When the poet died,
nothing lost was found.
Ever he would hide
poesy he had bound.

When the poet failed,
no one sought his work.
But he never quailed,
left alone in murk.

When the poet passed,
everything he wrote
stood no chance to last.
He had never gloat.

When the poet ceased,
beauty went away.
Darkness was released.
Now, the night is day.

When the poet died,
nothing lost was found.
We had all relied
on the poet's sound.

That laughing man
on the road ahead
of himself,

I think
that creative urge just died an untimely
death,

Goodbye Jack, we hardly knew you.
Goodbye Nietzche, I fucked your God
and it was good.

the sun hidden behind a cloud of organza
the moon hood shadowing on the skyline
of tarmac, sings a ballad of loose fists
after holding tight for a whole collapse of the night
a car pours and pulls out like a water drop
on the highway – street lights
so yellow flicker into Dickens fate
and the Moby Dick is me, upstanding
on white guidelines of foreverness

Why is it that all artists and poets,
are at their best
after sex
It’s a natural thing all enjoy
but still younger ones fake
while the elders do make
and
the artist puts his experiences at stake
then upon a canvas reveals
the artful deals,
as poets lament
but readers fail to comment
Oh! why can someone tell me?
the effect of abject nudity,
that energizes the human mind
more than subtlety