Grave Tidings

Doleful,
lacking any emotion
other than sadness.

She was the light to the family candle
the rose in the thorn thickets.
There was nothing she couldn't handle
all was calm behind those white pickets.

Lost,
lacking any direction
other than to the bottom of the bottle.

She was so narrow, yet loving,
the foundation of a family that is a castle.
There was no trial not worth overcoming
even though her body was gracile.

Empty,
lacking feeling
other than the bleak void

Nothingness,
my heart is now cheloid.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Sinister Blind

When the florescent lights flicker off, the spotlight races toward the microphone
A single man stands and his shadow is thrown
arms wide upon the banner giving wings to a red candle
swerving, screaming, and singing things that you just can't handle

The blazing intro of a guitar solo
enrapturing everyone much more than their promo
intertwining his sick licks with chords and lyrics
the rock of a nation, you're beginning to hear it

The drummer slams home a rhythm,
your heart and the bass drum beat in tandem.
the snare beats cause your eyes to blink rapidly
feeling like your in an old black and white fantasy

The bassist keeps your nodding head rockin'
and the metronome in you mind keeps tockin'
scales are balanced on his fingers like a pro
the sound reaches depths you might never otherwise know

So listen and learn my friends from afar
they are sinister and will break your heart
you may be blind to their purpose but never forget
these are the rockingest motherfuckers you ever have met.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

The Marble Castle

The once grand edifice has crumbled
and the gluttonous keepers can be seen
through the cracks of broken promises.

These green eyed monsters
given life by your blood,
sweat and tears.

Preying on your drunken happiness,
feasting on your child like naivety.
They devour your charity.

The cavernous maw opens to
swallow your misgiven handouts,
engulfing your generosity.

Slogging through the everyday
your head hung with burdens
no normal human should bear.

Circling you like a rotting corpse,
perching on your shoulder.
They are waiting for you to die.

Still they sit on their pedestals
sipping fine wine and laughing
about their fortunes.

The lowly servants who saved
them waiting for a crumb to be tossed
just so that they can survive.

Laughing at your requests,
turning their backs on your plight.
They smother your voice and go back to their old ways.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Passion of Purity

Pursed lips
wrapped in a robust rubicund,
forever flushed fuchsia.

The Pearl Purity
permeates the air
with gleaming grace.

Rosy wrapped passion
hiding behind iridescent gates
and puce palisades.

With her Gray gossamer gown
gleaming in moonlight,
she takes soft slippered
steps toward the
trellis.

Standing in the cerulean solitude
of a moonlit night I watch,
transfixed by the
elegance of ecstasy,
the poignance of her posture,
and the brilliance of her beauty.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Catalytic Carousel

Cold hands linger
like twenty roman soldiers
in full regalia

sucking teeth to mainstream pop
and neglecting summer
like a passionate disease

you want to know the truth?
you couldn't handle it

bring me back to the spring
where the flowers are dead
and the streams bleed dry

monotone carousels spin
in green and barren parks
the world goes round 

wooden horses gallop frozen
as catalytic doubts in your hands
rusted bones and coughing melodies

Let me fly through earth
like the roots of ages past
or even bring me redemption
by slicing off my head

Now you see the truth?
you just can’t handle me

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Dryadic Abjuration

The chill of the morning air leaves
mists still clinging to blades of grass
wet with the dew of nights passing.

She melts into nature,
the mist closing around
her ankles, a slow
deliberate take over
of the senses,
woman and nature
combine and
dreams are
foretold.

She whispers softly
to the rustling branches
and a veil of petals fall,
cloaking her in
the gentle downfall
of dogwood blossoms.

Birds perch on her
delicate fingers.

She sings long forgotten
melodies, in languages
long since deceased,
of the golden age
of wonderment
and of elegance.

Foxes curl around her
statuesque legs.

In her hands she holds
the key to the wonder forgotten,
the answer to life untold,
she is everything and nothing.

The rain lightly falls
and dusk creeps into the glade,
moonlight oozes through
oily black clouds,
as the woman slowly changes
into a form quite like
the trees that surround her.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Simple Black and White

There, in the distance, lies
a beauty so deep,
so innocent,
so true,

she floats on butterfly wings,
dances on lily pads,
and cries raindrops
in the evening breeze.

The fading twilight
blurs the vision of her,
she is almost lost
in the folds of autumn leaves.

She fell asleep in the arms of an angel
and awoke in the embrace of the world,
wondering about the jaded promises
on a broken window sill.

if only life was as simple..

as black and white.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Indescript

From skies withered
I descend
to the Essence of
humanity,

Your love holds
true

the fabric of the world,
and your tears
rent
the folds of time

slowly sipping
the draught of
penitence
dissolving recluse
in our
hermitage
we grow

drip
drip
goes the lamp oil
we burn
out
into dusky
night

entwining with
Earthen
magnificence

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Fallen

From chains and shackles
I thought I broke away,
I thought the days that passed
were but a memory left in the dark,
I thought I was 'free' of them,
and yet they keep my head
below the surface of the
L i v i n g.

At one point I thought depression
was but a word thrown around
to put a spin on something
that was internal,
a word only...
that is when I fell.

The walls closed around me
and my 'box', that used to
be my sanctuary, became
my prison.  My mind was
stifled and broken,
the world I knew
grew dark and cold.

when I fell...

my eyes closed,
muscles knotted,
body convulsed,
and my freedom...

was broken

and it all happened
when I dropped my guard,
became jaded to the world
around me,
and now I realize
that it isn't my world
that was broken...

but my mind

and I am still falling.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Last Night

I fell asleep last night
to the sound of your voice
resounding in my head,
it was like the chime
of soft silver bells.

I had a dream last night
that our worlds combined
into one, where the skys
were afire with passion
and the seas were rent
with lust.

I touched your soul last night
and it warmed me to the core,
the darkness of the world
pealed back to show the fruit
of humanity that we all
seem to miss so much.

I held your hand last night
in the etherial planes
where reality is but a memory
and in our hermatige we grew
t o g e t h e r
like blades of grass
swaying in the breeze.

I fell in love last night
with the idea of you,
the scent of you,
the sight of you,
the touch of you,
with all of you.

Last night is when my spirit
went soaring into the stary skies
and my feet were firmly planted
on the ground.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Open Windows

We sit in rooms bejeweled
with strange arrays of colour,
leaving thought behind
in the wake of the moment.

The drapes flutter with
the wind like the wings
of a emerald dragonfly,
and we relish the cool feel.

The stars gaze at us,
jealousy flaring,
for we are the brightest
in this night sky.

When eyes see no more
than what is plainly obvious,
we toil to compose
our magnificence.

The door was unlocked
when you drove me here,
it was open for all
to see inside this house.

The windows were barred shut,
but they seemed to creak
just a little bit less
than expected when opened.

It's funny how things change shape,
a once ominous building
suddenly budding with new growth,
shedding it's rusty exterior.

The table was set
when I entered this hall,
the finest china on the table,
gleaming with a silver trim.

There are a few cracks
in the ceiling,
and the paint needs to be
r e f r e s h e d.

But all in all,
a strong,
sturdy
house.

All the finery in the world
seemed to take shape here,
blossoming wonders
with every step.

Recently it's been quiet,
so to amuse myself
I throw stones into the
midnight black pond across the way.

The animals fall into
their circadian rhythms
as winter steals the last
drops of colour.

The pond freezes and I am left
to contemplate the nature
of man and beast alike,
I've been snowed in.

Gently the world closes
around my sanctuary,
the gardens no longer blossom,
no fresh smell of herbs.

I silently sit
at the open window,
watching the snow fall,
lost in the elegance of it all.

And to think that someone
abandoned such beautiful scenery
just as the seasons changed
creating something more beautiful to behold.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Pious

Tainted memories clouding
the purple-blue horizon.
  A bruise on a soul
  all but perfectly white;
    living a vanilla life trimmed
    with crimson dragon scales.
      Lost in the grey havens
      searching for my wasted colours.

The beige veil of civilization
covers eyes blinded by lies
  of an oppressive consciousness.
  When sleep creeps into crusted eyes
    life dies a thousand deaths,
    all imagined but not unseen.

The rusted chains of reality bind
mental clarity and static youth.
  Languid wagging tongues lap
  at questions left for ponderous peoples.
    we wander in ethereal bliss
    only to be dropped into the life-blood


                of a Dream,


                      the American way,


                                the Pious perfection,


                                        with no Light of day.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Reborn

I feel myself peeling
through skin
that has become too
tight for me to retain
my shape

The pressure to grow
is almost smothering
until finally...
R e l e a s e
from the restraints
of reality
and earthly measures

I had started to run
without even
trying to crawl,
my wings still wet
from my emergence
into the crisp
cool darkness

Sitting in the basking glow
of untainted moonlight
naked of the scars
that were once
my dominant
feature

Broken chains lying at my feet
Reborn into the wind that once paralyzed me

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

The Lines

Supple curves
of white and black
tracing outlines
and burning lines
into retinas
sobered by dreams
and drunk on reality
leaving imagination
b e h i n d
in the depreciation
of pure
beauty

Once told
stories of the
golden fields
and amber waves
left in locks
flowing into
the frame of
blue green depths
over pursed lips
hiding porcelain
p e r f e c t i o n

The lines
blurred under
heavy scrutiny
the outline broken
with progressive
scanning...

I can't color anymore
the lines have been broken

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Dusty Memories

don't you see?
this empty table,
these empty chairs,
they show me something,
there used to be people
who inhabited this place,
they used to be happy,
they sat in these chairs,
at this very table,
they laughed,
and cried.
They were family
and that made it all OK.
You might have seen them
through the window
talking about the day,
arguing about how the bills
were going to be paid this month
or even what they were going to do
about losing everything they ever had,
but yet the family remained.
It stayed true even in the worst of times
and flourished in the best of them.
Though they are long gone
the table and the chairs still remain.
Sure they are a little bit dusty
and maybe a bit creaky
but they are still here
holding the memory.
These empty chairs,
this empty table,
it's all but a simple
dusty memory.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved 

Muse-ical

My eyes snap
open and I am looking
straight into yours,
You...
Larger than life,
Are present here in my
world of Pepsi
Pop infested,
Britney look alike,
wanna-be magnificence.

You take rhyme
and reason away,
leaving
punctuated perfection,
mental clarity,
and now life is
a song.

Whisper in my ear,
leave me tidbits
that inspire my mind,
words to tumble
on pages punctured
with wit, white out,
and scripted speculation.

Take the gilded
golden words left
in ears trembling
and twist them into
chains that bind minds,
tickle tongues,
and absolutely
astound the round
table of readers.

You bit me last night,
it wasn't kinky
but it was something
that I love to feel.
I can't wait to take
these words from the reel
to the real.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Social Perspective (an inner monologue)

Left wondering about the ending.
Just sitting here pondering the message that I'm sending,
maybe it's not what I say but what's left in thoughts smoldering
that makes it's way to the page that I'm penning.

Either way there is a definite reaction of shock
sometimes horror or maybe just some pity hidden behind lock
and key.  Don't you see
the words that are swirling through the breeze?
The letters and numbers you all fondle with ease.

I mean really open your eyes and see
don't wait for the right moment, that's not alacrity
it's just bandwagon politics, follow the sea
of people to what's "righteous" or blind to what hasn't been rewritten or erased.
But really sometimes it seems like your heart has been encased
in stone, left alone for it to wither and die
look at me and tell me why
do you really wonder when I cry
is that tear that dropped going to take wind and fly
to help an orphaned society of robots left to be controlled
or lulled into submission because the mission to help has been lost in the folds,
when so many youths minds sit rotting in jail cells that do nothing more than withhold
information from the starvation we face everyday, it's not something that's sold.

So while the rest of you sit there in your easy chair waiting to grow old
I'll be beating a path into peoples ears so they can here the stories that are told
of days past when gallant knights and hero's ruled minds and imagination.
It's not about what you wear or even your social station
we are all still children, living in a world that has lost all patience
we read and feed on the degradation of lost souls
and dreamers who have been left out in the cold
just left there wondering about the ending...

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Reduction (molecules of hope)

Unspeakable.
The reduction
of body,
mind,
and spirit
into nothing...
but ashes.

Unthinkable.
The degradation
of thoughts,
dreams,
and hopes
into something...
not clean.

Tears streak
red and warm
for those,
for these.
Flesh torn
by those,
and these.

Reborn,
out of the very same
ashes of torture,
to rise above,
forgive,
and love.

we are the
reduction,
degradation,
forgiven,
and saved.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Dropping Knowledge

This keyboard doesn't make
for a good pillow,
but it does bring dreams
to life.
Night after night I sit
here and tap these plastic
keys, trying to pour out
my intelligence and feelings.
Yet to me the screen seems
blank, not void of words,
just void of intelligence.

Someone once told me
that to be a poet I had
to put everything I could
onto a piece of paper,
jot down odds and ends.
To that person I say,
"Fuck Off", is that enough
of an odd or an end?
You want to be a poet?
be true to your style,
whatever it may be.

Free verse, is the ability
to do whatever you want
on that piece of paper.

Rhyming is all in the timing
it sounds nice and winding
I bring through thoughts
with a voice tied in knots.

Whatever you want to do, just do it,
Bring yourself onto the page,
wear your heart on your sleeve,
or better yet, on your canvas.
You only have to set the wheels in motion.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Sweet Familiar Tune

In my headphones, 
these keys, 
those strings, 
this melody, 
that voice. 

Singing my life, 
vibing to the beats, 
it's Iggin my baby, 
you play it for me 
like a familiar tune. 

So comfortable, 
so soft, 
so inviting, 
so soothing, 
so...perfect. 

Keep the light on, 
I'll be home soon enough.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Feather Dreams

Wings sprout
from flesh torn
of earthen boundaries
where blazing light
prevails,

through gilded
windows tinted
with azure and
jade flecks,

cloudless climes
and starry skies
rush past
with the ferocity
of abyssal delight,

eyes engulfed
with fluffy
wonder
and body ensconced
in a silken
concubine,

bought with
the feathers
of love.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Landslide

Fluorescent lights flicker
from cream colored and cracked fixtures,
blinking my daylight to the
beat of a deranged drummer.
I've been in this hole for years,
aching to return to real
sunlight
instead of it's manufactured counterpart.

I count days by the number
of tremors and worms
who crawl sickly
through my muddy prison.

my living room is now a mire,
the potted plants have long since
expired to fertilizer,
the couch is caked in
the crumbling ruins
of the dropped ceiling,
windows browned
seems like a smoker
lived here for years
without cleaning.

I'm still sitting in my corner
afraid to move,
wondering where and when,
or even if
anyone will find me in
the emotional landslide
that covered me
so long ago.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Greenbacks

 From birth
to my
youth,
things came
to me
simply

From adolescence
to my latter
teenage
delirium,
life
came vigorously

In adulthood
things have 
s l o w e d
to a
crawl

and my
genuflection
to the
almighty
hand
is at it's
apex

but through
the years
I've learned

a simple
piece
of pressed
cellulose
dyed to
a putrid
green

makes us
and 
devours us

In the eyes
of society

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved 

Enamored Enigma

creation
of a 
masterpiece,
nearly 
impossible,

for me that is.

inane thoughts,
ideas
jumbled,
Recidivous
in mindset,
looking for my
path to
righteous
youth

it is my colander,
full of hopes,
though they
slip
through
easily enough,

but risible
and my mind 
slips
drips
and fades
vilifying my
own writing.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Just Wondering

Sit,
take a load off,
I was wondering,
do you know me?
No of course not,
I mistook you for
someone
else.

But your air,
it's intoxicating,
surely you know
that?

Are those your real

eyes?

Yes, of course,
strange question
I know,
but I was
Just wondering.

Your voice,
do I hear
that raspiness
correctly?
it's beautiful.

just one more thing
before
you leave,

where did my love
for you die?
sorry,
but I'm still
wondering

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Let Me Be

Let me Be
the rock,
or the river,
just
let me be.

I stand here
each night
wasting
my colours,
washing my
shattered being
in saltine
crumbled crackers,
waiting for
whatever.

Let me be
the ocean,
or the beach,
just
let me be.

I stumble
through constant
vermiculite horror,
confabulating
with my
eggs benedict
about what, or when,
is the best time,
or idea.

Let me be
the fork,
or the ketchup,
just
let me be.

I fall
into muddled
thoughts,
trip into
soggy memories,
and die
at the feet
of my dream like
dungeon.

So please,
just
Let me be.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved 

My inner demon

I sit pensive in my lair
avoiding the glare of the sun
for it blinds me,
lurking in the shadows
waiting for the moon
to reveal its pale face,
and stars to pinpoint
digits and appendages
of unsuspecting souls
that I feed upon,
once my door opens
the trap has been sprung,
my razor teeth take hold
tearing flesh, ripping tendons,
my tongue squeezing into
arteries and veins
drinking deep of their life-blood,
claws digging into bone,
mouth slavering for marrow,
becoming one with their being,
leaving a part of me
inside them but taking
their memory of me,
leaving them as my servant,
bringing the unsuspecting,
leading those blind
to my existence,
I lay in comfort
knowing that I will
meet my next victim
all too soon

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved 

White Coats

The pungent aroma of potpourri permeates,
Seeping into the pores of the pine table.
You'll never get the smell out.

Manila like magazine pages masticated,
What I would imagine prehistoric papyrus to look like.
The creases will never flatten.

The lumpy chairs bunched up in rows
Along the wall with their vinyl covered cushions.
You'll never get comfortable.

Those who are conscious are confabulating in the corners,
Peering over their perfectly folded newspapers.
You'll never figure out what's wrong with me.

Seventies style shag carpet,
Without the languid wagging of a dogs tail.
I have to get out of here.

A white coat suspended over the shoulders,
The neck adorned with spy technology of some sort.
I don't know you; let me out of here.

Trapped in the Dungeon of modern day,
With torturous devices and the fresh smell of alcohol.
I can't escape.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Running away with it

The ball sat watching me then
it spoke to me,
"Take me away, my friend"
The laces fit snugly in my hand,
arm cradled around my precious,
feet keeping time like
thundering hooves,
fast as a cheetah I sprint
past drop-jawed onlookers,
weaving my way into and out of
crowds trying to stop me.
I collapse,
exhausted in the end-zone,
famished past the finish line,
yet triumphant through the ticker tape.
now you just have to try and catch me 
next time.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Walk On

Dew soaked grass caresses
my toes as I walk on
through the field
of dreams.

Wind softly whispering
the melody of spring
in my ears, leaving
a comfortable feeling
in my mind.

The gentle embrace of golden
sun-rays around my body,
in the safety of
my solitude.

I walk on drinking
deep the draught of
nature in wonder and awe,
satisfied with being
surrounded by everything
and nothing at all.

I will walk on.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Where is the Love?

 Behind the blank black stares 
of every-day youth roils the lust 
of the opposite, branded by 
passion, controlled by coitus, 
left to uncertainty. 

Fiery glares behind the jaded eyes 
of twisted semi-adult "swingers", 
still perplexed by the multitude 
of malignant relationships, 
half-dead myths of love, and 
twenty-something promises of 
prosperity. 

Bright blissfulness of clear 
blue, or brown, or green 
(or somewhere in between) eyes, 
joyful from being blessed with each other, 
reborn in their children, 
resurrected by the "myth" that was 
told to them just years ago. 

Wise reflection in those icy 
knowing smiles, they who have seen 
most everything, they who know youth 
but pretend to not understand, 
letting us learn on our own. 

Glossy expressions of resignation, 
knowing it's time, feeling the burn, 
missing the touch, relinquishing 
the grip, letting it fall away, 
leaving one question behind, 
Where is the Love?

 © Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved 

Half-Hearted

You crept into my darkness,
lit the fire that was
extinguished for so long.
You were the only thing
that kept my smile
from ear to ear.
You saved me,
brought my heart back
from the dead,
made it beat vigorously
again.
The first words you spoke,
made my heart jump.
You didn't whisper into my ear,
you whispered into my heart.
Your kiss almost put me into a coma,
because you didn't kiss my lips,
You kissed my soul.
You can make me whole.
You can bring me back,
from the hell I've been through.
Only you can look into my eyes,
and make me feel like the King.
But no King is complete without his Queen
and my heart is only half without you.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

Vision

Frozen in time, space, and memory 
viewing the past in a sort of 
picture frame in my mind. 

Faces seem spasmodic behind 
glass that has cloven 
from age and elements. 

Memories jaded from each 
jagged edge of fragments whose 
lines coalesce into spider webs. 

Space empty to sight 
but heavy in hearts remembrance, 
something visual acuity can't help. 

Time, in its acquiescence, 
leaves questions unanswered 
festering in doubt. 

Looking through picture frames in my mind 
viewing the past that seems frozen 
in time, space, and memory.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved

45 RPM's

Toe tapping tantilization on the pitched pine floor,
spinning with that slide of swing that your mother
talked about with friends after school.
Twist that white poodle skirt like it just won't quit baby.

Pressing the pace further to a race like status,
bringing boogie back the downtown Motown way.
Half hiding in the shadows snapping to the beat,
Don't bump the box sugar my songs about to blow.

The horns are blazing sweet baratones on that
fourty-five sweetie so come on and shake.

© Justin Frieberg, All rights reserved