does anyone ever mean
to break the innocence
of another's seeing
or is it we are just
blinded ourselves
wounded and flailing
in the dark
and clawing for
whatever stands most near

an eye for an eye
beginning as a pay it forward
cry for help
we're helpless to prevent
before the exchanges of retribution
blur the lines
of all the shine
that caught our eye
and made us look
into the depths of soul

all of us with ice shards
and shrapnel
and the war in our perceptions
more than in our world

how does the fight
of the blind
blinding the blind
come to its end
when the clocks keep turning
new days
but no one sees the sunrise
anymore

are there enough
tears to cry
to drown the monsters
from their places of intrusion
where they cast shadows
in our sight

or do we close our eyes
until we see nothing
and nothing left
is seeing us

or is it a focus on the light
and a standing still
until the will to find it
shows us truths
we long forgot

or just a surrender
of the need to see at all
sacrificed
for the willingness to feel
until embrace comes
of the clumsy who collide
and asks that we remember
what it is
to dance

I'm scared I'm losing
my ability to believe
that anything will ever be
just what it says it is

so bring me a trickster
who hides their shame
out there on display
visible
and in plain sight
the way Pierrots have worn
a painted frown
as armour for
their weakened hearts

give me caricatures composed
of dirty secrets
before I lose my faith
because everyone has
some kind of sword
behind their back
wether they want to play
that way or not
and if I have to dance
then why not for the ones
who make the game
of swallowing the swords
and flames

not the posing
and the pretty face
filled all in with wax
give me stumbling scars
and confessional tattoos
like stories
and like gospels
embedded in the skin
because what's in the bone
will someday
out the flesh

and truths of grotesque
exaggeration
and the fattest ladies
of the shameless shames
are the only angels left
with the power
for the miracles
worth the breath
of prayer

even the sun comes down
sideways

it's a shifty virgin world

within a universe so pure
it's holding
nothing back
and has no shame
for what it needs
and what it has to give

so what if the truth
never was perfection
only reflection
for the unaligned
reaching like those
nectared mouths
trying to evolve
enough
to taste the light

and sinking is the aftermath
of the climaxes of flight

and impotence
where the cripple learns
that living takes half the measure
of its steps
in dream

God isn't dead
but maybe love has died

wilted and abstaining
to find its ideality
crossing itself to stop
the opening to the rain
where the bruising of the petals
nourishes the roots

and the world dries up
for the burden of its shame
while the universe
is raging on
no matter how crooked the sun
or straight
the rain

where the copulation
of Chaos and Unkown
is where love's conceived
again

I want to invent a word
for you
like one of those
ancient words
that only dialectic speakers
can understand
through the secret decoding
of stories pumped into their veins
along with mothers' milk

the type of word
that encapsulates histories
and futures
and one-of-a-kind archetypes
subliminally in its syllables

hieroglyphics formed
from each letter
coagulated into
the summary of you

a manic word
with room for contradiction
and open to interpretation
bursting like a universe
with its infinite definition

but the most sacred
of the mysteries
are the ones we never name

and it only takes a second
of a silence
to find the dream of you
where the absence of a word
is our best communication

you're like something
from MacGowan's mouth
the unexpected beauty
slipping out
from between the gaps
of this broken-toothed world

and I said I wasn't going to
write love poems anymore
but then you're always
in my dreams
and I forget to stop

so I thought I'd write you
something ugly
like the dirty streets below
the transcendence
of our imaginations

those rooms we sometimes
lock for days
cages
filled with the unfurling wings
of pages scattered on the floor
and sheets recoiling as the tides
from the corners of the bed

somewhere inside our heads

before we dress
and I step out in stockings
snagged and already torn
and you with tobacco
on your breath

you call that tear
along my leg
a window to my soul
and I say you must be
the hero of Bukowski's dreams
because we take our greys
as opportunities
to see the colours standing stark

the way we both prefer the night
for the way the stars can shine
though we've grown accustomed
to settling
for the city lights

and everyone we pass
is looking to be loved
even us who stand so well
alone

but I don't want to be your beautiful
I'd rather be the ugly
you revere
the way you are the song
the heavy hand
of dawn
can never disappear