1-4-93 Smoke



A thought in a wisp, perhaps only a fear
Genetic disappointment carried to another level
To wonder why I cease to write, think, create


Enough white noise ringing in my ears
To clear a weeks work, veil of silence
Point blank harmonics seem undeliberate
And I think of the width of family history
Grand scheme or not
Biting into my shoulders only because I request the burden
If love and lovemaking avail only as weapons
Procreative acts to be banished by the wayside
Or as rewards

guilty slips

The romantic ideal seems so foreign, inaccessible
(In a place where ideals belong and go unvisited)
I can feel the door opening, dread and excitement
Preparation where instincts once ruled
Sparks never needed a production meeting before
Just good intentions, strong feelings and lust
Curling behind a prop I am, the role confuses me:

Friend, lover, animal;

Bastard, saint;