The Weak Link

                                       Part I

There is a dank, and terrible place-

(That used to be my heart).

Hollow, and without (even) a

sliver…of light, it’s 

abandonment screams (to my 

body), without effort. 

In darkness-its cold. 

The moisture it holds, (is 

uncomfortable), and 

I feel something, 


(It’s resident horror-show 

secrets; abundant), are as 

numerous as the words, 

I will never hold back.




The Road Not Taken

I am the road not taken.

I am not offered,

Nor displayed. 

A lease, overdue-

Never signed by me, or you.

I am the slow burn.

I am modesty.

I’m honesty, and suffering.

I’m hate without forgiveness.

I am the road that has never been taken.

In hotels, I have always been

the room that has never been stayed in.

I am the dead end road (again),

the obstacle, the swell.

To Vegans, I’m a carnivore.

In Peace on Earth, I’m Hell.

I am the vehicle awry.

I beg for maintenance-attention.

I need your filthy love,

but, I prefer your base affection.




A Nightly Prayer…

…if I die, before I wake;

I pray to more than God to take-

my soul, my heart, 

(lacklustre light). 

All the love, my waning life.

So, if I die from unavenged madness;

I pray to something more…

like balance.

Consume the cause of looming sadness-

right the iniquities,

stop the kindness, 

(from being raped beside me, helpless).

God loves most, but 

favours the spineless.

The Forgotten Twig

I am a twig, on a 

branch, on a tree, by 

a river, that used to be blue.

A fountain, that used to be cruel.

A stream that was beautiful, 

vital and cool.

Angry, (with an insatiable 

hunger); its great, 

strong undertows

swallowed dogs, 

and children,

and broken hearts.

The days became seasons-which 

turned into years,

and I watched mans recompense,

for every wayward soul.

It’s  beautiful  banks, are befouled with

filth-the air, permeated, with urine.

My arthritic limbs, once housed in

lustrous  greens and 

browns, are now brittle, and dull.

I am matte and impaired, and

I fear 

my white, winter jacket.

My tears can’t be seen,

amidst the downpour from the sky.

(I cry for myself), but 

I weep,

-For This World-

is a scourge upon nature.

And each passing soul, those 

young torrents had claimed, was a

cumulative bill, paid back-with 

foul, septic waste.

Now, there’s a bigger storm coming.

Someday soon-Pandora will open

Her box…(so)…Don’t 

waste your breath on me.

Forgotten is the twig.


Zoo Poetry

The vogue seal did not dance;

Sitting only in vain,

and knowing when

to pose for the camera.

The vogue seal is

as mythical as;

my income tax return, and

(all those people),

who give a damn what you think.

And, the bad seed moose-

was out too late,

and sentenced to life in jail.

For moose prison

is as mythical as,

your silence.