Simple heart beats, tap out
The rhythm of one’s time.

I remember
The tasteful sips
Of our young
Teenage lips

Before the tongue of men
Had slithered its way
Drinking sweet lust
Until none remained

I remember
Timid trembling hands
That took what was given
With need,  not demand

Before beggars
Were choosers
And winners
Became losers

I remember
A December
When our warmth
Was enough
When a boy and I
We're young
And made love

Stirs its ashes and embers, its burnt sticks

An eye powdered over, half melted and solid again
Ponders
Ideas that collapse
At the first touch of attention

The light at the window, so square and so same
So full-strong as ever, the window frame
A scaffold in space, for eyes to lean on

Supporting the body, shaped to its old work
Making small movements in gray air
Numbed from the blurred accident
Of having lived, the fatal, real injury
Under the amnesia

Something tries to save itself-searches
For defenses-but words evade
Like flies with their own notions

Old age slowly gets dressed
Heavily dosed with death's night
Sits on the bed's edge

Pulls its pieces together
Loosely tucks in its shirt

They're burning the stubbles of yesteryear's fields
Before ploughing.
Walls of fire around every farm.
Smoke blends with the smell of pig's furtilizing manure,
And whenever my nose wrinkles up
I remember my father's words:

It's the result of millennia of agricultural tradition.
It's the smell of money.
It's the smell of soil to bread.
It's the smell of something far more important
Than nasal comfort.

He had me at
-Where he should have said-
*Organic.

Returning from Devon, along the M5,
No camera in hand, as I drove on by,
Crafted from the earth, it stood alone,
Like it was sculpted, out of natural stone,


Contorted but stunning, painted in black,
Missing the splendour, of the leaves that it lacked,
The majestic sun, beamed through each branch,
As I passed by, twisted shadows danced,


Out of view so quickly, yet stuck in my mind,
This distorted wonder, that I once left behind.

If I give to you
what you've
given to me.
Then we
would be
millenniums
swallowed
in eternity.

To live forever
is nothing more
than a curse.
and to live forever
without you
would be
so much worse.

If you truly love something
You will suffer for that love
The passion will burn in the pit of your soul
Until you dig it out
And let it grow with your tears

Words are my love
I search for them in the deep corners of my heart
When my soul can no longer withstand the burning sensation
I rip them out
And splatter the blood on the wall
Like paint on a canvas

My words are my soul
in its purest form.
My stories are a collection of tears
that willingly let drip down my face.