heavy the tomb of tomorrow

i dream i beg another day
silent night inside this skin
i poke the plastic with my eye
so i can see the were-within
untaxed, devowed, rendered useless
in a world that values pride
devoured, unfound, this simple life
this simple life that hides inside
every day i am waking up
wonder how i got here
step into feet that feel
one bit cold, one bit queer
feet that dance in remission
under sky that weeps and moans
hands that hold a tired soul
smiling at skin and bones
desiderata absolute breaks like hearts
and floats away
heavy the tomb of tomorrow
as our eyes greet new day.


man from mars, woman from venus

rough draft shitty poem:

one step forward in my heart
is two steps back for a new start
raindrops falling in my tea
sky who cries ‘never-be’
broke my heart and left it dry
punched my face and said ‘don’t cry’
‘all your fault’ was your refrain
as you choked away my pain
nothing left but these bruises
sick affection, all excuses
why you hit me, what you did
justifying as i bled
into a poem that could not save me
only sky can set me free
you never took the time to know
my hearts whisper, ‘as above, so below.’
broke my face and walked away
stabbed my back ‘are you ok?’
crows surround me in this place
remember? you are not this face
that mirrors infinite black reflections
psychopomp judging by petty rejections
one more time around the block
no i will not suck ‘daddy’s cock’
if you treated others right
you would not be in this plight
then again what can i do
the one ashamed is never you
you sing love songs to your penis
man from mars, woman from venus


Song for a Sunset

Song for a Sunset

No one asks to live in fear
Of the love they hold dear
Mother father lover son
Throwing stones, every one
Conditions, blame, recrimination
Self again fails expectation
Disappointment strikes again
Clenched in fists of unhappy men
Leaving bruises in their wake
There is no give, only take
Punches thrown at my reflection
Tears run dry no protection
Not one fib, no white lie
Love speaks truth and makes fear cry
Perfect love does not hesitate
No real no true is obfuscate
Perfect love gives away
A single kiss on a stormy day
Perfect love is here and gone
Perfect love cannot carry on
In a box of security
Forever heart rejects obscurity
Perhaps to spark and flame again
Love will dance with a different friend
Golden gleam on the horizon
Unuttered dream the lover spies on
Or perchance to sputter out
Quiet eyes and time apart
Laughter echoing to death
Singing on its final breath
Singing to an empty sea
Twas not for you, twas not for me
If and when we meet hence
In some feral happenstance
I beg of you, my plea sincere
With your rudder you will steer
By my spark in twilight sky
Wish me well good bye and bye.


the tower

Princess priestess in her tower
Prays each minute hour by hour
Which turn to years as she recounts
Tarnished knights on hobbled mounts
Troubadors with fancy plumes
Who pillage her sacred rooms
Waiting sadly for her one
As her tower is undone
Everything she held as true
False knights, false love, did undo
Betrayal did put her there
Buried her in blue blue air
Trapped by her own ideal
Perfect prince, so unreal
Promise to be free again
If, if and only when
A shabby love with honest eyes
Could spare deadly compromise
Waiting waiting such a while
She perished for lack of smile
A single rose, a broken fence
She died awaiting true romance
She will never find her other
Not one could discover
What she lived alone to give
Why she begged for reprieve
She built her tower for protection
Sticks and stones against rejection
Princess, priestess, sister, mother
She died awaiting one true lover.


smallness

i’m not crying about this world
no tears for me, but for inner girl
the child we hold close inside
who is terrified of being alive
her world was full of peace
alone under quiet redwood trees
no judgement and no sin
just breathing is-ness, so-called zen


1994 journal entry

i could have stayed in that small town, it would not have made any difference. i could relocate to a new province, searching, expanding my horizons in the quest for healthy mind, kind words, gentle hands that allow me to open doors my friend by my side, standing together against the tide of critical hypocrisy, making love with tears in our eyes, gentle hands banishing. i’ve been weaving spells into my hair it seems for so long my dreams are losing their meaning i think a change of scene is needed. sometimes i ask myself, how much longer do i need to be on this planet, great revelations come and go while i still hope for the next best thing to come along and i know that i do not know; life is a tediously wonderful series of paradoxes. miracles are a matter of routine in the third world; here am i, still alone, waiting for gentle hands, the healthy mind, teatime in the 4th dimension.

i’ve been watching the atoms fall like rain through the trees, through my trailer, through my window, and i wonder about gravity – a serious commitment. seeking a core, a parallel universe in the centre of the earth, the secret is that close. the revolution in my back yard takes precedence over a social life. who needs a social life when so many lovers are knocking at my subconscious every night i am dizzy from their demands the lovers do not have gentle hands. we learn our lessons and we carry on. in my dreams i am a ninja, dancing with death a butterfly on my shoulder armed to the teeth i dance in defence of gentle hands that touch my mind, atoms falling through. i mock myself with a happy face like making fun of you like breaking masks the goddess of destruction wears an infinite smile correct me if i am wrong.

i might stay up all night long talking to myself, waiting for the strange sunrise while moonlight fades from my eyes, tired only of the cruelty in my life. if only i could throw this pot of piss at the hateful people and be done, forgive. my speculations are as useful as a pocketful of superstition, worthless. cruelty is the critical mind. paradox is the cat’s cradle, beginning and ending as nothing, becoming as i speculate, weaving spells with an infinite smile, weaving words for your pleasure, titillating intellect, talking to myself all night long do not take it personally it is a game i play well.

i think of the things i do with my two hands, the things i don’t do, why. things i don’t do but could, could but don’t, why. i don’t want to be touched by people, with their cruel selfish intentions. i touch earth, fire, sky, water, and i don’t think about it often. what goes on in my mind is mirrored in what i do with my hands. i see what other people do with their hands, and i cover my eyes.


grey day, grey nightfall, restless breeze sounds like an astral body swathed in silk, slithering through eucalyptus. i feel old, i feel like jupiter, as if i were the one pummelled by comets, like i’ve had the wind knocked out of me and it is whispering in the trees, seeking the home it knew.