The Back of the Monkey.

A pet in the lap of the admiralty,

purring to the stroking,

laughing at the joking,

you mean to keep me,

to reward your infidelity,

to please the eye by which you see,

to one day stuff my dead body,

and display the beast in me.

Fixed onto the back of the monkey,

the stray in the street,

bloody hands and dirtied feet,

you mean to tame me –

to take me home and re-name me,

to clean me up and change me,

to alter what Life’s made me.

You think you’ve tapped a bead,

but your eyes misconceive,

oh no, that isn’t me,

and since you fail to see,

the truth comes painfully,

I’ll draw blood before I leave,

there’s no re-naming me.

Eating Thorns.

All this time

in between

then and now

been simmering

been building up

rather patiently

brooding silently

been grinding teeth

been stomping feet

been digging holes

with an upward swing

eating poisonous thorns from trees

like it’s sugarcane

with Mexico’s best peyote

cigars and syringes

sparkling fringes

champagne, cocaine

and pornography

somewhere out there

fathomed too deep

where I hardly sleep

but my eyes stay closed

my mouth remains sewn

over words of my own

this place is forsaken

this space can’t be taken

the loose change shaken

from the secret pockets

sewn inside my cheeks.

 

Chase.

I once told you I hoped that you wouldn’t chase,

the path made by my footprints as I ran away,

not to follow my feet as they endlessly tread,

places called “home” in my paranoid head,

yours used to follow my eyes,

darting about the night skies,

you’d trace a pinky down my cheeks,

trails from tears deemed obsolete,

do not follow my confused insanity,

into the cursed forest of ancient trees,

I’d rather you don’t see me as I mindlessly carve,

indecipherable messages into their’ bark,

I‘d rather that you might remember times,

when I still held a more lucid state of mind,

as I was back when I first asked of you

to someday cut me completely loose,

back when my feet could not yet carry through,

with any of the deeds that I still have to do,

do not falter in those old promises now,

you must override your heart, somehow,

you must stifle the desire you to feel,

to follow me into the darkness of Hell,

I’d rather you carry on in the warmth of the sun,

I want you pick up, dust off and carry on,

all these times, your foolish pride,

had you believing that we were solidified,

but it’s time to defy what we feel inside,

just let go and let yourself bleed for a while,

the loss will fade eventually,

same as my footprints into the trees,

at which you will stop any pursuit of me,

and let me self-fulfill this unwell prophecy.

 

 

 

Schemistry.

A very shifty combination,
so decried the chemistry,
mixing hard-earned salvation,
in with exponential insecurity…

A noteworthy disintegration,
in the joints behind each knee,
an ever-hanging expectation,
that it will give way eventually…

A monotonous lamentation,
such disappointment did I bring,
a repetitive declaration,
a tourniquet – always reminding…

A mind full of a heart’s degradation,
a swan hiding wolves beneath each wing,
a perfected form of pure placation,
the rejected face the glass is reflecting…

A very questionable equation,
the sheet of paper full of scribbling,
an indefinably cold sensation,
took out knees and left me shivering.

Portentious.

To sleep through its entirety,

this world clinging to me,

to pass up its absurdity,

and flash by in obscurity;

 

A couplet,

a trumpet,

wings ripped from a body;

 

A prophet,

a puppet,

the line thins out steadily;

 

To keep time to the marching feet,

trotting before and after me,

to be ignored and put to sleep,

and pass by flailing blindly;

 

A sunset,

a trinket,

sunk too deep to retrieve;

 

A target,

a portent,

no skin on my knees.

 

 

 

Full of Guts and Seeking Glory.

We had spent all of ‘eternity’,

as we both knew the word to be,

swaying in time to a ticking,

the archaic music of a dying breed,

a mixture of feelings,

stacked up to the ceiling,

the shift in direction so subtly,

akin to the route of my thinking,

I define what is the lonely,

unyielding and unbending,

I despise my own tale’s ending,

tired of telling the story,

full of guts and seeking glory,

I will seek for all my days,

I will break for my own sake,

you can’t console me,

you won’t be able to hold me,

I seem to slip on through,

no stitching remains rip-free,

tears up and along the seam,

those same old railroad tracks to my dreams,

I shake awake too late to warn you,

we’ve already gone,

you and me.

Boiling Divine.

I awoke to the shine of the light in my mind,

bubbling over the brim of the boiling divine,

and I asked the Gods why they’ve kept me alive,

no answer came back and I closed my eyes;

 

I blocked off all the passageways leading deep inside,

this place isn’t fit for those besides the likes of you and I,

I removed the duct-tape and my mouth dropped open wide,

I reused the same piece to hide the hatred in my eyes;

 

my spirit was nowhere near my defeated black flag,

my soul never embraced the replaced chains and gags,

I might be taken out like last week’s garbage bag,

but I will keep with me, every injury that I’ve ever had;

 

I finally shut out the sun and flooded the compound,

I stamped out the memories left lying around,

I screamed at the Gods until they too, fell down,

and I firmly believe that they are listening now.