Weekend Love?

Has begun garnering
simply by how she adds flavor
to days of a seemingly slanted stance
Each time I attempt to speak
In a senseless funk all vowels descend
As she passes a series of
Reserved yet, callous glances
Though hidden remain their meanings
for this reason alone
in silence passionately I suffer

Clockwork

Usually, the option of social interaction

Is rarely honored amongst my list of activities

For years such strange behavior has been

Quite the cause to raise concern

Amidst the bowels of concentration, I rest

Observing the soft exchange

Of vowel upon meaningless vowel

No relations or interests composed

To identify and sympathize

with a colorful sea of strangers

May add colour to all that might

Be missing in my life

Yet, in a constant of fear I live

Running…

Just running…

Whilst striving to fathom

The clockwork of relationships

Digest

To much surprise, with great truculence I was met

Of all things I had expected our conversation

To be predictably simple

Oddly enough some personal relations

Had surfaced within the discussion

Relations of which were difficult to digest

Finances, virginity, vehicular independence and so forth

Why should such issues be the subject of immediate scrutiny?

And why should I favor opinions I detest?

Then I said to myself:

“This is the time for reinvention.”

“This is the age to make a difference.”

“This the year to familiarize what is rare.”

And on I carried…

Mary Michael

The air was bitingly frigid that Monday afternoon

When so suddenly she appeared

Only seconds later did I spot her peering

Upon a rather questionable piece of technology

“What are you reading?” I asked

“The book of Genesis.” She responded

This caused her thoughts to detour

Into mindless babble about the controversy

Concerning proper prayer location

It was then that I studied her

In an interestingly disgusting way

Composing not much of a difference

All else shifted to the subject of radio

A somewhat plausible means of elusion

Though as she departed nothing was to be seen

But the wake of what remains unknown

Actually...

 Possibilities become ironic

Where certainties do not

Fake are the grins that flicker

As tension paints the corners

Of things we never said

For each occurrence involving your face

The elements of jubilation dissolve

To that of a stranger’s shadow

Frozen, in distance we blend

Actually… possibilities become ironic

To repair what has misshapen us

And that was when the icy twig

Had snapped in two

+ Experiments –

The art of speechlessness
Softly took shape as well the hour aged
Elapsed were the years since nose to nose
I was with such familiarity

Quietly a scope once binded with fear
Was finely broadened by a ribbon of rebellion
The invitation was to experiment
With that project the universe refers to as (+love+)
Which in turn is often mistaken with (-lust-)
Where is it that we stand?

Speaking too soon
Has always been a weakness of mine
And I’d be doing myself an injustice
If a casual taste was said to be
“+ In-development-“
For now we can give and take
These open ends drifting through the air

Panic Albums

I

(October)

Beads of sweat trickled down her temple

Shortly, this action was accompanied

By a series of rough, jagged sighs

Each beat rippling rather violently

Just lounging upon the cusp of panic

II

(January)

The clocks continued ticking

As if all was right with the world

Disgruntled, she resigned.

Sheathing each young light

From polishing panic

III

(Present)

Washed away with snow

So was the fire brick sunset

Suspense not a moment still

Passing Clouds

Shut out all colour for a moment
Concentrate to embrace its absence
Now imagine if your existence was probable
If you were simply a soundless cancer
Just coursing beneath streetlights
Until that spot of microdeath
Blackened your blood

Recall an earlier chapter of your life
Upon which page were you last livid?
Please probe this memory in depth
Hurts doesn’t it?
That’s the byproduct of animosity and fear

Retreat! Allow the psychotic nature
That is this awareness to dissolve
For it is but a passing cloud

Continuum

Darling, awake to all that your daring eyes
Have long since missed
Draw forth a silent, sharp breath
And speak of its strangely taste

“Do you taste of love?” I asked
“No.” she says
“Is a sense of fulfillment acquired?” I asked
“No.” she says

At the climax of that single syllable she froze
Her speech had begun concocting distorted patterns
Of a truculent manner

It was thought that we were to exist as a singular unit
To become one with essentials before suppressed
To evolve from the passions we attract

I then asked her
“What event might have caused such a disturbance?”
She simply responded
“God.”

A.M. Escape Art

The A.M. has happened upon us yet again
Sunlight ascending; spreading poems
Humans walking, working, speaking
In tones that illustrate such elaborate effects
Often considered a form of the art of escapism
Dreamers, thinkers, doers, poets,
Artists, ballerinas, actors, singers,
All masters of escape art
With every venue they inhabit
New shapes are concocted
Each day, each task, is a performance
Although exists not an audience
Seemingly because we escape
Opinions matters not to us
Hell, I just escaped for the moment
Would you like to escape with me too?

9th ☽

Safety wasn’t a brand of quarreling

For it was known that I was of infinite value

Sudden circumstances in the moment
Establishing rare hopes that weren’t previously held

How it was such an inviting risk
Disappointment was the making of fiction

I knew not of catastrophic probabilities
When cherished by such a caring creatures

Around my neck lies an emblem of my sincerity
To hold for multiple eternities

Now

A collection of valiant philosophies fornicate my cranium
Philosophies that mere earthlings fail to fathom

This desire to birth from such a complex asylum
A power not of the world of which you and I speak

Neither comparison nor ability can be measured
One can try but his efforts shall equate to nothingness

Man may take from it what he wants if he must
Although the return will be of a much lesser degree

Patience is but a fallacy
Now is a gift that shan’t compose contrition

On

It was there
In the pinnacle of that darkly moment
From within all sectors that comprised the universe
That years and years on I had yet to know…

Its secrets were embellished in fancy lettering
Skyjacked by great shock I was
Before the effects consumed my well being

I scrutinized the shape of which I had taken
Finding myself that fully clothed within trench coat of riddles
To neither of the questions had I obtained the answer
Only a wink of desire

Pass The Tequila But Don't Spill The Passion

I find it to be quite sexy
The rhythm to which your hair swings
When you softly run your fingers through
It is but only a reverie to yearn
To see many happy, shiny faces
With a striking quality such as yours
And to drink of your lips
Within the wake of the moon

Her Neck Screamed One Tune Though Her Thighs Screamed Another

Again I played witness
To the stunning vignette that was her body
All evening the thought to compose words
Materialized from a former canyon of desolation
Merely because I had been swept into the distance
As I am forsaken to ponder
When she’ll become attainable

But She Looked So Lovely Under The Lights

Each time that I see her
A switch is stimulated within me
So arcane yet freakishly alluring
And like a tiger hunting its prey

I chased her pirouetting shadow ever so enthusiastically
The taste of it quite addicting in a hopelessly romantic sense
Tirelessly becoming the axis on which my beliefs lie

Her Hips Were Like A Motion Picture

Thick like knuckle sized sheets of LSD
Her hips swung just like the doors of my virginity
With great ease I grew aroused by the rhythm
That produced the beat of evolution

How I imagine gently seizing her hand ever so tight
And holding it for only the universe knows how long
Occasionally I ponder on whether or not she knows
The lovely effect that she has on my bones

There Was A Tattoo Of Religion Upon Her Lips

If like a sponge she acquired the ability
To ingest the amour that I have for her
The possibilities of establishing a new religion
Lie concrete and sound as the images
Of her body and mine as one

If ever a chance arose to fix a woman
She’d be just the gash to mend
And the scriptures would be her satin skin

Eight Track History

I had taken a seat along the sequences of curiosity
When suddenly my mistress dawned
Her eyes alternating in succession
With the pattern that were mine

“Hello” was the word that ejected from her lips
Firecrackers had begun ascending
History was being sculpted before us

Foolish Sex Of The Century

Hardly any creature is
Of equal proficiency
To decipher a melody
Void of meaning

Though the reason for such foolery
Defines the existence of apathetic beings
Therefore upon there foreheads
Carved were no meanings