I was born warm and lonely
An ocean to swim free
Gold and empty
Suffocating
A mother’s warmth sung saintly

Lord above and beyond
Father never felt so strong
As the days he made currents over headless homes

She would kneel like mother Mary
Lips quivering haste
And he’d raise his arms to the heavens
To strike her ablaze

Every Sunday morning
I’d watch her sing through swollen lips
So filled with veneration
For a God that couldn’t exist

No hymn that left her
Ever helped her
God save her
******* save her

I was born again on a church pew
Where I left my rusted cross beside my youth

Wednesday 17 December 2014

This one was beautiful.  I sculpted it myself.  Did you know that?
It took years and, if I’m completely honest, I was overly fond of it.
I’d made many, of course.  I had to.  We all had to.
Cupped, round, and smooth, heavy in my hand like a clay pigeon.
So beautiful...

Somehow it began in light,
Naïveté and youth.
I used to say it just felt right,
And free from all abuse.

At  first it formed a perfect ring,
Of lies I thought were true.
I bring it, now, to end the thing.
I bring it, now, to you.  

Because every thing must have its place,
Every thing in its own time.  
This beautiful thing has failed it's need,
Inspiring only pain and rhyme.

-but may it live in memory, still,
May the growth outweigh the pain.
When pain brings growth beyond your will,
Remember fondly, this thing, again.

So why did I smile when you asked me to hold it?
Why did I find it fitting that you made me load it into the trap?
Why were the lines formed by your braced shoulder,
your leveled forearm, your
outstrectched, cradled hand,
so beautiful...
when you inclined your head,
Closed one eye, and,
Steady, raised your sights?

Why did I love you so much for pulling the trigger?

Wilt my lungs
I’ll breathe in bitter bloom
And fill my chest with concrete tombs

At twenty one I exhaled tar
And covered my birthday cake

Ribs for the skyline
This city built a church round my heart
Before some gutter punks spray painted the side of the stained glass
With the suicide rates of middle-class citizens

Nothing has been the same since

When I was young
I was raised on Disney
And taught that my bones were living things

At thirteen years old
I nestled a heart within the clouds and smoke of my chest
It suffocated to death

I’ve never broken a bone
But I’ve trailed plenty of marrow

Days like these
I feel
Severed
In a million
Peaces
War time
Partitions
Aching to be
Whole
Settling for
Submission
Stripped of a
Soul.

This world, of beauty,
lifts myriad vacant skies
for blank world to view.

Jaded.

The feeling you end up with after pulling life's layers apart,
staring into the abyss
and drink your fill
of a reality you could neither foresee,
plan for or rectify.

Jaded.
Being left in a state of disillusionment, your hopes and dreams nought but dust.
The spectres of others' lives and happiness
gnaw at your soul, etching away at your precious delusions

She is a character perfect
for my work of science fiction,
chosen after much research
on unreliability of reality
as one knows does exist,
it's even more true of her.
In a hurry I concluded,
"What a  luck, I chose to write her
as the character of possibility!
                              then, how quickly
                              the class I expected of her
                              went totally to seed.
                              are we opposites?
Or, is this reality not shared by both of us?
what can one say about a situation when,
my own creation fights against my writ,
No, I am not in the same league as Luigi Pirandello
this is the result when commonsense is delineated
by a hallucinating mind, caught in love net.Zilch.

On the West Side of a flagpole,
In December's later breaths,
The wind whipped Winter's white quilt
Burnishing words, words, words,
From the ***** metal monument.
Knives and pens had etched
Their love into malleable matrimony
Beneath the flicker of that flag,
But the etchings became wishes
Of Winter's White Wedding.
My fingers grazed the forgetful frost
As muscle memory recalled
A pair of initials and an addition sign.
Fresh drops of condensed ice
Hung within the ridges
Of our four lettered addition problem.
I exhaled a condensed breath
Which sifted towards the pole
then dissipated.  
I glanced over as the moths
Attacked the only streetlight
Causing flickers of light
In the starless night sky.
A half second stare
Was a half second too long;
I looked back at the iron pole,
And the letters were gone.
A white wash of frost
Mixed with my exhale,
Covered the West Side of the flagpole.
Pockets of wind snapped in the flag.
I peered up at the streaks of crimson
And field of blue whipping in misery.
The seams of the flag's fabric
Became weathered and torn,
As I walked away from the flagpole—
Tired of dreaming in the stars.