fox dream

oh tiny fox, i see that you are shivering.
let me drape your peppermint fur
in untold passionate words
to keep you hot and content and panting,
while a piano echoes softly in the background,
and a fat cat dreams at the foot of the bed,
and the spines of old books look down upon us
as i push my lips into the back of your neck,

while autumn nails scrape
along the skin of my house,
and your tiny fox paws
press against my brave body,
and your tiny fox heart
beats out a private symphony,
and i wear your whispers like a robe,
and i hold my nervous breath.


that look

i've been waiting
to give you my name
for longer than the summer season.
you've said all the right things
in daydreams
so few and far between.
and now that you have it,
does my name feel
as hot in your throat,
as yours does to me?

just one smirk
and i'm pinned to the wall,
panting like a mutt,
my tongue a dead slab of pink meat,
unable to let out any dashing thing,
my weakness for you
so obvious and plain
in the shadow of the streetlight,
the cards turned upward,
all suits revealed.

you got that look,
the one that makes
a mourner out of me.
put a wreath around my tired neck,
i will never be
your fascinating mystery.



the theatre was dying,
and every child ignored me.
i wasn't what they came to see:
a man breathing desperately,
trying to find the light
in just another empty night.

you could smell it in the air:
old men going nowhere
and living out their final dream
played out on a movie screen.

and i lost myself today
while i watched the children play.
they have everything they need
while i can only sit and plead

to young flesh sweating
in a room full of loss
as insecurity grows
upon my skin like moss.


future ghosts

floating by your school
of future ghosts
reminds me that I miss
the way you used to kiss
my telephone every night
in the fading autumn light
before you went
dream hunting,

while the teachers were asleep
and the streetlamps
opened up their golden eyes
to gaze upon
the curve of your smile,
you gave your voice to me,
you wanted me to listen.

but time is a liar,
I thought we could fool it.
and the weight of years
is dense and heavy,
hanging in the air between us,
muffling your final whispers:
"It is too late, old sun,
too late, too late.
Just forget, just forget,
just close your pretty eyes."

(old poem//november 9th 2009)


I'm squirting ink again,
because whenever
I close my eyes
faces of angels
appear before me,
and every one I recognize
as one I want to save my life.

this pen is my
dishonest compromise:
I write about
the way you taste
and fool myself
into believing
I can touch you at anytime.

(old poem//november 9th 2009)

steam & sunshine

sometimes I hear
music so beautiful
I want to grab you by the hair
and push your ear
against the speakers
so you can hear
the fruit of my gospel:
hymns I hum eternally
within my heart
that fill me full
of steam and sunshine.

it's a dialogue between
my fear and love
for all things made
from atoms and shapes
that scuttle through
this world we're all trying
to make a home out of.

your hair is nowhere near,
it lies quiet upon another pillow.
but I have a bedroom run red
with the blood of artists,
and I guess that's enough weaponry
to battle winter's yawning:
I just have to keep
these records spinning.

(old poem//november 6th 2009)

syncopated sermons

seizures in a sea of smiles,
baptismal electrocution,
many hands strain
upward to caress
a mirrorball that reflects
the face of god.

this is my ressurection:
to syncopated sermons
hot bodies collide,
and I am just a child,
hearing blood ringing
in my ears like
it was the very first time.

(old poem//november 6th 2009)