Over wine,
Life is absorbed a different way.

Passion was potent.
A taunting aura of sweet spells.

The forgiven rivers,
Showed they're lenity.
Soaking in the promises from sunlight.
& continuing, retracing it's steps.

Gifted is I,
Who reads life,
& in a single word,
Fearsome.
Yet I write as if the earth wasn't really spinning in space.
And Remembered is I,
Who had to be honest,
In fear of living a lie.

Changle changle, Chain chain.
Jingle like that loose brain
The sounds of coins, full and dense
Tasting all that decadence.
Inertly, following I not must
allow that gentle heart to rust
The hole, may not of course be true
but it's reality brings
terrible news.
If this book, which it is just that,
is not fiction, but after all, a fact
That is the worst, yes, indeed
For we are all bound by our greed
We must obey, the words, the facts
Those undoubtable, untouchable
unseeable artefacts.
Yes, hell for you. And you. And you.
Heaven for me and those who agree
That some-man-in-the-sky-decided-that-he-wanted-us-to-be
Free?

I've got eyes on every planet
weeping like watering holes, out of El Dorado.
only they're not golden nor heralding,
these eyes are wide and dilated
before a nameless, naked mistress with lipstick,
smeared between her inner thighs.

You thought that I was your special Siren,
a blind post script for your middle-class suburban soul,
with a girlish laugh and perfect teeth.
But, honey, I've eaten too many men alive in darker alleys
and I gave that up years ago because emptiness
only fuels the dead and I got sick of people
who never changed and always took the same way to work.

So please- dismiss those touching thoughts,
like some small school boy tardy to class
in the 1950s with knee socks covering scabs
and a case of fresh milk in glass.

Alas,- call off your self-designed verbal troops
for I am not your revolutionary cry, nothing you try
can protest the things I've been, willingly.
I should confide to you now that
Sisyphus, himself, already walked away,
with his head in between his shoulders and tears upon his cheeks.

Listen to me child,
I am no myth to be tempted,
Pandora opened my own box.

Spending time chasing dreams in the dark;
whispering to one another about the things
we call “happiness”.

Checking our pockets for change
to buy hope and keep
our bellies full of joy;
injecting our minds with allusions
to dispel the horrors of our nightmares.

This is our drug
to cope with the fear of
loneliness in the night;
following the tracks to avoid
the slums that we must pass through.

“Love” was never a friend
just the trickster who stole
our moral decency;
the dealer of truth and lies.

I felt my spine
slowly crack and shatter
each piece falling from its place-
intricate blue print  
to what ashes lay

Joining where my heart rests-
at my feet