Not Dead…

 Conversations with a ghost not dead.
Lying alone inside this closet
Deep alone inside not dying.
I am waiting big… for something that might
Just fall from heaven but,
There is
No God.
There is
Just the sound of something dying.
Not Christ,
Not I,
Just a child alone and frightened.

This closet
It sleeps
With dreams of Fathers Punches…
Crushed teeth, fresh bruises…
for he was not behaving.

Making friends with silent shadows
Hiding, too, inside this closet.
Sometimes we can’t breath or see.
Sometimes The Darkness just wants to be seen.
Please… it’s 4 in the morning. Don’t make me hit the streets. So hungry. So tired, and I’m waiting for something to fall from heaven. Again. Not dying.
Lucifer was just mistaken. Forsaken. And shaken. By Thy Father so violent. Then Pushed him, his own son, down from heaven… in hopes that he’d be Forgotten.

“Trust in me, lad, all these words
By man…
Are meant to hurt.
They are not from my Father.
We…The abandoned and
The supposed rotten. No, just haunted. We will never be left so helpless.
It’s dark. For good reasons. Not just for me or the heathen.
In dark, you will see the light from You… not from heaven.
Don’t let abuse make you feel not worthy.
It’s them.
Not you.
Not me. They should be pushed if there is a heaven.
All is not forgiven.
But they will be forgotten.”

This… all whispered from inside this closet.
Soft hands, sweet kisses, true words…
These Conversations with my ghost not dead…

© Carlson 2016

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Eating Hand Grenades

Stomachs ache like hand grenades.
A withered & torn serenade
Leaves leafs beneath the feet.
Red,
Yellow,
Not green.
Wet sunshine baths the trees.
Wretched hearts mended,
Not torn,
Not bleeding,
But drunk,
And clean.
“That’s the smell of life motherfucker,”
Says she…

© Carlson 2013

Letter ~ by Ol’ Bastard Rain

Ham on Rye,
Trash can hands.
Heat from the subway grates warms my bed.
Newspaper sheets, card board pillows, fine apple wine soaks my guts.
I lost to America.
Didn’t realize it was a game until The Uncle took it away.
Home,
Rest,
Pavement,
Curb.
But I don’t have to pay taxes.
Nor get raped by a rancid Pope.
Ham on Rye, Hope and I.

Honorably,

Ol’ Bastard Rain

© Carlson 2013