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

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

So i have this little room behind my ribcage
swamped deep
in fathers hugs
and mothers smiles
and an uncle teaching me to fish
a brother teaching me loyalty
and a sister screaming fashion tips from the top of her lungs
'but SAAAM black tutus ARE the craze right now'

Its a mess - as its meant to be
I can't file or discard
grandma sneaking me a hot chocolate after I've been put to bed
or grandpa eating my vegetables while mum and dad were distracted
(peas were the worst)

So you must understand that this room isn't just for you

I love you

but I love my mum, dad, uncle, sis, brother, uncle and grandparents
I love Angus for carrying me home and putting me to bed with bourbon smelling ***** staining my shoes and shirt at 4am in the morning
I love Ms. Wells from third grade
Heck, I love my dealer - they have their place in the mess

If you can handle that,
the door is unlocked,
come in and throw a memory on the pile

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

I've been stuttering sentences since this synthesis of our senses

a lifetime

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

Debussy's in the air
Satie's in the sea
Gershwin's growing in the ground
how much more beauty can there be

Einstein's up in orbit
Newton's sitting 'neath a tree
Schrodinger's both here and there
so where should I be

Naruda conquered love
Bukowski; Reality
Ginsberg Howled all the rest
what thought is left for me

I'd like to say something never said before
something of wonder, profundity
here it comes
here it comes

I'm coming up empty

like venus and mars, nestled betwixt a bounty of stars
we snicker at the galaxies of gods
behind flakey, early morning lips;
waiting for the apocalypse

and i'm the guy. the guy who's calling
and knocking on the door
and she's the sky. the sky is falling
but who's she falling for

I put my hand on my heart
and promised my love
because my pockets were full

Yes I want a ******* poem without fallacy
A poem full of fantasy
a fabulously woven fabric without a faux facade

our poems need some faeces not facelifts
fanciful fairies dancing fandangos
NOT followers of this current fad
who have fastened Poetry... with fatality

****! I'm fine with fate. But I want to be fascinated
by a farfetched farcical fable about a fat farmer farting
something that isn't churned out from this fake factory

So, to start off here is a funny poem with a **** joke:
I call my ****, 'the truth', because people can't handle it.

I used to 'slippy slide' on my bathroom floor
I would slather the tiles in water and soap
and push myself from wall to wall

the closest I have come to this in 15 years
was when I slipped on my own alcohol induced *****
at two in the morning on Monday 15th (I just woke up from this)

this isn't a poem for you
It was just a really good night
and that's poetry to me

Mixing my own tears with the sky's, we weep together

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

Death sits beside me on the park bench.
Its four o'clock on some idle Tuesday.
Scythe lying on the armrest,
I hope I'm not dying today.

life might lead on like a patterned string
in avalanches of winters and spatters of spring
but I still don't know why the blackbird sings

She swoops and jives on sinatra's swing
but her eyebags halo like saturn's rings
and she patters around on tattered wings
purposefully hunting for the wasps sting
but why the blacker the bird the sweeter the sing

and its like through all that clattering
she can't hear she matters more than every thing

I knew a glassy eyed doll
a classy glass idol
red to excess; red lipstick
and red back-less dresses for the spine-less chick
well re(a)d in chiq cosmo - check
but purple(xed) by the cosmos
rotting, like her kombucha and compost

we met up for a coffee
and we both got extra hot
but it was her eyes of gold
that would shimmer and scald
at that little midtown shop

three years and a day went past
where we almost tied the knot
and I stayed enthralled
'til I got a call
saying lets meet at our usual spot

and she didn't sip the coffee
as it went from hot to cold
like here eyes that glazed
on an autumn day
while they lost their flecks of gold

and all I can think of is sad things about wood
about how from child to adulthood
it's stuck where its put
and stood where it stood
I wonder if wood would avert its eyes if it could

soaking up the blood of Hemingway's brain
and staring into the grieving eyes of bed ridden Twain
unable to scream at the Adam and Eve, twain
as they fruitfully leapt into the mortal plane

does it retain in its rings and grains
(more than brick walls and marble veins)
memories of plague strains and reining Charlemagnes

do they like their scars and bloodied stains
or is this just a little inane/insane

love's leaves leave lovers, leaving limp, languid, limbs. Loathed. Lonely

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

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

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

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

Its her
and its a:
*******
its a:
Lost Breath
its a:
Weak Knee
its a:
Barely Stifled Smile
its her
and its just started
luv ya x

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

I've been sitting in this city waiting for these brackish blue waves to take me anywhere but here
sold my surfboard when I was twelve but my swim shorts are somewhere
and, sink or swim, I'll get to the sea

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

Woke to a grocery list.
Goes like this;
Duty, Death.

no. poetry can be swirling
across the keyboard like a Rachmaninov
order from chaos
no meaning or rhyme
no rhythm all the time
idolising Bukowski
ending abruptly

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

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

she's got a voice like lavender
and a hug like a rhyme
the legs of a traveller
and a mind teeming with time

she thinks like a poet
yet acts like a priest
she's has an air of fresh breath
wisecracks stuck between her teeth

she picks them out like
apples in the market
like moses on the mount might
like crops at a harvest

that's all i have for her tonight

If I had one more mouth
I could say twice as many silly things

another foot
I'd just put in my mouth
mouths

another leg
and all I'd do is run
another month
I'd not use this one

another year
would mean more tears
but how bad to cry
with a third eye

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

her smile a gentle splashing
just like that streetlamp on her door
and her voice a comforting lapping
like a wave upon the shore

but like the moon that can't keep waxing
for a night that's craving more
she left; her green eyes flashing
like a distant meteor

and he called her the ocean
because he'd drowned in her eyes
and been lost in her smile
shed tears in the waves of her hair

and he called her an omen
because she burns bright streaking in the skies
racking up her air miles
a comet dashing/blitzing without care

and he called her a wave
because they come hand in hand with goodbyes
but she left him with neither
on the outgoing tide

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

i met the darling devil on her own porch
-darkling-
a wine bottle in hand
foot tapping to some underground band

she said
mi casa, su casa
my castle, your casket

I shed
my masks and my musket
said - if you need something just ask it

she smiled. her only response.
i could see she must have what she wants
to be a human on our green and blue ball
the most dangerous being of them all

punch numbers in my calculator
kick off my day with a double black
thump my feet to the sound of my cars bass
  boot up my laptop
    before shooting a few hoops after school
what am i fighting for

spliff blazing, room hazing
eyes fading, legs failing
arms flailing, mind derailing

but darkling
you, darling

are a clarity,
a singularity
in this 4am city

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

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

I have poems for your twinkle toes
and similes for your wrinkled nose
how it twitches
like the Bewitched witch's

I have poems for your starry eyes
reflecting all the star filled skies
each and every glistening datum
just as if your pupils ate them

not like a black hole swallowing solar systems
******* light and all existence
but like an 8 ball of spotted shining wisdom
also like what I have written

Hemingway might have had style
but I have finesse
better than hanging
I'd leave rope in suspense

******* a sword
I'd give an oncoming train a kiss
use a blindfold as I'm crossing the street
death is an eternal bliss

toy with auto-asphyxiation
but kick away the stool
tie my arms and legs to the bedpost
and jump in a pool

was it love at first sight or
had I somehow loved you before
was it hormones in the blood
or something closer to the core

Like two connected hearts or souls
like two encircling black holes
was it a chance encounter
or someone sitting at the controls

Now; I don't know the truth
but I don't need to
all I know
as that I need you

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

collapsing in on myself like a dying star
in the middle of the floor of some bar
on an idle Tuesday

I've already lost the keys to my car
and I've got a burn on my arm from a cigar
it feels like doomsday

don't know where love or life are
I just know I've seen them from afar
maybe they'll visit in May