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Trevor Gates Dec 2018
That other part of me is hemorrhaging again

You can see it if I pull up my shirt

It’s just below the scar on my stomach

Don't you see it?

That’s ok; no one does the first time

You have to get used to the idea that something

Something lives inside your body

Other than yourself.

It’s like letting the pus of an infection

Or the twisting the water out of a damp towel

Counting the minutes, are we?

Those cracks in the medicine cabinet are getting bigger

By the day

The walls are hollowing out

As much as you to picture me,

You’re going to be distracted by the woman walking the other way

Crossing your path wearing black stockings,

a low trim skirt

And a pale face that bears no eyes.

I’m past the elevators, in apt# 276—

Ignore the violently shuddering man in 274

Like an idling phantom, turning to catch you

Our synthetic blood laced with FDA-approved preservatives

The bass boosted from trunks of Cadillac coup-devilles

Synths layers—then delayed, and phased through mixer boards

Faces given masks to paint and supply over masses with

Industrial strength dream pop for Death metal Floridians

Mesa Boogie rectifier amps thrashing and impregnating ears

Scotch eggs soft boiled and left in saucers of cream and Irish whiskey

Children walking single file face towards modern Auschwitz.

Snail trails over rotten apple cores

Left by riot girl Eves

And warned by Adam O’ Conservatism

Ahead of corporate delusions of grandeur

The people raise banners to spoon-fed malcontent fools,

Hiding the holes in their teeth,

Using metal clamps for their jaws and joints

Hosing down any person not white in appearance

And pigmentation, putting the carcasses in  

Meat grinders and rubber soles

The devil in the frying pan, ready to harden arteries like teenage *****.

An incoherent mess of self-indulgent metaphors

Spewing from rushing fingers tips on clashing keyboards

And aching, sore, tense back muscles,

And weakened nimble fingers

From a late 20s savant or loser

Unfulfilled, unquenched, unsatisfied, but—

The time will come when we shine and when we reap what we sew

And live lives that we always wanted for ourselves

But the longer we wait the older we get,

and the days don’t last as long

The weeks fly by

And the eternal year of our youth is

but the quick and fleeting year of our age

At one point does the ambition and aspiration,

fade like our energy in our bodies?

We learn to live with disappointment

and join the herd of others like us

And praise the idols of the limelight

The industrial age for the modern American economy,

For when the night has a thousand eyes

And we’re a thousand kisses deep

And we shed tears only angels can envy

We’ll know what sorrow is

captured on film and described in books

Where literature can emphasize—

illustrate with text what paintings couldn’t

It’s a stupid septuagenarian fantasy that fades

With the vagrant woodsman covered in ash and coal

Roswell interstellar lights escaping over the 1950s desert

And the roads smelling of sulphur and shrimp

Crystallized cathedral spires

I’ll get naked for a dive bar lunch of psychosexual deviants

And Warhol-esque color coding mixed drinks under neon flickering

and horse fly buzzing

And clubs to dance till the apocalypse can edge our lust

Seek fulfillment in the retro ultra-nuclear fusion reactor made up by

Technobabble neuromancers sitting in platinum rooms waiting
for the show to be picked up for a revival on cable 25 years later.
We’ll run the blade against the grain and find that soft spot

For the blackened metal to merge with flesh

and can call itself bone when we know it’s all just really

Trevor Gates Oct 2017
Out of this world and through burned storybooks

Vespers and vapors of death-rattle breaths

Turn to birth cries only mists can hear

Through the chasm of her eyes

Like dark pits of asphalt

On a rainy night road

Wet and open.

We’re ghosts to a passing plane of shifting lives

Where broken glass crunch like egg shells

Under leather boots with steel toes

Worn by long torso-less patrolmen

Speaking in evangelical tongues

And slipping

The Silver-screen silhouettes telling me sweet nothings

And invisible people play moonlight sonatas

With skin-covered cellos and djembes

Near waterfalls and deep valleys

Of green and prosperous dreams

And life.

Animals to the metropolis, Human to the paper jungles—

Controlled, creative chaos next to whimsical

notorious passivity; it’s eclectic like tea.

Where do these words take us?

Where do worlds take you?

Everywhere and nowhere

But mostly

Trevor Gates Oct 2017
All is fine, on the other side

Misshapen cats and dolls

Those tricksters have it all

In empty spaces and pillow cases

Lighting striking twice, now thrice

Creating avenues that illuminate

handsome jackals that *******.

All is fine, when dead inside

The furnace lights itself

From the pain I solely dealt

Naked and afraid; with complete dismay

Nothing as long as that eternal song

commemorating an epic tale

blurred by time’s murky veil.

All contrived, within my mind

Galvanized heart beats

Occupy walls of streets

To love and not be loved

What remains from ink stains?

A tongue well-lubricated with wine

Spewing quotidian antidepressant lines

All is said, while coaxed in red

The deniers of vices both flesh and soul

Instilled from the burnt bridges toll

So torn and *****, so wanting of ***.

So lavishly beaten. Pleasurably defeated.

A thousand eyes poking from brick ovens

Summoned through muck and devil covens

All inside, my guts and mind.

Lungs full of American Spirits cigs

Scalped head like an old lady wigs

Birds of a feather, doused in boiling weather

Flock together with kids forever

All my exes live lives I could not give them

And I live alone, denying I miss them.

All is fine, on my side.

All is fine, really.

All is.

Trevor Gates Oct 2017
Lately, I’ve come across odd characters and purveyors
Players and soothsayers of such fallacy; yearning and moral foliage
that stirs up something inside of me.
Something that is not inspiration but equally so
Just and robust—inescapable even,
unsure what the word is…

We’re all owners of a false paradise.
That warm place between life and death
It’s meant for a love one that never takes it away
or purposely fills in the gap left in ruins:

A home underneath the veins and a place beneath that as well
A prison made of tendons
With ligaments attached to heart-shaped locks—
Nooks and crannies in the corners of joints and bones.

It’s the lust for life
And the bargain for a soul
Less than zero *****
Given to while in the cold.

The realization remains peripheral
Nonetheless opaque and visceral
Painting a mordant but striking visual
That sharply penetrates the individual.

Pharmaceuticals help dislodge the jaw and
tempt the ravishing worms of intestinal intrigue
to slither out from the bowels and say their piece.
“Hi, I’m anonymous and I’m an addict,
But only by the broadest, modest definition of the term
More like an ill-advised profession,”
they say with a subtle wink in their sponsor’s direction.

It’s the lust for life
A fierce addiction
With hedonists as victims
Catered to a primal submission.

They’ll hate me; fear my desire to split from myself.
I’m an empathetic Jekyll, an apathetic Hyde.
A tainted Seraphim, a saintly devil-kisser.
One half a feral Bonnie with an over-****** Clyde.

And when all is said and done
with carnage coming out of the wishing well
You’ll see that I am both a vision
Of Heaven and Hell.
Feb 2015 · 1.3k
Fountains Pouring Mercury
Trevor Gates Feb 2015
It’s 1:21am on a Thursday night and there’s no rain
where there should be.
There’s no weeping over the seven-colored earths
and the erosion of the skin is building up.
I have a mouth full of stumbling words,
nervous and absurd,
like wax flowers and plastic china cups;
bottles of placebos.
I have masks on the walls
and body parts on the floor.
Dim light from violet lampshades painting worlds
with minimal effort, but with profound meanings
that pretentious collegiates speak over bearded elders
while stuck in fishbowl towns, separated from the oceans of
metropolitan beliefs.

    Pulling nail fibers from fingertips with crooked teeth,
    a habitual ritual christened from a darker half.
    Waves of feral multitude plunging the streets
    As riots of people made of fire chant the names of fallen angels
    And personified martyrs.

Episode after episode of plot-thickening exposition,
the weight of which is but a feather to the pull of the moon.
To **** my privates to a saddened resolution that’s
sweeter than a mutual **** for the sake of love.

    Penetrating me with needles as thick as bones,
    Brittle as sculpted phalluses made of teeth.
    Drilled out from the cavities and clamped iron
    that make me grind and ******
    In my sleep
    out of nightmarish extremity.
    Or persistent calamity.

She’s dead, wrapped in plastic
And fountains are pouring mercury
Profuse silver-stained drooling
Ostracized from sane certainty

     The thunder of guttural bellowing
     In the chasm of bed sheets,
     where leather bound demons
     split ***** hands under ice knifes
     Muffled voices
     And embryo faces
     Tearing out primal smiles
     Tied with black laces
     In a public amphitheater.

She’s dead, wrapped in plastic
And fountains are pouring mercury
Second time I’m seeing it drool
With a last moment of certainty.

It’s 1:41 on a Friday morning and there’s rain.
Jan 2015 · 612
The Cold and Violent Dusk
Trevor Gates Jan 2015
3am, the epitome of perpetual night.
        The hour of the wolf in sheep’s clothing
        Alabaster clocks, ebony needles for hands
        Walking to one-second beats on dripping wall paper,
         exposing the blood in the house and meat in the pipes.

I see shadows of the malevolent past:
        Rings of smoke and ***-stained magazines
        Lies woven into eyelashes, sealing them shut
        Bleak figures made of shattered glass
        Transparency, their only truth.

And dawn shows the new day
        A stage of light like sweet Arcadia
        The pages written for me to walk upon
        Every hour summarizes a year’s worth of turmoil,
        an abstract of vicious malcontent youth.

Standing against usurpers and cattle-branding parents
        I will not allow the false punishments to continue
        Nor the raging strangulation subjugate my woe
        Sweating fingers penetrate the holes
       All while pleasure and pain in endured.

As the sundial strikes noon, life meets the middle
        Leaves falling off trees while amidst the winter
        Hands tired and dry; legs crooked and frail
        I will wipe the dust of my friends away from me
        Like nothing and everything in between.

The tomorrow won’t come this time
        The prelude to eternity will be a last gasp of air
        And I’ll welcome the suffocation like a lost brother
        And abhor the condemnations like a pious father
        And I’ll think fondly of that fading mother
        As the light of day segues to a haze of fire
         I’ll take those reluctant steps that I must
         Ravel my life’s threads into a warm coat
And I will meet you at that cold and violent dusk.
Holy metaphors Batman!
Nov 2014 · 752
Satan in High Heels
Trevor Gates Nov 2014
“Lucratively tedious” is what I called him.
That odd-ball collector of street-wise poets
Bulking up the lost devil anthologies while
Drowning black coffee with wordsmith stoics
Ready to deal a winning hand
at a moment’s notice.

The carnal majesty of fever blizzard erotica,
Stories penned with the sweat on oily skins.
The curtains of neon phantasmagoria
showcase psychosexual fiends and harlequins
Sing away raw vocal cord fire while I’m
dancing with Queens of glamorous sins.

He had that red tail swinging in the rain
She watched, the emissary of jaded seduction
With pale skin and leather lips abundant
Stroking hair full of snakes and destruction
With a wardrobe fit for 1980s metal scenes
As he in turn supplemented instruction.

It’s those bedlam vices creeping through the creases
Playing in our heads like a thousand movie reels
Desired fantasies mutated into corrupted realities
Shameful like the artificial chemicals we call meals
Some things need to be ruined to be appreciated
Just Like ol’ Lucy in her stiletto heels.
Trevor Gates Oct 2014
“Breathe it in
The stardust air
The lung-clamping smoke
And vile pious inflammation.”
Listening to sounds of irritation:
Humming of the fluorescent bulbs;
Shoes sticking to linoleum tiles;
Flies buzzing behind my ears,
Leaving me to count the years
And spaces between spaces
Fill the lonely night

All is silent now.

Tooth and nail and eye crust
Fading away to off-beat lunacy.
Her spine slithers sinisterly as she performs
With Vaseline greased hair that stands like horns
People stalking like beasts with mental disorders
Hobbling penguins and droll-*** walrus punks.
Cold liquor manipulating my contemplation
And I have moments of primal desperation
A monster suckling another monster
Bodies tangled like olive tree roots
Delicious and dreadful
Fraught and shameful

It’s the way of all flesh.

Modern Soothsayers
and plenty of culinary racists,
Spraying ***** onto parchment pages
With forked tongues dancing on ***** stages
Coffee for blood and computer screens for eyes
With cool cats strutting to unknown leeching voices
Bottle-slung pistol whip hooligans with eyes of yellow stains
From chronic ink-sprayers of riots in narrow sectioned lanes
Snapping fingers to juke box ghosts and royal jazz sires.
Fourteen gypsy demons wanting to pull me apart
Showcasing trinkets and rubies she adorned
All while she smiles and performs
And the weight of the world
falls between my fingers,

Like cascading sand.

As I write,
The rhythm is changing
Like seasons in secluded eternity:
Orchestrations of sexplosions overtake the carnal scene
With hair pulling and gnawing teeth on the table in front of me
Those Bohemian idolaters basking in acid kiddy pools
Using tired variations of apologies in eastside sin city  
Arousing the vortex of virtuous degradation
In a hole of sunken matchstick validation.
Eyes of judges like the public census
And taboo connotations
Rule this attrition.
Leaking stalls
Blue-plate special
Of sprayed blood on walls
The essence of color and voice
The culmination of illusory choice
Dances of erasers and procreators
Fever dreams of police shooting children
Like movie monsters and misunderstood heroes
Specters and Banshee sympathizers
Marching to ******* synthesizers
Burning ***** blue postmen
With afropunk priests
Of astonishing feats
To whom


This deep sleep exists
To mediate the social cysts
The reprimand the blundering kids in the mists
From dreaming of their world without the risks
Of falling into fields of blackened earth
Where it all burns like a first world birth
And greater souls speak of my worth.
So I cannot wake up

The deep sleep
Is there for that.
It's been a while since I submitted some poetry.  This is like a combination of a rant, meets free-verse and urban spoken word.  It's just what's been on my mind lately.  I'd love to hear what you think it all means, or at least know your interpretation.


Exulansis: n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land.

Food for thought.
Sep 2014 · 546
Saints, Virgins, and Angels
Trevor Gates Sep 2014
Our Father,

who art in heaven

Mother Earth,

who art in Hell.

Burnt to ash,

ready Armageddon

Watch the sky

where angels fell

Zipper-mouths pulled tight

as the Cross passes the way

Carnal masks shimmer light

As sludge engulfs the day.

Vicious, vicarious crows of blackened ember

Cawing and moaning; devilishly romantic

The touch of fingertips on lips I remember

Left her womanhood wet and frantic.

Unchained desires that surely are satanic.

Those hours in confessional amongst lying sycophants

Console weeping eyes and tarnished souls

Elected “Saints” stand tall with hypocritical blather  

Condemning children with eyes like burning coals

“But virgins taste sweeter,” as the angels say

With sins like spices which season raw meat

But innocence-takers hide beneath crimson beds

Sitting atop thrones as stewards to God’s seat

Will those that fall, eventually rise?

All creatures tempted by tangible discord

Would we disobey the Grand one’s design,

If we follow the path that derives from the Lord?

Samaritans run extinct in the iron fire roads

And jukebox ****** priests play The Doors

Demon-eye coffee, dark like oily foes

I sip and read about the murders in the Moors

Devil executions fuel the jungles outside

Angels Abandoning service to kids like me

Fixers and hitters of the skid south side

Shouts from the shadows, “Hey, Nothing to see!”

Violent red dresses accompanying long limb girls

Spreading legs for daddy and **** daddy do’s

Magic hallucinogens showing circles and swirls

In faces under hoods and sky-crying moods
Jan 2014 · 1.1k
Dark Angels Amoungst Us
Trevor Gates Jan 2014
These storybooks woven with leathery imbrication
Filling my palms with vile indication
Detailing such wickedness and strife
What ethereal threads cling to life?

Such labyrinthine desires scrapping in my mind
My soul from body; that body which isn’t kind
To delve deeper within the wounds that sever
To fellow wolves, demons and toothless beggars

Unholy martyrs preach from a podium underground
Ablaze in hellfire, monsters of the ravenous mound
Black tongues and cheeks full of worms and leeches
Coals flung and burning over deafening speeches

Sumptuous in eloquence, these tossers and man-boys
Evocative displays of violence, hushed by silence and toys
Beseeched, reprimanded in city squares with common folk
Feeding dogs in heat slop with a pail and tote

Children waving hi to people in cages, smiling indifferently
Don’t they know what this is? Yes and no, forever in shame
Don’t they know there be wickedness afoot?
There be shadows of molestation
And whips of industry
Eyes removed and replaced with bar-codes
There be devils amongst the valiant
And dark angels amongst us
The few and proud
Recite aloud:

        “Darkness brings uninvited guests
        And our bodies are bare
        Give us a blessing, a crumb or drop
        Of life that we all can share.”

Veins full of rubies and auburn sapphires
Creepers laced in the cowls of cadavers
Red water thicker than mud and spit
The fatherland sicker than a rotten ****

There be dark angels amongst us, telling tales deep-seated
They be grave and weary, their lives left defeated
Now in the wilderness they give slothful lectures
But it’s only fools who listen to these rambling specters

And soon no one listens
Save for the moon that glistens
Dec 2013 · 1.3k
Waltz of Strange Fables
Trevor Gates Dec 2013
On the surface of those cheap sheets of skin
Our hungry heads next to the radio
Emerson, Lake & Palmer sing of that Lucky Man
While children of the candy corn eat the postman

Space Opera pirates courted by Tiny Dancers of Mars
Spiders, in fact, band mates to a lad named Ziggy
Like us made of Stardust, eternal and galactic—
Though not supported by a studio laugh track

So many images can flash by changing channels
On the Technicolor TV late at night, feral and ******
Passing ships, Hamlet, pigs in clothes, angels killed,
Mouths ******, mothers crowning and holes drilled

Babes crying in the street, while the heavens fall
An unreal reality that flabbergasts wet dreams
Shifting gears for the animals to rule the room
Orwellian motifs ensuring self-righteous doom

Nothing written is appreciated till the lesson is met
Charted, ridiculed, challenged, accepted, analyzed
By those who skimmed through blurred scribbles of lines,
Puking phrases of former failures for the modern times.

Vicious cycles of kids raising parents
Using TV and Internet as the windows to life
Fundamentally naïve, systematically retrieved;
Academically relieved, posthumously achieved.

All meaning was lost in making albums not worth buying
All reason was abandoned when making movies not worth seeing
All adventure was ceased in vain of endless rules and authority
All we have are gadgets, bills and jokes on conformity

My broken clock is still ticking like a mechanical heart
All veins and arteries lead outwards from the center hands
The red lights of traffic leading in and out of the metropolis
Of that homeless blues singer named “something Tatopoulos”

A Japanese couple making a tourist trip to Memphis, Tennessee
Along midnight trains where ghost of Elvis haunts Italian women
Most of the time my references don’t make sense to most
But it keeps things interesting as I’m your eccentric host

Absolute processions of White Queen marches
****-face jackals sporting Mott the Hoople Tees
******* & *******, filling audience chairs
Prophets & moppets, raising fists in the air

Ooze-dripping ******* flower creatures
Topping off mammary gland excretions
Unknown pleasures released by Factory records
Amidst the hysteria caused by deaf leopards  

Pink and orange clouds, reflected in golden hazel eyes
Her smile I can’t forget, just everything about her
You never forget your first love, with eyes like maple
Even in the middle of seeing these strange fables

In this waltz we dance to the beat of three
One, two….

Why couldn’t that love last forever?
Dec 2013 · 2.0k
Aveda Cicada
Trevor Gates Dec 2013
[Fade in, Opera hall; Orchestra is tuning. There is a murmur of people whispering.]

Once upon a time
There was the House of God
And the stage of life

Its key players were man and woman
Supported by Sin and Death

The masterstroke of creation was not of the flesh

But of the souls

[Audience laughs]

I hold in my hand
The diary of a madman

Lined with notes and scribbles
Rotten thoughts to nibble

Food for thought
Or all for naught

Such eloquence and strife
From a torturous life
For these we must share
Alas, who would care?

Would you?

Let’s find out

For in this show tonight, in the heaps of winter fables
And changing seasons
The spectacles and visions shall not be enough

On a magic carpet set for Baghdad
In the Mirror sea of Venus
The performers are all here
For your entertainment

The illustrious Obsidian Theater beckons you all
The Masquerade of the Dream Catcher Ball

With masks, we put on our true faces
Our bare faces are mere disguises
That we wear in public places
But here we’re full of surprises

Mrs. Jujubee isn’t a housewife here
But a sultry dancer, moving to the tune of
Cat house romances

Mr. Wukanlyck isn’t an account anymore
But an eccentric ******* who plays at
Both ends of the field

If you know what I mean.

All these people are able to be their true selves in the light of the stage
How come they cannot be this way in life?
Why can’t they laugh with the bohemians?
Why must it all be a secret life?
Why can they not tell their spouses?
Their parents?
Their bosses?

Why can’t they be what they want to be?


Their spouses mock the idea of such silly notions and aspirations.
Their parents disregarded their dreams in the hopes they will one day:

“Wake up, get their life in order, so they can get a real job, earn a living, buy a house, get married and contribute to society like a normal person; have a decent life.”

If you can call that a decent life.

Why become another cog in the gears of the economic machine that fuels the fire of excess industry?

Why owe more money to lawyers, bankers and debt collectors in the hopes of owning a piece of property that is just like everyone else’s?

Why push out more unwanted kids into the world where there are already millions without homes, food or even families?

Those “free nations” are ok with owning guns than knowing what’s really happening in the world.  

If another opposing religion or country threatens your comfortable lifestyle then you’re ok with having your government go to war.  

You are slaves to your TVs

Your smart devices

Your phones

Your social networking

Your computers

Your shopping rituals

Your misunderstood purpose

Your narcissism

Your arrogance

Your defensive self-righteousness

Your thin empathy
An obtuse apathy

Indecisive, nail-biting listeners of classroom objectivity
Ridiculing social solicitors of mall shop dogma
The young millennial generations stamped with no discerning identity
Than the loss of critical thinkers which are replaced with
Cultural zombies and robotic masturbators dripping over
Dim screens of cyber people in the millions, filling minds with
Misconceptions, misguided eroticism, racial diabolism that will be
Passed on to friends, family and teachers who will disregard sources and substance
But use the same destructive and dividing strands of unrest
That will define their day to day lives
From the words
The minds
Of frustrated, opinionated
Suburb bloggers
Middle class pioneers that one day
will rule the country
Preaching of the day that all are troubles will be
And all our past misdeeds and sins shall be
The crusted, rustic chains of our forefathers’ bane shall be

And then maybe we’ll be able to embrace each other
Like in the storybook pages of our dreams
Where men can love men
And women can love women
And the faces, the masks
Will not be needed anymore
Because what we present to the world in the face of that
Higher being
Or simple sun
Will be what we truly are
We will have one life and one face and it will be all we need
Not like before, where our closets have that hidden space
Where we hide our real faces
With that suit of dusty skin
That everyone once in a while we have to sneak away and wear

Little Colette De Salle
Petite college student with features like
Audrey Hepburn
Singing in the underground garage
With Stevie and his troupe
Her songs haunting, elegant and pure
About people she once knew
Her parents
Beaten to death on the streets
By simply reporting the truth to the world
Which their bosses and media supervisors
Will determine what the “truth” is
And what is newsworthy at 7pm

She is Ms. Colette de Saille
And will be dead before she graduates
Because someone didn’t like what she said that one night
Calling out the Pigs and suits making sure no one paid
For her losses

This is Ken Sosnowski
But tonight on this stage he is Aveda Cicada
And she is who she is from birth

Like you all that sits before me

With shadowy smiles
And grins holding flowers, doves


The Obsidian Theater, entry 16
Dec 2013 · 1.5k
Dies Irae
Trevor Gates Dec 2013
Ripples of effulgent colors
Reaching out from waters disturbed
Waves bothering no one
Except silent moods
And heavy sighs

Leaves falling like the fire from the skies
Sitting at the river bed alone
Hearing the blazing trumpets of angels
In the air for all of the world to hear
Definite, gazing and profound

The streets echoing the screams
Of thousands
Maybe millions burning
The people melting
turning to ash


Visions so pristine, with pools of clear waters
Where the universe dances with shooting stars
Nights so serene, with comets and saucers
Where multi-verse poets tell fables from mars

Mirrors orbiting realms of light and sound
Along ghost ships, serpents and mango worlds
Wormholes overwhelms clouds that surround
Near women’s hips and flowing hair swirls

The earths below like a burning molten orb of muck
Where Rephaite giants wrestle behemoths in vile seas
The dreams glow here like a harem where angels ****
And centaurs play Gato Barbieri tunes full of gleam


That sad moment where I wake up in an ***** pit
Below the Broadway theater
And a little Chinese lady scoots me out for new customers
And I stumble out into the streets
And buy a paper
Reading of a stock market crash
and the end of my job

as I fend for life in the jungles of Vietnam
I see friends of mine get their faces shot to pieces
And their brains fall to my lap
And I scream as the Vietcong rush me
Hack my limbs off and leave me for dead
And I wake up in a hospital bed
A quadruple amputee
Falling in love with a nurse I might never see
Again, so I ask her to hold me and let me
Cry into her shoulder
Then I pay a homeless man
to push me off a bridge with him

We fall and hit the water hard and—
He sinks
I don’t
I float up to the surface
And when I emerge I see
myself at the edge of a river
Tossing rocks into the water
I call out to help
But He doesn’t hear me

He stands up and leaves
I crawl up from the river with new arms and legs
Crying with an emotion I cannot describe
For what dreams and past-lives have been here
And there
On this Day of Wrath?

On this beach of trash and rocks?

Where I can see my grand-kids playing
In the southern California dusk

And my wife reminds me of the first time we met
In that hospital
Next to the ***** den
At the end of the world.
Oct 2013 · 1.3k
Slipstream Glass
Trevor Gates Oct 2013
The world is a Bersinski painting
The rain is a Plath poem
The night is a Fellini film
The day is a Bach cello Suite
Our love is a winter fable
Cold, warm and passing.

The stars are drips of milk
The wind is God breathing
The sky is a floating mirror
The grass is mother earth’s hair
Her ***** is the earth
Shapely, comely and nurturing

French roast coffee is the turning of pages
A scandalous book in a leather bound cover

The Snow outside is the harp strings strumming
Flaking specs falling lightly and patiently

The city is a never-ending waltz
The *** lives are directed by Bertolucci
The homeless vagrants are saints in rags
The People walking are sinners
Each a sphere within a sphere
A world within a world

The theaters are abandoned rib cages
The poets are Russian matryoshka dolls
The painters are lost children
The eyes are broken, stained glass
Your arms and body are home to me
Cradle me, soothe me and touch

Those words won’t do it this time
Sometimes the silence is what I need

And you with me, away from it all
Sep 2013 · 1.3k
These Virgin Pages
Trevor Gates Sep 2013
Polished nails and faint fingertips
Soothing touch, but quaint red lips
Almond-shaped eyes, hazel iris gleam
Fair skin worthy of the loveliest dream

These words on paper
The very first
Starting the rhyme and verse
With more moments
And stories
All so poetic and stoic
Bleeding ink to fresh paper
Bleeding hearts to woeful ears
Tracing the lines
Of my formative years

Ashy mist skies nestled over
Bleak sleeping mountains
Ghost wood trees likes hands
Reaching from the earth

A girl named Olivia
Sitting in my grade school class
Dark hair woven
Threads of black silk

I never knew her as she grew up
Just an illusory form of a forgotten past
Imagining her as she could be now
I could walk up to her
And say:
       “Hello Olivia, It’s been a while
        You changed since being a child
        Your beauty’s been enhanced
        Maybe you’ll give the chance
        To talk and reminisce
        I just can’t resist
        Everything I see and hear
        Has never been so clear
        You make me feel content
        Whole, serene and free
        I just wish this wasn’t a dream.”

All things I wish I could say
To a person I could never forget
Where you simply forgot me
Because I moved away
And you lived your life

Stupid poems of love
Stupid songs of strife
I don’t want these things in here
On here
On these new pages
These quips don’t represent me
The way I want to be recognized
These aren’t the things I want to
Talk about.

Let these crisp pages tell of mutant women
And ******-****** fiends frolicking fiercely
Distorted, cathartic characters collapsing
Rippling, regal rodents ******
And cesspools shaping  
Bubbling, contorting, boiling, simmering
Cow intestines infused with cake batter
Incestuous fairies hopping and dancing to screaming metal
Crunching, chugging riffs and thunder-booming bass lines
Frightening, fulsome, fearsome, ******-up fire starters
Worshiping, boars and their tusks and piling carcasses
Blasting kick-drums and rolls of stomping toms
Orchestra of darkness, Symphony of Hell
Masquerade of puppets and angel witch choirs
Demon women and devil men, swamping
Over bodies and pulling me into the pits
Where the pleasure my body and tear my flesh
Eradicating goodness and lights
With blood, pain, salivating mouths over hardened *****
******* **** and trusting in and out like wild men
In a lake of burning coals  
And sins

I observe these happening(s) in this modern day
So I must write them and you shall read
And in the process
You will be
Shocked, surprised, disgusted, appalled and desired
Your body reacting to these words and phases

    Ever wonder what my voice sounds like?

I do too, at least in your mind

This is my voice.
This is not your own.

Bourgeoisie dinner parties fit for cannibals
White weddings stained with septic blood
Children racing across the burning fields
Chasing the reaper and his friends
rapid heart beats
cold sweating hands
stomach pains churning and squealing
forcible labor to invisible babies
pulling back lips and gums
and retracting teeth
sinking into warm necks
******* and stretching
and beauty through depravity
animistic, egregious
brutal love and subtle kisses
bleeding hearts
bleeding pens

This isn’t bad.

I like this

Would Olivia find this mind attractive?
Maybe not
It doesn’t matter
These scribbles and dabbles
On these ****** pages
Are the beginnings to something more
All sprouted from the memory
Of a girl.
There are road maps and guidelines to writing. Sometimes, the greatest adventure and experience comes from ditching the map and taking that off-road journey into that never-ending horizon.

I try to think of goals and themes to tackle when composing new poetic compositions, but as I struggle I come to see that nothing seeps through the mind easily when it is forced. Presenting dictation to your thought process is the bare broken mirror to your psyche. Later in life, it can be a useful tool for any artist.

Be honest with yourself, don't try to accomplish just one thing. Never aim to please others and don't conform to rules laid before others.

Breaking away creative spontaneity, discourse and unmeasured wonderment.
Sep 2013 · 3.4k
Trevor Gates Sep 2013
Vespertine, fatal dream
Mistress conjuring shapes of night
Seventeen little fiends
Elegy for a demon’s plight

Alone in my study, sitting
before a roaring fire
Visions so ******
they churn desire

With the dead of night
summoning hellish zest
They come to incinerate
my corrosive flesh

The hymns of *St. Lazarus
beckon solace
from the cathedral outside
But I linger here in the bowels,
where my ancestral sins reside

Animistic stares gazing through
these dead-soul dreams
Where another horror story is not
always what it seems

Portraits of deceased queens
looked down at me with blackened eyes
Layers of muffled screams
festered while judging my vacant lies

Years before, my grandmother watched
over me as a boy in his bed;
Endless, ambiguous rhymes of prayer
are what she often said.

She promised to ban the spirits
that steadily linger
But dark twisting hands
outreached and took her

The monsters and invisible abominations
have always been here
Following my whereabouts,
watching me year after year

Subtle ghosts keeping my heart
and house cold
I sat and waited for what my
icy breath foretold

The dreams, the demons, the ghosts
all that severed me
From experiencing the love of flesh
I so forever longed to see

Came the hour the church bells rang and tolled

The dread of things to come
The moans and cries had begun

From lissome shadows and corridors
Like Charon beating souls with oars

Creeping evil fled
to the refuge of my home
To reap the sins
that my family had sewn

The rippling, screeching strings
of a malevolent orchestra
Scored and produced themes
worthy of infernal Sumatra

The flames in the fireplace
surged a green incendiary wall
From the hell mouth jaw emerged
a dark figure I saw.

Mother Mephistopheles,
            clad in silvery pieces with a pale face
            Manifesting atrocities, her emerald eyes
            welcoming our embrace

I backed away from the sights in,
my trance lost in her glimmer
But the noises and choir peaked
in a swarming fit for a sinner

In a gush of surrounding ash, Father Selaphiel materialized
The otherworld lovers reunited,
their bond revitalized.

We come unto thee, Son of Faust, heir to Blake.
They said in unison like a choral demon snake

Create a fleshling worthy of a child, of many in one
So the deeds of your family’s sins can be undone.

I stared at the figures with execrable bewilderment
Fearing my sanity had seeped through my temperament

They threaten my eternal existence with continued torment
A living anguish that would solidify my hell-bound descent

What must be done?” I asked these surrogate advisers

And they instructed
A body made from flesh and metal
Of dead and living components
Blessed and cursed
From God and Satan
Men and creature
Using their collected powers
to merge with the night
I swept across the villages
and cities to obtain the materials
Now all these years, I’ve wondered
Why my medical expertise had been put to waste
“Did the demons prevent me?” I pondered
“Or did they aid me?” I concluded in my haste

Innocent or not, I claimed what I needed
To rid myself of the terrors deep-seated.

A steel-woven chest piece
and half-incinerated cadaver
Twenty feet of large intestines;
boys, girls didn’t matter

Shelled-out cranial cavity
with cerebral cortex to match
Mixing bladders and gallbladders
worth its catch

Punctured spleens and insolent creams
Circulatory, digestive, endocrine,

Iron bones, infused tendons mount
Smells and rancid odors spilling out

Guts, pus, worms and maggoty brains
Boiling in holy water with dried remains

Sacks of chain mail and velveteen potions
Seething concoctions conflate emotions

Patches of caustic skin made like adamant leather
Bolted with steel fingered brutally severed

Into gauntlet armor, this mechanized abomination
Personifying my sickened, wailing degradation

I showed Father and Mother my life’s work and creation
A flesh-iron shell waiting, they stood with appreciation

Vespertine…” they called to the collage of my work
They petted its face while the shadows continued to lurk

Seventeen little fiends and creatures
appeared and surround
The moon shined through the glass
and the room around

The Seventeen shadow children became smoke and entered the monster
Now a being both ethereal and corporeal

My sins and demons locked in my own creation
Mother Mephistopheles and Father Selaphiel
Left Vespertine in my care

All that plagued me
All that haunted me

Personified, solidified
And barely alive.

My half-dead servant.

and Halloween child
Aug 2013 · 1.0k
Hellhounds Got My Woman
Trevor Gates Aug 2013
As the crow flies over yonder
Rusted strings beckoning their call
The wind in the weeping willow sings
Redeems those ugly sins longer

Leadbelly played the midnight special
With Roberta dead and gone

Pieces in the trees, except
For her soul which belonged to another

Devils got my woman tonight
Heads twisting and turning in my sleep

Rising flames going south of heaven
Fear bearing fruits of the womb

Boy, he could play
He could make the wood cry
He could sing and howl like that
With scripture and gospels fly

Prodigal of the rising sun
Voices carrying his wings of charm

Playing tunes whispered by fiends
That mistook his woman for some strings

Willie Brown knows the crossroads
Ages ago in the summer day haze

Watching friends like Robert trade their
Fingertips for sliding bottle licks

Hellhounds got my woman
Dealing cards from under her dress
My body whipped and beaten
With worms squirm in ****** mess

There goes the one, the man in black
Tipping his hat to me
The Morning Star approaching, asking
“Do you want to learn from me?”

The crooked tree like the arm of death
The clouds rising over the red sky
Yellow eyes lingering and staring
Weighing my soul for the perfect price

Mud covered my feet
But it hasn’t been raining

Nightmares crawling from my nails
With crows sounding like my momma

Devil strumming with my woman

Devil grinning, with a mouth like a cellar furnace

Hell wanting a piece of me
Sliding bottle licks and singing blues

Under the crossroad tree
A ghostly soul who can play
For the traveling eternity.
If you have ever lived or passed by the American South, then you might have heard legends and urban tales of Bluesmen and their stories. From the infamous Crossroads, where Robert Johnson sold his soul to the Devil to play blues guitar like no one else could, or the eerie folklore spreading like the tune of a hooking melody, the captivation of such music and spirit can be engrossing.

During my time in the South, namely Central Texas and numerous other states, you see bits and pieces to long that unappreciated idiom. Stories told through the words and phases of pain and suffering. The haunted bridges and abandoned houses where I shared my first paranormal encounter.

Evidence of this classic movement can be heard in the work of Robert Johnson, Skip James, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Leadbelly, Honeyboy Williams, Muddy Waters and many more.

This slow moving poem is in dedication to exactly that.
Trevor Gates Jul 2013
The Obsidian Theater XV.

Welcome to my nightmare
Welcome to my show
The audience awaits your praise
And your stage light glow

My, my, it’s been too long.

[Walks across stage; light follows. Curtains pulled]

Where have all of you been?

[Audience laughter]

Oh, forgive me, that’s not the right question
To ask

Where have we been?

That’s more fitting


Sipping Champagne with Bing Crosby among undead poets
With a casket made for two
“Brother can you spare a dime?”
He said,
“Lift me from this tribal paradigm.”


For many days I wandered the wilderness in the threads of
My carnivalesque grandfather
Ripping and tearing in the clinging trees
Hands of branches
Groping and pulling the garments off my body

In the middle of the Serbian wilderness was The Manor
Draped in dead trees and blackened ice

The valet stood at the gate in prime condition

But for who?

“Why, you sir.” He told me, guiding me through the entrance, to the front door.

And inside were wonders to be held by the
muster of my weakened eyes

Ladybug dancers tossing their legs up to *****-tonk fanfare
Swirling magicians pulling rabbits and naked men from the shadows

Allegorical usurpers coated in a filmy residue of
Herzog dreams
Lynch fantasies

Perpetuated by my longing
My lost soul
My parched thirst
My growling stomach
My throbbing manhood
My forgotten affliction
And severed diction

A man slivering into the skin of a woman
A Lady donning the cowl of a man

Skins shivering with afterglow effects

And dreams woven by old witches with intestinal thread

It was eloquent darkness in the belly of the manor
Fit for a King of Devilish glamor

Brothers of Grimm
Sisters of Mercy

Told from the pages

From the books

Of frozen Gods
And forgotten Titans

These are the happenings of a great story
Fiction or not
You may tell it
And believe what you will

It doesn’t matter as long as it is strongly retold

From the lips of another

The wandering bard
The pub crawling drunkard
The enamored *****
Bookworm report
It needs
To be shared
To others
Even impaired
To celebrate

My impeccable, capable
Hands-down sensational
Tour de force
A la mode

Cherries on top of whipped screams and drinks
Juggling heads and animals over coals of fire
Give them a show
Give them a feat
Give them something to remember
Give them something to crawl back to
Give them a performance that will beckon the applause
For years to come
Show your audience
And readers love
The likes of which
Cannot be equaled
Or even compared to
Of silly-billy pud muffins
And their
Street-smart guff

Let the institution of your mind become a corporal being
Teasing and pleasing those eager and waiting eyes
Staring up at you with

Don’t you want to see a show worth seeing?

[Audience cheers; laughs and applauds]

Watch a movie worth seeing?

Read a book worth reading?

How do you come by this?

Create what you’ve always wanted to see, read, watch and say.

Those performers
Once peasants and beggars

Stood up from the grime and ridicule of the trash and rose above the
To conquer their hearts

Look and see!

Those people balancing and singing with fluffy dogs
Magicians and warlocks summoning spirits to dance among stars
Poets on stage reading mixed words to nodding peers
Directors blocking actors on stage with unparalleled enthusiasm
All these creatures of the ubiquitous night
Gather and produce
The whim of their lives

But many of these masters



The bus boys cleaning up after your meal
The mother alone at home with the kids
The unsociable man on the park bench
The frigid girl in the corner of the classroom
The nervous boy wandering the circus
The stern librarian in Brooklyn
The blogger in the studio apartment
The hard working abroad student on a farm
The homeless man cradling a dying dog
The celebrity chasing photographer
The undergraduate tutor
The ignored substitute teacher
The bullied Muslim student
The underprivileged south side coach
The Turkish cab driver

More and more

These warrior poets and victims to racial slurs
Commonwealth bigotry
Ghetto endorsements
Faulty criticisms

From hosting countries

And sheltered, over-privileged, disillusioned



Religious figures

Dogs of War

Angels of retribution

Demons of industry

Ghosts of the hours and days past
To sympathize and cry for the world
Thrown into invisible and subtle chaos
Like an ocean littered with the blades of
Broken glass
The sludge toxic waste mixed in molten lava over craters of dead bodies
The sand dust covering the thousands of bodies in the earth


What teams won the World Series?
Which movie star dates who?
What’s the latest trending diet?
What new pop sensation has been manufactured?
What new insult can talk show hosts say?
Is there someone new to blame for all the bad things in the world?

What are the things the media has told you?
The things it hasn’t?

It’s a
Bitter sweet symphony

Crucible for the faceless grins
Pointing fingers everywhere but themselves

Let’s leave the worries to our kids
I’m sure they’ll figure it out.
Allow me to thank my esteemed colleagues: Meryl Streep’s skeleton, Freddie Mercury’s ghost, Doc Hammer, George C. Scott, Doctor Emmett Brown, Marty McFly, Easter Eggs, internet message board administrators, Robert Redford, Aviator sunglasses, Don Cheadle, The Coen Brothers, the Dukes of Hazzard, Billy *** Thorton, Hammerfall, Saxon, Klaxons, Lou Reed, Spike Jonze, Michael Gondry, Guts, Son Goku, Tinkerball ***** force, the Die Nasties, The Iron Maidens, Judas Priestess, The Runaways
And many more I simply don’t have time to mention.

Now Get out of my theater.
Jul 2013 · 2.2k
Lachrymose Taste
Trevor Gates Jul 2013
A satisfied appetite is a simply joy

Overlooked and simplified

Like a growing urge, a salivating need

That is entrancing and glorified.

Everlasting for moments we call meals

Forgotten in time, lingering above

But the taste, the lonesome lover pushed aside

Gazes afar and near wanting to be enjoyed again

The young lady with a tongue of raspberry delight

And the matured widow with darkened cacao lips

Ripening nectar of a sliced peach center

Halved and topped with mascarpone crème

The man with a skin of caramel glaze

Caressing and savoring

With a fragrance and scent

Of hazelnut coffee indulgence and sin

In the pursuit of a brief love affair

What oral sensation did my taste buds want?

My odyssey of gustatory endeavors await

Through the seas of lined people and waiting staff

Generous portions and humble pies

Decadent desserts so rich you’ll die

Vine cherry tomatoes sliced and sauté

Over al dente rigatoni in a roasted cashew sauce

A robust aroma and savory appeal

Basil leaves with garlic strips

Olive oil to top the surreal

Hubristic meatball aborigine  

Elysian cuisine or many dreams

Teasing the senses, warming the pit

Of flowing pleasures

And tingling fingertips

Without moral measures

And succulent wines

Rotisserie lamb falling of the bone

Seasoned with Sicilian herbs

And paired with broiled asparagus

Drizzled with lemon juice

And a glass of Merlot

Spices I hardly know

Lachrymose apologies beside a bottle of faded sorrows

With love there is pain, passion endured through the names

Thin soups, flavorless and dull, feeding street-thrown bums

Breathing hard against the delicatessen glass

Hickory smoked hams, pepper-seasoned pastrami

Vinegar cultured pickles and hard dried salami

Unpleasured, without measure, at one's leisure.
Forever my endeavor

Blackcurrant tea laced with slivers of gooping honey
Layers of cinnamon hair atop olive skin

red-painted doors with cedar trim
crushed almonds mixed with hazelnut butter cream spread

devilish rounds of crumbling ***-swirl bread

Smells and wonders, tastes so ...

oh god

Divine and sublime.
A little hobby of mine is cooking, so I thoroughly enjoy looking up new recipes sometimes to try. Movies like Babette's Feast, Ratatouille an The Trip. Amusing how we can associate flavors, smells and tastes with more than just culinary customs. We can correlate joyous emotions, moments of sensuality and comfort.
Jul 2013 · 1.6k
Eyes of the Muse
Trevor Gates Jul 2013
The Obsidian Theater XIV

Good evening.

I’m sorry to say we don’t have a show scheduled for tonight.

Too many people didn’t show.

Performers were absent.

The ticket girl is dead

The dancers are downstairs naked and in piles of sweaty flesh

And I’m here,

Talking to you.

It’s just one of those nights

One bottle of wine
Three packs of cigarettes later

And the shadows turn to people

The stage lights beam down on you

Like a blinding sun

Prompting you to open your heart
And spill the regretful clots that block relief from your soul

Some time ago

Day in and day out

I was there for another.

A relation of mine who suffered from a disorder of the eyes


Unusually high pressure
within the eyeball
that leads to damage of the optic disk.

I become the eyes she wished she had.

The valet she wanted
The Grandson she loved.
The only person there who could do anything

Numerous visits and endless prescriptions filled:

Four times a day, left eye;

One time a day, left eye;

Four times a day, right eye;

Before bedtime in right eye;

Two times a day, right eye;

Two times a day, right eye;

Three times a day, right eye;

All in one day.

Eye drop medications

Bottles with
White tops
Red tops
Pink tops
Turquoise tops
Yellow tops
Purple tops
And orange tops.

Each day of putting someone else before you
Because you love them
They did the same for you when you were a child

You’re hopeful those hours in surgery will help

You feel utterly useless waiting for something you cannot control

Imagining what those frail, foggy eyes think of you

When you pull back the pus-crusted eyelid back to administer some relief.

And her moaning in the night matches your fears

And when she speaks you tell her how well you’re doing at work in at school
How you have a lovely girlfriend
And you’re getting along with mother

But these are lies
Lies to lessen the troubles

But I have to work is excruciating

School is put on hold

Girlfriend is non-existent

Replaced with shallow, empty hook-ups in bars

And Mother doesn’t speak often

Only to dispel her constant disappointment

But not Maw-maw

She looks at me as an angel

And good person maintaining a life when she is ill

But I’m not sure it’s all that

My happiness has never been important

It’s always been others I wished who were happier than me


Because I can make that sacrifice

I can forfeit my happiness for others
Because I saw the world for what it is
And the last thing I want
Is for others to see that side of life

I’ll make the sacrifice
So others don’t have to.


There a monster from where I came from
It was Hell itself
And it devoured all

My body was slammed and crushed in the underbelly of the immortal beast
Hellbent on ridiculing me
With Toys and whips and
Instruments of merciless pain.

All in the name of “good”
Of “love”
Of “care”
Of “discipline”
Of “God”

Looking up at the framed picture of Christ in my Maw-Maw’s room
I feel so naked

So weak

And afraid

Orbital apparitions of anguish
Hover while I sleep

Wishing just to be in the arms of one person

Who loves and truly cares
And will accept my release
And my tears.

One bottle of wine,
two swigs of self-loathing,
a case of nostalgia
A line of white-lighted prayer
Four packs of cigarettes
And a dying stage light later…

And we have a show.

Look at that

A full house.

I’ll take a bow.
I’ll take this opportunity to thank the doctors and staff at Scott & White medical in Temple, Texas and my Grandmother Betty (Maw-Maw) for the lessons of life and self-experience.  

See you all at the next show.
Jul 2013 · 1.7k
Endless Salience
Trevor Gates Jul 2013
The silent planet of crystallized dreams

Nebula clouds emitting translucency

Nothing is ever what is seems

With God’s touch and delicacy

The song that remains and forever played

Amongst the promised womb before

The mother goddess loved and swayed

While the child watches from the hallway door

“Mother and father copulating with the door open.”

Read the words on the off-white typewriter paper

The boy tedious and tired, working and hoping

His work be acclaimed before meeting his maker

Telling stories of psychopath magicians in Long Island

Or Chicago lawyers fighting underground matches in drag

“A disturbing, fantastic point-of-view, from a ****** man”

Said one critic before nitpicking as reading a greasy pulp mag

Countless images worth their weight in gold

Majestic ballrooms ravishing supple choirs

Groping masked ballerinas with a urge so bold

Witty fops and serving props aiding proper sires

Sir Xavier proclaiming the night as a celebration

Showing sharpened teeth behind his mask

The shadows merging and demonstrating mutilation

With enough wine to soak, bathe and bask

The man breathed in exhaustion. He cracked his fingers and wrote:

“Circles of Blood, of **** and pain.

    Audacious institutions praising the Goat Head of Fame

                    Vicious clowns of chains and leather sought to cleanse the mind

                             The flesh and struggle that was kindled at the discovery of Gabriel’s find

                                      Stiffening, hardening clay over roots and glands

                                      The skin of earth ravaged from birth

                                      Yes men and polished conveyor belt twins

                                      Nodding, prodding and smirking

                                      Evicting and molesting the commonwealth

                                      The taxpayers and voters

                                      The people, new and old

                             Sewing fishing line into us

                   Like strings to puppets

          Severing wings

Denying us flight

          Expecting us to fight

                   With blank expressions


                   Collective motives

                             Because we should all think the same

                                      While in the jungles of Vietnam

                                                The cities of Korea

                                                          Deserts of Iraq

                                                                   Caves of Afghanistan


                                                                   Anyplace our leaders


                                                What is to gain if not

                                      Something profitable?

                                                Thieves condemning thieves  

                                                Murders judging murders

                                                Psychopaths killed for killing

                                      Women ***** and thrown into a

    guilt trip for not keeping a child that

    was forced into them, saying the

    will of God is infallible.

    Children without homes suffer for what they are

              While more populate the world with their own

              Before helping the needy

The names of the world

          The foundations built upon on another

The empires envisioned and dreamt

          Destined for glory and prosperity

Then torn down in the cataclysmic volley of change

          Then the cycle, the circle, is repeated again

          This is how the world functions

In the name of one

Or many

Or God

Or even the Gods

The Circles, the rings and arena.”

The man wrote with the typewriter on top of books and clippings

Watching riots outside his window, bottle of liquid fire exploding

Screams of terror, of revolt and damnation drippings

Calling out for all to see, the fury and loathing

What the man wanted to write was a simply story to tell

But his rising emotions took hold of his fingers

Instead, he told a story of malicious passivity in living hell

Where in his room the fumes of gas lingers

What if on other places in space

Where we’ve discovered other Earth-like planets

God Created different forms of humans

And watched how they grew

In their own way

Eliminating one previous flaw from the next

Till there was no conflict

If he did and kept doing that

Till he had the perfect human

Then there would be no more

And just God again.

Mystic moons and puppy dragon tales
Silver oceans with crystal silk sails

Frozen lakes above the stone angel choir

Marble pianos soothed by fingers of fire
Jul 2013 · 934
Something Beautiful
Trevor Gates Jul 2013
The Obsidian Theater XIII.

Greetings, ladies and gentlemen

Tonight shall be yours…

I’ll need you all to listen to me carefully this evening.
It is so important, imperative that you obey my commands


We may begin.

Everyone take a deep breath.
Now hold it.

This is the moment
This is the show
This is the pulp
The nectar
The ooze
The Sector
The Muse
The blood
The spit
The Mud
The Slit

The bile
Or so vile

Gargling in the mouths of disdain usurpers  
Frolicking in the seas of infected flesh
Mounting the pale demons of incestuous claim
Passing the threshold
Mammon and his friends


What’s this?

Oh my ladies and gentlemen, something new.

Something spectacular

Something…Well I’ll let you see.

Take the Stage my troupe, my thespian brethren!

Broken Promises have been spread
Shards of glass have been shed
The wine is wasted and the houses burned
The candles ignited for all who earn

The whip; the leather; the oh so feather
The lip; the dip, all together

Honey, why are you out of your room?
                                        Father, stop it please!
                             Mother isn’t here
                That’s just silly

       The twig people of Salem beckon your soul

All I’m tempted to give it to them

       Is, after all just wasting away in the jar

                           I have

                                 On the wall

Those people who said they loved you?
They lied

That lover who pledged their life to you
They lied

The one who hurt you?
They told the truth.

These insane and poignant ballet dancers all jumping and twirling on the astral stage
See them light the way for all to enjoy?

When evil invades your senses, leaving you numb while they have their way with your body.

We can escape to the place.

You can come with me.

Yes you madam.

Yes I know you and you know me.

Yes take my hand.

Leave your body behind

You can’t take it with you while it’s being ripped in half

Yes, this way

Take center stage.

This is my gift to you.

See the lights, the performers, the musicians and the audience?

They are here for you. They will do what you will.
Let us cancel out the effect of that unspoken abuse.

What will you do?

What shall be the fill to the emptiness?

What shall you compose for my droogs, minions and fairies to perform?

Let it be your own.
Let it be your all

Let it be everything you’ve wanted
Let it soar

Let it pierce your heart with relief
With joy

With unfathomable majesty and sweeping emotion
With ubiquitous elegance and compelling tenacity
With resonating passion and relentless captivation

Let it be unique

Let it be something

Something that will release those tears you’ve held back

Something that shivers the body

That will leave your bones in ache, making us feel alive

Something the angels will hear and accept it is more glorious than them

Something heavenly

Something lovely and positivity radiant; like you the goddess of all things in our world.  The world that has only mattered to us. The one that is our own.

For the one in my arms

For the one that is forever gone.

Let it be

Something beautiful.
This performance is dedicated to my departed friend Sabrina. Thank you all for being here.

You have my blessing.
Jul 2013 · 2.1k
When my Angel cries
Trevor Gates Jul 2013
There are moments in life
Where the minutes feels like hours
The days feel like years
The weeks
A lifetime
Looking up at the sky
Or the clock in the watershed
While it was done to you
To me
The strangling, the fighting
The crying, screaming, tossing and turning
Over and over again
They say it’s the last time
That they’ve changed
Born again
It’s not true
And here they are again
The daddy and the mommy
Names given to flesh-tearing monsters
And lusting jackals
Gleeful devils and
Shadows on the wall
Laughing and *******
Pulling knives and nails form their womb
To bury us in an keep us there
Fiends wrapping themselves in avarice
And sweltering babes roasting over the iron fire
Where fingers and tongues push and pull
Your insides
Thrusting and moaning to weekly
Mixed tapes and infomercial gurus
Batting eyes to static gods and god haters
Feasting in my tears
For the last time before my very own fingers
Become jagged spears and
Raging teeth
To pull apart the wolf in sheep’s clothing
Jerking his **** over your face and whispering
Bibles verses to an invisible
Who holler and praise
The almighty lord
Who watches over us and
Places bets with the Devil in the aftermath of
Melting, dissolving, sacred bond
That is till death does them part
In sickness or in health
With broken bottles, wheel jacks
Kitchen blades, handguns, bare-knuckle fists
And those friends wonder why
Why I’m alone and
Why I can’t do the same things they do
Speak the way they speak
Understand what is so easy for them
School is a foreign concept that plagues our life
Its mere system mocks us
Saying I’m
We’re different, special, needed attention
Counselling, treatment, guardians
So lost are they
For not seeing the truth
But the lies are more convenient
To the slothful ignorant
The fearful cowards
Wrathful misguided
Wrongful accuser
Lustful solicitor
All groping, kissing, grabbing
Slapping, hitting, tearing, bleeding
*******, licking, copulating
Red-eyed mongols throbbing over and
Drooling and spitting
Beating and killing
Flinging bodies against the wall and
Smashing the heads of children over the
Burning bridges of sycophant minds
Taking away the innocence
Laced with birth
Where our loveless bodies harden
And become blank and
And see the painted veil
That hid the original art
Of the first painter of the sky

The thing about being suicidal is,
No one knows you are till you’ve already done it.

And people say those who off themselves are selfish
When all they want is a release.

They still love you,
And are assured others love them.

But it’s not about love.
It’s when vengeance and fate aren’t enough

When tears dry up

And distress runs it course
Jul 2013 · 2.2k
Dark Meat & Naked Greed
Trevor Gates Jul 2013
The Obsidian Theater XII.

You’re all probably wondering why I asked you to come here this evening.

I do not plan to waste any of your time

Regardless if you feel that I do


I’ll get to the point.


I’m afraid I don’t have one

And neither do you

Or you
Or you
Or even you

I once spoke to a lopsided journalist who understood what I meant
He once sat where you were sitting and spoke to me in such unique lubricities
I couldn’t help but ponder his underlying tone of voice
A hidden message gargled beneath his throat.
Past the teeth and gums
Sliding down his esophagus and into his stomach
Of voyage of crude judgment on my part

I still haven’t made my point.
But then as I recollect what we’ve just discussed
The point was made
Regardless of what you think
For what I say

Are we confused?
You should be
Because it’s really quite simple

The amount of time you took to read this nonsense is equivalent to the deaths of a handful of people.

Now that’s a lot to think about
But in return many newborns have arrived on this plane of existence
Ready to be embraced by chains and strife


Of where they are
Who they are

No one is born free

We’re all fooled into accepting these rights, or extended privileges
All false

Everything has been orchestrated and arranged to keep your mind in check

How does it feel to be another chuck of human cattle?

Humans are mostly made up of Dark meat

Billions of people have lived and died


We don’t know them

We don’t remember them

Because of how insignificant their impact was

We only remember a small percentage

A fraction

Because of what they did



Religious figures








Rock stars









And their prey

We don’t remember the normal people

Why should we?

It will take on average three generations to forget you after your death.
All that will be left will be a grave and a tombstone
If you’re lucky

Everyone who would’ve known you
Will be dead with you.

Does this depress you?

Does this make sense?

Do you know what I’m talking about?
Did you hear what I said?

Check your ears because no one said a word.

Did you see what I did there?
Check your vision because I didn’t show you anything.

Nobody will
Show you
The truth
You must search for it

And accept the opaque mucus of circuitry and metal
Interwoven through our biological makeup
Hardened flesh

Resilient to innocence
Empowered by lost negligence

****** into the illusory overindulgence of ignorance,
Racial profiling
Ethnic intolerance
Class segregation
Wars of Naked greed
Pursuits of justifiable genocide and wrath
Condemned and institutionalized by denominations of Christians
Muslims and non-believers
Who claim to act in the will of God
Or the moral benefactor
Of the meat grinder that is

Modern civilization.

All points made and
Explanations aside

I’m glad I wasted your time

Regardless of what you think
What I say or do

I’m glad you came by
I wonder how many people died while you read this…
How many were born?

It doesn’t matter I guess
Only a few will care or remember
The same goes for you
Unless you make enough of a significant mark on the world

The same goes for me.

Will God still exist when all the people are gone?

Without humans, there will be no religion
And no war

So where will God be in all this?

Maybe having that knowledge was part of the plan.

Who knows…

Either way, God made a point.
Thank you. You can turn in your notes by Friday. You can submit your question to Tyler Durden in room 099 on Paper Street.  I’d like to thank the faculty for arranging this conference. I’d also like to mention the little guys who helped organized this: Flying Teapots, Edith Piaf, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Nancy Sinatra, Jeff Beck, Interview Magazine, Starbucks, Smart Water, mechanical pencils, Terrance Stamp, Spike Lee, Rooney Mara, wax paper, coco jelly beans and of course King Candy.

Until next time.
Jun 2013 · 1.4k
Silver-skin Reflection
Trevor Gates Jun 2013
It was the rain against the windows
And the moonlight sonata playing
That accompanied my transition
Into melancholy insomnia

In the mid-morning deluge of the overcast sky

The reading of books and Freudian dreams
The watching of movies, Kubrick stare and all
Where emotions are captured and paraphrased
Amidst fight clubs and Fantasia

The Klimt surrealism outreaching from the walls

A lone piano listens, glistens; ripples of time
All dissimilar reinventions
Swirling in the incense smoke rings
Dancing in the flowing spirit air

Free and marvelous among vacant living room eyes

Memories recall the rain of Pasadena
Over rustic-themed modernism for
Eager tourists and the nonchalant few
Whispering words to descend the stairs

From the surface to below where thrusting cocktails reside

Years ago in the same position
But younger than I am now
At another desk with a bleeding pen
Pouring over the torn fickleness and skin I saw

Matchstick men smoking flesh roaches in alleyway shadows

Something hidden underneath the seen frailty
Single mothers courting hairless young men
Cracked anchor teens moving to a beat not of their own
Act of demon from the hand of God

Itching skin and slimy **** for sexes of all;
the men can take a turn in bearing the small.

Tales written from reflection and soul
Those wanderers and solicitors passing over the sick
The dead that laugh and the living that cry
Cold flesh injections stock markets for cattle to imbibe

Like so many humans do
Jun 2013 · 1.4k
Hellbent Manifesto
Trevor Gates Jun 2013
From the skies came the howling screams
And the malevolent weather
Casting the hands of shadow over my world
The loveless giants and slack-jawed executioners
Laughing and drooling over the wicker baskets
Filled to the brim with severed heads
Faces frozen in the final moments of their
Demoralized longevity

While the others
The innocents and deceivers
Hung from the peeling trees
From their necks
Their bodies swaying with the
Winds of the howlers; the hoarders and rising dead
Ravens and winged monstrosities feasting on the
Available tissue of those left behind in the dusk
Of lesser men and greater demons

I wept and cowered like never before
In the swelling, audacious fields of fallen brothers and sisters
The air was moist
The earth was damp
I pulled the black garments of butchered priests
Over my coarse back
Covering my punishment from the eyes of God
And his Angels
His divine bystanders
And jealous endeavors

Draped in the cloth of the papists  
Drenched in the accumulated fluids of the slain
I wandered the wastelands with no name
No home
No family
No soul in the moment of sought mercy

The drying of blood and tears hardened the stain cloth
Against my healing body
Pulsing and throbbing over my senses
Turning me into something more
A vile and vengeful entity
Walking among the land of the dead
A ****** of my sanity

Through the cascading water dripping from the sky
Souls and ghosts of the battlefield
Clung to me, touching my feet and hands
My path was followed by the impaled
The disemboweled and the murdered
For the name of such clerical disambiguation
Promising to be absolved for the crimes against His name

I wandered from the true path

I came to the cliffs above and looked over the carnage
Of a 1000 warriors and people all sewn together
In the skin of the earth.

Riding a phantom steed over the trampled bodies
Clad in otherworldly armor
And sweltering chains
The Horsemen of War walked
Among the covet children of his wrath

Not even knowing if I still roam the land of the living
I proceeded down from the cliff
And approached the Rider of War.

His crimson helmet hid his face.
Horns protruded from his brow
He carried a blackened shield
and a fiery Sword crafted from the pits of Hell

Striking his sword into the mound of dead
Rivers of blood soaked into his blade
It fed off the butchered, the murdered
The mutilated, the skewered, the molested
The sodomized, the swallowed, the reaping
The cowards, the fools, the thieves
The liars, the transgressors, the headless
The victims, the prey, the engorged
The envious, the gluttonous, the wrathful
More and more of the blood, the souls and the mess
Collected and gathered into the sword
Feeding the beast, the instrument of war
Fueling another plague of sinister dismemberment
On a once green land of kings and sires.

I picked up a walking stick from the woods
Walking through a darkened world
Where another noble shall claim me
As his moniker of death
In service to **** more men
God’s children
Mother Earth’s children
Who rip a part of each other with metal and teeth
Against the palms of titans and angels

All gambling on our victory or defeat
Where lives and words are mere tokens
It is not our lamentations or penance that is counted

Can I bear the attrition of my own nightmares?

Clad in the shredded papal garments
Soaked in hardened blood

I shall roam and absolve.

Whoever is worthy
In the bleak war of man
And his End.
May 2013 · 1.7k
Welcome to LA
Trevor Gates May 2013
Pearls falling
on the stone steps outside
Neon lights reflected
in the rain puddles
“Bang, Bang” Nancy Sinatra sang
“I shot you down…”
The music faded as I walked away
Movie posters lined the brick walls
Framed lovers embraced
One another
Between frozen portraits
Of atomic monsters
And art house flicks
While looking away at the box office girls
Slender and fixed
Up for the customers
And troubled youth;
Their tenacious allure
for a requiem
for the living
Cathedrals replaced by tower records
And Chinese restaurants
Withering, zealous loan sharks
Feasting on squished dreams
Licking their teeth with their tongues
Smacking against the laughter
Of festering sodomites and
Plastic-injected food
Basking in pools of molten gold
And sliced actors
I was in the middle of this
Enforcing the invisible layer
Of success in the city of Angels
Where demons of entertainment
Pull the strings
Like Bela Lugosi said.
Moving through the Hollywood hotel
I hear moaning voices
Creaking beds
Loud televisions
Shouting and blaring beats
I open room 314
And walk in
The wallpaper peels like a corrosive blister
Mr. Poe sits at his desk
Waiting for me
He pours a drink
I abide
He passes me an envelope
I feel its thickness
I open it up and flip through
The bills, placing it in my inner pocket
I nod and swallow the bourbon
And leave
What pulp magazines tell you
Of the underbelly
The style, the glamour
The women, the one-liners
And thrills are replaced by
Shattered morals
Broken bones
***** stained stool pigeons
Slaughterfest racism
Taxi backseat *******
Where joints and blood
Spent napkins, clean the mess
Of the seats.
Through clubs and social abundances
I find coked-up fiends and producer hugging
Laughing, smiling, drooling, kissing
Any who will profit
Able to get in line
To be the next big thing
On the silver screen
Or at the bottom of the sea
Santa Monica pier
Watching the group of
Empty flattery, heartless groping
I follow and keep my distance
3 hours later
I knock on their fancy hotel suite
Just when the door unlocks
I push it through
And pull out my gun
They scream but they know
Who I am
And who I work for
I instill fear back into their
Comfortable lives.
They have debts
They own their luxury to to others
That was the price
They sold their souls and bodies for fame
And they will all eventually pay
I remind them what could happen
I shoot through the mirrors and glass
I pick one up and dangle them over the balcony
I find one member of the social party who does not belong
Who is not worth any thing
Who is expendable.
I grab that one and exercise my warning
My superior’s warnings
I bash his skull on the ikea coffee table
I pick up the vase of flowers by the side
I dump it all over him
I pick one white rose and
Dip it in the collecting blood
And watch it stain the flower
I lift it up and show it to the room
Still eyes and sweating faces look at it;
At me and what I represent:
A winning hand
A knock-out punch
Wrath personified
Callous, methodical, professional, indifferent
Mr. Libestraum is who I work for
Mr. Schyman is what I go by.
My point is made and I leave them with the body
I walk out and call my people
My part is done.
I walk out unnoticed and paid
Pay a vendor for coffee
Sit along the bench and wait for the sun to rise
On a new day.
And think back to what I was told when
I saw my first hit,
“Welcome To LA.”
Trevor Gates May 2013
Welcome to tonight’s show

Allow me to introduce myself.

I go by many names

Some of which, you may know
But those do not need to be mentioned
a howl, a moan, a scream, a summoning
Let’s keep this interesting.

This is the midnight calling
This is the raven cawing

This is the shadow lurking
And the jackals slurping

The demons wailing
While Charon is sailing,

The Acheron
The river
The first

The Eternal song
Of dripping livers
and Thirst


This is all confusing
And amusing
To some
And many
But to me it is painful



­A subjective simmer of passivity
A pious dose of sheer calamity

Once upon a time

In a land past the desert
Was a neon capped city
Devoid of hope

And shaped by
Casual nihilism

And too much money

A powerful portrait in all its brevity
The display of sweltering people melting against the asphalt
The mucous sunscreen and coarse sand between the toes

And crooked nails
And bleached hair
And coffee stained teeth
And pink nails
And Gucci purses
And Versace dresses
Shutter Shades
$5 lap dances

And promiscuous preteen slaves
Pop sensations
Internet ****
Social networks
Smart phones
Model rock stars
Mundane seductively
For him
Or she
The nepotistic aficionado


Delicious, robust, superb, disdain  
*******: Nose Candy
******: Snake venom
After Parties: ******* adrenaline
***** Film tryouts: Garage studio
LSD: Acid
Plastic: Lips, skins, *******.
Hits of E


Do you have change for a hundred?
Or a change for a life?

Cites in Dust
Thank Siouxsie and the Banshees; A carnival.

Tears for Fears, they’re Head over Heels

Love will Tear Us apart
From Joy Division, who claims she’s lost control

Los Angeles
Exene and Billy Zoom’s Wild Gift.

The perpetual rise of sunset rockers and Neon knights.
Teens crawling through the muck of socialites and incubator nightmares
Civil borders wired by racial slurs and salivating bigotry
Water replaced by blood
Spit interchanged for souls
And fire traded for icy methamphetamine

Warriors and survivors

Poets and dreamers

Shooters and inhalers

Geeks and groupies

Burnouts and Dropouts

Sweet dreams are made of this

Such a show, such a show! Bravo Bravo! Thank you, thanks to all I have time to thank: Martin Sheen, Julius Ceasar, Fender Guitars, Randy Marsh, elbow pads, Chuck Berry, Al Green, X, Joy Division, Tears for Fears, Siouxsie and the Banshees, Less than Zero, Alucard, Humphrey Bogart, Grace Kelly, Daryl Dixon, George Harrison, Brad Pitt, Rooney Mara (Love you), Belstaff, Emma Watson (Love you too), Laure Heriard Dubreuil, Manolo Blahnik, Hannah Murray and Michele Abeles.

So many to mention, so little time. We’ll be back.
This is one of my favorites I've done so far in this series. I had just finished reading Less Than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis and watch Gregg Araki's films, The Doom Generation and Nowhere, which all three sum up the existentialism and merging rampancy of living in Los Angeles, California. An experience I will never forget.
May 2013 · 2.2k
Strangelove Phenomena
Trevor Gates May 2013
Adamant, nocturnal dalliance
Egregious, insidious, velvet ambiance

An unyielding, dark but brief love affair
The flagrant, seductive and comely au pair

The Eclectic, unmatched, Androgynous Circus
Red devils, black sheep and felines in service

Contortionists, gypsies, and malevolent magicians
All twisting to a dance played by faceless musicians

A night in Tunisia or a place above the Siene
Where else but all in the shadows of dreams?

Enchanted, redolent wonder of festive illumination    
Her eyes absorbed, glimmering in the lush captivation

Enveloping, engulfing silk around our bodies
Days, nights measured by tragic commodities

Arpeggios, rippling across glistening string inventions
Bowing cellos; cellists bowing with audience permission

Masks, costumes, carnivals and the golden mirror
Cerulean dripping limbs that slither while near her

The alabaster piano played by a three-armed puppet
The statues turn and welcome us for a crumpet

Maria Callus sings Ave Maria backwards then stops
The statues and demons laugh while playing with props

“This requiem for the living, begins with a kiss”
The statues said in a tone of voice I could not resist.

“Our overture shall be a ******, a nail in the coffin; a death.
All while you swallow the nectar on your lover’s last breath.”

Needles protruded my head
And I watched as my love was torn
Limb from limb
While the jackals and ballroom guests
Fornicated on the spilled blood and guts
I cried and they cheered as the lights dimmed
For All I could see was the sight of them leave
Into the darkness.
But the noises were as loud as ever as hands
And digits groped my body.
Moaning voices and rhythmic thrusting
And tongues in my ear
And teeth gnawing on my neck
Pain felt, endured, experienced
I was released into the middle of the scarlet draped room
When the phlegm of ****** fluids whipped into a dried crust

A sharp edge stabbed me in the back of the neck
Running along my back, through my spine, down my skin and ending in my ******.
Mechanical hands ripped apart my skin  
I slid out of my flesh like a serpentine ******.
I stood there
shaking from the excruciating, unfathomable pain
the grid and design of my muscular system bare and seen.  

From the pieces of my departed lover,
the master with the many mechanical hands
slathered the slips
and sleeves of her skin onto my own.

Needles and thread went to work.
The puppet master sewed.
The healing plasma
the drying blood
the encapsulating tears lubricated my whole

Once he was finished, I was dunked into a pool of clear gelatin.

For hours I soaked and became whole again.
Then I rose and I was dressed
the finest garments, from across the globe.
I sat once again at the table where the statues invited me.
The musicians, the magicians, the demons, gypsies, masks and serpents
Watched and gleamed
while I sipped my tea

I out spread my fingers.

Layers of skin and stitches

No more hair.
No more nails.
Not just a regular face
but one all shall remember.

I was born as one

Then made from many

In the imminence of zealous devils in my wake
Of the attrition I have forsake

Now as the curtain rose and the spider-silk strings hoisted me up on stage
The master showcased my story to all whoever wished to engage

“Adamant, nocturnal dalliance
Egregious, insidious, velvet ambiance

An unyielding, dark but brief love affair
The flagrant, seductive and comely au pair

The Eclectic, unmatched, Androgynous Circus
Red devils, black sheep and felines in service

I am Vincent Andromeda
Your Strangelove phenomena.”
Trevor Gates May 2013
I’ve been expecting you.
I’ve waited an eternity.
Please sit
Thank you
I will now tell you things

I will tell you things I will do
Things I will do to you

Are you curious to know what they are?
You should be.

As I am curious to know
What compelled you to come here?

Everything in your conscious told you to stay away.
Yet, you are here.
Your friends warned you
But, you are here
Your nagging doubts, your conflicting reasoning all point to something else
Alas, you are here

And I can’t seem to understand why.
You know what I am.
I am an unconventional socialite of the most diabolic kind

I feed off the likes of you.
The sweet, tangible nectarine of modern serenity
The soft, lavender of incorruptible virtues
The delicate outer skin of savory delectability

My mouth waters at the very thought of you
I salivate with the very presence of you
I can feel my blood rush
My hands shake with anticipation

Let my touch
Caress you
Warm you
You don’t deny it
Because you long for it
You long for me to trace your lips with my fingertips
To suckle the flesh drops of your ears
To familiarize my hands with your supple body
To show you the darker side of forbidden passion
To welcome you into the bounty of vicious coitus
And depraved, animistic *******
And deep recessive *******
And blood constricted battering
With lines and whips
Leather and
And masters
And tormentors
And wicked shadows lurking in the room
Watching us as we display the ungodly exhibition
Of your forbidden desires

For me to savor the swelling peach of your ***** fruit.

This is for you.

Even as you proclaim your goodness to others
You have a side of your personality that demands unsuppressed copulation.

And why do you need this?
Why do you need me?

I can see it in your eyes.

It was because people in another world told you to hide your womanhood
To despise you sexuality
For it will make you weak
And vulnerable

What was your story behind your frailty?

It could have been the close-minded parents of the old age, who never tried to think for themselves; only allowing others with higher knowledge to justify their old-fashioned morals.
The life you saw through popular culture and mind-altering media.  The problem with pop cultivation is that is follows the wave lengths of susceptible hosts: the average, everyday citizens that “trust” the outside word; that “trust” what is said to them through dystopian and totalitarian subtleties.  
You didn’t know better.
But you could tell it wasn’t right
How is it that a young child can truly know what is right and what is wrong
More so than the misconceived adults?
Because simplicity is key to filtering the complex

Now what does this have to deal with you sexuality
Because unless you do what is only natural for you to do, others will tell you what you should do.

Now, you embrace your emerging fruition.
As my tongue slithers around your sensitive ****
My fingers stretch and penetrate your wanting *****
Is your chance
Overpower the host before you
It is a test

Your daunting task ahead is to overthrow the embellishment of your submission

Are you up to it?

We shall see.

The shadows on the walls are the ones that maimed you
Scolded you
Accosted you
Abused you
Terrified you
Rectified you
Molested you
Suffocated you
Punished you
Insulted you
Silenced you
***** you


Because they are:
Afraid of you
Intimated of you
Worried of you
Scared of you
Enticed by you
Infuriated by you
Aroused by you
Alarmed by you
Entranced by you
And pleasured by you

Could you be all and none of what I said?
You tell me
Whisper it in my ear
Now bite it
Use your teeth and swear it
Tear it and devour it
My creature of the night
My child of ritual
My servant to flesh
My master to skin
My all to this and none to that
The embodiment of lust
The being of now

And the beginning of the end.
Thank you for coming here tonight my dear.  Send my regards to your fans and loved ones: Johnny Depp, Lucifer, Mammon, Hellraiser, Candyman, egg whites, Wool hats, Epson printers, Derek Riggs, Spider-man, Bruce Willis, Lampshade, Black Holes, Taxi drivers, Durex condoms, Hank Azaria, Simon Pegg, Colonel Sanders, Iron Man, Spike Jones, Spike Lee, Spike Speigel, Eva Green and of course his imperial majesty, David Bowie.

Maybe we’ll see each other again.
Trevor Gates May 2013
Good evening

We’re glad you could join us

It’s been a while
We have much to discuss

But first

Close your eyes

Tell me

What do you see?

Do you see the stars?

Or the lights?

Do you see the imprinted shapes from the world on the other side of your eyelid?

Or is it all just darkness?

I ask for I don’t know

Not unless you tell me.

The things I ask are the things I’ve seen.

But what have you seen in the void of your own darkness?
What would you ask me?

What would you want me to see?

_I know these are a lot of questions and maybe we should come back to it.

But sometimes we can’t go back

Not from this.

Do you see now?

Do you see what this means?

It means that there will not be a life were you correct the past
Nor a life where you mend the emotional wounds with your own hands
The wounds that you dealt, but someone else was there to heal

Where were you?

Why didn’t you help?

Make excuses as much as you want.


Go ahead.

They will wait for you to explain
We’ll all sit here patiently while you tell us.
But I cannot guarantee that all of us will stay
Some will leave
They will leave forever
Some might come back
But I don’t know who
Maybe you already know
Some may even surprise you.

Through the crisp hills of the all-knowing valley shall they rise from the flowers; the meadow once layered with corpses and illusions.
The valley will beacon your presence with empathetic swirls of breezy mountain air.
The lone voice of the loved one that understood you shall be there.
But not the actual person.


Because of what you did.
Of what you said
For who you are
For what you represent

You can mend the wound, but not when it is already healed.

So now you must rehabilitate the person
Can you do that?

Can your voice be the restoring glimmer?
Can your hands be the forgiving light?
Can your eyes run with sorrowful tears?
Can you forgive yourself before you forgive others?
Will someone else do the same for you?

If you can answer “yes” to any of the above…

Then know that all of life’s wonders and blunders are waiting for you.
But all of that lies ahead of you

Not behind you.
Thank you for a superb evening.  I wish we could stay and chat but we have a prior engagement.  We’d like to take this opportunity to publicly thank all who were involved in this nights’ festivities: Roger Moore, Blues Saranceno, Switch-blade knives, Rolex watches, homosexual typewriters, Egyptian sculptors, raging hormones, ambiguous Falcons, Superman, Dr. Venture, Dr. Evil, Dr. No, Dr. Pepper (M.D.), Spider-man, Paper clips, Optimus Prime, Faye Dunaway, Tom Hanks, Roger Rabbit, Pickles the Drummer, Frank Miller, and lovely Devo.

We’ll see you sometime after this night but not before the night where we get drunk with some clowns and break charles manson out of jail for a card game with captain crunch and Mr. Clean.  Cheers!
May 2013 · 1.5k
Let me go in the Dark
Trevor Gates May 2013
Let me go in the Dark

I want to be in there
In the space of corpulent, infectious glands
Swallowing innocence with labyrinthine hands

Let me be one with the Night

My home is over there
In a place of ubiquitous fears
And a plethora of basking tears

Let me soak in the abyss

The void is so near
A comely figure,
an evocative sadist and protégé
Dripping candle wax on me
in San Lorenzo, Paraguay

Let me walk among ghosts

In the Portal Del So hotel
Tossing back Xanax;
Vicodin with a liquor chaser
Gin and vermouth, *****,
anything to forget her.

Let me wait in living purgatory

With other pods of skin
When the wind shakes the barley,
back home
Where a wife and son
never left me alone.

Let me go in the dark

Past the tortured guilt and sorrow
Where a family is made of flesh
and not ash
Where a house remains
and the fires don’t last

Let me cry and weep in silence

In a room with rotting drapes
A static-channel TV,
a two blade ceiling fan
People engulfed in one another,
A demon  for a man

Let me shower in cold, thickening blood

Standing atop broken medicine cabinet glass
So many packs a day of cheap cigarettes
and loose women
None ease the pain
like the morphine in the kitchen.

Let me go into the chasm

The vein snake is thirsty.
I take a little more each time it feeds
But maybe not waking up
is what the snake needs

Let me sleep in the dark

While infomercials for prayer play
Juxtaposed to a zealous vagabond
and father
The last serpentine dosage
for a broken martyr  
Let me go in the dark

Let me see them again

I’ll wait and watch the room shrink
And hope my eyes
never dilatorily blink.
Have you ever had a dream where you're an older version of yourself?

Yeah that happened to mean. Such a uniquely realistic dream. I was around 35 years of age, and I was coping with the loss of my wife and son in a fire, back in a house in Belfast, Ireland. When My version of me decides to take a dangerous dosage of morphine and falls asleep (presumably dies from overdose) that's where my dream ends and I wake up.

Trevor Gates Apr 2013
Sweltering insurgencies of electric power chords
Tribal reverberations of skin-stretched drum boards
Rolling and filling; syncopating the noise
Of the ***-less toys
The ****-less boys
Enraptured in the music
The anthem
Of invidious phantoms
My eyes hurt inside and
I want to pull them out and
Scrape out the gunk and rust
that’s behind my self-indulgent perseverance
so I can cry
for the first time in years…

Wrapping my hands around his slender torso
Licking away the paint, the dripping ooze; more so
Than hastening my ****** and mordant urges
To bite what emerges
And my mouth purges
The obelisk from underneath
The iron-pierced jester
The voracious molester
My hand tightens as I grip
his throat tighter and
I want to squeeze until his eyes pop
from his sockets and
laugh until I puke against the walls,
watching the ****** fluids mix
like an execrable marinara sauce…

I turned thirty while still being sixteen
The vivid beauty of the world was only in dreams
But none of mine, none that I can recall
Many years have passed since I took the oral fall
Where no one saw
Intransigent need to live
For the snake in my veins hungered for more
So many had their way
until I was limp and sore.
Defamatory fingers of mire and strife
Probing and stretching
My insides
And devilishly comforting
With limpid ambrosia
That’s infected by bilious worms and maggots covered in icing
And fruit

Amatory gauntlets fastened and secured over
Handless limbs that retract under matriculated frictions
That fracture, crack, morph, distort
Emphasize, marginalize
Rationalize, desensitize
Acts of *******, evasion, moral drainage;
Pieces, bits, chunks, sections, portions, servings;
Arms, legs, eyes, tongues, fingers, toes,
Love, lust, infatuation
Boys, girls, women, men,
Angels, demons, monsters, humans
Creators, gods, titans, divas
All extended and limited from the minds that worship
Sanctify, mesmerize, glorify, rectify
While humans eat more, love more, **** more
Than the angels, demons, monsters, and titans
We ponder and cherish
Nevermore, for me
Ever lore, for all
Crows surround
And chaos found.
Apr 2013 · 3.8k
After Hours
Trevor Gates Apr 2013
Lucid, abusive
Tongue in cheek divine
Stupid, elusive
Lost soul of mine

A snap of orchestral fingers to summon the suave illustrator
Mohawk punks and minions to smash the limp masturbator

Loveless, acquiesce
Arpeggio flutter ripples
Convalesce, Fancy dress
******* with perky *******

One or two drinks, make it three then five
Keeping the blood warm and love alive

Visceral, peripheral
Dark raven hair
Liberal, scriptural
I couldn’t even care.

I adored her all, her everything, her gleaming demeanor
The subtle wink of her eyes, the glow; even greener

Exotica, ex machina
Street amazon of desert glass sand
No drama, rural karma
Flesh sweating like the heat of Sudan

Dead singers like Cole and Morrison sing of paper moons and Crystal Ships
The mixed CD segues to U2, Pulp, and then a full disk of The Flaming Lips.

"Nightingale", minor scale
The saxophonist played under the street lamp outside
Folktale female
“Another drink?” she abides, two glasses and wine supplied

On her balcony we watched and listened, to the call of urban passion
The wordless music we adored, a testament to our mutual attraction.
Trevor Gates Apr 2013
Good evening

And welcome to tonight’s decadent performance


Out there
Some where
Is the one.

The one person that matters
The one person that will make everything different
I can see her now
But you think I’m seeing a specific person with particular physical features.

You’re wrong

I see a white light
A being floating above all else

She is a soul before the human
She is everything before I know what everything is

Her eyes caress me with shear benevolence
Her voice soothes the restless and weary
Her touch calms my frantic heart and all that ails me

Where is this fulfilling wonderment of a person?
Is she at the end of a life journey?
That only I need to take the first step?

Maybe a distant land coated in dunes of sand
Below the ocean of the sky.


In the cozy city apartment
Reading the stories of poetic urban decay
And fantasy encounters.
The corridors of her minds’ catacombs
The labyrinth of her dreams and unspoken desires
Fleeting glimpses of rich suspension
Over vast beds of Baghdad silk.

Hazel ember eyes


Yes can you hear that?

In our silence, a lone tone can be heard; felt through us.

We are all partnered with an instrument.  
This instrument plays the lone pitch of
Mine would be a number of instruments

A soft bow of a cello

A light note off a piano

The soft, mellow strum of a nylon guitar

The tearful violin

The noble French horn

The dreamy orchestral harp

The rise of a heavenly choir  

The thump of a bass

Ave Maria

Sonata Allegro

Tearful adagio

Glistening swells of rippling arpeggios over transcendent phrases
Eternal crescendos scaling across plains of astral enchantments
Our absolution through forgiving sounds
Eclipsing tones that speak the whispers of angels
They are here
Trying to relieve us of daily anguish and clockwork regrets
Many of you
Ignore these simple phrases
Through dismal conversations
Uncultured prejudice
Manipulated through shallow ignorance
The music that is neglected begins to wilt
In more ways than one.

Stop it…

It hurts them
The notes of life
Go away from the norm
Derive from what is socially accepted
Find that one musician
That one composer
That one singer
That no one listens to

No one

Just you

Make their music, your music.
Cater to that personal bond
Imagine the film of your life
Score to this wonderful


This is for you

Not me.

Because I love you.

This is dedicated to:  Gustavo Santaolalla, Geinoh Yamashirogumi, Christopher Nolan, Scarlett Johansen, Rodrigo y Gabriela, Jon Gomm, The Elephant man, Bach, David Lynch,  Lisa Gerrard, Hanz Zimmer, Bob Marley, Trevor Jones, David Cronenberg, William Peter Blatty, Clint Mansell, Chef Ramsey, Vanessa Mae, Nosferatu, Sisters of Mercy, black Coffee, mouse pads, The Diving bell and the butterfly, The catcher and the Rhye, The Last of the Mohicans, Isabel Bayrakdarian, Rene Flemming, Sarah Brightman and Natalie Gray.

May you return if fate allows it to be.
Apr 2013 · 1.8k
Bodhisattva Cathedral
Trevor Gates Apr 2013
Sometime ago, years as it would seem
I saw the devil in my room
He was sitting there in the corner watching me
And I didn’t know why

He sat with pus-filled eyes and patchy skin
He sat naked holding a can of black spray paint
I was nine
It felt like it could have happened yesterday
But it was some time ago, years as it would seem
Since the devil visited me and it wasn’t a dream

He didn’t talk to me; he remained still and quiet
I was afraid but then I wasn’t
I went to bed and he tucked me in
And I didn’t know why

He placed his fingers to my lips, gesturing to be silent
I obeyed and watched as he walked to my door quietly
It was 9pm
But it felt much later in the night
When the Devil paid me a visit in my home
Killing my family and leaving to roam.

Before he left he showed me my mother, on the ground
My father in the bath
My sisters, in pieces in the sink
And told me to embrace the moment

“You never knew it, but these people didn’t love you”
He told me soothingly, “They wanted to hurt you”
It was December 9th
But it felt like October, as he sprayed the number on the walls
“Are you the devil I asked?” Tears ran down my eyes.
“Yes.” He said, “I’m your liberator.” He advised.

I never saw the Devil like that again.
I left my house and told the neighbors.
And the police came and took me away
I never said goodbye to those who raised me

I was raised by an uncle until I was eighteen
Then I left to become more than what I was
I had always wondered if I would see the Devil again
I was 19
When I vowed to find him, the liberator and murderer
I would take him back to hell and back even further

Years later, now in adulthood
I long to search for the Devil again
The same devil who paid me a visit when I was a boy
The same that liberated me through false hope

Years under training, through police cadet then detective
I stumbled through the underground of vigilance
The underbelly of corruption and deception
It was 2009
I had seen the darker side of people: the slaughters, poisons and infant killers
The victims of **** and molestation, the beatings and thieving distillers

From one clue to the next I found
Families murdered, but with one member still alive
Whether a boy or a girl.
To lay witness to the acts willed by the one

A pattern was laid and I followed it accordingly
I was hot on the trail, chasing records in asylums
Convicted kidnappings, victims’ confessions
I was 29
A 911 called was patched, describing a man breaking into a house; it was him
I took the call and hurried to the address, to stop the lights from going dim.

I drove to the inner city, an unknown borough
And was surprised to find the address I received was to a closed down church
A Catholic cathedral, condemned and left to dust
But I saw lights inside and broke through the doors

The church was old and dark; cold without spark
The lights came from the Altar, where sacrifice was offered
It was 9pm
There I saw the Devil in the flesh, with a little child
And his appearance was the same as I remembered but more wild

He outspread his arms and welcomed me to his home.
All around him red candles were set ablaze
My heart sunk and drifted in fear
My skin sweated from the sweltering heat I revered

“Why have you done this!?” I yelled, “All this time?”
He smiled and wiped the yellow tears from his eyes
9 children
Walked out from the altar, carrying pitchers of unknown liquid.
I was silently subdued by what was unexpected and wicked

The door slammed shut behind me. The stone figures of angels moved
They crawled from the stone and moaned; touching themselves
They encircled me. They grabbed hold of me
“Why?” I cried, asking the devil who approached me.

“I liberated you from a life without truth.” He said
“I showed you the reality of God’s domain.” He told me. I was left weak
“Why nine?” I asked
I asked again. “Why nine children, the nine liberalizations and family deaths?”
“Because you were led astray” He said, “Was is it 9 or is a 6?” he whispered under his breath.

I looked down and indeed there were only six children.
Along with three demons.
Laughing and dancing as the church was consumed
In a blazing fire in the night of the devil.

The six children poured the pitchers down on the ground.
“You will bathe in the blood of their families and burn in this fire.” The devil said
9 minutes
I felt the the fire and the collective blood engulf my body whole
My skin burned and crisped. Everything burned including my soul

Once again I was released from a world of pain
Both accounts were not of my consent
And only one I agreed with
Save the moment I met the devil

It was many years ago when it all happened
My family butchered, the number nine sprayed on the wall
I was 9 years old
But then again maybe I was 6. And the Devil was me; a desire to ****
The demons were my guilt and I took my own life to stop the thrill

But it was some time ago, years as it would seem
Since the devil visited me and it wasn’t a dream
Trevor Gates Apr 2013

Welcome to tonight's program

We have a fabulous show for you.

I'm sure you'll all find it enjoyable

You might even find it


















It could be all of these and maybe none at all
But what is it when you examine each emotion listed above?

Take each word and run it through your head

Imagine everything in your life that is associated with each particular word

The events in your life that were frightening
That were beautiful
That were delicious
That were seductive

And what emotions were felt behind the events of each memory?

Ah yes what were the stories you personally saw unfold?

The times well spent

The days you regret

The nights you couldn't forget

The people you forsaken

The lives you ruined

The love that was lost

The identity that was regained

Has your life turned out to be what you thought it would be?

Are you proud? Content? Disappointed?

Think of that one thing you could do again.

Have it clear in your mind

Now forget it

There is no point trying to imagine what could have been when you can change what will be.

   There is a life ahead of you.
Whether your 18 or 48

There is still life ahead of you.

Quit trying to mend the past.  The past is all in memory, pictures and writing.
The past isn't there waiting for you.  The only thing that opens its hands to you is the future.

A future where you fall in love
A future where you travel to where you've always wanted to go
A future where the human imagination lets you float above worlds and compose impossible music.

Be the artist that paints a beautiful picture
Be the composer that conducts a glorious symphony
Be the writer that creates a literary masterpiece
Be the one human that understands life be accepting the fruits of imaginative longevity.
Flourish in the bath of simple joys
Walk through the park and appreciate the wonderment
The wonderment of how a bird is so content with just being a bird
Why can't we be content with just being ourselves?
Is there some other choice?
Is there some other version of us somewhere? The true self?
The true self is there.

Right there

In front of you

In the mirror

In the pool of water

In the significant other

In the sky

In the oil pastels

In the five stanza poem

In you.

With you

Around you


Before and after

Once you're here and once you're gone.

The breath of life.  

Thank you all.
Please everyone take a bow.  Rejoice!
We'd like to thank:  Christian Bale, Tommy Tutone, The Cure, Lipton Tea, Museum curators, Mark Millar, Arthur C. Clarke, Keith David, Slowdive, Gregg Araki, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Elizabeth Taylor, Scott Pilgrim, Leather trench coats, Irish tweed hats, Technicolor dream coats, Mufasa, Rebekah Del Rio, Bruce Lee, Terrance Malik, Penelope Cruz, Selma Blair, Chopin, Orbit gum, Vlad the Impaler, five layer burritos and finally Howard shore for making this all possible.

Goodnight and God bless!
Apr 2013 · 599
Children of the Moon
Trevor Gates Apr 2013
There I saw through shards of glass
frozen in time, portraits of the past
the poor,
the feared,
the Lustful
the empowered
folds of demon's masks

Liquid mirrors and dripping skies
through blue fire and silver eyes
my love
my sorrow
my anger
my joy
of escape from realities lies

Awake through dreams, asleep through life
Among the vicious, among this light
around the malicious, black fire of night

The naked greed and transparency
of mankind's creed and of what I see
thy kingdom come humanity
Trevor Gates Apr 2013

Welcome back

To the greatest show on earth


At least your earth

Your world

Your mind
Your brain and skull and cartilage
And blood and guts and nails.

Your ears and your nose and your eyes
Your mouth and your fingers and your teeth

The bile, the pus, the plasma, the snot, the discharge

The everlasting, physical being of our callous calamity:
The flesh of dehumanization;
The soul of debauchery;
The mind of maliciousness;
The avarice of mortal delusion
Forged from the blade of segregation

Titans of industry
Gods of ******
malcontent youth
Diseased from each other
And their mentors

The masters
The hands
The hands smothering your body in mud, caressing your skin with a lovely touch.
Fingers smooth out wet clay on your chest; on your *******
Coming around to feel your goose bumps
Your *******
Your aroused body
I can feel your heavy breathing
Is it getting hot in here?
Fog up the windows
Let me unbutton this shirt
Or maybe I'll just rip it off

Suckling on my finger.  I feel your hands wrap around my belt
Pull it off

Open your mouth
Let me enter
Pull me closer
Let me know you want me to please you
To satisfy you
I will

It's getting bigger

It's getting warmer

The sweat around your *** is the sweetest

Pull, squeeze, moan, beg, roar, toss, push, ******, finger, lick, bite, drool, eat, play, ******, moan, ****, ****, touch, ****, turn, harder, faster, moan, slower, deeper, longer, push, pop, rush, ***, stroke, slither, bite, lick, ****, roll, eat, ****, gasp, ****, moan, ******, ****, bite, push, ****, ******, ****, lick, squeeze, moan, faster, ****, deeper, again, again, again, and




The Neon angels
The paranoid androids
The singing kings
The screaming queens
The velvet demons
The glorified burnouts
The occupants of netherworld Los Angeles
Of upside down New York
Of abstinent Paris
Of Leather clad London
Of **** chum *** Boston
Of nuclear Moscow
Of this and that and another one of those and a round on the house!


Dedicated to: Milk, shampoo, James Dean, Pink Floyd, Feudal Japan, Terry Gilliam, Rasputin, Marquis De Sade, Archangel Gabriel, Shiva, Gary Oldman, USB cables, Staplers, Converse shoes, California license plates, George Harrison, Jaguars, Quantum Physics, down syndrome, Jason Lee, Lily Allen, Indian women, Multi-colored rain, manbearpig, Pandora Peaks, Dethklok, The Evil Dead and of course all those that need no introduction.  

We'll see you soon.
This is part of a free-formed writing exercise I developed to cope with my "Creative isolation"

long story.
Apr 2013 · 4.4k
The Wrong Pie
Trevor Gates Apr 2013
Walking back onto the street around nine O’clock
Pizzerias, Clubs and white guys with dreadlocks
Moving like sea urchins with an urge to mock
Hey 2 for one at Roxy’s for black rubber *****

I’m carrying two bags of groceries; One with a pie
There are no stars in the city. Just the moon in the sky
I move lazily and tired as evening joggers pass by
“God I wish I was more active.” I say with a sigh.

I ascend the stairs because the **** elevator is broken
One flight. Two flight. ******* wood surely is oaken
2 minutes of climbing the obstacle that’s unspoken.
I suffer for being the Asian, the part-Korean token.

I reach my apartment, music playing through the wall
I feel worn out and about ready to fall
But I walk in and proceed, feeling anything but tall.
The time has come. I walk to the kitchen from the hall.

I live with three roommates: Sam, Dean an Owen.
Sam is shut in his room. He’s a DJ and I think Samoan
Dean is weird. Don’t ask about flagellated protozoan
And Owen is a reader and blogger. Just plain Owen.

I place the groceries on the counter, I stumble.
Owen is reading and I hear him mumble
“Did you say something?” I grumble
“Wrong Pie.” He says, his words fumble.

“What?” I don’t understand

   “Wrong pie.” Owen says again.
I point towards the pie on the table. “What, this?”
    “Yeah.” He says.
    “What’s wrong with it?”
    “Like what?”
    “Well, it’s the wrong pie.”
    “It’s apple.”
    “Yeah, so?”
    “But I thought you were going to get cherry?”
I shrug my shoulders, “Yeah but they were out.”
    “Where did you go?” Owen asked, but he knew.
    “Just that corner market.”
    “Well why the hell did you go there, you know they don’t have **** there.”
    “Does it matter?  I got most of the things.”
    “Yeah, most.  Not all.  You didn’t get the right pie.”
    “Does it matter?” I tell him. Owen closes his book.
    “I think so.”
    “At least I got a pie.  You guys said, ‘Hey man, make sure you get a pie’. You didn’t say get a ******* cherry pie!”
    I try to calm down, but the blasting of dubstep remixes warp my thinking process.  Owen leaves the kitchen and knocks on the doors. He tells them I’m back and that I ******* up the groceries.
“I did no such thing!” I yell, “You ***** think you told me what to get but you’ll all too into yourselves to ever know what the *******’re saying and you come off as ignorant over-privileged *******! Yeah Owen you’re so unique” I mock sarcastically, “Must be why you dress exactly the same as every other hipster here, going online and vlogging about the same **** a 12 year-old in suburban America would talk about and his ***** probably haven’t even dropped.”
    Owen’s eyes are wide, never seeing this side of me before. Sam and Dean open their doors to see all the commotion.
I walk back in to the kitchen and grab the pie.
    “Here *******!” I toss the pie as hard as I can so it hits the ceiling. The tin tray falls to the ground and the apple crusted pie is splattered, stuck to the ceiling like an IKEA fan made of butchered apples.
    I open the door.  “Dubstep is just edited noises of transformers having ***!”
I slam the door and leave, walking back downstairs and onto the street

Roommates ******* ****. I was tired of their **** and rules.
They used me for their homework, Working me like a mule
I’m barely able to pass my classes, let alone graduate from school
So trivial to help them just to earn my cool.

I flipped up my hood and rushed through the streets
I didn’t know where I was going, I didn’t care who I’d meet
A slice from Death Metal Pizza, a drink from Fat man Pete.
I need to let loose. Relax and take that invigorating leap.

I stumbled upon an old movie theater, playing classics, new and old
“I want tickets for all the shows.” To the box office I told.
I bought popcorn and milkduds. I think my chair had mold.
And watched as Al Pacino was out of jail; being paroled.

Carlito’s Way, then intermission
A glimmer of previews then Pulp Fiction.
Ezekiel 25:17 and blasts of omission
From Jules’ and Vincent’s handgun ammunition  

After the credits roll I get three hot dogs and a large soda
Next movie: The Evil Dead, enough to put me in a coma
AH ******* demons Killing like the cancer of lymphoma
Scaring me and making me spill my watered-down cola.

Next was the Monty Python to ease the chills
Ensuring talking fish, puking and hilarious thrills
I really enjoyed the collective animation stills
I was relieved from the films and I had my fills

Now I had a good place to come and let loose, relax and laugh
And I wouldn’t have to display my clustered, boiled wrath
To my ******* roommates. Maybe I’ll move out on their behalf
We’ll see how it plays out. I’ll write a “*******” graph.

But thanks to them I found a new way to survive
Which is better than the alternative; a desperate suicide
Watching movies late at night is better for me than to die
All ascertained from the incident of the wrong ******* pie.
Please forgive me for that middle section just being a straight narrative.  I thought it would add comedic effect. This whole thing started out as a short story. I was converting everything to the rhyming scheme but I just loved what I originally had for that part that I just kept it like it was.

Lot's of fun in this one. i couldn't help but laugh to myself some of the ridiculous rhymes (or lack of) I was trying to squeeze in.

Good references in here to Pulp Fiction, Carlito's Way, Monty Python's The Meaning of Life and The Evil Dead.
Apr 2013 · 699
Nightmare Blades
Trevor Gates Apr 2013
Blood within the walls
Not knowing if you’re really here
Twisting, turning in your sleep
In your bed watching shadows creep.

Metal claws scrape
Giving chills down your spine
Demons laughing as you fall
In a Hell where they’re the Law

Fast pumping veins
Clown’s evil games
Will reign
Mother always said
In bed
With maggots in your head

Nightmare blades
Cutting my mind in half
Nightmare Blades
Pushing me through the glass
See no, hear no
Feel me, fear me

Numb to the touch
Desire spreads like a disease
Satisfy your taste of it
Just another throat to slit

Disappear with needles
Grasping death at hand
And ending to another life
Upon the stroke of midnight

Screaming and moaning
Spiders are crawling
Giving me signs
Of my
Devils in disguise

I’m closing my eyes
To hide what I see inside
Iron chains of order
Black wings of sulfur

Let me go, let me go
Entity of my mind
But there’s no way to escape
As the evil delivers fate

Hands and faces
Comfort and light
From sight
Forgetting my name’s
The same
As fueling the flames.

Nightmare blades
Cutting my mind in half
Nightmare Blades
Pushing me through the glass
See no, hear no
Feel me, fear me
Trevor Gates Apr 2013

Ticket please?

Ah yes good

You're right on time

Please, through the double doors

Now for the main event.

A boy in his bed was sleeping
he slept throughout the night.

Until the door to his closet crumbled like ash
Exposing the pitch black darkness of his fears

He wished

He prayed
For more than anything for it to not happen again.

This happened too often
And he wanted it to stop

But it wouldn't

The stuff toys on his shelf gaped their mouths open in terror as saliva dripped from the ceiling

The walls inhaled
then exhaled

A woman moaned from the depths of the closet

The boy wouldn't look

He couldn't

The air in the room fell hot and humid

Arms with massive hands crawled from underneath his bed
Trying to take the boy away.

He struggled to fight them off until a loud noise was heard in the closet
The assaulting hands stopped and retreated

From they darkened closet emerged a man covered in black oil.

He walked out

He had no eyes

No hair

No ears

He walked up to the boy

He grabbed the boy and dragged him through the closet
The boy was scared

He didn't want to go

He was forced

In the darkness he felt the return of the hands

They touched him

All over

He didn't want them too
But they did

The boy cried and screamed
But the hands covered his mouth

The boy's mind retreated to a place of relief and comfort.
He laid on a wide grassy meadow atop of rolling hills

His lovely, caring mother laid next to him
It was the way he remembered her before she passed.

She laid next to him

His favorite teddy bear, Johann nestled between them

The valley below sang to them the echoed phrases of Schubert's Ave Maria
Played on the mother's record player

The twilight of the scene eased the boy.

But the nightmares would return

The snakes and spiders
The worms and roaches

The clown with three faces: laughing, crying, screaming

The boy recalled all of this, all of these terrors
in the midst of adulthood

Where the boy becomes a man

The nights are the same
Even more
And ominous

The halls of his mind stretch to ceiling-less masses.

Portraits of noir faces looking into his dark, encircled eyes
Blood oozing from underneath the frames

The eight foot tall man in a body suite of leather with no face
The woman crawling on the ground with eight legs and
Hands where her eyes should be

The pile of decapitated dolls rapidly performing an **** of devilish coitus
The limb less girl with maggots crawling out of her exposed ***.  

The sleepless nights
The screaming nights
The tears shed
The blood drawn

The boy that became a man
A man who is still a boy
From his deepest fears
The boy that was touched and taken
The man that was touched and brought back
The evil that was endured
The evil that was served

No song is sung
No music is played
No painting is painted
No paradise is found

Lost is he and so are you
Less so than him
But more free are you
Than the boy
Who claims to be a man

The man who was once a boy
For all men were once boys  
All plants were once seeds

All death was once life

All that were forgotten
Say be remembered





Thank you.
Please dispose of your 3D glasses in the bins outside.  We'd like to take this opportunity to personally thank all who made this possible:  Masks, ether, cough syrup, Chuck Palahniuk, The Koran, the Iliad, Virgil, Freud, Dante, John Milton, Stephen King, Mp3 players, chain stud belts, eye liner, food stamps, Russian women, electronic cigarettes,  Uncle Tom's Cabin, Wolverine, wiener dogs, Anthony Hopkins, Roger Waters, Emma Stone, Olive oil and all that I should mention but won't (they know why).
This is a free-form writing exercise. Comment if, aroused, annoyed, disturbed, offended, *****, inspired, discouraged, enticed, flattered, impressed, depressed or simply curious
Apr 2013 · 1.5k
The Ethereal Affair
Trevor Gates Apr 2013
Sitting there observing me
A shadow among the flock
Breathing in the magic scene
With a vision to unlock

I waited for a dream to be
Unforgotten and serene
But the love and lust
For what I must
Tantalizes me

A rush of insanity
Forgetting how to live
A feeling of divinity
As chilling as the wind

And moaning
To a love song half way sung

And killing
An emotion that has begun

Gazing at me with eyes so pure
A mannequin among the dead
Living a life so unsure
Of what evil is unsaid

You touched my lips again for more
delving pleasure to leave me sore
The forbidden love
From a ****** dove
Fuels my vicious roar

A rush of insanity
Forgetting how to live
A feeling of divinity
As cold as the wind

And moaning
To a love song half way sung

And killing
An emotion that has begun
Mar 2013 · 2.2k
Primal Lore
Trevor Gates Mar 2013
On a night like this, of full-moon bliss
Of the midnight winds and collecting mists
I remained, forevermore
Chained, to the floor
A victim of joy’s…goodbye kiss

In a dungeon I lie, hidden from the sky
A shadow untamed with vile red eyes
I waited, I hungered
Without proper slumber
In my mistress’ pit, awaiting time

It was from lust and desire to fuel and empower
For whom she wishes for me to devour
I restrained, she teased
I grew hard, to please
The widowed Countess: my dark sire.

Though my story may seem bleak
But not to those, whom morally weak
A tale, a fable
However which label
Entitles this to civilized freaks

I moved from town to town, home to home
In search of a life wherever I would roam.
At last, I came
To an estate of name
Belonging to a Countess of ancestral Rome

Countess Donatella, eyed my work and demeanor
From afar I could tell, I sensed, I smelled her
Her scent, so tempting
Was she attempting…
To allure my beastly form into something beneath her?

One night she called for me, alone in her quarters
She treated me to delicacies from rich exporters
She asked my name
I said none, I refrained
“Mysterious and Strong.” She said in order.

She walked over, to the silk on the bed
Colored in gold and shimmering red
Curling her finger
To me, and eager
“Remove your clothes” the Countess said

I did as I was told. I abide her command.
She seduced like a mistress of the eternally ******
Caressing my skin
Licking my chin
And instructed me to please her demands.

My strength increased as I ripped apart her dress
“Yes, my dear, rough and brute.” She stressed
My *** throbbing
Her head bobbing
She turned into an animal I could not resist

Through the night our lust ignited
Into a furious intoxication, organs united
A symphonic ******
Winds, rain and thunder
Matching the sweltering copulation benighted

In the glow of after, past the ****** she gathered
Breathing deeply she said, “You are mine. I am master”
For too long, I thought
I was ridden of what I sought
One to counter my thirst for lust, the tiring caster.

For many nights I swooned, I pleasured her in ways
No other human could fathom or reclaim
My art was of the flesh
And her succulent *******
Feasting like the dog of Hell’s fame

But in this time I feared
For my secret was severe
To show, to hide
My inner design
Of nocturnal savagery that is devilishly revered.

It was upon a warm night of *******
That the moon left me horrified and shaking.
I ran from the master
To evade disaster
Of displaying my transformational awakening.

I trampled in the woods and screamed into the night
The beast of the void howled under the moonlight
I ventured, I hungered
Awaken from slumber
A slave to Lycanthrope, a feral disease of might

The Countess’ workers hunted; “A monster!” they deemed
But I killed many before I was to be seen
Ripping, tearing, slashing, eating,
Guts, bones, skin, feeding
My viciousness, my curse, my bane and dream.

After my episode of moral slaughter
The workers found me curled in a fetal posture
I would have been killed
But the Countess, sealed
Me away in the cryptic tomb of her father.

I was left to suffer in the underbelly of my sins.
Shadows and demons moaning like the wind
My master kept me
Protected me
In her care I would no longer win

Now I lay, waiting for the my master to show
So the door above me will open and glow
The white orb
That will mourn
The lives I have taken, eaten and in my intestines flow

The tomb dungeon unlocks, creaking loudly with rust
The master, the beautiful Countess that I must
Please and satisfy
Penetrate, rectify
The punishment that was bestowed by the just.

“So you are known by many names.” She utters
I look up at her with eyes of thirst, my lover
“You are unique.
So much to keep
For myself, my beastly treasure and no other.”

She walks to the shadowed wall and pulls down a lever
And stands in front of me, **** and forever
A pale seductress
Her eyes focus
With mine, for I wait for the power that was severed

“Now I will be pleasure by that of a beast, that of a god.”
She says as she massages my erecting rod
“Now, my dear.”
As I hear.
“Enter me and leave me in pleasurably awe.”

With the chains around my wrists, ankles; my neck and waist
She mounts me in the moonlight space
Our sweat collects
Drips and specs
Glossing her pale skin and my ever changing face.

I stare into the moon as I ******, my moans of pain matching her voice
She yells from the seismic endurance, her dooming choice
To unleash my monster
With blood thirst conquered
No, it is not, it is her, growing with every other screaming voice

Moans of pleasure soon turn to moans of distress
The wolf of the night is coming, no less
My teeth protrude
My mind feuds
With reason and passion, where blood replaces the mess

My fur is black, my claws like steel
My fury is lustful, the deeper I feel
The Countess is in fear
I ignore her tears
And devour her, ravish her, take her skin and peel

Her lovely face is first to go, once flawless now disfigured
I tear her arms from her body, her liver in my teeth lingered
Blood, tears, flowing juices
Guts, gore, nail amuses
The laughing jackals and demons in a Hell for me that’s bigger

There is no more Countess. No more Donatella, nor master
The moon reflected in a red pool of suffering disaster
Of the ******* monster in our wake
Of the true one she had forsake
In the whims of lustful pursuit with death proceeding faster

Through the lubrication of excessive blood and ****** fluids
I slipped and broke from my chains and fled from the ruins
I remained the beast
Through the forest at least
And return to the woods, away from the her influence

I left the Countess estate as I arrived
Homeless wanderer who survived
Another full moon night
And devil’s sight
Of my life forevermore, the way of the morally derived

Where my nightmares are revived …

…Beyond my human disguise.
I was once working on a collection of interlocking short stories that detailed personal viewpoints of happening in popular horror stories. It would have gone through the Tale of Frankenstein's monster, to Bram Stoker's Dracula and to the wolfman, Invisible man and Jekyll and Hyde. Now it was only an idea, and now reading that description it sounds like a hash version of League of Extraordinary Gentlemen. But I would have changed it all up so it was different.

I never really got around to writing any drafts for those stories, but the basic outlines were always lingering in my head. This extended poem is base on the Wolfman outline I would've used.

I would be lying if I said that this was the intentional goal or writing this poem. It gradually became that. Sometimes if I have unfinished works that have met road blocks, then I try combining them. I've learned after awhile that it's better to have a few completed stories than several unfinished outlines just waiting for inspiration. The act of revising and combining ideas can really get the creative juices going. So that method pretty much birthed this poem, "Primal Lore"

You can find the other posting of this here:
And if you like my work, like my FB page:
Trevor Gates Jan 2013
It’s good to see you again.

We’ve been expecting you



Bringing forth nighttime lore, the charming chamberlain of Libertine plays
Summoning forth demonic myths, the illustrious weaver of unspoken entities
Dancing on memories, the enchanting fairy of skeletal trees
Sizzling behind magenta curtains, the voluptuous seductress of throbbing blood
Laughing at the potluck, the swollen headmaster of flab
Killing in the alleys, the inscrutable Ripper of Jack
Fornicating in the wild in the dragon’s keep, the ***** of Babylon

Swell the strings!
Blast the horns!
The cast is assembled

The symphony of sensational voyeurism
Yes, you in delight
Don’t deny your
Sacred rite
That’s right

Join my dear

Don’t be shy

Ascend the stairs

And come on stage


Take my hand and venture now through the broken mirror of Assyria
The dunes of sands
Mounded and layered beneath the crisp blue sky

Not a single cloud
Not a single soul

Except for us

My dear
Feel the sand

It’s cool to the touch

The wind encircles your lush hair

The air feels and smells like the breeze of the sea

Where Athenian, white houses line the shores of this desert-sea world

Look up into the blue sky

Witness the open dome in the center

Above our head

Past the blues sky dome is the space between spaces.

Orange silk stars and red trimmed planets
Violet smeared nebulae and green morphing galaxy clusters

Float up to the top of the open space dome in the center of the sky

Reach out and extend your hand

As you touch, the area between this world and the next, ripples spread out from the imagery of the universe.

You touch water in the form of visual, ethereal paradise

The ripples of time expand like the vibrations of sound across the sky

Painting a new canvas of dripping oils and melting clocks

Close your eyes.

Your body hovers in the air

Far from the ground

And far from the person everybody knows

No matter how much a person perceives to know about another, there will be a part us that no one will ever comprehend.

Because to completely absorb the entirety of another life



thought process



Is incomprehensible



A new world attrition
Through masturbatory perdition

A raging, unquenchable and suffering desire that plagues

The bold

The young

The old

The naive

The smart

The swift

The innocent

The ******

The addicts

The self-proclaimed purists

The self-proclaimed “good people”

“innocent people”

“trusted people”

We are all what we live for: a lie

A lie that consumes the norm

With invisible abnormalities

We are the blind

The deaf

The mute

The chained

The ignored

The punished

The poor

The dumb

The frightened

The dead

The end

Thank you for being here once again.  None of this couldn’t be possible without: Clive Barker, Iron Maiden, headphones, batman, duplexes, Salvador Dali, The hour of the Wolf, folding chairs, wool blankets, Silicone *******, chocolate icing, Bruce Campbell, 28 Days Later, true love, true grit, The seventh seal, black widow spiders, Vishnu and anyone else I forgot to mention.

Please come again.
Yes, yes I know you are probably asking, "How many of these entries are there?" . I couldn't say really, but hey stick around and found out. Let's see what my mind has to offer.  Probably not much, but is it quality or quantity that should out weigh each other? Boing! Hey look, Pizza.

No need to fret, protesters outside my window, this is now a declaration of war to your lives (or is it?), just a free verse/form writing exercise.  Till we meet again my Peeps, minions and droogs.
Jan 2013 · 998
The Aslyum of Neo-Byzantium
Trevor Gates Jan 2013
Through untamed shadows and blurred silhouettes
The moon remembers what the night forgets
it was a time before all, before the time we met
the form of a shadow and my love's silhouette

Gathering darkness of the collective noir
the hellish display of Satan's bazaar.
The passively insane, jokers and boars
of Victorian plays and Spanish guitars!

The view from here is lovely indeed
the vantage point of insanity.
A suit of skin is miraculous, I see
The stunning cloth of evil dreams

My, my, what a treat
ah,Visitors we see
all waiting to share
a shallow moment of care

Please show us, what's new
in the world of the living, this paradigm stew

A dance on the roof summons suspicion
from the mess below of ugly submission
I plead, I implore, abandon all tradition!
Before you pummel down the world's attrition...

I have seen the wonders of the other side.
Where mass ballrooms of dead reside
all swooping, crying, laughing with pride
While the they truly live and you surely die.

The fires of madness, the abundant endeavor
strikes a chord with those, whomever,
enjoy such masked adventures, whichever
Such with Boris, Phil, Julie and Trevor.

beating pain out from the brim
Retching blood and bile from within
Yes, of course I'll obey
Please...could you stay?

Yes my lover, my illustrious shadow tamer
the other that is here but only I can see, my sane reclaimer....
Trevor Gates Jan 2013

Good evening and welcome back

This is tonight’s program

The air is ripe

Ripe with social abundance

And whimsical latte grooves
A warmth in the air

It caresses your body, this warmth
It walks by your side, this warmth

It’s there holding your hand

Knowing that you’re alone

Because this isn’t the same warmth of a

person’s hand

But this comfort, this invisible hand, this invisible other

Is the warmth of the free midnight air

The city lights: fluorescent metal plants with flashing neon insects and prowling jungle dwellers
The soft ambient jazz that plays from the dripping rain.
Giving your life the harmony of passion

The melody of joy

But with the rhythms of melancholy

A lone phrase that passes by each composition

Your world goes black and white

Full becomes hollow

Radiant becomes dull

Trust becomes deception

Love becomes hate

Life becomes death

The rain intensifies with translucent color
Reflecting the street illumination of grandeur
and sensual subtlety

Urban poetry doused by mythic ambition
Perplexing the eyes of the unknowing artist
Raising the half full glass to the half empty person

Objects in mirror are closer than they appear

You are that much closer to your reflective self

The part of you that will never leave the gaze of reflective surfaces

There when you look away from your noon time coffee on the café window

There when your mind wonders away from your spouses’ arguing; the mirror behind them

There on the puddles on the asphalt and street corners, asking you with voiceless faces

‘Where are you now?”

“Is this the dream of God subconscious?”

“Is God asleep?  Is this all just a dream of something bigger than us/’

Having a conversation with your reflection can turn out to be quite enlightening.

This program is brought to you by the following sponsors; Oatmeal, tea leaves, voiceover actors, large print books, Lucretius, Bill Shakespeare, handmade leather wallets, chocolate kisses, long hair, motorcycles, Frank Gambale, Daft Punk, Martin Scorsese, Goya, Kevin Smith, Evan Rachel Wood, Jones Soda, Cappuccinos and all the little people (excluding mole people…they know why.)

Please swing by again.
Not really a poem, but a writing exercise I developed.  I treat it as monologue directed to an unknown audience/reader.  Check out the other entries in this series, all of which our motifs for my next book. Reactions and comments are advocated.
Trevor Gates Jan 2013
Hello again, and welcome to tonight’s program

A wonderful show it is, for you that is…

A beautiful imbalance of provocative wonders

Simmered together in an elixir of intoxication

The modern day alchemist roams the night for the eyes of sensuality

The midnight occupiers of the everlasting void

A world you understand but can’t comprehend

A life you comprehend but don’t understand

The unsaid pleasures of private fantasy

The untold fantasy of malevolent pleasures

Please come in

Don’t be shy

We’re all here

Waiting for you

Yes this way

Keep walking till you see the door


This is the door

The door for you


Room 16

It’s unlocked

It’s ok


Walk in

This is your door

This is your mind

This is your door to your mind

Room 16

Where were you when you were 16?

Do you remember that one night that changed everything?

That one girl?

That one boy?

Finding yourself….did it happen?

Did you feel misunderstood?


Did you misunderstand others?

I remember only too well.

The stories I faced

The ridicule I endured

“You need to be punished” said the stepfather-person, “But since you think you are old enough to make your own decisions, here’s one for you.  Now it’s either you or your cat.  I can either gut you or gut your cat…decide now, Which of you doesn’t get gutted?”

I look up at my little cat, squeezed underneath his massive arm

I didn’t put it past him that he would hurt me in an unimaginable way

I point to myself, saying that I didn’t want to be gutted.

“Wow.”  The stepfather-person says, “You must not love your own pets.  Some person you’ll turn out to be.”

He tosses the cat to the ground and leaves to his room.

The next day the cat is gone.

What cruel manifestations we are of all our sins

What dark creatures we are, yet we are terrified of the monsters underneath our bed

The monsters in the other room
The monster that sits at your dinner table
The monster that beats your mother
The monster that kicks you into a bookshelf
The monster that strangles you
The monsters

The monsters we all have the potential to become

But do we?

I’d like to think that some of us can become angels instead

Not monster or demons

But some do

In fact

Many of us do

Many of us become the monsters we covet.

What are you?

This has been tonight’s program.  We’d like to thank the academy and all who made this possible:  Quarters, Jimi Hendrix, Ronald Dahl, Marilynn Monroe, Bret Easten Ellis, watches, Eastern Promises, A history of Violence, Daniel Day Lewis, Rebecca Hall, Cocteau Twins, tomatoes, graphic novels, There will be blood,  red gel pens, gold frames and all the little people.

Thank you and please visit us again.
Not really a poem, but a writing exercise I developed.  I treat it as monologue directed to an unknown audience/reader.
Trevor Gates Dec 2012
Hello, and welcome to tonight's program

We cascade down the visceral pleasures of the human psyche
We venture among the forgotten joys that penetrate our senses

All that I am is that which is said, All that is said is that of what I am

Beauty is skin deep and how deep our skins will be.

Suffer do we, for our flesh cannot not touch, for we crave what cannot be obtained

A desire that haunts our senses leaving our hands bare and our bodies hot

The breathing pace ascending with muscular anticipation

Feel the warmth of your body pressed against mine. your blood will run so warm and fast, that I’ll feel you heartbeat while we kiss
beating to a rhythm of our own...and yet it is as ageless as time itself, playing a song that beckons the passion in us all

Say you want me....

Tell me that you need me

Tell me that no other will or can satisfy

That what you need is to pull your fingertips through my hair and feast upon my flesh

The throbbing heartbeat of lust amplifies over your senses.

Your sweat tastes sweet like that of a forbidden fruit.  

You are not weak. You are strong...strong enough to tame a beast like me

A beast just waiting to unleash the lust that erupts inside me

Seeking the warm tantalizing flesh of my beloved that lays before me

Voices echo and reverberate in the bedroom;

A deep, dark cave of midnight ritual and nocturnal excursion

Welcoming the slow moving shadows, the guests and onlookers of our fleshy exhibition.

Moments lost in the abyss.

Lifetimes nurtured through relief

Relief from agony

Agony from life and all that dwell behind the false sense of comfort.

This false sense of comfort that was embedded in your mind from the people around you

Oblivious to the pain and degradation they bestow upon you

Why must you accept their taunts? Their selfish reign of bigotry?

Why can't you spread wings?  Why can't you drive away? Why can't you be happy? Is it some disillusioned morality? Or it is some pitiful, force-fed obligations preventing you from having a life you always wanted.  Having a life you should be proud of living.  Everyone tells you “You can't do it” but i say you can.  And why not?  Everything tries to prevent you, but nothing ever can.  
Does that man really love you?  Does that woman even care about you? Are your friends really good people?  Is the world really a swell place?  are we all really innocent?

Don't be afraid to extract the forbidden dream, perpetuate it and watch it grow within the earth of your palms.  From the soil between your hands, sprouts the tree of life.  A tree that spreads its branches across the sky and towards the universe.  Bark, leaves, branches, leaves...Trees

This has been tonight's program.  We'd like to thank the academy and all who made this possible.  This includes: Love, passion, dreams, fruit, ambitions, hate, literature, zombies, nuts, guitars, greed, lust, hell, angels, heaven, God, Other-God, Osiris, Satan, Buddha, Marlon Brando, sloth, Envy, Libraries, Movies, Pulp Fiction, Choke, Fight Club, Pride, Gluttony, disease, and all the other little people.

Please visit us again.
Not really a poem, but a writing exercise I developed.  I treat it as monologue directed to an unknown audience/reader.
Feb 2012 · 518
Tears in the Rain
Trevor Gates Feb 2012
will i be loved in a time of sorrow?
will i be held in a time of pain?
will you be the one to stand for tomorrow
for the tears you shed in the rain

will i see your eyes tonight
will you hold me close
will your image  haunt my sight
when i am missing you the most

softly speak my name
and in my heart contains
shelter from all darkness
and engulfing flames

touch your lips with mine
with desire so divine
pleasures of the flesh
with rhyme after rhyme
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