when the ghost of the dark cried for sunset
and the darkness arrived like a storm
the cliffs all angular and windswept
to wait long for the blossoms of dawn,

the dark all a seascape of blackness
a dance that soon opened every door
the clouds darkest grey, hardly
senseless,
the waves that blue anchored
the shore.

our love was a drifting of sorrow
like a tide only longing to flow
baptised while it waits for the morrow,
the moon’s tender orb all aglow,

when i kiss you beneath the
bright starlight
each star throws a fisherman’s
net,
and your flesh tastes like silvery
moonlight,
like the first night we met.

the late clouds gather their silver
the wind blows like the song of a ghost,
and my heart pounds like a
burgeoning river,
and all time in its fever is lost.

the storm’s edge blows open the
window,
the shutters pushed out from the sill
the clouds are a story of sorrow,
the evening all chill,

the night hangs her clothes in
her wardrobe
the sun sleeps like a cloudy
old bear
and all of my love like a snow
globe
white petaled, moon-scented and fair.

i dream of you like a silvery ocean
whose tide ever beats ever back
your love all a hypnotic potion
painted silver and black.

Look closer...
the winding trail
is baked to perfection,
bearing the scars
of a caesarean section.

Only the snakes
dare travel along I-8,
one-by-one the seasons lie prone,
in heat this sun will castrate.

The burnt aspects on faces
don’t smile or frown,
they peer out as residue
to places perished in the wake of
a cityscape’s head trauma,
calling out to the heaven’s above
as they await her to rise
with wings from these ashes,
in anticipation for a day ne’er to draw nigh,
even the steady fall of acid rain
will fail to wash away such genocide.

A favorite haunt transmutes
into a ghost town,
burning into the ground
the heat seeps into the soul,
and the procession begins again
for whom the bell tolls.

Towers of steel melt
as popsicles on the pavement,
the sun’s punishment
is constantly transcendent,
the noise of sparks and hums
rattle the spine,
today’s forecast is a good chance
of saturnine.

Eerie colors at dawn
make for a spectral scenic view,
picnic lunch in the park
is categorically taboo,
the hunters of men
swoon in subjugation to this tyranny,
weather’s wrath was everyone’s destiny.

Live a little, die a little,
pretend it cannot happen,
but in the end we all windup
as peanut brittle...

Sprawling hills interspersed with trees
Ah it felt like home
Like driving down a barren road
Cities aren't for me
Don't get me wrong
I like the hustle and faces I see
But I'll take the quiet land
No matter the nation it is,
I call the country home
From the cliffs of Gibralter
To the ruins of Gobekli Tepe,
And back round to the massive Red Wood trees,
I'll roam
Down to the burning sands of Berber lands,
I'll stay in the country
Leave the cities to the people
And listen to the trees.