I know Nothing, and I know it well;
and that ensures that my head doesn't swell.
Nothing is nothing to gripe about,
suppressing any desire to shout.
Nothing is the stuff of sleepless nights;
it's like a deer caught in the headlights.
Nothing has no heft or feel to it:
the legacy of a hypocrite.
Nothing, sometimes, is all you have left;
loss of innocence is a slow theft.
Nothing isn't easily washed away,
even by the tears wept every day.
Nothing is frightening to confront,
like an empty gesture or affront.
Nothing can obscure your path to love;
it forces your heart to rise above.
So oft' he used to pass my way, and
merrily nod and pass the time of day
with a polite lift of his tall bola-hat
then he'd wander off again
His stature was somewhat portly
yet his nature charming just the same
I knew him to be a gentleman
with hat and gloves and cane.
One day he stopped and bowed so low
twas' not an empty gesture
for he became a suitor and I his wife
and he passes by no longer.
lush blue syringes
filled with caked on pus
she is not a mannequin
nor a living doll
nor dead space ajar.
She likes to stare
at the backs of her hands
as if at any moment
they would mutate into dust.
She can still feel
their presence
as she reaches out for air
one cup of blue air.
An empty yearning,
an empty gesture,
withheld alone.
Centuries of lies, a hollow myth
Perpetuated by charlatans with great ceremony
The Greatest Show, the living bread
The crowd sustained and animated by necromancy
The will is fused, the body dismembered and reassembled
Eager dehumanization, they tread the path
An ancient instinct, hereditary chains
Lift the chalice, a cannibal rite
Commit the body to the fires
They burn all sin to purest white
Like bones they glisten in the sun
The heart is woman, a harlot's course
Chaos bound to ritual law
A book to strangle, the human vine
Withered fruit, none shall eat
A brittle parody of True God's design
The Word of sufferance, spread like plague
Prostrated before your False God
An empty gesture before his impassive gaze
Power channels, below the surface
Christian mind cannot detect
Stabbing empty, fever pitch
Turn the blade, release is now.
get this---
you put the person behind you…
you did your best to burn them,
to amicably make closure with them,
to see their face,
however you now imagine it,
in the
rearview mirror
& then,
when you least expect it,
just when you were doing better,
just when everything was getting in line,
just when you convinced yourself that
you’re stronger,
you’re successful,
you’re
on “the right path”
(whatever the **** that is),
suddenly, said face that had been put away
comes back in full force,
with a smile & an empty gesture…
“you know, if you ever need anything,
just call…”
(opening a door that they don’t really want to
open)
&
as you begin to walk away,
there is a metaphorical lasso thrown,
in the guise of a memory that you could give a
**** about &
yet, it is brought up in order to light that
pseudo-obligatory fuse,
which promotes the idea between the two of
you that,
“it would be great” if you got together to
catch-up.
Smeared rouge broken nail torn slip
I'd waited for you again after the dance
a single light flickers a final sign
to fix my lipstick our song played on
the flashing seaburg just around two
quite thee empty gesture
that I'd been waiting far to long on you
with much class I would add until I bent
to retrieve my broken heart
from the paisley covered tile why it was
sheer elegance dining alone when
an interesting figure chanted
are all these seats taken i raised my eyes
calmly replies yes they are all occupied
for me myself and I the gentleman
ooked bewildered standing all alone
he politely asked in a soft tone
would you three lovely ladies mind
very much dancing with we three bored gents
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