in soul of search mates

 


belonging.

the sad is search and
difficult with all of its
dramatics to turn oneself into a
prize it’s moral

acrobatics we love because
we love to love to need to feel
inside but all that ever was
and is is made of clove and

pride we string along our
platitudes we soon evince our
longing but souls are made of fragile
stuff and yearning for


 

i only once

i only once
beside you once
inside you once
then grieved you once

and in a thrice
the tears of twice,
in days of ice
believed you once

for every once
i should have once
but lost you once
for i'm
a dunce

© Andriy Bezuglov | Dreamstime.com – Girl in red hood

the 7th sibylline utterance of the new millennium

the gods demanded sacrifice,
and so we offered
tolerance

it’s not like anyone
was using it
that much

for what you can’t destroy,
you still can
lock away

we do that now, in every manner
those words can
be stretched

and how we torture words, to make it
seem as though we mean the
things we say;

but we do not. at least we do not live
the values we espouse, nor do
we really want to

and spiders – there are spiders in the halls,
the webs are everywhere —
we call our hate self-love,
and turn our self-love into
candy-coated knives


with power comes
nobody’s peter parker;
the price is right, but we
have got no barker

the song of houston, but
how will i know?
we stowaway what we should never
stow

the bars slam shut, because we
close them down;
don’t know your name, you’re just
some damned pronoun

the skittish horse may try
to flee the pen;
but hunted down they are,
always
again


when semiotics tells us to,
we stop and genuflect:
the dog-whistles that really
guide our lives —

the empty hallways do not mean
that all the ghosts have left;
the blood is in the pipes,
not in the water

and the pipes

go everywhere