Some nights
the moon throws its light
like an old man
who can't hold his liquor in
and spits blood in the morning

Someone ought to kick some sense
into me, if they did I'd hum
like the body of a fiddle

I propose we all strip down
and take a swim with my friends
the dragonflies, but no one will listen
to what I have to say when I throw my voice
like an empty bottle deep in the forest

When I think of all the dark
and swift things of my rivers,
I wonder why time the old boot -
legger hides his maps and goes
on traveling the low roads

Alone I can tell you there is so much
beside the point of the thorn of the rose
and why the moon is with me always
whenever i choose to go it alone

I drink from that blue jar of time
and breathe the breath of sweet infants

Believe you me the dead shepherd
we sent up the river in a faraway land
in a time so long ago still holds us
all by the holes in his hands

You can see the dark clouds up ahead,
my cloisters I am always walking through them
with you children of the lost dreams,
and with you fifty-something snow-headed men

We have just collided with our lost sons
on the high road of morning, we are rising
dust like the dirt on our children's graves
saying nothing to our brothers the stones.

Love,  be gentle and kind,
take that rusty gun from under
my pillow and shoot me twice
in the heart so I can feel the hurt
from the first time and the pain
from the second again;
but don't bury me in the dirt
beneath your bare feet,
just burn me like the memory
of your brown soles I saw
running away, oh, so long
a time ago, I can't even remember.

I enjoyed the feeling of sleep like a waking death
upon the virtues of my being, I was static but
light movement signalled I wasn't just there yet.

Would I for a moment cease on the inclination to
inhale with the necessity to once again linger that
which was taken expelled to show my motion.

We all linger on the precipice of what is between
our moments as our eyes close to life but linger
within regurgitating our thoughts to nightmares.

One breath is a moment where death is waiting between
the moments whispering sweet silence upon you thoughts.
Let it linger no need to exhale, slumber for eternity in deaths sleep.

The arrow of the anti-cupid, a shard of black rose
to linger sullen thoughts that seep within and turning red cold.

Let its petals fall on thoughts of togetherness,
suffocating the light that lingers between each other.

And when the last petal falls it is a tear that descends
that which once was now runs out no longer withheld.

Extinct in a heart that once it did hold, now only silent
As he smiles. another rotten fruit fallen from the heart.

There were whispers among those that heard
echoes through others voices.
Spilling vacant lots of urban mythes of what was
perpetrated in different places but never was an
ounce of truth weighted upon breath.

I had a spoken version of what I was envisioned as.
One had been a breath away from my features, I had
let him linger in a purgatory of thoughtlessness to
who or what was being purposed on this moment then
he became a architect of my latest art form or death.

[The Hang Man]
Before I let him speak his truths I had ended his momentary
glee at the thought of my expulsion. We cant have that can
we, I'm an urban myth of what was perpetrated on the
fictitious thoughts of others belief that they were but an
ending of what had lead to this inevitable closure.

Now silent gazes I look at, each and all see that blink in
dejection of what is inevitable. I give them a moment of
saturated hope hands stretched out as if to help,
but there terminal in this existence and I play that final
grim moment of what is another note in my book of what befells.

This is no different, he was a moment of relaxation on my
imaginative moment, he was a tapestry of creation, a choke
hold of no trauma was the recipe of his unconsciousness.
I prodded his stomach in playful jest, wakey, waskey
dead man walking, or barely standing shoud I say.

I spoke words only heard once different upon those l looked upon

"Can your breath escape the suffocation of this knot
that lingers around my life,

[Needle work]
Like a moment frozen, erasing the time between the realities
of contemplated normalcy and the fractured whispers of
imagery that stains my mind. I see the world in a perspective
of not colours but emotions and I step off the precipice of
reality and I see clearly.

"I am a kite flying on the ceiling of my coffin,

But everything that rises must fall, collapsing beneath the
boot of authenticity, and vibrate motifs shatter to behold
existence, I tremble under the offence of the rope that binds
me as death smiles in satisfaction of my eagerness to rise above.

Telling me that I am but a needle in the tread of wasted time,
I am a balloon punctured with feathers and I am exhausting
his time as I linger between the steps of here and nothingness.
Awaking in a hospital bed I vow to never be here again.

Its tied around my arm, and I'm vacant, sober of regret but I
must rise like the kite I am, flying above morality I will never
fall. Until an aroma of disillusion lingers and my string is finally cut.
I am not embraced in deaths palm, instead I am a patchwork
of regret and for eternity its sewn into my fibre I am no longer a kite.

[Pills Drowning The Silence]
I wonder around the halls of my mind, looking in rooms of
forgotten memories the faces scratched out and vacant.
I speak to them asking why did you do this, and as the
deformed emotion looks at me no visible motion but
laughter reverberates through my mind and I grasp at
my mind and scream in censorship of those in ear shot.

I count them on the side like sheep over a white cloud that
covers them in the bottle 1-2-3-4-
                                                      ­  5-6-7-8-9-10...
                                           ­  40-9-38-37-36
So many sheep that wish to be jump from that bottle to
my waiting taste buds. Sugar coated moments fall like
raindrops down my oesophagus coalescing in the
pit of my remorse. I feel them fizzing away bubbling away
in my memories and I giggle in as my eyes stretch open
and time slows down and I hear the voices in my head clapping.

Oh well, everything is a moment and mine is slowing down
and I can actually sleep peacefully, not be tortured by the
concussion of repeated images of your motions in my head.
I smile, I haven't done that for so long anger was my angel
and she cut deep into others. I hear these singular words.

"I ingest the purity of the world and slumber evermore,

[When The Flames Consumed]
I looked into the word that lingers between light and darkness
I saw only the reasoning that all obscurity was a moment of
purity that became blistered and corroded. Liquid was just air
in fluidic form, Untaintedness but when it became enveloped
upon my being I was drowning between the voids.

I was neither alive or dead, I was submerged in the suffering,
screams that echoed around my form but nothing was exhausted
from me. But others that were sieged on the sight before them,
I told them my sorrow, telling them with the formation of light.
Without a word I was enveloped in the words of chastity.

"I am but ash in the flames of my agony,

I watched the others that never knew I perceived what they
were going through, they were my "suicide kings,
I treasured ever moment of their ending and the suffering
they endured was not be questioned, but they were kings
upon the bones of men. My offerings never suffered they
were kings in the thrones of pain and now they are free....

Winking eyes stare at me in the morgue,
        I removed there peepers and replace
them with marbles but they just roll around
                   in the, skull snake eyes be rolling at me..

"Bananas they want you to touch them inappropriately,

Do you realize the dead don't give a mention
    on manners no subtlety they wait till ya near,

"**** he just told me he alive while I left his head
on he cooler to dry,  

            Where was I at ye spitting verses of he was down to
earth but now he fly free of ****** form? "He crazy.

I work in solitude, the past dead shift 1 till 5 in the morning.
            They scared to be here all this is superstition
      We don't hurt any one  just mess with each other
We dead so what else is there to do when ya laying cold
                 on a slab of steel enjoy it before ya 6 feet under or dust...