Your face doesn't seem to belong there,
On your head.
A child supplied with glue,
You stuck it there.
I don't believe you when you say it was always there.

And all the dimensions of the universe have changed,
reversed,
In some kind of dream land
Where nothing can be trusted
Not your face nor your voice nor your scent.

Watch out! I say
They're coming closer,
What if they can tell.
And i study your face to see if you've heard me,
Did my voice sound out, or was it just in my head?

For now my mind has no limits
It is thrown about by a misplaced equilibrium,
Which has forgotten it's own limits
It's own basis of equality.

So I take your hand in mine,
And your hand becomes me, as I become You
and we try our best to run,
Although everything conspires against us,
And we laugh in our secret escaping.

Now,
It's been so long,
Arms branching out to you
Fossilise waiting to be filled.

The hair on the head has grown to the knee,
Changing its colours on the way down,
Bleached by the sun,
Stolen by the clock,
Left to grey.

Could the joints still move,
- if ever they wanted to?
So long frozen in commitment.

"I'll wait." - he said.

Aiming his arrow carefully,
So the two words would pierce though all barriers,
Exploding perfectly in the heart.

Shrapnel flies everywhere.
Duck and dodge the pieces of unworthy flesh!
She left. He waited.
Waiting for the time when she'd return from looking for something better.

I still repeat words you said to me over in my head.
And now I only speak in tongues,
For few understand the ramblings of a loveless madman.

I was running,
You were chasing,
You ran out of breath,
I never realised you'd given up.

We are hopeless lovers
Distraught in worlds of unimaginable alone-ness
And I only want you.
I only want you.
And you are not here.

I never thought
I would pine for the way
a heart...

could implode.

The falling together
The ****** laceration and
for the first time in my life
I realize that I'm
twitching from lack of sleep.

My pillow
shudders loud.

Remembering the note
I hold with intent
blaming myself for getting lost
inside this Polaroid.

Van Gogh furnished a eulogy
for the rant in the wake of
this scar that implants itself in the
palm of...

breathing.

Our ribcage could use a
little bloodshed.

We scream in flooding bloom.