Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pin rest; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the ***** sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging.  I look down

Till his straining **** among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a *****.
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper.  He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf.  Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no ***** to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

Many waters are between us
but nothing can stop love

corked message in a bottle
always will reach its shore

I wish I could fit myself inside a bottle,
that travels across oceans
sailing off with the message,
earth is not home
anymore
and that I'm better off,
living in this beautiful irony
of getting by
with the swelling, and the panics and the wild spasms
of the waters—

the only place
where I could
never
drown.

wind like a south wind carrying a plane south
deposits him, beneficiary of a backwards current
on a branch with nothing companionable in sight -
no answer, no voice to answer, no voice,
no alarm, no succor - just an afternoon
and nothing pressing. No urgent business,
maybe only the rigors of trying to prevent
there being urgent business later.
He's not all smooth. A little feather
cowlicked on his narrow jaw, and I don't know
how he bathes, what he eats, what he wants,
who would want to eat him. I don't really understand
anything that is going on around me. But look,
I understand more than him:
  the tree is dying.
Oak wilt blew in from Canada,
took a long time coming and finally cracked the veins
and this one is all bad on the inside, a meal of
corked-up flesh, big spongy patches and tainted roots
at the search.

(Amateur diagnosis. The tree is probably fine.)

There is a similarity neither tree nor bird know about.
Or his legs know it, and that message
is stuck somewhere. Or he's afraid.
The blighted oak is all fungus and refusal, and he:
his skeleton is spun from delicate copper.
If you open him up, he's like a penny -
pretty, and useless in this economy.
People and things always trying to get rid of him,
and he's listening because he knows it,
and he's singing because he knows it.

Open the tree up and the whole food chain comes down with it.
(Listen to your sweet flesh that wants to go on living.)

It's not a curse, not specifically:
just one fragile thing standing on another
but - count mercies -
too light to break it.

A basic brazier licking behind a splash of yellow, he chirrups.
His song comes from the throat.
His song is about something he saw once.
His song is unquestioned, muscle moving
without will.
  His plumage is mostly air
  And the tree is anchored in the ground
  by the very thing that chokes it,
and we're all standing together:
me, tree, bird. At least until
I finish my sandwich, packing the greasy paper in
a rectangle, with unquestioned neatness,
and leave whistling.

What is about some people
insisting I want to engage
with whatever they are watching
singing along to
listening to

Example:

recently, on a long haul train
travelling from A to Z
in the rudimentary rammy
to find the unreserved seats
enter the 20-something
alluring guitar laden
leather and tattoo clad female
tumbling onto the next table to me
unpacking as if she was moving in

munchable fruit laptop
gleaming white
in clear conflict with
the dreads and the beads
pumped in patchouli oil
drenched in love and peace
armed with a dvd
that would shortly crush the spirits
of every soul in Coach D:
the Quiet Coach

enter screaming chipmunks
hysteric children
and songs to sing along to
which she did with obsessive precision

insisting that Coach D
should in some way be
enlightened
entertained
entranced
and ultimately impressed

such was her overbearing desire
to love thyself above all things
give the peace sign when appropriate
and otherwise don't give 2 F's
for anyone else, regardless of situation.

consumer behaviours were erratic at best
if the Jedi senses
were anything to go by

if i'd had a handheld vibe particle device
I could have created a pathological combustion
and an accelerated Coach D A-Bomb

heads turned
feet shuffled
zips unzipped and re-zipped
open hands holding Kindles
immersed in philanthropic discourse
turned to clenching fists
the sound of bent drink cans
rusted cogs in motion
deep breathing

even level 1 Tetris
became too much
for the bald fellow to my left
who accepted failure
and opted to purchase
a large brown bag of beer
from the bar

GOOD CALL

libation and the pagan ideals;
imbibe thyself to dull the senses

I concur
and,
in exchange for our classic colonial restraint
on behalf of Coach D
I wish upon you the following:

1. You will never again
drink a decent coffee from any vendor anywhere in the world, ever.

2. Your laptop will
turn off during any movie you sing along to, silent or otherwise.

3. Your guitar
strings snap during a performance in front of people you don't know who paid to get in.

4. Your Tattoo artist
has an epic fail and tattoo's a defamatory remark rather then your lovers name.

5. Your leather trousers
shrink wrap and make the sound of bursting bubble wrap every time you move.

6. Your comfortable shoes
attract bits of grit like a magnet, regardless what you are wearing.

7. Your waft of perfume
is likened to compressed 7 year old blue cheese that has sat in the sun for weeks.

8. Your location
at any time has a global no shoot-and-miss policy for all birds without exception.
(even the ones that don't fly)

9. Your singing
is so electric that every time you sing in public your hair stands on end
and cutlery sticks to your nose.

10. Your beer is always warm.
11. Your wine corked.
12. Your water salty.

13. That this poem goes viral on the internet
expressing one man's words which mirror the every day person
working their socks off to make a living
and in the hectic hustle and bustle
one of the sanctuaries is Coach D
on the way home from the City
and the frustration and restraint
of anti-social conduct
and basic respect.

14. That I will be on David Letterman
or the Late Late Show
or USA tonight
or the BBC prime time news
or some such over-hyped
TV show talking about you.

15. That you will thank me for making you a celebrity by default -
15.1 and subsequently appear on late night Z-list celebrity game shows involving boxes of spiders.

You are the worst Muse ever
in the history of Muses

16. and this is how you will be remembered

I keep my feelings in a bottle and I carry them around.
Corked and sealed I keep my emotions bound.
But the weight is getting heavy and my chest is starting to ache.
And I'm not too sure how much more of this I can take.
To expose them is to risky.
The price is too steep.
The thought of being vulnerable makes my heart skip a beat.
The fear of rejection and humiliation keep my emotions at bay.
I would rather tell a lie than say what I really wanna say.
Just like Romeo and Caesar I have a flawed personality.
Does this mean that I am ****** to live out a tragedy.

Outside, but not so far away,
Missiles are falling;
Early snow has settled
Beneath gray overcast....
Sirens in the distance
Send their low moan
Across the miles...
Echo faintly in our canyon.

Too cold for lightning,
We turn away from light
Flickering or flashing
Upon the bellied skies...
Don't want to think
About the thundering
The light implies.

Muffled sound and muted light
Confirm our living
Away from town.
Perhaps we are
Far enough....
These days, though,
Places to run are few,
And war is moving out.

At least the news has stopped....
Was sporadic
Then...
Stopped altogether
Now.
Almost a relief....

The coal oil lamp -
Her mother's mother's -
Burns a reddish glow...
Diesel's charring smudge...
Comforts us
In a growing dark.

Roast potatoes,
Rabbit stew,
Pickled beets...
No bread this time
As I uncork chokecherry wine...

And it is summer 1999....
We are standing in tall grass
Somewhere between Red Lodge
And Laurel along the road,
Ice cream pails echoing
With plopping chokecherries
Near black and hanging thick
Like miniature clusters of grapes.

We are there to beat the birds and bears,
Knowing choke-cherrying
Is the hurried work of many races,
Some wearing claws upon their heavy hands,
Others flitting in with beaks upon their faces.

And then the kitchen smells of cherries boiling down
For syrups and for jam,
The old ten gallon glass fermenting juice and sugar,
Stands waiting in the corner,
Later to be filtered off and corked away
In twice-used bottles....

Other years and other picking times
Lie bottled  in wooden racks below,
But we have chokecherry wine tonight,
While storms we never thought we'd know
Blow hard against the world.

Leo

Leo with the spindly frame, Leo with the too short days and endless nights, Leo who walks like a shadow darting across the walls hardly daring to be seen, a boy avoiding crowds, arms crossed in knots, sits in a room 8 years too young, thumbing through the infinite pages of life's mysteries, holds smooth black stones in open palms to the rain at the edge of those long and winding roads that are lined with tunnels of trees and pillars, takes matches between his teeth to splinter the tongue that so badly wants to speak.

Leo, harsh or gentle, tries to wrap his arms around cold air, too close to nothing, still never falters. Holds his upper lip stiff as a board, closes his chest like a cupboard filled with terrible secrets, shakes his furrowed brow, mumbles nothing's to the carpet, tiptoes down the stairs that groan under his fragile weight, because tonight, like so many nights before, he has to help the broken girl under boxes and brass pipes, sort through the mess of her head with the man in his own, gives her polished rocks to rub between her fingers to quell the demons, but he knows he cannot help.

Leo in those battered bones, with peeling fingertips, crammed into little glass vials, filled to the brim with waters and weeds, mouth corked with a cap so tight that a whisper could barely escape if it tried. Leo in hands as cold as death itself, skin so pale and clear that you can see the little thump of a heartbeat, and the stream of ice blue blood through thread-like veins creating a web of eyes, lips, voices, hands, a spindly frame that could collapse upon itself with a single blow. Leo whose eyes are sharp as arrows,  words striking off that flint stone tongue, flicking sparks into the gasoline soaked pages, dripping with rage, lighting a fire that will never be silenced, hands curled into fists that tremble in fear of what they might do. Leo who's greatest fear is the second voice inside his head,  another life he has to lead, another mask he has to wear, sits screaming behind that too familiar phlegmatic face, that strained jaw so sharp I'm sure he's accidentally cut himself on it before, Leo with too nice shelves, the untied shoes, presses his lips into a firm line, wavers oceans in that cracking voice, puts one finger to the screen and disappears without a sound.

My office gave me a computer so I could work from home (during the Covid crisis)
They also gave me a work phone as my job entails taking calls from the public,
It's strange but I've been doin' this job for years
And I've always had this stammer... this funny stammer
Yet luckily I've always been able to get by
I've never let it bother me that much
But now though, since working from home I'd noticed my stammer was getting progressively worse
Maybe it was all the isolation, the lack of interaction with others
But I found myself struggling with words/sounds that had never bothered me before
It was beginning to become a real worry
What was I gonna do !!!
So I started to take a drink or two, a couple of glasses of wine along with a can (or two) of beer
And listen to some music on my own phone
Hoping it would relax me more
Sometimes it'd work, sometimes... sometimes not
But then one day... one day Lana del Rey came into my life
Yea! I discovered the songs and music of Lana del Rey
What a voice and the things she could do with it, it seemed so effortless
What an Enchantress
She'd transport me off to some other world faraway
So between work calls, in the gaps in-between
I'd have her songs on and be watching her videos on YouTube
I used lose myself in her world
Now I didn't care anymore about work or phone calls or whether I stammered or not
Suddenly I was Mr. Cool driving down a motorway in LA with my sunglasses on in my Chevy Malibu
Or maybe hanging out, chilling with Lana's crew
(maybe on a thirteenth beach somewhere)
And when she'd be singing something melancholy, something blue
I'd be there comforting her saying  "I know Lana, I understand, sure Me! I'm a King of Melancholy too".

Well one Friday I was feeling kinda happy and good about life
I'd survived another week in the job and had a long weekend to look forward to as I had Monday off
And yes! I'd had a few drinks as well and was away again lost in Lana land
I had her songs on and a video was playing
Suddenly I felt I needed to go for a ***
So I put Lana on hold saying "Excuse me Lana"
But then... just then my work phone rings, there's someone on the line,
I say to myself I better take this call
I'll get rid of him quick (famous last words)
I don't know if this guy was lonely or just liked the sound of my voice
But I just could not get him off the phone
Sometimes the phone calls they'd remind me  of the old Air Aces back in World War I
In their biplanes, shooting at one another, those dogfights in the sky
(They should have had us wearing bomber jackets)
But if this guy was an Air Ace, then he was the Red Baron
I couldn't shake him, just couldn't get him off my tail, could not get him off the phone
He's like... he's like feckin Columbo (the detective off the TV)
It's like he's finished, he's just going out the door
But then he turns around and comes back with another question
"Can I ask you...this...
Can I ask you...that...
Would you mind answering this question...
Just one more thing...
Just one more question....
One last question....
One final question...
You're very good, can I ask you....
Sorry for taking up all your time but can I ask you....
You're very knowledgeable, it's great to get someone you can talk to, so you're saying....
Is that the way it works, can I ask you..."
At this stage I'm bustin' to go to the loo
It's getting to emergency stations, my poor bladder
What am I going to do!!!
Should I excuse myself and tell him I've got to go to the loo
But that's not very professional, I'd never ever done that before
Anyway I'm thinking I have no other alternative
But then suddenly... suddenly I spy this empty bottle on my shelf
It's an unusual bottle with thick glass and it has this lovely wooden capped cork which can be easily pulled out and put back in again
(I kept it 'cos I thought it might come in handy if I had a corked bottle of wine
And the cork got messed up with the corkscrew
I could put any surplus wine in there)
So I'm looking at this bottle and... I have an idea
"Desperate situations call for desperate measures", I think
"You gotta do what you gotta do,
And of course, their always saying you should be creative and innovative in your work"
So I take down the bottle, tell Lana to avert her eyes
I take out the cork, unzip the fly of my pants
Get my Old Boy out and start peeing into the bottle
I'm mightily relieved and I'm thinking Ha! Ha!
Go on you ****** ask me another question, I don't care now....I'm free!!!
I'm proud of myself "What a Pro !" I'm thinking,
The next thing a whole lot of *** comes flying out of the bottle, like a bottle of champagne gushing out
Shooting out all over the place, all over my pants and my shirt
I'd miscalculated the amount of *** and the size of the bottle
I never knew I peed that much (well you learn something new everyday)
And the guy is still talking to me on the phone
And all I'm thinking is "Jaysus I'm after peeing all over myself"
And finally... finally, at long...looong... looooong last the guy, he gets off the phone, halleluia!!!
I'm left there completely deflated, soaked in my own ***
Broken and disconsolate, all my illusions shattered
No longer am I Mr.Cool driving down a motorway in LA
No longer am I either Mr. All-understanding Melancholy Guru Man
No! Now I'm just... just some guy whose after peeing all over himself
I look at my phone and there's Lana looking back at me, still on hold
I switch her on again, she's singing that lovely song "Love"
She does that lovely little shimmy with her shoulders for a second
Then she gives me that cute little wink and the lovely smile
I think to myself "Well, at least Lana still likes me"
But I feel guilty, I feel I got to explain, got to apologise
"Sorry Lana", I say, "I guess...I guess they don't make heroes like they used to".

Then I start to think 'This working from home is really fraught with danger, lucky there's no cameras on these computers or they'd be saying "I don't believe what I've just seen, what's that feckin' eejit doing now"

But then I think "Still, the customer went away happy, I didn't let it faze me too much, I saw it through... me and my funny stammer...what a Pro!
Maybe I was... maybe I am...a hero after all.

it is temporary
the mirrored faces reflecting back into one-
it is as temporary as the sun.

it is temporary,
this burning body of youth.
it is temporary insanity
and temporary truth.
it is movable pieces
in the bottle of corked vermouth.
it is ungrateful youth
and all her fantasy
her ****** opportunity-
the days of endless sunshine
fogged with cascading rain,
full of superficial pain,
that only sets into the skin to rise up
much later.
blemished traitors
of your failing past.

it is temporary,
the primping of memories undone-
it is as temporary as the blazing gun.

it is temporary,
it is fleeting
and no matter how these products
keep us believing
they are nothing more
then distractions, they are deceiving.
as the sand is thrown in our glossy eyes
and stars that once opened in the night sky
just for us-
open no more.
we retire from the bridled gore
of youth and her tireless war
and forever more,
must sing the songs of fading youth.
must curse the uncouth,
the way the years
have wandered by
without any proper goodbye
and we, as strangers
in this looming unknown
we must come to know
as past our prime,
past our time,
and be spectators
into the theatre of vanity
we are now excluded from.
oh, how we wish we’d undone
the regrets and missteps-
but we are denied
to ever confide
the wisdom we’ve gained
since beauty and youth
have fled-
we are condemned
to be voiceless passengers
on our train ride to the end.

yet, this is temporary.
as temporary as you and i,
the ailing sky,
the aching stars,
the rolling hilltops,
tracing to the mouth of the river
and when we are at once delivered
to a final resting stop-
we pray, we hope
as tooth and nail dragged
we try to cope,
to be temporary no more-
temporary no more-
temporary no more-
temporary no more-

Vacant, empty, bottle corked
sour
followed
shadows
stalked
billboards, ankhs, purple peace
fever
groupies
slow
release
pill pushers, drunkards, hollow wholes
pimps and
******
broken souls
black, white, all in tune
sunsets
rising
wednesday's moon

nothing inside
nothing out
listen how
silence
shouts!!

a decapitated dog put on too many sticks to reach out and bite a child who only wanted to play with a soft touch and gapped holed grin.
the lights go out when you can´t know when,  say yes to hold lights for when ´when´ happens ¨you can trip and fall¨.
glasses melted with fire to become bigger for a bigger head are still to dark to wear in shadow.
tilted camera you stare with a corked head curious to what goes on behind me, won´t you look my way instead.
dragonfly warrior poorly protecting his flourescent queen from the onslaught of molecules in a world filled with air, with air, with air, air, air.
the volume of speakers are controlled by tiny gods moving their tiny fingers, just a littly bit louder my dear.
can you remember when landline telephones were used, I remember circle dials and zero always took the longest, when did phone get rid of tele?
white flowers and white hanging sheets with yellow sun bolts raining on a clear sky shout with thunder from a noisless wind, I wear earphones tonight.
trees dance better then me, plants taste better then me, pianos sound better then me, me is better then me, we´re equals.
fat cat dreams of being skinny, he wears eye liner on weekdays and thongs on the weekends.
sometimes yoga makes me feel like a woman who feels **** then yoga makes me think what that thought means?
rocks are hot when heated.

The possibilities are perched and overwhelming with their weight
the withered autumn branches of my street. Whining sinew of my mind
breaks off and flutters down, like leaves from life's misbegotten tree,
a petal or a timid accusation.
What now am I left holding here-- vulture feathers or sapling leaves?
That girl, with tufts here and there, dropped each quill as an embossed coin, effaced
by intrepid maids vacuuming my room of cloistered couches since
soiled by madam president during isolated summit which won't convene again, her golden
gown of rues has not a stitch of fabric for a single pocket more-- sloughing brittle currency under cushions
like Fall foliage under conscious footsteps striding in constraints of time.
She picks that soggy garment from the cleaners' with the sideways background ringing of
mistrust, apprehending
silenced, patient voices; detached from their seams with dis-acknowledgment--
the dress, comes by on the carousel and
fingers her feathers with its motion.
They're washed with him, her feathers and the dress-- shored up by late summertime’s ebbing
flood that year.
Each gust eddied unaccounted toward the beach our circumstance.
What held intact the branch of life and plucked that chord for dancing in the night?
The self-same vibration that severed from the soil his trunk, which was the ship's ballast, with the adz, my will, my want
and hopeful mooring --
cast and sunk, thus.
Sound waves clashing with our spinning crystal surface of wisping nodes
plunge now beneath themselves-- frail, flaxen and woven with water.
Held out near Tyre's port a scanty mast,
thought out for catching air; forfeited this vacuous, unstable mole', their bottle
poured on water to make earth, which swells as moistrous and abridged
as a musty vestule, corked and knotted in the wind.
Encased through sanction, hold and curiosity--
the tine rubbed and singeing, loosed you from me. Those brazen beads, sand percolating, lie with us.
We are now misrepresented; sniffling as sows after the trough who root.
The woman-leaves let will be known-- to dry up and disavow
their lecherous beauty by shriveling in the tepid sun of
late September. Does too, the feather-man eviscerate the model of time
in his way of losing each and every granule
that is the ground which swells with frozen rain 'til
Spring, then thaws and flies away. Or was it
their dainty, dizzied rose petal, suckling smog from sky since birth that has weather-worn
their gowns sheer silver, freshly hewn anew, by being ripped and pressed about
which came to stifle thoughtless dew?

The spirit of Christmas was here again
As they rocked on up to my door,
The aunts and uncles and cousins, all
I’d not even seen before,
They’d smelt the turkey, they’d seen the tree
With its lights, red yellow and green,
They’d even come with their knives and forks
In case that my own weren’t clean.

They came in a rush at twelve o’clock,
‘Now we’re not too late, we trust?
We got caught up at Aunt Mary’s, then
We missed the eleven-ten bus,
She says she’ll not be cooking this year
So we didn’t have time to lose,
She’ll hurry along with a minute to spare
As soon as she puts on her shoes.’

I said, ‘Oh good!’ as they filed on in
To wash their hands in the sink,
Then counted heads and I gulped and saw
The turkey begin to shrink,
A single bird for eleven heads
Or twelve if you counted me,
I might just get a wing and a prayer
When feeding this family.

They found the chest with the beer in ice
But there wasn’t enough for all,
So they corked and drank the fine Rosé
That I’d had displayed on the wall,
They ground the peanuts into the rug
And they spilled Chablis on the couch,
Then kept on stumbling over my feet
And all I could say was ‘Ouch!’

They sat around with an hour to wait
While the turkey started to brown,
And talked of family members that
They thought were coming on down,
But then the topic they all enjoyed
Was raising its ugly head,
‘You’d never believe,’ said Cousin Steve
But Auntie Caroline’s dead!’

‘I heard she fell from the Pepper Tree
With the pruning shears in her grasp,
Into a deadly swarm of bees!’
You could hear the others gasp.
‘And George, remember George, he was
Your Uncle’s cousin’s son,
He fell right under a train; they said
He had a blindfold on.’

Then Gustave from the German branch
And Heidi from the Swiss,
Had both expired in some dread fire,
I’d not heard any of this!
‘Delaney died in Ottawa
When he fell dead off his horse,
And Orson choked on a bottle of coke
That was really chilli sauce!’

I cleared my throat before I spoke
‘I would hate to interrupt,
But listening to your Death Watch List
Has made my mind right up.
I don’t know a single one of you,
You've not been here before,
But you’ll find who you are related to
If you’d like to try next door.’

David Lewis Paget

Beneath the weeping Willow tree
There sat a tiddly Monk
And no one knew and no one cared
Just why that Monk got drunk;
But everyday the clock struck twelve
You’d see him sitting there
Chirping cheerful ditties,
In a drunken slur.
Then one young boy, he stopped and asked,
“What troubles you my Lord?”
Ungraciously the monk replied
Or should I say, he roared!
“I have to taste the Holy wine,
It is my job you see.
But I cannot recommend it
Till I’ve tasted two or three,
And sometimes if the wine is corked
It can be five or six
So you see it’s not my fault
That I am in this fix.”
The boy said, “It’s not good my Lord
That a Holy man should be
Inebriated to the hilt
And sat beneath a tree.”
After giving one loud burp
The Monk he sat and cried,
“I’ll try to give it up my son
But many times I’ve tried.”
“The boy said Lord it’s come to me
This sudden blinding flash
My Dad would volunteer I know
But you’d have to pay him cash.”
“Your Dad would do this for me son,
Are you sure he’d volunteer?”
“It’s wine I know, but I think so
Although he’d prefer beer.”
“Is he a man of God?
Is he climbing Jacob’s Ladder?”
The boy said, “I don’t know
But he loves the ‘Bull and Bladder’.”
“Bring him to me soon my son
You’re the answer to my prayers
I thought I was forsaken
But now that someone cares,
I’ll walk the straight and narrow
And really sort my life.
Now what other sins have I?
Oh yes! I shouldn’t have a wife.
Do you think he’ll take her too?
This Father of yours son.”
“Well yes, he’s only human,
When all is said and done.
But that will cost, I’m sure you’ve guessed,
These things they don’t come cheap.
My Dad is sensible I know
And a robbing little creep.”
“That’s it then son.  Go forth.” He cried.
“Bring your Father here.
It will be worth it this I know
Even if it costs me dear.”
The boy pushed forth his hand
He expected a large tip
But the Monk pulled out a bottle
And he offered him a sip.
“I’m too young to drink my Lord,
You should be ashamed.
Although I know it is the wine
So you cannot be blamed.
But if you don’t cough up right now
And offer cash to me
You can sit there drunken all your life,
Beneath the Willow tree.”

A moment is never singular, exactly; it is obvious nothing on This Earth lasts.
Even with a God, People obstinately search somewhere to ground the spar tree,
The focal point, the axis, the Self.

Molecules have been examined down to Music; infinite harmonies taking perceived shape,
With each element ever-changing as our senses are tuned.
Particles are waves of color, our own hand turning the kaleidoscope.

Vainly a self-deceit of lasting solidity harbors the illusion of power to hold fast
the fluidity of this cherished existence, like collectively barricading a levee
between our perpetually sinking firmament and the inevitably rising sea.

Ink fades; paper burns; stone crumbles.
But imagine by tenacious persistence we succeed in preserving at least some thoughts,
In digital binary a corked message hurled over entropy into a hot, dry future.

Comprehension itself would surely evolve away,
abandoning our I's and 0's in their past,
bits scattered from a broken bottle useless in a windy desert.

By dumb luck our toes have kicked the dust from remnants, mysteries of the Ancients.
Sandblasting time has reduced their instructions for miracles down to perplexing sketches,
littering a roofless sun-baked labyrinth of echoes.

All I can do is stare at void.
And goad it into movement.
Asking it to soothe me.

Darkness, Blackness.
As I breathe in.
As I breathe out.

Only way I sleep, is to tuck myself calm in the dark matter.
Not that. Absence of anything,
Nothing,
But the concept of “all” stuffed into one corked universe.
To be shaken.
To bubble me into a dream.

Hiding behind rocks once I get there.
Hiding behind nothing inside of my own eyelids;
This has been happening since I was five.
Shivering, quivering, shaking, in a pit of *****,
eyelid color.
False chromatics.

I think it won't get any better.
I've always felt powerless.
Night makes me scared.

I stay awake.

I fake joy.
I pretend intelligence.
I'm a scared ventriloquist doll hoping no one puts their hand up my ***.
Not to Act.

Tossing and turning the ragdoll of my body,
My soul contorts to the visage of women.
Nuns with blood for eyes,
Entire memories dying.

If stars were real, they'd light my visions.
The back canvas of skin that projects my minds lens,
Lends to my own coward binge,
In my mind I'm a crippled victim of sleep and taunting of every hurtful human haunting that there is.

They all laugh at me.

Back drop and back bone of this canvas has cracked. The Painting Failed.
Spine of every book written about my memories, has been crumbled. Never Published.
In a corner, in every room there's one of me. Ghost Blocked Limbs.
A Hagfish who writhes in the dead body of his own spirit. *******.

The Lowest of Existence.

It’s a large cavern.  A gaping hole—
                                                                A black hole.  
Slow and fast.        Pain and numb.        Yin and yang.
The blackened lung.        The bust vessel.        The mutated cells.
                     It’s everything and nothing at once.

                                                    What is the condition of my heart?
I couldn't begin to tell you.
It’s hope and
                    it’s anger and
                                           it’s frustration and
                                                                ­           it’s a corked bottle on high heat.

Lush leaves.  Turquoise lagoon.  Iron sky.  
Everything looks like it's
                                               filmed through a blue filter, Twilight style—
                                                         this is what my heart looks like.  

Grey like brain.  Serosanguineous like cerebrospinal fluid
collecting from a shunt to a bag from a cracked open skull.  
Purple and green and yellow like bruises on
                      hands that don't have enough platelets to heal.  
Teal like an N95 mask.  Lilac like a casket spray.  
Soft pink like the padding of a wood overcoat.  
Grey.                        Grey.                   ­     Grey. 

This is what you will find if you crack my chest,
                                          spread my diaphragm,
                                                   my sternum,
                                               shuffle my lungs.
Sounds like asystole on the monitors, but still
           somehow producing electrical currents.  

The condition of my heart is cavernous.  
A sunset on the east coast; a sunrise on the west.  
                                                         ­                                Bittersweet.

Grasping at the air and your gone, like a whisper in my mind or my breath on a foggy morning. It lingers for a while, surrounding my head,
Like a pure cloud of delusion, a bubble of insecurities and hopes and desires and dreams and then it's gone, Like the flicker of a candle blown out by a child in an adult world, run away with the Humm of your breath, escaping into the night.
It's like quicksand running through my fingers, and I can see my time clock always feeling like it's running out, it's like a butterfly dancing into the deepest corners of my mind, running through a river of emotions and bursting through my
Mouth in a babble of awkward communication, freely flowing with everything that's been bottled
corked up and already set adrift in some running thought. All my
Mouth can conjure is a free flowing eclipse dabbed with bubbles of truth floating away to the surface of my sharp tounge.  And as the negativity cascades around me like a cloak of invisible emotion, the river runs from
my soul through my eyes, and the pain of crashing waves batters against my throbbing heart just willing you to take me in your arms, and plant a kiss on my forehead and tell me everything will Work out. But instead you're gone, like a whisper in my mind or my breath on this particularly foggy morning, and despite my frequent intakes and the river that won't stop running, I know that at the end of the day, that's all you wanted from me too.

Put your troubles into something else.
Don't use that razor blade again.
Or the blunt scalpel you keep.
Or even that bent kitchen knife.

Put your troubles  into something else.
Leave the eyeliner on the shelf.
Leave the rubbers in the box.
Leave the earrings on the stand.

Put your troubles into something else.
How about the doodles you draw.
Or the stories that flow from your pen.
Even the paintings done at dawn.

Put your troubles into something else.
Maybe, even, me. I won't look at them.
I will gently untangle every one.
Trim them until they are all gone.

Put your troubles into something else.
Not a sealed chest.
Not a closed box.
Not a corked bottle.

Put your troubles into something else.
Let your mind be free.
Let your heart be free.
Let me be free.

Old Sol was setting
Shadows corked the valleys dark
And I cast a stone

Remember the paranoia will destroy ya?
Turns out it's more truth then myth
Paranormal you could call it, With all the noises coming from my basement
I get an overwhelming feeling, I'm being watched by a demon
He's aware of all my secrets, and knows exactly how to push my buttons
Now Iv'e lost myself, and fear the person I'm becoming

Would this make you nervous?
To go insane over such non- sense
Constantly thinking, and conspiring alone
Not just hurting myself, but everyone around

Now hear come the risks, of fighting against your shadow
Losing all faith, and second guessing yourself
***, drugs, and rock & roll, Just some of my faults
Gathered through time and corked into a bottle
Fermenting, and waiting for the explosion
Now my eyes are always open, When it's time for sleeping
Searching through the darkness, for the monsters that come out under moonlight
So sleeps become a luxury, replaced with the fear of missing something

Come to beleive, my shadow's my conscious
Able to summon all skeletons from the bottom of my closet
Un-earth what I buried under all my ***** laundry
And return it to life, like an invisible zombie

My challenge, is to overcome the side- effects Associated with the crystal ****, The amphetamines have awakened him
and taken me from reality

Now my shadow wont stop following
Starting to become somewhat frightening
Witnessed my every decision
Impossible to deceive him
My Shame is his best weapon
Used to cloud over my self-esteem

Catch me regularilly, checking my shoulders
As a constant reminder of my more then human counter-part
To make me feel alive, and not part of the after life

Normalcy?, what the **** is that! When you ran around the block in a t- shirt and those vintage laced ******* screaming "an eclipse isn't to be had!,an eclipse isn't to be had!", what did I do? I stood there, I stood there and waited patiently for you to come inside. The bottle was still corked, the venison covered and the album of the evening (Ok Computer) turned down. Nooooooo!!!! Was that good enough, Nope!, I think not. You reluctantly came inside because you had to ****, but not before you babbled a few one liners from every ******* motion picture we ever saw together. Remember that time on the cliffs when we almost lost it all and the car was hanging on 2 tires off the edge, remember what you said to me? I do,... you leaned over in that bright flowered day dress that barely covered your body and you whispered in my ear. "feel me breathe, feel me breath baby." and that's when I first took you.

A boy walks down the sidewalk,
a cigarette in one hand.
His eyes transfixed up ahead,
Where the girl of his dreams stands.

She puts a flower in her hair,
as she breathes in the fresh, spring air.
Unaware of the coming fate,
she starts walking, for now she's late.

His chest tightens with each step now,
realizing the girl has moved on.
The boy decides to keep his vow,
'til her love for him has dawned.

Years go by, and as we know,
the two continued to grow.
She's a woman, and he's a man
when their story truly began.

On that same sidewalk that was the track
that kept the two apart,
the two collided, walking opposite ways.
On their journey, they soon would embark.

Now they walk hand in hand
down that sidewalk every day.
Gleaming a love oh, so grand,
"Sheer perfection!" some would say.

Shortly after, love spread terribly thin,
for now they cared for their very own kin.
Two girls and two boys, and a dog in the mix,
left both lovers looking for a quick, happy fix.

She turned to a bottle of wine, a chat with a friend,
He turned to pathetic lies, and kissing women.
Both continued on for a year, or for a few.
Little did he think, all of his actions she knew.

She stayed strong and honest, despite all the lies.
Holding the family together, all day and all night.

Eventually, the chaos slowed down.
As kid by kid moved to a new town.
The lovers finally got a last chance,
to give their old love another glance.

She corked up the wine,
and hung up the phone.
He started to decline
all the women he'd known.

They started out small,
realizing not to compare
their personal faults,
and the who, what, and where's.

After a week, they held pinkies.
By a month, palm to palm.
He'd hold her small body,
Changing chaos to calm.

It is now decades later,
and the two are still strong.
You've seen no love greater,
after so much had gone wrong.

Love may not always feel very good,
and sometimes it's painfully misunderstood...
It takes commitment and patience,
and can bring agents of temptation.

And as he would say:
"LOVE, is worth the wait.
LOVE, is worth the weight."
*So, which choice will you make?

Are you still in the
dream with me?
can you see me watching you
wondering what to do?

no instruction booklet in the subset
where the subtext
is an undercurrent of hot *** and
an overblanket that wrecks any idea
of free movement.

So are you or where are you and are you
watching me too?

I. Orpheus

My dog flees from pluckèd strings;
her fleas command my tune.

What hollow body holds a rhyme
as long as my neck’s breath?

I could domesticate myself,
but in taming our lions
we tame our pride.


II. Abel

My brother is his brother’s keeper.

I am uncle to no abomination.

As we lie in the Garden,
(our hair in the earth)
I question:

Is Heaven above
because our heads are the seat of doubt, or
because our feet are the root of evil?


III. Hector

I was not breast fed.

I am not a fountain.

I will not hector you.


IV. Adam

Even if He and I practice Our secret handshake
in the Sistine Chapel;

Even if He sends me an angelic bath basket
with ambrosial soul cleanser
and holy bubble bombs;

Even if I am the round reflection
of an ever-changing God;

I still have to ask:

Is Heaven above?
Because my head is the seat of doubt.


V. Odysseus

Poseidon hardly even knows me.

An idle king in heart
reigns with a swift lead open hand.

Life’s lees are far too bitter,
far too deep,
and the wine is corked.


VI. Atlas

The sky may fall;
the stellar sphere may crash with all its weight
and music;

god(s) may smite;
the clouds may freeze and bury me;
the sun may swallow me whole;

leaves may drop and leave me bare;
the mist may soak my skin;

I raise my arms only to catch
that snowflake that dares drift upward.

I put a message in it
Corked and cast it into the sea
Saying , go find my lover
Bring her back to me

. . .as the surf swirled around my heart
I was shoved and pulled apart . . .

Oh ! full moon tide take away my bottle
Sweep it far away from me
Take it to my lover
So she can see what she means to me

. . .bobbing in the crest . . .
between ocean and sunset . . .
there are glints and flashes . . .
of my bottle and the contents that are in it

I threw a bottle . . .
take it far from me . . .
take it across the Atlantic
to the one . . .
who is in love with me

Rattlesnake
Boom is the gangly
Doberman at the door
When it opened I froze
And she did as well

One too many fingers
Bashful stew of gashy meats
Pulsating, squirting, blood spurting and flowing back
I take a deep breath
And my joints lubricate as if by magic

Doom rakes a killing
And yet grave is my slumber
Low, humbling, thundering
I push too hard and it collapses
In is where I belonged, now I wept thrice

Buttoned up tight
You tilt as a broken table
It was so and it creaked longingly
Crept up from under somewhere
And never looked back

Mal was indeed
Trickling once and twice and thrice borne
Diurnal my beloved
Of once and twice and thrice borne kind
Of seaweed and ***

Out of a split dome
A gashed most dastardly
One of the cloaks covered me well
Under a lock with no keyhole
Filed my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files the chain that files my nail that files

One too many mirrors in this madhouse
For all the blind to see
Conjuring spells with a swollen tongue
Heard the pacing and followed through
The left after the left and the right after the right, hi-**

I take from myself
And be no thing
A rumble creeps and wakes when not tended
Forlorn sensitivity
Starving tumbles a hoom, a waan, a rushed impregnate

Words birthed in barren plains
Some one thing creaks and hums and cracks
A dwarf dances in by a jazz darkly
Limbless jig in two movements
Jeaned out weens and them spurts one ******* whale up up upward

Time is a flat **** stain
El amor de mi vida
A misery of cheese
One of loves, one of lives
Gargles reflowed uncivil

Leave white and follow through
Break my bones pulling in
Kicked inwards nervous gaseous porous
Corked out flesh see one lick two
Rumbarumbarumba

Off a wonder land
Bane is my juice
Soon follows rot
Tender, sweet rut
Shadow tongued drips and wets

I don’t need to recall the melody
It left a map so large it became the land
By the name alone I find a way
Of a one off beat and two rushing in, tu-pah!
Drum the ear and work a sweat

i fill these voids inside of me with the things i don't need, the things that i perceive as happiness.
all people have their voids and all people have their fillers.
some have clothes and shoes and jewelry.
some have money and fame and colleagues.
some have ***, drugs and rock and roll.
but when it comes down to it their is still that void, it's just filled to the brim with stocking stuffers.
so once you unclog the drain and all of the things come pouring out, your just a 10 pound brain piloting a slab of meat with a hole inside of you.
the hole that has been scratched out by people and misfortune and lies and deceit.
but you still have your brain... and your slab of meat, which is more than some could say they have.
so you have to move on to the next location with your void... to try and fill it.
but the thing is your still walking around with the problem.
you think that if you move and make new acquaintances the void will be filled and the past will be corked and thrown into the ocean like a bottle floating waiting to be found.
but you can't throw your bottle into the ocean because it's the only bottle you have.
it's the only life you have.
you have to find a way to not avoid the problem or try to get rid of it.
but to put the past in the past and live in your present and continue on with your future.
that's why they call it a present.. because it's a gift to even have one.

milk warm and
child rotates backwards in womb

clouds become the drums

angels in the front row cheer
as men fight over screaming throat

woman smokes with dragon—
never before corked *****
and the ash that settled over

this is my innermost truth:
a dwell of birds inside my body

and I think so little of myself

at 3AM the taste makes sense
your flavour gently
formless, yet;
clap inwards, roam safely now

for, two weeks gone, August died
once the sky mill's lights came crashing down
a sunless ****** ably refined by the opulent gunshot
whence your neck, once slim as a bottle's kiln poured plume,
yielded crackling splinters and a bully ragged tie

how quickly the lips of entrapment ****** your memory
the venerable address of a cruel decay, corked
and crucified over willow wrought applause

the unsecured dregs of my dreams drag themselves,
desecrated, yet still breathing, into
a barren sensibility of service
to so sadistic a cheer

you identify yourself as a counterpoint to heat
burning tissues and tighter crosses,
laid across your stretched stomach
while the flirt aperture fades to a crumbed splice

I agreed to outlive my extinction
so long as you willed a heaven fish wriggle free
from the pressed seawater and shrink my temptation

and that beast, like every other, had a treasonous heart
once it knew the single human truth, the martyrs glee for murderous poetry,
where biology cascades dominion
into the thrice strangled terror of life