Near saltlake

 The godfearers farm
dusty and humble
their frowns and glares barren as the dusty flows

Their windmills clatter
and dirt roads loom up
wounds in the land of religious rural poor

was it a cackle that old age blurted
unwilling to serve those last glasses of lemonade
to the parched heathens that we be

Forest of ignorance

 Your love is a tree

feelings leave

Your illusion inside
the way you see

Your roots anchor you down

in beliefs below buckled knee


You seek help in the wind
thinking it free

Your trunk dry and advantageous

reduced in the winter chimney



Fire warms the poor and the extremeties of the world
It burns the blissful who ignore
charming flame curl

aflame, passion extorting the premise of love
ashes that the wind picks up under obligation

Imperial legacy

 In the beautiful lodge
between those emerald hills we just took
initiating a new future
getting ready to build

The terrorist appears
the rose bud opening
each petal a threat
The timer was set, so life´s in a bunker

certain truths are just sharp knives
we cant be trusted to handle
So the mansion burns
down to coal caked girders
Destruction reads us a bedtime story

The terrorist appears clad in our fears
Moving behind the rose
initiating a future of his own
fed by a river of martyrs

vengence and a scented death
Funeral permission
cinders and coal black smoke
drink it all in
as you work on the next big weapon

Close to the top floor

 Jaw shudders
interaction stirrs not more than a stutter
the wrinkled hands of time
offer fast food and confusion

mall light aggressive
instilling the consumer ethic
down to the last penny
down to the last minute

Struggling across the floor
Hips so fragile
Holding son´s hand
relief looms up a bench ahead

Lips quiver
the whole night a severity
claustrophobia pushing it all in
agoraphobia pulling it all out

The overbearing lights
newborns would obsess with
just confuse your existance
over stimulus 
the late evening

whirlwind of age

Mister Baggins

 Your grey pride
Ash on thick jungle
A simpleton stutters and spits you out

Burning bridges in Brasilia
Tell us how the pastel tastes
while it singes our tongues

The scissors were closer, throw away the lawnmower
so you cut the lawn for months

obsessed with the sound of your own laughter
you postid noted your sons
So you could vaguely remember

You traded lakes of fresh water
For reservoirs of your own ego
A patriotic carioc an oxy-moron
conjecture your beautiful ammunition
accusation your cannon

You sold lofty ideals
To people still battling their lurid musts
Traditional sugar and disease

Serve the statue

 Did you grow and how did you waver
the dark statue holds it´s callous stance
lost in himself the tree he planted shading his existance
A wet forest novelty
a sense of family

I´d like to know how the wrinkles formed
How the color ran from your face too soon
Your preschool shadow still following you
your best friend, the invisible acceptable predator
The open hand reaches up for a sedative

How did you not get motion sickness
anger is a plausible prison an enchanting disgrace
a dancing dark statue in the shape of a cage
surrounding you
protecting you

You wrote the antonym
to the word you wanted to be
with ink dripping down from the statue
onto the contract, an agreed upon lie
Prove something to our rivals
before we die

It is on the bus route

 At the station where all connections start
grey box transport
Comfort is the worst friend
even his brow is wrong

we get out of the bus at the wrong stop
so attached to the destination
We forget to love the scenery
Yet a map a comes together

Neighbor obsesses
Belonging feels good
the target somewhere between
reciprocity and clammering for common

Comfort is left behind
the bus leaks fuel
diesel in the nose
Gardens all the way to the airport

a thousand elderly tending them
effort in the bending and weeding
effort in the smile
effort in the denial

My toy a lost bus
lets call it hypocrisy
headed away from my destination
Tragically aging

The metro station spat like a homeless fiend
As I made my way up
The flower and grass covered road
each one of us seeks out a path

I look to the sun
who tells me his deepest secret
he´s just a piece of the illusion
grass and flowers need an excuse to live, it is it

If only I could have followed your directions
Have known my heart early and written the itinerary
Perfection the apricot lick
Pure self trickery

Just as the bus swerves desperately into denial avenue

The walls of existance

 walls have collected water
The plaster is falling away like cake 
paint flakes romantically stuck
Age is god that laughs itself back into life
After giggling itself to death

You can dig out the rot
replace it with new material
paint over it again
facades bipedal facades

straw shaped minds
sugar and opiate
passion and meaning
The decorated lounge of love

giggling ourselves to death
In colors we explode into
emotions we glue ourselves to
a pocket full of savory wrong conclusions
a simple book on existance

glittered with tangy fantasy
stuck roughly on the cake batter
to hide the holes that have been forming

The phantom of stimulation

 The person you never were
The house and family you never had
existing just out of range
interferring in your sleep

warming up the imagination
Provoking the thirst for rest
A perfect scream
one that could be fabricated by the million

The lustful desire to be heard
yet it´s meaninglessness
when those that heard felt nothing
Not even a dull curiosity

You wake up in some other reality
brick and mortar in your hands
how did it get there?
The mouth thirsty to scream

empty streets
deaf masses
get your loaf of caredom
Buy it with your excess credit
from accounts futility and boredom

silence piles on
the invisible commuters
on the train of your soul
hitching a ride shamelessly
leaving crude graffiti and a migraine arrow through you

Just cock that scream
aim it high and load on the decibels
why can´t you just get it through to the ears
of a mispent youth