Kindling

Back to when your bright, tinder eyes

stimulated the syllables to seep from my lips.

And when

the current of lust shocked my lips.

Addicted to the taste- we lock.

You untangled my hair and pulled me closer,

your other hand traced my jaw and stroked down.

Warming up, neck tilted and tickled.

Lingering.

I shake my head.

 

 

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Paranoia Never Retires When You’re Blind

A nocturnal songster whistles through the air.

I cut off my own ears in hope of some silence

but the torrent of white noise, with the piercing chorus, still rattles.

.

I thought that the bitter shower would wash away

the trodden paths in my mind.

Scalp-scratching and scouring my skin crimson -so raw- to strip the stress.

Terror bleeding from my skull and contouring my fragile frame,

flushed through the plug-hole.

.

Feeling frozen, I trembled into bed.

The thin fold of skin scratched my dry eyes

and the scars on my cornea altered an ugly collage

into something much more cursed.

A faceless shadow crawled across the ceiling

to laugh in the face of anxiety.

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Insomnia 

Every time

It approaches midnight
It finds us. 
Every time. 

A shadow- no host. 
It scratches me

And us. 
It hates to:

Leave; rest; sit alone

And wait…
It gulps. 

The white noise floods the silence. 
“Illusions”

I bury under the quilt, face the wall and close my eyes. 
Sleep never rushes. 

It never responds. 

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That Swine Who Jammed The Rusty Gate

The gargoyles protect my silver crest-

the one that is tucked in a trinket box.

They whisper.

.

The piercing voices sew my mind.

And then they notice.

.

It was the bleeding that gave it away.

The bleeding of thoughts that seeped through the faulty key-hole.

And when it accumulated and poured,

like a stream of screams,

they stopped taunting.

.

Their attempt of mopping the clots off the page was more like

stabbing ink and scribbling words.

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The Architecture of a Sonnet

I’m more of a composer.

The words rush through my mind like: electrons in a circuit;

a glut of gore from the wound of weakness; a torrent of insanity from the beer head.

And then I have to stop.

.

Breathe.

.

That’s the most difficult part-

having to discipline and arrange thoughts to create art.

Creating rhyme?

It takes time

and time is what you (nor I) do not have.

.

So let the words ooze- let them boil with thought.

Let the words dance through your veins and circulate your body.

Then throw them together, give them more clout and

etch them onto whatever is near- paper, wall, table or skin.

.

Let your words clog somebody’s arteries.

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Pups!

His animated eyes are bulging with anticipation:

playtime; attention; food!

His distinct smell cuddles up to my nose and wriggles inside my nostrils.

I sneeze.

His ears perk and his charming head snaps

a little to the right.

He falls to the ground, whimpers and scrubs his skull-

he is just too much.

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The Tide of Mind

If I could,

I would float

and swim through

the disruptive, riding

waves of the

aching ocean.

.

But I can’t.

.

I’m immersed in the vital vault

that encourages me:

to endure; to persevere; to rest.

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