I stand by the period bed
where Dupleix rested his head,
wondering at his kind of life,

if he lay there with wife
or some native maid.

doesn't hint his bronze bust
if he lay there bare
in ebullient lust

stirred by a girl darkly thin
bowing himself to her embrace
finding in his war beaten mind, happiness,

or, there wasn't any such thing,
he lay there staring at the ceiling
far from even one warm kiss
storming his brain to defeat the British...

I think of the kitten that survived a few days,
it still pains.

In the museum, I rhyme dust with lust.

when did i last spend a good time?

a second, a minute, an hour, a day
one undiluted, unmixed, pure, and raw,

a good time, truly good, without a flaw.

was it those moments of ******* height
when sans one sense, all else was dark night

or the time spent brief in her warm embrace
seeking her moons reading map on her face

it could be the while when a gust of joy
made this heart shine like a boy

a flashing streak of event that lit up the soul
from pieces of fragments revealed the whole

getting from a girl her kiss of innocence
drench with her in first summer rains

reaching a heaven from far firmament
by a smile from the boy a dime i lent

turning that page of a now lost time
when this mind first chanced upon a rhyme

they rush like tide set me to brood
from the budding child to the aging manhood
where in the memory now thick with grime
lies hidden the passing of the last good time!

Flames that licked upon our tender fingers,
Blisters on the skin of our youthful hands,
The grim taste of ash is all that lingers
As we stumble around these foreign lands.

Faces once well known are now such strangers.
Haunted by wishes now dissipated,
Hunting for safety among dangers,
Searching for what's long evaporated.

Expectations crumbling to such sorrow
And disappointment littered all around.
The longing for a better tomorrow
Sprinkled like seedlings on infertile ground.

We shield our eyes upon finding treasure.
Time takes it's toll, but not beyond measure.

Do not fall in love with a woman who loves the same music you do, because when she leaves, music is all you have left, then even your passion for music, begins to betray you.

California


The place of the strange
And where the weird gets weirder.