Will the world look so beautiful again
as sunset through a broken window?

With greasy hands I try
to capture youth as
a leech with a camera.

Will the light fall on her face, like it did
in the festival - like it did
when her eyes caught the sun.

I don’t like myself when I’m awake.

I, in the absence of dreams where the coaster spins
and the smell of sugared doughnuts lingers,
was the sweaty hands in hers.
Wet knees, wet boxers, wet grass
Backs to the sunset and skyline high on
plasterboard roofs, spotted chimneys. The fire and
the smell, the screech of the tubetrain -
the squirm from the darkness.
Gravel tracks, picking away the small stones
from pinkish tramlines on her thighs.
The tightness of her skirt on her knees, glitter eyed,
blush eyes, fosters cans stamped in the bush,
Bad ****, every bad smell-
the light we see is
plugholed but free from the sewer.
Sewered but free in the ocean.

Love bottler, the skinny fingered
Love bottler. I stamped on the cans.

I don’t like myself when I’m awake.
Dreaming the sickness of my thoughts.
Memory-sick, it hurts til it doesn’t.

Kiss me asleep
with your obsidian lips.

Protect my ears
from the cacophony nights would bring.

Fill the void
between heartbeats that skip.

Take me into the lull,
and into the siren song that you sing.

Every time you'll set your pen
To begin a poetic rendezvous,
You'll see it'll never be the same as yesterday,
For your poetry will change with you

Every day is a different breath,
Every breath holds a different sigh,
Every sigh holds a different feeling,
Of infinite kinds of lows and highs

And infinite ways there are, you'll see,
Of putting to words your heart beats,
Every creation will mould itself, closer
And closer to your fluid entity

Of course, there'll be times when the words
Will appear to have forever gone away,
But don't fill yourself with doubts then,
For your heart and your mind are still at play

And when you'll least expect it to,
Your poetry will dutifully return,
With little surprises and anecdotes
It collected while on vacation

Don't be amazed then, when the ink rolls out
To find some wonders and marvels brand new,
For your poetry will change with you,
And, your poetry will change you.

I've had plenty of experiences with hands
Hands that wave
Hands that hit
Hands that help
To give hints
Hands that are kind
Hands that are mean
All the different ways we use our hands
Hands to welcome
Hands to ban
Another gift from God given to man

Sad...
A wind, without a kite
A kid, who does not play
A pond, without a fish

Unacceptable...
A circus, without a clown
A lawn, that is not green
Banks, that don’t give loans

Rare,
A bird, that is not shy
A Guy, who sheds a tear
A marriage, without a fight

Hard to believe...
A writer, who always writes
A cat, that does not scratch
Grandmas, who rarely knit

Unheard of...
A scientists, who never asks
A cook, despising spice
Lawyers, who tell the truth

Creepy...
A night, that is not dark
A bat, that loves the light
Winter, without the cold

Fake,
Flowers, that never fade
Snow, that does not melt
A waitress, who always smiles

Impossible...
A poet, who does not feel
A heart, that does not long,
A lover’s eye...
                        ...that sleeps the night.