The vintage was old vicarage
the label was old spice
the taste was new, peculiar,
a touch which I thought nice.

But I'm spinning rings
a hoopla stall
the fairground's gone,
what happened to it all?

Everything goes
every one grows
everybody knows why
except me.

the hungry moon possesses a mysterious silver blowtorch
we burn in the neon deliverance of
reflected light

a baffling massacre of comprehension
this universe
that moon

a barbaric balloon billowing, bobbling
suspended, aching above city skylights
an orb filled with the cinders of everyone's
feverish dreams

this night has eaten our sun
in a sauce of stars and churning  
cosmic milk

narcotic planetary stallions
galloping across the black vast
marbled table
of space

my bed a casket, my head an airpot
of dangerous fradulent circuitry and
rusted ginger

they say that writing
is a gift
and that those
who have been blessed by it
hold the world in their scathed
palms

they say that writing
is power
and that if
you can wield your pen right
you can make others feel
as you feel

and i'm afraid that that's why
i stopped

i cannot curse another
with these countless thoughts
that always tic-toc
and tic-toc

i cannot allow myself
to make another hurt
because i have felt much pain
this is no gift, my dearest,
this is a curse

i tried to stop
i try to stop
but i am afraid that
my writing is as endless
as the tic-toc of the clock

you're used to people falling for the charm of you.

When I come home at night
I lock my doors
and draw my shades
like an allegory of something
long forgotten that itches
six inches deep
I turn my old radio on
and a song is sung
like a toothache
from sometime in the past
I set another place at the table
don't ask me why
for the same reason there are
no longer any shotguns
or guitars in my house
but there is lotion for my hands
each blister another
bloodshot moon
my yawn a blessing in disguise
I search the bookshelves
I built from lumber
from the tumbled down barn
I read books the dead light
their stoves with
and some that howl
like a pine on a ridge
and all these maps
these photographs
I wasted nails on
when they hung on the wall
but I'm tired of mending
all the small holes
so I leave them there
open and empty
to remind me where
the heart goes.

The night is speared
with splinters from
the brutish bore
that scarred
Atlanta's heart.
It is an over told tale
that fails to adequately
express itself.
There where she fell
feeling all
is where she lost
the only one
whom she thought
she could truly love.
Though all pursued
that swift footed muse,
sought to use,
and abuse her mighty heart,
it was my golden apple,
my forbidden fruit
of Eden's garden
filled with juicy wisdom
and sweet succulent knowledge
that won her.
Intelligence that sought to
empower her to
know that though
I long to love her
physically and passionately
my truest desire
is to see her elevated
not on a pedestal of adulation
for an ideation,
some fake iteration
but to see her truest self-exposed
and the heart of her art
allowed to bloom brighter
then that heavenly orange fire
we all call Helios.