Take to me the edge,
That god-forsaken edge;
So I can see where darkness thrives,
And light begins to end.

Take me to that place,
Of frightening solitude;
Where people give their lives away,
And end their pain for good.

Let me have a glance at death,
While clinging on to life.
And I'll dance on that fateful edge,
With all my ache and strife.

I
Suddenly, I'm nostalgic,
for the times when life was simpler,
and we were blind to the evil that dwelt amongst its thrushes
where we played.
We coloured its black and white pages
with crayons,
and placed them somewhat carelessly
into the folders of our memories.
Now we constantly search for them,
and the joy that was once ours.

II
The dark was my sworn enemy,
but now I embrace it with open arms.
Curiosity was once my dear friend,
now I've all the answers I never wanted.
Questions continue to bloom
in my garden of knowledge
and I let them die.
Afraid to know the truths,
I would rather nourish the lies
I have planted.

III
Suddenly I am nostalgic,
for the times when life was simpler;
when I could admire the roses,
without glancing at their threatening thorns;
when I could freely laugh,
and not feel the tears behind my eyes;
when I could dream my whole world up,
and not fear it will come crashing down.
Ignorance was really bliss,
and freedom, never my wish.

I poeticize, proselytize
Punctuate and pontificate.
I write couplets and rhymes
And I really do it all the time.
I exacerbate and exaggerate
With no desire to intimidate.
I make similes and metaphors
Indoors and even out of doors.

There’s cussing and discussion
And sharp literary impressions
Through diversions, conversions
Allusions as well as conclusions.
And with luck, no delusions.
Just syllabically deft fusions
Of some deferential references
With a deft touch of reverence.

I rhyme thyme with fresh lime
And cardamom with cinnamon.
Sweetbreads and shortbreads.
Chicken bones and licking scones.
Rhyming pumpkins with dumplings
And matching up filets with filberts
Just as cocoa goes well with Kona.
Marmalade can be a good marinade.

I rhyme chrome wheels and automobiles,
Freeway off-ramps and Tiffany lamps.
Cellophane and vintage airplanes.
Flapper vamps and streetwalking tramps.
Also Cinderella coaches and cockroaches,
Nothing is unfair game to a busy poet.
As well as RCA Victors and boa constrictors.
Since I’m a poet, everyone should know it.

You show me your world,
catchy pop rhythms,
smiles and childish laughter;
I long for something more,
something different,
something that cannot be described
in words or song.
I know from the beginning
that this cannot be.

I show you my world;
you catch a glimpse through
the twilight gloom,
amongst distant thunderheads.
You can see, in the distance,
a vast, colorless landscape.
Mountains that disappear into the heavens,
endless plains outstretched into oblivion;
this is my world, you see?
This is me.

Your sweetness can be topped,
somewhat, with a cherry;
an ice cream sundae dripping with
warm fudge and decadent condiments.
But this is not me, you see?
This cannot be.

Hexagonal yet
fashioned into a pattern;
process of dying.

Sleepless before day.
"Sunlight"; a curse for vampires,
not wretched function.

-Not impurity,
the presumptuousness of
those who point at us

and call us sinners.
They pray and sacrifice their
children [pentagon].

-We preach free speech, but
stab the tongues of fascism
deliberately.

Gaslighted by a
genocidal culture, we
fight back [pentagram].
~
Carving sigils in
frantic vanity eating
death incarnate, whole.

Hell is paradise,
and here we relish the filth
built up in corners,

where history fears
to show it's face and be struck
back into darkness.

Back into process,
simple pattern of dying.
Machines that grind flesh.

War machines by name;
"Liberty", "Freedom", "Safety".
Sleep can be wicked.

Where it interprets
the death of the innocent
as "necessity",

or claims tradition
is inherently wisdom;
"That's just how it is".
~
Sleeplessly in night,
I tap my finger against
a cold damp window.

Mass paranoia
for doomsday ticking downward,
not to zero though.

We wait for midnight.
Perpetuation of fear
is hexagonal.

No meaning
except what we choose
so do as you will
let chaos rain
but rain always ends
order will be imposed
at least as much order
as can ever be
a new meaning will come
perhaps something nicer
maybe the sun will explode
I never know.

I reached into
my skull
to fetch
A thousand words
I got a handful
and a headache.