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Blood Memory

Blood Memory (Suicide By Society)

Whether I be alive
Or dead
You go to my head
When I revive what you said;
True love, while horror 
vainly shrieks I’ve been misled,
Like the thin shadow of a
a black alley cat,
Will you spin this pale
one more time in a trance
on the dance floor?
What once made love,
Useless artifact,
Decomposing like the
memory of romance,
Silent lips lack tact,
fading flesh makes love no more,
All the starlight, from cold dead places far away,
as power fades
in the universe that gave you a thrill,
You will see, if you succeed in your plot to kill,
what you really
Saw as me, was the ghost of me from somewhere else, you know not where,
For I was dead long before
I gazed into your eyes-
Blood Memory
Blood Memory
The dead love in all their finery
Ego sequi ad sidera, 
Were you in love
With a chimera?
Goodbye my future love,
When I am gone,
look below and look above,
I’m higher than heaven,
And lower than hell,
You’ll never figure it out,
As my blood splashes 
Imaginary roses on your
Vanity, so you’ll decide
On a drink, and say oh well, give up trying to decipher the poems of my Blood Memory,
For you were seeking dominance, mistaking
it for power, and I was something else you see,
I let you get away,
I let you get away,
What will you do when you can’t find me in the tapestry of dreams,
Only to see your eyes closed there, mouth open in orgasmic screams,
And I’ll be Somewhere sipping new wine from a tapestry glass,
a future we made,
That was built to last,
Like an urgent message
From a lover in the past, 
a secret name,
a pair of sapphire angel
mates entombed in midnight city thoroughfares,
Some lights shine brighter than galaxies,
in the knowing eyes of girls,
oh Bright One,
You never guessed
the Prince Of Midnight Star Songs who loves you most is iconoclast,
You thought you destroyed his ego, erred in saying that his love was meaningless,
weakness, mistook identity for pride
But I will always haunt
your past,
dead at last while inviting you to haunt my future,
Where I’m free at last,
and if I be the last alive on earth, call me hellflower, for I’ll revive you first,
And the stars won’t sing;
Hoch Heilig Hoch ,
They’ll sing loving wonder at your rebirth,
In lyrics of light first written 
as the patterns of my blood when you killed me,
my blood memory
Blood memory

Oh may my blood be the rose petals that you walk
on when you march to
The altar to marry my
psychedelic sunset ghost,
May my last dying sigh,
hover endlessly up and down your perfumed body’s coast,
is this the last song to you or the first of infinity,
as my heart beats
love for you from your thrust to my throat,
splashing sonnets
of passion on your
My blood memory
My blood memory

Have a diatribe with the Teardrop Scribe, his
words of love for you
were not forced by you.
He saw the innocence
polluted until it became
the evil that you do.
Why destroy yourself
when you could destroy the world instead?
And that is why my poems
are worth more to you
if I am dead.
You cast me as a villain,
I will do my best to play the part,
and you’d do best to save this world,
by putting your love’s dagger through
my heart, 
I give you this clue,
to save the world for you.


To Every Girl In Every Club

A world of poetry
Love’s sweet eloquence
all I live and see
And when the words
become love songs
We’re the words; dance with me!
Like making love in zero gee,
The swirling of the galaxy,
Love-emotion’s ecstasy,
We become the words;
dance with me!

The Sweetest Curse

Love is a curse,
it strikes without warning,
causes infinite hurt,
says goodbye in the morning.

Tracks my bitter tears
Across the years
Like tiny stars
In the sky

Left alone with my fears
Mind shifting painful gears
Manufacturing a tortured why?

I’ll tell you why:

A soul mate died
because  they lied
No one saw the years I cried 
society demanded success on my part,
when only sadness was my heart
Said to put on a brave face
and let the weak die with acold lack of grace,
flashed brand new portraits of long dead men,
Said, “You don’t have them, that’s your sin.
You can’t take care,
of those you love,
of those that love you,
you’ll never win.”
I can’t help but put others
when one has too little
It makes it worse.
To love all that live 
is my only motive,
but I can’t afford
the candle votive,
so I light a discarded
ignore the brand name,
Trademarked Regret,
and all I have is
sorrowful verse, of silent
cries afflicted,
with love’s curse-
smoke my regret slowly and reflect,
how many died
of neglect,
and think of a way to save the rest,
pray I’m not put to the test,
with sweet nostalgia
dance away,
under love’s gentle curse,
always held sway.
The moon above my
face in anguish
For love, in longing’s evening languish,
heart calling Love’s distance dancing
In the night
Like bats dipping,
Shadows in moonlit flight
Time you’re
gone increases, 
making it worse,
You were by far,
the sweetest curse

Eros, With HIV

Eros, With HIV 

They said, “Time’s Up,” so I started surfing time
waves a thousand years high, a thousand lightyears high, I rode to the shore of 2012, hovered on a bed 
in a studio apartment
three stories in the sky,
primitive porn
of the intoxicated 
and forlorn,
desire, with socially crippling disease,
eyes that see
heart-of-light-flesh-of passion in the softest most torturous social conviction:
that of moral obligation.
Not even as (or perhaps more) subtle than the time consuming mating ritual of creativity;
courtly love as poetry, based on the words of others infused by 
the sweet syrupy liquor of personality.
Like a living mystery novel victim trying
to discern who manufactured in an only rumored lab his affliction, whose
sole symptom is the neglect of others whose initial admiring excited gazes turn into
pity’s pragmatic haughy eyes
away from my own trapped eyed desire becoming  haunting lights of dimly
disguised longings lost for loves past 
like an erotic incarnation of tragedy cutting a dashing figure, in the underground night club,
sinisterly lovely doppelgänger on the dance floor 
in the night tapestry of dreams on the wall
in a mountain castle festival
of vampires in the cathedral of twilight
Waiting for Youngblood,
(The one who walks in daylight; The one who never feeds, save for once on a single drop of a tiny blood rose willingly offered in the palm of the young moonstone goddess’ hand the color of light off a lilly on a spring day in the morning on another planet with a pink sun rising in the sky;
(the teardrop scribe), who comes with his Morning Glory wings bleeding love poems from a thousand tiny heart pang cuts, and at the banquet table with a celestial candelabra all stars forming the name of his love to illuminate sapphire chalices with bas relief female angels
and diamond cutlery on the heavily laden table, they wait, the shade of a past love. he gazes
staring at richly woven
moving cloth pictures and sees himself in the past dancing in the strobe lit gothic club, 
clad in black,
feeling the words of the song, fingers weaving air
to the drumbeats perfectly,
the please love me dance.

Water Vapor

Even class clowns cry
like the water vapor in a lover’s sigh
A baby’s yawn during a lullaby
The sun seems to revolve around the sky
Making light of the situation
As we escape the dark celebration
Fanfare of the city street.
New vibrant hum
Of the synthetic drum
In the memory car
as the night glides by!

Give A Hand For Mr Norman W. Smith (The Upright Nature Of Last Names)

My feet hurt in gleaming
In the dance of life
all have the same roots,
I can only ponder
and daydream sunlit forests,
my sorrow heart,
tears at disease, 
and how
we all should wear poetry vests,
And heaven,
so different, so far, so
barely understood,
so I try something
staying off strangely tempting chemicals that
promise nothing real,
just alter how I think and truly feel,
Such a clear word sober,
And I think someone
Should say God is awesome,
Give a hand to Norman Smith,
Give a hand for Norman Smith,
Some of us actors
are acting truth,
do what you can to stay
in your youth,
God tells me,
“You have to make money,” yet the point is something else, some kind of sad yet happy love is who I am, I have to learn to be the best I can, learn her story,
Help as much as I can,
Behave in such a way,
That does not shame me as a man,

The shape and structure
of hallucinated argon flames,
How can a flyer hold God’s eight billion names,
and all the games be peaceful love games, ’cause when the book said the light separated from the darkness it was good, and I wondered if the modern Bible was an excuse for segregation, and I love all the colors of my neighborhood, and how I 
hate racist misdirection, 
and do my friends and I have to be poor, 
because I don’t think we need manipulated poverty,
that’s why my wealth is poetry, and I  love the people that I see, and love is being able to really see, and some day when we are free from tragedy, I will ponder wistfully,
the upright nature
of last names.

rule is such a dirty word,
you get more songs from a mockingbird,
and your reflection in my eyes is what makes them beautiful.
Love Is the sight of the people I see,
I only hope that love is me.

My Wrath Forlorn (Night’s Asylum)

They all stare
With scorn
And lack of care
My wrath forlorn

Until I seek night’s asylum
Club lights swirl
In anthem
I would drink her
With my eyes
Her look
My love surprise

And I don’t care about
daytime hate any more,
And how they stare at me
With predator’s eyes,

I have a blood red drink
and a spice cigarette,
talking to a black lace goddess with no regret,
with strobe-lit skin like divine wine I could
begin, their spite, my hate, to forget.