Is this poetic
or is this just poetry
have I found a new community
or am I still lonely

should I write one more
find someone to follow
attract another heart
to keep feeding my ego

it's hungry so hungry
fiending for a feeding
and I'm needing and pleading
that you just keep on reading

you can write poetry without being a poet
I feel Bukowski sometimes wrote without knowing how
or why
just because he was Poetry
like how Gogh painted for love
or for his next meal
not for me
not for we
like how an athlete runs for running
and a singer sings for singing
and a sinner sins for sinning
maybe you can't become a poet
it must be in you from the beginning

sorry I mix between serious and surreal
in these serials of her
swapping sense for splendour
subtlety for superlatives
her bark for a purr

is this -feeling- or is this just love
that old hormone that fits
humanity like a glove

is this my soul or is this a balloon
both are reaching for the sky
but are stuck in this room

I don't know why a balloon would be in my chest
or if even a soul resides in my breast
but both I'd prefer to divest

Soaring above the field
the pidgeon saw the world revealed
but by its own flight it was betrayed
for that pidgeon was made of clay

Floating like a summer's cloud
my love for her was high and proud
yet my heart was chipped one day
for my heart was made of clay

Beauty can't always be entrusted
to the potters hand
so build your beauty from something
that can withstand
more than the lovers arrow
at least
til the morrow

******* powdering our guns
white powder powdering our gums

this is the new world

when you wish upon a star
do you ever think it's just too far
looking out the windows washing dishes
wondering if that star's run out of wishes

do satellites grant wishes too
what happens when you wish on something flashing blue
what if it supernova'd 10,000 years ago
and this light is just its afterglow

what what what's so special about these stars
in this milky way of ours
yet in this light we keep on coping
and with their light we keep on hoping

a ghost roams this house
it's yours
and its one of the many things you left behind
when you left behind nothing

-not even a toothbrush
just your teeth biting deep

not even a perfume bottle
but an aura
like how a dead flower sitting in its vase still leak lilies
and how a dead body laying in its casket still bleeds love

but if i know one thing
it's knowing nothings are something
like how even though you took my heart running
I don't need it to keep my blood pumping

if you couldn't infer who is 'her'

she is all the hers i've known
from all the we's that I have blown
where some and none and one are One
and more will come til life's been run

that's a guess but it sounded definite
its also a guess that the possibilities are infinite
it's a guess she'll remain as a sessioned imression
I know I still haven't answered your question

is this poetry or is this love
is this business really something
to discuss in the tub

is this drowning or is this drinking
or are these overwhelming feelings
products of too much thinking

is this sleeping or is this blinking
because i don't know how much further
life can keep shrinking

poetry is sleep, death and rest
and while these have not truly been addressed
I guess poetry is also life's digress

A chicken might live without a head
live many a year before it's dead
but have its heart ripped from its breast
and it'll be in seconds before it rests

but oh how its different with us
and isn't the poem the best forum to discuss
that without a head - death would appear
but without a heart. Well. I'm still right here

Maybe the greatest injury yet
was all too soon after we met
and with eyes and ink still wet
you tried to **** me with the alphabet

I'm not sure if death is an injury
but from the Rockies to the Yangtze
If you read any Bukowski
You may never rip that knife free

A final stanza on the busy bus
can make the world freeze
so don't forget to hold onto the handrail
or when it really stops,
you'll be brought crashing to your knees

there's those poems that destroy you
from inside to out
an h-bomb of hopelessness
and the post realisation fall-out

there's that poem that you read
that stops you in your tracks
dropping the book on your nose
as you're lying on your back

There are those poems that complete you
and also those that abscise;
Taking a little love from behind your ribs
and a little light from behind your eyes

wondering
why's the vice president always so senior
is that a permanent feature
like how 2+2 is always equal to 4
and I'm lying on the floor
wondering if these words have been said before

like
what makes the beauty of the sea
are you beautiful
or is it just to me
does it matter
do we matter
what's beauty's main factor
why does the mad hatter
drink tea
a clock carrying bunny
is more mad than a tea party
bon soir mon amie
that's all from me

The freckled girl screams 'out **** spot'
thinking they're part of some Higher plot.

They are. They are. They are.
For this sky would be nothing without the stars
Imagine Orion's belt without each datum
(and I say this without sarcasm)
Think of the ocean that'd be a chasm.
Without the drops - nothing happens

poetry would be nothing without the atom

summer is gone but I get starburned by your eyes

It's a new Her this week
an emma from a building up the street
met in the line of a bar
caught eyes from afar
felt my knees arms and heart go weak

the rest of the night was a haze
we left the bar in a craze
carried through the door
undergarments on the floor
before moving onto the next phase

one more drink from the bottle
and she brought out her novel
she read with such probity
I ripped up my poetry
and turned from a lover to apostle

He yelled
Out **** spot
to the freckled boy from next door

and
out **** spot
to his own black labrador

he wolf whistled and cawed
to all the lambs on the moor

yet
he had never seen or thought
of the blindspot in his own eye before

three knocks at three O'clock
three bears out of shop
an Aesop goldilocks
(small frock and yellow socks)
ad hoc broken locks

Three cold porridge bowls
one poor girl with the hair of gold
should have done what she'd been told
to find in that horrid household
three bears dead and cold

Pumpkin faced, fang toothed witch
plump chin, fake tan, broomstick

nose with warts, chosen devils cohort
courting the goat, a shoat cutthroat
cavorting devote to the angel turncoat

tilted head back with the eerie cry 'halloween is nigh'
why she's dressed up 10 days early i'll never know why

her: hi!
Me:
her: hello?
lightning can definitely strike twice

the door was barely opened before
I caught her like a 2am yawn (once seen unstoppable)
she caught my smile but expressed it better than I ever could
and like I would for the queen I quickly stood
she must have seen my eyes through the hazy night
and she moved closer like poetry I cannot write

ok I can't help myself
she walked like an 'um' itself
an um for the wordless times
when something more important is on your mind
when you're asked for the truth but are filled with lies
when in pause, time it buys

gliding like a miyazaki dragon spiriting me away
anywhere but here, the now, the day
struck dumb
the response to her hello?
- 'um'

100m;
Flowing down the street like a 2.30am moonlit beam
on still waters, I mistook her for the sky.
The way the dress caressed her body
like the clouds that hold the moon

50m;
a falling meteor
a dawning sun in the red radiance of her lips
as its rose blush rushing across her cheeks

1m;
Everything.
A supernova girl engulfing its solar system - its light to be seen a thousand years later in another galaxy before continuing on past, universe to universe, till the end of time or the edge of existence (whichever comes first)

The edge of existence;
A cool breeze
A burn on my retina
The sky was gone

A four line poem for my 8th grade teacher
an A for my efforts and a weekly pamphlet feature
'Blue' by Sam a tale of: spilled ink
of an endless ocean; the whole blue kitchen sink

19. 4 stanzas for a professor of mine
a little splotch of blood or maybe red wine
an A for the reference to Bukowski at the end
but I guess he didn't know the bluebird too, was my friend

Blue was it's name, it was almost the same
as the one hanging in my lounge in a frame
this time it talked of the ocean of endlessness
and was penned like the spill it referenced

A mark for my friendless existence
with lark he congratulated my sedulous recklessness
an Aeschylus with a reflective tragic fecklessness
driven to or destined for the precipice

so I hoped when
I hung beside my poem
the professor did know then
not all doors should be opened

a candle sat in an open field
with nothing but darkness up and round
a thousand cubic miles of night
and nothing weighs that candle down

the darkness chokes with all its might
yet the candle still endures
and if all the darkness in the world couldn't put out the candle's light
then what could put out yours

drop dead gorgeous, a girl to die for
hot headed taurus anthropomorphic ichor

hello HP
today what may be
in store for me
oh - death. i see
heartbreak it seems
darkness it breeds
lines breaking at the seams
and not one single beam
hashtag love broken | hashtag lonely
backlashed love tokens | backstab poetry
walk through this fire
we're blanketing the embers
but leave your ex in the mire
and be welcomed by the members

He said grown men don't weep
but I did last week
last night as I lay on my bed in a heap
bar height - i've lived a life on the sweet
(bar -marmite a little bitter on the teeth
(bar -barfights i guess I thrive on the street
baabaa type if I'm a meat I'm a sheep
ha ha at light but only weep in my sleep
far far right from when I started this speech
au revoir mon amie this be the end of my suite

stricken by love or bitten by pain
it can be written by blood or written by rain
leave the pen on the ground if its ink's lined with lies
put the paper under your wrists or under your eyes
and drop drop your life blood
don't stop let the lot flood
so when the well's dry you'll know then
that you've written a poem

we're here and we're reading
you lost souls, you bleeding
the poets collective dead poets connected
with a near perfected objective
of hearing your prayers when no one else will
while dissecting the layers in your soul or your quill
we're here and we're reading
please keep writing i'm pleading
for whether I'm screaming or weeping
believe that you're the reason I'm breathing

here's a barter to the gardener who made Eve then marred her
who fathered the carpenter then martyred man's armour
I spit at the sky but He spits back harder
one roar and a flash and i'm a blurred charred marker
and while I know I'm a carper to start a rant over rain,
I'm cold and I'm tired and a little bit vain

so to the almighty all awful
why when you reign does it pour?
naught but rain until dawn
is this the law of the poor and lore for those born with a luckier draw?
I cry to the alpha to compromise his plan
and just for tomorrow, clear the skies for Sam

me?
it was bukowski
who helped me tear through life loudly
who helped my mind settle soundly
profoundly through his profundity
and, quietly, in his subtlety,
i found me

couldn't sense her sin
couldn't tell a thing
even as the choir sung,
the bells were rung
and flowers flung
for i was strung, roped, hung
by the misdirection of her perfection

don't listen to mozart;
lacrimosa
lack any dosage:
lacrimosa
tea; no coaster:
lacrimosa
broken toaster:
lacrimosa

wined and dined till i wound up dead
drowned and cold, alone in bed
i hid in bottles and bottled smiles
i fought to forget and wasted my whiles

it took a year but i woke up
swapped the pint for the coffee cup
There's certainly less ache
in this life i will not forsake
but the smile is still fake

all of god's angels couldn't put me back together again

you're not my pen
you're my paper
you're not my heart
you'll be its breaker

i'm not sorry for drawing
i'm sorry for scrawling
i'm not sorry for calling
but i'm sorry for falling

she                     like           poem
          walked                a

just a ****** busker wishing he was a **** buster
he swam lack-lustre,
a salmon unable to muster
the will to cut the custard,
and flutter upstream to meet a lover

stuck in the gutter singing covers
a crushed sucker, tasteless kfc crusher
ominous as a dawn-less dusk and
useless as a ham sandwich with no mustard

The great turbines now rusted
I wonder if I can still cry
the heavens make it look so easy
when tears fall from the sky

the wet rags of emotion can no longer be wrung
the sobs to the beat of a tearful drip have been sung
those sonnets have been passed to another's lungs
another's tongue
are tears what it means to be young

The sun is hung.
The day's at end.
Hello, night,
my only friend.

The page is black
with ink i've penned
all words unwind,
blend and distend

candle flickers
mind can mend
my body -wasted-
so to my spirits, tend.

some beauty made the moon

some beauty made the sea

that same beauty made you

but it didn't make me

i'd prayed for the Holy Ghost more times than most
engrossed in the idea religion was some signpost

...waiting for Mary's face on my own toast

i lost all hope when I saw the demon host
rising hellish from their infernal roast
i just wish someone had, to me, disclosed
that there's no such thing as ghosts

six o'clock, every morning
on its way since the dawn was yawning
meant for you as long as you pick it up
made for the spot beside your teacup

it is not new news that dreams do come true
only when the moon is as blue as the skies clear hue

but, i think, this month; maybe it is due