to love
Three two
We are one
Suited In mirrors
Reflect.
lower your weapons
Raise your word
Your earth
my earth
Our earth
soldier of war
Refract.
warrior of peace
Breathe.
Release.
Breathe
Release

I am a leaf, shed, homeless,
drifting in through a hole in the carpentry --
a skeleton among skeleton relatives,
dusting the shuffle-worn surface
of our mother's planked-out chest.

There's a jukebox,
in my mind or yours,
and it plays my song --
or, maybe, it's for you.
And it says what I
never could say, which is
that I am very sorry.

I thought of how I was --
or how we were --
which was not as good
as we had hoped for.
You protected yourself
from remorse and I was
fearfully unapologetic.

You were, and, probably,
still are a cold *****, and I've
been a ******* for years.
Your nose was so crooked,
it could run for office, and
my head was -- and still is --
really big, which is fitting,
considering my ego, and
ironic, since I'm borderline
mentally-*******-*******.

There's an eroding jukebox
and its so confrontational,
due to feeling inferior,
unrecognized, and without
a responsible purpose.

The music from the machine
flows like rushing thoughts,
and the thoughts say:

I sit and write,
I don't mind you
when I don't know you.

Some people are roots,
meant to help with stability,
but you are a branch,
meant to offer a new view,
but also meant to fall off,
maybe, killing whomever
catches you next.

-
Ink

Splattered
Caressed
Spilled
Coerced
Guided
Spun
Picked
Woven
Imagined
Felt
Bled
Sighed
Cried
Laughed­
Offered
Shared
Drenched
Spread
Heated
Smeared
Dreamt
Drained
Truthful

Poetry

I stay up for the moons
Quiet gaze
The light by the bedside
Carves shadows of you
Into my bare frame
The air itself is naked
Vulnerable of all scent.
I kissed you thrice,
One on the lips
For devotion,
One on the ribs of
Your teeth,
On the elbow of your
Favourite book.
As all writers do.
I created that arched frame
That pulled your
Tendons tight
To my inked sheets,
Shot you into blind space,
While I teethed on
The bow of your
Fingertips
Our skin tarmac,
There was roadworks
Of our bed.
Toes dancing morbidly
Between bursting stars
While night gulls
And ravens watched
Through the window
Waiting to peck
At the mangled carcass
Of our hearts.

Poems are an odd business:
an idea,
a concept,
it slips into your mind
and all of a sudden
there are words
that describe it,
it’s present,
it’s past,
sometimes it’s future.
these words have to have
rhythm and scansion,
the syllables must sound right,
the words must sound right,
the lines must be right,
the silences in between
must sound right,
just using words.

It is more than building with bricks and mortar;
these are fixed known things,
but poems
come into existence
like flashes of lightning
that light the sky,
they are there
and then they are not there,
you have to be quick
to catch them before they fade,
and leave you in the dark
with no words on paper.