Monday, December 26, 2011

Remaining dues...

I am the skeleton in my own closet,
The hiatus when I go amiss,
Look for me between your fingers,
I am the wind in your hair
And out through the space in between...
Remain, remain...
My line of sight befalls and Boom!
My thunderbolt,
Or my benediction;
Remain, remain...
Leveed from me...
Free of my chaos
And our Evangeline.

You are my half-eaten breakfast bread,
My frozen cannabis confiscated,
I am the wind, always the wind,
In your beautiful hair.

And out through the space in between....

Dead or besotted, what line sorts the two,
Awake or just alive, what reason remains
To pay the dues...


Monday, December 19, 2011

Not without a Hint anymore...

You once said, we would run away. We would live in a cottage of straw and wood, near the river of fishes and sunsets.You would fish all day, and come back by nightfall.We would eat simple food and then... you would play your guitar and we would sing our songs...till tired,we would fall asleep.What happened to that dream...What happens to all those dreams...

It's a crying  headache...
A running wreckage
Far from the scene of crime
And illusions,
A fulsome cremation
Of an undead soul...
Clinging to an incomplete dream about Life.
I have come, a long way
Past the postcard yellow-flecked fields,
That moves when the shadow befalls
Like a creature aroused.
There,look,trembling little calf runs,
Anxiously begotten, for its mama.
I have also run,
Through the distorted rails,
The muted wails
Of a winter sun.
Where the mechanical ticking of uncertain dreams
Do end,
And an ancient one begins,
Where life has ceased to end or begin,
Where a crying headache is a disease.

Where we once spoke of running away to.....

There they weave a lonely sweater,
For the faithless stranger of the suburbs...
There they smile,
A token of recognition,
For the hint they would not let slip by...

Let's run away,
The world screams,
Let us all run away...

Thursday, December 15, 2011

Not without a Hint

Nothing new,
Just a pigment of dust
In the patina of an old alloy rust...
It isn't dust,really;
More like a smudge...
Writ with fingerprints,
A thumb rule of reminiscence.

As the eyes bore into their meaning,
Their origin and its sin,
Pockmarked,enervated,never mind...
A dextrous hand and brush will paint out
The lies and truth that was.
A hidden vestige of faith reclaimed
In a leftover dust, a facsimile, the evidence,
For him to start believing again...
That the one sought is gone, but not without a hint.