27 April 2011

there are streets
not too far
from here
lined with ruins,
burnt down
and out.
a dull and raw
nevi revered in
disgust. a
forlorn stigmata,
in disbelief.
perhaps, it has
been mused,
beauty sleeps
and is scarified
there. a sluggardly
return to a
pungent humus.
and when the sun
escapes from
there at its end,
little whispers
float about and
all around
in the empty
and nearly
silent wind.

they can't be
saved and they
won't be,
if there was
just some way
to show it
to you as
it sleeps
gentle and brutal
in its malevolent,
violent silence.
it wilts and
it thrives and
i can't make a bit
of sense out
of any of it.
it is all there
in all its
nameless, just
beyond the word,
beyond the
abject fascination
within the
salted tears,
without a
flowering reason.

22 April 2011

two more
swallows of
this coffee
gone rancid
and cold,
i'll be on
my way
to make it
back through
the trenches
and barbed
praying that
it won't
be there,
for me,
that trap
i've set
and fallen
onto and into
so often.
each time,
exactly it
has been

18 April 2011

she tears
into it
with rusty
dull tools.
pain flows
like a slow
spring stream
and no one
smiles round
here anymore.
it soaks

there is
no use in
it is always
the same.

we build
and routines
as skyscrapers
we swear on
the graves
of mothers
and saints,
that there
is no way
in hell
we'll succumb
to all
of this
there is grandeur
around every corner
and it is
in the trees
and on the
leaves that
have collected
themselves on
the sides of roads.

sometimes it ebbs
forth from dented
speakers serenely,
quickly and it fills
the mouth
the nose
the eyes and most
importantly, the ears.
it fills the lungs
and stops everything.

the room gets
quieter, warmer
even though the nights
come swiftly and time
emanates relentlessly,
still out of reach
but still somehow alright.

and these, our torn hearts,
we mend every time
using stronger cords
and wiser stitching
believing that
each time we
have immunized
our rickety pumps.

nevertheless, the storms
always come and
they bring their love
with their spears, knives,
and cold razors.

15 April 2011

in the shadowed
corners, in the
darkest moments
there is the devil
with his sleek and
slimed pitchfork
his eyes alight
like glowing embers
his toothed and curled
smile, sharpening his
blackened claws on
my regrets and misgivings
stamping and stomping
his cloven hooves
counting out all the
things i hove around
this great big world.

14 April 2011

lock yourself
in here
until you are
able to move
without worry
or question

you've bred
demons in
your skull
they tear
apart their
kicking at
your heart

you swear
you are
dying from
i swear
it is
an excuse
to justify

13 April 2011

to start without
to begin with
no proclamations
just pure movement
motivation, empathy

how good is it
going to be
when we will
be allowed to
stand straight

but our thoughts
short lived
perforated by
a death wholly
constant now

it cares for nothing
except the means
of our redemption
we become
beautiful when
we forget ourselves

when we stand
in corners so as
not to distract from
our accomplishment
and work

when we allow it
to flow as our
blood flows
as time does

12 April 2011

more rooms
must be built
to hold it
all in
more space
must be allocated
to maintain
such containment
they say that
this is it
and nothing
other can be had
such definitions
such delineation

atrocious inhibitors
killers of beauty
killers of songs
murderers of art.
weep with
the sinking sun
because it will
not be the
same again
all those thoughts
that came uninvited
but welcomed
have now left
disappointed at
such inhospitality

08 April 2011

i've busted
up my arms
just trying to
get out of
this snare
its teeth rusted,
pointed and
in to the bone.
i did it to
take on a love
and pass on
fear but
the gamble, rife
with fell intent,
has cost me
the use of
my heart and
not to mention,
again, my arms.
this part was never expected and now
it is probably doing more harm than good

everything froze and numbed
these tears fall gratuitously, now purposeless

it has coalesced into another dereliction
another squandered night

today fell unpropitious, more than normal
the demons run wild

tearing, clutching, taunting
merciless, they won't let go

the attempts to push them away
gummed with futility

everything blazes orange, unsettled
burning down and away

06 April 2011

do you not
fear that
all of it
has been
done, used up?
no place to
go anywhere.
it is a nickel's
worth of an
but still,
does it
not frighten
you that
there is
nothing left
to gain,
to discover?
time stacks up these
forlorn duties,
beauty is lost to the
cold, wrenched hand
of procrastination.

drift in soft dreams
of traveling down
to those streets
where everything
seemed immaculate.

but that too, gets
lost in procrastination.
this bleak routine turns
into the black serpent
of habit.

winding itself through
the veins, poisoning
the heart, the mind,
the soul and the trinity
it is seldom
but it is
most often
as the coastline
meeting the sea
ever changing,
and beautiful
in its
misshapen form.

to learn how
to truly
embrace that
fluctuating and
crooked grace
with action
and faith,
not just words,
but genuinely..
is to master

then everything
starts to surge
even in the
low times,
it rolls
past us
cool and quiet.
a silent vigil
through nights
that cover us
serene and tender,
like soft
taking a good day
working it over
a heap, twisted
and bent up
bound by each
by every page,
beats out its
final measure.
full of scabs
and scars, you
can't stand to
let it heal.

03 April 2011

watch this, he said
pulled out
a straight razor
and began
carving big
sinuous strips
of flesh
this is high art,
he said
the highest,
the best,
and the most
i have to
offer you.
this is the rhythm
and flow of
my soul.

they all cheered
but were still
and called out
for more,
give us more!
the way you
cut and slash
is unaesthetic
inadequate and
decidedly low
this is cultural
they jeered,
and you must
give us more!

02 April 2011

a light drizzle
from a dim grey sky
and the reminiscently
efferent light,
echos from years
now extinct,
luminescing from
a time a bit
more jubilant.

words swell
with inadequacy.

allow for it
to happen.
the whole world is
drenched in memories
and rain.
for these days are
our training

all of this,
soft with sorrow.

it is a rather
and rare thing of
and that flickering
hum is enough
to kill.
this darkness,
often mistaken for
and curiously,
a seldom perceived
ebbs and flows
through all our parts
and bones and
it is there forevermore,
inefficaciously ignored
and always a quizzical
as if this was
all new and

01 April 2011

shoot forth
beams of light
from my
dead eyes
so i can
see the
festering, mangled
meat that
humanity has

breathe in
the fetid air
that spews
from our
drowned dreams.
promise nothing
it is better
off dead.
it has been
for a while
could it be?
i have
the foreboding
sense that
all of
this is
drying up.
in the tense
aching of
my muscles
in the
hollow knock
of my wrists.
that sense
throughout the
worn crevices
of my
throughout all
those undone