i read literature

but for some reason i write poetry. the critics tell me i am self-centered and narcissistic. they say i'm evil and sadistic. they say i try to sway the masses. into believing i am jesus.

filthy sin

some misery amiss the ashes.
some filthy sin to make you smile.

a memory is all yours

the hearth of your heart
your sentimentality
the art of your muse
of my womb
a child unborn
its all the things we ever said
its everything
its every single drug ever invented ingested in one single dose
its rat poison laced with bleach and skin eating diseases
its infection
the lying, crying, screaming, trying
its fists pounding on shards of glass and sharp red bricks
its murderous tricks
its every possible frustration expressed in boiling rage and strangled fucking
veins are popping
its blood, blood blood red like roses
essence of being
blinded
its everything i am
its all your love

poetry is dead

poetry is dead
yes; positively, surely dead
and so you are
your eyes scream sallow death
in yellow jaundice
on your bed
there forms a pool of blood
for all you have yet sickly suffered
your hands your knees
your jangling keys
are screaming out for murder
and oh your death
will surely come
if not yet has soon pondered
oh poetry is death you see
for if not i then who would care
self-serving though it be
under soil it stiffens softly
all that you might see
a worm to feed
a life is seed
a poem is an anchor
and no one cares
and no one reads
for silence is the answer

idle morality

your idols
are striving to know you
but you have not
seen light in ages
beneath the willows
you lurk in shades
and write meaningless on leaves
the words of dying politicians
and morality wasted on youth.

idle is your way
and idle is your lost forgotten
in the murk of swamps and hollow hearts
you are clouding over

child again

yes, yes, yes
you are a child again
bows & arrows make you then
remember that time
in the forest near the creek
you spoke
to me

mistakes unmade are the fate of the dying

auspicious visions of knots and ribbons show purity how to evade the lying. had you watched the news you would know that life itself is undying. there is a child alone in the desert that dies while sleeping. hoards of tapes and icons shelve dust and reeking. guitar picks another chord of the same old meaning. rain percusses on roofs of tin-man houses. sallow painted whores sing ballads of forlorn louses. there is a man somewhere that hides in grottoes. he shows himself twice at night nude on horses. the moon is full and a lone howl remorses. mistakes unmade fade with shadows from torches.