imagine a conductor who
orchestrated with an orchestra
but instead of using his hands
to imitate rhythm... used his head...
and rhythm guitar could
be noted down in drumming rhythm,
still the conductor head-banging
rather than rhyming a# with c and d-dur
with his head rather than his hands:
air drumming and i hammered that
head into a shark head worth a 17th century
wig because i was too lazy to brush or cut
my hair; we were all grey and retired
in the former fashion trend as now-days
shrunk flesh for saving fashioning materials
into contorted squares of leopards in leotards.

How do I tell you*
I love the way three dollar wine tastes,
a cheap buzz lighting up my veins,
merlot dripping tears on the floor
I sought for comfort last night.

How do I tell you
That silver is the sweetest color,
singing songs into flesh as I drag her
through scar ridden skin,
opening rivers and avenues
I could be an architect with the way I construct,
drawing with permanent marker on
scribbled, blood stained satin

How do I tell you
I break off pieces of myself,
store them in my broken heart bank,
savor memories for later, when ripped
liquid velvet
doesn't leak onto my fresh floor
anymore

How do I tell you
I curse your nightly name,
thick tongue tasting the
stale sangria of your lips

How do I tell you
How do I tell you
*How do I tell you

Worm twists on a shimmering hook
and streaks towards it's deadly splash
backyard wedding, laughter echoes
on the wings of a camera flash
starlings find a telephone line
to rest, review the day
starlight prepares to greet the moon
born millenniums away
traveling whisper, undisturbed
a million years in flight
to catch the eye of desperate souls
to spark a dream this night
infants final cry is heard
above the halted wind
Stevie Nicks sends frozen love
through the silent, somber din
in a million years on a distant land
our final light is done
as the worm evades it's watery grave
at the edge of the second Sun

it's 1619*
& the boats are all docking, bodies pouring onto the land as freedom pours out to the sea

it's 1724
& the shackles are all rattling beneath the beaten but unbreakable who never gave up

it's 1864
& the abolitionists are all cheering, but lucky 13 never translated to equality

it's 1870
& the voters are all gathered, but the bleached out crowd still managed a loophole around the number 15

it's 1896
& the crows are all preaching. separate but equal, they say, like you can really separate equality

it's 1955
& the front bus seats are all taken, white hot anger sparking 381 days of determination

it's 1957
& the students are all shocked, the little rock needs a thousand Feds just to blend

it's 1963
& 200,000 people all have a dream,
gathering in unity for the 'greatest demonstration for freedom in the history of the nation'

it's 1965
& the voting booths are all open, the wealthy pallid mass finally forced to share their ballots

it's 2008
& the white reign is all done pouring, the flood is still flowing but at least people have the chance to try to swim before the drown

it's 2016
& the trumpets are all singing, waning out the songs of the last 400 years like we still haven't learned anything

and maybe we haven't,
maybe i've just been too
hopefully ignorant
to hear the paralyzing
sound of the TRUMPets
all along

maybe i'm searching for a tomorrow that doesn't exist
because the sound of the trumpets is thrusting us all back into yesterday

but i refuse to join in on the symphony




*'this is the new sound just like the old sound, just like the noose wound over the new ground'

And these dreams will be the death of me.
Broken sleep &
relentless lethargy.
I'm out of control,
so I'm told.
I've slipped outside of my soul,
or so I'm told.
My nose runs consistently,
Yet I don't have a cold.
Now everything hurts,
and yet I feel so cold.
REM dream sequences;
play me on repeat.
play on repeat,
Everybody hurts too but they carry on,
Won't admit defeat.
Not me,
I bend under the pressure,
Malleable,
& then break what's,
Valuable.
I'm weak at the knees,
alieness in alloness of stress;
Please let me rest,
Stop stealing my shut eye by looking in to mine,
I walked the line,
But crossed it,
No going back now I think,
I shudder each time I blink.
And in dreams I believe I could be happy,
Or at least not so sad,
Wishing to feel those feelings
That I've predominately lacked.
Now in dreams I wait to see a GP
in reality,
So he can endorse these feelings into clarity,
Prescribe me patronisingly with 50mg of setraline;
"I'm sure alls not as bad as it seems"
He says so candidly,
Whilst I'm sat here,
can't even speak,
trapped at the mercy of these endorphinemachines.

small cheap rooms where you walk
down the hall to the
bathroom can seem romantic to
a young writer.
even the rejection slips are
amusing because you are sure that
you are
one of the best.

but while sitting there
looking across the room
at the portable typer
waiting for you on the table
you are really
in a sense
insane

as you wait for
one more night to arrive to sit and
type Immortal Words--but now you
just sit and think about it
on your first afternoon in a strange city.

looking over at the door you
almost
expect a beautiful woman to walk in.

being young
helps get you through
many senseless and terrible
days.

being old
does
too.

i made love to the beach
and i thought of you
its airy wind reminded me
of the time you came and went

i made love to the wind
for it sprinkled over me
like a thousand winters
harsh and cold

i made love to the sun
again and again
forever addicted
souls forever mended

i made love to the sky
for it loved me so effortlessly
it had been my morphine
just like how you used to be

(b.d.s.)