Monday, March 26, 2012


Yep, it's true
I'm in love with the blue
And the pink and pastels
Float down, my muse

Keep me up late at night
Through the day in a haze
Of doting affection
Let belonging induce

Ripest peach on the tree
I'll claim you, I'll take you
Down the unbeaten path
Reminiscent and new

Yep, it's true

Bleak Days

Here is all that remains of the cosmic splatter
the universal truth, splashed light years ago from 
the violent overflow of messianic rivers, slowed down 
to rust; that sentimental strain but an inconvenient stain 
too mysterious for forensic sleuths, the human brain
to decipher.

Haunches grow tired as they lunch on cheek skin; too
thin to withstand the constant grinding of gears
but strong enough to know 
when to hang on for dearest

Poor fools do not wonder for there is no wonder
to behold. The sky turned dull, averted grey eyes
stray loose in their skulls, no stars left to guide
and no hiding behind robes; just skin and bones