(POETRY) Reminiscence

Shiny Shoes, you stomp on me
A soul, a helpless road
Your heart a heavy burden
My back a strongman's load

Cursive Hands, you draw me well
In bed near death once over
My heart on canvas midnight black
My dove a wretched lover

Cherry Smile, you dance with me
Near fire and mighty cliffs
I sold my ships to grapple
Your deadly siren's kiss

Curly Hair, you blinded me
My eyes I cannot give
You want to learn my story
I feel I have not lived

(POETRY) Red Eyes

Red Eyes, come closer near
I see what they cannot
You blinded them with grace
Their view- your malice blot

You lift your legs and dance
Like ashen rose near wildfire
They light the limbs and raze
To burn the child they sire

Oh shed a tear and cry
And damn the world once over 
To death and blackened Hell
One deafened note all over

Now press your lungs and sing
Give birth to joyous tones
Of how you love the chaos
And fight the world alone

You breathe and give me life
Your vice is all but mine
Your lips and smile are toxic
But toxic like red wine

You give me strength to stand
And look upon the mirror
I dream upon a foggy hill
With you the haze grows clearer

I wish the world to glare at me
And beat me to the ground
I hope the wind shall guide my way
And lead me to your sound

Red Eyes, your words are soft
And I shall know your name
They never look behind the mask
You're smiling all the same

(SHORT STORY) The Fog

Both time and love had left the young boy, sitting in his room, Friday evening. He sat alone, his mother fast asleep, his father gone on a journey that lasted forever. He wondered what to do, his homework was done and the allure of his stories had faded.

The phone had wrung just two minutes ago. It was his friend Samuel. He probably wanted to play a board game or two, but really why bother? Samuel was draining to be around. He loved being around Samuel, but the time at school was more than enough.

A rough, damaged voice squeaked from the other room. It was the young boy’s mother, screaming at him to go to bed. He turned off the light and didn’t make a noise. He did not fall asleep though. Too much to think about.

He always felt guilty that he hadn’t spent more time with his poor mother. He knew that she loved him very much, and that his mother must be worried about him. He hadn’t left his room in 6 hours. He hadn’t played the piano in months. But he was too tired to do anything about it. It was either tired, or sad. He couldn’t decide.

His room was a mess, and he hated himself because of it. It always bothered him when things were not right or when things had not gone to plan. Plans were in the hatching everyday in his juvenile brain on how to fix it all. He would go to the gym, he would save some money, he would make more friends. But every night it knocked on the window, he would let it in.

It was the Fog, his dearest friend in life. It made the young boy feel important, like he had a purpose, like all life would be dull without it. All they would do- all they would ever do, on stormy nights and rainy days, is sit together, in their room, and enjoy eachother’s company. The young boy would open the window, and it would fill the room. He would open his mouth, and the Fog would fall into his head. His eyes rolled back, his muscles stiffened, his problems were fixed. All the knowledge he ever needed, all the pleasure he would ever need to obtain, the Fog provided.

Today he decided he’d float away with the Fog, never to the return. With a gust of fateful wind, the young boy rose to eternity and died never living.

(POETRY) To Kassandra

Your hazel eyes
  They woo me
Remind me of a 
  Thousand lost dreams
   Of love and mountain-tops

Your tumbling hair
  It moves me
Lifts me to a
  Heaven so wide
   Longing deeply for you

Your pleasing smile
  It calls to me
Draws me in closer
  To in your arms
   Sharing your needed warmth

The way you speak
  It carries me
Captivates me
  Through sleepless nights
   To share a word with you-

(POETRY) I’m sure I’ll live to see the day

I'm sure I'll live to see the day
Of slashing waves and fields of grey
Our world will turn a brand new leaf
Of chaos wild and rampant grief

The sun will turn and heat our stove
We can't escape, our fated cove
The men in white, they check the stars
And all they see are jailor's bars

It will be bright, that fated noon
Too hot for plants, it's coming soon
I hope you like, the realms of fire
To sell your coal, there is no buyer

The birds will die, a roasted duck
The cats will fry, all out of luck
The dogs will sing, their masters dead
The bells will ring, with all that said

(POETRY) In fleeting, plotting crowds

Come with me, to trials unknown
Your like is of the kind
I wish to know so well

Your skin is smooth of nurture
Of all I care to breathe 
I soak in sweet pearly sweat-

An accursed cure for lonely days
Your swift hands and gentle touch
Has sent me pains of needed hurt

I read of books and tales of love
You write the rosy, compelling words 
Of my lifelong battle-sonnet 

A song so coarse I sing
Verse so cold and damning
Warmed up by youthful vigor

Of all that see the world unbound
You give me cheerful eyesore 
On realms of rape and murder 

I want to need a curse like you
Days spent unwhole have diseased
My brain, my eyes, my soul

The savior of my soul has come
Yet body I must but see
In fleeting, plotting crowds

 

(POETRY) Come roll, the chaotic thunder

A tempest of doves asunder
Come roll, the chaotic thunder
They ring and they clash
Respect they did slash
A flashy, red and blue wonder

To live and see the madness
To burn, the country of fatness
Flags they did raise
A maze that true pays
To leave, a feeling of sadness

A treaty is never in sight
My head, a vacuum of blight
Its corrupted my brain
Aesthetics insane
This land, a circus of might

Jog man: Volume two

The man who jogs
He sat for a while
He pondered and wandered
About how his life
About how his wife
Was sold for a dream

The man who collects stamps
He left for the states
Left him in ruin
And left him in chains

For now he had a job
A job slicing meat
The man who jogs
Now stands near the line
He chops at the tenders
He thinks of his wife

And one fated day
That man with the stamps
Came by his butchery debauchery
And whispered in his ear
This fated verse

'You cannot jog from what
Ails you in time,
I can only send you
This endearing rhyme

You work for the meatman
You sell off your soul
My bars do come swiftly
My tongue, they do roll

Our love was for real
My heart you did take
Imagine how much money
My rapping could make

Good luck with your slicing
My condolences too
Drive up on my lambo
Their rhymes will not do.'

(POETRY) The pulsing fog

The pulsing fog, it sends me deeper
Quickly to a place I'd rather not be
The rise of life, it's growing steeper
It strips my eyes so I cannot see

The pulsing fog, I'm yet to escape
Hanging in prison for crimes of lust 
The rapture of screens, the cult of rape
My time in here is due and just

The pulsing fog, it's killed my meter
Ensemble of nine, to hell with all
And I'll just hope and pray that I rhyme
And hope the worms, remember my time

(One page stories) An elderly mugging

 

On Monroe Street, Jason waits patiently for his next victim.  A procession of wood workers, linemen and other inscrutable tradesmen parade by his alley, but his net is not hoisted for them.  He has a certain breed of fish to catch today; aged, flopping carp.  He had established his trade many years ago on Elm, forcefully taking dollar and dime from any man, woman, or dog with loose hanging currency.  After many unfruitful days on Elm Street, as well as constant police intervention, the business was moved to greener pastures, to Monroe Street, where he mugs old women every day.

An ancient woman passes his corner.  It strikes him odd, as the woman did not move with fleeting pace, as so many do while in the neighborhood.  This woman moves throughout the detested street as if a thousand eyes were watching her and she cared not one bit.  Perfect prey, perfect surroundings.  He pounces.

Jason springs from his alley with his beating stick in hand, and a hungry conviction, to harass the woman into submission.  He forcibly taps her knees, sending her to the ground at once.  He mutters his words of business; his threats, his insults, his leverage on her money.  But she responds not with her wallet, nor with her lips, but with a line of sight.  Her eyes posses less fear than a king in a castle, as if her mugger had fell flat on the biggest joke in the world; and this violates him, and his eyes inflame with fear she failed to possess.  And the joke produces a crowd.

Out from the tributary  streets comes a militia of elders, equipped with nothing less than handbags and walking sticks.  A storm brews and torments the solitary criminal. Strength came in numbers as countless old timers bludgeon the salesmen with their respective wares.  His whole is bruised and broken, but still they batter on in unyielding camaraderie.  His cheek fills with sour blood as business carries on late into the night.