Suppose that everlasting door will not wait; that it will pack its bags and don a new license plate.
What then?

There's always an empty space somewhere
For your mind and your tongue
Untouched and ******
Waiting to be sung

If it comes from nowhere in particular, let that be good enough.

One day, there will be nothing left to find
And you will rest uneasy 'till the end of time

It is time to move past what made you, most of the time.

Farnham sat on the fringes of education, sweating his mind. He observed a charlatan wearing a paper hat in the corner of the centre and proclaimed,
“You will be beautiful in my dreams”
And thus felt at ease. It is a frustratingly slow day in March, as the mister’s heart began to loosen in the literal subjectivity. The sun shone with the dominion of a mad titan, yet at Farnham’s request, acquiesced to a simmer. “The class is finished. you will start again in sorrow, some time tomorrow” were the words that Farnham heard, which duly prompted him to click his heels towards the doorway with great ebullience. What is the day to him, but a measurement? A tightrope, so it seems. He lingered like an unwanted scent to his locker, having dropped all but one of his cents in his classmates’ pockets. The locker opened and greeted him with a lifeless moan. He stuffed it full of his insides and began to feel like a muted songbird.
“Where will I find my voice?”, Farnham wondered aloud, “Who will lend me the right to sing with immense volition?”
He can fly with unbridled confidence yet cannot convey its feeling in a universal medium.Such a poor state. Walking up to the most aloof passerby, “Point your finger! Point it, and I will follow in good faith and stringed navigation!” The unremarkable fellow adhered in mock comprehension, fearing for her wallet. To the northern wing she pointed, where lingering soulmates lied in the garden square of Bohemian export. Farnham, capriciously fearing impermanence, flew like a bird yoked to a noose. The tiles of ivory institution felt uneven below his head as he sunk into the cacophonous call of propriety, where his streams were superimposed onto innocent scholars. In an attempt to escape liability, he eyed a man twice his stature and importance and duly clambered upon his back, steering him by the ears.
“Fellow man, I am looking for something unattainable, but don’t peg me as a defeatist! It is akin to that of enlightenment, which I’m sure you have dreaded over for a time. I have extrapolated the knowledge we have attained so far, and have concluded that attunement is inevitable, and thus applicable to life. You will take me there, to that answer, and in return, I promise to feed you tangerines from the Proverbial Garden. I will love you for your duty and kiss your feet. Please, come with me.”
Moments passed. An answer was being formed, and Farnham waited patiently, wanting to catch it like a fisherman sailor. Then, reply.
“I should take you for a fool, were you not so soaked in this sort of significance. Let us journey, and journey well”. Farnham caressed the ears of his companion and pulled forwards.

Pianos are crashing inside my head as the yellow light of the city and the sun force me into an excruciating halt. An affectionate young man- who is now old, yet remembers the skin he shed- sighs about ****** premonitions through the medium of digital frequencies. A car edges its way to my side- my father tells me “we’re almost there”- the car is positioned in such a contrived way that should I turn my attention exactly ninety degrees rightwards, I would be obliviously vying for the driver’s attention. The thought unnerves me, so I encourage my divagated musings elsewhere. Why did my father tell me that we were nearing our destination? Did he meekly say it, with the meagre velleity of keeping me aware of my surroundings? Where else could my head go, but up?
Pedestrians, their knees adorned with snow trinkets, fall within my periphery. As our car fit itself into a fleeting crevice on the cliff face of concrete, I adjusted my vision into a volitional telescope, narrow and explorative. Among the constellation of humans lay writers in poses denoting propriety, cigarettes suggesting esotericism, and face begging for denial. Facsimiles of these characters dance between the ivory-laced walkways of the interconnected district. I am disgusted by this labile beauty. I am fearful that I will witness its extinction.
I crossed the indifferent street, sure that my haste wasn’t apparent, and therefore, non-existent.
“Disappointingly, the record store sat waiting, knowing of my excitement”, said a fool, pricking my ear. I almost ran for an officer, indignant in my role as a victim to his verbal impotence. When I regained my composition, I paid full attention to the unassuming door between a burger shack and some unidentifiable after-thought-structure. This door, pedestrian to most, contains within it what a common walker would consider heaven. It is, to me, a strenuous Sunday stroll of impulse and and opulence. There is no point in resisting that which makes me happy yet unstable. I could not do without it. To deny is to doubt the music that I loved, and am currently beholden to by chains; the lobotomical sort.
I scoured the store and bough the prized possession. It was quite probably a Tim Buckley record. Here comes a man, quick and close, with a chartreuse disposition.
“I see you thinkin’ kid, it makes my brain throw up alllll funny things. If my erradition ever had anyin’ ta say, it’d shout that you’s too rowdy a rider.” Good sir, a sharp mind and apt humour is all I need to keep myself from harm. I wrote that down, walkings as if the stiff block was nothing but. Such a misdemeanour, to be so passive. I lingered forward and onwards.

Remember this: if it has been forgotten, then it was well said and is now well dead.

As the rage builds
And froths and bubbles
It meets a point or two
A threshold of guilt
Of ever holding it in
And for the release
It is sighed as sadnees
And nothing more
And is so much less
Than its primal state
I am left diluted
And neutered
So useless
Even in my most terrible light

The ticket inspector,
Or, collector
Otherwise known as
The Ticketeer
Anticipates me foolishly
With great stalactites of sweat
Immersing him
I deny him the pleasure
And stroll into the washroom

Take your idle day
And gasp in abject horror
When it slips away
Past the dime-sized hole
Of a bygone tomorrow

The fool wastes none of their time when they speak their nonsense. It is the suit who hides their head in anger and shame for the minutes they had wasted. Be like the fool; know what interests you, speak freely of your desires, and treat your attention as a commodity.


Speak not with your mind but instead, with your mouth. Learn to tether the two and treat the mouth as the anvil and the mind as the arm. No iron will be molded by that arm, but no contact will be made without it.
Your mouth is your tool.
Your mind, the weapon.
Know the difference.


Hold back the urge, but don’t close your eyes. Anything but that void, do not sink into it. You must learn how to maintain yourself. Know what must be oiled, what must be strained, what must be loved, what must be left well alone.

And ripped from immaculate dreams
Are the abhorrent beasts that haunt me
And they grossly linger far longer
Than the euphoria that taunts me

The poet, decadent
I and he and it
In old shivers and inebriation
We take virtue and fold it
Into ink-beguiled truths
Formless vocation, rough vernacular
Soft from jagged distance
Come closer, now insincere
Hard and ragged, vile fingers
They hold not beauty
But seething desire
Uncouth ambition
Trained to sour excellence
Impeccable sin of tainted life
Bless the fiends
Build them a nest in hell
Allow them to earn this prize
A prize of ailing drink
Drowned in saccharine agony
Are their unnamed tongues
Speaking new extremities
On a road too severe
May they write their own coffins
In the image of a mirror

O Vincent
Great poesie through dotted skies
And o'er flooded eyes
Of softest loneliness

Take my desert tongue
And immerse it, from chamber to tip
Let it burst onto crazy lip
The loose chimes of loving

And if all patterns take me
To the whims of quiet sleights
I will not flail against that night
For any place is rightly dipped in beauty

Should I find myself forlorn
In the heights o'er skipping valleys
Or the depths of sodden alleys
I will accept it in your breath

Age does no one any favours
So why not refuse it?
Why not denounce your saviour
As sound and music?
For the end promises nothing more than hate
And bitter, ornate grapes
Forced onto cascading tongues with tape
What encumbered apes we are
To drive our cars
Into the stalls of beauty
Thinking they are complete
While we are replete
With that hollow feeling
Frothing, frothing

True hacks and phonies all around, speaking through their ivory horns of pure disgust and wallowing in incompetence, ******* and kissing and mishandling their newborn children which they name in propriety and for the pearls of God that allow them to **** and **** well. I will blast them all to the deepest of hell for there they belong with me and they will be outrightly ****** by the sojourning sheiks that give their sufferers a razor-tipped ******* that they know they deserve. Where is your relatable, so enjoyable, three or four piece family TV meal that you so deeply craved after a long day at work? It is gone gone gone and now you are subject to your deepest incongruities with yourself, how dare you be such a bother and how dare you believe in your ability to inspire. If you are not feeling this frustration of never ceaselessly being able to grasp at the story that lies within the easel of the juices of your soul, then you are not- and never will be- worth anything more than some broken throbbing piece of genitalia that seethes and suckles at the broken fallacies of pure love and distraught youth. You do not know and you will never know, and if you dare you will never truly make progress for you are a vacuous, insufferable, erratic dame that is not a good piece of skin so much as you are the perfect tool for everyone: a loudspeaker stripped naked and bare for all the world to ****; a true contributor, unlike your deepest and most esteemed of peers. Aww, how does that feel? How does it feel to finally implode from your own vicarious and hollow attempts at wisdom and knowledge? What’s left to be learned has been learned, don’t you understand? Don’t you get it? Don’t you think it’s time to stop digging your ***** ***** nails into that rusted cloud of old hope and forgiveness? Everyone has left, and that is what we must deal with. You must be some mongrel to sit down like an unrepentant dog. Cross-legged and all.

In stepwise manners, the decision is made just as the cyan sun pierces through the overcast. The cavalcade of mercurial leaves pass under the handle of my plastic chin. They are borne on the temporal gust of youth which had made its yearly return. My little heart is astounded, immersed in love’s vicarious changes without ever feeling or seeing the flesh. I listen for the chimes that bellow deeply and conspicuously through the plateau shifts. Now, towers are houses and the world is a golf ball; just as meaningful as one, too. Rest, the flakes will not stop cutting into your shoelaced skin. If there is protest in the air, perhaps you are its pilot. Believe in the haze that separates you from those you wish to touch. Crowley’s charms, planetary rings, lamplight halos make a bed that screams “float” eternally. Perplexed and flying through my own inquisitions. Within these past odd minutes, I am intimate with the world’s vein yet again.

My shadow is as authentic as my flesh. Under the deep cover of the day, it comes out to play, mimicking me in such a ragged manner. At times, it is ahead of me, as if its automation is one premeditated dance. Other times, I feel as if it has given me the reigns, through no request of my own. It is so faithful to my identity that it may as well be independent. Why shouldn't it be? Detractors would call me foolhardy with my whims. They would say, "Oh, but where does it go at night? Little child, where has your friend gone?"
What villains these people are. Of course, the shadow must rest from the pains of this earth; from the sight of mongrels like them. Every shadow has the right to fear the aged and the gnarled; their eyes domineering over every present pebble beneath their feet. It is as if they spit on their homes. I would burn the world twice over to protect my shadow. His own realm must be something of a sanctuary, or a holy womb. It ought to be my duty to protect the last vestiges of nascent, naïve innocence.

Mother, I hope that finally caught your attention. I know you are busy, so I will make the upcoming statement as brief as possible. If you cannot be bothered to understand an ounce of wit, and I know you will not, then it should be my duty to make this very transparent. Forgive the plainness of my speech. It is, after all, the most you can handle. This must be quite the task for the likes of you. Make of this what you can:

I'd like to insert a bullet into my head, upon yours and father's bed.
I would like both of you to see it, I would enjoy your aural dread.

In life, we all need a kick every now and then, I find.

A man is lying sideways on a bed, his shoulder softly suffocating a pillow. He is confronted by the image of a lone G.I. at the mouth of the Mekong Delta, flanked by a Dutch colonel woman, pensively staring on. The man is now pointing his gun at the pillow, his aim obstructed by his own head. He is currently in matrimony with the dreams of yesterday, yet not as much so with his extremities.
"I wouldn't let it die if I were you," croons a voice from the impossible background, seeming to leap over the hurdles of inner commotion.
"Who's that? Whatever could you be?"
As forward as he was in his tone, he couldn't resist the dominated position he was in. Even less resistible was the pulling motion of the tunnel behind him. He is now falling back into the sun.

Within the daily treads of modern traversal, there is nothing quite as soul-crushing as the escalator; its narrow scope and design, its unknowingly malevolent operation. It is such a cruel wonder it performs, consigning all existence upon it to one premeditated and mandatory path. It is the string drone of the modern orchestra; the hushed machination, a persistent contender in the cacophony.

A chalky, sepia-washed room seen through an ailing CRT. Vantablack lines sprawl across my gnarled face in patterns, playing games with the sun that blares on through the rangy blinds.

Digital clock: 2:43

A cardinal red cigarette pack in my right hand, a turkey baster in the other, submerged deep within the sheet's motherly void. The simmering glow of the hallway dances like a pendulum; a vicious debutante, waiting to coerce me into life. I am enveloped by some capricious rhythm that has no origin, and no destination.
I'm coming to uncertain terms with this lucid halcyon.

Ink drips, from the pillow to my shoulder. I am currently a piece of fiction, held within a lissome frame. This is complete autonomy. Nothing is as it really was, only what it should've have been from the very start. A muted slur from beyond the window comes hurtling through my head. It starts to look like a tumor tree, having its branches, limbs, and spine torn to and fro in such a hideous manner. I've let something go to my head. The dream is broken, through no request of my own.

I'll kiss your bruises and earn your blood
Depraved as we are, this is love
For my ills, I will take nothing in return
Mistress, mistress, you will be my weakness;
The very tantalizing death of me

When you refuse the point of feeling
Isn't it wonderful?
You don't need to make a killing
Don't be a mummy, stiff and stressed, full
Of mechanical aspirations
Always looking much too far
You don't need to be the king of a nation
Just keep your dream of the men in Mars

Find the image in a paragraph
Of singing birds flying south
All the stars in your epitaph
A constellation close to your mouth
Cacti blowing by the sea
Beside a sunset that whispers and teems
Puce-coloured trees blowing freely
In a fuchsia sky with tangerine seams

The final name of this piece is sweet release
And you'll thank me here, old breeze
Slow your restless, twitching, maroon eyes
Slur all, let silence suffice
This is your last word written for tonight
You've earned your flight
So go easy
Dream well

It felt like a drainpipe down the gullet of the actress
As she leapt out of sight of the red baroness
Asking, why do the streetlights stay blue?
And will the soil maintain its hue?

Faceless people eating capriciously
As they tenderly speak of their shore leave
As they’re foisting their dreams to their sleeves
Speaking of odd, foreign fleece

Decadent manners spoke in secret tongues
Polarized banners through brazen tar lungs
As bravado finds a new face
To win wars with one holy gaze

Something’s the matter but it’s all for nought
As the gilded Centurion claims he forgot
What he built his first child’s house upon
For all his sons are vagabonds

I mimicked a child in the way he embraced
His nascent complacence to the human race
Clinging to a wooden rail
For fear of the careless hail

A man claimed his newsboy hat kept him enclosed
For his fear that his thought-dreams would serve to corrode
The last bastions of society
Which he clings on to haplessly

The visor hung low on the Titan of Rhodes
For he knew of the judgment on one head exposed
In his position above
Where the sky belongs only to doves

Calendars festoon their tactless grace
With legions of chandeliers, forming a haze
Now, we know that the days are numbered
Yet, the fact leaves us all encumbered

Facsimiles of the nationwide veins
Will collapse next year as they fight for the grain
Now, the horse is extinct with the train
And everyone fears to remain

The headless lady was radiant; her ***** rested on a lightbulb, a silhouette not unlike that of a bee, yet too sturdy to be bothered by the wind. Her arms and head were replaced by a glowing coat hanger, hinting at some tragedy. She must be sought after for all the wrong reasons, by the most depraved of people. How much pain did she have to endure to be so confident in her superficial image? I’d like to see her face one day, when the light shines not on her body, but her mind.

The hand, the crafter, the smith; surely she, too, shares the pain of her image. Oh she is radiant herself, absolutely. I wonder if she feels like the lady of the painting; her body a fluorescent attraction, her head a household tool. I hope she doesn’t feel shallow and ordinary. She is one of the most vibrant people I’ve traded words with. She is a sight to behold when she wields her mind, and with it, pries open the crevice to her soul.

Farewell!
We’ve tried all we can
Now, it’s time to go
The sky is grainy
The clouds
Impenetrable
Don’t worry
We can’t be stopped
On this hill
Until we tumble down
Again and again
Like boulders
Small kings
Restless queens
May we be redeemed
Amen

The wayward boys of the forever sun
Waking away the horizon
Their passions defined through rosemary plums
They formed in the swallow lagoon

They ventured wide, they ventured tall
Smothered by Eden’s visions
Over the mountains, a nomad conch called
Of salvation coming soon

Far away, far away
Is the ship passing by
Far away, far away
Goes the dreams of youthful sighs

Far away

The skyward beasts in the splintered minds
Bumping the night ever slowly
Fantasy left the human behind
And rain shattered the sea

The spectacle of the suburban youth
Never fulfilled quite wholly
When what’s found in rocks may trouble the truth
Then paper is burnt out to flee

Far away, far away
Is the grip of society
Far away, far away
Are the visions of marmalade trees

Gone away

Schism would rise and drinks would fly
Under the closed constellations
It is no strain to desensitize
A dreamlust, starving nation

But wash it away in brevity’s breath
And visages painted in peels
Their illusions linger for cerebral death
They hid behind wooden steel

Run away, run away
For the painting is stripped bare
Run away, run way
There is fire yelling in the air

Run away

The sun has become irradiant green
And planes lumber through the sky
Hollow hands softened the screen
The sand bleeds, the sirens are shy

The forlorn kids of the Turquoise Lagoon
Have given up more than life
When the head of bliss begins to croon
Entropy will yell “good luck”

Far away, far away
Are the hands severed in the ground
Far away, far away
Lies a shell and its sound

***** Miss Whint took a flight on a Saturday night
***** Miss Whint showed the world her insides
If science can’t show her a number
She’ll take despair to a mystical side
And the world will be her child

If you can find a path to the sea
I’ll call you a human being
If that’s worth believing
Faces articulate so cantankerously
And lose any intention for their mind

While we grow, yet still coagulate
Perhaps we’ll see, her cruelty’s bound to time
And we’ll be fine
In her broken home is where she dominates
And hates her own cherry tree
Who screamed immensely

***** Miss Whint, she took a flight
***** Miss Whint was despair at first sight
She lost emotionality
When she confided in reality

***** Miss Whint has the look of a saccharin knife
***** Miss Whint made it hard to live a life
When we’re all strangers to the sun
The working man’s light is the muzzle flash of a gun
But we’re just having fun

She sweeps the open road with love
And a diamond compartment
Twisting the road-bent
Indignant children are the fodder of her highway
That leads to a city in the wane

While she eats the air and lives another day
Deep lines accentuate her mighty wake
And that’s okay
The fools are left to smiles and opulence
She makes them find sense in their own pretence
Preaching, “there’s no end”

***** Miss Whint, she took a flight
***** Miss Whint was despair at first sight
You lost emotionality
When you confided in reality

If her mouth was wider when she began
Maybe we could have had some fun
But how could she care for what happened minutes ago?
There is an open vent to useless things to sow
If her eyes were brighter when we lost our lives
Maybe we could be satisfied
But typewriters stay their hand to the climate’s cold command
And we’re left to indulge in what still stands

So, as I wrote this like a letter
To a lady of vicious weather
Someone then caught me and said,
“Swallow those words or I’ll have your head”
So I said,
“This note has no point, so go count your coins”

***** Miss Whint has the look of the fourth of July
***** Miss Whint took a ruler to the human life
When we’re all frightened by the sun
The working man’s light is the masquerade of a gun
But we’d all rather run

I'm like a flea
Over a pigsty
Or a barge
Over the starsea
I'd weep to be
Found in a grapevine
Instead, I'll merge
With a universal tree

Give to me your old vagabond
Show me what side you’re on
Englishmen, weary and guileless
Or tannermen, charming and blessed

There’s no need for your splendour
When you believe in a saviour
Holding on to the sky
Wondering and answering, “why?"

If we may stop you,
Are we alone when we die?
And are we easily shot out of the night
Like billowing butterflies?
Battered and shot
Bruised and bought
By our headmasters

All this fear of the stronger
Are we not like mites?
And will we easily blame our fright
When we burn from the light?
Holding our clots
Proud, all for nought
As time grows faster

In the dawn’s old hue,
Will we sigh when we sleep?
Or is there no rest after the leap
Beyond the deep?
There is nothing to hold
For rust and gold
Are all the same in the rapture

Must we run much longer
Away from the keep?
If time keeps us under its sweep,
Is living terribly cheap?
We’ll burn to spite the cold
Despite not being told
Beneath the ice, was a pasture

With trees holding the fruit
Of our untold labours
Now, dried from the pursuit
Of the trunk's ashen paper

Now, it is time to say goodbye
Between the pristine blur of the trenches
The sanguine green of your kitchen
We must all learn the word
Goodbye

That wasn't as painful as I thought it'd be
It all came quite easily
Nice to lie here
On the cusp of oblivion
Simplicity
This doesn't hurt
I don't believe it
Liberation
I feel young and naive again
If only, if only
I'll relapse, surely
I'll feel this again
I'll hurt someone new
Bound to, bound to
But currently, there is no pain
What a shame

Here is one last sentiment
All in rightful luck
Hearken to the sediment
The city where you’re stuck

Where must we go?
My mind is cloaked to useful things
Who will we follow
Into the evening’s ring?

You must forge a name
Lest you be maimed
By fortune-starved fame
And young, vacant dames

So much pain
Outrun the brain
Situated under chandeliers
In the old, ailing cavern
Reverberating ghouls
Lick the well of my ear
And now I am frightened
By the notion of the sun

Twisted asunder
Incisive thoughts
Corrupted domain
I live under a sky blue dome
A construct of my headmasters
Where I roam
Restless in the gloam

The brain has weighed me down
To my knees
I cannot find my knees
Or my eyes
My crooked fleece cannot protect me
From the chartreuse breath of the past

Life does me no favours
Therefore
I will give it everything
Until I am hollow and adjusted
Senile and peculiar
Must the brain remain?
Must the brain remain?

My words are a disservice
To the motions of the planets
They cannot grace this life
How little it all may matter

Tired, so tired
Counting forlorn tires
Tired, so tired
Of what?
Life and loving
So take me
Forsake me
On the beak of my spine
There is no greater quarrel
Than this love of mine
I'm not happy
I'm not sad
Just glad to be walking
On plastic bags
Glad I'm still breathing
But struggling anyway

Erase this day, erase this day

Lounging load
On a backseat toad
As the sky corrodes
O’er the Titan of Rhodes

Sanguine smile
Immerses the child
And leaves him beguiled
By a life so mild

I was born
Without a doubt
Heeding scorn
Through paper pouts

Destitute *******
I only sell tape
Twofold swords, crass salutes
Deep heart and minds agape

Losing the point of life
To a sleek carbon knife
I am not saddened
I will be hardened

Cheer for whatever comes
And you will be deloused
In the swaths of kingdom’s sums
Amounting to a mouse

These days float on
With nary a thought
Marmalade veil on the dawn
Keeps me from the rot

Nothing will keep you
Don’t marry your hands
In a prayer so shrewd
To be as small as sand

Easily blown over
Into aloof waters
And sent away sober
Into the mile-old clotter

Perhaps I am a child
In the way I was defiled
But I was not soaked
By time’s stalwart cloak

I could lose the coins in my head
Through the act of giving myself to you
Kick you in the heart with all my breath
Skin stripped and shed for you

What’s the word and how shall I say it?
Is it whatever you said before?
I have no one to benefit
But for you, I would clean your floor

I could stay there all my life
I could love you clean from the inside
I’d let you stroke my mind
And hold you through your moans and cries

I’d grasp you violently
You’d teach me how to plead
And I’ll kiss your head
You’ll strangle me to bed

I’ll let you wrangle me to bed
I’ll let you have my brain in my unrest
Wrest control from me
Watch my bliss fill the sea

Truly, we could rule the world
We’d ignite our canopy
Tangled inside entropy
So long as you’re inside of me

I’ll have you, you’ll take me
Earnestly, viciously

Can you hear my tongue?
On the edge of the velvet rung
I can hear your soul
Echoing through countless holes

I’ll take it all
If you’ll let me
We’ll fall under a shawl
If you’ll let me let you breathe

Crack of dawn
On a tar-kissed lawn
The rules of the nascent day
Will have us impaired

Watch the fawn
That was born from the pawn
Who bleeds for his pay
And eats unprepared

Where will she go?
Ask no day, they never know
Over the noon's sickly throat
I am under the looming crow

There is nothing to find
In the joywheel's fleeting time
How will we know when it has come?
What's there to see beneath the ****?

We are so calm and unprepared

I am gone or going away
I am gone or going away
For very, very long
For far too long

She came onto everybody
A ragged and holy fiend
The night could never live again
Life could never gasp again

She is so
She is so
She is all
She is all

Calm and unprepared
How could she afford to be
When she cannot see?
When she is on her knees?

So calm and unprepared

Am I happy now?
Am I happy now?

Common roaches feeding on vintage ceilings
Where one goes when they can't get up to feeling
The inauthentic rust that keeps me seated
There is nothing sacred that is not beaten

Am I happy now?
Am I happy now?
Am I happy now?
Am I happy now?

Where do I go when the winds don't blow?
How will I know when I am owed
All the splendour from this pain
How could anything ease my brain?

Calm and unprepared
We must be
Calm and unprepared
We must be

There was a boy
Who had a girl
And in the grapevine,
Hanging by a pearl
There laid a boy
Stripped free and mild
Four laces entwined
And eyes beguiled

He bicycled
Down from the hill
Grasping a gun
And a feathered quill
He spoke in books
And ailing shouts
‘Neath the moon, he shook
And began to sprout

He said,  “Hush you want me badly, I know
But my lone beliefs are bonafide
You found a love a long time ago”
As he turned, the lover cried,

“I dreamt your call
Dressed in a shawl
I’d lie on your head
In a deathly bed
From dust to rust,
I want the boy
In this I trust,
I’ll love the boy”

He struck a pose
Fits in a frame
He ate a rose
Five hearts he maimed
They pranced around
Their stolen tags
And gave their pounds
For fiery drags

On squandered soil
They lift their roots
Their hands unspoiled
And aim acute
“I want you so
You know me well
But love is sold
'Neath hollow bells”

He said “Hush, you want me badly, I know
But why can’t I call you by your name?”
“This is nothing if you only show
Your incumbent shame”

"I want your call
I’ll wear your shawl
I’ll kiss your head
And lull you to bed”
“From dust to rust
I want the boy
In this I trust
I’ll love the boy”

He said, “Hush, you knew me when? I think not”
As he tended to his burning leaf
“Life is sweet, but it too will rot
I won’t be deceived”

“I want the boy
Give me the boy
Don’t be so coy
I want you, boy
I’ll love the boy
I want the boy
There was a boy
Who gave me joy”

Through our gritted teeth
I subject myself to strife
I cannot steal a pair of jeans
From a call to life

On a snow-laden path
An ice-caked mat
Innocence will make way for you
Just wait for a smile
Paint bathroom tiles
Dye coffee in vibrant hues

Time may be cold
But sure is his hold
He'll cherish what I never could
Watch your T.V.
In suburban heat
And I will remain in the woods

Melanie of the morning
Sailed by my parapet
She says, “there’s no use in mourning
When the world is your puppet”

Won’t you come through my window?
For my legs feel frail
She says, “just moan like a minnow
And I’ll be in your mail”

And what a lovely day it is
Flowers taped onto a sign
When the sky is an orange wisp
I’ll be by your side

Oh, I long for her
Searing, fading hair
Still-flowing, spotlight fur
Delouse my glare

I spun around in my chair
Until the white walls caved
I’m ready for her stare
To hold me inside a grave

Soon, the bottom of my ship
Will hold gilded fleece
To keep her warm for a trip
Can a sailor only love the sea?

Melanie, Melanie will come to me

It’s a miserable truth
To know everything is borne
On the mind’s river
Inert pictures, sterile frames
Loveless leaves, idle mountains
The beauty is the eye
And if the eye holds no lustre
The soul will wither
In place of the mind
Which birthed it all the same
In a one-sided frame