Known Glitches

Shock value.
must have been written
on contingent context.
Stomach in knots
and nots in mind.
Yet here we are.
And while every thought
is like my back against a new wall,
I craft new caves, fashion new caverns
for her eyes only.
Maybe I missed something?

Smoldering

half whisper/half kiss
Her eyes,
like white sheets
are lies.
raspy future tense.

Daytime Brother

As I sank through the floor
control pooled between my ears;
how daft of me.
Asserted someday
I should use that vacancy.
Every word like a bite from a silver apple:
Divine. And they glisten.
Still sinking, now I’m the third person.
And yeah, alright, so we’re alive.
Looked at me as to say “and now what…”
Better excuses mostly,
hopefully.

Bad Seed

I’m running my mouth.
Is it wrong it amuses me?
I’m feeding every ego I can find,
except mine: that bleak thing.
Waste away! I declare.
I’m a bad book, no surprise.

Harsh Reality

Wishful thinking: no thoughts.
Logic-less and tongue-tied
maybe I should learn to whistle.
But I like thinking of ghosts.

Ardor

Wisdom, you filthy mistress;
almost infectious with your
famine affection.
Serving perfectly tempting
rancorous radiation in
voltaic portions.
Oh, I must confess:
I can taste the trickery
going down with every bite,
yet for seconds I beg.

Silver-Footed

Hot-bedded Thebes, something impious.
Sly Nereid,
how fitting you called me your Odysseus;
finally showing your Roman loyalties.
Dirus Ulixes,
you slanderer.

Spirit Animal

Am I learning lessons?
Occasionally deliberated martyr state of mind
dispels Phantom Heart Beat to the harbor.
Channeling confused retroactive atonement,
can’t help but laugh and blink one eye.
Dottie (x3)


How unfortunate for me.
(oh I love our little interludes Dottie)


Begging for some vulpine guidance,
it would seem my spirit animal was you.
And if your heart was in the right place
how could you vaporize my existence?
I suspect a famine fueled foe.

Cheapened

Waited by the sea.
Lately give it time and
you’ll be fine run through
my mind.
But please,
come with me.

Serrated Notation

My pen’s run amuck, swopping
ink with just any old thesis.
How long has this been going on?
I’ll admit the only trepidation
is not knowing if my every
word was rogue ballpoint profligacy or
verity I can claim.
Ink collateral is lost skin deep.
Nefarious scribbles preserve my insecurities.