down
  down
    down
      down
        down
          down
            deep
              below

children of the caves will let their
secret fires glow
~~~

An explosion of birds
Dawn
Sun strokes the walls
An old man leaves the Casino
A young man reading pauses
on the path to the garden
~~~

Bitter winter
Fiction dogs are starving
The radio is moaning softly
calling to the dogs
There are still a few
animals left in the yard

Sit up all night,
talking smoking
Count the dead & wait
’til morning
Will warm names & faces
come again
Does the silver forest end?
~~~

December Isles
Hot morning chambers
of the New Day
Idiot first to awaken (be born)
w/shadows of new play
learned men
in Sunday best
we’ve had our chance to rest
to mourn the passing of day
to lament the death of our
glorious member
(she whispers secret messages
of love in the garden
to her friends, the bees)
The garden would be here
forevermore
~~~

Mexican parachute
Blue green pink
Invented of Silk
& stretched on grass
Draped in the trees
of a Mexican Park
T-shirt boys in their
Slumbering art
~~~

-I fear that he’s been
maim’d beyond all
recognition

He hears them come &
murmur over his corpse.

Street Pizza.
~~~

funny,
I keep expecting a
knock on the door
well, that’s what you
get for living around
people

a Knock? would shatter
my dreams’ illusions
deportment & composure
The struggle of a poor poet
to stay out of the grips
of novels & gambling
& journalism
~~~

A quality of ignorance,
self-deception may be
necessary to the poet’s
survival.
~~~

Actors must make us think
they’re real
Our friends must not
make us think we’re acting

They are, though, in slow
Time

My wild words
slip into fusion
& risk losing
the solid ground

So stranger, get
wilder still

Probe the Highlands
~~~

Bourbon is a wicked brew, recalling
courage milk, refined poison
of cockroach & tree-bark, leaves
& fly-wings scraped from the
land, a thick film; menstrual
fluids no doubt add their splendour.
It is the eagle’s drink.
~~~

Why do I drink?
So that I can write poetry.

Sometimes when it’s all spun out
and all that is ugly recedes
into a deep sleep
There is an awakening
and all that remains is true.
As the body is ravaged
the spirit grows stronger.

Forgive me Father for I know
what I do.
I want to hear the last Poem
of the last Poet.

Why is it
That the biggest hearts
Are emptied the fastest?

And the brightest souls
Are blackened
The quickest?

Tis
Wherein there is no prophecy,
The people perish...








               By me: Brandon Nagley ( lonesome poets poetry)

The chief's long skull smoking Pipe
Was filled
With smoke from human capture
With blood from his own scrapings
And with cactus from the western desert,

And as I took a puff....
                                        I kneweth the chief hadst put something magical his mine pipe.....

Because I felt and saw mine soul arise above the Colorado cliffs.

As a revenant
I stood in front of mine own body
And held mine own heart in mine hand
It was bleeding
For mi amour' to giveth me all....
Tis outside mine carcass
I saw!!!!

Whilst others were preordained for this world......
I was preordained for the next...

I dreamt an Angel came to me
With a grin and blood on his face.
Still, a tear was in his eye.
His head hung in disgrace.

He did not speak a word to me
Yet, I knew his mind.
I felt he was a part of me,
As I am, cruel; but kind.

He took me to a stair well
Leading up and down,
Splayed in e'er' direction,
As I gazed around.

Then, were lambs and goats
Battling in a field of fire,
And swine possessed of a madness;
To which I could not aspire.

The Angel pointed, with boney claw,
At the desert and the sea.
I could not choose between the two
Which one should I be.

His wisper was a fount
Of living, crystal clear
Water moving over me,
Flowing in my ear.

His fiery cloak embraced me.
It burned upon my skin.
He brought me to ground, turned me around.
The Mystery has no end.

Why ask why I like your poem? Be courageous in your ideas and ideals. Be confident enough to know that your work is true to your vision. Artists of all kinds, but especially poets, are the philosophers and prophets of their generation. A revelation does not passive-aggressively seek to be worthy. It just is. Revelators, in the converse, often are compelled to seek praise with false humility via the age old pretentious depreciation of the value of their work in order to reap praise, which is the expected polite response. It is a waltz I choose to sit out. I feel it is less than honest and a disrespect to the poet and the poem to revel in such frivolity. Write for the sake of revelation, not for the accolades of topical praise. It is no business of the poet why a poem strykes chords with a reader. Simply allow it to happen. Talent and truth are not always equatable, nor are beauty and integrity always comparable. In the heart, a poet knows he is a poet. By the very construct of your words, Poet, may you be the caster of many spells. Thank-you for sharing a bit of yourself with me. I bid thee Love and Light.