When an over impassioned heart runs for love
It finds logic hard to follow.
When a scream-torn throat is fed defeat
It finds it hard to swallow.
And when a terrified soul suspects the same
In a hopeless bed it’ll wallow
Waiting for the instant of those words
Expected to leave it hollow.

a would-be-writer said

“Everything hurts,
It’s agony.
A deep a brooding
A fit of creeping treachery.
It burns –
This hole in me.

It shutters and it mimics,
It tricks
With its intimates,
It’s something made of dust
On pictures,
But I know it’s killing me.”

he babbles on

“There are foreign boots
In sacred places,
Stomping like a marching band
Over fields of nukewaste graves
Filled with gunshot kids.
But all I feel
Beneath those tremors
Are just those petty,
Juvenile scratches
On those coffin lids.”

he  randomly utilizes the poetic refrain

“Everything hurts,
It’s agony.
A deep a breeding
A fit of creeping treachery.
It burns –
This hole in me.”

he feels redundant
the volume of his voice is rising

“But for far too long
I’ve worn this crown;
It’s made of thorns and termites.
And though we’ve fought
And talked
I can’t calm down,
But I’m done
With all of these bad nights.”

he  believes he’s fixed the situation

the lover rolls over,
turning away from him

and herself

(she doesn’t like the way
his words can seethe)
“I love you, and I’m sorry,
That really is unfair.
For me it only hurts
Every time
I breathe.”

Braided and groomed frays,

Those assumed best-left unweave,

May not seem much as coupled days

But after months, such marks they leave.

Three minutes till the next train;
Estimated 13 miles per hour;
Foot temperature low 30s
567 degrees external power.

Crunch the numbers, mash em up
Like a paranoid mathematician,
Estimate, recount, calculate:
What’s the probability of this transition?


Entirely consisting of pennies and dimes
Well, maybe a quarter or two
But no fucking nickels
Your pocket has these little chimes
Reminding you what the cost is.
A penny saved is a penny earned,
Ain’t that right, Ben Franklin?
Well an everyday spent
Builds a debt of malcontent,
And daily pennies
Don’t outweigh that.
But “Keep collecting, saving up!
Because – perhaps –
By the time your married
Those daily pennies you save up
With be worth all that spare-same
That you carried.”

When a homely mist
Of loneliness
Drifts into your view,
And you feel
That only this
Slow, lonely mist
Can brush
The thirst in you,
You’re being too
And it’s hard to misconstrue
That the only mist
Of sad loneliness
Is the one
Clouded by you.

Untitled #52

It’s a habit,

It’s just something

That we do everyday.

It’s just a nothing

Little ritual

Of anything that near may lay.

It’s a habit,

Just a habit

That neither of us want to quit.

It’s a habit,

Just a habit,

But something more inhabits it.