Archive for the 'Poetry' Category

The Path of Flowers

Which has led to my soul to the prison of my body?

This part of me is not living

When I am not being God’s spectacular creature, writing is describing what is behind the veil without ever seeing it. My mother was a crow but my father  was a spirit.


Transcript of Psychology

This is just me

I don’t know if you like it.

You know I don’t consider myself apart of what’s going on around here. This is what they eat. This is their hunger and how they quench their thirst. My hunger is the words and the medium is just an excuse to hurt somebody.


A sound that runs thru every cell.

the bodies that yell at me.

Sweeping I want to go to some place weird that I’ve never been before.

How about that? 

A good man is sick. 

I just murdered new emotions 

He was an actor happen everyday 

In life. 

Only write. All authors (whether real or unreal) only write about what they know. I write about whores and lies.

Whether It’s In His Mind Or Mine

.Past my body is 

.Behind you dangerous; I’m 

loaded, cocked 

(won’t be) Coming around. and ready to 


ass of champions

My Subject

Painting Carving 



Taking a picture 
The clothes you where.

The way you mess your hair 

The scent of boys, riding through the air. 

At the end of the row in the final booth, he looks straight at me. Up and let his lip fall agape. Violent green eyes framed by a chin strap on his relatively square face. A mole I think; and a blue shirt. 

Looking back,… 

With your ring in your ear sing


memorize my lines as I read them 

I realized I was beginning to be. 


This, The One Thing My boy friend 

I still want to have is right 

A seat… behind you. There. 

Since this is one of my last chances, 

I want to note the exact color of your eyes. 

Green, but an autumn green, 

Brighter than hazel. More 

enduring somehow


the greater your anonymity 

the more beautiful the masses 

the more you, desiring 

his buttock, with a youthful indent, 

bobbing left to right, 

as he trotted down a sun-drenched hill. 

This is my last chance to see them all. 

Again, and to see what I never saw all over: 

The Brat (military) 

The Brute 

The Player (soccer) 

The Silent-Type 

The Scented and The Sensual 

All the colors they where. The bitter expression on their faces and the way I want to pry them apart. 

The One-I-Never-Noticed-Before 

And the Names I still don’t know 

The Search for Better Adjectives to Describe Them, 


Arms, no other words to describe them, 

But, encompassing.

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