Morbid October

October is a bloated corpse
Still feasting on the river water,
Dragging at its surface, and bobbing
With an inhuman blue-green tint.

In November the body is found
And December has it buried,
But murderous September is cunning
And leaves the body waiting for Autumn.

There is no need for cannon folly
Nor weeping tears of lament,
Let the body rattle on toward
The year's end and a bed of cement.

I Am a Horrible Friend

If I could remember the
Last time you lost me
I might not be so apt
To wander into your
Cavernous glances again.

That recharge you pretend,
Your sunshine regeneration,
Is but a lie, and I break every time.

Stay that concept for me,
Let me scrounge around in
These shadows daydreaming
That there is perfect someplace.

Let me pretend not to be so
Pathetic and perhaps I'll learn
To let this pipedream down
The drain, finally and forever.

But only by ignoring it.

I am a horrible friend.

After Reading R. S.

three a m bites my eyes from the clock face
and i wince at the time

she will saunter in
jubilant and reeking
later

she is my home

i will be a runaway
i swear to god
i will run away

but i have to wait
first until shes here
then i will burn this house down

and i will devour the ashes
sharing them with the clock
sharing them with four a m
if it is at all hungry

To God

How dare You rip us from Your bosom,
Stealing away Our perfection!
And we, as pawns, created for nothing
But mechanical love, You smiling,
Sanctimonious enough to leave
A hint of autonomy, but with the consequences,
Your expectations are obvious.

But We were One and We were Perfect,
Now we are here, alone and waiting,
Until You decide to have us again,
But still separate, still subjects,
In Your created kingdom.
Let not the peasants be the King again.

You are a self made tyrant, an idol
Created by and for Yourself.
Our lives, our misery is but a game
And You have named Your kingdom the prize.

Are we such fools as to have forgotten
That The King's crown was once our own?
Before gardens, before falling,
We, Together, were eternity:
Infinite in Our vagueness.

But You ruined that,
And I will never forgive you.

A First Kiss

It will happen,
the coupling of anticipation and anxiety,
Wanting and waiting,
Helixed together in your hormones,
Utterly quivering and distorting you.

Her lips will open,
The soft comfort crashes as a wave,
The tumult is spared, now lives the feeling,
It is too good to recreate,
It is too good not to at least try.

Scatter-proof squabbles and crumbled newspaper
Filled the empty desk, dirtying the thought process.
Creativity was blanked, no writer worked there,
Only a lazy observer with an appetite for disorder.
Oh the woe he could inspire without a moving pen.

The Turn

When do my dreams make their turn,
Falling from noble to vain?
Should my selfish ambition be a gift
For a fierce love or forlorn friendship?

When does caring coincide
With that spark in my mirror’s eye?
Does “I” every die in order to better me?
Or am I damned to individuality for eternity?

(Old School) Tree

Turnable though the roots may be,
Malleable to the point of change and fro,
Nothing taken away from wisdom’s tree
Could ever hope to end its grow.

Talking

Greetings:
Dutifully,
The pursed lips crumble,
Mumbling, deaf and dumbing,
Generally beguiling
From what pleasure they come from.
A flash of red, moistened and well bred.
A devil to learn but an angel to teach,
Fire to the touch with curses to bleach.