of thing

I want to write a poem with an innocent face
that softens your edges and slows down your pace
'til you're won and you're one and you purr and you hum

I wanted to I really did
2015

the best a poet can do
is not deny their muse

jump right on in
with both feet

and write poet
then forget about it

until
the next time

working with a brain that evolved in caveman days
unable to parse  these urges
coded into my double helix
I find influences of meditation
in choosing passwords
for those ten million e-mail accounts
I created
forgot about
were
broken into
taken my
ssn#
my birthdate
so I got calm
thought about Nirvana
about fantasy and reality
tried to calm the
default Node network
and see clearly
that passwords when evolving were not needed
I got calmer
hmmmmmmmmmm
ing
overcoming delusions
I changed my name
to Evaporate
and my ssn# to none
and my password to
Ou812
****
I am stupid
just told all you's

The inner spin which once spun within
Is slowly rolling on the outside
And interest wanes into a feathery sunset
Above a vague horizon

Questions cascade into a mist of dreams
Without purpose or need of answers
There are other things to do
I'll smile if you want me to

Standing alone by a closed window
Just watching nothing happen
Writing on the misted glass
Slowly falling
Away

                              By Phil Roberts

If someone pulled me from the inside out
Would they still like what they see?
Such things I hide behind
Are not always with intent to deceive
Do I have an intriguing mind?
Or better yet...
Do I have a beautiful heart?
Shouldn't these be the most important parts
I wear masks to disguise the pain
Underneath a river of lies fall down like rain
Should this river of lies drown me?
Or does it just make me grow
a thicker shell for all to see

Fragmented lives entangled
but asunder in our journey
as our paths cosmically connect
in a romance of the arts

And who's to say what's real
to touch or deeply feel
what will truly last
or simply where to start

So I’ll
paint you alla prima
as I feel you playing me
in warm colors of merging ardor
a wet blending of artistry
my brush strokes of your body
painted in my mind
of impressions blushed in passion
in hues I can’t describe

Suspended in the moment
floating on a breeze
I revel in this picture painted music
almost in disbelief, unthinking…
knowing every nuance of our love
found only in our dreams

Like children in parallel play
I’ll finger the keys
and slip the locks
of all your orchestrations
filling the walls
of my concerts halls
with deep
splattered tones
in pinks and blues
the hues
that forever
bind us

And we’ll not look back
nor forward
but hang here in the moment
to display our
Painted Song
in the eyes
of giggly children
both doing
our own thing
together
on a string
curated