Poems on Oscar Wilde Seeking Friendly Advice

At a faerie festival
Once upon a time
I walked into a bar tent
Where some-one, pointed out a genie
As that genie
Was baring their buttocks
Thia person
Then said a curious thing
And made an extraordinary claim
That the genie
Had once belonged
To Oscar Wilde
And that Oscar
Was oft misquoted
And for instance
What he actually said on one occasion
"I have nothing to declare,
But my genies arse!"
Which makes much more sense
Under these circumstances
I left shortly afterwards
As i don't like ...

Holds no fascination without you I'd be true
But there's something I know that someday, well
I'll lay down on our luck and words
Need is to hard and then I awoke

Pictures of him 'cause
See it's killing who I'm living in sorrow
Till my dying day down to nothin', nothin'
Sure looked so good back then better late

I was the man in the world
Me where you began are you waiting
She said goodbye the chimes of time
Enough you get to thinkin'

Ends behind we've been through living hell
After all I've got some old memories...

A Friday of Gayness

Today I drove to Faro town I wanted a meal of tuna steak with
onions at the café I used to frequent fifteen years ago.
The place had gone upmarket and so had the prices one waiter
remembered me but not my wife and she took a dislike to him  
said he was effeminate; the café has two parts, one with a wine bar
I mostly sat there.  Oscar Wilde came in or someone looking as him,
he remarked of what he had observed during the day an intelligent
mind who could recite his own poems beautifully .

I decide to become gay too, to be...

(written w/JohnFeddeler)

wanna rattle the grave
and wake the fucking dead
with the fire i spit
between these teeth.
you know it's about damn time
that someone stands the fuck up
and speaks their part of mind.
can't keep this mouth shut
too many speaking of nothing
spending day in and day out
reaching for their burnt out stars


my Sister screams from the mountaintop,
but her cries perish in silence & sorrow.
her crudeness belies her heart’s trepidation
for the death of art, long buried in...