Banging the drums in the depths of hell
the musician drops the beat.

Drumming for demons and sold out souls
the artist stomps his feet.

Everybody's dancing, the liars, the thieves
the creator pops his drink.

Singing, laughing, the killers start clapping
the performer rocks the scene.

Heads are slammin, the felons in famine
the actor inhales to breathe.

Hands in the air, the addicts don't care
the composer brings the heat.

There's chaos in hell, tickets on sale
if you sin then its always free.

The drummer ends the beat.

Moon is getting red
as if it's being strangled
my legs are proving the struggle
the night belongs to a scream
scream of a sparrow
in a gut deep stab
by some homeless from the country far far away
who stomps his feet every time you ask his name
she was rather painted differently
or interpreted differently
but the melancholy woman
I saw in the street selling goody bags
with a huge smile on her face
as I turn around the block
it was alley of the gunshot
people talk here in gunshot
gunshot carols
gunshot lullabies
gunshot romance
gunshot cry
gunshot memories
the subtle is the step you take
the subtle is every trigger you pull
bite you lips and
you are accused of being a communist
sad howl wakes up the city
the feeling of being mugged is haunting every lamp
every star
every eye
everything that glows
and
in a quiet distant direction
voyage continues
on a day
slipping into a moonless night

shattering crystal ***** filled

with elemental forces on the

crown of Mt. Olympus.

a Goddess tantrum stomps

barefoot on the pieces of what

summon the muse of her.

as torridly as the death of her...

the poetics of moment swoons.

that'll give her far, far away.

Some read books to remember.

I reached my hand into the familiar darkness that enveloped my backpack,
Slipping my fingers between
yellowed notebooks
and forgotten pencils
to grasp a memory in solid form.

As the leather that enclosed paper portals to the past
Ascended out of the deepest recesses of my dilapidated schoolbag
I couldn’t help but feel a sense of
Home.

The only way I feel that now is through the pages of the journal,
Each alabaster sheet lined with emotional braille for my fingers to explore.
Explore the time when I:
Spilled some juice on my journal during a camp,
the paper wrinkled to attest to it.
Needed spare materials for making my art projects,
the frayed edges of torn paper remain to attest to it.
Had sunk into the deepest cellars of an affection that would never be reciprocated,
the heart-shaped holes in the pages reflecting the holes put in my heart
lingered to attest to it.



I kept reading through the night,
Filling my clock with convivial memories of scintillant days and ethereal nights
Where moments of happiness and peace met like how the ocean washes onto the shore
And before I knew it, the last grains of time streamed through my fingers
And sleep took me into his mellow embrace.  

But even in the fortresses of the dream world, evil still slithers to find me
It crawls on its underbelly, sneaking towards my bed high up in the tower
And there, it throws me out the window,
And I plunge into another world.

She is hunched over a paper at the desk,
A smile fills her face as she signs the document.
Dread wracks my heart, and I crumple into a corner to watch it unfold.
I see her rise like a dragon almost slain in battle,
A victorious look adorns her face as she leaves her seat.

Then I burst in.
Little, unaware, nine-year old me.
With tears straight from my soul cascading down my cheek, I ask if I’ll ever see my father again.
Rage replaces triumph as she storms over to me, then strikes me across my face with a typhoon of force.
She screeches “never talk about” before nearly choking on my father’s name.
Little me crumbles into the floor, becoming the rubble that once was a happy child,
While my mother stomps towards an alcohol cabinet that would soon become full of empty bottles.

I, the spectator, shudder heavily in remembrance.
The only thing worse than a nightmare is a memory.
I wake up in my bed, sunbeams gleaming through my curtains.

I reach my hand into the familiar darkness that envelops my backpack,
Slipping my fingers between
yellowed notebooks that are filled with inhumane insults about being an abused kid,
and forgotten pencils that were used to write letters where I bled my troubles onto paper,
to grasp a new book.

As the paperback that enclosed an adventure to a new world,
Where the family of the lead character gave more love than they did punishment,
Switched places with a journal covered in old, worn leather,
I couldn’t help but feel the need to stick my nose right in there and get reading.

Some read books to remember.
Some read books to forget.