To the God which determines the lifetime of Poets i ask,

let all the poets die with their hearts no longer on their sleeves;

but finally in their throats.
so in our final moments
all the words never written
can, at last,
be spoke.

The air is immovable.
you took the wind with your wrists
so i light candles for a trace
of your cyclone steps
To   stop    drowning    on    dry      land
let me breathe in
let me hold your hand.

See,
my problems
seem to stem
from those three words.
that now, i have promised
To never let escape these lips

Your fingers,
wrapping around my cuffs ripping the seams
That's your revenge it seems
till the hard come down had set in,
what you would scream, now stays within.
You've run through the pipelines in my head.
Sewer dreams.

I'd give you,
The last of whatever's left.
Just to settle,
Your worried heart to rest.

You'd give a call
After I begged for one.
Tumbling eyes and dripping halls,
It's too cruel to cry in the sun.

I'd search this Earth,
To find.
Something, anything to heal,
Your hurt mind.

You'd return my hug
Only after the last lovers grave was dug.

I'd leave that,
Which I wanted most.
Because in the end

That's what love is I suppose.

-The sea does not roar out of grief; it just longs to be whole-

Sit down. Please.
You know who finite we are?
Of course you do.
we can all taste it at the back of our throats*
And too many times I have wished to taste it for you;
but you always said that was your burden to bear.
You Liar.

Sometimes I think I am the Sea:
splintered apart, drifting
aimlessly.

i already cut my hair once
to feel like progress had been made;

and every new year isn’t December
it’s March.

wonder if you still recite my name backwards
the vowels around a tongue;

remind me
that things broken open may never lock again.

life
(must i dream)
an experience
twice confirmed
three times replayed.

where
is the original?                                                
(to speak)    
isn't performance about spontaneity,          
about the moment?

(the gospel of loss?)                                                                            
what is there to dream of
to get my lines
right, the first time round?

Although the breeze
blows through,
crows and criticisms
***** my opinion of you.
Explanations too convoluted
forget them.
Generosity with your words,
harsh but clear.
intelligence/auras/fear.
Just stop with this facade!
Killing the last of whats left of
Love, Love. Love?
Mishaps after its theft
none will chase after it.
***** coloured dreams
pipe-smoked up,
quenching this fume fueled
rampage of words.
SILENCE.
till
unleashed
voices
whisper...
                                 ***
Zirconian truths.


Blindingly Brilliant. Brilliantly Blinding.

The oak doors that caught the light,
as natural as the fizzy drink raised to my lips-
shone in the midsummer evening.
Yet they swung back,
into a room not unlike a painting
where the artwork is but the frame.
                                      Spoken word.
but why was the room crushingly quiet?
Five there was, i think.
As is my norm, their names were not handed to me
but assigned by me.
Little miss Smiley- staring into her own sky.
Mr gentle Giant- filling out his seat, but oh so fast to greet.
Blue dude- all suede and swagger.
Minnie mousey- eyes as sharp as diamonds, touch as gentle as velvet.
Then Luna- because he glowed, but not burned.

Because my mouth thinks for me,
soon i was enveloped by these souls, these strangers.
But then the time ticked,
pens and notepads out, all aglow.
Revealing their dice game "A Word A Throw".

Cause i was new, first i had to go.
Once upon a midnight dreary- i would of prayed for "Alone"

                                       I don't believe it's fate when it landed on "Home".

Soon, i may be forced,
to look upon this false sense.
Of security called- You.
Pick up the memories,
and refer to us in the past tense.
Finally realizing it's true.

Better not to dwell on those things.

Is it Poetry
to find beauty at the bottom
of a notepad
is it just scribbles & scratches.

Is it Poetry
to glimpse those love lines at your mouth-
how they remind me
of your cracked lipstick smudges.

Is it Poetry
to get lost in the library
to catch a wisp or wave- of your
electrostatic love.

But What IS Poetry.
The cascading colours
swinging, singing and dancing from this monitor.
From you.
                                                        Hello. Poetry.

How're you today?

when they talk of
the vacuum two lovers locked gazes make.
the removal of all else
except of the other and ones self.

where does everyone else go?
are they the victims of entropy,
the selfless souls who disappear
at the twitch of an eyelid?

for they are blessed and cursed
with a most wonderful scene;
Love,
       yet not meant for them.

"Come"
Back? To where
your papercut smile,
sliced our story into
shreds?
                               "Back"
                                   To midnight maliciousness?
                                    Painted eyes with those
                                      pathetic words you call "Promises"?

                                                                                         "Please come back"

                                                                                     Here we go. Again.

beginning:

playing football
in the communal
playground
pitched between
mountains of concrete
brown brick office blocks
blockaded high street shops
council housing kingdoms.

memory;

taking potshots at metal
goalposts slicked with
the rain and scabbed spray paint
till the olders kick us aside
basketballs in hand
for freethrows from the poverty line.

unlearning;

to think
love like marble
too cold and rich to touch
in fear that it’d turn out to be *****
like two boys
looking at each other for too long
can leave stains no amount of febreze can air out.

end;

i still can’t sleep in your arms
but you never stop searching for me
in yours
all there is left to do
is let
myself be found.

I did.
Fall where i swore "Not too".
So what? In the end, i got You.

For a split-second- or at least,
what I felt. In the end
I had You. Right?

Fluttering eyelids.
Yawn once, then once again.
"No more" my liver forbids.
Neon lights simmer behind my eyes.
Ah.
                                 You sent me a sunrise.

Put me up for review.
Weigh the pros and cons,
troubles both plentiful and few.

Inspect my soul.
Put me through my paces,
find the extent of my control.

Evaluate my essence.
Of what makes me, me-
a kind of inward quintessence.

But we both already know the die's been cast.
Your so called "judgement"
has been eternally passed.

Tell me right now.
Truthfully, my ravaged nerves;
Talk much. Rather not,
Tales merry- running noiselessly;
Through merciless river nights.
Tell me right now.
Too many readied "no"'s
Trusting Malice. Reserved? Never.

The only "Truth" is what you believe to be.
                                                                          Truth in fact, is but the Title.

78 cards
to lay out before me.
i am not a superstitious person
but what other avenue is available?
to have something solid
to cling to
is better than free-falling.
tarot roots
please grow from me
and blossom into something
tangible.

Just don't look at me like that.
Don't let it change the fact. Friends first-
and now always.

It's not funny how the words i wanted to say
dried up, with your eyes screaming.
"Stop it, there's no winning"

Why do we bottle it up in our mind? Ladies and Gentlemen.
Exhibit A: Rejection-painful, but not unkind.

it’s the unwillingness to      (stop)
start
imitations                           (one-way)
of genuine
conversations                  (relationships)

laying with blue skies
in your hair
earthy reddened clay
across your cheeks
the river in your
shoulder blades
smokey fires blooming
from your thighs
solid mountains holding
your ankles together.

You stand and smile at me from across the street
so I pray to Gaia
to be a mistake you can’t help but repeat.

hit me with your words
like you wish you could with your hands
but you know this'll hurt more.

it's like you said
"friendship has to be mutual care"
"and who would care about you?"

these words do not surprise me.
but i am left wishing
they would.

Cranes
Bigger than the buildings;
Light up the sky in lights red.
And now
(If we're allowed out when it's dark)
Let's not ignore them
We'll count them;
As other stars instead.

two people embracing
on the potholed curbside,
a car splash-zone
loving,
risking the ire of the overzealous
parking monitor
on the off chance-
they remember what it meant
to cling onto someone else
heart rooted firmly in another.