pop star

right swing that hope brings
easy over cholesterol
like sunday morning whores in church
with paper fans who laugh it off--
real over rich, pop that corn.
right like lite brite night lights,
scorn-proof like storm roofs--
even sleep in moonlit dreams.

here

here's my nothing no one reads
cause no one can
when it's suppressed, my blacks and reds,
exploding in my mind like seeds,
and leaving still rage in their stead.
nothing real and nothing made,
no sound collapsed or penetrates--
just simple mischief, grins through pain, an
endless cycle of simple games.

and all the hatred I declare disappears
like puffs of air--an empty vessel's offering
once swallowed whole by loves and family
satisfied, who'll celebrate the night you die
with the sparkling tears of crocodiles
from the soulless mirth within their eyes.

last words never heard, a throbbing crowd grows
thick with rattling hearts uplifting life in fear of their own deaths--
all showy mourning gives way to 
their fingers crossed for luck or lies and everything they've left.

here's the world we smoothly run on the pain of lovers broken,
who soak in blood, become our thugs, our victims and drug suppliers--
who boldly shoulder unknown weight that they take below unspoken--
buried in a shallow grave or forgotten to the ocean.

new age

new age
earns its name,
growing wings and blowing past
the last of its daylit morning
celebrating new age
nights and days,
lost in thoughts and calendar pages,
always forgetting from
where it came,
a new age darling
newly made--
freshly wet,  flock upset,
itself deconstructed and reanimated
or on the whole and never broken--
driven on, manipulating thoughts, unspoken
fears, denials, entertaining self
described movements towards
a new revival of empty spirit,
alone, untouched, unfettered and
aligned to its newfound destiny
in the ranks of mankind.

ideology

evangelical vocabulary diffusing elements shooting through with eyes wide open every fiber of your being— intertwining through the primal human urge for some classical iconography, its simple sets in play—the world revealed inside its way

completion

there are patterns in the world that speak to those who listen to the crackle in the flame echoed as the radio plays-- to the catches in the voices permeating through the waves-- representing ocean currents trickling through the mesh of threads trembling through their speaker heads.

letters to a fiend

last night's raid
hums in my mind- the
swaying of
underground street signs
ringing with the blinding
hysteria of passing lights--
a lover's ignorance
becomes my crutch, but
no order in time
except for the illusion of
growth. no reason seen in
passing nights spent
parsing shades of
black and white--
empty hand and honest action
brushed aside in gathering
questions and fears, new paranoia
tainted moments previously
held endeared.
mind me not my disappointment,
held parallel with my enjoyment--
nothing like the awful remembrance,
always young and effervescent
lost moments and pointless times
i once knew as transcendent moments
now faded grey and ground to dust by age
and relocation's way. an evolution
bridging brides,
bringing us to the realization
(or the failure) of a destiny--
memorized in daydreams and awfully self-serving
fantasies, we're dashed upon the
evidence--a ship among the wasting glaciers,
wasting in the present (progressive) tense.

misled the tribe of
animals incensed and heaving
primal verbs the beasts priests monks nuns
ravaged by the empty tongue
the simple evening lullaby
sing sweetness of the afterlife
ferry rides, fantastic rates
and parking to the upper decks