never full enough
say that you believe

in the purest of convictions
you see right through me

until i crash and burn into
a cavernous dump

deeper
deeper
into a cavernous comfortable contamination

And so I become a fly on your wall
with my blood-stained ledger
the price of my self-loathing,
and curse of my curiosity.

Hear the truth
Trust your lumpy gut instinct
These suits are depressing
But I crave to know of the corruption.

1.
white chapel on a hill

sheep dot rugged, earthy slopes

ruminate on warm, sun-kissed dale

endless lines and lines of verdant tones

late afternoon sun slanting

behold, jaune compassion

alfalfa ocherous leans willowy in wind

distance of silence yearns on

afternoon shadows lie within majestic vales

powder-blue ranges in 3D tiers

shadowy rifts, like a painting out of heaven

lone tree not alone, reaches up

blinding turns and rust-coloured bends, twisty trails

two on horseback, apples for sale

reservoir as a hold all for all

brown mud is where redemption lies.


2.
sun dips away, out of reach

beyond the eye's catch

step out car

feel the ping of silence, deeply-alive zing

crowd in and then,

into the slot of torched horizon

the orange world slips . . .




S T, 19 May 2013

so ****** in the face of it
at the end of it, your perception
on the nose of it
this feeling in my nose
this tingling wall
this numby crunchy face on my face that blocks out the light and the truth and the life .... that's how it feels .... sorta
how crazy does that read?
i'll bet it reads ugly.
i'll bet it reads sick.
it should because its a description of drugs crazy people, ie. people like me take to try to feel less crazy
they make your ******* face feel like it jumped rebellious,
eyes, ears, nose, throat, turned traitor.

Escitalopram
Buproin
Nuvigil
Lithium Carbonate
Quetiapine
Abilify
Risperdone
Harpoon IPA
Johnnie Walker Red Label blended scotch whiskey

it seems there can come a certain special kind of time in a man's life,
when he can feel weird and lonely enough
to type a few words
and call it poem.
******* Bukowski.
this is his legacy.  the possibility to do what I'm doing right now.
without that disgusting, self-centered fool
I never would have thought to try and write these weird feelings I'm feeling.

a little attention,
that's what strokes this need.
a few incidental internet readers,
to read this strangely pointless pontification
on the bits of sadness that are me.

i wish i could find an open field
and lay back comfortable
in the crisp cold air
and feel the stars shoot through me
my heart pounding in the dirt
and waiting for *** or sun or wolves or rain
or anything else you might call "love."

i wish for more death
or more life
I can't stay here.

Because the cost of a soul is the price of a moment.

Because time had no beginning, but ends at forever, hanging helpless from the corner of the sphere.

Because the light will still find your brain, hidden at dead dark midnight, tickle your eyelids, and dance in a place you don’t dare mention by name.

Because darker is biggest and most beautiful, and the light men stood as the last link in the chain, the whip in the right hand of god.

Because the blood on the meter is a narcotic brew of Pacific, Atlantic, and flaming Arctic waters, set ablaze by giants who lived in the age of wine.

Because the sound of a tree falling in an empty forest rings out once, but is heard in two ways.

Because the wind cries the song of the living.

Because the sun sets and the moon rises.

Because the river water is cool.

Because the cost of a moment is the price of a soul.

Because.

I was alone, but not too lonely.  
You were strong, but that was only
When your brothers were around.  

Brand new, seemed like something better.
Pretty scars, eyes like leather.
So much different than we’d seen.

We made love with a choking hand.
We stayed drunk on a million plans.
We were running out of time.  
                      
      Even the cruel get worse than they deserve.
      Even the cruel get worse than they deserve.
      Even the cruel get worse than they deserve,
      But baby, you deserve to have it all  

I was sweating through fiberglass.
I got a feeling in my hands
I’d be apologizing to my dreams.

Tripping slow, spit in the glass,
Blood on the pillows, falling fast,
Choking on a nickle in the dark.  

Laughing happy with manic moon,
Melted glass in a broken spoon.
We were the spirit of the times.

     Even the cruel get worse than they deserve ... etc.

I bent down on a blizzard day
To find out what was in my way.
It was you, you were praying to nothing at all  

I lit a candle to the ghost of magazines.
I burned down a ******* with kerosine.
I was wondering why I felt so bored.  

I woke up on the rooftop.
I was making sure there were no cops,
Alone, but not too lonley, staring down at the street.

‘I was too young when I fell for God’, she said
‘I heard you’, I said, ‘I said I could hear you’.

The train was busy, far louder than usual,
and we sat together, fingers wound together. Rough cuticles.

What were we doing so young,
getting married before the eyes of our Son?

Twenty-two and not a thought for the future,
though maybe you’ll be slimmer and I’ll be cuter.

‘I know about you two and your motorbike miles’ I said,
her face turned around, tired. It was Dulux paint-chart red.

‘How did you? Did he? I am sorry’ she said,
‘Oh that’s okay, really it’s fine, not to worry'.

Tube train doors opened and I filed out in no line,
she followed behind, slow. Karma had taken her spine.

‘You could wait to hear my explanation’ she said, tired.
Across the tiled platform floor, I carried on uninspired.

‘It was a stupid weekend away, we took the scenic route. Are we okay?’
Full stop pupils and an open mouth comma, what else could she possibly say?

‘It’s only recent, not all that frequent’ she said,
‘Well who knew that Winter was the season of unfair treatment?’ I yelled.

Reached the escalators and walked out single into the fresh air,
turned left onto the street and went looking for the nearest bar.