a moment to reflect:
moments like two earphones; plug & play euphoria
nothing like it
if only filing them was possible –
keepskaes of the mind
hoarding is essential!

hoarding for those times of drought
drought of feelings worth the paper they are written on
writers block can ****** those who do not hoard
those painful realisations of space

space in a mind and soul worth filling,
worth emptying of shadows
worth hoarding
of
all
things
for times of drought..

And then it started;
the midnight express -
the train that trails paths of smoke
through my mind.

Constant journeys
frequent stops;
window-less cabins filled with
thoughts, smiling, like eager passengers
awaiting a station…

So often they wander
up and down the walkways,
the pathways,
softly crafted with ideas shapes, colours…

Only to find You,
a fellow passenger,
another being on this locomotive
attracted to that seat
occupied by your mind
that glows of nirvana

Welcome aboard..

fluid words
are all I have for you
so that they may
fill the crevices of your desire
the furrows that the wind has made
in your archaic structure
so that you can lay
floating on them
relieve the weight
of your haunting
fluid words
that may lighten you
and darken me
my veins like aqueducts
leading this fluid
that might solidify my essence
within you

An attempt at engaging with paper;
plain paper;
plain (possibly poetic) paper


Dark upon light the words form craters -
reader; BEWARE!


We are dangerous;
we who put dark upon light
pen upon paper;
we who create obstacles of thought.


Arid is the soul before poetic rainfall.
Helpless is the mind before poetic grace.


Dangerous?
-NO-

perhaps
                             more
                                                     vital –

we who put pen upon paper.

The fact is your presence is intoxicating
like smoke you enter
assaulting my body but soothing my mind
creator of soul shadows;
flavours of margarita,  mohitos on the side –
all I want is you
on the side


i want you when your absence is obvious
you are my soul-searcher, my thought-finder

this mind that holds you intact caresses me
(envelopes) me (completely)
light to dark you are my solar eclipse
between what is and what should be

you are you, just the way I never expected you –
talk to me; I have ears and eyes and arms and hands for you alone

patches of paint I give to you
to mix and match
to find me;

your woman of colours.

Sometimes I cry for you
And sometimes I cry for me
But my eyes leak for us.

Fish cannot fathom the rivers I have created for Us.

The Us that runs to me like a child with open arms
but I am tired
too tired to pick Us up
spin Us in the air
make Us a laugh..

It needs water
but my spirit is parched.
It needs food
but my storeroom -heart is empty.

I want You
to meet Us

I want Us
to spend time with You and I.

I fathom fantasies that can turn
a U into a W
and a S into an E…

Time makes every fold apparent
every curve more d e f i n e d
The auspicious way in which
your fingers search for every crevice
gently easing limbs apart by
- touch –

the sensation of searching for what
you know is there;
a slight excitement comprised of
drawn out longing and
the knowledge of finding –

e
  v
    e
      r
       y

fold of skin…
clutching yours after mere moments
of breathlessness,
though no sound, it screams of you
like the hairs on the small of my back
does too.

My lustful posture encompassed
by you
over you
under you
around you –
you, who finds desire in every fold of skin.

This time of day offers
a hint of textured space
or perhaps the strong thought of you
gives this morning its soft feeling.

The odour of longing hangs in the air
that lulls me back to sleep…

It is as if the birds know of my lot;
condescending chirps from branches
just beyond my reach.

But this space is mine alone;
my solitary has claimed it,
set it aside for the mourning of your absence…

There is space only for your haunting
here amongst the cold grass blades…
not for the warm, flesh and blood, you…

I dance each morning with the ghost of you
and I twirl
-such rhythmic twirls-
in this space I call my own…

simply complex pieces of string strung together
you and i, the two of us

colours added in a euphoric mix
of what is and what ought to be….

strands of speech
fluid actions

i feel the f  l  o  w of you over me

a woman of colours
I want to colour you

your blank canvas
my ******* strokes

you are my mood
my muse
my motion

Words rise
much like the sun does

4:30
not 4
not 5
and your absence is as piercing as the rays across a sky, this sky
the same sky you and I share all these mornings when we are together
and apart.

Because I know that the sound of the birds here
stroke your ears the same way they do mine

Identical space
carefully divided and separated by miles of just land…
just sun…
just birds…