Her kind of rain was the kind that drizzled

Her drizzles were like soft rain,
On grey days, they made perfect sense to align with interspersed clouds hanging heavy on blue-less skies
But on days when a storm beckoned it's calling
I lost her,
She drowned
Somewhere
Where it never drizzled
Always rained.

Sardonically, lightly, he trips around the argument from last night
The night-time affair-morning despair
Whiskey and gin, liquor scented promises
Still droop over the dawn's proceedings
No wonder he waned quick and rose slow last night
His instincts took form, primal release
Inhibitions lulled by the dull lust quenched senses
Now all come back to the brim
And resurface with surmounting terror in the peak of morning
What might have been found ,
In the quiet moments, between the pauses, sighs and naked glances
Has already been lost
No words escape his,
Or hers-
Save for a kiss
Once drenched with wet lust
That now gathers rust;
Hangs in the heavy silence of their confession
Where none of them utter a word,
Yet the verdict rules:
both guilty.

Lost in the scansion of a cool iron box
I struggle for air from the confines of metal that blocks all fresh of life from the cage
Bound in gagged suffocated reflexes
I utter muffled screams of my nights spent in lost days

Held in suspended motion, mid-flight to a descent
I train myself, my senses already know what comes next
meanwhile the art of stillness, in vivid stasis I contemplate.

I want to be the me that I wanted to be when I was a kid who dreamed of being the me that I’ll be when I turn 70
I want to be a race car, a ******* rush; I want to be a daredevil on both
I want to be a tight-rope circus act, and tread daily on loose strings with firm feet and handstands
I want to be a shaman with normal senses, instead of a normal person with shamanistic pretenses
I want to look what I saw, I want to listen what I heard, I want to speak what I said with absolute, immaculate, immovable conviction
I want to be like Jim Morrison, and sail to the moon on a crystal ship
I want to be 25% pessimistic, 25% optimistic, 50% opportunistic surrealist
I want to be an Anti-Christ neutral anarchist, and go on a nihilistic bowling spree
I want to be like Jeff Lebowski
I want to be an unintentionally over-achieving burnout who’s proud of his very human frailties
I want to be my own version of Salvador Dali’s first drafts, Allen Ginsberg’s papers and Jack Kerouac’s path
I want to write serenades about melted ice-cream, burnt sausages…and similar tragedies
I want to be a comedic prophet with bad timing; I want to laugh at a funeral-my own funeral
I want to be a suicide note; an obituary that says, ‘**** Condolences! I’m dead. Now, just let me be’
And although, I’m not half the things I said I wanted to be,
I’m an ancient nutshell with reinforced-concrete casing and recent cracks that show the me that I am right now,
I’m an educated, at most times mostly illiterate kind of bloke
I’m a six feet tall hormonal speck of snowflake on snow
I’m a growing ukulele, dreaming of bursting out an improvised, deafening, soul scathing Electric guitar solo, on an amp that goes up to 11!
I’m a short-tempered, soft-spoken, heavy-breathing embodiment of all I’ve wanted to be and the things I’ll never be
But right now, I am the me, that I want to be
And all the other ‘me’s would be proud if they could see me.

I couldn't make up my mind on who she was. Really,
A premonition? Foreboding an inevitable storm
Or the storm's aftermath;
All dull and vivid juxtaposed in parallel reflection
Yet even though debris seemed to follow the destruction around her,
The centre of all the chaos was calm, grey
I called her Grey
She liked it
She thought it resembled a fading, translucent characteristic within her that most people seemed to miss without confirming a second look
"It’s like you lifted my eye-lids with clamps-long and hard enough to gaze and wonder just who I was"
That the easy facade on her outside was just a complex elaborate hoax and her intricacies were much simpler inside
But even with all my sensors of human emotion detection and learning to wade and blend through
derelict sage-nuances
I still couldn't figure her out
For I wasn't sure what she was:
A premonition or an aftermath of new color.

She was always Grey

The crazy demography of death in our minds; our shine-clad generation suggests our invisible escape to depravity
we are Not innocent, we are Not cured-
of whatever disease we choose to hide in our black cages
we are afraid without pure fear; we are a disgrace
And so much happens in the streets at night-
as each man loses his faith in (?)you-name-it, that we breed either
poets, prophets or politicians, vegetables.

Shut the **** up.**
It's hard dating anyone,
and *a poet's no different.