Bushy Eyes (day 1052)

You kind of end up asking the questions that resonate, that jive, that give way to concerned thought and pulsing consciousness. But this is ok, because we’re not supposed to be answering all the questions in monotone, in urban drawl.

Suicide mission.

And when you forget where you live like some kind of filtering drain spout garberating windowless dreams down conformity’s empty hole, you hesitate to ask the questions like my three lettered ‘why’.

It’s going to be ok because I’m going to strap on my wide brimmed cap and lift my eyes towards soulless sunsets and ignore the white short legged dogs roaming these parts. I don’t pat your back because I’ve got angels leaving dust spots, I pat your back because my bushy eyes have bat one – then the other – eye lashes; together independently.

How many moon cries, moon cries.

Leave my moonshine on the dog leash and flatten my glass nose-hips to rose my soft songs. I’m not a lover, I’m a lost song with in-articulate mumbles. I’m Bob Dylan relaxing on the beach with god-spoken sun beams brightening up my day. Loose my verbage you tongue tied nymph dancing about my state of arousal.

Who’s excuse is better? Who is remarkably left alone and wishing for silence. Who’s hands are rattling about the tin drum.

Who is resonating?

Deft Thoughts (day 1046)

I was an angel;
Struggling against purpose,
Harboring desire
Deep within action words
That you could not hear,
You could not feel,
You could not understand…
But we floated

I was an angel;
Distracting minute details
Into synchronicity,
Juggling and balancing
And crawling beside
Straight lines
Wish-washing my roads
With gravel timelines..
Dirty bloody knees

I was an angel
Singing my love-rich song
With arrows and soft colours
Diluting my expression
Like overcast clouds
On damp, dreary days.
Long words lingering on,
Left behind in old thoughts.

Hipsters Meatloaf (day 1044)

There’s sun here,
Beaming into my leftover sex eyes.
Wet ground pushing through
My grandmothers heirloom blanket
Floral – diamonds for my pleasure,

A lover’s legs wrap beyond consciousness,
Creasing my hunger
And playing games with children
Learning how to catch Frisbees,
And hipsters bikes
– Bloody impracticable bikes –
Making criss-crossing lines
Across freshly sprouted spring.

I’m drinking a wild blend of red
Eying patrons eying me…
I’m not annoyed with screaming children,
Just wondering how fun their game really is;
How long fun lasts
Before someones mother has had enough,
Started worrying about what types of spices
To leave out of tonight’s meatloaf
Vegetarian meatloaf,
Hipsters meatloaf.

Brown Candy (day 1043)

Your brown candy side part pulls at my edges
Leaving my manicured innocence clenching;
Reasonable drip sensing dilated pupils.

Pull into my senses you heart beating faster

Music rolls onward like wheels on the road
And I watch you, young brazen child,
Waiting for a spill on isle two

My tall, naked, and empty cup sits lonely

Please push your digital devices
A little closer to the edge
I’d like to have more space please

Tables always wobbly, clean, but wobbly and full

Cold patrons wander in stomping off the dew drops
I observe the wind blowing the black and white parquet awning
Where I unplug and vacate my window seat

The Art of Forgetting (day 1035)

Even visitors don’t bring lost songs
As they wipe their muddy shoes
At my open doors.
Like angels losing faith
I roam from here to you.

Along my back door, trails:
Straight out from here,
Switch crossing deeper into the woods.
I catch your disguise
Lost in my naked eyes.

Because I don’t know the answer.
I don’t know why we laugh
At birds feeding hungry.
I don’t know why I hear you
When you think long and
Deep into hollow’s eve
Flickering against the softness.

To catch me is your effort I praise;
Perhaps my missing piece,
My soul’s mate.
But long dropped baskets
Keeps staring at me.

The Last of My Soul (day 1032)

For the last of my soul
Lingered between barnacles,
To which, much to my dismay,
Spread blood amongst salty bubbles
Relocating my healthy initiative
– Re-digesting my acquired taste –
Into little bits of fish-bait.
My conscience flittered
Into spraying mist
Diving deep to discover
The last of my soul

Last Slice of Pie (day 1014)

This is not loneliness
Locked in an out-of-the-way cupboard
This is not misery
Straddled between once was and what will never be
This is life
One step after the other
Flooding with memories and hard times
Good days with lineups of lovers
And loss with too abrupt endings.
There are no inanimate objections,
There are no distractions or black out times,
It remains the good and the bad,
And one last slice of pie.