open your mouth --- wider
there, those are bones
roots known by the flesh

look at your fingertips
they too bear the bone
scrim ***** coverings, ten of them

the scar on your skin
observe it
harm came to you
visited you - did you

re
member
it?

or did you
bottle it
and set it to
the dark green
murk beneath?

is it a part of you
that you shun? embarrassed
by its inarticulate language
curling and lunging

discolored other?

animal, listen
your mouth noises: mere symbol

your thoughts:
brief shimmer o' the surface

this is black
you are but blue
that is all

Fashionably
Against.  

Loudly.
Blood on blood.

Lie for a lie.
Truth for a truth.

Theory of Subjectivity.
Nothing I do is

-When it comes down to it-
For anyone but me.  

My warmest deeds were done
To feel good and uncold.

I find peace in it.
Reassurance.

Comfort even, when catching
Myself feeling good about hating

The haters, having completely
Forgotten the point of it all.

To not
Hate.

I adore the way the
Presence of a toddler; little

Diaper steps from something to
Something else

Softens the eyes of grandmothers
Smiling between themselves

Remembering their grown
Children

As not.
Paper-skin hands

Veins of deepest ancient blue
Holding love so old

For small things.
New things.

Fresh, little human being
Royalty in our eyes.

Commanding
Without knowing.

Heart itself on two
Tiny legs.

I have no idea, really.
I am a Northman; my blood is
Used to leaders

Of a different kind.
My heart and efforts placed
Before strong wills and

Absent egos.
All for the best of the tribe.
A fan of no human,

No single lie forgiven.
No hidden agenda  
Either.

When the longest spear of
Ridicule is thrown, make sure
No one raises

A shield strong enough to
Give Donald time to
Duck.

I ask myself, observing the
Battles of the infants, are there any
Grown-ups here

At all?
We're dealing with the fate of our
Children.

So much more our flesh and
Blood than anything
Animated.

My mind travels towards that
Vein on her neck my
Mouth once found

The way your tongue inevetably
Returns to the sharp edges of a
Chipped tooth

Despite your efforts
To keep it from cutting itself on
Something sharp, yours and

Broken.

I

Thirsty now; mouth dry like
A desert wanderer's,
Single man in solitude
Swiping right and

Not even caring
Too much.
Just looking for trouble;
Microwave-romance, softness;

A face that fits my hand.
Guitars gathering dust, begging
St. Gibson for inspiration
To shake their owner into

Lust fuelled
Songwriting; string breaking, pick
Melting, voice straining.
For now, the last of five litres of

Italian red is floating bellywards;
Bloodwards; headwards;
Heartwards, and the drinker writes
Text message poetry with drops of

Wine hiding in barley beard too
Full for an old mother's appreciation.
I owe her a grandchild.
She says poems don't count.

II

Thirsty now; heart dry like one
Not recalling love, not remembering
A woman's hungry hands on
The back of one's

Warm, wet head, pulling, nails
Digging,
Teeth biting beard.
Skin kissing skin.

Soul seeing soul and
Celebrating.
Sweet illusion of love.
I create a bed-sharer on canvas.

I compose a breakfast-eater at my table.
A listener to my songs,
Sunset-watcher, Netflix-snuggler,
Rainstorm-listener.

I owe for her to be flesh and blood, not merely
My neurons dancing. Ears to hear
My compliments. Hair to brush
Away from between

Our lips mid-kiss.
I finish my wine.
Could have made nearly painful
Love to her

For ages and
Aeons, but I
Create her temporarily;
Fleeting image of a speaking doll.

Hold me like tears on something
Golden. Hold me like an acid
Trip fading into reality.
She says poems don't count.

She says
Poems
Don't really
Count.

how angry and totally alone I felt and
I wanted to write poetry and talk to her
and the seed of total despair had grew
into a demon a dragon a mountain
I saw no way to conquer
or climb
I wish I had a bud
a bud to take a **** of
to calm me like it usually does
but all I had was
hopelessness  like a whole field of
them in my dream
and I am paralyzed
reaching for my pipe
and it disappearing
so I reached in the fridge
drew out a too ripe
banana
and tried to smoke it
take my word, don't try it
and I saw
in the back corner
the farthest reaches , of my fridge, almost forgotten,
that mushroom growing on last week's salad-
I am tripping, now

when you are young
you use false friends
and denial
when you are still young
you use scissors and nails
paper covers,
rock and roll
now I feel old
I’m using wrong-men
and running away
with empty hands

Somedays I don't feel like writing
and it worries me because
'Writers write everday --
real ones, at least.'
I fear being ordinary,
which is tasteless because
maybe being ordinary
is what I need.

The appeal of snapbacks
and hipster haircuts
is starting to make more sense.
Blending into a crowd
might suit me better;
to be invisible but
to no longer be insecure.

Rap lyrics make more sense,
even though I can't relate;
these words are my sedation,
these clothes aren't armor
but marketable camouflage.
My words have been said before,
but that might be okay because
I'd hate to torment myself
wondering about my relevance.

So, to move on, I write,
and I write, and I write
to pander and to conform.
Substituting thought for
appealing diction and
strong imagery, afraid
to show myself because
maybe you're too much
like me, which, surely,
would eat me alive.