I.          Early Mint In Mushroom Clouds

 

We want to be wanted.  Our innate hunger is for communion with another individual, wholly, intimately.  Before we understand love, we desire it.  We search for it as gold, value the intangible idea of it as absolute purity and fulfillment.  We are stricken by the possibility wherever there is hope, untainted, before it is inevitably spoiled.  This is the need first held up in praise, when youth fixes its gaze upon that idealized vision of angelic splendor know as the opposite sex.

 

 

Someone To Be Mine

 

You wear your heart on your sleeve

to make it accessible,

you have a love that never leaves,

while mine is repressible.

Everybody here walks around

on cloud nine;  it’s Valentines,

and I can’t find someone to be mine.

 

A man like me never wins,

and that’s unforgettable;

the situation I’m in,

at best, is regrettable.

Everybody here is so sincere

all the time; it’s Valentines,

and I can’t find someone to be mine.

 

The palpitation of hearts,

in all its simplicity,

gives rise to false hopes and starts,

and surged electricity.

If I should disappear, no one here

would mind; it’s Valentines,

and I can’t find someone to be mine.

 

 

Come Now

 

It’s been three years since I met someone,

a hundred cities looking no one in the eye.

Does that make me spoiled or ruined?

Does that mean any less time’s gone by?

 

Are you at home alone?  I’d love to meet you.

I’m only looking for another year or so.

Come to the window if you hear me,

or sit and watch me from the post.

 

Come out, come out, come out,

come out and play;

it’s a beautiful abstraction of a day.

Come over with umbrella or a pan;

we’ll listen to the Beatles or Chopin,

but come now.

 

Encircle building with a cigarette,

look up in windows for a silhouette;

I’m clad in pantry cloth and jester grin,

still searching for someone to let me in.

Are you exposed?  I’d like to treat you.

I’ve got a day off and I’d like to swing from trees.

Hang upside down, and clown and frighten me,

whisper the absurdity of breeze.

 

Come out, come out, come out,

come out and play;

it’s a marvelous distraction, if I may.

Come over with a plunger or a bag;

deck yourself in bells, I’ll dress in drag,

but come now.

 

Come out, come out,

come out Ms. Maggie Mae,

and we’ll play a game of shame and disarray.

Come over with a rocket and a bomb,

tell Aunt Betty she’s a no-good peeping Tom,

but come now.

 

 

Eyes Of Gray (Idle Sky)

 

Notes of discord swim through

sunlit streams of disarray;

winding past the dreams are

schemes, reality’s dismay,

absorbing my emotions,

leaving nothing to defend, but a

few too many fragments to mend.

 

Why, my dear, can you not

hear me calling out to you?

Seems I interfere with

everything I ever do.

Slipping through a reflex

mirror into eyes of gray;

I plead the Brothers

Grimm to let me stay.

 

Hardly sanctifying, in

paralysis, my thrall;

photos age and yellow while

paint drips down the wall.

Careful eyes weigh con-

sequence to subsequently lie,

and words fall from the idle sky.

 

Are we speaking the same tongue?

I don’t understand. And I’m not sure

you hear me even when I scream.

We could construct a bridge from

solid bricks of ice around our feet,

or pack my innards in the preservative

of freeze. But I’m afraid. And I’m not

sure if you’re bashful too, or if you’d

bash my head, given the slightest start;

I couldn’t face such disgrace. You’re

hard to read, and I won’t speak; so

neither of our counterparts will show

their hearts in the iceberg sea

of terminal degrees.

 

I want,

and I want

to be wanted.

I need,

and I need

to be undaunted.

I love,

I am a lover,

and I need

to be loved.

I hope

with all

romantic scope,

and need

to be shoved

in the direction

of a kindred spirit,

near enough to be clear,

or I fear I may miss my cue

—kiss it goodbye.

I can’t hear you;

talk is transparent.

So speak to me

in ways

I’ll understand.

 

 

Written On Me

 

Although some days it seems

you don’t even know me,

I’m always thinking of you.

I take peripheral notes

—you don’t notice me;

you haven’t a clue.

You fill my diary page after page,

all my prayers end the same;

I found a hobby to mind in my spare time

when I found out your name.

 

Flip through my notebooks,

you’ll see you’re always on my mind;

familiar letters form the name I find so divine.

Can’t bring myself to think of anything else,

you’re all I ever need to know;

your name is written on a space in my heart,

I take it with me wherever I go.

 

I can erase what I write

and forget what I see,

but I’ll never forget what

you’ve written on me, oh no.

 

I know sometimes I act

like you’re no different

than whoever’s around,

but when you speak, I die

inside—and by instinct;

it’s such a powerful sound.

Every night, I kiss your

picture in the moonlight,

and by the wish on a star;

every day, as you and I

divide in separate ways,

I feel so far apart.

 

Flip through my sketchbooks,

you’ll see you’re always in my thoughts;

when I approach to try and tell you such things,

my tongue gets tied up in knots.

I never want to think of anyone else

—conclusion and final say so.

Your name is written in the ink of my thinking.

(I just thought you should know.)

 

I can erase what I write

and forget what I see,

but I’ll never forget what

you’ve written on me, oh no.

 

 

Ordinary Man

 

White bow in golden hair

—girl without a name.

I watch her walk away;

the story’s the same,

hundreds of thousands

of fish in the sea,

and all of them avoiding me.

 

Do I ask too much?

Is it beyond my reach?

Is there anyone you

think I ought to meet?

Am I to be lonely all my days?

(I probably am.)

I am an ordinary man.

 

So easily distracted

by action figure form,

or cartoon balloons for eyes;

in a fairy tale with ballrooms

and perfectly cued storms,

I’m a reduced mutant

of microscopic size.

 

Do I dream too much?

I nearly always have.

Am I out of touch?

Oh, touch me if you can.

Has the screenplay

made you hate me?

(I told you I’d a plan.)

I am no ordinary man.

 

 

Mama Didn't Give Me A Country Name

 

Well, I was raised from Maine to Florida,

but I was born in Maryland;

I reached my sixteenth year

before I heard a country band.

Thought I was a Yankee child,

knew nothing ‘bout the South;

that’s why I was startled when

those words fell from my mouth.

‘Cause not long after I met you,

I announced with pride,

“I need that country music playing,

and a sweetheart by my side.”

 

But Mama didn’t give me a country name,

so what am I supposed to do?

What have I in common with

a pretty thing like you?

I ain’t been so fortunate

to live here all my life.

Daddy wasn’t no country child,

and neither was his wife.

 

Still don’t wear them flannel shirts

or fancy cowboy boots;

I ain’t got that southern blood

nowhere in my roots.

Most my style is European,

I’m dead set ‘gainst guns,

and I won’t wear no hat that

keeps my girl from getting sun;

but tell me I don’t love the south,

and boy, I’ll prove you wrong.

Why else on earth would I be

singing you this song?

 

But Mama didn’t give me a country name,

so what am I supposed to say?

Could a guy like me ever get

you to look his way?

Have some pity on this

city boy who feels so dumb;

I tell you now, they still know how

to love where I come from.

 

Baby, I ain’t a redneck.

Baby, I ain’t a hick.

But if anyone can convert me,

baby, you can do the trick.

So I was born in the North

—I can’t help that!

I’m willing to change everything, baby

—oh, because I want you so bad!

 

 

And For My Next Thought

 

The next thoughts I’ll be thinking

may as well be thoughts of you;

why not think of something beautiful,

if anything but true?

The next dream in my conscious sleep

already has an end,

the one where I get tongue tied

trying to wind around my friend.

 

It’s a theory I have,

that you won’t mind

if I don’t tell you;

it’s a silly, silly, silly idea,

but it makes me smile.

 

The next idea in my mind, if I have any say,

will be the fiction saying you and I

might hit it off someday.

The next thing—besides poetry,

or Morrissey, or Christ

—distracting me will be…

something about your skin.  And ice.

 

It’s a philosophy of mine,

that you’ll never mind

what you don’t know;

it’s a stupid, stupid, dangerous

intimation deep in my grin.

 

The next thoughts I’ll be thinking

may as well be as intense

as the primal first reaction to

your body’s influence.

For next to you, no fantasy

contests to ever win;

reality means less to me

than dreaming up your skin.

 

My very next thought will be the one I keep.

 

 

Enter My Love

 

Enter my love,

tonight you’re with me;

I’ve waited an eternity

for this moment to be.

You are everything,

everything infinitely;

come put an end, love,

to this long-standing misery.

 

Lean in, lean on in closer

on the shoulder of your truest friend;

weep and complete these feelings I’ve hidden,

these things you cannot comprehend.

 

Come to the dance floor with me,

I’ll sweep you aside,

go along with whatever scheme

you dream up in your mind.

Ask for my love in any measure,

you won’t be denied;

when this evening first saw you enter,

I nearly broke down and cried.

 

So enter my love,

come inside.

 

Welcome, my dear, to the chamber of light,

sacred, you angel, you vision, you sight;

answer my calling, submit to my pleas,

enter my life as you’ve entered my dreams.

Watching you move as the music descends,

bouncing off shadows, divining with friends;

I splinter in shambles, I thirst for the sand,

I need to unhinge in the palm of your hand,

your delicate beauty as potent as wine;

promise you’ll stay with me,

swear you’ll be mine.

I’ll cherish you fully, virginity white,

I soil perfection to try to recite.

My heartbeat races, pulses with chance;

please don’t refuse when I ask you to dance.

 

Enter my love,

come inside.

 

I’ll hold you, firm and gentle,

keep out the world of hate;

I’ll be your restoration,

save you from this wicked place.

 

Enter my lover;

my love, come inside.

 

 

Intrigue

 

Intrigue. I love your eyes;

your beauty could make me blind.

I wish I knew a way to make you smile.

 

Mystique. I’m in a trance;

your face is loveliness thrice enhanced.

I wish I knew a way to make you sigh.

 

I’m falling. I’m a stumbling clown;

you’re the staircase I’ve been tumbling down.

I wish I knew a way to make you laugh.

 

I’m slipping. I’m on the edge of my seat;

you’re the carpet pulled out from under my feet.

I wish I knew a way to cross your path.

 

I’m shaking. I’m a bundle of nerves;

you’re the lady only a gentleman deserves.

I wish I knew a way to catch your eye.

 

I’m breaking. I’m a shattering pane;

you’re the stained glass in the flattering rain.

I wish I knew a way to make you mine.

 

Intrigued by mystique so grand;

I’m falling, slipping, shaking, breaking

into your hand. Oh, intrigue!

 

 

Can’t Go Falling In Love

 

Tonight you finally crossed the line;

it happens every time

the night gets in your eyes.

All right, like shivers up your spine,

you can’t get it out of your mind;

you’re entwined in intricate designs.

 

And you know you can’t go falling in love.

You can’t go falling in love. (2X)

 

Sometimes you give in to surprise,

a victim of compromise,

a slight from traitors and spies.

It chimes, a story line of demise,

a tune too soon recognized,

an underlying fabric of lies.

 

And you know you can’t go falling in love.

You can’t go falling in love. (2X)

 

 

You Belong With Me

 

I’ve been watching you,

been thinking of you,

been noticing you

look quite out of place,

I’ve been dreaming of you,

imagining you,

been watching the

expressions hit your face.

Now that you’ve finally noticed me here,

I wonder when you’ll wake up and see

you belong with me.

 

I’ve been screaming at you

from the top of my heart,

but whispered words are

all you seem to hear;

I’ve been going to bed with

your name on my lips,

your voice nestled

softly at my ear.

Sometimes I sit outside

your window as you sleep,

sometimes I dangle from the tree;

you belong with me.

 

You deserve to be spoiled

by someone who cares;

I’ll wrap you in comfort,

surround you with prayers,

I’ll clothe you in splendor,

immerse you in life,

expecting only in return

your sugar and your spice.

 

I’ve been painting your smile,

but I can’t get it right;

the glint that crosses over never stays.

When you look at me so,

and I blink in reply,

I notice how your smile creeps away.

Sometimes I realize the absurdity of things,

sometimes I slip it in your tea;

you belong with me.

 

 

As The Evening Slips By

 

Time goes by as the music plays,

flashing strobes, exploding haze,

short-lived, remixed hits all the rage,

trapped in strangers’ faces, twisted cage,

prowlers scowling, hours pass by,

whirlwind scenarios untried,

spotlight-dodging shadow disguise,

whispers hint and tints unrealized.

 

As the evening slips by,

I fall deeper and deeper;

I’ll hate myself for

letting you go.

I could just die, inclining

steeper and steeper;

I ache to break the

feline spine below.

 

In my head, a bass-lead tune;

I know I’ll lose you if I don’t act soon,

you in bruised, deluded union,

me a useless stew of brews.

 

As the evening slips by,

I fall prey to the reaper,

berate myself for

fretting and woe.

My hands are tied by

dining cheaper and cheaper;

I quake to plate your

effervescent glow.

 

 

Envious Enchanted

 

Were I the skin stretched smooth

across your palm, I could undress you,

and caress you, unafraid.

Were I that teddy bear,

that childish toy you still fondly hold,

I could burrow in your folds, unashamed.

Were I disguised a camera eye,

I’d zoom and focus in

on the frozen hint of color in your lips.

Were I the rings you slide into,

I’d slip around the frame of you,

and wrap myself around your fingertips.

 

Were I the ceiling in your room,

I’d cover you with gratitude,

hover above your heart, heaving with sighs.

Were I your hanging mirror,

no reflection would be nearer,

all your privacy, swallowed in my eyes.

 

I’m envious of all that

touches you as I cannot;

I’m jealous of such things as these,

securely in your thoughts.

I wake alone, and sleep alone,

and so go my days;

I dream alone of blowing you

the kisses of my ways.

 

Were I the cotton woven in the cloth,

tight around your chest,

I would press in tight, in form-fitting fashion.

Were I fortunate enough to be

the brush to run through your hair,

with gentle strokes, I’d redefine passion.

 

Were I the rim of your tea cup, the spoon

to level sugar, I would pour myself sweet,

swish around your tongue.

Were I the love seat you drop hard

against, the cushion for your fall,

I would inhale you like a coin into my lungs.

Were I a relative, a second cousin,

kissing you in greeting, I’d pluck

you like an apple from a tree.

Were I the shower head or curtain

as you’re naked under streams, I’d lather you

with deep-cleaning beauty creams.

 

I’m envious of all that

makes you smile while not with me;

I’m jealous of the oxygen

you choose to rather breathe.

I walk alone, and talk to no one

—so goes my life;

I pass my time and pine for you,

enchanted by the likes.

 

 

More

 

You were a child, you were innocent and pure,

you’re getting sweeter, every day a little more;

you look more beautiful every day.

 

Take as a compliment

if I should stare awhile,

you get more gorgeous

every time I see you smile;

you’re looking prettier every day.

 

You rest your head,

I wish the wall, the desk were me,

I’d put my shoulder

anywhere you’d like to lean;

you’re more incredible every day.

 

I’m so… I’m so much lonelier each day;

I’d love to be your love in every way.

You tease… you tease your hair so wonderfully;

I’m so entangled, please stop teasing me.

 

 

A Most Unlikely Pair

 

Seems unlikely to imagine me to ever be

more to you than a chainsaw to a tree.

Seems unlikely to allow for we

to ever dream another scene,

moving pictures on a screen.

 

I only ask questions I know the answers to;

we seem a most unlikely pair.

 

I fit as well with you as square fits into star—

wonder what you are to make me fall for you so.

I sit and spell to you the details of my heart,

leaving out essential parts

I find it hard to expose.

 

I only ask questions I know the answers to;

we seem a most unlikely pair.

 

You blow revitalizing texture into wash,

white adornment sloshing through

the soil and the mire.

You go, despite devising penalty or cost;

I’m an icicle of frost in a four-alarm fire.

 

I only ask questions I know the answers to;

we seem a most unlikely pair.

 

We seem a most unlikely pair.

 

 

Bleed Me In Pursuit

 

To see your face right now, I might frame it.

To gain emotion now, I might name it.

To hold your hand in mine, I might shiver.

To kiss your lips divine, I might quiver.

 

To fall for someone new,

to ask if you’ll be true,

bleed me in pursuit;

I might love you

if you give me reason to.

 

To feel you holding me, I might give in.

To hear a voice so sweet, I might listen.

To touch your cotton skin, I might need you.

To be invited in, I might plead you.

 

To be one of the few

who know what you’ve been through,

bleed me in pursuit;

I might love you

if you give me reason to.

 

To make one out of two,

to spend my life with you,

bleed me in pursuit;

I might love you

if you give me reason to.

 

 

All That Is

 

Straining to hear your voice,

staying where I hope to catch your eye,

I start to wonder if I hope in vain;

suddenly I’m asking,

what if you don’t feel the same?

 

All that is tonight

could come crumbling.

All that I’m secure in

could come crashing to the ground.

All that now surrounds me

could be humbling.

All that is my solace

could be easily torn down.

 

Looking through a crowded room

to where you sip your drink,

I flicker in and out to catch

the glimmer of a blink,

slink into a corner,

shrinking back with every chance,

dodging opportunities

and ducking fresh romance.

I get to thinking of the possibilities;

suddenly I wonder if you’re even in my league.

 

All that is tonight

could come tumbling.

All that I hold sacred

could be shunned and disavowed.

All that now astounds

could leave me stumbling.

All that is my comfort

could be held under and drowned.

 

Cringing in the shadows

where I think I go unseen,

my eyes lock on and bore into you,

envied beauty queen.

You catch a glimpse, and shoot out

bursts of energy and youth;

I fall back, overwhelmed,

and think it isn’t any use.

I write the details on my battered heart;

suddenly I wonder if I even need to start.

 

All that is tonight

could come plummeting.

All that I draw strength from

could be stricken and devoured.

All that now confounds me

could come thundering.

All that is security

could wilt beneath a shower.

 

All that is tonight could be

counted for loss.

All that is could dwindle

into naught.

 

 

Under Your Spell

 

What have you done to me,

to make me want you so?

As many times as I have tried,

I can’t let go.

Under the influence of

something I can’t see;

I beg you, call it off

—I beg you, beg you please!

 

I know that I can’t have you;

why can’t I accept?

Are you so wicked?

I don’t know what you expect.

Under a spell, a shadow

only you could cast;

oh, how much longer will this

fascination last?

 

You’re simply haunting

in your radiant aglow;

if you could fall for me,

I’d surely like to know.

Under my breath, I sing you

songs and poetry;

the lover hides his feelings

under lock and key.

 

 

Consider Me Dead

 

Tonight, the light is just right

to describe the way you creep inside,

dressed, celestial effervescence,

quite inviting seek-and-hide.

But I really can’t decide

what current tide you might belie;

even more, I can’t be sure

whatever for you mean to try.

 

What I mean to say is that

you’re more essential than you know;

less a fleeting, mere distraction

than I clearly show.

Tonight I tell you blatantly,

I’m patently impressed;

tomorrow I should hang myself

for what I just confessed.

 

So love me now,

and after a kiss or four,

consider me dead.

 

Parasite, you slight with fight,

lightly tighten every bite,

ebulliently radiant,

smite igniting dynamite.

But honestly, I can’t imply

what frequency I draw you nigh;

even worse, I oft’ rehearse

occasion to beside you lie.

 

What I mean to say is that

you’re more a fantasy than real;

more an exploration than

you ever thought to feel.

Tonight I offer willingly,

you’re killing me discretely;

tomorrow I should cut myself

and let you out completely.

 

So love me now,

and after an hour or more,

consider me dead.

 

 

No, Not There

 

Save me from the chamber of my little room;

take me to the thunder-flashing far away

—a separate point of view.

Don’t make me go back there,

to my little womb,

my safe cocoon.

 

I need to taste the rain on my face,

and you or whoever in my side.

I need the apathy of wind,

with you settling in;

no warmth, only stark,

harsh reality aside.

 

Bless this beautiful fatigue

easing over me;

heart resist incessant beating,

blissful entropy.

My cares amount to nothing more

than knowing I don’t want to go home.

 

Take me far away from any

vague, familiar place;

help me find a lonely planet

deep in outer space.

Just don’t make me go back there,

to my padded room,

that hidden tomb.

 

I mean to scrape the layers of pain away,

a soothing next-to-never in time.

I need the comfort in distress,

pontificated mess;

at best, I have nothing

more than nothing still beside.

 

Bless this wonderful fatigue

running over me;

heart desist sufficient needing

—trivial indeed.

My fears amount to nothing more

than knowing I don’t want to go home.

 

 

Someone, Please

 

Hey there, curl on the sofa,

with your knees in tight clasp,

there’s someone sitting wide awake,

conversing with coffee and cigarettes,

and through juxtaposing clouds

before the shadow of their eyes,

someone besides you is crying,

 

Someone, please… someone,

please give someone a call;

anyone who hears my voice…

anyone, anyone at all.

 

Someone, please… someone,

please give anyone a call;

there are far too many lonely people

thrashing badly against walls.

 

I’m one.

 

 

Found Myself Alone

 

I looked good tonight,

every hair was placed just right,

my complexion was white,

my wit was sharp as pokers,

and my eyes were bright.

 

I would have broken hearts tonight,

if people weren’t wrapped up so tight,

have raised my glass to dancing crowds,

but silence threw an eerie shroud

over everything.

 

I found myself alone.

 

I felt good tonight,

congratulatory whispers

in the colored lights,

I was a socialite,

my emotions were stable,

and my timing was tight.

 

But no one asked me out tonight,

I sat alone by candlelight,

I flickered like a dimming flame,

and no one even knew my name

or wasted face.

 

I found myself alone.

 

Stay back… you change me,

derange insane, estranged me.

I’m so confused by the blows to my pride,

I’m tickled by abuse, and bruised,

and sick on the inside.

I lie in bed, drenched with sweat,

stretched shadows on the wall;

I wonder why you’re scared of me,

and why you never call.

Well, it’s all the same;

it’s all one stupid game.

 

I was hot tonight,

I had such an appetite,

I was a satellite…

 

            and what a view!

            and what a sight!

 

But no one called on me tonight,

I waited and got no invite;

I don’t know who I’m sorrier for,

me in my sitting room

or them outdoors,

taking shots at each other.

 

I find myself alone.

So alone.

 

 

Dear Santa, Bring Me A Life

 

It isn’t just on holidays I’m sad;

if you hung around,

you’d see it’s always this bad.

It’s been so long, I spend my seasons all alone;

I got nobody to make me feel at home.

 

Now I’m not asking you for

something you can buy;

dear Santa, bring me a life.

 

Dear Santa, would you

give me something free?

I still believe in you,

do you still believe in me?

I got nothing in my stocking,

even less under my tree;

dear Santa, bring love to me.

 

You’ll see me cry sometimes

‘cause my friends have been so few;

the only color my December sees is blue.

It never snows outside,

but my heart is twice as cold;

young couples grow together,

but I’m just growing old.

 

Now I’m not asking you for

something you can buy;

dear Santa, bring me a life.

 

Dear Santa, I don’t need another toy;

could always count on you,

you’d always bring me joy.

I got no one to hold onto,

could you find someone for me?

Dear Santa, where could you be?

 

When I was young,

I used to write out detailed lists;

most of the time I would get

everything I wished.

Nowadays my lists

don’t ever get that tall;

all they say is I want

anyone at all.

 

Now I’m not asking you for

something you can buy;

dear Santa, bring me a life.

 

Dear Santa, I get cold here by myself,

with only memories,

in dusty albums on that shelf.

No one sings outside my window,

there’s no love that I can see;

dear Santa, are you a dream?

 

Dear Santa, I’m begging please;

dear Santa, I’m on my knees.

 

 

II.        Laughing Stocks & Other Bonds

 

O cruel hand of fate!  As adoration begins to blossom, stinging rain whips the stems and leaves beneath its beauty.  That first change in weather, from golden sun quickly to overcast skies, is met with such a mixture of contrasts that the darker shades seem that much more tumultuous, that much harsher.  The truth is, most of the time emotional outpourings are unrequited, and we find a protective layer upon the object of our affections, knocking us aside, beginning a pattern which only gets more and more jumbled as the days proceed.

 

 

The Sad Song Plays On

 

Balloons touch the tiled ceiling,

all that’s left of yesterday;

across the room I cast my eye,

she never looked my way.

Cannot lose this hollow feeling,

all bereft of yesterday;

I guess I’ll give it one last try,

then kiss my dreams away.

 

Ask me why the sad song plays on;

I’ll reply, “I’d like to answer, but it’s gone.”

The hope that kept me going is

no longer young or strong,

and that is why the sad song plays on.

 

Sound vibrations strike the wall,

rattling my window pane;

these thunderous nights I’m so alone,

one single cloud of rain.

From the sky, my sorrows fall

into the pale of depth I feign;

stained glass, set above cold stone,

casts light upon the lane.

 

Ask me why the sad song plays on;

I’ll decline, “I’d like to say, but I’d be wrong.”

The ocean I’ve been rowing in is too horribly strong,

and that is why the sad song plays on.

 

I pound my grand piano sadly,

letting my frustrations rise;

my life is one long string

of most unstable lows and highs.

With her I was in love so madly,

softly singing lullabies;

you can see my fondness for her

well up in my eyes.

 

Ask me why the sad song plays on;

she once was in my life, but now she’s gone.

The notion I’d been holding to was useless all along,

and that is why the sad song plays on.

 

 

Vagabond

 

Put away those photos,

I’m not him anymore;

don’t try to get me to remember

all those lives I’ve lived before.

Put away your silly,

sentimental memories;

those relics belong to who

I’ve forgotten how to be.

 

I’m a vagabond, sinking into

something nothing like I’d planned.

I’m a vagabond, less than

next to useless, wasted sort of man.

 

You look so hopeful,

filled with childish ideals;

I must be quite a sight

to look at in my years.

I’ve long since forgotten

what it’s like to be so young;

I find I’m clotheslined on the

rope where my hopes are hung.

 

I’m a vagabond, stinking like a cigarette,

still regretting all that junk.

All my dreams are gone, left in

never-ending, secret, hidden trunks.

 

I could say a word or two

about the you I knew,

but that’s a time I know

we’ll never go back to.

Not that I wouldn’t mind

to reminisce with you;

it’s just a waste of time,

I’m tired and almost through.

 

And I’m a vagabond, wishing

I’d a wish to kiss the face of youth;

but as I drag along, pressing for a reason,

I keep thinking, “What’s the use?”

 

I’m a vagabond—turn away!

I pray you never see what I’ve become.

Put your blinders on; separate this image

from that far away someone.

 

 

My, How You’ve Groaned

 

Look at you, all grown up,

not the same as

that film star little child.

Viewing 35 reels on a weekday;

captured, raptured smiles.

Relatives pinch your cheek,

the sting leaves colorless

blush under burning eyes.

You think involuntarily of

the pointless details,

and you sigh.

[Heavy sigh.]

 

My, how you’ve groaned,

with a tide of emotion high,

crying as it swallows us whole.

My, how you’ve groaned,

with the notion

that the ocean’s going to

soak into every bone.

I should have known

that eventually every sea

closes over its own.

My, how you moan,

thrown no hope,

still groping for something to hold.

My God, you’re like stone!

Cut cold and scolded,

with boulders on each shoulder.

My, how you’ve moaned!

[Heavy sigh.]

 

 

Forget Happy

 

You say, “Let’s get happy!”

I say, “Forget happy;

it’s hard enough every day to wake.”

You say, “I want to see you happy.”

I say, “I can’t be happy

when so many people want

my loving heart to ache.”

 

It’s been a long time now;

I can’t remember who,

or what, or why, or how.

But I know that I’ve

forgotten what it takes

to paint a smile on a face,

or to chase a tear away;

And I know that I’ve

forgotten what it means

to see the good that can be seen;

so now I don’t see anything.

 

You  say, “I’m jet-set happy!”

I say, “Forget happy;

it’s murderous enough to have to breathe.”

You ask, “Why can’t you just be happy?”

I answer, “Why should I be happy,

with everything I want

beyond my reach?”

 

It’s been a long, long while;

I don’t know what I’ve done

to deserve these trials.

But I know that I’ve

forgotten what it takes

to place a smile on a face

or erase the fear of days.

And I know that I’ve

forgotten what it’s like

to live a life without this

spike of a thorn in my side.

 

You’ve gotten happier;

I’ve forgotten happy altogether.

 

 

I Wanna Be You

 

You—you got it all together,

me—I’m falling apart,

you—you’re sweet and spicy,

me—I’m sour and tart.

 

Looks so good,

looks so nice.

 

I wanna be you, ‘cause everyone likes you;

can’t stand to be me, I’ve already tried.

I wanna be you, ‘cause nobody likes me;

I’d be someone else if I could decide.

 

You—you’re under my skin now,

I—I duck under rocks;

how—how can I ignore it,

when you’re double checking the locks?

 

Looks so good,

looks all right.

 

I wanna be you, and not have to worry;

don’t wanna be me, my life is a mess.

I wanna be you, ‘cause everyone hates me;

you sit and relax, while I’m in distress.

 

I—I look in the mirror;

a madman looks back at me.

You—you seem so perfect,

that sometimes I just wanna scream

that I—I wanna be you,

and I want you to be me,

and I—I wanna be heard,

and I—I wanna be seen.

 

‘Cause I—I wanna be someone,

I wanna be one of the few;

and I—I want some attention,

and I—I wanna be you.

 

 

Color Me Clueless

 

I wish I were mute,

‘cause I don’t have much to say;

there’s nothing so important,

it doesn’t matter anyway.

 

I wish I were deaf,

so I wouldn’t have to hear you;

your words couldn’t cut me,

I wouldn’t have to fear you.

 

If only I were stupid,

then I wouldn’t know such pain;

so I wish I was retarded

as I wish I was insane.

 

I wish I were blind,

so I’d look on the inward;

I wouldn’t look in the mirror,

I wouldn’t be so insecure.

 

I wish I were numb,

so I’d show no emotion;

I wouldn’t have to care for you

or show any devotion.

 

If only I were stupid,

then I wouldn’t be ashamed;

so I wish I knew no better

and I wish you knew the same.

 

I wish I were mindless,

I wish I were strange;

color me clueless,

paint me deranged.

 

 

No Reason To Care

 

You ask me why I don’t laugh so much;

you ask me why I don’t smile.

I’ve no reason to. No good reason to.

 

You wonder why I shrink back from your touch;

you wonder why I won’t try.

I’ve no reason to. No good reason to.

 

So far, I’ve found only

countless reasons to be afraid;

discovered no purpose for others,

and locked myself far, far away.

You point with your poignant, feigned

confidence, wondering if anyone’s there;

the gesture hits hard on its target,

I decide I’ve no reason to care.

 

I’ve no need to ever see

a pleasant and smiling face;

in fact, I believe our entire society

is awkward, and quite out of place.

But tell me you like what you see,

and you’ll think my answer unfair;

but I’ve no reason to care.

 

You ask me why I refuse to talk to you,

and while you’re on it, why I never call.

I’ve no reason to, no particular reason to.

 

You confront me—Biblically

—wonder why I won’t tell the truth;

surrounded by so many loving fools,

you wonder why I don’t fall.

But I’ve still no reason to;

give me one reason why I should.

 

Through years of searching,

I found only reason to run fast and hide;

and duck into shadows,

to where only God knows,

and still heed the "DO NOT ENTER” sign.

You glare from the tower,

a powerless passerby,

for hours perfecting your stare;

inane condescension that

garners no mention,

‘cause I find no reason to care.

 

I’ve no desire to feel a spark or a fire,

inspired by inseparable friends;

if full truth be known,

I consistently disown the

torn garment others try to mend.

But say something kind,

you will instantly find yourself

wanting to pull out your hair;

but I’ve no reason,

not one single reason to care.

 

 

Isolation

 

I would socialize with your kind,

but you’re immune to buggers like me.

I would speak some word politely,

but you don’t fraternize with

the likes of us wanna-bes;

I understand perfectly.

 

I won’t intrude and I won’t invite you in;

friendship can’t hurt me if I don’t let it begin.

 

Never introduce yourself, never open up,

never give a second notice, never interrupt,

never let your guard down, never appear weak,

never try to understand it, never let me speak.

 

Look to the corner to the boy sitting alone;

isolation, quarantine is all he’s ever known.

He can’t imagine that he offers anything;

he lets the words rip through,

the winds whip and sting.

 

I don’t mind if you may never beat me blind,

I don’t care if you overlook me standing there,

and I don’t see why you think so low of me,

but I’m not worried, I’ve got everything I need

in isolation.

 

I won’t impose and I won’t return your glance;

you’ll never cut me if I don’t give you the chance.

 

I’ll make excuses so we’re never face to face,

degrade myself to make your own

derisions seem out of place.

I’ll wear disguises so you never see what’s real;

I wouldn’t want the likes of you to know

how I feel.

 

Forget about me, pass me by,

look at me only out of

the corner of your eye.

Wave bye, bye, bye, good-bye;

I’m off to hang my head and die

in isolation.

 

You would patronize me

with convincing sincerity,

but I refuse to let you;

you would smile and laugh so natural.

But I know the world is out to get you,

to perfect your isolation.

 

 

The Entertainment

 

Stay back. Turn around. Get away.

I’m nothing. I’m no one. Don’t talk to me.

 

Don’t look at me… I’m ugly!

Don’t talk to me… I’m dumb!

Just ignore me… I’m an imbecile!

Hurt my feelings making fun!

 

Hush up. Not a sound. Leave me alone.

Get out. Bow out now, while you still can.

 

Don’t approach me… I’m a freak show!

Don’t admire me… I’m a jerk!

Just forget me like the idiot I am;

just like everyone make a joke.

 

I’ll be the entertainment—

no longer human at all;

I’ll be the scapegoat, laughing stock,

whipping boy, kneeling tall.

 

I’ll be the entertainment.

I’ll be the entertainment.

Hello, I’m the entertainment.

 

 

Abomination Pig

 

Bleeding scratches, deeper wounds;

midnight strikes—in dark I swoon.

Weight, the gravitational pull,

pig in suffocating wool;

hideously grotesque, I hide,

horrendously abused inside,

knowing I could make you stay,

wishing you would fade away.

 

Please don’t talk to me.

 

Passing glance or piercing stare,

close enough to taint the air;

view me in a growing spite,

hold me with a cruel delight;

kill me with an evil kiss,

love me with a violent twist.

Aching head from throwing stone;

wish you’d just leave me alone.

 

Can’t you let me be?

 

God above, where have you gone?

Am I an angry sketch you’ve drawn?

Offer up a poisoned drink,

in waves of isolation sink,

smear my name with taunting ring,

bitter discontentment bring;

vision, cruelty, so unkind,

faces drip in wasted mind.

 

Please don’t look this way.

 

Flinch, recoil, draw back from light,

wince, unflattered prince of slight;

etched in lines on swollen face,

scars remain in sorrow’s place.

Grim, reflected clot of sins,

flimsy, shredded quilt of skin;

mirror, mirror, on the floor,

long for beauty ever more.

 

Leave me to my pain.

 

 

The Death I Die

 

I’m hung on you like dead men from a tree.

I dangle from the rope you strung on me.

And I cannot reach the dagger in my boot,

to run the blade and cut you loose.

 

The death I die at twelve tonight

wraps arms tight across the vitals of life;

the breath of silence, the moonlit sky…

divine intervention could not heal

the blows to my pride.

 

I sway in an acrylic silhouette,

a tangled, mangled, useless marionette.

My dripping flesh is never let dry;

my wounds are never quite defined.

 

The death I die at twelve tonight

crashes madly in the cesspool of blights;

the cool distemper, the harsh divide…

severe apprehension has not left

a shred of design.

 

I’m hitched to you as you

drag me through the streets.

I come unglued as you

kick me apart with your cleats.

My hinges cave over

your serrated edge;

I fall on your frame and you

push me over the ledge.

 

The death I die at twelve tonight

slaps intrusion in the pathway of mines;

the breadth of heaven, the width of time…

implied condescension has left me

a broken outline.

 

 

I Am Not A Happy Man

 

Smash my head with a shovel

and I’ll thank you,

even owe you a debt of gratitude;

for excluding disappointment,

there is no sufficient ointment

for easing all that has been

misconstrued.

 

Hit me with a board

—it’s more than welcome;

all of this will come to an end.

I have utterly disowned

the very marrow in these bones;

I’m just a stone’s throw

away from being home.

 

I am not a happy man;

I couldn’t make you understand,

there is no plan of salvation for me.

And I am not the least impressed with

you who try your very best,

and nonetheless fail miserably.

 

Stomp me into the floorboards as a favor;

I savor the taste of the ground.

For I have found that in the sadness

is a satisfying madness,

and a vast vat of tears in which to drown.

 

I am not a happy man;

I have been branded by the hand of God,

and lost in the sands of the earth.

And which is worse, I couldn’t say,

the black of night or light of day?

I curse the day of my birth!

 

Is there time for me to say just one more thing?

I never mind that the phone doesn’t ring.

I have no use of knowing that

the distance is growing,

and resistance is clipping my wings.

 

 

Bitter Wind

 

Across the globe, the seven seas,

my heartstrings stretch and tear with ease,

a bitter wind tips ageless trees,

the winter breezes whip and freeze.

 

I cannot feel, my heart is coal,

no one reaches to console,

nothing ever fills the hole,

the black is out of my control.

 

 

Falling Apart

 

I’m falling apart.

I’m falling a par t.

I’m falli ng  ap ar  t.

I’m fall

ing

a p a  rt.

 

Catch the fragmented pieces of my heart.

 

I’m falling away.

I’m falling a wa y.

I’m fal ling  a w a y.

I’m fal

ling

a w  ay.

 

Jesus, do you catch a word I say?

 

 

The Window Up There

 

Very much inside myself,

invariably the same;

every day I come in here to

try and ease the pain of living

in a world where no one cares.

I’m going upstairs,

where there’s an armchair,

to sit and stare.

 

Very scared of finding out

that nothing here is true;

I’m trying not to think out loud,

but I always do.

Strangers outside look

more dangerous all the time.

I’m going upstairs,

where I will lash out

and beat at the air.

 

Very pale and very ill,

the three of me agree;

to speak amongst ourselves,

and not to some psycho-degree.

We secretly see the

necessity of silent speech.

I’m going upstairs,

to get some air from

the window up there.

 

 

Drown The Children

 

Ripples trickle downward around outlined lips

to waterfall on walls of silent thought.

Riddles run a feverishly fervorous pace

across the pallid face of disgrace, distraught.

 

Down the children.

Drown the children.

Drown the withered

children within.

 

Pound the children.

Astound the children.

Confound the blessed,

drowning children.

 

Frown upon the children.

Look down upon the children.

Never mind the

drowning children.

 

 

Shouldn’t The Blues Be Gray?

 

Shouldn’t the blues be gray?

That’s the color I feel today;

oh baby, baby, babe, maybe I’m gray.

 

A blue sky makes birds sing from a limb,

a blue ocean makes happy children swim;

and I just sit there, wishing they would drown

—baby, I’m gray!

 

With blue eyes she winks, and I’m in love;

there’s blue hair on that girl

—man, what’s she thinking of?

They call this an identity crisis,

but lately I’ve been feeling old and gray.

 

I turn blue when I hold my breath,

I hear you turn blue when you freeze to death;

but other than that, I’m feeling kind of gray.

 

Gray skies overcast the blues of

gray ashes from yesterday’s news;

hey baby, are you getting what I’m trying to say?

 

Gray clouds weep with acid rain,

smog and pollution try to darken the stain;

now that’s why I’m asking you, honestly,

shouldn’t the blues be gray?

 

Now, if I was colorblind,

it wouldn’t matter anyway;

it’d be the same, there’d be no change,

so what difference would it make?

My mistake… trying to explain why they

should paint the blues gray.

 

 

The Golden Years

 

When I am old, will young people hate me?

“Oh,” but you laugh, “They already do!”

I have lived already too long,

worn right through my welcome

with my leather-skinned, cynical views.

 

When I am cold and lifeless

(not that there is much life in me now),

will anyone care enough to carry me away?

And as I mold in my cruddy old room and

exude fumes, and drive on the road too slow,

will you… well, will you… well, you know…?

 

And if I’m feeling I’m a leach to society,

if indeed I’m feeling anything at all,

will you do me the favor

of railing me into a wall?

 

 

The Day It All Ended

 

I’ve seen it determined

that I should be undone,

reduced to street urchin,

vermin scum,

panhandling drug money,

one of those haggard old bums,

standing on street corners,

sleeping in gutters,

and puddles of urine, vomit,

and some other vile fluid,

but once I was young

—once I was young,

once I was young!

 

But the time inevitably arrived

with all my senses irreversibly impaired,

the day it all ended, and

I could no longer be repaired.

 

I’ve seen the path through

to its completion,

been beaten raw by your

innocent kitten claws,

scratched and scathed and pawed,

I’ve been flogged in the streets,

and mobbed,

and trampled under feet,

with cleats and steel toes,

to broad daylight’s applause,

but once I was well,

unaware of such hell;

once I was well!

 

But the point unavoidably came for the cut,

and I was caught unprepared,

the day it all ended, and

I could no longer be repaired.

 

I’ve heard it pronounced

that the pattern cannot be reversed,

and the worst part of the whole thing

is that you knew it first;

I curse the memory burned

in my consciousness, burdened,

hurt, and thirsting,

you stir the blur of

emerging absurdity,

murdering each personality

as a formality,

but once I was whole

—once I was complete,

once I was whole.

 

But the realization finally stuck,

and a resolution was finally declared,

the day it all ended, and

I could no longer be repaired,

the day it all ended,

the day I found you didn’t care.

 

 

Laugh At Me

 

I’ve been through so much,

I just don’t care anymore;

I just don't dare anymore… go on.

 

My senses are dulled by the

laughter that echoes in my head;

I used to be discouraged and I

used to really care what people said.

By now, the novelties of teasing

have all worn insignias into my hands,

like tattoos on the living, breathing dead.

 

There is no place left on the face

for scowls when you’re smiling;

and if you’re happy, you’re

less likely to thrash me.

 

I could be a circus clown,

enduring laughs all day;

it wouldn’t even near the

poison in the words you spray.

I could be a jester—I, the idiot, the fool!

The thought would never cross

that any king could be as cruel.

 

Don’t be surprised in my shining hour,

if when you beg to have the

thorn sucked from your side,

I suddenly entirely forget the name

that shamed me so frequently

—I’ll still have my pride.

 

Just leave my friends alone;

make me the brunt of your jokes.

And choke on this; I couldn’t care less!

Just leave my friends alone,

cut me clean to the bone,

pat your torture-scarred back

—we’re not impressed.

 

I’ve been through so much—you’ve no idea.

I’ve been through the highest fires and back.

I’ve been through so much—you can’t imagine.

I’ve been cut so many times that I lost track.

 

I’ve been through so much,

I just won’t care anymore;

I just don’t dare anymore… go on.

 

 

Just When I Think

 

Just when I’d resolved myself to living this way,

blowing all my money on cigarettes

and friends I never liked,

just when I was happy being

miserable without you,

once I swore that I would never

write again or scream again

or cry again or love again

or let myself be tortured again,

just as the gate was closing,

just as the sky was falling,

just when I was fingering the scar you left,

and thinking, “Thank God it’s finally over!”,

just when everything was subdued,

just when I think I’m doing well

and I would sell my soul to never hear

and never touch and never have to see your face

and never think about you,

just when I could go five minutes

without blurting out your name,

just when I accepted that things

would never be the same,

just when I knew that I was through with you

and all your sentimental puzzle pieces,

and the jigsaw of your love was complete,

just when everything was merely tolerable

and I thought I could sit here

for a thousand years and never cry another tear,

just when I was slipping

into candlelight and alcohol,

just when it was ruined enough

that I was in control,

just when I had gotten out the words,

“I no longer need you…”

 

you came back, and undid all my progress,

set civilization back a thousand years.

 

 

I’ll Be Happy Then

 

When these vile intestines no longer

spew out their contents intently

—I’ll be happy then.

When the defiled mine of my mind caves in

on the fragile, thin frame of my chest

—I’ll be happy then.

 

This body collapses, falls in and concaves

in a futile display of derision and hate.

We slump from the sycamores,

plunk in our graves,

dive headlong from high towers,

watching that healthy blush fade;

and it never ceases, and it never ends!

 

In a car somewhere in Gallatin,

driving some girls home

—I’m not happy then.

In the daylight or twilight or midnight

or flashlight or candlelight or frostbite

—I’m not happy then.

 

This wave sweeps over, of utter despair,

lights up a cherry and mottles my hair;

we varnish our bedding, carve knotted pine,

stretch for the covers

to slip into silk and satin lining;

and it tarries tediously, and it never ends!

 

When this unhealthy pallor no longer evinces

the blood spurting out from my heart

—I’ll be happy then.

When the vultures and lawyers drool greed

on my carcass and green seeps into ground

—I’ll be happy then.

I’ll be happy then;

truly happy then.

 

 

I Have Seen Better Days

 

Another cursed morning running behind,

smoke whatever’s left and drown with coffee,

scowling sun so bright.

You say, “It really isn’t all that bad.”

I reply, “No, it isn’t… not if you’re you.”

But I am not you,

and that’s been made abundantly clear

in the terrible things I’ve been through.

There have been times I would have traded

my life for a pair of worn out shoes:

I have seen better days (during that phase

I was pretending I was you).

 

Lately I’ve been thinking I’m a vampire,

or a werewolf or a griffin, or Kierkegaard.

Harriet Westbrook would have been proud

to disavow me; I don’t mean to be morbid,

but would you run me down in your car?

You grimace, “Come now,”

a welcome disgust on your face;

it’s a gesture I know to be true.

I have seen better days (to paraphrase,

when I nearly became you).

 

There have been times I’ve considered

ending my life—I know, what an awful thing to do!

But I have seen better days (during that phase

I was pretending I was you).

 

 

So Much Darkness

 

Thirty quick stories straight down

and a rush-hour news report in town,

bring twenty-one years to an end

for a beautiful girl who never realized

what she could have been.

All I can do now is cry;

what could have been so terrible

it couldn’t be made worse

with your—oh, don’t say the word!

 

Are the recesses pulling you in,

into an envelope of hatred

and wickedness

and bitterness and sin?

There’s so much darkness,

and too little light to see

the reason to live in this void;

so give me something,

give me something

—give me anything at all.

 

Ask me why I’m here;

I couldn’t tell you why I’m here,

because I honestly…

I really don’t know.

Why do I continue trying,

blindly, in a suit and tie,

to please you, when it’s all

part of the show?

 

Yes, the clockwork is pulling me in

—into a greased machine

of emptiness and loneliness

and hollowness and sin.

There’s so much darkness,

and not enough light to find

a reason to continue this void;

so give me something,

give me something

—give me anything at all.

 

 

III.       Flirting With The Devil's Daughter

 

A danger emerges when thought-life becomes exploratory.  Self-hatred, when a soul is unaware of redemption, spawns antisocial behavior.  A barrage of negatives accumulate, simmering inside an empty shell of man, slowly transferring aim to those it admires from afar, those it can never by nature feel equality to.  The pitfalls of human nature awaken and disfigure the individual into something quite unearthly.  Indulgence leaves its host in jeopardy of criminal intent.  Fear makes itself know, with a backlash of neurotic reactions.

 

 

You Bring The Illness

 

Whatever you’re suffering from,

don’t give it to me;

whatever it is has made you

more contagious than any disease.

They say you’re looking for love;

well, honey, you’re looking mighty fine.

I won’t pass up the chance to romance,

and run my fingers down your spine.

 

You bring the illness

and I’ll bring the bottle of wine;

it’s just a short term solution,

but who in their wrong mind

would decline?

You bring your sickness

and I’ll be both doctor and cure;

you be the addict and I’ll be

the purest of pure.

 

Take two of these

and call me in the morning

—call me anything you want;

I’m physician and prescription alike,

you’re a veteran debutante.

I’m producer, seducer, fruit juicer,

depending on your mood.

Keep looking at me with sick

puppy dog eyes; I’m puppy food!

 

You bring the illness

and I’ll be the medicine man;

I’ll riddle you with aspirin

and ration myself from a can.

I’ll dig in to your stomach cake

to make the pain go away;

if it comes back after that,

I’ll do it again the next day,

and I’ll keep on doing it until

you say, “Okay, okay, okay!”

 

 

So Typically Male

 

The hardest part is when she turns to walk away;

with every subtle move, my mind begins to play.

I harbor images of my dear friend in bed;

the more I see of her, the more run thru my head.

 

Why’d she have to be so beautiful?

Why’d she have to be so delicate and frail?

Why’d she have to be so incredible?

Why’d I have to be so typically male?

 

The hardest part is that

she thinks she knows me well,

but for her flesh I’d nearly dream us both to Hell.

Sometimes I look at her and only see the warm,

seductive poses of the jobs she could perform.

 

Why’d she have to be so appealing?

Why’d she have to be so close, to no avail?

Why’d she have to be so amazing?

Why’d I have to be so typically male?

 

 

What I Really Think

 

You steam like dry ice, I melt like wax;

I take my medication with sips of sax.

I’ll be your baby-sitter, I’ll light the fire;

you be my lipstick, glitter, and pacifier.

You be the bottle’s nipple, I’ll take a drink;

you can’t imagine what I really think.

 

Across a crowded room, the air is tense;

why aren’t you on my sleeve? It makes no sense.

This brick of friction could break the ice;

you throw your heart around, I want a slice.

I wear a chain of sorrows, you form the links;

you’ve no idea what I really think.

 

Inside divided head, I hold you near;

but in reality it’s not so clear.

I hint, with glinting eyes,

at splints with you inside;

mind fielded, real surprise,

much needed exercise.

Approaching breakdown, our spirits sink;

you’ll never comprehend what I really think.

 

What I really think—you’d be ashamed,

a fathom lower than devices named.

What I really think—you’d be enraged,

characteristics glued to a pretty face.

 

What I really think.

What I REALLY think.

Would you hate me if you knew

what I really think of you?

 

 

Sicko

 

Twisted—I’m so twisted!

lock your daughters away

when I ask them to come out and play.

Gooney—what a loony!

Lock your windows and doors;

tell your girls that I’m to be ignored.

 

I’m a sicko, and it’s all I’ll ever be;

such a sicko, you’d better stay away from me.

 

Fear me… don’t come near me;

when you’re at home alone,

just don’t answer the phone.

Crazy, wilted daisy;

I’ve escaped from the bin,

loosed the convict within.

 

I’m a sicko, and sickness is all I’ve ever known;

such a sicko, and you know what they say:

“When in Rome…” um, how’s that go?

 

 

As The Fire Cackles

 

Tick tock; three o’clock.

[Freeze frame.] Join me, inflamed.

Her banshee voice alluring, boring,

pouring down endurance;

assurance dives and purifies her crimes.

 

As the fire cackles, I’m caught

flirting with the devil’s daughter.

 

Fine young wench, seductive trollop;

scatological ways entice.

Prostitutes the striptease,

to appease her pandering master,

and disaster follows close behind,

as she crawls into Hell.

 

As the fire crackles, I’m caught

flirting with the devil’s daughter.

 

Filthy scamp, compulsive tramp,

indecent rogue, with lewd, unheard of talk,

and a walk that makes preachers sweat.

Wet and wild displacement inviting

the inciting exhaustion from the Hell-bent.

 

As the fire simmers, I’m caught

flirting with the devil’s daughter.

 

Raunchy smut,

the wicked slut—the tiger!

Tempting beyond belief,

bringing grief with every throe;

flesh to die for—I’m almost willing;

this thrill is killing me.

I want the snake, the demon,

winding ‘round my legs,

up to the bitter end.

 

By bare skin, I’m lured into the heat;

I sink back in orgiastic self-defeat, to Hell.

 

As the fire shimmers, I’m caught

flirting with the devil’s daughter.

 

 

Undressing The I

 

The shortest shorts I’ve ever seen;

you turn my every thought obscene.

My mind is looking down your shirt;

my spine is winding up your skirt.

See through form flattering attire;

imagination inflamed with desire.

 

Look out for me.

I am a sicko and a sleaze,

with only one thing on my mind.

Watch out for me.

I’ll mess up anyone I please;

I am immorally inclined.

 

Phantasmic figure of delight;

no other form could so invite.

I quite undress you with my eyes;

I’d like to try you on for size.

I’ll wear you out and tear you down,

fill you with a sea of me,

and swim until we drown.

 

Look out for me.

I turn and burden you with ease,

yet, leaving purity behind.

Watch out for me.

I am a terminal disease;

I am perversity defined.

 

 

Sleep With Me

 

The embers down below glow to warm you,

to melt away hesitation’s trace.

I’m a psycho Romeo—did they not warn you?

I’m an animal to you, my new prey.

 

Lead me to your room and lock the door.

I can’t wait to know you anymore.

You, my new addiction,

must let me taste the wine,

move a little closer, sweets,

become forever mine.

 

Sleep with me; night’s

the only time I clearly see.

Sleep with me; wrap us up

as tight as we can be.

 

Your eyes betray the every way you want me,

the tremor in your voice says I’m the one.

I’m mad about the subtle ways you taunt me;

stay with me to greet the mourning son.

 

Lead me to your room and dim the lights;

share with me the certainty of nights.

You, my only interest,

must roll me on the floor,

erase any trace of doubt,

let me know for sure.

 

Sleep with me; seeing you

so lonely makes me weak.

Sleep with me; pass along

the words we never speak.

 

Communicate in French—such a sensation!

Be gentle, and as soft as you appear.

Crawl to me, bewildered fascination;

nurse me past our unimagined fears.

 

Lead me to your room and paint it red;

introduce the rest of it, unsaid.

Follow without thinking,

wallow and console,

swallow without drinking,

consummate the whole.

 

Complete me with such

thorough grace, in understated bliss;

piece me back precisely with

an understanding kiss.

 

Sleep with me; mend the

stitches every time I bleed.

Sleep with me, savior at the

core of every need.

Sleep with me.

 

 

Anytime

 

Anytime is fine, I don’t mind;

you can spark it with a flash of your guile…

my, oh my, oh my, oh my, how vile!

 

Anywhere is fair, I don’t care;

on a table, at work, or on the stairs…

ohhhhhh, I’m prepared!

 

So torture me some more, me little whore,

with your scorching horde of uproars;

ignore discretion of Sunday school lessons,

that’s what obsession is for.

 

Anyplace is great, I can’t wait;

I won’t hesitate to snatch at your bait…

I’ll follow if you’ll initiate.

 

Every bit will fit… I won’t quit,

or sit idly and listen to the split;

unconditionally, I’m here whenever it hits.

 

Submit to me, please, me chimpanzee,

me squeezable tea of a tease;

speak to me vividly in tongues and analogies,

no reason or reality to tree.

 

 

I Want You Now

 

If I had the chance right now, I’d do it.

If my pillow had your curves, I’d screw it.

If we were alone right now, I’d take you.

If we had some privacy, I’d make you.

 

If I had a dollar bill for

every inch of you could kill,

I’d be the richest man in jail.

 

I want you now.

 

The feeling’s too strong to ignore it;

let’s get together and explore it.

I hate the way your clothes conceal you;

I want to physically reveal you.

 

If I had a silver dime for

every time I’d dive inside,

I’d bury treasure in your chest.

 

I want you now.

 

I’ll never rest ‘til I’ve embraced it;

I want you so bad I can taste it.

Come, let your darker side amuse me;

I’ll let you torture and abuse me.

 

If I had a pound of gold for

every strain or stranglehold,

I’d buy a cage, and cage you in.

 

I want you now.

 

I want you now

(you in the dirt).

I want you now

(so bad it hurts).

I want it raw,

I want it tight,

I want it now,

I want it all night.

 

 

Religion Sleeps

 

Terribly hopeful, wonderfully afraid,

watching the stairs for your black in the shade,

mistress of darkness, vampire of night,

temptress, seducing my question of right;

waiting in silence, pounding my chest,

cling to the pages and pray through the test.

 

Turn down the lights and prepare to be moved,

ecstatic fulfillment, intention pursued,

with slight intervention, you purr from my lap,

perish the mention you soon could be tapped,

undead for the sweetness inherent in hugs,

unraveled, and wrapped up in mummified snug,

legs on the border of art, framed and smooth,

to hang on the silence of the pangs of my moods,

the pagan I am draws his breath from your lips,

and sculpts his design in the lines of your hips,

in justified progression, I follow your lead,

my head at your heartbeat, mouth open to feed,

manipulating nerves to shiver down your spine,

searching for treasure as my fingers unwind,

then quietly dining on the flesh on your bones,

we consent to the outcome, tighten our holds,

you soak like a sponge the mix of liquids I drip,

I tear at the fabric of you, push through the rips,

in unified excitement, our pulses box and race,

I hit you with all I’ve got, beat you into place,

then we drown in each other, darkness closing in;

religion sleeps alone again,

I seep beneath your skin.

 

 

Blitz

 

Patchwork of gray, before the dark I was;

lot over, crumbled family graves,

Indian curses, eyed by owl fuzz,

twigs stitching lines into space.

Ash, charcoal black, the ax head undisturbed,

old stories creep through niches in trees;

knotted and gnarled, twisting deadwood

branches curve, embroider morbid scenery.

 

And I would kill for a prick

from your manicured tips,

and I would bury your sickening frame,

and I would lie by your side

and breath beneath your bridal gown,

slide in and coil like a snake.

(Oh… groan!)

 

Lifeless young virgin, tonight is yours;

first finger in your mouth, first forked tongue

stabbing your vocal chords,

first choking bites down.

Spoon fed with sugar bread and formula,

complexion fades to paste white milk;

sucked dry, wither you die or not, love,

wrapped tight with fine, transparent silk.

 

And I would kill for a stick

in the thicket of your lips,

and I would bury your sickening youth,

and I would pine to be lined

by the rind of your lemon-lime,

grind you into powder dry vermouth.

(Oh-ohh… groan.)

 

The hours wilt like flowers,

as you cower from the shower of my love.

 

 

Take Off Your Clothes & Stay Awhile

 

Lost in the ocean, lost in your eyes,

pledge my devotion, swim in your thighs,

sinking in deeper, anxious and wet,

waking the sleeper, clothed in regret.

 

Silently undress you with my lips,

follow every teardrop where it drips.

Violently caress you with my mind;

I mildly impress you every time.

 

Turbulent waters, wrestle with tide,

Eve’s younger daughter, swallowed with pride,

swept by the current, head under crest,

dive for exposure, horde treasure chest.

 

Wrap myself around you like a root;

let me be your airtight body suit.

Strip you like a well-fed willow tree;

stick you like a lovesick honeybee.

 

Silently confess you with my lips;

you slide between my eager fingertips.

Violently obsess you with my mind;

I wildly possess you every time.

 

 

Poison From The Bed

 

Dear God, oh my God,

so incredibly close;

pale as a sorceress

and black as a ghost.

I fall—how I fall

every time I get high;

people start talking,

my throat gets dry,

my feet get wet, I soak

up excess with head,

and we drink

poison from the bed.

 

Can’t get you out of my body,

my nerves are a tangled up ribbon of shame;

threaten to feed on my weakness,

I hardly connect when you yank it away.

You make me want to tear out my innards

and spread them on carpeted floor;

you disconnect what remained of my veins,

spitting back half the terminal pour;

            the beats get less,

I cloak up your chest with my dread,

when we drink poison from the bed.

 

Oh God, Holy God,

irrevocably hard,

piercing as shrapnel,

blunt as a shard;

I twitch with an itch

and a hint of remorse,

you play like a kitten

and ride like a horse;

the seat gets pet,

I choke on your

breast like a newlywed,

and we drink

poison from the bed.

 

The ink poisoning

ran and bled.

 

 

I Wish It Were Me

 

As my eyes roll back in my forehead

and I breathe a bit heavier and deep,

her thighs fold and lock like a playpen,

and I heave and let emotion slowly sweep.

 

And I feel every drop you

sweat and spit and bleed;

and I yield every stop

you let me so concede.

 

For such intense displeasure,

someone has to suffer,

someone has to die;

I wish it were me.

 

For such incredible discomfort,

someone must be sacrificed,

beaten, crucified;

I wish it were me.

 

As my teeth make meat of your body

and I leave you wasted and raw,

in heat we bake like devils’ cake;

I knead your face in my claws.

 

And you heal every botch

I fret and sit and seethe;

and you field every crop—

I dread my brand of seed.

 

For such immense

and drastic measures,

someone has to suffer,

someone has to die;

God, why not me?

 

For such disheartening disaster,

someone must be sacrificed,

deserted and denied;

God, I wish it were me!

 

 

Shed My Sin

 

Take another sip;

I flow through your veins.

I’ll get inside you

and drive you insane.

Color of your lips,

red from the pain;

I’ll be your bridegroom,

and darken the stain.

 

Greater than seduction is the bond of you and I;

gladly damn myself, were it appointed me to die.

Wildest sensation, as united as we’ve been;

impale myself on wooden stakes

if I could shed my sin.

 

I’ll taint your pure shade,

your innocent white,

surround you with darkness

and rob you of light.

I’ll make you obey,

obscuring your sight,

then beating you senseless,

I’ll rape you with night.

 

Flesh of my flesh,

blood of my blood,

queen of the undead,

infinitely closer from

the moment we first bled;

haunting adoration,

so inflamed with lust again,

pierce myself a thousand times

if I could shed my sin.

 

Garlic for the soul,

crucifix to skin,

the longing for you burns

like payment for sins.

You’re under my control,

my voice is the wind;

I’m everywhere you turn,

once you’ve let me in.

 

 

Buddhist

 

Lay down as cold as death

and silent as your quivering lips,

assume the position that you know so well

from every darkness kissed; you’ve so many layers,

I find the quickest way to penetrate,

unravel you in search of love,

but find only that much more to hate.

Night stand covered in magazines,

Vaseline, incense, and matches,

body covered with memories,

cigarette burns, and fingernail scratches.

 

Ah, the sex has lost all meaning

if I can’t touch what you’re feeling inside,

and beauty loses all its appeal

if it can’t conceal how you cry, cry, cry.

And I would just as soon become a Buddhist

as continue this routine;

the way the moonlight strikes your naked body

is the most violent sight I’ve ever seen.

 

I know that I’m hurting,

and I know that’s why I’m drowning in you,

but I don’t know why I’ve been so willing

to drag you into Hell with me too.

We spin just like the rinsing of the washer,

in waters too shallow

to avoid becoming wrapped up and entangled;

both despised it is, and hallowed.

You twirl around and curl me between

the greased machine that is my hiding place,

I throw the levers down and till the ground

around the sounds of your excited pace,

and we’re at each other’s throats

with coats of armor stripped and torn away;

we look into each other’s thighs and find

that we have nothing more to say.

 

And sex has lost all meaning

if I can’t tell who I’m breathing beside,

and beauty loses all of its pull

this full of emptiness and sighs, sighs, sighs;

we have lost that simple feeling,

now we’re reeling from the lies, lies, lies.

 

 

All I Need Is Your Love

 

Girl, I don’t need anything but you.

I promise that’s almost completely true;

if I had to choose between

you or lots of other things,

I’d only take a moment or two.

 

All I need is your love.

 

Hmm…

and maybe a job;

I guess I’ll need a job if I become a family man.

And if I have a job, I’ll need a car or truck or van.

I’ll need a raise, sick days, and paid vacations;

a roomy house with hearth and ceiling fans.

Hmm…

 

Girl, I just rethought what I said.

I really only wanted you in bed;

but even you could not be good

enough to make me say I would

choose you over a shot in the head.

 

All I need is your love?

 

Hmm…

I lied.

Don’t take it personally, I’m just that kind of guy;

a guy who will cut every bind you tie.

I’ll drench you, and then leave you out to dry.

I’ll comfort you until I make you cry.

Hmm….

 

 

If You Must Know The Truth

 

“Dear, you hurt my innards

and churn my stomach,

burn me like kindling twigs,” I said.

“You turn my gizzard

—I’m learning to plummet;

you’ve earned a place in my bed.”

 

But if you really must know the truth,

I’m not even mildly attracted to you.

You’re just another emptiness;

you’re just another open grave.

 

And this I really just owe to youth;

I’m not the slightest bit interested in you.

You’re just another hopeless mess;

you’re just some other coasting knave.

 

“How dare you blurt such hindrances

and flirt so shamelessly,

and dirty what was nearly unsoiled!” she cried.

I stared in amazement

she could answer so brainlessly,

knowing full well my reply.

 

And if I really must speak the truth,

I’m not remotely preoccupied with you.

You’re just another tenderness,

in not-what-you-may-think-I-mean ways.

 

In this you really must be confused;

henceforth, you may consider yourself “used.”

You were just another conquest;

you were just another pasture grazed.

 

 

Like Clockwork (I Hate Sex)

 

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you

for what you’ve done to me;

hate you for losing your purity.

Masculinity vs. virginity…

ripe for the picking, juicy with sweet.

Honestly, offering no apology,

submit yourself to insanity;

a sex crazed, drooling lunatic,

I infected you with my dirty… trick.

And now that I’ve sucked you dry

of everything you have to give,

I never want to see you again.

 

Because I ate sex.  I hate sex.

I hate sex.  I hate sex.

 

You used to be so beautiful;

used to mean the world to touch your hand.

Now I can’t even look at your face;

I’ve grown to hate you more than I understand.

Look what it’s done to me.

Look at venereal disease.

Look at prostitution, fornication,

addiction, promiscuity, adultery,

XXX pornography.

 

Pornography kills.  Pornography kills.

Pornography rapes women and

abuses little girls—helpless, innocent little girls!

Sexual impurity devastates its victims

and shatters the very foundations of existence

for millions, and millions, and millions…

 

and I hate sex.  I hate sex.

I hate sex.  I hate sex.

 

 

You Ruined Me

 

I’m sick.

I can’t think

it through.

I wish I had

never met you.

A day becomes

a thousand years

of pages blurred

by streams of tears.

You ruined me.

 

Alone.

We’re under

different skies.

If you were here,

you could listen

to my bloodshot eyes.

You opened yourself

up far too wide,

pulled me much

too deep inside.

I can’t get out.

 

I need you.

I know you need me.

Two is dangerous

company.

We’re closer by

intimacy than intent,

bonded by physical

ties of consent.

I can’t escape.

 

I’d sacrifice the air

that sustains all life,

if tonight, once more,

you’d act as my wife.

I would sweat blood,

like water from skin,

to divert these eyes

from the evil within.

I’m a monster.

 

It’s wrong… God,

I know it’s wrong,

to break strong ties

we should have

fought all along.

Inevitably,

we were torn apart.

I wish you’d never

opened your heart.

I need you.

 

 

IV.       Vicar's Yoke To Misfortune

 

The monster of human depravity ultimately betrays itself.  Natural inclination is to self-destruct.  We are driven to extremes—nothing more so than death.  Wickedness is identified and confronted, its pawn feeling the full weight of separation from God.  Here is mankind at its absolute lowest, criminal, corrupt, sinful and stained—the nearest experience to hell, where nothing is untouched.

 

 

The Angels Of Caffé Dismay

 

Just off I-75,

300 miles away from nowhere;

“No one will ever catch me here.”

Pop in for a beer and some action,

with the wife and kids at home,

on a business trip alone. You say,

“Dance, girl, and earn your wings!”

How can you say such terrible things?

You think such horrible things!

 

To the Angels of Caffé Dismay,

someones’ daughters with such

looks on your faces,

somebody loves you enough to cover your sins.

To the skin-baring girls in lingerie,

these men are sick, and your intimacy is wasted,

but somebody loves you enough to not want in.

 

Step off the walk into a world

resembling what was done to you

…and by someone so close!

Men only seem to stay

long enough to have their way;

women even take what they can get.

Tired of sex and wanting rest,

you sell your best and undress,

and everyone screws you

however they can before they jet.

 

To the Angels of Caffé Dismay,

you’re still beautiful in the purest way;

somebody loves you so much

he was willing to die.

To the girls in a living sort of grave,

I pray that Jesus takes your emptiness away;

to someone you’re still that precious little girl

they made cry.

 

 

We Just Really Like You

 

Hello, I’m obsessed with you.

I fall—it happens;

it’s just something I do.

I think and I think and I think,

and I think I’m in love with you.

My girlfriend, she understands,

and she feels it too;

we both, we two, we do,

we just really like you.

 

And this is an absurd thing

that many will misinterpret;

and this is a natural reaction

in a world of ulterior motives.

This is a stupid, stupid, lame

excuse for something useful;

you can’t possibly know

what we mean… we like you

like we like cream in our coffee.

 

So good bye, my princess,

my shared interest in a search for happiness.

I’m joking by mocking all the jesters and fools

who have no shame and no foundation,

and who will sin with no reservation;

that’s not what I mean when I say

we just really like you.

 

We do, we do, we do;

we truly do really, really like you

—take it as you will.

 

 

Awfully Beautiful Girl

 

The boys, they can’t know your secret pain;

they haven’t hidden in your closet

or in your back seat. With a shade drawn,

from the street only a silhouette,

no binoculars catch any nighttime smile.

 

It must be awful to be

an awfully beautiful girl.

 

Your girlfriends never speak of pressing issues,

only products, and gossip, and men.  You search

for love in—how’s that go?—“all wrong places”,

and can’t understand why you’re alone.

 

It must be terrible to be

a terribly beautiful girl.

 

Such pretty eyes, and perfect size,

and guys ask for your number,

wanting nothing more, oh, are you sure,

than personality?

 

It must be dreadful to have

dreadfully flawless curves.

 

Jesus on the cross could not

resist you, they imagine,

when everyone wants the same thing.

And you don’t even realize

you’re lacking something more,

you just forget it all and down another drink.

 

I think

 

it must be horrible to be

a horribly beautiful girl.

Tell me, is it startling to be

a strikingly beautiful girl?

 

 

The Winter Swimsuit Spectacular

 

So tastefully, gracefully laid, legs open,

spread eagle with minimal type,

I saw my sister displayed with no shelter

or shade, and I found her startlingly ripe.

I flipped the page, and by a pool,

wearing nothing but drool

—I licked the shock off my sinister lips—

there again was my rose in a hot, heavy pose,

and I froze when my eyes framed her hips;

I don’t need to see this!

 

It’s the “Winter Swimsuit Spectacular!”

in a magazine devoted to cars…

well, at least the cars get to wear bras.

 

Sister, my sister, why did you do it?

Was it for the money?

You should have asked me.

I’d rather sell everything I have than

see you sprawled out naked on a beach….

 

(Well, not really.) Can’t you see it hurts me?

(That much is true.) I’m a very sick man.

 

All the sick men and boys using you

as the toy to enjoy just a moment alone,

all the mental diseases, the perverts,

the sleazes, imagining jumping your bones.

And with you as a fantasy,

each girl in proximity becomes a fantasy too,

and girlfriends and classmates and sisters

are date raped by boys who are thinking of you,

 

in the “Winter Swimsuit Spectacular!”

in a magazine page pasted to walls…

you agreed to it, after all.

 

Oh, but sister, not sister, why did you do it?

Now no male member of

the family can be trusted.

Every time I look at you,

there will be things in my mind. . . .

 

I don’t need to see this. I’m a very sick man.

 

 

Heaven Lee

 

Royalty, I haven’t what you’re looking for in me.

Dazzler, I effervesce to slight for you to see.

 

And when your stones strike

my misshapen head, I’ll wish

that I were home in bed,

struggling with the hours of caffeine.

And with association, bloodshot, red,

I’ll wish that I were you instead;

vault the ceiling, bridge the inn between.

 

Mystery, I’m listening a century or three.

Haggler, I’m blistering the shell of my ID.

 

Addiction, you, my discontent,

are devious and mischief bent;

I throw my back just thinking of your grace.

Affliction, due already spent;

such friction is the hunted scent.

Forgo, attack the sinking in your faith.

 

Heaven Lee, I readily agree to be deceived;

blasphemous hypocrisies

have yet to be achieved.

 

And ‘til we mill and wander aimlessly,

I kill your honor painlessly,

and finalize the efforts of my will.

Still, I fill a gap most dastardly,

and tap the flaccid plastery,

and terrorize the same mishaps I drill.

 

 

Leave Me

 

I can think of no words sweeter

than those designated yours,

and I find no beauty comparable

in overstated lures.

Yes, of course I’ll show remorse

for being short and unsupportive,

but I’d sooner force misfortune

than divorce your will to live.

 

I would trade you in a heartbeat

for a whore already cold,

and imagine in the unity

your purity unfold.

In the coffin of your bed we’d lie,

undead, undressed, unsatisfied;

my pride, my joy, my girl toy,

this boy strives for only one prize.

 

Leave me, I will only

bear down hard my imprint.

Please, please, please leave—

I’ll pick my teeth with your bones.

Leave me to seethe, or I’ll feed

on your innocent need to be

treated like peppermint.

Leave me to be, or I’ll tarnish

your well garnished gold.

Leave me quickly, before I seed

your earthly garden of holes.

Leave me now, or I’ll never

leave you alone.

 

I can think of no death harsher

than impaling me with lust;

I find no midnight darker

when derailed by your mistrust.

But of course, you were the driving force

that tortured and destroyed me;

the fragment of the shell you left

falls deaf when you avoid me.

 

I’d switch you with a slight of hand,

demand you give me back

the patience and endurance

which allowed me to attack,

then cross you with a gratitude

surpassing Christian ethic,

and toss around, and pass you down

to hands that grow decrepit.

 

Leave me, I will only

bore into your vortex.

Leave, for the love of Mary,

before I get you alone.

Leave me to treason,

for reasons you needn’t

concern yourself with.

Leave me before I explore

your erogenous zone.

Leave me utterly ashamed

of my inhumane undertones.

Leave me now, while you still

can get out on your own.

 

 

Brothers, Look After Your Sisters

 

At an ungodly hour, I may take her heartbeat,

at the flash of a smile, I may pull her inside with

a twist of the wrist; I may treat her like raw meat,

for a flash of her pink, I may swallow her pride.

 

We know what we are…

we’re the same, you’re the same!

You’re weakness is mine…

it’s a pain, it’s a shame!

 

And brothers, look after your sisters;

you know they’re too open to be left alone.

Brother, it’s hard to resist her; forewarn her

how deeply obsessed we have grown.

Brothers, look after your sisters,

while ten thousand eyes follow every curve

of our mothers and daughters and baby-sitters,

apprehensive, confused, and unnerved.

 

By the light of the TV past midnight, a weekend,

a horrible creature impulsively feeds on the

sex and debauchery sprawled across stations,

with access to excessive daughters of Eve.

 

A twinkle, a gleam, and subdued on the sofa,

with beads of persuasion as crystalline speck,

he crawls up her spine with a restless abandon,

and tackles and grapples the nape of her neck.

 

And brothers, look after your sisters;

they’re doubtless too young

to know what to expect.

Look long enough up from your own pit

of labor to garnish her chest with respect.

Others may scream like transistors,

“These legs are in dire require of a spread!”

But brothers, look after your sisters,

or I’ll let their willingness go to my head.

 

 

Run Away

 

Run child, back to your mother’s arms,

to safe places where I can do no harm.

Go numb child, hope you don’t feel a thing;

don’t accept the friendship I’ve been offering.

 

I don’t want to love you,

put myself above you;

can’t stop thinking of you.

 

Dream child, don’t give a thought to me;

nothing that you’re asking for comes easily.

Scream child, tell me to leave you alone;

constantly pray that He keeps me away,

or I’ll pick my teeth with your bones.

 

I don’t want to leave you,

break you or deceive you,

worry you or grieve you.

 

Breathe deep, child, the temporary

air of your innocence;

bask in the glory I’ll take in the morning,

while you’re under my influence.

Believe, child, whatever you want to,

but I can assure you I mean to explore you

more than you imagine I do.

 

I don’t want to bore you,

stop the world for you,

torture or adore you.

 

Sleep child, but don’t let the demons bite;

they never get enough to whet their appetites.

Weep child; know that I wanted you bad,

and whatever you do, don’t let me get to you

with these horrible notions I’ve had.

 

I don’t want to need you,

feed on you or heed you,

eat, mistreat, or plead you

—just run away.

I don’t want to pain you,

short you or sustain you,

train or entertain you

—just run away.

I don’t want to steal you,

ever know the real you,

peel, make meal, or feel you

—just run away.

I don’t want to be you,

capture you or free you,

heat, entreat, or see you

—just run away.

I don’t want to hate you,

ruin, complicate you,

taint or violate you

—just run away.

I don’t want to hurt you,

abandon or desert you,

flirt and introvert you

—just run away.

I don’t want to crave you,

rape, disgrace, or save you,

engage, enrage, enslave you

—just run away.

I don’t want to bag you,

tag, brag, or drag you,

flag down and shag you

—just run away.

 

 

You Only Get One Chance

 

I lost you by a landslide,

not like I’d rehearsed;

two tragedies now coincide,

I can’t decide what’s worse:

who it was I lost you to,

or what I know comes next?

I’m taxed with tribulation now;

your sex leaves me vexed.

 

You only get one chance

with something that sacred,

to offer as the ultimate prize.

Think of who will be first

to hold you naked;

will you cheapen who

you give it to the first time?

 

Don’t believe the movie screens

or the magazines that say

it’s no big deal, if you think it’s real,

to give intimacy away.

Very few truly honest with you,

who have had more lovers than one,

will say they did not feel

some shame and regret that they

couldn’t take back what they’d done.

 

You only get one chance

with something that precious,

to show someone they were

worth saving it for.

Only one can take and appreciate

your purity for what it is;

it’s a one time gift that

no one can unwrap anymore.

 

I’m so young, how could I possibly know

what love is? I’m so unstable and emotional;

is my soul something I want to give and

never get back? Just in case, I think I’ll wait

to see if this is who God has for me;

if so, it was worth the wait,

and if not—thank God!

 

 

If We Were The Last Two People On Earth

 

If we were the last two people on earth,

don’t you think… well, don’t you think

after a month or so we’d be slightly bored?

If we were the last two people on earth,

and time—it froze, now don’t you suppose

sex would not be enough?

We’d need something more.

 

And where in the midst of it all

would forgiveness or grace ever fall;

how reassured would I be if I’d scarcely a choice?

What sort of tragic mistake, were I the road

you had no option but to take; how singularly

content could we be, tempted by no other voice?

 

If we were the last two people on earth

—I whom you abhor, and you whom I adore—

why should I imagine I’d still be faithfully true?

If there were a war, and only we survived,

if we were the last two people alive,

you might grow fond of me,

and I might grow tired of you.

 

 

101 Reasons To Become A Monk

 

Too tight shirts and mini skirts

on twelve year olds who learn to flirt,

sex and rape and child abuse

on children borne to skip their youth.

 

What on earth is shaping from

the gaping wound that left us numb?

Who wants any piece of this junk?

 

I am finding 101 reasons to become a monk.

 

Parent whores in liquor stores,

with S.T.D.s, disgusting sores,

hope to score a third divorce,

and cut the child from the source.

 

What on earth is worth the state

of violated sex and hate we slipped into,

self-destructing punks?

 

I am finding 101 reasons to become a monk.

 

Witches, bitches, bastard sons,

impregnate babies—hole in one—

gay pride and orgies in the buildings

housing profits and pornography.

Can’t you see?

 

What on earth are we to do?

It got me, it will get you too,

this rotten world; I can’t stand the funk!

 

I am finding 101 reasons to become a monk.

 

 

Can You Live Without It?

 

As of this writing, I’m wearing a dress,

and feeling unusually… happy, I guess.

I’m so in touch with my feminine side,