I remember the history well:
The soldiers and politicians emerged
With briefcases and guns
And celebrations on city nights.

They scoured the mess
Reviewed our history
Saw the executions at dawn
Then signed with secret policemen

And decided something
Had to be done.

They scoured the mess
Resurrected old blue-prints
Of vicious times
Tracked the shapes of sinking cities

And learned at last
That nothing can be avoided
And so avoided everything.
I remember the history well.

                                                                 2
We emerged from our ******* mounds
Discovered a view of the sky
As the air danced in heat.

Through the view of the city
In flames, we rewound times
Of executions at beaches.
Salt streamed down our brows.

Everywhere stagger victims of rigged elections
Monolithic accidents on hungry roads
The infinite web of ethnic politics
Power-dreams of fevered winds.

The nation was a map stitched
From the grabbing of future flesh
And became a rush through
Historical slime

                                                                 3
We emerged on edge
Of time future
With bright fumes
From burning towers.

The fumes lit political rallies.
We started a war
Ended it
And dreamed about our chance.

Fat fish eat little fish
Big ones arrange executions
And armed robberies.
Our ******* shapes us all.

I remember the history well.
The tiger’s snarl is bought
In currencies of silence.
Eggs grow large:

A monstrous face is hatched.
On the edge of time future
I am a boy
With running sores

Of remember history
Watching the stitches widen
Waiting for the volcano’s laughter
In the fevered winds

Hearing the gnash
Of those who will join us
At the mighty gateways
With new blue-prints

With dew as seal
And fire as constant
And a trail through time past
To us

Who remember the history well.
We weave words on red
And sing on the edge of blue.
And with our nerves primed

We shall spin silk from *******
And frame time with our resolve.
__
Source:
http://www.universeofpoetry.org/nigeria.shtml

I love you onion
I'll tell you why
in part because
you make me sigh,
you are everything to me
the song my Mother sang...
a whimsical, sad
and poignant little tale
I hear you crooning
& the radio tuning
my Mother knew me better
than I'd like to think,
singing ...
Lonely 'Lil petunia in an onion patch
a bittersweet memory
of all the saddest words
that I have ever heard
the saddest is the story
told me by a bird
tears fall from a pungent smell
when I cannot forgive,
say you'll never tell
and in tears of laughter  
when I'm tickled
seeing the inchworm
in the shape of a finger
a moment comes,
  I stay
and linger
climbing like a spider
singing me a verse
Spent about an hour
chatting with a flower
and here's the tale he told
as you're peeling layers,
& hearing prayers
revealing honesty
and depth of flavor
intoxicating waifs
I sniff and savor
kept safe
by a sturdy skin
cooking you
I start, begin
chopped fresh
and finely diced
or maybe
even thinly sliced
for summertime
franks, not the
Ballpark kind
these I doubt
you'll ever find
homemade baked beans
that you adorn and grace
a smiling sweet,
lil' onion face
everything made
from scratch
gleaning my
lil' onion patch
in toasted rolls,
whole grain mustard
potato salad...
best I can recall
my Mother
took the time to make
in everything
she cooked and baked
you're in all my memories
though you're in so much more
I've never shared with you
this love I have before
Onions are adaptation at its finest
fresh, sauteed with butter
translucent sweetness
Elevating anything you touch
they cry, and laugh
and give so much
dried, grated..slightly dated...
even hated, chopped up..
or roasted, grilled...
so very skilled
any way you slice it
even if you dice it
differently delightful
and delicious
smart for recipes,
even onion haters
appreciate the graters
sometimes your in  disguise
a lovely found
& welcome surprise
must be
I have something
in my eyes
as the flower
continues to sing
a joyful gift
my onion brings
familiar sounds
songs I sing
petunia continues
who put me in this bed
I'll bet his face is red
I call him down
with every teardrop that I shed
  then she said
if only I had him here
I would take him by his ear
and make him share my misery
I'm cooking homemade
onion chips,
rewound on old-time family clips
recall the fresh-squeezed lemonade
while we're sittin' in
the cooling shade
a memory of you replayed
so very glad you came & stayed
  sippin' slow brewed iced tea
my lil' onion friend and me.

Cherie Nolan© 2016

When the thunder collapses like my grandfather's love,
there's no one that can hate me more than I do now.
As the lights begins to stain and drain my eyes,
there's no one that can hate me more than I do now.
Skeletons fell with the sea shells in the air.
I hope I'm falling asleep.
To no longer be here
is to be fair to everyone.

Art gallery in my head,
where the paintings hang above
polaroids and used condoms.
Where it's okay that I'm there:
the picture of a *******.
Where it's okay to love me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to know me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to get close to me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to believe in me.
Where it's okay to be me.
Where it's okay to be me.

In 2003 I was molested.
I want it to be okay to be me.
I detached myself from lullabies
and sorry eyes, only to realize:
I could have been dead in March,
right before the summer glows
and everyone would know
It wasn't okay to be me.

Why did you have to do it
My flesh tastes tainted,
and my eyes are painted
with the disgust of distrust
and the disgust of your lust
that corroded my body
and ate my blood
Am I any good
I want to be good.
I want to be pure.
I want to be more
than what I am.
****
There's acid in my veins
There's ******* acid in my veins
My body ******* shakes
Even when in love, I shake
When I'm safe, I shake
Am I ever safe

God isn't real, and neither am I
I am about as real as the dream I can't even buy
My talent is irrelevant, my past dictates my decisions
My love is the only redeeming quality,
and even that lacks precision.
I want to be perfect. I'm sorry that I apologize for anxiety;
it's not so much that I'm asking for forgiveness,
I just want to hear that there's no need to be sorry,
because it's okay to be me.

Oh. Hey, my eyes are watering; isn't this cool?
We're all having fun. Yippee.

The sun bursts rays, and there are twenty-three different ways
to stay alive inside when I'd rather hide from the sun's naivety
Searching for warmth on the walls with blistered palms,
as I lay in bed, naked. Removed of clothes and hope.
Blood in my mouth, new starters with broken shoelaces on the floor
Dreaming of different places. I said: dreaming of different places.
Cryptic words. In other worlds. In fire, I learned to drown.

A-B-C-D-E-F-G
Reentering the room, drunk.
H-I-J-K-L-M-N-O-P
Hide behind the bloodied bunk.
Q-R-S-
T-U-V-
W-X-
Y and Z
Now I've learned my lack of harmony,
next time won't you spare me, please.

Roses fall from the ceiling. There's no way I'm feeling.
Detach yourself from this room, this nation, this planet.
"You're too fragile to talk to, Josh." Thank you.
Don't allow yourself to ever be hurt again.
Regain your focus after I count down from ten.

Ten.
Reasons to stay alive.
Nine.
I want to live, I don't want to survive.
Eight.
There's nothing about me that anyone should hate.
Seven.
There's no god, but right now, I can make my own heaven.
Six.
I detached myself from lullabies and sorry eyes only to realize I love you.
Five.
"You're still there, right?" Dial tone silence, followed by fist to wall violence.
Four.
And to know you, is to know everything.
Three.
Adaptation without reclamation I find you in my translation
as hurt yet elation.
Two.
I want to make love in love. I want to die and donate a part of myself;
my backbone, lack thereof.
One.
When I fall asleep my eyes meet yours.

Intermission:

Do you like hurt? Do you like pain? Is a happy poem not your game?
Well, read a poem by Josh Haines and never look at him the same again.
And don't look at yourself the same, because it's okay to be you!
For the price of absolutely nothing, you can look at his words!
Wait, and that's not all! Validate the 'beauty' of his words by
touching that heart and making it red!
Make it as red as the bloodied bunk that stained his back and heels!
Only for the price of absolutely ******* nothing!
Hurry, though! You only have until the end of ******* forever, so act fast!
The number is
1-800-I'M AVOIDING A LAWSUIT LIKE I DO THE PEOPLE IN MY LIFE

2nd.

Hey, do you like your parents?
Yes!
Trick question. Do you looove your parents?
Yes!!
Do you like seeing your grandmother in a wheelchair?
Yes!
Do you like being hurt by the people that you care about the most?
Yes!!
Then grab some popcorn and cola!

End of Intermission.


Trying like you're crying at the end of the film that documents your life
To divide a knife into your skin like it's a sin to feel this way
I just couldn't take it, bones in the corner of the room.
Inside a skeleton's eyes, flowers bloom.
Chicka-yay-no way. You swear? You say:
Ti-ta-time is on my side, but that's not how it feels inside.
An internal measure of the pressure of the world
and it's bound to run out like the sand in my hands
at the precious beach that would **** me if I stepped
into the blue, for me and you.

Let me turn back time to when I first met you.
Don't be afraid.

I remember everything. To never forget, is to realize every lie,
smile at every face, and to remember every goodbye.

I hurt my hands, I need to talk to you on the phone.

My insomnia lives off the thought, that I hurt you.
The room is blurry, and I'm sorry for being cold.
I am warm. I have the sun inside.
I guess I'm just afraid of burning you with it.

The drums pound into rhyme,
Diamond casualties
Rewind, wound, rewound
To scratch the surface
until there's nothing but sound.

I come from innocence:
shared VHS tapes,
Disney movies rewound so many times
they got jammed,
late nights spent searching for a lost Elmo doll,
orange Tic Tacs,
bedtime stories by Dr. Seuss
and later, J. R. R. Tolkien,
when Saturday mornings meant
waking up at 6 to watch cartoons,
and sleepovers involved liters of Mountain Dew
and Godfathers pizza.

I come from a magical world
where number 4 Privet Drive is my second address,
Big Brother is always watching,
and sleeping with windows open are invitations for Peter Pan.
A place where Mr. Darcy is my soul mate,
I have two dogs named Old Dan and Little Ann,
to follow a white rabbit is encouraged behavior,
and if you asked me who my hero is
I’d answer with “Sydney Carton.”

I come from opposite sides of the map:
One half includes
Springfield raised grandparents
giving me 20 first cousins,
29 second cousins,
annual family reunions at the lake,
home grown tomatoes,
and alcoholics.
The other half is four thousand miles away and includes
only two cousins,
phone calls every Sunday before two,
and phrases like “Weltrusten” and “Ik hou van jou”
that sound as English as “Good night” and “I love you.”

I come from transformation:
dance recitals where wearing lipstick and hating it
turned into High School
when we all started wearing eyeliner
because it made us look older,
summers soaked in sunlight
are now dampened with summer jobs,
monsters no longer lived under our beds
but in our heads,
clumsy first kisses went further,
romances disappeared
and were replaced with heartbreak
so agonizing
even chocolate couldn’t help,
funerals became imminent,
trophies won at basketball camp- age 7
mean nothing
when you’re told you’re not good enough- age 17.

I come from friendship:**
stupid fights for no reason
always meant brownies the next day,
five dollar Photobooth pictures at the mall,
scary movies we never finished,
sneaking out at three in the morning to swim in the neighbors pool,
and surprise birthday parties
complete with Silly String.
Learning that it’s okay
to let someone see you cry sometimes.
Dumb ideas like wagon racing,
and glow stick fights
that left welts on our arms and legs.
Lord of the Rings movie marathons,
girls night out at Buffalo Wild Wings,
riding bikes down the middle of the highway,
mix CD’s,
Red Mango runs,
words of comfort,
advice,
love,
and seeing the beauty in each other
even when we can’t see it in our self.

never is a longish time
evermore miles longer,wider
vulnerable to repartition
everlasting in it's perpetuity
re-quiescent supine                       eternally
                                 rewound
                                   rewound

(Farewell to an aged brother, RIP).
His good ole days are still to be,
In football heaven, in eternity,
Looks at the face of heaven, does he,
He rewound his music, so country,
He got them all back, you see,
His wife, his old dog, his car, no needs,
Pray his good ole days are still to be......

Round and round and round I whirl
I exist to pirouette, to twirl.

A sea of jewels at my feet shimmer,
They twinkle, glisten, shine and glimmer.

A rich array of cherished treasure,
Of value far too great to measure.

I hear the music as I turn…
The only tune I’ll ever learn.

My pose is ever full of grace,
A smile is fixed upon my face.

My hair is twisted into a perfect pleat
My ballet points laced on my feet.

My pink tutu stands out starched and straight,
As I mechanically revolve, rotate.

My spinning trajectory gently slows
My jolting pivot draws to a close.

And I’ll stand stock still until rewound
To again start swirling round and round.

Rewound
                             [re-‘wow’nd]
Replay

Rewound
                             [re-‘woo’nd]

The mind’s eye a constant projector.
Throwing up memories I would rather forget
How many times does one have to be
*****, rejected and fragged
before the tape fades and breaks
and past events stop projecting my future.

When do I get to see the light?
That pure white light
The light that passes through NO thing.
A blank slate that waits for me
to reinvent and reimage a past

without those memories

The memories that hold my future back
and my present hostage

When will the tape run out
And return to me my life?

When will it return my dreams?
My future?
When will it say “The End?”

Vernarth leaves and articulates in them to guide and accompany them with this imperishable itinerary, coming from the undivided becoming that was normalized with its evident parapsychology, creating certain polycellular substances in the accentuated multi placebo effect by injecting them with clinical blindness, to then reactivate them in the ejido of Bethany as a path of going and death, back and Life, with whom they revived from the anginal dizziness, that even some faltered when they saw Bethany full of Borricos who led them with the allegory as if the real world had just been made in a variety of towards a speculative problem and its limitations. Vernarth could glimpse with his glances certain affected areas of some who were with the entourage, essentially in the wear of their pancreas, hormones that were launched with radiant flashes of celestial suns, with extracts of muscles varying with irradiation in super stocks, inhibiting radioactive parts of Cinnabar that finally brought them all together when the phase of Cinnabar that was deployed as an aid to the cutting of the heads Speleothemes or Speleotomies, becoming radioactive by generating concentration in large eminences of snatched electrons, in order to begin to open the layers of the bathyal zone at four thousand meters of depth without light, up to the Neritic where large cemeteries with whale mammary arteries flowed back, and together with toxins from sea snakes. The hypnosis that Vernarth exercised towards all those who absorbed aspiring to have enough dynamics, and generate prayers of all kinds for when they reached the Metelmi tunnel of the Profitis Ilias. With the management of the visualizations of her emotions, meditation and prayers were rewound after a neat trajectory of wealth and well-being Venusiana.

The power of their unified minds has been successfully adhered to for hundreds of years since they were fostered. From the first hypnotic third with the mesmerism of the chiroptical, rather of the four species of Vlad, Fruit Chiroptera, Vampire, Indiana, Egyptian, which would mainly be the carriers of fertilization of the lands of Patmos, and their pollination together with the Lepidoptera, also gave them the magnetism in this way:

Says Vlad Strigoi: “Eventually it suggested to me from the hypnotic trance that led us to varieties of suggestion in the dermis, which it branded us as suggestive ectodermal. Under the keys of the nervous system if I have to have a conscience or exquisite wisdom for all the blisters that in frugality it is convenient for my species of chiropterans to shelter them, and not my human comrades. So I got over the death of my older brother, and then I succeeded him, where I went some time to moan him on the Danube. I was exiled in Edirne, and from there in my second reign, I went to Wallachia, many episodes happened and early in the morning I was visited by the rest of the Boyars' bats, fleeing from themselves, there were thousands and thousands I had to take care of from them. Later I went to Valdaine, Chauvet. Welcoming me to Wonthelimar so that one day we would regain the true kingdom of manumission in the darkness of Wallachia with my monastic brother Vlad Calugarul "

The blisters of thousands of Vlad's Chiroptera burst when he referred to his brother Calugarul, beginning to fall from the upper angle into cheesy leagues of flying animals, who wanted to control the pain of man, all protected by psychic mental waves emancipated from the presumptuous angle of Vernarth, and of the laziness of his spasms, and migraines that we're frightened of some by the entrails of the physiology of the platform. Upon reaching five hundred years, there were four hundred left to approach the quantum borders that the Souls of Helleniká transferred to them, the entire timeline was covered with a tunic that was moistened by turbulent water that appeared from overseas, producing dramatic conventional meteorologies, where The line of sight of the horizon lay three times where it was, to indicate that the humid plain of the tunic was in concert with the setting Sun. From this regulation plan, the prime time was counterpoint, for a link of half an hour before approaching midnight, before reaching the Profitis Ilias, specifically the Metelmi Tunnel in the Raedus Codex. Many species were unable to tolerate the immunity of such an event as they emerged to the surface and began to collect cells that revived engulfed in themselves, to later become impregnated with Wonthelimar's entourage and then predisposed to enter the geological cavity.

The collectivity of time was dissipated, all the nature that was of a coherent past was beginning to visualize itself towards a state of immunity mechanism, due to the trances that deprived it of hope of living in a new beginning before reaching Patmos. From Agios Andreas, expulsions of malignancies that were expressed with the Apsidas Manes were still felt, being very well alternated by Marie des Vallées who deconcentrated conventions and individualities towards the lacerated that still did not form outgrowths on their bodies removed from Spinalonga, while she continued as always In its most absolute darkness and exile, only portraits were enough to project itself on a populated island, which would be rescued from involuntary excretions and depopulation, being a human settlement. More than a hundred experiments were missing to scale the island to a superiority that was far from a medical shelter site, which excludes it from knowledge of prevalent and invalidated concepts of a miraculous life that was beginning to be written in Agios Andreas. The power of Faith self-healed in the bodies that had yet to be awarded the healing intentions of collective minds that flowed among all, when they were guided by the Saint of Normandy after having clear evidence and for how long they would be on this islet, for also rejoin the investiture of the Himation of Vernarth in the Áullos Kósmos, indemnifying the intervals of the Vas Auric and the Cinnabar. All prayed inclined towards a transformation of the permutations that inspired a quantum healing, that moved the waves of the seas in unison with their prayers, that creating a quantum healing atmosphere in all channels, and for all their atoned intentions. Telepathy apprehended all their emotions, prevailing the vital energy that contemporary in the prayers of the new earth field that greeted them became at their astonished feet.

The hospitality of Agios Andreas had Theus and Vikentios defined to be with her, to have total compassion with the Saint and to recover their ancestors with a focus of energy that were invaded by hyper healings similar to an ultrasound, which emanated from the hands of the Santa, for each of the individuals who remained to be definitively healed and then redistribute them in the new spheres of execrations, which hung from the indigenous Manes on the island, which delimited the improvement of many human beings who lived long periods here, overcoming dimorphisms in the reproductive organs of ancient cavemen, with leprosy in the ***** of their ******, but the testimony of dimorphism motor skills will lead to species totally free of this scourge of the ***** bacillus, to perfectly synchronize a field of healing energy, from the magical thought of the Saint who assisted them permanently, to prepare themselves in the new regions before they had what to make the last decision to integrate in Patmos. The membranes of the nuclei of the sun that healed them and reconvened themselves from the molecules of an energized level of matter celestially congruent, with the sensitivity of the affected organs, until some cells imprisoned in the cells of lost morbidity, hypnosis was reinstituted bilocate de Vernarth who assisted them from his eclectic Portal before superior hypnosis that led them to mutate their bodies into astonishing birds, which were retransformed with the Birds of the Stymphalus.

Is it my counter-counterclockwise
mind wasting time? Elbows
on the dining table pulling my angel
hair into grid-like times tables.
I’m invested in this non-conversation
table. Ich liebe dich, mein Freund.
I’ve got commitment issues and four-ply
tissues for when my eye lashes start
peeling apart. My grandpa died in 2005
and I’m all but over it. I’m holding
his kite string, but the reel is almost done,
like VHS tapes rewound then fast-forwarded
to the good times. Power Ranger birthday
and everyone’s wearing dunce caps
with elastic chin straps ‘til they snap.
Snap! Snap! Snap me back to three-years-old,
and I’m singing in a Robin costume
‘cause I knew I’d always be second best.
I had an identity crisis around fourteen,
so I stopped buying sunglasses
because I found myself in other
peoples’ shadows. But now the only shadows
they’re casting are the ones from their headstones
and from the fields of flowers cradling
them like they once cradled me.

Fast-forward, I’m genuflecting in gym shorts
before myself in a mirror smudged with plum
felt. And I seem small compared to my life
spelled out in Expo marker markings.

Women and money make the world go round.
Gravity grips all the greats to the ground.
Poetry properly packs a pound.
Fighting is futile some research was found.
Sanity speaks without making a sound.

Last but not least - seriously, stick around - Magic's my tailor so my suits are spellbound.

history is an old cassette tape
                     being rewound
and repeating
        we need a new tape...

The boats are
like constellations from up here
and all
I can think about
is being on one
sailing south
to Love
to you
back where I came from
the stork in the sky
back where I came from
a love keeping me so
high
and down here, I want to
tell him how the smoked salmon
on the grill mixes with
the fog of the ocean
and how it tastes dipped
in pine.
I want to show him the smiles
of happy old lovers and their wine,
having the time
of their
lives.
I want to stare into those
matching eyes
of sea grass
paired like
a pie-in-the-sky
I want to tell him everything
and nothing
but show him
everything stung by Love
Show him the ways my eyes flutter
with thin ocean stained glass
waiting for
a light house
a seagull
a message in a
card, bottled with his Love
humid warmth sticky like
melting popsicles and kids in the
summertime with
sticky eyelids wanting to open only to
the trace of his skin I want him
to peel
like onions the layers
away
reveal
everything I am and spin me on the deck
of this dock
like a top.
I want him to taste
my Love
in my sweet tomato basil alfredo pasta
or my midnight cinnamon toast
or my
sea salted lips
I want him
to feel this
sweet sea **** entangled
in my heart
I want him
to know this
everytime I come Home
to him,
I've come back to where
I came from.
All things rewound-
among this sea
I am
Lover Bound.

there may be a time when I'm removed far enough

… but no, not today, today, I ask
new mercies, and
I recall, that's on auto. Hapsthappeneverday kinda thing.
Time after time.
That is a miracle, time.

Really smart
people, that class that feels included in the
we, the
people, politico-intellect-ism trend sect,
they think the math is there to prove

time is
what clocks do, (Royal Institute Youtube watch it)
                                                  
that we,
that ain't me, ye see, I got

removed far enough
to see the blurry
next res
bigger picture more pixels than an eye is said able to see

So for everlasting ideas,
like hell and
heaven,  

the re act
to my act is the power
to act. Eternal motion as perpetual
as can be imagined by mortals, for sure.

Get it together or you leave a huge hole in the fabric of reality JBP

play the role your hand finds dealt,
your special way,
words count inbetween the sayer/hearer
the idle wons are wins not worth the weight, don't fight
the value system that makes life spirial,
swirl of a wand, mathematically
bowing to magi
Fibbo, go viral
with my wind.

this is your life role,
the one in eight billion role.
the star of the show as the hero of hormone wars.
it's all in your head,

how did it *** there, howditgit
this way
this is crazy. No, you never saw crazy, old dude.

Ya had yo'own knows sparkin' at the grindstone,

whet the edge,
or put to more labor..

removed
far enough from this world

my bubble
is in it not of it,
… since 1970. No ****. Outathis world…

Crazy was the melding  from the sixties to…

I was thinking, to about the mid-eighties, but
now,
you and I, we travelled to the beat of several
different drums.
Olde dude,

If you put your nose to the grind, ******
you may have missed,
in fifty years,
more
than you imagined, now, is a new day time.

Some seed never sown back when, can be sown and
grown right,
now.
That's good.
I'd say some words I've helped be heard have

made the world some better'nitwas when we stopped.

time to roll.

Sisyphus, right. 'Never missed a trick time
it takes to roll the rock up,
then in between tick time
to roll the rock up,

onus minus the roll down, the unshackled wireless
inbetween shameless blameless
imagine
happy ever after…
How?
Pretend, the end.

Push, happy as hell.
tick, time
to roll the rock up,

Incorrectness of value of value from the gitgo,
like buttoning your shirt wrong from the first button,
as soon as you fix it, it's fixed.

Nothin' you can do?
Do nothin'.

Think, Sisyphus, happy

Happy he's not in that time we are so removed from
now
slow and steady kinda wins the race, she said that,

Ben or me? Where does the thread un-ravel?

Extended time model, Rogan in the back ground,
what myth has the fear factor guy,
a little short power-lifter-kick boxer guy,
some smart, quick of wit, a hunter,

who was asked, in Thailand,
Have you seen the true beauty of the elephant?
I was asked that, in Thailand,
by a saffroned monk at a kickboxing match
in the jungle in 1968.
Synchroni-city or what?

Who could steer it's  hearing
by a clock and fail

to hear the rhythm of the rock rolling down the hill,
inbetween
the tick…

Sisyphus says time is more effective,

if-ity-ish when,
and only then, when ticks hapt to be

at the very point of return
time
the roll back
no rush, no dread no worry, imagine

time ticks at the sharpest point of the story
at the very very very tippy top
point in time

defining you.
Shame, sticks to you like tar.
Marilyn and Monica and Marla and all

Fame to blame, to shame for being  a believer that
there may be a time when I'm removed far enough

to ignor my own ignorance and innocence
of ideas that possessed
fools

A murderous assault on your attention span,
musicals, those people really live near enough my bubble,
that I can find
ripples

from decades I missed, this is 2018, how can it get better?

The grand wizard cat. pop. elephants are so sweet,
dam,
rewound. Really,
cool, I know what he says next, it's funny before it's funny.

Today is a real good day to get away. Binging Rogan,
testing a mystery fruct-ification
of a single seed from
a sack 'shake.

----
As you move forward in time how do you measure

progress
lo-res thinking, 72 dpi 1984 Macintosh. Hello

now there is reality at the speed of thought, imagine

this was once the speed of thought.

===
why are you in pain? Do you know any lies you believe?
Do you
urge others to suspend their un-belief
to hear you think

listen
ridiculously (is that a good word)

listen, people become interesting, from a distance,
thank you,
I'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

something about you. something about october
the dried up leaves and the way everything feels quiet
in the middle of the day
like living inside of a vhs tape that hasn't been rewound
in a decade or two
makes me want to start visiting the cemetery
make friends with the forgotten
when we ended up walking the dogs there on accident
it felt like coming home
i'll bring my books and a bag of dried cherries, peanut butter
bars of dark chocolate wrapped in gold foil, sunflower seeds
the nightstand with the warped wooden drawer
that's always getting stuck
where i keep the half-melted birthday candles
and a box of matches, just in case
prop my pillow up against a headstone
read vonnegut until i fall asleep
grow closer to death until it doesn't scare me anymore
i used to think ghosts lived in mausoleums but now i know
they live inside of a twenty-four-year-old who watches
the same vampire movie every time it rains
just to feel safe inside the familiarity of the past
i'm still the twelve-year-old girl
just waiting for something to happen to her
i burn my skin in the shower just to feel less alone

Could he have envisioned that this
Would have ended this way, moments
Were dwindling to one last breath.

"Why are you doing this?

All was silent, they just watched in anticipation
As into air he stood, silently swinging , no words
Were spoken they just looked at each other.

"Help me, please,

A faint voice echoed in the trees, not yet dead
But slowly as if not tortured enough, now time
Was slowly killing him, hanging by a thread.
Weeks pasted and where his breath expelled,
Stillness graced his essence, decaying pieces fell.
Blighting life, puffing mushrooms spawned.

When all that was him decayed and that final
Thread broke, cascading did he fall and released
Upon the air, spores fell like pungent snow.
In twigged solitude a bird ingested that which
Bathed the expanse. Eyes were blue adjacent to
Feathers charcoal and then it sang a song.

Inside voices corroded and it was of two echoes,
It glided upon heavens wishes, landing on the
Ledge of one who watched his step into oblivion.
Knocking three times on the window, attention
Was grasped and he headed to see this curiosity
That sat unsettling glare piecing towards himself.

"Hello there black bird,
"Do you wish me Ill will perched upon here,

Tapping on the window sill, feathers fell with
Each impact on pealed paint. His eyes squinted in
Thought, that's Morse code you are knocking.
He threw open draws, its contents scattered in
Haste, an old envelope and pencil were his scribe.
"Ok little fella lets see what you want??

.-.R .E ...-V .E -.N --.G .E
.-.R .E ...-V .E -.N --.G .E
.-.R .E ...-V .E -.N --.G .E

And then the bird was vacant of life, its feathers
Like tar laced the window keeping it ajar.
"What the hell..,
Confusion spread on his face, and with that this
Bird, expelled on ripped flesh. Spores that soaked
Essence upon the unsuspecting surrounding.
Inhaled, choking as consumed from within.

"Knock, Knock, Knock,

I know your still in their, I'll let you see what
Greets those who stood on earth while I walked
On airless steps. Inside was a voice, pleading for
Freedom unsure of what was done. A noose was
Shown through eyes both seen. In that moment
A silent scream, and he smiled in glee, seeing within.

Breath was musky as growing inwards flesh was
Seeded and soon expelled would his soul again be.
Memories seen, thoughts listened upon to know
Where the next would be. A pick up truck was in the
Drive, red white and blue? he spoke to himself.
"Could you be anymore redneck,
Beer cans washed on the drive way, he shook his head.

I saw inwards but no reason for my moment, as not
Worth a thought to recollect. I remembered it all
The consequence of life still gnawing at the rope.
I recalled  the infinite time of my own death.
Not released feeling the essence of ones self decay,
My substance raging on soiled earth below.

Streets past and the house was stared upon, to
Knock the door, to see the others surprise on
My words spoken, I glanced him just returning
Home, paper bags of whatever. No importance,
I undid his seatbelt and upon the curb I lifted I
Heard his screams as through the mass we flew.

He greeted the windshield, majestic exit though
Shards, quiet not a sound. Where blood has seeped
So did the bloom of my gift, spores welcomed his
traumatized vision of a friends torn flesh. I saw not
Through closed eyes, but once again I was taken inside.

Words were spoken I recall, as he still held tight the
Noose I had put around his throat, now stained in the
Blood of two not only one.

"No, No, what have you done,
"It wasn't me it was theeeee...,

I cut him off their lies I saw from the inside, I was just
A pawn. a random moment of... memories entered as
If I was their  before it had begun.

"Come on you only life once?

"Are you serious what if were caught,

"If we bring anyone here who knows of this spot?
"Its a twenty minute walk, come on she said she'd help,

"She, I remembered now their were three. I was
In the bar, she brought me a drink or handed me a bottle?
Rage flared as I smashed his hand against brick wall.
How did I not see, that it was opened before, I was
A play thing which she took to them and my death.

I heard a voice in the back, his hand was broken, I
Let him taste the pain over and over again. I opened
To find her, a bullet wound to her leg? I paused his
Thoughts rewound this moment, and played it out,
She was going to **** me, him she'd had enough.

I spoke in his voice words grainy as spores bled
From his thoughts,

"Why did we **** him was it worth it?

"I was blinded by love,
"I thought you would love me more,

"You killed me out of love, he didn't die you know,

"What, what do you mean?

"We walked off, but he was breathing life till death,
"I wasted away, and we still breathed,

I recalled the moment I came to being not sight, not
Words just anger, then I was upon air I thought I was
On the voyage to a better place instead I find myself here.
Where did he drop it, I search under rubble and find it.
She crawling, screaming her life ending moments away.

I walk behind, straighten my sight and see one shell,
One decision her or him, I walk into the kitchen,
Scattering objects in frantic moments and their it is drain
cleaner, I open the fridge and drink the first few gulps.
It fizzes on contact, I swill it in with a cocktail stick and wait.

Its barely been a minute and I see her exiting the room,
In a calm voice I apologise and offer her the beverage,
To calm your nerves, to sullen the pain. I wait eagerly
For her to swallow it will only take one but she resists.
I take it from her smashing it on closed teeth. Drink your
Fill, as you poisoned me I complement upon you.

Confusion filled a scared face I felt remorse, pity, but
Then it faded as I recalled my fate, blood gurgled, as
She was eaten away. a single word, her last
"Sorry,
But words mean little to one who used them, as before
I gave her my answer, silence. What was I to do, he
Was left, standing more or less. he screamed silence.

You, them took it all away shouting at him self in the
Mirror, I could see the fear etched in his features.
You killed me for nothing but boredom as if I were
Hunted for the ****. Well you know what they do
With injured animals don't you??

"Please don't **** me,

his voice grainy as it was with fear spoke out.

"I'll hand myself in show them where your remains are,

"I'm here,
"I will never let you know peace,

He went to talk again but I lodged it in, gagging as I
Pushed it further in, know how it is to die slowly.
As I pulled it out, on his throat I released my pain
And he felt what little time there was to hold on by
A thread. Breath drowned slowly in blood, his head
Tilted sideways his reflection gazed as lights went out.

I was expelled at that moment, unseeing, feeling nothing
But relief, as I was blown to the wind and into oblivion
I swept but I did not go alone. I am released of my burdens.

A bird land on a window sill, scratching words into painted
Wood, knocking gently on the window. A woman opens
It cautiously hold onto a little one, only to be greeted by
a small bird.

"Hello their little one,

The child smiles and the bird chirps a tune, a smile
Spreads on her face "I recognize that,  as the bird
Taps down scratching the last word

I WILL ALWAYS BE HERE

A tear rolls down her cheek, as the little bird
Flutters away the child speaks his first word

*Dada Dada,

favored memories you face faded now in spaces
of black blank places those jostled touches of
colors of hosiery ******* hung on lines that last touch
with old fashioned  wooden clips
the **** and the ******* and the line taut
between  stretched the left and right  
where dogs roam wild and nothing is washed or hung out
those fineries hidden from view now with an Aqualung
tracing his flute and deep bass
around the inside your skull
as you dance on the park bench barking ferile
unkempt flea and louse ridden crazinesses
scratching your self like that terror  
you demonized
the memory you became of that same man
who said hello
to you so long ago
and wretch throw up
so much now
it does no good

Allow me to introduce you to the scene:

Empty rooms with padlocked portals
Absconding the identities of the small town
Metropolis.
Crawling through it's empty corridors;
The syrupy melodies, of muddy songs,
Humming themselves.

I see the earth raining into the clouds.
The bone marrow
Injustice bleeds through the Kevlar canvas
Calling out to severed limbs
(of porcelain trees)
On secluded islands, crowded by
ten-thousand concrete angels.

Ten-
Thousand.

"COME ONE COME ALL"
"PREPARE TO BE AMAZED!"
Cries the vulture on the Master
Of ceremonies shoulder, as he circles
The empty bleachers in Padlocked rooms.
Erogenous melodies now;
Creak through the cracks of the hardwood
Floors, whitewashed seven times over.

Is the television too loud, masking the tune that's
Cascading through the room?
The nocturnal sun goes to sleep at night
Tonight.

Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock-Tick-Tock.
The grandfather clock awaits Its final
Stroke.

The overwhelming smell of bathtub
Moonshine, awakens the vanity,
And drowns royal dignity.

Tell the truth,
You have heard this story one million times now.
The ending is ALWAYS THE SAME.
And yet the tape is rewound
And fastened to our eyeballs.

I have consumed,
The godhead fungus,
Once again,
Upon upset stomach,
I will watch,
my mind unravle,
become undone,
rewound,
renewed,
possibility of destruction,
Omnipresense,
Tho, the word topple over,
the mountains fall to the sea,
none of this worries I,
For creation comes,
From the depths of the depraved,
Relentless,
Hospitable,
Passion flow like rivers,
Juxtaposed round the ignited,
Universe,
Cosmos,
Atomic Circus.

Buddha was the broken hourglass
that spilled seconds across my backyard.
Mother Earth scolded him for his slipup,
so I smoothed her over with my minute hands.
She told me that he who skips an interval
needs to double back his ticks
so, grain by grain, tick by tock.
She rewound my hands to round out
the stonewashed garden that was being fabricated.
So I steadily swept shards of seconds
under the rugged rug of ill will.
I riddled ripples within her granular skin,
skidded stones across her carved clock
face fitting ****** features together like cogs.
Buddha shook the soil off
and fixed his gaze on my clockwork.
He explained that patience is key
if one wants to harvest his feast.
Before the goods go about,
pivots and rivets need to tie together.
Mother Earth collected her thoughts
and agreed with his concept.
I finished my work, stepped back,
admiring the hourglass I rebuilt.

Undecided frontages in the back of the garden
bleeding orchids look through you with
shots refired and rewound
through time slowly i see
i want to become what
reality has plunged
me into broken
clocks and Time
defeats me
crushing
me

I began with verse about Wyeth's Christina
but I couldn't see her face, and I've never been to Maine
though her twisted body pains me

then I flew to the opposite coast
summoned by the memory of a ghost:
my best friend at Bodega Bay, one fine day
forty Augusts gone

he threw a Frisbee to his Airedale
and we ate sprout sandwiches, avoiding the foul
karma from the slaughter of beeves,
hogs, he said

I would like to relive that day,
with its blue dusk, but the clock can't be rewound
and he is not to be found on the great Pacific

kin who barely knew his face
chose his final space--a hot hole on Oklahoma
prairies, not far from his drunken father
and others who never saw him watch
the sun sink gold into the sea

in my head I'll exhume him,
maybe return him to the waves
that reclaim all things

or introduce him to Christina
a continent away--he could help me know her
though her eyes face another world

I am denied a second time
a catching glimpse
a passerby
the endless chantering that flows through the rye
until I catch a glimpse of the other side
through your eyes
we go together

a floundering heat
an upheld beat
that swims in midst of rays
to reflect upon your gleaming eye
holding a gaze, time says lasts for days

yet it already happened
a rewound record instilling its tunes
into you
and oh!
you're already gone
refilling these city blues
guess I wasn't ready for you
oh, this generation of use and abuse
to take as material , to ignore the core
denying the message, but focusing on the tune

I guess I really am you

Another reality is ours but for the time being
We're chronic victims of our own poor judgement  
And anxiety
Spurred by loops of psychoanalyses, like VHS
Tapes rewound and repeated until the film tears

My mother's love got taped on reels and spools,
Cassettes she threw on on an old-school deck,
On wheels that spun straight through our lives and went
Unbreaking. What played in us played there on that
Machine, so we were soundtracked to her old-school
Tunes, to folk stuff - sixties hippy **** -
That pulled our radar-hearts around and made
Our souls attend. We'd be bouyed-up on soundwaves,
Beats her hand MC-ed, her finger soft
On PLAY, and sometimes, when the mood was right,
We heard her too. Who knew that half a world
On, on some late night slot, some other tune-in,
I would find her track, and be rewound?
Her sonic reverb tells me, “dance now, dance”.

I was wandering as we do,
looking for my life,
leaving what I once had,
long since paid the price.

I was hoping for an answer
to a question I don't dare ask,
I was searching til I found it,
and there I'd end my task.

I came upon a house,
middle of no-where, circus out back,
no-where too important
just a shelter on my track.

My cell phone bars were empty
but local wifi's open wide,
I made my host hungry
for technology by my side.

Sleep came slowly, lately,
within abandoned tiger-pit
beside my convenient compatriots,
safety in numbers not always a fit.

He drove his car right over me
and pinned me to the ground,
took my magic cell phone
to be the fanciest one around.

What he didn't know: I'm a dreamer,
and I always get my due.
I woke, rewound, and slept again,
and had another chance to choose.

I couldn't run, couldn't fight,
so magic was my key,
I drew a bubble around myself,
my droid close beside me.

He drove his car right over me,
my bubble lifted it from the ground,
I, neither injured nor trapped,
he, not winning what he found.

Morning came and rested
I stood and yawned and stretched.
Restful sleep is hard to have,
when journeying far and westward,

but I did and all my things
still journey by my side.
Life is more than just a dream
when you wander far and wide.

An average guy,
Twenty-two years old,
Whose life is just                        a picture show.
Cliché acting
And Predictable drama,
This boy’s life
Is a rewound product.
Slave by trade;
Free Spirit by desire.
He holds his head high,
In search of his destiny.
Yet, deep down,
He’s just a common typist
Who spills his emotions
On the page of Sadness.
Good God!
Won’t somebody save him!

Light give way not.
Harbinger of death,
time is. She sought
the scars yesterday's
sunsets burned and
brought. Pain demands
strength. Master
*******, cheated
calendars, and rewound
clocks. Nightlight savings,
an hour lost. Inevitably,
she was caught.

Some days I don’t want to leave the cinema
I sit dead centre,
hope the screen will fill my field of vision,
each speaker will cover my ears
in numbing sound
allowing thrills and broken hearts
of others’ made up tales
to supplant my own for two hours
and change

The dark holds me anonymous,
lets me depart and drift,
try on the moods in lost safety
so when credits roll
choked tears and shiny blisses
are returned, rewound, reset
for what comes next

it's been a few weeks, and
i'm trying my best,
though i can still hear
some voices in my head.
i'm trying to go blind,
trying to do and not
escape from real life.
but it's hard to stay here,
standing ramrod still,
when there's dancing around me
that's making me ill. i can't
find a shortcut or some way out
so instead i'm just looping these
feelings around
and around, like a cassette tape
being rewound,
looping and looping the same
tired sound.
taking all of this in is a bit
of a struggle and i'm finding
that i'm drowning
inside of this puddle and god,
i'm not much of a believer
but i sure think i'd like
if you could send me a sign. i need
some reason, give me a rhyme because
i'm trying to force these words out
but here i am typing and i can't
hear a sound
it's like radio silence from every single end
and i know it's just school
i know it's just them
and i know it's that friendless
might be my middle name,
right between selfish and
still-can't-tell-you-the-game,
can't give you a clue,
can't bring you the truth,
even though i'm advising other people
on how to do what they do. so maybe my
first name is hypocritical and my
last might be *****,
but at least that's an itch i'm
quite familiar with,
and oh god i think i'm crazy
i can't see straight right now,
the typing of keys, the clicking of
cows, i might need a break,
i'm getting one now.
but i still see your face, and
try as i might, i'm fighting
your sweetness,
oh my god i hate this,
can you stop it please?
dear god can you hear me,
can you consider my pleas?
i'm not very special and
quite wish-washy,
but i think i need your
guidance because i'm lost and
without, help me decide
where my heart is standing,
help it find solid ground so i can make
a soft landing.

Fear and infractions,
Basic senses,
Subtle subtractions,
Delayed response,
Relayed reactions,
Play off the hint,
Winter hue,
Malice tint,
Hateless tasteless,
Faceless placeless,
Placed placement,
Playful payment,
Frivolous and fevered,
Tempered beliefs,
Believers,
Belay the bounty,
Beautiful and temptress trite,
Fracturing county,
Past tense recite,
Fast forward rewrite,
Rewound and respun,
Locked and lead loaded,
Geared and gunned,
Sudden and semi-accidental implosion,
Rewarming,
Sickly hex,
Weakened flex,
Internally overcasted and overtly storming,
Outwardly warning,
Slowly learning,
Forever turning,
And in turn,
Burnt and still laid burning,
Waking a ghostly turning,
Soundlessly and -ly burning,
Smokey on the peripheral,
Ethereal,
Eternally external,
Forcefully feared,
Into inferno,
Out of opinionated opressionables,
Que wide and willingly willed questionables,
Wordlessly whispers with the whim of the wind,
Beget blindness,
Begets mindless,
Begets beauty bound by which beauty begins,
Found fearfully,
Torn tearfully,
Retold beautifully,
Molded after mourning,
Mourned before morning,
Night neared,
Sadness teared,
Tearing soundly on edges,
Destruction and dutiful pirouette,
Tasted tyranny teem and endance pledge,
Irony stills,
And the air dare not forget.

It was the children I tell you,

"That was my last moment as a free bird,
"Now I sing behind caged walls.

They were there in the moments of my spiral of despair,
I first heard them, saw them when I took the bottle.
Counting them like sheep,
1 sheep,
2 sheep,
.
.
.
.
.
.
32 sheep more.
Then I stopped momentarily.
The world was a mirage of my thoughts as I threw the
empty bottle of whiskey on the floor. Lets spin the bottle
see where it lands, I watch it rotate on empty odours.
Then it lands base up, I stare into the white emptiness
above my head and see nothing. Fluke of the spin I thought
till my eyes descended down.

"Hi Elizabeth such an old name, for such a young soul,

She must have been no older than ten, OK, the tablets
are making me see things I thought in my mind?

"No Elizabeth there right here,

Partly dissolved white stones linger in her palms, why did
she do that? and how did she know that these were buried
within me. I thought for a moment then asked?

"What do you want from me? why would you save me?
"I was ready to leave this place to sleep in oblivion,

"Were not letting you go yet, we have things for you to do,

"Why would I do anything for you child?

Because I'm not a lone,

"Around, around we go, while were here you'll never go,
"A tablet will never fall, a wrist no blood will kiss the floor,
"You'll hear us whether night or day,
"We'll visit you in slumber and seed your dreams what may,

"Why would you do this,

Then the world became a spin cycle and It was the 90 degree
wash, I woke up sweating, my clothes dishevelled.
I was clasping onto a empty whiskey bottle huddled onto
it like it was a favourite teddy from when I was young.

"Jesus that was one weird whiskey educed dream,

Getting up I noticed what was a jingling sound in the base
of the bottle had I put a ring in the bottle again? I looked,
my skin shuddered and my eyes widened as I saw what
must have been at least forty tablets laying in recesses
of the bottle. I turned  my head to the floor throwing up
what whiskey still lingered in my stomach,. What the hell
had I been thinking?

Footprints so many footprints in a circular dance, and two
more just static in the centre, I looked at my feet I still had
mine on I throw them off in haste, or was it fear? I measured
them in size to mine and they fit like gloves a perfect mould.

"No, no that was just a messed up dream,

"It wasn't our Elizabeth,
"Who the hell ar......,

I wake up again my clothes dishevelled but this time
an added bonus blood, what the hell happened I
thought. I checked myself over and to my amazement
none of it was mine which left me to the more panicking
thought who's was it and where had it come from?

******* I feel sick as I assume that this is one
persons hardened essence now secreted on my being.
I shower and then dry off, I run to the toilet as I *****
multiple times, I cant remember ever eating that?
Where had I been? how long had past in missing time.

I just binned the evidence there was a communal burning
bin. I waited till it was dark, I knew one of the  lights was
temperamental at best so i waited till it failed...

"Come on go out,

I thought aloud, then like a fading star it did the usual.
Flickered and like an ebbing star slowly died out . I ran
like it was a race for life, I'd put lighter fluid in the bag
and threw it in.

"I missed,
"I missed, what the hell,

The light flickered on again I was out of the reach of
its view and noticed another come towards the flickering
embers.

"O' crap o' crap,

Thoughts collapsed like dominos in my head, then he picked
the bag up and all I heard was, "Messy ingrate cant even throw,
Then like in slow motion it glided like a wingless crow in to
the fire. Within moments the bag ignited like a phoenix he lit up.

It was like nothing I had seen before he had stood to close to
the fire when he'd throw it soaked in liquid it went up as well
as him the surprise on his face was intoxicating i watched as
he danced the tango of death.

Then I snapped out of it fumbling to get my phone,  but this
moment passed and he was lifeless smouldering on the ground
I could smell him cooking slowly. I ran inside, grabbed my phone
again to ring the police.

But I looked down and it was still recording.

"What I cant remember pressing that,

"We did it Elizabeth,
"So you could watch your work over and over again,

"Your not real, your a child,

"O'dear elzabeth if that's true then you did this all,

I rewound the video, wait there was more than one?
I watched each of them horror spread like an extinguished
Sun as darkness consumed it. But I felt myself smiling,
I looked in the mirror and they were there all of them.

Counting them like sheep,
1 sheep,
2 sheep,
.
.
.
.
.
.
32 sheep more.
I had closed myself in the bathroom, locked them from view, it
wouldn't be long now. I awoke again, sluggish to my surroundings.
I was again in bed my clothes as the night before, holding a *****
bottle empty and Ii looked slowly and there were 31 pills and a note
on the side.

"We left one in so you could have a good sleep,

I threw the empty bottle and clinging note into the fire, i could
hear that song that I first heard. "Nnoooooooooooo, "No,
I ran for the kitchen for a knife, then I heard a knock at the door?
Within moments it was off its hinges and I was running at them
knife raised, I thought death at last, but instead 10,000 volts I felt.

Awakeing i heard voice not the childrens but others,

"Hello,
"Is anybody there,

A hole opened and two eyes so caring looked inward,

"Hi Elizabeth, your in Hardy Oaks mental asylum,
"We saw your tapes, your a poorly girl it seems,

"It was the children I tell you,
"That was my last moment as a free bird,
"Now I sing behind caged walls.

The hole slides shut and then I'm alone, but
they are here with me I could scream, but I just
watch then encircle me, and sing their endless lullabies.

you are my favourite writer's block-
my frustration yet happiness all at once.
when writing is a kind of closure,
the end of a prose also signifies that of time.

to be immortal, simply tell a writer to stop writing.

stop the ink from staining papers blue-black;
it's only a matter of time before bruises heal.
stop a writer from letting go;
so let them remember you instead.

it's been a writer's peeve to perfect every prose they write,
and i've come to see it as a bad habit.
a writer's memory is a cassette,
replayed and rewound
till your voice tangles
till it bears little resemblance to actuality-
an altered memory.

if that's a writer's reality,
what's least ideal is probably
to write about something they hold so dear to.

so if you asked for the worst poem i'd ever written,
it'd be about you.

it's never been easy to love.
and it's harder to love the subtleties
between the lines.
and in this reality that i'd made,
i'm sorry that the end was in sight before anything begun.

i miss the memories we never shared.

when it's time to forget
these misplaced time and space,
i am afraid.
so afraid that by then,
you would exist only in metaphors,
but a doppelganger of you.

albeit, it might be the best way to forget.

maybe it'd hurt less to let go than hold on.
and perhaps i'd love a little too much this time.
and by the time i could write about you,
i would probably have gotten over you.

to be immortal, simply tell a writer to stop writing.

otherwise,

fall in love with the writer.