This place is full of ghosts.
They exist in the gloomy light of
In those dark cottage walls,
Lingering with a ghoulish fondness.
I find myself drawn to remain also.
Perhaps these melancholy ruins offer
More than fear;
They invite somber reflections-
Reflections of the living as well as the dead-
And I find it pleasantly haunting
To explore the shadows
That hint at the brief spans of life
That may have walked these halls.
Although I worry our friends may have haunted too long;
Now they creak and moan at the slightest breathe
Across the stairs;
Wail and whine at the smallest strain.
These quiet graves are full of noise;
Full of grave suggestion
That perhaps we cannot die.
We’re fated to pace these cold floors forever-
Bound by footprints left in dust;
Tied to ballads about lives we can no longer mind
But the world decided to remember.
Does the storyteller aways have a
Spirit in hand,
Alone in the dark
While spinning his tale?
Or can it be a wish?
Maybe a child?
One that isn’t failure, I mean.
Or maybe just a cup of tea-
I prefer that to whiskey and ghosts.
The Mad Creator
Mixing poetry and madness
In petri dishes made of cardboard
Searching for the perfect drink:
Make him drunk,
But not so he cannot write;
Make him numb,
But not so he cannot remember his dealings.
Make him learn to fly,
So he can learn to live like angels
To play God on paper,
But from the comfort of a desk;
From the comfort of a window,
Looking out at test subjects
Known as people,
Who know his name but not his face.
Not today’s face anyway.
I keep my muse in a bottle.
I shake it every once in a while-
Or tap it like a kid at a fish bowl-
It doesn’t move, stir or come back to life;
It just idly floats through its own filth.
I mutter as I flush in down the toilet
And put on my jacket to go buy another.
We’re picking stitches out of the floor…
Are normal people ever this bored?
To the point of self-destruction
In order to feel some direction?
We’re catching comas to
Taking pills when we’re
Of course we feel the sting of promises
Beneath our skin,
We’re suns just waiting to happen;
Hearts just waiting to break.
Or have you forgotten the power of now?
Four little teacups sit on the wall,
And four friendly voices drift on the still, country air.
They sit down by the boats and talk about the good weather,
And family, and how Johnnie from across the way is doing much better.
They listen to the sounds of a dozen little birds,
To the gentle laps of blue water,
And wave hello to those who walk past.
They wait for the sun to disappear
Behind the pier;
To depart down the path,
To four little houses sitting in a row.
I’m brooding over a mug
Of black coffee at 4am,
Trying to warm my cold bones
And broken heart…
I drink green tea
After my morning yoga;
I’m about as happy as it gets.
Unfortunately mountains poses
Don’t sell quite as well
As moonlight and despair.
She’s cursed me,
This mind of mine,
And now we’re creeping through nightmares
I used to dream of gold in my bed at night,
But now I just follow her down.
Bury the hatchet,
Or better yet burn it
And scatter the ashes so far across the sea
We stand no chance of digging it up.
‘Cause I know you,
You’ll get bored and start looking.
At least this way
We can only stand on the beach
And reminisce in what
It used to be.
I know you fancy yourself to be quite the artist,
But the rest of us just see it as graffiti;
Walls and walls of words
Hell-bent on ruining everything
You spent your life building.
Burn it to the ground,
Something or other will rise in its place.
Bend Hell into whatever shape you wish;
It will reform sooner or later.