the overt pulchritude of her finesse the domineering despondency that lies beneath is vanquished by the morning light, a love a sussurus of secretive honesty, i confess my hearts deepest vows to life to death, to a surplice of the modern man, make me music! make me love! make me human! have you found the gilded key newton briggs? for i fear a great sorrow is upon is, the death of man the demise of a modern paradox for, praytell the very hour at which you fell victim to the beauty of her intoxicating vigor. it was the very day that i realized when i did not talk to her i was so utterly composed to destruction. a symphont, i wear colonge for the queen in the mnidwest

i wasted 4.5 years of my life fighting for face. now its all a waste. nothing came of anything. please, give me a break

i was dead then alive, she was like wine turned to water then turned back to wine, our lives are not our own...

echoes in my head

a chest quenched by the sussurus of a steady drone, full of fluid gilded the lion's pride sloshes off the starboard bow, the perfect storm in a emerald vile, remind me i am among the living when plays the quartet the prelude no. 1 i am set to sea.


how to shed the skin of a jaundiced love.

the convoluted matrix of over structured, read and re-read facts, swell, swol, swollen beneath the cathedral walls, arched and poised as if to defy the anchor that weighs them down, a gravity of sepulchral occurrences--the love song of alphred j prufrock. for we measure coffee the same. and any up-goings must come down, so what do the words woven into the midnight shawl mean if the widow has lost her strength to carry on? smoothing surface, fill the crevasses with a poisonous science of religiosity, of facts and figures, candid figures of a reality that exists only as an ambiguous void where we share only time, nothing to speak of what lies beneath your skin. so sit quiet and unmasked, unfettered with the daily doings of a more joyous song, for four and a half years of silence changes a man. bring me many more cruel, ubiquitous specter, for i live eyes closed, bring on the tides, what is living other then finding the sorrow beneath every shining soul? what a nightmare, what a travesty, what a gift.

do i worry, distant and cold, silver and silence. remembering the foxes, fleeting and frivolous. the disaster tourist i am. come down to where the water meets the banks of the st. mary's and whisper "welcome petty pulchritude of an abased attraction!", atoms and molecules repel and combine building substance from inconsequential abyss. it is the maiden's hand that i held so fondly in my distant memory, her smile stuck to my eyes like mirroring glass can fake a multitude of identities. so pour me out i dont mind, this life is not my own, tie me up! untie me! all this wishing i was dead is getting old, its getting old! though i the spectator watched in a distant grace, combining my history of an inherited sorrow with the fickle fingers on a gilded ladder with nails i climb to find the holes. a simple saint says, "these lives are not our own! even the wind lay still,our essence is fire and cold, and movement, movement! if they ask for a sign of the Father, tell them its movement! movement! and repose." midwest queen.
walks the line if ambivalence.
holds me as a jester holds his scepter of jest.
jaunt. jeer.
i will stay inside today though i have already composed a poem of love on a day i should have remained outdoors away from thinking of her.

weary head, grasping at an end. we look up and we're squinting at the sun, lay back into the grass, feel relief.


damn the mind that perplexes the soul, the convolution, the nearsighted foolishness of a fool i am. it is an anchor hinged on my eyelids. shuttered in shame. where is the singular smile i left at the door. halo's hung as if to deny the Son. Father, i have done wrong. wont you follow me down to the hole set in the ground. palms as spades handfuls of an ashen world to nurture the life inside, its the cycle of spring. when i coil in fear i want you to look at my face, its an honest love, we can set it straight. i gave you the nexus, my first connection to the pulchritude of a lover's stare. peaceful, the world sets me down. i am sorry.

demoted to a second chance

keep the fire close and let my shadow grow, swallow me, friendly ghost, you remind me of someone i used to know when i filled 4000 holes with a silver tear, fear is the flower pot for a statue carved in rome, liberty and justice scream from her harp and quivered bow, but i stood and stared still unaware of the depths that heaven knows, saying if the Son of God is hanging with us common criminals then how will we ever grow

there is no class involved in trashy mores and dolled up debauchery. the resin seeps with a peculiar hue of deception. black and white, juxtapose on a charred canvas, ashen and torn--the subject of a disregard for reason. depose the hierarchy. impose hypocrisy. marry the two ends. flicker, conflagration, a holocaust of sensibility. the midnight raven carries an olive twig to the new world. despondently responded lips curled and bitter compressing and stretching sound, a sussurrus of sallow words, sink below. nothing means everything to this.

the history of a sorrow, an inherited sadness, swells through a subtle magnification no larger in size beneath a microscope then the period. .
but that is merely what the world can see and what it is shown. visual deception, ocular charades for the unwitting. the stethoscope captures the robust fervor with witch it leeches blood and oxygen from inside me, alive and foreboding. scopes. always needing spectacles to see the truth. the great big nothing, the eternal jape of humanity. strive to live outside your skin. life, let live, love, let leave. i am the product of two decades and nearly a year of celibate suffering, only when i am cut thin and pierced by the haunting tonality of a symphony of misery does the burden lighten. the love song of alfred j prufrock. laugh. we drink coffee the same. leave me southern queen. your eyes did not lie, though your mouth could suppress the tide, i did swell in your eyes then, as if to say, i have never known a love as pure as yours but i will not be spoiled. so hoard your keys let me be. i will go back down to the basement on the hill for 4 more years of history

xo is the 2nd best album written in the 20th century. r.i.p e.s.

silver silhouette
prick me
with a gilded drop of curiosity

the notes are drawn long and thin

alive
they whisper

follow me to the gray eyed elephant
the specter of a ubiquitous hollow cavern


fall in

before you stand


edges are lines never drawn


lungs are full. the man is proud but hes burning inside.




cast your shadow away, long and far across a pavement cream white, the craters pool with dark light.




do i care.



















what is this great white space.

period. redundancy.
period.
four times.


someone found their future as a statue in a fountain.

soft, antiquated light.

it smells like a june evening and tastes like an october day at 3--the taste of being barely alive with the hope of longevity.

sweet and bitter.

over, under, over then under again, wove, weave, woven. appendages make and break allegiance in a slew of intoxicating imagery, nauseating verbiage swells beneath the tongue, words willing yet conscious baring any annunciation. the voyeur, the human. licentious, the dead dance with one another.

she is from the hills that let the landscape an amber sepia. crimson and twilight spindled into a fabric worn over and over. i am to wear it yet.


is it the kind quiet, lemon eyes, eyes that pool in a distant pain, the hush sound of sheathed swords and daggers slowly scratching the surface, water beading at the skin.

holding,
holding.
the sorrow in.

i am the hesitation, the anticipation, the emancipation in your breath.

but i must wait for time. wait, time.


we. are. beautifully despondent. we. are.


deconstruct,
resolutions

mountains are skyscraping buildings


seaside

sunflower
sunseed

impatiens


white and violet and rose



hands ashen, cold, pale and morbid, deep furrowed lines like the euphrates, a desert

disconnecting disconnect,
dilating dilation,
humiliating humility,

the dyad of conflictual affection,
the fleet foxes glare,
swift and complementary,
vicious yet calm a curious freight of connection.

furious freight of connection.

frivolity.


contemptuous, sanctuary.


i am a skeleton key. but too kind, i am alone.