The threads have been pulled
Where do you stand?
Somewhere encased in the sentence
Trying to outlive the hourglass
Well sweetheart the time has come to
Be something more
Be something else

This inability to love
Does it not disgust you?
It mustn't
For you to incorporate cloak and dagger
I only wish to send a message
Ignite the sparks, wake you from coma
Can you not see the abstract that you breathe?
Churning with lost messages of optimism

Yet the worm still excavates far underneath
Unable to breathe true life
Frightened to know love and purity
Pray for rain
So we can see the face of false security

Again

I could wake you and tell you all this,
but when you rise from your dreams
finding nothing has been interrupted,
the excuses will start; the reasons
are less important than the leaving.


These small points of recognition
show me nothing that I have need for,
nothing that I can put a name to.


I pretend love, for now,
I am not afraid of you.
Tomorrow I will re-invent us.

(I recycle my poem for the recyclables!
because i'm lazy like that.
This is for you,babe...)





There was nothing to stop me from disappearing
into a trail of bread crumbs

until you flung out a dragnet of knuckle bones.
A snowflake’s down settled over the bone meadow

beneath my skin. I was never looked at like I was moon,
merely tossed over left shoulder

that lucked into being a star, into dying
in the backhand wishes.

Your kisses flipped copper pennies
against rough baseboard of tongue till I blushed

an orchid’s frail bruise. But lover, my heart is hard;
I fear its vessels have toughened into gravel streams,

and there is no space for you.

Hunter S. Thompson is pure genius.
But like all genuises..

Another one taking the perrenial question(if we're oh-so-lucky answer) with him to the grave.

"It was hard to say sometimes whether he was being provocative for its own sake or if he was just being drunk and stoned and irresponsible."