Shadow Boogie, Starlight Feast

Baby, give me gasping galaxies of infernal heat to warm the vacuum where once I lay. Cut dusted fragments of the stars from my body and my mind–it think find its soul which till remembers the last whisper and caress out there where we made our nests in nebulae, powdered our faces in fractal fission and wept at the insane beauty that stretched to the unknowable ends. Give me whetstone tones of tenderness to grind on down these rough edges, I know you will. Fine tune my harmony to match the orchestra, I know you will. Love me gentle and love me brutal, I’ll do same. But, on the nights I go to bathe in the shimmer and glimmer of dead Giants birthing monstrous infinities while listening to shadows hum their lonesome shaded songs….on those nights, I am forever free.

Mid-Psychosis: Found Musings Deep In (2018)

If there was a way to show that the entanglement in my mind was not a reflection of anything other than a deep loathsome impatience with my distorted logic and irrational spontaneity that would somehow absolve you of your pain, frustration – somehow dispel the notion that I am the lesser portion of a loving man who is incapable of expressing consistently a pure message of true love in their actions – if there were then I would take it.

Since there’s not, I am torn between cowardice and veracity in my sentiment, though precluded by that peculiar mental twist all addicts have at one point or another, that the dichotomous personalites of nurturing sweetness and indifference with callous disrespect are both real and actual versions of me.

Instead, the quagmire expands, I feel the split become as a divisive creature vibrant and devilish in its behaviors. A lunatic butterfly erupting with shades of misanthropic flailing across the personalities and care of the beautiful shapes all around. Whiplashing with infantile purification of all that is and was ever to be good.

Regrets on Repeat During a Rabid Quarantine Contemplation

1000th Album from Out of Line Records
Album cover from German band Signal Aout 42

Give me back the good ole’ days,
when I didn’t know I had been a dick,
before my eyes got opened wide
when I didn’t know I was supposed to think that I was slick.
’cause now there’s nowhere left to run,
the drugs aren’t making new connections,
copper wire all stripped bare and caked in black,
who knew that feeling guilty wouldn’t be so fun.
When disassociation was best friend,
wide-eyed ignorance was true enough
shame comes boiling on
like napalm from
the surface of a once forgiving sun.
So self-important in critique
that I’m burying the good parts inside the shit
convinced that its still black and white
and regardless of the truth,
I deserve to be punished.
for the right, the wrong, the sick,
that stupid mindless babble
even my well-intentioned songs.
Keep it all so serious now,
that panic seems always at the door,
instead of basking in the freedom from
that monster inside that damaged so much the world.
Enjoy the chance to roll again,
spin through ridiculously insane normalcy,
let feet hit a brand new road and leave behind insecurities, all fallacies–

—start the insurrection.

This Morning

Morning music blaring songs of joy,
naked in the shower washing out all that insane,
Fixated on a drum beat,
with a violin capping the rhythm,
saying stay alive and ride the ride.
Grins splitting face,
and duality of sides come sliding in
whole in reunion today,
where happiness finds it’s home,
but doesn’t demand a place.
Shock to the system,
when loving it all ratchets up,
tightens down the sorrow,
lightens the guilt,
and recovers a stumbling pace.
This morning, it’s all possible.
This morning, the world tastes of hope.
This morning, it’s time.
This morning, it’s time.

Thump a' Bump

Hippocampus marmalade

With dulcimer thumping aftershave,

Deviated personality

Turned treble beats of innocent.

Shaded eyes to halt the burn,

Standing in the mental wreckage

Let’s not get lost in anything but the now,

it’s here and the past is gone,

choose a path and walk the road,

no more forcing a needle,

just be excitedly grateful,

truly joyful,

hold that happy,

and smile,

no matter how.

God's a Sonofabitch

Devoid of fear with no need of courage
a unique place that so many call ourselves
sits buried under flesh and thinking ground
in burial always recognized but rarely ever felt.

Alabaster purity of single purpose
where we dream that everything makes sense?
Maybe where gods themselves are found
and souls evolve, arise, and are incensed.

The questions remain all asked,
though the starting point remains unclear,
if all the ends justified the means
then why are we still here?

Are we built for greater things,
or is there nothing left to fuel.
Does god remain high above,
or does human energy amount to a sacred pool?

When the pain of asking is all through,
and all the walls are broken,
do we sit in furious love and take the beating
our wicked recognition the wounding token?

If not now, then when and why will the light sound like a shout?,
We all search for it in absent things,
that once we cared about.

Music Inside

Filigreed fucks with papers all Johnny-on-high,
diagnose another cluck with illness
so long adrift it must be because they don’t try.
Embrace that soft noise
make it part of your heart,
believe you’re insane though it tears you apart.
Now wrap up all tight into desperation and love,
never feel certain and it fits like a glove.
It’s not that it’s wrong,
hell it’s probably right,
but we dance to our own tunes,
even into the shadows,
coming out of the night.

Sinking in the Snow

Snowflakes kept outside the box
where glass can’t soothe the heat,
internal networks are diamond cast
shed no light to speak.

In microcosmic glory
where the radars are turned up high,
we smelt our fears to brightly shining things
bid nothing but hell goodbye.

Until the final moments
when awareness creeps cross your spine,
it’s been nothing but elder days
dropping messages to sink in seas of time.

No more glistening rainbows
with colors meaningless and pure
it’s all come down to nothing now
when love lost, and found,
was only the last cure.


There’s a miasma rising up in the fields of defeat

where stands wisdom and knowledge of hope as it crashed

broken and sour but flavored to taste so wonderfully sweet.

Where the rivers of flair have all run themselves dry,

moments of passion sit in ominous fashion,

Reflecting one last question I dread to ask—why?

Does it all matter or is it all derived from a ghost,

walking down the halls of memory,

playing shadowed film run through with smoke.

If nothing is true and life itself is the lie,

I’d beg for forgiveness,

say I’m sorry for every goodbye.

In those glimpses of purity

that forever I doubted,

lay drinkable water,

though it were horribly clouded.