Pale ghosts and vivid dreams

Whilst sitting in darkened rooms
where smoke and hopes flow in wispy whirls
around an endless tundra of wish less words
that suck the sound from roaring ears
and pare away the life from breathing
that's where these words were written
an age of ugly, gasp till it hurts too much to blink away
from where poetry was made
the poetry that pried apart my chest with dark clawed fingers
at the booth where I confess my hurts to the humble bricks Bukowski and Plath turned to temple meat
that's the place I want to stake my soul
chain it to every word I wish I could say
and let the world cry out in tortured empathy
in anticipation of the whip of thunder
thats lashed to the foot that always waits to fall

with the weight of those unspeakable words in the cracks of my hands
I'll scribble on the flesh of clichés
knowing that no prayer goes unanswered
but happiness and rictus grins
just don't mean the same thing