He’s my jumpy Monk

Constantly sniffing his junk

He trots around

A mere inch from the ground...

Pulga is my little flea

Look at him wrong and he will bite me

He is the little boy I love so dear

I could sit for hours stroking his ears...

I would love a cat named bagel

To eat with me at the table

Paws crossed and all polite

Ready for his little tuna bite...

I deal in Fast and the Furious philosophy

As I tread softly down a quarter mile track

Head on a swivel

Factual avaricious

As I find the intangible delicious

The pistol in my mouth makes me taste gun metal

Hell for leather I mettle in pleasure

In pursuit of freedom I scream

In my dreams

A never ending hell scape

Takes shape before my eyes

Try not to run on the hot coals...

*WOOOSSSHHHHH*

The tall, broad figure on the dust covered stage breathed heavily into the microphone. Sweat glistened off his shirtless torso as he breathed deeply and gripped the mic so hard his knuckles turned white.

*WOOOSSSHHHHH*

He shifted his legs, covered in flowing black pants and tall black boots, planting his feet firmly. Long black hair covered his face, veiling himself from the onl...

I trudged through heaps of snow that covered the unpaved, backcountry road where I had last seen my brother. Head tucked against the wind, I focused on planting one foot through the icy drifts, then the other, glancing up every so often to peer through the flurries. The tracks I was following had long been blown away, the last remaining traces of my brother lost to the elements.

I was out here on...

I set the torches in the trees

Less I freeze amongst the weeds

And if I lay amongst the hay

Throw my ashes to the breeze

I carry a club of hard ash

If I’m set upon I will thrash

I am free to mourn the trees

For in nature there is no trash

Used and reused

For fire and forest refuse

If tall trees in the forest fall

I’ll lay down amidst the mildew...