Michael Atreides Lair

She sees the past in her dreams
and says things like we’ve always been.
Yet she will scream across the table top
and then lament about love’s many faults.
In those oceans she calls eyes
Is a silken cradle of lies,
I remain the same
– her bless-ed little fault.

I see the future in my way,
heartbreak and debris block our place
It’s now approaching fast
the future now becomes the past.
Yet in my hand is a lovely thing
a button which makes dreams complete
gives us one more chance to repeat
Clicking on it paints a trail
that leads to where you waited
leads me to where I wish fate had

I fell in love before we ever met
I fell in love before the causeway set.

From Mount Sulphur to Mount Cyanide
we watched, we waited along the Rhine,
along that spine!
A bird, a bee, a bombing spree – above
below a swarm of doves
a herd of doe!
And where we’ve been is where we be
Hurray, Hurrah! So goes the patriotic
song.
And then the little ants went passing
right along.
We watched we waited, for them
to continue on,
in and out of order they marched
in that summer sun.
Then it rained, the damnedest thing
– the ants never stopped.

The train started to stop,
and we watched
perched on top
stacks of timber
–cold, cold wood.
The train cars
–slinging, lurching, and screeching,
finally came to a halt.
And I remember
the swaying stacks
and the passing boom!
I was drunk and happy then,
young too,
and I suppose
misguided by the light of my youth,
as most of us have once been.
I thought nothing of it then,
yet I’ve tried to go back
so many, many times since.

Speak first with bullets
then maybe words.
Aim and squeeze
don’t pull, don’t breathe.

Speak loud with bombs
light up that night sky
lanterns float and fall,
becoming exploding fireflies.

Speak quick with anger
among mobs and fire,
candlesticks and powder,
pure hatred, pure power.

Speak strong with pride,
tea kettle black ice,
warming and simmering
–infectiously spreading.

Speak first with love
and all falls down
when they push you
against the wall.

In the garden,
Lily,
does wait.
I’m the blackest rose,
ready,
to pollinate.

Her milk white
–bark,
is smooth and fine.
I consider,
I,
just might take my time.

Like a needle
–poised
I’ll penetrate.
And in every
–pore
I’ll permeate.

In this seamy
place,
flowers carry blood.
I’ll make her
drink,
the liquid love.

Her sullen heart,
we’ll
never last.
And wither up,
–stop,
turn to ash.

When the curtain
falls,
we exit left.
I’ll always be the
cancer,
of this myth.