Solitary

On the upstroke, the tick was louder, until the second hand got to the ten
On the downstroke, the tock slid like a water snake in the damp grass, greasy
It was this constant grinding and sliding that kept me from drowsing, dreaming
At the bells I would jump a little and thank the fates that I was still alive

When you are awake with fevered thoughts of the day to come, knowing your sun will collapse
It is impossible to close your eyes, red, gritty eyes, giving your last gold piece for a spoon
You dare not speak out, or scream, the sound would surely cause internal damage
And darkness is not as complete when you hear yourself bleating like a separated mother goat

The tick is a reminder of the sins that I committed without a second thought of collateral damage
The tock is a lovers hand caressing,  telling me to put in a good word when I meet the maker
I tell you this, there is no clock, and there is no lover, only darkness and a mind sick with despair
The only antidote is the opening of a door and treacherous needles of light, skating on ice too thin

Rapture

In rapture I bathed, cautious bones, stone still…

Her breath caught and I thought it was irreverent, but sexy
Shameful, shameful
I should not look at things from the pinpoint of a pig’s eye
Delirious sweats and needs, oh needs
Heated, heated
My desire out of control, does she know of my leaky valve
Pumping, pumping

Flowers and Fireworks

He sat down and started writing, he knew, people, he saw, people
He wrote people like John Kennedy played a crowd, intuitively, passionately
There was no method to it, it was natural and laced with dark reality
The kind of reality tipped with truth and tragedy, all angles, all consuming
Each person a complex maze of paradoxes based in desire and fear, hard to chew
But when a thousand of his characters filled the pages, glistening like dew on the dandelions
The portrait painted was as solid as the keystone in a castles hearth, it was breathtaking
The people were flowers and fireworks on the waning of a soft summer day, he knew people

Poetry as a Means to Death

I woke on the morning of my birthday, hell bent, hair wet
My task was to end the game, cut the cord, pay the final check
And I would do it with words, your words, their words, sharp as a scalpel

I sat at my desk and inked black, hell sent, jaw set
The reds flowed and torturous yellows, sharp sword, slashing neck
I was doing it with grace, your face, their face, nice and simple

When the end finally neared, hells rent, good bet
My body so much pulp, say the word, no safety net
I was letting all go, your command, their command, smiles so awful

The last you will hear from me…immortal

When I Call

Your reach was telescopic that day, no matter how much I retreated, you saw me
Its like when you meet someone for the first time and your judgment is dead wrong
Thank the Gods that you had better sense than I did, that isn’t hard really
I have never been know for my practicality, only for chasing my summer dreams, silly

I relished those days on the couch where we watched funny shows and touched only our feet
Life has a way of magnifying those delicacies, only after they are gone, sepia, worn
I would give every roller coaster ride for those moments, the ones where we flew
Heavens how your hair looked and smelled after a shower,  my libido etched forever in strawberry

There is a telephone somewhere, the old rotary kind, it is black with too big numbers
To this day I search for it , knowing that it is surely around the next corner and then the next
When I find it, it will be a direct line to you and the days of mix tapes and red wine
And I will invite you to patio dance once more, your naked hips a forever prize, eternity