April’s Words to the Bank

Hot is tattoo
Hot is muscle
Hot is rockstar

Beautiful is the humility of it all


It is not the doubt but the pain that hurts to say, modesty is my god gifted curse.


A confidence is thick in my gut but it does not boil with the words I need to say.


The trees’ blanket is of fallen clouds
Sitting, twining winds and sky
Stars in hue rolled out to plough
Of painted thoughts it burns a sigh

Awake at night to see a loon..


This is nothing but an emotional revolution
The echoes left behind in evolution
Preying gulls painted in days’ pollution
Colouring me lonesome in self illusions


His moon burns against the day red suns
But its soft white glow rises in the day end prayers
And his dreams instil hope for the next day to rest
The old night to wake and the new moon to light


Time may be the only non believer when thought only exists.


Memories come to life through failures.


I’ve lost myself to the flag colours
When a luminous iridescence takes hold
Looking down on a rain puddle
An epiphany untold

Reflections on standby
Tackling time
Take on space
In familiar shapes


To not speak is to die – survival of the plenty worded.


There is a genius in everyone, I believe it. We are all just preoccupied at the moment.


If you find that you are ugly grow a beard.


If you lack intelligence, find it in a book


Greed is in the poor and strength is in the rich.


To live in a world without memory.


With God comes Devil.

 


On manpowered mills
In layman-found bast
A beating to a pulp
To swabbing paperbacks

On Chimneystack Road
An old pine explodes
Moon harvested bark
Blows a cold wind dark

In his lumberjack clothes
Under the trees’ shadow
There is a stranger that he knows
Hearing the timbering souls

And Back home he knows she is feeling cold
So he’ll burn these books when he is told.

 

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Late March

Are you a swift
in the wind?

Or the squirrel
planting acorns?

Do you take your heart in
with love
or conviction?

Tell me then.

Do you stay in the blue ocean sky
or do you feed life to our feet’s floor?

…or are you a flying squirrel?


Here’s a year worth of kisses
Now give it a year rest
Malevolent you are, of shield
When a heart undresses between those ears

Red mothers your tongue in plastic
In words, you don’t really feel
It’s double-edged and it will hurt you
Her plated lips of steel


Malevolent you are
Of shield
You don’t see him and I’m laughing
A devil’s yield


And your heart undresses
Inside your walls
Meeting you on the inside
To your knees it falls

And I stand there laughing
My heart only fisting
Bare skin and all
Love ending


Here is to a friend as much as a lover
For what good is a year if the days aren’t there?


I wrote a book on a man I know but it wasn’t as much a friend as much as a lover.


The only sexiest part of me is you.


You may find a piece of my flesh in a komodo dragon’s mouth. The other part of me is in a house, where I am mere food to you mother. Like the old skin you are, giving me chores and while a venomous bite has kept me indoors.

I am going to die anyways and the dragon’s feet are slow, so I might as well enjoy the time I’ve got here, that you have given me outdoors.


It must be cold out there
On the other side
Passing on by
Heading out south.


Sang it like a preacher
Until it rang my brain insane

Spun the world spins a cock
Preaching from the top

Pointing fickle on the steeple
So I crawled back in my brain

Retiring at age twenty-four
Where I can say that I am sane

Oh I am but I am not
Oh and then I am what I am thought
Oh I am but I am not
Oh and then I am what I am thought

..Preaching from the top


I’ve got one hand in Bourbon
And one hand of burden
Fists one hand in rage
Drank the other to age


I’m on the interurban
And I’m leaving behind life suburban
To become the big city neurosurgeon
But nothing but daunting it has been


For sale, a pedigree of fine art
Sold by a biggot they say ain’t so sharp
But he’ll fool you with his botox smile
A needle, sharp suit, and the holy bible

Hold on now he is not a preacher
A religious man nor spirited creature
But he’ll come running to heaven’s doors
And sarcasm is his only feature


Writing and reading are two separate feelings, much like breathing, we exhale and inhale, carbon dioxide pours out while oxygen sinks in, this is how it goes.

We do however, breath out and in fragments of the other counterpart, this is where I gain the underlining-understanding.

I may not read your words but I do write your emotions, much like mine, in exercise. This is enough reason to love and trust your art as much mine.

At last, may every breath that you swallow of mine give you the same, for this is only art, and a sport at best.

February Confession

Her innocence at best
In sheep skin warm in wool
Under the covers

Heart at home


In the bodies I see people, in your pupil. Filling places with your face of people. On the steeple, a cock blowing in the wind to tell the preacher. The direction back home you make to the people.

I say I love you when I see you, familiar. My angel in her innocence she covers. In the bodies, in the pupils, people.


A sacred vow to a drunken fool

Love in lust, bones in thrust
Blood is friend, a soul, a trust
A coming moon had lost its musk
Married two at lovers’ dusk

A beating heart, another you
And shallow eyes will dazzle you
At lover’s youth in a newborn child
I name her Hope by her longed-missed smile


The remnant of a parent’s love lies in a child’s eyes.


If only with evolution came an emotional revolution.


The best satirist is his own self.


We have left behind something sacred.


It is the knowing and not knowing that fights between us.


A shield is a weapon though its meant for protection.


To a personality too overwelhming, character gets lost in translation.


The only way to see light is to be in the dark. It science.


A power of thought with an art of ease.


Old Pine, architect of winter

January Water

The January water soaks.


I am
But
I am
Not
And then
I am
What
I am
Thought


Mother love
Father tell
Teacher teach
Book tell

Let me not think


Tangled in bones, I write fable.


I am no poet
I do not read
Nor do I know
I am no poet

I hem and haw
Till it seams
In the offing
Amidst


I do not love until I welcome you to blood
Where we can still fight and argue, but not of lust
Not who loves each other more
But a siblings trust

You are bound by blood
When you walk through this door
A marriage in kinship to you I trust
An inseparableness I put forth

New Year’s Hibernation

Hibernation, time spent with oneself and food.


Junk food for thought.


I stand on transit in case I am obliged to hand over a seat. I can not take comfort in transitory. I will wait until I am old, when I grow impatiently and worn.


I’d rather write my own story than read someone else’s.


The introvert is not born shy but rather aquires shyness and or anxiety as a disease.  I am forever sick.


To be a modern day nerd requires a tremendous amount of social work and flamboyance.


Having something to say or saying something is the same, so perhaps you are just shy, an extravert in the closet.


I am a man of character rather than personality. My personality is rather weak, slow, sarcastic and shy. And my character is outdated.


The mental illness one goes through thinking of and for others.  We are all sensitive beings.


Old man, there is a seat with your name engraved on it. You are the graduating row of the working class, let it comfort you into the years ahead. Society has handed you your diploma, you are now free.. to sit.


Love is lust by thrust
Mariage is kinship by trust.
And I choose love.

Mind of Paper Books

Somewhere vivid and a part of me
Breaks an old pine spirit in front of me
Mind of paper books, to the young it feeds
The walking waste of curiosity

Words have shovelled enough into me
To flash a brink across reality
The old pine spirit, to an ice it falls
A time said passing with no say in All

And with words come an underlining
And across pours pine nectar hiding
Inside of the mind, the words its finding
Inside of the mind, the words its finding