To lick history off the back page
Ingesting dust spores & all that came before
Communing with the dead souls
Whose words are always coming back for more
To Lick History Off The Back Page
page
Released From The Burden Of Perfection
Released from the burden of perfection
Onward to complete this chance
Soaking in my soul’s refraction
I’m not grandiose, but I’ll enhance
Ripening with a golden age
This is nothing but a jagged gleam
A smudge on the stark white page
Determined to be more than a dream
You Might Find Me Boorish
You might find me boorish
A buffoon with sensibilities from another age
An undereducated hack with perverse interests
Jotting down any ol’ thought on the page
I can be oblivious, sullen & exhausting
Rarely the life of the party, it’s true
You might find me infuriating
But I assure you, my wife does too
I’m Pounding These Keys
I’m pounding these keys
Trying to create a landmark
Something to last through time
A rhyme to set off a sudden spark
I’m vain in ways I won’t admit
A schedule of words upon the page
Formulas/equations for me to disconnect
Memories for after I’ve withered into age
You Can Keep Your Digital Playgrounds
You can keep your digital playgrounds
I care not for a Kindle nor a Nook
There’s no time for your technology
At the end of the day, just give me a book
The old fashioned kind, maybe a paperback
Anything without a power source
I don’t need your highbrow radiation
I’ll stick with tangible pages of course
I may hail from generations past
Perhaps I’m boorish, perhaps I’m a lout
But I’m pretty damn basic when the day is done
I’ll still have my pages when the lights go out
Running A Finger Upon The Spines
Running a finger upon the spines
Treasures of unrequited wit
It can be difficult to wear a smile
When you always feel like shit
Fingerprints on the dusty shelves
Disfigured; in need of some rest
Looking for inspiration in the pages
Slowly drowning despite doing my best
Feeding Page After Page Into The Typewriter
Feeding page after page into the typewriter
I feel like a Saint from a forgotten realm
They could really write back then
Keeping an even keel with one hand on the helm
I’m not the pirate you bargained for
Simple words of varying degrees
I write of the love you’ve desired
But when I only smile, you call me a tease
Forevermore Villanelle
It’s not too much to ask for
Cold chilling to our bones
When we’re together forevermore
Wrap yourself tightly, I implore
Through love, we must atone
It’s not too much to ask for
Briskness recalls days of yore
Nostalgia to which we’re prone
When we’re together forevermore
Battered ships upon the same shore
Knowing we’re never alone
It’s not too much to ask for
Feeling the true price of this war
Pages of guilt written in stone
When we’re together forevermore
Tossed in the bottom drawer
Realities remaining unknown
It’s not too much to ask for
When we’re together forevermore
I Do Not Have The Weight Of Fading Beauty
I do not have the weight of fading beauty
I was never handed that cross to bear
I will dissipate into the darkness
With few knowing I’m no longer there
But she feels the pain of time
Thinking a curse as we continue to age
The anguish of remaining alive
Yet each new dawn is another blank page
Sheets & Reams Of The Nonsensical
Sheets & reams of the nonsensical
Literary blood lost in the shadow of ink
The lifeforce of a simmering soul
Marginal hearts writing love against the kitchen sink
Leaving behind the caricature of an artist
Contributions to society felt in these empty sheets
Fingersmudges marking pages not so white
Starkly exposed with revolutionary words in the streets
Traces of hereditary ideals eroding away
Igniting pages shall still be a stilted sin
Yet we rise again from our desert floor
Eternally grateful our finite letters aren’t porcelain
Patrolling The Underground Realms
Patrolling the underground realms
Lifting thought from prepared pages
Easing youth that won’t overwhelm
Knowing craft requires poise upon the stage
The dissidents lining streets in praise
While heroes grow cold, lying in state
Sharpen your pens lads, we rise by days
Attune your focus & we might outlive our fates
It’s A Sparse Paradise These Days
It’s a sparse paradise these days
Feeling another season coming on
Not supposed to feel like this
At least that’s the way we’ve been drawn
She’s still the poor pretty rich girl
Never could get off the same page
Repeat struggles to survive
Tripping on my lines; a vapid stage
Reality is an emotion detached from my soul
You never needed everyone to love you
Instilled confidence to merely exist
Forethought is a luxury that might just be true
Transcripts of the past’s failures
We’ve learned, but not out of society’s grip
False starts & then some
Rising, but we’re still not quite hip
Taking Time To Exist In Faded Dreams
Taking time to exist in faded dreams
The errant thoughts of a noble mind
Our hands smoothing the stray lines
The margins left blank & us unrefined
Ripped pages scribbled with defaulted hope
We try to emerge from the harrowing sea
But what more can we write about love
The caution of trying to speak of what might be
Do Our Words Mark Us Guilty
Do our words mark us guilty
Those found in books & memory’s pages
Does knowledge slowly wilt thee
Creating the soul in starts & stages
Discounting The Overland Wages
Discounting the overland wages
Discarded notions of an empty word
Dripping coffee on innocently blank pages
Drudging toward all the invocations misheard
The World Can Only Hold So Many Poets
The world can only hold so many poets
Woefully claiming Bukowski as their inspiration
Worshiping a habitual womanizer & drunk
Answering questions with little to no imagination
I’m doing my best to fill up the lines & empty spaces
With these ink splotches spreading upon the page
Distinct notions of what I believe to be right
But I’m only displaying the curmudgeon side of my age
Shove off from those heroes & clip art stick figures
We need fresh voices with an authentic feel
No more grave-robbing stale words & artifacts
We need to release the future & embrace what’s real
Reading The Errant Pages
Reading the errant pages
Crumpling after each one is read
A gentle eye befallen the paper
Revising what each one has plead
Wastebasket- a lifetime away
Hoping it’s not the destiny of them all
Slowly, sacred thoughts form
Living in the weird space of my scrawl
Ripping Out Pages
Ripping out pages
As I write these down
Better swim to shore
Before you drown
This isn’t the place
For the likes of you
A filthy bastard
Set adrift, it’s true
But be grateful
With me to thank
For the boys here
Wanted you upon the plank
Watching The Paper Soak Up Errant Coffee
Watching the paper soak up errant coffee
Spillage; correcting the bland, empty page
Blocked before you wasted the elixir of life
Words summoned now like a pensive sage
Freely letting loose a volley of images
We are released to our new mode of narration
Blinded aesthetics on a crisp winter morning
Forever allowed to remain alive in short bursts of inspiration
Thought It To Be An Easy Read
Thought it to be an easy read
Yet the words were hard to digest
Meaning dancing slowly in my mind
Subtly creeping past the singular rest
Retracing lines to navigate ritual
Where do we reform elegant words
Removed from obvious transparency
Heaped among the notorious & absurd
But we can still be returned to normal
Reassembled without any scars of the war
Truth absolved of the fictions we wrote
Back to the pages I quietly implore
Scratching Your Soul Upon The Page
Scratching your soul upon the page
Following the seams beyond the thread
I don’t have the caffeinated gumption
So I’ll have to return to bed instead
Wandering through woven stories in my mind
Nib to paper is the only way I can meditate
Urgency of thought keeps me from sleep
Back to brewing; morning’s way to self-medicate
Walking Quietly Along The Dusty Rows
Walking quietly along the dusty rows
I’ve forgotten dreams, but that’s how it goes
Bought the leather bound tome for 35 quid
Trying to uncover God, but she remains hid
Secret to life on the page, but that’s all anyone knows
Junky Little Notes
Junky little notes
Throwaway lines on the postmodern stage
Cultural fragmentation in empty streets
Truth whittled away on an evaporating page
The disillusionment of an appropriated life
While the world’s on fire; downright ablaze
The American Dream sold off to the lowest bidder
Feeling dissociative in these recent raucous days
Our dishonest & unaccountable government
Are trying to sell you their uninspired vision
Trying to sway your vote by gripping your throat
But their cockamamy pleas will be met with only derision
I’m So Happy, I’ll Dance You A Jig
I’m so happy, I’ll dance you a jig
With my eyes open, these dreams so big
Still living this life with childhood eyes
Truth always revealed as the tears dried
Sailing ships, battered by wind & storm
Ignoring reason, logic & the accepted norm
Life gets hectic, it’s often a terrible mess
Never grow up, push past into happiness
Fairy influence & the magic it might behold
Let us go now & create a story that’s yet untold
Where love & insanity will always meet
The freedom within our wild heartbeats
Close your eyes, finding something lost
Your favorite memory forever embossed
Tossed into slumbering pages of a book
Captive audiences held by Captain Hook
The golden cutlass, the prize of his plunder
Sharp, but wit marks our Boy Wonder
The best things in life are never planned
Without remorse, we return to Neverland
I’m Sitting Here Morose
I’m sitting here morose
Reading pages & thumbing my nose
Bored by the status quo
Breaking off from the path we chose
I’m searching for a worthy woman
To take by the waist & forever dance
Who desires to explore love
& live by the seat of her underpants
The Man Has You Grinding Away
The man has you grinding away
The organ makes the monkey dance
You’re looking for the Promised Land
But you never really had the chance
You’re writing your soul on the page
Friends support & love all they heard
But the critics cry foul & laugh bitterly
You’re only as good as your last word
Ducking My Head Between The Pages
Ducking my head between the pages
This mounting pile – high on my desk
Picture postcard from the far gone
Lost her to traveling’ roadside burlesque
Hiding my mind between the sheets
But my coffee had long grown cold
Writings spilled slightly on the saucer
Loneliness steeped until its forever bold
Quiet Rumpus Of The Tea Leaves
Quiet rumpus of the of tea leaves
In the comfort of a former beauty queen
Sly notes pondered upon the page
Suddenly relapsed into a shroud of velveteen
Incomplete Rants Are Broken Thoughts
Incomplete rants are broken thoughts
Antique shutters dangle in the breeze
Vaccinated by expired truth serums
Eye twitches; our hostess is ill at ease
Yet remaining upright on the page
Our fate wrapped in a trickster’s charm
Subtle strokes without remorse
Only dried ink leaves us disarmed
Subverting all the easy answers
Sacred is our fundamental right to choose
However your speculations drift
Cut the devil’s throat and wrap him in Winter’s hues
Battered Old Blank Pages
Battered old blank pages
Waiting to be smeared by ink
Disheveled by passing time
Often fraught with more than we think
Crisp white canvas no longer
Absorbing life as a passerby
So pause before you type
A silent witness to these lies
Those Words Come To Me In Those Coffee Dreams
Those words come to me in those coffee dreams
A spontaneous marvel of literary delight
There’s a difference between manufactured beauty
& a real beauty, founded by nature’s authentic right
But I can’t explain the nuances with the definition
I’m not one to judge such subjective whims
Focusing on my own qualms & dangling thoughts
Let us sit, pour another cup, let’s solve these problems
I’m not bothered by such trifling issues as rules
Let them worry about my intents & being misconstrued
I let my chosen pages explain all I’m willing to
I’m more concerned if that pot has finished it’s brew
Captain Q 