I walk so often, late, along the streets,
Lower my gaze, and hurry, full of dread,
Suddenly, silently, you still might rise
And I would have to gaze on all your grief
With my own eyes,
While you demand your happiness, that's dead.
I know, you walk beyond me, every night,
With a coy footfall, in a wretched dress
And walk for money, looking miserable!
Your shoes gather God knows what ugly mess,
The wind plays in your hair with lewd delight---
You walk, and walk, and find no home at all.

There were happy times while at Home, where the sun
Licked the rims of our glasses and sent wayward strands of light
Streaking across an almost-empty tabletop,
Save for a slight shifting of sand in the only hourglass
I would ever need to own.

There were sad times too, don't forget
Like whenever the storms intruded on our mid-afternoon slumbers
And sent our dreams flying in a saturated mess of
Unfinished riverboat cruises and superhero simulations;
Underneath it all, though, it became impossible not to try it again.

We're going to return here someday, paying close attention to
A world that had preserved itself for the sake of preservation
A life that had spent its last weekends alone on the edge of the sea
Where everything within it collected and became a mosaic of
Saturated dreams and hourglasses cut in two -
Sand mixing with sand.

Just tell me how you’ve been feeling
And I’ll look the other way when you decide to cry -

Just tell me where you’ve been going
And I’ll decide to cry when you look the other way -

Did you say No, or did he?
The man inside you,
Or the one leading me?
The way you say I,
Is the way I say you.
If you get past your ego,
Be sure to let me know.

it feels as if all the
important words
have been drained out
and I'm left with nothing
but dry heaves and
deep coughs.
it feels as if all the
meaning
has run away
and I'm left with nothing
but sore feet
and shoes filled with
holes and blood.
it feels as if all the
*******
floats on top of my mind
and that's all I'm left with.

raise the day
on salted ash
the earth is stilled
in noble glass

a gilt punch of harder redder
a golden scrape, dying never

the nights a bruise
a bruising sleep
who's face is ruse
a rousing meat

the gloating love of breathing daring
the precious heart of reckless caring

Today is well
a well so deep
your pleasant face
i'll surely keep

        (in chamber,
         vermilion sore
         a giddy place
         from words do pour

        "my hands art night
          my fists art day
           i've come to thee
            so let us play"

Stomach ulcers wait for me
acid reflux looms
Bloated Belly
Backend bother
Doctors waiting rooms.

And still I wolf down whiskey
and guzzle gassy stout
and wake at dawn
a can in hand
in the middle of a roundabout.

For whats the point of living
if living is a chore
some love life without drinking
I find I enjoy it more.

Budding writer in need of
a muse.
One whos views
will fuse together
disjointed observations,
through musical maschinations
into flowing verse.
Shapely and round
if you please
And not averse
to ******,
borderline
perverse.