The piper coming from far away is you
With a whitewash brush for a sporran
Wobbling round you, a kitchen chair
Upside down on your shoulder, your right arm
Pretending to tuck the bag beneath your elbow,
Your pop-eyes and big cheeks nearly bursting
With laughter, but keeping the drone going on
Interminably, between catches of breath.



The whitewash brush. An old blanched skirted thing
On the back of the byre door, biding its time
Until spring airs spelled lime in a work-bucket
And a potstick to mix it in with water.
Those smells brought tears to the eyes, we inhaled
A kind of greeny burning and thought of brimstone.
But the slop of the actual job
Of brushing walls, the watery grey
Being lashed on in broad swatches, then drying out
Whiter and whiter, all that worked like magic.
Where had we come from, what was this kingdom
We knew we'd been restored to? Our shadows
Moved on the wall and a tar border glittered
The full length of the house, a black divide
Like a freshly opened, pungent, reeking trench.



**** at the gable, the dead will congregate.
But separately. The women after dark,
Hunkering there a moment before bedtime,
The only time the soul was let alone,
The only time that face and body calmed
In the eye of heaven.

Buttermilk and *****,
The pantry, the housed beasts, the listening bedroom.
We were all together there in a foretime,
In a knowledge that might not translate beyond
Those wind-heaved midnights we still cannot be sure
Happened or not. It smelled of hill-fort clay
And cattle dung. When the thorn tree was cut down
You broke your arm. I shared the dread
When a strange bird perched for days on the byre roof.



That scene, with Macbeth helpless and desperate
In his nightmare--when he meets the hags agains
And sees the apparitions in the ***--
I felt at home with that one all right. Hearth,
Steam and ululation, the smoky hair
Curtaining a cheek. 'Don't go near bad boys
In that college that you're bound for. Do you hear me?
Do you hear me speaking to you? Don't forget!'
And then the postick quickening the gruel,
The steam crown swirled, everything intimate
And fear-swathed brightening for a moment,
Then going dull and fatal and away.



Grey matter like gruel flecked with blood
In spatters on the whitewash. A clean spot
Where his head had been, other stains subsumed
In the parched wall he leant his back against
That morning like any other morning,
Part-time reservist, toting his lunch-box.
A car came slow down Castle Street, made the halt,
Crossed the Diamond, slowed again and stopped
Level with him, although it was not his lift.
And then he saw an ordinary face
For what it was and a gun in his own face.
His right leg was hooked back, his sole and heel
Against the wall, his right knee propped up steady,
So he never moved, just pushed with all his might
Against himself, then fell past the tarred strip,
Feeding the gutter with his copious blood.

*

My dear brother, you have good stamina.
You stay on where it happens. Your big tractor
Pulls up at the Diamond, you wave at people,
You shout and laugh about the revs, you keep
old roads open by driving on the new ones.
You called the piper's sporrans whitewash brushes
And then dressed up and marched us through the kitchen,
But you cannot make the dead walk or right wrong.
I see you at the end of your tether sometimes,
In the milking parlour, holding yourself up
Between two cows until your turn goes past,
Then coming to in the smell of dung again
And wondering, is this all? As it was
In the beginning, is now and shall be?
Then rubbing your eyes and seeing our old brush
Up on the byre door, and keeping going.

Snarling, fangs shining, moonlight illuminating ferocious beasts,
limbs tangling, separating, lunging, caught within deadly battle.
Scarlet streams trickle from trees gouged like the bellies of their prey,
canine fiends bare their teeth, their growls like black thunder,
facing these soulless demons smeared with the blood of many.
Bodies drop with screams still rattling inside their rib cages,
demons devouring with rage that can never be quenched,
their hearts ripped from their chests, veins slit,
arteries torn mercilessly out of still warm flesh.
Creatures created from pure insanity that breed nothing but anger,
fear and despair, children's corpses torn apart, their skulls shattered.
Snapping of jaws still slimed with internal juices,
bits of raw flesh clinging to hair that shimmers under the blood red moon.
Hissing from the shadows, knotted into frenzied war,
animated corpses beside twisted bodies of wolves,
wounds gushing ruby tears, still pulsing organs shredded.
Flames rush from overturned fires,
shrieking forms, torches wavering through darkness.
Pale beings gather for the finale,
blood spatters across ground, staining everything within it's reach.
Only two are left, facing each other in the coming dawn.
Heaps of creatures litter this burned, bloodied ground, none alive.

( while taking a tour through those poems readers are requested to keep in their hands,  a feather from the pea-****’s tail )

Volga - 1

there might have been some provocation
on the part of the  rat’s bible  

it is not known when and how
every piece of sleep that spatters  
from the oesophagus of the dip-swimming  
has stick to the c-sharp
of the newly-purchased tooth-brush

the air within the wish-bicycle
figures nothing less

how much is it necessary now
to ****** the blue-hue  with the study
that can be saved by the depression of the Ganges-basin
to develop the snap-shot of the garland-exchange with the
antiseptic cream

would you think it for some moments
my lord
the lord of the market

before sending any secret e-mail
to the cyclone
residing in the room
behind the stair-case
let the Volga be read once more
with all its clothes
and hair-styles

Volga - 2

the winter of the water-canon
oxidised by the fireflies
wants to touch every bamboo-flute
of this soil, it seems

as if it plays
in the body of every cauliflower
the total memorising-skill
of  the blue and yellow pyramid

and if some lines of changes
in the planet be added
the birth-day of the bolster
that goes to the sea
may learn with a lesser effort
the pollen-efficiency of the nail-marked walls

how much should I scold the squirrels
who don’t want to swim
in the still-water of the black-board  

Volga – 3

the green-circuit of the fried-almonds
that was submerged
in the open-hair of the afternoon
the whole-night workshop
has taught
the thumb-impression is to be put
how far below it

if the autobiographies are planted
into the drawer of nature
the solubility of the river-reed
gets it done too late at night

all the plus-signs around
from their etiquettes
come down  

so many foot-notes
caused by the season-changes

so before planting life
to the address of the wall-lamps
it seems the cotton-flower
written by the oceans
began yawning

Volga – 4

to the homoeopathy phial
standing on the traffic-island
why it appears
within her womb
the number of germinated nights
stolen without a kiss
is too little

is then it true
if all the chanting of Harinam
can’t be withdrawn from the alcohol
the body-odour of the running tamarisk-shrub  
will enter into the circuit-house

and that devouring of the parchment
brings to the feelings of the non-veg ant-hills
the let’s-go-cure
gathering in the sauce-island

Volga - 5

coming to this ironed canal-side
every auto-rickshaw  
wants to know and let other know
the mystery
behind  the rice-rain
from the cirrus                                                

the shame in the eyes of the seal containing signs
supplies the whole-sale dealership
of the civil disobedience movement
to the locality

the role of the hammer also
wakes up early in the morning
to put under its own tongue
an antacid

is it possible that the spits
used in the observatory
be made a little more fast-moving

manuscript of the basement of a well

the biography of the pond-heron will be scripted
even-then the productivity of the merry-go-round
wouldn’t be uttered for a moment
no sir, such has never been expected

in the liquefied banana-blossoms
too many hot breads resulted from the season-change
continues to bat  vehemently  
and climbs to the peak of heart-throbbing runs

they in a group will go to the
aqua anetha of the mole hill
to organise a folk-song

to understand this
no arbitration of the cactus is required

notwithstanding
it is heard that the thread was pulled
by the violin of  the wife of the moon-god
from behind the screen

here in the eye-front
is the basement of the morning-well

on its one page lies the faulty  crow-caws
and on another some sun-shines
swinging on the hanger
after some pages in recurring …the chicken-pox … the boot-polish …

within the two covers of the dance-drama
also comes the creepers and herbs
grown around the melting point
of the arm-chair
whose legs are broken

if each pore on the skin of the river-lily
becomes so much known
then in the background of this low land

let us have one game more

The King of the World is on his way now,
he always shows up when the chips are down.
Everyone just loves The King of the World,
he always arrives with his banners unfurled.

The King can be a loud chap,
or The King can be quite a quiet mime,
he even puts his pants on
one royal leg at a time!

The King might eat breakfast,
or The King just might not,
he is everything you are,
yet is is all that you forgot.

He's a musician of sorts,
with a very big band,
his arrival is in herald,
throughout every land
-with brass trumpets a-blare,
and snare-drums rat-a-tat,
he makes everyone aware,
that he's now where you're at!

The King marches his forces
through the cities and fields,
assure of his courses,
lying flat beneath his heel.

He revels at the sight of deterioration,
fills his belly with the joy of nations in extinction.
The King grounds everything down to things he scrapes off his boots,
he topples the governs and poisons the cultural roots.

The King's fixations are splashed with spatters of blood,
turning kingdoms into crumbles of ashes and mud.
He bulldozes the bodies into toxic pits of ****,
contaminates by obscenity, wringing his hands at the wit.
Lionized by his minions in the empty empires he wrought,
The King's elite ruling class is dictated with rot.

In the aftermath of the bile
of his genocidal, sweet plight,
The King celebrates with great style,
turning the daylight into night.

With bonfires a-blaze on the wicked, windy wasteland,
The King of the World strikes up his big band,
and once marching again will torch and ravish the land,
dropping massive, beautiful bombs for the sake of the thrill,
melting the people and villages and eroding the hills.

The time for The King
always is nigh,
for he is surrounded by
the conjurations of lies.

Some say he is evil,
(but, he's not the Devil, you see)
-He's The King of the World,
he is you, he is *me.

To soak up the dirt is to soak up the stories.
My story is grime pushed into the cracks in the concrete
From all the crusty hobos and sweat-sheened showgirls.
My story is glitter from all the strippers and their grinning patrons, and
*****, spilled liquor, and ***** from those who have sought a cure.
I am nourished by pain, and also rubber from the wheels of souped-up sports cars
Driven by men with chasmic souls. The oil from a billion french fries
Palliates the sting of alcohol upon my fractured, ***** skin.
The filth of the cigarettes and of the **** smoke,
Dank in the air, and heavy, slathers on another coat.
I see all things and I hear all things and I know all things.

I can see up your skirt right now, you precious little object,
As you flee the casino like a gull from a shark’s open jaws.
Your nightmare is right behind you, and he’s starving.
His humanity has been chewed up by the worms of his rancor,
And all that remains is an animal with hot blood on his brain.
In the alleyway I hear the pop and crack as stiletto gives way to concrete
And bone gives way to undue stress. His smile is unhinged as
Stifled screams and muffled gunshot atomize in the black air.

A decade later, the mops of sad janitors cut through like razors,
Making clean spots more unsightly than the ocean of grunge.
Surreptitious blood spatters, long since scrubbed
Still glint under blacklight.  The chalk outlines have absorbed
Into my unholy black skin, and though I was drunk on your blood,
I still remember cradling you as you died.

I am weary.
Bright pink and
Blue jeans,
Comforting arms.
A mood undefinable,
Sad and rejoiced,
Unfortunately fortunate.
The wind carries the
Water which falls…
Spatters, drips
On me.
Careless I am, but
Confused and lost yet,
Happy and content.
Bright pink and
Blue jeans,
The sunrise.

You know how when you walk down the street
You can hear the whispers about everyone else on that street

That the frail, sallow faced homeless man with the rattling tin can
That man whose moaning and screeching weakly to himself can only mean bad things

Ought be locked away; shoved into a loony bin
Ought to be rattling his skull against a padded wall instead of a can

Well they all say he must have lost his marbles somehow
Well they must have fallen from his ears like gumballs from a metal chute

As if sanity is just a series of tiny glass ***** that you could lose beneath your bed
As if the memories and morality of some demented women are just collecting dust somewhere

But I doubt that sanity should be perceived in that fashion
But I doubt that our mental stability isn’t more like one massive marble

All thick and glassy but crusted in spatters of glitter
All shiny and glimmering with the memories of some tortured soul

Rocking back and forth against their skulls and chipping away their ability to cope
Rocking back and forth the way they do in the fetal position; alone in their bedrooms

Breaking off tinsel-y bits of their childhood, their personality, their purpose
Breaking off a kaleidoscope chunk of their minds

Perhaps we don't ‘lose’ our marbles at all
Perhaps they just crumble away

Dark splotches on the walls of the tub..
How does it not scare you?
It's become the normal and that scares me.

But you are me.

I stand here by the cliffs I have called home
since before my heart kept time,
and look into the sea, raging beneath my feet.
Each crashing spume spatters my face
with a cascade of tiny droplets,
like a shower of sea sprite kisses upon my cheeks and eyelids.
Through the mist I can just see the sun rising
like a golden disk of inexhaustible fire,
painting the cliff side in its incomparable magnificence.
All the horrors of this life wash away, like our original sin
under the baptismal font of the sea's spray.
Looking at that sun, my spirit soars, and I finally understand
the glory of being free.
Flocks of migratory birds dive and climb above the  roaring waves,
soon the puffin shall roost here, for now it is the smaller varieties
that serenade me in my morning revelry.
Everything is gorgeous out here in the mist, every creature and stone
glows with its own undeniable inner light, the cliffs turn into bonfires of beauteous splendor
the surface of the sea paints the flitting reflections on its roiling surface
turning tiny birds into the mirror images of angels
descending from heaven, to greet this misty morning with me.
I ponder jumping off this cliff, as life shall surely never grant such wonder again,
until I hear a voice from over my shoulder, call out, bearing with it the scents
of blood sausage frying, and porridge blended with wildflower honey and blueberries.
My favourite meal, by far. So I take in one more glance, at the slowly rising sun,
turn away from the precipice, listen to the birds call out to me, "Farewell, until tomorrow"
they seem to say. It is moments like this that invigorate the soul, and fill a man
with the desire to live, and persevere, to enjoy one more breakfast with someone
who loves them back with a fervor, that would give the raging sea pause to witness it.
I will whistle if I want to whistle, I do whistle, as I make my way down the treacherous path,
that leads to the warm and welcome bliss, that is a single meal,
on a beautiful late spring morning, with someone who looks forward to seeing you
everyday. Someone who understands love, and commitment far better than I.
Someone like you. Who would kiss me ten times as lovingly, as the droplets of mist.
Just as the sea painted my face like a living canvas,
with the rainbow coloured joyous tears of angels rejoicing.
Someone like me, who deserves far less than life feels is my just share.
I pour the strong scented amber brew, from the *** into my cup, and breath deeply.
The heady aroma of Irish breakfast blend, is like a dose of smelling salts,
waking me from the nights slumbers, reminding me that I am not dreaming,
this misty morning is a true gift, and only a fool would deny the existence of beauty
on a morning such as this.
This is why we toil and strive, mend walls, and patch the roof.
So if we are blessed, we can spend just one such morning, once in this life,
eating food prepared with affection, a strong cup of Twining's,
and the re-energizing aura, of simply being loved.
If there is more than this to life, may I die never knowing it.
For how could heaven ever compare to this morning?


A Burns 2012

Sometimes, through no fault of your own, you will end up ******.
You'll get blood on your dress, blood on your shoes
blood in your hair, blood on the walls,
speckled on your lips and clinging to your eyelashes
copper in your mouth, rust under your fingernails
four perfect spatters below you
palms stained, bringing out your handprints
as if to identify that it is indeed you, covered in blood.

So you'll decide to restore yourself
and you'll resolve to wash it all away.
And as you scrub away your shame,
you'll look in the mirror
to see a woman with pursed lips
jewels heavy around her neck
brow dark and furrowed, concentrating
because she, too, is covered in blood.

You will wash your hands with her
and try not to look so pale
because the water is orange and your fingertips are white.
You will turn away from the woman with raw hands
and your palms will smell like lemons
and your eyes will be bright.
Your lips will be crimson.
You'll adjust your necklace as you leave.

It was easy to love him. Maybe because his heart sounded honest when I pressed my ear against his chest. Kah-thump. Kah-thump. I will never leave you. Kah-thump. Kah-thump. We could lay here forever. Kah-thump. Kah-thump. We can turn into a pile of entangled bones and dust. Kah-thump. Kah-thump.

Maybe it was because I have always believed in happy endings. I like to shut off Titanic right in the middle and pretend it never sank; pretend Rose and Jack got off that ship and had ten cute, artistic, red-headed babies and spent their lives laughing and drinking beer and reminiscing of the time they met on that great big boat. I never let myself watch the end. The romantic in me won’t allow it.

Or it could have just been the fact that he was the first boy I ever loved, and there’s something really intoxicating about the first time you fall in love. It’s like chugging a whole bottle of whiskey – it burns and it tingles and you feel kind of sick and the world becomes a huge blur of laughter and inhibition.

I remember the exact moment I realized I loved him. We were laying in his bed and a song by George Barnett came on. The one about Thor, angles and heaven above. I loved this song, and he knew that so he started to sing. He started to sing and it sounded like a cat that was being slowly strangled and I laughed and pressed my palms against my ears and he just sang louder. When I went to escape the awful droning of his off-key melody, he pressed me tightly against himself and nibbled lightly on my ear and I knew in that moment that if I could be anywhere with anyone – if I could stand on the Eiffel Tower with Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley and lightly sip champagne as we discussed the good ol’ days of Hollywood-- I wouldn’t. I would be right there in that tiny twin sized bed that just barely had room enough for both of us as long as he held me close, listening to this gangly boy sing this wonderful song.

It was in that moment I knew I was in love. I knew I was ******.

After that all I wanted to do was say it. We would be ordering chinese food and I’d think “I feel like having something other than seseame chicken. I love you.” We’d be driving down the road and he’d be ******* about construction and I’d think “Yeah, it is annoying that it takes thirty minutes just to get down 33rd but I love you.” My love for him infected everything I did. He was the most beautiful virus I had ever been plagued by.

Relatively speaking, it was barely a blimp on the vast radar of a lifetime. I can’t remember the start and end dates exactly. I don’t remember much about that year at all, actually, except that it was filled with breathless kisses and nervous firsts. I remember that he always smelled of laundry detergent. He lived in the basement, which was also where the washer and dryer was kept. and the smell of fresh clean clothes and Tide stayed embedded in his skin. I still breathe in deeply when I walk into the detergent isle at smiths. Habit, I suppose. It always transports me back to then. It was one of the best years of my life.

We broke up eventually. He never told me why. But in the end it was really just life. Life has a way of changing the most permanent things into temporary ones. Thankfully, it can do the same with a broken heart.

I’d like to know he ended up happy.

I plan on falling in love again, too. Each time its own masterpiece. My heart is my romantic Michelangelo. Every time it beats it produces a new and beautiful Sistine Chapel, but instead of paint, it is pain and pleasure that spatters against the ceiling.

He is still my favorite piece, though. Our love is my most treasured creation, even if it only lives through memories. It lives in a young girl’s laughter, in an awkward boy’s terrible singing voice, in the innocence of two teenage lovers between the sheets, who haven’t yet experienced the pain that echoes within the terrible truth that love is sometimes not enough.

Every now and then when I’m feeling old or unoriginal or just depressed, I pull out the memory of my first love and his strong, honest heart. I replay my favorite parts in my head. I smile at what I see. I’d like to think he does too.

The jolt is what wakes me
In the air, in my stomach
With chills running up my legs
Fingers so cold...
Breath of the sky spatters down
In rain drops; I'm surrounded
I relax into it
I want to fight it
I want to live it
Eye-born lightning strikes me,
The same place twice
And finally when the thunder rolls
I am washed clean
So new

Arcane rumblings bellow out from the infrastructure.
The secrets swell out from the wealthy infidels. Their water has broken.
The top-hat henchmen gather their whiskers.
Stuttering shock and leaking their whispers,
vulcan-loud.

The wise old casualties know all of what’s to come,
    so they pack their sacks with their old guns
    to fortify their army of one.
The news skips the billions of ignorant families
    condemning daughters and sons to an army of none.

The first bullets abandon their barrels,
    the kick-off to pain, from poise.
Eager to byte flesh, fur, faith,
    eager to make some godawful noise.
The following blasts are a metallic symphony
Quickly looming, swooning,
    booming into cacophony
                                                      in shrill-major.

Blood spatters pavement, under marching feet,
is dragged, looped about the streets in a homicide calligraphy,
paralyzing the squinting mercenaries.

Out come the canons,
              dancing on their wheels,
           silencing the gunfire,
         spinning on their heels,
     dissenting the sonata with rifle-explosion accompaniment.

Warrior sighs greet the late auxiliary:
     armadas sing in baritone
     while civilians scream soprano.
         Children cry in alto.
         Blood flows in legato.
Today some of us will die
so that the rest will open their eyes
to an oversky, cloud-bloated with lies.

While down below we blaze away our requiem.
And by the hand of this same melody we die.
Here lies humanity,
       fashioning,
       always,
    a bellicose smile.

A trail in the snow:

the fresh footprints of a fox --


along red spatters.

The rain is falling glass
Shattering from the angels' eyes
They hit the ground in shards they splash
And if you look close enough you'll find a reflection of lies

The unwashable wounds of problems past
Awaken the demons that gush your logic out of mind
Half-remembering telling yourself that last time was the last
But everyone dances with the devil when they've been left behind

Something sharp, subtle pain, screams at the edge of the glass shards
And the angels cry their silent pleas that your deafened ears refuse to hear
A blinding reflection of white light (maybe white lies) stun your mind's composure guards
While the devil comes out to play in the glass rain, turning spatters into basalt ashes of burnt-out fears.

The blackness of night screams alive.
Voices shouting from the deepest place
buried away in my scarred mind.

Flashbacks,
and the penny taste of blood keeps me awake
dragging and twisting my exhausted
body and psyche further away from sleep.

Liquid of life burns through my veins.
I feel it flow knowing those under the sheets
lined up on sides of streets were left cold.

The smell of blood is thick tonight.
It persists on the hands of any soldier
long after arriving back home.

I swear I leave ****** finger prints and
stray scatters of crimson spatters all around.

The secrets I keep
are starting to drip
slowly out of me.

i lay awake at night
and
listen to the sound the rain makes.
it spatters onto the ground with such purpose
that i can not help but feel jealousy in the pit
of my empty stomach.
the rain knows where its going and where its been.
i wander, confused at who i am and who i'm going to be.
i crave the feeling of certainty.
to know if i'm going to pull the string attached to my lips
and pull it into another forced smile another day.
i lay awake at night and
wish to be a drop of rain.

leaves fall from
tree bark shoots
left some pellets
scatter the ground

spatters of petals
lying across them
like stains marking
a once vibrant floor.

trump is lurching like a loose cannon
Denying evidence and logic
he separates language from meaning
When Bait and Switch is his chief project
Those xenophobic fires he’s fannin’
Spatters his word salad recklessly
Like a loose cannon

This conman sold some a bill of goods
With gibberish worse than Tinnitus
Propaganda by steve bannon
An alternate universe naked
Like a loose cannon

princess blood cult
throne of tethers
rumor's of frazzle drip murders
and blood spatters
on a bed of grinning hooks

X
marks the *******
she bled they fed
in love in bed

torn dress and flutter ******
form her squandered torso
as bare feet dangled
while skies shrieked knotted eyes
watching her get it hard

wet **** drunk
she tumbled
in this little black house of madness
****** her in a sack of sins
while **** buckarooed  
in a wood shed paradise

welcoming death by sexicide
she backstroked head over heels
exposed
flirting in the graveyard hacked and black

beckoning orchards that
caressed her by squirming *****

she adored the mole that snuggled her
while thighs shuddered with anticipation
hurricane tongued
she licked grinning *****
for pudenda's pillow
shimmed black light disco daggers
down her lips
to ****
to thighs
to drooling
raw lips

her ****
like a shucked oyster

whimpering disciple
of enticing wounds
bloom in gloom
she tasted like taffy panicked *******

erotomaniac
from head
to lips
to feet
chanting squeals
of infernal opera
in the throws of blood *******
and weeping barbarous 
stammer
beezel blaba blaba
Beelzebub

her body stained labyrinth floors
in soiled cathedrals of desire
while growing phantasm babies
he whispered death music
in grottos of legs over head
that made her hotter than
boiled fish eyes

chopped her in two
she  squirmed
shivering inkblots of madness
cu cu cu cu cu cu
*******

swing the scythe
and
get the knife
she shrilled

pump the ****
split the bone
smudge the lips
spit and blood
moon eyes turn blood gauze
and heads swivels hula

the **** yields
a spooled mouth contortion

her *** crack
a smile of accomplishment
and tormented ballet feet
stretched tickle toes
for heavens edge

she panted rolling away dark air
in an uneasy creeping
and widened thighs
she lost her head
like a chopped carrot
for the miracle of oblivion

you could hear the last thump
falling as silence falls

she spread like bat a wing umbrella

She steps from her bed
Pin-tucked sprigged and lacy.
Piling her hair aloft she moves outside-
Bare-foots along the path
Through the evergreen trees.

Knowing she has a chance to cool her marrow
She approaches the koi filled pool
Listening to water entering water.
She pauses.
Her marrow has been burning
For so many years.
Now she needs it cooler.

As she enters ankle deep
Her lips hiss her heat away.

The blanket **** greens her and the rain
Spits and spatters on her sprigs and lace.
As she tumbles her hair
She stands stock still among darting goldness
As a generation of heat leaves her to her new cold will.

Yet still there burns a sun inside her sudden sated.
She drips and dances towards her new day
Wearing her warm new fancy.

I just needed to make a call
Check in with the office
**** pay phones never work
Stealing all my money
On dangerous street corners
Where wary faces
Suspiciously eye me
Before yielding some space
To another intruder

And I have to watch them too
Watch my back
My eyes to the side
That must be why
I didn't notice
Only wondered what made the
Plastic so sticky
Pressed up against my ear
A nosebleed sick smell

Those brown red spatters of
Ketchup a kid squirted
More there and there and
Down on the ground
A congealing pond
More ketchup, I'm standing in it
Then I realize it's not ketchup
And I'm retching like I'll *****
Tell the office I gotta hang up

Tight chest begins refusing
Sin's air it will not breath in
I'm loosing fast
The mask
The street face I put on
Clenched jaw, tight lips
Drowning man claws to surface
For the safety of composure

The faces, they're still watching
They knew what I do now
My grimy hand disgusts me
Like a rotten stinking fish
And I don't want to put it
Back into my pocket
To find that ****** car key
But they own this corner,
I just needed to make a call

Trapped in these horrid walls
Beige lies, broken bones, hidden flaws
Purple and blue beneath these scars
Hell is home, Live amongst the shards

Filled me up, blood to overflow
Time passes, sit and laugh, they never go
Paint it green, Paint it black
Nothing changes, so what is one more hack

According to you I'm not worthy
To breath the air you do
To step amongst the spots you've touched
According to you I'm a shame
Struck and thrown around
Made to take your blame

One more blow, blood spatters
Head on the floor, heart shatters
Can you be right, wrong, not knowing
Leave her there to bleed, hidden, not showing

Fear, Loss, heartache and pain
Emotions mean nothing, not when you're vain
Walk away, to the beige, lights flash
They hold lies, numbness, another lash

According to you I'm not worthy
To breathe the air you do
To step amongst the spots you've touched
According to you I'm a shame
Struck and thrown around
Made to take your blame

twilight rain spatters
morse code of vitality
parched plant's s.o.s.

hot butter strolls down my face
and rolls down my nose
dribbles down my chin
and spatters the floor
the lustrous linoleum

i cry tears of sugar
it tastes much too sweet
as they mix with my thoughts
and pour into the cracked bowl
the jaded green memory

my hands are matted with white
and caked with delight
but it's a less-than-pleasant mess
i've used too much
it called for just a teaspoon

A stone face higher than six horses stood five thousand
     years gazing at the world seeming to clutch a secret.
A boy passes and throws a niggerhead that chips off the
     end of the nose from the stone face; he lets fly a
     mud ball that spatters the right eye and cheek of the
     old looker-on.
The boy laughs and goes whistling "ee-ee-ee ee-ee-ee."
     The stone face stands silent, seeming to clutch a
     secret.

I just have to speak my mind, ok
It's this dysfunctional need I have to be heard
Otherwise I leak out everywhere and it makes a mess and it stains people's hands in these beautiful hues but they're colorblind
so all they can see is gray and black mud spatters
and my heart shatters at the thought that nobody will ever understand me.

Banshee screams echo in the icy, crackling gloom
Warm, freshly pumped blood spatters a pale moon
reflected in dilated pupils
whose freeze-frame focus seems fixed on steam
from that memorable last breath
slowly dissipating

Menacing, gutteral snarls
Tarmac demoniac sniffs her ****
snaps drooling fangs
at a scythe wielding spectre
snatching stunned
souls from twitching corpses
Now she packs them in pecking order

Splintered crystals of falling glass
mournfully ****** ****** the last post
Distraught, upended armco barriers
hold their freeze-frame salute
and Babylon thrums a bit louder

May I see your license please

While the world is trying to reach us
We abandon shallow spectres of time
And scratch each other’s itches
Salaciously.

We sink into these magic hours,
****** under coverlets of dreams.
While outside thunders leaden showers,
No water leaks in through the seams

Surrounded like a snake
By suffocators of reality
We shed each other’s skins
Coiled in twists of content.

Angels dance from her fingertips,
Twirling in nascent currents.

The world outside is dissolute
It wails and spatters.
It sneers in through silver panes
It wants none of what we have, the miscreant;
It wants only to breathe its grimy breath.

But we are resolute.
In fact we are ebullient.
The haze of incense, the heat of bodies,
Our world is infinitesimal.

We cavort under our big top; our tipi;
Our tableclothed Elysium.
We dance through each other’s minds
Twirling golden ribbons
Behind us like shooting stars.

We soar through subconscious clouds
And smile at forbidden sunlight
Splashed across our faces.

And we sink back slowly
Listening to the fading showers
We sink back slowly
Into these magic hours.