Lick Darkness

That strain of creativity that swarmed inside me
like a beehive under constant attack.
Now has been dulled down by the constraints
of a DEMANDING WORLD.
The routine filled with even more keys and locks
and shelves and books.
Driving back through the polluted streets
of a megapolis, tongues limp,
as it licks darkness.
The love of mystery died on an abandoned canvas
like a lover dumped and poisoned on a bed.
As I lick darkness and join the ratrace.
Fantasies of obliterating convention
die with my enslavement into it´s
predictable and cowardly underbelly.
Licking darkness while my lack of sleep
and inferiority complex make love.

Skimming off the top.

The central city saw construction.
Hot buckets of tarr and ashphalt.
Agents and politicians.
Sunny streets where debris fell from
precarious sites and ridiculous heights.
My own party by dusk pools where
movers and shakers blabbed drank and popped.
I was assasinated on a nearby farm
by the president of the company´s gun.
I guess I should have with-held evidence.

The creep.

Gullible fools judge.
They call me a "creep"!
Thinking their agendas are still hidden.
That their hearts are pure and deep.
Dishonest parasite ridden,
surface net surfing, ego morphing sheep.

Coming out of sunday.

So much is left to chance.
Left to mush, coming out of sunday.
So many sleep in deeply.
Midday cuts thin.
And the weekend´s sweeping.
As close as the floor to your face...
As close to dust as you and I...
Coming out of sunday
-Into a monday cliche.
Those well groomed excuses.
For a misused existance.
Your sense is a recluse.
And your destiny lost in the distance.
Next week´s played tricks.
No real fortune tellers.
Coming out of sunday you are...
One wet blanket hungover.
Pray for sun and mercy as you leave yourself out to dry.

If the cord was cut.

Where would I get the inspiration from?
How would I keep the flame burning
and the ground rumbling.
Not to see it- feel it.
Just a whiff of it.
Keeps my mind fixed like coffee.
Not to hug it but have it pass
and pretend one day the blast,
will engulf me.
Attention´s seldom given but,
the cords still live.
If the cord was cut what kind of
falling style would be my dive.
Could I maintain an inferno by myself?

Until the bombs drop.

Over the neon expanse.
The exaggerated lights and smells
of burger bars and chinese restaurants.
I´m city dust, a flea on a pigeon-
birds eye madness.
Until the bombs fall.
A gram of mis-spent infatuation.
Hunger´s refill.
Want in the alley, sidewalk and square.
Inside out with your underwear.
Dropping the immaculate unattainable
through well aimed white pigeon sh*t
falling from the sky before the bombs do-
invest today, borrow it if you have to.

father, don´t sink.

Breathing numbers and incentives.
Emotion catches up with you one day!
Competitions and hard dried facts.
As false as dogma´s bark and bray!
As false as fantasies for power.
The divine lifestyle and baby shower.
A creature breathing desperate instructions every hour.
Building railways further into the desert.
Away from faith in people.
Hands rotate and calenders rip,
atleast that prized work ethic will stick-
That, the rates and the reaper!
Confused children need no reason.
For life leaps and vertigo eats you.
Our mistakes, your mistakes- hard to heal lesions.
Angry reminders that can make a difference.
Concealed for false notions of valor.
Let´s blame people born another colour.
Choose a pretty scapegoat.
Snigger at the drowning while you still float!
With my fairytale mother in a lifeboat.

Ardent Arden!

The flesh strays so far from you.
like the phantom in a body anew.
100 stories infront, you were buried with me.
Rot well did You?
No because your essence was ever reflecting.
My mind was rolling on the little ancestry protecting.
Arden adent lank rank and rigid!
Cold hard and front faced frigid!
How´d you be any role
when the mole
plans access to you
after death throes?
After underground wooden boxes.
 Often after myths of sly wolves and hedge foxes!

Monbell

What am I But a bucket of words.
A monbell lost in the echo of e few fans.
A monbell lost.
An adjective seperated from it´s subject,
casting it´s web on the breeze to catch a cool noun.
A monbell whose father is the sun,
and mother´s the moon.
A lost boy on a boat my minds an island-
I´m marooned.