renoir painting of a naked woman.

moved planets with the tips of my fingers
and waited on the stars to align, and
wounds from saturn to heal.
dressed myself as a skeleton key and opened doors
to dead emotions,
my hands ripe with benevolence,
days that carousel in seasonal leaves.

i kiss the uncertainty of my future,
hoping to seduce nature into being beautiful again.
it falters,
augmenting the dance of the moon
but i'm left gazing,
not noticing a fall into dreams.

darkness marks my hallway
but the direction out is still imprinted in my mind.
it drowns out a foreseeable vision
but still, hours taste like seawater
and i'm sunken.

ode to spirits.

hearing birds in the sky,
blue and desolate.
extend your reach to the hills,
upon the grass and dirt,
to feel nature's gift.
it reminds me of your soul,
a wildflower painted
and confined to a frame
in which i can view your calmity,
a part of the hillside
that reflects the sun.
a tree settles to the surrounding
sand with the wind;
reminiscent of the spiritual
serenity that surrounds your ears.
i could lay claims of
masculinity in a whisper,
take the skin off your nose,
but you are a seasonal beast
which lays in hope of ascension.
starving, hysterical insomnia,
dressed in intrusion of thought;
sometimes i phrase words weirdly
in a portrait of calloused emotions
but the colours leave me hung.

with your palette of prophets
juxtaposed between speeches,
leaving bones frail
and dressed in opression.
your truth is distorted,
blinded by the punches
in which disconnects you from this plane.
placed a hand on the riverbed
and became enraptured by it's flow,
a chimerical look into what my future entails.
just days moving sluggishly
desiring a more abrupt fashion.
days i have spent pondering,
an impetus for change.
kindred spirit of gregor samsa,
empathetic to the cycle of trying to adapt
everyday
and fighting change,
unaware of the distrusting glare loved ones place.
if your body is ugly,
but your soul remarks beauty
then they will not take heed.
dragging my metaphorical conscience through mud,
flower up my memory and
display my brain as simply a sum of parts
for i can not dowse myself
into expression any longer.
though another form has engulfed me,
appearance stands still,
so what has changed?
a lifetime of taking breaths is all i've
amounted to,
adjusting my trousers to the same part of my
waistline everyday.

counterculture immunity,
a pool of mediocrity hinders my swim.
but alas approaches the creeping of the
subterranean that pales,
pouting "ignorance is bliss"
and i believe it.

hillside.

there's an old house behind a hill,
dotted with touches of yesteryear.
drained of it's family portrait
it lies awash with floorboard memories. derelict nostalgia.
sometimes i visit the house for a sip of repression,
to straighten the lines of my mind
and feed it eternal truth.
there was an old woman i used to visit,
her skin stabbed of history
with eyes cloned from an obituary.

january through to december.

sluggish
and shrouded in hurt.
what words do i say
when looking through watercolour visions?
paranoia and
floating towards nothing.
what pawn i have become towards
limited options,
scratching at the door of ambience.

'i took my shirt off in the yard'.

if i tug at your nerves would you notice?
'doo koo kim' and scarred corduray;
dying for a platform to grasp.
smirked smiles and sepia-toned dreams
where i hold out for simulated experiences
but find myself doused
in the distance of your shadow.
so starry-eyed and wonderous,
you are attached to my hip
and part of my skin.
you are my metaphysical.