post jurrasic

the mighty arms of titans swing at the sky
penetrating the silence in triumph
and down in the land of men
blood makes the grass grow

tonight the seas will storm
the mountains will shake
and a calm dawn will weep
in woe for the grieving deities

humans rejoice,
freshly smelted iron
cuts into a new era under any rule
we will die at fifty all the same

red sixties

One can’t find beauty in a sequel, but you’ve heard that before.
I’m lost in thoughts of moments past; you sit there wanting more.
Well if I’m just a fraud, and you’re naught but a broad
then I guess this is where we belong...
An immaculate cell of inaccurate hell,
where I am the one who’s done wrong.
For here in the temple I will sear myself blind
and with tongue to the floor, leave no fresh dust behind.
Then when the current runs out and the prism fades away
I’ll secede for my daydream in a sordid decay!
For when all the stars form a line to ask a penance of soil
the mountains dig back in the land,
not a man will be worth half his weight in your oil
or a dot on the map on my hand.

the indian blues

Pour back the bitter tea
still waiting for yesterdays news paper
which then too was irrelevant
but by tomorrow will be vintage.
Tonight though, belongs to the pen!

We long ago accepted our differences -
the world and I,
yet a compromise pleases no one.
When I was told I will forever remain a nobody,
I smirked
and etched a circle in the ground around me.
I decided to become art.

Please close the doors on the guest
for it is not his time here,
when I am sitting to write.
We know him all too well;
actually we know us
which is really just as bad .
Call him back when I need a muse.

If I go out tomorrow and don’t mean to come back
have someone water my books,
throw glass on the floor
and ignite the wardrobe with the mice still inside.

That will shut me up.

sweat on a white mattress

I’m sorry I’m the way I am… is all I’ve left to say,
and never will I smile again as I did once in may.
The kiss, the bliss, the eyes I miss -though I have made them tear;
Never again will I be there, in your heart to hold dear.
At least I see things clearly now,
and know what to avoid;
I’ll grow and learn and persevere
yet in my arms - a void
remains, its shaped like you
and always will I feel
a passion burning,
scorching me, for I still find you real.
Tonight, (like every other night)
I ruined worlds with speech,
and just above my standard
you’re floating far from reach.
If our paths cross,
and gazes meet, then maybe even hands
I will know then that all is well and trust our own amends.
Though hollow inside, they so seem,
I claim them to be true!
My words that I once uttered loud;
I could one day love you.

Cairo AD

When you held rust,
I was rust
and the summer sun still bleaches the grass.
When was the last time I slept?

Auletes, my one true love,
the past few millennia have been kind to you.
The ravages that took their toll on our home
only made you softer
and warmer to look at.
Still, the Greek army amasses at the gates to our city
bearing steel and an ardent glow in their eyes.
The men are hesitant to assault our holy ground,
but it won’t be long until their thirst for passion
overcomes their fear,
then our gates,
then our city,
then us.
Blood flows through my heart, beating to the rhythm of your words, and I implore you;
Do not let it colour the street.

I think I just woke up.

beneath a blank blank sky

Mother, I said let me in!
Its cold out there
and I haven’t any clothes left!

Orphanage dreams are no better than suburbia family carnage,
but what I have is different yet still equally overwrought.

Good night father
and thank you
for stroking my third eye
when I was not looking.

You see I grew up amidst rows of pylons meant to symbolize people;
it was mostly the same except the ways that it was better.
When I bought my first rifle I aimed at the sky and shot down the stars
one by one
then the moon
then the fifteen closest planets
to get a better look.

It took all my wives to put them back
but I didn’t care since
since those are but a heart a dozen
and I needed to visit the city anyways.

I called up my oldest enemy though he was busy, so I took the journey alone
braving the cold
and the transparent coyotes.
The road widened, narrowed, curved.
For a stretch it was so deep below the sand that I got lost.

Here I am now,
settling for the night between a dune and an oasis.
I’ll be etching my life story in the palm trees before I go to sleep in the quicksand.

the life and times of bill s.

Enter skeleton-

Hello Shakespeare, it’s been a while.
Sit down, would you like some rose tea?

No thank you

Exeunt two devils-

kindered kin

could i ever be happy with our ill brought up creed
who bleed the ones that they love
and love the ones that they need
how wasteful
how sinful
how human and blithe
i now often question
if my god’s still alive
why if change is a virtue and your red ink hold true
then my cuckolded pride can long fare without due
but it wont
and ill rust
wind will pick me apart
smear narcotic graffiti
inside of my heart
my fire rains down, and theirs will soon too
we can hope that by then
there’s a lot less to prove

life with an accent

She lived life with an accent albeit she was never sure the which. Somehow she was always hoping on someone telling her.

When she first met him she introduced her apartment where there was never an escape from melody. Silence feels like a waste of time when music could be playing, and besides, musicians are easy to relate to; they sing about everything. No one slept the first night or the second, and no one knew what they did at day.

“I was so excited to wake up, I couldn’t go to sleep!”

She shared how she was growing attached to garbage and how she was afraid her thoughts will never matter, not even in a hundred years. How she once repeated a mistake and now everything smells like it. He just listened. When the rain fell sideways, they sank straight down.

“Aren’t you glad people can’t read thoughts?”

I guess what kept them in there so long wasn’t that they were alike, but rather different. Things like that don’t matter in a hundred years either, so again they stayed up counting the scars until one day he sighed his biggest sigh yet.

“I think it was knowing myself that drove me insane.”

The dust built at the foot of the door until it would no longer open, but the music still seeps through and is nice to wake up to.

fear of looking old

words written on an empty stomach always meant more than those written on an empty heart so why would you splatter my mind with trinkets when all you have to do is starve your soul for just a while

in scene one she walked to the store
narrating her actions aloud through thought
we learned that she was once pained by her family
but then grew up great and returned to seek emotional vengeance
the whole audience
even her family
applauded

scene two had a rustic urban back alley setting
the narration stayed
but with no girl to look at
we grew bored rather quickly

in scene three we saw her blue eyes
her corroded lips
and her father one last time before
she got shot in scene four

on the way out of the theater
no one dared say it was bad
for the fear of looking old