flood conscience part one

Brittled smiles in the wake of battle and
Crippled wings of inspiration need mending
The sheep need tending to but the shepherd needs it more
heart palpitations, character transplants
hero worship and throne-of-heart-usurpery
your hurt is me
metamorphosis
headofsorcerers
lead hydes heckled by jekyll
A good ol-fashioned dose of skeptical
they say
will throw some meat on your bones
Hair on your chest
whiskers on your chin
shiver in your timbers
float in your boat
food on your table
and so forth

 

this heart starved.

before you,
this heart starved.
stumbled in and out of a maze of destitute feelings dazed and
was always whole but was always hole,
cup without a drink to hold
and then your eyes opened on me
and opened my chest and planted a river of poems that flows fierce
and carries two souls off the edge of the earth
and under the look of a moon of bronze
I hand you this heart and you planted a feast of poems that grows
more entangled every time your mouth says my name
in a way that dresses my wounds and
makes the letters buckle
you planted an itch I resist scratching I want it to grow
before you my heart starves
and drown my cup in you

 

fable.

never turn your eyes sour on an American fable
keep pitchin till u sink one cross the plate
let your eyes flicker in the dim
we never could really get a grip of
letting ghosts whisper to our only fountain of hope
drowning in radio
never take your eyes off the trap
peepers fail in a blink of an eye
close and don’t open back
detoxing off that oxygen
we stopped praying again
lord bring me back after I fled

desert conscience part 1

the fire that wanders us

desert conscience searching for a burning bushel

in the lost words of prophets

in a broken promised land jamming myself to rags

over lost false profits

pondering the cost of coffins of infants sitting upon a pile of em

hand wrapped around 17 serpentine concubines

reality’s a porcupine acupuncture set

and if you don’t insert the accurate needle in the back

you’re just another golden strand of hay trapped in a stack of needles

intoxicated off a whiff of the petri dish —lost sons of Prometheus

the right amount of poison is medicine

and the wrong amount of medicine is poison-

can’t ignore this burning sensation

This dry scorching climate is perfect for cynical laughing at slow dying

Stomach churning like an ancient furnace

thirsty for something to burn

but finding nothing but itself

when

when Your health fails priorities crystallize—
“Get well”
no more pin ball machine life wandering through day mazes
the latest craze You could care less now
You pay attention to minutia:
how easily people suck air in
how they climb stairs tie shoes lift forks and stuff their faces
in between their list of complaints
You reminisce on the time when that was You
it’s the simple things now
You see ants in a new light
You count the number of heartbeats in between random events
You marvel at Your veins
pushing quarts of blood through You
You wonder how it’s possible that You think
without even thinking about it
You don’t feel like saying much
because much of what You say isn’t much You’ve decided
You laugh at how oblivious You are
at how weak You are
how fortunate
You think about all the things that could have possibly gone wrong
at Your conception Your birth
and You can’t for the life of You figure out
how so few things actually did
and You weep
from the sheer weight of it.

when

When passion turns poison
When love corrodes
when the wounds salted
tears rust
when hands can’t hold
And gold goes copper
And Cupid gone fallen Icarus
From his own arrow awry
when the illusions stripped
armour scraps
when you know but don’t want to say
when the weeds grip the last rose
when we are foam and dust
and you take your crown off
bow and drown softly in what was

then when we are ready to begin.

the war

There’s a war goin on inside I can’t hide from it.

its in my stomach.
It’s in her eyes turnt to the size
of two full gold coins full poised pointed anointed
and poisoned and posing all the petals
pulled from the rose and it loves me it loves me not

Then it move its way up to the throat and it climb out and it cries out and it lies not.

And It spies often and it starts with the grave and it ends in a coffin and it spins with the globe and blinks like a strobelight hold tight or let loose it’s neck noosed take a gander at this giant goose egg.