Nice Nails 

Johnny Thundercock

Overcooked hopes have a way of lasting.
Fingers pointing to the wrong still reach.
There seems to be no obvious reason.
Try looking out of the side of your eye.
Big steps fail to move the future.
Little steps let you enjoy the now.
Tears.
Smiles.
Cares.
Desires.
Hey. Even sharks get picky.
As the stars shine down.
Becoming the flow and letting it go.
I could tell you stories of easy fun.
Of icky things and wrongs well done.
Gripping needs and empty skin.
Used forgotten bits of sin.
Their eyes wide open and seeing it all.
Their minds closed off. Dreaming to fall.
I wonder how they thought they could.
I still wonder why they willingly would.
I still fail to know what I should.
And I can’t let it all just go.
But trust me.
I do care a bit.
And that is like cold gold.

Last Caress 

Worship what you can.

Sweet little nothings roll around in the dirt near my feet, wanting to see the view and ignoring what is around them. Wait. Confused by the sudden and defiant pain of failed virtuous effort, the folds of the night part. The works behind the form are exposed and explored. Preemptive flush. The waxy insides and tubular fantastical partitions weaken with the exertion of display. Pride and free motion. These are the currency here. Brought to us by conquers and gods. Made into abject sideshow uglies. Bumping away. See how they parade and whimper for some popcorn. Wait. Don’t trust them. Many a limb has been donated to the unending need that spews forth, its pressure hidden behind the smirks and knowing nods. The low laugh at the haughty wall walkers and sing talkers as the motion continues. All teeth and nails. It is all the same, I hear. It has all been done before. Yeah I know. Wait. Wait for it. The used smell follows anyone who lives. We give and take but it still can be special. Or at least important. Flesh still quivers in the dark quiet moments between dreams and life. It is the action of taking which can alleviate the hurt of giving. Spill wrapped hope. And it is the act of giving which can bring us together.

Free Dreaming 

Hot Little Pain.

One way that works for me.
As in, I have to find it.
Sitting here and feeling as if the time is far later.
Time is a tricky little fucker that way.
But that isn’t the whole show.
Many a joke can be bled from the other truths.
We base our freaky little world on them.
Slick little fingers telling the story of a slick little mind.
Small troubles like the tips of frozen floating shit.
These troubles can still wreck your juju.
Because they can grow.
Like zombies and road kill, they might have been cute once.
Distraught wanderings of the ones who care and wonder why.
How the hell can someone be wrong and right?
I like the feeling of closeness. Intimacy.
But I hate the feeling of doubt.
And I rarely hate.
Know that the edge draws its own curve.
And a smile, if right, will win.

Cool Times 

Red Cap and a Speedo

Sweet skin mesmerizes my dreams.
Memories of touch rule my thoughts.
A laugh, a smile, the heart shudders.
The near insanity of will can be intimidating.
It is hard to admit that someone is more than honestly deserved.
But when you love it makes everything all right.
I can’t wait.
I want to feel.
Things are busy. But things change.
Sin and boogie.
Let it all slip away.
And let it all in.
Wish I could.

Fine Lines 

Alive As We Fade

Sometimes the moments of clarity bubble through and you can almost get it.
New smiles, or loved lips?
Time leaking by, snickering in the shade of the blade.
Nights blasting and the flesh alive.
Imagination, when strong, can flip the tables and roll back the skull.
If I had to put it simply, I’d have to say I do not know.
I can be ok with that as long as I can believe.
That there really isn’t an answer, a hope or an ending.
Just air, sun and dying meat.
I can almost hear the flies.