The Last Romantics

We shape the universe with our breath

The intensity of an exhale

Betraying the emotions beneath

The rhythm turning and casting moods

Like the moon culling the weather

Through the alteration of ocean currents

The drawing of your breath is my summons

Inside your lungs I become your voice

The nature of these conversations

Divined through the warmth we possess


Who speaks of a heart’s character anymore?

These days, dating is about credentials

A market of exhausted flesh

Love has become a dance between

Predator and prey, a war cry

It’s more a matter of conquest

Than intimacy and sentiment


Artists are the last true romantics

The only ones who can stand in a ring of fire

Consumed by ecstasy and flourish

Given to obsession they devour

Heart’s like paper and few can endure

The gravity of such fierce devotion


Making love reminds me of Paris

The city being a product of art

It is the heart of sensuality

And under a Parisian sun we all burn

Hotter in an air of decadence

The city of the Tower breeds liaisons

Like silk neck ties, its all a matter of fashion


Depravity is an addiction and the dirt

Underneath your fingernails is contagious

Still I have your breath, the secrets of you

Conveyed in shaky whispers and I am glad

I am not in the thief’s den, cradling a glass

In an effort to suppress a cheap affair

Or to generate interest in a prospective one

You reinvent me with your words

Create beauty where I find only ugliness

And I have never known love, like you have shown me


You inside my flame, consume in equal measures

Perhaps we will be destroyed, inseparable, unrecognizable

But we will have loved in every moment of shared existence

I don’t need to recapture the youth I never knew

The sticky entanglements that only deepen loneliness

I am complete because I have grown, inside of you


(Something romantic)


Killing Fields

I found myself fused with a dire sun 
Amidst shades of delirium, undone
Beset with a dread sense of vertigo
In this village of grand saturation.
The fields lay in snug rows like catacombs
Depicted through the unholy fractures
Stain-glass prisms of ravenous eidolons 
These aura-soaked pastures, yielding pigment.
The Terra Cotta walls moist and porous
Disintegrate with this chilling chorus.
My pen drips in this murky oil well
Echoing the final toll of the bell
The terminal breath of innocence
Exhaling and exulting our departure
Hearts and heavens ripped asunder
With the resonant growl of thunder
The terrifying choir of the undead
Shrieking like the voices inside my head
This liquefied landscape cruelly engraved
Into my persecuted mind; enslaved
My spirit in this death field does dwell
Inside the shadows of self-exiled hell
Smudges of horizon, these mountains loom 
Elevating with impending doom
My disparaging fate I have come to resent
For does not genius engender torment?
And though I may face damnation
I am, devoted to aberration 
(I really wanted to use Poe for my inspiration 
I just thought it would work with Van Gogh. 
I had to use one of Poe's poems for the rhyming 
scheme and I used a similar syllable count but I 
think mine is plus two or something. This poem 
was hard I have so much respect for people who 
rhyme and use syllables in larger works, It was a real 
headache. I still feel it sucks, I just don't think I will
ever get rhyming. It was a good exercise though. 
My journal is not working properly anyone else's different?)