Vanish Without a Trace

Vanish without a trace, my dear, and
I'll celebrate your funeral with roses

and wine. Jiggle like a fat man wrapped
up in his religious point of view. Speaking

this and that to a sleeping audience.
Craving the super delicious tangles of

frivolous delights. Vanish without a
trace, my dear, and I'll sing your praises to

every dead rat in the alley. Put you inside a
big plastic bag and keep you captivated in

the corner of the room. When the bugs come
out to play I'll say it's your fate and dangle

my opinions in your mind. Electric rock and
roll blasting off an old stereo, guitars jangling

to the beat of a brand new horizon. Flagrant
infractions of parliamentary rule will get

you banned from the ice cream parlour.
And we can put your smoldering bones

into a grinder, letting the smell assault
the politically correct neo-nazi's. Change

the sign if it offends the mind, change the
word and create a new perception. Vanish

without a trace, my dear, and Ill vanish
myself right after you. I'll go away and

you won't have me to hate anymore. We
can both pretend that all of this matters.

Sodomize Me If You Must

Sodomize me if you must.
Drive any number of nails into
my skin.
Insist and demand as loudly as
it suits you.
Still after all that,
I'm going to wear
whatever costume
I desire.
Yet I've never been me.
Not really.
Always we are shadows
submerging any
light-bulb we
truly are.
Songs are sung and heroes are manifested.
Skipping vicars giggling
like little girls
are hob-nobbing with the
pagans down the street.
They prance like dizzy herbs
in a psychotic reaction.
Pretend. Pretence. Predisposition.
Each as meaningful as the other.

Sodomize me if you must.
When you feel I'm not co-operating
with the deception.
You can genuflect and
stress your vowels.
You can dress up like
psychological vampires
and throw terms around
that make you sound
important.
Still I'll carefully select every option
that propels me to
being as me
as I want to be.

Arise, Awake, Fresh Sounds of Hope

When there's hope in believing,
then so I find I must believe;
In truth that is self-evident and
honesty that is constantly weaving
through the fabric of life.
Homespun theories do not appease,
for they may be constructed
of crawling festering greed.
Threads of lies may be disguised
as wisdom painted black.
Instead I fondle spinning folds
of brightly created illusions
Which sustains when all else fails.
In pieces of tattered rope
lies the shattered promises
of serenity made and deployed.
There are waves of voices screaming
for solutions made in mankind.
Yet nothing is resolved by hate,
for this is the truth I find.
Where hope grows in splendour,
an unborn faith waits to arrive.
In depths of mystic chanting words
Let me be in the books that say
the truth arrives from ;
Where God plants His eternal wisdom
as I herald the signs of treasured love.
Arise, awake, fresh sounds of hope,
let the gentle peace begin to grow.

Poor Orphan Child

In truth, he was an unflavoured soul,
a vessel of despair fashioned in clay.
A misfit of intense and wild emotions,
that fled the world, gone astray.

He created his own sheltered universe
from which he built a life of fear.
Running, fleeing, his reality of disgrace
which had defined his growing years.

Poor orphan child, a stranger to respect,
who satisfied himself in his own eyes.
Travelled like an ant away from the hill,
to seek his space, to avoid hidden sighs.

The flesh can burn, the soul can wither
like an empty cup left alone on the table.
This he knew, for this was his existence.
A world weary, tired, emotionally unstable.

And if he let a sleeping tear escape
from untrusting eye that blinked in pain,
he knew that strangers would object
to any thought that he might complain.

Poor orphan child, man of no respect,
who drifted like a leaf in a summer wind.
His face a mask of tolerated stone,
which hide his constant sense of sin.

What would his salvation prove to be?
Oh soul, what is your purpose and plan?
He would not know, he would not see,
for little of reality did he understand.

Hot Or Cold

I love you hot or cold, 

wandering in or out 

as it suits you. 

Remember when we ran 

like we were flying, 

so anxious to be 

holding one another? 

My feet flew so fast 

my body almost 

couldn't keep up. 

You blanketed me 

in your cold/hot kisses. 

I fell in love 

with your lips 

like clouded air 

tickling my heart. 

Just thinking about that day 

releases 

a thousand small cravings

The Queen Elizabeth 2nd Gardens

It used to be called 'Sunken Gardens',
this section of the park. Now it is called
'The Queen Elizabeth 2nd Gardens'
because Her Majesty visited them.
She wore a pale blue dress that day.
I remember because my sisters and I
were in the crowd. Like the others,
we stared at the Royal 'She' in awed
tones of respect and curiosity.

In high school, we used the park to
escape the hum-drum of our classes.
Hiding behind the trees and flowers
so that the jailers from the nearby
school windows would not capture us
in our freedom. We were bold in
our youth. Finely chiseled minds in
adolescent toned bodies.

We'd sit under a tree, smoking and
planning the adventure our lives would be.
None of us would conform, or so we
promised each other and ourselves.
We'd be bold flashes of novelty forever
striking a match to light the flames of
resistance to middle class lives.

We were children of the sixties,
teenagers of the 1970's. Our hopes
and dreams were not the same as
our parents. No, we did not want
to have the white picket fence! Instead
we planned on how we'd take the fences
apart and use the wood to build
alternative ways of existing. Our plans
were brave and solid, our dreams
we would make become our reality.

Now, as I walk through the park
as a grown man, well into my descent
towards my grave, I recall those vain
words we spoke. Those brittle, youthful
proclamations of a new beginning that we
were assured of becoming. None of us
really followed those dreams. The harsh
bells of the 'real world' would not stop
ringing. Most of us became our parents
all over again. Talk of freedom and
self-expression gave way to worries over
the mortgage and the bills. Working overtime
so the kids can have a new pair of jeans.

They still call it the 'Queen Elizabeth 2nd
Gardens'. The flowers are still carefully
planted every spring by the Department of
Parks and Recreation. Sometimes I come and
watch the young bodies at work digging the
soil and planting the flowers in neat, tidy rows.
Her Majesty has not visited Windsor in
quite a long time. Her picture on the money
makes her look older. Of course, she is older
but then so am I. Indeed, so are all the faces
I remember with fondness in my mind.

If I sit quietly on one of the benches,
and I slow down my breathing just a tad, I
can almost hear again our voices planning
the future none of us would have.

Another Friday Night

She sat inside her ice-cream life 

and guessed the number of 

bingo markers it might take 

to win the jackpot. 

Sometimes she questioned why 

so many people drove her 

crazy. 

Insulted her. 

She divided her friends and lovers 

into good and bad directions. 

It was raining outside when 

she began to cook the supper. 

The stove was hot. 

She was cold. 

She was always cold in her house. 

In her ice vein kitchen with 

the pretty white lace curtains 

and the yellow-green walls. 

Her problems could all be 

isolated into one situation after 

another. 

She lit a cigarette. 

Sitting at her table wondering 

if she should cook rice or potatoes 

with the meat. 

It didn't matter, 

they'd wolf down the food 

without a glance at her efforts. 

She found she was happier 

when the kids were at school and 

that man was at work 

doing whatever it 

was he did to earn 

the money. 

Impatience wasn't 

so much her statement 

as was unconcern. 

'So what', 

she thought, as she dusted her ashes 

into the ashtray. 

Her memories could stretch so 

far back before this life. 

Yet she knew that what she knew 

wasn't really very much at all. 

Maybe he really loved her? 

Who knew! 

For her, it was only a situation. 

She wondered if they'd remember 

to take their shoes off at the door? 

Her feelings could easily be hurt. 

On the other hand, she often 

neglected to express herself. 

At half past five she'd put supper 

on the table. 

They would sit around it. 

Her family sharing the same room 

and the same bathroom. 

Pity that 

they were mutually ignorant of 

one other. 

She put out her cigarette. 

Light another. 

She wasn't afraid of cancer, 

just living. 

Working man would be home soon. 

Kids would follow soon after. 

Sighing she stood up and pushed 

the cat away with her foot. 

Irritated, she 

checked her purse. 

Bingo markers neatly labelled. 

Another Friday night.