gated community gangsta

Walking the streets with my dreams
hands in my pockets, not a day past fourteen
Head high, jeans low
throw in the Ipod and I’m good to go
Suburbia is my home but I wish it was the ghetto
for in my MTV mind the ghetto makes sense
the native land of chrome, parties and rhymes by fitty cent
Buying the lie
not realizing worlds collide
When the cameras stop rolling
that for all the glamour - the ghetto they ain’t showing
So walk those suburban streets
cologne soaked and collar popped
for if you only knew you would surely be shocked
by the truth – food stamps, gunshots and incomes that are low
but walk those streets kid in your gated community
and tell yourself that the blowout and the cig makes you good to go

magdalene

heart of the city
a downtown district
aluminum and leather cages – a sight to pity
red-eyed with a cup running over to restrict
the grasping hands of sleep and anxiety
all the while clutching a bone dry chalice
of my own honor and piety
decadence for despair; modesty for malice

heart of my heart
the divine existence
hands and knees scraped returning to the start
of it all, everything - obliterate my resistance
and make me whole, make me new
bleaching the stains of myself and all the wicked windows
erasing every trace of building brothers and make me like you
erasing every trace of the saint’s fortress and make me like you
erasing every trace of this Octavian oppression and make like you

Author of my heart
Can we start over?
unchain me from this false lover
and let us start over
let us start over

victoria

brunettes in brokerage bought beemers blur bringing to life the brazen billboard boastings beckoning to a culture heralding false unions of utopian bliss and euphoric engagments of ecstasy masking the multitudes to what is really only an Octavian outlet of seminal singularity and covetous cupidity...racing the heart only to ravage mind and body

generic yet decidedly greedy glances from blondes in their bourgeosie thwarting boxters without careful effort become coins strewn from an economy manufacturing sex as its cash crop coins of which I horde hoping he who attracted the lightning was right when saying...
a penny saved is a penny i earn
all the while failing to learn
that the golden streets on which i desire to stride were paved with the bullion of blood and not the currency of cosmetics or the standard of silicon which ironically lays under both keyboard and knife - one under the shameful dark one under the licentious light

from you i flee

running trying to fix these craving corporeal lamps onward all the while fighting the feeling of salty eyes looking over plain-filled pasts and pillar doomed futures to fix them upon one who remains without face or name inhabiting a place of which i long to be so much closer...

epithet eluding you undoubtedly possess curves to replace these angles, tenderness to cover these calouses, an optimism to combat this conquering cynicism, eyes to wall in this wandering wretch
all aside...your alias i am awaiting
whispering it in the dew soaked mornings
writing it on holiday
laughing it over coffee in the overcast afternoon
cherishing it on the long nights of doubt and racing minds
vowing it on the steps of lovers and saints
clinging to it on the boulevards which are bursting with such brazen billboard boastings

amber

alarm clocks and rippled sunshine invade the defiled sanctuary of silence, sheets and dreamscapes as another day begins with the ending of dreams and restless sleep as the mind encased in the cloudy head tries to process a reeling line of memories, fantasies, regrets and ambitions and packages it into an episode of late-night cable proportions
that is not interrupted by commercials but rather by the ebb and flow of a flickering consciousness and the routine intermission of a twilight porcelain trip as one chamber is freed from the burdens laid upon it by the round of ale that did flow hours before into the pint of polished glass, a pint that was born from the heat of a glass forge fashioned by flames into its shape so that it could house the age old nectar to some and poison to others but that cannot hope to dull the flame of my emotion but only temporarily reinforce the fragile glass of my own self perception
amber is grasped as a friend by one, clutched as a reluctant lover by another as both men sit upon islands identical in their structure but opposite in the journeys upon which they find themselves embarking a journey that is joy to one and jade to another as the former rides the high of doubtlessly hasty yet decadently heavenly decisions that the other had at one time experienced but resolvedly resigned from his fate in order to begin again and tonight wonders to no one in particular if it is a journey he would embark on again if one could return the sand to the hourglass the way amber seems to always find her way back to grasping friends and reluctant lovers