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.