In the Ghost Town

In the ghost town your steps echo against walls whose paint is chipped and faded, whose molested fibers exude strange, musty smells. The wind is a worrisome companion, occupying the dark void behind shattered window panes.

In the ghost town, you hesitate to breathe, lest you disturb the nameless silence and attract Fear.

Fear's ghost mask is difficult to penetrate.

The air is dank and toxic; your lungs constrict of their own accord.

The ghost town is filled with broken memories that jaggedly litter the decaying streets, cutting through your leather boots into your soft, pink feet as you stumble and creep through its grayish desolation.

Hanging debris crashes near your ear and your senses scream with panic. Your heart suffers from the adrenal rush, aches beneath your exterior.

The heart of the ghost town is plagued with unsaturated animals who prowl with dripping fangs and lean bodies. Their savage hunger charges the overhanging air, electrifying your saturated core.



I am a lonely soul in a collapsing town.
The animals' fight is all around me.
But I am above them.
And I beat them when they attack.

Run back to civilization, human.
Run before your conscience hates you.
Run before you turn,
Animal.

Some Martyr's Beliefs.

The cell door will open; the cell door will close,
My hand dictates its stationary pose.

My helpless head,
Lays back and grows,
Staring transfixed,
For the image has froze.

As my eyes droop,
And my body goes,
I swear to things,
Only a martyr knows.

Hostile Armor

Be hostile toward things of love.

It is the only way to ensure protection.

Hostility is a thick armor,
That drives away,
The shallow hordes,
Who clamor,
And thirst,
For pure blood.

To realize the greedy,
Sawtooth pain,
That is pent in the souls,
Of the many.

Watch them idly thrust,
And then withdraw,
Hoping to find human weakness.

But hostility has no weakness,
Except lack of strength.

And lack of strength only comes with exertion.

Life exerts the body;
Love exerts the mind;
Hostility holds both in check.

The wise wait for the truthful love.

Truthful love pierces through hostility,
Despite ferocity,
And always enters the heart.

Unroll the Carpet

Unroll the carpet,
The royal feet are here,
And their soles mustn't touch,
The common pavement.

Unroll the carpet,
The royal feet are here,
And their soles mustn't reach,
Their decadent destination.

Unroll the carpet,
To hide the spiked pit,
And let the feet fall through,
To be savagely punctured.

My Countertop's Knives.

The sharp knives are crossed in an X,
Like a bad omen,
On my countertop.

Their blades are silver and clean,
Ominous but unused.

They are dormant, but violent,
Accidental, but artistic.

After viewing them,
My reluctant hand,
Pulled them apart,
And my fingers,
Typed this poem.

Outside the Tunnel.

Don't you hear the music,
Revving up our righteous hatred?
Feeding 5000 minds?

A pride emerges,
From our darkness.

A light to lead us,
From the putrid tunnel,
Into the realm of sight.

Exclusive and arrogant,
Our hearts pump,
With a sense of superiority,
As we blindly emerge.

We sing an ugly song,
Against the world,
Outside the tunnel.

But the fools,
Don't hear our beat,
Feel our heat,
Or understand the street.

Political Parasites.

Crawling up the giant's leg without reason. My antennae are whirling, my fat body is dragging, my legs are tickling. I wonder what lies at the giant's jugular?

The blood is flowing, the heart is pumping, the body is breathing.

I don't think about how it could kill me. I just walk upon it without fear. I know it is alive, but it smells like food. And I know then that life is good.

But you'll never see the executioners' palms,
Descend upon you en masse.

They will fall with rapid dexterity,
They will hit with murderous intent,
They will smash with a renewing end.

Roaches' Legs

Roaches' legs in the budding morning,
Tinkling on my sensitive skin.

Roaches when the sun is shining,
But the room is dark and hateful,
And the atmosphere is thick-plus-hot.

Roaches when the world is dusk,
And their blackness moves,
At the corner of our eyes.

They slink away rapidly,
Alarming everything,
Fearful and grotesque.

There's a roach that crawls,
Beneath ultimate tranquility's,
Deceiving blanket.


You may feel him,
In your sleep,
If his nightmare legs,
Are bold enough,
To scare you awake.

To Feel.

I wanted to feel,
A classic woman's breath on my lips,
As she tells me that she loves me,
As she melts into my arms,
And her eyes grow glazed,
On a hopeless romance.

What a sweet farce,
What an awful pang.

I Wanted.

I wanted to hold her in my arms,
And absorb her heat.

I wanted to stare into her eyes,
And devour her soul.

I wanted to lap up her youth,
With my insecure tongue.

I wanted to enjoy her talk,
As her sensitivity surfaced.

But then she smirked,
And walked off.

And I never saw her again.

July 4th

The distant war rages on,
It is controlled but wild,
Violent but peaceful,
Dazzling but inflammatory.

What manner of mayhem,
Clouds the streets tonight?

For the dark distance shimmers with light and fire,
And I hear shots ring out in the urban evening.

The screams of thousands reach me,
Are they wailing?

There are clouds overhead,
But I cannot tell if they are heavy.

I point my chin skyward,
And blindly wait,
For that first,
Extinguishing droplet,
To fall to the ground,
Louder than an explosion,
Before the next firefight,
Plunges a hole through my lonely chest,
And deadens my rebellious brain.