There are so many
lovers walking
the streets

arms over waists and
legs all in sync

where she's holding her books
and he's touching her hair
and the way that their eyes
glow;
they're so unaware

there are so many love-
songs
that live with the sea

they're pushing
they're pulling
they're singing to me

and so many lovers
here,
defying the blues

I'd have a lover
if I only loved
you.

It'll break cause it's just plastic.
Map out a conquest, a Great Dane on my lap,
Welcome home mat, I burned with a match,
Matt died last spring, April first wasnt a joke,
May 9 is the first time I'll drop acid,
It won't go bad, I hope.

Photographers step out of hazy stairwells, tired eyes adjusting to dim light, looking for
their next muse.
“Works of art take time” they tell themselves
they look for the next spark of intrigue, their next fix.
You’ll find them on public transport, in old cafes:
cameras slung around their necks like billiard boards captioned ‘the end is nigh’.
Buzzing with anticipation of their next good catch, biting the lips of their disgruntled
faces like ancient gladiators biting the dust.
Castaways, oil paintings once brilliant and beautiful thrown into apartment blocks and
grey buildings,
ruins of art cast adrift by time.
Haunted by still frames and possibilities, all burned onto retinas, they stumble across
traffic jams;
finding beautiful people, forcing themselves into their lives.
Fleeting whispers rotate into double takes and flickers on the film of a Polaroid camera;
the subjects become muses,
cities are reborn as golden
flood into spotlights:
vibrant, reckless, insomniac.

Position this anguish to the course of broken seas, it’ll begin a anew another tribulation of heartbreak

For this energy never dies away, it merely finds another host, another soul to begins its parasitic phase

Take this energy and lay it to rest, deal with the demon and move on from it, for it will never go away unless it is dealt with