I went back to the drawing board
and found the plan I had ignored
on my way out the door.
Not my plan anymore,
but my very self,
goes back on the shelf.
Christopher M. Swan 2008
A Valentine I wrote in ink
It swore our stars would always link
We danced past doubt & borrowed time
Till truth arrived, a gentle chime
and yet here we are
Such desire is ridiculed by many.' Mainly those who innately organize.. yet there is
In the deeper recesses of human coizence
A spark? A tickle of sorts..That allows the
Idea.? A wild card.? Maybe a wild card leader.? Would break the morbundity.? Breathe life into me.' So you ended up with
Trump..But he was made an asset years ago.. Look around.? See what don't go.?
You...Maybe you.? Are the wild card you need.?
Where does capital end
and mere terrorism begin
The evening comes, I recognize
The same old evening’s here
A blurry line across the skies
The sounds of cars I hear
Quite as distinguished as they were
From the embankment side
The motorbikes are also there
Their engines never die
They fade into the background soon
And silence chills the breeze
It fills the gap between my room
And crowns of the trees
And everything looks as before
In this old evening blue
Except I’m seeing you no more
To hear your I love you
Except that everything we are
Has turned to ash again
Except my dearest love's gone far
It’s all about the same.
Old song plays again,
Promises like broken chords,
Trust is out of tune.
©bfa042425
We live a little, then we die
Forever and completely
Plain truth is beaten with a lie
The saving lie speaks neatly
Divides a body from a soul
The afterlife we get to run
Is meant for dates in other world
Must be a sheer fun
In desperation we believe
In childlike trash like this
And consolation we receive
Don’t worth a single kiss
I suffer from a wound unhealed
No time can take away
The utter pain I have to feel
Cause it’s the same old day
It tells the story of a loss
My memory retrieves
The morning hour with its gloss
The evening with its grief.
Spaghetti drips from old-fashioned lips
like a cascading waterfall; the pics,
yellowed; and clothes, of three fellows,
sepia-toned. Commonality of hunger
or mere curiosity as directed at the bulb.
Whether eyes, mmm, while closed, open
or scant, the fullness of pleasure of pasta
dripping from their mouth; today’s boy
just shows off all his food on the tongue.
Judging opinions
by their age
proscriptions
lie in wait
Consensus stained
with fear and guilt
folly
overstates
Knowledge of others
unknown to self
deception points
one way
Value weighed
in layers of dust
the truth held
—far at bay
(Dreamsleep: October, 2024)
Same Old Hell
Back in the same old hell-
Back with the same old dwell.
A palace stuck in time,
A house without a rhyme.
The devil creeps ever close-
and he stabs me, so he knows-
how close I am to Death indeed,
and no matter how my poems plead-
he likes to sit and watch me bleed.
Bleed ink and dust and my old spirit;
growing lesser by the minute.
I escaped this house and dwell-
the stories I could ever tell
do haunt my head and chest and heart-
bleeding through the stain of art.
Where once was tears and fears and
sears- into my soul and stories told-
now is barren and empty and hollow
filled with nothing but the sorrow.
And now even I must be bold,
because the stories must be told.
Of fear and pain and haunting Death-
do cometh now and seeks his rest.
Inside my brain and mind and soul,
I play my part and sign my role
away to Death and his old tricks
and watch the hours slowly tick.
It is the same old sadness too,
That very same longing just for you.
The torn remain
of what was plain
waves now ore frozen ground,
in winds that blow
cold ice and snow
and other feelings down.
There isn’t much
left in a touch
to calm the trembling hand.
For winter’s chill
falls colder still
in cloak across the land.
The settled dust
and cankered rust
guard safe against the grain,
while fading dim
from deep within
gives root to growing pain.
How did it go
from there to here?
How could it end so wrong?
A love once whole,
two lives once full…
yet still the same old song.
ask how I feel - it's always "same old" (like crap) . . . chronic disposition
She, who consumed poison
From the sight of blood that gradually rotted
For all she could do was endure the smell
Of a body bound to rot.
Blood is thicker than water
That blood was half of hers
But she masked the faint smell in rotting juice.
She knew, everyone else did too.
One claims to know the holistic answers
Until it becomes their situation.
I understand the imagined smell
And the body yet to fall
Through the black lingering mist.
Nothing shines upon them in your eyes anymore.
The wacky laugh becomes unsettling
When the empty mouth opens.
There is nothing funny to laugh at
When the laugh almost wasted him away.
The joke does not exist
When the joke exists inside the scrambled brains of eight years.
Innocence is sweet
Ignorance is perfect.
Now the woman saw the corpse for what it wanted
The rotting smell wasn’t so bad
Blood became thicker than ever.
Water became her companion.
Others await in the same wait.
Disturbed by the sight of the soon-to-be rotting body
Unsure of what to do
Except to drink the rotting juice.
I’ve heard a few lovebirds singing the same
sweet song to each other amongst the
white and pink blossoms of spring.
“I love you so much I want to put you in my pocket”
they sing to one another. Their song sounds
shrill to me.
I can only imagine folding my sweet love up
like so many notes passed in grade school
classrooms, and tucking her away
in my pocket to live alongside crumbs
and lint and cigarettes and toothpicks.
Shouldn’t she go somewhere better than my pocket?
If I loved her I’d at least let her live under hat or in
my bookbag where there’s much more
room and far less itchy crumbs and sharpened sticks.
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