Across the bed, she has lain,
Not breathing not in vain.
My mood is as stoic as her skin's hue.

It started early with how the day
Cut ***** windows with sunlit rays,
Was as southern as a slice of honeydew.

She was leaning by the gate,
Like Christina Applegate,
As willing as a pauper without a clue.

I never asked her name,
To me, they were all the same.
(Somehow, I think this one might stick with me.)

There is an absence in her eyes
I have loved since her demise.
She will stay this way in my memory.

I pour the powder on her pale,
****** belly, then toot, inhale.
Through my nose, I feed my mind.

Sticky dryness of my mouth;
It's time to leave the south,
Go somewhere no one can find.

I can still hear the sound
Of the drive by shooting down
On the street from around the block.

The room is a vestibule
To the starlit harlot's tomb.
When I'm done, I leave her on the cot.

As I move through the door,
And leave behind the *****.
I muse, briefly, how I stay in the clear.

To all the good Catholic boys,
May you bang up lots of toys.
Have a ****** belly Christmas this year.

Raindrops collide with the fogged glass of my window,
I stare out,
Acknowledging their desperation to enter
But dismissing them because I am too selfish
To let go of the warmth.
A cup of tea rests on the desk,
Steam rising and vanishing
Like waves at sea,
The grey clouds roll across the horizon outside,
Releasing their tears across the sky,
Crying from days of an endless pilgrimage
To a salvation only the people with their feet
On the ground can fathom.
There is an aching in my bones,
From seeing the world turn to
An empty canvas when only hours before
It burst with a breathtaking vibrancy
Of blue skies and blazing sunshine.
The storm clouds roll in,
The stars will never illuminate
When the day time falls to its knees
And the moon is alive,
The wolves will never howl
As the thunder grabs the land
And bangs it like a drum,

All that I wait for now
Is for the candles to blow out,
For the tea to cool down
And for the sun to return again.

Streetdogs rattle
a drunken cackle
spilling home after hours.
Scuffing pavements
dragging heels and dignity low.
Voices traveling further
than they need to go.
The ****** persist in splitting peace
invading night.
Children pretend to sleep
believing the bowsies are cool.
Wanting to be just like them.
Some will too.

When Autumn kissed the tree,
its leaves blushed and fell.
Starlings took to wing,
oh what scandal they had to tell

She never once asked why
I keep the twisted rosewood stick
or if it holds significance.
Or why Flann O'Brien's
"At swim two birds." has a place
by itself on the shelf.
She never understood my love
of jazz, metal or classical music
or wondered why
Hieronymus Bosch and Caravaggio prints
are in the hall.
She once said I should get rid of them all
"They don't match the décor."
She never understood the humour
of Leonard Cohen,
nor appreciate the raw beauty
of a Bukowski poem;
claimed they were just ***** old men.
She couldn't fathom why
I am drawn to decrepit ruins
or could spend hours just walking
without a destination.
She never will comprehend my love
for the ghostly hue of twilight.

Thick fog
muffling street lights,
confusing shadows,
smoothing edges.
Silent stretch of phantom arms,
damp embrace.
Smothering distance
veiled:
harsh city vanishes.
As wondrous as it is eerie.
****** into its vacume of nothingness.
Spellbound.