I recall our hand-signs in carnival,

          the silver rings on your white gloves,

          your fingers making to me –

          you are daytime, Wooden Mary,

          these are evening and small hours.

          That was your name for me, and with it

          you hurled stones and rotten fruit

          when our friendship became tedious;

          but at other times you rested your head

          against my shoulder and sighed,

Oh creature of darkness, that’s what I’ve called you!
You thrive by sapping the spirit of innocent egos,
bringing down even once a mighty a soul.
You roam the city streets sniffing, listening, and searching
another victim to be found.
A sacrificial lamb for thy devilish offering
to quench the wantonness of thy nether desires.
The dark wishes of thy nether siblings and another life to wreck.

The Wave

The ripple on the horizon,
the imperceptible start.

The wave comes closer,
the wave reaches higher.
Now it’s upon him,
upon the tiny surfer.

High the wave reaches,
it towers over,
it gains a crown,
a boiling white crown,
and this great monster,
cold, cruel, curving,
picks up the surfer
and is smitten a blow,
a great white gash across its chest.

In attack the wave rears higher, higher,
higher still.
The surfer rides destruction safe to shoulder.

I waited and waited as she had promised
She promised me and I had believed her as always,
I never learn and she never stop promising,
Still my reason for hurting wasn`t because she broke it,
It was in the way she spoke to me that broke my heart.

She does not get it and never will
As she breaks my heart into smaller pieces,
Those smaller pieces she expects me to love her with,
Is love really that patient? Doesn`t it have an end or it`s limits?

A young woman who loved me spoke Welsh to me;
perhaps she was lying in her own language, but her kisses felt like truth.
She held me as though I was the brightest pebble from the river,
hard in her hand, close to her breast; she did not let me go,
I fell by my own mass, by my own gravity, not back into the river
but onto the dry, yellow ground where all I owned was
the little half-pit I made in the dust, and that wasn't really mine.
No more Welsh, no river-ripple, just deep-dull, lost, closing,
heartbeatless, truthless, sleep.

MENTAL SCARS
.
.
They’ve called you every cruel name from cynic to a snob,
Their words and looks, like needles large and small,
Leave you with the feeling you've gotta be a slob
And your jokes just never raise no laughs at all…

When your smallest faults are magnified, distorted, advertised
And you cannot hope to do a thing that’s right,
When everyone’s against you, every action criticized,
And the only path left to you is to fight…

States are Failing

Why?

Because its food and resources are gone
Once striving, self-sufficient states
Abundant with food and grain
Can no longer sustain its people
Leaving them angry and rebellious

Why?

Because man is destroying the earth
Deforestation, out of control logging
Top soil being washed away
Leaving the land barren
Unable to nourish its inhabitants

What’s happening?

PRE-LIBERATION (THE WALL FLOWER'S PRAYER)
.
.
Must be all alone to really be me-
Don’t want anyone to know or see me
Sitting alone in a corner of the
Room-

Man in the corner feels so low, he
Watches the shadows flit by slowly,
Wishing he was alone and safely
Home;

Asking himself for the hundredth time
Why he ever agreed to come,
Was it just his hope for something
More?

He never really understood
What it was made others feel so
Good…
.
.

we dust exterior lives
watching
the world spin
in the palm
of those who deem
themselves worthy,
like magicians
with hidden strings
we become
the puppets
fighting for words
and not truth,
seeking vengeance
on hip thrust societies
standing ten feet
from each other
as we lose
who we are -

there is a natural succession
to the way we breathe,
as if the trees could sweep the ground
of our buried
instead my dead sits
on closet shelves,
brown wrapped packages
with labels –

but grandpa got a pine box,
six by four confines
sealed
as if we’d really want to see a fragment
of bone and discuss which piece
remained dense,
there was this ironic fascination
with death,
google tells me
what I will die of all the time