a little raw beautiful you are the way.


                                            and ,ti evol I


the mouth that soft(that cruel) of teeth
and lips
is like it. thorn'd

and prim and

ringed in pinkness
of petals parting

on a pistil between.


such smoothness that rushes,
such skinness that prickles exactly
at the right arch
of its rising hips.

to meet with the riding
heartness of my surging taste:

blood and just
that tiny tang
of left behind from.




                                               (can i begin?)'(




and to fold you;
into my hands–as fists–
that unfold–inside you.

Are you happy?
Are you really happy?
No.

Happiness is an illusion a distant conception dreamt up and designed by advertising and marketing agents to get you to buy trivial, meaningless, material junk.

We once tried to break away from this with counter culture, rock ‘n roll and punk.

Not long until the battle was over and we thought we’d won
But little did we know their rain had just begun.

Believing we were safe we let our guard down
Now they are back and build a Starbucks in every town.


We’re told how to look how to dress how to behave
Will watch smiling people on TV corrupt and deprave us
Now we snap back and they will not force us
Forget about what you know what you think you know especially about the value of material possessions
They are only strategically programed desires and obsessions

A guilty conscience isn't cleansed by buying a new watch
Stress is not drowned by a five dollar cup of coffee
Your life is not completed when you buy that leather couch
We can write a new page in history carve another notch
We can peel the label of consumer off and finally be free
We as a generation will curse suppression and no longer slouch

Break away from advertising
Say no to the franchises
Become what you want to be
Not what the posters say you want to be
See yourself through your eyes not the TV screen

Mourning
Has washed over but it's swelling tide
Does not ebb
Each day dawns in brightness
Many things for which I thank
Surrounded by love, by comfort
Yet even the weight of your arms fall short
This sadness has become a sickness
For which there is no cure
The rose tinted frames I wore before
Are now shadowed
The sun still shines
Birds singing
But it's always raining in my head
Leaking out to form rivers
From where I spring in cathartic feeling
Healing is no process
It is a journey
One that I will follow through this life into the next

I’d done a lot of drugs that summer, drank a lot, and lost my virginity a hundred times over.
David. He was the man who ****** me for the first time. He was in his thirties, a Buddhist, and a patient teacher.
In the dark, he was so ****, iron filings and gum.
But perhaps it wasn’t him that enticed me into ***. I think it might have been a combination of everything. The way his girl-faced Buddha shone by the light of a candle. The view from his window – city flowers and washing lines, Chopin on the stereo, the cleanness of his sheets, the girl in the next room talking loudly about Jean Paul Sartre.
I want you, I said.
Fifteen, I was. He didn’t know that, of course.

There was a terrible pressure when he ****** me, so he told me to
Relax
Relax
Relax
Imagine you’re emptying out
Imagine you’re emptying out and accepting something holy
communion if you like
you're catholic aren't you?
You look lovely
You feel lovely
You look lovely

There was a part of my mind that thought of girls being torn through, blood and pain, embarrassment in the morning. I couldn’t stay hard.
There was a part of me that gave in, with my knees up by my shoulders.
There was a part of me that wanted to flip him onto his back and **** him, part of me that was desperate to be a man, part of me that hated this submission.
In the morning there was no embarrassment, just cereal and ten different types of smile. Milk in bed. A lecture on loving kindness.

Symphony of shells
Quartz pebble accompaniment
Gull solo to wind sound
Waves whisper-singing in mid-lantic
Come away, come away
Come to momma
Now

r ~ 7/17/14

Under the light of the moon we sit,
Amidst the raging battle of fire and hell.
The cries pierce through the silence of the night,
I close my eyes, trying to imagine a better world,
Yet my thoughts are clouded, unable to see past the flames.
When it rains, I only see tears set our foundation.
Is this suffering what we are made of?
Is our passion for destruction all that we are?
Somewhere along the road, we lost to the ways of life,
And how far have we come?
If in the morning I wake up as myself,
Or dead and buried in a world fuelled by hate,
Remember, there were cries in the night,
*Before the silence began.