Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

This is my scarred soliloquy

I opened a can of treason on the morning of the third day

the product stank in its concentrated form but when diluted was quite tolerable

but the resurrection machines were made my infidels and heretics

and the internet is bubbling with mock gospels and plagues and news of plagues



this is my awkward argument

I was blue as Billie Holliday or Lord Krishna

espresso locked horns with the whiskey mechanism

it was a wet night in the Land of Circumstance.

the oligarchy was relaxing with guiltless appetite



this is my muffled monograph

I caught sight of a stone maiden cold from wandering

in her hair was the bright bud of hurt and suspicion

she wore it well. It was wilted at the edges like her eyes.

It was no surprise that she had a story to tell

not a long one of her road to hell and back

but a short tale that she fabricated on the spot

concerning things that are and things that are not.


her words tore me from the moment

gentle as fingers about a root

and she stroked my memory

just long enough and

just slow enough.

add to that the drone of her voice

this is my dangling dialogue



she twirled her tongue around her mouth and swallowed once

I saw the seed of generations in her pupils

I was her student then and let her guide me through her intricacies

each fold and membrane a chapter

she shook when it was over.

This is my story

Damn, Lightning Rod! Don't tell EVERYBODY about it! geezzzz...

don't you know it's a weakness and a neurosis to talk about your personal life on the internet and it brings the quality of the boards down when you do that.

thanks for the beautiful poem.

I am honored.

I whet his arched tongue
by curious need with mere
apostolic fabrication,
young as elation's crime.

I invented appetite,
honed the creation of evenly
odd strides by rapt
engagement,

a stroke gentle enough
to raise limp dialogue
to magnetic virtue, hard
enough to get into,
currency
excluded
by a heaven-lie.

When I met him
I alluded to failed
paralyzed
dances.

It was fiction
with a trace
of arsenic.

I elevated him
by a sin-touch
modest
proposition,
his mission
to insert
genes.

I wore
a golden
dress.

Maybe gone but not forgotten.

her words tore me from the moment

gentle as fingers about a root

and she stroked my memory

just long enough and

just slow enough... Fine poem my late friend.