Is it possible
For your virginity
To grow back?
                      (yes maybe)

It it possible
To live in the past
And dream of the future?
                     ( roll again)

Is it possible
To lose yourself
Yet find yourself again?
            (anything's possible)

Is it possible
To be so full of ****
And not know it?
                  (ask later)  
                        

Like Hitchcock,
These dark things appear,
This darkling,
This darkling down.
Some conjured from shadow,
Others crawl up the psyche.
Slings of recognition,
Lust in pink light,
These pounding Marauders,
They are here
They are gone,
While light and darkness
Subsist forever.
This still silent pen,
This flowing aromatic,
This sparse confessional,
This alchemy of logic
And light.

Shadows, like Hitchcock's Vertigo,
Falling to the still image,
Brushes of black and light.
And you light a cigarette,
Prowl the room like a leopard.
And the trains run East to West,
And somehow this comforts you.
And the sun roars against the window,
Your face,
Gliding up the road,
You think Of Yeats,
Poe, the Shaw Of Iran,
Perestroika, Persian Rugs,
You know your friends,
You know your enemies better,
You keep a mental list,
Cross check it to later entries.
Listen to Bortok and Liszt,
And the lights come up in the theatre,
You make your way to the car
As streetlights shine in the mist,
And rain dots the windshield
As cars hiss up the street.

Poe took Tylenol,
Hemminway's passed out on the floor,
I'd rather drink blurry-eyed
With Ginsberg,
Beer stained beaches in the afternoon.
Throwing up prose to the dying light.
Cicadas rub the summer wind-
Me, I barely connect the dots,
Writing rubbing in the dirt
For Shelly tanning in the sun.

I long the long sleep,
I walk the plank of shadows,
I give over
To the
Hum
Of televisions,
Cars, shouts,
Bright music
In town squares,
The drip of trees,
I ask the moving wind,
But he tells me no name
But mine.
I say my name is Nothing.
He replies in kind.
I forget myself
At this point,
Move into another
Wavering line-
This expedient,
This concurrent beast,
This dissolvable nightmare,
This summation of bones,
This heart shaped ******,
This magpie luncheon,
Dark winds of disorder
Whirl elliptical orbits,
They are what you are not.
This that turns in silence,
Giving little,
Asking less,
Yet fills hollow spaces.
Its all the realm,
This atonal search,
For coats on rusted hangers,
Dead Aunts smothered on perfume,
These red horses,
Charging up hills of desolation.
I am a shadow turning away,
I'm an orange rotting in the sun,
I'm a broken wheel in the moonlight,
I'm the jagged glass cutting your finger,
I am a nightmare you cannot wake from,
I am a lapse of memory,
The wreak on the highway,
The footsteps behind you,
The second nail in the coffin,
The symphony of glass and wire,
I can't extract myself from this.
I am barely breathing.
I've lost my shadow to the sun.
All I can do is shut down the switches,
I am not the house you live in.
But I am the color
Dripping through the spaces you cannot name.
I am wanton and I am lust,
A beggars bowl and a soup kitchen,
And violins sound like bees,
And the leaves a choir,
And pride comes before the fall

Shadow, Shadow upon my door,
What wake you bring of Evermore?
Raven,Raven, at my screen,
What tale of blood you bring?
Flesh, Flesh you curse and rhyme,
What dark clock you chime?
A graven image,
I do suspect,
A word of sorrow,
A thought neglect.
You tear and smear and pull asunder,
O what dark garden do you plunder?
You live of ash and beetle root,
And dry blood speckles
Your black suit.
You speak of death and call a ruin,
A harbinger of of malice you bring soon.
Your pale moon, your bloodless friend,
O what dark curse you descend?
You call a fate, a rusted loom,
And weave a madness I must presume.
I call, I lie, I leave a doubt,
What shall I clamor and shout about?
What tale of folly, what madness you bring,
Dead hauntings of silent spring.
In halls, In halls, I do beseech
You mock and scorn and wave and preach,
Of God's loving promise do you breach.
And footfalls, footfalls, a graven ground,
A whispered knock,an awful sound,
A dank body upon a mound,
This mound, this mound
Of mournful dirt,
A red lie, an evil smirk.
You clash and clang,
A mindless cymbal,
And fill darks cups, a ****** thimble,
You prance and wave,
You are so nimble,
You are a bug, an evil symbol,
While your odor lies
A ****** musk,
Is but a folly, a stab, a ******.
You chime the hour,
The Evening Laud,
A death mask, a witch, a fraud.
O shall I haunt and weep amok,
You are a raven, what a horror you cluck.
What stately ruin lies for me
No dark wonder of serendipity.
Shadow Bleeder, killer of dreams,
My throat be closed, a silent scream.
I shall beseech your waking hour,
I see your scrim, your blackened tower.
I see you ply this broken vase
This weeping lie, this false embrace.
How shall I sleep, how shall I tire,
This one last night, this one last hour.