Cisnegro

Earthen eyes intent on
The half light flickering
through her fingers

Her shadow follows
Bending at corners

And dancing wildly

The wind bullies a curtain open
She shields her flame in vain

Blinded by halos
In the deafening silence

I hear my name

Red Dye

She calls me at dawn

Her voice adapts to my slow sleepy drawl

And I give in completely

The bitch

I fucking love her.

Armageddon D.I.Y.

Fuck it.
Let’s wrap it up.
I can’t wait for Jesus and his lawyers.
Earth is adjourned.
Bring on the nukes.
Set the sky on fire.
Vaporize. Everything. Beautiful.

Heart of Gold

So go on radio
Play another song that reminds me of him
Let me reminisce
About the son I could have been

Goo Goo G'Joob

Misty-eyed she sighed

In me she chooses to confide

she'd make a beautiful bride.

Porcelain princess once pretty as pink

Had too many disco biscuits I think

she' s unconscious now, by the sink.

I stepped over her to get my drink.

She does have nice ink though.

It seeps through her veins in a puddle on the kitchen floor.

Deep in a chemical dream, all gossamer and green,

To wake her up now would be obscene.

She will rise eventually

on her own steam.

Oh, Eight.

Again.

These ways are set in stone.

Rock steady, always ready, head heavy, alone.

Microseconds and months trade places like clockwork;

Seasons blend into each other silently

Like 4 rocks, 2 fingers and a little water.

Everything grows.

Older.

Strangely Familiar

You never get to smell the roses

When you run at a hundred miles an hour

You never get back wasted time

Just like you’ll never have another first car

Clichés

But clichés often ring true

It was me you see

It really wasn’t you

You make me feel ten feet tall

I put you on a pedestal

I waited for you to fall.

And all these contradictions

Are doing my head in

I can’t move forward

I can’t go in reverse

Limbo is what they call it

I think

It’s funny,

All this time in one place

Makes you realize

The roses aren’t that pretty

It’s the thorns that make them pink

Where All The Veins Meet

I did something bad today
I pretended when I whispered
And used the appropriate proprioceptors,
rather inappropriately.
gave my principles the day off
And sent my conscience to the movies.
There were elaborate pyrotechnics
White doves in empty cages
One way mirrors
Shiny silver dollars
Deception, misdirection,
Red lipstick on crisp white collars.
I got what I wanted.

I'll lose sleep tonight.
Guilt eats away at the thin protection my blanky offers me.
I think tonight shall be a cold night.
Full of searching questions.
Deafening silences that scream indignity.
Black.
Incomplete and out of sync,
like the lines my troubled mind jots down.
I’ll make amends
I’ll never do it again
Until the next time.
We are all creatures of habit.
Afterall.

Release

I,
As the moon to the earth
linger in your gravity.
Always afar;
Like Aldrin watching Armstrong take those first steps.
Eclipsed by the light and obscured by the clouds
I dwell in the vacuum of this space we’ve created
In the singularity before the big bang
And the universe that was meant to be after.

Transit

This morning I took the 9:30 to the city, filled to the brim with business suits, bicycles and backpacks. And as I made my way down the aisle I saw a curiously vacant seat halfway down the compartment.
Brilliant, I thought to myself... everyones being polite and no ones planting any flags. I might as well claim it. 30 seconds of sidestepping later, I arrive at my throne only to find the words 'white power' spray painted above a swastik on it.
So I sat down.

Warchild

We roam these streets of burning rubble;
Robbed of our innocence and compensated with a rifle
Arms strong from carrying ammunition.
Bodies weak from cocaine and malnutrition.

Cease thinking of me and I will forever remain a concept.
A project for out of work actors seeking to regain recognition.
The face beside a number to call with your donation.
I kill because I am the fulcrum of evil.
I die because you ignore my existence.

Glenhuntley

On a bench under the flood-lit evening's

orange hue that makes the lines on his hands seem ...deeper

as if etched by time, and moulded stronger.

It's been a long day and its a long way home.

The upstart rides his bike in figure-eights around lampposts and billboards

no worries, no cares, no bills, no distant stares.

Its way past the time he should've been home

the whole world for the taking but it seems like he doesn't want it.

The fool.

He'd kill to go back to when he was that young, and there were new prospects on the ever widening horizon.

He has no new milestone.

He has no awakening future.

His days have been lived.

His choices made.

And its too late to make amends for a life he didn't dream of living.

The train inches into its designated platform

to take him home, to a warm cup of soup, the 11 o'clock news

and black and white memories of glory days now so empty.

Ambassador

Liver in a bottle.

Heart in a suitcase.

Lungs in a plume of smoke.

Eyes that see only the road behind.

Ears that only hear rumours of things to come.

My mind stacks them up neatly on the backseat;

and my soul chases after them naked down the street.

Detour

Knock knock

Who's there

Pete, Keith, John & Roger

Who?

Bingo!

Kamikaraoke

Today disappeared a half hour ago
now the horizon turns crimson and tangerine..
maliciously glimmering with a slow anger.
while the spinning vortex at the nose dances against twilight
creating an incredible contra-rotating center of brilliance.
push the stick down on this flying question mark.
head west,turn this magic carpet around.
look for blue,against the vast inpenetrable darkness.
seconds like minutes,minutes like hours,base is light-years away.
the great loneliness now becomes immensely dangerous
as dials and gauges gyrate counterclockwise,
as if submitting to smooth green hills lecherously rushing up from under.

Hush

Open the door and flick that switch

That shines light on familiarity,

silently,contemptuously,breeding.

And then a little voice whispers

"It's time to be someplace else"

Holden St.

who writes the pages of our lives,

conditions our minds to drama queens in magazines.

sets our pathways and saves us from being alive.

gives us electric obscenity, instead of acoustic simplicity.

who are we if not what we pretend to be.

what are we if not you and me.

where are we if not in the united state of our minds.

seek and you will find

the non-conformists conforming to non-conformism.

lost somewhere in the comfort of numbers i see

kind words, from wild eyes

that speak of the power of butterflies, and hurricanes.

10 to the power of 8 minus 10 to the power of 6.

fractals of strings and straws,

lefthanded minds, and unborn siblings.

the positives of A-, and the negatives of B+.

any room for a negative 'be positive'?

the latitude and longitude of a northern sun across an open courtyard

envelopes the very picture of happiness.

no forests, no echos...just laughter.

i love my friends.

i love my life..

i am kid charlemagne.

Requiem for Allan Young

You were his messenger in times of hope and fear,

his silent consul before i was old enough to comprehend.

So I left him alone with you every night under the harvest moon;

a solitary lamp beside a solitary glass replete with alcohol for two.

Smoking the peace pipe and writing your words on his walls.

But the dying days are upon you, my mentors,

and though the mansion on the hill has been destroyed;

psychadelic music still fills the prairie wind,

as it blows hopes and dreams clear of your forsaken ranch.

All the good people have gone away,

and taken their good times with them.

And the ragged evening of life brings no glory to a restless soul;

just tears and smiles.

And memories of the same avocation 20 years before.