When I go to sleep
I don't expect to wake up.
Maybe it's a good thing
that I sleep
because I wake up.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Friday, June 18, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
(from 1998)
The children laugh as they hack away,
The puppies’ throats opening, blood-red,
Pouring thick, wet onto cold, gray concrete.
Little screams and yelps mingle twisted
Against air aglow with after-fog’s clarity,
The Day’s sky smiling gold on echoes of Death.
There is no heart in heart-less souls ripped
Frying from burnt-out bodies beaten with forgotten ideals.
Will there be forgiveness or is such a thought
Just a thought conned from the minds of idols
Built with hands hopeless with a hope that will never exist?
One last crash of metallic flash, glinting steel
Shining beneath a crimson bed of dander,
And the children saunter off, teary-eyed,
A last drying drop suddenly glistening
With the heartening sight of another kennel just ahead.
The puppies’ throats opening, blood-red,
Pouring thick, wet onto cold, gray concrete.
Little screams and yelps mingle twisted
Against air aglow with after-fog’s clarity,
The Day’s sky smiling gold on echoes of Death.
There is no heart in heart-less souls ripped
Frying from burnt-out bodies beaten with forgotten ideals.
Will there be forgiveness or is such a thought
Just a thought conned from the minds of idols
Built with hands hopeless with a hope that will never exist?
One last crash of metallic flash, glinting steel
Shining beneath a crimson bed of dander,
And the children saunter off, teary-eyed,
A last drying drop suddenly glistening
With the heartening sight of another kennel just ahead.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Sometimes I write
just to write
like a lover who fucks you
and forgets who you are.
A lover - if I dare
to call myself a lover
(I've got the flesh,
the sweat,
the cock,
the cum,
but not the passion, right?) -
can forget who you are.
But a poet - if I dare
to call myself a poet
(I've got the line breaks,
the economy of words,
the music,
the muse,
but not the rhyme, right?) -
cannot forget who you are.
Can he?
just to write
like a lover who fucks you
and forgets who you are.
A lover - if I dare
to call myself a lover
(I've got the flesh,
the sweat,
the cock,
the cum,
but not the passion, right?) -
can forget who you are.
But a poet - if I dare
to call myself a poet
(I've got the line breaks,
the economy of words,
the music,
the muse,
but not the rhyme, right?) -
cannot forget who you are.
Can he?
my mother
my mother
my mother
my mother said
you never really know anyone
but i know you
i used to be inside you
sucking your guts through my guts
i used to be outside you
sucking your tits through my mouth
i used to be miles from you
sucking your thoughts through my ears
i used to be next to you
sucking your body's heat with my body
but i know you
my mother
my mother
my mother
my mother said
you never really know anyone
my mother
my mother
my mother said
you never really know anyone
but i know you
i used to be inside you
sucking your guts through my guts
i used to be outside you
sucking your tits through my mouth
i used to be miles from you
sucking your thoughts through my ears
i used to be next to you
sucking your body's heat with my body
but i know you
my mother
my mother
my mother
my mother said
you never really know anyone
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