Dark Poetry Prose Poetry June 2, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

06-02-05 thursday 9:38pm

viscous thoughts hold hostages in my head. as deftly the alcohol negotiates. but no treaties will be drawn tonight. the best we can hope for is no bloodshed.

turns like a pinwheel, it does, as my sighs wash over it. the moment there stuck in my throat. making me want to cough. expel it if i can. words unravel the stitches, but the knots still buldge.

i used to think, when i'm older. but now i just think i'm too old. i'm deciduous. that's for certain. it all falls off. only to return again.

the head writes. not the heart. when you analyze it. that stale muscle moans in some foreign language. and then i sit down and find words to match the rhythm of its groans.

it's in myself that i live. ever since. mills on their quiet slopes bashfully collecting the wind.

it was long ago that it mattered. mattered so much that i couldn't feel anything else.

but now it's just a memory i battle with. a feeling that's constantly talking to itself.

in your lost you come to me to show you again. how you are not by comparison.

06-02-05 thursday 10pm

walls made of smoke. life of dead leaves.

there's no time to be born again when i'm so busy being me.

the hour doesn't ask. but you entice it to. why haunt me now or ever, when i'm already haunted by so many other things.

you're not supposed to be making it easier. not supposed to be making it anything.

but the last thing i ever expected was that you'd make it harder for me.

jaded dandelions. little red scooters. and mcdoofuses. each with thier own appeals and dangers. each one nearer than they'll ever know to that stranger they've encountered.

i'm not empty, but it echoes. everything they've said resonates so long in the graves i've dug for them. i spend my nights writing the epitaths. and my days carving the stones.

i keep waiting for. but it's never over.