The fighter

Fire, fire, fire
Like rage, like nothing
The fixating sound
of the crimson
Swish-swashing
Pumping, pounding
In empty ears
Blood like fire
Fire like what?
Rage like nothing
Like the ripped sea crashing
Pumping, pounding
Shattering hearts
Ground fine like sand
Retreating down
Vermilion running
Feet with wings
Pumping, pounding
on dark wet pavement
Steam like a kettle
Fighting words
Gliding, swaying, ducking
With no defining consequence
Iron hot cadence
Drools off restless lips
Painting violence
On this silence.
Fists pumping pounding
With blood like fire
Fire, fire, fire
Rage like what?
Fire like nothing.

Walking Away

Close the book
Turn the page
Give one last look
Let go the rage
Take a cleansing deep breath
Pretend he apologized
Know it's for the best
For no more lies
Erase the writing
Forget the fighting
Just walk away
Time to turn around
My heel grinds in time
On the concrete ground
He picked the flower
But I kept my power
And as the rain falls faster
I smile and start a new chapter

Knee deep in tribid water
To realize I am the one whose fighting back
Our lives, like pictures in sand
Destroyed and faded by the wind
Our bodies blown over the earth, like
Dust on water
Eventually to sink in
The collective ocean of 'us'
consciousness with no control
That crashed violently against my toes
Immovable rocks ground one day soft to sand
Like we all grow soft in our old age
Chillingly numb from it's cold
But what is peace if not an ocean?
Breathing life
Softening the impenetrable
And carrying wind so strong
That will one day fade our sand
And blow us all away

Lets Burn

Lets burn
I want to smulder
in a pile of you and me
I want to move
Like we invented moving
Flicker and spark
Like heat is all there is
I want to moan
Like we're committing original sin
Like we thought of this
Like its ours, it is ours
I want you to pull yourself in
I want it cosmic
Bliss and make bliss
Like we can't see
Because in this moment you are perfect
My hips were made to hold
Your hips
Bone-hard
Springs creak
So you, so me
Lets move
Lets sweat
Lets burn

Bump up against and bob like a fish
Gasping for breath at unfinished business
Lose Ends never tied
cups poured out
Sin and Sorrow
And that great ugly drought
Letters unsent
An alphabet unlearned
and a disease never cured
Failed attempts at irony
Words that were never meant
When things come so suddenly
Potential is not met
With just one thing
I will never forget

to dust

Stalk still
White fabric, you too
Lay there butcher-style
meat
Blue and gold silk
And the blanket your grandmother
Wove, you into my life
The tread of you ripped from me-fray
Crumble of over face
Your hair, but not your eyes
And down, my melting blues
When I grasp an other mourner's hand
At the sight of the rigamortis
Your 'you-like hand'
Is all that holds focus

My Zombie poem...way out of left field but here it is

Within the world of Maryfairing, lived a light of eternal caring. 

But when that light went dim one day, all this world would see decay.

From fourth the country came a noise that shattered and tattered the New Years joys.

They came on hobbling like puppets on strings, ramped and hungry for human things

Their eyes were white and their hands were cold, and, oh, their flesh reeked of boggy mould.

Their bare feet squished through filth and mud, as their bellies moaned for human blood

Within the city the people cried, “Such a crime! Such a crime! We’ve nowhere to hide.”

As the undead approached with their lifeless eyes, some ran, some screamed, some sought disguise.

The minister, old, he laid in bed, until a ringing came from a phone which said:

“They’re monsters, o dear! After our children, we fear! For our lives may end, the solution is unclear!”

“Relax” Spoke the minister, whose smile was quite sinister.  “Send the guards quick.  Sir, are we quite finished here?”

With that the minister rolled over to his wife, who was blond and beautiful of only 16 years of life.

“Again they weep for hand outs my dear, let the poor be eaten...we’re safe up here”

He leaned in close and kissed her head, but she was still, so still, she could have been dead!

The old minister’s heart fluttered “my darling? Are you well?  Should I call for your mother?”

Her eyes flue open, as pale as the sheets, her body was stiff as she stood on her feet.

The minister, afraid as she reached out for him, and each limb from another, she savagely tore him.

The blood stained the carpet worth a quarter million euro, which he’d bought with a loan from the pension baeuro.

Dead was the minister, with blood filled lung, when as through from a jack-in-the-box his body was sprung.

Then husband and wife limped down to the street, insatiably hungry for human meat.

In the streets people ran as shots were fired, knowing now the minster was a great dead liar.

As guards and ghost all one became, only a few stood alive their country to reclaim.

Faint children dragged their own lifeless feet, shots rang out to cause their defeat.

The live rebels they ran from safe hold to safe hold, all the while watching their families grow cold.

One rebel looked his sister in the eyes, as they glazed over and met her undead demise.