forged

Life between margins

Draft torn regret and mistakes

Have courage to Live

marksman

Missing the mark is never the goal

For the marksman knows the target approach

Intensely meticulous, little gadgets and things

Peering through corridors and windowsills

He stands solitaire, never knowing he was there

Hidden behind the steeple, on the roof

Placing his spot on an angle

Where he can shoot

If he misses then what is he then?

Marksmen will pity him

If he bows to strive for better

He is bound for jobs for lowly critters

All this sketch and diameters and measure

Hone the skill for mere progression

Nights gone and days aplenty

His hands and skin meld, ready at the ready

dozen

two cracks inside the round

ounce by ounce pre-measured out

a cup, bare and unwarranted is filled with

fine sweet white crystals

tempted to temp
calibrated wrong off by
degrees of fault
bittersweet taste careful not to haste

the first things proof
though it wasn't just by you
bulked by the halved hour
loved loved that sour

smells of warming live culture
fed on by moist and heat
layers
one is not complete

printed quotes

On the wall rests the overzealous look of a well groomed Ham

Broad shoulders padded his stature. Incestual thoughts? Or perhaps

thoughts of the inevitable destiny of lardons and

pardon moi but isn't that just chunky bacon?

Ham stares H.A.M. alright. I'm amused. From the first time

I saw Ham I wish it was mine. 

Piggy, piggy, can't you see? Sometimes your words just hypnotize me.

And I just love your crispy ways, this why I cook you in all sorts of ways.

rigs

bright beams overhead

rigs heavy with loaded bed

praying not to doze

rendezvous

Daylight Locking lips
Permits time lost Waning bliss
Passion killed by three

addict

there you are again
yet another form of low
behold your sickness