revelations

they happen.
an awakening...my happy awakening.
im leaving for a bit.

coulda...woulda...shoulda

the last laugh out loud...lover of egg whites.
i still smile.
running bagels and sweet cream cheeses.
still smile.
show me off in vegas
pitch me a tent in washington
stroll my hand in new york
sing the prelude to me
on june 21...then july 21.
sept. 21 will be...my forever.

dabda's 2nd 'D' rant

you want a piece of this?
tell me someone who doesnt
hot
smart
funny
sweet
charming of course
take a piece of this
steal it
violate it
destroy it
then toss it back to me
ther are a thousand pieces to go around
.
.
.
all a perfect fit

unchartered territory

i am not a creature of regret
but it seems there is room to learn new tricks
mistakes have always been a tool to learn from
but it seems there wasnt a place for this one

scars

it's been a long time since i fell so hard and scabbed so badly...if ever

self portrait: 11 years in the making

I created once, when i was 18, a painting of my psyche.
the nude figures in the background i had to paint in my bedroom at home. this a was a bit difficult...trying to paint and pose at the same time. they were nice and fluid and warm hues...
The figure of my face, in the foreground. painted with studio lighting. protrayed by blue hues, colder and distorted. easier to paint and more accurate.

shoveling snow

hands grip this wooden shaft
fingers numb as we try to stay awake
feet sinking deeper
looking around for that summer sun
as it pierces through the breeze
eyes fluttering
lips creasing
hands falling
as a breath passes these dry lips
i inhale the spring air

the morning after

swallow this bitter pill
rays dancing on my desk
breezes at marys hair
metal music at my ears

swallow this pill and suffocate on it!
gag on it! cry over it!
until my body has ceased to feel
this soul has lifted beyond the skin
until the very thing that was
is no more

swallow it until the saliva dries
and nothing can grow
except this vanishing hope
that I am not what was

loving flaws

when mistakes are made and more love is given for them.

overconsumption

the love they give...i take.
glasses of golden liquid
cinnamon rays i kiss
moving images i read
all of it
i take it all for me
because i can
because you let me
because you want me

when physical is the illusiona and thought is what IS
i can be somewhere else
listening to the strumming of this guitar
feeling my foot tapping on a differnet wooden chair
i could be alone

MIA without report

when an inch apart still feels far away.

"smoke" break

people have their own way of coping with things. doesnt seem i cope with things..i keep my distance long enough to forget. i donot delete the person nor do i get angry, i just wait, they will get tired and leave me...well most do. the ones that stick around, well they stick around. i like those people, the forgiving ones to my moments off the map.

more seem to be sticking around these days. i'm not sure why.

swell

rising from the pit of my stomach
feasting on lemon rinds and black coffee along the way
bulding to the throat into a suffocating dryness
swelling into the figment of my imagination

a mere catalogue of memories of things seen and unseen:
a conservatory,
a field,
stairs,
parcel deliveries,
an island,
wind turbines,
a blue couch (i think)...

feeling the loss as i debate, grey? or blue?

body fluid overload

thanks friend...hand me that stick...as i stand over this pulp and liquify it to non-existence. maybe this time...yes! yes! holy fuck! yes!
god that felt fucking good...anyone wanna piece of this?!?!?
cmon!
please!
crazed. panting. swinging for takers as the tears welt at these eyes...
anyone?