The suburban housewives are all prostitutes
Cuckoo CUCKOO cuckoo
Sings the cuckolded husband

Bury the demons in the backyard Jack
Decomposing rotting souls
Enriching the soil
Get rich without any toil.
Step
outside

A glance to the heavens
From the floors of our forest
Reveals many a distant star
Symbolizing neither near or far
This twinkling image destroys the ego
Although in this here woodland
Anything goes
We are the kings of our times, the last of our kings, and the future creators.

The truth only goes as far as the rocks thrown
So I asked the reapers which way to go.
Take a trip with me down memory lane.
My past has no real pain
HUmph - no thank you I would not like any fame
I really have nothing to gain but catharsis
So please don’t call me an artist.
Please call me the man who could not deal with beauty and treachery of life so he wrote after lusting for natures delights.

I stepped in through his ears, covered in hot mud
and rolled off his tongue clean as a whistle.
I was no longer a whisper, he uttered in a painted mirror.
Scratching out two eyes that saw nothing but themselves.
He came to wonder
if there are ants in my stomach feeding an army
off the peaches I couldn’t eat for six summers.
Three winters with no springs yet, the snow up to my neck.
My eyes spilt pearls like a Japanese ghost, onto the white cold
he buried me in.
and when that melts into the lush green we’ve yet to writhe on,
I hope there are limbs left to entwine us,
I hope there are streams made to wash us.
My body unchilled is sight for him to absorb,
and record and plan a trip.
Diction may be a skill he knows
that I have learned to be versed in,
but no matter the assemblage of my alibis,
he finds me guilty, so I choose to make quiet familiar,
and comfortable and the stringy nerve endings I've grafted
into his skin and his kiss when I love him,
are threatened to be severed with scalding water,
poured from the darkest kettle called
doubt.