Sex In The Bible

I've been born again
A thousand times.

Stretched into flesh
Unwilling and dark,
Fearful of a
Violent father's
Glove in hand,

We let lovers be
And give science
To gods.

But I entered
With pure and
Priestly intentions,
Pouring over endless
Skin-tight scripture;

Now burns
The binding
And the knowledge of men.

I Thought It Lasted Longer

I'll do internet
Research
To calm these cold fears.
Quite bare
This straight to a pair
Lying face up
And open
I'm somehow
Younger.

While you speak
Wit in tongues
Like a wild bird,
Half song
Half insult
And heard like
A shot when
We came to the call.

Tragic Dancing

It just slipped in
And let loose
Youths conviction,

The commander
With his life kept close
And his lifelong
Death companion closer.

I'm seasick
Of people and
All of their ends
While a quarter spins
On a boys lunch table

On and ever on,
Tragic dancing
To a swollen song.

But it's all been
Gentle bombs,
Satin shells
And a whisper wet knife
Parallel with my eyes.

She Is Iron

I like to think
You wouldn't be
Good enough for me
Now anyway,

But I felt the bay wind
In the violent calm
Of the afternoon,
Watching it break
And carry her low.

That beauty that scattered,
That you loved
To hate
And hated to lie,
She is iron
Welded to our
Crumbling frame.

People Don't Change

If I write
While you're talking,
Or shouting,

It's because
The sound of your voice

Makes me want to die.

I'll back into
The far corner
Of the room just next
To yours

And we'll fight
Through the floor,

Or hanging from the edge
Of the doorway
When we think it
Might end,

But it doesn't.

You Miserable Child

If that smile
Could split my age
I'd become
A confident man,
Less solemn
In my youth
For years wasted
Not getting wasted
And spinning drunken
Webs to catch you.
So my color now
Catches up with my
Old soul as they say
And I'll willingly lose
Twenty years
Each day,
Just for the taste
And a way
To avoid the crowds.

Of A House Rebuilt

A man gives up life
Like an old radio
With a cracked leather case
That's left unused
In the unfinished
Cottage basement.

What a perfect place
To bury yourself,
Among decades of sawdust
Left from a lifetime
Of tragedies,
All so punctual
And predictable
Like the sound of the train
That woke you up
Every Wednesday night
Until you were nine.

And I'll relive it
On those mornings
When time bends back,
And the whiskey
Gets me wandering
Through halls
Of a house rebuilt.