Rituals in the Dark

There are things I cannot help
But sleep with in the night;
Questions unanswered,
People unheard of.
I melt candles from paths the fires forged;
Oh they burn blue.

Rest my head on satin;
Threads of thorns wound my ears;
At last I can sleep soundly;
Blood trickling to my chest.
My eyes, they are revolting,
Climbing the Berlin Wall.

A lash of love drowned deep and dark
Against the hollow middle
Between the bedspread remnants mark
Water runs in between.
Soon I’ll hear hums echoing starkly,
Whispering as I leave my body.

Birthmark

On the eve of his birth, I came to caress
The mark on his chest, a somber lament
Shapeless and void of blood but etched on flesh.
Blacking by the day since the lash begun appearing
Cells too sad for procreating
To this day the charm still holds, still folds
unintentionally to his cheek to his tongue
Pulled back by the hairs he outgrew from the sun.
And the billions of stars he stole to this day
Swallowed his face with an irreparable grace
Leaving the banquet to empty suitors
With blind and unyielding tumors.

Relapse

it matters not the sirens

or the finger on the button

seeds of lazy Susan

aroused her perverted killers

a single interaction

collapsed her twists and vines

the pill and the possessor

dragged the symphonic sound

whereby all her teeth blacken

draped in rotten groves

fog cowers in the mirror light

becomes invincible in almost twilight

the pill and the possessor

her lips laced with crowns

it matters not the sirens

the finger saved her life

Pressure

We’re farther away than we thought

Nearer than we expected

Neither of us complain

We’re better misplaced but found

Streamlines cover the molds

And the fumes no longer loosen

Watered here we grow

We’re better kept and summed

With all our parts we cherish

The silent taste of doubt

We’re tending to our garden

We’re better touched and found

Self Portrait

As a matter of opinion,

I am my heart.

The veins spread themselves too thin.

Too lonesome to make two.

I am singular.

Life is a length of limb.

It strengthens when you run.

It grows tired and shakes numbly.

I am rising.

From below the belt.

Beneath a scratched surface.

Nothing anymore beguiles me.

I am my faults.

They’re perfect for games.

As my heart, I am traded

For kisses and caresses

Locking lips with manifestations.

I am always true.

My hostility stems from my poverty.

Your shallow soul is not my body.

No exhortations can create any desire

That I have not yet endured.

Because I am broken but I am real.

And I too lust for revelations,

Sincere acceptances,

Without hiding behind a machination.

I am unbound.

You’ll try to catch me.

By then I’ve flown.

I am free.

Senile

Filibuster the old man down
His fickle heart close to shattering
Vibrations astound his breath
While he wakes by the morning moon
He closed his fists and drank his pills
He sunk his teeth beneath his tongue
Veined and vengeful the dirt of his loot
Closeted in his arms he never washed
Polymer threads dangling near his mouth,
He’d been eating the cloth of his sheets
Alone he wears out his mobile feet
They no longer feel the earth but the translucency of his skin
Like the rubber of excess glue
Withering in his painful sleep
A familiar nostalgia drones his pupils
It drenches his reveries, hope turns to a frown
He lived too long

Seed

Youngling, be careful what you wish for
There’s a lot of mysteries yet to solve
Forget where you once came from
Be the youngling that you are

Watch the sun on your hands
Mirror the shadows of your imaginary friends
They will go ahead and laugh at you
In ways that make God see the truth

Farmers make for lovers, youngling
Don’t forget to tend the weeds
When you go outside, seek the stones
Be wary of the lurking trees