River

As we see our landscapes slowly pass beyond the reeds that line these gradually eroding banks, I hear all the melodies whispering through the many mouths that are born to whisper what beyond the primal abstracts of need can never be sung, though distinguishable sounds illuminate our world with the mysterious wonder of shadows.

This Rotten Sonnet

Behind the veil of love lies a hatred willing to apprehend all that devours the self longing for separation, reluctantly self annihilating, grasping hard and pouncing back again from the shadows like an untamed animal.

Torn between gluttony and starvation, tottering on the ambiguous wires of social protocol, we command the parts expected, carefully motionful and concealing of corruptable truths, tripping on the undulations of indifference beneath our feet, smiling hard and punching low whistled, memorial memories far from the here and now, willingly trapped by the strange protectorates of loss and singing hopeful songs of the impossible.

Repeater

Every second goes
And so it does,
Even in the pauses
Of thought and word
Scrawled to mark
A relentless deception
Of sand built memorials.
Their rein of decay.

It passes this time,
That time,
All time always,
And so it does,
So it goes
A tick in silence,
Every second
And so it does,
Paused in thought
A word scrawled to mark
This linear betrayal
These memorials
To their collapse.

It passes, this time,
That time,
All time always
Masterful refuge,
Artifice,
Mute friend,
Enemy.

Crossing The Rubicon

I climbed a tree just the other day,
With my special, climbing feet on.
Rising higher as I swallowed
Each branch and back out again,
Below me, with my special climbing end.

I am a conduit
And the world
Travels through me.
It digests me as I digest it.
Breaths me as I breath it.
In and out, back out
And in again.

I'm so wrapped up in this climbing,
Focused on the careful swallowing
Of inherently, branchlike, intricacy,
I fail to realize what day it is
And find myself atop of a lampost
Instead of an Oak.
And almost completely
Myself digested.

The Tune

Twisting,
Involuntary.
Administered,
Empowered,
Pro -
duced.

You have the bodies,
Sea of dancers.
Fools?

Maybe damned,
Blind and foolish,
Grooved minions,
Ecstatic,
Pseudo shamanic,
Shadow characters
On this crafted stage.

'Here we are now...'
Chorus lined,
Glorious lifers,
Orgasmic,
Orgiastic,
Organic,
Organizers,
Organized.

Killing, with words

True love is a beast when named.
Slipping through fingers,
An unbridled Colt,
Holding to ransom
With a shadow,
Wayning,
An ebb like unmorphiated pain.

Cheese

For the child of Bovines,
There is offered from the slowly leaking,
Timeless offering of nurture
A mammalian fluid as a starter in life and for whom,
It seems,
Amongst us higher form of primate
Not enough that we have our own brew
For anything else but its pure intent.
Cheese, so close to home would be a catastrophe,
Though its said, undoubtedly to have to been tried.

Man 0 - Insect 1

I had a motorcycle,
That traveled as loud
As it could reach speeds
Often impossible for the human eye.
But I was stopped,
Suddenly one day,
Not by cops with a camera,
But an idiot fly.

Vortex

Let me dance now
Profoundly before I die,
So that I can see the lights
Spinning around me,
Splitting the administration
Of white light into patterns,
Fractured by possibility,
Into everything that I'll become,
When this being no longer requires me.

For The Trees

How could that twig bear such a fruit?
They'll wonder -
Not knowing you're the tree,
The root.

The Go Between

No more eyes in my head to see,
Nerves to feel,
Heart to beat.
I become a stone,
Earth.
I am without flux.
I am the go between.

This

With love and without it,
With words and without them,
With this life and without it,
What else is there?

Death is only somewhere else,
Without feeling.
All there is for the man,
For the woman
And the animal is this,
The doing and the being.
Profoundly the responsibility.
Without life there is nothing at all.

In the perpendicular of things
We play, making it up
For ourselves on the journey.
There is no way, no one way to right,
No ways, right to wrong.

But nevertheless,
We seek equilibrium in chaos,
Trying to meet the expectations of gods
And failing hard,
Falling in quiet disgrace.

Profess

What is a Profess – ionale like?
Such as one becomes amongst others,
Those who, too, come entitled,
Quietly or not,
As Profess – ionals.
With:
A certain uniform
As requirement
Gestures
Code
Quali – fi - cations
All of those.
What am I?
Now,
Here,
Upon this ledge,
Standing as I do,
Bending with the wind,
Unfit to snap,
But so profoundly bowed,
Like an Olive limb bearing fruit
And pissing sap.
Where is my Pro – fess – ionale?
Confess – ionale more like.
A constant unburdening,
The opposite, in effect,
But just the same as donning a
Hair shirt.
“Ridiculous stuff!” I think,
Begins running through my mind.
Or is that the judgement of the uneven effect,
Of the voices, hauling me, always,
Hard up against,
The hot coals of social order and keeping me in check.
I’d run around naked on stage,
Foolish without my flag code
Preserving the embarrassment of skin.
I’d spell out the title:
‘AA - AA - AA - RG - H!’
AND SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEAM.
Keeping me Profess - ional.

Wail

Life is short.
Filled with bursts of ferocious intensity,
Swimming in sorrow,
Illuminated with gnosis,
Kindness,
And time spent in a queue.