To me you are the all new pop single.
Who I find everywhere I go and
Fills my heart with starlight when we mingle.
Although whenever others did demand
To know what I felt for you, I said such
That I can't stand your perpetual presence.
But this is pretense. You do touch me much
That when you pass, secretly I sway, dance
And feel your rhythm or I hum along.
Remembering your every word and simply
Enjoying to adjoin joyously note
For note and meet our meanings' harmony.
You, simple jingle, sweet pop single, float,
Brightening my feeble mind. Years may go
With a dying fall, but I will still say so.

I have no fucken clue
Why I really like you.
I guess it's just the honey on top
That you're funny and hot.

There will be time to rise and raise a child.
There will be the night to rise and write
Loves and lives that were wordless in daylight.
There's a season to Spring to life and wild
Bursts will bobble from our seas who simmer.
Blooming perfumes with flowering flavours
Will sway like winds in our trees who shimmer.
The grassy Earth coloured as it covers
Hills from place to place in grassy embrace.
When your enslaved pieces, break free from hate,
The glades all softly supporting your pace
As you walk toward the canopies gate.
Though this is not today, nor tomorrow
Those fires begin low, then they grow and glow.

They all laughed beautifully.
They all smile with pearly arches.
Yet she moves me.
She soothes me.
She smoothes my scars
And she lets me be
And she, beneath her fuzzy tiara
Smiles for me.

Can life stop opening my eyes?
It's scary when I see.
Can life stop opening my eyes?
I'm trying to sleep.

If I can do it, I love what I do.
If I don't get lost looking for reasons to.
If paper skyscrapers don't get in my way.
Finding nothing in intervening grey
Streets, like dull, entangled, eternal snakes,
Struggling to seem even more static.
But when I'm not doing everything I do,
I really do love what I do.
Don't you?

I do?
What commitment is my life?
What conviction is my life?
'I'?

Cupid has missed my heart
And pinned me through my spine
To the wall. My back bone is but shards
And my legs dangle, paralysed.

All because I left open the window
To let the cool change through.
I gave the winged fiend his show
And he has killed me with the view.

The cool change came
And so has the rain.
So have the snakes
And creatures of the blue.
My red mixes and my body’s but food.
My red fades and my bones are but a buoy.
I have let my body want with but eyes and wither
As though I have painted myself red and died of anaemia.

Sleeping and leaving my memories where
Teasing taunts from last century still echo.
Leaving, cleaning, cleaving my fantasies
So I may perceive, I might even dare
Brave to believe, self deceive and thus go
Where all certainties take reality
On their way out the door. I cannot care
That I am bereaved of real rules, ergo
Pretenses may dance senselessly with glee
As my sensory system must beware
Only nightmares of no real harm. Although
These dreams are no more than false memories
Once I wake and break spells of happiness,
They do happy me, but reality
Tortures me to be sleepless.

I shall seethe with air no more,
Nor feel the curling cuddle of cats
Nor fear those dressed in girdles and dresses,
With low hanging and ******* tresses and hair.
I shall see no more than traces of shadow and air.

The Earth once met a man from Albany and asked
Have you seen the sun today?
I've been looking all morning.
The man shook his head and with a task
Died and receded.

The Sun was busy,
Playing cards with a friend from outer-space
And placing a final tarot card
Took the money from his previous bets.

The Night was tired by the time the Sun returned
Broke and exhausted,
The Night asked
Where have you been?
Just out?
The usual.
Then the night went to sleep and the dawn rose at 11pm.

I cried during the movie Step Brothers,
And I must warn for spoilers.
Basically, a girl I like called me a loser.
I wasn't a hard worker, not anymore.
I was without an employer.
I didn't focus on academia.
I didn't focus on anything more
Than being a writer.
I knew I was probably gonna die poor.
Then I watched Step Brothers
And here were these losers
And I just watched and as I did, all i could remember
Was "You're a loser."
Then I sank further and further
Into self pity. Flattened and weaker.
Then Will Ferrel sang 'Por Tí Volaré'
And I felt a tear…
And another
And another
And all together,
In this fall of water
And for some reason,
One moment of pure beauty
That wasn't ashamed to be comedy,
Like that part of Shrek 2 with 'I Need A Hero.'
It magically, shamelessly,
Lifted a shadow
From me.

There's a haunted door in my house.
I hear it rattle and shake, all throughout.
Maybe there's a human there,
Locked inside and scared.
Maybe that's what's it like to be gay,
In secret, with hands battering at the closet.
Something's licking at the ****.
Something's tongue's a flicker
And even from your bed
You feel it's hunger.

Meanwhile your too scared to even look that way,
Down the hallway.
Convincing yourself that desperate whimper
Was just the wind or a nightmare.

The canvas is stretched out.
In this Bosch I see
Among shades of red
Demon tongues stabbing at me,
Among shades and the dead
Licking through contorted snears
Like leeches leaking into ears.
Years and years and years and years
Of violence and vile and all the while
In these moments
I feel no taunts nor torchure nor torments.

I take myself home. Delicately
I position the record and release.
There I hear rusty metal
And as the night quiets
To a hush
The rush of some Satanic narrative
Gives peace in pieces spiked in falsetto.
With crescendos of Hell
And some false ghost of lost belles.
Then reading Eliot
And sipping tea
His Preludes pirouette
Dismally
And he leaves the world and her people
Empty.

But I am not worried
Nor concerned.
These are the jagged pieces
That fit to my soul
Smoothing to soothe my edges.

Incredulous city's lights, and loud sounds
Crescendo and billow to blow my mind
As though those Marco Valdo's mushroom clouds
Pouring, bursting from vehicles' behinds.
Blue light on the chapel's crown,
Do these images cross Christ
As dances on disintegrated bones?
Fool, ask the blue light, "What's right?"
Neon siphon's psyche, soul or sorrow,
What is left like a Hiroshima shadow
On the ***** white wrapping of his corpse?
My views a metaphor's meteor shower,
A star high rubix cube kept from collapse
In a glass skyscraper, flowers
Like perfume in vials labelled colon
Or a thousand shattered, scattered shards
From photos of photon lanterns with golden thrones.
I must embrace shimmering facades,
As if more glimmering mirages
Would water this soul with images.

Please, if you have the time
Listen to the moon, she's really trying tonight.
She'll fatten and she'll thin.
Her voice shall strain and tighten till tight.
Please, please, listen.

She that uncracked thunderbolt,
Who never dared dash across the shadow shades
But remained to halt
Above the sea and grassy meadows and glades.
Hold the applause.

She sits up at the piano,
Hear her go.
Oh moonlight
Sing. Sing for us tonight.
Hear her before the morning glow.

Knowing only our words and dancing lips,
But not her thoughts, I pierced black with blunders.
Arrogant to assume our bright abyss
Between was traversed. As vein bells thundered.
Vaunting my vice and confidence as those
Weft waves vaunt of their temporality.
Great velocity bringing long shadows,
Charges, a Rhamesses' dream of history
Set surely towards shores of broken sand.
From an alien surface I see rings,
Like a silver tiara in her strands,
Divide black of night. My mind in foreign
Lands, where lust is lost among moondust streets,
Where I waltz alone. Memory's a wreath.
Sheets of Saturn, of silk upon the heat,
She was a white clothe upon our own teeth.
Flames of her furnace, her firmament crown
Hearth of my heart, I have forever found
To be somewhere between eternity and me.

My bedside table light ignites
Via letters' curvature, curls of fire
Perfectly pitch black on pages of white.
Through universal syntax words conspire
To inspire images on paper pages.
I can't recall what pages' faces look like
Only fables my bedside table says
Through the writer's words which incite.
Swept up in a tightly written overture,
Summoned through rhythm and a silent hum.
Via letters' curvature, adventure
Is promised and the writer insists you come.
Reincarnation of a writer's thoughts
In distant souls that echo as they're brought.

That’s the way the light echoes
The moonlight stretching out in a lounging shawl
Like waves whose cusps fold and foam to kiss the sea,
As they roll away and the way to shore,
In the broad arms of the breeze
And their faint disturbance of surface romance.

The men at the front of the boat, cruising along.
The women singing a song that was famous long ago.
The sound of the song growing.
The sound filling with wind and interwoven ocean strings.
Telling tales which were living long ago.

One man thought.
‘Of my life tell only a few stories
Burning brightly with my virtues and vice
For lights are only passionate flurries
Those last lights before the eyes
Of he who sinks beneath the ice.
Telling tales which were living long ago.
That’s the way the light echoes.’

Major and minor harmonies crumble
Like disintegratable solutions
That dissolve to sweetness. Amiable
Feelings of fulfilment melt ambitions
And the curves of my guitar greet slim fingers.
I don't care for my poor technique or flaws,
Knowing the simple sound simply lingers
After slim fingers have strummed and struck chords.
This wooden thing, strummed summer instrument.
The fair dust of fairies the very notes
Releasing and ceasing the incessant
Torments that are elevated to float
Harmlessly above and about my ears.
That is release, that is peace beyond years.

I think humans are very silly.
I think we gave angels wings,
Then realising we were their only company,
Told them "Run! By God, run for your lives!"
Just to have them turn around and say
"Then why'd you give us wings?"

"Shut up!" I cried, as we children raced up
And down the hallway. He never gave up.
He never let me win. It wasn't fair.
Broken, indoor winds streaming through our hair.
We raced and raced and raced. Trails in the floor
Leveled by our vehement feet. Those closed doors
Where our mother's colleagues blocked out the noise,
Shutting out relentless cries from a boy
That would in distant days grow to be me.
I have an image of the place I see
As I close my eyes. A faded, dimmed reprise.
These old memories remind me of now
As now reminded of them
As yesteryears remind me of yesterday
And things I chose to say.
I recently called someone my family
And now I wonder if I have made the word cheap.
I don't have these memories
Not with my new company.

I whispered it when I left this morning.
"Tonight I will ask the question."
I’ll asked her to a film, I’ll say
“This week, we could see Yesterday?”
Although nerves melt me away
As though a burning silhouette.
"I swear my voice is always stern,"
I say, "What harm's another day?"
With my voice on a squeaking fret.

The haunted concretes creak without a sound
And trains rattle to shake the way of dying candlelight.
Avoidances dance, twirling round and round.
The haunted concretes creak without a sound.
Words gust heavy and unprofound
While I must be this wavering kite.
While trains rattle to shake the way of dying candlelight,
And the haunted concretes creak without a sound.

Here where they dissect creatures that once scuttled
And pull them limb from limb,
And pour wine beside, which swirls in the glass before it's settled.
The creature's gravestone a girl with a smile grim.
A dim expression that deflates with the next plate,
As she surrenders to digging in.



Nearby seniors' droning threatens to drown
My mind with inescapable numbness.
Again, I take a glass and swallow it down
Praying on a secret unseen finesse.
I say a joke that to her seems lost
As though its ghost just went past.
I butter my tongue with liquid as though toast;
Regret all I've said and call for a glass.
I tighten my tie tight around my neck
The tangled knot neatly risen up.
Joke as though throwing cards straight from a deck.
By dessert feel numbness on my tongue’s cusp.
Dreaming she would not be one to beguile,
She and I
Evacuate the chatter with a stretched smile.

Passing lanterns looming on a night walk,
I begin to her a conversation.
Yet only dare to make the smallest talk,
Not risking she leaves an awkward situation.
I haven't the courage to encourage
What may enrage nor leap near isolation.
What would the forefathers say?
A man wouldn't wait nor hesitate.
But I stutter before I can state
Whether I'm a hasty man
With fast unlasting thrills,
Or willing to wait
And understand.

Which question is it?
But why is it this?
Perhaps it's better I ask with lips,
And without words.
So let soft suckling be heard.
But why is that?
I can't possibly, probably.
But may I know facts exact?

Then dawn rose with the sun alone and untimely.
I whispered it when I left this morning,
When I was returning home suddenly,
"Tonight I will ask the question.”

Since she waits there for me.
A young tongue is spinning and spiralling.
Lips collapse into antique whispers.

I'm certain she waits there for me.
By delirium and thoughts lost.
By flowing fountains draped with moss.
She folds fingers round the thorn.
Th'evening lingers, for golden light has lit it.
Scolding any scorn that drops to forlorn.

She has gone now.
But she'll be back soon.

I see crystal spires of great conspiring myriads
Collapse to spheres.
A conscience of science fiction
Aroused as one sees tin men walk on streets.
The mystics and myths are.
The instincts and maths are.
Meandering meaningless tracks are.
Then to the sound of a distant locomotive
And endless opinions and motions
And loco motives
And motivations
And locked up forts fought for in ages past
And a lost train of thought.

Cars careen in between
Houses housing those who sleep.
The river in between
The Earth and the Earth
And over the Earth.
A tar road of glass,
Eroded by no cars.
Only the path of drowning men.

Dogs bark.
Logs covered with bark
Cover the park.
The night, the vast ocean of Jupiter
Poseidon, with pearls replaced by starlight.
'Tis, isn't it?
It is.
Las vivas sin sentido
Es
Loss of vitals without sin.

She was there
Beneath the
Forlorn thing
Festering
With a cold
Enchantment.

He came along the foreign path
And beneath the forest passed
The pregnable puddle of blood, flesh and bone.
He was tired by experience and exploration.
Beside the new night and beneath the looming sky
He knew
The horrendous days when women would befriend or end us.

It was irreversible once he begun.
Both were broken once he was done
And his hollow soul felt no completion.
His act leaving only a cavity.

There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile,
He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile;
He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse.

Even at eighty three and eighty four,
They still hold hands, walk with conversations,
Or simply sit the way they always did before.
They're content with silence, their objections
Only that they have to go home for tea.
Walkers by, hear them bicker and banter,
Memories spilling from mouths happily.
They like the cafes and polite chatter.
But they love the park, the trees and brown bark.
But this pretense of present tense is wrong.
Even at eighty five, she still goes out.
Every day, she is glad to walk along.
Her memories are fainter now
The smell of hot coffee in the Summer
And someone's soft words to warm the Winters.

By the piano and the violin
An old man sits with a grin
On his surface, a vague monologue within.

What were weeks trail into obscurity
Long after, as I forget
All the memories
That crescendo and pirouette
In the moment, then die in minutes.

I still tell people about those days,
Finally, as this age fits this nostalgia
But they were better than this malaise
Of dry haze in dusty jars.

What were waves of fluid happiness,
Foaming with fun, then threatening with collapse
Or simply a kiss,
So soon after pass
To dunes of stationary bliss;
Slowly eroding to some shapeless mass.

Again, the violin and the piano.
The hours slow and years go by
And finally what all young men know
He feels inside.

I watched the soldier, fallen
Aloft the absorbent green.
When will I be forgotten?
I once said of memories
They are dead things hung on walls
Drawn from imagination.
How will time, after I fall
Withdraw my memorium.

I once thought the past was dead,
Stiff, motionless in the grave.
I now see the past lives yet,
Onward, unchanging to wave
No flags of dull surrender
Whether or not we remember.
It is not that the song is sung of us
But that we have sung
And we let others sing
While we each have a time
To draw ourselves into eternity.

The fortune teller yelled,
She told me
"There are two breeds of oathbreakers
The liar and the failure."

It is this feeble form,
With deep roots of saphire
Juxtaposed with soft silk
Spines, undermined by magma.
The milk of these bones are
From an unhealthy donar.

Great singers sing
Through happiness and sorrow.
The writers are writing
Whether with joy or woe.
The warrior fights on
For failure or valour.
The great fear not defeat
But the fleeting self
Who flees.

Dilly dally, dilly dally, the dandelion desintegrations.
These country town thoughts appear just as though
A dolly pulled back and shrunk creation
Till dust dots in morning light. The shadow
Of infinity sharing silence done
Within my mind. String theory confirmed hereby
An avian feathery cosmos made
In colours, shapes and shades, flowing to fly
Gilded and gliding. Powers to persuade
Not existent in words or praise. A phrase
Unable to capture what eyes cascade
Upon me. Despite this, a make believe face
Consumes my will and not for memory
I would recreate, nor an open path,
But simply a fantasy I can see
With glee through my mind. A fancy, wet scarf
I drape on me at dawn and under black.
So do I dream of dreams or girls I lack?
So would valkyries convey me to Avalon?
So would avian visions
Fly me off and away.

"Yes!" Some teardrop moon reminds me,
"Summer's always on her way."

Two men stand where a glade meets a clearing.
They hold their guns strong in the evening,
Shaking shoulders attached to their stern arms.
They pull triggers to **** and cull the calm.
Hence smoke ascends in burning fireless rings.

The forest begins breakfast before and
During and after, with simmering dawns
Breaking like bubbles on the sea.
Boiling to leave a smoke which stretches out
His hand to cover his yawn for centuries.

Two men stand where a clearing meets a glade.
Their guns raised as to secure security,
And yet one watches his father's smoke fade,
Lowers his gun and extends harmony.
So the other shoots and clearing takes glade.

My heart's feeling really heavy in bed
So I'll roll over to crush my innards.
Wrecking ball, cardiovascular head
Hurter, damaging organs with its words,
Pressing way too hard when the beats too fast.
I need to ***, but with this ball and veins,
So passionately disturbed by the dark,
I'll stay right here. Guess I'll just risk the stains.
The scary voice in the silence, it says
"You're the weight on your family, useless
As a used ****** to holy preachers."
The voice whispers and slithers and seduces
Me to self-loathing and pity. But I
Don't know whose it is, it sounds just like mine.

My friend says he loves performance,
But my favourite part of a dance
Is forgetting everyone else in the room.
Remembering
Just me, my mess of a body and the tune.

The street seems calm enough to me,
With sentry lights and lunar memorials up high.
I weave with whatever air I find
My voice can shape
And my brain
Not quite empty
For I have a headache.

The Duende ought to visit me tonight.
That pixie ought bring me something fresh,
Words cut from fresh wounds and bright,
Burning embers from embraces of flesh
No longer felt. I have written it before
But, I have nothing more for me to say.
I feel no real motion but the cold floor
Of a world that revolves without a sway.
I’m tired of all my words, my old theories,
Like ghosts that always haunt the same ways.
They slid through walls, lifted invisibly
And flew from lips without a fall. A phrase
Of enchantment, now looms, stiffly stirring
And reminding me of dead things.

There is no number of wishes
That can restore these images.
I could not feel it forever.
So I sequenced references together.
But no series of breaths
Or ink curvature
Can capture the experience.
All the same,
Tonight I felt the depth of our universe.

It cannot be imagined,
It cannot be understood
How far till stars end.
Yet if it could,
To truly know the sky's ebb and flow
It would bestow madness.
All the same I perceive and believe it
On occasion.

Tonight I saw brightness across the sea
I saw it was a ship's light shining towards the shore and me.
Opening out like Heaven's door
A ghostly poltergeist.

Vastly tired, I planned to retire.
Ghastly light sinking away into night,
As I surveyed the beach and conveyed
Myself towards warmer shades of home.

Then adrift the earthling wind
And dripping from the star's tendril pulse,
Came a feeling I have not yet determined
That emptied me of impulse.

Silence, moonlight and crumbling waves
All singing our seaside harmony.
Either way, I am free to fall
As synesthesia echoes through an endless hall.

Science, starlight and lunar cast shades,
To me, a piece between abyss,
Pouring consciousness upon me.
Gazing on I could not say
If I were on the seafloor or her surface.
Although why care? For I am free to fall
Home or away,
In any direction.

Eggs?
Am I your Easter Sunday?
Your Christmas, or a second birthday?
When I say, 'No.'
Is it your fountain of youth that says so?

We have bled.
So the son is sacrificed
By knife and crucified.
So only the father and the phantom
Are left behind
Like ashes of the Sun.

Dad,
I know you sacrificed for my future
And learnt from your past
The scripture of your mind
And you fought until the last man
In your army of one.

Yet,
Do not decapitate
To put your head
On my shoulders of clay.
I will make your mistakes.
I will break your mountain stones.
I will ache the way you ached.
Then when your gone
Maybe I'll obey your bones.
But I will not suffer to surrender
To your commands.

Instead,
I will leave a mirror in my room.
So that afternoons from these days
I will be replaced
By the son you wished to see and say
"Okay."
Whisper soundlessly the phrase,
The words
You want to have heard.

I won't rest tonight, nor will the tempest.
Sound found far off cracking and crumbling Where skies split, like locomotives rumbling.
Unearthly bodies foreboding and foreshadowing
Something that draws near,
Like a tsunami
Careening across the atmosphere,
Polluted completely and impenetrably
By octopus ink and oil
Over vacuum and void.
Stars concealed behind congealing clouds,
With white leaping free in streaking thunderstrikes.
The shroud of night clouds
Over void and vacuum.
I hear further in the distance
Beyond my room.
I hear the thunder echo within me
Down where space is free.

There the lighting lashes
And a glade in the nebulous
Reveals astral flowers.

My hugo, all my growth, how they erode
Like rocks' bones break beneath banshee whispers.
My memoir unremembered and sold
Somehow in a resumé. To my peers
I must appear and disappear. I fold
Like a lashing tongue or crashing super
Car. So I loath a lingerer listening to old
Song, too shy to fill midnight with a pur-
Pose which replaces silk silence' or cold.
Await till dawn to awake whatever
Puts me to sleep and dreams up a soul
Purpose to stay as Saturn drapes over
With a collapsing ripple of meteors
Crucified in a constellation to Thor's
Sky.

There the thunder thrashes.
Then the nebulous conceals over.

I know the frost lies thin and leaves grow yellow.
I know my previous foolish things and
Better seasons past with my last actions.
I know my own disgraces, and my shallow
Pooling parts, yet let one thing be mine to know.

I would implore, but I know it's against
Your favour of flavour or simply taste.
So spare me despair with even slightest care.
Thus let your ears slowly hear, maiden fair,
Words which flicker and flutter to convey
In, out and about, through softened air.
Know if it's not too great a disturbance,
We could speak and joke with unseen smokes that dance
And laugh as we smell the blooming lilacs.
To be to the point, it's better I ask.
Will it be harsh electric candescence
That outshines dwindling starlight
Or simply your sweet semblance in the night?

Leopard, lion, lepper, lime, linger on.
Sounds. Silence. Seduction. ***. Super serum.
Dilly dally, dissolve dandelion.
Boil, bobble, brim, burst, babble on hobo, ***.
Sonidos sin dirección.
A purple puff pronounced 'poem.'

"IF I die,"
I replied.

I like to retreat into my head at times,
The background sounds like a breeze of night
Flowing through my brain.
My mind a great open plain
With nothing to worry about at all.
My view, all these shapes, colours and transferals,
Where people and places used to be.
I like to be inside my head
Especially
When there's nothing thought or contemplated.

The thunder thrower falls into silence,
A whiff of purple wind, the sky's fragrance.
See Zeus droops into droplets and drenches,
Soft layers of water reflecting blue,
As our universe sees through eyes, images
Of itself eternally boiling through.
See our scientists seek the commandments
Of our new God. No longer reading scripture
To see the future, woven through moments,
For all millions of millennia.
All the Old God's grow cold in hollow graves.
Now I see her. Darkness, careless chaos.
She's the shadow of Sheol. All petals' shapes
And decay. Endlessly devouring creatress.
Yonder Yahweh melts as rain which drenches.
All falling down, as heaven collapses.

She's a golf course and a red flag marks her hole.
Our chat's meaningless to me, yet I get stressed
When her text pops up from the net. Hold ur bowl
Of blows to my ego for our banter, don't forget
To flatter this reject wen she gets sicc of me.
Still, I can't afford her, so I sold my wallet
To feed her. She'll teach me like a trainee
For a matador. But who's got my cutlass
And just between you and me, is she *****?
Just coz she's sending her signals in Norse code,
Coz I reckon miscommunication be
The cause that runes us. Set this coke to explode
With the mood and mode she's in, as I take
A taste of her minty mis-takes and heartache.

Across black, my dogs run like stallions,
Stretching and contracting limps and tendons.
Then as I return from work, I find they brighten
Draining, darkening ends of evenings.
But the weak sinews of monkey's flesh
Compel us. To them it is the tempest
Of a thousand lifts and falls in a mess,
Indistinguishable barks in a mesh.
As we shout, dogs must think us mean creatures.
Someday, what will my wordless child observe?

With each dusk, red recedes into darkness.
Empty desires echo like antique rhymes
Of Shakespeare, speaking of love fictitious.
Like apes to grapevines, up my desire climbs,
Incoherent growls of primal intent
For fruits. Perhaps a date among the thorns.
Gold light diminishing, as the moon's moment
Looms aloft, with a pale and nervous form.
The passage of time and carnage of thoughts
Project an old, desperate fantasy
On my bedroom ceiling. My feelings caught
In my true knowing none shall come to be.
The veins of time having washed off notions
That these desires could lead to devotions.

Sarah breathes with an extra word
One that isn’t said but is heard.
With a voluminous sigh
And eight seas reflecting starshine in her eye.
She wears fox fur raincoats and her french has an accent.
She has cursive articulations
And epistolic perfections,
And to you she’s been sent.
As she break lips, to release her take,
One can’t help but feel enchanted,
With that joke of hers dissolving like smoke.
In fact with every word she ever said,
One can’t help but feel enchanted.
With a quick quip, her tongue cut till men bled
As to make even the smoothest choke.
Yet, one can’t help but feel enchanted,
With that joke of hers dissolving like smoke.
If breaking free’s almost a revolution,
Crawling back to her is its completion.
Crawling even closer, ever closer,
There's a higher symphony in her hair,
Playing with strands and strings
And scents of hyacinths.
So one must care
For you've always heard,
She has an impolite abra cadabra
Yet instead the magic word
Must be Sarah.

Putting it in a metaphor doesn't
Make it true Confucius. Philosopher
Kings of academia collapse, sent
Away like the rest. All the inventors
Say science isn't a religion and yet
The facts don't work without faith in some test.
So we'll see it go around at sunset
No matter what beautiful book you've read.
Yet even Hume and Nietsche must accept
Beliefs must be kept. So we must interpret
Our universe with faith in our friends' witness
When they attest or confess. Disproving
One fallacy or falsehood an evening.

I tried to write Selah on my phone
But the machine corrected me with delay.
The word means rock, the word means stone.
It means wait and ponder,
It means ache and ruminate.
The word means dry thoughts in a dry bone.