I write on the wall
to convince myself
all things can fade.
But this is of pencil
and my sorrows are
written in sterner ink.
Most hated friendGlimmer, Glimmer,
Oh dark star of the night.
Reflect my soul,
My anguished stare,
Shine on so glaring bright.
That we should fear so much,
From something so small,
Seems an unusual plight,
And yet as I hold you in my hand,
I know my friends are right.
And yet to put you down seems ludicrous,
Just do not run across - shine on bright,
My glistening friend - lest I cover you in red.
RestlessThoughts on endless repeat,
The orchestra self-composes
in its sleep, and in itself
finds too much to think.
Ideas are repeated,
Rehashed and rediscovered
so that the words themselves
might speak, and find they too
have breath within them,
to somehow be unique,
And like the rest of us
fall short and yet succeed.
They tumble from my mind
like rain onto my feet,
and I scramble to write them down,
Before I too fall from my waking mind,
and into sleep
Generation ZI find myself surrounded,
By humanities peak.
The latest generation,
By the best and by the meek,
And whether our doom or our salvation,
They’re most certainly unique.
Those who still read and can speak,
The intelligent and great.
There’s the socialite few,
And the rather incomplete,
The arists and musicians,
And the scientists that teach us -
And least of all, there’s me.
I wonder what my role is,
In this brave and weird new world,
I’m afraid I’ve missed the forest,
Because I rather like the trees,
And there’s no room for the philosopher,
Because Google’s all we need,
And poetry is quite useless,
According to scientific studies.
I’d hope to be remembered,
So maybe I’ll start a war,
Or maybe here, at societies end,
We’ll find a use for words once more.
Light upon her skin.I want to be
In love with someone
And watch the light
Dance on the tips of her skin.
Like the sea,
I'll be the ebb,
And she'll be the flow
Moving together in perfect rhythm .
I want that feeling
Of confusing, alternating, maddening
Love to fill me from within
And to know how it feels,
To hear the words –
SurrogateI stopped using his full title
because it started sounding too formal,
and it’s hard to be standoffish with someone
who swaps albums and memories so generously,
who loves German chocolate but hates the smell of oranges,
who knows me by my boneless,
drowsy form on the couch and by my words.
And maybe one day he’ll ask
me to drop the title altogether and call him Brad,
but I won’t.
Because it sounds too much like dad,
and I’m afraid of slipping up.
A Poet's RomanceShe was the quiet sort,
within her eyes,
to pottery skin;
she would mold herself
into moonlight butterflies
and glist'ning calla lilies,
pure and white and
and when night cast
itself upon her in
heated, hard'ning flames,
she’d smash herself
upon the rocks
and in morning start
the smoke pouring out of her mouth,
(misty coils of a vague filth,
dancing to noir jazz, fading with each note)
smudged lipstick on the side of of her mouth,
and the little streak that crawled to her tooth
when she bit her lip in a supposed wonder,
and her eyes threw a faint film over themselves,
(like an elegant lady wraps a silk shawl around herself in a light breeze)
the light feet of a dancer
whose calluses were hidden under tight shoes,
whose toes would arch like Nut over her children,
(and she or you would spin with the earth, holding her frame as if-
as if earth was something of mass, as if it had a shape to hold onto)
whose leg would stretch over her head,
her arms, long, pretty, snakes, her fingers curled, and her wrists tense
(her eyelashes were grazing her cheekbones,
her ballet whisking her like a beaten egg, and the laces of her shoes
caught on a rusty nail, which sliced her ankle open, a wince danced on her lips,
ApolloA shaft of light escapes the horizon
spilling over the world’s table
as the sea sways and the forests hum
a deep-throated ‘C’- the balance of nature
held in the rise to the seventh
the fall to the G
a saltwater tonic made sweet
by the rhythm and the rhyme
and the passage of time
when waking, the men remember
the years to come
from their dreams
and add their words and songs
to the lull of the ocean waves
in the whisper of the woods
as their God approaches in kindled fire
to destroy the dreamtime darkness
Soundless Screams.And he sank in the sea of plausible words;
only the anchor of mistrust holding him bound.
Holding on, he cursed gods and promised lords,
what'd happen had it been the other way around?
Bitten lips and slumping eyelids haunt his mind;
or what remains after the utter devastation.
Sanity and eternal aberration have entwined
in order to give birth to merciless frustration.
Can Earth be suffocatingly boundless?
If so, then he can be free.
Can screams be loudly soundless?
It seems that his can be.
O FevraleWitching hour, welcomed with a sigh,
bare-breasted and ink-stained in the night.
Half in love in this half-life half-light;
pisat O Fevrale navsnryd, dreaming
of the gods. Wanderer, today I died and
died again, and whispered prayers
to clasped hands… until the nestled
droplets fell away like sunrays at dusk;
and when moonrise came, I sang again.
Black voidsA black void escapes my lips.
As the infection of pain takes over.
I’m screaming to an empty room.
In it lays all my fears.
My eyes are filled with parasites.
Seeing nothing but black.
Which leaks it’s way into my heart.
Trembling fingers, and sweaty palms.
Bugs clinging to my hair.
Nesting in my skin.
I have been contaminated.
By the sins of others.
Nobody can harm me now.
I have been contaminated
By the whispers of the heartless.
Reaching forth for some light.
It only seems to burn my skin.
My right eye has been removed.
And left with a hole.
Head spinning round’ and round.
Sitting in this dirty contaminated room.
A perfect fit for me.
Still-life.The best of my paintings:
the hum of
a sad piano,
a morning cigarette,
and a graveside angel;
all I ever wanted.
knock knock.there is a sound like something has died.
you make this sound, like someone has died.
when you see me, you make this sound, like someone has died,
and i have to look down at myself and check i'm not dead,
that it wasn't me who died, and you aren't making that noise
because you came here expecting a warm welcome,
and instead you got a corpse.
but no, i'm breathing, i can see my chest moving
up and down with the rhythm of it.
i'm sure if i stopped, it would burn.
but you still made that sound, and i'm not dead,
so it must be someone else. i'm sorry for your loss.
who was it that you lost? should i be making a similar noise?
should i be comforting you? oh god,
i've never known how to comfort you...
and you're still looking at me like that,
like i died, and no one told me.
but i'm not dead. we just established that.
is there something on my face?
is there somewhere i should be, something i should be doing?
why won't you say something?
you came in here, made that noise,
In the water,
The rivers Daughter,
Won’t you let me
Come and sing now,
With you lady,
In the water,
Let me come?
Now good knight,
All in armor,
Quit your pestering,
And go marry
the farmers daughter.
But my lady,
Dressed in silver,
Just as I am,
Let me sing with you
All in armor,
Marry the farmer,
Live in the sunlight