Progressive, she says about the music
The red wine has made her
Put on the stereo,

And I'm glad I have no neighbours, but
At the same time I wouldn't care
If I did; the way her

Hair smells when she headbangs
Is worth more than summer lilac
And lakeside pine in air. Or silence.

I have surrendered to you day after
Day, tonight I put my sword to the ground
And kick dirt upon it

So it will not awaken. I am without
Arms, touching your face with
My unreachabilities.

Rhythm is the only God we have.
Tone is our Saviour, Melody the Holiest
Of Ghosts . *How can we live

Like this? I ask, then shut my mouth
And do as she says: Just listen to
How it climbs; moves; is.

I have no more fight in me. So I
Won't. I'll just let her decide the volume
And music, and when I need it, Dream

Theatre gives in to Enya, and all my
Needs for rest finally make sense as I
Try not to close my eyes and leave my

Head somewhere between her shoulder
And chest, and ask anything that might
Listen not to, for the sake of ****,

Take me to anywhere that isn't where
She decides that we're listening to music
That is anything but us.

Don't drink in bed
and spill your wine
for the poet.

He will only leave you
for a better rhyme,
a more wholesome
desk to set his thoughts upon,
a chance to live beyond
four-walled extinction.

Don't let him satisfy
his need for a vice,
a wretched want
for wantonness;
to lay her down
in a bed of poverty.

The poet will capture
your fraught moments,
spinning a line
in smart formation,
and then reminding
you of pain ever since.

Don't sleep with the poet.
He will only wake you
in fear of cold and death.

in bed with the animal, after choice cuts of echo, the man calls on the peace of having a third wish.  at a sleepover, his son falls from a top bunk.  as he waits for his bones to return unbroken, the boy imagines he is paralyzed.  the  paralyzed boy with the ******* of a woman.

how inside feels moon
when slight suddenly
****** all nerves

          (tingling)

perched on breath
every vessel rages
with intensely purring starlight


                And
each self wholly vibrates
;teetering;
with brief invincible death.

The handle of my
New knife
Didn't sit so well in my
Palm.

The blade sure did.

Remember us better than we were
and more than we are, better than zealots
and more than just pious primates, always trying to
find meaning in what is and what isn't, we fail miserably

yet still we climb

Unable to circumvent our final exit
we've fabricated imaginary friends, that left bread crumbs to guide us
our fate; self immolation, but we label it paradise
so enthralled with the after, we forget the now

to the hungry, even crumbs taste like kindness

We cite holy verses out of context
to condone genocide and our prejudices
the moral of their story, an afterthought
unless it suits our whim, our disdain and bigotry
thinly veiled in religious veneer

Our sabbaths, are spent professing our love one to another
just like the scriptures command us to
sinners and saints, pharisees and hypocrisy
we confess only the sins we choose to bring to light

Forgive me father, for I have sinned

I have planted myself near the wellspring of knowledge
my roots have grown deep, choking the life from the supernatural
my foolish superstitions wither, absent sustenance
allowing my branches to reach new heights, and yet

*still I climb

it sure isn't my perfect behaviour
or indeed my perfect thoughts

Love loves because love cannot help but love

When she cries
Oceans withdraw their
Hands from thirsty
Shores to lend tears
To her worries.

When she cries
My hands find her cheeks
And collect little
Beads of diamond from
Velvet surfaces.

I grace my lips with
Divine martinies, and as
Softly as I can, kiss their
Path to where lids meet,
Then lips, as if trying to

Breathe them back into
Her heart through her
Mouth, and by that saying I'm sorry
That I left my love unconfirmed
Last morning.