The beast begins

not in conscious mind…the intangible cut
that niggling welt of red

nor in the walking world…yet stalks darkly
past peripheral sanity loosed on tender meandering

mastering gentle slashing…strokes

The last woman I loved

So let this miracle
become your name
in keeping with my
litany of light

With prayer I will
slavishly confess
to all the little things
that I kept quiet

As quiet as my tongue
upon your tongue
let silence make its
maudlin request

of eyes that form
a question in the air
to promises that
I could love you less

Morning Song

And did you scent the
blossom on the breeze
that gently touched
the soil as you passed by

though gathered here for
love, I give you these
as proof that everything
we have will die

So take this token
now, I give to thee
for time she intimates
when we should part

and never will a
gesture offered free
become the loss that
craved a broken heart

Lucrezia, Lucrezia
I have no more time,
for writing these verses
lost years past their prime.
The pledges I sent you
they traveled one way,
first glances...forgotten,
by Borgia’s at play.

Principles of uncertain origin

Now the body of love was found dying
Of a wound that I wrote on her back
From a text that was not illustrated
With instructions not printed in black

But my plea of puerile was accepted
And the statement was carefully read
To the jury who solemnly listened
But insisted on Coleridge instead

So they sent me away in my shackles
With a note I could never appeal
Of a sentence I hardly could finish
And a verse that should never reveal

Still I work at my only redemption
Adding stresses each time that I pray
To the Angels who ponder my ravings
That I scratch on these walls every day

Sonnet in blue #8

If destiny should ever be as fair
And gentle as your touch upon the skin,
That wakes a man from slumber and regret
Of love that was reluctant to begin.

Then purify the future with a kiss
Upon the lips that whisper mystery,
Of truths we left abandoned in the past,
Consigned with all that’s gone to history.

So lay your head upon this dream of white,
And rest a little while in beggar’s arms.
Then I shall weight my sorrow on your breasts,
And tie it up with ribbons and with charms.

First one with lace, and then the next with gold,
That’s woven softly through the next lie told.

Pondering my epiphanies,
brings an overwhelming
self congratulatory

sensation, equaled only by the
certainty of their falsehoods.
Gods do not speak to me,

but merrily nudge me in the
ribs, and wink three times.
Ah, but this is my afternoon

muse, bright and airy.
Those forced out at night
are so much darker.

As the god of the lottery grabbed for the reigns

As the god of the lottery grabbed for the reigns

With the devil behind him, he reached once again

For the strength and the longing to pull in his mare

Then he grinds to a halt, but the devils still there

 

Now the god he was slippery, careful but wise

And he sang everyday in a clever disguise

O he sang of the sea, and he sang to the air

And he sang of his loss without seeming to care

 

Still the god of the lottery clung to the reigns

With the devil still chasing, and doing the same

So they ride for the morning, they ride to the night

And they ride for the chasm with manic delight

 

Now the god he was gifted with finesse and skill

And he danced everyday at the top of his hill

O he danced for the girl with the Spanish guitar 

With a promise of love that would never go far

 

But the god of the lottery clings to the reigns

As he chases his devil across endless plains

So they ride for the desert, they ride for the sea

And they ride for the thunder that’s eternity