Between the palms of the afterlife

 Royal palms and neon signs. Huge acrylic facades for overdecorated restaurants.
Ice cream parlours and donut cafes with outdoor gardens and seating.
Three friends raised their hands in confusion.

Walking in the middle of the carless boulevard. But where were they? The last thing they remembered was buying tickets. This place was sinister you could smell the recent crowds, yet everywhere was absolutely empty.

The friends walked down the boulevard uncertain almost on the verge of panic. Right down the middle of the road trying to stay aligned with each other. Not trusting the shopfronts.
Long paces like desperate hitchikers

They peered through windows from a distance. Tried listening for any sound of civilization. Screaming until their heads vibrated and their own ears numbed. This was not earth.
This was the periphery of heaven. They just didn't know it.
The three friends had died on a faulty rollercoaster. This heavenly place, this colorful promise of abundance they didn't offer an entrance anywhere.

Generational house

 Locked myself upstairs on the third story
My mind crawling as I'm scrawling
My second mother came to check on me
Her daughter calling calling

The floor creaked from outside in the hallway
She knocked softly and her voice clanked out
I put down my writing and traversed the study
Opened the door to her smile, taunt and flout 

Down I went the hundred stairs toward wife
each one echoing a passage from the past
each one a conversation with my life
Her daughter looked at me

Her silent glee, atleast one I haven´t heard
I had pulled myself away from these words
words that I swim deep inside of
way up in my study

where a part of me hibernates over long winters
where I go to forrage secrets of myself and the universe
My silent glee in seeing her catch the glint
My gratitude at being pulled away from my verse

The life of gas

 The blue flame burst out on the steel wall

Sticky ash adhered

something wants to be barbecued

To be prepared and then eaten

The blue flame multiplies

shimmering ghosts clinging to the steel

longing to splatter fat

distorting the air

The desire for cooking meat outdoors

 scattering those blue whisps

emptying the big metal canaster

until it starts puffing and panting

finally spluttering out for good

Identity is a project

 Courage and deception
The hidden designs fate nought but dream
Sharp blades cutting through schemes
War our permanent state

The abysses of love and hate
wisdom is never clean
Tragic necessity
Twofaced reality kind and mean

The wanderer roves unhindered
The king reigns and proclaims
The sorceror drives the druid insane
The hunter and the begger seek movement

Perpetually becoming through the hallways of existence
No power inside self defined identity destiny winks
Power thick wrecking power you find in thirsty adaptability
How the men court the fancy fleeting illusions of stability

There is no such thing as peace
Truths are not singular nor do they last
They must be understood through a mask
Inside such wisdom is dirty

Survival belongs to those restless in twilight
Who become the tool, weapon, the escape, the fight
Who let the season teach them pain and life it gives
Those who leap between these contrasting perspectives

(Skiptingr)

Creaking gears

 The driver put the truck into gear
It all rumbled to life
The reverberating chasis hummed
All through the shaking container shell

It spat a few big dirty clouds of black diesel smoke
Like an old man would coughing on his last cigarette
Rattling inconsistently as the wheels slightly turned
Dragging the rest of the beast onto the road

A slow turtle across a hot tar road
Slowly gliding into the middle of the road
swerving round the curve attempting to stay aligned
Driver gripping steering wheel with both trembling hands

He leans forward in an attempt to adjust his position
exhaustion and discomfort seem to radiate
And off it groans lost in suburbia
Chaotic residential labrynth

Using every effort in the brake and clutch
to slow for the oncoming lights
The truck ducking and grinding
yellow surrendered to red

Then budging and reanimating again
Driver forcing himself through each gear
A mother pushing her son up a steep hill
Into fourth back down to third

For there thirty meters ahead was a speed bump
slowing rattling rushing to kick down into each gear
Weary sighs and metallic grunts as the object neared
Hitting the speed bump a little too quick

The chasis jumped like a teen avoiding getting tripped
the container shook like an angry overworked teacher
Driver slammed his wrists on steering wheel
Another year of deliveries

Lawrence the cockroach man

Sat in an old armchair
Is a man in his fifties
No eyes, tongue or teeth
health neglected just disease

One may not know if he is awake
He is still noone can read him
The way to know when to feed him
Is to lean in and check his breathing

Large agile cockroaches use his body
His opened cheeks his unkempt hair
Their extra appendages sharp and scary
Sinister insects yet meticulous and caring

Cleaning and eating from each horrid sore
The man shows relief when they start to gnaw
The size of mice scuttling through him
Keeping him alive through the dust and dim
 

Everchanging eyes you remember

 Through the boredom you sought me
looking at you conjuring the shine
Did you see the way my eyes
 ran over your surprise

The way I wouldn't look away
felt me going in far enough to stray
Distant subtle harps you pondered
Inside your mind you wonder

My thoughts squeezed you out
Ran through the stream of day a spout
You refused there was ever a time
As if thinking of me was a crime

You would sleep and there they would be
My everchanging eyes clear as clarity
whatever they aroused within you
You'd never admit risking flattery

Wake looking at ceiling
kiss shape formed on your mouth
Slowly dozing slowly smiling
dreams rising and receding like tides

Next time these eyes will be easier to find
Downloaded into the center of your mind
I love women like you pretending to be reviled
overpowering etiquette perfume of denial

Dancing around these sensitive truths
Are you my muse, or am i that to you?