Loneliness.
What is it?
It is a concept we so rarely describe in detail.
We've made up a specific word for it-
Three little syllables-
Just so that we can say it and be done with it,
And escape the contemplation.
But I know my own loneliness cannot be captured,
Cannot be encompassed,
By merely the word.
What is loneliness?
It comes in all shapes and sizes,
A space,
A lack,
That can be big or small,
Sudden or excruciatingly slow,
Sharp or fuzzy at the edges.
Hell,
It can even be comforting.
What is it about loneliness that is so insidious?
Harder to rid yourself of than fear
Or anger
Or even such tricky, barbed things as doubt
Or hope,
That stick.
Loneliness doesn't stick.
It seeps.
Steeps.
You stew in it.
It is beginning to occur to me that I don't believe,
Once one realizes loneliness for the first time,
That one is ever truly rid of it again,
Even for a second.
I think it is a permanence that we as a race refuse to acknowledge most of the time.
Some forms of lonely are fairly benign-
The little tingle on the edges of you, when you are home alone and the house is silent,
And for no apparent reason at all-
No sadness, no fear, no thought that is particularly unpleasant that you must drown out-
You nonetheless feel the compulsion to switch on the television
Even if you won't watch,
Just to break the stillness with a human voice besides your own.
Then there are the darker types, the truly ensnaring ones,
The lonelinesses born of the memory of times when,
Perhaps, you were less lonely,
Or even thought that you had flushed the feeling from your soul entirely.
Loneliness is an otherness,
An alien thing that lives in your heart,
That makes you question whether there is anyone out there who would have you
If they knew
What was on the inside.
There is the type of loneliness that creeps up on you and follows nipping at your heels like a shadow on the pavement as you move through your day,
Reminding you, whispering in your ear that here you felt less alone, and there, and that those places are full now,
Of emptiness,
Because those times have passed and not had the courtesy to clean up their cobwebs-
Memories linger in certain little spots, and collect like dust little pockets of loneliness that grab you all of a sudden,
The way forgotten spiderwebs stick in your hair as you move through an old house.
This type is jarring, disturbing, and
Afterwards I always feel the desperate need to wash away the feeling,
Scrub myself down.
There is the breed of loneliness that is a bit more genteel,
And curls cold at your feet like a well trained dog,
Formal and subtle, but constant,
Watching.
This is the sort that makes you feel just somewhat hunted,
When you try to sit in silence by a fire at night in your living room
And find that you must read a book to drive the stillness from your head.
There is the truly hollow kind,
The kind that has no courtesy whatsoever,
And actually slithers into you, inhabiting your heart and stomach and bones
As you try to fall asleep
With ice.
It is this kind that, if it is strong enough
(and you are weak enough)
For it to remain until morning
Forbids even the smallest human touch-
Every gesture of tenderness from another person
Makes this loneliness increase,
Every embrace, every handshake, every accidental contact of skin
Becomes unbearable,
And the afflicted shies away,
Perpetuating a cycle of vicious disconnection.
They all leave a little something cold, even when they recede,
In the core of you, that won't be dislodged no matter what you try.
Loneliness,
Like a cancer,
Can only be considered in remission,
And never truly cured.
For when given room to prosper even for the space of a second it expands and swallows up your thoughts
Until they whither with frostbite.
I suppose I shouldn't be shocked-
As humans we live side by side, arms linked with
Most of the things that will eventually **** us,
What's one more, cozying up inside our skulls,
Inside our hearts?
We have a partnership-
An entirely human concept-
With all that destroys us.
And so we live with out loneliness, like a second shadow.
What is loneliness?
I am still unsure.
I can only describe what loneliness does,
Not what it is.
*I think that maybe to understand it
Would be to die of it.

Russia and America circle each other;
Threats nudge an act that were without doubt
A melting of the mould in the mother,
Stones melting about the root.

The quick of the earth burned out:
The toil of all our ages a loss
With leaf and insect. Yet flitting thought
(Not to be thought ridiculous)

Shies from the world-cancelling black
Of its playing shadow: it has learned
That there's no trusting (trusting to luck)
Dates when the world's due to be burned;

That the future's no calamitous change
But a malingering of now,
Histories, towns, faces that no
Malice or accident much derange.

And though bomb be matched against bomb,
Though all mankind wince out and nothing endure --
Earth gone in an instant flare --
Did a lesser death come

Onto the white hospital bed
Where one, numb beyond her last of sense,
Closed her eyes on the world's evidence
And into pillows sunk her head.

Ah Consuela! Invoking vast vistas for visions of green Spanish eyes,
I discern them again where she left me back then,
                 as we kissed when she parted, my friend.
Through those ruins I tread towards the footlights, now dead,
                 where I’ll muse as her shadows ascend.

                  .
                          .
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she teases the mirror with green Spanish eyes;
her serape entangles her brooches and bangles
                 like lace on the sorcerer’s looms,
and her cape of the night, she drapes tight to excite,
                 and her fan is embellished with plumes.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching as spectators savour her green Spanish eyes;
taming wild concertinas, the dark ballerina
                 performs on the music hall stage,
but she shies from the sound of ovation unbound
                 like a timorous bird in a cage.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she quickens the pit with her green Spanish eyes;
as the cymbals shake, clashing, the floodlights wake, flashing,
                 igniting the wild fireflies,
and the piccolo piper’s inviting the vipers
                 to coil neath the cold caldron skies.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the shimmering shadows in green Spanish eyes
as I rise from my chair and proceed to the stair
                 with a hesitant sip of my wine.
Though she doesn’t deny me, she wanders right by me
                 with neither a look nor a sign.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she looks to the stage with her green Spanish eyes,
(for her senses scoff, scorning the biblical warning
                 of kisses of Judas that sting,
with her pierced ears defeating the echoes repeating)
                 and smiles at the magpie that sings.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching faint embers a’ stir in her green Spanish eyes,
for a soft spoken stranger enveloping danger
                 has captured the rhyme in the room
as he slips into sight through a crack in the night
                 midst the breath of her heavy perfume.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she gauges his guise through her green Spanish eyes
– from his gypsy-like mane, to his diamond stud cane,
                 to the raven engraved on his vest –
for a faraway form, a tempestuous storm,
                 lurks and heaves neath the cleav’e of her *******.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the caravels cruising her green Spanish eyes;
with the castanets clacking like ancient masts cracking
                 he whips ’round his cloak with a ****
and without sacrificing, at mien so enticing,
                 she floats with her face facing his.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the vertigo veiling her green Spanish eyes,
while the drumbeat pounds, droning, the rhythm sounds, moaning,
                 of jungles Jamaican entwined
in the valleys concealing the vineyards revealing
                 the vaults in the caves of her mind.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching life’s carnivals call to her green Spanish eyes,
and with paused palpitations the tom-tom temptations
                 come taunting her tremulous feet
with her toe tips a’ tingle while jute boxes jingle
                 for jesters that jive on the street.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she rides ocean tides in her green Spanish eyes,
and her silhouette’s travelling on ripples unravelling
                 and shaking the shipwracking shores,
as she strides from the light to the black cauldron night
                 through the candlelit cabaret doors.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she dances till dawn flashing green Spanish eyes,
with her movements adorning a trickle of morning
                 as sipped by the mouth of the moon,
while her tresses twirl, shaming the filaments flaming
                 that flow from the sun’s oval spoon.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she masks for a moment her green Spanish eyes.
Then the magpie that sings ceases preening her wings
                 and descends as a lean bird of prey –
as she flutters her ’lashes and laughs in broad splashes,
                 his narrowing eyes start to stray.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching fey carousels spin in her green Spanish eyes,
and the porcelain ponies and leprechaun cronies
                 race, reaching for gold and such things,
even being reminded that only the blinded
                 are fooled by the brass in the rings.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she shepherds the shadows with green Spanish eyes,
but as evening sinks, ebbing, the skyline climbs, webbing,
                 and weaves through the temples of stone,
while the nightingales sing of a kiss on the wing
                 in the depths of the dunes all alone.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the music and magic in green Spanish eyes,
as she dances enchanted, while firmly implanted
                 in tugs of his turbulent arms,
till he cuts through the strings, tames the magpie that sings,
                 and seduces once more with his charms.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, the citadel steams in her green Spanish eyes,
but behind the dark curtain the savants seem certain
                 that nothing and no one exists,
and though vapours look vacant, the vagabond vagrants
                 remain within mythical mists.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching as lightning at midnight in green Spanish eyes
kindles cracks within crystals like flashes from pistols
                 residing inside of the gloom
as it hovers above us betraying a dove as
                 she flees from the fountain of doom.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, distilling despair in her green Spanish eyes,
and the bitterness stings like the snap of the strings
                 when a mystical  mandolin sighs
as the vampire shades **** the life from charades
                 neath the resinous residue skies.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she looks to the ledge with her green Spanish eyes,
for the terrace hangs high and she’s thinking to fly
                 and abandon fate’s merry-go-round.
At the edge I perceive her and rush to retrieve her –
                 she stumbles, falls far to the ground.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the sparkles a’ spilling from green Spanish eyes.
As I peer from the railing, with evening exhaling,
                 I cry out a lover’s lament –
there she lies midst the crowd with her spirit unbowed,
                 but her body’s all broken and bent.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she beckons me hither with green Spanish eyes,
and I’m slightly amazed being snared in her gaze
                 and a’ swirl in a hurricane way,
but the seconds are slipping, my courage is dripping,
                 the moment is bleeding away.

Ah Consuela! I touch her - she weeps tender tears from her green Spanish eyes;
as the breezes cease blowing, her essence leaves, flowing,
                 in streams neath the ambient light,
and the droplets drip swarming, so silent, yet warming,
                 like rain in a midsummer night.

Ah Consuela! I hold her, am hushed by the hints in her green Spanish eyes,
while her whispers are breathing the breaths of the seething
                 electrical skeletal winds,
and the words paint the poems that rivers a’ slowin’
                 reveal where the waterfall ends.

Ah Consuela! I’m fading in fires a’ flicker in green Spanish eyes,
as she plays back the past, she abandons and casts
                 away matters that no longer mend.
           .
                  .
And she reached out instead, as she lifted her head,
                 and we kissed as she parted, my friend.
           .
                  .
                          .
Ah Consuela! I’m tangled, entombed, trapped in tales of your green Spanish eyes,
in forsaken cantinas beyond the arenas
                 where night-time illusions once flowed,
for the ash neath my shoulder still throbs as it smoulders
                 some place near the end of the road.

He wants a sugar spun girl-
no lemon *****, no licorice, no peppermint.
Hard rock candy.

You gotta be sweet for him to crave you.
Sweet on the tongue, sweet on the eyes
in a package easy to tear, pop, unfold.

He likes it dayglo and with sprinkles,
marshmallow soft,
moldable and meltable ,
milk chocolate, white chocolate.
He shies away from bitterness.

Don't you dare fill him up.
He has a real meal waiting,
somewhere else, later.

Your job is
to be consumed.
What you need doesn't matter.

He wants candy, girl, not a meal.
Better sugar coat it,
or he won’t buy you
and you want to be bought,
don't you?

I.
So long are the thoughts of someone so beautiful
pulled in by a vision of body and mind so young
chasing inspiration to steal the gaze of a woman
like a fire that burns so to a heart seated in passion
and even harder to fight the warmth of attraction,
yet a gentlemen waits until he is given the pleasure.
II.
In a moment, one can see his eyes filled with pleasure
given a glow whilst reflecting something beautiful.
She never shies away from the design of his attraction,
hard to build a foundation on a ground yet so young.
Yet there is no limit, even one such as age, to limit passion,
rarely does time measure wisdom between a girl or a woman.
III.
His pheromones work magic to his beating heart for a woman.
She seeks to be the resting of his desires that fulfill his pleasure.
There is a slow creeping thought that feelings are merely passion,
and there is little but a burning lust rather than something beautiful.
Harder are the connections with the ones who venture young,
but an old soul has the experiences that altered fates attraction
IV.
There are those who walk away from such an attraction
Envisioning a different path with an older woman
Seeing little to gain mentally from a person fairly young
Never realizing that her mind was always his pleasure
Not just intellect, but thoughts that were oh so beautiful,
With words that reflect such a bright heart of passion.
V.
No matter resistances or distances, their connection is their passion.
They write to impress one another, flirting to increase the attraction.
Displaying their hearts for each other in writings so beautiful,
many poems composed for and because of, a certain woman.
Never by touch but a pen evoking feelings with written pleasure,
sharing in a cryptic way the hidden feeling from when young.
VI.
Still one cannot find the power to resistant a flower, young.
Merely looking for a fuel to fire our deepest passion,
never forgetting the strength of giving pleasure.
Baring his shyness to show complicated attraction,
in the pursuit of a hope that she is no ordinary woman.
Like hoping on a sunrise, but knowing it will be beautiful.
VII.
Intricate is the passion in the face of his attraction.
So too is the zeal of the wanting young woman.
Still the greatest pleasure is that she is beautiful.

**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park,
this is an ode to you.

**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park
ambles behind
the kids sprawling out of the entrance
like baby spiders spilling
out of the crushed mother’s abdomen.

**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Waterpark
flip-flops his way to the lazy river,
shies his black Harley Davidson tanktop
to reveal his sunburnt
abdomious belly
flopping over his camo swim trunks.

He shakes off his flip-flops
and awkwardly wades in,
his hulking mass shifting with
each foot and tree trunk
of a leg smashing into
the shallow water,
sending shockwaves towards
screaming toddlers
in his wake.

Finding a vacant tube,
he turns his body around
and heaves himself
into the neon green donut
with considerable
and farcical
difficulty.

Mother at the pavilion
opens an eye from the lawn chair
and chuckles to herself,
applying another layer of sunscreen
over ruddy cancer-sensitive skin.

Sporting oblong racecar sunglasses
atop flushed puffy cheeks,
**** Middle-Aged Dad at the Waterpark
basks in the baking mid-summer sun
and the cool ****-ridden waters
he sinks his hands and feet into.

What is on his mind?
I imagine it is as close
to nothing
as he aims to get,

free from responsibility
like a wiry youth
he knew
from long ago.

The piercing screams of laughter
from ambulant children
splashing about him
are fruitless
in penetrating
his enclave.

He coasts about this way
for an eternity,
his red leather hide
burning in the hot sun
enwreathing his glasses.

Meanwhile,
mother reads
under the cool shade
of the pavilion,

the kids tumble down
slides and splash gleefully,
endlessly,

and life lingers on a moment
for a necessary
sojourn.

**** Middle-Aged Dad
awakens from his sun-cooked daze,
approaches the exit
and prepares himself
for his departure.

Waddling left and right,
he flops starboard
splashing magnificently
like a cannonball rolling off the deck
into the ocean.

His sunglasses leave him in the ruckus,
he gropes blindly
with chlorine-infested eyes,
til he grasps the visage
and stands up in the water.

His great body surges
from the waters,
fading tattoos gleam
along with a bald spot
in the sunlight.

He ambles through the waters—
water spilling out of rolls of fat
undulating in the motion—
and sensuously runs a baseball glove of a hand
through thinning hair.

His trunks bunch up around
firm, beefy buttocks
and a tired old *****,
thick tree trunk thighs,
ending its constriction just above
the wrinkled knot
of kneecaps.

Mother snapshots a photo
of the visage,
his fruits spilling about him
in perpetual glee,
his stolid look of authority,
wisdom, drive,
and endearment.

Years later,
the ambulant youths
on the cusp of adulthood

leaf through old photo albums
suddenly eyeing the Father piously
in a newfound awe,

aware of his gargantuan countenance
that shielded their efflorescence.

He was their sun,
he was their shade,
and their sky—

for he knew
when to plant,
and when to water,
and when to wait.

Running a thumb over
the diaphanous visage
exemplifying
an analog adolescence,

they jeer each other
over the Father,
secretly harboring
an amassing reverence
for the great figure,

the **** Middle-Aged Dad at the Water Park.

All summer we moved in a villa brimful of echos,
Cool as the pearled interior of a conch.
Bells, hooves, of the high-stipping black goats woke us.
Around our bed the baronial furniture
Foundered through levels of light seagreen and strange.
Not one leaf wrinkled in the clearing air.
We dreamed how we were perfect, and we were.

Against bare, whitewashed walls, the furniture
Anchored itself, griffin-legged and darkly grained.
Two of us in a place meant for ten more-
Our footsteps multiplied in the shadowy chambers,
Our voices fathomed a profounder sound:
The walnut banquet table, the twelve chairs
Mirrored the intricate gestures of two others.

Heavy as a statuary, shapes not ours
Performed a dumbshow in the polished wood,
That cabinet without windows or doors:
He lifts an arm to bring her close, but she
Shies from his touch: his is an iron mood.
Seeing her freeze, he turns his face away.
They poise and grieve as in some old tragedy.

Moon-blanched and implacable, he and she
Would not be eased, released. Our each example
Of temderness dove through their purgatory
Like a planet, a stone, swallowed in a great darkness,
Leaving no sparky track, setting up no ripple.
Nightly we left them in their desert place.
Lights out, they dogged us, sleepless and envious:

We dreamed their arguments, their stricken voices.
We might embrace, but those two never did,
Come, so unlike us, to a stiff impasse,
Burdened in such a way we seemed the lighter-
Ourselves the haunters, and they, flesh and blood;
As if, above love's ruinage, we were
The heaven those two dreamed of, in despair.

Light flanks the snowbanks
my memory thanks the simple soundscapes
of textures closing in
as walls and ceilings
and snow and sleet

We can blame the weather
but we'll be here forever
cursing ourselves
mid-stride

Stopping motion
mid-explosion

a simple thank you from the
particles we've denied

All things moving outward

The molten core of earth
Our mother

Chaos empty space
Our father


     Standing, surrendering.
        The weather tethers at my veins.
     Pushing.   Pulling.
             My emotions run high with the hopes of a new sunrise.

     Guide me,
          show me,
                 lead me to the holy water you sip like its never ending.
     Show me the truth behind every iris that passes my curious glance.
          Breathe in this cold sterile air while we dream of something tangible...

     Strange winds come on strong in the heart of the mislead, the outskirts.
                We thrive on the untouched surfaces of the mind..
           We breathe in the discomfort...


This is the nothing substance
I'm looking for

Seeking ever leaking truth
of faucet water too heavy

Minerals come to life
and return to the ground
in the instant of
midair waterfall

Weightless feeling fateless
determining the future
on solid ground grasses
fishing baitless

naked sameness

emotion

motion

ion

on


     Seeking direction in the wake of misdirected affection.
                                                     Faulting to the backbone of habits.

     Falling faster, I pause in the balance catching my breathe.
                                         I inhale everything surrounding my mind.
                         Exhaling all my simple poisons.
     A detox of wandering souls and singular holes.
     Eating.    Feeding.    Breeding.
             Filling all this space for all those after me.

     Fill me.
        Fulfill me.
     Accept the darkest crevasses of this mind.
                                                  I still turn a silent shy cheek...


Sea oh double
em oh en

Common ground
from the firmament I send

Confusion permanent
in an ocean

Oh see an end

Painless drifting aimless
seeking searching
for the seam
into which this world
is born

The lifeseeking thread that never ends

The bloodborne
pathogen

Of caring void
and emptiness

Caress you like a stone

Forever there

In the loveliness
of human hair

Saying, I was there

When emotion became
the firm ground
never sinking

Thinking of the way out
but never escaping

Mountains around
an ever growing feeling


     Drifting aimlessly into the empty serenity you present so pleasantly.
              Once again I slide further from comfort and balance...
                     Feeding off any sense of insecurity.
                            Craving that whole duality of my circumstance...

           I keep treading the muddy waters I choose.
     My body gets trapped in the
                                     sticky egos and messing misunderstandings,
                                                                                         in which everyone laughs away.

     I'll schlep the dirt from my soul and shine light once more.
            Exhausted and tried.

                                      Ill shine...


Your light
is not lost to
my dilated eyes


     It's lost in my own lost hope of withering dreams and lost star seeds.
            It falls away in every cold shake I make within whiskey's withdrawal.
                 It fades away in the simple staggers I make and unfulfilled chances I take.

     But, not all is lost.

     I still keep this little light of mine.
     I still let this light shine.

     I'm just a little more aware of the spaces it awakens and the souls it helps take in.
  
          It's ever shifting in this cosmic wake, it hides, it shies, it cries.
                    Like me, it knows when to pipe the **** down and listen to the world.
        Listen to everything it allows.

     It hears souls like you.
                                 It feeds me.


Feedback,
I've got my need back

Shaking like a lovesick
fiend

On every letter of your speech

I'll filter this wormhole
off kilter
into every relationship
in front of my eyes

Until we meet again,

I won't stop telling stories
of jackals speaking english

To fetch our sweet meat
from top shelves
and ruins

Blue and bruised
flesh alludes
to stories unspoken

and broken glass
dreams of unity

Bottle falls

Slow motion

It all seems
like a dream
in endless blue
love tokens

There is this girl that I know.
She dreams in large doses that swallow her up.

She shies away from reality
as consistently as she shies away from me.

She sees the world in black and white,
with paper clouds and dull surroundings
Even when I tell her of all of the colors.

And she always clings to the possibility of love and acceptance,
as if they are the origin of her beating heart.

But still she believes
The world is a big and scary place, waiting to consume her.
That all of the possibilities it holds pressure her to be better, to excel.

She takes the things she has for granted,
and believes that happiness is something that takes an army to achieve,
And she doesn’t have a kingdom.

But how she is wrong,
Her dreams are made up of a gifted imagination that can take her anywhere.
Reality is nothing to fear, nor something to fight.
And the world is her canvas, ready to absorb whatever she desires.

She has nothing to fear,
The world is herbivorous, and feasts on happy endings.
All that’s asked of her is to be sincere and experience happiness,
no matter where that takes her.

But mostly what she doesn’t understand,
Is that she is surrounded by soldiers ready to fulfill their duty.
That love and care for every piece of her,
Honorable or
morose.
And as long as they are there to guide her,
she is invincible.

To live in this beautiful free world,
Is to live in an abode of possibilities.

Were the trees whisper secrets,
bending their skeletal bones to achieve their one desire.

The wind carries life on diverging paths,
Not knowing which direction it is taking till the last possible moment.

Were the sun cakes you with memories,
and allows you to dream of freedom in the most ambiguous ways possible.

Where water carries a current that steals away your troubles,
Carrying them down the winding river frigid with savage desires.
And the rush,
Rush of water is like blood, coursing through your veins and carrying
full responsibility for your parched temptations.

These are things that you never see-
You never appreciate.
Even when these images and feelings and thoughts are POUNDING on your eyelids,
Attempting to find sanctuary in your mind.

Open yourself up, and
Feel the glory of life.

Because the one thing you never do is appreciate the dips and curves and mountains and valleys and
Oceans
Of people.
It contains.

Dustin
     Amanda

Light flanks the snowbanks
my memory thanks the simple soundscapes
of textures closing in
as walls and ceilings
and snow and sleet

We can blame the weather
but we'll be here forever
cursing ourselves
mid-stride

Stopping motion
mid-explosion

a simple thank you from the
particles we've denied

All things moving outward

The molten core of earth
Our mother

Chaos empty space
Our father


     Standing, surrendering.
        The weather tethers at my veins.
     Pushing.   Pulling.
             My emotions run high with the hopes of a new sunrise.

     Guide me,
          show me,
                 lead me to the holy water you sip like its never ending.
     Show me the truth behind every iris that passes my curious glance.
          Breathe in this cold sterile air while we dream of something tangible...

     Strange winds come on strong in the heart of the mislead, the outskirts.
                We thrive on the untouched surfaces of the mind..
           We breathe in the discomfort...


This is the nothing substance
I'm looking for

Seeking ever leaking truth
of faucet water too heavy

Minerals come to life
and return to the ground
in the instant of
midair waterfall

Weightless feeling fateless
determining the future
on solid ground grasses
fishing baitless

naked sameness

emotion

motion

ion

on


     Seeking direction in the wake of misdirected affection.
                                                     Faulting to the backbone of habits.

     Falling faster, I pause in the balance catching my breathe.
                                         I inhale everything surrounding my mind.
                         Exhaling all my simple poisons.
     A detox of wandering souls and singular holes.
     Eating.    Feeding.    Breeding.
             Filling all this space for all those after me.

     Fill me.
        Fulfill me.
     Accept the darkest crevasses of this mind.
                                                  I still turn a silent shy cheek...


Sea oh double
em oh en

Common ground
from the firmament I send

Confusion permanent
in an ocean

Oh see an end

Painless drifting aimless
seeking searching
for the seam
into which this world
is born

The lifeseeking thread that never ends

The bloodborne
pathogen

Of caring void
and emptiness

Caress you like a stone

Forever there

In the loveliness
of human hair

Saying, I was there

When emotion became
the firm ground
never sinking

Thinking of the way out
but never escaping

Mountains around
an ever growing feeling


     Drifting aimlessly into the empty serenity you present so pleasantly.
              Once again I slide further from comfort and balance...
                     Feeding off any sense of insecurity.
                            Craving that whole duality of my circumstance...

           I keep treading the muddy waters I choose.
     My body gets trapped in the
                                     sticky egos and messing misunderstandings,
                                                                                         in which everyone laughs away.

     I'll schlep the dirt from my soul and shine light once more.
            Exhausted and tried.

                                      Ill shine...


Your light
is not lost to
my dilated eyes


     It's lost in my own lost hope of withering dreams and lost star seeds.
            It falls away in every cold shake I make within whiskey's withdrawal.
                 It fades away in the simple staggers I make and unfulfilled chances I take.

     But, not all is lost.

     I still keep this little light of mine.
     I still let this light shine.

     I'm just a little more aware of the spaces it awakens and the souls it helps take in.
   
          It's ever shifting in this cosmic wake, it hides, it shies, it cries.
                    Like me, it knows when to pipe the **** down and listen to the world.
        Listen to everything it allows.

     It hears souls like you.
                                 It feeds me.


Feedback,
I've got my need back

Shaking like a lovesick
fiend

On every letter of your speech

I'll filter this wormhole
off kilter
into every relationship
in front of my eyes

Until we meet again,

I won't stop telling stories
of jackals speaking english

To fetch our sweet meat
from top shelves
and ruins

Blue and bruised
flesh alludes
to stories unspoken

and broken glass
dreams of unity

Bottle falls

Slow motion

It all seems
like a dream
in endless blue
love tokens

she's outspoken
yet she shies away
she's blunt
yet she's some kind of fake
i wonder how vague this girl can get
i just don't understand her