Her hands are a mystery
If you look at them, you see his light
But if you look into them, you feel a consciousness of their own.

Their spirits embrace at a single moment
and all Time and all Trees pray
for them.

But the peach trees stand still; silent
They witness the reincarnation of his dreams
Chaos, absolute seedless chaos
A peach drops and dies.

In the darkness, the peach is unseen
Only eyes question death
Flooding, flooding, flooding
Only twelve million answers

Ravenous stars light the sky
by hunger for only their answer
But enlightenment is encrypted
in Latin and all the languages
of the world.
And her conscience is full and sleeps.

Who’s to blame her?
A vision of red may only wander
And wonder she is.
In China, dragons dance to their unheard
secret.

Oh, but the owls know.
Within their ocean of a soul
bathe the greatest whales
eating oranges.
They grow oranges in their minds
to keep the sun jealous.

Zealously, the gods blow
new passion every morning
Her suprasternal notch ignites
His lips bloom twelve roses
And all clocks stop, and fly

Yet their fusion reeks
Confusion lasting a few weeks
and a painting
A painting of stones born
by their bedside every time they
hug; free

Free love ceases to be a myth
It blinds an entire universe
into entropy for eternity

Her magic, as free, is trapped
in books and lost music
His breath, as lost, cradles
every word
The elephants walk through mirrors
into her

Her blue shirt falls apart
A heart beat crying, squanders
Every button, hiding the moon
A pomegranate seed as red as her vision

Her hands are a mystery
If you touch them, you
feel him, in all sadness and grace
You journey into space.

My hair is red. I am alive as the sun.

My heart pumps red. I am alive as fast as I run.

You make me run.



I shave my head in the morning and by midnight I find my fire burning.

The ashes bloom into a red rose.



He finds her in a garden hidden from life like a red, red rose.

Her hair smells like fire.



Like fire, we dance.

Like music, we dance.



The sun rises as red as itself.



May we love.

You woke up tomorrow with bleeding ears and thought you were dead.

You gazed in the mirror and it cracked in your head.

You cried in agony but the tears run through the blood and dread.

You looked back and unveiled memories you once over fed.

He shot you right when you were about to taste the baked bread.

You woke up tomorrow with a trembling heart certain its dead.

I’ve never been that close to a bird

I’ve never been that close to a bird

I’ve never been that close to a bird

I’ve never been that close that close to a bird



The feathers, the colors, oh the beak

It makes me feel all so human and weak

For it can fly so high and I’m doomed to gravity

That freedom, that beauty, is all I seek



I’ve never been that close to a bird

I’ve never been that close to a bird

I’ve never been that close to a bird

I’ve never been that close that close to a bird

Hot water in hands
And face cries in the broken mirror
Where last time there was kiss
In a bathroom somewhere

Eyes young and sad
From yesterday when they dream
Rivers of blood where butterfly
Lay eggs

Mornings not happy but
Mourning
Nights not brave
Not knight

Are we here?

I tried writing a poem about us birds

But our wings whisper greater songs

Of flight and warmth.

This is a story about a man who ate love.

An odyssey of his tumultuous travels up above.

Coveting confection, he licked the sweet kiss.

Starving for affection, he swallowed the poor miss.



She lived inside his stomach for years.

Undigested and pretty, she slept in his fears.

Speaking in groans and abdominal aches.

At night, his disemboweled soul, in torment, shakes.



Insufferable disgust and miserably alone.

He prayed in hunger, in agony, to atone.

For once falling in love with a lady of wit.

He threw her up; a meal of true grit.

I walk in the cold and the snow kisses my face while the breeze makes love to eyes tired of staring into the sun.

I walk in the cold and the silence of unpeopled streets whispers tunes of frozen myths about love and mystery and my ears blush.

I walk in the cold and it bites my red nose as it inhales perfume of chill and smiles.

I walk in the cold and the cool wind waltzes with my red hair on symphonies of crisp snow flakes falling on the ground.

I walk in the cold and my breaths escape as white waves crashing into the emptiness of piercing ice.

I walk in the cold and the cold walks in me.

Falling in love is mutilating and murdering yourself.

Sharing your love is carrying the dead body, showing it off, all around.

For God’s sake, burn the book or leave it on its shelf.

Or at least hide that horrendous corpse; bury it underground.



But it’s a ****** cemetery, this witty world is.

Every one bragging of decomposed dirt.

Yours surely is more rotten than his.

So smell the rot, you asinine little flirt.



Life should come with a warning label.

WARNING: DEAD BODIES EVERY WHERE.

Ironic, to be born on a doctor’s table.

Then die, massacred in deathly affair.



But we can’t live without love, it’s hilariously tragic.

For death lurks, immortal, in our hearts.

Yet our minds, gullible, believe it’s magic!

Beware, beware of Cupid’s darts.



**** it up, Romeo, move on with life.

Cleanse your soul; stop being sadistic.

Sure it’s beautiful, but not when she’s your wife.

It’s a dead body, you’re stupid and unrealistic.

Poetry fails me. And I it.

Love has torn me. The final bit.

No longer human, no longer sane.

You dug the grave; a hellish pit.



You named it love. You drank the dirt.

Called me a lady; groped for my skirt.

But a fantasy’s a fantasy and we die.

I am ugly but so is your shirt.



Dry a dream. Fry a heart.

A mind atrophic; a lonely start.

Live in a corner and die a hero.

Save yourself; you’re so smart.



Poetry fails me.

And I it.

Open your eyes.

It’s not rain, it’s spit.

I need to leave this place.

They call it hell sometimes

Or life.

Infinite. But I need more space

For creativity; some deadly crimes.

One knife.

Impossible. Our vomiting human race.

Bloodsucking; it slimes.

Our wife.

I need to rip my face.

Your poem never rhymes.

My strife.

The slow broken time

makes you think why

would one wake up if

morning is not free

from the night



Only yesterday is born

into this ghost

of a universe that

never asks for

our dance

desire to know like

God



We haunt out the

present to explore

question

foolish like laughing

but sadly and as

you see



Most seep away

down with deep ocean

as sacred prisoners

in darkness

like men



A breath

The sky was falling

But they were still flipping coins around

Their mother calling

But they were still lost and never to be found



It was a world of their own

It was their home

It was a world of their own

It was their Rome



At Rome where films sparked from their fingertips

And paintings splashed from their minds

Where everyday was lunar eclipse

And in the moon there he finds



Her caterpillar, her centipede

Of hundreds of untold stories

And so inside he was freed

Of glorious past and past glories



And there she goes

Climbing the mountain

And there he goes

Waiting at the fountain



They meet and leave

And say profound things

They dance, believe

They are the kings

Of their Rome (x3)



And the sky fell

Their coins were in the air

Dancing as well

To the things they share

Of their days at Rome

And of their home

When mother was still calling

Them.

By the graves of the young

The leaves fall slowly and afraid

Of disturbing the love and peace

And the dust and wind who prayed



The sun shines softly upon

The epitaphs of the brave

Who chose to smile

While their memories fade



The earth embraced the bodies

Of the truthful and the martyr

Whispering “a few moments left”

For the day to be made



The young and the brave

The truthful and the martyr

Lie side by side beating

Listening to the next grenade

The smoke clouded their faces

It was the kind of smoke that dances

Out of cigarettes and eyes

And music that cries



They were together and singing

Their voices slow and cringing

Hiding beneath the skirts of smoke

Which, with truth, it spoke



The mystery of our race

The misery of our place

Concealing the obscene

Of desire rising between



The lover and her clock

The earth and its rock

But it seeps away loudly

Screaming reality proudly



Behind the smoke, a family of one

Quivers underneath the cruel sun

Of truth and virtue, setting

On their dead hearts, sweating

Seventeen men standing on a shaft

Of grey sunlight

Seventeen men waiting for a draft

Of black and white



Seventeen men all proud and blind

For the victory

Seventeen men all loony in their mind

Oh contradictory



Seventeen men fervent on a march

To their slow doom

Seventeen men die, drop, and parch

Not enough room



Seventeen men are abandoned prostrate

On the battlefield

Seventeen men become slaves to their state

All their hearts are sealed



Seventeen men praised above the ground

Lie breathlessly beneath

Seventeen men glorified by the pound

Their graves, their souls bequeath



Seventeen men were in love with an idea and went to war

Seventeen men died for a border and fought for a *****

Let me tell you ten sick notions that make reality a miserable mess.

Number one is hope, surely there’s no negotiation.

Number two is love; an asinine confabulation.

Number three is ego; our corrupt power station.

Number four is belief in awesome divine salvation.

Number five is desire; the evil conflagration.

Number six is time; its daggers of intoxication.

Number seven is corporeality; damnation.

Number eight is illusion granting exhilaration.

Number nine is our grave conscience, lost in translation.

And number ten is us alive in asphyxiation.

Let me tell you one sick thing that made your day a miserable mess.

This ***** sac of a poem, a genius game of chess.

I am patient and cold like the sea

I am patient and cold like you and me

I am patient and cold like the sea

I am patient and cold like the bumblebee



The bumblebee went out to sea

To fish a shell

But instead it just dropped dead

And went straight to hell



I am patient and cold like the sea

I am patient and cold like you and me

I am patient and cold like the sea

I am patient and cold like the key



The key is more than a key

It wants to find control

But after time it lost its chime

And fell into a black hole



I am patient and cold like the sea

I am patient and cold like you and me

I am patient and cold like the sea

I am patient and cold like the sea



The sea wants to be

Something more

But on the way it swam astray

And gulped its core

And now it is no more



I am patient and cold like something no more

I am patient and cold like you and me

I am patient and cold like something no more

I am patient and cold like you and me



You and me flew a tree

Up nowhere

But it crashed and you gashed

And left like despair

And now you’re not there



I am patient and cold like something no more

I am patient and cold like you’re not there and me

I am patient and cold like something no more

I am patient and cold like you’re not there and me

Unseen and untouched and unfelt.

I am lost and dust and grass.

Shining are stars of belt.

I am nothing but machine brass.



Immortal and breathing and dead.

You are feeling and hoping and seeking.

Dark matter is crumbs of bread.

You are aching and smiling and creaking.



Spleenful and cerise and crying.

She is singing at last.

The truth hiding and shivering and lying.

She is no more but the past.



Flying and dancing and falling.

He makes her music free.

Painting and the canvas is calling.

He fades away and leaves me.



Heights and drowning and dreaming.

We are not here anymore.

Eyes embracing and kissing and streaming.

We whimper and scream and roar.

They died last night while kissing

They die tonight in a hug

Wonder what goes missing

When I sniff drug?



They woke up today

Singing Kant

Wonder why we pray

If He can’t?



They dance all the time

In silence and eyes

Wonder how you mime

Your scream surprise?



They don’t know

But they love for no reason

Wonder when bloods flow

In the summer season?



They cry at night

And paint at dawn

Wonder who catharsis might

Be when they’re gone?

She wants to die.

She wants to leave.

She is nothing more than a cry.

If so, a heave.



He wants to be.

He wants to make.

He is nothing more than a sea.

If so, awake.



She crashes.

He falls.

In love and flashes.

She calls.



He kills her.

Life is green, handmade of chlorophyll and love
Kissing our blushing souls, reviving
Enlightening; we become Sun.