#night poems

Endless escapades and

earnest midnight dreams

Haunt the world after dark,

beneath a sad moon’s gleam

A breath taken,

But not a second passes by

—You could bike to the stars

The once taut rope

Loosened and stretched far

There are spirits that come

To fill souls and liquor cups

Gold and flashing dresses

Solid to the touch

What wonders exist

In the corners of night

Oil lamps, candlelight,

Dewed eyes sparkling bright

They all conjure such rise,

These late hours

Swathed in shadow—

Amidst fantastical lies

The night is illuminated
By the blue light
Of my computer screen
Blazing into my brain
Wrenching out my fears
Grown hot in the dark

My hair is still damp,
The shampoo smell
Sinking into warm fabrics
Joining the evidence
Of other late nights—
Quiet nights—
By weakly typed poetry

My fingers feel old
Tired and worn 
—And by four o’clock,
They await certain doom

An Internal Dispute From Sleep Deprivation

Blatant words befalling blue lips

Smeared the color of sadness

Tri-coated depression

What is art to sadness but apples to applesauce

thefortymillionsomethingpoems

Some statement minus punctuation and declarations of woeful broken love

Gorge upon the sales of music to public ears

I gave my blood, the likes which you’ve never seen and apparently do not want

Pages of fine ink multitudesofwordsmeaninglesswords

The alternative framework lost—

Eaten in the mainstream, some cherry picker we have to thank for this

Poets ought to rip the world to shreds with a pen

Splash ink onto pavement, blacken the world into a deep void

Gross schemes, where the fuck is reality?

I accidentally threw it down the garbage disposal

But the corporations forced my hand

The meaningless throb the echoes of time ticking sand

Mind wrenching melting numbness pain

Contradictory hell

What more is left to do? What more is to be achieved?

Light a metal garbage can,

Set all the books on fire

And all the art as well.