Dark Poetry Prose Poetry June 9, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

6-09-03 monday 1am brick NJ

there's love and then there's love. the kind of fire that engulfs and the kind that comforts and warms. there's them and there's us. the ones who catch and the ones who throw us.

for so long i've known how it would be. what it was. what it could never. hearts may lie and flesh may succumb. but love does not forget the first time it realizes it's useless. skin can pretend. nerves can send pleasure messages. hearts can forgive on a daily basis. but love never forgets the moment that it was castrated.

i can't write to you again. not with intent to send. whatever you've read. whatever you might. i've always known it made no difference. just in time all these little flaws we ignore become that much more evident.

there's love and then there's love. that spark at the onset that lights your eyes and quickens your breath. then the transition. will the flames give light or will they take it. will the fire be savior or assassin? the funny thing is that no matter what course it takes you always remember that first spark. fond and strange comfort now that everything is gone. cause it never lasts. it's not meant to. from the moment that it starts its destiny is to consume.

6-09-03 monday 10:07pm brick NJ

open window to the world. open heart to whatever may be. open lips to the drink. open eyes to my reality.

close each of your nights with just one question. a few seconds to reflect upon what has led you to this bed. not why are you here. but why do you want to be? life lives like a clock counting down to destruction. frantic people trying to fit all they can into the time that they have. rabbit libidos hurrying to create a future in their own image. praying to god. supplicating to the heavens, but so afraid of when it will take them.

songs. choruses. bridges. lend me your passion. i sit here before this keyboard not to explain nor to question. just to be. as being is all that i can. not to procreate that some piece of myself might live on after my death. not to rhyme simply because i can. it's a handshake with the shadows that life sends every night. the preambles of dreams. the blanket that covers when your flesh is warm, but your life is shivering.

shakepeare never knew it would come to this. dickinson never had a couplet in mind for this century. the one after twentieth.

will you be my romeo or my brutus? or have you always been some strange coupling of the both of them? you love then you forget. you're friend until other interests. hey macbeth, why don't you just kill duncan already if that's what you want. presuming you'll always have your lady left.

i used to let you have your cake and eat it too. that was my own personal doom. but even if i wanted to, which i don't. you can't have it anymore. you've finished the cake. there's nothing left for you to take.

06-09-03 11:00pm brick NJ monday

one night will find its place. and everything will change. your face will be different. my own just a portrait stored away in some dusty attic.

time moved like the snake. tongue agape to feel the smell of life's vibrations. skin renewed and all too ready to swallow hole.

the lump in your belly will desintergrate. but how long it takes is up to you. that bulge in you heart will smooth itself again. but can you digest it?

i once thought a song enough. when that failed me i turned to these less than educated phrases. but time teaches better than any book. life learns more than love ever can. poet or friend. cake or frosting. what's the difference. we all just want to have something hold us when the meal is done.

it doesn't matter what i said. or what i couldn't. it never mattered how poetic or how much less than. it only ever mattered that moment our eyes met. what you took with you when i had left. what you wanted to retain of it.

too often i painted colors on it that i never should have. too many times i let my brush enter territories that were forbidden. now i'm finding my way back. now i'm looking at the sky and seeing the moonlight is just that. no more. no less. now i'm remembering and remembering is so much different than i remember it. a phantom of a friend i'd never touched. a dream that i'd beleived had made love. but dreams die when we awaken. and phantoms can't really be touched.