The Grave Digger

I met a drunkard and
took pity.
Took him to the water hole. Let the horse drink. He told me

"Ya...Ya know... I...
The feeling.
The Stillness.
Soft dew on the grass... SIlence... in the night.

You still feel all the
mumbo jumbo
all the spiritual questions of
desecration... of religion
and ghosts as you dig into that sad, soft soil...

The fear...
gut deep drench of guilt and fear,
so tight like a suckerpunch, that
You KNOW.
Be it the laws or religions of it all
You're gonna have to pay for what you done. "

I left without paying his tab.

Untitled (union)

it is in these few fleeting moments

and in the way that I always open to a blank page

of how just your silhouettes

left my house. But as more

we’ve all shared

experienced.

The soft light gracing a shoulder

in a painting kind of way

having nothing to do with sex

or any bodily question

just the beauty of a moment

the times of experience

I love my friends. With a

trust that’s uncertain

but never absent.

For these moments of clarity.

Even though they would never understand

why I write this or what it means,

maybe just for that reason.

Because who cares.

And still, here they are.

THANK YOU

For keeping me sane some

times, otherwise I’d

have killed myself a long time

ago. Cause fuck this place.

and the misunderstanding of life.

Sometimes life is just

an unneeded aggravation. One

more fight, but here it is.

And I love being alive as much as I hate myself sometimes.

So that’s where it ends.

with just the fight.

with just the breathless experience.

Untitled.

This is your existence

don’t yourself be fooled

or let yourself be fooled by

those who would hope to

contain you

this is your existence

this is your trial and trivial tribulations

don’t feel uncertain about what might hope to be gained. we owe

you everything. and so goes in

an unspoken testimony, an

unsaid air about us to you. we

are proud that you, these people of whose vices we know not, have come to help us and make us stand

tall, strong, and loud about who we are and what it is we feel

and think

we do. we are so proud of all

of you as we hope you are proud

of us. in this light, you mean everything

this is our, of us and you, existence. and thank you.

Untitled.

I am the face of LUST.

I am the horn in each of the

four corners

leaving no retreat for safety

I am the twisted wicked smile.

That will drag you down & in.

in & down.

I am the drugs that will

distract your devotion

I am the unfaithful

I am lust

I am the sinful eyefuck.

I am the inviting wink to the contenders

I will let you in to let me in before I’m

ready to really try.

I am the sounds received

of complementing quotes in echoing ears.

repeating sweet virus’ into

the ear of the one you care for

I am the player

I am the stare that brings your

mate from you.

The stylish, controlling appearance

overwhelming those you wish to care for.

I infect with lust and remove you of

your affections and influence of emotions true

and you will hate me

because you know of love.

And what love is.

And the immediate necessity of my defeat. And you will hate me.

Because I reflect those from you

whom you give yourself to.

openly. and willingly. simply because

you know,

of the gentle softness

of love.

Gideon's Charlemagne

Leak this, the soiling facefuls

of what I’ve got

It’ll drip down you

It’ll run you

I’ll make you swim inside what I spit

You’ll drink me

every drop of me

I’ll make you lick it off yourself

I’m so thick

I taste so dedicated

And I myself, I soar

When I let you have it

Full Blast

When I push inside of you

everything that I have

You’ll taste me

and drink

it’s the fruit of the Gods

to me

to myself & I

obviously, to you.

Singing Children's Golden Voices

Children born

rusted and flaking hair

dripping the face of god

breathless from the atrophy

Ice Angel

Yes. Yes there is worry.

If in one soft palm you timidly held

the only REAL angel,

made of ice, over a hollow fire,

You’d worry too.

Proper Man

A good man, strong man, solid, proud man is a thinking man.

He thinks, and spends much of his time lost in a world like this one, only extrapolated off into its virtues and vices.

He takes long stares off into the void and lets his mind just go loftily into the emptiness, knowing full well the full bear it has to give.

A good man doesn't have much, in the way of the world.

Its often a man like this left to live longing and low like the pauper or the clown.

He doesn't spend his time in pursuit of the riches that we can touch, what little he chases might often wind up the riches to be drunk.

And why not? What lofty ambitions these fools do miss as the nights cool air rides high above the fog. To go there, to seek it, to breathe it in pure and fresh and clean. To drink merry, be Rosy, meet a sweet young lady and dime.

A good man leaves her in the morning, knowing full well the awful circle of woe that beseeches him, all good men and faith, simply by nature of the two types chasing.

Knowing not what would come but only what might have been, it is a safer place, safer then the hard and harsh of it all. The reality he ponders in long stares into the void.

A proper man, that one. Fit.

Shit man, they don't know the half of it.

The Only Prophet I know

I saw a man

a sick sad

strong

man.

In the streets

He laid there with a silk blanket beneath him

covered in baby powder

soaking up all his piss and shit.

He ate an apple trying desperately to fit in with the rest of us.

This is how he saw us. This is how he related himself to us.

A week later I saw him again on the corner

of my block

Which was more his then mine because he didn't pay for it

he just laid down and took it

and that takes balls that you ain't got.

He was holding a bible over his head screaming.

No more baby powder, no more blankets.

Just screaming piss and shit at us all.

"You couldn't say words while he was here? You had to talk when he was gone?"

Over and over and over again he screamed at what he was trying to be.

A few weeks later

again on his corner.

I never crossed the street to avoid him. Because I am not that afraid.

He held up the bible

And pointed with his free hand to the barber chair that he had gotten from god knows where.

The sweat and grime and stench were in his fingernails now, and under his belly lining.

He pointed at the chair, soot faced and shoeless.

An invisible man sat there. Jesus, God, any incantation.

His shoes were in front of the chair, the feet of the invisible man.

He didn't say a word. Neither of them did.

And I though to myself, "My my, if that isn't the strongest sentiment of emptiness, of the real dirty under your skin shit and piss I've ever seen. I wonder why he was ever trying to cover it up in the first place."

I saw the incredibly sad loneliness, the longing that this entire world shrinks under.

We don't see but can feel, we ignore we feel until we see it and then it's expected so

We don't even switch to the other side of the street because we're not that afraid.

Everything dying here.

Haven't seen him since.