Second Person

The priestess kissed you for your christening.
Risen out of sin, you tremble as she removes
her facade. Revealed macabre. Accosted at
random and lost ten days in the malaise of futility.
Crescendo-ed to the gates of fated faces.

Lo,
you where found. Dirty and hurtin'. Behind curtains,
pulled tight like the drum. And some Tuesday blight
was always peeking inside. To no shame that resided
there, those outside still hide from desire, nature, and
twilight.

You know midnight, alright. Its the only thing you'll
stand tight for, in righteous fire. The moon is a tab
of extacy. The air is a cool, lucid liquor. Misunderstood
at nigh. And providing silent hindsight.

An Elegy for Jim Carroll

A good junkie,
could clearly articulate
mad hallucinations
of sight and mind
that seem so relevant the moment before they are forgotten.

And when brushing his fingertips across the placid surface,
how could he not have fallen in?
Lament
nearly drowned him.

He emerges and he is emaciated and his veins are enormous and his skin is pale,
but when he spoke I could have sworn he'd lived for ever, and would.

Vacant Lady

"What's wrong, the throngs of songbirds
-in your voice- are silenced by complaisance.
Forgotten

"What of your choice to rejoice in the noise of
yourself?
You're rotten.

"Your lips that were perpetually whet with
kisses
lie dried on your face.
Yet, you deny your thirst.

"Your hips that where the tempo to every dance
are as still as your vacant eyes - entranced.
Void of romance.

"The yearning that once burned bright
right out your eyes has dimed
to a cinder.

"This sordid winter has turned you
frigid.
Did you even notice?
Your every passion hangs placidly flaccid.

"I am impatient. And your penchant for lament
has sent me away."

Narcissus Reduced

You don't know sweet woman
That you have humbled me;
See when I thought I'se struttin'
I was really drunk and stumbling.

Yet you lie next to me
With velvet, vermilion skin.
How could you not see a fool
When my disguise is so thin?

You are pleasure beyond indulgence,
And glory beyond wealth
To demand the love of a man
Who loved only himself.

You don't know sweet woman
That you have humbled me
And when I close my eyes
You are all that I can see.

Kindling

I suck spit,
Eat shit,
Bite thighs,
Get lost in eyes
Of the deserts' green turquoise; she drives the boys mad.

She loves bad,
Fucks good,
Screams mad,
We really could
Let the secret take its nature in our forgetting.

She says she supposes
Her fire is dwindling,
So I cut her lovely roses
Into bits of kindling.

Gethsemane

a triolette


In Gethsemane
Misery is unspoken.
Feigning something manly
In Gethsemane
As I pass the lady
Who tends the garden.
In Gethsemane
Misery is unspoken.

The Firing Squad

He concedes his feelings of yesterday. Stealing time for congealing real dream. The Dreamer is trapped by his own schemes. Preened in the sand. Beaming ecstasy sunshine.

“I’se striding the night divine,” he says, “with moonlight homicide. Hiding in the sides, lines, and paradigms,
Then
playing the fated caged against their prison gates."

Braying wasted on just a taste of sedation

Termination

He did not see for all the caution,
and went crumbling asunder
with machine guns
and dust.