She stopped to look at me;
Of course I noticed,
It’s what’s come and saved me;
In the garden that we’ve planted,
In the life that we’ve harvested.
So long nights are star-lit,
Wisdom is a campfire,
Pride is found in a solid axe
And love is what reminds me…
Just like a well worn pair of leggings.
You’re there every night!
Roosters wake me at the break of dawn.
I smell well worn leather
And anticipate your footsteps
Coming to say good morning every morning.
Dear George,
It’s been two years since I last heard from you,
I’ve been wondering if there’s been some trouble
Flirting the edges of your peaceful existence
I’ve always known you to have.
How is Martha? Cindy and I always chat about how lovely
Of a woman she is – and of course you are, my friend.
I frequently think back to our college days.. Do you?
Do you remember that night we sat on the patio at the Gate
And drank ourselves silly?
I think you were going downtown to some punk bar
Which I accompanied you on.
Do you remember jumping into/over that tree, down the drop?
I’m surprised we didn’t break bones doing that.
How big was that drop? Must have been about 5 feet or so..
Of course you have memories. I think we’ve talked about this before.
My heart is humble these days, perhaps it’s my inner peace,
Perhaps it’s also my slow submission towards some light.
I see that light in you when we come and visit.
Do you know what I’m talking about?
I find myself believing more and more in the spiritual world,
In listening to energy around us.. I think it’s only in my nature
To want to also influence the energy around us,
But if you ask me, this is dangerously close to necromancy.
Well, that or being God.
We’ve never talked about God before. What is your God?
Hope all is well my friend. I look forward to hearing from you.
Love,
Your ol’ friend,
Hermann Flicke
Hold me as we go out of our heads
And into stardust that
Continually floats about
Uncommon thoughts that live here.
Feel freedom with me,
Hold my hand tight
And sing a song
A little out of key.
Controlled by whipper-wasps,
Heavy in synchronicity
To our beating pulse
Through which our fingers touch.
Can you climb into my memory,
See the ghosts that I see?
I’ve waited for a sign to be
Alone in simple harmony.
But as my days turn dark inside,
As my simple answers flirt
With necromancy,
I crave compassion, empathy,
And hope all shall carry me.
Nobody saw the pigeon I passed;
I was an angel
Holding late setting sun.
Eyes of light blue
That crawled upon edges
Of shallow stages – dimly lit.
I was the gravest,
And as time lurched
It was I whom all met.
Black and chrome
Ancient symbology
Free flowing ale
Whisper to me in silence until rain forever stains.
I want to hear what your heart cannot speak;
I want to let bumps upon my thickened skin
Wash away with lines of another chance.
Wishes of a heart that came and never thence remains.
I can live here for as long as my number remains the same,
Until my idle thoughts formulate
What figures my fingers are much to scared to trace.
In the end of all of it I had a reason.
There were two dots crossed off a long list of imaginations
And the cowboy had everything left to lose should it fail.
But that wasn’t the event there that day, you see,
A long riflesman came staggering in as the town watched
Thinking to themselves about a memory they all-to-quickly refused to listen to.
I couldn’t help but think that I was an envelope,
A whisper sealed away awaiting some sort of lucky ticket holder.
My eyes remained calm as time’s length pushed on.
Crimson was the colour of noon’s high sun.
Picking pockets like a Bazaar thief in Catholic quarters;
The city clinched tighter.
There once was an island inside of my dreams,
Floating with unseen amounts of impossibilities.
I was homesick. I wasn’t allowed to be there anymore.
So for now they sang, in cool shade of a willow tree.
And a stable meant for their local butcher
Fed the gatherers, who all at once came.
Dust kicked up my hallow heart’s worms and sheered into the edge;
At once I was offered fine takings
And imagined I was an elder.
In the end, we never really know what we’re coming up against.
Like a thrill seeking pre-teen with ill conceived notions of danger.
…life ain’t a movie man. Life just ain’t like that.
So there we are, hanging out with our dicks up Five street.
I shot into darkness as if I knew this foreign lover language;
But never did skies open for my warmest of wishes.
Collapse! Collapse my dear lover, it’s gone on too far.
I’ve pushed to the end and I’m not quite back again.
…Whisper my madness with two squiggled lines to display it in this dust.
Misunderstanding again with my heart. It is drawstrings. It is amicable.
It is pleasing to eyes that only pray upon sunsets.
It is a thousand masterpieces; perfected.
I cannot hurry your authorship, for wind is at neigh and folly on the deck.
A thousand hungry scavengers await in lost calluses at bays end,
Like cavernous regions of our shoreline amidst Gaia’s sweetest affection.
Cower young souls, breath in foul punches of thine enemy,
Congruency only relays smartest on deftest of blokes.
Carry this lanyard on further, as wayward as you choose.
Whisper everything
You know I need to hear.
Forget all that nonsense
About niceties
And proper-like behavior.
I want disguise stripped bare.
I desire my hand in your hair.
And when the doves take flight,
I shall shine like the moon.