Sunday, June 17, 2007

the six:6 apostles

assembled disciples and rebuked views
drew intricate parallels in our course of trails
and formerly known

the rhetoric of
you and me
can be only best described and illustrated by beating
a six year hungry
that our bodies eventually broke from...

these easy discomforts and sullen eyes
me dehumanized,
and while i remained alive, i remain what i am,
an implicated prisoner in your past-dated cell so often referred to as
your heart

now i sit, concentrating on the concept of your
you so graciously function as an instrument of
pushing and pulling as you play on my cello stained soul,
until my strings eventually break in the
map of your eyes,
which effortlessly and repeatedly
these walls you helped me build,
and slowly
my newly constructed cities...

conclusions draw to such
that would prove
in the help of closing these old torn pages of you and i

i studied them for
forgot what i read for
and re-opened them until
clearly, in the absence of my qualifications,
the epithet "us" does not fit in this de novo story...
and now it's ashes lay
on the bottom of my once cleansed fireplace

i tried
we tried
you tried
but for some reason 2184 days holds no charm
like the third time
so now we resort to the past memories that lessen this inadequacy of what once never really
really was

while i peel my brain from your tightly gripped memories,
my infected heart still beats red from
sores now closed

this savage god we more than once named
is now nothing but my debilitating


you no longer place
past sculpted obstacles in the way of my
ambitions and projections
to new minds and
partially opened hearts

and while you condemned me to death,
i chose when and how to

now we need feel no
in describing our end

so bury me,
like i now bury you

and let our frequently dug-up
rest for good

Monday, June 11, 2007

electric bright

bleed these classical cases of cracked paint chips
and expressed translations of present generation theoretical speculations
that spin round in this mobile of sunset words

...and while sleeping pills and crooked days make for
dark circled eyes,
i sit and stare,
while my teeth chew these words that my throat wont let out

this wicker bag which holds me together is slowly ripping
apart at the seams
and now i wrap myself in cellophane so my heart and all it's ventricles
don't fall out into your blue pained fingertips
and past wrinkled palms
of raindrop days

from this tongue comes tin cups and electrical tape confessions,
emotions aren't emotionless just because tears don't
equal cries

these guitar strings pull tight, and my fingers can only play so fast...
but I tried,
I tried.

my coffee is stale, and my tongue no longer tastes...

so tell me the history of these pains made in your legs,
which inevitably inhibit you to run forward...
or at least walk at a steady pace

this beginning was the same as yesterday,
and this unusually sweet tempered disorganization of your mental matter
has mastered to ease my mental instability

so now I sit,
bone-framed in this over sized chair with nothing but pale lips to listen
to your throat cut through my bleak expression

You are the master writer
of paradoxes and insufficient poems, to defend any topic,
no matter how apparently indefensible it be...
but your blizzards give my snowflakes shape

and i only made it 90 pages into these selected papers, which were accompanied by the visiting ghosts to whom we name the past...
but three chapters are much better than never opening the cover at all...
and I am glad I met the author

while you speak these words,
they lack these translations of English,
but there is no need for understanding, because re-entering into what happened in the chapter belonging before

Our observations we have investigated...
they were the ones which first provoked this phenomena...
but through unexpected accidental factors which play a much greater part than is generally known and recognized,
it proves to impossible to manifest this starting point from anything but history books

without eyelashes, this path is nothing...
but truth exists in bloodshot and blacked-out eyes... so bruise these eyelids and lend me
your red-wined lips

perhaps along the way, someone will make me a magician....
to make myself a fire-fly.. so that I can elucidate your crepuscular past,
because sometimes the light
secures secular insecurities

but for now, and last but not least,
i pay my debts to the shape of this bent willow tree,
which loaned me my heart when I thought i needed it

...and I wouldn't have it any other way.