IN THE ABSENCE OF LIGHTS
Dark-mirrored hallways a dim precision march Here we have tread before Without fear/Well measured Pagan desires and objective Study. Pavlov’s dog is still Breathing, his cigarette falls To the floor and he dances like a manic animal. Lost in the headlights, accidents shall occur once more. There are no excuses left for avatars, no reasons left for men, only lights in the doorways flicker and then they slowly
(to grey) (to grey) (to grey) out.
N I G H T
In the dark we rarely see Images from movies appear
Easy to remain the voyeur
As Bogart stares at Bacall.
Here, are your vampires your child-like apparitions
Yet true monsters are by far better dressed and elusive who,
when asked to be truthful shall lie as they calculate your fate,
look into your eyes and say “Don’t worry, all is well”.
There is something strange about demons,
night holds the key,
we devoured by these realities which someone has named the truth.
And yet, who if asked would pray for a parallel universe?
Would God do this after listening to choirs?
So uninspired that he would need to cool off?
This is an impersonation, he is wearing old spice, his
shirt open down to his navel.
Disgusted, we turn away from this sight, a decaying
Casanova hiding in the shadows of his youth.
As night approaches, we, much like our old ancestors,
still stare into the fires and wonder about our lives,
dream of our own private shambalas,
forget, pass the bottle and survive.
But is this all we shall amount to?
When all we know is nothing,
When stars fall out of the sky and all lights fade into silence.
When you grow cold Eyes grow old
Touch grows cold
Stars fall out of the sky And lights still fade.
After years After hours After moments
That never mattered
You grow cold
Love grows cold
Eyes grow old
And love fails..falls,
Fucked up and silent
Foolish and waiting In the corner.
When the universe mo longer
Yields to your commands
When the mirror finally breaks
And all you are left with is glass
You grow old touch grows cold eyes grow old
And all of the stars still
Fall out of the sky
It’s time for the last call.
WHAT SHE SAID
“If you ever tell me that you love me I’m afraid that I’ll have to leave.”
So not wanting to ever lose her he bent down, got close and softly whispered in her ear,
no more love poems no more love poems for the tainted and the dead, the wounded & the love-lorn, the fallen & the fled. no poems for Maria, no poems for Faith, no poems for Madonna, no poems for hate, no poems for Jennifer, no poems for life, no poems for the desperate, no poems for their wives. no poems for Lilith, no poems for smiles, and no poems for the goddesses who’ve fucked up my life. no poems for Jesus no poems for Christ no poems for his father no poems for Pilot. no poems for Sinatra no poems for style, no poems are in fashion no poems are worthwhile. no poems for heroes no poems for liars no poems for icons, and no poems for wine. no poems for love songs, no love songs for crimes, no saints for any sinners, no redemption through eyes. no soul in my pocket no soul in my bed, no more love poems for poets no more poetry for head. no love in the kitchen no love in the den no love in the living room and no love poems ever left in this lonely house, on the side of the road, in the backstreets or in the alleyways allover the world. no more love poems, no more and yet we still live, going on & on & on and wondering who loves and who gives and who this stupid man is who keeps writing all of these foolish love poems for “her”
R.M. Engelhardt Copyright 2005.