Blow

Published in Everyone's a fucking poet! 1995

I'm wearing the last article of death I have

in my possession the question of meaning

            No more faces 
                           no smell of flowers 
     
        golden motion :
                        a pedestrian future

  sculpted by the work of angels
	                             tired of flying --

		they love me

               I remind them of futility

The last thing 
                I wanted 

       was to dance 
with demons 

                & wake up 

                                 drunk with pain

              too much seduction 
                   will drive you home 
       alone
       crowds 
       never 
       balance 

                          the weight
                                     in your own hands --

because holding

                 is an act of symbols

Inspiration comes 
                   from the intimate

            not always 
        awake

           & without 
                             passion


Sleep is a virtue
of the depressed

                                Minds can open doors

                  without keys --

            doors that don't exist

                            you wish they did


The burden of change 

no burden

                        the weight of ages 

                        a passage of time

            the birth of vision 
     
            to its death

                                  Open eyes have genius 

                       and leak --

            teardrop words



The dogs of reason 

                   are hexen bitches

                   friend to the skeleton 

      & industry

          I WANT FLESH & SPIRIT & HEAT

no logical sun could generate
	

          Sense
             a place in the world --

            the act of chance 
            is passive

                                     we are verbs


In our blood
 In our veins
  In our youth
   In our pain
    In our heads
     In our sleep

                         Movement

A book of skin 
& bone : my back

               scarred in signs of history 

                        & sweat
     
      roses breathing breathing deep

the wind never forgets

                       your name --

        but never speaks
        it doesn't care