Like Wicker Passed Round Midnight’s Mass

I dare not blame the 14 Hands

for feelings I have felt

Where midnight and I meet

the moon’s shadow can’t dispel

In daylights saving grace

I justly feel that I have felt

like wicker passed round midnight’s mass

each hand is doleful dealt

skull and crossbones

At the end of the race

make em say:

to hell with these eyes they’ve seen too much

this tongue is all rotten with tasteless buds

what ears are these they’ve heard enough

and liver? What gall you, it’s all washed up!

His sole’s so worn, all callus and rough

even nail beds torn up from climbing so much

lips like a canyon, dried, cracked and his blood

it’s cheaper than whiskey, diluted with love!

To hell with his soul, heaven’s full and what?

His brain, are you mad? It’s pondered enough.

What use is this flesh, it’s ancient as stone

he’s breathed his last breath, he’s skull and crossbones!

Shaking hands

I’m not very good at shaking hands

I just kind of put my hand out there

and well

try to match the shake of the other.

I guess I sort of know what that

says about my character, but

I’m cool with that, you know.

Sure I told him

without even saying a word — the courtesy

hug thereafter well, that’s a whole other story.

deserted summers

like fine grains

of sand

everyone I love

falls through my hands

to a beach

of salty air

and deserted

summers

I wade

at bay with the tide

which pulls me

further

and further

from the shore

a solemn afternoon

hunched over coffee

it’s 6pm and Sunday

a solemn afternoon

there really isn’t more to do

but watch passerby

smile hand in hand

planning one another’s future

in the corners of their eye