Truth of Duty

Bring my pit of tasting creation back to the air and city lights.

Grow the fruit that has filled timeless hours of inglorious peace.

Be my reckless dream.

Shove the pain of other names.

Lift, break, smile.

Find your insanity in the palms of my hands

that are bleeding to sweat for the love affair,

the bases of salvation.

Cut me, string me back together

and I will mimic the ocean just to flood my eyes.

My boiling lungs will scream to stop the back steps to home.

See the words go off and drown voids of missing passion.

Lose control to the bore of all constancy 

and recall connection.

Cherish the intense defense of organs lending,

out broken, out burst to save our attention. 

For truth of duty is in service of proclaiming eternity.

Born Folklore

Moment to moment we want to suffer under sensations of tortured hollow bod.
To feel pressed tension of constellations making a warm bed for two to greet in secret patients.
And the cold is blooming the field of where we laid in realization of who we were. 
Now we have missed tones of honey from white lilies and we’re confessing the confused pain from each yellowed jackets last puffy armed subconscious’s running meaning death with the collided vehicles.
Wait for the exhausted thump of city child and country toy to be once again played by the intense stance of harnessed old teen.
In her own mind the pressures of window’s buildings are shattered by the banked redundancy of the mass norm.
And all that is wanted is free speech of intensified pounding organ verging to be the homicide beacon of the life of me and my relentless tries.
For all we want is for arrived stations to be calm.
We  wait for our home.
I futilely try, as do the eggshell steps of your toes to be as shaped with timely care.
To make it a dream and we sleep through the hours of depressed barks of homeless dogs.
Gambled calls ruining ruined sun’s baby’s crawls to our connection of skipped beats flowing the blood until diseased minds massacre the aged eyes.
Yet the tries infinitely circle the cause and still questions dead lives.
Don’t give the broken necks forced to the sight of skies the chance to break the lesser known story of the creation of tasty bedroom talk.
We are the born folklore the chapters are pleading to base their lives on.
What will give?
For my presents can’t package the low come by of chatter lady’s demands.
Bingo.
Sorrows become the preachers go to move, and the applauds miss treat the stains of sore wood.
So, let us make the pack of nonstop graduating split ends and fall in love over and over again.

Witness

Witness, bare no fruit, hold no arms. 
Hear no virgin cry to the outer space, with the wet paradise cleaning her face.
Say no vowels, savior no meaningful nostalgia.
Witness, be no man’s revenge. 
Walk no further than the no outlet road, with the expires of knowledgeable updates of the flash photography.
Witness! Be no thin rib, or cracked bone.
Lay no limbs to Bronson’s handsome smile. 
Feel no baking organ begging for the Don Knox to fetal your propagation.
Witness, be no God to determine heaven and holy 
from hell and determination of the one eyed cocked blind
dipping his natural destain for the simple words of golden gates, and cupid’s fluttering wings.
Gimp your beating heart from the unconscious, cons, and majorities.
Sing hallelujah like the rest of them.
Be the jazz musician, with careless words as powerful as the gangs of new York. 
Raise your hands, seduce the cloud lines to sweep the feet of walking mimics.
Cry to the singers soil ground.
Witness, be no witness.
Lift up your lungs to the hungered cave animals.

Ida

I wait to see my angel bring me soft tears.

To feel my shame.

And feel my doubt of her faith.

Ida, my love angel, I have wondered your protection

and consumed demonic tongues.

Illuminated secrets are bitten down

and you shrunk as suffered steeples left you blind.

Gloom through my unzipped pants and touch my glory of stiff comfort

For I would die to see the sure of your promise of Lord’s Heaven.

Though I have been blessed,

and without the cleansed sensation of my feet.

My God what have you done to your son’s name?

With the broken stem of my vain connected to it?

Holy spirit, wipe the naughtiness from my cinder asshole.

I beg to be bonded together with chords that can not be broken.

Though the sense of seperating me and her

for you has torn the chords of my bible’s love.

With me folding the blind folded congregation,

I can place a kiss to my precious Jesus and give him a goodnight.

Widows Skin Shed

Destain isolation flying across the sea.

Gust of winds blowing the widows skin shed.

Her window view shows the depth truth of a captain’s sunken handicap.

She is a weeping for the pillar,

where the sleepy boy dreams.

Her sharp eyes burn causes by the salt air and no tears are becoming her trait.

She whines for the free touch of sand beneath her toes,

but it still is true that she will never let go.

The boards are surrounding the misery of lost brilliance

and she becomes just as much as that single lip form tear as she is wrinkled bones.

She walks from wall to wall,

then finds her love in the frames painting.

She is hesitate, as years fall past stars.

Her broken fingers grop the bloody reds of the picture.

As she decides to hide the bodies of her love and children down below.

She is hung right there.

Between her rusty eyes and the dried nail holding the painting.

Triumph!

Tired of trying to yank the chains of his girl,

he yells for yonder mistakes.

“Triumph!” he cries.

She is gone.

With the foolish excuses the world has been making, and yet he is crying

triumph to the dear sour pus.

“I am all this barking demand.”

Then cries, “Triumph little buzzing bee!

Step down from your sting and lay locked lips.

Triumph inconsolable bird!

Press your beak to the cloudy sky and feel that hand grop one time.

Triumph fascist  bear!

Eat the towing guns, sing the day long.

Surrender your aching heads to the thunderous Irish tumbles.

Hand the broken sleeves to the eyeless dog, freeing the attitudes of dark rituals.”

She may roam the island, with contemplations of seniority.

Though his brutal movements of speech may contunue to contain flings.

She knows how to break her chains and flake the current sunken salt.

And if so, then why does she not find the burden of her dreams?

Damaged Sun

Damaged sun, be mine.

My star, rest your dumplings on my head.

Cry once more for me.

Burn me entirely.

Dimmed sweet sun, don’t move.

I will continue to orbit you.

Heroine

Heroine, you were in love.

You touched the fruit of my branches and said you would never regret. 

Heroine, you preached your care for my hard earned treasure.

Until it grew old and mold.

Heroine, you told me to trust, and trust I did.

You bared no embarrassment for your nude body.

So, I broke the wall of the spirit’s of grieving mothers.

I spoke with no whisper of the unforgiving secrets of my closet full of dead.

And you with no judgement.

Heroine, you set the time of several days and made that time heavier than any second wanted to be.

You made the minutes last until they burst their tears.

You gave me city lights and told me to hold dear.

You gave me star light and told me you’ll hold dear.

Heroine, you left me letters.

You wished upon my touch and stare and nothing more came after.

You grew tired of a wait.

And made a hasty stay in the wayside of boy’s silent pants.

Heroine, I am in mad ripple for the tormented despair, for why must you be my outlander?

Perch your mind to the soft silence I sent to you.

Find memorial memorials on our avenue and hold the lights dear.

Daredevil Eye and Demonic Ear Lob

Your eye is the daredevil your hands couldn’t be.

Gaping the holes of the demonic ear lob, 

and smelling fresher with your contemplated free chest.

Wire that eye to a gallery of willed beings of deadly breaths. 

For my yearning stoked belly is becoming your disgust. 

So, shall we be the drifters of youngsters, feeling lively scenes of mailed map.

Then call out to the wye oak and at last meet lips.

My sweet is tarted sauce transformed baked cookies and beaten seems.

Now, lovers are dying off and you are starting my heavy sigh.

We just missed it.

We just may make it.

Burning eye, bake this illusion of tasteful lies.

Cut the names of thousands in half and only be good.

Peer through the countless seductions and build that home stay for me.

Oh, magic, oh superstition, serge my power to raise the directing hope and make beauty me.

For what will come of an accident that isn’t mentioned or remembered?

What will push purpose back to relevance if we may not touch again?

Wire cutters and a swelled eye, with all the patience way back in mind,

this is infinite.

So, I will be the cure, to save the eye before it is blind.

To Be A Honeysuckle

Clingy dried blood attached to the distorted metal,

sobbing my nose for the redundant petite nonsense and youngsters in pink.

Fresh signs of society in constant organized recycled plastic bags

and eating out rainbows.

And the unattainable princess we learned to love from my recurrent theme 

is throwing her throne down from round trips and the jealous.

Woah me, the mys our short lived from fourteen pills

and jokes about my fourteen pills.

But toilet seats are home

and hospital beds are hotel rooms.

My blown out ear drums are still making beats to revive my generation.

Damn me to the flames of fear created by our fossil fuel.

Damn me to the golden gates created by our greedy antiques.

I am selfish, heartless.

The magnitude of crude thoughts I say and the words I think

are inspired soul based batter of working class hero’s judgement.

I am as much Pollock as I am Warhol.

I am as much Hemingway as I am Fitzgerald.

I am as much romance as I am a war story.

I toy the strings of puppets’ minds for self righteous clothing.

I bare down virgins to wit my no grit life,

just to say my teeth are cleaned by John the baptist.

I am nothing.

Nothing will be read as ground hitting as if I said words of love and the hopeful future.

Carrying no weight world blood, I am incoherent.

I am in the den of lioness paws to save once more from the thorn.

Just for knowledge of life to be a honeysuckle.

Though I am a begging bruster, bruising towards the trees of lost tales.

I am a waking feather missing my bird’s wing.  

Untitled

In the darken stares of glowing screens, silence has captured the klutz of marry times.

My brother is underground, and kindly agrees to nest in his filth. 

While another is uplifted to the purity of his reciprocated infatuation,

then finds himself back in doubt like the hours when I last saw him.

Now my final standing brother is ready to catch me up on this outdated world

I have seemed to miss out on.

 He mistakes my warning of love.

He is digging the grave for two and my lips can only bend. 

My heart is aching to only dig faster for them.

For my mind is not even on them.

Strawberry Fields

The bottom of the pit…

Eruption dwindles on my tender body,

as I read the words written by my giant,

the one that constantly falls.

Falls, then I scroll to further endings of boredom and more grim.

I see her, but not.

She wasn’t showing herself for me.

There was nothing for me.

Even with the strawberry fields,

lushes reds and folk bands, 

harsh nights of past lovers still heartbroken. 

Where will we be?

Spring’s Bloom

We fight to smell burn roses.

We have won.

Are you aware? 

Are you listening?

Our Simon has spoke!

Weeping children under my bed, to keep their secrets safe with me.

Buried in the yard beyond their corn farm, we grew to our double digits. 

Nothing is safe. 

Until we can pour the rain.

The clouds lost control

and my peers are swimming in it’s late Springs bloom.

Day Dreaming

I am the space between the easy sleep and breakdown

and not a soul will remember my name.

For all the love I send, it seems to lack a dash of handsomeness. 

So, send me to the desert and I will walk on the back of my dead siblings.

Care for your future and kiss your mediocrity.

Together you are nothing but precious

and I am a weeping cloud attached to your gaze.

The gaze that is day dreaming of me.

But make it known that the sheets were not in flames.

The spoon was never bent.

We will starve from your darling heart, that is only wanting to feed one.

It shall be known for me to be thin and die for your sweet kisses.

I laugh and your lips are busy.

I curve my feet and leave the air behind.

Your lips are busy.

Words For Friends pII

I) Setting the unsettled man in bamboo whips for blinding muscles,

pumping unwanted blood in their mind numbed campus.

With the burned down church, his neck is useless

and he is dazed from the unanswered  screams above his lighthouse. 

Waiting for his debt to swallow his bones and take him from home.

Bye bye sunshine, 

dent the drunken confessions with batting eyes.

I trust you.

II) Find the fond dream of the man’s cauliflower jokes

and smell the wet panties until he chokes.

His abrupt home stay has melted the adoring, admiration made for him.

The knowledge of riding in the back of life is what we know.

Every instant blanketed our hearts to let him find California one more time.

Three months and the volume is absent and we are too dry.

Excuse the touch of feeling alone.

Take the fears and shoot the town down.

I trust you.

III) Tiring of the tire tread, as I see the exhausted man’s deflation. 

He is capturing brave outlooks of temptation and business men.

The man is becoming substantially still, in high hopes of love and Christ.

Enlarging his pictures to find large finds of the truthful damned.

For the up looks are down falls, with lack of exhilaration.

Losing his mind to kill Acadia, he is no longer the wicked.

I trust you.

IV) Grasping the gasp of this man,

in search of haunting presidents to luck out his stance.

Will he be dear to the burden placed by the flowing water that drowns his eyes?

Falling faster for danger, to flee from the past fishing net,

full of his heavy boots.

But the stacking imprints on the four walls has him a slight taller.

He’ll accomplish willful barks from the begging dog 

and see me in a distance, trying to recollect my name.

I trust you.

V) Everlasting sighs has been lacking lately.

For this man is trembling with hair strings tying his fingers too close,

to circle circulation, to end the dawning nights of solemn touches.

He begs to feel the fury of tormented birds, just to live up to his name.

But the overlapping punctual dares left him dumb.

Strive the cliffs, for he must state his care

to the undying throb of the lucky found girl.

To take her to his and see the truth he has pocketed.

To be content.

This over user has one last thing to say.

He is me and I am untrustworthy. 

Line Of Relevance

With grease slithering my hands from the leftover efforts of the retired wonder woman.

Gumby is just as carelessly giddy and then reduced to fall to the lot by the well earned trailer fare, rippling from anguish.

So, with his name in vein, I have become worthless to the evangelic signs. For no friend lets another die without Jesus.

But the prayer drentched in over grown vines, with tears and Satan was unthoughtful.

Carrying missing flesh for the best of sin and to be a king of the shadowed bakery has mixed signals.

Renew and renew again.

It will take the best of frighten children to be seen as righteous leaders.

For the world’s disease is well lit, for man to fit in perfect circles.

Religious takes to make us feel safe is without thought passing faith.

We are not the concurred territory and we will speak with intelligence, but this is behind our own.

Man is wretched, nude, and feeling worthy of saving.

Though the power of natural urges is unkind and dipped in the blood of christ.

So, where is courage to find fond realization of empty creators?

And think for a glance of real life and the hollowed body carpenter drunk trying to behave, but the lust of disgracful fags and prejudice is just a little too basic to dismiss.

We are small and without cause.

The life has  and has always been gasping for the larger grip of stair ways and elevators.

Though time is a tock and reveling it’s line of relevance.

So, why is the continuance attempt to obtain inheritance of the fantasizing soul in such great state?

Untitled

To the transition from mail call to bills paid, we are toe taping to sweet jazz.

The parade of mad eyes and moo sounds is in endless pavements and glorious sunday skies.

Dinah won’t you blow your horn and create our wet days of memories.

And with the overweight life boarded away in layers of hate, we have lost.

Creativity between our skin and waves of power hunger are connecting and falling for the peace maker.

I smile from deceased love on my typewriter.

Bonding to the tallest bar constantly rising.

Here is the life I carry on and on.

Fountain of Wishes

Near the locks of tender words are fountains of well wished clicks of towered time.

We want to dream of our passion

and feel the lines of formed letters connecting romance and realism.

With each hand that moves, our eyes squint and leer past nudity

causing the wish to dry and love making is brutally awaken.

Do you feel overcoming strength lifting tired soliders and yelling

“fall tower, and stop time.

Break the fingers and listen to the endless voices everlasting still, at home”?

Or will you slightly bend from looking down for the dust of Vonnegut’s creation

and be thoughts of madness?

Stepping stones of baby sand, still drinking within the fountains of wishes

to be and be enternal.

A tear soaked sponge sits beside and my back is opposing life.

I will fight and fight, enlarge the list and damn the rest.

No will, good luck

Scolding gray puffs, blowing aggersive sighs.

Misleading the boxed up sweaters.

The sun is peaking through for the baptist to feel a day closer to heaven.

Open Silence

Alive in depths of closed down shops.

Alive in empty bottles and faceless cams of strived climax.

Alive in dirty sheets and bathrooms.

The artificial love of soft voices and hand helds to keep the updated ignorance vital.

My mind is creating aches to shut the kindness and open silence.

So mistake the dirty finger nails as homosexual wishes.

Then you can smirk your mock and be lost in the pupils of recruits.

Dance, dance, dance until I erect and repeat.

For you and brother are as sweet as brewed beans,

with your privates openly twisting carnage and beauty all places I meet.

I find drunks and holes with lost keys to save me from sleep.

And leaning to throw back, I see a torn photo of denim and recall mismatch.

Find me unsettled, call me unhatched and I will center two

and watch their constant love be made.

Nine Nights In Fright of Jamie

Fine fit new cowgirl, sharing horror and clevage.

Old stories, underage breast and swoon of the Jagger step.

Waiting for someone to go down on him.

The quickly drunk, hearing the names of change in crocks and pop.

With my sticky fingers praying to high name golden gates

for some chance to sight the can that has been sliced and marked half price.

Tempting…

Nine nights in fright of Jamie and all the rest to tie knotts and hang themselves.

Never stop the fight of pawning full blood from hearts.

Honky tonk, two step, heavy tan, ass crack,

pained name, dead dogs, hated mom, chin stub,

disreguard my far off hand print and belittle fireflies

and the jars they stay in.

Dim out their souls and say Heaven is safe.

Unheard Songs and Listless Names

Let us coward behind the clouds and ignore the tender skin

that is still in repair from the night the sky condemned us.

So, the boy can see us and look beyond us, towards some unwell thought

of a metaphor that will bring him a day closer to enternal grace.

And when the boy grows old he will reminisce on the day he felt the hand of God.

He will close his eyes and rest his head on stone, thinking he will finally go home.

He will die and be forgotten.

On Earth, on us, and beyond us, we will live without the listless name.