the
faint odor of soup cans
and well water wafted through the pumice stone
of recycled air and a faint hum. you thumb through the turbulence of your heart's bone
as it fractures. you catch birds to mock turtles.
with no alice.
the sun adds this...  true moons and canopies
soft shouldered earth and dead moths. we're taught
but more lost. the sea chops
so the horizon is a great wave
on a seahorse.

cozy stars applaud. a wisp of pure force.

you're uncontained.
you might be immortal;
but how could you live
with that ?

your songs are like dead weight
and living weight. a heavy truancy
that is always late
but never on time for completely gone.
you're always here. belonging to me
and never there.
a curl in the straight line
that leads to soft stones
and marsh.

you test my honest bravery.
you have lungs enough for jubilation
but your theories wane
as I wander... and we suffer the airless bliss
of a toy in the hands of a maker.
we break our spines to build
false houses on mole hills.
and there we manage
the serpentine
to crush the very dreams
we haven't.

the most dim sun is in my hand, and
nothing swells. just the recalcitrant narrows
of a plump romp thru the plebeian joys
of a man's misadventures....

Now
is the only future plan
with it's clocks ticking clamorous.
all diamonds more amorous
than a dog.

today is the future
you haven't put your mind too.
a wisp of required in the miasma of maybe.
a nail in the often...

we are driven out
from our inward inventions
to carry the waste of so much pluck
our chickens roost
in hemispheres.

gone, gone... are the old days

Now is the
only future plan
that has Never
had a
price.

we can only assume God has ears.
but the years wither
as our questions
clump.

And the Present must be dreamt
to console Us.
for we are us... strapped to the oblivion
we love so
much.

the peat moss clings to the invisible effervescence
of the night... and strange jewels
dangle from common tombs.
the soil erupts much, after the day has spent a day
and by the moon's reason
the night is not the sun's
thing.

love is too frail to lack strength.
a soft cobra it be
all jewelled teeth and long, long  -
venom, and sweet sweet.
it coils around the knuckle of dreams
as does a playful serious
disaster...
drowning in the curious
but breathing heavily
the Here-
After.

Profanity is a ******* Tool.
Profanity is Subjective.
Profanity doesn't necessarily show intellectual or moral paucity.
Profanity is a form of emphasis; a form of ******* catharsis, an aspect of humour.
******* humour:
A goldmine rooted in Shadow,
  excavated by Logic
and which seems,
for the most part,
wasted on the irrefutably
illogical, or at least bi-polar
(if not higher-multi-polar)
masses.

"Anyone who relies on any one given tool is a fool, as
anyone who denounces a given tool for how it has been used by others is outright stupid."

A carpenter who can only use a hammer is quite restricted,
A musician who can only play alone is no good in a band,
A poet who only writes can't show the world how it's meant to be read (if at all),
A comedian who only swears has little else to offer,
A person who only speaks but doesn't act on it is a liar.

A carpenter who won't use a hammer is self-sabotaging.
A musician who can only play with others has no personal skill.
A poet who refuses to write starves oneself of potential.
A comedian who won't swear better have a good point.
A person who only acts but reuses to speak had better be a monk or mime!
(The last two were perhaps failed, even vein attempts at humour..
I shall leave that up to you to decide!)

Profanity is a Tool:*
I believe that no matter the profanity, a message can still be well received
by those who care enough to receive it.
Better still are those who can interpret the profanity
as humourous accentuation, emphasis, catharsis
and not necessarily as overly-abrasive and immature.

That said, some people are just totally ******* immature about it.
If you can't stand the profanity, get the ******* the internet. 4srs.
Better yet, shut yourself away from the world
lest you ever deal with that which you find unsettling.
So ist das Leben.
Telle est la vie.
Así es la vida.
Such is life.

tell me how the earth
shakes when my lips clinch.
the blunt quake of my evasive disassembly.
how the world is less ours, as long as
our hours pass
unrecounted, in the annals of my unimpending
confessions.
tell me how nothing is right till my wrong is voiced
and how my shivering frozen tongue
is to a beating heart, where a love
has done a great work to demand
a spoken word
from a stiff
quill.

paint me
as a mute with an affliction.
i say things that cannot save you from wasting your time
but my effort is the slumber we dream riots about.
and the nothing i say fills the volume
of a ruse.

let that be our epitaph
on a tombstone
of ribbons

let that be me telling you
something for
once.

then love will be a beacon
for shy boys  in bold
times

with girls that have sense enough
to love enough
to hurt too.

but at least, let it be said...

I Never Meant
To Hurt
You.