Burning

Too hot to touch. 

She was (is) the spark. 

The blinding flash. 

The binding flesh. 

An equinox of solar pleasure. 

In another life 

The fire bloomed from her head as summer winds blew her hair like the wide stretched, arching wings of a pheonix. 

She was (is) the kind of fire you want to touch. 

Banked (overflow)

Stones sit at the banks of rivers deep. 

The still waters wavering, hissing, proclaiming an unending flood.   

   

    The stone: an agent of apollo. Sits in structured confidence as the tide submerges him. The banks overflow and still waters ran deeper. 

  

Chaos is his religion. 

A traitor heathen.

Dionysus drowns his converts     

Life at sea.

Speak softly into the loud abusive abyss.

The hook is in deep. 

Time is space, and space is fleeting.

I argue with cold winter whiteness. 

While the putrid black blood of self deception smears the innocent sheets atop her corpse. 

Dead, sordid, breathless fish. 

Broken from her boundaries 

Wet and lifeless. 

'Murder' she wrote. 

Passionate murder. 

Spacetime

The past appears to be the only place where good times live. All the while the moody, shriveled, petulant present reeks of hard liquor and solemn regret.   

The meandering movement of future affairs is shifted like the monthly tide.  

A planned existence, persistent gag.

 A blood red moon amongst the blistering starlight. 

A hungover fatalism. 

 

Vodka

My goodness, 

The coast is clear again. 

The subtle arbitration of dying moods beseeched the cold, stern, cataclysmic inclinations of the courageous and beautiful women of midnight's squalor. 

My eyes open, 

Yet still ignorant of the coming storm.

My heart broken, yet still beating. 

Come to me

Tell me earth is still worth savings

Convince me not to press the button. 

Her warm smile melted my cold heart 

The planet was indeed worth saving. 

 God bless the drunken night