And so, he asked his boys:

hey who’s that girl sitting by herself by the
corner- is she a party for the night, or just a drugstore
is that a spark in her eyes to call this a match;
or is she one fighting to not be boxed by love?

But for her:

she’s drinking something twice her age, but she
asks herself what’s the real age of being free- living
like a chemical, cos no one really knows the shape of
you soul, don’t you know?

She wore a wig only as a bold choice; she pulled it out
the closet filled with dust and shadows— searching for
a good time, passionate or novel. He looks to be strong
with his jawline; perhaps he’s taken a few by the chin;
so if she denies him, he probably won’t throw a fit

Eyes in the trickled stream
quiet inspirations to a quill pen- holds
of a high protection in its feathery shield

black and white- across the cavalry patrolling
against otherwise rebellious thoughts
desperately trying to ignore those ill voices
that speak to me

The story of the poet who killed a billion
pigeons, to dip their feathers in an ink, to
cope with all the insanity that rest at his brink

In such a forced game of Tetris-
coming across those who block progress;
the hostility, in the sweats of labour mopped
up, by the heat escaping most of your pores

cupped lips, just for a little fill of a loving
kiss- the material of body language with a
string of words- long enough to reach the
****** of any conversation

Expression doesn’t exist much from a stranger’s
lips; lest you know their face with a sight of
good will. But I must be far short of the sun,
to give such a bright smile as a comforting
response- a single moon under its loon

of a man hiding away in these shadows

The ***** of old cigarettes
-their draft up your nostrils, going to war
with your lungs. Making rivers of red,
wet big eyes: a sore sight to the very mind

And came a sweet bite out of a cutie pie
whose sweet lips offer up such a surprise,
a slice of life; cherry filled with love- with such
a pinching sweetness, with a little hint of that
piercing on the tongue

So, when the two kiss, there’s a cigarette
flavour added into that tasty piece of pie

Your face blush is like red tomatoes
that look almost pink; you give out this
warm kind of smile, that blankets me by surprise
beneath the second nature of your silver eyes
the words of affirmations you give me, grants
me tears, and gives me so much poetry to write

Holding time to each other in these aging hands
let’s build a blue house to hide away our blues-
bites of the sound of love to your ears pricked
behind my eyes pictured window; I can still see
through your body’s frame- with those tired eyes
that once bought into dreams, I’ll sell you the rest

Let the enhancement of those weights give a better
feeling to your life, as salt over your horizon’s shoulder,
wait, as we wait to get much older- the days must get older
for our hearts to both to feel much warmer. Those tomatoes
will still remain so red, to their well appearance- you’ve
kept me well fed.

Zip tie lock your legs- anchor down your stress;
change the fabric address of that nice sunny dress
Body full of blows, skin made of dust; counting on hope,
joy, and sorrow, every after hour of the day’s settled dusk
From telling thin lies from the thick of red lips on a reed,
to all those gears of ideas start to shift away- taking steps
in reverse, when everything is exposed of your old deeds

Tears in the river of tiny ripples to the sound of love;
to be honest it’s an unfamiliar sound- 3,500 mites;
become a float of those ticking ideas. Scrums around the
clock, sharing bread crumbs with old chums— those few
who actually stuck around

As time starts to show, on the flakes of skin, the loss of
strong hairs; you feel much older to a recent picture-
the unfamiliar creature, invisible to so many people
But with a smile, you appreciate all the places you have
been. You must be ready to meet your King…

Good enough lips for old discussions; acoustic ears pulling
at the strings of all we get to hear; I wish you were still here
Turning the dial, that familiar sensual feeling on life’s radio;
you were just a stereo—two channels away from falling in love,
in a forgotten tune of something close to an old love

My slow breaths exhaling, to your many breaths
inhaling; swallowing words to a prayer; happily fasting
on every time it takes, to admit why you actually fell in love
Filtering most of the hate I once had for you, funnelled out
of my folded brain— paper notes of love letters I kept away
from my curious friends

Dreaming of falling in love; soaked tears in my eyes, during-
to just to recall it all, as a *******; as if I were falling
from mountain springs; cold to your very touch of another
winter’s rain. And in a single way, I kind of enjoyed being
single for just another day