My Heart is a drunken bipolar maniac with masochistic tendencies .
My Heart does not care about your feelings,
or the fretting of my apologetic Mind.
It is ravenous and deranged;
it will devour your succulent hopes and spit out the bones.
My Heart is one mean *******;
it is a rabid wolverine with a hangover who ate razor-blades for breakfast,
and no, it does not want to go steady
or hold hands.
It wants to rip the soft white throat of your infatuation
and watch your eloquent offerings pool around your feet.

Unless, of course, you do not want me.
For met with that alluring indifference,
my unhinged pit-bull of a Heart will curl at your feet with doe-eyed meekness
and follow you from room to room in an agony of adoration
while Self-Respect and Dignity sulk in some dusty corner, thinking
"Please God, won't somebody muzzle that crazy *****?"

My body's a ruin, a temple condemned
to spend its lonely life waiting for you to attend.
To wander so slowly down the ***** of my neck
and linger a while in the arch of my breast,
where a fountain is standing that has always run dry
but it looks so inviting, you just have to try
so you raise your parched lips to the fount for a taste
before traveling on to the dip of my waist.
Past the brow of my hip, to the hinge of my thigh
where a river is flowing that pulls you into its tide,
and in its warm waters you find resolution
then go down to the temple to receive absolution.

Dressed in the tatters of her latest mistake
she will tiptoe into your life like a passing thought.
She will offer some token of herself
while collecting the emotions which tumble careless from your lips
to nourish the leanness of her soul.

She will pour herself into you
and like gasoline ignite your smoldering loneliness,
and warmed by that heady inferno
she explains that she long ago traded everything constant
for a frantic ceaselessness
and a freedom borne of detachment.
Now her flesh is made of smoke and shadows
that pass over your senses but cannot be held.
For weightless as she is,
a passing breeze might carry her away.

So though you stand before her naked as a smile,
anchored to the very earth with promises,
you are not surprised to find she has shrugged off the hopes
that you draped so carefully across her shoulders
and tiptoed out of your life,
for she was never yours, but only her own.

Sunlight, that insipid *****,
spills herself all over my desk in an open invitation.
I want nothing more than to run outside, rip off my clothes
and let her ravish me.
My open book,
ever the nagging wife,
looks at me in reproach.
"This was meant to be our day"
"you promised we's spend some time together".
That nagging shrew: I think I hate her.
I want to tell her that she bores me,
that the years have left her lusterless and lined,
full of nothing but dull words
and a dusty smell.

Thelonious Tree had so long been in slumber
that no one alive could remember the number
of years he'd been snoozing, and it became understood
that Thelonious Tree was asleep now for good.

On the first day of spring dawned a day calm and fair
when a horrible noise pierced the still morning air.
It rattled his roots, yes it shuddered his trunk
and dimly Thelonious heard the cathunk
that rustled his leaves where birds were at nest
till grim and confused, he was roused from his rest.

Ancient Thelonious opened one bleary eye
saw the soil caked with concrete, saw how smog choked the sky,
and worse still he saw that clamorous sound
belonged to a man far below on the ground
with an axe in his hand and the axe went cathunk
each time it was buried in the side of his trunk.
From a slumber so deep it had lasted an age,
Thelonious now woke to a terrible rage.

He shook of the very last traces of sleep
as he pulled out his roots from their place in the deep;
he reached down and with a sickening smack
threw that axeman so far he would never come back.
The man landed far off in the limbs of some trees
where he threw down his axe and he yelped out a "please!
that the trees were alive, why I never did know,
I'm done with my axe now; I'll just help things grow!"

Meanwhile Thelonious found that nothing was green,
there were but stumps in the earth where his friends once had been.
They were now houses and fences and tables and chairs
they were burning in chimneys and polluting the air.
Heavy with grief, he at last understood
that the humans cared nothing for trees; only wood.

Mind hijacked,
body stolen
by your touch on my hips,
on my lips,
bruised and swollen.
Searching for secrets
in the swell of my thigh
on these twisted damp sheets
in this room where we lie.

Her words pour out jagged and broken
as she stumbles into her thoughts
which dangle like barbed wire cobwebs
waiting to tear through her throat
and puncture the silence.

Sometimes she goes into the city
just to let herself be battered
by its innumerable jostling souls
who cannot meet, but only collide.
She will search every passing face for her reflection,
and finding none,
Will seek refuge in the limbs of an ancient Totara tree
and bathe herself in solitude.

The grey sky shares with me its melancholy morning like a secret
woven into the lilting rhythm of birds and whispering trees
and though I cannot understand their language,
it is a beautiful refrain,
so I lend the beating of my heart to their chorus
and together we greet the new day gladly,
though quietly I wish that we might hold onto this moment
with the day spread out like a canvas before me,
as of yet unknown and untested.

Yet even now I see the grey sky grow lighter
while the music of the morning moves over for the sounds of the day
and I  know that this moment, like all others before it
has tiptoed away in an instant of distraction
and is now lost to me forever.