Junk

Exes from Texas
As the midnight jive
Takes the midnight train.
Oh to be on it
Could have
Surely stopped it
To know and to hold
Fuck just let me go.
You know I don't love
And you know I don't fight
And now you see
The slight back of me.
From a distance in space
But no time in between
Worthless you scheme
You sour night dream.

You win over while
A hesitant smile
You coil your skin
So I'm sick from within.
You laugh at my lashings
But soothe them with oil
You snake you slime
Just recoil.

You daren't I hope
Open eyes to me
Or lips to speak
You better with speed
Break lose from the mares
And far away stares.

Creep back to hole
The one for you toll.
Happily ever after
The end of your memory.

Sullen Awakening

Might we never grow accustomed to a punishable defense. Upon thought, fury is bending rage. Knowing no madness but a fine and gentle whisper, turned to a piercing scream, when thyne hallows smell of breath, and the last of it. Walk away, on mossy loam, for there is none to stay your mind here. No, free it, now, whence fresh is sour, and gravel is sharp.

Do these streets not pave them followers to a brighter day? Or do they wander, content in the rank stench of vile economy? Ask them if there were a better service to be made, would it be due to a leader, a King, or a pasteur, where wild violets grow and flutter?

Killed are bodies left to a fallow, mourned are those buried in boxes. Must we house the dead to remember them? Are we so forgetful, that a sigh or a gesture will be as air, and seasoned skies? Hope for such a beautiful morning that a wake does offer life in lightness.

Questions and symptoms are given such that those asking will soon mislay their enquiries, and take interest in a fantasy, resting ground for those passed. To be forgotten but never to care of living on. To be killed, but never to care for the wound or assailant.

Passage can take no other form. Will it fly or will it force struggle? Will it to allow peace and fortune, or will it to receive battle. Passage is so that it will not be tested, but it can test. Passage, as it stands to be trodden, waits as those leaving pass through, waiting themselves when the way permits. Is there no other guide but the way, is there no other way to be guided?

Les Hautes Alpes

When les hautes alpes du coeur are reached, it is breath-taking. Dawn is opened by the smile across such a sunrise. Watching out above the horizons and never finding forever. The golden sky and the hardened earth close together without a zip, beyond that is the future not belonging to us. Before cet point is a blank plain, the distance of life guided by the stars and our eyes. The discovery propels, then holds us, in the orbit of thought infinitum. As focus awakes, clarity is born to confusion. The stars gave us the tragic capacity for elevation and descent, and while one floats, the other falls. But the equilibrium of balance, why can it provide for juggling tricks and leaning away?

Life staggers as it finds itself on the other side of the range, then distressed rapidly downhill. Like after a balloon touches stratosphere, joy is deflated. It was the mountains and the oxygen forcing the rolling and the popping. Then I made myself tumble, pulling closer to a centre of gravity, familiar places. It is in the stars, ‘Dear Brutus’, they see in our eyes what we want for ourselves. When it is what we received and is more than we hoped, ah, some more can be tempted, to thus be expected. But there is a kiss of death on those juicy lips, expiring a soul as effortlessly as lazy air expelled from the lungs of the same beast.

What happened in September 2008?