A

With the heart worn like an
old man's shoe
With the wind a last friend
of my second hand jacket
all blown and frail

I continue
to denounce the golden streets of disguised power
to trounce on hidden cops
to pounce on everything rotten in Denmark
to reek and to rage
like a rusting zoo cage
an overturned ****
a pensive white button
withering in my brain
a push cart filled with
burning accusations
I remain
street bound weary

I'm that secret little hope
gnawing at the nape
of your neck

Note: Re-written in Sofia, Bulgaria on the 14th of July 2012 after once again (after so many countless times) being followed and harassed even in front of my own house...I guess it's nice to know that some people read poetry very very attentively ;--))

Hmmm, let's see
I cradled the sun like a sick razor-blade
I found a warehouse of abandoned unborn hearts
I abruptly stopped a dead man to talk
I bottled up new souls for a long desert drive
I snuffed out every star with cathodic eyes
I fondled the carcass of eternal trouble
I found the hungry embalmed mouth of the first paid woman
I dug a hole; I tied rope; I burned cars; I cried dope
I shied away; I broke sway; I uttered “May-Day”
I danced! I sweated; I pigged out
I catapulted myself on fire
All this:
to see the harrowing sepulchered moons of tomorrow
like a strange weightless liquid
where I will appear and reappear
to the eventual astonishment of billions of years of shadowing sentience

Another universe gawks

Big Pounding Slithering Glowing Radioactive
Cities
Killing me with the flush of drive
and lust
Slowly riveting me into the steel
chambers of the first Architect
Cain
His howl his lust
his growing power
in bursting legs
fleeing
He must rise
He must run
He must raise
a city
to block a bloodied stun
to the head
Run Cain
and make me
a column
a filigree
a neon cut
a laughing monolith
Twist me and turn me
into the gust
of your need
I'm ready
Mix me with the dust gravel screams
of our great hanging cities
in the gardens of tar
and slick black rivers
of diesel
I see my heart
tossed and frosted
in the great winters
of a brimming Jericho

You wish to believe in the opening and closing of flowers
in falling stones filled with meaning
in preposterous positions and overwhelming frissons;
yet you are old and life has forced its finger into your stone face;
to excavate a blood place;
a tiny pool of black sweat;

an eye

You stand in front of the sun.
Your line is dark
Your skin fair
Existence is behind you
Your curve is the reminder that we are not free
From your shoulder to your hip
I outline with my finger
All that we are to be