rouge whispers

theft incomplete
as bees pollinate half dead flowers
these words that are spoken
are meant as nothing more than
an illustration of languid lucidity
the feed is indirect, corrupt
and digital goodbyes
are all we have left

morning with no rain
hungover, and needlessly so
the outside world is birthed in
vibrant november tones
that seems so strange
as the sun casts
vagrant shadows
that have been missing for days

i watched science
cross the streams with magic
forming fragile hands of liberation
softly and sadistically they climb
stretching towards peaks of
confident stability

docile peasant,
desperate poet,
grant me the word
because this literary madness is
a fallacy, a crescendo of
unrealized dreams

the head shows sign of trauma
remembering how the world
was once cold and white
all heroes retire
and everyone dies
the cat didn’t make it across the road
and the trash cans are full
the thrill is gone
and the summer is over
the book is read
and my bank account is empty

silver turns to iron
and gold turns to lead
as sweat stained sheets
wrap an empty bed
yet, the cats continue to cater
to moments lost in time
and the elusive girl
continues to smile

sitting on my porch steps
wrapped in the foggy malnourished morning
this notebook taunts me
written as an upright or uptight citizen
i continue to type uselessly
at this infernal machine
with poems as prayers, prophecies
or perhaps just insults
too many words, phrases
swirling around in my mind
they come and go as quickly as
morning bird songs lonely in flight

manic malcontents
calculating caricatures
within the infinity watch

everywhere i go
i see construction
tearing down of the old
to build something new
but sometimes old is better
and now i realize
i’m not old
just older

the switches are set
it’s a life of
protein shakes during the week
and liquor on the weekends
with the occasional meal thrown in
for good measure

factionalism under a grey sunrise
there is no success
only a series of
perpetual  encounters, ecstasies,
half baked hallucinations
rolled in facile facilitation
and forecasted failures

too much patience
or not enough
daylight savings time has ended
and the first frost has
fallen into place
chainsaws of love
rip to the heart of the matter
and i crave distractions
of the highest order
cruelty is a beast named desire
and the fates are waiting quietly
for january to arrive



Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *