Near Empty Bar Stools

Passage of time
marked by drinks and the
clinking of glasses being cleaned.

My mind far from my eyes.
My eyes far from my mind.

I think I met you when you were young
but I’m not sure if that was me all so long ago,
or that you’d be the shade whom I stand across from now.
I never thought I’d still know you now, or how I still
smile murmuring your name.

Quell my brain who
barrages me with thoughts of truth!
I’m not as strong as it claims to be, so
can some soul tell me the sick, sadistic
pleasure it gives me with pictures and
scenes that taunt my eyes and which
hungers the heart – reminding of the standing
echoes.

Diluted poison, a heavy taste of
amber reassures the bones that it won’t
feel the dull pain much longer. Clogs my
pores, pouring another glass – don’t stop me
as I swallow a newer death sentence.

Anything, to hope to distract me and my mind
from my brain.

Pulling Words

Perhaps I’m only bored.
Perhaps I’m saddened by my loss of words.

And instead string together the remaining
frames of thought, as though that could
help stall the throne of time.

I think you mistook me for someone else.
When we met so long ago, you thought
me to be someone who shares me name yet
acts in such a way in which I could only hope to
be brave.

And in sleep the peace
that settles me is for never really long.
Awake to thoughts and songs which dissipate
before too long – enough to taste such words, but
never enough to swallow the verse.

Ephemeral sins
from last night line
the seaming of my sides, filling
the spine, tainting my eyes, disfigure -quick-
gone and there.

Vanished before time.

Summer Song of Sin

Last call of
summer songs of sin.
The single night where
the show leads me nowhere
to begin except to the
roaring silence streets.

There are the memories
I will forget, no doubt,
and recall with loud
rings of -When and -Where
and -Tell me when this
happened, again.

This night goes no further than
the start. A stalled car neath
the amber light, turned green
once more the streets meet
with yells of swan songs of
yet occurred escape.

The age but slight,
te wind but still.
Do these screams evade
forgotten lines of roads
once trodden? Or do
they fall into the new
pavemented, cemented
homes of steel?

Disappearing into
the call, the car and I share
no membrance at -How or
-When they fall.

6 July

Both of us are alive at the exactly the same time. What an amazing gift.
Written in a thought of prosperity and optimism, oh how well that ship did sink.

Instead of writing to you I write of you,
with words that rain down my clothes as the clouds
blow across my mind.

Within the night the thunder rolls and tumbles
beneath my bed, and in the end all I have is something
which awakens my mind during the night.