For Amy….

Your hair falls

in stings

not just a body

lonely

Outside the green

hear your vocal chords tremble…

woe

My generation experiences.

Though you call us fake

this reality.

with your eyes all stretched out like green peacocks in the green flame.

Tell me

how is it that you put love in a category.

Tell me how is it that you name a death by numbers and not by personality.

Tell me

What is it that you care for.

or what

even

you believe in.

Do you remember the first time you fell?

Because i do.

I will never forget.

Through the collapses it travels on the rivers

the guitar rumbles through it

up the back of jeering notes,

how they called her.

violently

and screams.

how she called herself to execute….

numb.

money.

I am not vauge.

just responsible.

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel

that i can feel.

Soul .

Mother fucker hates.

Whether its gentle or rough

through her passion filled hips

she fuelled…in her funny way…

It will always hit.

What...are you still trying to judge books by covers and souls by body

Then why do i exist.

Tears fill embrace

this is her final resting

in place.

I am subdued, my heart rests

An angel finally sleeps

You sang for us…

You sang for us

we

are we worthy

we?

your song for us.

finger beat of the scratchy moon.

and my tears need not fade.

though they go

My reality grows but does not shatter your spokes or

falls

dancing on

I will dance on.

to the black

I will dance until my toes know not how.

to your voice.

But my heart can fight and reckon

from their is born

too many

many

colours….

settle.

judge and perceive,

the calling of a wilting rose,who was born to see the rain shatter her

though she took it

what is it to take?

like petals calls

good night dear sweet generation.My eyes are open

My heart still roars.

To those who feel love, you are not hidden

There is no judgement spoken

today's autumn sweet wind

august

caressing…

the air

with the sun.

In Response to the Paintings of artist Duncan Iago and Marc Sinclar

I want to ask you

Duncan Iago, What do you feel when you paint?

Music in the break beats and the harmonies of base,

shoulders

base

hips

base

release

base fingers base

tips

base

release

base

but within you show me your soul,

show me you can funk...

I am latent and bare,

I stand here sparring my self

the insecurities

and pass page by page,

the initiations of my heart.

Already complex.

Let me break it down

My heart rings thru the branches of twisted leaves

tearing and raging softly inside of my intestinal pull,

these paintings make me feel so empty but

so full,

ill,

out of the colours from my childhood I find a worksheet,

The universe lays through it,

I feel the funk music in my toes

and then i look at the strings of lines points and unembarrassed

no one else matters,

when you dance.

There is a detail that speaks to me it is like the soul but not so important,

this detail is funny

both

and beautiful,

colourful wishful and serene like a pipeline of rain

that leaked in to the crevices and crack fines of the street,

each colour separated by the dropping of ink,

harmonious

chaotic

and mine is happy.

If i stare at it too long my blood sugar makes it black

then white

then float.

Twists beat out endure,

raid,

rest

and bounce.

What was contained in my shoulders

is

light

feathered

and out

and then I notice mark Sinclair...

I stare in to the black gals eyes

and she tells it bare...

What do you feel when you paint?

Marc Sinclair : '....I feel naked, vulnerable....'

For a Boy...(and for me).I find it really hard to tell him how I feel...

These are the colours of the world.

One for passion deep inside of my heart.

One for persistence,

for the lonely,

Which lies within hard work and a graceful notion.

Flowering deep within the the forest flame, burning bright

and

extinguishing.

Feeling alive, young.

Hesitant, without measuring, stalling

But being bold not hidden

Bearing orange across you chest, like spider webs flowers

as you climb

Sway

and fall...

Wake,Blue around the glimmering tones.

Positive and alive.

Knowing what you are.

How no one can stop you as long you keep your chin up

and your hands and feets going.

spreading life...

Endurance is endurance burning in the flame.

Be who you are.

Patient green is staring through

El condor pasa

colours grey and white and blue weave.

bob in and out within the streaks of clouds,

the circus comes in waves

I am witness.

these are the colours of the world,

and peoples faces are a wash with amazement of the growth of the smallest

wings in a man

as like in a woman.

Each vein fills up and constricts, bursts with pangs and feels weary

with antenae...

Yet all this is

newborn

newborn.

Scar'd with being new born.

This light is not a blind position

though you will travel far

Screw your apologetics to the world of thoughts

and bear in on your chest the love you hold.

Though the bow and arrow speeds up...

be awake enough to feel it hit.

Let it be

if I cannot express my love let it be,

well it will be that the spirit

a collison

may spare us together

either by the river or the moon.

I am not afraid to feel my love

tho my cheeks blush.

A poem I wrote for dad a few months ago...

I am a box of matches,

I am old

I am tired

I am rusty

I am solid

I am stubborn.

I am woods

and feathers on trees

I am children's fingers

I am you

I am me.

I am in pain

I am not free

I am me

I cannot Fly

I feel conquered

trapped

and raped? Is too sour for me.

I feel like an escapist.

I feel like a fighter wearing blue.

Eating ice cream

Rusting veins out of my head.

I am serene.

I am uncomfortable

I do not play, I forgot too long ago how to do that.

I am unreal searching and dismissive.

I am a clown and pauper

A stream and a singer

A vision and a spy

A wish and definitely not a miracle.

I am so bitter and old.

My splinters used to heal but they forgot to.

I used to be romantic but now my belly is cynical

it farted.

I cared about the world but now the world has lost me.

Simple in the plain

A snake in the forest

A power that burns me out

A wishful dreamer

An optimist

in aligators skin.

And the veins on my writers forehead.

I see anger in your viscous destructive anger.

The kind I saw when you turned angels in to demons

Pigs in to chickens and stuck pillars in to the earth and forgot that you could have roots, forgot that you could fly and just hated.

I burn and expire

Burn and expire.

How is it with one word you can take all your wisdom away and with two bring it back to me.

It started to rain

shliuosp

sh heleeep

shemep shemep

SHEMEen

showaN sTROCKKCOK

SHROOP DSHO SIMMA

SIMZA ZIP SLIP still slow free

whispers.

I am your hypnotised piece of recycled card board grey soaked piece of fury

and fuck your anger and fuck your pride.

Fuck you.

Fuck your anger

Fuck me

And my pride.

Fuck you fuck your anger fuck me and this time I rhymed.

For a Boy...(and for me).I find it really hard to tell him how I feel...

These are the colours of the world.

One for passion deep inside of my heart.

One for persistence,

for the lonely,

Which lies within hard work and a graceful notion.

Flowering deep within the the forest flame, burning bright

and

extinguishing.

Feeling alive, young.

Hesitant, without measuring, stalling

But being bold not hidden

Bearing orange across you chest, like spider webs flowers

as you climb

Sway

and fall...

Wake,Blue around the glimmering tones.

Positive and alive.

Knowing what you are.

How no one can stop you as long you keep your chin up

and your hands and feets going.

spreading life...

Endurance is endurance burning in the flame.

Be who you are.

Patient green is staring through

El condor pasa

colours grey and white and blue weave.

bob in and out within the streaks of clouds,

the circus comes in waves

I am witness.

these are the colours of the world,

and peoples faces are a wash with amazement of the growth of the smallest

wings in a man

as like in a woman.

Each vein fills up and constricts, bursts with pangs and feels weary

with antenae...

Yet all this is

newborn

newborn.

Scar'd with being new born.

This light is not a blind position

though you will travel far

Screw your apologetics to the world of thoughts

and bear in on your chest the love you hold.

Though the bow and arrow speeds up...

be awake enough to feel it hit.

Let it be

if I cannot express my love let it be,

well it will be that the spirit

a collison

may spare us together

either by the river or the moon.

I am not afraid to feel my love

tho my cheeks blush.