I will kill the cynic.
The living-dead man of poetry
A bastard son to emotion
His calling card is “sadness”
With a preference to the cliché
A rotten corpse of art
Turning back the pages.
To which his ...
Today was to be the Jester's big day
He knew his neck was in the noose
because the gallows are where he’ll sway
Her wish is to be entertained
The Jester danced for days
He plays the Violin
Living on the Island
I'm stranded on a cloud
Sir Bently doesn't cry.
Stepping to the precipice
Peering down the down the cliff
Peaking in my crows eye
O'Hare sips a mai tai.
My Nimbus scrapes a tower
The trees are bare this time of year
On the porch, having a cigarette
I could be drunk,
the drink plays tricks
The Earth is fake with its plastic grass
A woman rushes to her car
The moon has conquered...
How can we help?
A hand for a hand.
Can I hold your wallet in my pocket?
Only for a moment. Really, how can we help?
Coughing up the deluge, tie the rope up here.
Something free for the moment,
Reflecting on the time in a mirror made of granite
She pulls at her skin, trying to catch the worms
A shelf of binding, twisting in the dust
Waiting for an owl, a professor lost in time
The mass candl...