Celestial Bodies Writhe

Celestial bodies writhe She may not be an answer But perhaps she’s the key At the end of the Earth You’ll find no more ground Dust falling off the coast Sail around for awhile Nurture love & freedom Return to find me here Within her, I find truth A value to be upheld Know the

VI. But The Machine Will Keep On Rolling

But the machine will keep on rolling Until we end the tolerance of systematic lies This is the only chance we have here Life is not lived if it ends in a tempered sigh

Daylight Creaking Up Over The Atlantic

Daylight creaking up over the AtlanticFirst light’s rays struggling over the seaMy bones seem to have a bit of rustBetter lubricate with some more coffee Dancing upon the shores of the St. John’sWe don’t need carpets; red or otherwiseWe only need our bare skin to touchEnding with me whispering between your thighs

Unfolding Broken Dreams

Unfolding broken dreams The distant & diluted flow Our hopeless choices astound The truth? We still don’t know But we can never give up Clinging to the last of our visions Memories cultivated on dark nights Leaving us exposed with obvious incisions How do you translate a morning When your soul bears undiagnosed pain Scars

thinking nostalgic thoughts

thinking nostalgic thoughtson an empty stomachrediscovering grunge tunesstuck at home in a pandemicremembering the pain of high schoolcouldn’t fit in anywherereliving dark momentswhere it could’ve endedremembering lost loves& how warm they made you feelbut you know it wasn’t realleaving you cold & aloneabandoned until life truly began.

Textured Mornings

Textured mornings Sitting around waiting on the French press Remnants of dreams & pleas Filtered through a truncated dress Beneath lies details Of scattered lace & bows But in the end, emotion far outweighs my prose

Those Matchbox Fantasies

Those matchbox fantasiesGunmetal grey panties with soft pink polka dotsShe placed a stiletto on her wooden legCharacter assassination plots go all for naughtUnassuming by way of distractionShe’s hiding a switchblade under that dressShe’s dangerous down to her coreA beautiful woman – you don’t want to messBeware of their corrosive accoladesThere’s no exoneration in the line

I Poured You Copious Amounts Of Wine

I poured you copious amounts of wineFrank was singing ‘The Lady Is A Tramp’We danced until you went home on the trainYour dreams ended up being quite damp

This Is It

This is it The end of where I care You won’t make me cower I won’t return there I’m going to dance out loud I’m going to rock that kazoo You can’t make me regret I’ll shake my tush like Baloo

Sitting Here Dissenting All Forms Of Gov’t

Sitting here dissenting all forms of gov’t Looking for answers in these coffee grounds Uncovering more & more hatred, with less hope These political ovations do nothing but compound Society has gone astray, Jesus take the wheel We’re all being watched by a perched black bird Incoherent shrieks & mumbles of “Nevermore” Universities stacked with

Margaret Atwood

“In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt.” ― Margaret Atwood, Bluebeard’s Egg

Flipping Through Magazines

Flipping through magazines Trying to find my darling girl She’s been gone awhile now She left to see the world She’ll be coming home soon & we can end this silly game My God, I love her so But she doesn’t know my name