the city is pink
the clouds are close
the sun will sink
pubs will flood
pavement splattered
with tipsy chatter
from ****** clubs
glass shattered
and mornings knackered

the strangers that find me strange
The heave of an alleyway in a drunken sway
movement
students
cocktails
drunken wails
pool cues
ques for loos
beer gardens
feeling disheartened

potions creating feeling
to disobey trust
emotions blinded
by unnecessary lust

addictive needs
swift gulps of a remedy
morning bleeds
and my head is the enemy

delaying the night to be over
as i wander slow pace
the thought of being sober
the people and the look of my face

the clouds cry as I stare at the sky
I turn down to the puddles to untangle my troubles
the endless struggle to this puzzle

the sky is grey
I run to the train
panting in dismay
at a city full of pain
in a happiness debt
that the journey might reset

I blink

I missed my train
but the city is in pink
I live to love it
I make myself think
so I head to the bar
and I buy a drink

There’s a secret in heaven
In the vines weaved through the overcast
Of a leafy canopy
Someone sleeps in the gathering
Of rain puddles and
Drips like the liquid
In an IV
They say,
Someday
We will be free
From our lost ideals
And speak the last words
We can muster
Someday
We will hear them floating in the
Particles of the wind
And become the stories
That the earth
Tells to the stars

~
scarlet wind sails
upon an ultrasounding wave,
postcards from tiny islands;
nebulous, indefinable, floating,
fresh as a field
of crackerjacks;
nodding happily
from minute one,
celebrating the mountains
and valleys of being alive
in excelsis; irresistible and impish
in its understated insinuations.
~

If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.

spring struggles from the ground
wet with winter
saplings searching for a sky
lusting for softer scents
a sound of radiance

every year,
the seasons feel more uneven
thirsty flowers screaming 'drink the downpour'
mycelium magic dreaming 'keep breathing'
in fear that the green wont reappear
burrow in decay till may
till smiles feel sincere
lying still
I'll listen to the roots gossip
until the tree grants me safety to resurface
to feel purpose I reserve

a dethawed metaphor
flesh of the dirt
just flirt with the earth
make it the world you deserve
cherish her
so bulbs burst fresh as you tease them
and the cold dissolves
indifferent to longing or worship
as she intended
like rutted enchantment

my feet are bare again
and summer grants me all I forget I live for

she used to crave symmetry
but recently she's been gorging on chaos
it fills her up but unfulfilling is the gap
opened by her loss

the more she pours into it
the more the cliff crumbles
into waves of need unfruitful

chaos leaves only debris
watch it swallowed
like your sorrow
by the relentless sea