Monthly Archives: March 2013


No equator of self…
No night complete,
No fear known…
How nice they are to me,
These souls and breasts that’ll never know my fantasies;
Here and there, when I am seen,
When smiles and randomly thrown at me…
My soul has a sun,
But no equator of self,
I stumble into surprises in the mirror every time…
And seduced by substances,
I sacrifice sleep on certain nights,
Watching the irony linger,
As my sincerity and selfishness,
Walk hand in hand.

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My knees are weak,
But my heart loves to run;
Jesus could best describe what it is she does.
I don’t mean to mock the man,
But he would know.
Somewhere in this trip of mine,
There has to be written fruit,
I’ll try not to harm the trees,
But who is to say what the moment shall bring…?
Who is to say…
Who will I be…?

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First to Stick

Make yourself feel better,
When your character brings you down,
Or turns on you, and makes you nauseous,
And when the nearest toilet is all that’s on your mind,
And as near as it is,
It’s nowhere near as nauseous as you are,
Even though it deals with a lot more shit.
Regardless of the world and all revolving piss and shit,
It’s all about you, so make yourself feel better.
There are papers around
That can distract you of all the ups and downs,
That make you sleep in, or stay up…
There are people who carry you without you knowing.
Smiles out there that I’m sure you’d love to meet.
Things that you’re used to,
Some things that your insides call…
There are pleasures that are toxic,
But let us say that we bring that out in them.
You may not like them,
And that is fine,
We’re all different,
And that is lovely.
Once, I got high, and learned patience from a tree,
Then I stared at a pair of seagulls fucking.
That was the first time I laughed out loud all alone…
Well, maybe not exactly,
But it was the first to stick;
It stuck with me…
I wonder,
Will you do the same?

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If I could turn this cocaine drip into a poem,
Here now,
I would declare tonight a good night.
Something came,
Something stayed,
Something, someone,
Warm by the window,
Wondering, where that siren’s heading
And who might die?
Will a sentence suffice?
Here tonight,
Can a poem save my soul?

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The Flight Through

Smoking in her kilt,
Someone else is running the bar for now.
For now, some people may not be happy,
But who gives a shit about them poor saps and old fucks?
She is cold out there, smoking in her kilt,
And I want to tell her that even her knees are beautiful.
I hope she knows the flight through my veins,
My insignificant web of breaths, when I make her laugh…
“She doesn’t know,” I said,
But nobody was there to hear.
“She doesn’t know, but she has faith.”

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With His Hands

“She had remarkable breasts!” my grandfather said,
With his hands playing the part for us,
There was laughter,
And my grandmother angrily muttered
Some Arabic words that have never saved her
From the laughter of atheists and genuine breast lovers.
I must’ve been there, but I have no recollection,
I’ve only heard the story, over and over,
Each time with a different twist of a nipple,
Or some sincere and humorous wrinkle
In my grandfather’s smile…
Here I am, telling it now,
Disrespectful in my own way.
Forever in my head,
Are his hands
Over a pair of remarkable and imaginary breasts,
And the echo of my grandmother,
Angrily muttering some Arabic words.

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She was calm during her mother’s heart attack,
Her brother, not so much,
We were drunk, more or less,
When she told us of her yesterday;
She was smiling,
And the three of us listening
Turned silent and grim,
With squinted eyes, wondering things,
Oh the different things we must’ve wondered.
“It’ll hit me soon,” she said
As she started fanning herself with the cocktail menu,
The three of us listening,
Reached for our drinks,
Impeccable timing, but mine was empty.

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Only gas…
Uneasy gas and pleasant gases,
Gas between us, and gases in our gasps,
In our laughs,
Liquid and gas
Through to our deaths…
Gases in our graves,
Heavenly gas in our thoughts;
The thought of forever is a gas.
Try to be as natural as gas
While passing gas,
And just let it pass, pass…

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United Organs

The united organs have declared a state of emergency,
While faint and dizzy,
Falling over into thoughts that obstruct my breathing skin;
I am a worm under the stars,
There is a crack in our wall, and I love it,
Tell me why…?
The united organs, weary and red,
No longer wonder, or perhaps they never did,
Frustrated with the alcohol and smoke,
They make me dizzy, trying to tell me things…
Give or take, two pints a day, we have agreed,
And no more cocaine,
The rest we’ll have to wait and see.

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Name and face,
Please let something stick.
There is a beat, mellow as a mother’s tit,
And I wonder where it’s from,
And who may be dancing in the eye of that storm…
My waves, your waves…
Take me in like a drag,
Slap me to wake me once you get home,
And love, make sure to call your mother,
She called,
We spoke,
She is worried.

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