It’s so unimportant, the funneling of guns to my roses.
Slow danced with the most disconnected soul on this planet,
Watching steps into rhythm, coalesce death into wisdom,
Such a succulent prose, I’m nothing short of a serpent.
To color me hopeless is to color me human,
Rendered useless by the silhouette that wants to consume me,
Tragedy of existence, toy soldier battlefield pistols,
Raising battalions ’til the atmosphere blisters.
I’ve had it to here, soaking up blood, every ballad for years,
Nose bleed gush, let it mix in together with tears,
In December, remember me in your prayers,
Feelings are invalid because they have to adhere.
With current policies linear to what the mechanisms produce,
To become ugly to someone who’d move solar systems for you,
Polar influx, it’s why we drink whiskey to rhythm and blues,
Villainy’s cruel, but indecision is crueler.
Being a victim to being insufficient isn’t abuse,
Found the algorithm for bruising, most of it is self-inflicted,
Bound to hell with self-predictions,
health needs help, It’s malnutrition,
can’t help but be hopeful for sanity’s sake,
Where vanity takes a backseat to passionate fate,
If it’s real, then it’ll never be over,
Tell that to the bartender mixing my gin and my soda,
Debonair devil, gallant gentleman, savor the cobra connection.
Tuxedo to the morgue, regret your intentions,
Tailor-made bowtie, rose-colored coated inflection,
Stared into space, untie your fingers with mine under sheets,
Lower our voices, silence is the most powerful scream.
Poignant as the cotton ripples forming through comforter spread,
Where dozens of sins lie underneath ruptures of thread,
Droplets of wine cover cream satiny fiber,
Cabernet fire, carmine cobblestone twine.
Sit at the fireplace, untucked collared shirt in regression,
Of how much warmth we made over embers we directed,
We made love here before, fingerprints on the glass,
Commanded the sun as it melted the wax,
Shot arrows of love with an Aries through summer,
Under Cancer’s July, over candlelit colors.
Kiss my guns hello
and my roses goodbye.
Tag: poems
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Echoes of Roses and Guns
–––––––
-
We spent an hour alone, watching our eyes meet our lips.
My revolver’s extinct, extinguishing meandering thoughts,
Cradled across indifference, right into addiction,
Deference to malice, rosebud digitalis reborn, a grin.
While I think about things I haven’t before,
Soaked in grimace and gin while I’m singing along,
Philosophers’ physics, you had me at ‘gone,’
Underneath the chasms we nuzzled upon.Dreamt that you nightmare’d, that I had dissolved,
To the active involvement of our rapid devolving.
I caught you at 12 under the crescent moon of December,
BMW leather, something that you’ll soon remember,
Luminous, lecherous, somehow loosened endeavors,
An uphill battle to oblivion, where passion is glued in forever.
Funny how erratic romances never seem to be better
Than hand in heart, avant-garde fractions remeasured.You tethered my inaction with half-wit adventures,
Regretted the hand I played once you passed out the deck.
I questioned your motives of why you accepted
My friendship, out of desire or a dying affection.
Like it happened out of nowhere, it’s hard to pretend
That I’m not an infectious disease in dire need of a medic.
I mean, at least that’s what I get out of your attention,
‘Cause the seeds you planted have weeds in them.Nirvana doesn’t exist in this squander of thought if you aren’t elected.
If the devil wears Prada, it’s because you modeled for them.
This is just misjudgment of honest broads, a cautious indifference,
Treating genuine women with impartial disinterest.
Just a devilish debonair with his cavalier distinction,
The hemisphere changes with its Australis emissions.So now I stare at the stars, I hate that I’m this,
Paint constellations with apathetic detachment,
Atmospheric phenomenon, in hindsight, it was madness.
So now we wait, wait for the sky to hit limelight
While I cascade into blackness. Damn it. -
I’ve scrapped my last five writings, with the opening sentences starting with,
“It’s hell in this darkness,” “Dearly departed, please be here for my heart.”
The other three were as stark: “I hate being alive,”
Don’t seem to remember, one rubric: “Demons inside.”
Life is overrated, diluted with wine,
My tears empower me, a tailspin fusion designed
To reinforce and devour these current sutures, I try,
Irritated, I could feel the torque overpowering madness,
The endless script, scour for breadth in callousness.
Out of breath on land, but at peace underwater,
No feelings, this author reveals at the end of the chapter
That he doctored/remastered his slivers of sonder.
It’s physical misconduct, picture cigarette soft burn,
Sepia softer, silky seeping… Mossberg,
You’re examining my life on repeat,
And it’s slightly appeasing to people reading,
Each piece to critique the mystique I deliver each weekend—or month, or year.
It’s weird, I can’t survey time-frames in increment values,
Separating migraines from lachrymation is sad too,
Just script what I have when my soul’s in a vacuum.
Red dwarf fighting a black-hole ready to eat me,
Dissect the inside of my pen, where ash grows tethered beneath,
The mass knows, the malice that backhands this skeleton species,
You’ll find remnants of relic of this deeply defined, delicate E.T.
A cavalier lifestyle, the atmosphere where sadness smears nice smiles,
In half a year, went from happy tears to having fear light fires,
A tower with a floor unbolted. I’m a boatman with no course, no joke.
Thousand waves found their way, like an omen or horoscope,
Had the wind knocked out of its sails, with winds brought up from hell.
Sing by myself and it sounds beautiful; help,
When I’m around super sopranos I can’t sing all that well.
An imperfect mesh of nervousness that curls from my snarling lips,
Like a surge of restlessness that stems from the furl of depression,
Defensive, protective, self-deprecation, or self-preservation?
Dedicated to a distaste for eternity, and to being enigmatic,
If you ain’t honest with yourself, who can you expect to feed you a truth
That dismantles your courage? Without feelings of soothing,
I see a lighthouse that I’ll never reach, so I kiss my lantern with fervor,
Feel the surge of a burning sun when you mess with the solar flares,
Or don’t, my soul’s ensnared. Most likely, I’ll tell you that I don’t care.
Touch paintings of fuel like Braille I consume,
My muse, it entails within rules of varying doom.
Feed off energy that doesn’t exist in a physical sense,
Even spiritually, and its progression is hasty.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think that’s the start of an inherently crazy,
Apparently brazen human being, with narratives caved in.
Communicate with airwaves that illuminate the way,
Laid in a zany loop of naysayers that feed them daily soup to trailblaze,
Tied up in this phalanx suit of grayness, where hatred blooms the helmet,
Doesn’t have a rhyme or reason for simple explanation,
That in theory is relevant to his searing insaneness.
I don’t fucking get why I’m like this,
I accept all and any likeness to help me on this quest, or this crisis,
I carry the heads of lions on my belt, and then it’s goodbye.