As his lips drag across her skin
 Stealing her breath so he can live
Dying to destroy
Something beautiful
Apocryphal love gospel
Let the book burning begin
He starts the sparks
She fans the flame
They would flip a coin
But both sides the same
No fighting this fire
 Here to watch it burn
 Walking a wire
 We wait our turn


ZEN on the HighWay

                                                        Thinks this thin skin never enough overwhelming been feeling it too all the way through nerve-ending this kind of thinking keeps doing us in come back to begin watch something die start something new window is shrinking forever no time we have hope for the things we hate we really hope time is what it takes slowly ticking toward event horizon where no light escapes without purpose we all but slide across the surfacE.

                                                           Across the surface we all but slide without purpose where no light escapes event horizon slowly ticking toward time is what it takes we really hope the things we hate we have hope for forever no time window is shrinking start something new watch something die come back to begin keeps doing us in this kind of thinking nerve ending all the way through been feeling it too overwhelming never enough thinks this thin skiN.

crowded city

Existential Throes

thinking to my self
if it/s worth the pain

some memories
are an even exchange

Of course,
they are those
that chance the bluest flame

In fact,
by will alone
I rearrange

while following
her scent

on bloody knees

I don/t repent

Finding God,
to lose my self
to have someone
to find
that levitation is occurring
dropping feet
back on the ground
do not want
to turn around

Will walk away like it is not happening….


by Steve Mager


Near the place where needles go
Needles goes, and Needles knows
He knows when all the bars are closed
Dead men sit here, perched like crows

Morning light will fade to night
Though day may never come
Needles knows the crow’s delight
He knows what makes them numb

Near the place where needles go
Needles goes, and Needles knows
He knows the life the liquid chose
The scars of life that each arm shows

Few will leave, but many stay
His work is never done
Fade to black, and then to grey
Until there’s only one

Near the place where needles go

Needles goes, and Needles knows


He Bleeds SCARlet

It will hurt me
more than
it will hurt heR

I love her
because I know
she loves me
for who I am

though she
never said iT

I feel her
when she breathes
as she smiles
when she leaves

stays a while
grabs a hold
won/t let gO

In love
with being
in lovE

So goes this

through soft skin
love can save us
but not all
only somE

Only some
but not all
love can save us

through soft skin

so goes thiS

In love
with being
in lovE

Won/t let go
grabs a hold
stays a while

when she leaves
as she smiles

when she breathes
I feel heR

Though she
never said it
for who I am

she loves me
because I know
I love heR

It will hurt her
more than
it will hurt mE


Gothic America

These Goths…

With their designer clothes.

Designed to look non-designer.

Their mascara running.


Is not America Satanic enough?


Bearing scars,
on infected arms.


Tripped store alarms.


Well-known tricks
that sell their souls quick
for a bag to get off sick.


A land where your existence
can be & is
measured & weighed

to wind up factored

in as an economy.


Do not tell stories of a dark reality.


The hell with Crowley.


Want it scary?


Journey down into the heart of darkness,
the INNER city.


Behind every building,
under every bridge,
in every bathroom stall,
are our cities’ deepest pits.


There the dark sits,
the darkness lives.


We need the real Gothic.


Those who burned the body of Percy.


His heart collected,
from the ashes,

of his great funeral fire.


The poet’s heart,
is noted notorious,

for its indifference to flame.


A heart enveloped in its poem Adonais.


Words which lamented
the untimely death
of a young J. Keats,
praising his immortal
body of work.


Magnificent lights that never stay with us.


Where are the:





& Wordsworths now?

Who will light the pyre for America?


she IS dying…


Who here will burn their hand,
taking her heart from the embers of the fire?


Who will wrap her heart in the blood-soaked Constitution?


That shining poem…


Written as testimony,
by those that came before:
that they were here,
that they saw truth,
that they would crawl,

in starved agony,

from underneath the tyranny,
of aristocracy.


A call to rise from our knees.


That shining moment…


We still believed,
even after,
this dark wind of apathy,

swept over the streets,
& destroyed our cities.


Now is the time…


We can finally breathe.


Now is the time…


For us to speak.


For us to dream.


Now is the time…


We must die to live again.



©2012 ZENspeak9 publications un/incorporated



She dances
on fences

he hopes

she/ll fall
he can catch her
play hero
none the less
she never fell
she never falls
in front of others
before lovers
he doesn’t care
who she was
as long as she was
with him
loves her like
as he does
if not
love can save
what it doesn/t
kill first
smiles and bruises
sometimes she wins
sometimes he loses
full contact hurts
she smells of clover
while he bleeds
over and over.