Valentines

Love is music, a poem of verses.

At times a hard-core circle pit, 

a tornadoe of fist and feet, 

black eyes, 

bloody knuckles 

and broken noses. 

At the same time it is rapturous symphonies, 

1000 pieces strong, 

cadenced and climaxed, 

valley and peak, 

trough and trepid tip,

with ballet dancers, white laced with purple stardust 

and perfume, elegance. 

It is gypsies wielding tambourines and veiled faces,

seductive eyes and mysteries of arsenic thoughts 

that throw burning bottles of Molotov-desires 

at the wooden stick hut that is the heart.

Love is the nth demension.

The last butterfly

Deep down inside I'm a suffering poet. 

Killed little by little by beauty and tormented by passion.

I can't and don't want to get close to it, 

but I want to be inside of it. 

It's like the very last butterfly, 

you can't touch it or attack it
but you couldn't ever let it out of your sight.  

I think that the suffering is my creative engine, 

my molten core of ever gyrating fission and fusion. 

That which drives me, my nuclear reactor, my silver locomotion.

That which I kills me I need to survive.

Heroin heartache. 

I'm a divine pain addict.