Red Lipstick

I can see the color.
Although we do not speak.Red Lipstick
She is proud, she is on his arm.
Bright red lipstick.
The kind that stains.
She is old, yet ancient.
Poor taste.
In the seat.
Grabbing my reigns.
Hold tighter, sure not to fall.
Return them when you are done.
The blood red on her lips is fake.
The blood pumping through the pain in my heart, real.
How can you sit there?
If only I could hear your sweet voice say my name again.
What happened to us, where is the truth in that?
Sitting beside her.
It’s almost summer.
Beginning of spring.
The edge is crooked and the page is blank.
It’s dark right now.
If I read louder? Explain.
Phony red lipstick, his kisses on them real.
I am just me.



Here at the end where I started.

Looking forward to yesterday more than tomorrow.

Caught up in a whirlwind of stagnance.

White walls, precious comforting white walls.

Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali

Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali

Running through time headed straight to nowhere fast.

Out of breath, out of air, out of space, out of time.

Nothingness is plentiful.

The silence belongs here and now;

Residing inside, outside and all around.

Presently is a pseudo prison, a makeshift ticking time bomb.

From start to finish is always just the same day.

Back to what I thought was already done.

In the moments that add up to today;

Countless events never to be accounted for.

Tiptoe like a ballerina teetering on the edge of tomorrow.

Clinging as a child to mother’s bosom onto yesterday.

As for today, today only mocks the future and the past merely fades.

I love…

Love loving love.Love and Lust
Loving to love inside of being loved.
I love that man.
This is a love.
Face familiar and sweet, captivating.
Gentle to his hand.
Open to his lust.
“You love me don’t you?”
Inside myself he lays,
As we lay together inside the other.
Passion ours.
What is it that love loves?
Peaceful tears, maybe.
Innocence unleashed.
Sex, after lust, before love.
He is inside of me.
They are surrounded by us.
Deepest in my heart of hearts.


Pool Halls

My lake of poetry.

Sport reflected as time.

Substance sportive to a champion.Pool Halls

Things that are on my mind.

Poetic is our sport.

This sport, our sport.

A sport, of all, to sport.

Pool, I conquer you with great return.

Is there any greater than pool?

More precise or divine?

A pool hall, any pool hall.

A blissful waste of time.