Caravan of infidel's
Show me
What I've missed
I tip my hat
Raise my glass
And await
The gypsy kiss

Burry now
Those hatches
Stained in blood
Of old
I lost my reason
To live in hate
Many years ago

But have you?

I just want to be happy.
to be thought of.
appreciated.
to be heard.
for the wind to kiss my face.
.......to be loved.

It was time for love that never shone
A southern wind so coldly blown
In lies of madness I walked by night
So frail and jaded these ropes of life

I gave in to my whispering voice
A deed so forbidden, so staggeringly moist
By lust of madness, insanity ruled
In guilt and shame an act so lewd

How such a feeling could bewitch my soul
No biologist or mindologist could ever know
Love is such a fine line and I crossed her there
Alone in the madness of eternal despair

strange enough,
that word choice,
******,
for they are all,
(or mostly)
men

they get on
their knees,
so eager to please

write a poem,
newbie,
they will be your
partner pretenders,
instant followers

but
the trick employed
is transference

they want you bad
to worship them,
that being the purest
of their false intentions,
their oldest trick,
guilt,
"if I follow you,
you should follow me!"

their kiss

Pass

laden with std's,
they want implanted
in your
hp inbox

The std is vanity.
what they need,
what they want you to imbibe,
is their world view,
poetry-is-by-the-numbers

the number of followers,
(how I detest that word)
the number of reads,
oft manipulated,
by cyber techno b.s.

so understand,
this craft,
you may have chosen,
is work, so hard,
because it comes from the gut,
wrenching pressing issues
inside you

it is about everything you want
us
to understand about you,
your vision peculiar,
without revealing your rawest self
so obviously

know this in advance

each poem has a unique audience,
as unique as you

years took me,
took me to grasp
this simply complex notion,
over come myself within myself,
that self-same infection

that audience is you

write to please yourself,
be your harshest critic,
popularity
will find you

your truths,
withour pandering,
will finds the seekers,
the quality lovers,
the truth
hungerers

they will find you,
of that,
be assured

amidst the millions of words,
yours are yours,
fear not the plaintive worry,
are they any good?

for the courage to post
yourself,
is the very
self same answer to that,
the bells toll
for thee


if it pleased you,
pained you,
enough that you released into this world,
in poem form,
it is good enough

poetry is ego

no question,
but keep yourself
on the right side of the line,
separating your ego from
the egotist,
and your poetry
will no question,
forever live,
a mark of you
upon the world

let us be brothers,
let us be sisters,
David and Jonathan,
Ruth and Naomi,

but not
Cain and Abel,
no anger, no jealousy,
just raw,
refined,
truth,
the truth
of you,
which cannot be
diminished by enumeration,
cannot be counted,
only blessed