Jesus Christ was killed again Before the bible was ever written When Rome adopted the faith of slaves And made it a tool of oppression Religious freedom died as well Before they made the Liberty Bell When Capital became supreme Our spirits bound to earth and hell Salvation may as well exist In dollar bills and banquets Where we pretend we still hear God As we suck its bloody wrists Apacalypses come and go We haven't gone to heaven though Maybe if we just keep pushing We'll finally break the world enough Or rather than pursue our death We might stumble on some path That reawakens something deep Enough to bury our troubled past If there's any light to see Outside our Christianity The source is unbenownst But somehow tangible to me Jesus Christ can rest in peace All God's children take a piece To share without the threat of force Or Hell when we're deceased.
Category: poems
Dying Wish
We're all going to die.
Losing my religion didn't stop the end of days.
Revelations don't stop coming.
Illusions obscure our true doom's gaze.
Confronting death trying to survive,
Reaching out to reach back inside,
Making right what must end.
I'd like to carry you to the last puddle on Earth,
Holding onto one another as the empires fall.
Or, knowing well they all must end,
We band together to bury them all.
Laughing all the way to the grave,
We paved the road to more innocent days.
In peace, health, and love;
Waving goodbye to our ghosts and old ways.
Mortal Ideas
In a labyrinth of words
Where ideals meet the sinews of flesh and bone
We learn there are as many broken hearts
As swords and broken bodies.
Love hopes never to ache so badly,
Quietly praying to conquer everything
In the end, knowing what must never happen
Has happened and will again.
Human beings always believing,
Being beasts in angels' dreams,
In anything but the inevitable disaster
Of being born for suffering.
Bio-phobia
Biology is a beautiful spectacle
Beautiful, but tyrannical
Brutal by any measurement
Breaking, constantly, and re-arranging Itself, bit-by-bit, spiraling towards Infinity where it meets death
Partially or fully,
Where I wonder why we're still going
Or whether what's gone
Is worse than what's still living,
The fear of loss and of existing
Dialectically breathing dust into awareness.
Soft, shifting dust
Puzzled out perpetually into pieces
So nothing stays complete.
Not brains nor bodies,
As nature clamours to dig deep
And pull us through this twister
Whether or not we comprehend.
This House Was Always Haunted
If you can find it,
I dare you to look inside
The black house on a hill
Where three suicides were survived,
The remnants of their pain
Reach vapourously for a light
To expose their nakedness,
And the hollowness of their eyes.
If you're nearby,
Why not chance a look?
The forgotten undead
Would be glad to have known you.
There are fantastic stories
Hidden under the splintered floors,
Romances and tragedies
That you could be part of.
Why not have tea
With a dysfunctional malevolence?
The eyes that inspect
Every movement, chill, and hush,
Have a hunger for your love,
You devotion, your affection
And a hatred for pain,
And the gentleness of touch.
She's wrapped up in sheets,
In the bedroom, where she lived
Still hungry, still aching,
Still decaying from inside.
This Halloween, you should go,
She'll be delighted
To find the Haunted House
Is where she has always resided.
Cup of Midnight
There's a bitter black tea
At my favorite cafe,
Wormwood black, like a poisonous
Dark chocolate,
That I like to guzzle on a
Wet, windy day;
So perfectly perverse, so warm and
Tingley to my pallette.
When October turns cold and my
Temper turns brittle,
Solace seems as off as the
Sweetness of Spring.
Shedding the skin of a
Wiltering flower,
The crow and the raven within me
Must sing.
Like showers of kisses, with hints of
Smoke and ripe cherries,
And passions pulling thick as wads
Of black licorice,
I'll fall, diving down with you
Into dust,
And die in the moment to make
Everything perfect.
Born In A Storm
I planted my flowers in a storm without a center.
Everything they needed poured onto them from the wind.
The higher they grow, their roots go deeper,
And the more they feel the pouring sky above the heads.
They asked me when the rain would stop, and I answered,
Telling them they were planted in a storm without an end.
Since then my flowers have gotten quieter,
And I don't really know what they perceive or understand.
The answer was simple, but they seem desperate to comprehend.
What it means to be a flower is beyond me,
And beyond them, I'm beginning to suspect.
They were lost in the storm and looking for themselves.
Growing up and growing old, evolving in place.
Whatever meaning they may have, might blow by them perchance.
Unfortunately, they're all quite mad.
Falling For …
Cool, quiet,and still mornings; alone.
A chord striking, resonating, and going silent.
Pale light still warm enough to touch faces.
A pit in your stomach, nowhere to go.
Fall, fall, September;
Autumn sadness, stillness,
Peace and horror.
Burning, burning, bonfires and leaves;
Passions singing, sang, and then falter.
You'll never know their love again.
The sky is beautiful, blissful, and so are you.
Softer, Deeper,
As beautiful as it is to cry,
It cuts so softly so much deeper
Since I gave up faking
And started listening to your whisper
Its smoother going down
But gets me so much faster now,
Those feelings that I'd missed
And that I pretended missed me somehow
Apples & Honey
Her every word is something sweet. She speaks so sensibly and smiles, And cares like caring is a treat Too tempting to stay away from. To taste her mind would nourish you, And reason out those foolish tricks That frightened you into pushing away The parts of you you're missing. And beauty hardly describes her face; The life, the light behind her eyes That permeates in any place She goes to be alive in. She's sweet enough to drown in, To swallow down until you're sick. It's hard to put the bottle down When it insists you drink it. Apples and honey make a snack So tempting its hard to turn away. As one should never lack for love, Having lacked, it still gives me stomach pains.
Poems and Short Stories 