Here, and over here -
The fortunate sons

Those who made it home
To fields and hills of native tongue
In the soil their people toiled
- They listen quietly when we come


There, and over there -
Beneath crossed lines too many

Still - they man the trenches
Along the Marne and Somme
Below the woods of Belleau
And the forest of Argonne

No sonnets in a foreign language
Rendered where they languish -
The distant rest far and away
In a cold November grave


We should remember
Here and there
The old lie -

And the young.

r ~ 11/11/14

I don't think this is love
I would never agree to doing any of this with anyone else and even though I kept saying no you kind of went on anyway and your tongue seeped acid as it climbed up my neck and it felt great

I've always experienced 'love' over state lines and divisions of area yet when the distance between us was but 2 inches it seemed that our love shifted shape

what was love? was it your tongue beating against mine or your hands lowering down my body as we hugged? was it me wanting to drown myself in your presence or me trying my hardest to please you while keeping promises to myself?

love is strange in that some days I am completely head over heels for you and others I want nothing to do with you.

I never really felt that anyone loved me but they were great at spewing words of artificiality. after a while you stop believing it but you appreciate the effort.

I used the word love too early in life and I've heard so many forevers that they lost their sparkle and they mean nothing

The English vice,
Some Etonian curse –
Set down in grass
And purple verse,

Lavatory bred
With ransacked blood,
Skin slapping and
With a falling thud –

Takes boys at childhood,
Wishes them away,
With promises of popper fuelled buffets,

And poisons them with
Vice and virus red,
And sees them unmarried
Giving head.

I don’t regret a single thing I am,
I’ve tried it out
And can’t abide the sham –

I’ll **** men
And make them beg for more,
I’ll scrabble for their love upon the floor,

I’ll love men
And love will love me too,
I’ll love for love’s own sake
And when I’m through

I’ll die and I’ll be thankful that your hate
Never made me beg that I was straight.

///

One day these bricks and buildings were meadows
These fields the processions of spring garden

One day on these meadows used to play the cowboy’s melancholy flute  
These fields the playground of the furious grasshoppers

These bricks were rivers
These buildings processions of water

In these rivers the moon's dispersion played on the uprising waves,
How softly the sailor sang his lonely song, disappearing within the shadows!

Travelers,
Have I told you a fairy tale?

///

I'm so happy-
I've masturbated until I can't feel
and that's okay.
My hair is brittle;
the water's iron and so are you-
your love's a mess.
God is angry
because he doesn't have to exist
to be real.

Hipsters ruined liking Wes Anderson-
Bill Hicks was brilliant
and everyone is an intellectual.
Your ideas aren't yours-
your words are mine
and mine are yours.
Writing to be antidepressed,
because singing is for the shore,
for your shore.

Let's pick each other's psychology,
like we're removing clothes
or missing ads,
and get lost in each other's darkness,
because, "I love you,
I suppose.
I suppose."