On Leaving

It's not leaving this earth that frightens me....
But who would look out for those that I care so
deeply for.
So blessed. So grateful. So tired.

In the Rye

Remaining...in limbo...

Where wind blows but isn't felt...
Where pain exists but doesn't plague....
The rye it calls her soul..
She devils with a chemical cocktail like Hercules in Hell...
Oh Death, why do you not long for her as she longs for you...
Like a lover...a fix...an end...rebirth or recreation...
Why do you shut her out...
Tired is a soul...take her into the rye..
Where she can haunt no one, hurt no one, ever more.

Last Call

Late.

Dark.
A warning.
Time in a bottle.
An end. A beginning.
One last ounce of courage or pain.
The rain.
Night.
Without a fight.
But flight.
Because it's over, when he makes the last call.

Night Creatures

Like animals twisting, turning, grinding...yearning. I sit and watch a hoard of hookers as the music thumps...new, old, sexy, bold...give them a pole and it's like a grand strip club...grand ...now there's a word I really hate so much I could puke every time I hear it. But give them a pole; they will come, cum or come alike. Short skirts, stockings, boots, some hot..some definitely not, they eye the pole like  some sort of competition...sizing it up then eyeing  opponents. Consuming poison until the courage meter's about to split at the seams and it all seems like a dream, and I wish it were a dream...because one after the other they take their turn...spinning, humping, grinding pumping that fucking pole like it's some sort of sex God...and I just sit in hiding, camouflaged, at the credence table, is it real or fable ...a wooden pole they christen ..when they awaken, splinters like winter will bite their softest flesh..I slink into the nothingness..watching from the rye..I know it's crazy but it's where I'd rather be...in the rye.

On Skid Row

Separable in existence, a soul adrift like an anonymous anomaly.

Kakidrosis stench atomizing a festering, fiendish fortune foreclosed.

Ichnites of ichorous existence thriving even where shadows succumb.

Death knocks at the door like a familiar friend, a beginning...an end?

Rampant ramifications of a rarefied spirit lost in the frey without a say.

Omnipotent sentient without perception of time or place, living or lace.

Whichsoever is right? Day or night, frighten or fight, measure or might…

                                                                    

                                                                    …...when you’re on skid row.

Middle Ground

Half way through the week, up over the hill of hillbiliies pushing daisy carts like damsels in distress,
working no rest, if you're unhappy confess, cuz the cows won't come calling to answer the hauling on the way to the hump the bump we trump...not high ground nor low, not enemy or foe, as a group we all go to ....
                                                                               ............MIDDLE GROUND!

He Comes Calling

Leaking like leftover wax from a candle in a coffee tin, like blood...a flood... my brain, my heart, inflamed  he's ashamed of anything I represent, the time I spent, his name, his game, was I never even his real friend?

Who shall ask a friend to stay hidden, go in the dark, what you're not invisible, but your green bubble is showing, why must you fly a flag for everyone to see?

To him who isn't ashamed should the flag not represent light not flight?

Throw over the veil, back to your jail,  continue falling until he comes calling....

...lest he never find her again.