I am Monster:
rough hewn spent and jaded
a loaded revolver
the dark harbour
an improper conduct sponsor
the acerbated and saturated
sympathy and empathy terminated
smarter, harder and sharper
sense of honour departed
a cloned armoured martyr
an existence where love has faded
or simply overused and left degraded.

I am Monster:
shaped by unfortunate events
a life of sharpened steel
etched with the scent of malcontent
chaotic defiance and suicidal descent
the rise of the paragon of zeal
masked in the stench of the surreal
lurking in shadows dark
that leaves its presence felt
like a silent tsunami watermark.

That voice in my head
speaking in tongues
his tasteless insipid breath
fills my lungs
the only respite
is prescribed medication
and meditation dictates;
navigate the monster
and his origin appellation
will have to wait.

The sorrow I borrow
and the chaos I bring
like liquid will eventually
rescind like the pulse of a wasp sting
the poison will dissipate
and then evaporate
in the predisposed
wrath of tomorrow.

Memories of when  
time itself was left curtailed;
the neurological pathway derailed
disjointed collections of moments
the remains of another life contained
like crystal clear components
that built a honeycomb
for monochrome bees
from broken homes.

The defiant silenced
by stolen snapshots
woven in between
the glow of her brilliance
and the blaze of her radiance
her cape of accidental rainbows
like the forgotten colours
of painted dreams left out to dry
and the midnight sun
drained by the bitter taste
of late last goodbyes.

The unfulfilled testimony
now on its own trajectory
summoned from depths of history
fades once again into nothing more
than a fruitless distant memory.

Lunch was done, decisons made

the table cleared, the bill was paid

Final words were spoken

And none more truer than..

Have your people call my people

And we'll do this again.

They went back to the office

And they thought, hey he was right

I'll have my people call his people

And we'll hit the bar tonight

Funny how a line like that

Can set one's mindset soaring

Sitting down and making plans

It sure broke up the boring

Afteroon ahead, that each of them could see

But going out again that night

Well, then they would be free

Wives at home, while they were out

Drinking, flirting...what the hey

The ony question left now

Was which of them would pay?

But as one's folk called the others

And the plans were carved in stone

They would finish out their day

And then they would head home

They'd have "my people call your people"

And plan a meeting late

They would do it on the sly

It would be their watergate

But, people being people

Their plans were overheard

By a coniving young new intern

And she wrote down every word

Since she was one of the people

She started making calls

Phoning every number of every wife

This woman sure had *****

She told them how "the people"

planned to go out after work

How their family type duties

Each one had planned to shirk

So these people called their people

And made plans of their own

They would keep it all a secret

Until the men got home

Men forget that wives have people

And that their people kind of rule

When the men all try to hide stuff

By doing stuff that isn't cool

The men, all smug and smiling

Thinking of the fun to ahead

Would walk on in their house

And stay until the kids were all in bed

Then their people would start calling

Making sure the lie was told

About that late night meeting

At a bar where beer was cold

But, that coniving young new intern

Making calls to all the wives

Had laid out every detail

Had ruined all their lives

As each man sat for dinner

Thinking of what the night would bring

At each house, just 5 minutes in

Every phone would ring

It was her people calling people

Telling each wife where to meet

They would have to leave the husbands

And they would not be so discreet

For their people all called people

And the men's plans all were blown

As the women went out drinking

And left the men at home

So next time when your people

Call and plan things on the side

Make sure your intern isn't there

Or else your plans are fried

I'll have my people phone your people

And we'll get together soon

But in order that we pull it off

We'll have to leave at noon.

Healing hands laid to rest
wandering in the near light of sunrise
fumbling for fractals of memory
ambling in the haze of yesterday.

Stolen words and displaced letters
floating in the ambience of space
cosmonauts of distant planets
arms outstretched beckoning
the echoes sent from
a thousand light years away.

Time is an irrelevant motion
tiny air bubbles escorting life
rising to the surface of forgotten dreams
spiraling, pulsating in a heartbeat
chambered by grasping futures.

The underlying fever reaching
inwards and outwards through the soul
seeking the blindness of tomorrow
unfurl their magical delights
wrapped in the glint of a solar cosmos.

Drifting beyond the reach of nature
blackness surrounds with the warmth
of knowing, a million miles away,
as if an undercurrent draws its final breath
behold wonderment far-seeing
leaving strange footprints
that someday others will say:
here stood a sentient being.

One is seemingly more impressed
by the less endowed or blessed
when somewhat incapacitated
and borderline inebriated;
the monstrous unconscious
disregards the likelihood
of fathomless undergarments
in other dubious departments.

Disregard the random blotches
or the involuntary discharges
instead revel in model tonsils
and almond shaped parcels
the comets of multi-notches
like a strange attraction
for disheveled carpets.

The blossoms of toxins
a libation ensemble
almost near horizontal
each movement a bent nozzle
like a prehistoric Narwhal
dancing like a jackhammer
with the elegance of a cement mixer
a broken leaking fissure
seeping vapid glamour
and indecipherable grammar.

The paraphrased clichés
and communiques of praise
like lost prophets put on display
caught in the ricochet of overplay
making an exit with the grace
of a stumbling ballet
down a poorly-lit
nightclub passageway.

Ultimately this can only lead to
the face-plant moment-of-tomorrow
the flooded memory of the-night-before
feeling utterly spent
hungover and hollow
with ill conceived consent.

The: Oh. My. God!
The: He/She is still here,
what do I say?
Hoping inexorably
they would just get up
and silently fade away.

Beer Goggles:
remember to drink sensibly,
or run the risk of
nasty STD's
or unwanted pregnancy
or breathless infidelity
or reckless insincerity
or if you're really lucky,
just another
session in therapy.