Hot ***** served up,
The rattlings and ramblings of lust.
Of poets helplessly in love,
Of writers ***** to ****.
What sad silences they can elapse to,
What pleasant rows they can get in
Feeling no need to record them
Free from needing any interpretation.
Quiet are the stanzas & verses
Of true lovers,
Their words now reserved for each other

lamplight through the leaves
leave and let me love
let me be and live my life
to die, doggishly

puddles gathered
muddled and battered
dry in the heat of the day
rather to go on
than hang on
to life lived

for shame to those
who cling
for going, is such a kind thing

In the boastful, casual manner you portray,
You betray your actual lack of ruthlessness.

The act is a fun game,
But the consequences are heavy.

If no one buys what you're selling,
Suffice to say you're starving.
If it causes greater harm or grief,
Suffice to say you're swinging.

For others yet are playing,
But play not.

For behind many faces hide wide smiles,
By many frames are different the pictures.

watching the television
as they bomb my countryside
scrolling through the phone
while they raze my city
smoking cigarettes
when sanitation services conclude
and sewage overflows
and my son starves
laying hungry in bed
wasting away
waiting for day's break

Infanticide,
More honorable these days than patricide;
And no one sees the irony.
Convince me why
I should care for your life?
And do it without words

all we ever look for
is that feeling of content
and we search and search
before forgetting
what it felt like
and when it passes you by
it leaves you the fool

chief tactician of my chest
the heart
and my head
this brain
a cargo depot
transient thoughts
like vagabonds
hopping on between stops
and a few old engines
never more to run

not much to be said
that of the dead
things only left
to keep the blood pumping
things that in slumber
moaned
cried, belted, and wept

that silence won

"The most exquisite face wrinkles and droops with age
Roses too must wither, mocking man's desire for any eternal beauty in materiality
Death will destroy the buds of youth, Cataclysms will demolish the grandeurs of this earth
But nothing can destroy the splendor of the astral cosmos"

Many forms, but crystalline perfection;
Mystics pine, on the meaning of raging storms;
In lieu of real connection. We can
Appreciate the beauty that is laid before.
Before our time, and we veer
Without axis, & detached from direction.

first school dance, six
having "***" next
and driving at eight
staying up all night
on the job site
and now i cough black
coke, lsd, psilocybin, ****
scratches down his back
wreaking of *****
ah, to be sixteen
partying
in misery, in poverty
but youth has that specialty
of feeling free
even chained
and schooltime
i didn't try
and did a slight bit
above average
**** if i applied myself
thought i deserved the scholarships
offered
instead of scoffing
getting higher
than everest
wow
my problems have consumed me

The premise of amounting to nothing,
Can be comforting.
If you think you are capable enough
To affect real change.
And if you are, and
Do not, you are no
Man. And if
None of us act,
We are all ******.

I like to sprinkle my likeness within my work,
Sometimes it's elusive or hidden.
Sometimes it is plainly written out
If you just read it from the right perspective.
A bird's eye view,
The lense of the cartographer,
The fun of the stenographer:
A wider & broader picture.

Infinity, some might say,
Is simple.
Yet, most are unfamiliar
With the origin of its symbol.

what type of person is she
she asks you
"how was your day?"
and then goes to sleep
the person to start an argument
and switch subjects with ease
send you her love
in words, pictures, and actions
to do a 180°
not to be explained
is there joy derived from this
i get whiplash
i'm no better i guess
but you're the one
who came back

we talked
ad infinitum
on the docks, at the pier, in the park
it was midsummer, with a warmth like it too
and two sailboats streaked the lake
but for the life of me
I've forgotten what we said
her washed out blond hair
inviting rose colored lips
polka-dotted red & white skirt
and mustard yellow blouse

it was sparsely more than a few
but they seemed to say
"drink it in"

don't care now
if you worry
what was the point
kept things from you
cause i didn't want you to freak
but now i smoke joints
and think
your reaction
would be a fraction
compared to mine
would've got it through my mind
earlier, how little you care for people
or friends
whatever i was

I don't understand people
running is easy to get though
one leg in front of the other
miles, kilometers
hell, they can take you around the globe
but have you traveled, you know
no matter how far
the problems join you
wherever you go

You see,
The first evidence we have
Of anything we could quantify
As being akin to surgery
Are fossil records
Of skulls baring marks
Which indicate tool usage.
These marks from simple holes
Driven into these skulls,
Likely made to try & deal with the mind
Or some ailment of the brain.
Thoughts, "evil spirits."

But, one must ask,
"From where did they get these ideas?"

The woodpecker?
The first surgeon?

if the world had eyes
i would bury my fingers
in their sockets
and squeeze till blood had welled
and poured over down my knuckles;
what do they see anyway

Views from split fingers,
And words from a covered mouth.
Phone off the ringer;
Lights on, empty house.
Venom, stingers:
Hooks in, doped out.

merlot leaked from my neck
white fog clouding my vision
my chest tightened
i fought back
the urge to fight
and greeted the night
which exploded
into blinding white light

is there resentment
for keeping this thing i felt
from you
when i promised to be
entirely true
open and honest
i did everything but say it outright
everyday it was a fight
looks like you won

not really

when there's post
who is it you hope
has written you?

when there's rain
do you feel it's in vain
if i asked to picnic with you?

i'd have to say
i'd like to stay
if only it's with you

open your window
i'm speaking to you now
if for anything, to let in some air

sure, it's chilly
but the birds sound so silly
when in the dead of winter
they sing

The joy of simplicity entertained,
Is the death of false airs-
Like that of the faux intellect.
Fancy as a fop,
Gay as a dandy-
Yet, still the poorest sops.
That the point went overhead,
To me, it merely was beneath me
But you could get no lower.
Just wait till you drop! :)

There in the wrong,
On the right side;
There is, in the dark,
A light that shines.
It's what you must show,
To those who feel blind
Because they've never
Walked out from night.

Sheepdogs,
Protectors of the herd.
Do not follow orders
Without thought. Is
The course of action righteous?
Will action derive verdict true to justice?
Or do you follow the words
Of those who could not care
For anything save for order?
The order of no change,
Of unceasing sameness
Where we all suffer.
Where progress is standing still
Standing stiff, overlooking us
On the hill.

Find yourself, in the
Silence of life. Quiet
The thoughts that interrupt
What otherwise is a peaceful stream.
Reject stimulation for boredom
And feel love, feel alive.
Look within, peace is
Found inside.

through the slivers of night
that slice betwixt your curtains
stabbing at you like knives
all the regrets, all the burdens
regress into dark light
that sleep beckons
in your yearning
relief is a far sight
and your worry burning

Nihilism, because I
Have no option but
To feel. What
Comes from
Broken relations & perspectives
But seeing clear? When
Glass cracks
Do you grab a mirror?
Or do you only forsake
Warm love turned cold?
Do you line with gold
And rebuild what breaks,
Or only grieve the remains?

"But what of these truths?" Asked Plato of Socrates.

"But what is truth in purest essence?
For what of the material is purely true?
Yet, by the very nature of the immaterial,
What may we ever quantifiably call truth which we ourselves have no alternative way of examining?
In going so far as to ask for an answer, you must already have proof.
What proof is there that there is truth?"
Spoke Socrates.

"Mentor, you ramble."
Spoke Plato.

"Pupil, I rumble!"
Spoke Socrates.

probably
i take it all too personally
i'm just having fun
what's the harm
it's only a little
but what's the outcome
look around
this is something
only our parent's parents
could've out done

The dream revolt of desk jockeys
Of disc spinning, pipe hitting Americans;
A rich man's insurrection.
Not something I'll be part of;
Something I'll watch
As they step on our flag,
Something to stir real action.
Try it, I,  like the rest of us,
Will watch the skin drip from you
As tar does too, and feathers adorn.
You can call that macaroni
When you try to be oppressive
With the law or religion
Or worse yet, the dissolution
Of the two being different.
When they steal from you now,
It will be in the name of God.

as a symphony
she's infinitely
more beautiful
than anything Mozart made

and like art
she gives cause
for men
to rob and steal

michelangelo
da vinci
you would have been counted
among their many muses

who would have rendered
hercules weak
atlas to ignore his duty
letting the world
hit the floor

staying up
milking it
but you don't
see me
as a joke
right

It was the glen of jabberwocky,
Deep within the twaddle mire.
The gobbledygook was being spewed
By the grand codswallop,
The tripe was drivel
And all manner of blethered haver
Did most piffle & bosh.
The great imperial hooey of guff-phooey
Visited with bunk,
There was to be a festivity of the tommyrot;
On the morrow we would dribble bull
Till the cobblers called tosh, ****, cod,
And said their applesauce.
No malarkey here crosses their fingers,
For all the liars have bellywash
And work the flapdoodle with bunkum & bushwa.
All the poppycocks we laid out
For the celebration of the gibberish,
When mumbo jumbo hung a more,
Low & long.
On the fens of the balderdash,
At the mouth of the babble,
We sang the song of argle-bargle
By our native tongue jargon.

It was first rate flummery
By the standards of the order of palaver,
The prime wheedlers of gab & fanster.

I heard a wise man saying,
"I wouldn't just abandon a friend
Simply because they were going through
Some strange parasocial moment.
Although, I will admit
That I may not fully understand it.
That I might not be able
To fully appreciate their perception
Of whatever given situation."

For, you see,
We can only truly speak
On that of our perspectives.

lionheart
of literature
how long have you stood
in the background of my life
your drawings,
they all have their backs turned
hiding their faces

if you can't be dramatic with me
then who can you be with
real and honest
to the point of pain
your knife, already driven in
were you to take it out
it would only hurt more
when you plunged it in again

you're the overdose
the drop in the pale
that sees the ocean spilled
there were hands at the controls
to let up the floodgates
once
each one you stilled
every feeling killed
reduced to emptiness
and ash
there's literally nothing left
inside of me
memories
of flashes in a pan
i can understand now
why he's your man

Bygone halcyon,
In the waters of rain, wash away.
Dams burst and levees break,
Succumbing to the weight
That stands tall today, contemporarily.
Currents swell with all old & well,
Newly made is the way
The path now flowering.
Personified in ideal & representation;
Tradition is upheld, yet progress is not stalled
For the options are plenty
Beyond elders simply floundering

and opened up
so many wounds
why talk anymore
say anymore
wrestling breath from this body
and puking forth
vile thoughts
cause i have episodes too
cause my life is stressful too
not that you would know

loved you
for over half a decade
i've never gotten what i've wanted
who i've wanted
and you think i'm upset
because of some boyish *******
of impatience

i came on here
to write some pretty words
you might see
but now i sit on here
in misery
typing out my woes
so that the world might read
that there's more than a few
succumbing to pain's tyranny

love for you is easier
i am glad, i am
myself?
i am broken

*******
*******
you came back
not me
you slice wounds open
and stick in your dilator
you love
to see me bleed

it's all overreaction
but not really

self sabotage
at the end
my tightrope walked
just to **** it all up again
honey, my heart still beats
even though you gnash it
in between your teeth
still got that pumping action
despite the bite marks

Not against any good philosophy -
But religion is disgusting.

What's it yous worship anyway?
Superstition - nonsense.

Thinly veiled is your philosophy;
Dogma about me, me, me, me!

Proudly wearin' your mark of beasts.

This the symbol, crucifix;
Nailed up "our" "prophet," we did!

This is the ritual, wine & bread it is;
Cannibal feast of "blood & body."

This the symbolism, con𝘧𝘶𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯;
Reductionism from philosophies stolen.

This the comedy, tragedy;
Bastardizations from destruction & butcheries.

Like orphan children what livin' off charity;
What's me mother's name? Who's my daddy?

Eschewing everything
Cause you refuse to see, nor to hear.

You worship only yourselves;
This that your balderdash?
Nay. You are your own blasphemies!

There's your "divine" "comedy."

Joke's on you lot
For not just havin' "forgot,"
But for stealin'
And sayin' yous didn't.

Crimes enough
To fill sheets yous call scripture.

No such miracles
For those believers.
Those who worship, only worship nothing -
They will be outside of everything,
"Existing" as nothing.

What is hunted for?
For who is searched for?
What is sought?

From nature: knowledge - compassion.

From the cosmos: companions - patience.

this life
is never truly lived
we're all too focused
choking down *******
and those of us that aren't
are too concerned
creating trouble
for the rest of us

went to the gallery
i'd shown you
it was nice
you would like it
was all i could think