One last tequila shot.
Naked on the couch,
Wrestling on the tv.
Nearly thirty.
Nearly February.
Not one resolution  lasted a day.
Dry January?
When it rains it pours.
We could blame global warming,
Or take responsibility for our wrong doings.
Content until there's no penny's left.
Cash rich,
No flinch.
Is there emotion for this?
The nothingness.
The TV won't guide me now,
Adverts in the background,
The glass sounds like a siren as it hits my gold ring,
The tequila brings a taste to my mouth that makes me feel sick..

Standard ****.

what you got in your pockets?

Reveal yourself with an object,
let the subtext talk in a million ways.
What you got hiding,
and what does it say?

What you
keep
close,
exposes
emotion.

Your devotion to the object chosen,
is outspoken in a delicate gaze.

Theres a million ways you can spend that minimum wage,
Or a rainy day,
is just a rain
drop away.

And you could save me from the cold with your ignorance.

And i could pickpocket your soul in the holes of  indifference.

But,
What’s the difference anyway.
Keep safe on your daily ways
keep safes, keeps the evil away;

I’ll keep you in my pocket until laundry day,
forget about you'
watching the world go round in bubbles and soap screens.

We got the same jeans (genes),
baby,
We got the same dreams,
baby.

You, a prepossessing rhapsody
beguiling in a sincere
bursting my day with melody
though you are in a silence

It's such a pleasure to hold
you, within an utter buoyancy
with you, I am literally told
not to rely on certainty


You, a vivid exquisite
I admiringly adore
with such a solemnity.

The clouds whirl around horns of the gate.
The blush of the morning is tangerine
and gold. The blossoming chorus from the bay
for now is just silence, fog and a silver lining.
The cinema bulbs are flickering out.

There is Coca-Cola in my soul.
There is anguish in my bones.
Luxury paid for the tightness of my skin
and an artifice of love.
It blew away like dry grass.

I think God is a librarian,
crumbs in his beard, fingerprinted specs.
Cataloguing the hours I spent on my knees
his matinée idol, his evening sandcastle,
stones applauding his work in the Cali tide.

What can he do to me?
Witchdoctors can forecast rain from my guts.
A poor wading bird can fish me up
and photograph my corpse iconic like Evelyn Hale,
but that 'man' can do nothing…

I see the Island rising from the mist
like it’s throwing off its coat.
I’m like the birdman, in my way.
I’ll be remembered
flying.  

Perhaps I can even make it magnificent?
The boys on the boat will talk over their beers
of that triple tuck swan dive,
the acrobat, a harlequin that tumbled
like a shadow on the rising sun

Kamikaze, I Samauri!
The war drum beats, on, on but I’m done.
l am in the eye of the storm.
I am the harbinger, the horseman -
And the universe is a ball in my hands.

I made you up, I’ll rub you out.
The sky is holding the Sun and the Moon.
5am. Circling gulls. Harikiri.
Machinery rings upwards through the girders.
Equinox.  Tomorrow is untouchable.