We all dance in the nude almost …show all our assets almost …the drum beats almost… in synchronicity …. we show everything almost …people watch us intently almost… we dance almost … in our bikinis ….then someone pranks and loosens the threads...as we hold on to the bikinis … then let them drop almost… we enjoy dancing …as men rub along their hard ons ….we continue to dance …then pair off to another land …all of our own …each one with another one ….we pair..we pair..we pair… as the music continues to play …we dose on and make belief …we two each other dare to relieve….

GRIEF

What words are worth the telling
when they have been told before.
there are no eyes to see
beyond what they want to see
more than they want to know..

What is this thing called “grief”
that makes us suffer so
what heart embraces another
lost to its own humanity.
What words of consolation
where there are none.

Each of us dances in circles
like planets around the sun
never touching
never knowing the other one.

Who is the muddy patch
that outlived night
and storm,
that grew wild flowers
to deck its trampled head?

It is their habit, I have learned,
some people come
to steal the roses ere they bloom.

They sing a little while,
then dance among
the fallen leaves,
only to be gone by morning,
without goodbyes
and promises of return,
leaving footprints in the earth.

I would've electrified the air,
sparkled it with rust and lemons.
Ah, but there is not time for that!
Only time
for
aggravating
and troublesome demands
flooding like
paper chairs
in the water.

I would have dreamt of more solutions.
Left them littered like dandruff
on the pinnacle of creation.
Ah, but there is not time for that!

There's never time for impossibilities.
Too many
concrete diaper's
demanding to
be filled.

I stand. I sit.
I whimper and whisper.
But it does not matter.

Still the danger looms

Cold is the grave
to which I go
leaving nothing
but an embers glow

Dark is the road
on which I'll travel
while world surrounding
begins to unravel

The beating of wings
is all I hear
the reason for being
becomes unclear

Listless trees
hung with blackened souls
line each side
like Centurians of old

Shattered bones litter
the unpaved roads
whispers echo the thoughts
untold

Within the apothecary
of my treasured past memories
each rubber stoppered bottle
contains at least a trace
of you

The Cutting Edge

Shredding night with razor dreams
that brutalize its sleep
a tortured soul suspends itself in time
ankle deep in foreign mud
beneath a weeping sky
without the love of metaphor or rhyme

Why did your ghost remind
me of what you looked like?

Why did it sneak up on me,
unwanted
(yet still honestly desired)
in the morning?

That was rude,
my friend who lingers
on the fringes
of my sanity.

It was unfair
for you to come
like rain unannounced,
to stir up a storm
of thoughts
that flock in rebellion
of my chosen occupation,
all the while singing your name
ad nauseam.

The dawn comes, another one goes
yet darkness grows.
No sun to rise
into my eyes.

Your absence dims the lofty sky;
its blue turns shy,
then muses fade
into the shade.

Aida’s Dinner Guests….

Suddenly it’s clear the glass has been wiped,
an age old custom had been strewn across
streets of perfect blue tar.
But the miles and inches ahead were not
mine, though I surely had travelled them
you could see that al the chemist had been
clever in his deceit of rudimental substance.