Woke to the smell of smoke
Only to find my family
Standing around our couch which was on fire
Like a group of homeless people trying to stay warm

This is just practice
For when the money runs out

Forget the missing smoke detectors
Forget the old man just standing there
Saying, “I’m sorry” like old men do
Forget four walls
Walls are flammable

There is this distance
The size of apathy
And we
Are in the middle
Huddled around a fire
Trying to stay warm
As our house burns down around us

Until finally
Dry lips whisper water
And ***** lungs
Die for air
And I grab a hose from the porch

As the smoke finally clears
As they huddle in the car
With the heater running
As I learn to finally see my home as broken

Still
I will always have a safe place to cry
And we will always have a safe place
To lie

If by chance you should walk the field’s edge
Beyond the thorns and the balding privet hedge,
Walk for five minutes until you see,
A lonely birch copse and a sycamore tree,
And as the breeze inspires the clouds above,
To fluff and feather in the sky they love,
Then look to the copse and think of me,
Those clustered trunks in adversity,
For together they can break the howling winds
From plundering what lies within,
And then, my friend, you’ll understand,
The strength that comes from holding hands.

i am a clusterfuck
of metaphors
i have a broomstick
in my eye

i am a young man
hey all you young girls
let's do what we do

i am a **** up
i grabbed the pan
that burned the biscuits
my flesh is searing
your tears are cool wet milk

In the comfort of blackness,
Beneath a veil of wool,
And with eyes without duty,
The symphony of night fades away
Like limestone in fiery rain.

And as I fall into a sea of darkness,
My eyes, still without purpose,
Grace me with fantastic apparitions,
And I hear whispers that echo in the void.

And within my weightless head,
The tumultuous gears and cogs
Grind and turn with speeds unheard,
And in the clockwork, a single spark
Flies from the iron machinery.

The spark is an entity of many names.
It is often a bonfire where tales
Of phantasmagorical beings and
Phenomenal landscapes are told.

There are times, however, when the spark
Takes a different name:
Inferno, a terrible creature
That destroys all life it touches
And ravages Nature’s beauty.

It is a dark roulette at times,
And though I know I cannot revel
In evening’s dusk eternally,
I now dread the blackness,
For fear of Inferno’s wrath.

if poetry is the life-force my soul holds within, then my blood is the ink and my mouth is the pen.

His sweet touch,
smooth voice,
gorgeous looks
is what she wants
but that eye of hers
cant help but wander
and her mind wonders
even though she shouldn't
she cant help it
and moves on to her new subject soon enough.

i am dreaming
but someone is laying bricks
around my dream
wells
he is rising houses
drawing roads and people
unfolding some wind
above plane-trees
and above hills rounded

and bridges
to other dreams

are you really
the kind of person who
licks a finger to turn the page I mean god
who does that
any
more

I trace my dedication
       to you
with a fingernail pen,
delighting at the way
the pale inscription
       on you
blossoms with breath.
Anyone else would
blush at this verse
       but you;
I am never more a poet
than in these moments,
       with you:
this casual meter
       between us
built of shivering.