I have no tolerance for hope. Hope survives
on leftovers and unwilling loss: a soiled casket of
emptiness for every six feet of paragraph
it wades behind. Hope stuffs itself between the words
and the meaning, loudly camouflaged by
gambling and cigarettes, declining to altercate but
lathered by a demand to be seen. It shuns you,
but needs you desirable, a voyeurist: a
lap dancing ghost to keep it current.
Hope is a pimp
and you whore yourself to keep it primed,
shedding your skin like a puree of missing passports,
onion tears soaking sensibility after raw
sensibility, riding hope faster than your hips can keep up,
because, and after all,
there has to be a better place than this.
Time is just an expanse to harness,
a mount for crossing –
and you must wager everything,
from soul to sex
to grind it hard to a halt.
Piece by formless piece of me, compose of new desires:
write me back to life before my hope, deterred, retires.
Inflate my heart until it finds itself in soothing flight
and sprout for me the wings I need
to beat its rhythm right.
Expand my lungs to fill with life and bleed this void no more –
to breathe ambition in until it seeps from every pore,
expression-filled with written words:
my storm to self-empower.
Yet, in this silent wash of time I very humbly shower.
Find within my shadows proof of flawless, lustrous light.
Elucidate my purpose, forming day from cloudy night.
Write of peace, a balm, to heal my
bleakly fractured power –
a vision, rich, to seed and plant,
and soon, I hope, to flower.
Inspire my eroding soul with passion to ignite;
a reason to awaken, fresh; a fervour to incite.
to unlock what I admire:
write me back to life before I, sadly,
of the most of my always
in its often trap
and though by I pass
I cannot blind
the all seeing knower
that fondles me
with sweet maybe impressions
and tickles my soul
with partial bliss
here not there
that only so far
have shaken my distant senses
with semi-translucent delirium
more often than not ever
but much more than
not quite nearly enough!