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
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.