Daydreaming witty memories that sailed smooth
While real time Lord Quas the unseen plays, beaming
Me back in time, Marty McFly draining the east of oil
As his engine gave out; such a silly scene your ****** features in the neon paint,

A picture of chaos, toned dance (canvas for the shadows to ballet upon)

That morphs back, eyes hovering kissing nose goodbye
and whole expressions metamorphing to resemble a trillion milliseconds bygone--
Hauntings of you so long ago hook at
Your brow like spiderlegs thru sac--
So many days where I could happily live forever, so many days
Spent
by
Your side, buttertea on the slow days wasting time on dominoes.
I'm taking care of business, as they say; green is bussiness
The faces on the pennies we skipped into the wishing fountain on our first date
Probably wouldn't recognise us.

The world seemed much more coherent a few years ago and I'm running
Out of options but I'm standing my ground because its fight or starve.

But how we stick and strive because in your face I see a mystical mirror
That reflects me truer than any glass could.

I kiss your skin. I seal the deal and think to ask you to marry me

But it's too late
at
Night. My hair isnt neat enough and I'm not familiar with this part of town. And how very out of place I would look

Neath this ***** neon that turrets
This precious moment we waste contempt




in silence.

Feelings that flow out
in words that I know
making sense of the
nonsense around me.

Poetry surrounds me
preserves me
and
like a dry stone walling
stops me from falling
off the end of the world.

Curled up in the bed
I could be catlike and
that like
I like.

Maybe we were only made for God to hear gorgeous music
The angels and fishes failed to provide
But then we just got a little carried away with ourselves,
And so he deposited his gloves and dusted his hands
Happy enough with what he got

Like a stem floundering through muck
Just to blossom in the sun,
I will do my everything
to make you feel at home.

When December ends and the sea
Reconnects to its frosty coat
And we stroll over pavements
Icey as opioded eyes

I will try to fix myself
Into your fantasy

For I know you could never
Be mine and I know

I have nothing left to lose

Apart from your physical presence.

I pose high my chest of ragged ribbons
And unravel a fist to stretch out fingers in search
Of a hand glimmering pale like a lantern
throughout this grey
        empty space. Once a pavement, now as good as

Cloud. Frozen lake. Dust. Boiling ashes. Skeletons.

I am walking on the slashed frames of waves
As jesus once must have. Propelled to a miracle unwitnessned
To anyone but myself. I am impelled to corrode
Into a statue; to remain a rigamortic rotting jade jewel in the sun
Until I no longer can.
Until they found me...

Perhaps they'd dust me off, thaw the ice from my shoulders,
Rehydrate me and gorge me,
Restart the blinking light in my brain
And refrain me evermore from having to seek.

But seek I must, for the lonliness weighs me down
Further by the day. I take half as many steps now as when I began my voyage.
My memories are like ghosts of flames that play
Snakes and ladders and hide and seek.
I am the lighthouse man and I sail drunken--
A rubicund mishape of bone and scuffed thoughts,
I can feel every soul which once embodied and huddled this place.

It's like they are trying so hard to posses me but even
Their souls have been smouldered to whispers
So thin they ring as mutely as the surrounding mist,
So soft they vibrate akin to an infant’s pulse
Throughout these walls, these scrapyards, these crumbling arcades, this sandbox grey that begs for a scream.
The spirit of a tarantula trembles along my back and grazes it teeth against my shoulderblade,
Preying that I turn to confirm it's being –but it's a game I’ve long grown sick of–


I am the lighthouse man and I ceased having a face long ago.
What I recall of my reflection was a child so young and so sure
Of a different life that

I cannot be sure it's even me.

I am the lighthouse man; a puckered bulb balancing on too-big shoulders, that walked
  through barren flat closes and exited empty handed, the lonely poltergeist,
a bitter flab of skin.

I am the lighthouse man and I am the final Aspen leaf in the pond of the universe,
I see myself reflected in a sole star twirling underfoot and overhead
rowing my ears so thick with disfigured silence so that I wish I was born deaf.
I am the lighthouse man and my mind is a spinning fragment
    my eyes can merely follow and my floating steps merely trail.

It never changes tone here, I can only vaguely trace the time
By the occasional moon. Tonight it shines half chewed,
  Befitting the levelled star a sideways crown.
It is beautiful but I mustn't stop to admire, lest a survivor
Scavenger loses patience withholding the last of their scran.

I am the lighthouse man and I haven't eaten in years.

I am the lighthouse man and I bled for the first time yestardy.
I am the lighthouse man and my bulb ricocheted off the base of my skull
In a telling fairy tale dream. I felt static in my head
And my light's ink spilled across my hands and for a minute I thought
My light had gone out. I tasted blood,
Trickled down from my stinging nose and I had never been so scared.

I am the lighthouse man and I never knew I could die.

I am the lighthouse man. Once the world danced with magic and I was
A walking satellite that grew to want to dissapear.
I am the lighthouse man and my decrepitude is casted in my hands:
Black as the night from the dirt collected over the years.
The few slashes of skin clear enough to see look rust-like and obtrusive, outdone only by
My veins like wonky bruises that vine across the silhouetted bone;
Bridging gear to gear, clinking shivering knuckles
         That want nothing more than to surrender.

But I am only frostbit, not frozen.
Life was and thus must still be.
I am a raindrop, not the whole ocean.

I am a walking lighthouse inspecting and guiding empty seas,
A form without virtue
That ceased feeling it's metallic steps too long ago to recall.
A cubist teardrop falling down a grey giant's cheek,
Waiting to be captured and swallowed.

Or perhaps I am climbing uphill, slowly along the circumference of his forehead.
So slowly I cannot notice the rise. Perhaps I was destined to amble in hypnosis,
En route on this colourless limboid curve until I forget the concept of
             a destination, a soul, a matryr jester to rouse me awake...
             and perhaps it is then that I will be blessed with the heavenly bulb

Of the weeping giant on whom's flesh I disturb.
I am the lighthouse man and I dream of purpose.

I am the the lighthouse man with a penchance to levitate
I am the lighthouse man and I am a God without tool or reason.
I am the lighthouse man and I'll walk this limbo until my feet dissapear.

I am the lighthouse man and I am cursed.
I am the lighthouse man transitioning between lives and never knowing
Causality nor the answer. There are no questions to have;

I am the lighthouse man and I must have been a murderer in my past life.
I am the lighthouse man and I can feel my inner fuses twist,
Falling fainter and fainter by the second.
I am the lighthouse man and I will not make it another night.
I am the lighthouse man and I am a memory-bank full of nothing remarkable.
If I felt this months ago then perhaps I would make due with the my sojourn of an empty house, atop a parked car, and perhaps I would be contempt with rotting.

But now the moon shines so luminously bright and full and close! So very close!
I am the lighthouse man and I chase the moon.
I am the lighthouse man and I vaguely recall my mother saying 'do not eat the moon,
It will give you nightmares!’ and it all suddenly makes sense now.

The stars are all out tonight and they await my company. I am the lighthouse man and now I run.
I run run run run for the sky in ode to the rest of the bodies that abandoned this place.

Her pale flesh trickling rainy vibrations ,
like watching fingers ran along a piano
   In the lense of an X-ray.

Goosebumps pricked and curling,
Her eyes were like self-contained half-moons upon half-moons builded on the budded rose of her lips
That split in a pink smile. The smile you have at that age, fauxly

assured and posing confidence.

Her face is ascribed to God over her mother, her father
  or me.
Her faith is beatless and with a kiss soft as a wrist-binded ribbon,

She said she stores all her faith into me.

A gusto glee that's marinated in the foggy dreams of
Too many days to count, or to care about anymore.

I loved her, and for the first time I believed someone when they said they loved me back.

I could hardly wait to sleep that night with her in my arms
for the very first time.