There's a principle in the Bible
That says
Do unto those who CAN'T do unto you
In equal
Feed the poor
Provide for the widows
Look after orphans

There's a principle in the world
That says
Do unto those who CAN do unto you
In equal
Feed the poor
Provide for the widows
Look after orphans

In my experience
I've been and still am poor
Unable to eat from tables
Designed to
Feed the poor
Provide for the widows
Look after orphans past and present

Now the silence is suddenly broken
as Killer's boots whisper on the floor
The reverend sounds a "heh" of satisfaction
"She's coming back for more"

"Who's there" he says, is it you?
Now you get yourself on back here
No one will know, if you do
You ain't got nothing to fear

A hardened hand grasps his throat
and another holds a knife
Little grunts escape his lips
and he struggles for his life

This full catastrophe living
is tough
morning catcalls of capricious longing
an abstemious journey that leaves me replete

with nothing

my mother always said
the reason why love matters
is so that we'll live life well
feel in sync,
even be lucky enough to be
touched

by an angel

It's when I'm dead tired,
it's when I'm up at one in the morning,
It's when my eyes are bloodshot,
It's when the ink of the paper bleeds onto my hands,
It's when the world has gone dead silent,
That I am the best poet I could ever be,
So lets stay up one last time,
And lets kick ass.

Breathless
just reading it
his stress is understandable ...

One summation about poetry
that I have learnt is
the less a poetry /poem is understood
the more myriad views it throngs
in the throes of the human
unaccomplished mind
It leaves one with a gaping jaw
trying to comprehend
what the poet installed
in the mind's eyes

Read me some day,
dispassionately …
with wide open eyes,
I have decades behind
me as evidence

I heard the sound of pages turning
from writers' alcoves everywhere
where the dim night lights were burning
and poets laid their deep souls bare.

Then there came that final day
when verse and music both were done.
Had bards not heard their parents say
be sure to not look in the sun?

That fierce light burned their muse to cinders
and dried the ink within their quill
regardless of their age or genders
without vision they'd lost their will.

he took my paper heart
and folded it into a plane
threw it to the wind
and all my efforts were in vain
he stole my ink, my life
and wrote his name over again
he sits and grins and writes my death
and bleeds me through his pen
my bones have bent so many times
but never have they broke
yet then i felt the subtle crack
with every word he spoke
my body's cold, my breath is hot
my knives are sharp when mind is not
and right now they are all i've got
that listen.

caught me in your swell
the sweet perfume of orbit
how you swayed me
the fire gleaning
like ships ablaze
sinking suns
with powder guns

glitterbeing slit
this aperature
translation

fire off salvos
of love lust and
taste the rounds
of hate catching
bare hearted
ruins

You walked barefoot
with naked seas
to find me

how undressed
I am
naked neath
these waters
drowned

excstatic
and alive

(For P)

When the poet died,
nothing lost was found.
Ever he would hide
poesy he had bound.

When the poet failed,
no one sought his work.
But he never quailed,
left alone in murk.

When the poet passed,
everything he wrote
stood no chance to last.
He had never gloat.

When the poet ceased,
beauty went away.
Darkness was released.
Now, the night is day.

When the poet died,
nothing lost was found.
We had all relied
on the poet's sound.

Obsession