the mind is arched.
heavy and aching.
flickers of light.
they cut the black.
lucky reflections from the surface.
a smile is given at times.

ode to an audience

you wait for release of some text to read,
Some paint on canvas to sit and watch,
A video to play with popcorn to eat
Or some space to wander with a date to impress,
But have a thought for the artist true
For we are all simply mad,
Escaping your zoo.

............................................................

In that weak place,
between an old love and unreachable solace.
The voice sings and screams and pulls at strings.
And the hand wants to write the whole heart on sheets to set alight.
But the heart wants to guard the pity, its currency.
So the mind struggles through it’s rising shards of madness,
It will fight
And battles may be won
But the war leaves scars of dried paths,
And they cannot be walked again,
Only watched
As you pass by

so there i was,
with the perfect song
for my lover, my life, my soul.
it talked of all,
the times of old,
but who would i send it to?

life support,
half price today,
inside the daily mail.

.......Sunday Mundane Tuesdays.......

what i would do with mondays,
is grab them by the neck,
wrap them round a burning stake,
and feed them to the snakes.

but then what of tuesdays?
they would then begin the week,
so replace the crown,
of the monday frown,
and shoot to kill the freak.

............. lupita ...........

that yellow never went,
sitting sturdy.
upon the skin,
just next to nail,
from the nicotine trail.

and the saliva crust,
upon the corner
of those once kissed lips
the butcher's daughter,
Lupita.