Fact

the fact is,
all mysteries are unchained
and the improbable
is always
sneaking around

Speak

Somewhere between the words spoken
and the ones not heard
is the point of disregard,
We have returned to stare at it
at times with the feeling of having known little
And we have let heart's bleed
into silence on the other side

Let it rain

Let the rain divide you
into cold feet and spring
into the man at his edge and the one in the middle
into buddha's flute and its rage
the sea and your warm underbelly
into faces found in puddles and the ones still smiling
the drops sliding down and the windows looking up
into men who soar and graves that dig themselves
into your birth sung to you
and death in the deafness taken away

The temporary birth of character

The talk is of the weather,
the dilating libido of suppression
Of The persuance of harmony
through all the gutters
that lead us,where we have always wanted to go
There is nothing uncommon about conversations
picked up from between the whiffs of whisky
or set up in air conditioned theatres
to an audience drunk on the ordinary,
The air outside this crumbling state
of a man may smell less of the objects
one loves to loathe,
But his is the lone walk,
under the sky of a frightful night
we as cowardly want to avoid
as to expect

An old book

On the table she lay
Her legs apart like
the chalice of antiquity
forever left inviting,
The sperm of my attention
as it wanders
away from the egg,inside the egg
The pages in her,
the never had orgasms
in a heap,below some blind
perversions of life,
between this day and the last

This city

This city is too many lights,
to look down upon with a clear heart
The walls too thick,
to run through and find yourself again
The whores too tired,
to not be whores again
The air too thin,
to have the stomach for rain
The dead too many,
too late
The windows too many to look into,
too few to look out from,
An honest man's ego too small,
to die for some good
The sidewalks too wide,
too small to sleep on
The faces with too many teeth,
too few to show and fewer that bite
The heights of rage too small,
too big for your convenience
It is never quiet in the city,
And it is never strange

Unholy prophecies

It is the bomb of parity
between the old and the untold
that a child grows around,
He bites into it
like a rodent,for man is born
with an appetite bigger than himself,
The lessons of life
are found in such mediums
that it is pointless to convey
anything,by pushing in two mice from
opposite sides of a dark tunnel
to fight for an object not there..
And then since it is too late to say
'fuck you' to the first man
who told you how to live your life,
You end up being the catalyst
to an experiment going nowhere