remember?

you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch
all over just every where

i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me

your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white
the black and white always did kill me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry

like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin

the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything

anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time

at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how?

How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine

i remember

i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real

rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

remember?

you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch
all over just every where

i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me

your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white
the black and white always did kill me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry

like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin

the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything

anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time

at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how?

How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine

i remember

i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real

rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

remember?

you left a mark, blood, scars, a touch
all over just every where

i grew older and younger carrying holding these things you had me hold and i drank them all in and they were a part of me, me

your photographs are so pretty so very truly lovely and the black and white
the black and white always did kill me i loved the nostalgia you see because nothing makes me cry

like that citrus sharp twinge of the old, the fading, the forever gone and lingering inside, outside infused in the rain pouring itself inside me. the decades haunt me, will always haunt me, travelling like happiness inside a musty ruin

the hollow needles of desire they pierce the sunshine mundanity of my everyday, everyday has these little holes now and they look like you and anything

anything that looks like you is just too much too very much it makes the sunshine melt into clouds and burn brighter. at the same time

at the same time is what confounds compels rivets and other lovely words me. how?

How can this be joy, joy so overwheleming while it leaves me ravenous and aching so deep i can taste the shadows of your soul in mine

i remember

i remember too much and too little and these absurd oxymorons can be the title of everything of me of you and that space between, the space was magic when i was a wind breadth away from your finger tips; the space a gaping hole now so black that i'd need another language, an epithet to make it real

rainbows and butterflies and sexhappy peanut butter.

under a cloudy patch of sky
i buried a wooden box
full of imaginary things

in the places that catch the sunlight
through the leaves of the mango tree
i rested my eyes
left a few thoughts behind

on the staircase with the attic
i found old photographs
remembered that smiles are fleeting
and ran down the steps

in the darkness i heard whispers
of shadows trying to hide
like a dream waiting to fade

the more I hold on
the more I wonder why

What would you do for an apple?

GIVE AN ORANGE...
If Lemonade was not too sour or too sweet I would replace my blood with lemonade. Are  tomatoes really fruits but why are they cooked? Do we cook mango pickle? Would you prefer barbecued bananas?

BUY A GREEN WORM...
That little bridge on the pond with the rubber duckies next to the tree that sheds copper coins really does lead to another land. A land of shiny little boxes. I like the rustling hope of wrapping paper. Maybe if we all wrapped ourselves we wouldn’t be so cynical anymore.

KILL EVE...
Swinging on tree branches naked is rather lovely. One gets scratched and itchy indeed, but the thrill is intoxicating. Moreover, there’s a whole pitcher of lager on the snow covered pine tree waiting for us nude little monkeys.

PS: Remember when money was for play and could be torn & eaten and fucked upon?

We sat in the shade of that old pine tree

inhaling the fading October sun

twisting lyrics to ancient songs, 
and
fixing rules to faltering fantasies 




We searched the inky midnight sky
for clouds, but were blinded by
the endless stars so instead
tiptoed through the moment, said
if come November all would fall
into the box of things that used to be




We sat by that flaming river until
the embers engulfed our dreams
as darkness cloaked our moonlight skin
we dissolved into the vanishing breeze  

I still have that bag we stuffed
with our meandering thoughts, and
it still has sand that smells of rain

Barefoot and empty handed
Our callused feet held the universe at bay
but it poured through,
poured through the cracks anyway

Do you remember?
Can you hear the echoes of our teenage dreams?

They were something, those dreams
And we danced through near half of them, we did
sure as our fuckin bruises, we did.

i stepped on toasty autumn leaves
following shadows of honey bees

while test tubes filled up with rain
i counted the miles between us again

you washed your hair in peanut butter blues
licked raspberry jelly off the top of my shoes

laughin your way up until
i drank the breeze through the window sill

i did all i wished with our time
in bed and out of line

our story began in a sunday dream
while i did my laundry

Good Morning,

Is it strange for you?
Is it strange to forget or is it the usual everyday story
There's clamor outside and I need to shed your memory
I am watching as the ties that never bound
lie threadbare, swept aside into a darker place not meant for prisoners
It is strange for me.
Very strange to be amongst the forgotten and re-arranged
Is that all it is, or was this, this strange little drive through the unknown
more than i wished, desired or paid for with the all the change i had
Are you pockets empty, were you the thief or I ?

Shall we be civilized now, will you play at the charming masquerade
and i at the debutante ball
shall we feign a friendly nonchalance, real as the time goes by

It's just that, well you see
I can't quite understand which is true
that you were worth the silence, or not at all.

Sincerely,
me

I want to write a bad poem
A cringe worthy, generic, forgettable poem
Maybe something along the lines of...
                       ...your bruised arms around me
                                   left a hole where my heart should have been....
That was a good first attempt at bad, I reckon.

I shall litter said poem with words I found in a thesaurus,
(iridescent, luminous, diabolical, sacrilegious, egregious etc.)
and elements of nature,
(infinite blue skies, bubbling starfish pond, burnt autumn leaves)
and vague sexual references,
(satin bedsheets, steamy phone booths, glistening skin)
and unremarkable idiosyncrasies of past lovers
(you always filled your pockets with loose change;
you always peeled the apple bottom-up;
you always blahd the blooh blah with your blah-like personality)
and lastly,
but most importantly,  
the stray allusions to a life of tortuous heartache and unfulfilled dreams.


Zzzzzzzzzzz

Twisting thoughts into tunnels
Bending memories into mimes
It’s been quite a while
Since the last time I rhymed.

It was in this ancient diary
I found from days of old
Where I dreamt about my dreams
Weaving secrets into gold

Here I wrote of the dying sun
And the afterlife of moons
I tried to rhyme starry-eyed stars
With dusty afternoons

Meter keys are rusty now
Free verse scoffs at these lines
Because it’s been quite a while
Since I tried to rhyme a rhyme.

Remember boundless possibility?
The certainty that life would be
A blade of grass, an open field
A panoramic view of destiny

This wanderlust, like sunray dust
Shines through every cursive line
Between college essays and status updates
I lost that old, elusive rhyme.

I opened a book and flew
to a far distant land
I disappeared from my room and the mundane sounds of everyday
This world was alive, this island of infinite adventures
George, not to be called Georgina
and the other three, and the doggy
I have the faintest memories
Except they aren't quite like memories
I don't remember words, but broken videos and sepia photographs
like I lived all these stories in a a past life
a life where everything seemed monumental-
huts were mansions,
shrubs-forests, people-giants, moments-eternity

Siting on a bed and making shapes out of bugs on the ceiling
on grass that smelled green, making smoke monsters out of clouds

In these idyllic wanderings into imagination
Homework was the tripping hazard
Map Stencils? Arithmetic?  
5+18= STAY INSIDE THE BOX.

When I open the pages now,
its never quite the same,
I wonder how someone could be named Dick
and how their parents let them own an island
and why they never grew up.

So I pick up something with more pages
and longer words, and complex thoughts
and subtexts based on isms, and context

But the words stay on the pages
and the pages in my hand
and my bed in my room, with me trapped within
I hear my cellphone buzzing, and a notification about nothing on facebook
So I put a bookmark, never returning.

I think it happens when you're thirteen,
the initiation, rite of passage
they lock up that secret part of your mind
and put the key inside your old journal that you never use (because journals went 'live')
Welcome to the real world! Now you must find yourself!
Who are you? What do you want? What's the quickest way to get it?
Find a path and tread it carefully; don't wander or hover, or smell a water lilly, or stare at a worm, or chase a butterfly.
Just keep moving, till you get to that destination- where you'll find applause. (Oooh..applause they say.)

I'm walking and walking and walking.
But I cant find mansions or forests or giants.
Everything seems so small, so vivid.

I see the builders, not the castle; the tricks, not the magic; the camera, not the fairy tale.
I try to veer off-coarse into the wilderness
I try to wander but my footsteps seem so measured.
I start running and the roots of trees trip me, and the branches
scratch my face.

I fall and open my eyes and see the endless true blue sky.
I think there might have been a lake that glimmered with angeldust,
and I heard whispers of laughter that kept bouncing off the water.
There was something about the wind, like mystery in the air.
I felt on the verge of something, a clue, a challenge
An untitled adventure.

As I began to leave reality behind and lose myself in this strange, faraway land- a key turned, a door shut. The answering machine beeped.

I know now why the famous five stayed young forever.

In every never-ending roundabout
dizzying clarity ran in circles
creating a torpedo
that saw you
searching
through
every
eye
at
a
far
from
the sea
fish pond
where sat
two creatures
tasting the water
wondering about love
and how it passes like a ghost.

Remember that story you used to tell
about how the pyramids were made by aliens?
You loved believing in ridiculous things.

And that homeless person who sang Better Days
better than Springsteen?
That song always made you smile.

Remember how I always took your case
about your political beliefs?
You'd try these silly tricks to make me stop
( kissing worked pretty often )

Remember that fall night when we were stoned
and thought the elevator wasn't moving? (It was)
We were in there for a while.  

What was that joke about the bunny and the bear?
Cracked you up, every time.

Remember that time we made fun of all the sappy scenes in all
sappy movies?
(There was the bet, the makeover, the boat passing under a bridge,
the wine in a park, the meet after a year at this spot,
the blue french horn, the airport lounge, the waltz song).

And then we said we'd make our own sappy movie, and it would be original.

Remember those times when nothing needed to be said?
And it seemed as though the world just stopped breathing for a few moments.
As though we slipped through a fleeting crack in time.
As though .. I cant find more analogies. You'd have to be there.

I no longer remember the irreverence of first chances and carry-on luggage.
Because the world just kept moving,
and the traffic lights turned yellow,
and the umbrellas came out in the monsoons,
and Heath Ledger died,
and old stories were forgotten and new stories told.

I didn’t find any crossed stars, or dividing oceans
or random people in bed.

I searched for misunderstandings
under the sofa cushions, but could find none.

There were no pieces to patch up together.
The quilt just seemed a little frayed at the edges.

Maybe there’s just no such thing as an original movie.

Fragile delusions
Rainbow dreams of daisy fields
False complacency
Shatter in technicolour
Mediocrity knows me