It's dead cold at night
the bottle gleams, electric
a cold drink is best.

It's quite dark in here
just a cherry, skunky sweet
a thick fog is best.

Nothing moves these days
but the rhythm, our wet flesh
and nothing is best.

It's not a matter of right or wrong
Sideways glances push me off my straight and narrow path
Keep them happy
Let them see
The person they wish you to be
Someone less like me
Some may say I'm not a saint
Then again, I never claimed to be
Leave you to your conclusions
Your opinion is fine by me
Give too much
Take too little
Ask for nothing
And over supply the beggars hands
With everything I have
It should be reason enough
For them to let me alone
With the choices I'm free to make.
I don't count my blessings
In time they'll be taken away.
I let the **** of my endeavors ooze out of my mental cracks
Keep my eyes forward
Never look back
Perhaps the road I'm leaving behind
Will help me define
The steps I've taken from time to time
Just because I've let it slide
Doesn't mean I've forgotten every ride
Of every individual thought that wasn't mine.
I'll give you your chance to shine
Even if it's my life that's on the line.
My skin is tougher than you'd like to think
Why do you think I've been able to sink?
Making each step closer with you to the brink
Talking sense to senseless people
Make notions and attempts
I fail myself and them
Shameless in the life I command
I get to play the villain and the friend.
I surround myself with weaker types
For that'll make me stronger by default.
Next to one stronger than I
Means I cannot compare my faults
To their faultless standard.
And who needs that kind of pressure?

(By Brook Ilges and
Sverre G. Holter)


There's fire in it. Chestburn. Lungs
And lava, heart in heat; blood
Boiling. When I move,
Steam escapes from between
My ribs.
They cage a dragon's mouth.

Our edges cauterize
Unable to stabilize this searing
Electric firestorm
We coalesce into colors
Streaming through our nerve
Endings
Pulsing the rhythm of ages
Into the space between our gazes
Your scalding hide sets us apart
A rough reminder of the scars that
Stitch beneath

Sometimes.
Sometimes I find myself.
Sometimes I find myself
Biting down on
Whatever is left of myself
After the vulcano sighs and
Withdraws its black; its
Ashes; its pieces of planet's
Core, just to hold onto
Something with
Something.
Sometimes I wonder if
The memories of surgical
Sutures are all that keep me
From falling apart.
Take my mouth; I'm saving
My hands for
My heart.

Darkness falls, low light lingers
I trace the confines of your cage
The lock rusted and still
A key exists, the heart resists
Too damaged to offer naught but numb
Cutting through pumice walls
Fiery thorns thick, penetrate with ease
Such paltry designs of recovery
I'm fading fast
While you still burn.

And while one of us fades burning,
The other burns fading, and all is as
It all should be, as two stars
Decide not to form a solar system, but
Instead to brush themselves into a painting
Of a dream that a child that has yet to
Become just dreamed; awoke from
And whispered: "I want them to
Be my mother and
Father..."

Do you know why a knife must have a sheath? The real power lies not in it's sharpness,but the concealment.

you came home, the other day
blessed, with a boon
from a friend's market garden.
the first
strawberries,
of the season

sweet little ruby jewels,
kissed by the sun

how we feasted,
we selfish two
popping those lovlies
past pursed lips,
to crush the flesh
between the tongue
and teeth
letting the juice
run..
down..
the back..
of our throats.
grinding the seeds, macerating the flesh
in a ****
of ****-sweetness
and
afterwards
we
kissed,
nibbled,
and ******,
the last taste
from each other's
lips, chins, fingertips.

...and that led ...
                       to other..
                       ...un-writable..
                                              fun.

Watch me fly, please, picking up feet and hurtling through the air, dead as ghosts and old-time rock'n'roll and picking up speed as I hurtle, whatever wings you see are nothing but bright gossamer in a funeral shroud pressed tight over my face by wind. I will unfold them, I know I can, the ache for it bends my ribs and crushes my lungs with the space it takes inside me. Until I do I dance as the dead around me do, a long quiet whistling plunge.

Husky voice, once soothing and gracious,
crackles tales over lines built by Ma Bell.
Reportedly bluebirds
flit among dusty silk arrangements
to bask in afternoon sunshine
among the Dakota Farmer magazines
littered on the antique end table.

Imaginary camels prance
in the snowy field across the road,
ungracefully swing their long necks
and await their performance
in the annual Christmas display
beside the local Lutheran Church

Hallucinations of old friends,
long dead, entertain and comfort her
from the frayed and tattered
tweed couch alongside her
plaid overstuffed rocking chair.
Farewell entertainment,
seen through coated grey lens
as her body prepares
for eternal residence
in the beyond.