XII

an empty hope
like a boy promises
-eternity

the
illusion
& deception
of youth, expands

tender girlish lips
zealous ears
yearning to
hear
the four letter
allure

the spell delivered
between her thighs
in splintered speech

boyish moans
girlish quivers

an innocence is
undressed
&
arranged
in an
unchaste
cloaked creek

ripe forest trees
in lurid minds
fall
by the axe
of boyish hands

youth’s hymn
sings a
horror

forget
(this)

re-live
(the)

haunted
pages
of
your
past

-in youth

Bloom & Expire

Genes carried in
our bodies


Multiply


Essence carried in
our soul

Travels

The essence and genes splice

Our seconds to be in form
blooms and expires


Together is Life

Without is Death

eminence of ego

eminence of
self
above
all

eyes,
so
coward

fingers like electrical wires
sparking in a storm
disattached
moves

like a beast


can’t accept
can’t understand

eminence of
ego
cripples
one
to

blossom

grapevine of a widow

those wooden
brown
sad
sunken eyes
accent
your small
callous
red
lips

like one
of
a colorless
and oppressed
phantom

to proud
to give in
that your
absent-hearted
past actions
should be
reflected

(i'll remain the dream you abuse. i'll remain the instrument you play to boost that one-colored, puzzling aura of self.)

to you,
i'm the grapevine of a widow
or
the vines growing up the wall
of my broken home

yearning

your
heavy breathing

ear tips moist

our bodies together
chest to chest

our unholy gestures
oh spirits
would be ashamed

i can't figure out if this
is love
or
yearning
for
some
silhouetted
comfort

tell me
what you
see underneath
those
evasive
eyelids

i can only imagine
(the worst)

psycology of cities

distracted stimulation's
of the sounds
of the people
to many to count
to many to see

car horns
waltzing feet
smoke rising
cold city wind

you're isolated
by the walls of people
of voices
of buildings

you feel defeated
by some
invisible force

people as walls
people as barriers
people as images among the static
--silently obeying

the psychology of
cities:
for the ones
that need
to be dis-attached
from
all that
lies inside
(all of that suffering outside and in)

the train doors open
you're free
at last

yet you're still stuck within
the body,
of this
stifling city

yet you're still lead
by the
alluring finger
of this city
it's
breath
whispers
"hush. follow me"

ghost of you

is it
the ghost
of you

the absent form
that you existed
as
in the past

is it that ghost
that I
adore

you're not the you
that I used
to know

druken souls

intoxicated souls

sit at the bar
sit at the round tables

like cockroaches in high chairs
with pathetic
filthy cigarettes
that dangle
from their
lips

nonsense murmured
fronted knowledge of anothers interest
bulletproof egos
mindless speech
all
for the dawn's
soundless
void-hearted
foul
--fuck

this age, framed

sit at a shore, illuminated.

the sun's grin like your misery

lines of those memories in the sand,
on your skin

reflections in the water, altered by some foreign hand

face blurred
you don't recognize
this horror

since you've never faced it before
it scares you even more

chords of some distant ancient
piano playing songs

a framed photograph
washes to your feet

one of a new born in a crib
looks oddly like you

thoughts with the photograph in hand: this age has progressed
no longer do we lie in our cribs for the sake of rest

we've dug these graves
to wake and see the face of man telling,
thee

it's all grand
it's all figured out
there's nothing
to doubt
but those in which go against
all that's man

it's all so real
the static tells
you

don't you see
you've just got to believe
in the static
creating images

you hold the framed picture
of the newborn
and
exist
at the
illuminated
shore
without
a word

the photograph becomes
the moment
of you
waiting for
nothing

chords of ink

me: stuck on that which is not here
(stuck on that which engraved it’s initials on this internal tree)

i, a single insignificant cell
--no different than the others

dwell on occurrences that only
exist within

no memory
no past
with a grasp

change this day
with a thought
of
wonder
like a ballroom waltz
to the chords
bleeding the ink
--of god

my mornings

stars on your
hands

you’re a constellation

in the dark
in the night

in my mornings
--you’re still the warm aura of night

be hush, be here

be hush

be here

as we decline
into the night

daylight
disappears
all soaked up
in sheets

(i think)
the sun has expired

pale-like:
a snow-white sparrow’s wing

(i am)

out in the void
night sky

“drift”
,says
the moon
dressed warmly
in clouds

sigh
i imply
quiet

“we point so easily
when we’re not

the night’s
, limp-winged
&
frail”

be hush

be here