its wasted time

some say its wasted time

but they haven't written a word 

they haven't struggled over 

the placement of a comma 

they don't know the difference

between “a” and “the”

they haven't searched for a vein

to insert the pen

to pull out the blood

to write with their life on the line

... i wrote the words “ i love you “

and i still haven't recovered   

on a Sunday morning

i woke up today with something to say

but you were not here to hear it

i wanted to say “ Good-morning “

and kiss your lips

and stroke your hair

i wanted to say “ What did you dream? “

and laugh or cry

and smile with you

i wanted to say “ I love you “

and have you say it back to me

  its Sunday morning

  its 10:35

  but you are not here

  

  just a yawn

  and silence

 

 

bedaubed with innocence

god was just a face at first

a pretty sidestare wanting look

a come and take what you please flirt

an innocent fuck me forever hook

and said she could

and said she would

and slowly reconstruct the look

and all the while

a schoolgirl smile

and guilt bedaubed with innocence

but said she could

and how she would

touch god the father son and ghost

and guilt bedaubed with innocence

and milk the wine of sacraments

so god looked up

and i at her

and every word unspoken heard

but all the while

a schoolgirl smile

and guilt bedaubed with innocence

fallen again

you will wake up beautiful

and i’ll fall for you again

shake those dreams from your hair

let all my love rush in

the night is gone

the night is done

we’re naked for the day

come dress me love

caress me love

with kisses you have saved

you are here so beautiful

and i have fallen again

  hold on to me

  belong to me

let all my love rush in

 

in asylum

 

When you visit me in asylum

i will be the one highup in the tree

in the middle of the garden

with poems on paper airplanes

waiting for the right wind

to kick up

omniscient

 

to the sky

 

i’m addicted to the sky

both near and far

both day and night

and its changing colors

how lost i become

in its narcotic freedom

in its lack of promise

in its vacuous zilch

what a silly idea

to have this flesh

needing these bones

bound to this structure

i’m addicted to the sky

as gravity weakens

and weeps at the sight

of my fleeing soul

(about the girls)

 

before gone

 

i am troubled sometimes

no cries

no angry outbursts

no tearing at flesh

but troubled enough

into sighs and huffs

and folds of isolation

love or no love

smiles feared or accepted

those looking, look away

rewarding each breath

with the willingness for another

still walking below the sun

a vagabond’s pace

slower than expected

pondering nothing and undone

i am troubled into moments

without words or meanings

eyes like a sunset

before gone

becomes lost

pause

 

god at the palace

i went to the palace to worship

through an ancient rustic window

looking over shoulders

god was an idiot

a housewife

a prostitute

a student

a cokehead

an eighteen year old genius

i couldn’t tell the difference

she looked the same to me

from every angle

but the way she moved

and the things she did

divesting all her energies

exposing every weakness

taking it off

letting it down

god smiled

and opened her legs to receive me

i bathe in your glory

O lord

 

 

slippery

i want your curves

your slippery slopes

luxuriant coves

your heathered fires

i want your slips

your slops

your slappings

give me the lashings

of your slippery tongue

(by Slawa on deviantart.com)

come at me hard

with intent

with ire

unyielding desires

unclean

untold

come now upon me

sliding your slopes

luxuriant coves

slip down upon me

one poet

tonight i will undress

strip this skin rip by rip

puddle the earth with all my fluids

scatter my bones for random discovery

tonight i will allow

i will become the force of voice

one shouting soul upon the wind

  one poet amongst a billion

 

wealthy mud wasp

what does it pay to be a mud wasp laborer?

this one here must be doing pretty well

has a nice winter home up high on the roof beam

and a small summer villa down the wall by the floor

either way

an easy flight back and forth

place to self-built place

no panic threats of rain

not much of a sharp draft

and outside the gated doors

a scenic view of the playground

i bet the children

when they come

won’t feel the sting

of poorer bugs