my mind is filled
with beautiful snapshots
as numerous as the stars,
thousands of which
have illuminated my darkest skies
and lulled me to rest
on restless nights

i have seen
lengths of sorrow quenched
by duvets of summer rain,
oceans of love
poured into empty hearts
and the hope of a new dawn

all i have seen,
all the grace i have held
in my undeserving hands,
all the contagious grins,
all the precious little moments
and moments that have moved mountains,
all the miracles, all the love, all the joy

all of these,
all of the bright colors
that have painted my path thus far,
pale in comparison
to the sun that will rise
above tomorrow’s horizon

His body lost temperature as he pressed himself against the chest of hers, seducing her with his love.
With his sleepy **** voice, he hums her romantic morning lullabies.
The gray walls of the room soon embosomed with gleaming hearts of their beauteous lust and speedy soft breaths, leaving nothing more but powder blushes of crimson on her flowery cheeks in the springtime dawn.

The honeyed lust in the veins lit the bodies of two lovers like candles into eternal flames of romance.

Under the chocolate brown duvets,
Milky fragrances of the tea dances along the bare hands of two lovers,
while he serves breakfast on bed to her in an old-fashioned way.
Bleak morning mist tango around the vitreous skins of scratched windows,
as fat hummingbirds' tinkling giggles paint beyond the nature's smiley meadows,
sending a major abundance of lovable freedom and glee to the people.

In the bathtub,
Velvety calyx of dreamlover rose flows smoothly through the silk water.
They shower each other and let warmth grasp their naked body.
He kissed her dancing soul of chasms out
and tie uncountable amount of butterfly knots to her pancake stomach.
His abilities of heart possessions had captured the universe's breath.

Nothing has changed since day number one, everything is iridescent.
Everything is swimming in a magical pool of scarred perfections.

As the sun sets to the west,
The undarkened nightfall sings lulling melodies and let its harmonic fire burn the skies.
The shadows of their love whirl out unstoppable romance that vanished away void hopes and pain.
The lover's spirits echo and echo into spring gorges and dashing rivers,
Feeding darkness with lucent fragments of light.

Oh they were only two humans in love...
Or only a size of two negligible lovedust in the mystical galaxies...

But their endless love never fails to deluge the world with drizzling tears.
A facile spark of romance can be an amazing set of fireworks that creates indiscernible fruitful happiness.

Who in the world could resist this unpredictable power of their spingtime love?

we are often taught, to be careful of the monsters.
From a very young age, they were what we hid from, under our duvets.
but who was to know, all those years ago, that we are the monsters, and the monsters are us.
He is the monster, that only wants you for ***;
She is the monster that doesn't see your worth;
They are the monsters that make you feel life is not worth living;
And we are the monsters, that corrupt society.
Although these monsters may make us feel worthless, we must not forget the worst monster of them all.
You are the monster.
You are the monster that doubts your dreams;
You are the monster that allows failure to succeed;
You are the monster who thinks you are worth nothing;
You are the monster, to make him use you;
You are the monster, who burnt your own worth;
You are the monster, that wants to commit your own ******;
You are the monster, that corrupts society.

But why? whoever said monsters can't be good?
You can also be the monster who is kind;
You can be the one who knows their worth;
You can be the one who reaches their dreams;
You can be the monster, who continues, despite the failures;
You are amazing.

Be the good monster.

On the floor of the river styx, frogs burrowing peer over muck duvets to watch me press like a violet between the cookbook pages of the water and the land. I went overboard-

I am addicted to the darkness between worlds.

Somewhere above me, I see the moon. She doesn’t try to warn me, she doesn’t bother reminding me that I can’t breathe. Heavy currents like snakes blur her face into fractured crystal tears that wash me over with sweet exasperation.

Sedated by the salt toward the other side, where the ferryman flips my coin and hums a tune without words about all rivers rushing toward the sea.

He doesn’t ask me why I chose this route, just grins a toothless grin
And winks
And tosses my coin into the water
without

So much

As a wish.

I am sitting up in a bed of lace duvets, their yellowed hues glowing in the sunlight streaming through the curtains of the lone window. The room is musty, old, and smells faintly of the sea. As I tilt my head back and close my eyes, another scent, this time one of cherry blossoms and pears, fills my nostrils; this is my grandmother's bedroom. The walls are almost an off-white, a dull green tint the only memory of the color they once bore brightly. Birds are chirping, and I can hear the faint sound of fluttering outside the ancient window. A bluebird, perking up its feathers, sings its cheerful melody as it sits perched on the ledge. I smile at it, and it seems to bob its head, cocking its face towards me, as if in that one strange instant, it understood. The bluebird pauses for a moment before flitting away to his friends, eagerly feasting on the myriad of feeders hanging low on tree branches close by. Sighing, I lean back once again on the antique, yellowed bed frame, breathing in the familiar scent of the old white pillows. Slight violin music drifts in from the radio in the other room where my grandmother sits, silently knitting a surprise my sister will adore. The violin sings a song of a via dolorosa, of a crestfallen love that could never ensue, but still shone brilliantly. Tenderly, I pick up the book I'd been reading, carefully running my small fingers along its fragile spine, burying the aged pages in my nose, breathing in its rich aroma. The words take me to magical places, far-off worlds, daring adventures, the promise of mystery at every turn. For that is what a book is, is it not? A mystery waiting to be solved, a story that can transform the hearts of millions, a love that can spring up from even the driest of deserts...all that in the beautiful simplicity of words, words from the human soul itself, words that portray the depths in which the heart can swim against the coursing currents, the heights at which the soul can fly amidst the coming storm. I am flying now, on my way to Neverland, Oz, Camelot, The Hundred Acre Wood, 221B Baker Street, River Heights, Hong Kong, Camazotz, a secret garden.. I am the bluebird, flying high above everything else, traveling to unknown worlds of intoxicating adventure, experiencing
sorrow,
friendship,
love,
heartbreak,
joy,
death,
envy,
rage,
empathy,
horror,
romance,
terror,
and curiosity...
...all in time to be home for dinner.

They try and make
Their subtle gazes
As quiet as possible
They're in love
And know things about each other
Whispered in ears
In the crowded morning sunshine
And secrets shared in the shade of the afternoon
Tepees made of duvets in the shadows of night
Lovers be ******,
Because they are granted the wishes
Of hopeless God's and Goddesses.

You can pour love completely
into a wine glass body
Write heart wrenching verse
pure soul poetry
but when you are beat,
dead,
done,
exhausted
weary
the lover beside you
becomes dismantled
and arranged into parts
of burden
temporarily.
Pointy elbows drilling into spine.
Rock hard knees buckling thighs.
Razor sharp toenails
scour
ankles and calf.
Sprawled limbs
invading your bed half.
Thieves of warm sheets
and cosy duvets.
Gurgling,
snorting roars
snoring,
snoring,
snoring away.
Or teeth grinding
piercing anvil,
hammer and drum.
When extremely tired
Only then your love isn't as fun
as and hour ago
when limbs, torso and flanks
eagerly woven
discarding blankets,
But that was then.
Sleep has a stronger lure
and retorting with your own elbow
or *** shunt
just can't end the snore.
Crying for snoozeville,
you can't take any more.
Suddenly,
a choked snuffle
then blessed silence
as they roll back onto their side
And you sigh, “I love you,”
But grateful for the stop
Better off with bunk beds,
one can still go on top.

my duvet once hugged me, now it morphs
into chains
that coil my bones to themselves and fix my fingertips to my fists and I swing my arms behind me clasped.
anything to keep you clean out of my system you see.

the night which once was dreams,
now  a prison.
the solitude confining me in shrinking walls and a drying mouth whilst my eyes tear open by the pounding crave.
the red slithers through their frail veins until the aching urge sends them to close;
to sleep.

morning you lie vestel. but your taste lumbering in my gum

- I wouldn’t say I’m an addict:
but you make it far too easy when you lie in the palms of my hands and dance in electric through my skin.
your hopeless pervading detains me from rehabilitation.

comfort was a long road that came to a dead
end abruptly. happiness and companionship
left suddenly with the clutch of solace. he
was left standing there in the rain, all senses
disdained. a seeing man now build to ease,
seeing the fellowship of someone that ties
knots in your throat; turns your obscurities
to seize.


                                  distraught



at this very moment the quest for clenches
to console surrounded him with the ignorance
his state of mind was unable to control.
seeking and searching began in the
bedsheets. he found loneliness and
regret; mistake after mistake, temporary impassion
chose what risks to take. drowning in seas of
duvets, suffocation on the stench of
frictioned flesh and smothered in the salinity
pasted on each others skin like the warpaint of
ephemeral happiness, he searched down an
unsearchable road and lost his direction in the
*******; forever ringing his ears with regret. each kiss
down his neck, each bite to his lip, each face-blanketing
exhale, he repents with the ignorance of finding the
will to live and love between the legs of someone who
feels the same way. the crimson crevices carved in his back
drip with remorse and sullen; hoping for once to life the
bedsheets and find an unawakened bundle of coiffure
and serenity and not calamities of regret and ****** suicide

She's having a bad day
The way only women do.
I pile all our pillows in the
Wall corner of our bed.
Carry her into it,
Cover her with both
Our duvets.
Comfort womb.

i'm drinking
out of
the bottle
on a tuesday
and i have
to ****
but i'm
glued to
this chair
and the keys
are glued
to my fingertips.
the room smells
like cheep wine
and fresh
duvets
i can't seem
to leave
but i always
find a way to

you know how you can tell that women want
shorter  ****** encounters than men?
prostitutes.
   you know what they do...
they apply the secondary "*******",
to tighten the grib on
the penetrating object... i.e. they squeeze you
   invoking lamda
   the anti-chruchill Λ (lambda)...
huh?           don't ******* huh me...
          the index and middle
finger squeezes you...
   works magic when you've
be circumcised... but when you haven't,
and you **** while pulling
your ******* back exposing
the spartan "skin-head"?
         the c-ring is near your
head, rather than at
the base...
   so you're basically wearing
a bow-tie of flesh...
   handy jerking off,
      with the fleshy burqa...
and during *******,
imitating the monotheistic
aesthetic...
        two protruding veins,
you'd think they'd be
bursting at this point...
  even a ukranian *******
complained:
  when are you going to finish!
seems almost sad
   that women prefer quick
*** rather than athletic ***...
but the older the *******,
the more she's prone
to invent a second *****...
   her index & *******...
squeezing your phallus toward
a premature *******...
     kinda hard
   when you pull your *******
back and choke your member...
at the neck, rather than some
fetish at the base...
           sometimes you can go
for an hour and not *******...
and the ******* is like:
huh?! completely neutralised...
bewildered to say the least...
       i have no moral suggestion
at this point...
   i'm into catching moths with my
bare hands...
               i'm just trying to think
what sort of face i'd pull
when talking with someone
who hasn't
appropriated the jest of
a *******'s worth...
         there's still the minding
of the second-layer of genitals...
   it's almost ****, had i tried,
but i haven't, but it must feel just
the same...
        penetrating a vegan-jain-n'ah...
with a ******* trying to
speed things up    Λ
                       index    middle
         fingers, working their "magic"...
pretty pretty p'ooh,
                     i'm choking my **** by
pulling my ******* back...
i'm imitating circumcision...
           you're goon'ah 'av'
                                      to try 'arder!
         why do brothels always
have the perfume of bourbon
infusing them to solidifying
     a memory, unlike anything other
than blooming flowers
  in the evening, of spring?
           it's the anti-thesis of
b &  b (bed & breakfast) -
                    brothels & bourbon...
with all that ****,
america is softcore in terms
of ***... you celebrate strip-clubs,
but you don't celebrate brothels...
  you know what a strip-club looks
like in greece?
   a stripper places a green plastic
tag next to your drink...
   it's the green "light" to go ahead,
and head for a private audience...
            european strippers are like:
who the **** bothers with so much
tease but no action, if not
mid-western goodie-good-shoe girls
equivalent to those
with men having a fetish for dorothy?
that's borderline ****** prone dynamics...
i love recycling, i actually
love taking out the trash...
    only yesterday i was squashing
6 maggots in a napkin...
                   a woman that only
likes to tease, or wears the burqa
of a strip-tease?
             listen... i'd rather **** 6 maggots
while taking out the trash,
   wishing i could have impaled them
on a fishing hook, and caught myself
some dinner...
                   saying that,
america seems backwards...
  it's all tease... but no action...
                    get mauled by a ******,
   **** the gaping and gasping and
   pervert insinuating: look but don't touch...
this isn't a ******* art gallery,
   this isn't a church, or a temple...
            i have ten eyes at my finger-tips,
i'd love to use the eye down south
rather than feel infuriated by the two
in my cranium...
                           with all that ****,
it's almost asking for an al capone in terms
of selling fleshy cushions and duvets...
   to me america will always be the
first to have the nuclear weapon,
be always the second to send
a man into space
(slavs chose a dog
   germans chose a monkey,
       tells you a lot
about the collective psi;
   i'd have sent a baby elephant)...
    the first & only idiots to ban
   alcohol...
      and yes, i agree, it's great,
but whatever music and film
   they produce,
i can't have a high opinion
of them...
   i know i should...
   but if i was living in that tornado-ridden
mass of land,
         i'd be in the middle...
in the "boring" places...
                         or at least that's
how i imagine myself living...
         away from the schizoid
export of twins americana
                      n.y.              vs.               l.a.;
i met a mongolian in amsterdam
once...
           i was looking into
the void-eyes of history...
                 i imagine looking into
the eyes of a native of the continent
            to be a likewise telling of: wow!
saying that, a welcome revision -
the more you shame brothels,
and glorify strip-clubs?
   the more **** you're going to produce...
i have absolutely no idea
as to why america is founded upon
strip-clubs... more teasing than actual
muddy waters of juice...
                  the american notion of
strip-clubs before brothels is
very much like the act of prohibition
in my eyes...
                           i hope, hard as ****,
to never visit that puritan continent,
  when a ****** rebellion is always protruding
around every corner...
  where a ****** rebellion,
           can never be a ****** liberation.

One day our spines’ll tesselate under sage soft duvets as storms sweep across us and no one will cry;
not one noise shall slip from tongues
‘cos strength comes from keeping quiet
or carrying on.

You’re a now realised kindness that doesn’t know what breath is
or how the north circular works in festive rush hours home,
but I’ll kiss the answers upon your tender carbon tapered chest and hope the toner never runs low
(your dad would’ve handcrafted every thing he knew in semaphore if he’d have pulled through,
but you’ll learn in time, too, that time does not ruin fewer experiences than being).

I lean in. Whisper this (above) across your one body,
three eighths the size of a coffee table hardback book:
the result of patience pined for
that I mimed along to motherhood the best I could for nine months
and now, here, I lift the hood and work out what to do next       in this rush to settle down and sit,
sip until you snooze off into silence.
Here I carry you and do not notice the weight,
stare at the gape of you, my newly framed little one held in the palm of my hand,
squat full four pinter named after someone we knew.
You landed lunar surface side up,
smoothed new to the toes
and I wonder how I’ll meet you
I wonder how this goes.

I write a lot about being in the passenger seat,
In cars that are beat up,
Or sometimes they're luxe.
About soft linens and and duvets like winter's best angels,
About smoking Marlboro reds on front porch steps.
About cold and blank mornings.

I write a lot about coffee shops.
Looking out the window and watching passerby's,
Feeling the sonder seep into my bones,
About the ones who smile at me,
Those I don't know,
And those I eventually get to meet.

I write about falling in love,
Getting my heart broken,
*** with strange men,
Which was only one time.  
When I felt loss in my chest and got carried away.

And so I want you to feel me the way I feel all of these things that I can't help but be so obsessed with and I don't know why.

This morning I was all black daffodils and headless mannequins,

the hours turned into twisted clouds that always look like rain,

this morning I was ripped white duvets, spindle bookcases,

thick laminate book covers stolen from library stacks.

Tonight I am a yawning cat stretch, a heart one beat off,

a tiny jar of salt from leftover tears.

I shoved my face into a towel today, let out one sob and

went about my day.

(I can’t even find the effort to cry.)

Tonight I am a half-deflated balloon, forgotten in the corner of a room,

I am the sun hiding on the other side of the world,

I am a smile just waiting to burst,

I am sore muscle ripped sweatshirt blanket cocoon.

This morning I was an unopened window and tonight I am

blinds hiding the night.

Take me away from here to a place where
No - one knows us.
I'll pay for your coffee when you forget your money.

The only flat that we could afford
Would be above a cafe with chipped
White painted windowsills and cold stone floors.

We'd hide under duvets eating toast and you'd
Nestle against me; whispering in the darkness.
Your feet would be icy and we'd
Fall asleep to the sound of
The rain.

There's no - one else I'd rather be with,
No other company I desire
Besides yours.
The others are false and faded,
You are timeless to me.

I'd read to you in the evenings and
Steadily you'd unravel,
Stop hiding.
You'd kiss my forehead and
Mend the cracks
In my mind.

We'd grow old together, you and I.

Yellow is ***** or is it? I know a lot of yellow people that think like dishwashers
spinning turning loose their causes for finding likeness compatible. I know people that like to machinify the living and talk about furniture as if it heard the rumors in the fabric already supposedly threading. I know people that lust after red draping rooms thinking it more desperate than the sun I’ve seen them click at it looking directly into the lighting of things making drama more dramatic than modern living. I’ve heard people make relationships out of these resemblances as if every eye had an ear to be heard without looking making silence appear chilling but every bit thrilling. Was it just yesterday a girl confessed she named her plants with each passing lover? There are people that attach themselves to objects so violently they fall in love with a chair a chair worth a thousand words more than it gives in its cedar vintage dress but that’s just one chair. I know people that vacation to inns retreat to estate sales to hoard stories in bracelets and oil lamps tracking floorboards with time uttering words no longer used like duvets and chesterfields and smirking into their dusty reflection from an embroidered hand mirror. I know people that would buy used postcards. Yellow. All I’m saying is I know people that avoid white at all cost.

old coffee coarses through me
can’t feel a heartbeat
going too quick to pick up a pulse
a sign of life
a drug yet a luxury
-integrity-
prosperity of humanity
and you have none while you continue to slander
my name
my name
being mentioned in rooms i’ve never stepped in

without my control,
a once blank canvas would soon be used as a form of blame and through it peace in you-
preconceived notions are drawn in the minds of associates and strangers
better than an aged painter in the studio he’s only ever known
yet this painter is blindfolded
while this oblivious painter intently tunes in
to sympathize with the selective truths you dispose
‘how could she??’ they say

beautiful
in an unconventional way
for you to teach them what they don’t want to be
whilst they choose what to hear
words sifted once again like the selection of the finest grain
rejects strawn amongst the boulder
you were once beautiful
a sweet dandelion left to a stem with a rigid bulb at the top
not hideous just no longer wished upon

unfortunately

there’s no lights in this room
just brushes sprawled all out on the rug
with a ray of sunkissed light coming through the duvets-
it’s a bother but you
bring it up when others do
used to be the highlight of the room
but now just something that reluctantly grew on you
you want the dark but i only wish light amongst you past lover

you continue to lead-
incite fine strokes in them for my self portrait
for better or worse
i refuse to recognize for myself
using colors i’d never think you’d use- their masterpiece being guided by your bitter words
i blamed myself for an instant-
something you’d never do
leading me to believe that your heart
never was truly pure when i was with you

maybe if I stay in this bed I'll be able to wilt like the flowers on my nightstand

my petals will fall off the edge of the blanket, smooth and graceful on the bedroom floor

maybe I'll waste away into the covers,

diving into duvets and curling my toes into the edge of the covers

i just really wanna die

and I want it to be in this bed so it can be pushed down the river like a casket

holding my temperance and my sin in the palm of my hands

as the water drags me and the pillows deep under

deep

deep

under

it's quiet, there

Your love is a diamond-ruby
        song at my throat
        fire wired to my heart.

        All the players on the stage
               throw their damp duvets
        But I will give it sanctuary
               my whole being
        Infinitesimal space to spread and grow.

again, this thing about the cartesian res cogitans
(thinking thing), substance and extension...
i’m pretty sure the darwinistic expression
of early model does not suit this model,
my own version i wrote once, res vanus (empty thing)
fits the gig better - we who can now snuggle in duvets,
who housebound the wild boar,
who milk cows with technological octopi tentacles,
who switch hot dogs with popcorn in the dark,
who ice-skate at somerset house at christmas,
who take diamond bling and christmas tree bulb bling
to equal the same credit on plastic,
who with polystyrene foam beat nature
by showing nature it couldn’t digest it on whatever
level of insect and parasite,
well have all the luxuries now, and we found them
not so much from thinking but from emptiness,
there is more chance of the eureka in res vanus than
there is in res cogitans - it’s the spontaneity you see,
and less need to narrate: love, lost love, aching love , ex lovers.
what else is there? it’s the easier assumption to have
with the niche topic in relation to kant’s noumenon (thing in itself),
i don’t know why i want to mention this orientation
to further the explanation -
early man was defined by res vanus - the sensual overload,
the prime, being empty and forced into the heat and the cold
and the mystic tiger hunger -
and still as defined by res cogitans, we pause and feel empty,
not so much in terms of emotion, but in terms of thought,
however we no longer gather at the campfire,
few people crowd by a lightbulb to talk fables with a
memory of achilles ajax and hector...
we need neon rainbows to huddle -
whether that be by eros shooting the neons of piccadilly circus blind,
or by televisions or computers,
rarity a fire that crept into the ribcage and gave way to
a macaw song of cross-dimensional sophistication off mayan jungles.

Of course I survived that Sunday afternoon.
Of course I made it to that dreaded Monday-morning.
An overcast afternoon as I set off, four-seventeen,
rain droplets thumping against my umbrella which shrieked with terror.
Pathetic fallacy, the foreshadowing of what was to come.
Your house, on the top of that hill, an uphill climb
with an even worse descent back home.
Crawling under your duvets, suffocated in love more than you can imagine yet an hour later, and the comfort of warmth and shelter is stripped away from me, like one would strip a bed of it's duvet-cover.
Five-forty-five, as the clouds thicken and rumble with excitement, shuffling sheepishly down the stairs,
I pick up my coat and various belongings.
Your dog whimpers, but he's not as sad as I am.
Maybe this time I'll leave, and won't come back.

There’s a phenomenon; happens at night.
Apparently it’s a lot to do with
the turning of the earth
and bedclothes… You know?
Both the duvet and what I call
the dog barrier! That’s an old throw.

Sure, I have to believe what I’m told.
But every night there’s a real fight
and amidst it I do try to keep hold.
… But every morning it seems
I wake up shivering and left out
in the cold…

I mentioned it to 'the others' in a gentle
and incidental kind of way.
The dog wasn’t bothered.
He was busy having HIS day.
And my missus, with no remorse,
said glibly, and probably without thinking...
"It’s the centrifugal force!"

So there you have it!… The duvet I mean… Or rather you don’t!