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.

 

So What Do You Do?

What do you do when the knowledge finally seeps through?

Can you enjoy your freedom with the enslaved watching you?

What do you do when you have too many mountains to move?

Will you dirty your own hands trying to dig up the truth?

Can you worry about only the things that you pick and choose?

The trivial nuisance of something like gum on your shoe,

the convivial looseness of someone who means nothing to you;

What do you do when the call has rung loudly through?

Can you hurry out and scream about things you must do?

Will you fizzle out and fade away like so many before you?

What do I do when it’s time to reach out and grab onto,

The material rips, my fingers stick with pin pricks of VooDoo,

the unusual fits that linger and stick in the thick of the shit you do.

Damaged Goods.

You say you’d never want to be
part of the darkness that envelopes me
You announce in your full capacity
How you’d hate to make me a memory

You mark up my skin with your teeth
You freeze time to sit with me silently
You say you’d never want to see
A future now, if it’s without our thing

And the closeness leaves a sting
My face burns and my ears scream
that future flashes in dashes and smoke rings
another party self-crashes to ashes, smoldering

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.

Detachedly.

(Yes, I think I totally made up that  word up there ^ …. whatever)

 

Wound up and down

in a knot strong and sound

tightly coiled

protectively oiled

this knot won’t come unwound;

 

swirls the noise of defeat

bound like rope to my feet

still survives

misery thrives

in the eyes of this injured beast;

 

Given sometimes to perplexing fits

driven through tried and true bullshit

strangely free

detachedly

just glad to be as far away as I can get.

 

Apocryphal.

What’s a young life that’s been checked and abused,

just naturally expected to someday evolve into?

Is it possible that most people don’t have a clue?

But then, how could they feel the fit of my shoes?

It seems probable that those who life’s been good to,

with the spring in their’ steps as they walk down the avenue,

will each live and die miles from any Life that is true,

without walking the line down hard times, blind to virtue.

Because, what’s an old girl supposed to do,

at the appearance of that elusive “moment of truth”?

When the truth doesn’t seem to at all recognize you,

and instead, fills your head and keeps lying to you.

 

Or Shall I Say?

Go on,

hah, giddy up

run along

don’t fuck it up

your will feels strong

to try your luck

make it rain

down the drain

more bang for the buck

Or shall I say

more buck

for the bang

more overtime play

of never fading

head games

Or shall I

try to summarize

the way I’ve changed

over time

there’s nothing gained

that’s right

drink it up

no fucking way

will I pass my cup

or shall I

try to remind

try to connect

the broken lines

I can’t relay

with any accuracy

with any subtlety

the way it feels

when you look at me

try some sympathy

try a different view

something new

might surprise

the stiffened likes of you

look into these eyes

beyond the lies

they feed to you

or shall I

compartmentalize

my sympathetic view?