Uncharted Sea

Originally posted on Writings of the UnKnown Mr. Taylor:

I see it now as a delusion of a confused mind.
Sailing out on an uncharted sea-
on a decision to follow you-
love blew off without me
on the winds whipping up this storm.
I don’t know how I’ll be.

I’m drowning form her memory.
All I need is a paddle or sails
to get me out of this storming sea.
Though, it is her perfection and beauty
that prevents any of it to become accessible to me;
a mental blockage sinking me on this sea.

I thought I knew what was to be
from sailing out on these waters;
the beginning voyage of two lovers.
But these bruising wave are all I feel and see.
This is all and only my fault.
I let my hope sail me out on this sea.

He commanded the storm winds
and wave surges of the sea
to halt me.
Were you…

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Drive North on 95, Over the Merrimack, Leaving Newburyport. Watch All The Steel Ships Float.

I’m not exceptionally old,

but I feel like I’ve met all the types

of people there are to meet.

I sit in this training room and

look around at all these faces

I’ve seen before. There’s the loud Italian

girl, she has so much to say, the young wanna-be druggie boy

(oh he’s just so mysterious), a mother beyond

her prime, an elder who should just retire,

a man roaring about his joyous divorce,

two gossipers at my table – trying to figure out

why I didn’t talk for the first week but now choose to

ask and prod at topics less discussed (I might be at this job

longer than I hoped), a girl with a pinched nose whose mother

never yelled at her, another with tattoos and opinions because

she “sometimes goes out for drinks with friends” and other times

makes comments just to look out the corner of her eye to see if

anyone still cares, and of course someone gives her that attention she craves,

there’s a man with a bald head, quite but pretentious, another with military boots

who drives his motorcycle into work and talks about

how he was a barber, one trainer loud and old and

counting the minutes until her smoke break,

another loud and young, who “hates having the serious talks,

but they have to be had,” and a little queer human resources

man who doesn’t come around much, an old mail room man,

who I’ve never heard spoke, a security guard who focused too much on what

you see above the desk line, and all

their doubles and triples, and me – watching and biding my time.


Old trees and iron,

Take me where you took them all,

I’ll breathe in and love.

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Leave Me Here

I left the lights on
made promises on the wind;
Unknown to us both, this simple dark con
Plaguing us of what we couldn’t find;
The promises I broke apart.
“Without purpose?” you say through tears.
I can’t tell sweetheart,
so get out of these affairs.
I can’t stand seeing the pain I’ve inflicted.
Leave me here to be alone-
Leave me here evicted!
I’ll sit here in the unknown
not deserving of a second chance.
I beg of you not to think of me.
Just wave goodbye leaving your broken stance.
This lesson you’ve been given is a guarantee,
for you to move forward into a better romance.

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Lost in translation

It’s hard to differentiate the sad from the happy if both are caused by the same entity. What more can a man do but be torn through each transition, wondering how the next day will develop.
Lost in his own mind, scurrying about for meaning and reason, alas, it vanished in the abyss that is his cerebral cortex. It comes as no surprise that retribution for the pain is paid in full, yet there’s nothing to say that isn’t even creating a difference.
Let the two divide and finally maintain a differential to diagnose each ailment and treat in such matters.

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Down On Parker Lane

Originally posted on Writings of the UnKnown Mr. Taylor:

Down on Parker Lane
They say if you aren’t collecting
Then you aren’t anything.
But I’ve been trying, I’ve been trying, you know?

Down on Parker Lane
I have this feeling-that sick puking feeling
From when you know your stuck-sinking
Stuck sinking, you know, into the blue.

You’re falling fast-I sink deeper.
I’m disappearing even quicker.
You say shit and things just get stormier
But nothing will ever change-
I’m never getting away
From here, from here, from here

I can see my future hanging
It’s essence on fire and it’s struggling to break free
From the damn saying
“It can only get better from here.”
“It can only get better from here.”

My Vision is swaying-
Swimming with fearful echoing
“It can only get better from here.”
“It can only get better from here.”
From here, from here, from here

Down on Parker Lane
They have those idols, those…

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The Slow Drift Away…

The slow
Begins on harsh whispers
Never fully formulated
But ever present in the eyes
Violently screaming the unspoken truth
Oh so loud-
-SO LOUD it’s left creating
The slow


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There is this dream I have…

This dream I have, begins and ends in a building.
Just me and five other men who are all now dead.
All inspirations to me but stuck doing the same job as I do.

There is Ginsberg,
Stroking his cock and balls
Explaining the benefits of enrolling.

There is Poe,
All dark and Goth
Refusing to call people because his crying will stop, nevermore.

There is Kerouac,
The ringleader even here
Smoking his joints, writing from memory and not fucking caring.

There is Thompson,
Feverishly writing
Chronicling every detail somewhat drunk-mostly tripping.

There is Bukowski,
looking like shit-drunk and lonely-
fucking some broad at his desk, groaning not talking.
Then there is me
Trying to work
But utterly failing with this cacophony so damn deafening.

This Dream I have, I think it’s telling me something.
These 5 men are sending me subliminal frequencies.
But that’s a secret that I wont let out here.


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