Posts Tagged ‘Spilled Ink’

Love Me Syndrome

Another tempestuous night in Town Park, melancholy

Wild Thoughts, seeks harbor from the fell dampness.

Across an old Maple, restroom facilities, in a stall,

His Swiss Knife carves, help!- a grounded cardinal,

Over faded, besought scratches, then his number.


The windows behold an ashen canvas, dashing away

A lustrous moon, sour lampposts, the path back & ahead,

But in buckets of rain, runs a scarlet damsel his way.

Wild Thoughts escapes on some path, Love Me Syndrome

Skips past roley- poley earthworms stuck in puddles.


The gales deepen in fury. By the Maple, a scarlet,

Melancholy soul runs to the restroom, closes the stall.

She sees unspeakable markings, one freshly concerning.

A knife on the basin, she dials the splintered number,

My name is Lonesome Dove, I’ve waited a long time for you.


A calm develops, drenched footsteps echo anticipations.

The beautiful ones, raised to know what comes & goes,

But not what stays- saturated under fluorescent sight,

They sparkle. Lonesome Dove eases five minutes in.

Your real name isn’t Wild Thoughts. Care to know mine?


From outside, a whip of lightning licks the Maple,

Crackling, thickly green branches smoke up, catch fire.

They ponder a tragic moment. Is it you? He knows, It’s

Me. Tragedy. She flies, red tail vanishing in the rain.


That night, a tornado brewed, ravaging Town Park.

Love Me Syndrome claimed one, but not the other.


Read Full Post »

Dreamy Realism

Quiet cities scare citizens,
Scratches upon metal grated ramps,
Into the hollow subway lit by
Flickit flourescents.
Hidden under the hyacinth,
We would sip chamomile tea and chatter about
The branches of life spreading from the tree of existence.

Read Full Post »

By Fate
Roundly hollowed out by fate,
Between the dangling tresses of trees,
A pure light beams down,
Revealing floating dust specs
In still air,
And your attention.
To you, it means more than you know.
So you snap a photograph to study later.

My feet meander and compress the fuzzy grass of a park,
As my thoughts run ahead like children.
A slender tree with long, parted hair pulls me from a directionless path
To sit on its naked root for a while.
I lean back on its trunk and look up.
Warming my nose, a pure light beams down
Between the dangling tresses of the tree.
And all feels right. To me, it means more than I understand.

So I snap a photograph to study later.

Read Full Post »

Not Everyone Could Understand

Would you like to know what makes a man break down
Until his brittle bones lock like steel?
Where instinct salivates between two, dry flaps,
And there is no going back?

Starvation is a disciplinary, the drive that forces a tiger
To sink teeth into fur & flesh. *Glass Eyes*
Many black nights, and close shades to it, under moons,
The inner peace ruptures-

Starvation awakens an internal drive in me,
But its pain is a grey fierce,
A right against wrong fierce.
To stand on my own legs can be the most difficult task.

An empty fueled mind spitting through a grinder,
And poured into a cup of coffee that I slurp to replace the hunger,
But the pain intensifies, blocking thought.
I cry to seek an answer.

Once upon a time, I hadn’t the money to eat for three days.
On that third night, a man came to my door
And gave me a loaf of bread he had baked, himself.

Why it happened, I will never know,
But why it happened is how I mastered starvation,
My disciplinary.

But sometimes, master or apprentice, caught in the moment of hunger,
Anyone has the ability to lose that, kind, cultured smile,
And transform into the tiger.

Read Full Post »

Beyond The Window

The sky falls in fat blots of ink,
And I collect distasteful droplets with my tongue.

How ghoulish I must seem to you, there-
Stopping to observe your window of life
With a thin line of hope.

You blinds cross and cover it all.
And I fear that all is lost.

Do you hear the words in each drop?
The sound of a story.

The door opens,
With a white umbrella and towel in hand.

Everything black around you dissolves it coating,
Amidst the storm,to return a natural color.

Under the umbrella,
The ink that soaked my skin dissolves.

I wipe my feet on your welcome mat, just in case,
As you lead me into your home for earl grey.

Read Full Post »

Falling Asleep To the Sound of Rain

The Unconscious lies
In a bed of feathers…
There is no ink,
No blood that can trace back
A stamp of a feeling, just a whim that finally comes
Or just passes.
There is no fear, when this occurs,
Fear is a human’s curse,
Though, an instinctual tool to its survival.

The bed of feathers simply s.t..r…e….t….c…h..e.s
Into a tossing sea,
Where varied shades of yellow
Beaks coast along like shark fins,
Waiting for the glint of
Emerald dragonflies hovering
Just within reach.
The Unconscious floats on.

There is no hope, or woe,
Only close or apart.
A warm, blinking, orange glow,
Like a fly during caution on the glass
Of a traffic light.
There is a rhythm.
A pattern understood,
But to the unconscious,
It’s hypnotic, however, it’s…
At a level just beyond reach.

…………Clouds of ink On the left                                                                            …………………On the right, clouds of blood
……..Glide from the horizon and………
Above The Unconscious.
The sea of feathers buckles under
The stamp of a feeling
The red mixed rain brings,
And the dreamer regains conscious
To the sound of thunder.

Read Full Post »

109th Avenue


Malaise. My darkest of gloamings,

Cigarette by the window, eye-rubbed into frustration.                  (A saxophone bleeds

The sun hardly rises, behind a tempestuous cloud cover.               through the silence)

There is no comfort,

Albeit, like saltwater to thirst, parodies of paradise,

Difficulties broaden; even complex theories do not imagine solutions.

Such boggling thought,

Prostrated on the floor, chain-smoking cigarettes.

While my forehead is flattened against the glass.

I could lean on these chromatic, celestial walls.

In an endless queue with                                                                    (A trumpet wails

Others, frazzled in their own scrutinizing tests,                                 Into the heavens)

Struggling for reason-

Or maybe they have fallen asleep standing.

So I’ll criss-cross and cut between them all,

To reach the end, because I am certainly not tired,

Where a mirror taller than sky scrapers                                             (The blue notes blend

Beckons through my projected image to come closer.                                  with heartbeat)


But reflection could not agree with its maker’s image,

The other’s snapped from their dreams

To pry my eyes away.

Trust within I learned to understand.


And beyond me, ignites the sun                                         (An orchestra strikes in marcato

Dissolving remnants of scattered grey skies,                             horns, trumpets, and tubas)

Into the brightest thing my eyes ever saw-


So I follow it

Until my skin tears, splits, and rips off my cheeks & chest.                (Saxophone rumbles

Muscles, tendons, shrivel and snap,                                                the last word and fades)

My lips dry to dust.

But lucky me. I made it.

Read Full Post »

%d bloggers like this: