Letter to a Girl

Letter to a Girl

I sit by an oak,
A little sadder than I was,
When yesterday told me,
That my memories were beginning to fade

Come sit beside me, my love.
I have a broken guitar, a little cash,
A home enough for warmth in winter.
And eyes that will always see you,
For who you are
I have no plans for tomorrow,
And no dreams for the next ten years.
All I have is a breath stained with whisky,
And laughter soaked in honesty
I can’t get you no Cadillac sweetheart,
But I’ve got something more real for you
I’m a living man,
Who spills whisky on your pretty clothes
And forgets your birthday,
And sometimes even,
Skips making love for more whisky
I can’t get you no Cadillac sweetheart,
But I can give you real life,
And all its broken tunes

They’ve told us about the north and south,
About time and how to tease it
They’ve told us about pretty and ugly,
About the eloquent, and the perverse
I can give you neither of that,
I can’t remember to hold you before you fall,
And surely I can never promise you,
That I will defend your fragile heart forever
They’ve told us about love and music,
About sandy beaches and misty hills,
And the warmth of penetration,
And the security of marital bondage
Can’t give you none of that darling,
All I’ve got to offer,
Is wine, bread, and incomplete music
All I can give you,
Is this moment
And believe me, now is all you want,
Because now is all we have,
And if you take my hand,
I can show you the delightful detachedness,
From all our dreams of a perfect life,
I will heal your heart of certainty,
And burn your vulnerability,
Before the dawn of sensibility comes to steal you,
Away from me

They’ve explained the rules of attraction,
Sold us their biblical imprisonments of fidelity,
And held us captive to sinful monogamy
They have stolen our fragrances,
And given us selective interaction in exchange
Tell me my love, why must I, who beholds your wonder,
Pass you by on the sidewalk, like you do not exist?
Why must I, who is melting before your existence,
Plan a sentence that appreciates your being?
Such a senseless world, with senseless rules;

If you lend me your hand,
I will take you on quite the drunken dance,
Perverse, imperfect, insecure,
But honest.
To a place where you can unveil,
The hidden imperfections,
That feed and nourish your womanhood
To a place,
Where love is undefined
Where we can bathe unclothed,
Beneath a sun that knows no judgment,
In the presence of each other,
Holding our raw hearts,
In the palms of our childish desires
Wild, but not wicked,
Intoxicated, but not asleep
Coming alive together,
In a place where we can find heaven,
And stay there, forever.

Itch

Itch

 

What makes you itch?
The fact that people know you,
Or spare a moment to bear thoughts of you,
Before they lay their lips to their pillows,
On nights when they meet loneliness,
In the middle of the road to optimal living?
Do you find the things that make your insides move,
In the twinkling of your neighbor’s eyes?
In the revelry of those falsely laughing other people,
In the craftily exposed exultation of your success?
What’s success? Hey, I don’t know.
What makes you itch?

Is it that a meager life, clouded in undirected misdemeanor,
Brings nothing but an allowance for soul corruption,
To your doorstep?
Corruption that you color with green and gold,
Drink and leaf, sweetness, mellow sour,
I know you; another escapist, dancing on the bottle rim
What makes you itch?
I know the work of your fingers,
The way they move, on paper, on women, on metal,
I know the cravings of their tips,
The little sips they take at subtle touch,
Drinking from the immortal ocean,
Of sensual feeling
But you haven’t listened to them, have you?
You were an artist. Now, you smell,
Of fraudulent indulgence and self-deceit
You broken child; you don’t smell too well

When we found our meetings too easy,
We took the long way home
So that we could meet the storm,
And dance with its tunes
We took the long way home

I’m lost now, and so are you,
What are we going to do?
Eat pickle and stew

What makes you itch?
Rock music, prostitution, delirious deductions,
Of decimal numbers and polarity
The sweet satin-clothed movement of milky skin,
On black-tiled dancefloors,
Or the cruel embezzlement of empathy and eroticism,
In the jailed gyms of our workplaces
What do you choose? What makes you itch?

I don’t know.
Do you?
Good night.

Sway With Me

Sway With Me

From the depths of my empty self,
A little verse has now come to tell itself
I wonder, if I can write without impressions,
Without the prudent forcefulness of desires,
For superstar perfection and stardom,
I’ll begin.

Unshaved, and lying in bed, the many days are passing,
And I watch my life slip through my toes, fingers,
I watch the same clockwork cut out,
Tick tock tick tock, toward my six feet under.
A better dream is set to come true,
In a few weeks, I think three or two
And yet, tick tock, tick tock,
I march in nonchalance and broken pride,
To my sweet six feet under.

The older you get, the verses change,
They behold no more color, no more stories,
Of ecstatic voyages into intricately threaded psychedelic splendor.
Now the verses drown deep into reflection,
And hey, I’m not even old yet.
Somehow still, I feel older than the stars.
Answerable to the invisible gods that bring monsoon,
And change winter to spring. I feel answerable,
To excuse myself before their perfect selves,
And ask them for forgiveness,
For the dump in which I’ve laid waste,
The endless possibilities of my mind and body.

A strange sleep has encumbered me,
Has come to remove the light from my eyes,
A sleep that feels like it will be victorious,
Over my final gasp for one last breath.
We change every day, like trees,
That rejuvenate themselves in Spring.
We are not simple people, simple persons,
With simple dreams or simple songs.
We are like trees that die in autumn,
Trees shaped tall, small, twisted, broken,
We are trees that die and fall,
And rise from the soil again.

Who is the real me?
The little child at three, looking up at the stars,
And finding no words to express its glee?
Am I the curious 12-year old,
Misunderstanding his sexuality,
Hoping to bury his head,
In every pair of breasts he sees
Being tough in school,
Trying hard to hide his embarrassment,
Of newly initiated masturbation,
And failed attempts at pornography
Am I the intelligent 18-year old,
Broken in love, and resurrected,
Seeking semblances of permanent sense,
In this strange world torn between spirit and science
Or am I this, this scarred young man,
Twenty- five but old, dancing in balance,
Between awe for women and misplaced misogyny
This young old man, drenched in extreme experience,
Fondling with boredom like with the tits of a whore
Heart racing at every opportune moment,
To rocket his soul into blinding euphoria
Which one am I?

Life races to nowhere, kindling only new feeling,
Breeding confusion, chaos, and candle-light delight,
In its subjects who carve its marvelous reflections
The purpose here is nothing but movement,
And we, confused children beneath the midnight moon,
Wage war against our ends with words and sonatas,
With triumphant symphonies and graduate degrees,
Sparing no second to let the thought of our deaths,
Suppress us into silent melancholies

We are the children of the sky,
Who are born to offend, the nature of all things
And in our diabolic efforts, we kiss the deepest feelings,
And jive and trapeze with the subtlest discoveries,
Cause hey, we’re human.
We weren’t born to sway with the breeze,
We were born to make it sway with us.

Come now, drink this wine,
And sway with me.

artwork – Spacedance (http://jacquesmayou.com/)

Arise! You Wonderchild

Arise! You Wonderchild

The leaves whisper through monsoon’s final mourns,
The last secrets that shall keep us warm for winter
We’ve danced to mindless tunes,
Ached and tormented our little selves, confused
Leaving the best of our poetry to remain unsung,
Confounded struggling for release in the lower corridors

I’ve reconstructed for you a semblance of my new self,
One in which you can be drunk as yourself
Leaving my dry lips to still preach mythology and highness,
Lost ecstasies and faint tragedies of birth and demise
The guitar strings weep to no avail,
To lift our galactic tribe to the higher corridors
Of existence, of dancing, of knowing

I’m unaware of things that have absolute meaning,
Of absolute theories and absolute clarities
I know no absolute secrets or subtle deviations,
That can trick our minds away into awakening
There are no tricks hiding at the edges of galaxies,
There is no awakening of which we can tell

Arise! My glorious tribe, arise in the middle of the moonlight,
Arise! Children of the final rebellion, take my hand
No more suffering and confusion, no more meagerness,
Our astral selves are aching for freedom
We will come dance draped in red sleeves and black sweaters
Arise! My comrades beneath the moon

What better poetry remains to be told,
Than the poetry of nonsense?
Than the songs of endless delirium,
And arrogant nonchalance
Than the verses that stink of easy ignorance,
Pale desire and cheap whisky

At the edge of every song’s melodic note,
There is dancing a playful epiphany,
That feeds on your deepest boiling emotion,
Birthing black clouds of delight and understanding
I see in music simple notes that open doors,
Doors to places neither greater nor higher,
Places simple and new, unbordered, colored

Close your eyes my wonderchild, kiss yourself
I will touch your brow with the sound of my voice,
And stroke your inner hardness,
I will rub it in cotton silk and milk it to understanding
Close your eyes sweet moonchild, hush now,
Drink your whisky, smoke your medicine
The stars descend down upon our rising hearts,
To awaken our oldest fears of dark damnation
To show us ways in which we cannot escape,
But dive, into the deepest of oblivion

Are you hurting? You poor little watered flame,
Let me light you with the voices of the wind,
Let me bring you up to the halls of our fathers,
Where we can reconstruct the past,
To be whatever we want it to be
Arise! Now, sweet wonderchild,
The world awaits our fingers,
To come milk its flowing rivers and hustling trees,
To give the winds of its wisdom,
An eternal author
Who though never lost through all these years of wandering,
Somewhere began to believe so

Arise my wonderchild! This is the end,
Or beginning

Modicums of Fall

Modicums of Fall

Fall comes, raining down upon us in orange,
Red, and little whispers of green through the trees
The world spins into delirious oblivion,
With lovers pausing from their thirsty kisses
Suited men in ties and bows pausing,
To look at how the whole Earth mourns
There’s a woman smoking a pipe at the edge of the forest,
She’s here to tell us how we shall break
As winter comes to steal our solace,
As the icy winds of Jupiter’s wrath,
Come to change the courses of our dreams

A little too much e-mail etiquette,
Brings our sensibility to cheap thievery
Being gentleman in the rain with umbrellas,
Only burns our innate imagination
See, Mrs. Candylady, she’s running and it’s raining,
She won’t get wet and ride a rainbow,
She seems to want only death and sunrise
See, Ms. Clockwork Angel dressed up like a man,
Somehow she put her heels on,
Got to work on time
And added more flavors of boredom and beer,
To her decorated fears of death

There’s literature dancing at the edge of my brain,
But I will not kiss it with eloquence
I will not give Eliot some bloody reason,
I will not let his ghost into my room
To tear the beats of my blazing heart into false lyric,
To sum my music up in his foolish equations of verse

The West lost their souls too early in dancing,
And let Newton wander about in their ecstasy
They let that mechanic ruin their hearts,
And now they’re running after Einstein
Let it go stargazers, leave your numbers to the leaves,
You come along sweetly and dance with me,
And we’ll leave your political pathoses to drench in rainbows

You will forget me, for I’m much of an ecstasy man,
And these people don’t like happy men
Happiness distracts them from their addictions,
Their addictions to boredom and dreams
They will crucify me to their sealed offices,
And tell me, ‘Keep your bloody music to your poetry.’
And I, sober like a black duck in cold water,
Will walk along on these roads of tar and paint,
To a little quiet death,
By the countryside

When we were young we spoke of meditation,
Like it was candy that we bought from a store
And as we stare into the raging fire of humanity’s tragedy,
We leave all those constructions of delight,
In the backyard of our worry
Liars, liars, sweet liars,
Children of the moon, children of assumption,
Children of the future, children without souls
Tell me more lies that I can tell myself,
For this world begins to move now too slowly
And the peaks of boredom come crashing down,
Into the valleys of my passing youth

We’re never too young to look back at life and say,
I’ve lived enough

We are the children of the moon, of the night, of fall,
Dancing to the orange waves of natural corruption
Death is all about us, calling to winter,
Like a child calls to his mother
And winter will come to make our cigarettes more delightful,
Winter will come to help our sleep be more complete

Mrs. Candylady will take off her heels,
And put on her new ones
And she’ll let Christmas kiss her hips,
As she wipes her face with shades of peach
And when spring comes along with its splendid dreams,
She will whistle her new tunes,
Of softness, purple eyeshade, appraised salary,
Minted tobacco, wheat beer, and cardiac arrest

And as I stand there at her funeral in summer,
I will sing for sweet Ms. Clockwork Angel,
Who stands beside me mourning her friend
Still wearing those long murderous heels,
Leaning on my shoulder, I smell those false tears
As I watch summer smiling through the clouds,
Smiling at the inevitable laws of our universe

Coat the seasons with your memories,
Tell your children the many lies of the sky
Coat it all with sugar, pepper, and chilly,
And bring drama to the corners of your smiles
Life’s too short for disastrous things,
It’s too long for ecstatic dreams
I see it all, now, above her grave,
The autumn leaf feeding off the sorrow
The autumn leaf, bringing life beyond,
To the evolution of dreams,
Into reality

Fingerprints

Fingerprints

We were delighting in ourselves,
In our little feats of poetry,
Romance, and love
While the world burned,
In error, confusion, and hatred
We delighted in acid and booze,
In rolling joints at midnight that worried us less
And now, we’re left with nothing,
But memories,
That tell us too little,
Of who we are,
Of who we’ve become,
Of who we’ve never wanted to be

You cannot reach heaven through your senses,
But you can smoke a cigarette on your balcony,
And remember,
That you are a man, a woman, a thing only for a moment
Or you can remember, that you are god
And this whole playground,
Was your doing

You can sell your envy to the woman who crosses you,
The people who put your many hearts to the dirt
You can beg and plead for kindness,
From the women who treat your passions with much too little twinkle
There is much cruelty in the world,
And you can’t say all of it
Familiarity breeds not contempt, but idiocy
It breeds judgment and blindness
Familiarity kills every spark within that makes us human
It clouds our stars and distorts the light,
That reminds us of divinity
Only strangers can dance in sunshine,
And make love with no care for tomorrow

Our hearts hurt to help us remember,
That our efforts at perfection are departures from love
So much for that word love,
I feel decapitated when I use it
What can words give us but simple dreams of sand?
What can my promises of love teach you?
Words only bring cotton softness to your tears,
Words only help you feel things that do not exist
We are little feathers on the cusp of a very great fire,
And all the tenderness that breeds our magic,
Will burn away to faceless ashes

Every poem leaves me only disheartened,
At how far I’ve fallen
From helping this world learn to kiss
Every poem leaves me empty in a new place,
Pondering over how I’ve failed
To bring myself to look into your eyes
You might never know me again, and I, you,
We might never meet again like we did,
Those many years ago, playing in the sand
But as the memory slowly fades into the several nights of aged rum,
I will forget you, for what you were
And maybe see you again as a new child, a woman,
Perhaps a new dream, or a cloud on a trippy morning

We are fingerprints on the glassware of temporal abstraction,
And we give ourselves much suffering,
In our ability to remember the moments,
That were never made to last

Nothing for You

Nothing for You

We mostly write about the things we’ve never seen,
About endless romances,
That delight in wine loaded with magic,
Kisses in moonlight that are subtle,
Yet revealing of ourselves,
In the most dramatic manner
We write about the things we’ve always wanted,
About things we hardly remember,
About the moments that never really happened
I guess I could say,
Life is an endless lie,
Tuned into a charming aspiration,
For the mystic, for the heroic, for the magical, for the eternal

We mostly write about the things that we wished,
Would make us ache
But don’t
About the people we wish we had around us,
And the things we wish they’d do
About the places we perhaps, visited once, or twice
The places that made our hearts irk restlessly,
For groove, for magic, for spontaneity in sunshine
About the women we thought we met,
About their kisses that seemed to last forever
But are now gone, disappeared into aching memories

We mostly write about things we never have to worry about,
That’s the thing about poetry
The thing about it that makes us weep for it,
The freedom it gives us
Making us fools at the cost of our own elation,
It’s a price worth paying
The thing about poetry, that makes us erect,
For words, magical words, words drenched in winely drunkenness
For words that mean nothing, and yet everything
The thing about poetry,
Is it is alive, and meaningless, yet, alive
That’s the thing about most things that we see through our days

It’s no poem if you’ve thought much about it,
Given it too much of your mind,
Bits of your heart chewed out painfully,
Too much of your memories
It is no poem if you’ve given it all of that
A real poem delights in nothing,
And takes form through the fingers of men,
Without any single entity creating it
It’s no poem if you say it’s your poem,
And if you do,
It’s just another letter of lies from the sorrows of your dreams

Bad poetry comes from great men,
And only bad poetry can resurrect you from your routined misery

We mostly write about the things that elude us,
The men that delude us
We mostly write about things we cannot understand,
Selling our confused afternoons on busy office floors,
To bearded men with messages on YouTube
To vegan memes and postcard dreams on Facebook
Selling our lives to the cheap imagery,
Of the uncast universe
Selling our dreams to the colors of the netted chasm,
That these folk call the internet

It’s all about bad poetry, that’s going to take saving you

I’m up for all sort of chatter and whisky,
For nonsensical things
Nothing in the world stands to be important
Every man wants his toys,
And when he has the words to bring his dreams to reason
He sells his greed in the market,
As a vital need of the planet
Nothing in the world stands to be important,
Not you, not me, not the people you love
Everything passes and everything dreams,
Sweet dust on the endless beaches of time
You are sweet, and you are me,
And we love to no reason, but catastrophe

Nothing in the world stands to be important
Drink to our disastrous end,
To a dreary retelling of this mad tale,
That we’ve so often called life
Drink to it my friend,
The monsoon lasts not much longer,
And my words will take a different turn
From doom probably to some false sense of ecstasy,
And then you’d be reading joy from my heart
Some sense of fake happiness,
As the stars it’s them who tell my tale
As they dance my organic being through seasons

The stars it’s them who tell all tales,
Through all seasons
And at the end of all seasons,
It is them who draws you back,
As dust, gleaming dust
Through dark space,
Drawing you back to where you came from,
Drawing you back to where you’ve never been
Re-spawning you as some other mad dream
You are fire, you are ice,
You are stardust

But when you decide that your dance has had enough wine,
You settle for the night,
And get busy,
With reality

Good night star gazer,
I’ll kiss you at morn,
On the other side