imagery through words.

Cigarette Lips

Cherry red lipstick
cigarette smoke
filling my eyes

and the tambourine heart
rattles while
the hips shake

to the sound of the blues
and motown
and words spoken like soul.

I can taste all over
that cherry wide eyed
body in motion

as you inhale
and then I inhale
and we share this

dancing like soldiers
under the moon lit
pavements of our street

rapidly inhaling
tasting those succulent
cigarette lips.

A dress fit for a queen
and a suit
made for a king

the lion and lioness
roaring at the jungle
beneath their clawing paws

tearing away
there is no more to tear

and the music
kept playing on
that motown sound

and we shake our hips
with cherry flavored
cigarette lips.



I can’t find myself situated,
even after I have pleaded my case.
It seems like I am the enemy in every eye,
it seems that way.

When I had it all to give,
I was left empty.
So much to give,
so very much.

broken bottles,
a broken mind.

And now I sit in my own trashed world,
when I wanted nothing more
than a small ounce
of love.

I was ready,
steady feet planted to the ground,
my emotions at sway,
I was ready.

It’s hard to let loose
knowing you are the enemy.

All the excitement
turns against the spirit,
but this pain
is silent heroism.

An enemy of weak,
a romantic struggle.
A caged lover in shackles,
desperate to break free.

this fabrication of love,
an ongoing hallucination.

Accuse me,
it’s the right thing to do.
I am only a prisoner of your speculation
unwillingly so.

I am the enemy,
against you,
against them,
against myself.

All I ever wanted
was an ounce of love.

The Dove And The Raven

and she said
“im thirsty”
as the words
spilled from
her mouth,
and I told her
“you’re the
black raven
in my dreams”
as she looked
up at me
and took the

“What do you
crave?” I asked,
“Heaven’s warmth”
she replied
while pointing
to the ground.
and with the
light shimmering
on my solid hands,
I wept knowing
this was all
out of grasp.

Remember the sea?
remember how it
swam with us?
and now the water
seems to have dried
or fills someone
else’s bowl,
but I do not know.

There was once
a dove,
white with silk
feathers that
laid beside me
at times of rain
or shine,
it would whisper
in my soul,
telling me of
april skies
and golden leaves.

Now there is
the black raven,
oh the howling
of the black raven.

“Come back to me
little dove”
I told her.
She looked at
me with sorrowing
eyes and opened
her beak and

“Little dove,
I remember you,
come back to me”
“little dove,
my dear


The ink from my eyes
paints the picture
on broken glass
where the smile stretches
far beyond my sight,
far beyond ever reaching
anything in my given path,
where I stagger with brittle
footsteps – inching my way
to somewhere I think is home.

“but home is here”
“no, please no”
why, this place is my coffin
and the air is contaminated
with hate.
People here enjoy the smashing
of each other,
and there is no love.

I’ll drink to that,
with regret.
“ah but this is good for
“taste this poison,
sip with joy
and forget,

When we wake, with clouded skies
which aren’t the natural ones,
and we rise with clouded minds
in this place
we consider our
and i ask,
“am I real?”

Posing In The Flat Field

Under the shade of a red sky,

I’m reminded of the immaculate

warmth that is on the other side,

with the sun as piercing as her smile –

heaven’s smile that remains splintered

under the skin.


Even the ocean can flower

the air, and leave the sky

patched with tearful clouds

that persist itself seasonally,

as if the seconds held another brand new season,

and this void becomes more real.


The leather of my skin

Can only keep you so warm,

And yet so elegantly pressed,

But your satisfaction makes

You colder and more crude.


The motor of heaven ceases

To continue without your attention,

and it listens to your soft words of prayer

as it bleeds through you in weakness.

And to whomever your prayer reaches,

still the two heavens know

of the broken

face that is unworthy to mend.

Liquid Heroism

A heaven behind doors, unlocked and fragile.

The walls are determined to break and fall at any given moment.

The floor will collapse upon my next step.

Brandy, I wonder if you can heal my wounds tonight.

Can you place the glass that holds your sweetness upon my lips?

I beg you, heal the wounds.

Set my pulse to heighten and jitter to the warming comfort of your blood.

Don’t rebuild the isolation in me, give me answers and less questions.

My darling twin, once my passion, set me free.

The nation of two, now slipping off the fresh wounds.

So deep we dug into the pavement of our hearts.

Oh Brandy, patch me anyway you can.

I can only sing to you tonight.


If you will, then I will,

and if i break – down

then you won’t.

Thick as paint,

needle like things dripping,

dripping, drip –

out of our eyes,

but if you will, then I will.

Sore and red and swollen,

baby pupils, deep and

suffocating –

but still I remain lost,

matching of voices but

where can it truly speak,


Understand if you will,

then i will

and if I don’t

then will you?

What can beat so fast,

where can it prevail –

in our hearts?

If you win,

then I win.

If i lose

then you win,


Thought Patterns

In excessiveness, I like to think i’ve won
because there is only one battle with urge
and sad satisfaction to continue
with debaucheries of the heart.

Hate is like an instrument of continuing
sorrow, the barrier that doesn’t break
unless recognized. So why is it so hard
to become recognized?

And once recognized, how easy is it
to break away? Love is like a villain
among the heart, but in the shadows
it prevails as the hero.

Are we losing the balance
on the platform of life,
or are these indulgences
the adversaries of our faith?


To live a life as a purveyor
of immaculate conception,

someone who wears truth for warmth
and tempts no poison in the soul

whose inspiration bares that of marshes
where he could plant his feet in the earth

and drink from the rivers of clear water.
Any soul knows that this is home.

This soul
wants to go home.

Radio Music, Sticky Fingers

An explosion, like the bottle smashed

breathing in the scent of our deadly human features, aesthetic.
drinking tainted liquid to inspire our words, neurotic.

Flipped the radio switch to hear something other than my mind
and only again to feel the the hum of my mental prisoner.

Radio music, i’m criticizing the notes, trying to make out their poetry.

               play a song when just fresh and newly written…
               ..and then to play it years later…
                   ..does it carry the same meaning?

emotions sway but always vanish after so long.
So do meanings of songs,
trying to recapture the blood rush
and the pulse beat!

Sitting like a statue, I thought of the confusions.
How to solve these errors of unattainable harmony.

Glass of wine for my words,
some scotch for my thoughts
and champagne for my funeral.