What makes people tick?

We’re all unique in pulse, pattern
syncopated ticks
in cacophony,
wild metronomes
pushing blood around
to the sound
of thumps in the night
to slow the rhythm
we can’t manage,
clocks to give us unreachable regularity
at such a steady pace
that impairs our confident and independent stride.
Tame tempos that suit your temperament:
largo, presto, adagio, allegro.
You’ll grow in cadence,
with licks of ocean tides,
join the crickets,
find the choir bellowing
tones in your bpm,
dance with winds
that make barn doors rattle and clap,
laugh until you’re out of sync,
ride the brink of gasps
fluttering and trembling
your throbbing core.
That cardiac pause looms,
eternities of pendulums
hanging still like retired drumsticks,
eminent windless dark…
Time does not stop at death.
It endures without a beat
to move with,
a paralysis of pulses,
no sound
to measure
breaths drawn.
So at dawn, arise!
March to your drum,
inflect and step 
into your OWN time.
Published in: on February 29, 2012 at 12:27 am  Comments (2)  
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You cannot fuck me dry
You may be void of feeling
and feeling me may be
the only time you feel
There is no end to my well,
well, you will still
be empty
I am full of the juice you want,
but also the blood
that makes my heart pump
Teeming with intensity
in emotion, rejected,
erected, you bury apathy
into me as if it is medicine
I know you better than
Your health
is a fable
and I am racing
to die first
since you thirst
to be alone
on your throne,
the king of oblivion
who can polish
his own damn sceptre
with dry fucking hands.
Published in: on February 7, 2012 at 9:47 am  Leave a Comment  
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Venn there done that

Our night sailing ships collided
The bachelor was brided
Two rings exchanged
Two circles overlapping
Venn said that sliver shared is slim
If you really love him
Cross over like an eclipse
Into the space
You do not understand
And so I am leaving the space I represent
I cannot lie, I do resent
His abesence in my circle left
A cold, black, empty void
And maybe someday soon he’ll see
The wonders that were part of me
and explore that abandoned ghost town territory
To resurrect his soul crushed wife
Published in: on February 6, 2012 at 12:50 am  Leave a Comment  
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She won’t admit it, but
she wants to be a cause worth pursuing;
To make a man
trapezius flaring,
jugular bulging,
clenched and pumping
with determination;
tackled to the ground
and ravaged like a battlefield.
She won’t admit it,
but she wants to be a territory worth fighting for,
even if she fights back,
she is begging
to be won;
to have a soldier
of desire
conquer her,
to be completely
by his might,
to have him launch an attack
so fierce
it will end in
bloody surrender.
She won’t admit it,
She will be coy, will put up walls
She wants torn down,
Will wail for her troops
to save her,
But her lusting heart is a defector
Longing to be shackled
And bound, impounded
And pounded into
Succumbed weak yielding torture.
Published in: on February 5, 2012 at 2:00 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Once I was a spring chicken.
Through time you plucked
Each feather,
One by one
Loves me, loves me not.
I’ve been reduced
to a pile of down feathers;
strike me with your fist
over and over
beat me down;
it only makes me fluffier
And when you are through,
I will give your head
The comfort that breeds
Conscience steeped dreams, streams
of tar infused guilt
Rolled dry in my downy discipline.
And if you beg,
I will pluck you clean again.
Published in: on February 5, 2012 at 1:25 pm  Comments (2)  
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Verbal Suicide

My words,

not just falling on deaf ears,

but splattering them

like the concrete

under a suicide jumper

with a resounding thud.

I’ve casted them like leagues of lemmings

hurling towards the ocean

and have spewed the thoughts and drops

siphoned from the bottom of my heart.

Now I am only dry heaving and running the pump dry.

I can’t give enough, change enough, do enough, say enough

I’ve loved enough, served enough, understood enough, had enough

To make lonely men jealous you are mine

Yet I’m a swine, more boorish than boring

My 1st amendments hog-tied

Into telepathic snorts

And now we’re out of sorts

For this vowed eternity

Playing house in front of a live audience

That never laughs



Published in: on February 3, 2012 at 12:18 am  Leave a Comment  
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