It was deep April, and the morn
Shakespeare was born;
The world was on us, pressing sore;
My love and I took hands and swore,
Against the world, to be
Poets and lovers evermore,
To laugh and dream on Lethe's shore,
To sing to Charon in his boat,
Heartening the timid souls afloat;
Of judgement never to take heed,
But to those fast-locked souls to speed,
Who never from Apollo fled,
Who spent no hour among the dead;
Continually
With them to dwell,
Indifferent to heaven and hell.

Only when I scavenged the bottom of the ocean
did I find you
an urn, preserved
within rust and clay
ready to be brought up to surface,
cleaned,
presented as unique,
as timeless,
beautiful.

And in return, you found
a scavenger.

I realize
that I am not the man
I should have been...

My nights are scattered darkness
becoming crows descending in light

to land on wheat fields
where they become golden,

where rivers of orange
run between green, flying shores

and I can swim along
on unsure footing

and still be accepted into your heart.

On the beach
waves collide with the shore,
coming from above
and slamming down
battering the sand.
As the ocean retreats back into itself
it claws the beach
and rips away its skin.
Clouds
huddle together and through sheer mass,
hue black.
Screams
bellows
and the pummeling sound of behemoths in disrest.
Tiny daggers drop from the riot,
denting the crust,
softening it.
And finally
the sand is pierced
by the feet of a hundred stampeding tourists,
failing to outrun the bullets
of a ****** in a rage.

Po- Slang for "poor"
E-Electronic
Try-Something you do when you're afraid you won't succeed.

Poetry makes no sense.

Caress my bottom,
sweet Blue,
and cling to me in the private,
strong
sensible way only you know how to do.
When I cross my legs,
hold my thighs,
and press me to open back up to the world.
When I walk,
Walk with me,
and keep me from giving the world my dignity
to do with what they so cruelly will.
But foremost,
deliver me from the evil
of catching myself in your fly.