The infatuating smile you got
On this spring day.
Capricious like you, London.

I can't stop myself from
Stumbling back to you.

The things unsaid, the poems unread
A thin lipped man like you, full beard suits you the best.

Ah, the beard,dotted with white snow flakes
my hearts skips for this fickle spring day.

1.
when the morning sets in
with the sun rising in the east
i put on the dress of a beggar
extended up to the horizon
and the canto of my begging starts

i beg
beside the big-bazar
beside the fly-over
beside the college-campus
beside the cow-market

you then put your elbow
on the body of the day
giving a perfect and unbiased pose
to attached to the album of life

people of the working-class
spread hither and thither
to write some more decimal fraction
on the notebook of life

2.
in the dusts and soil of rural-bengal  
in the testament written by the grass
i am a son of the immortal

my begging-bowl is the most
favourite go-ahead of a alone man

then speaking around are
the chop singara aluposta

and the love-story of a hyacinth  
blooming in the pond
blind by mud

also in the overflowed dustbin of the city
waiting rightly with an erected head  
the excitement of your absence

3.
coming to this canto of begging
do you know
i  enjoy both
your intensity and your sharpness

your secret current flows me to the pore of the skin
of the body of the puller of a hand-barrow
your cold attracts me
towards the syllabus of waning moonlight  

i do realise now that the stale afternoons
saved in my pocket
stitched so many new muscles
with my vocal chord

and i’m howling in joy…

4.
what’s an enjoyment… hahaha…day after day
spending too much chaos
and living to so little extent
tell me is it the least

within the left-over on the leaf-plates
after eating by the baboos
i can discover more and more
love

the mango tree the grass-hopper my begging-bowl
and from the tune of the laxmi-panchali
coming from the middle-class houses
listen, how flourishing is my mother-tongue  

5.
all long the day i beg

i beg rice pulses oil salt
royal blood

in exchange i also distribute
peace… peace… and peace…

and the horses of the gypsies making
a dip-swimming in the peace-water

in the canto of my begging
holding a whole body of love
i learn how to be burnt
by the shadow of the trees  

i give up all my courage
to book a room in your youth
only for me

6.
going upstairs on the railway foot-bridge
i see the strong light of neon-lamps

the girl from the avtar of the flex
induced trance

the aroma of chhatim-flower in the air
and the song of a blind-beggar
with tambourine

those neon-light flex-women
beggar’s-song and flower odour
i see they are all alive
in the canto of my begging

under the evening-star

7.
in the canto of my begging
at the day’s end
the moon that rises behind the rain-tree

i put up in her hands
the lemon-leaves the water-balloons the goal-kicks
that i have had throughout the day
by begging

and i beg from her the magic-wand
by the touch of which the date-palm
that was someday burnt by a thunder-bolt
in front of the church
looks very infatuating

and my dress as a beggar gradually
becomes a royal-dress

my phone beeped
in an almost deserted train compartment.
my boss,
'where have you reached?'
I sighed and replied,
'should reach in 5'
(would reach in 20)
same old dance
to the tune of corporate slavery.

a sharp sound,
I looked up.
the sound dissolved
into a fit of giggles.

a group of kids
playing around, teasing,
their mother close by;
a hawker, selling trinkets in the train.

it looked so natural.
a working mum
looking after her kids while on the job
(doesn't work that way does it?
guess they didn't have anywhere safe
without her)

I couldn't look away.

it was such a sight...
torn, tattered clothes
dirt and mud all over
and those innocent giggles;
it didn't add up.

I was tired, aching,
infatuating about sleep;
feet bleeding in killer heels,
rushing around without purpose,
forced into an exploitative overtime job
by myself; frustrated,
trying to keep up with society.

the little family
calm, collected;
torn, tattered smiles held with grace,
facing their exploitative poverty
with innocent mischief and honest labour.

confused,
I had a thought:
that's the life they've known,
this is the life I've known.
we fit in our lives...
differently?

no...
we fit in different lives in the same way.
I struggle she struggles,
we both have good bad days.

I didn't realize I was smiling
till she smiled back.

I bought something
and got off at the next stop,
wishing she has more good days than bad
and the kids keep their giggles
a little longer than they can..

I want you to stay
When I ask you to leave

I want you to say nice things
When it's falling apart for me

You asked me
To help a dying man -and I did

With bruises on my arms
A kiss on my lips

You ran out of your cigarette
I ran out of wine

I let the fate ****** all
What once was mine

You hurt me so good
Spinning me around all night

Holding me so tight
So you don't lose the sight

After all, you're the cage I dread
A ghost –infatuating my mind

You came to burn my soul
I've seen the rage,
In your dark eyes,
I have seen the ravaging fire

And what is beauty but more than just an outward reflection
of ourselves that we see in someone else?
Perhaps an awkward perception,
but often conceptions of conclusions drawn
in our mind, all beginning with a thought,
sparked up by a glance,
peripheral markings in the eye.
An undying desire to fit puzzle pieces into proper positions
once and for all.
Wedged into uncertainty,
A young ***** in my heart for eternity.

Reflections of ourselves we seek in another; common ground.
Infatuating us with others
an indirect narcissistic form.

Why do I hate you?
You perplex me so.
Is it all an illusion?
All in my head?

I feel as though the pain inside multiplies by the second, a leech in its parasitic glory siphons my spiritual force.
I feel the darkness overwhelm me, dark clouds approach me from the south; lightning befalls my quintessence and the mayhem is revealed.
You couldn’t even acknowledge me, I feel as though I don’t exist; I slip into another dimension, and I become one with a black hole.
I am an anomaly; consuming negativity is my sole purpose; I am a thoughtless soul who has been sedated by noxious charm.

Hearts await me on the threshold of a heavenly and divine bliss; I supplicate the Transcendental to resurrect an undead heart.
Flame has led to glory; in time it will be revealed, that the Lord shall be my portion and baptismal rivers my shield.
All this horrid bruising; ensconcing within a façade, I await the time when love will greet me with a benevolent smile.
Adorned with a lavish diadem of rubies, diamonds and garnets, she edifies a being with a disheartened soul.

I feel like relinquishing my sacred and precious life, in order to escape to horror of an unreciprocated love.
I’m totally decimated, I don’t know if I can take the pain; I drift into a sea of everlasting sorrow and demise.
Vociferous cries to the heavens,
“Please help me escape dereliction”

I want to get to know you but you just won’t open up,
It pains me to know that your love for me is so close and yet so far.
Maybe I should’ve stayed away from you, maybe then I could’ve evaded the grief.
I’m slowly going insane; my equanimity is waning; shooting stars are falling and the ground beneath me begins to collapse.

I don’t want to do this anymore, you don’t understand what you’ve done, you could’ve had a lover who would cherish you till’ the end.
I’ll lock my soul in a treasure chest, turn my feelings off; I’m tired of being rejected; I can’t escape the pain.
When two ethereal beauties come face to face, there is a magnetic attraction; a gravitational pull.
I’m evolving by the minute, my soul is about to explode; a big bang of epic proportions; an eruption of distress.

Complex equations; possibilities are never-ending, your eyes and surreal eyelashes infatuating my heart.
I ask the deity of the heavens to send an angel from up above, a tenuous and ethereal beauty who relinquishes acceptance for my heart.
Someone who will cherish me and relish in my aromatic embrace; someone who will be entranced by my enamoring and celestial face.
Someone who will want me, for the remainder of precious time, to live with them in passion, rhapsody and connection.

I see the darkness within you; obscuring your delicate and yet barely visible light; I’ll never get to know you; your love is just a lost cause.
-Will’o’-the-wisp-
An ethereal blue flame burns within my heart, my soul is blossoming with fervor and iridescence overtakes my being.
I see that I have no one, I feel so cold and alone; I retreat to my bed being lonely with my muscles aching and sore.

I love myself enough, to know that the chaos shall slip away, love is over the horizon and the lightness shall bring me home.
Where I was meant to be is in the arms of a God unknown; a being with the transcendental power to resurrect a weary heart.
Lie with me upon a levitating bed; we shall arise into a galaxy where our names will be on each other’s lips.
Finality is so redundant; I surrender to the waves of the sea; an ocean teeming with luminous blood is where my boon shall arise.

Sacrifice after sacrifice and bone after bone; I shall bury my cherished dream beneath a sanguine and ruby Red Sea.
Roses and daffodils will blossom in the Fall; just when faith is diminishing my fate shall be revealed; chunks of frigid icebergs cool my red hot skull.
Anger, seething with anger.
I await love in an ambiguous form.

I am a sentinel who is slowly losing strength, how much longer can I bear to stand upon my own two feet?
When will they be there to catch me?
To take my breath away?
To resuscitate a languishing vessel ready to decay?

The Universe is expanding and the moon is on the rise; I shall reach your galactic radio waves when the celestial illuminates the night.
Just when all is lost; you shall kiss me on my lips; a crimson petal shall sit upon my slowly rising chest.
It shall sink beneath my flesh and my skin until it reaches the deep, the depths of my heart so that I shall become inflamed with love.
You shall revive me; your baptismal and cascading embrace; it slowly descends upon me like a waterfall from the sky.

I don’t know what to say, I’m demolished in every single way.
My bones are slowly breaking but my soul is here to stay.
I don’t know how much longer I can bear this but I pray that I can hold on.
Long enough to know that you have been here in my Universe all along.

To my Dream Lover,
To the grief of rejection,
To nothing but pain;
The quintessence of my soul.

-Amen-

By, Iridescently Efflorescent

title: loop
body:
or holes or days
and oh: or months...
let's pretend years
never existed.

sometimes, it's truly weird... but i'm not English... or British... sure... for convenience's sake, when asked by officials in the NHS... put me down at white British... once was the case of the Anglo-Saxons... well... at best i'm an Anglo-Slav... but i can't allow all these racial "minorities" residing in England to label with me... "reparations"... a "colonial-past"... or... post-colonialism, or whatever the fetish is... i just belong to a people without a colonial past... sorry... that's racist... to be unable to differentiate people ethnically... it simply is... that's how H'america rots... it has no ethnicity distinction... it's either all RACE or ***... can't tell apart the Serb fascists from the Ukrainian fascists?! i can't buy into this whole: i'm white therefore i'm somehow also the inheritor of post-colonialism... i'm on side with the Russians given this argument... sorry... i'm not having it... that's ******* racist: just because i'm white is somehow indicative of me receiving the minority sadism against the British in the realm of post-colonialism... **** no... **** never...you will not put other people's history onto other people: because you're ethnically-blind... just because i'm as white as a Brit doesn't imply we share a shared history... ****-off cupper-neck... come come... milk me the golden **** of Moloch! right now... i'm loving the Russian attitude of... *******... or we'll **** with you...because it simply doesn't make sense for certain ethnicities of the white race to... capitulate to the "racial minorities" of a post-colonial argumentation of: new schematics of how society's to be orientated... nicely... just nicely... i'm seriously thinking about ******* off to Liverpool... the women seem nicer... less paranoid... less-stuck... less... ugh... yucky... itchy... whatever it is with having... over-value delusions of... obviously having bypassed the safety-net of becoming a nun...

the day started well enough... i must have drunk about half
a litre of whiskey: forgetting to take some naproxen
to ease me into sleep.. woke up with cold sweats
at: some time just past 5am...
some nightmare... Holocaust related? i don't remember...
but if you're waking up sweating and shivering
at the same time... lucky for me... i meditated on this towards
work: well... the horrifying has already happened...
i never understood the argument that 6 millions Jews
died in the Holocaust... technically... those were 6 million
Polacks... while France capitulated to **** Germany
in whatever span of time...
  it took longer for Poland to capitulate to both:
**** Germany and Soviet Russia... and we're talking:
a nation that only recently emerged after being non-existent
given the partitions... while France... a colonial power...
anyway... had two coffees... a precursor of a bad idea:
showered... applied 7 different "beautifying" products
to my hair, beard, face... armpits... collar bones and neck
and hands...
   ****** off... as ever... one hour early:
why do i mismatch my timing whenever travelling to
Wembley... if i catch the fast (Southend Victoria train)
i can get from Romford to Liverpool Street in under 20 minutes...
since... the train doesn't stop at: Chadwell Heath,
Goodmayes, Seven Kings, Ilford, Manor Park, Forest Gate...
Maryland... straight onto Stratford...
and then Liverpool Street... and then that's another
20 or so minutes on the Metropolitan Line to Wembley Park...
well... nice weather... spring is in full swing...
another two coffees from McDonald's... sitting on a bench
on the Olympic route...
eating an almond croissant... oh looky-looky...
company... starlings...
                        i was surprised: where did the pigeons *******
to? so i'm going to be sitting on this bench
by myself... drinking a 4th coffee... eating an almond
croissant... smoking a cigarette after the "feast" while
having this troop of 4 or 5 starling beg me to pinch
of my croissant... ****'s sake: the day is starting to look
beautiful... i couldn't resit...
plus... there's that added bonus of looking mythical...
eh? even mystical... since a few coworkers already spotted
you and you're not some old man in a park
throwing breadcrumbs to pigeons...
you're throwing pinches of an almond croissant to starlings...
i always said: better a soul of an old man
in a young body than... the complete ******* opposite
of... whatever leads to dementia: lax...
old men having tantrums of teenagers...
                       just looks silly... and it was sort of like
that today... with the Scousers... Scouse...
   i was expecting such a lively, lovely atmosphere...
i swear... the further north you go... the lovelier people
become... my heart poured out at the Liverpool fans...
the Manchester fans? eh... not so much...
they're sort of like Londoners... stiff-upper lip: tense...
paranoid... i don't know how to describe them:
proper... after today i'm thinking about visiting Liverpool...
******* for the weekend... maybe book a ticket
at Anfield... but just go and see the city... wander...
get lost... find myself...
        i'm tired of continental Europe... then again:
i'm also tired of the south of England...
           4th coffee in... i thought i was going to die...
a thumping in my forehead... i already have high blood pressure
issues... four coffees in... almost zero food:
calorie intake: for someone 6ft2 and 98kg... it's not 2000kcal...
for the first time on a shift
i had to do my jacket up so that my neck would
be covered... the tie was suffocating me...
with ideas of dropping dead from a heart-attack...
thrice prone to *****... the one time i did i enacted
being a cow... i swallowed it back down... crummy...
eh... flakey... sort of like when you...
bring back milk that's half digested: when it splits...
into cheese and lactose juice... acid...
on my way back home: a most glorious full moon...
cider... sweaty shirt...
and this... fiddly ******* the Metrpolitan line...
mixed-race... sort of reminded of Harley Dean...
fiddling with her blonde-tinged curly hair...
i always found curly hair... um... hmm...
too infatuating... she does her make-up...
her lips with a crayon and then some quasi-lipstick...
cute nose, cute forehead...
and she just keeps looking at me...
with the most doe-esque intimidation of:
          why don't you react to me?! why?! why?!
she's so ******* blatant: she can't hide it...
i'm sitting there with my shirt undone...
   oh right... hairy chest of a pirate... thick bulging neck...
babe... i'm tired... i've been up since 5am...
started the shift at 9m... just finished come 6:30pm...
of course i'm *****... ever time i become tired
i need to relax: since i've been keeping this hardened
**** in my ****-pocket since this morning...
i'll get back home... sit on the thrones
and do the no. 1, 2 and 3... which is **** while sitting
down... relaxing my ****... taking a ****
and subsequently jerking off...
but she was so blatant... d'uh... pretending to look
into the glass behind me for her reflection...
checking her phone without taking a selfie...
how her hair would look better arranged if she
has a pair of sunglasses perched on top of her head...
truly... a pretty little number...
but i was already coming down from a high of:
Scouser women... are all the English girls so pretty
up north? like i said: i think i need to take a weekend
trip to Liverpool... or Newcastle...
i was taking aback when a married woman
approach me... started talking... gripped my hand and
then proceeded to kiss my cheek...
infatuated by the beard...
  that's nice... that's why life is worth living...
random strangers... coming up to you: infatuated
by your presence... having no reservations:
no inhibitions... needing to kiss you... touch you...
always with the northern types...
and i'd agree... southerners: the fairies...
Londoners... so ******* Victorian: reserved...
it's like playing poker 24/7...
   most of the time i find myself of keeping a trustworthy
line of conversation... i just become mute:
bored... i don't like the nitty-gritty of small talk...
what the **** do we have in common?!
absolutely nothing... beside... what?
trying to keep each other comfortable?
no... i'll use my silence to strain the fact that:
we're not friend in school playground... we're not...
but it's different with northeners...
i witnessed two grown men... cry... because they
were refused entry for being sick... puking...
grown men crying... because they couldn't be part
of the Liverpool choir of: you're never stand alone...
mind you... coworkers getting ****...
deservedly: too eager... too eager... push and shove...
can't we just talk? once you get that *******'s worth
of an SIA license you start losing the plot...
machismo... ugh... talking about people who can't
tell the difference from judo from throwing
watermelons...
oh but these northern girls... a married woman
just walk up to you... tipsy... tipsy as:
custard is most definitely pale, high noon sun
yellow... grabs your hand and kisses your cheek...
times like this: i feel... gratefully alive...
it's so very little but at the same time: so much...
i can forget the 5am wake up call...
of the nightmare that stirred me...
i couldn't possibly cry over football...
something beautiful, like Prokofiev? sure...
lucky for me we managed to seize about 10 cans of beer
from someone... who managed to bring those cans
of beer home? moi...
beer... relaxing to some Type O Negative...
i'm pretty sure there was this other woman
on the train: fixated on playing with her...
she kept stroking it... stroking it...
some other day...
like a cat with an itchy scalp... what the **** do they call them?
archetypical clues?
i heard that once... if a woman in your vicinity is
fiddling with her hair... she's into you...
i seriously want to forget these stereotypes...
i prefer the more direct approach...
she comes up to you: a complete stranger
and kisses your on your furry cheek...
it might have been sunny... it might have been warm
today... but the tenderness of those lips...
i need to book a weekend break to Liverpool...
seriously... i need to visit Liverpool...
those woman are insatiable! i need to ******* to Liverpool!
i already can't stand the claustrophobically
constipated London girls...
   it does my head in!
            what happened to: perchance: some... foon?!
on a *****-nilly... what the **** is this?
the ******* Black Dahlia... no... wait...
the Black Narcissus nunnery? the ******* hills are full
of music?! or is that... filled, with?!
this is a trajectory toward a death-cult...
o.k. whatever... i'm getting slowly more drunk
and relaxed and... not in the mood of...

whatever... i just can't face up to having to faces...
it's enough that i already juggle two tongues...
but i can't face up to having two faces;
i see people taking themselves overtly seriously
and i'm thinking about... puking:
and then swallowing the puke that doesn't leave
my mouth... like a cow's digestive schematic.

I am stained with your colour;
Royal purple and blinding white.
I am smothered by your scent;
Marlboro cigarettes and cheap alcohol.
I am lost in your words;
Mellifluous syllables and sage proverbs.

You must be a sorcerer, for I have been bewitched.
You roam through my mind, casting hexes as you go;
I see you walk with that charming little gait of yours.
The memory of your face is hypnotising, infatuating;
Perhaps I have been cursed, but I hope this necromancy lasts forever.

I'm sorry that I will find myself more in broken skin and ****** blades than I will ever find myself in another human being
I'm sorry that the bottom of the bottle holds every type of emotional bond I've ever felt with another soul
I'm sorry that "I love you" is never enough because my hands will never only pull your skin in closer and my hands will never only write about your breath taking, infatuating kiss
I'm sorry. I'm truly, inconveniently sorry.
But I will fall asleep with the smell of your hair wrapped up in my lungs only to be awaken by the choking I feel without you next to me
And I will spread my torn up broken pieces all over your bed sheets while you rub my head mumbling I love you's like you're talking to an incoherent second grader because what is love if you are never going to be loved back

there are two types of cancer.
there's the kind that's caused by an uncontrolled division of abnormal cells; we call them malignant tumours.
and there's the kind that's boys born on july 9th - 5'11'', with expressionless brown eyes, and in desperate need of a haircut;
we call them malignant *******.

i can't shave my head in preparation for everything he will ruin, and requesting time off to cope with the fact that i loved this person is not a valid option.

MRI scans won't show you what happened to my brain after he told me i made it hard to hate the world or what happened after he told me i was the worst person he met in it. they won't tell you what it looks like to be told you're loved, hated, and then not cared about at all.

side effects include:
mood swings, triggered by those who are as infuriating as they are infatuating
loss of sleep because he wants to rant to you about socioeconomic structures until 3 in the ******* morning
dissociation of time because it doesn't exist when you can make someone laugh and tell you about his favourite jewish children's book and why he doesn't like big dogs and that even though his family is full of jerks and idiots, he'd still do what was needed to support them.

more severe side effects include:
writing about him months after he's made it harder to breathe, but willing yourself to talk about it to a room full of strangers
being crippled by the fear he might stumble lost in manhattan again and find the cafe you are complaining about him onstage in

i want this to be a survival story and tell you that i do not have business cards for being a tragic event organizer who throws the best pity parties in town. i want to tell you that i had enough self respect not to call him when i got re-diagnosed, despite the fact that he once told me diseases like cancer exist to **** out little pests like me and because he was the only person who told me i was going to be fine, live longer than him maybe, and to stop talking like it was the end.

but that was really hard because there's two types of cancer, and he's the one that did a significantly much better job at making me feel like i was dying.

Make myself into a *****
I’ve been there before
The lesson of this ’sin’ begins within
the philosophy.
Society, a judgmental *****, calls it a monstrosity
but it’s simple
it’s lean
You can make it obscene
But the honest truth is it’s not easy to be easy
to rise above the want of love
Love is for family,
love is for friends
romance is for those to be called a martyr in the end
“But I gave her everything,
but I was a saint.”
But no, you were a ******* taint.
You wanted to get and that’s why you gave
you wanted a beautiful, infatuating slave
**** popular bred trust
give me chemical lust.
Superficial holes need superficial fillers
*****, ******, tongues and fingers.
But the holes in my psyche are the holes for my demons.
They can’t be filled with gestures or *****.
Those are for me, for ******* my reality.
to fall in love… to be together.
Ridiculous expectations… the result of expired tradition.
You will fail to receive that which does not exist.
So just grab my **** and press your mouth to my lips.

The wind has been asking for you;
missing you with a chill,
crying for you with a howl.

Constellations joined to draw a face;
I once unraveled every night.

Your face that I recite
its lines and curves;
what makes it laugh,
and what makes it cry.

The moon stood showing off its charms;
trying to imitate the infatuating you.

Cotton clouds softly,
and with grace;
crafted your name,
and engraved it in a night sky
with the blushing moonlight
that once cuddled us
in a world of love and war.

Some times I just break down and cry,
Some times my heart tells me that I want to die,
Let me be,
Someone please rescue me,
I sleep with my poison thoughts,
Even though there so terribly infatuating,
I can only spend my time accumulating,
My melancholy mind,
Setting up a tight bind,
I live to be just so sad,
How did I ever get this bad?,
Am I going mad?,
No this is just my Melancholy Mind

It is not so much of a mysterious poem, your love, no.
It is more like a way of infatuating, me.
Your love, on most cynical days and nights,
is like a ******'s first sight of snow.
Freezing temperature, a sane white rose, at the most.
Your caricature could **** a woman, you assortment
of beautiful things that the insane can only see.
When the smoke consumes your eyes,
you look so divine, my King.
And it's your love that takes me by chance,
by the time it's dawn,
chance has met my match, darling.
And you proceed, to weep,
into my ears, are whispers
that tingle so romantically,
so intimately, and you proceed
to carelessly
call me
your
Queen.

wh O o         Sh       ! ) the sun sprechen
a malleable droplet
of porous handles
meandering careless clumps o
               f
                                                                 a and the ghost
        of spectral
                                          mouths ephemerate
delightful femurs
                                   loaded sensual creamy morsels
some alabaster muscles singing sordid

            or a too short skirt
                                                          i can'

t              kept my skin
         burning cherry infatuating scald
i barely
              am
  real
                               at the
           pursed
                                                    eternity

          of
                                thy immense
     finite
                                                                                   coffin

Amazing, you are the everlasting definition.
I can look at you over and over, it’s an infatuating repetition.
Your beauty is more addicting than anything I’ve ever seen.
You’re the very best of all the best is what I’m telling you I mean.
You can bring my smile out just by being on my mind.
Some girls come a dime a dozen, but you are one of a kind.
Never change a thing about you; you are just perfect how you are.
In the blackest of the night, you are that single shining star.
On a scale of one to ten, I can say you’re off the chart.
But I’m sure that you have known that ever since the very start.
But now I’m telling you the door is open, so just walk in and take my heart.
You aren’t just something for me to look at; you are a priceless work of art.
You can tell me this and tell me that.
Tell me lies and tell me fact.
No matter what my ears are open.
Let’s run away you’ll say, I’m hoping.
Let’s travel the world and see new sights.
Cross new borders and reach new heights.
We’ll forget the days and enjoy the nights.
But just in case you didn’t hear, once again let’s run away.
And if not now, and if not then there’s one more thing that I must say.
I’ll be right here, waiting on you, for time to being that special day.

Invading the stage with her pulchritude,
Insatiable lust turns men into dust.
Infatuating her awed multitudes.
Sweetly pretty with a blush you can trust.

Gives more than she takes and's open to change.
Her future's not just a mixture of days.
As seasons change, her reasons remain.
More wild than tame, nature's fixture of fate.

Our Mother Earth embodies her, perfect.
And she gives The Universe its purpose.
Comets and stars come from afar, worth it.
If you catch a glance, then you deserve it.

As fresh as time and as pure as water.
Take good care of her, she's God's own daughter.

“What’s your poison?” She said softly, her head against his beating chest.
“Heartbreak,” He replied reluctantly, “and the thought of being in love.”
“I’ve never heard that before. I’m not too sure I understand what you’re trying to say.”
“Heartbreak is a terrible thing but it’s completely infatuating. When someone knows your biggest, darkest secrets and they still want to be around you. That’s something I crave for. It may be poison, but it’s never tasted so good.”

i crave you
i ache for your hands,
your touch
it was as if you knew
every turn and curve
of my body
as if i was your masterpiece.
you wallow in me
as if i was the finest piece of art
you’ve ever seen.
it was an infatuating love
a gentle love
a reassuring love
a love that was so beautiful
so pure
yet so hazardous.

GM

There's always going to be that one time in my life, when I'll give you a rose,
Maybe it's because I love you.
Maybe it's because I want to say, "Enough fighting, let's settle and be gay".
Or maybe, i'm just messing with your head…
Maybe all I want to do is remind you of all the ****** up things you've done to me.
And that all I want in return is that tear in your eye that says, "I'm sorry... will you let me go?"

Roses are red… Violets are blue,
But roses are still red...

You were my rose you know?
An ******* rose, that dripped with the blood that gushes from the life of my soul,
and that little spark of sustenance I used to hold on to, a thoroughbred love between just you and me…
So much that I have had the little smile on your face and the twinkle of rays that catch in your eye, scarred deep in the tinkling colours of the cones in my retinas.

But I stand here today, a new man.
Oh a new man indeed. Do I really need to explain myself?
From all the possible ****** means that, perversely, everyone seems to use to stereotype a man.
Do I really need to tell you that all I want in a relationship is the infatuating love of a guy or girl deep in my life?
That I crave so much more than just the mere lanky tale of ***…
Oh no, I stand here a new man… with a new rose.
For this rose, I give to only the one that I learn about… The one that I learn has learned to love me.
Maybe this time, I'm ready to give a rose, for the right reasons…

Oh of roses… One of God's putrid allegory for a painful or even happy love…
Gloriously crimson upon the lips on which I dream of kissing at night but a tad bit a trope of ebony black on evil and twisted souls… And to think the psyche of all that is flawless would be seen in the one I dream of…

Red roses in life? I still prefer the lemons that life brings me...

i am sorry,
that i drank your words up
like you were some kind of infatuating bottle of forever.
i am sorry,
that i used my ears as lungs
to inhale all of your problems
and exhale my advice,
knowing that the second your cancer took over my mind
and i could no longer breathe anymore
you would go away
and look for your next victim to intoxicate.
i am sorry, that i cut into my chest
and ripped out ever last living flower in me,
just to see you smile for a second
and i am sorry,
that i let you become so obsessed with the fact that
i was willing to give you the best parts of me
so that you could put yourself back together again.
because i know, that if you had a chance
to give me the same pill of love that i gave you,
you would pack it full of your selfish ambitions
and tell me to drink it down with a glass of self-destruction.
because you didn't care the way i did
and you didn't love the way i did
and i said i would take a bullet for you
but i am sorry.
i am so sorry,
that i let you pull the trigger
and use me as your target practice.

I'll wipe away your tears when it gets too much
I'll kiss you softly when I've given you what I want
weeping rose, your sultry not mine but yours to keep,
exhausted and drugged we simply didn't want to sleep

high on adrenaline and forbidden lust
you took me to your garden and charred my trust
taking my decaying exterior, a mask corrupted and inferior -

stirring the freak inside with a stroke and ******

O' charred rose, you weeping liar
polluting minds with toxic desire
a dismembered head, horror's twisted invictus
a mind seething with cyanide and citrus

nights full of compassion and false respect
I take you as a friend but you know what I expect
I'd say I'm ashamed, horrified, but then I'd be a liar
for this sick addiction burns within like fire

you're disgusting, infatuating, twisted and vile
I'm full of obscenity, my heart beating bile

telling myself that you'll be a friend when I see you again
but deep down I know I won't be thinking with my brain.

because i've come to find that love isn't found at the end of broken and shattered bottles. it doesn't just pour out of cup and it cannot just seep through my lips. i have figured out that love is not captivated inside of a medicine container and love can't just be swallowed down with a big glass of water. i've never really found love inside of the drawers in the corner in my room and nor have i found it in the empty shoe boxes that are stacked on the very top shelf of my closet. but where i have found love, is in you. because love, which i've come to find, is a note sticking to the side of a half-drunken bottle reading: Here, drink the rest. love just pours out of your lips when you slowly whisper to me, "you're unceasingly infatuating." i have finally figured out that love is stuck in the downward curl of your eyes when you give me the, "i'm only smiling for you," smile. i have always seemed to find love in the smell of your oversized t-shirt that you hate wearing and the one little bracelet that you never take off but that i now have. i have never really found love when i looked for it, but as soon i stopped looking, i found all of it in you.

Over and over, again and again
Too much is in the way.
The sight of her sparks a freeing sensation, a blaze of infatuating curiosity.
And as I ponder, I wander, I begin to shift to the worlds that exist only when I'm dreaming, when im fully susceptible to my wonder.
I secretly want her, I secretly want to hold her, and feel like I'm not alone.
I want to be drowning in the waves of emotion that wake in her intoxicating aura.
Shes what I want, but can only have when I dream.
the world is ours when I dream. These spaces are a little less lonely when I dream, the air is easier to breathe when I dream.

But there are walls that by code I cannot breach.
The one high I cannot reach.
And by the mocking of the old crows screech, I feel I'm doomed to watch this flower bloom by the light of another man's heat.

The devil on my shoulder cries, to hell with your honor, ****** the man who wont honor her, while my angel implores that I mustn't haste that which I cannot change, how I wasted time sitting idly by, blind to the beauty in front of me. I hadn't shone the light she deserved, the light she needed to flourish. I watch her now, in bloom, in someone else's garden And inside i die a little more with each passing second of this paralyzing predicament. Each second I want to curl up fetal, wishing I had hastened that which I could've changed long before I allowed this much to get in the way.

Her curves were real
And made of steel
she jogged along the path
I watched her pairs and did the math

Mint green t, V-neck, super tight
Shorts so short I could see daylight
Arreola hints and could cut glass
Couldn't decide where to stare, **** or ***

Then she looked and smiled at me
Infatuating blue eyes and bright white teeth
Celestial nose, with a turned up tip
Short red hair and pouty lips

She said hello, and jogged away
I went back the next day
She wasn't there never again seen
I suffer each day from what might have

Infectious cravings strike,
Day by day materializing,
Away from purity and humanity,
Somewhere, infatuating over labels and glamour,
Does it matter that people are dying?
Silent echoes of the wind swirl pass,
It's the shop's they are gathered around-
Where you hear only people engage and sounds of clitter clatter.

My heart beats, as my lungs breathe
my body functions genetically,
as I become emancipated these functions are beautifully orchestrated.
My senses are heightened right down to the taste in my mouth, sound so loud and clear, like I'm on the inside looking out but somehow this feeling is surreal.
The vivid imagery floating through my mind,
I'm intoxicated with deep pure love from this light that has opened a new lease of life.
The deeper I sink into this abundance, my awareness is magical as though I'm in a dream.
My perception is altered and here I can receive clear truthful messages, intuitively knowing the answer that is often clouded by the reality blinding our sight and thought process.

This is the place I call home, at peace with myself and surroundings. The intensity of emotions and senses are infatuating to core.

sure, we're caring for the demographics,
a black hospital nurse
                           manages to own a mercedes benz...
huh?
          how did that happen?
                  a bunch of nigerians
   "business men" manage
to buy out all the new flats in a new building...
white priv.    white priv. they say...
             nigg'ah gonna shoot!
they still call us communists... never mind,
       i have no rhetoric for hyperboles...
  one muslim dies at a mosque... everyone goes
nuts! a muslim woman walks up to
           a politician and says: i'm afraid to
raise my children in this country!
   one word answer: manchester.
                       i knew and i try to forgive myself
into forging alliance with the zeitgeist narrative...
whether social or mainstream media...
   but sometimes, it's almost like ulysses
     not tied to the mast of the ship, mad, being
dragged to the depths by the song of sirens...
     and this is what media has become...
the song of sirens: as if you, really really,
     but not really, need to provide an opinion...
to the oars men!
                           past these crevices
                            of schizophrenic insinuations.
ah... but the title...
                  this is not an anti-feminist poem...
sure... allow men to join the army,
   make a fetish of demographic representation
being adequate, in the army...
          i've worked on a construction site?
          you know how many women are on
a construction site? perhaps in the kitchen...
      i've seen only one brick-layer, a butch woman...
she could butcher a cow with her bare hands...
there will always be more women in the army
than in the construction site...
       imagine, these days, being a industrial-sized
roofer, tarring a roof, in a heat-wave of
                    over 30 degrees... at the boiler?
over 50 degrees...
            women are more rare in the construction
industry, than in the, ******* army.
          oh please, come along... join the construction
industry army... lift 40kg of felt,
   and 45kg of mineral felt, and carpet
  the roofs of tall buildings...
                   in the 90s, roofers could still wear
shorts... now, they're boiling eggs in
    long jeans... and the radios were banned
    in the industry...
          sure, it's safe as hell, for it is hell,
     but glum and boring as an office job,
  that needs sit-coms and jokes...
                                   like i once said:
    i completed the scottish widows' h.q. building near
st. paul's...
  more women in the army, than in the construction
industry...
     this is not an anti-fe poem...
                    oh please, come along!
       in a place where there's so much concrete,
fresh roofing tar smells just as infatuating
as freshly cut grass where there's so much earth.
more women will join the ceremonial
procession of a weak army,
than join a strong industrial army of a strong
work-force...
      odd... i've never managed to spot
feminism making an insurgence into roofing...
            *****, shut the **** up!
you go and cover 100 sqm of a flat roof in a day
in over 30 degree heat...
     you do that... then you can moan
your little bourgeoisie swan song;
which is odd... since writing this so called
     "poetry",                   i feel castrated,
although internalised... my ***** are bulging,
and tickling my perception of things...
     i watered the garden, and cooked a bbq...
           oh well...
     ever wonder why construction workers are
anti-gym-culture of office workers?
    ******* krawaciaże, office hamsters...
    paper pile (a), vs. paper pile (b)...
                   more women in the army,
                 than in the construction industry;
less yoga, less yoga, less yoga,
                    oh don't join the army!
                            get into construction!
   then tell me that prostitution needs a tear;
you lift a 40kg roll of felt,
                              or a 30kg doughnut of
hot-melt, and drop it into a furnace of
                                                       a boiler.

Yesterday's moments disappeared like snow flakes
mistakenly falling in summer's heat.  
I knew I should have whispered one last thing.  
I should have savored more of you.
Then I would still have been able to taste your breath in my memory.  
Now I lust after moments . . .
moments passed.  
I implore sleep to quickly come and diminish my mental marathon of infatuating adoration and sorrowful missing.  
I close my eyes and wait for slumber to rescue me,
but just as my feelings of missed opportunity consume me,
my mind continues replaying the secrets of your imperfect, perfection.  
Once again you're keeping me up at night.  
But not from your intellect,
your hands,
your caffeine like presence.  
No,
instead from regret that I couldn't make those moments last forever.  
Now someone else gets to swim in your cognitive oceans and seek refuge in your arms.