You are nothing
nothing but a slight light
nothing but everything but what you are.
Yet you are something
you must be something?
For your meanings are streaming
your regal feel,
a star of injured award of war,
a bruise that looms
from sort of doom!
You are everything.
In every lashing of light you lie
reflected corrected then read by the eye
subjected to infected ‘definition’.
You are everything.
You are black, green, blue,
red yellow orange too.
But then you are nothing.
Just a pattern of letters and syllables,
no more than a thought
thought long before I hand a chance to see.
You are mine.
I disregard that, which was before
let the letters leave
let me lament what I see.
For you are mine.
Persistent in what you are,
Utterly unlawful to change,
Repeatedly ruining, the renitence of shame,
Perpetually poisoning the marriage of red and blue,
Lethargically lying in a rainbow too,
Every entity I see is you.
For you are light,
as am I,
thus I am yours,
thus we are everything,
and, in the dark
we are nothing.

Oft’ in my thoughts, that little dog eared book
There with it’s spine cracking and un-binding.
I see you in the side-scrawled notes you took.
Fraying edges mean more than I’m finding.
The very last thing you ever gave me,
Oh and how it binds us together still.
No idea what its origins could be.
The last mystery you keep, what a skill.
Never to discuss what we thought it meant,
Argue for hours until morning dew.
The last thing to me that you ever lent,
and yet with no chance you ever knew.
Always my guide, my reservation thief,
my inspiration, my friend and my chief.

You open your mouth and fists fly out,
in repetition you let it flap like trout.
Lay your love on a bed of nails,
and gleam with glee the formation of your scales.
Pause your thought for that train has taken you adrift
Pause your dreams for the sleepy ones will not agree
Pause your tongue for its slamming rage has led you from a mothers love.
Freedom found me in my cage
and now like ecstasy
creeps up and down my neck
and the sweat!
The endless sweat!
That drips from my brow as pearls
mocking the tamed and lame children.
Stretching and reaching to feel real,
to descend at last into the manic panic.
To cast off the joy and divinity of youth
and instead commit ourselves to the asylum of living.
To accept the madness and sadness
as necessitates on a quest for love.

Don’t waste your pity on the broken ones,
their cuts are not yours to plaster.
Find solace that life is not a line
that you should act or learn.
It hides in us all that burning, churning,
that sullied broken ground,
that hot slopping metal that covers my chest,
squeezes life from my breast!
How can we draw comfort,
when all artistic talent has left us?
Where do we place our dreams,
when the waking hours are nightmares?
When god is dead,
who holds the keys to heaven?