PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

I see a desolation in his face

who's eye I can't meet

and the bursting vessels

are the future.



I turn away.



I have developed a habit of

blind faith

inasmuchas;

He feeds even the sparrows of the air

and I hope to fuck He may feed me.



Jobless and the daycurrents

roll down Lawrence Street,

the self disintegrating

under penniless sunshine in Botanic.



Without something to hate

the world seems

unstructured.



Becoming like the

little children

I sit cross - legged

and play with things

like paper and poetry,

take them apart and

rip off their wings

and try to fly.



I have developed a habit of blind faith

in worship of delerium, Elysian trippings;

Christ needs love and my brother and I,

we gladly lay down our selves at some Altar.



The shrines of Sex or Pudding

or Industry, Goats or God;

Oh Holy Father oh Fine Liquor,

What a Holy Screaming Infant

are all our joys,



and like God one day

lay down our dreams,

which we call the self,

and pour like water

into a tender void.