Ruined by date

Ruined by date.

Tread upon

time and place.

when did it matter?

(It kind of pisses me off when the entire corner of a painting is marked by the artist’s signature. Do that shit in the small margin or on the back of the canvas.)

If it has already rain upon these pages why bother with tears

Do waves meet like fingers

clasping hand to hand?

Am I moved like the ocean,

my tides your doing?

You the moon and me the motion.

The Donkey (not the title of the following poem, but there was a painting of a donkey)

Toss my head into the pot

melted hair and stinking snot

my eyes shall bulge

with screaming wrought

to peices chop me

pour me into my mold

a new shape unlike the old

stretch and grow and attach

my self to my body waxed

then tie my limbs to each a horse

then slap their asses

Spread me thin as depression era butter

Untitled (how fucking lazy)

Black figures fell,

stiff and angled.

Approaching slowly,

so unlike me.

They bare nothing.

Shame nor curves,

nor weapons,

but my mind

is filled with daggers.

Plaque and plague

are mine alone.

They keep coming

filling the space

but touching nothing.

They don’t need faces,

fingers, eyes,

for they have mine.

– Now for the one I actually like:

Were only my walls made with such care.

Perhaps then I’d like the look of my prison.

But mine were hasty and made of the material ready.

And so often it is a construction of hate and confusion.

Always reactionary.

I am not a temple, I am window boarded up.

Not a fortification, but a street barricade left in retreat.

To be torn down every morning come the light.

And find that all I’d made in the dark, made me worse.

I’ll teach my son to build castles. If I have time. (that’s really the title, but its at the end)