Jeff's Poetry

today you can scratch at truth, and it will. wither. fragment at touch - with all your friends telling. tales. too stretched to be any good, then the movements begin, the swaying, the hips going about like a drunk too wide away and at the same time; washed with

sometimes i like to follow the comet - chase the many heads and tails of mystery's universe. does she go out with a bang? or is it this forever silence between us; someone is not saying the full truth. i swear this is not perjury, it never

scream, it is an octave higher - then hear. the pattering of feet: sure way to have command over free will; made to sound more grand that what it is, and what it is, you're not going to want to hear this, shoo off if you're into that positive talk crap. i can't help thinking that too is a trap. a human's warped sense of who he is rubs at the wrong

and who does is the one i want to kiss on the lips when it must be love. because love has to do with the skin affecting color. it's suddenly the northern lights and this time it shines on the glass beads, each bead reflecting my love for that which is elusive; almost time to change the fuel again, thus once again i am at a truck stop - hoping to catch my dreams

you know you got it kind of peculiar; the words begin to fade become stuck, mangled, strangled and a hoarse cry hisses then spurts the red sea. zombies try to walk the living do, skeletal, paper thin, wind flows takes off with these dead looking eyes still piecing: and you are staring up from a lifeless sea whose ink swept out from beneath a rug; did anyone say how

wavering courage falters, a weakness found - prod, poke till the resistance waves, breaks when the pummels of heavy fist non stop lead to breakage. the driver's seat gets usurped,

running in loops, exhausting fall off a cliff. a scrape becomes a flesh eating bacteria, a swollen lump means lymphoma. is that a way to live? but it could be,

a service on a plate, with dressing on the side. yesterday it was caustic, today quite mellow. the smile only comes when there is splashes of silver at the other end; tit for tat, numbers are crunched the moment

withered, weathered down and a memory of hell stripped off fire - just a cold basin of rainy water with lots of algae grown. living fire puffed out like a castle with growing arms

sounds right, sounds reasonable when skin plastered on the flesh - is fake. put on a tattoo and there is a meaning, to that ink mark. or none. does it matter? skin is perception, perception is reality