Snip

Little red drops pricked

By a needle; intertwined

With opium from lands

Far away.

Reduced to ash and

Charcoal dust; a fever 

Slowly consuming his

Broken memory.

A once-upon-a-time

Prince; now reduced

And refused words

Themselves.

An Artist in Doubt

Always you wrestle within me,
Pouched bile within my heart;
Each splintering away mercilessly.
Fluttering reels in an antique theater
Playing on lives imagined and forgotten,
Of dialogues painfully extemporized
Encouraging celluloid fantasies.

Always you wrestle within me,
An angry mob of artistic perspectives;
Exquisitely sculptured to fathom us apart.
A watercolor in making,
Washed away by salty excesses of sea.
Panoramic emotions sweep past visual ghettos,
A future envisioned by crippled destinies.

Always you wrestle within me,
Choleric symphonies of maddening silence;
By conductors of lost, unwritten music.
Tainted by cryptic musical notations
To be drowned by daiquiris,
In company of withered, loving harlots;
Singing me to sleep in a burning jazz bar.

Always you wrestle within me,
Simmering dust on a butterfly's wing;
Half broken and perhaps half mended.
Capable of tempestuous tornadoes
In the bittersweet passions of our love,
Now burlesqued by our indifference;
Serving as a cautionary tale to memory.

Always you wrestle within me,
Fragrances from perpetual nights;
Smeared with my sex on limp bodies.
The blood ridden cycles every month
Of your womanly sex: only indicator,
Of passion that was never meant to be.
Existential after every contraction.

Always you wrestle within me,
Cascades of soft murmurs;
Your voice laced with my name.
Denying denial itself a chance
To redeem through a prickly heartbreak.
Pluck me apart, from the roots,
Of your heart: my cancerous cells.

Always you wrestle within me... 

Beginnings

There is decadence in my soul tonight

A wretched desire to break free

Of ghastly human limitations,

To call upon all that has slept for long

Move my fingers on its limbs 

Arousing the numbed, mumbling away beauty

Of hokey hearts and forgotten times.

Hazy images from a prince's memory

Not worthy of present punctuation 

Or capital crowns; shall and indeed

Grow to be long loved by his own heart.

Words, words; he could go on forever

Seducing his own pliable memory.

It is indeed a Grecian love knot,

Worthy of at least a lost poem.