Lacertae 

Ducks. Snow. Tamed memories.

Little things I remember. 

Your presence. Essence. The place in the world your had. 

Eclipse. Moonshine. 

Pentagram, in a logical place.

Never, ever, even being. 

Your words that saved me. And these little things I do. 

Pain gone. That’s a comfort.

I’m trying. Trying to be worthwhile. 

Desolation the empty. Insidious clouds empty snow. But they are fleeting. 

Worthwhile? What is that to a tiny snowflake? To a duck on the lake waiting out the rain? 

The world, the essence of it, comes from our little bits of time. 

Yours, to breif. 

Endless fog to hide in, endless fog to hide from

Just as confused 

Flowing through my mind

Hiding behind a tree or a bush

My brain drying out like this biting morning 

Peaceful trees to sit on away from home 

Sun and leaves come and go

Hide from myself and everything 

As they all hurt me

Everyone, everything, it all hurts 

Domestic chords and monestic cores

Sometimes I wanted 

Dark, again already 

The bell rings 

Part and marshal 

Purple sky darkens 

I cannot apologize for this present marking 

Sealed with my lonely life

Peeled like a bone thife 

Marshal right

Why I’m so cold, distant from plight 

Partly my thoughts, partly my fright 

Scared like I am 

Of all these thing that can and have

Traumatized by their shouts and fights 

Mind anexity going at the speed of light 

Part and marshal, white distance frightful

Will any grass grow in my barren mind?

Salted as it is by hate, cold, hard, fire and brimstone that isn’t even real

It’s my birth of the color 

Caution, doors open outside your head but inside your mind

And mine were shut such a long time ago 

You were the only one who ever opened them 

Gasoline, time, and and cup of stale coffee

Nimble hates

Gums and sore pain 

Late, but he was the only man I knew who had the grain to fight it

We have shared the darkness of sunset together 

Feeling the heat of this dry desert on our backs

Searching in his eyes 

Familiar as the black tar

Brown as the stale coffee we drik after

 Ever having no wordsmith in our minds

He feels like gasoline 

A built up energy 

Going into, the nexus again and again 

Fire of our passion blows off the hottest of steams

I’m confident, comfortable, lost, and scared we will end this

Our weekly diet of sex, coffee, and wordless love

Then, just as it ends

We are sipping the cold coffee 

He smiles and says 

Same time next week lover? 

I’m smitten and nod knowing we will do this

As long as the gasoline lasts

*GAZE*

My feet are worn and my hart is heavy
Look upon me make me wary
is it a look of love or a look of hate
a single most distance stare that meet my chest
a jumbled mind that wishes for the wet
her look upon me is medusas gaze
a star so frightening it paralyzes me beyond all care
I cannot concentrate
I cannot think
I cannot speck
walk forward does my bravery but he is no use
against the star of the medusas gaze he is no match
for again I sit there paralyzed beyond all care

On the bus
In the classroom
In the office tower that touches stars that loom
beyond infinity of all that gaze
its concentrated on me on that day
I see the view that we all perceive in the gaze of light and there is not escape
they say the eyes are the window to the soul
I am trapped in yours and beyond all call
try and speak to me and you will see
that beyond you there is me

I have to fight
I know thats right
to win your love on this night
the window in the door and the gaze that meets the flour
let us dance to the shower of the morn
let us drink to the heavens above
but baby don’t look at me in that way
don’t use that gaze
cause I will be lost forever
within your soul

Volunteers volcano 

Very I’m going through 

Feeling
Yell 

It’s a hard rocking 

Fire 
Bland

Tea 

Nightmare 
Daughters breath 

Stealing 

I’m going 
Metal monkey 

Monster

Clangs 
I ask

Volunteer

Volcanos
Fugitive 

Heartstrings believed

Dust off my beard
Magic 

woman so much 

Pains
Blue

Red

Yellow

Flame 

Folded, tangled, grew the wispers 

Downloaded the bedrooms windows, on a cloth like the soft cheeks of a child

Pound by pound, led by a painters sunflower I’m hastily called by the mild taste of saffron 

Powerful violins strike a standard, paved by guilty dogs of war

Sour and dulled by storms passing along the craven hills, mauled my ancheint understandings 

Screens capped by hail, flashing flasks of festival wines 

Trap, trap, the folded tangled, growing wispers 

Mind Junkie

Fruity drinking modernists, whispering bourgeois platitudes whilst encased in mud encrusted realism’s

“Oppressive details of modernity, its Dirty realism” they whisper

As they sip their green drinks, among disinfected franchises

“Extradites of the simplistic. It’s like watching a soapy.”

One of them laughs at the idea. “Soapy. Clean plots, unclean people.”

I am not sure I am welcome in this domain of this self-hating temple

“Dystopian narratives?”, my question seeming to be sitting on the air like a ignorant child’s observation of the obvious

Looking long, and drinking some more, then Tweedy waves his hand at the effervescence silence.

“Not always. A possessive obsession of those, things we consider dirty.” He tastes the words like a snake, waiting to see if the air is deflated of my question

Seriously, a stuck up Hat-man, such a brown nose he has I thought, he doesn’t realize how much we need the junk, how we need to realize we need to recycle it, compost it, re-purpose it, let it influence us, and how it influences him

“Oh Tweedy, oh tweedie, you are but a mind junkie, kindled by the thrash of so called unclean. As much as you would hate to admit it. Cycles are needed, feeding into each other, like rivers. Of course any second now you will ask me to stick to just one metaphor. But I ask you, why should junk like me do that, you take our freshest mud and excrement, say “oh look at that, how silly this low brow thing is” and then you let it come in stay like a stray cat. It likes to sit and wait, then one day, you will realize you feed it just as much as you feed the dig dog who barks at all your supposed wrong.”

I pick up his drink, drink his drink, smile at him, and walk out without another word. Ready to cover the world in the words of the so called trash of the real. This dirty realism, it isn’t so much dirty as it is a part of the whole cycle. Live with it. Let it in. Feed it. Morals from the hang ups of a culture who hasn’t worked out how we talk to each other.

 

 

 

 

Bittersweet amplitudes

Banana peels on the seat next to me

Feelings of bitterness from a few angry old fashioned  men

Grumpy cats in suits, waiting for fish for their own horrible catch

Sucking on a cough lollipop 

Coffee smelling jackets, sweet feelings of silken cloth on my legs

Little bit more of a sudden drop in the way things move around