Mystical close to mystery
The closing of the mouth
Can't quite overcome history
Especially way down South
Myths, wrote Eliade, are about beginnings
I've learned from my travels
And from my sinnings
David Markson, David Markson
I need your 5th book
If we go into extra innings!
Use a cupful of hallucinations
A handful of flight of ideas
12 table spoons of euphoria
And mix evenly.
Add a half cup of pure paranoia
10 slices of negativism
A sprinkle of disorientation
And a flavor of indifference to taste
Allow to cook for an hour
And you have for yourself
A perfect dish of crazy
#Crazy #Crazy is overrated
Something powerful lingered
Between our interlaced
I was ever so softly shocked
When our hands were
Your kiss like a lightening bolt
Struck my heart to a
I was electrocuted by your eyes
When I at last removed my
And finally I resigned to my urge
, to feel this current through me
Two bodies fused into one...
But the current did not
And empty was the ecstasy
That belonged only to my
I stared at your blank face
And realized what was
You were devoid of feeling,
This had no deeper
You had extinguished our flame
My sacrifice was all in
I sought a golden shine
And let you enter my
Soul and shrine
Now I’m left tainted and torn
I wish you’d have me
That you never intended to ignite
Our love with your false
I was fooled and gave my trust
To a devil derived from
Love is indeed blind
Unable to recognize
It’s own kind
*** and intimacy are far apart
You wanted my body
Not my heart.
Sometimes we are mislead by people who pretend to love us in our entirety when indeed all they’re after is our body. In my life I’ve learnt some hard lessons and one of them was to distinguish between love/intimacy and ***. I was tricked and payed the price, so I thought I’d try and describe this experience to you.
that angel carved visage sings silent poetry
rhymes of what you and I might one day be
and under those lost verses of rhyme
i lost myself in those sunrise eyes
Finally people opened themselves
to the evening when the lilacs were shy
and there were arches of sidewalk bouquets
the poplar flames just finding green
faces unfurled on every street
and they were drunk with the odor of spring
as though a tornado had spun their houses down
with a thud
and their bloom
put the flowers to shame
You were moon-drunk, speaking words
only uttered under the stars
because even you yourself feared
what left your swollen tongue.
You feared yourself more than I did
and that scared you.
But it scared me more knowing
that it would happen again, knowing
that your shadow would grow darker
every night until your star-sipped liquor
turned your fear into another monster
in the night; one that this time,
I couldn't run away from.
Terror first. Charge on sundown.
Too much past to make a grave here;
Our history is endless.
Socialists against the wall;
Only shallow love may remain here.
Well, there goes your man,
Here comes your machine of love.
Let the facade fall down.
Solitude stands tall
and peers through neighbours’ windows, kid.
Covid calls now.
The fruit of American prosperity
Is bodies sleeping in taped-together boxes
in the parking lots of empty hotels.
Charge on sundown.
The alcoves of power are shameless
And breach nature’s law to remain here;
The crime is endless.
I could laugh at this night.
I could disappear into the mirage of a riot.
Glad-masks on, nobody to save but the ones who refuse to remain here anymore.
Charge on sundown.
The structure breaks with nothing real about itself to defend, love.
Terror arrives first and it is endless.
the point of the knife
above the witch grass
carved into the trunk of the tree
she had worn something
pretty and white
and he slips his arms around her waist
and she cups her hands around his face
she wore something pretty and white
and she feels his breathing
on and on
like a bird shot gunned
from blue sky
and the ticking clock
and the beating heart
into waiting worms