January 23rd, 2015


A break from tales and back to morbid


Sometimes in memory, and sometimes in dream.
Moments that signify but do not mean
have weight. Sometimes things I have never seen
that I remember. Ceiling with a beam

dark in the twilight six foot overhead.
Someone is breathing next to me. Their face
in dark. Canal-bridge lamppost, are a space
defined and so important. When we're dead

it's not just what we've done and said that dies,
it's all we may have done, but don't recall,
or only dreamed. In death, our dreams will fall
like dealing burning cards. Things that our eyes

awake passed over yet lodged in our mind
dissolve. Not even ash or foam behind.

Kill the father


Cursing, I wish I could be done with you,
vomit your hairball words our common tongue
intoxicating us when we are young
the gift that's poison, is our curing too

Even this harshness, your asperity.
You are so much alive within my head
silent when merely old, so vocal dead
Bitter white notes in which eternity

approximated, and the other lives
unlived. Regret in vicious biting tears
carve cheeks, break love. Pretend mixed nuanced years
waste. Kindness cut from mind with clever knives.

Our horrid parent, you'd wish to disown
so many poets, still your blood and bone.