Beyond the box his victims applaud
the enemy smiles and takes his bow
behind his smirk there breathes a fraud
the devil dressed in praise of thou
he snares their hearts should they be weak
those seeking to control their fate
a purchased path to lead the meek
to a matrix God through the neon gate
with hands outstretched he pleads and grins
sells salvation like drugs and mocks their sins
will promise eternity in the holy light
call the number on your screen
you are saved tonight

You park your lard *** **** on the skin of a cow and call it your new leather settee,
strap your feet into hide worked boots and stride across the Earth, all at the height of fabulous fashion.
Slap another slab of flesh on the barbecue and call it steak
(rare please) right next to the rack of ribs sizzling,
another brimming mooing cattle truck pulls into the abattoir,
and they say all the farts,of all the cattle, we keep eating, is destroying the climate all by themselves, but you wont find that information on the menu in a fast food shop serving burgers by the millions, or the main discussion at a barbecue, because lets face it, the meat in front of your nose has done all its farting, and its far too late to help save the World by some form of self-denial.

over millennia the question
     what is beauty
has occupied the minds
of great philosophers

museums, galleries, and private homes
     as well as public monuments
display the sculptures, paintings, texts, and movies
created by the artists of all cultures over time
with figures, colors, poems with(out) rhyme

looking at that variety
I do remember words of one much older
     “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”
Picasso speaks to one, Velasquez to another
some prefer Shakespeare, others e. e. cummings,
in movies we find Billy Wilder or Fritz Lang
right next to Eastwood or Sarandon

which of them we enjoy with great abandon
depends on whether  they can touch our heart and soul,
move us to tears, stir our thought,
or simply leave us speechless

we have that soft spot for the beautiful
reminding us that there are things that go beyond ourselves
     they touch us gently
     like the morning songs of elves

till suddenly the brilliance of human art
reaches the very depths of our heart

This feeling...
Heavy...
Like a wreath bearing down my neck.
Every fibre in me seem to be at loggerheads.

My heart...
Pounding.
Each beat is a hammer
sledging away at my saneness.

My breaths...
Premature and short.
Inconsistent.
I respire full but with punctured lungs.

Keep in touch
With your soul she said
Before turning her back on me
Disappearing before my eyes
Was the last thing I could see

My eyes went blind
My ears gone deaf
My crippled heart refused to beat
The instant she left the door
I crumbled slowly on the floor

She must have felt it
But never shared
Or I have never listened to
To break a heart it takes two
Lovers being untrue

The seasons changed
The years went by
At times I’ve cried at others smiled
Life is a journey through good and bad
Before feeling sane you have to go mad

My soul sings now
Even in the rain
If asked, I’ll go the same road reliving every pain
Love is a story that unravels on the way
Some things we lose and some are here to stay

There exists an abundance of neglected apologies stuck lodged at the back of my throat that remind me of how much I have forgotten the sensation of breathing deeply since you have. Words, how flimsy and inadequate, form into lethargic shapes that sit helplessly in the stomach and desire only to matter to you. I have painted for you a golden sky that stretches beyond horizons that can no longer be noticed by the naked eye and I guess we have both grown tired of prowling the heavens for potential endings.

I have seen dandelions sprout freely within the dimple on your cheek and I wonder how you can go on so casually convincing yourself that you are not made of sunshine. I have felt lightning channel through your fingertips far too many times to believe it is just an illusion you have designed to make the dark clouds feel a little less intimidating.

There is a certain danger embedded within the comforting blanket of safety. I want to tell you I am sorry that the metaphors and lines of poetry I have crafted will never begin to describe even the smallest fraction of your limitless importance. I am sorry that my words cannot make you see the icicles that form in my bloodstream when your tears whisper that you are exhausted of being alive. I want to shout I love you, I love you, I love you, why can't YOU love you? until I run out of air in my lungs, the chords of my voice continuing to strum the same promise inside and out until it forgets the tune. But doing so is impossible, because your soul is an old song that cannot be removed from the brain once it is stuck and I am so sorry, my love, that yours has lost the memory of innocence.

I am a broken vinyl record spinning the same expired words over and over again, hoping your tomorrow will be void of pain so that there will be enough leftover space for you to listen.

the bottle of Bourbon empty of fire
the young woman danced within a Hula-Hoop
another train went passed
someone was blowing red bubbles out their mouth
want me to fill her up asked the bartender a thousand times
the young man fell in love with the Hula-Hoop dancer
the conductor asked for tickets
while the dying red bubble blower gave up the ghost and died dead as a Dodo as everyone else complained, "the trains are always late".

Rekindling old flames and lighting half gone cigarettes is what I'm known for.
It never is quite the same, really. The taste is all but gone, the flint gone from the match before you can even strike it. The taste of you is just a bitter reminder, like kicking that habit for good and taking the first drag off a cigarette in six months.
Then I started over.
There's a difference really from starting an entirely new fire and trying to relight pieces of charred and half burned pine that got rained on. One will burn bright for a minute and fizzle out. The other will burn a lifetime.
That last drag on a new cigarette never tasted more like addiction.