She sings

We feel all sorts of things

Don't feel

Just to hear it's so surreal

     And I know it's not the rhythm

     Just to hear it's so sublime

     And I know it's not the rhythm

     No, not this time.

Say what you mean

Don't become the in-between

With or without

You know it's nothing to think about

     And I know it's not the rhythm

     Just to hear it's so sublime

     And I know it's not the rhythm

     No, not this time.

Stop to breathe

Don't wake up from chasing dreams

Seek the truth

In what will always be there in you

     You know it's not the rhythm

     Just to hear it's so sublime

     But you know it's not the rhythm

     No, not this time

And I know it's not the rhythm

But, to hear it's so sublime

Even though it's not the rhythm

One last time.

Peaceful symphonies
Graceful symphonies
Deeply resonating in my soul
Soothing the inner me

The rhythm captivating me
Consuming all my strength
Making me weak
Moulding the inner me

Then silence came

I was left alone.
Alone - without external support

My soul needed life again
The rhythm had brought me life

It was her heartbeat
Her heartbeat orchestrated my life
She was my life

Oh how you flood
hemoglobin blood

a consummate machine
until you meet my spleen

Initially you start
from my beating heart

arteries deliver
to brain, kidneys, and liver

smaller as it goes
capillaries next in flow

returning promptly through
veins of red and blue

to give the body breath
until it's final death

wednesday, november 18th 2015

See Ahab, a little space for the light to spread.
All hands been kept on her all night.
This pursuit through day and through night
For such wonderful experience
Will continue to swim for a time.
He desires, at some further point,
When night obscures the future,
that men time his pulse; such speed;
reached by the heart.
She was now mad.
Your blood did not speak out fears some of them might have felt before.

I want to write a poem that smells like perfume
that flits and that flips through a rose-tinted room
all wispy and wet and cosmic and cool

I want to write a poem that omits all the grease
the fierce firing squad, pimps, perverts, police
to tickle your fancy and make you go guuguu

I want to write a poem that moves through your veins
like sweet fairy dust not shackles and chains
be part of the pop cult, feel the pulse, feel the pulse

I want to write a poem that travels lit-up highways
with no broken bulbs, no sirens nor slipped gears
without red-danger zones nor emergency phones

I want to write a poem with soft cuddly toys
and trinkets and things that make no loud noise
to nibble your chin and that sort of thing

I want to write a poem with an innocent face
that softens your edges and slows down your pace
'til you're won and you're one and you purr and you hum

I wanted to I really did
2015

The brink, the edge, the verge
A blink, a step, an urge
Teeter-totter, drum kick
A heartbeat, think quick
Life's a puzzle, death's a riddle
Here I hover, in the middle

The verge, the edge, the brink
An urge, a step, I blink
Teeter-totter, heart rasp
A drum kick, quick gasp
Breathing, breathless; sobbing, voice-crack
Inhale - exhale, inhale - I'm back.

White-knuckle ransom note,
to the one.

There is a picket fence
outside a great and quaint Victorian ranch.
There, the weeds will never grow,
and he shall go off the defense.

Doctor, we don't need an EKG.
I can see everything from his veins to his capillaries.
Everything pulses to the beat.
I only see want and need.