Hair the colour of
Crow's wings.
Smiles like suns,
Laughter on every
Breath.

**** each boy who
Hurt you playing
Man. ****
The time it took to
Find a friend

And melt into her
Like a weld, heated and
Hammered and attached
At the soul, saying when
They ask if her heart is big:

*It's dragging on the ground
Behind her when she
Moves.

You breathe, then I.

Every crack in the pavement
Is a chasm dividing myself
From the loveless life I
Cherished.

Facebook relationship status
It's uncomplicated.
It still is, but the butterflies in
My stomach have

Butterflies in theirs, and I
Carry flowers like a grave
Hiding the remains of my
Plans to see the year through as

A single man.
You breathe, then I.
You touch my face, then I
Yours.

My hands hold your scents
For hours.
You breathe.
I breathe.

You sleep, then I.

Eyes like two suns I stare
Directly into without blinking.
A TV I sit too close to while
Watching myself fall and fall and

Fall.
I drop to the ground. Then you,
And my arms are jungles, my arms
Are oceans, my arms are a

Bed or a bouncing castle beneath
You.
We don't fall in love.
We fly.

For a Syrian boy.

Slipping away from desperate arms
Within salty, dark waters.
Familiar voices fade with distance and    
Drown, as stars become
Blurs lulling you to sleep with their

Good night twinkle-twinkles.  
Hands too small for any gun or
Grenade open up like little flowers
To a night no night-light ever could
Illuminate.

~

Where was God when you whimpered
In fear?
Swam an angel of light in the darkness
Down there in  
The deep, with her comforting hand on
Your motionless shoulder?

Little Dream Brother.
Dreaming nightmares all meant
For another.
Asleep in the sand, with the ocean
Washing over.

When we now celebrate Life,
It's in a different way than
Most mortals.
Her cheeks red from my
Beard rubbing against her face
With the force of nearly
Primal, almost aggressive
Gratitude

As we move against, across and
Beneath our bodies,
Always in desperate love and
Finally alone.
Gods elevated above this world of
Sand box dramas and
Petty everydayness. Royalty
Resting on thrones of each other.

From afar
Seated busdriver
Patting little, old man
-In a rediculous hat
That once wasn't-
On the shoulder.

I lipread
No problem, just take
A seat, ol'-timer
Answered with gratitude
Like a little, old sun
On his little, old face.

Letting him in
Free of charge
As all should be for
Any senior.

Love. Your every
Guise
Charms me.

I scroll down your pages,
Each line making me hungry for
The next.

Father Eagle, wings spanning
Across multiple decades
Of strong life lived.

How many poetlings have you
Hatched from the cold, solid
Shells of their insecurity?

How many hearts have you
Guided from the darker corners
Of creativity, and

Into the light of a broader sprecrum
Of impression and expression?
How many lives

May just have been saved by the
Firm foundations of the attitudes you
Gift us with?

Keep challenging us, uncle Joe.
Keep soaring above the landscapes
Of ink and paper, of fingers

Painting themselves through keyboards,  
On nights where sleep has to yield
To the force of inspiration,

And remember...
You will live forever in the hearts
You have touched.

Long after your work is done in  
This world you made more beautiful and
Meaningful to so many;  

Once you become one with the trees,
Flowers, fields and woods that you
Love; even making those

Landscapes with which we all must
Merge more wonderful with your
Own perpetual grace,

You will be thought of. Spoken of,
Written of, reminisced about.
You tremendous man,

Friend, inspirator, teacher, creator.
May you live forever. A king cloathed
In ashes; humble.

A god, wearing Man, loving every
Strand of grass he graces with
His footprint.

You hold a thousand pens. You conduct
Legions of observers and transmitters.
You are the leaf you asked us to

Write about; at its most beautiful in
Autumn. Yellow. Dry enough to leave
Its tree and flutter through

It all. Unattached.
Unconcerned with
Winter.

There's nothing clean about
A break that nobody
Wants.

It's as ***** as dirt,
As ****** as boxing,

And it hurts more than
Having anything else
Broken.

I know you struggle; I've seen
Eyes like yours in
The mirror before.

Sit down. Breathe. It's a
Recreational universe
If you let it.

Open your hands. Look.
What is that? It's heavy.
Sharp. Red hot.

Hands worn, blistering,
Bleeding. Let it drop.
Here, I'll carry you.

I'll carry you like a father.
Let go of your burdens.
Be mine.

I run on your relief.
When you wake up  
We'll be there.

I have given you
So much.

Still I find with
Every thing I give you,
You give two back

So I have four to give; and
Recieve your eight.
Feeding wealth to feed itself
To feed itself itself.
You taught me
Circle.

You have given me
So much.

The skies hold back their
white gold for now.
ground kissed by frost;

everything hard and rigid
under tired feet.
I scrape ice from the

windshield without gloves.
who needs to feel their fingers
anyway?

it's as if every particle between
my face and the stratosphere
is still, not moving so as not

to attract the attention of the
coldness. I follow their example
and look up into the night sky.

stars so clear. so many. for a while
I wonder if some divine hand
has scraped the ice from

the window to
outer
space.

You enshadow all
Beneath
You
Floating like fluid in
Liquid flutter in
Slow motion

A ghost in water
Framed with daylight
Dancing on
Underwater waves
The most beautiful dead
Object in the
World

I am an alien in
Your realm  
Unarmed against the forces of
Your otherworldly
Guise
As

I bow unto You  
As Poet
As Poet and unbreathing
Man

Her nickname
Was always
Gaia with a y.

And she was.
Dancing; not so much
Reasoning.

All feeling. Analysis,
Not so much.
Me, a petard of adrenaline and

Testosterone -short fused with
Whisky and blunt logics- by
Which I found myself

Hoist with ruthless regret.  
All man.
All human

Man.
We merged until we
Emerged, passing through

Each other and moving
On. Two forces of nature
Embracing.

With a broad
Enough
Perspective,

Everything
Looks
Beautiful.

Body (recommended)
A certain grasp on time, space and the concept of kindness (pending)

Proper footwear, underwear and silverware (essential, recommended, no)
A cat on your lap of the kind that will always be kitten that sits in the window
And watches the world while you sleep just to -since it can't speak-
Never mutter a mjau about all that went by,
So you watch it at breakfast on SKY (surprisingly likely)

I do believe my days withing these
Concrete ashram walls are
Coming to an end.

It might be a slow ending, but
It'll be a good one.
It began the day I saw the

Beautiful truth behind the ugly
Mask of everyday insignificance.
Beauty and meaning;

Soft hand in a mild one.
Water strength.
Cement frailty.

Thoughts are like air; find their
Way from A to another
A.

Looking at my friend fitting
A door, cursing at the promise of
Adjustments,

Or enjoying the way the Project Manager
Leaves us never knowing whether
He's joking or not with a face

As cold as his project's foundations.
I fall in love with Life every day.
Even when I hate it.

I've learned that I never stop learning.
I'll be a slightly different man tomorrow,
Yet still myself.

Always still myself.
There is wisdom in flexibility; the
Holding on to nothing,

Even ones definition of oneself.
I was a construction worker.
Now, I'm a

Construction worker.
I take comfort in the fact
That the only comfort I'll

Ever really need, is the
One I give
Myself.

Of us wants to
Lose
Either
Of us.

Cottonmouth kingdom.
Bloodshot million-gallon-gaze.
Brewery breath.
Battlescars.

Headache like horses over the hills.

Bukowski without the
Brilliance.

Clouds to make
A sunny day rainy.

Arms to hold and
Grapple, mouth to swear and
Lie; promises, and

Themselves broken.

Intentions mistaken for bad,
I give up on such
Concepts as Truth and
Selflessness,  

And am left feeling
Something in me crossing the
Thin transparent line between

Poetry, and what isn't.

Let gods all bow their heads in grief,
Command the rain: Release!
Ask the sun to please retreat,
And ask that I find peace.

Set fire to all places that these eyes have ever seen.
Set an equal blaze to all I ever felt within.
Spread the word to every ear that ever heard my pen:
That the voice they witnessed never will be that again.

Then ask each word I ever wrote:
Return, and share his grave.
Because -if I ran out of words- none written I could save.
I'd have to call them back, if not forever I am heard:
I'd never be at all -if ever I ran out of words.

I know you worry at times,
That I look back in affection.
Songs, moments, memories.
That I cover them up and keep
Them alive.

You were tougher at first.
Perhaps not as in love as now.

You're afraid to be fooled.
But I'm no fool.
I don't waste time on half-
Assed love.
I either do, or I don't.

I love you. Her,
I don't.
Past is what it is.
It's all in the name.

I only have
Room for one red rose  
In the carry-on luggage of my life.
So I picked you carefully.
Nipped a few thorns of doubt
From your stem that hurt you
More than my hand.

Looked lovingly upon all the
Petals we have in common;
Values, tastes, loves, histories...

Wrapped you gently within
Safe layers and a shared sense
Of compromise.
Put you down slowly into the
Compartment marked
Other Half,
And walked on.

I believe in winning  
By the rules.
None of my doors are locked.
None of my poems are inked for
Another's heart.
All I have is ours.
All I am is yours.

I have faith in faithfulness.
I go by few books, but one
I follow above all others.

I believe in loving
By the rules.
All other victories are lies.
That's why they call it
Cheating.

Relax.
Cry yourself dry, then
Sleep.

Your turn to be
Child now.
Rest.

This is safety.
I am familiar
Cover.

Flower eyes.
Cloudless smile.
Hair like a slow motion
Waterfall

Waving through air
Towards the center of
My breathlessness.
Flower eyes,

Ears made for music.
Skin; fresh snow upon warm
Sand crying beads of
Sweat from dancing.

Breath, a breeze that carries the
Scent of Eden's flora.
I open my eyes still dreaming,
Feeling fingers on my face,

Tasting nectar lips and the
Love of an angel having
Fallen for it.
Wingless thing,

Trading Heavens for our touch.
Unto nothing less than your
Flaming feather heart would I
Surrender.

Flower eyes. Petal tears.
Dream me back from this world
Of sharp edges and jagged realities.
Meet me there,

Where no rough imitation of
Our union could take root.  
I will rest within you.
Kiss your flower eyes uncrying.

Rain drumming on car's roof,
Its millions of fingers
Poking at the eyes of busy windshield-
Wipers.
I love driving with you.
Radio classic rock.
Shopping bags releasing their
Contents to dance around in
The back of my van

As I leave the roundabout in
Third gear; its back wheels
Slipping on the wet asphalt.
As always.
I love driving with you.
You hold on and giggle.
I know these rural roads like
The back of your hand.

I clown driving, you shotgun
Laugh at my silliness
As I slow down at my
Exit.
I love driving with you.
People speak better in cars.
Might be, that one part keeping
Eyes on the road lightens the
Conversation.

I've never been lied to
With a steering wheel in my hands.

Slivers of crimson sun pierce through
clouds that try but can't
hold back a single ray with the
illusionary shields of
themselves.

some bounce off the oil rainbow
puddles by the containers.
rust forcing its way through
flakes of green paint that

surrenders its grip on the metal
with every clank, thud, scrape and
unloving move by machine
operators and passers by with
tool belts and shouldered
sharpness.

beaten. broken. filled to the rim
with worthlessness.
I'm glad I'm not a container.

anymore.

The way the sun breaks through
Clouds dark with rain

Above a city that doesn't mind
Either

Reminds me that somewhere 
Something

Really good is happening
To someone deserving

Right
Now

Outside it's snowing.
friday afternoon, construction
site more silent with every
worker welcoming weekend.

there's beauty in this.

gloved pats on dusty shoulders,
flakes of white like god's
dandruff on everything
else.

there's beauty in all of this.

I think of my woman's warm
lips against my cold cheek as I
enter. I will turn down beers
with the boys to feel them sooner,

and there is so much beauty in all
of this.

god is a zen buddhist with an
art degree.
I enter my office and wrestle off
my hi-vis coat, shake the drops from

my hard hat and hang it up.
kick my boots off against the wall
like an eight-year-old coming
home from school.

I could explain a workman's week
ending more poetically, but
life and weekends are both too short,
and there's so much ******* beauty

in all of this, and outside
it's snowing. outside it's
snowing like
hell.

I dreamed I was blind.
Blind, and uncomfortable
With darkness.

Fingers blistered from
Feeling if the light
Was on.

Listening for something
Between the other somethings
That combine

To create the chord Night
Strums with its claw
While singing

To itself about
Morning,
Eyesight
And other unpleasant
Illuminators.

Looking at this world. If
You have burned even
One frozen pizza in your
Lifetime, every tear you ever
Spilled on your own
Behalf is
Sandbox.

The best place to hide a
Needle is still within a
Haystack. So we forget, and
Let our strings be pulled.
Love? A scratch scratched.
Now count grains.
Crusts uneaten.

The sun broke through the clouds,
Playling with the gold
Embroyderies on the
Priest's cloak.

The Man of the Hour's favourite
Song playing as we all sat
Watching white flowers on
White oak, reading names on
Ribbons wishing peaceful
Rest and cherishing memories.

Mid-ceremony change in
Weather from skies gray to
Bright blue, as if clouds all
Creating passage for a soul
The size of horizons.

Few silences equal that
Of mourners
Holding hands and roses,
Hankerchiefs and pamphlets.
Whispered regrets and female  
Sniffles barely audible
Over the undeniable
Absence of a
Life.

The sun warm through
Suits and dresses, and the golden
Reflection of a textile cross on the
Chapel wall, dancing with
Each movement the
Holy man made.

Silence is the language
Of Death and its matters.
It will not ever
Be silenced.

Water runs however it
Wants.
Fire can never
Be burned.

I wish I could find it amusing to see
How an unevil man is rendered demon

By the cloaking of his good intensions
By female addiction to victimization.

I hold out my broken heart.
You scream at the sight of blood,

Squeeling: *"Murderer! I can see your red
Hands from here! Holding some poor

Thing's
Heart."

Eyes as blue as the North Sea,
Hair black as the soul of a crow.

Smile like that of a child
Seeing a bicycle finally

Unwrapped and shining, smelling
Factory fresh and prestine.

She'd beat the life out of any fool
Laying fist on my flesh, she says.

I trust she would.
My western Norwegian Shield Maiden,

Born on the coast where seagulls are the
Size of dragons.

She has one foot on top of the world,
The other rested on my lap,

And we're team more than lovers.
Lovers more than people.

Eyes as blue as her hometown skies.
Hair as black as the absence of light

Itself. And I, pilgrim.  
Rest.

My friend Kaia has these
Marbles that she hasn't lost
Yet.

A few of them work together
When we discuss my
Alcoholic Anger  
Problem:

You have to vent the things that
Irk you. Before you get drunk.
"Get it out and over with.
You'll have nothing to be
Angry about when you
Drink."

So clear.
I am such an
Idiot.

Guys. It's too late for me.
But save yourselves.
No drunk anger ever.

The **** you say...
So glad our mothers will
Never hear us like that.
They'd cry for days.

"Don't go to bed angry," they say.
I say "don't drink a drop with a
Grudge."

It'll **** your
Everything if you keep
Dancing with it; the

House always wins.
You'll never be yourself
Again.

It'll all go away, and it'll
Never be
Worth
It.

It is cold, it is raining.
But no, I don't care.
A matter of hours,
My girl, and I'm there.

We'll sit under blanket,
We'll watch the rains fall.
Sipping at glasses, and
Sharing it all;

The sound of the storm
As it dances around.
The skyfuls of water
That pound at the ground.

Come winter and wind,
They will not see me frown.
An interesting thing
About weather, I've found:

I never get cold, whether
Rainstorm or snow.
Within it with you,
I'm the warmest I know.

I love my country side home.
firewood heat fighting the
gusts of winter wind
breaking through
timber
walls creaking with
the outside wanting
in.

still, the absence of your perfume,
freshly showered hair and
skin, smells like the emptiness I'd
feel alone, deep in the
bowels of
an enemy alien spacecraft
heading
home.

Those tears forced to manifest
By poison thoughts of venom fears
Are old news to me.
I've cried them too, you see.

Those knuckles white around
Princess Paranoia and Marquis Mortality's
Slender wrists will not hold
Their punches back.

That pound of ice in your stomach
Is the worst our foe Fear can do.
I will share this with you.

You think back, back nearly broken by
The weight of grudges.
Bitter bag on your tired shoulder,
Barbed wire strap biting.

I've been to darker places
Than you will ever see.
Share your blackest burdens with me.

I fear no man, nor god.
I've paid my rent with sweat and blood,
The next payment is far from due.
I will share that time with you.

My hours on Earth are mine alone,
But no terms are written in stone.
I like it down here.
Liking I'll share.

That warmth on your face  
Is only my hand.
Your guardian angel is merely
A man.

Both scholar and warrior, and girl,
I have learned:
The skin has grown back on the hands
That I've burned.

You can choose to cry,
You can choose to smile.
I learned that truth, but it
Took me a while.

I have seen the Devil. He was pleasant,
He was kind.
I have seen the face of God,
It was yours and mine.

We have the power to create.
It's not in vain; not too late.
Let us face this storm together.
We'll be the gods of weather.

The choice is yours, it is true.
You are the foot, not the worn-out
Shoe.
You are not the sky; you're

The Blue.
You'll never need my comfort,
But until you stop believing that
You do,

I will play your game
Like a loving parent;
Having given you room
As you grew.

I will share this
With
You.
I will

Share
This poetry  
With
You.

One for sorrow, two for joy...
Black spots in waves over
Snow crusted
Fields and the jagged
Dark teeth of pine
Beyond.

Girl, boy, silver, gold.* I
I only know her well enough
To trace the place on my face
Where it last
Touched hers, with a
Pensive finger as

I gaze out at the
Winterness floating by.
Yes, I guess that feels like a
Smile. Eight for a wish, nine
For a kiss.
Something secret wonders if

It ever will want to be told,
And I hold the part of myself
That would rather soar than
Join feathers with another,
Tightly. I never seem to get my
Crows in a row.

Push me in two hours.
Awakening means I
Live still.

Your voice reminds me:
It's worth getting up at
4am.

This Thing Called World
Awakens not; shifts.
I am animal to its

Soul; wings to its crow.
Never afraid, never uneasy.
Worlds turn.

Planets are never alone.
I can't wait to find the love
Of my

Life there. On other soil.
She hides well.
This universe ain't big enough

For the two of us,
Slim.
I am the only sad god I need.

I've always loved to make her laugh.
She deserves as much,
My mother, the hero.

First call from the hospital;
The worst one I've ever made.
"I'm sorry. Yes, it's cancer."

Hearing a mother's worst
Fear grip her throat with the
Force of a crocodile's jaws around

The neck of something
Unsuspecting.
She does what mothers do: Finds

Strength within the heart of
Complete devastation.
Clears her throat and tries to

Speak,
But the sounds she makes are
Fingernails on

A blackboard to a sympathetic son.
I am not the victim here.
I am merely a messenger

Whose life is on the line, bringing
Bad news to the
Undeserving.

"Didn't you put us through
Enough with your nearly failed
Heart surgery a

Decade ago?"
She manages a stab at
Sarcasm, and I

Smile in comfort
At her
Courage.

I smile into my phone.
I smile at the emerald
Lawn around the

Hospital. At the sky, where low,
Dark clouds speed above me
Like angry, little spaceships. I

Smile at the horizon, where
The sun sets behind an
Almost pitch black

Promise of evening rain.
And my mother doesn't shed a
Thousand

Tears. She sheds one.
One single tear, the size of a
Womb around

Herself, like hers once
Held me.
A shield of salt water,

Transparent kevlar of
Maternal self-defence.
Flashbacks from little legs kicking,

A sore back and things swollen,
The battle of her first birth.
"Life's not supposed to

Be boring," I try, and she grasps at
Anything light-
Hearted in desperation,

Letting out a little laugh; not
Forced, but faint.
A slight relief from the

Nightmare.
I've always loved
To make her laugh.

She deserves as much,
My mother, the hero.
There are parents who

Take their childrens' good
Health for granted.
I know two that

Never will.
"Have you spoken to your father?"
"I'm going to," and we

Hang up
With our usual I-love-yous.
The wind picks up the fallen

Features of August, whirling
Them against
Bricks and across parking

Lots, and I pause
Before I
Dial.

Swig of cold coffee, button up the
Ridiculous patient-
Shirt they gave me, and

I can't take my eyes
Off of that
Horizon.

That dark, wet deluge approaching,
And it's dad's turn now.
I love to make him laugh.

This time I won't try.  
I crush a handful of dead leaves that I  
Surrender to the wind

As he picks up and answers with
An unsteady, nervous eagerness.
"Yes, hello?"

"Hi, dad. It's me."
I brush my hand clean on
My pant's leg

And begin with the loving
Determination of
A parent about to rip a

Disney-band aid from the
Bruised knee of an anxious
Toddler.

It's kind of cold in here,* I think as
I leave my
Laptop on the chair and
Pick up the last pair
Of wool socks my late
Grandmother knitted.
Spoiled from spending time
At my girlfriend's place, its shell being
170 years younger than that of
Mine, I suppose...

Old houses breathe.

The cat is balled up on the sofa;
Sleeping within its own
Body heat, only responding
With a flick of an ear to
My patting it.

I light fires in living room and
Kitchen, and
Recall how I used to sit at
Four in the morning
Under a blanket with a cup
Of coffee and tried to

Shiver less as I waited for the fire
To take. My parents' living room,
Having had to move back.
Late twenties. Divorced.
Undergone heart surgery.
Declared bankrupt
(On most levels of Life, in fact).

The ****** Months, I used to
Refer to them as. When it all
Came down.
The following years -spent working,
Saving, drinking the weekends
Away and lying to my doctor

About it- I got to know my parents
Again. My father would knock
On the door to my room and make
YouTube requests; recalling songs
From decades ago he never thought
He'd hear again.
He still brings up those nights
On occation. It was good.

Mother's knock meant room service.
She loved waiting on me like
That. Feeling useful.
Having me there. After all that
Had happened.

I had all I needed up there. Guitars.
Weights and a bench. Decent
Internet. Sometimes I'd just sit in
The dark in silence, hearing nothing
But the ticking of my St. Jude aorta
Heart valve, feeling the soreness of

My fresh scar fading, tracing the
Uneven bones of my rib cage
Where they's sawed me open.
Gutted
(On most levels of Life, in fact).
But it was good. I was
Aware. I was still here.

In the mornings I'd get up at 03.55,
Light the fire and sip my coffee,
Watching snow land on the
Windows, or stars illuminate the
Fields of white outside, perhaps even
Dancing northern lights
Above the pine tree tops.

Winter. Summers were summers.
Bird calls preceded my alarm.
Coffee on the stairs outside.
Sunrise streching her hands above
The horizon as I awoke.
Nothing I could see wasn't home
(On most levels of Life, in fact).

Three years until I moved out again.  
It got quiet for them, I know that.
But I had healed.
Trained.
Grown.
Smiled.

Three moves later, and I'm back in
My home village.
Neighbouring farm.
Countryside silence.
Home.

~

The room is getting warmer. I place a
Piece of wood on the embers and lean
Back in my chair by the fire.
The cat is now completely outstreched
In a full feline smile of fur and limbs.
I see movements in the trees outside in
The corner of my eye, but the winds
May blow as violently as they want.

I have four walls and a roof.
A belly full of salmon, a job that pays,
A wonderful woman who
Loves me as much as I love her, and
From my bedroom window, I see the
Lights from the
House where my parents live.
Where I grew up.
Twice.

"I know it's back. I can feel it;
The pressure behind the eyes..."*

He's sixty. Missing front teeth
Make his grins cartoonish

And contageous. Some days
Colleague, others

Father.
Now, hammer-steel

Eyes well up. Hands like
Shovels pretend to scratch the

Bridge of his nose.
Devil Cancer. Ugly, old *******.

When he passes on, Valhalla
Awaits.

Don't tell me there's no battle
In this.

Whenever I wonder how much I love you
I put on the right song
And picture you gone.

It's like an elephant-gun's shot
To the centre
Of a mosquito's
Heart valve.

Two months in love; two
decades they feel.

every morning we wake up
older, yet newborn.

I give you a rose with every
moon. soon I will have

to plant you a garden.
one petal for every sweet word.

one thorn to protect you from
each unkind one they'll speak.

beautiful arms. crimson kevlar.
daggers of green. sweet shields...

to believe beyond belief. leap,
choose flight over fall.

many name us naïve.
they do not know:

to loving artists, every day
is new year's eve,

year
zero.

The Devil took on the shape
Of a city crow.
You should have seen him
Manouver through the streets
On the warm gusts of wind.

Beak silver, feet golden,
Wings as wide as the smile
Of a demon's fresh from
Heaven's grasp.
He turned his head, exposing

An eye; a window to his lack
Of soul, as black as the center of
Nothing. Fresh wounds from
Needles in the arm of a girl
On the pavement below

Were sunsets and rainbows
To him; he croaked with the
Voice of a hundred crying mothers:
Your opened veins are my gates.
Syringe keys and ****** handles.

No single sin is anything
Without the eye that judges it.
Behold: Within the skies above
Is only air, no godly love.

No devil neither rests beneath,  
As blade within an earthly sheath.
Behind this blackness you will find
The consciousness of Humankind.

The crow looked up and lifted off
With a giant rustling flap.
Then, mid-air, changed into a dove
Of summer-cloud white; glided above the roof
Tops; became one with the sunlight

That stroked itself across the face
Of the girl in the street.
She looked up at a passing
Child. One that didn't cringe at the look
Of her weary, weathered features, but smiled

As if knowing her.
I swore I could see the chemical veil lift
From her eyes.
Who needs gods or devils, I thought.
*They're only devided by heart.

I don't mind death, as long it
Comes under an open sky.

Crows and magpies go for the
Eyes first.

The dead need them the
Least.

Lack of life renders once living
Things more alien within

Walls. So
I don't mind death as long as it

Comes under an open sky.
Among trees, mountains,

Soil, and stones,
I'll surrender my

Eyes gladly to the
Birds.

"How come you are the one
Comforting me,"* she says after
Blowing her nose with the
Tissue I dispensed,

"...when I am the one leaving
You?"

So I comfort.
Swallow my own despair
And dry tears with my name on
Them that missed by a heart's

Depth and hit her face.

"You're not my girl anymore," I say,
Watching a red moon rise over
Woodland summer nightscapes.

"But that only changes so much.
I'm here for you. Just like before."

That's what friends are for.

I have no idea, really.
I am a Northman; my blood is
Used to leaders

Of a different kind.
My heart and efforts placed
Before strong wills and

Absent egos.
All for the best of the tribe.
A fan of no human,

No single lie forgiven.
No hidden agenda  
Either.

When the longest spear of
Ridicule is thrown, make sure
No one raises

A shield strong enough to
Give Donald time to
Duck.

I ask myself, observing the
Battles of the infants, are there any
Grown-ups here

At all?
We're dealing with the fate of our
Children.

So much more our flesh and
Blood than anything
Animated.

You are so beautiful.
You are so young.
Won't you stay just the way
You are...

Days of pretending over,
You bask in the feeling
Of finally being seen.
I watch breathlessly.

Inside you is cotton and
Gold. I want to hang you on
My favourite wall and
Die gazing.

I want to put my most
Precious belongings in your
Chest and turn the
Key,

Toss it over my shoulder
And name you
Safe.
I put on my writing ring

And do this.
Tomorrow I smell you.
Tomorrow, I awaken again.
We count down and live.

Fireplace altar.
Cathedral dome horizons.
Icon constellations.  

Snowfall prayers, solitaire twilight
Forest tree stump confessions.
Every shadow a priest.

Every infant an angel.
Willow wind psalmsong;  
Praising the Everything.

No heaten forcefully converted.
No sinner's soul purgatory held.
Heaven is when

I close my eyes. Heaven too,
When they're open. Preaching to the
Choir of me.

Church of One.
Hell on Earth. Worldly Paradise.
Yin to the Yang.

I feel the pain within it all.
The pleasure as well. Poor
Beautiful, ugly world.

Single disciple walking. I'll focus
On my humble
Feet.

Love watching
Talent shows.

With so much talent
That might never be

Witnessed, how come I
Hear the same song on the

Radio twenty
Times a day

For
Months?

Widen the
Spotlight.