I have been cruel
and unrepentant,
and on my knees
yearning for certain
benevolences
people promised
good people
get.

There is I suppose
a logic
to why it is not so tragic
I don't get when I didn't give
'cuz I was too busy
wanting
the best.

My conscience woke
when I stabbed a man
in the heart with barb
again.
After hours or regret
and notes that confessed
I burnt it down for I knew
nothing changes.
I am still
upset.

Confess
                     in
                    the
                    tongue
                    of
silence
                   devoid
                   of
                   your
                   lips
                   a
kiss

true
love.

In dying embers I write my name,
in trodden paths there is dying shame
in the lingering minds of the days gone by
are tea leaves patterns in a language sublime.

Madness, like rodents, scurries in pairs,
when one pulls you further, the other despairs.
The voices I see and the faces I hear
are not real, but that is neither here nor there.

In the grooves between my split mind
there is a map of an eternal conquest,
it runs down to the corners
of this enchanted world,
and boasts answers to those questions
of which you've never even heard.

The white noise has direct interface
with the synapses in my brain
making ants sketch across my skin
in a drunken address.
Bellicose shadows raise their fists
and wrap me in flags of color
while merging into a large edifice
with a wide open mouth
and protruding nose.
Wrenching my feet from the baloney trap
go take a round of the mulberry bush
counting the pennies dropped on the ground
by the ones who crossed onward
with the ferryman on the boat.
Footprints on soft mud
thud like batons against a hard thigh
easy to miss but not to be dismissed
they are like camouflaged quarry
in a kept heap of rye.

Twirl the ring around my finger
when I flip you the bird,
hold a halo and a forked tail
in crowded comfort.
Rose-tinted eyes blink in mystique
when the alluring panther
roars in defeat.
Defiance is heady;
a few pounds of snow,
am lost in sensation
when you pound the door.
There is no faces; but places and noise
and few open cases left on the floor.
Roll a bottle till it clinks on the wall,
when I lie in pieces,
before I take the fall.

Taking
off
my
shoes
as
they
wore
off
when
I
took
this
wrong
route.

I drizzle like rain clouds;
in a stormy weather I blow
might gusts of wind that rattle
and shatter staid glass doors.

Enough now of the molten sun;
no need for the lava that flows inside.
We are made of sterner stuff,
all we need is two plonks of ice!

Like the nauseating rumble
crawling up my throat, I glide
in the sheath of subdued sensation
all is well, all is alright.

There is little to do
when I'm struck
by the sheer brilliance of it all;
there is no mystery to eternity,
no carnal creation of lust,
but only one human body
bestowed
upon a wandering mind.

Blinded.
Glaring golden eyes (beam)
serpent -tongues murmur
(slitherrry, sliperryy)
careless mistakes.

Venom drips drop drop
Forked mind (confused)
Bend in, burn out
(flipetty flappetty flop)

Crocodile
tears soon run dry
enemy –turned-friend
(back-stab me)
I’ll bend.

The veil is now unravelled,
the storm dust now blown,
when left with the calm after the storm
even deciduous time seems forlorn.
There is the perfunctory trial
of breathing air to sustain,
yet in the end, I revive what,
the beliefs I let go,
the conviction from which I abstain?
I then saw reason, in this miniscule delight
of finding a realm that is positively alight
with candour and supremacy,
they regale without caution,
and entertain as they must,
in words left unspoken,
they reveal more than just.
The truth though is bespoken,
within the confines of deceit,
while the soul hunts for absolution
the mind quakes in defeat.
Annihilation is the quest,
that brought me to this place,
the answer that will be found,
is am I in passing,
or here to stay?

The night has been commissioned
to awaken in me
the ubiquitous longing for your touch.
The mindlessness consumes me
when I wander from dream to dream,
fantasizing the ever after
that’ll mysteriously become present
once you touch.

The exuberant charm in every swipe
of the breeze broadens a smile,
reminding me of the endless passion
for good humor and intense delight
that you decree in large measures
whilst I quail in love.    

It is diabolical, this game you play
of keeping in shadows
while I wither,
in the unremitting glare of the sun
that keeps me on the banks of the dark lake
leaving me with only
a few drops to wet my hand.

I will implore to have an end
to this ceaseless battle of restraint and abandon,
But am only left with a tremulous belief,
it is all not false what I see,
in the glorious mist that night casts,
I do not only sleep.

There is no delight like the end
to the shrill whistle of the kettle set to boil.
While the brew might be dense,
Perchance a lil’ bitter,
the gulp of hot tea is ever divine

In a story so old, is a story of love told
as the little folks go nodding their heads.
A tale of a sin, it is has centuries been
the mystery that has, so many, misled.

Amidst the bristling leaves, to which they paid no heed
the lovers, they parried their foes.
In the wisdom of lust; for which one must crave so much,
the lovers, they deafened the shores.

The mighty they came, the mighty they slayed
and time whistled past them to flee.
It was a bruised sky that woke her,
and the weeping earth that cloaked her,
when she fell to knees and roared.

In a story so old, is a story of love told;
when purple mist dawns on us again,
about lovers who met, for those who forget,
that time doesn’t need to know tomorrow.

I can cry;
the glorious moon cheats
the dazzling sun wanes
the cloudy sky smirks
the pudgy earth refrains

I can cry;
the man in the sidewalk eats
the woman in bus denies
the children on the playground smell
the puppy on the stairway bites

I can cry;
the riddles in the book defy
the maze and mouse are a lie
the gun for a bullet doesn’t shoot
the whistle in my palm doesn’t hoot.

I can cry;
the thoughts in my head lead astray
the senses of my body can delay
the questions I answered gave away
the answers I’ve forgotten are a mistake.

With a steaming mug of coffee in hand I watched:
the sun fall, the wind shiver, the leaves stand and land roll,
the birds swing, yellow beams dance,
and people stride in woollen warmers.
She plucked a flower in fool bloom,
then ambled away with a bamboo basket.
The clink of steel whistled through the air,
rousing sleep in the grouchy ones
saddled with books and a play toy in hand
walking in step with a grown man.
I walked there once, trying to keep pace
clasping a finger as large as my fist.
His snores now fall softly, circling the room
while I stand by the window,
wearing his shoes.

There is nothing but the swirling amber
rising and falling like a sleeping ogre’s chest,
numbing the sense of trepidation that swims about
aimlessly, catching the beacon of the lighthouse.
In the dark we dispel all our inhibitions
for who is wont to notice?
But in the face of their stares and processing brains
we stumble, afraid of them knowing
what to us is unknown.
And whilst we play this game of cat and mouse
there is the swirling amber, charming the enduring soul
with its potion of surreptitious logic
and potent healing magic,
we drain.