Poetry is like a *****
in its wobbly, dangly freeness
(This poems not the cleanest so stop reading if you're a little squeamish)

Some have it, some don't
some use it, some won't
some like it awkward with a twist at the end
like a shakespearean couplet but on the person it depends

for others its merely secondary
(oh but always necessary)
to the holder - their Mars or Venus
So, as god is my witness,
poetry is a *****

Staring across the bar, it was love at first sight
- eyes so wide- I think I gave her a fright
She thought it was a *** look
thought she could read me like a textbook
wary of my advance
refusing me a chance
avoiding my glance
I put down my glass
and,
in a stance
weakened by my lovestruck trance,
simply asked for a dance

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

she texted 'I dreamt of you this afternoon'
which was a promising start
'you were a paintball instructor...
and you shot me in the heart'

now - I'd never dreamed of her
(and thought that even worse)
I wondered if I should mention it
or just write it down in verse

but, that very night,
dreaming in the solace of the dark
I took part in her archery class
and she shot cupids arrow through my heart

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

and the Mona's in the Louvre
and the opera's in Berlin
and the skin that I'm wearing
starts to feel like a sin

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

People, places and things
have become things we collect
things replace people
and it has the wrong effect
things, places, things
has the wrong ring
- its clearly incorrect -
people aren't objects despite our dialect
nor merely nouns now to be subject
at least I object
we're both Proper and imperfect
both Collective and dissected
both Abstracted and connected
More than nouns we are the now
thats what I think anyhow

our crescent moon floats in idle reverie
amidst its opal lagoon
in that lacuna befAore the day's first morning blush
while the fish hold their breath

and as she swims,
she illuminates the heiroglyphs scrawled on the sky
in the scumbled vapourtrails of hurried planes
soon to be dispersed
by the heavy breaths of snoring gods

but i just don't ******* care
moon, please let me sleep

Hera puts on a new set of armour
donning hairnet, yellow washing gloves and an apron
She washes the dishes with fervour
but wonders why she didn't marry Poseidon

For old Zeus was built like thunder
and she used to feel that electricity
but she know as she reaches for the plunger
that his heart feels no pity

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

Rage against the sadness
***** it if your poetry is badness
Hello! Poetry isn't for your complaints!
beep boop beep boop paints

Just remember - When the situation is dire,
(and this is from the king of the mire)
'What matters most is how well you walk through the fire'

I've been running around
a notebook on my hip
and the sun in my eyes
and your words on my lips

i've been falling asleep
with your smell on my mind
and the faintest memory
of our fingers entwined

but I've been waking up
with a pillow by my side
and you leaving with my dreams
on the outgoing tide

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

effortlessly wearing a cigarrette on her lips
head tilted high with one hand on her hips
a dizzyingly incandescent, nicotine laugh
i think i'd die for her
write that on my epitaph

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

i fall in love like i get sick
it happens on some idle tuesday
after a night in the rain

come sit at my bedside
and have a cup of tea
i'm a little low on love
and more than low on vitamin c

i kiss like i cough
and i **** like a shiver
with a wheeze
and a nose running rivers
i'll wear my heart on my sneeze

if she was a yawn she'd be a Sunday morning, just been snoring (dream exploring) kind of yawning
eyes closing creeping smile stretched across six pillows
blinds opening, sleep exiled, rays etched on skin in Gogh yellows
on her arms

if she was the sky she'd be fiery
if she was a Guy she'd be Fieri
blazing sunsets on silly shirts
silly dances at concerts

If she was a word she'd be a cellar door
and if she was a movie she'd be stellar wars
a euphony a symphony
music and imagery

and if she was art she'd be a dancing Degas
with the tempest of Turner and the dynamism of Dali
art for everybody but special to me

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 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'

Dancing on the stage bathed in ultra violet
is a dripping young honey making me ultra-violent.
My three stooges become scrooges using ***** useless excuses
to not be Zeus's and noose the spruce for their collusive abuses.
I leave the troupe, loop back, snoop, try to ******
induce some juice, a little loose chartreuse

The girl looks down from the platform, eyes vacant and hollow
Ten years of this storm full of snake-pits and sorrow
No glow but the glint of a nose speckled with snow
Her heartbeat allegro slows, lower tempo - adagio

For she's hooked to the pole by an IV of ******* and circumstance
I regret holding the cash and stealing her glance.
It falls from my hand, not that thats exculpatory
and when I next catch her eyes, it's merely to say, 'sorry'

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

I can't wash off the flower she drew
on my arm earlier this afternoon
A forget me not.
A game of 'she loves me. she loves me not'
A knot untied
I feel the fear that Narcissus must have felt as his ears turned to petals,
his hair to vines.
and his scream to a blooming flower

melting at your touch
a simple hug - our brusque
adieu

and you'll never be too much
for someone who can't get enough
of you

there's a game we all know
that has a Monopoly over us
that doesn't take a dice to throw
nor a score to plus

its the game of Hearts
sometimes complex like Draughts.
a game of straight flushing and great blushing
in spates of gushing or candid Candy crush Crushing

sometimes there's:
star crossed Starcraft lovers
two-per scenario Super Mario Brothers
and the game's
a Tetris tete a tete
a dual duel between two beating chests
each with a Chess set missing a King or Queen they've yet to get
Romeos and Juliets
though they've only just met

and other times;
we're just trying to Connect fo(u)r two seconds for once
in this scrabble scramble through life
Risking it all in the Trivial Pursuit
of trying to fit in the Sudoku
by following some pseudo social cues
of the games creator
that says we're failures
if we're not in 2player

sons die as the sun drowns on the horizon in its daily execution
love's leaves leave lovers
each unique snowflake turns the same ***** brown
spring breaks the spring step

the gentle twinkle
of a distant star
speaks heavenly morse
with my fluttering heart

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

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

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

she told me her saturn was returning
the icing on the cake
of a well baked excuse

I asked, 'what on earth',
but she was far from it
she felt my climate change
and had jumped in a rocket

the recipe was written on the stars
and we were following it with ease
it said to turn up the temperature
but she turned 180° degrees

deep-set moon-crater eyes
lips as red as the dust on mars
all i asked was for a little space
but she gave me all its stars

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

I once new a man from Calcutta
Who had an incredible stutter
Ok thats not true
I thought I'd try to stop you feeling blue
Sorry for filling your feed with clutter

Death sits atop his hill,
giving his lips a lick
looking for someone to ****
regretting forgetting his chapstick

I'm bound to the round sound of the guitar
and I'm deep underground sleeping down with the drowned
now the lights of the town seem extraordinarily far
wound around my crown, sleep drips down from the stars

but I think it's the dope, smoke dances in my lungs
or the drink that gropes both my liver and my tongue
one long blink - begin to float roam the unknown with the young

and opening my eyes I'm awake from the sleep
the dopamine has died my aches on me creep
its time to climb but the slopes are steep
put on my tie and climb in the jeep
put my mind to the pile of files that are heaped
run with these self proclaimed wolves who are sheep
just thinking of home, the release of the deep

my galaxy is an anagram of hers.
she wakes on planet heart
I sleep under a sky full of rats

she works as an astronomer,
i moonlight as a moon-starer
and she may be morose
but i am moreso

because, all the way in andromeda,
that glittering, nebulous bubble bath
where Cygnus and Leo playfully paddle,
Orion wears a scarf,
and she never left

Why's it so hard to write a ten word poem?

she was not a predictable kind of girl
not on the elliptical after work, kind of churlish,
living in a simple world type of girl

her hair cyclical in raphael kind of curls
and her biblical storm swirled whirlwind eyes unfurl
in the rain
like a pirouette
like a rose
like rolling thunder

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

opening my chakra
feeling a little less darker
a couple of drinks is my marker
but its always just the starter

at the brink and then I'm past it
it was fun while it lasted
now I hand over to my master
from the poodle to the mastiff

screaming who wants war
blocked from the liquor store
my mind wants more
but my liver isn't sure

back to waking up at noon
soaked in bile like some cartoon
know that by the time I see the moon
I'll be singing the same tune

summer is gone but I get starburned by your eyes

her:
thin
gangly even but, frankly, perfect
perfect skin
Eve
or a cherub at the inn
(do or don't believe)
Original
with no original sin
and therein
I saw the angel in evangelism

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

one for each time I never said I loved you

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

she's been running through my mind
with her heels on
smashing all she can find
like a Hadron proton

a thousand miles an hour
she screams through the rooms
and she doesn't even know her power
like a flower in full bloom