deep below the wishing well,
in the tomb of wishful pennies,
live a team of diligent elves,
working day and night.
palms outstretched
they grab each cast away coin as it falls,
clutching them to their grimy chests in hunger.
they box them all up
and melt them down in flat sheets by the dozen
in factory fashion
in precision.
and they build from them tools and weapons;
whatever it is that they need.
their business is balanced on the backs of believers
who pour out their hearts to deaf coins
in scrunched eyes and in whispers
and a flick of their wrists to the darkness below.
perhaps if they knew the fate of their coins,
the industrial dungeon just storeys below
they might have spent their wishes on a shooting star instead,
destined to shatter through space.

Will we know,
When we say goodbye,
That it is goodbye?
Or will it be just like any other day
Saying goodbye
Thinking I know
That I will see your face again
When I won’t
When I’ll never hear your voice again
And you’ll never hear mine
Will we know
When everything we are stops existing?
Will we know?

her maudlin ******* clad emotions
moved across her vivid motion face
she paused to fumble with the settings
but her steam engine heartstrings are
trying to re-write themselves

like a derringer she carries both smoke and fire
concealed in her compact chrome adorned form
i kiss her deeply with adoration
i kiss her with loves longings
she denies such things have realities
she says that its only the oily taste of aftersex with an unclean woman
that is real and good
i cannot wish away her versions of reality

she caged her fingers
with pewter rings in the shapes of skulls and dragons
but the real danger lay not in her blades and devices
but in the lingering i would do admiring her
so used to the vestibule of her carnal delights
i would venture no further
into the amazon jungle of her forbidden fruits
and i would forever one of her
treasured trophies in the neatly appointed sitting room
with the ticking clock and chipped fine china
with the blurry photographed crying faces
and a carpet adorned with images of plagues rampages
death is no mere stick figure
with some wicked blade
he's a carpetbagger selling cheap potions
in the twisted carnival of life

her thick tears are slow to escape her eyes
as she looks off into the oncoming night
and the face of the unbearable
her maudlin emotions vivid to me
as my hand holding hers in empathy is to her

she decorates the flawed image she sees in her mirror
and with mock flair unleashes herself
into the alleyways silence
she turns back to me and without a word
pulls delicate fingers across my cheek
in a gesture almost intimate
smiles and walks into the shadows

she is a figurine in the circus of night
a danger of delights
a mouthful of wonders and razors

she walks slowly back in
the thick grey of dawn
her step weary
her gaze downcast
i hold her in my arms trying to restore
but you cannot fix what was never whole enough
to get broken in the first place

i kiss her deeply and with gentle adorations
she looks into my eyes
and remains unseeing
this is not how love is supposed to be