I don't believe in painted red nails

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Daddy says predator- I say love- 
feasts on something- doesn’t it? 
You write what you know you write- 
what you know and you 
write what you know and 
the circular direction points 
back towards center.

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Drawn into a den

promising sensuous

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"what're you lookin' at?
you pot-bellied hair-sucker,
go back to your mirrror;
go pick at that mole some more,
you sorry biped.

you're scared of the pimp roach,
because deep down you know,
we are the alien karma keepers.
they will treat you,
like you treat us.

we challenge your zen masters,
to an everything-off.
they fail before beginning,
then act like they knew nothing.

notice how we never have to pose,
that's because every small world is ours.

so remember to beware,
the invisible opposable thumbs,
of stupidity.

now go get us a box of baby mice rolled in bird grease."
 

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They speak in sonnets
Symphonies
Harmonize
They bled a masterpiece
Four untouched canvases
Erring, barren, and harmless
Safe from the mephitic
The grime
The swarm
The disdain
The infection
If only this silence could last forever
If only...

Everything ends
Fades away
To darkness or infinity
One in the same
This is my purgatory
This is my home
I belong nowhere
And I am everywhere

Here
A part of the scenery
A ripple
A shape
Unnoticed
Apart
And you only need four
And solitude

The world is just a turn away
But I’ve sunken in

They are my way out.
Freedom.
They play me to sleep

These walls
They are the sonata only I can hear. 

My instructor informs us--it is 
the shape of the clay ball 
that forms our vision. 
If perfect in confection so too a result would compel. 

from these eyes betwixt the slender
run down the mountain curve
as if lost in the bends of younger
I rush my thoughts to recall
the flesh and its color
how smooth and smoky
the malleable forms of desire
like the lady in the corner
rests her thoughts on the moon 

I fail myself
in completion of the undone
always full with the imperfection
that I see beyond.

I fail myself 
as the clumps on the desks.
They lay there alone by the artists
a hope to be something of measure.

If I could glimpse 
what was meant 
in creation with their ten clubs;
I would be astonished like no other.

 

 

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 (adult content)

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As the trees shed their leaves, so do we leave behind old habits for new.  These habits do not fall away overnight.  They turn brilliant color as our attention draws them into light.  And slowly, they fall to the ground; some sooner than others.

Before new leaves grow the tree is laid bare for a time.  It is in this in-between state we are also naked, vulnerable.

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Like so many suction cups they popped

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