The Virtues of War.

Down into the sudden pitfalls,
We greet misery with a closed fist,
Holding cold bones; shriveled under the weight,
Of all ungainly, spectral possessions,
Reeking of human desire.

There, knee deep in scalding sand,
We shed our veils, walls, steel traps and anchors,
Faithless forevermore,
Deserters of compassion and bereavement,
We the hopeless mirage to pilgrims.

Deep in the green, pure bosom of home,
Bold words carved upon faceless granite,
Feel true to touch, and pass through,
Into the poetic heresy of past horrors,
Repeating with undone mind,
Borrowed memories of fallen men.

And the fading voices; helpless and haunting,
Herald no ounce of kindness,
From the eroding masses,
With their blind eyes and deaf ears,
Set on the far side, at the golden glories of conquests and castles,
Eternal empires,
Honeyed verses of mist born deeds, filtered through the lens of blood and bravery.

But the tragedy lies not in this unmaking,
Of you and me and all the mute feet around;
It hovers in the decision, of sending again,
Clueless clear eyes, into the hoary depths,
With spades and shovels,
And a pair of wet kiss,
To last a lifetime.

All About You.

When I find the night’s mystery,
Too purple for my taste,
I seek with fingers; melancholy,
The flesh of your waist,
And when you; awake at the touch,
Close the arc of our motion,
Tune into a single taut line,
Of steel and water; tying together
In familiar pleasure,
Our breathes into storm,
I know your smile shall shield me tommorow,
When I am no longer oozing in your arms;
A hair’s breadth from life,
But away, miles into the lives and lights,
Of strangers under street lamp,
Peeling away the veneer of my heart,
To hold yours.

I Paint The Ships That Sink The Skies

They say I have a name,
That cannot be the name of a man,
But belongs to the vacant space,
Of time dissolved into another time.
Which makes me wonder,
Had I been born in another era,
Would I be just nameless as I,
Or hold the pleasure of echoing,
As a treble in another’s mind.

Long ahead in this great molasses of men,
There shall be no more need of names,
To be any different than salt or soil,
Fundamentals are being torn apart,
And soon shall the truth will rise,
I too am a pawned out god,
I paint the ships that sink the skies.

I see her now,
Through the brows and burrows of desire,
Satin skin; light melted and run through mill,
Spilled hair, like shadow,
Ruby on her lips.
She passes, she passes, untouched,
She passes,
Fairytale on feet.

And I draw her,
With crushed flowers and burnt timber,
Edging towards augury,
About closed windows, barred rooms,
Torn curtains and stripped carpets,
Carved words, and wheeling horizons,
Must love make all things difficult?

I paint the ships that sink the skies,
Sails stretched into stillness,
Like an upturned tide,
To dive deep in the dreary desert,
Which howls upon my life’s shore;
Emasculated vision, of all lost
And never found.

I wait for her upon this journey,
But her muzzled eyes, with their opaque irises,
Are shut to the world,
To me,
So I drop the anchors, right by her feet,
Those naked, oyster, ivory feet,
And glide out to meet the nothingness,
Of which I have heard nothing, nothing at all.

Far from there, the moments seem staged,
Life just a staggered step, towards something greater,
This oblique ocean of ours,
A rolling sphere,
Hurled by a child, from corner to corner,
Rolling, like a flat disk of light.

Years hence pass, years since are passing,
Days diluted, are strained over and over,
Till clarity confirms,
The presence of pinnacle,
In all beings of sentience,
Like you, like me,
Like I and like she.

Oh She, yes, she of the ruby lips,
Have folded, now, under the weight of the world,
Winter took her eyes,
Summer her ears,
The autumn ripened the cast of her mirror,
And spring abandoned her altogether,
But yet, and yet,
Even after all the divine musings,
After all the humane faulting,
I see her as I saw her,
From under the brows and burrows of desire,
Far through the falling age of past,
I see her and I take her,
With me to another era
Of different time,
Where I have a name, and she an identity,
And we both, the same similar quote,
To tame our tombstones.

Title Times

In an old dusty bar,
The General grabbed a drink,
He smelled of coal and tar,
And sipped as if to think,
He had a poker face,
And a stiff upper lip,
Wore a uniform stripped of grace,
And his cane was missing it’s tip.

The barman thought it odd,
For the man to be alone,
He should be feeling like God,
Now that the fort was blown,
So he took a dirty cloth,
And a bottle up from shelf,
Brought them all to him both,
For the man to help himself.

The General nodded his thanks,
But the barman stayed to ask,
Where are your other ranks,
Have you sent them on a task?
The man looked at him,
A tear took his eye,
Then the General spoke the truth,
Even though he preferred the lie.

There are sins I am guilty for,
That is why I weep,
We have won the world it’s war,
But my men are all asleep.

Mortal Ruins

I see the stars,
I see the color blind world,
I see the fallen men, and the rising one,
And I know if I am, as I am to be,
I have to close my eyes,
I have to cease to see,
Like all my fellow birds around me,
Wasting away in the newfound sun,
Twisting tales, for listeners fun,
I have seen the ocean rest a bit,
I have seen the shadows straightening to sit,
For finally it all comes down to this,
You must aim to hit and not to miss,
Life’s a pleasure, pleasure to take away,
Even if your day is not today,
Because you ain’t the only, only one,
Tasting the barrel of the loaded gun,
And feeling alive against that metal taste,
Like till now life’s been just a waste,
Pull the trigger, trigger and let it blow,
At least you will somehow someway know,
That your hand wasn’t banded tight,
You did what you did, for you thought it right,
So come my friend, come sit beside,
Let us wash off our sins, in the neighbors tide,
And be all merry and sing again,
Of fallen kingdoms and ghosts of men.

A Song For Sale


They said do come along, we shall take you to your home,
There are many of us here, So don’t travel all alone,
The night is falling fast, soon the fiends will be about,
If they grab you by your throat, you shan’t be able to even shout,
And if you trust us less, you can take the backseat,
Keep a hammer in the hand, and out the door keep your feet.

The man who then sat in the carriage, His name was Trotting Trevor,
He lived out in the farm, and never took no favor,
But he was happy to be helped, on that fuzzy night,
For miles he had travelled, without a soul in sight,
So Trotting Trevor the farmer, brought the good brandy to his lips,
And he talked about his life, in between the frequent sips.

He told them all about his hard fought golden days,
Those drunk and sober habits, and black and rotten ways,
He boasted all about, his foot long lily white,
And how it thence pleasured him to dig tunnels under twilight,
Tales of the broken stereo and it’s halting, wheelchair rhyme,
He told of his numb ears, as he heard it hundred, thousand time.

Now old Trotting Trevor, he was a gifted storyteller,
He darkened the dark parts, and the bright he colored paler,
And how his company laughed and urged on him to go,
And how they wept in earnest, hearing his crimes in times low,
They shook his sweaty hand, and ruffled his hairless rack,
They promised to take him along, if he didn’t turn his back,
But he knew that was it, his wife must be turning blue,
Thus he bade adieu, to his borrowed friends new.

Soon the road struck lightning path, and the lot all made their choice,
Of them one was Booty Bard, with warm honey voice,
She travelled to old tavern towns, and set the stage on fire,
The men named her Tipsy Angel, the women called her squealing liar,
So when she trotted then, to one town for room and ale,
Booty Bard decided to tune, the old man’s rainbow tale,
She added a pinch of warrior’s lore, and a bit of fairy fun,
Their were demons with soulful eyes, and them Angels with vintage gun,
Love came stumbling often, burning a scarlet red,
Sometimes it ended with castles, sometimes it ended in bed,
And the people found it lovely, and they found it mighty alluring,
So much that they keep asking, till old Booty couldn’t sing.

And deep in that drunken crowd, there was a man with hairy ear,
Who sat writing on a napkin, all of the song that he could hear,
His name was Blackhand Boring Brown, and he wasn’t any bright,
He thought of writing all day, but never did really write,
But on this special occasion, he had heard the lady dressed in rum,
And decided of writing such fantasy, people would praise for years to come,
So he went back the way he came, into the burrow that was his house,
Muttering something to oneself, like a nut cracking mad mouse,
He wore his wise man’s glasses, with lucky underwear,
With a bottle of frozen ink, he sat to write; upon a chair,
He rocked his muted mind, he broke then boiled the song,
Used verbs that only rhymed, and words a hundred meter long.

For pages and pages, he mused upon cobwebs in the light,
Upon single, half sketched sheet, he ended centuries of fight,
Blackhand Boring Brown, he scribbled seven days straight,
Burping old sandwiches, he had a someday ate,
But the man never complained, nothing of flesh he did miss,
Stopping only once he had finished the masterpiece.

Trotting Trevor sat behind a dusty desk, reading a book without name,
His wife said it’s unique, for to all it felt the same,
And true the farmer found, the writing to his taste,
Like a ocean of adventure, without a drop to waste.

Of Love And Life

Tell me where I shall find you,
In this mismatched world,
Travelled as I have from pole to pole,
My desire in design,
In colours only you can see,
Of texture only you can touch,
I painted the deepest oceans,
With my stillness in motion.

This journey has broken me,
In pieces of a man I once was,
And so I may fall short of your measure,
As you would tower in mine.

The long distance has brought our past closer,
I am naked once again,
My form without patience, frail and brittle,
Like an old man’s corollary, newfound and foetal,
Hold me in the cluster of moonlight,
Watch me in the ripples of river,
Beware, love, the closer you come,
More blur shall I become.

The passing mist of time, is finally here,
I wish to hear your voice,
Feel the wind behind it’s whisper,
Drink the fragrance of your breath,
And wash all my token faces,
In the fall of your tresses.
But I know not if you are,
As alive as I imagine,
If you would leave me all again,


I saw the man today,
Yet had nothing to say,
He seemed the same as ever,
Just older everyday.
Each day I greeted morn,
With his form upon the tide,
Years I saw him thus,
With his shaggy dog beside.
He loved that dog, I know,
As he whispered things to it,
Still the dog disobeyed his master,
For he stood when told to sit.
Once I saw them dancing,
An hour without fail,
Only when they stopped I concurred,
That they were chasing each other’s tail.
I hope I see them tomorrow,
And all days yet to rise,
For they give me deep solace,
Life’s sermon from the unwise.

I woke up today, ages ago,
Stood up for my prayer,
The day had dawned as usual,
But the man was not there.
I crossed the road in haste,
Feeling a crippling dread,
And stared with mute surprise,
At the empty makeshift bed.

I stand by my footpath,
The night has fallen down,
My feet hurting and sore,
From running all round the town.
Just when I wanted,
To calm my weary feet,
My dog whimpered softly,
Demanding his hard earned treat,
I laughed at his fallen face,
And leaned close upon his ear,
Saying with untamed glee,
Secret my do hear.
It was my mocking test,
I have passed and you did rightly fail,
I took you through the town,
Chasing your own tail.