Sunday sermons are spilling on the inner city streets
through the green heaps and brown bags
through the downtown whisperers
and sage solitude souls

Army bands prepare for march
(their trench members filling packs with canister and cane)
the high command and tricked militia head pinned
quick on the look for splinter, lorry and skuttle

Traffic patterns change at the COP connect
camouflage bearers break formal stride
battle men slip between colorful floats
unsuspecting slumlords (vein pricked and weary)
grin in their second suite dying rooms

Twitching men and rubbernecks
sit discreetly on the corner wall
JJ and the chief revere a 21 gun salute
holy rollers raise cheer (in a moment of silence)
chess men hold steady
with ivory cues

Flames belt from the distant foundry
streets come alive with crackle and dust
members of the attic group glance down from their perch
an elderly man in a straight jacket (happy in the now)
sits solemnly with a cold reflective stare

It’s not far from the steely mud holes
from the flying fragments and sharp broken dreams
from the arsenal digs and madmen (who quietly turned the *****)
the ivy trellis
and flowing white gown
are a nocturne fit
for this elevated rolling highland

Flabs upon *****
of excessive skin
flock towards the sands
to soak up the rays of
the day light hours
and delude themselves
in the roped off
safety zone waters
of the seashore.
Benched from lack of participation,
sober and observant,
you can't help but overhear
a conversation about the salty tastes
and textures of boys *******
between four teenage girls
who look like they just entered
the early stages of middle school
and should not know anything,
at that age,
about that topic of discussion.
Seagulls slowly glide overhead
waiting for the perfect moment
to bomb white droppings in the
******* mouths of the hodads
and steal their bacon while they
quickly scurry off and guffaw
on the inside.
Young ladies *****
hang proudly out of their
skimpy bathing suits and stare
into the sunken eyes of perverse old men. Socks and sandals roam the shores
like tyrants to detect metals
in the sand with their hiked up baggies, buttoned up blue Hawaiians
and fisherman hats.
They'll find god before
they find these treasures.
Unsupervised children puke peaches
and use plastic shovels
to pour buckets of sand
down the backs and cracks of rubbernecks with discourtesy and no remorse.
Adults shaded, relaxed and
nose deep in books
leave the responsibilities
of their parental duties
with inexperienced lifeguards
to babysit their youngsters
while they doggie paddle
and submerge in the undertow
along the waves of the oceanside.
Concession stands serve
delicious yet unhealthy,
deep fried grotesque of
appetizers and entrees
to the potbellied roly-poleys
as they wash it all down
with a fountain of syrup
and carbonation.
Bare footed beefy **** diesels
and their skinny minis
walk hand and hand
over the broken beer bottles
and sharp rocks buried in the sand,
unscathed and luxuriate
in teenage love
and summer fun.
Dorks and dweebs
play sand sphere
with bunnies and honeys
while Gremlins and grommets
hunch like Quasimodo
on their surfboards
and ride the ankle busters
and pounders til the end
as they hit the bone yard
at point break.
The sun shines down on all of us
leaving that warmth and radiant glow
as you watch the mythical creatures
and sea serpent shaped clouds
slowly overpass.
What a lovely day at the beach.

You and I have become a house on fire, a thousand hoses cannot douse us
we just spark up again, like a Phenoix of desire.
Rubbernecks scoff and say we will go out any second
yet we're still burning, and we will glow white hot
long after all the scoffers go find another house to stare at.
Their voyeurism only feeds our carnal flame. I suppose that we should thank them.
Our flamethrower love cannot be snuffed, slingstones and swords will never be enough
to tear down this house, even our own heat will not destroy it.
Our love is made of the toughest materials.
So we will dance in the bonfire that cannot burn us,
their hoses cannot douse us.
All the hoses fire fluff, that evaporates without ever dimming our light.
This Inferno of ours, is composed of coloured myriads
of lust and passion,
always blended with equal parts love and tenderness.
Because tenderness, it tempers us
it turns our lust to loveliness,
nothing is as perfect as us, standing in our pyre
when we realize we are not the ones being burned.
It's our passion that radiates, our love will never hurt us.
Our bodies aflame, they can't take their eyes off of us.
I can't say I blame them,
for I cannot take my eyes away from you either.
So lets stoke the heat between us, and we will stay together,
living inside the fire of our passion, free forever.


A Burns 2012

There is beauty in tears--
trembling to the floor
they represent passion
the truest expression
of magnificence
the meaning of human
rest inside these feelings.

This is our fantasy
the wonderment:
of watching their pain,
bearing themselves,
and perching each step
nearer to the fifteen floor edge,
that extends itself to the bottomless
apartment complex.

The stangers are preying from below
just out of sight, but close enough
to hear an echo of cries
bouncing off the empty space between them.

This is some form of release
the 'rubbernecks' sing a song akin to Kumbaya,
but instead of seeking harmony
they are predators only desiring
of blood and flesh
to distill their minds
of indiscretions.

They are burdened
by their own unflinching enthusiasm
and ravenous emptiness.

Displacing myself from my perch
I feel an unpleasant revel growing through the crowd,
as I clear their 'emptiness'--
it is always an unpleasant sight
when seeing it all come to an end.

Deceit slithers across the vessel

embracing the stench

of the "would-be carcass".

A feast bestowed by

the imminent descent

awaits to serve

the new peasant king,

whose realm

is as torrid

as the desires

that demand

his presence there.



His eternity

now rubbernecks

the obscene art

which subsists

only by gulping

feverishly on

delicious torments

and  mourns

to witness the

silent testimony

of the sullied design

and  preventable death.

***** girls with lousy guys, drives me crazy
Maybe you shouldn't feel too sorry.

Old Sally, so **** good-looking but a pain in the ***.
                 "Oh, darling, I love you."
                 "You're probably the only reason I'm in New York right now"
I told her I loved her; it was a lie.
    felt like five hundred thousand years, looking at all the phonies.
Ivey League guys with ****** voices,
a witty bunch of actors drinking their tea
and rubbernecks stand around to watch.
    I was a ******* wolf, just wondering for intellectual conversation.
                 Someone, Anyone!
    Just give old Caulfield the time to spoil your evening
                 because he's not sorry at all.