You don’t know what I’m thinking, can’t see the cinematheque inside my head where horrible and beautiful images collide, a claquement that generates everything I say, everything I write
just because I can’t draw an image, because my line is unsteady and easy to cross, doesn’t mean I don’t see you and your deities as accurately and inaccurately as everyone else
if I tell you not to think about an elephant you are doomed to do so. if you tell me not to draw a face, even a virtual face, on a mannequin, I have done it and you have killed me, just as you have killed yourself
this is not a poem. I apologize so my words are erasers. I don’t believe in God so my reward is whatever connection we’re making right now. why is the prophet not wearing any clothes?
a poet from Seattle Washington USA. His poetry has appeared in print in publications such as Bellowing Ark, Point Nopoint, and most recently in Contraposition magazine. When not writing poetry he is a Human Resources professional, a repentant glutton, and a novelist specializing in the weird-fiction genre.
The girl Was so hurt and confused that she let her Own mistakes become her best friend They would do everything together And never let go of each other Through good and bad they somehow Found themselves at ease with
He walks down cobbles and blows bubbles for a pilgrimage of constant troubles, closing doors to tax men, running for milk floats, shunning almighty bible bashers, paints the flags of east London fascists Charlie chicken soup with a head like