Imagine

A creature made of spirit and steam

Machine and Mirage

Flame and Fervour

Who lounges in the starlight

Lunges from the limelight

Languishes near the spotlight

And happily hides in the dark

Where light is real, not artificial

Rare and enduring

Rather than cheap and fickle

A Poem about My Poetry

I am thinking of writing a poem

And so thats what I am doing.

But all the while

while I'm sitting here

My mind is absolutely racing

Will people like what I write?

Will the rhymes make sense?

Do they notice when I think

Of clever rhythms and space?

Is it grand when I think of things

Greater than life and death.

Or is it merely curiosity

and then a stifled yawn?

Before I make a fool of myself

Or spill some hidden truth

I think I'll end the piece

(But really

Can it be called a piece?

If nothing has been said?

Is it worth my time to write?

If I only speak of things already spoken?

Or more importantly, better left unheard?)

My Life is in the Stars

Delineate the system of being

No linear system is needed

Liberate the constellations

Paths and stories born of lunacy

Too Much

No sight

Motion all distorted

Sounds all disjointed

Stomach contents churning

Hellfire from the throat

Burning liquid gravel

Thick as paste

Rough as asphalt

Without sight

Comfort comes

Voices in tandem

Concern to care

As stomach rests

As throat relaxes

As motion ceases

Water is poured

Nothing else matters

Water heals all wounds

Senses fade

Sleep reigns

The ones we love

A living breathing relationship

Is not based upon idolatry

But one person saying to another

"I need something from you"

A dead and sickly relationship

Does not become so by happenstance

It comes about when one person

chooses to say no.

A being who is alone

and finds contentment there

Is not a hermit by designed

But could not find a kindred soul anywhere.

Where Is My Wilderness

I want to walk into the wild

I will change nothing.

I will be no better for it

I will not change the world because of it.

No one will grow in doing it.

But I will be able to live properly

No more of the interpersonal attempt at connection

No more dreams of death and desire that aren't mine

No more loss and sadness permeating my living space

Just me and the wild

Then and There is where I belong and long for

Where music is a discovery and not a privilege

Where light is precious and too quickly gone

Where no story is told except the one you make

I want to live.

Take me to that Then and There.

I'm ready to be wild.

Gaston, A Boy.

Gaston

A boy

A little skinny boy

He went to the tavern in shame

"My mum"

He wept

"Is weak and stuck in bed,

We have no man

Or bread to win"

"So please,"

He cried

"Please give me half a chance"

The man

His girth

Much greater than his head

He said

Alright

Go back and clean the plates

The

evening

past to dusk

and dusk to day again

and day to weeks

and months and years

And Gaston lost all his fears.

No more a skinny boy of tears

A weeping marionette

Now a lanky matador

A man of hard earned dreams

He washes plates

Still humbly

Though his reasons now have changed

That lovely boy

who loved his mum

Now chases lusty girls

But chase them all

From then to now

They never can be caught

The

chase

it turned to a pursuit

Which then became a quest

Into a journey and then more

akin to a lifelong goal.

And Gaston found his living soul.

Upon his dying bed.

Gaston, he wept

For then he saw

The foolishness of love

What a life he'd lived

For her and them

But not for he and him

Why dance and strut

With pretty skirts

And loving kitchen aprons

When life is for

The living hours

Of experience exalted

Rather than

The simple of thing

Of loving one another

So

He

Died upon that very day

and left nothing but ashes

and pretty girls

with souvenirs

of nights no longer living.

But still that man

The old Gaston

He left one final secret

That money

He had saved away

It went to sweeter purpose

He bought a home

For wayward girls

and ladies with no husbands

They lived their lives

In comforting

Beloved warmer moments

And Gaston though

He's dead and gone

He did something amazing

So

Though

A life is meant

For living it

There is still more

Behind that

A person who then give himself

Over to alturism

Gives up his life

Like martyrs do

So others can be living.

Gaston, a man

A simple man

A creature of desire

He left behind

A legacy

Of women so much finer

KNIFECOCK!

Jeremy was a little lad

A little cute innocent boy

But Jeremy was born different

From all the other boys

He had a strange affliction

Unlike any ever seen

And when his parents saw it

They just couldn't believe

So they hid that secret from him

Told him he was simply fine

And so he never thought to question

What other boys were like

Until a fateful day came

around the age of twelve

when little Jeremy came to school

With cut marks on his hands

The teacher asked him many things

If he was feeling sad

Why cut his little hands

Why do such a terrible thing?

And Jeremy said

More than a little embarrassed

That he was only doing what felt normal

Natural and even a little bit good

The teacher thought

"Now this boys sick

He needs some serious help"

But sweet Jeremy's parents

Told that teacher to leave him alone

So years passed and Jeremy grew

With scars upon his palms

Until that wild age of eighteen

When things got really out of hand

It was graduation

and all that does imply

When Jeremy and his lovely girl

went sneaking off to bed.

The lights were out

and things were hot

Everything according to plan

When suddenly

Jeremy's sweet young girl

gave a little shriek

Jeremy said

"Hey, that's okay

I've heard its perfectly normal

To have a little pain"

But when the lights came up

Imagine her surprise

when instead of Jeremy's little....

She saw a fucking knife.

Well, that pretty lass went pretty quick

and thats when Jeremy learned

That we wasn't just an average guy

He had a weapon for a schlong

And so for days he mopped about

Feeling lower than low

Knowing that a girl or guy

Wouldn't find some wild fun at his loins

But instead a kitchen utensil

A tool

For murder, not for sex.

But then one day

While on the street

He saw the most awful thing

A lady in a darken street

was being beaten and mugged

And so sweet Jeremy

a kind and loving soul

Ran up to the villain so terrible cruel

and gave him a couple thrusts.

Well, the criminal ran

with a limp and a shit ton of confusion

and the lady thanked Jeremy many times

While he pulled up his trousers

And so from that day forth

Jeremy knew what he had to do

He had to use this strange gift

as a tool for common good.

So he donned the superhero's garb

with cape to match his tights

and strode into the city streets

Armed with shining crotch

To make the world a better place

We would be known as

KNIFECOCK!

The Wind

The wind does not hear your words

Nor does it comprehend

It cannot speak of brightening day

Or of a fading night

But when the words come rolling sweet

Like sultry waves of summer heat

The wind does not pretend to guess

The meaning that is hidden there

It takes the boiling nectar from your lips

and intensifies that intoxicating taste

And spreads a warmth unto a restless place

Where hungry souls wait for its nourishment

The wind does not hear your words

Nor does it comprehend

But it carries them far and wide

And makes their meaning immemorial.

Mr. Market

Mr. Market was the most attractive man

Who slid through the bar door

On that dry and boring night

And when he sat with swish

All the ladies turned comatose

All the men went into shock

The bartender barely whispered the words

"What'll you have?"

Mr. Market gave the fellow a little smirk

and the poor barkeep went through the back wall

and said without missing a beat

"I don't need a drop"

and with the slightest wink

caused that battered man's soul

to transcend this earthly plane

and fly in ecstatic bliss to nirvana

Mr. Market was kind enough to add

"But thanks for asking"

Mr. Market then sat at the piano

That stood tucked into the corner

The instrument trembled a little

But with a smooth motion of his hand

Mr. Market calmed its nervous fears

and with a single hand

Released the energy of an atomic bomb

directly into the ear of every occupant

who then wept at the beauty of it all.

After he finished his song

Mr. Market looked to the sky

and with a flick of his wrist

Mr. Market floated up to the sky

The sound of flute and viola

following his assent.

What a Mess.

Gertrude sat by a sea

Of growing trees

Birds and bees

Gertrude thought of her love

While holding herself

and lighting her campfire

Gertrude waited for years

Beside a river of tears

and forest of smug jeers

Henry was seen far away

In another brighter day

Learning how to play

Henry didn't know of a wood

And even if he could

He knows he never would

Henry wasn't hers

But she sat waiting for him

While he found a new her

Mark was an old befriended

With Henry until it ended

Sooner than he intended

Mark wasn't fond of the game

Wanted less than fame

Something a little more tame

Mark found a sea of trees

Thought of birds and bees

and Gertrude on her knees

Sally sought the same thing

But another's bell she wanted to ring

She taught Henry to sing

Sally saw Mark and Gertrude's almost

Got envious of that clear coast

Wanted the two to roast

Sally spat hideous words at her

Made Gertrude forget love

and go blind to dear old Mark.

And Henry never thought,

"What if I held Gertrude?"

And Mark never thought,

"What if I stuck with Henry?"

And Sally never thought,

"What if I forgive Gertrude?"

And Gertrude never thought,

"What if I loved Mark?"

So Gertrude wept

So Henry played

So Mark longed

So Sally hurt

And no one was ever happy.

Ever.

The End.

I'm just one man.

I'm just one man.

Who lives a little life

Full of strife

With no wife

Without a knife

Just a little life

Did I mention the strife?

I'm just one man

Who washes dishes

Has large wishes

Watches little fishes

Occasionally snitches

On mean bitches

While I washes

The dishes

I'm just one man

Who knows how to rhyme

How to waste time

Sucking on a lime

Feeling sublime

Drinking from the stein

Just wasting time

I'm just one man

My life will be short

Without a cohort

Till rigor mort

Up to the heavenly fort

Where they will sort

The long and short

All the cocaine snort

I'm just one man

But in this space

I start a race

With a rapid pace

That you can face

If you take this case

and put it in its place

Put on some lace

Go to space

I'm just one man

That is who?

Me or you?

Happy or blue?

Lies or true?

Living or slew?

Old or new?

Wanted or in lieu?

Cheer or boo?

Philophobia.

The tides of time are taking

The shining hope of mine

and pitting against

the deepest fear I have.

A self made with both stirling silver and wrought iron

A cathedral shattered after a thousand black storms

A swath of beautiful boys all plotting murder

This is when he and she

Mingle into one

The ticks of time are telling

My sanguine heart

to battle the pulses

of a churning stomach

A vibrant and warm painting that is highlighted with blood

A parent who looks you straight in the eye and speaks distain

A country where violence is the native language

These are the places

Where two terrible opposites become one

The tales of time are talking

They speak of benevolence

And horrific revelry in equal amounts

But never at the same time

A weeping child in the night who dances through the day

A creeping vine that burns in the light

A mountain standing despite too many lifetimes

They only need one thing to endure

But that one element is really two

Love and Fear

Dealing with the Doldrums.

What a year of darkened days

Was the sentiment 'round the bar

Glasses of ale and shots of scotch

Poured like the never ending rain

Men sat like carved wood

Turned lacquered like the stools they sat on

'till the tap ran dry

and every lonely bitter person stood

Marched into the miserable streets

in the drab clothes of middle class rebellion

And shouted together in a low murmur

"We are tired of an ordinary life"

So they burned down those dark places

Where they once dreamed of brighter lives

They marched into the country side

And planted the seeds of potentiality

They boarded ships made for going far

and drank the water of strange lands

And every one of those sorry sods

cried, "What the hell?"

For gone were the dark taverns

and now were the bright futures

But all their sober triumph

could not rid them of those drab clothes

That hung around their shoulders

and clung to everything they did

So after years of fun in the sun

and months of ease in the breeze

They came back to those burned pubs

and built them back up

And when the brew began to flow

They look one another straight in the eye

Said with sneer, "Life isn't all the great"

And drained their lives away

It's a sad story to tell

and hell, a sad one to hear

But it acts as a lesson to the wee sprites

Who look to tomorrow for salvation

The next day on the calendar doesn't define a lad or lassie

Nor does the great deeds they might achieve

But their happiness and their mirth

They are the makings of a truly heroic individuals

So be a hero or another working class stiff

Your worth is measured in your smile.

Mr. Jefferson has been found Innocent.

"I can't"

The words hung like dust in the air

From cracked lips and taunt face

Eyes that burned with the fire

Ignited by raw hopelessness

"I can't"

The clerk wrote with a smirk

Satisfaction written all the more clearly

As the end drifted into the sight

Of every single occupant

"I can't"

The jury heard

Each one visibly relaxing in their seat

Glad to leave a room that stunk

Of bloody murder and bloodier conviction

"I can't"

The judge repeated

Too sick to say it again

And with a swing of his gavel

Convicted the speaker of those words

"I can't"

That one broken man said

With every ounce of strength

That was left in his chest

His torn and tattered heart

"I can't"

His soul burned and convulsed

As those final words

Sought to fight there way

Into the dusty empty court

"But come heaven or hell

I will try"

And with an air of sweet release

His worn and weary suit

Gave way to sprouting wings

Which sprung from this mans back

and gave him passage to the sky.

Leaving a room full of empty people

and empty jurisdiction

Who fought and squabbled into the night

About how justice had not been served.

The Muse's Voice

A voice in the dark

It speaks to that darkness

It speaks of things unseen

Of dreams not yet dreamed

Of lands untravelled

That voice speaks quietly

Almost too softly to be heard

But from these hushed tones

A miracle occurs

A spark comes to life

It glows in the darkness

and illuminates strange things

Buildings of impossible design

Colours of sublime radiance

Words of unknown origins

The voice barely raises

But the intensity is great

The spark that comes from its sound

Is just bright enough to notice

Not bright enough to examine

And before too long

The voice is gone

The light disappears

and all those wonderful imaginings

Fall back into shadow

But hands remember

what the eyes forgot

and the voice comes alive again

as day by day those wild things

are brought to life

A voice in the dark

It spoke of grandeur

It spoke of potential

Of what could be

Of what is just a moment away

Benign Acceptance

The ocean floor is our home

Under the pressure of a vast sea

Where we lay in the soothing mud

In this lightless bliss

We can almost manage

The weight almost comforting

But every few precious hours

The moon shines down

and begs to be joined

And we lose a few more

who dare face the massive force

and push towards the surface

Some come back to us

Some disappear forever

But we wait with bated breath for just a few

Those who find they're way to the moon

Walking its glimmering surface

and wave back at us.

They show us that its possible

To go from nothing to everything

That maybe we could go as well

But the ocean water is just too much for us

We'll stay at the bottom and smile to those above

and lay on our backs dreaming of the moon

One and One isn't always Two

I am just one boy

Just one boy

among a hundred others

who are more likeable

who are more intelligent

who are more charming

or caring

or thoughtful

You are just one girl

Just one girl

among a hundred others

who are more beautiful

who are more dedicated

who are more accomplished

or witty

or loveable

We aren't are meant to be one

Hell, we can't even be two

But maybe if we can get close enough

We could make eleven

One and one is pretty generic

And I hate to leave you hanging

So how about we make one and one

Into you and me?

An Ode to Turkey

Gobble

Gobble Gobble

Goes the noblest bird

Who ever graced this earth

With its dainty claws

Hark and Behold

That gracious of birds

Who glides with ease

upon the quaintest of places

of this our humble earth

The farms are such a lowly location

For the most majestic of the birds

But the turkey in its selflessness

Does not begrudge its home

But inhabits it with style and flair

And what oh what does this

The greatest of all fowl do

When it's glorious and perfect life is through?

It offers us its meat and bone

to be served for me and you

So remember well

The fine and noble avian

Not only once a year

But let the spirit of turkeys

be with you every day