The tips of my fingers are the
forging expansions of a
lover’s oily grip on
stubborn tense
shoulders.

Comforting your frame with every
slip and glide grasp they can.
Hints of desired massage
wrapped in self-assuring
tactical brush rituals
of soft touch.

Your floured skin reminds
sardonic stained bones
of textured ether pelts.
Stretched thirsty
upon defeated
armies of dry
confidence.

our hearts were once joined,

now apart the degrees

of separation are burning,

my wounds are weeping 

there is no other day

judgment came yesterday

Autumn leaves began their journey

as my night was laid to rest

the walls started falling down

scattering the Rose of Sharon 

a bed of flowers to die in

a place to lay my weary head

I can no longer go walkabout

black smoke is streaming

a signal, all is not well

there is only one reality, now

I got up
out of bed
got dressed
fed the cats
and myself

turned on the tv
news and weather
looked outside
it was sunny
but cool on the windows

sat, smoked, thought
half a day gone

pointless but true
not all inspirationy
or exciting
but true nonetheless

my life this morning
in a piece for
your boredom relief tonight

a dull poem
for sure
but it took some of your time
away from
nothingness
creeping all over you

You are the scarecrow
that watches over the barren fields
That land
that feeds her children with thorns ;

a keeper of ducks
that never return home

You are the breath
that the old sun despises
She slaps you
With a tyrannical stare
of fate

You are the pica
that the terrestrial vulture
craves for
with a cunning tongue
at dawn

You are whom
antediluvian's bewitched face
dance to
with cheetah's feet