Girl as PoemShe was once a verse by BaudelaireMore Like This
something about flowers
that were loyal to none
and I kissed her
when no one was watching.
She was a stanza by Byron
who stood on
the white cliffs of somewhere
and praised her eyebrows.
She is nothing like summer
or a lost continent;
is too bold for that.
Her shoulders are not
or a battle to be won.
I thought she was a poem -
or maybe an ode
or sonnet -
words teased and woven
that beat and bled
upon my humble pen,
not the flesh and blood
of thighs and hips
ripening beneath my gaze,
waiting to be written.
Wild Flower VillanelleWild flowers bloom where wild fires burned,More Like This
on ashes, as on light, did they dine,
but that has not turned their petals gray.
With spring, life and color have returned
to a field near a tall, blackened pine.
Wild flowers live where wild fires burned.
Ruin raged red, so strongly they yearned
for a sky free of deadly sun shine.
Petals wilt, but they never turned gray.
That fire's devastation was not earned,
the flora uprose, "This land is mine!"
Wild flowers boomed where wild flowers burned.
Dead grass in their mouths, earth ashes turned
from loathsome to a fare almost fine,
ashes can not turn their petals gray.
With strength through tragedy they learned
from nature what is harsh and divine.
Wild flowers bloom where wild fires burned,
and nothing can turn their petals gray.
The Ballad of Finsbury WiseFinsbury Wise was born as a new century worked sweat into steam,More Like This
His infant cry rang out as he told the world 'Here I am!'
In a time of pistons and dreams, of Empires and schemes,
Finsbury Wise was born to become a beast of a man.
The tale of Finsbury Wise is a sad lament of our time,
So begins his life in Victorian hardship, strife, and alone,
He sees depression personified when he saw his mother cry,
In the empty whiskey bottles his father discarded like hope.
But he had a place to hide when this life was harsh at home,
In his mind was a playground he could always escape the pain,
The other boys ignored Finsbury Wise so he had to dream alone,
With nowhere to go but inward he would let his mind roam.
He grew selfish of his world and vowed never to tell in fear of being denied,
Inside his mind he worked hard to contrive a world all of his own,
Finsbury only wanted to paint his world with love he could not find,
But from this lonely beginning a savage end was forged that would drip woe.
The Devil's SonnetBleed your heart to cast my inkMore Like This
Then sign upon the flesh and skin
For madness hangs upon the brink
Where you drown in poisoned sin.
And eyes I stole from lovers' sights
shall deem with only me to kiss and lie
Reclaim on those stolen lusty nights
When letters bind the name and tie.
Can you catch the devil's tongue?
It's twisted within your own
And can you claim this deed so wrong
When all hope of redemption had flown?
Think with thoughts as black as coal
To match the state of your sold soul.
touristMore Like This
i've scaled rock and road and starving
to worship You.
i brought my camera.
as in all Your former signs and symptoms,
i know there's nothing (here to witness);
light will fascinate Your candle tips,
rush through colour stains
to chase Your sun,
winds lay sonics in red clay flags,
Your standard set in sandstone,
the voices: all accounted for
by insanity or physics.
to our monotone,
the murmur of our tiny effort
to ascend Your house.
in the gift-shop,
Madonna's pipe-less, ceramic heart
lays like an unknown instinct
in an organ.
but i found Your fruit
the sum which bears itself
caulks in gravel walls,
the mime of breath
that juts from
is no mirage
or secret demonology.
all this time
i have not longed
for magick hymns,