Grandeur.

I have been,
listening…

and hearing you…
your every cent or two,
every jerking move,
and yet you prove…
to somehow be,
totally and completely,
shocked to find…
blackened faces,
fill up the spaces,
between the lines…
Hello, big guy!
I will be fair,
I won’t deny,
through my grandeur…
what did,
indeed,

appear and seem,
to be,
a valiant try…

for your part,
at least
but, then again,
surprise!

Nonplussed…
it’s still just,
without compromise,
and really shouldn’t be,
such a novel thing,
that I’m not listening,
after so much,
of the go and touch…
the itchy sting,
ear-ringing,

fucking redundancy…
see the burning,
behind my eyes,
see the hatred,
memorized…

please just let me be.
As, so it goes that,
eyes like mine,
chiseled by,
the passing time…

are not destined to see.

20-Hour Lifespan.

Can I fill your palm with trinkets taken away,

from the struggles I’ve come through to get here today?

Can I trail along behind every step that you take?

Can I open my chest and show you the mess that you’ve made?

Try to drive home to you all the notions abound,

like feathery thoughts gently showering down,

can I stay beside you now?

Flash.

A presence treading with me through the course of time;

a phantom keeping steady hold to this hand of mine;

has it always been with me, here at my side?

has it always protected and watched my blind-side?

why do the stars seem to bleed from my eyes?

like memories of leafy trees and autumn skies?

while the blood boils hotly and I see flashes of white,

my skin’s sensitivity has alerts set on high,

like static electricity reminding me to look alive,

has it always been with me, right here the whole time?

 

 

 

Kidding.

Beautiful, gorgeous, happy glow…
Your Sweetest Nothing’s
put into syllables, for show.
Fiery, wanting…
glued to your face
your mouth’s curves
a daunting place…
I’ve been before
But tell me how – I bow down
into the splinters and cinders
that litter the floors
like your long line of whores
I see them all,
I choose to ignore…
You never answer questions
your many Life Lessons
have taught you little of
the snap inside my rubber glove
We are meant to Own our possessions.
Are we not?
You have seen quite a lot
Of my flesh,
Camera flash;
digitalized dash
in red LED text;
what now?
Onto the next…
Right?
Or am I wrong?
Am I dumb
To play along?
See here’s the thing:
I see the strings
Attached to each one
Of your crispy clean
cummerbunds…
I see the line of
Space and time,
wrapped inside
Of that tattoo –
You were too pure
to follow through…
Ouch!
this hurts miserably;
Yes you , yes me.
Look away if you must
Please?
Your face is too much
to see, anyway.
Ouch!
Just go on about your
fashionable way.
You were fine before
I came along
In my string bikini thong
to knock upon your door;
You’ll be fine now,
and I guess…
so will I, somehow –
Just forget it all,
my cries and calls,
forget me
don’t see me…
don’t see me fall.
You won’t believe me,
Anyway…
Your ears don’t hear
a word I say.
Go fucking play
As you have,
each and every day
as it’s passed.
What was that?
What did you say?
“Score?…Because of…?”
And you’re talking about
How I showed
my bare ass to you –
FUCK YOU.
For that,
I counter you:
Mr. Fashionably True,
I hope this finds you well;
I hope it reaches you;
And hits you
makes you hurt
as you’re looking up my skirt…
What’s the score again?
Mr. Hockey Man –
dead red battery
flashing in your corner screen,
you don’t know the bones
that construct Lil’ Ol’ Me,
nothing taken seriously…
so fuck yourself,
good and hard –
multiplied by twelve.
I am a star,
And I will shine in Hell –
Quit kidding yourself.

Threadbare.

In the weaving of the fabric,

that has been sewn by magic,

stitched by an unseen thread,

that strings from my heart,

to the thoughts in your head.

has gradually wound,

its way tightly around,

Any word written down,

infused into shades of dark red,

It’s a thing that’s profound,

that will never be dead,

It’s the basic compound,

On which forever’s been found,

And forever wildly bounds,

in hurried steps ahead,

of this weaving thread,

you bet we’ll chase it down,

it’s a distant sense,

in the past tense,

of being led around,

See the liters that I’ve bled,

See the patchwork on my neck,

It’s alright”, somehow,

that’s what they said,

You’ve been mended now”,

as I’m sifting through debris,

you showed up to stare at me,

as I rummage through the wreck,

not mockingly,

but longingly,

distinguished and correct,

your mind spun silently,

trying to throw a line to me,

to get me to connect,

and the threaded weave,

spun invisibly,

and I think you know the rest.

 

Cinder Blocks.

I want sit at the hearth of your manhood,

and stoke the fire to dangerous heights,

stir at its white-hot cinder blocks,

fuel the embers of its dark corners,

you burn like fire,

in my heart – in my mind,

in my skin – a temperature rise,

emblazoned, emboldened,

a singe at the touch that’s so very right

beheld by the highest of the high,

as well as the beggars of the night,

you’re made up of the stuff,

that speaks directly to my concubine,

not a nano-second passes by me,

without warmth of a cosmic heat,

like a fire burning steadily,

slurping out my poetry,

like a vampire of pure lovability,

like a conflagration of flames,

dirty words and silly pet names,

I want to make you see,

tell me, do you see?

Is it “you”, or “me”, or is it “we”?

 

 

 

 

Long Night.

Early on,

the night is long,

you trail me,

by a sturdy lead,

unsurprised,

are your eyes,

to perceive,

how readily,

I follow along,

mesmerized,

paralyzed

by your song,

vocalized,

localized,

loud and long,

played steadily,

laid heavily,

heaves and sighs,

the fall and rise,

in ecstasy,

in submission,

across a knee,

white flag waving,

daylight fading,

into the pull,

magnetically,

shamelessly,

make-up smearing,

clothes disappearing,

instantly,

full nudity,

immortalized,

by your tender mind,

and your touch,

leaves me,

crossing my eyes,

seeing flashes of light,

burning,

yearning,

rivers rush deep,

the mouth to the sea,

internalized,

naturally.