Love is seeing you in the bottom of my coffee,
It's feeling a cigarette burn into my skin,
It's hearing your voice cracking in the branches of my trees,
It's watching the moon turn red in April and not being able to focus on the stars anymore,
It's staring into my drawers, feeling my fingernails scratching the wood looking for change,
Its licking a lit match,
And finding a golden dollar in your backyard under the sandbox,
It's getting in a car crash at 60 mph on a congested highway and never being able to drive again without thinking about hitting a concrete wall,
It's holding your ******* hand and your cold skin and knowing it has nothing but warmth underneath,
And its wanting to die before I hit thirty.
It's burning, it's certain, and it's haunting.
I'll never be without that.

Grey days require colourful thinking
Bouncing energy is felt
as usual with most people's faces drawn in wonder
Why do we speak out of turn?
When those that know nothing are hungry for love

How many times do we waste our actions
We never think of where we are going
And if we might care for those that suffer
Though the lack of comfort is undisclosed
We should know what this leads to
Not pretty but to a crescent of shame
Not liking definite lessons of our pathetic existence.
Singeing ones hair on a dancing candle can mean only one thing
The flaying arms of outrageous and careless action
Spells veritable acquiescence in the days events

Notice your body
Watch the curves on the numbers on the weighing machine
Scales are for dragons, lizards and fish, not you
Don't be sure that tomorrow your heart won't be aching
For the fresh winds that drag you sideways into
A superfluous distant horizon and grateful solitude
In my life I've had stirring moments but
I realise that every time I wake
My greatest achievement is still to come
Nonetheless I am delighted that I have made it
Perhaps from which eventually all my life will be judged
No word remembered, no action recalled
But the marks I've made on my canvases will tell all

Your life summed up
In garbage bags
One full of your
Personal things
A snapshot of your life
That no one wants
The end of the life
Of a thief
Broken and alone
But you stole more than money from me
You stole friendship
And companionship
You stole the breaking of bread
And trust
And care and compassion
You stole things that I can't get back
Things that I will never place so easily
In someones hand again
But it doesn't matter to you now
Not that it ever did
Now that you are dead

The only war
Is the one in your head
In a world with no sides
We're only fighting ourselves
The revolution is not ending this one
But making sure no war
Ever happens again
Fight the last good fight
The one to unite
Within and Without
Us, no them
Being the tallest tree means
Getting hit by all the lightning
Thou shalt command only thyself
Your will expression of god
The only divine inside
When Zarathustra speaks
Do not listen.
In the silence
The words will open up
Leave behind the money god
**** the man god
And leave behind the last man
Burn down the pantheon
Occupy the space with humanity
With all the pitfalls
That lead upwards
Slay the doubts and in the evil
Find an overcoming
Step over bridges,
Do not bother
Swim deep
And never come back
From down under
The nonbeliever is the most religious
Giving in to belief
On the loosing side
Of a battle without a war
Trapped behind
All the banter played out loud
Repentance is suicide
Do not sacrifice
You will not gain
If god is dead,
Perfection is too
Good for you
****!
****!
Listen to my command!
Destroy!
Destroy!
Don't listen to my words!
Hang on to in between,
And listen to the quiet
Crucifixion is for the weak
With no world to inherent
The meek must
Give the world to themselves  
Laugh, laugh!
As you cross over
The dead bodies
And the wishers,
But not the takers
Love at the wrong time
And hate at the right,
Are the greatest steps
To going over
Never a quiet moment
The sky hangs low
Heavy with static
The silence presses upon ears
And weighs upon souls
Souls, the meeting of the in and out
Of this world and
Everything else
The line in the sand
Also dividing but
Not changing what it is
Just sand under the division
Jump from the clouds
To mountaintops
Slide to the bottom to find truth
Forget everything you've been told
Or told yourself
And feel it
On your feet.

naturally,
after we leave,
everything seems to get better.
not that we took it for granted
no, really, we didn't.
we were:
            test subjects
                     guinea pigs
                            a band of misfits searching for the positive
yet somehow remaining apathetic.

I somehow expected you to be like us
a little less caring
a little less bothered
that's what I expected, not this..
subdued insecurity manifested in your eyes
they keep darting around
looking for answers in a scallop
or in the bottom of a coffee cup
silence where you should be laughing sits
hanging heavily on your shoulders,
making your natural slouch even worse
        ...I wonder if you noticed that your eyes are getting bluer

we learned once in english class that films use blue to represent anxiety
that the churning sea is symbolic of a churning mind
we never learned that you can spot that in a man
so lost in his worry that he can't see
        ...his eyes are getting bluer.

Webster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.

Daffodil bulbs instead of *****
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.

Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense,
To seize and clutch and penetrate;
Expert beyond experience,

He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.

    .  .   .   .  .

Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.

The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;

The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.

And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.