A Tin of Soil

Mistaking east for west,
watching beautiful heat spray through the dangerous windows,
and watching like a film-man,
knowing I’m watched for being a gospel death-magnet idealist.
Now I have realized that time means genuinely nothing.
She sings and many men must know the older truth,
better truth,
sinking sad lovers’ truths that bulk up our strange humanness.
Where do we live?
I will tell you;
any place and a fake time full of the hardest perfumes of memory.
Sunken into hidden passion like feeling for a criminal?
And what shall one suggest to a hopeless man with gray-beau brains,
corrected to a sad and perfect false-life that will never compare
to the alcohol riddled oasis of an old heart.
Can’t go home, can’t change my port…
Would I change to your bad tone and the recollection of such improper affection?
Yes so sadly, I’d sabotage it all for the taste of a flashing beast of your salvation.


Published by


Writer, aspiring farmer and homesteader in North Georgia, making ends meet and trying to become more enlightened.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s