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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A car wreck,
A tornado,
Some child’s eyes reading my soul,
Then walking away.
Sirens sweating my subconscious,
But no one around to document how I toss and turn
I usually have to trip over a curb,
Or be bothered by a fly
For my thoughts to rise
And be released into my opened eyes.
How come, cigarette comes first to mind?
Fragments of dreams soaking in my hangover swamp,
Conversations I wanted to remember, all faded last night,
Among the ice in my glass…

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Mirrors in my world are the most selfish objects;
Often frightening and always changing…
Over the years I seem to have acquired the threshold of an ashtray
When it comes to pain,
But at the peaks of highs,
Or curled below in the lowest of lows,
I’m more like a painting on the wall,
Perhaps a painting of an ashtray.
I have poked through the remains of battles,
For a moment’s smoke, a friendly face…
Over the years, forgetting has been the greatest task.

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Four Corners

Sincerity surrounds my sins,
Wrongdoings that mother will never know.
“Help Us Put An End to Mental Illness.”
Hospital’s came home,
Closed my eyes, and naked nurses ran one hell of a show,
In the four corners of my boredom…
Mother was not to blame.
Carried by care and concerned for a cure,
We will meet every now and then, some scattered nights,
When we die our temporary deaths.


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