what a threat to be erased.

or i will erase you completely

people are strange and

the quota for that is filled--

one time is enough to be

told such an ugly thing.

The prettiest colours of the sky are in the morning between five and six.

The prettiest colours are on my cheeks when you touch my lips.

Keep on touching and paint all of me because I'm a blanc canvas and I dont want to be.

This is the message I want to send to you

I haven't met you

but I know I will soon.

She's the sweetest thing from down in Brooklyn,
Took my soul on a train ride,
Back to Upper West Side;

Her hair was like the Hudson Bay
Running off with my soul downstream,
Taking it back away -

She's like roses,
Daisies;
Perched upon Times Square;
Swaying in the November air

you taught me that
the shaky old men
in bars have the most
to say

so now these veterans
come into the bank and whisper
about funds, fill me in
about navy ships and
rifles and I listen
intently--

and I'm not as scared
of dark places, of people
i don't know 'cause everyone
just wants to talk, just wants
to know someone else--

i don't know much about you
like you said, just that you're
wounded in a lot of ways but
play it off pretty good

don't we all, though?
routine you said,
****** nights, ****** conversations
I kept hoping, kept thinking
kept believing that maybe
this, maybe that--
i can't say for sure that
he doesn't hate me, but
i will always want to tell
him to get home safe
or to rub his back,
maybe this
maybe that

but maybe's bring no one back
neither do confessions, or kisses
indian head pennies, buckles
or engraved pistols,
when someone is done
they are
done.

I will not say to you
"In another life"
It should have been this one.

In the
City I see;
Bright stripes
And city lights,
Sky high fives
The high rise.
Cars beep on
Busy streets
Tired sleep to
Sluggish beats.
Violent colours
Streak & blur,
Toss and turn as
The night burns.
Convenience,
We bought,
Peace we lost,
Sleep it's cost.
And so I lie in
A world dyed.
N.   E.   O.   N.

the touch of someone's skin on another's
has been written about plenty already
but I swear to you
his touch is like no other
so innocent and fragile
but commanding and strong
yet gentle and caring
while he bites me all along
the sting and the numbness
the tickle of his tongue
his touch is like no other
so right though so wrong
all my softness in his clutch
his being needs no guide
he knows where and how to touch
as his eager mouth finds mine
his tracing fingertips bring chills
up my chilly and bare spine
his touch is one that nearly kills
but I am on cloud nine

if i am a dead language
then you are fluent, and
if mandarin is the hardest
form of discourse then you
learned me as a back-up--

I have always been a tangle
a mess of overreactions and
sentimentalities, too proud
to call for help or be pulled
from the rough convinced that
if it  must be done at all
it must be done by sheer
willpower and
iso
      l at ion

i am trying to unlearn that
i do not have to be alone
but it's in the company you choose
that some mistakes are too deep
and coiled to come back from

if i am dead language then
i am old norse, a handful of
runes and sounds falling off
the tongues of no one special
just scholars and politicians
struggling to make sense
but not all too
concerned
in the first
place.