The bounty of spring turns summer

turns fall and you'll lie beneath

the stars drowning

in guilty words.


Praise be the liars.


In the summer

I'll be wretched; I'll be

broken in two like

bread between the living


and the dead, but entwined

with string, the frayed thread,


the bow that drives sun

to building's peak


and falling behind the crested

twins, the pillars of men, fell

and glowing with the eternal


sheen of sunfall.


As summer turns fall,

I will be with you always


waiting for barren tombs

to writhe below your belly,

kissing scars that


tumble along stretched skin,

my skin broken and bleeding

below the asphalt moon.







One Up fell down.

He'll rise,


we'll all rise in

steeples piled below

refuse and crooked psalm

of latter day saints,


those that waltz avenues

with broken teeth and

crusted lips,


tired eyes and swollen jaws,

broken hearts and shattered oaths,

wailing below a tired sun

falling into winter praise as

the tired sunset


turns gold in the trimester

of morning.







What shall we mourn?


What will we absolve ourselves

of on quiet sundays


on triumphant weekends

bleeding love into healing scars,

the keloids of a life spent


on heavenly mischief and ebuellient



Shane, the beautiful torment,

come closer in my memory


the beautiful Gypsy on

the shoulders of the grand

Sirriani, the shoulders


of straddled mountains in graves,

shallow and tear brimmed.


Release me from my falsehood,

release me from myself,

my greatest enemy,


the shadow of night.


My land, the timid glory,

blood and fire

triumph and dawn.













Girl-child, beautiful heaven,

timeless glory, broken

night; fall softly on broken

boughs beautiful


drenched in rain and watered

trenches for the dead


and the beautiful mad;

fall softly on my wicked soul;


fall haunted on weary shoulders,

weighted with the tired heartbreaks

of a world weighted sorrow.


Giraux, break my hands

and bind my heart


so that I may never again breathe

my love into the lips of another,


blonde platinum misfortune,

a two tongued lie in the tumbling

winds, blowing over


verdant hills and spirit

possessed treelines.


I am but a figment of a swollen

mind; be free of me,


my weary falsehood and

my wicked name.










Rest, in quiet groves, oaks lining

silent night, tread softly

on beaten paths


with no name but a false promise,

by a useless tyrant


a prophet of an ancient rage.


Wicked water rises.


Waste not the fetid sacrement,

love your famished soul, for

I cannot love a world so merciless

and cruel.


Forget what I have said.

I will drown the roses.

I alone will praise the night.