Bloody December

At the edge
of the garden of eden
standing there as a
torn and leaking garbage can
choked with smoke
muffled voices in the head
and the cigarette dancing
trembling in the hand

slipping into circles of fire
till they become bare and wither
unweaving threads of every
ragged dream and desire
in memory of the love
written to end as murder
in the coolness of that
cold winter of december

for the journey that started
in the womb of her mother's
and ended straight into
the hell of the gutters
the warmth of the
spilled blood
and its promise
to drown every living memory
in its red bloodied river

Moist Love

You are warming those toes
at the edge of the bonfire
and the cold night weeps silently
weeping to its own woes
knowing not if you are
cursed to be moist
or to be loved as a
windless desert cries
parched between the legs
high but drained dry

but you take a casual stretch
and a hungry beast sitting beside
falls off the edge
streaks of blue light
touching raw nerves
and each passing moment
with burning guts
raising the desire for your love
and comes just at the most
inopportune time
one mistaken touch
and everything goes blur
a story that was to
have a beginning
and a happy end
but now just a coarse
drunken voice
all spilled over and slurred