Lips as red as wine
Sipping a glass of Merlot
Face in deep concentration
Separating the different ingredients
Brain wrapped in sweet smelling savour
Sip by sip
Glass after glass
Love in every drop.

This feeling I can't let go
My once empty belly, is now full
Full of love.

The rain poured
a glass of wine
through my lips,
solid chunks of sky
hitting relentlessly
the thin slice of dome,
my head dizzy
reciting the do-re-mi-
cascade of water
breaking into bullets
and merging then
back into puddle.

This started earlier tonight,
white stone sheets,
dense air cool by November,
darkness so natural to thought
that my eyes were shut,
whatever observes
what the eyes exclude,
silently observing
my complicity
with melancholy itself.

So the sermon of blah,
almighty course of opinion,
eternal genesis of monologue,
running never away from me,
but through me.

At this point
anything can happen,
repeat repeat,
or the moon’s light
rising as smoke
into the hair that is your,
to the night I speak,
body’s cosmos.

The rain dwindling,
at this point,
the ache can be melody –

cool whiteness of breath
entering the sore river
of the night,
this time my body of thought,
the house with the wonderful
arch to welcome pain inside.

Do I have hope?

That is,
to some degree,
the question
that draws this poem.

You said you were aging
like fine wine
but you’ve oxidated
Full of air and still out-dated
If you give me enough time I just might hate this

Maybe years from now I’ll find you on a shelf, waiting
and wonder how you might have tasted

Perhaps I am an evil man,
Perhaps I am; I cannot tell;
I try to do the best I can,
But know I do not do it well.

Perhaps there is a space for me
In some unknown corner of hell,
Where hope reigns for eternity,
And nothing ever breaks its spell.

For hope is, when all's said and done,
The worst of things a man can suffer;
It keeps us traipsing, one by one,
From one disaster to another.

Perhaps it's best to just give up;
Immerse myself in a life of sin,
Drink good wine, and raise a cup
To my worst enemy- Nigel Finn.

Hunched over in this Bastille dwelling
cobbling out words stitching to a page
day after ----------------------------------                              
            day after ------------------------              
                        day after--------------
                                      day ------












The last bottle of Bordeaux Rouge shatters
and pools on the ***** floor, frantically I
bow down and touch lips to dirt and wine
**** until my sore cheeks flush with blood
stumble back to              the makers bench
carefully carve                  initials marking
days gone by and          by days gone by
at night I lay my head upon the guillotine
hoping to wake drenched in red in a basket
this self revolution will some day pass