2 times 2 is four, as my life path
always wonder if I am on the right path
wish I could calculate my path, extract the unknown
prove it with words and numbers, not just inner knowing and tarot cards
math is more believable to the severed body
I use other means to understand my body
holistic, artistic, there's always another way
deterministic, statistic, no place for the grey
calculate how best to waste your days

~~~

Vanilla Extract

under extreme duress,
word-boarding extreme,
she issues up reluctantly a true confess

her secret ingredient
in everything is
vanilla extract

where do you source this
in quantities so ample,
keep it well hid,
for all I see
after cupboard investigatory
solitary tiny brown bottle
shelved alone, forlornly?

wearing a vanilla smile,
that persists for quite the while,
she crinkly eyed laughs

“I extract vanilla
nearly everyday,
for when I awake to a
fresh poem from a poet
who loves me,
I draw all the vanilla out,
then feed it back to him
in the foods I supply,
so his poetry is for ever
sustainable”

Short on words
But long on wisdom;
You are my very own
Sound-bite poem.

I loved til I was black and blue
without much right or reason to.
I loved you soft like morning dew.
You'll fool me once but never two.

I remember reading somewhere that one thorn
can be used to extract or take out another thorn
which has pierced the skin and body of a person
so the pain experienced for a while does worsen
and only after it has been taken out is heard a sigh
of relief regardless of the method used to come by.
____

This world is so centered on take
Love and romance:
It's never give or create

Love is seen as property
This broken world
Demands intimacy

Extracting from every being
Now love is nothing
When it used to be everything

Innocent Hyacinth tinted with mint
Tingèd grey hinged on stem singed
With chestnut leaves flowing, to me a fair hint

Of off-centred carousing, black eyes perusing
Wares of all sorts and stocks of all shares
The leading on of a pleasure most gracefully enthusing

Drops dews of all shades, of selfsame structure
And we full of rowdy Sedition;
But Wait! Recognition.
In my hopes and tired efforts, a puncture.

Music blaring loud, aftertaste of rejection
And full on full strand of all smoke addled people
Oh! How great Quasimodo I fell off my steeple
In the midst of the crowd, full dejection.