Desert Bombs

With your Lord on a string
choking your throat, a sting
to your intellect:
or the thoughts you can't collect.
It's your excuse for your life
and you pray that you're right.
A mistake means damnation,
only - to me - annihilation.
Clasp your hands before your face,
His blood, His body that your taste,
and the words you send to the clouds
(like desert bombs that sound too loud)
are empty claims of faith and righteousness
that death will teach is only myth.
How many lost for simple gain
before they learn to trust again?
In smoldering huts in country X,
young men chant their vengeful hex.
Their brethren forever fewer,
but they're the evil doers.
So, keep your faith and hold on tight,
it's hellfire your savior did ignite
when a country on his globe was vanished
and he declared his mission accomplished.

************************************************

There are a lot of people who've written this peom better than I did, but...whatev.


"It's his name on your mouth; it's his cross on your neck." Kevin Devine 'It's Time To Burn'

Letter

This is another letter I'll never send.
This is where I say the words I can't defend.
In silent cries to a distant friend
is how you'll know I've reached my end.
I need an ear, a hand, a love to lend
or all of it in one big blend.
Against this heat, I can't contend;
I shutter, stutter, break, and bend.

For all I've left unwritten and unsaid,
for all the weight upon my head,
I only wish you'd never fled
leaving me drained and dark and dead.
It's not your fault I bled;
it's your fault all that's ahead.
And you must have known I'd be misled
for all the words I let go unread.

I broke another promise;
I am pitiful and careless;
I am lost and hopeless
and I threw away your kindness.
I am looking for the shape of Jesus,
some salvation in his likeness;
it seems to work for the pious,
making everything bright and sinless.

I hate writing poetry that rhymes:
all the jingles we'll hear in our lifetimes.
Dead writers in their prime.
Stacks of trees you'll never climb.
No words, just chimes.
It oughtta be a crime.
Like a colorful mime,
it's not worth a dime.

So, come on now, pick up the pace
and say what you can say on white space.
I want you so close in this empty place,
but I know, at best, I'm in second place.
It's not in your words, but in your face;
I already know I lost the race.
You can dress me up in pink and lace,
but my heart is still what you'll debase.

************************************************

This is about, at least, three different people and it's all weaved together.

I'm kind of in this in-between because I don't actually want to articulate what I'm thinking and feeling, but I really want to say something about it. It's dangerous for any number of reasons, though. Of course, thinking it and feeling it is probably dangerous regardless of whether I put it in writing. I'm just not ready to admit anything yet.



"Afterall, what's wrong with second best?" Pedro The Lion Second Best

Devil's Heat

With devil's heat upon my back,
in a room that's empty and pitch-black,
I search for everything I lack;
I search to get myself on track.

There's fire right in front of me:
a burning, crumbling, dark city.
It's in my head, my vision's blurry;
It's in my palm with fingers sweaty.

Your eyes shine bright and then they burn
my timid brain in hopes I'll learn
through your mistakes and take a turn
away from sickness and my urn.

Please tell me now all that you know
of how to beat your greatest foe,
of hatred and that last death-blow,
of breathing in and letting go.


*********************************************

Last poem of winter break.




"Talk, talk, talk, talk your devils down..." Colour Revolt Naked And Red

Stray

I don't leave my house much these days.
Nobody asks for me anyway.
I think about all the other yesterdays
and all of the shit I still need to throw away.

It's funny when people try to say
that I live a life on the fray,
on the edges of disarray
as I keep my devils behind bars and at bay.

I hate myself for the way
I let you amuse me with wordplay
with your kind words and witty repartee
and even things you don't say.

I already expect you to betray
and you'll call it hearsay.
You're a verse turned essay
or a poem turned screenplay.

And to the God in whom I don't believe, I pray
that just this once He'll let you stay
to show me the path I couldn't lay
and hold my hand to ensure I won't stray.

*********************************************

I worked on this for a couple days and now that it's done I feel pretty "eh" about it. Nothing surprising there, though. Haha.




"I dream of Michelangelo when I'm lying in my bed. I see God upon the ceiling; I see angels ovrerhead. And He seems so close as He reaches out His hand. We are never quite as close as we are lead to understand..." Counting Crows When I Dream of Michelangelo

Socks And Gloves

Tell me: what are your scars?
Do you drink them down at bars?
Do they sleep where your lovers are?
Do they follow you near and far?

Tell me: who holds your blade?
Do you know who lurks behind the shade?
Do they cut so deep it'll never fade?
Do they grant forgiveness you never bade?

Tell me: what are your vices?
Do you think you'll make the same mistake twice?
Do they heckle you, even when they're nice.
Do they freeze your skin cold as ice?

Tell me: what quiets the rage?
Do you learn to understand with age?
Do they leave you locked within your cage?
Do they ever let you discard that page?

Tell me: who could you love?
Does she fly away with doves?
Does she press, push, and shove?
Can you hide regrets from her under socks and gloves?

************************************

Even though I used this quote last time, in recent weeks this line / song has been rattling around in my head. Since I stole it for this poem, here it is again:

"Can't you ever treat anyone nice? I think I'm gonna make the same mistake twice, gonna make the same mistake twice." Elliott Smith Punch And Judy

Criminal

What a lie you carve
and try to sell as art,
making every mistake over
and painting it red, black, and grey.

It's the only shade you see,
but you talk yourself down
and up and over and in
side and side to side.

Stolen images as criminal
as each stolen word
you swipe
from the next small thing.

Out of garages and basements
and ribcages and veins
spill ethereal thuths
onto brick color streets.

A vocabulary more real
than any I can comprehend;
it's my personal lacking
and it's starting to show.

******************************************



"I think I'm gonna make the same mistake twice..." Elliott Smith Punch And Judy

EverybodyElse

A conversation in your head
or a broken meter lost instead:
they want to tell you what you've misses;
they want to show you that you've pissed
away all the love you've ever had
along with promises too high to add.
At your ear, God whispers your destiny:
a vault of illusions, allusions, and elusive pity.
You can't let it go
as if it's for show
and the lines you draw
on flesh that won't thaw
remind your heart to beat
and your blood to heat.
It's all in preparation
for a more perfect perfection:
a you who is human,
someone who really can.
If it's all a ploy,
just a sly decoy,
then call me out
'cause you know what I'm about.
But fuck the perception
from lack of inspection.
Think for your fucking self.
I am everybody else.

************************************

I can't seem to stop myself from fucking rhyming and it's really annoying me. I am, however, writing with less structure for whatever that adds or subtracts from what I write. Write write write write write. It's fun to type that word. I only just noticed that now. Or maybe it's just more fun typing, in general, on Jess' laptop.

I want a word for this, but I guess if I ever found one, I'd stop writing all together. It's a search I'm on, a hunt. For what? For something that will take what's inside and literally pull it out. And I do mean literally. The word doesn't exist or if it does it's elusive. This has nothing to do with anything, but - then again - what ever really does?



I'm a roman candle; my head is full of flames." Elliott Smith Roman Candle

Canvas

It's like a black canvas or
a page that's already ripped.
Such useless words
and empty gestures
with slit throats
and amputated arms.
It's just another day,
up one road and past the next.
I don't know where you are:
behind my closed eyelids,
and my soundproof walls,
holding my cold body.
Spin light through
solid shut doors,
make me see what
I've not been shown before.

**************************************

Meh.



"You are the limb I've lost, but somehow I still feel." Brand New Untitled 4

Blue

Say it's your song
and you won't be wrong.
It's inherent in a life
that slices with its knife
through your black middle:
it only hurts a little.
Close your eyes,
see those signs,
turn away,
demons at bay...today,
series of shit,
a perfect fit,
like lust and heat,
a scared heartbeat.
But ignore me when I say
I want you where I lay.
From air that rasps my throat
to soft hands and a gentle note.
I am the in-between
of invisible and seen,
of love and hate,
of now or wait,
of up and down,
a smile, a frown.
If only you knew:
you make me blue.

*************************************

In a good way. :/

Elephant

Ignoring the elephant
who's sleeping in my bed.
I tell him that I can't,
but his voice sticks in my head.

Can you see it spelled out?
It's in ink and in skin.
I don't know what it's about,
but it calls from within.

It doesn't have to make sense;
in fact it rarely does.
Then it disappears in a glance;
it's not there and never was.

I hate the rhythm
and the heart I hear beat.
So sick I could kill them
all with passion and heat.

And I don't know how to tell you,
how to say it all out loud.
So, I hide my face from view
just to dodge the cloud.

I can survive if I cover
my ears and my eyes.
No time for vague metaphors
or half-hearted rhymes.

******************************************

Still on hiatus.


"I can be your best friend and you can be the elephant." - The Miracle Of '86 G-Song