title

The Silence Tune

I'm in the open of the silence tune
where nothing's note is in my ear
typing a letter in blank of loom
on my fissured head of indented seams

Stillness camps in a cube of peace,
and words won't flow from lips of parch,
so silence's node slips with ease
to stifle noise's light in dark.

If a true plea had wings so innocent and fair,
through which place or time would mine have to
sour to show that penance is the threshold,
desire, the door, which needs be unbolted to liberate
my stall of lashes, wrinkles, blood and gore. For I've
waded in the depths of evil's shore and have delved into
the caves of leviathans galore
who dented my flesh,
halved my soul and
residued the rest
of me
on the deep sea floor. ...

Well it's three in the morning on a Friday night as I loiter about my comp in crinkled boxers tinged with fruit roll up stains. I've a seamlessly reoccurring dream that I've been in this physical state or mood of thought before and it is little wonder. I'm sixteen years old dwelling in an environment where gunshots aren't aberrational, where cocaine is a euphemism for sugar and where if your dog (or anyone living for that matter) dies in your midst you'd best chuck it out the window before triple-inch-lengthed ...

The Conjugal Meet

She trudged with an end of her soul
on the pave of serendipity
lane.

Her glory were bipeds
goading her on, his soul
was a doubt, scudding along
he turned at the bend,
of Jan frost end (so long)
her tickled lips pursed
and he whispered a song.