GOLDEN TEARS

GOLDEN TEARS

My golden tears flow, flow quickly
like flames in a drought-
spreading in gathering fury.
Sinking like rainbows in the sea.
My golden tears last a lifetime,
but bring no wealth to me.

I grabbed gold from the sun
one day and concealed
it in my brain. its 
light created ectasy and made 
me insane.

I took it out periodically
and admired it, lying supine
in my hand, the gold
would spin around both
shrink and expand,

but the gold although it glistened brightly
brought no love to me,
dripping like shimmering lava
circling and encircling
it hardened before my sight
growing harder as it cooled
it only revealed the night.

I loved it like sculpture, like beautiful paintings
on my wall,
I touched it as it shone,
as it took me for a fool. 
I wiped my eyes with its fury
my eyes resembled tears,
golden tears that flow so quickly
down, down the empty years.

PRETTY BOY

PRETTY BOY

I crept into my soul in the profoundest night:
where spectral owls honked and hooted in fickle fright
and tongues rasped out sihouettes-
deepening shadows crawled from dirty mouths,
and love slunk around tattered skirts
in imitation of fungi growths:
paper covered me from head to shin
when I let the shadows thin fingers in!
words assembled like building blocks
men in high-heels/boys in frocks.   
                         In the morning, the sun
scoured my skin. I leant on the devil, standing alone,
                          he flipped me a coin
like he'd just tossed me a biscuit and a blood-red bone,
               as I whimpered into the mirror's torn
shimmering shafts of innocence, where beauty assaulted the black-eyed crone
for salutory afternoon tea,
the pretty boy charging the ugly boy an extortionate fee. 

and the devil sang in the metronomic gloom
of departed joys.
I returned to my room, 
playing with the boys-
coming intensely as the ice displayed
the solitary if fashionable route to Hades.

medicine

idk medications I stopped writing. Not because I fell out of love with it... My emotions just seemed to disappear. I started a new medication. The doctor said it would help my panic disorder, and it did. I took that pill, like my mother talks to God (every morning). When I went back to the doctor she said we had to up the dosage because apparently having 2 panic attacks a week still isn't okay. I told her that when I woke up this morning I got out of bed without crying, but she didn't consider that as much of a victory as I did. When I was put on a higher dosage, my emotions shut down. After a few weeks I stopped crying, my OCD got better, my panic attacks were gone, and I could even go into the student union of my college campus without my heart trying to win a race against my thoughts. I could breathe. But, I also stopped having fun. I felt like a stranger in my own body. My emotions found the exit on the plane and jumped, never to be found again. Since when did being able to breathe require me to feel like this?

screaming sheep

The day is done, the flowers have folded, the light faded
the screaming sheep are jumping across the corpse
the trees are lurching........................................................

the creeper pees into the stream, his leer
harder than stone, his fingers
touching captive flesh.....................................................


capriciously he crawls into the sea
dragging his poisoned soul like a shattered vase
his mind locked into darkness........................................


his captive looks into his blood-boiled eyes
and smiles, his reflected reddened
sockets his own...............................................................

OLD MAN

The old man looked up
into the rain-swollen, cloud-broken, time-tossed
sky. 
Sitting down again on the park bench
smoothed by a million previous 
lonely, plump backsides-smoking a joint,
thinking of a riotous past he stared
at his memories-

a jocund boy, a quiet teenager privately lusting,
years like trailing smoke-
a husband, family man his worries growing into 
deep-set wrinkles fashioned on nothing-
the sun leaning on him, the moon smiling cynically,
as he dwindled into dust.

Who did he make love to? Why did he? Why did
he bother? the thick bloated flames of fickle loins
and trophies for his mind. 
Nothing in the shaded recess, nothing looms,
in his pirate's, crow's, magpie's soul-
an old man in his final hour
beating around for husks.