trampled fields ageless rhetoric restored seasonally

pinching in the dark for black apparitions

Bang bang

Thatched felt roofs of clay sent astray.

Tip the Glass

I tip the glass, this time of year,
no harm, no fear.

Welcome, unexpected metaphors,
intrinsic truths, buddies of the past!

It is time (at last) to revisit
those old pieces and then pivot,
provide myself leeway for what is to come
(and new friends may pay a visit).

Whilst it lasts I plan
to have more than one repast
and see what it is sliding, hiding
in the bottom of this empty glass.

1 year away (2010)
and we cut half the last 2 numerals
to make the first full a-gain.

I'll take what I can of this mind game
and in 2011
see 2 numerals to make the front full
a-gain.

D.A.R.E. to be free

sobriety like life like experience
roars spitefully like dullness

...and it's amazing how pleasant thoughts flourish
the more drinking I encourage

fire and ice clamor through my veins
dulling reasons while spiking my brain

what use is rationality and game theory
if the world is no longer lonely or dreary

a fairy tale told at dusk
an inspiration to dreamers drunk on lust

and the glowing sparkle of these surroundings
fades in the soberness of mornings

Those Little Lizards That Stand on Your Skin

Amongst many tiny hairs,
the similar quality,
standing on end as if tiny
prickles or shocks lit them
up.

Creepy, crawly little lizards
that scale the follicle trees
and scream and taunt one another
from atop their grand thrones,
like vagabonds they migrate from
leg to leg, arm to arm,
body to body, passing along
the similar message of fright.

Some excited in the grandeur of the view,
decide to hang around for a while,
keeping the jungles intact, allowing for
movements and dirty conciertos,
sources of fascination and amusement.

Marvelous!

Fear, fear, fear that doesn't tremble their
boughs but instead humbles their
appetites.

out of the tunnel..

Handmade eroticism runs dry
when one too many thoughts
run amok, simply fuck after
fuck after fuck.

Auto-stimulation loses its candor
like a wave breaks and the surfer
slowly loses his mantle.

Anticipation (till the point of no
return) morphs to a feeling of
wickedness and being on your own.

But yet again and again,
one comes back to the screen
with each hand manned,
ready to scream.

Standing alone in venal rapture

The cataclysm of events in the fold,
Three spades in hand
1 out on the river cold.