Be Gold

The world is a sunset
through the hills
and beyond this
is the mist, rising
in the night.

I feel love is numbered
who is there for me?
I look at you, thought
the dancing lights
and I think “be gold tonight”.

Our days are few
we should live them
in the sweetness,
Put tomorrow out of your mind.
Be gold tonight.


Molly Ringwald’s Dad

You look like the kind of guy
who would have played Molly Ringwald’s dad
in a mid 80’s John Hughes movie
when she was still fresh and pretty.

That is not to say you look old
just conservative and kind of distinguished
which makes me moderately curious
to see just how far I can corrupt you.

The hearts says one thing, the head
says somethign else and the little demon
between my legs is saying
why the fuck not bite?

I guess I have come far enough
to to be totally freaked out
at the though of me being fucked
by Molly Ringwald’s dad.


Scott and me be the red weepers days in
go, well O! of anything – Sex- Hate Your’e
You! Crash! my keep, Pilgrim (almost) (thing) So
Bob, lauren – sparks. Bob sad. Ill garbage please
well off girl anthems prettiest dancing by your plumtree shoes
Old a and birthday. Moon, yours in surrender
Acoustic summertime
Katrina plan
Threshold track
Bit my passion
be threshold.
We the sleazy T
here out, please
opus stick not shout
The sex.
I’m those dreams
Blood Lips
oh, speak!

It’s About Time

It’s about time
I made time to
to take time.
I’v been so busy
blindly tripping
There’s only so many many
you can’drfit to
and time, as a friend,
is too fickle.
And when you think abott life
it’s about time.

Time is a road
you go “to” on more
than “from”
Some times you go back
most days you roll down
And that road may be long
or that road, it may bend
but your wheels, they get
none the wiser.

Time is change,
it is positive movement
time, for a change
to breathe in, to
breathe out
I breathe out the bad
breathe in the living
I am filled with change
which is all about time.


Is the sky the sea to a bird?
Is the sea the night sky, undending
to wing, to claw, to tiny bone
to feather, to sail
to the sun?

The House of Suits

All is silent
in the house of suits.
Maybe the whispered shuffle
of a chair gliding from a table

The is distant crunch of gravel
under a costly-leathered foot
The dull crump of a car door
snapping shut.

The dust shines like amber
as the morning sunlight strikes it
as silent housemaids hover
attending each lone mote

The madam slinks in spirals
down the master stairway
eyes glazed and oblivious
to the passing of the days.

The money earns itself these days
and they don’t know who to spend it.
All they buy is quiet
and space from the passing world.

Who know the hearts
that beat
within the house of suits?

The Heart

The heart, boiling blood coursing
pumping, red and black
anger, passion, the heart
so hungry, ever wanting and
tearing at its walls of flesh to run
the heart, oh the heart
at never aging.
It hates
its maker for cursing it
to love.

The heart is wiful and ignorant and guilty
of crimes that would put
a needle in its arm
in 38 states tomorrow.
Wicked heart
hateful heart
so full of blood.

The heart
will not stop beating, even in death
it knocks relentlessly
in memory
the dead heart
in time will not ever

The Touch of the Master (for Mr Eric Gale)

The world I live in
is a cold one
very formal,
very proper,
everything in it’s channel
That’s why I take
the risks I do
the men, the drugs
and I steal from stores.
I do aything
to get out of
the straightjacket life.
Of the mold
into which
I was so
rigidly poured.

I came to a place
to meet strangers
wild men, men with
no fear of dying or
of lookign back
and I came,
out of bordeom
to read the poets
and that’s where
I found the true,
wild hearts.

It is also where
I learned how cruel
falsehood could be
liars who use words l
ike burglar’s tools
but there was one
who stayed loyal
to his own higher vision
with the touch of the master
and the seer of truth.

One by one,
the poets all left me
all except him,
who stayed the higher course
and speaks with the fire
of the poets of old!
– and all the poets to come.
and I owe him my heart.


Eric Gale ( is one of the very,very few poets who stills means a damn posting on the rotted hulk that is MySpace. Once there were hundreds, but now they have withered away to the point where,  if I gi back after a month, there maybe 5 poems posted worth reading. And Eric’s are always more than worth reading.

Lucky for You

It’s lucky for you
that I am patient
and will wait for a
break in your work.

It’s lucky for you
I’m not precious
or insist on being seen
at more exclusive locales,

It’s lucky for you
I don’t mind you forgetting
my brithday, or our

It’s lucky for you
I’m not the jealous type
because I know about
the trash you haul ’round,

It’s lucky for you
I tolerate soft drugs
for weekend use
and that alone

and it’s lucky for you
that I don’t mind
fucking in cars.