between my broken hands

 

the rain always runs
but for a fleeting moment leaves them wet
my mirror is in pieces in too many places
but were it whole I disappear
there will be none of me left
I was punished most of life
for having breasts for smiling
for having breasts for crying
but now I know, had I not, they who must
will find something else
it was the best of times,
it was the worst of times,
sorry, Mr. Dickens
and thank you

 

disturbed

keep fresh metal wrap clung to the hood
its called a thermonuclear weapon
was a car with some bozo on the wheel
that slammed first and far away the herd
they heard him screech and the peace was disturbed
but still no panic in the streets
they pulled a cowl over their faces and prayed
deliverance was the only end in the end
the ultimate entitlement
they had waited all their life to be freed
panic moron panic
the bombs gone off on you
in the drivers seat

dark angel – the voiceover

You can read the poem here

happy birthday sweetheart :*

 

murder and music

and the music was murdered on the day it was all that remained
level with the sea and take a glass fill it up just half
then ask, half full half empty what do you see
music was born in the waves then sunk carefully in the endless ocean
so we would never run out until the moon spurned the sea
ask the shells music was born in their ear shaped hearts
they taught the land they taught the leaves
before breaking into one last song inside the sands
they taught the wind to wave like the sea
and the wind never stopped learning until just one tree remained
and they covered up the sky until just one song remained
trying to save the last human being before shadow before dream
and the music died when his eyes turned so green
his heart grew so foul and his reflection grew so pale
nobody knew the music would die when they took it in their hands
filled half a glass and asked now make me fly
sold the deathless urge each day for a dollar twenty five
and that was how the music died

prayer for living

 

sweet
mirrors of parts
martyrs of magic
cupped inside the eternal womb
some peddlers of art
from beyond the tomb
would you have
a little to eat
a little too much
to live
perchance to die
afraid alone always
sugar dissolving in sand
white water stuck
in your hand
the glove flung down
on a spotless land
spiral swish feather drift
and the beast
waits for decay
don’t forget the ants