i wonder if you tell
your piano
the things you used to
tell me.

Killing Time
while time kills me
the flesh
the powder
the smoke
the drink

Killing time
my time is free
devoid of life
in which I seek

I stand above my bed
And examine the damage.
Blankets this way and that
Pillows all over
Sheets tangled up around themselves.
Proof of something that
Only hours ago
Left this place empty.
I take in the rubble
And breathe deeply.
I lower myself down to those
Tangled sheets
And backwards bedspreads
And fill my lungs with you.
I pull them up around me
And close my eyes
And wish for this place to be
The same kind of battleground
Again tomorrow.

Outer beauty is about 33% of the total package.
Unfortunately, it is the first thing people notice.
An obvious statement by me, a man.

From my perspective; maybe not so unique.
A woman's physical "perfection" may not be as desirable as one might imagine.
Physical Perfection can be intimidating, by men & women.
Physical Perfection can be resented, even though admired.
Physical Perfection can also attract some "unwanted" attention.
Physical Perfection can bring on mental frustration,
while dealing with the perverted assortment of attention.

Having said so, I am curious to know the personality of a physically perfect girl.
As, I can not get close enough to say anything more than Hi as we pass in the mall.
But, my physical self can not keep her attention, even for a minute.

The competition for her attention would be too great.
My cautious and shy personality would be left behind.
She would be whisked away from me.
Most likely by a younger more physically perfect guy.

I would prefer, the girl next door type.
She looks cute and is quite nice.
When she does her magic. She transforms into a very pretty and even **** girl.
Even with glasses and slightly crooked teeth.

Her most endearing qualities though is not physical perfection.
Rather, her beaming smile, sparkling eyes, self-confidence
outgoing personality and...
her get it done attitude.

My brother and father are talking the the front of the car.
About some cool twist in mystery my brother learned about in school,
or maybe about a latest buisness plan.
My youngest brother is sleeping next to me in the very back of the car.
My middle brother is listening to music,
like he always does as he falls asleep.
My sister is sleeping as well.
She can't read, because she always gets car sick.
And I'm sitting awake in the back seat,
as I always am on this long trip.
Staring out the window...
just thinking about everything going on in my life,
trying to find anything in it to grasp...
trying to fight back the threatening tears.
This is how it always is at 1 in the morning on this never ending trip.
We are all in this small space for a long time.
But no one will ever know me like they think they do.
Even if they asked...(which they never will) why would I tell?
I'll just be told I'm being silly,
and then a lecture will start on how they grew up,
and how that's how I should as well...

Not that i'll ever listen.

My hands glide over her body
My body glides in tune with hers.
The urge,
The need, the incredible temptation.
The suddenly surreal sensation.
Hands instinctly find their slippery way down her braziere;
Touching her there
Touching her here.
Carefully caressing her
Beautiful
Flawless twin triple scoops of creamy delicious vanilla ice cream.
Eyes abeam.
I pinch my ******* hard, my teeth longing to wrap themselves around hers.
Insatiable, rationable; moment deferred.
I'd love to stay and devour her, but my way must be made.
Body contact and relations, hormones fail to fade.
Raging.
I make my way with the heat on high.
Blast on full.
Clothes flying against the car wall.
Driving with both hands down my pants
Underestimating chance.
Not even the night can cool me down.

a watched *** never boils,
shine red letters, “9:09”
a watched wrist will not cut itself
this wristwatch won’t keep time

my pockets they are full of sand
i think i need a drink
but the bottles are all filled with ships
the salt is full of sink

the kitchen drawers are filled with clothes
the bedroom tile’s stained
theire’s bodies lying in the tub
i flushed it down the drain

“it hurts, it hurts!” i cry out
through the painting on the bed
the pink and blue’s a vivid grey
that noose i made from thread

“BATTY, BATTY, LITTLE ONE”
a psychic claiming womb
“we lies, we lies” he hollers back
a whisper, shoebox tomb

when tap run dry tap tap a vein
i wait ‘fore you(r) reply
the alphabet’s your master now
subvide by multiply

my my my you’re growing
every new voice looks the same
each set of eye’s thats staring back
deferent different game

the early bird just passed we
floating downward wrinkled skin
worm slither in your fat cells
to your wheels on broken rim

we’ve eaten all my vegetables
i’m eating all that’s green
whom made you king i’m paying
there is something underseen

name starts to sound familiar
daily hourslongs each week
enough milk baby didn’t drink
she too loud when i speak

i cut back on the coffee
i’m not laughing, ha ha ha
one tweak, I’m boiled water
it’s 9:10, a smoking ***

...and she sat at the edge of the bed, talking nonsense as usual
told her to get her things, needed sleep, now this was crucial
lit up a cigarette, taking her time, wouldn’t let me breathe
kisses in tow and my half naked *** just wanted her to split.

Another free bird, bobbing her head, refusing to quit
soaking the sheets without knowing I am already out of seed
you are a duck of another season and winter is not the spring
even if you spring back into my mattress you still gotta leave.

I never promised them the world, but I’m still a man of action
get my Barry White on and give it to them in a night of passion
never claimed to be James Bond if all they want is satisfaction
now if I broke the rubber ducky in 9 months they’d be contractions.

And they always got it and I always kept my Rolling Stones ways
and the more they loved it, they chained themselves to my bed
never caught an easy fish even if I already had them on the hook
I just had to reeled them in, could always tell by the way they look.

So here goes their poem, to the vamps never scared of the dawn
leaving marks on my neck, in the chair, desk, sofa and beyond
widows of solitude, promiscuously married, girlfriends of seconds
the queens of elevator ***, that turn my heavenly bed into an inferno.