Wish You Were Here

                                 Wish you were here, to witness my vain attempt at preparation. To transcend daytime thoughts and stale acquaintances. Among luscious brown meadows and illustrious green prairie-ways, fertility and significance envelopes our culture. Beneath candy yellow eyelids, and pale honey suckle cheekbones. Our bodies subside restlessly together. In afternoon apocalypses, below hypnotic cloud formations. Your sensual touch chills my frail vulnerable marrow, sensations down my primitive infrastructure, Fatigue increases, while evening shadows spread throughout narrow vestibules. Darkened fragments in dusty remote urban corners.
                                  What moments unfold before me in tragic premonition? Your maternal feline instincts surround my naive playing field. Knowledge of assorted demi-gods leave vast margin for consequential human error. It is all quite perpetually stigmatic.
                                 When you were young you stared out towards afternoon suns and grim majestic mirages through tranlucent glass mirrored windows. Then out through the creaking front door, you strolled out onto deserted city streets, white cemented pavements ascended sharp heat that glazed your particular body frame. Towering glass skyscrapers, and tar-brown monuments, stained the shimmering horizon. You were adolescent and juvenile then. Sordid years of meticulous sordid architecture and blue dazzling Summer ocean waves. Gaunt and mesmerizing, myriad citizens of morbid population. Jaded and perpetually threatening. The placid evening speaks in haunting undertones.
                                 I miss your immaculate feminine portrait, your fragile quaint voice still speaks to me in surreal languages and melodic rhythms . The mud, dirt and folly of modern centuries fall short in describing personal failure. Our Autumn was an Autumn of disbelief. A lucid transgression of maintenance apparatus and cleaning supplies, to sweep and mop up the residue of one's past. You've seen me at my worst, it was none too pretty. A lot of booze and money flushed down residential toilets canal-ways. What I'm trying to say is I wish you were her in my jaded territory, to share my love among thwarted routines. Some are boring, others quite tiresome. Chore-like at best on Mondays. The rural township speaks out in irritating decibels and intervals. When we both have what we want, we shall desire something else. Isn't that the fallacy we are doomed and condemned to work with? But for now I shall admire vintage photographs and old records we shared, decades ago, among forgotten terrains of lost innocence.  

"Fearing Death by Water"

                         I've been dreaming of your memorable face, (preferably at stale, quaint, frail, and vulnerable midnight, posted in remarkable incandescent highlighting beside a solitary moon) for quite some time now. Broad countenances shone along moonlit beaches and ancient shorelines. Soft ivory surfaces glow through evening's shimmering charades. Sandy quay-like arenas unravel before tartar eyelids, moaning through boiling fever. Forgotten love letters and assorted flower arrangements never sent. Coastal postcards abandoned by thawed out swimming pools of illustrious design. My resilient passion for impending doom remaining prevalent. Cloud like and cloudless, the mesmerizing dunes of St. Augustine. Maternally warm sand formations and unresolved diminished centuries left wrongly embroidered between soft delicate fingertips. The enchanted wind still speaks:

                          Wind: "Yes, it is the drowning man that fears 'death by water'. While gentle tides sweep in from the vast Atlantic's perimeter. Listen, you'll still hear my voice, you don't believe me?, go ahead and listen. You'll hear horrific folly of myriad men like me that came before ye.
                          Johanna: "Yes for it is true,  I do recall correctly.  There was a man once, I loved as dearly as thee. Despite the wind, sky, and the sea"
                          Sky: "Bah!, for there is no time to ponder such things amid treacherous daytime corridors!, The clouds!, the sand!, the surf! I shall commence thunderstorms to roll in from the deep unforgiving gull-ridden east! Primitive fools! Only I shall make these decisions! It is not ye who decides! (hahaha, the laughing sky)

                           And so it was for Johanna, a dull and tedious routine to endure. Afternoon promenades to residential building establishments. Joy becoming a common disbelief. Johanna's peers and stepparents did not understand, (for it is impossible to reiterate the significance of  Jesus to a Mormon, and so it was for quite some time then).
                   
                           I, a promiscuous unadulterated boy contemplating the young ladies savory loins and pale meaty thighs. Milky white at best, it is the dismal population that ponders pretentious temperamental suicide in public fortitude and social forums. 
                         To this day you can still see adolescent Johanna, with a juvenile ear to the sea, a lackadaisical eye to the clouds. You will not see me lingering along the frost-bitten trenches of Judea. The tenant Jew lord still squats below well furnished ceiling standards in the remedial private hearth of suburbia.
                        Me to Johanna:  "Please do forgive the sky being sky, reap penitence from it's elementary teachings dear child. Learn a thing or two from the conventional lesson of the drowning Phoenician sailor (fearing death by water).

"Cindy, it was always you"

                            It was all in the way you smiled, Cynthia. Decorated in blueberry vineyards, outside among unfolded daffodil landscapes in mid July. Night sweat promenades and afternoon rose gardens. Flower columns enveloped in luminous courtyards manors. By the public pavilion, I pronounce your name: Cynthia. Highlighted in red and green shadowed overtones. Delusional and cryptic, promiscuous architecture subsides. Radiant and streaming in ultraviolet sunlight. Flesh and moisturous droplets, pale and feeble, your stature and demeanor. Crimson red moonbeams and bittersweet orchestrations.
                         Late twentieth century feelings: Cynthia, luxurious and shallow. Spraying waters ascend from center plaza fountains. Hallowed out stale faint mornings, through your soiled eyelids remain tales untold, fables yet transpired: Cynthia. Apartment seasons upon mounting the marble stairs, I hear your name spoken: Cynthia. Weekday premonitions below the coming rainfall. Daily showers transcend lost time and abandoned agriculture. Darkened skyline centuries pervade lucid dreams in cunning intervals: Cynthia.  
                          We took tea in the backyard one evening in late April. Below an unsturdy umbrella that shook to steady breeze, how sourly and nimble, our conversation lingered in awkward measures. Our time seemed empty and vulnerable, later together we strolled upon midnight terraces in supple surroundings.
                          Frequenting city funerals in vague urban townships. Roadside automobiles, lucrative and automatic. Pedestrian freeways and sordid traffic signals. We forget all that is precious, beautiful, baptismal at worst: Cynthia. Take your deceased grandmother's jewelry and flush it down your ceramic toilet. We need the majestic kiln, varnished in faded colours. Take me to Pottery Barn: Cynthia, then later we'll attempt to use your 10% off coupon at Bed, Bath, and Beyond. Drive me around: Cynthia in your used Maroon '95 Honda Civic. We'll stop by your stepfather's house and borrow his VHS copy of "Good Morning Vietnam". We won't really want to watch the movie, but it will be the only motion picture we haven't seen a hundred times. Then later we can go into your departed stepbrother's room and make morbid love upon his juvenile futon.
                           One thing I want you to get straight Cynthia is: it was never the other girls, who hung around outside the Starbucks parking lot after closing hours on weekends, they never drew me in or did it for me, I need a girl who understands my grit filled domesticated lifestyle, like you: Cynthia, Cindy it was always you.

               
                   

"Residing among the disgusting daytime flowers"

                        I reside among the disgusting daytime flowers,  assembling sultry beds, of innocent faces amid frail noon time clatter. Sweat embalms the translucent Pacific. Tales of mystic troubadours that sailed horrific rifts, and tattered peninsulas along desolate shoreline cliffs.
                       Primitive talk of tongues in peasant townships, masquerading civilian chambermaids that weave unmerciful requests, regarding recent pedestrian upheaval, stir silently naked between building foundations. Dirt and grit surfaces down sordid alleyways, tell-tale merchants frayed and delivered. Bedbugs fester upstairs along narrow corridors. Merciful in unraveling doorways, the landlord innkeeper squatted, out through pale afternoon vestibules the toad-toed undertaker smiled at naive adolescent schoolchildren in the hearth of their teachings.
                      In rotted sun dooryards, we solely exist. Our souls lay invulnerably below descending skylines. Mouths feeding, spit treacherous tokens of immeasurable folly and multitudinous servitude. Words intertwined through common misused dialect, Vagabonds wail upon moonlit trenches  "the babes haf' gon'!, by god!, the babes haf' gon' now!"  Putrid in sweltering Summer heat, used blood transfusions in aching perimeters. Nude pools of flesh come beating down in prevalent measures. Pioneered, and inevitable.  Embedded soil rupturing, pale soles together in climatic chivalry.
                     Child corpses lay piled upon the midnight terrace, blanketed in haunting undertones, insidious decades of depraved architecture. City boundaries lie restless tonight, recklessly anonymous approaching placid evening. Coffee shops, nick-knack-nooks, and cigar crannies. Renovated bowling alleys and vacant hospital beds. Beige white sheets align boarded cinema windows. Along ancient basement floorboards our souls malinger, then shrivel drearily,  along with our bodies.

"Quite Positively Maria"/ "The folly of it all"

                               (Quite Positively Maria)
                                 
                                 Midnight trees align your garden Maria, they're sparkling and silhouetted, glimmering in pale moonlight. Sundry afternoons outside the local ferris wheel, you in your Catholic schoolgirl uniform sucking up daisies in ultraviolet ambiance. Radiant on Wednesday afternoon in Summer smiles and languid motion. Your violet skirt and thick brown eyebrows. Moisture clings to linden branches that reside outside your bathroom window (left ajar). Let love rain down on us from the baptismal heavens. A canine spread out (on all 4's) sunbathing upon maroon carpeting . Pour me another Maria, the fire's hearth still glows..
                                  Passion floats in on wings of decadent fantasy, decorative decades of illustrious being. Laborious stenciled monuments and retractable residential cookie-cutters. Time to laugh beside shimmering fountains, to marvel beside ivory edifices. The frail quaint courtyard, left slumbering in silent sleep. Weeping willows wallow wondrously around the medieval epicenter, where sordid ancient birds do gather. It is the sly, cunning, vulturous jaded themes that underline "The folly of it all".

                               (The folly of it all)

                               Cut the old man some slack, he has grown tired and withered in cumbersome years of salvage and slavery. Faded and cancerous in fluctuating tideland arenas. Gray and scarred, treacherous candles burn then extinguish at supper time ceremonies. Maple wood and kindled oak boughs, the placid lake that surrounds the embedded twilight. Gnats circle endlessly around nestled park pavilions. Behold your elders, for they bring great provincial tidings in the year of the moth. Gratitude, and what of it? I shall walk these narrow halls in search of stale breadcrumbs and flat domesticated beer drops. Paper bags and plastic wafers. Make-up, do not make-down the village prostitutes, they know not who they're slaying. Men are unwise and foreboding in the year of the stem cell dragon.
                                Dismal and alienated,  towering trees triumph toward daybreak. Diluted in darkness, then masqueraded in celibate evening. Lend me the ears of your sponsored grandchildren. I will use them in ways unknown. I will sing them songs unsung. Learn them teachings unlearned. Bathe them in distilled waters unfilled. It is time now to bury the hatchet. Deep down through the soiled centuries of Camelot.

orchestration in b flat minor

                                        In the frail, vulnerable, and weakened a.m. hours my love, you leave the light on.
                                        Sifting through Daily News piled upon corner coffee tables, below fluorescent lighting. Bedroom manuscripts scatter aimlessly in afternoon breezes. These arrogant teachings, these depraved pupils. The local elementary school's concrete infrastructure blackens through pure unadulterated evenings beside township swimming pools. I watched you lie, steal and cheat my love, with virgin legs beseeching me.
                                     Narrow pillared corridors in stale ancient courtyards. Village cemetery horizons now, mark your grim territory. Adolescent pilgrim peasants in revolt. I watch you walk these halls fretting and setting ordinary standards. You don't get me love, you never will.
                                    I was the guest talk show host that laughed at all your poor jokes.
                                    Evening patio moonbeams. Modern architectural vestibules and outdoor lampshades. In naive innocence, your bewildering eyes, crimson and violet crying out through lost cities, peering into ancient peepholes. A lukewarm bloodstream pulsates through your pale limbs, out to your fingertips. You cannot touch me.
                                    Slump your shoulders, you are not scared.
                                    Do not weep, what cannot love.
                                    That is left unsaid, you cannot speak. Blah,
                                    You are not true.
                  Orchestration in b flat minor to illustrate how far I come without you dear. I never needed you, I never will.
                                    Take the night train out through the rural outskirts. There is a beautiful eastern coastal region just waiting for you. There are people here who will hear your story. They will take you in, chew violently, then spit you out. In heaping piles of filthy garbage on basement floorboards, perishing in unforgiving population. You are common and conditioned at best.
                                   Youthful high school theatre photography dreams, worn and tattered. I got the family room blues again, right below your senior year portrait, it is not cute anymore.
                                   I was a stranger when we first met.
                                   I was a stranger when you left.
                                   How smart are you, really?
                                   Living with strangers and Fucking them.               
                                                     
                                

"Son of a Gun"

                    I came spiraling back into town, a loose tornado on a Thursday in early November. Subtle winds and scattered foliage aligned the rural outskirts of Highway 41. A late afternoon taxi guided me to her grim residence. I appeared at a local roadside intersection about four blocks away, suitcase in hand, buzzing, not quite drunk yet. She would be delighted to see me, or so I anticipated.
                     Being about nine years since the last time I saw Beth, I wasn't too worried, after all she phoned me. Not feeling any too fierce about our time apart, being all whirlwind and misgivings. Careless living placed way down upon the hierarchy of top-notch functioning.

                               Crimson words pour like blood from the bottle, evening dances upon her living room carpet. Sweat subsides in air conditioned intervals, eyes stare vacantly into one another. While outside  suburban street kids hurl reckless moonbeams between fence pickets. Time intertwines, tense languid movement, her frail wrists portray. Brief love and life, soft instinctively gestures reckon stale sordid thoughts, vulnerable years of irreparable wreckage and tiresome laughter. Beth what happened to you?
                             How do you afford this place? Where are the kids?,
                        
                              Early morning diner over eggs, she orders an artichoke salad. We put our menus down folded on the table, below incandescent light-bulb fixtures, steady hum of a ceiling fan. Domesticated waitress blues again, tied aprons and assorted magnets. Fatigue envelopes the fluorescent perimeter. Beer breath and yesterdays papers. Weekly bleached v-necks, ketchup stained fabric softener sheets. Beth's basement definitely needs some work. She could probably use a man around the house to help with things like that.

                           Before our high school portrait premonitions, her cunning adolescent demeanor bewailing . Youthful smiles pervaded voluptuous thighs and hips.We were in the grip of something beautiful and dangerous. Young adult books, and thesis papers. Ivory dresses left swaying upon porcelain surfaces. Your mother hated me,  I drank rubbing alcohol and smoked filter less cigarettes in rolled up shirtsleeves. Post educational Summers by the winding lake, your dads single malt scotch. Not much has changed Beth. We're still in love, still got that raw cynicism we used to get by on. Red licorice and warm anisette, soda fountain teens left lingering on abandoned street corners through it all, our love remains. I still got that old handgun my pops gave me when I was 16, never used it and I don't intend to.
              
                                    I'll stay for awhile, make my self at home, do my best to help out with the kids and all that. I Missed you Beth, my old friend.
                       

Julia Dream no. 777

                              I recall the last conversation I had with Julia one sunny teatime afternoon in her parents garden. I was doing my best to make her aware of my increasing paranoia. "I see peering faces more and more now in my peripheral vision, faces in a tree stump, in a bathroom linen hanging from a doorknob, the fenced-in neighbors dog came roaring at me in sidewalk intervals, I nearly collapsed from fright and exhaustion",
                    
                                We used to kill time together.
                                 Julia hung herself in her parents garden two weeks ago.
              
                            The love I had for Julia was significant upon interpersonal passages, leading in through backyard pathways onto slumbering streets in residential summer. We suffered together from lack of planning. Personal awareness lingered upon the pensive threshold of gradual depression and self-awareness. Her parents took her death much harder than I did. This made perfect sense to me, not the first time I lost my lover to suicide. Previously, I felt nothing, numbness descending, spiraling downward from transient cloud formations, where in darkened Winter, icicles aligned the kitchen window. I sat in the silent furnished living room staring vacantly at patterned wallpaper amid a monotonous ticking grandfather clock.
                            Her parents and I were able to maintain a forced yet casual understanding of the situation. I frequent their household twice a week, on Sunday after Catholic mass, then on Tuesday evenings at 7 P.M. sharp we share dinner. We do not speak of Julia, perhaps it is still too freshly engraved upon stale rising curtains of temped morning. Bedroom windows speak excruciating volumes of god, Jesus, and loss.
                             I knew Julia since the third grade when she (an only child) and her parents moved into my school district. A small suburban town about thirty miles south of the metropolitan outskirts. I have reached the point in my life where nothing touches my subdued consciousness, pain is the only reality that bears truth. A solitary moon appears to me every night among a trivial congregation of bright fluorescent stars, (some of them belonging to constellations).
                            I remember her soft voice, her aromatic perfume, her pale moist face slick and prevalent. Lip-stick smiles and mascara shaded countenances. Her stenciled portrait perished upon a dull white canvas, sad melancholy innuendos burn in noon- lit pools upon maroon carpeting. Crimson flames burn jaded categories and phrases we shared. Random topics of art and moonbeams, a luxury that ceased Julia. Her bedroom door remains open upon arrival. A steady breeze blows in through her screen windows. She is gone forever now, nothing can bring her back.
                             Julia you always admired Sylvia Plath, you told me you believed dying is the greatest art of all,   I just can't seem to believe that.

                              One thing I do believe Julia is that you were
                              seven hundred and seventy seven times lovelier than anything I've ever seen.

"Tucked away in Summer"

                                                   Summer again, let verses as blood, pour from catastrophically frail veins in vague premonition. Do not try too hard, let it ride, and do not force anything. Sunday now, longing for the ancient peep-hole city and it's grave architecture. Subtle winds breathe between solid building foundations in slow rhythm. Street people reside on public park benches, while basket women offer stray pigeons breadcrumbs, children lackadaisically ride bicycles into oncoming traffic.
                                                  Screen windows, exploit loose change and pocket fragments, mixed in through dry lint corridors. Lost decades upon heaping piles of forbidden love letters, sordid manuscripts never sent. He loved her with all his bleeding heart, he Henry, the 9 to 5 pauper of all trades, Her Lucilia, the Braided Easter Basket Bunny of promiscuous head-ware, blue with an extraordinary smile. Her portrait and demeanor on Tuesday. Her feminine frame immaculate. Their love was unique in marble banquet halls. On pillared ivory walls of shimmering fountains and diamond chandeliers.
                                                 Thoughts and endeavors got kicked to the gritty curb a long time ago, came looming in to sunlit courtyards with Velcro sneakers. Telephone wire mangled above urban intersections, knotted shoestring came in dusty packages, fell through furnished domesticated loopholes of interwoven fingers and clattering U-Haul trucks.
                                                 The after school grandchildren cartoon blues, take-off shoes, then unwind upon the carpet. Workplace afternoons, heartburn and headache, approaching deadlines with airline food. The kids at school with their imperfect teachings. 
                                                Back in the late 70's he bought her a brass ring, barely knowing her at all. They walked home together sometimes upon a little footbridge that oversees the common village terrace. Thoughts and idealization's clouded his egg-shell mind of how their lives would meticulously intertwine. He never had the nerve to ask her. That brass ring is still neatly tucked away in a plastic shopping bag, in a damp corner, of a dank basement. 
                                                 
                                               
                                          

Tombstone Premonitions (alarm clock)

                                        Grey soil patterns enveloped moist patchy grass developments, cascading down through sopping hillsides, where cold tombstones grow in magnitude. Cloud like mists drifted prior to sudden rainfall tropics,  cementing the dank wetlands from polar snowfall chambers. Uncoiled cemetery gates lead to petrified sanctuaries, running perpendicular to Gothic architectural mausoleums.
                                        Autumn mother, and Red daughter Winter dripping tiger lilies,  assorted in crimson garments and velvet stockings. It is the deep boiling bloodline families that scurry rapidly through famished villages. It is electric and foreboding. Real in violence and primitive nature. Sordid years sweep by drearily, like jaded black merchants in the frail coming night, conspiring on desolate skid row slum terraces among banished criminals and faded green scenery.
                                       Fertility surrounded the fetal springtime womb in a transient evanescent ambiance. Her last subtle breathe resounded vibrancy, a dying voice that echoed between solitary canyons, subsiding off rocky mountain cliffs,   malingering finally in naked decibels. Native tongues, speak no more of good luck or fortune, truth remaining long after folly
                                   
                                      I was left alone on earth to watch a sudden moon arrive too soon
                                      Alone, I danced below it's lunar cycles, hungry with desire
                                      An orbit of yellow orchids unraveled before my tired eyelids
                                      Sky moon above, a familiar atmosphere exuded tranquil phosphorescence 
                                      as evening transpired up and down the languid hillside
                                      lilacs bloomed in sacred premonitions,  
                                      I awoke in civil misfortune to an uncomfortable bed and an out-of-tune-
                                
                                      alarm clock.
                                

Heavenly Angels and Midnight parlor devils

                                                Broad St./ Orange Line
                                           
                                             It was in the pale, quaint, and fragile morning hours about ten years ago, strolling home from the South Philly Orange Line. My solitary footpath crossed over raw metal sewage drains. In frail innocence of sprinkling mayflies in an early moist Springtime chivalry. The transit misdemeanor police spoke to me in loose tongue tied riddles regarding regional railway lines and interchangeable commerce deadlines. The work establishment I frequented was dark and petty. I dressed in faded black trousers and v-neck Gap t-shirts. I made it known to the common pedestrian population the folly of primitive measures placed upon sordid vulnerable bloodstream acquaintances. My behavior was extreme, notable at best.
                                     What took place was a sordid debit miscommunication between the Heavenly Angels and midnight parlor devils. For those of you who never paid the legal piper. Truth remains frightening and surreal. City row house out of focus upon returning home. Rent papers and expired PECO bills piled on the kitchen table below translucent silver metallic light fixtures, I was a depraved man in need of a bed. Coming to consciousness, I couldn't believe my actions the night before, I would have to take full responsibility for the transactions that transpired.
                                  
                                           The Heavenly Angels
             
                                          The ocean level rising and filled with mercury, mercy mercy me Angelica. Give them wings to hover upon shimmering cloud formations. Where candid fluorescent light pounces between skyline intervals. Rub me down aromatic lotion,  align the pleasure center with  scented oils. Distant continents lie firmly distinct between crimson eyebrows. There is natural beauty here, remove your make-up. Stencil the outlines that float grimly above the ground below. Surface lips press through daytime fantasy, they only last in the piping hot shower, or in the slumber of coiled evanescent sleep. 
                                        Sisters converse with me over enigmatic reality, the tea we pour is lukewarm at best darling. Mother taught us forgiveness parallel to Jesus. Sunday school we kneel the crucifix, surrounding our gold-plated necklaces. Righteous with diligent justification, I am threatened with absurd maladjusted discontent. I, a man who needed to be forgiven, starting anew among the pioneer village county association. Rural, I lie fixed upon bloodline formalities, Rescue me with silhouetted street undertones. Her milk white thighs resembled the residential Anti-Christ. Foreboding, the promiscuous terrain. Leave me to my own devices in the fenced in plaza. Some debts remain unpaid, the township alliance would see to it, I wouldn't jeopardize their political standards.
                                       Drunken, let me telephone Martha, my chest glazed in sea like perspiration. Some things are better left unsaid, the Heavenly Angels made a living out of temptation, lies and poetry..

"Bad Romance"

                                Our final restless words spoken prior to frail midnight, between silken pillowcases and cotton linens. Crimson curtains drawn to perfection,  meticulous distances from either side. Grey painted urban walls remain dry and still. Two empty wine glasses reside on an adjacent dresser-drawer. Blood red was her breathing, stationary limbs pulsated beneath soft thwarted bedsheets, while vulnerable breezes pressed screen windows.
                                  Her bedroom door left slightly ajar, a ceiling fan oscillated gradually on the surface above, while soft perpetual humming grazed city streets outside, transparent as my thoughts on nights like these. Hopeless and vacant, presently watching my future flicker to dull white canvas. Our life together fading abruptly beyond perennial tropics. She knew it, I failed to acknowledge it. What started off as a lucid bad- luck romance, diminished poorly to a three year misdeal. Some will say it was the abortion, while others say the cheating, I won't say it was the miscarriage, it was none of these at all.
                                 Seasons watched us yield upon deserted concrete playing fields, where sordid winter winds scattered precious summer remains of previous vain attempts at:
                     
                                  Something beautiful.
                                  Something we couldn't have
                                  Something I couldn't have.
                                  Something she couldn't have
                                  Something no one can have.
.                  
                                Remembering our residential madness, my daily miscues, her resurrected drama.  Friends and family meant nothing. What was work besides getting paid? An invalid reason to wake up every afternoon aside the vague ashes and stale embers of antique fires. On and off the wagon I rode out the tedious endless days in striking clamor, to possess an eternal gem beneath pale straying suns, is wicked like preying coyotes crying out to devilish moonbeams surrounding predatory equators.
                                I had the art museum blues on free Sundays in springtime. Loveless in the city of brotherly filth. Traffic lights signaled a daytime fantasy, that should of came shimmering thoughtlessly in silhouetted decades before. Watching through scratched touristic glass with retro binoculars:

                                  Our love was a novelty.
                                  Our love was selfish.
                                  Our love wasn't selfless.
                                  Our love was what we wanted to feel about ourselves, not each other.

                       In venomous outrage we cackle drunkenly,  throwing vintage posters from 3rd story         balconies, approaching evening sweating profusely, I'm tired of living this way, you're just tired of me:

                                 Everything is okay now, I'll just have dreams every once in a while:
                           
                                 That I'm fifteen years younger and that
                        
                                 None of this ever happened.

Mercy / Blood sisters

                                  The premium midnight fuel boys ran the midnight circus arena that hovered outside the antique strip mall. It was a nine to five telemarketing job that drove me up a wall for two weeks, landed me beneath the sordid hospital foyer while they pumped me full of Adivan (to calm me down). The light bulb's incandescent fixture amid presumptuous candid sunrise, light came sprinkling in through bay windows. Babysitting me in the intensive care unit, sleeping while reclining in an uncomfortable chair, a northern Philly hospital tech. Recite the lords prayer in my head when I'm all bent out of shape about something.
                                 We talked, that was the most we could do. I was hiding behind disheveled years of fatigue in the clinic. Boisterous at noon, how she moved so gracefully, unwinding dainty legs grazed the tip of my tired cranium upon meeting. While behind the mistakable establishment, city alleyways breathe unfathomable odor, dope people stray through ultraviolet surroundings, drowning to the gritty soiled surface.
                                 Remembering you,  yes I do recall. The darkened corridors echoing broken promises maliciously, insomnia carving new paths along lethargic brainwave malfunctions. Panic rides through my existence while pondering time in jail. Mercy came at the most inquisitive vulnerable hour to me. On my knees with depraved thoughts of streetwalkers, innocence, and death. My life diminishing exponentially beyond the pale horizon. Vulturous snickering passed before me hours earlier, much sooner the frail rain subsided. Enchanting moonbeams placed fragile prisms that adorned the remote corners of the skies vast forgiving chamber, thunderous clouds struck thick heavens, exhausting the autumnal earth, leaving expandable margins of saffron and hyacinths.
 (angels did weep for me at the uncoiled gates)
                                  
                                     BLOOD SISTERS
                                           
                                    In previous forlorn days you poured me a stiff drink, I sucked it down but, the blood sisters poured them better.  I relaxed between the stale curtain of evening while streetcars splashed muddy water on the pedestrian bums. You presented a rusty needle placed atop a dusted metallic spoon. I smiled while the leeches sucked my bone marrow dry. Scars were left upon the ancient perimeter. The flesh that suffers, the blank endless souls that cry out among weeping angels left desolate.  A victim of hallucinatory deity,  flowers at the night cemetery left unattended. 30 years in the making. Our premonitions pass through narrow vacant residential hallways, on our way to the nightlight bathroom to take a leak.