The Parted Love Song - Collaboration

In the meadows of heaven I wait for redemption
for something to steal my breath and take away
those sins that I didn't believe in but still they made me lose everything
-- even you.
Your soft hair and blue eyes transfix my heart
so close like a sibling in spirit
I swear we could squish together to create the dream
maybe we could intertwine to become trees
entangled in spirit and fluids that rejuvenate my heart
and stain the unwashed sheets where I lie on cold Sunday afternoons
the radio making alpha-waves of my thoughts, putting the cold collar
of order on the soup-pot of my overcooked mind,
Leaving an impenetrable skein of cooled cream, unable to be cracked with a fork.
The science of cooking -- numbered countdown the moment
of truth -- there are no rules in cooking, the math and science
of careful ordered steps, falling onto each other's full bellies
as God fell on the Egyptian chariots and stars fall and fall
into the depths of how I languish in joy
and for how torn I am, taken away from our interlocking branches of heavenly sorrow
for every purpose -- to strengthen the bark of the skin
I am almost certain life exists, allow me to dance for her, Nefertiti,
a pharoahess behest to the descent of madness, into the heiroglyphs,
an alphabet written in the stone of our sexual lie, the
corpus prone on cold tile, arms crossed in a weird X shapes,
some scent of incense there, too.
Casting opiate to the wind, a dream of sex standing up now just wafting away
"where" to what they like, where like the word "breakfast"
whenever you didn't say what I heard out loud
the moment of plastic bottle bands breaking down.

thoughts on a sunday afternoon...

closing in on failing as a partner,
my maturity is on the crux of being good enough.
how desperately i want this to work
i try, try, try
but the words are never right
i am NOT satisfied
too much expectation
too much money spent on ice cream.

primadonna

I am a hyperbolic eccentric
parading my eclectic demeanor on my sleeve
I relish the thought of being
promulgated and propagated,
an opinionated loudspeaker out for a stroll.
If only someone would listen to me
perhaps my insatiable appetite would be wetted.
I have stumbled into a myth
unwillingly I am a victim and predator
in my own ignorant piety,
worship for celluloid flesh.
My personal palimpsest is administered
by autonomous vote,
myself
I want to head the zeitgeist climatic orgasm.
Maybe I’m aiming too high.

Honorable promises
Lost like coins in a wishing well,
I am a man of my words.

Presence of poisoned water
In the morning coffee,

The future is the pariah,
no longer suicidal.
And I’m still loose
change falling down the well.

The End of the Space Opera

There's this girl

There's this boy walking on
Tip toes
He wobbles his way across the violet landing
and needs sugar to sweeten his disposition...
Nothing is more sorrowful then that!
Crows and doves, harps for demons
wishing I was something to seek
for her I will only be
the closest desire of humanity.
The cotton ball soaked in soul juices,
smelling of Godly rum cake
an acrid taste in the nether regions
of human desire, the unclean dinner plates
because I was twelve, in France
elated by effervescent ambrosia
of lonely Caesar's wings.
I am ready for action!
I am ready for her lips
Come now sweet embrace, let's hold hands
and dinner plates.
Maybe.
And angels sit down to dinner
while dogfaced daemons growl beyond the door.
The devil's in the dirty dishes,
lovingly we baptize them.
And the asparagus, the cleanest
cut of them all, diagonal,
acting as asparagus will, in devious ways.
So let us do our best and taste sweet wine
Because someday our hopes will be revealed
In search of greener pastures.

Written by Ian, Micah and Rose

today....

Today... by Rose & Micah

Today's the day for top hats and jeans,
for platonic love poems and copious amounts of caffeine
to make me jitter, quiver, shiver, and wake
to touch the sky with clear blue eyes
and mutter psalms under my breath.
Birds sing when cat dream
I'm a weary pilgrim on the road
...
Today's the day when I stop and wonder how long
it's been since I smelled a rose, a mountain
flower that is jealous of its petals and only shows
their delicate peach-pink colour for a fortnight in July
at night, after the moon has set, and sometimes,
if it's had a drink or two, before it has risen
the rose stretches out in its glory under sunrise...
Today's the day when I wonder, pen in hand,
how long since my ink has marked the page,
full of inspiration and bewilderment.
Behold! My paper is now bleeding blue and black
and still I cannot think! I cannot make the pen
scream the words in my heart because of the agony of modesty.
I am humbled.
But petals cry for the sun, a wan, thin, airy cry like the
sound made when a blank piece of paper is torn from
an equally blank journal and the released to the wind
to blow uselessly on the sidewalk, gathering dust, becoming
soggy in gutter-water, yellowing and decomposing.
Petals cry to be unfurled to be translucent and yet
solid simultaneously. Petals moan an ancient moan
one misunderstood as the gaping maw of nature, a vortex
that eats words and drinks little happy moments in
greedily. The beauty of those fragile petals
in the gleaming sunrise stands still in awe
if the chaos of a tornado before being swallowed
into oblivion. I take a deep breath as I
try to hang on those words, those pink pastel
layers of mountain rose, before I too am lost.
...
Today's the day for remembering that everything is ephemeral
Even top hats.

untitled poem, joint venture

Untitled by Rose & Micah
Commence with poetry, I demand.
There is an ethereal gap in the space where I put words,
my knapsack is empty and light.
I am tempted to pick up stones
and fill it, just so it will beat against
my lower back with that satisfying WHUMP.
I have come to expect my heart to pound
whenever the word "chiropractor" is mentioned--
they're gonna crack my bones and make
my brain dribble out these rocks
with inspiration written on their smooth grey surface.
Instead I throw stones into the river,
I make the skip across the water.
What a way to disturb fish and give me
a meaningless grin at their misfortune.
They gaze up at me with marble fish eyes,
that expressionless stare so unfocused that
I'm never sure if the fish are looking at me
or some scaly fish-god in the sky, the grand
fish-father, the creator of all things that
wiggle and jump in the water. And if they are,
what prayers do they say to him, what
incantations bubble up from the depths and get lost
in the incessant babble of the river?
So here I am--overlord of tasty fish friends--
thinking how pointless it would be if I hit them
with a small pebble and so conceited,
that I should take advantage of their good fishy nature.
With a splash they swim away
and I am left to ponder where they went
in the darkness of the rushing depths.
Still, I look for words to the fit the emptiness
and all I have is pebbles at my feet.
So I mumble what I think is a fish prayer
Full of "bless me, scaly fathers" and "I prostrate myself to you, o finned ones,"
Hoping that the silent gargle of fish talk
will become the unwritten poetry.
Et fin.