Monday, January 31, 2011

Love Burns

I sit and write this. This. And I'm the last fish in the universe i feel. I feel. So much. Like wind running beside some cave and echoing its hollowness. Like barefooted ghosts of clothes that we once wore. Like the shy disclosure on the lips of young love. Like the lost days when we were hunted by madness and despair. Like the fulfillment i saw in your toppling head on the pillow of the first sonnet you said to me. Lies are the most painful thing in the world when dreams are built on the beating drums of sand and paper boats in dry rivers. Its the most painful memory that brings a man to his knees and the woman too. Like a lightening blade between the shoulders. My chest hurts with so much crunching. Crunching of fingers under my teeth. And for the regrets that we have had, i will be sorry. For all the songs you gave me,i will mourn and for all the easy deaths in this world, I'm the only non-recipient. Because i have no creed for the absorbing of this pain. I have no strength. I am no warrior of madness or of the heart. Or of any soul that is left in a human being. I am only filled with words and words and words and words and my eyes that never let me sleep or breathe without taking your name. For i am a slave now. To eternal searching. Lonely in my skin of broken glass and pigmentation, some scars and the impression of your lips on my soul. When you sucked it right into your jacket.Your jacket, to be sold to another bidder of love. I am hanging there like a sliver. The essence completely concentrated in that coat of yours. In the threads of a careless amnesia that you cover your heart with. I have bled. I have bled each day with your smiles running down my eyes and i have bled from my throat, screaming. Screaming your name into silence. Open mouthed bleakness of an empty shell. This pedestal where i stand, precariously. Built by the visceral naivete of love, is just a paper of sadness, tilting each day towards its plummet into some cynical gutter of being. And i can say that I'm not proud. Not proud of my fear or love. Not proud of my mistakes and the things I've said. Or done in this landmine of a world. You will walk with hands holding you and kissing your gypsy feet. And i will crawl because i have no feet. Only knees and palms to find peace again. I will drag myself every day. Inch by inch into my little hole of peace. Small and imperfect, away from your world of beauty and myth and the pain of living. Your world is profound. Injected with meaning and the arms of a soul mate. My world is beautiful too in its own cradle, of unceasing fire. Love burns.

Sunday, January 30, 2011

Wednesday, January 26, 2011

Purple Skin Rose Bloom

wet charcoal dress drug
of schisms and tiny water ants
gutter goblin walled leaking windows
utter desolation and dampness
and psychedelia
and earth
pitter patter rain drops
pitter patter rain drops
falling fat and scattered
all around
vellum of un-opaque yards, stretching
covering two hands
two feet
quarter of a heart
leper's stash of happiness
brilliant young smile
jaded eyes and
cynical ways of making love
a bastard darkling of the summer sky
angry and wronged
roaring like a Hell's Angel on a Harley Davidson
crushing the lovely girl
crushing her ugly beauty
crushing the purple skin rose bloom