O Love! thou makest all things even
In earth or heaven;
Finding thy way through prison-bars
Up to the stars;
Or, true to the Almighty plan,
That out of dust created man,
Thou lookest in a grave,--to see
Thine immortality!

Youth who pelts stones at the convoy,
go get some drunk.

Dawdle up to a tavern.
Cozy up to the ladies.
Have some fun.

You feel great with the gun.
You want to die a martyr.
Yours is a dead cause.

Revolutions are past.
Revolutions don't work.
The baron you want out
is the hell back soon.
He's got the capital.

The dead die unsung.
Sloganeers rise
on ladders of the dead.

Youth who pelts stones at the convoy,
go get some drunk.

Fancy cars. Drive around the world.
Throw away the watch. Wear your phone.
4 am queues are so in. Dior, the who?
Thank god: Chrome can stand in
when Mozilla's bonkers.
Drown in likes and wallow in tweets.

Stay drugged. Stay unconcerned.
Pack up your rage and light a bonfire.
May be the smoke will
plug the holes in our skies.

It's all over.
An unmarked grave is all you get.
Gun or some fun.

Whose cause do you want to benefit?

Your eyes mirrored pools of black
ink and I never knew that the flask
in your pocket would keep me wide
awake into the morning.

The olivine porch outside your country
home was shaped with darker thoughts
and milkweed seed that left me
wondering how you wake in winter.

You lived as a sleeper in the valley
with a zirconium smile and when light
rained down the glass of your hanging lanterns
would break across the sky.

The smoothness of smoke that wrapped
around my lungs kept me lurking
in the corners of drowsy living
and drunken rainbow fires.

You could never offer me more
than what I already had.
So as with everything, the end came
and now the wind is blowing prismatic stars.

Now alone in February,
little ghosts roam in your nuclei
as warm honey swelling from down to up
and shaped into circles just as so.

They wear you like a coat –
they make babies on the linen.

When you talk to other red-faced girls,
phantoms spread their legs
and replicate the words
into antennae that thaw your lone chest.

I apologize for having supposedly left,
but see, it is me you’re feeling
when you cannot breathe.

Hating in defiance
Of the love that lingers there.
Smile sunny eyes
For the forcast is not fair,
And loath the day you met your rose,
For the thorns have gouged your skin.

Blood and roses
A new perfume
Bottled and ready for sale.

Sell the death in ads.
Pretty blond with protruding bones,
Tell me.
Tell me with your pearly whites.
Yes.
Tell me.
How I will be liked.
To smell of death.

All over you.

Let's save your tears
And drink to life.
Life ended and begun.
Time flies. but moves so slow
Playing catch up with the sun.

The moon so bright
Yes, let's take flight
To the stars and way beyond.
Let's leave this place
And go away
And venture out of sight.

Till time has passed
And blood is dried.
Old wounds will scar again.
The tears are gone.
Your mind is shut.
What feeling do I feel?

The feelings gone.
My throat is dry.
This practice overdone.
The air is numb.
The bed in pain.
Let's sleep and dream away.

coated in black tar
a rat by the tail
pull it out from your throat
it's too weak to scurry
pried from it's home
let it go
pick your poison

drown it

in a stream of ethanol
the ghost of a rat

No.

clean the little creature
feed it some crumbs
watch it not grow
make it yours
house it in affection
watch as it tames, no longer craving black tar
let it go

Past the deep Gotham of my eyes --
     The authority of my headache reads
     The graffiti of the prophets -- scribbled
     On the back walls of the train-station:
          
           Commute, work, commute, eat,
           Commute, work, commute, sleep;
           Work  Buy  Die
           And Say AYE-AYE, Sir.

     How many Dear Mr. Heartbreak letters
     Have been etched here -- (I cannot say how many) --
     Deep in the Gotham of my eyes --
     Cold as a city empty of alleys --

     Maybe I'll please the philistines,
     With much talk of good money. I'll study
     Their scriptures about the nonsense of art.
     At last I'll make good --

     I'll finally make them happy.
     I'll try a new part in my hair.
     Maybe I'll put down this pen; stop these letters.
     From now on, I'll express myself in tears.