My Heart. Is Broken.

This is the end, the little death

That's been hanging in the wind,

And I wonder

Like a bird flying from a perch

Unobserved

If it was ever there to begin with

Or a trick

Of my death seeking senses.

My heart

Is broken.

These are the only words.

My heart.

Is broken.

The feeling of shriveled souls

Tears welling in a wounded chest

The mortal coil of deep love

Unwinding in my battered breast.

My heart.

Is broken.

So much suffering

In so few words.

All the nights we spent

Twinned and twined

Hopes and dreams

The swell of your chest

And I lay spent and pressed

Head on navel

Cradled between your legs.

My heart.

Is broken.

These are the only words.

Object Desire (The commodity of breasts)

Object desire

Fools, playing with wrapping paper

Their fucking hands

Always reaching, groping

At any gift left unattended

Minutes or moments

So eager to put their dick in something.

Object desire

The commodity of breasts

Given scarcity

Gives birth to desperate men

Pants and small throbbing cocks

All riot and unrest.

Tell me, tell me, tell me

Make me feel like a man

Tell me, tell me, tell me

Baby, tell me I'm in demand.

Object desire

All the plastic people

Prophylactic discourse and desperately

Talking each other out of their clothes

All the pretty girls

Sitting behind window sills

Wondering if they're people too.

Object desire

The innocence afforded

By being half aware and cheap

My conscience is low

But confidence is high

So baby, let me take you home tonight.

I have loved with all of the colors

I have ever known,

I have loved with each of the four

Winds that blow within a man's soul.

I have loved as ancient tombs,

As broken mournful stones

Hold ancient bodies

Silent in their vigil

And ever waiting

To feel the breath

Of departed passion

Singing through cracked teeth.

I have loved as storms

Flooding over mountains

Dark and brooding

And soon exploding

Full of fury rampant rage.

I have loved and been loved

In many, many ways.

Yet for them all, added

And and refracted with

Nostalgic eyes - Alone or

Totaled could make me stray.

I love you in a way which

Makes my hands wrinkle,

My legs weak and beg

In infirmity and age for

The aide of a cane. In

A way which makes my

Soul shrivel, in a way

Which makes me revel

In the thought of growing

Weak and watching your

Neck grow thin, your eyes wreathed

By the feet of fleeting crows,

Your soft hair brittle, gray.

I love you with the fertility

Of the cool damp earth,

The strength of an old

Rock carved with a pair of names.

I love you like a man

Loves a woman

When both are lowered

Side by side, into

Long waiting graves.

Xmas (Dead on the string)

I think with fury

At all the white windows

Breathy panes

Painted with winter

The frost fringe

Of glass doors spilling

Warm air and cold stares

Into the streets as people,

For once, for a day,

Pretend to care

About whose eyes they meet.

The vagabonds and vagrants

Panhandle and hustle,

Looking for change to make

Merry Christmas calls

To family's far away,

Their aunt in Atlanta.

Their dead and buried grandma.

As they settle in little

Scorched spoon dens

To let the warmth slide in.

We're all alone and not together

My family and my friends,

We drink sidled up to screens

Or half asleep in empty clubs

Waiting for the season to show

Us mercy, to just end.

All the little lights, Red, Blue

And green, just remind us

We're the one burnt and unlit,

Left dark and lone

Dead on the string.

Screaming At London (We will all be bound)

She said -on that big spired bridge,

Lungs frozen and full of that

Old Thames wind.

"I will not be bound!"

I am quiet

At her shoulder

Wrapped in scarves and smirks

Thinking she looks beautiful,

Screaming at London again.

I hear the hands turn

On that big old clock

Tying time in heavy knots

I want to tell her

"Oh but we are"

As we walk, skipping

Scree stones down Borough High.

We're here, held in thrall

Chained by the face

Of that force she so decries.

I keep my peace and pace

As the city swallows the night.

The Bear and The Bull

Don't tell me about no glass ceiling

Because as far as I can see

You were all just staring at stars

In a different time and place

Cause now we got glass walls

Where we stand outside with

Simple lives printed on fancy paper

Selling ourselves penny pauper

They say it's a cycle,

The ups and the downs

The gold and the rust

Gilded wrought iron-

Manacles, I see.

Well this ball and chain

It's my poverty

Just give me a shot sir

I can always work harder

Just wait and you'll see.

The bear and the bull

Drinking cognac in crystal

Looking through their floor

At a nation of fools

Pulling at their bootstraps.

Come Home (Winter is waiting)

Pictures of pretty girls in peacoats,

thinking of all the snow

I won't see.

Expensive cameras hanging around

Loosely scarfed necks.

Plumes of winter smoker's breath.

Skipping the season,

The slush and salt

Clinging to my boots,

Sand and sun

Stinging my skin.

And I wonder,

Will I be ok?

Or thrown

Into disaray-

Sweating in the

December sun.

Wreaths and candy cane poles,

All the Christmas lights I

Never appreciated.

My son building snowmen,

Looking for any hill

Steep enough to sled.

Skipping the season,

The circadian rhythm

Of a man from the north,

Deserted in the desert

Languages away.

And I wonder,

Will I stay?

Or be broken-

When you say,

Come home dear,

Winter is waiting.