How she skated,
gracefully evaded
falling down.

She twirled and danced and slid
without ever getting rid
of her precious glow.

The lanterns were lit,
it started to snow,
she hopped off to sit
but I had to go.

I can still trace,
Where his hands were last night,
I can still picture,
His chest and how it felt,
I can still taste,
His *** growing in my mouth,
I can still feel,
His body perched up on me,
I can still recall,
His voice, grunting in pleasure.

But his face I can't remember,
Neither his name I could tell.

Yesterday I was married
When the church bells rang
It was the usual Alleluia, but my heart had sunk in joy
Give me the candle I may light the rest.
And now am a prince of love.
My bride is still single, but she has married me now
She said yes, and I fell for her again
I placed a kiss to her finger, as they all clapped.
She returned to me with the man she loved
For she loved me most; but loved him more
I now don’t know that I knew
For she was slapped away by her memories
Her veil so wet and ironed in softness
Come by am yours ….i sang to quietness.
I was married to her dream at the counter
I gave her kiss to the beer, as I massaged her conscious
She hanged me through the bottle and sloped to the belly
She then went far away to the distance of my laps
I waved to her as she lay on my shoulder; and absent,
I wasn’t there at all but am here, as she says I was in
Am now gone and too far that am still here
My beards as heavy as my worries
My smile as broad as my future
I smell you come back, nearly gone afar back
Down down the streams of I will be there.

Between the conception and the creation
                                                        ­                Falls the Shadow.
Blinding lights, a crowded terrace,
Flickers, music, ballroom dance
Suddenly, the image shatters -
Darkness, rest from unknown lands.
S-spiralling-ing down to nimbus
Infinity yet to explore
Commotion woke me from my dreams
and left me yearning for ____

It came around again
for we are at the center
of our everything.

And the center never
moves.

It burns through natural clouds
and unnatural lines in our sky.

Over the Eastern mountains
and scorched hillsides.

Made its way
across a deadly
California desert.
Over a  mysterious ,
***** blondes bare
freckled shoulder.

Through the track homes
and the cheap motels.
Between  a beautiful ******
open legs and runny nylons.

Past the clerk asleep in the  hotel lobby.
Past the stolen car
outside.
Across the cluttered
room and
passed a dark alley way.

Up the main street
of some nowhere type of town.
Across the freeway and the blood stain.
Past the curbside motive candles.

Above the glass like surface
of the morning ,dead calm sea.
Through the fisherman's hopeful heart.
And the starlets dying flame.

Over the pages of my
favorite book ,
my favorite line.
"Run to me,Come to me'

Through my
half empty ***** bottle.
Bounced its way off the cracked
goodluck mirror  and  caught
me straight in the eye.

That first blinding ray
shines its way through the ages
to great you each and every  morning .

The first sign
that you've made it.
Still healthy enough to
gracefully waste another beautiful
Southern California day.

serendipitous memories
and wistful sighs
cherry blossom petals
twirling amidst the skies
efflorescent flowers
ephemeral hours
ethereal sunsets
and starry constellations

anguished thoughts
and secret frustrations
incandescent candles burn
as if awaiting your return
anguish and lingering despair
heartbreak and hollow emptiness
caused by unforsaken pettiness

merely the potential difference
between requited love
and bittersweet limerence

These moments - cold,
in the bathroom,
naked except for the blister plasters
and the indent across my ribs
from the new bra.

Before the eyeliner is scrubbed away.
Before I’m back to that flushed girl
with big dreams.

These moments - fresher
than the rest.

And in the end, always,
I’m churning everything inside me,
making pretty songs. But especially moments
like this.

Moments with clothes curled
on the tiles, with blue clarity,
the moments wondering if it matters
that my **** are lopsided.

Always poetry.

There are boys swimming in my head,
boys I once knew,
boys I might know,
girls I want to find. All
poetry.

Suds down the drain. Sponge on skin.
Every moment in every bathroom -
every grimy, cold bathroom,
stacks of them, in my head.

Holy baths and sloppy showers,
moments for renewal,
moments of ***** thoughts.
Underwear kicked off, inside out,
door locked so only
this moment
exists - here - in front
of the mirror, the same crooked
grimace, the same curious brows.

Moments of steam and condensation,
bed socks twisted together.
Cold weight of wet hair, always
the same cycle. Water
rolling down my back.

I am my own ******, in all these moments.

One million dollars in between her fingers,
Chipped blue nail-varnish.
A cigarette; a tired frowning mouth.
Black denim jeans.
A petrol station, expensive perfume on her neck.
A flower patterned halterneck, a bottle of liquor.
The faded sun hides behind cloud bodyguards.
The woman is alone at midday,
The breeze is cool, the alcohol is sweet, her tears are hot, the mascara runs black.
She's tired; is she lonely?
She's lost, but a lone hunter.
The girl is beautiful, mid 20's with dark rolling hair and freckles.
The girl is tragic.
She wipes her eyes and leans back against the red brick wall, half concealed in shadow.
She eats an apple.. takes of her worn leather sandals,
Sits on the hot dirt, then the rainclouds come.
Rain falls and chills her clothes and skin.
She applies pale pink lipstick and calls a taxi from the payphone.
......
White peonies, 300 or more.
Dark oak coffin.
A lady in a grey fur coat, an embroidered handkerchief.
Tears, blonde hair, the smell of hairspray.
A young couple with dark eyes and bronze skin, their hands grasped.
'True Colours', a male pianist, stained glass, high ceiling, arches.
Loneliness.
Heartache.
Loss of friendship.
Aching.
Hopeful,
Fingers crossed.
Will love enter and lightning strike some wonder into the girl-woman's life?
.......
She holds her sister's cold porcelain-white hand, stops a moment to take in the tattoo of a shallow in black ink.
Elisa,
Gone.
29 years old.
Always one year between them but there might as well have been 20.
It's been four months since they met for coffee out near
the motorway where Helen was working at the time.
A golden locket; Helen places it around her sister's slim neck.