You must give him your life.
He won't settle for less.
He will turn it into poetry
and become you
for a little while.
He will wear your skin
next to his own
and feel your darkest pains,
your most exquisite pleasures.
He will finally understand
your definition of love
and why you will leave him.
He will steal the secret
of your deepest longing
and know how to satisfy you.
But he will make
a few unasked for
subtle alterations
in your soul.
Then he will return it
as something
slightly different.
You will notice.
He will amaze you;
he will charm you.
You might even love him,
but you will never trust him.

  ~mce

The pay scale
for poets
is bleak indeed.
I could use
a wealthy
benefactor.
Where are you,
Lorenzo?
Even the Muse
needs to be fed
occasionally.
  - mce

To make a new world
you must be willing
to ****** the old gods,
step over their corpses,
through the madness,
out of the darkness,
eternally alone,
into the empty garden
of your own creation.
  - mce

The whiskey bottle is empty.
Now there is a sufficiently
sad sentence. Succinct, too.
It speaks a grave-side quiet,
as when emptiness is all.
The whiskey bottle is empty.
Five words leading only
to a garbage can.
The whiskey bottle is empty.
The simple, declarative,
syntax of nothing.

   - mce

What you love best
will **** you
and you will smile
as you die.

  ~mce

she got her blue eyes
from a dream.
she never is, she always was,
she seldom is anywhere.

jumping out of the fryin' pan,
my girl knows where I'm coming from.
I hope her fire will last

and her raw soul will open to me
secrets & musings & reveries,
but I'll never burn out. I'll always be free.

il joue sur son luth

des lunes ambrées
tournent en rond

une par une

la jongleuse
les lance

une voie lactée
opalescente

le clair de lune

haletante
la jongleuse se noie

~~~
he's playing the lute.

she takes
the amber moons
turning round
and round,

she juggles.

one by one,
they turn into
a milky way,
opalescent,
the moonlight

- a lake,
for the juggler
to drown.