we were those type of friends that would lick each others popsicles
the types that would shamelessly have sleepovers, sharing hot chocolate in donald’s duck cup i got from Disney World
the types that would have deep conversations for hours no end

then, well, something called puberty hit
then, well you changed,
changed indeed.
and ...well i suppose
yes, you changed very very well indeed
then, all of sudden you were the longing glance of every girl in the hallway, even the older girls in 8th grade
you were unanimously chosen for the “most handsome” in elementary yearbook
and you were even the jealousy of the other boys, even the older and bigger ones too

then, well you met her
Your Barbie to your Ken
and we talked still
but... you always talked about how great she was and i smiled
and i agreed
but little did you know
that you not only stole her heart and every other girls’
but mine too...

little did you know

By Me, the Great Duncan

Fickle and ever indecisive,
Destiny such a mistress
Taunting at my soul,
Yet,
When it shines in your favor,
Such a shine, shimmering with your jubilation for everyone to see

Hopeing was now a tired act,
Always the same night, same time,
Deep in sleep wanting nothing more,
Than to wake to someone,
Anyone to just ease this,
This tragic ironic loneliness I had put myself in

"Why?!" I screamed to the heavens of my dark ceiling,
Calling a question that mockingly,
Never was answered,
Yet

No more,
Live,
I whisper to the glass and grass,
Flowing and burning,
Mimicking the nights,
Speeding by,
Blurs on a deserted and dark, desolated highway, thumbing my way down,
Trying, searching,
For the tell tale signs of destiny,
Shimmering on the horizon,
Till,

Finally, in a bar,
"Let the night begin!" We yell as we begin our hunt,
Laughing, yet always on the scout,
Never seeing her,
Passing oh so close,
Almost!
The clock ticked down,
Closer and closer as Destiny,
That fickle mistress of my nightmares,
As deemed fit,
I met her tonight,
For all my cries in the night,
For all my past failures,
For all the ones lost,
I would find the one,
I've been asking for,
But only just,
As the clock,
Ticks,
Down,
Ever,
Closer,
Till...

She smiles sweetly,
I see her, only her,
The rest is blurred,
Distorted in the wake,
Of the beauty,
Radiating,
Only for me

Another smile,
From on high,
Destiny laughs,
We embrace,
A sigh,
Happily,
My question answered,
"Why?!" I had screamed,
Her,
Destiny answered

I think you can tell
a lot about a person
from the pictures
on their phone

little moments
that needed to be captured
or maybe
milestones that you accidently
forgot the camera for

photos
sent and saved
of loved ones
sunsets and sunrises
all nighters
self portraits from bored
rainy days

some pictures
you always meant to delete

little pieces of your heart
everywhere you go

the first day of summer
the last day of summer

places you want to go
and
places you ache to be again

documenting everything

I think you can tell a lot about a person
from the pictures on their phone

- l. m.

January is grim and grey in its usual way said the Jabberwock
And heart’s cockles need warming by crackling and sputtering coals
Now that winter's ghosts are shriven and shrivelled,
Undone by jolly festivities and bacchanalia
Singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ and holding hands we raise the ullaloo to loved ones lost, and so
Returns, the New
Year.

I miss thee, I hath to admit
I want to witness again thy stunning smile so sweet
And how th' sun always kindly, and generously, touchest thy dark hair
Then shalt thou breakest into endless jokes and childish wit
'Fore rising a tender smile, as we greet each other by th' circular stairs.

I bet thou art still remarkable and stupendous as usual
Thou whom I'th known since last grey fall
By th' ponderous sleeping lake; in th' midst of a burly night;
Thou stared through me with a pair of unfathomable eyes;
as though thou couldst makest everything in my heart-better and right;
and yon, yon colourlessness of th' night, shinest so beautifully as butterflies.
Thou wert, indeedst, not th' paleness I had dreamed,
thou wert not bleak, thou wert not mean.
Thou still shined brightly though chilled and dimmed,
thou wert damp, but sunny-just like th' nearby shuffling trances
to which I had never been.
At times thou canst seem lazy, ah-but thou'rt indeedst not!
As just I do, thou liveth thy life from dot to dot,
thou leapest from time to time in my story,
thou, though far away, somehow always seem near,
and be sitting here idly with me and my poetry.
Thou might be close not to my ears,
but I canst listenest to thee; as thou eat and pray,
and as thou waketh, to every single inevitable day.
T'is life, which canst somehow be bitter,
shalt at times corruptest thy happiness and thy laughter;
wringing thee into false devotion and meanness,
but be sure, my love, t'at I shalt be thy cure;
I shalt be thy unhealed passion and all-new tenderness.
I shalt be thy first salvation, honesty and satiation;
I shalt be a scarf t'at giveth thee warmth, and thy hated mediation;
hated and dejected by t'is dreadful world, my love,
t'is world which knowest not t'at love is everything above.
And I shalt be thy heaven, and holiness,
and thy greenest grass when it is too dark,
as t'is world hurts and drivest away from frankness;
and within its grim sacrifice, lettest go of its single spark.
Ah, thee, thy innocence is just like my own soul,
but it is what makest thee divine as gold;
thou art ever pure, and incessantly pure,
and thy jokes and ventures and preachings flawless and true.
And in t'is weary life-which is sometimes faultless but unsure,
thou always makest me feel honoured;
makest me feel brand new.

Ah, Kozarev, thou art my immortal twin star,
and thy lips my sophisticated fragrant moon;
thou art my umbrella in yon idyllic heaven afar,
fade away not, but thou drifted away too soon!
My love, but sketchest again our undying night,
t'is time with a new bosom of light,
and giveth me comfort within which,
and flinch no more, for I shalt not flinch.
Thy genuinity is my nature,
thy childishness is my cure;
for t'ere are no more lips as naive as thine,
though t'ey oftentimes seemest spotless,
and t'eir toughness, seemest fine.

Ah, Kozzie, only fate t'at shalt makest out paths eventually align;
fate who hath sent me sweet prophecies, and a truthful bold sign.
Let me be thy grace, and thy sole, immortal lady;
let me be such craze, so t'at thou shalt always be with me.
I shalt be thy doll, and thy very own addict;
I shalt nursest, and cherishest thee every day of the week.
And joy, and its miraculous delight shalt be ours alone,
fallen fast asleep by night, and renewed by upcoming morns.
Together shalt we teasest every passing minute and hour;
and treatest all 'em nicely, just like how we deemeth t'at laugh, of ours.
And when nightfall greetest, sleep, my love, sleep;
thy red, innocent cheeks shalt I kiss; thy greatest dreams shalt I keep.

Kozarev, and fliest me again to th' melancholy Sofia,
wherein our peace shalt dwellest, and be cheered and alive.
But let me first fetch my old, talkative umbrella;
for Sofia shalt be full of rain; but one t'at makest it safe, and thrive.
Ah, Sofia, our little haven like yon nearby oak chatroom,
old as it is, but still-tenderer t'an t'is ever lonely gloom;
I bet Sofia is still warmer t'an t'is fraudulent war of my heart,
though it is, of now, far and sat by a land wholly apart.
Oh, Sofia, in which our love shalt be adequate, but still-inadequate,
for our love is more benign, ye' at times-more capricious t'an fate.
And it is raw, but ripe, like a mature cherry;
it hath neither tears, nor hate, nor brave worry!
Ah, my love; but again fly me, fly me, t'ere-
for cannot I waitest to live my life with thee;
and so promise t'at I shalt not bend, nor go else anywhere,
so long as thou shalt stayest, and liveth thy future years with me.

Oh, and I shalt forsaketh thee no more;
and disdaineth thee no more-thou art my sonata!
My delight liest in hearing thy sonnets be told;
thou sitting by me 'fore moonlight, down on th' starlit piazza!
Ah, Kozarev, please no longer makest my heart sore-
I am sick to death, I detestest t'is grief to th' core;
Burnest my heart's cries, and indulgest me in thy arms,
I shalt brimmest in thy glory; and gratefully lost, in thy charms.

As th' world turnest so weak and rough,
we shalt be th' sole ones to fall in love;
but our idyll is one t'is envious world cannot gather;
as it growest bleaker, as it turnest worse.
But Kozarev, having thee by my side shalt be enough;
and my days shalt be no more sad, nor tough;
Thou art th' candle, t'at lightest up th' life within me,
thou art th' candy, t'at livenest up all my poetry.

Who knew our spirits would be so easily broke? Who knew our past loves would come crawling up our legs to meet us for dinner? who knew the joys of rhythm and melody would stand and stare us down for hours and never lead with the first move. Who knew the catacombs of my fearing mind would desecrate the innards of my only wantings. Who knows why the big ones reel in after dusk. Why did things turn out in the season of so much anger? How can one overcome any proportion of ill intention to an honest living. Where are the street-grit-fighting-fearless godsends of our time. Where are the nights of comfort among the towering plagiarisms of sonic inequities. Why am I stone in my own mirror? And how often shall I have to shave off the transgressive anachronisms of the jesting majority-unjust. Will I ever see a cannon with a name other than "jesus the king" around the barracks of quen anne burrows? I am cold and engrossed with my feelings. I am the youth's catch-all phrase for re-new-all and desperate tendencies. I am the unconscious objection to that censure of my own old crowning. The way i was held like an infant again. I mustered and mangled and derived that only in my free gliding could i roll down the soft hills of my fervent dreams. I can smell and sense the rays of jubilation i reach when drifting in tangent with the innocuous verbiage of my unbridled soul. Bringing the bleak toned honesty I once and always devote my sincerity towards. and alas my mind begins burrowed in the melting tin of bleeding doves. Not to be confused with other obscurities We Speak Wandering. Pleasant by night,