The solitary reminder,
a sole survivor,
hopeful-placed,
forgivingly encased
in little boxes decorative
hidden in plain sight
throughout our home.

Single and incomplete,
the lonesome leftovers,
openly hid upon bookshelf,
desk corners, fireplace mantels,
storage units of the
I am unlost,
I am unfound,

Raise your hand,
stand up and say
that is me,
that is me.

Minor treasure chests,
of carved wood, seashell real,
acquisitions of trips
to faraway places,
these boxes, they themselves,
visible but unremembered,
just there, no cares,
no one knows,
when or why.

that is me,
is that me?

Space fillers, memory taunts,
grandchildren's playthings, delight,
when they someday come visit,
weather and parents permitting,
finding keys for locks, doors,
from three homes ago.

Can they unlock me too?

Boxes hoard the things
we have lost, but cannot discard,
can't sacrifice, gotta keep,
an admixture of buttons,
dried flowers, faded notes that
once upon a time mattered,
shook someone's world...

Some kept in hope,
others, sequestered, lock-up,
jails that we are both
jailor and jailed,
the joke being on me.

Should we, you and I,
exchange these
cases histories of lost hopes, memories,
it would not be surprising,
if when opened,
the contents identical,
even if you are in Manila,
Leeds, places of need,
and yet,
we would be shocked,
asking,

*that is me,
is that me?

Just hanging around stuck in the background where Echo and the Bunnymen sing sad songs,they're not funny men and I'm not one too.
Going to take my Queen and fulfill a dream,dine in style at Mile End,wend my way down to Nandos,pay for chicken,sticking less to the plan because I'm only a man I travel to Hackney where the wild men of Shoreditch come out to attack me with rolled up newspapers,their capers amuse me until I blink twice, and I see, that my Queens seen it all and goes off in a huff,
Puffs of smoke are no joke when you're born as a bloke because the magic don't last,blast it nearly passed it,the turn off for middle age,junction twenty six on the revolving glass mirrored stage,but I made it and now I'm back in the sun waiting for my Queen to come,my apology accepted along with the promise of a day trip to Poundland,stand and deliver while we shiver our timbers and limber up for the party on interstate four,
sore from the laughter we take a bath shortly after because we like to stay clean,my Queen thinks I'm ***** and men go that way after thirty but I'm not so sure.
I have pure intentions and clean underwear,does she care? I think so but it's so hard to know what she's thinking,she tastes of melons when I'm drinking her in.
In this flotilla where the will of the one doesn't win,we all stick together, whether it's a good thing or not,
but I've got a plan and because I'm only a man it's a good one and so I carry on and she carries me,I meet her mum and she marries me..sounding obscene,I mean I married my Queen,not her mum.

It's all in the spaghetti which I'm sure that SHY YETI'S BEST OF BRITISH - PART 1 doesn't cover,so it won't keep me warm but no harm in me looking through this facebook and cooking a dish,should I wish, for some it's back to interstate four,where the cops will be waiting with a ticket to the potteries and a fine for the finder of the stopped timex watch winder.

where was I
in Mile end?
yes,
going to spend but stay lean as I talk with my Queen,
and so it goes on.

I've been trying for years to get this thing down
The thing they call the marriage game
Been on the alter so many times around
I've given them all numbers instead of names

Well #1 didn't last to long
Blame it on being new to the rules
Thought of her as a slave starting on my wedding day
She thought of me as a mean cruel fool

Through #2, 3, and 4 I was much better
Though I still didn't have it down
#5, 6, 7, 8 I should have dropped after the first date
Then my lawyer bills wouldn't be such a mound

But #33 was always sweet to me
I remember how #42 gave her love away
One thing I did that wasn't dumb was to keep a wedding album
Where I could put a number to every face

It was #84 that was such a bore
Should have stuck with #13 the beauty queen
Or was that #88, it's hard to keep the ladies straight
Perhaps I should study that album in between

Looking back on it now, to the ladies I take a bow
I loved each and everyone like a wife
Treating them like royalty came easily to me
As I gave each and every one of them the best two months of their lives

It used to be they’d be together
All around town;
Down at the beach or out on the sound
Now she’s broken hearted, he’s no longer around.

Please don’t ask her to explain,
Instead she tells it to the rain.

He used to tell his friends
He was sure she’s the one,
for no one was more beautiful
or could be more fun.
But she won’t wear his ring,
Now that Love's come undone.

Please don’t ask him to explain
Instead he tells it to the rain.

Their breakup causes problems
Beyond their private pain;
When friends start choosing sides
things just won’t be the same.
I heard that she got jealous of
Some girl named Lorraine-

But please don’t ask them to explain-
Just let them tell it to the rain.

She never liked herself
And when she met him
She turned into someone else.

*this is how love works for me

I have a confession.
I didn't know you'd be the one to hurt me.

I have a question.
Why wouldn't you try harder? For us?

I have a confession.
I'm ready to cut the ties.

I have a question.
Did you really ever even love me?

I have a confession.
I wish I knew how to cope with loneliness.

I have a question.
Was it all a lie? All a joke?

I have a confession.
I'm as a bitter as the coffee I was drinking that dreadful morning, when you broke my heart.

I've learned a lesson.
Never trust the ones who seem harmless, they, like all people, will just end up hurting you.

You know……you said that you'd never hurt me……
Well thanks for the ******* lies.
******* too.