Tag Archives: passion

Dusty Trumpets

Let me love you
furiously
like death loves the young and
fire loves a tree.

Let me take your hand
and put it on the trigger.

Let’s turn everything
into just plain murder.

Let’s give them all Hell
for having birthed us.

Let’s scream off the agony of being
and beat down the cages just to
bully the hungry lions.

Let’s rage against the day
against the night
against the vast indifferent sky.

Let’s shake the sleep out of the angels,
step on the toes of giants and
embrace the writhing Leviathan.

Let’s burn into forever.

Let’s awaken the dusty trumpets.

Waiting For The Sun

I don’t know
where the light is
anymore
in all of this running around.

Grace
has left me
and I’m still young
bent from callous, careless hands
left
a beaten graffitied trashcan
turned over and
motionless at the mouth of an alley.

There is always a child
screaming into my ear
from somewhere deep inside.

It’s not what it used to be

and the pain-killers
are killing me.

I wish that I could
close the door
shut the windows
keep you out
all of you
not let you in
-this feeling this feeling
rises
like the angry voice
of the night city.

I’ve carved my words
through heart
and from wounds
my endless rage
and my way
through endless everything.

Eyes darkened,
child,
I can finally see through the night.

Breathless,
I wait for the sun.

On Writing A Novel

There comes a point in writing a novel that you get hooked on it, fall in love with writing it. You have to. You need to. With all the countless hours that you put into it with all the times you go over it down to the finest detail drawing it out filling a cork-board with post-it notes on what to change next run through sketching out each character down to their flaws -without that compulsion that love that obsession it’s just not going to be the same and you know it -without that you should just put it down put it away and go do something else because you know it’s just words then -it’s just words without spark or feeling and you’ll suffer through it you’ll suffer until it comes to you -you’ll pound it all out again and again until it arrives because once it does this thing that you’re working on? It comes alive and it becomes important to you it becomes vital to you it in fact

becomes everything.

Writing is to Bleed Across Every Damn Page

I don’t want to write safe.
I want to stretch out and
bleed across every damn page
and when it’s finished
I want to feel that I have
truly left something
that was a part of me
behind
as harrowing as the process
might be to myself
because why else
would I really bother
picking up a pen
unless it was to dig it
deep into my chest
and let it just bleed
freely and openly
across every
damn
page.

A Letter in Blood From the Heart of a Madman

I once wrote a woman
a letter
penned in my own blood
but I had disposed of it
before I could mail it
in fear that she would
think me mad
and rightfully so
because it seems the
only creatures
that would truly understand
passion
these days
are the ones that stagger
across the common room
of any given nuthouse
as I stagger across
the impossible realm
of every day.