Archive for old


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on September 19, 2016 by beautifulimposter

Everyone always wants to get to the point 
Yet the point is the start, no destination
Just what you hang from, a pendulum 
Until the scissors do their filthy job
First lesson, sharp steel and what it can do
To such vulnerable flesh.

Hey ho, here we go,
We’ll figure out the words as we go along
Turn about, turn away, every season in a day
Page upon page filled
What were we saying, doesn’t matter
Breathe and blink, pausing stutter…

Click clack film reel snicker
Footsteps tapdance tattoo, a billion pavements 
Stitched closed by boot heels
Worn out at the knees, momma please
Not so fast, caught up in the turnstile 
Left holding ticket stubs while the stage staggers on.

What’s your story?
Tangled tongues and breath
Lipstick in the creases
Four mysterious keys and a watch fob
All the million billion tiny bits
Swirling upwards, outwards, all the points
No point whatsoever, except, maybe
The story folded so neatly
Between palms with the lines just beginning to rise



Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on November 1, 2015 by beautifulimposter

I love the girl who’s spine is cracked
Bent backwards, a paperback worn out
Pages torn and crumpled from being tossed
So casually into forgotten corners
I smooth out the creases as best I can
Holding her gently, with reverence
Because I don’t think anyone has really taken the time
To read her treasures, the wealth of her soul
There are such verses beneath her vellum skin
Well worth a lifetimes devoted study
My lips forming the words of her worshipful
As mystic and holy as psalms.

She’s a mis-matched set of china
Porcelain chipped, glaze a web of cracks
Yet there is still beauty, history in each disparate piece
Volumes of thought and memory
Coded in the Braille of stretch marks,
Passages to be read in the fine lines
Sculpting a mouth of complex curvature
Furrows and wrinkles speaking beautifully
In silent language there for those willing
To watch and learn.

Together we are fixed in brokenness
Not whole but certainly not less
A pair of old chairs, second hand end table and reclaimed lamp
Things discarded, unwanted, recovered
Each other’s hands finding something
To save one another from the curbside
Or rubbish bin, to be taken in
Made into cherished heirlooms
By hands bent with love, bringing burnished luster
To scar tissue patina.

Old is not bereft of value,
They do say one’s garbage can be
Someone’s treasure, you just have to have the right eye
A place and a use and a corner of your heart
That needs what only that one
Will give to it.

Second Hand

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on October 17, 2015 by beautifulimposter

My love is an old pair of jeans
Frayed at the edges, with a few holes
Nothing fancy, second or third or fourth hand
Worked in just right though
So when you put it on
It fits well, something comfortable you can wear
On Sundays doing housework
Or lazy autumn walks through the park.

My love is a little battered
A favorite old book, foxed, dog eared
Bearing coffee stains, ink smears where someone wept
Pages wrinkled, torn, thumbed through
Thrown at the wall in anger, dropped into
A used bookshop bin, rummaged through
You know the kind, the ones you find right at the bottom
Unearthed like treasure, that know well and long for
The touch of your hands.

My love is as disreputable
As the faces in Tom Waits songs, slow horns
Tired, rusted, junk drawer pocket watch
Forgotten religious meddles covered in reverent thumbprints
Shabby suited, rumpled, hat in hand
Two bit, low rent, shy shoe two step shuffling
Glad any spare change smiles
You care to toss my way.

It isn’t what it used to be, my love
No, I don’t get to play the hero any more
The white charger got traded in
For a worn out, sad eyed heavy horse broken to the plow
Not quite as flashy, but still possessed of a slow, steady strength
Retired from the lists but still worth a lifetimes labor,
Ready to pull till my heart bursts
Willing to grind itself to dust in hopeless devotion.

So that’s what you get, something used up
But a few good miles left,
Held together with twine and duct tape
It isn’t pretty, but it’ll run
And maybe, just maybe it can still go the distance.


Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on July 13, 2015 by beautifulimposter

…I’m open…

Black wash of blood

Tatters of flesh
(I pierced the side of love, my love

I pierced the side of love)

…Drink of this, blood of my blood,

Flesh of my flesh…

Flesh again,

Recurring themes


The endless machines of god’s loving grace

Burned and twisted cogs

Leave their marks on the palms

Of upturned hands.

…and the blood pours down like honey

Oh, such extreme honey…

(but I pierced the side of love and its bleeding to death)

The agony

Like anger, like hate

Won’t wash off

Tastes of fire

of pain

of sex

of damnation

of ecstasy

Your body,
I want to be inside

rip you to lovely pieces

bathe in your life>

Too much blood, too much ink

Can’t remove the stains
(the Angels have teeth

They pierce my side with love, my love

They tear me to pretty pieces in Love’s name)

In nomine…

…in finis…

But not quite yet

…the abyss is looking…

Staring into me

…in Nomine…

A monster I have become?

but really, what else can you do

With two bits of wood and three long nails?

I am open and it destroys me


Always dying


In nomine patria, et filis, et spiritus sancti…

For the love of god maybe

For the death of pathetic flesh

I write and I burn.

…the abyss finally looked also into me…

And fucking cringed
“The horror…The horror”

And here the cleansing stops

I am open, I am empty


Old Soul

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , on June 13, 2014 by beautifulimposter

Old am I

Born of void, twin to stars

From same womb expelled

Naked in the most absolute

Terrifying completeness

Awake and wide eyed

Riding waves of coruscating fire

Bright burning arrow flying

Toward open, unending promises.

What a long, strange trip

Sleeting through the space

That was just filled with space

Skipping ropes of astral dust

Color becoming shape

Sudden sound pouring out of silence

Turntable galaxies spinning

Orchestral tuning hum

Precursor of musical spheres.

Free form spinning

Fingers still dripping dark matter

Strings tidal tug insistent pull

Downwards, inwards crashing into

Deep blue something

A new watery belly

Fresh clothes if first flesh

Bounding the boundless

Life cleaving to consciousness

Poor clay screaming from fresh pink lungs.

Formed but still fluid

Iteration variation

Building the complex upon bare bones simple

Squirm wriggle flopping

Swimming through new seas of deep stars

How long from fins to fingertips

From fathoms upwards

Tendon tearing claw crawling

Panting on shores unspoiled

Leaving behind first footprints.

Lives shed, old clothes discarded

Rags of skin littering the floors of time

Ocher rust figures

Shadow dance into painted urns

Bull dancers gleam oily nude

Slipping between reed scored clay

Tying speech to earth

Flip book flashes

Floods and fires

Gods hurling bolts from mountain tops

Becoming bombs whistling

Pale reflections of first causes

Rising in tumorous clouds.

A long blink of an eye

From there to here

Only dreams hold any truth

Of what I was

Remembered fitfully in poetry mumblings

Portraits of unbounded vistas

Captured in palsied child crayon scribbling

A creature of dust clothed in frayed finery

The soul they say is infinite

They neglect to reveal

Infinity is a long fucking time.

I am tired

Weary from aeon shadowed wanderings

Confused, lost, unable to escape

Walled in by pavements

All thought polluted, drowned cacophony

Wifi signal to noise white static

Plastic hungry fast food consumption sick

A famine of intellect

Starving while gluttonous devouring

Empty calorie sound bite media messages

Complacent sleepwalk shuffling

Down twisting coils of cool numb fiber optic

Silicon chemical dependent highways.

Sight is dimmed, narrowed

Eyes blind to wonders

By summer blockbuster glamour shot

Still sometimes open wide

True chord pure running deep beneath

Auto tuned bland talking face sonic trash

The pieces are still there

Hiding in the corners

So I pick them up

Sew the edges together

Bloody calloused hands desperate scrabbling

Pasting fragments to scrapbook pages

Where I can look and show and remember

When I was bright

When I was the first true love promise.