i write words with passion
and compassion
with aggression
and obsession
with power and grace
vulgarity and distaste
with love and lust
and feelings…a must
i write words that rhyme
keep cadence with time
they are filled with hate
up for debate
they are my inner most feelings
or my underhanded dealings
i write words that others won’t
express views that others don’t
i write words for you all
and i’m fucking having a ball

Beautiful Seed

A patch of dirt you are not

Neither dust in the wind

You say you’re a mess

Even think you are useless

God can take a mess

And do more than dress it up

He works from the inside out

Tilling the soil to plant something new

Taking the thought of your uselessness

Working a great work in you

Showcasing your usefulness

For in his garden


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we weren’t safe for work
after work
we were x-rated
never sated
until sated we were

starting as a look
like the cover of a book
slowly to open
hungry to read
feeling the need

tongue dips and drips
until all that’s left are sips
she released her grip
on my soul

both spent and numb
every morsel 
every crumb
and consumed
wrecked and doomed

we woke the night
tasted the sun
climbed the universe’s stairway

we were not safe for work

…when we worked

Reading your Words


I sit and read
These words you placed to paper
And feel ashamed
Blamed and chained
By the hatred in these words
The pain that flows through this work

It is not for me
Nor for anyone
That this hate is aimed
Yet you make us all feel shame
For we are not better people
Nor do we fit the criteria that the you seem to give us
In these words of hate and pain

It was language I loved, not meaning. I liked poetry better when I wasn’t sure what it meant. Eliot has said that the meaning of the poem is provided to keep the mind busy while the poem gets on with its work — like the bone thrown to the dog by the robber so he can get on with his work… . Is beauty a reminder of something we once knew, with poetry one of its vehicles? Does it give us a brief vision of that ‘rarely glimpsed bright face behind/ the apparency of things’? Here, I suppose, we ought to try the impossible task of defining poetry. No one definition will do. But I must admit to a liking for the words of Thomas Fuller, who said: ‘Poetry is a dangerous honey. I advise thee only to taste it with the Tip of thy finger and not to live upon it. If thou do’st, it will disorder thy Head and give thee dangerous Vertigos.
P.K. Page (via observando)

Saw a fantastic show by @oliviajeanmusic and raided the @thirdmanrecordsofficial Rolling Record Store. WHATTALIFE (at Shake It Records)


Saw a fantastic show by @oliviajeanmusic and raided the @thirdmanrecordsofficial Rolling Record Store. WHATTALIFE (at Shake It Records)