Timeworn Ways

•October 19, 2018 • Leave a Comment

for there was love,

which held us tight,

wrapping us taut,

keeping us warm,

love, love, a truest

song, eldest bards,

love song dancing

on our lips, ancient

and beautiful, love

the warmest suit,

the dastardly fiend,

hugging and hitting,

tasting our tears,

and pushing vanity

into the sea, love

the hovering bird,

looking for prey,

consuming, enjoy,

love, angry youth,

mounted warrior,

flail-etched death,

morphing into hate,

as weakness climbs

ivy, the sun burns,

hearts still bleed,

love, an angry, foul,

memory, forgotten

and sunken, lime

tongued prince,

sitting stolid, man

a soldier, salted

sanguine sap, lust

larping, harping,

for greater means,

soaked in reason,

sacrifice sung bland,

all a fucking word

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More Than a Shitty Title

•October 3, 2018 • Leave a Comment

I think of your smile, and the wilting

flowers, dancing around in the glass,

succumbing to the sound of pity, to

the sound of disgust, glancing blows

from madness, from cups thrown to

the living room with no catcher, the

rubber you left on the road, a child

until the end, but even I won’t wish

you ill, belittle your best efforts in

the same way you have me, I won’t

be the person you grew into, lifeless

without your god, circumcised life,

coiled in the trash, spat upon, flies

forming, dead fish stink, crashing a

party, thrown into a pool, you see?

That blue room, with the intentions

of greater gods, striped, gall, vases

full of piss water, ashtrays static fly

wasted wandering cantrip waitress

skunking nagging, and I still learned

to swim, I still tread, wallow swine

pig, and your life moved on without

your victims, the tragedy I will not

name, and I will not forgive, never,

your life will burnout, and I’ll lock

the seal, branded with wax, trappings

of ill-will, so enjoy your new world,

child-adult, enjoy your bullshit life,

inactive ion, atom bomb move along,

I got what I could, enjoy the painting

New Book Now in Print

•September 28, 2018 • Leave a Comment

How cool is this? Took a while to set up, but now available in print. Thanks!

Cold Hands

 

New Poetry Book

•September 14, 2018 • Leave a Comment

 

Direct Link: Cold Hearts and Warm Hands

Thanks!

The Cavalier; The Callow

•September 13, 2018 • Leave a Comment

And that’s the end, oh wretched zealots,

sun-ravished radishes, sunken eyed, candy-

dipped falchions, the end of ripped blades

stepping steppes towards the millions, of

sanctified sinners plastered in pools, of

morning dew wetter than the tides of ides,

of night air respite, saturated jungle rings,

the end of phantoms’ clamorous pines,

each ogre a sight, painted in duds clasp

clapped, frowning for the rain, nodding

about their risks, woe to you, but this is

but the beginning, the beginning of new

deaths, of trees sapped and sapping fair,

of leaves chrome, so true and wispy, of

whimsy and horizons, of stout, of ports

o’ plenty, shrouding wind, beauty: it’s man,

and in the crowd you’ll still look high, to

the next missive, when we hide inside and

remember the last, and hold hands and

watch it all come, and when it arrives,

the path paining me with every passing

day, I’ll be here, ready to sing the next’s

pithy praise, dressed in slacks, holding

the sick air inside, ready with my word,

ready to ride the heat like a board towards

greater nights, smiling for your heart,

aiming to see you again, always next

Long Lines Sung Out of Time

•August 1, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Draft 1

In the leaping landing, I cursed and soured,

as the sun dripped day-light scuffed my dandi-

lion head, rows in a line, up time, in time, in

tow I followed the fallow fellow, sunken in

his drink like Jacques Cousteau on PBS, for-

tress, terse and limited the TV bellows, but as

a scarred and damaged crustacean floated to

the top of the pale ale static tale, the bleating

from the backroom cancered my eardrum

drunk canal, with a cavern deep screaming

my parents wailed in their deathbeds about

the son who dipped too deeply into the sprung

rhythm of dead priests, colicky lips bent to

the UV lights of God’s Grandeur and fear

of death without doing something great, but

in each line and word sung out from the page

that day in the middle of my existence, I sting

each bee with the spindle of fabrication and

satisfaction, burnt twigs, brindle and soporific,

I will leave this pile of burning cow shit with

my head strapped succinctly to a pike spaced

safely for a children’s crossing, drip, drip, drip-

ping with impunity, ah fuck it, let’s drink more

Among Iceland’s Greatest Dons (Repost)

•July 27, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Here’s a poem I posted on this date in 2017.

Across the divide, in between the dogwood
and valley green, I tasted your lips, like a
pure sugar—sweet, as the sun blistered, and
I held you in my arms, and I can smell the
water still: sensuous and sinewy, much like
this day in the North, as the light fades into
the dark, we quench our thirsts upon one
another, and sate our needs in the glen on
day, and drink from our essence, and drip
honey into the grape leaves pour greens,
and sour blend, supple friend, so moist in
the night’s air, sunk into our bound life, all
have failed to capture this moment, this
glory, but our hands grasp and lock with
unctuous sunder, belay no blunder, perhaps
we’ll lose each moment as plague eats our brains,
but rest in your bed tonight, my sweet, wonder
and life live on, no memory sanctions to one’s
attention, for it lives in spite at mere inception

 

Ain’t nothing wrong with love poems…

If you like this, check out my chapbook on Amazon full of love poems.