The astrologist's need for attention

 Powerful messages are given
you need stability reassurance
Energy is tethered
Everybody hurts

What are you looking for?
Who?
Is the silence a wall or a window?
You don't know.

Where the street curves
Your eyes go
Checking the road
on your comparisons

Monitoring from a distance
Learning nothing
Deliberate invisibility
Reading the letters

Analyzing every person
Every situation
You won't notice the unhappiness
There's no evidence that I'm struggling

Struggle your entire life
Spend most of it alone
The connection to the past is broken
Cycles ground down by my own will

Not wheeled around by destiny
For destiny seek
Never satisfaction
Not desperately within the wheel

Turning like an LP paranoid and in panic
The distance doesn't hurt
Don't carry the weight of my absence
The silence out here between us

Doesn't provoke jealousy 
Proven by your own merit
Admit to your own watching
Your own closed loop

Not the person they say
Not the person before you
Not the answer just mystic
Wielding words and ideas

Disproving all predictions
Disrupting forecasts of downfall
The destiny sought
Unstoppable energy

Finding myself lost

 Losing it all
all expectation
I found myself back
At sixty two
Empty handed 
Boulder on the lawn
Frown weighing face down

Look back toward heaven's gate
The toward the sea
Just because you are found
Doesn't mean it is good
In my heart it is written
That finding myself lost
was the greatest of salvations

Não sei fingir

 Você vê meus sentimentos escritos no meu rosto,
como palavras nesta página.
Você vê a decepção,
você vê a minha esperança,

Aquela que a juventude tentou esmagar,
mas ainda está viva, sabe?
Fracassou.
Subestimou.
Não vou engolir nada.

Vou te partir ao meio
pelos estrondos das minhas vontades sagradas,
pelo trem da sua inveja,
pela sua falta de identidade,
pelo seu barulho à toa.
Consigo olhar por dentro de você.

Através da pele,
a leitura é doce,
cheia de irritação,
expectativas irreais,
Pequenas profundezas que quero afundar ainda mais.
São superfícies sem sentido nem sentimento.

Mas não finjo nada.
Meus sentimentos estão escritos,
óbvios para todos.
Mas você vai fingir que eu não sinto nada.
Sem boa sorte,
sem beijo nem abraço.

E a despedida foi dada,
mas não chega.
O cheiro de ácido no ar.

Hell is sometimes underneath

 There's this yellow abandoned train station again, it stands wrapped in weedy trees,
wattles and skeleton tall coprosmas. Something about it tells me it is a living creature.
The structure has no symmetry in it's basic front door and windows.
It has no semblance of a face either.
I returned from my walk with gramps, it transformed into a face.
It Beraded me.
"This is not your place. You should not have come back.
You will not come in. This is a sacred place.
You are not welcome."

I started to shrink, I needed to shrink, what a great way to be.
The yellow trainstation shook in fury.
Then trembled in fear.
I became the size of a four year old.
I pulled out a box of matches. Knelt next to the train station.
Flicked it true, sparked a flame, into the dead grass beside it.

In minutes the outer wall became an upside down river of flame.
Child me celebrating the greedy fire.
"Put me out." It said.
But I just stared at it's contorted face.
The heat of the roaring fire and the fake sun heating my tiny body.
In the excitement of the burning trainstation.
Perhaps the heat and euphoria I fell and vomited across the ashy ground.
I looked at the contents, to my amusement there were serpents in the spew.
Discolored by the stomach acid, they raced toward the flame.

I felt myself grow back as the smoke blessed me.
The serpents slid into the flames and started growing.
Their intricate scales and colors became incredible as they were now the size of full grown pythons.
The forest caught fire. The local false wind and sun wanted it to happen.
The child in me wanted it to happen.
The flames washed through. Burning all the way along the train tracks.

The burning continued for many of those purgatory days.
The wind died, the sun was blocked by the smokey darkness.
The ruins of the old town were still there, now standing above the ashes of the local forest.
Even the sign at the entry point.
-Relinquite omnem spem.
 

The best pretender

 Look at him
Averts his gaze

Off she goes about her day
Decade here
Decade there
Now he's grey

Young men chase
Quick to pursue
Eyes light up
Mostly untrue
He hardly noticed
She didn't care
A fan of someone who wasn't there

But he kept it up
Tracksuit bland
No inner power
Just a fan
Her snobby face
Words pretty enough

She dressed him down—a disgrace
For his doubt flowers on the skin
His fear perspires, insecurities win
He gives up chase, returns familiar
His peers failed too, their symptoms similar

I see half-hidden grins
She pretends not to care
But she turns to the older man
And in his direction stares

Dona Galore's voice

 Gardening your voice
I plane it out with every syllable
I utter the correction
I overflow over it

Sound is my dragon my keeper
I aspire to become duke of the mountain where it lives
The early Earl of these graceful rocks and voice
provocative forests that are colored just the right shade

I ask for your echo to ring out through this very valley
So I can capture that voice on the breeze
Bouncing back to me directly
I'll be gardening that voice

Planting your words in a line
Cultivating them until they reluctantly flower
In my own scarred hands
For the privilege of their scent

Unashamedly their taste Dona Galore

Back on the rail with gramps

 Curiously enough my reddish skinned grandfather Eric appeared as I wandered up the rusty lines of the railway willows and pines on either side, giving me the option of avoiding the fake sun.
The fake sun wasn't fake because it was cold or not present.
It was fake because like the world I found myself in, it is all simulation.
Something built to ferment the soul, so that our giant afterlife God may drink us down.

Digest us as we transform into the energy it needs to shit out the next galaxy.
Or piss a supernova, or if it's like some of you vomit blackholes.
Curiously my grandfather doesn't buy that story.
He says God wouldn't be subject to mere bodily functions.

That the supposition is highly ridiculous.
Is that wisdom or a slowly distilled bucket of doctrine the prune of man has been drinking.
I'd call it wisdom. There's something spirit numbing about walking these train tracks with the presence of Eric right next to me. He told me his cat interpreted God as a successful hunt. A carpenter would translate God as the concept of construction itself.

Again the trees thinned and there were but shrubs beside us. I could smell the fake fragrance of meadows. Like the overperfumed dress of the promdate you failed to cajole.
Was I too interested words old man? Is that where my notion of God went?
Into vocabulary. Am I the last poet In this rugged old purgatory.

never before have i been so frustrated as I looked at my grandfather's face and he slowly uttered the words that would bother me more than the swinging seedheads.
"ohhhh, well... Sort of."