continue onward, continue on;
the new bland moment is tapping its toes across
the cold steel floor in this waiting room glow.

the hours are long as they go counting down to
the old silver pond in the pale moonlit glade.

the hilltops sing across a glancing light bounces,
the noontime sinks to a dull sullen gaze

the slightest hint of a minute's twitch,
like conceals the jester
a smirk with each passing joke.

exultation

above the limitless noise from every which side
blows the bubbling flow of stinging autumn air
that bites the nostrils, ruffles nosehairs with sharp take of breath
on this, the morning-like, of otherwise frigid nights.

the moon is dreamt with such volume and glow, it
with spiteful hint betrays the sun's absence and
rhymes with the nihilistic sky.

quentin

oh you curious notion, how
is it that you flit across my mind with those
tiny pretty feet of crimson gold
sticky wet daydreams sopping
seeping deep within the
'vices of my brain?

your sun-kissed wings a-royal blue, they
flow and curl my tiny world,
a-mutter softly their mother's rhyme
while closing in with dad's embrace.

comatose

yesterday approached to lay upon my table bare, sullen,
pale,
in breathless heaving agony and with hands feverishly tearing away
at its cheeks and eyes, till bloodened wet, and satisfied

and today wonders why it is and stumbles on with stuttering sentences,
it holds itself to keep its pace along the well-tread ground it stands upon,
but remembering why the passing time, it noisy slurps the dregs of dusk
in memory resentful fresh as it slips into the past again

over shoulder glances tomorrow to me,
as if to recognize the outlook dreary,
but quite contrary looks ahead to frantic searches for daylight's spread,
as if to affirm its only way to go as yesterday did,
or today, more so.

ain't it grand.

oh how this dreary world quickens to pick up on another happy soul
from where it sat to where it goes,
in blazing lights, beholds itself to comers new
and lovers old.

likewise mirrors, stained with streaks,
reveal themselves to desperate freaks
the grotesque nudity of horror truth
of compounding failure that rushes in
to punish those, the gnawing, suffering
fools of fortune with hearts of gold

and with that

a beginning war descends on this homespun world,
a spectacle of lights and picture sounds enveloping, developing
the last looks of last days that have ended abruptly as the past stays
to haunt the remnants of the supposedly dropped and forgotten, although
now to say it's all coming back, in a new shade of light and with profoundest regret
i hate to inform you that it's not quite over yet.

who am i to be so taken back by the boundless multitudes in parade of
evidence against my case? it's damning stuff, it pierces soul with its
pointed remarks, its empty charades: and there's the rub, in a blaze of glory:
it never troubles so it be known what fear decides is there to know.

o, fearsome spark of creative force: to you, whom I'm indebted to, I fear to open myself
so you would violate me with your vicious wit and calculated cynicism.
all that's left to bear is distraction's friendly, gentle ear: I'll whisper softly, murmur close until I forget
all of that there is to care of
and as eyes roll their way into the back my head,
I'll drift away dead on an empty cloudbed.

overflowing

the sweet release of the burst within from
beneath red walls of dirty skin from
pores and glands and ducts and urethra laden with
glistening dots and drops to somber burgeoning branches:
from every hour, from inside sing are the deadened desires
with aspirations for quick release and private pleasurable things.
oozes and goo of various hues, the whites, the reds and yellows and blues;
all clamoring throughout the measured pace of day-to-day meted progress:
rabble-roused to claw at walls, some shrieking howls echo corridors around
the labyrinth corners of a sanguine sponge as it heaves and drips
the holy host to line the mouths and wallets of
the fiends and ghosts that rape our lungs