ye rapscallions

 

bound

and silent

coffin page

cider teeth

heavy head

in the shadow of

a solitary rogue soldier

ye rapscallion

you are being sent

to the trenches

of lost lands

and you must find yourself

with bullets in your ass

and blood in your mouth

scars on your fingertips

etches on your arms

you will dance

in the dark

scrawling in your broken notebook       

the reward

will be touching

the flesh of fleeting souls

caught in the palm

of locked time

and laid on the page

no longer rotting.

Billy taught me

 

I was taught tenderness by Billy from Maine.

 

Billy is a young kid.

 

He taught me to accept

idiosyncrasy

fallibility

and

weakness

in myself and others.

 

And in some ways

he taught me love.

 

Such a young kid

but with the fluttering mind

of an insatiable visionary.

 

He made some old people

I know

seem like lost

babies sifting

through the dust

between their ears.

 

Billy

fifteen

taught me that

old age doesn't denote wisdom

just the passing

of time.

 

as wild as the wind

 

what am I to do?

naked again

at the screen

mind at finger tips

mind at sea

mind as a mind

will only be

as reckless and uncontrollable

as a fiery rogue

as wild as the wind

I ask again

what am I to do?

masturbation

and

sleep

seem

like the only logical

and productive things

I should do.

 

where rodents get drunk with birds (a childlike vision)

 

and there is a place

where an overgrown child

can write the air

where rodents get drunk

with birds

telegraph poles

have one night stands

with trees

carpets make love

to rugs

whilst the wind

serenades dormant

but potent volcanoes

clouds masturbate

angels' bellies erupt

with the love of all

naïve hearted  

men and women

untarnished and untainted

by the vanity

of the world

a world as loving

and damning

as the people

that roam it

and as wise

and ludicrous

as those who curse it

 

the world owes

nothing

as the world

is nothing and everything

it is a mere portrayal

a threshold for our feet

a canvas

for our hands

a representation

or the actuality

of night flies

in the sky

and

I am thankful

that I can write it

as it

is writing me

and I am thankful

I can dream it

as it

is dreaming me

 

I drink to you

imagination

I drink to the fiery

thoughts fathomed

in the mist

of every living mind.