The sky was blue the day we met
not a single cloud in sight
truth is all I saw was you
framed by the morning light.
Gray will be the colour of my hair
if you ever leave my head
sometimes I still stare
when I'm alone in bed
seared into my memory
like a red hot poker
you once lay next to me
now I can't even hold her
an indentation on these white sheets
from an angel just as pure
I used to watch you sleep
now I watch the light beneath the door
half expecting it to open
for you to somehow return
the other half lies broken
as the glow of candles burn.
Blue was the colour the day we met
but orange was the day you died
whilst I stood and watched the sunset
on my beautiful bride.
"You laid so peacefully
now you sleep solitary
taken with a piece of me
that piece I had to bury."
Death does not exist as some distant relative
but rather it remains relevant
as a constant reminder
that without death she cannot live
you will never find her
for herself, to death, she did give
do not call out her name
or try to hold on
she left her body through the pain
she's already gone
now she exists as life itself
not as a concept within her mind
or as a body trapped in time
but as the flow of silence
between echoes of distractions
as one slowly slips through tiredness
towards the light refractions
that's where she'll be
as she waits for me
A tea-stained napkin, paper moon
Tim Burton animation
A large and freshly painted room,
Disaster as vocation,
The ***** that walked out of a film,
Unwinding paper rolls
My muddy boots on silent hills
A shoebox filled with dolls
Concrete corpses, highway ghosts,
Burned sheet music, scattered notes,
Coffee cups that crack in darkened rooms at 8 pm-
And endless dedications to you, and us, and them.
Random disconnected images that won't form into a poem no matter how hard I try
If you knew I was coming,
you should’ve run faster.
I’m using your gun
so you know that it works...
Bring the bad guy foreword!
I’ll always right behind
Where's this abject
anger come from?
Is it innate or
an acquired trait?
Who owns these lips
grinning at gains?
Out comes the wolf?
Out comes the hominid.
Who owns these tongues
Produce and consume.
That's how it is.
What an art it is
to dispel doom.
Tried selling concepts?
That's where it is.
We collect words throughout our lives
We share profound thoughts and insignificant snippets
But will they know you when you die?
Will your words still resonate?
Will your thoughts dissolve into the wind?
Or will you forever be interred on a wall, your script timeless in it's verse?
Will they know you when you die?
Just a thought.
my love is stained with anger
you're two men in one man's body
the one that never told a lie
the other one invented very concept
Trying to define a concept
Imagining whether there’s an end to this nothingness
Maybe it’s man made?
Existential questions, and every answer is both wrong and right.
Like stones at the bottom of a river
Black and molded by the running water
The stones cannot understand the great undulating liquid above them
Crashing and pounding against the bank
Soon that powerful unrestrained energy settles to a languid flow
Tapering off slowly
Until the river dries
And the stones crack in the hot sun.