Sharp breather.

Got you off the stony road.
Hairy like a sasquatch.
Ferns were once your bed.
High branches hold your weight.
Owls compete but...
Squirrels carress you.
Pines disguise your smell...
Redwoods elevate you.
The round cloudless night.
On which I beckon.
Legends dress you.
Yet your whole self is known to me.
Shuffling through leaflitter.
Out by spring.
Breakout and rumble between the trunks.
Awaken the shoots with your beauty.
To the wonder of humans...
The blessing of the heavens...
God´s wife.

Early

Dressed in tiredness.
Hot clothes I took off.
Tiredness by sunlight.
Breathing exhausted air.
Tiredness across the forehead.
Under arms and through the neck.
Early yearning for blankets.
Early yearning for pillow.
Off on another level dreaming.
Tranquil dawn.
Alarm flatlined in the dead of night.

Before Midday bright

Waking to the glimmer,
Clouds have all been simmered.
Welcome to the shine,
Starts to burn by nine.
Brilliant morning sun,
spreading butter on all the rooves,
splashing tiredness away.
Baking all the loaves.
The day´s made by light.
Under hats seeing sunglass sights.
Under awnings with coffee.
Soon to be consumed by a hot afternoon.

Devil lady

The Devil lady.
Approached me at the bar.
Hair on fire!
Cursing and burning.
I blew at her flames.
Her face lit up.
Off came her skin.
Turning quickly to cinder.
Her laughing died down.
Her head became ash and ember.
I guess she went back to @#$%.

Point a machine gun

Waiting on the Hill.
Two adolescent soldiers came out of their fort.
Waiting holding trigger fingers heavy.
The teen soldiers opened fire,
Heavy chamber fed killing hose.
Chewing up the earth infront of us.
Yet not a bullet crossed our path.
Our captain´s high low declaration of attack was given.
Those boys were no more.
Storming their fort.
Through old weapons and bodies we trudged,
someone had gotten here before us.
Captain´s face was solemn.
No intell, just the smell of diesel, gunsmoke and curdled blood.
Futilities scent.

Older

I´m older than I look.
Lived this life before.
Failed.
Sent me back to do it all again.
Cared about myself.
Energy to hurt.
To see my ego melt.
Stop my mouth from blurt.
Cared about myself.
Zero, I´ve returned.
Here, a subtle patience.
Here, a subtle conscience.
Here, a distinct turn.
I look so young, yet a lifetime was granted.
First I burned my chance,
providence gave it back enchanted.
Energy to heal.
To forgive the dealer...
And accept the hand i´m dealt.

Favela

Winding narrow alley.
Half paved steps and walls.
Friendship, humble people.
Through the dim tunnels.

Doorways on either side.
A happy street merchant stops me.
"Your accents from where?"
Excited children running up and down.

Families and neighbours crowd the entranceway talking.
Youths meet with their fooball colours and loud speakers.
Small palms ease out of tight concrete pots.
Every smile.

Every greeting.
Love and brotherhood shines out of the humble beginnings.
Such a noble thing, to forget how to judge.
It no longer seems as poverty

Assets

That feminine land that goes from the toe to the hip.
Fine and tan, shiny and tight.
Provoking a fondness for that skin.
From rounded buttock hills down to shapely calves,
it´s a fertile surface, many farmers dream.
Like honey glowing golden in the sun, beckoning my finger tips,
awakening the tip of my tongue.
Feminine land, a dream of flesh.
The mind premeditates foreplay well caressed.
Bones meet and the legs become a gateway.
A sacred domain, from the waist to the toe.
A teasing well tanned woman who secretly knows,
how to move them, how to improve them and put them out on show!
The discipline is gone, my eyes uncontrollably gawk.
As beauty declares itself in the way she walks.
So i say "Where are you going, easy easy, slow down what´s the haste?"
Luck surrendered the same precious treasure your glistening eyes and your dimple smiled face!

Limited variations

Write and write,
Fill the page with words.
Rhymes of cat of sat and hat!
Love dove and glove.
Where´s your mojo?
Your creativity?
With vague adjectives and simple similies.
Why avoid the potent metaphor?
Imposing boring structures drab and sore, what is your imagination for?
Of the cat sat on the hat, i´ve had enough.
Or limited variations of problematic adolescent love.
The lack of colour and craft is sickening me.
Put your pen down shakespear and read a dictionary!
Show us your real world let zest grow a home.
Stop the tedious predictable rhymes so ordered and hollow!

A nice view?

A nice view.

If there were special windows that showed us some of hell,
We could have a warning watching the damned and those who dwell.

If hell had heat resistant windows with demon proof glass.
We could sit near to see the fire and witness all the nasty.

If hell had windows and evil could see us.
It´d probably try and corrupt us to greed and ghast.

If hell had windows would you look inside.
Curious to watch and see if the Devil ever cries.

If hell had windows and heaven did too.
Could flirting between angels and demons
ever come true?

Where´s your heart at?

Where´s your inspiration?
Is it in a game of football or another sport with winners and losers and players with controversial haircuts and remarks, how dare they?
Is it in your children, sons of daughters liberated and given space to think and run free in world whose eyes are quickly being replaced by screens?
Your children, with the expectations to be all the things you hold career wise so dearly?
Is it secret romance or all anounced, wrapped in a wedding present or lazy on the couch?
Is it found in your occupation, planning the persuation of conquering that lifechanging pay rise promotion, swing and drum to a management position?
Is it in your church, singing-praising where you share good faith, where most of your friends spend sunday morning under a heavy cross, chanting and affirming through a gospel tunnel?
Is it in friendship a circle of love, where good deeds and jokes are shared and weekends slip-away between the music and beer?
Is it on the computer where a thousand strangers can see you, a place to invent a person much better but a little like you?
Is it in your studies where rules are like medicine and information is water, a fact less a fact more, think fast and not slow, a world where it´s not how or who but how much you know?

Light bulb

Eat respect, it´s full of flavour my.
The world and it´s perfect theories oh.
Your religious denomination.
Attempt to convert me, i´d court you, court you and celebrate virtue, where is it?
Smiling miracles, eyeballs and hearing aids.
Expect me to care.
Convince me.
One spirituality the rest all get left out.
What have you found.
Tales of a biblical god.
Ancient action films my.
Philosophy slips and breaks it´s back on your front door steps oh.
Subtle paradoxes.
Compelling headrushes my.
Lightbulb moments, dogma dogma dogma- "sit, heel, speak I said speak".

Thursday night scream.

Steamy night, still and owned by the crickets.
Suddenly i hear it, her scream!
And I awaken,
It sounded like she was being murdered.
Or maybe waking from a nightmare?
But the crickets stopped, and some dog barked as if to add his two cents.
Awake now.
Was she bitten by a large insect in the dark?
There it goes i can hear her scream again!
Is there some kind of criminal in her house?
Or some evil phone call?
There... she´s laughing, now she´s laughing!
And what´s that she´s moaning the manner woman do witnessing a baby´s first word.
She´s moaning and whimpering smoothly and suddenly whooshing.
Wheezing and cooing, an orchestra of ecstacy.
Now she´s woo-ing and wee-ing.
My fears have turned to envy of the man responsible.
No wonder her husbands always so happy on friday morning.

Evil beauty

Evil Beauty
So you´ve invaded the limelight an aerial bomber spotlight.
So you´ve occupied the beaches of some exotic country and annexed the catwalk.
You with lips of khmer rouge and eyes of a light eva brown.
Parading yourself and forcing our eyes to vote for you against our will.
Merciless you annihilate the four percent of displaced bodyfat, imposing a strict regime with extreme prejudice against food.
An eternal winter with all year round snow, most of it going up your nose though.
Wigi board rituals with designers and stylists and machavelli´s ghost.
Foto-shoot executions and freelance flashes silent bombs blasts.
No botox revolution or super anti-aging new cream...
Will extend the reign of the dictator we call evil beauty.

Humidity

The humid layer thick and slothful that hugs the city streets and structures.
An hour before the rains.
A slow moving plume of absolute humidity moving in and out each suburb like a flock of birds that lost it´s way.
Wetting walls with it´s obese transparent sides.
Eating dryness, licking it up as if it were breadcrumbs.
A great cloud creature delivering dampness and warmth.
As a drain drips but one drop of concentrated moisture, it´s but drewl from this thing more shameless than morning mist.
Leaves gloss, and so grows the moss cracks and shaded walls defeated.
Amphibians boast and less agile toads cry out for a fine drizzle.
The afternoon sun imprisoned in a kingdom of gray.
Is it sweat or fine cloud drops? As you look at the beads of water on your arm.

Hard to define.

Hard to define...
How the years add extra meanings.
How it becomes a multipurpose word and not just the opposite of hate.
How it´s inconvenience can make us thankful.
How it rolls around in the body and touches your conscience...
And how it glues us firmly to the dear few people in our lives.
The space of love, it´s openness.
It´s crazy dilemmas.
As a floating sword the sacrifice.
The heart´s cellar empty each barrel bone dry.
Faith in love is stormclouds full of wine.
Contact and appreciation.
Praise and empathy.
Movement and stillness in a person you adore.
Giving up resistance is the spinning wheel, where upon worthy fibre is spun into warm durable trust.
Offering care even when yours haven´t been met.
That´s love.

Waikanae

From the dark silty lips of the rivermouth, breathing out the fresh mountains sweat...
And when the tide changes breathing in the oceans entrance.
Estuary lungs and lagoons.
Fine patterned sand trapped between the waves and one continuous hairy dune hairline, from otaihanga to peka peka.
Small shameless protea clumps show off on sandy banks to solitary gargantuan phoenix palms and grouchy macracarpa.
Along the road from the closed gas station to the pub is every colour of grass, flower and tree from the golf course green to the vegetable garden of yee.
Village shops stacked together like bricks in a wall along a path.
A highroad and trainline boundaries and limits between two sides of waikanae.
And Elizabeth whose curves lead into the land, there lies my home between the hearts.
Between the bare hill of a pine man´s head with spine connected, and the forested hill of two trees as an everlasting couple on top of hemi matenga.
A heartbeat from the gates of heaven.

Slow to dusk

Slow to dusk.
Through afternoons.
Drousy moments in sunset lit rooms.
Velvet curtains and travellers smiles.
Heat off mediterranean roof tiles.
Slow to dusk.
Sun to go, sun too low.
Drying sticky wet forests. All the way...
To our balcony.
Those grand kitchens, where aroma pours out.
Slow to dusk.
Lazy living room glare, warm handshakes sweet nausea.
A sweaty hairline and underwear.
Midday out of reach now...
Lizards and scorpions bask.
Toads hide.
Restless young people embrace before dark.
Three oclock voyage.
Brilliant sun.
Late hours to kill, but how they live.
This balmy shade off the edge of a cloud,
off the edge of a beach umbrella, under your hat.
How it conjures relaxation.
How it all slowly turns to dusk in the sky.

Professor shutup

Can you shutup. You sound like a radio to all your listeners.
But when they want to have their say, you put up your resistance.
Vocal rubbish, shut your trap, littering my hearing.
Shutup chatterbox nothing. I´ve given up caring.
Art gallery super dooper speech screeches in my ears.
Why does someone elses opinion fill you so much with fear.
Scientific library lecturer letting out smug clouded facts.
If any are disputed he´ll wait to attack.
Can you shutup your theories make us wary.
Your stories are all too boring.
Talking is your crime upon the earth.
Your blabber and babbel you hold over everyone.
Shutup and grant us mercy.
When your voicebox is empty, we´ll bring you back.

Everything´s mine for a while.

Everything is mine for a moment.
Lose it all later.
We might lose it all later... Tidal wave true.
It would distort our ways of life.
Chasing and trading.
We might fall through, our houses may collapse... Earthquake real, friend.
Before you were born, wanting nothing more than the umbilical cord and having it.
Floating for months.
We might all drown and never see our beds again... Floods indeed, mate.
Documents and receipts, so many papers to sign.
Computer desk wood, the office is often tiring.
We might see it all destroyed and through the smoke... Of a structure fire, fellow.
And if it doesn´t get stolen or misplaced, cut with a knife. God let me enjoy what´s mine for a while.

Conform, sweet lamb.

No longer on the end of an umbilical cord, you couldn´t walk.
Wonder blessed you like you were a tiny god.
Spending the next ten years bathing in rules and conditions, modes and manners.
Now a drop of curiosity seeps so slowly into a blockbuster, action packed, done before, soap opera reality.
A media that questions things for you.
Regiments of braindead teachers stomping creativity with their mistrust conformist sneer.
Noble leachers instigate fear, producing control fuel.
No protests, no protests. And the children stopped asking questions.

Colonial glee

World lights a new improved international police force.
Driving protons and plasma.
Building prisons on great satelites.
Where they assemble new cyborgs and engineer clones.
Somewhere light years away is a paradise.
Our whole earth occupied, patrolled by machines, hard to hide.
Short term fuel gains to tolerate backwater genocide.
Thunderous concentrated nukes and decimating electric cannons across our solar system.
Armies of genetically engineered soldiers marching into new worlds.
Weapons of extreme fire and ice parching alien forests.
A long terrorfying arm of technology crosssing the galaxy.
Each new inhabitable planet a target for hungry homosapien eyes.

To kill the homeless

Ambition doesn´t go, only leaving an undescribable flavour.
Dream of such abstract fantasies.
Royal matrimony, white horses, white vales and clouds...
Where´s the colour?
The heroe and the damsel.
The lord of buy and sell.
The poor, the slow, the vandal.
Lust for the simplest thing.
Dreams of a normal life.
A game you´ve turned yourself into.
Where´s the dice?
Wealth and poverty...
Which side of town do you live on?
To become so selfish and arrogant.
Searching for nothing more than serves to fill the coffers.
See yourself as near the top, silken, golden, froth.
Build a hotel on the corner beggers would beg on.
Herd them into a midnight killing field, extinguish their lives with a few hired guns.
Your conscience safely and soundly asleep.

We don´t live too long.

hollowood

hollowood

Holy, holly, hollowood, hollow plastic.
Give me a limelight. Give me paver with a handprint.
Give me a line of coke.
A diet plan with eggs less yokes.
Cut and paste bodyfat.
Super V I P´s climbing the polyester trees.
In the plain famous complain aimless have the front page fame, shameless sameness.
You got all your clothes in the latest trends, you got your exclusive circle of friends.
Got a look good for the camera lens.
Hollow mansions, estates. Deep swimming pools, shallow swinging fools.
Strut and waste your continental cuisine, perfection in the fashion of your life through a magazine.
Passionate your a palm on a lonely boulevard.
crashing fate made you plastic in hollowood.
your face appeals, copy a love song. make a movie from a book. Smile and spend, smile and spend my dear.

A purple sofa

An arrow aiming at the sofa, shining purple leather sofa.
It was new and bright and now it´s ruined for life.
That brilliant couch you can never sit on.
How deep can it´s cushions be.
A comfort you could feel just by seeing it.
In the rain somewhere now drenched.
In the sun somewhere bleached, beached like a whale.
The arrow points like a wind accusing.
The waxy surface of the purple sofa dropping off a waterfall.
No space in the house anymore, just a forgotten object.

Friends would howl.

How did your friend grow such teeth?
Sharp white canines extracting blood from bodies like juice out of fruit.
Needing to feed off the victim, your friend would howl.
Ungerminated human minds, trying too hard to comprehend.
Understanding is nothing.
Destroy the weak and feed again.
Deserts fall under such teeth... Easy villages of fools their blood as thick as paste.
Feasting on communities, your friends would howl.
Seppish would shiver in comparison.
Dawns of lifelessness.
Ungerminated understanding.
Blood thirsty and drought striken.

The drone masses.

The sharp south, young people´s razor stares. An era awakens.
Cheap intoxication, alleyway bums feed, expensive clubs where colourful hollows expose their needs.
Through streets with compulsory shopping experiences, monitored by elevated security eyes.
Sleeping through existance, minor nightmares about lacking credit... Recognise.
The promise of a serpent, it´s power cooking in the drone masses.
Awaiting it´s venemous bite.
It becomes mobile and visible.
The sharp south as a dinner platter, young people´s fight to express against photocopy minds.
Doctrines are wolves in sheeps clothing. Serpents that have not yet shed their radiant skin, who stray beyond our vision and then strike on the diamond hour.
A blunt north is set like a trap, full of nests of poisonous creatures.
The eastern machine feeds a western apetite.
The drone masses step in rhythm, with no strings attached.

Reflections in her smile

How does the face ignite such a brilliant smile? I thought when I saw claire.
Sometimes you could see her glow, it appeared.
How much grace or vision can a woman be given?
In Claires creations you can feel the wonder through islands and fountains.
Beaches that move like caterpillars, her secrets about the land, and worship of mountains.
Checkerboard landscapes, lonely dunes, there people stood and chickens fed.
A place where sisters played flutes and hills and angels wings were spread.
Where big trees flowed green, barked brown and daylight spoke in tones of red.
Claires eyes chased people and horizons as her mind swam in colours so vast.
To conjure a miracle on the surface of a canvas.
Reaching us with her paintbrush, reaching our lives with her touch of psychic.
The objects of our pleasures and of what afflicts.
She burnt in luminous sparks her wick lighting up a world obsessed with convention and money.
Her creativity surging and expressing itself through her hand and paints running.
As our wicks burn, we too express ourselves to a ticking clock.
In the rapids of time wearing down as river rocks.
Claire´s soul may have embarked, yet her smile ignites in our memories...
And her painting is eternal.

Won´t see it in the circus.

Won´t see it, we just don´t want to...
Dream not to be a rat... Not to be some clone... Traps and tease, supermodels doing nude trapeze.
Dream of being a satisfied cat, eternally satisfied.  Pre-orgasm status.
Supermodels at the circus with freaks and elephants. Pre-orgasm existance.
Ringtop red rubber slumber, you´ve slept your way in.
Some strange romance trapped in a tent.
Some pre-orgasm entertainment, with hoops on fire, and some fast talker with a whip.
You won´t see it in a circus.
Rile the audience maybe.