She will lose herself in a book
and find herself in poetry

She thinks that religion is a sacrilege
and that long showers are sacred

She makes love when she's tired
and never tires of making love

She is irreverent in her humor
and pious in her gravity

She is diligent in completing her work
and ambitious of her quest for leisure

She is the personification of romanticism
and the embodiment of compassion

She exists harmoniously in my mind

winch sinched grimmace
hung at half mast
in an attempt to hold rebelious bicusbids in their place
     but they still wiggle like a bobble-head jesus glued to the dash
     every time that you laugh
so i guess that's why you're giving it up

your arms look like a road map
     riddled with pin-***** ***-holes
and with routes to hell and back marked
by distressed vasculatory flares
     so you ask to borrow my sweater
     and another fourty bucks
with no explanation why

for once
     you didn't lie to me

If it riddles that
you seek answers to,
then purchase one of those
crossword puzzle books.
They're cheap
& you can cheat,
peek at the solutions in
the back of the book.

But remember
& just so you know,
I'm not found in any glossary,
so don't pretend
any planets aligned for us,
I burn indigo,
you bleed red
& we both lie alone.

The skyline was beautiful on fire
All twisted metal reaching upwards
The water wars
The great migrations
The barbarity of a thousand roving clans
The infertility
And the old used as meat
Had made love a distant memory to those remaining
But tumbling over scraps
Navigating through shards
Gnawing at withered roots
Lapping at acrid streams
We went on
All we had done was hope better

I'll always wait for the glasses to spill before I take them out.
I'll always empty my closets and let everything sleep on the bed.
I'll sit on the edge and have a staring contest with the mirror.
I'll always surrender.
The fan is buzzing.
There's a web in every corner.
Furniture is the devil's work.
I will always fall in love with walls and floors.
I hear the highways and I don't want to be here.
I'll always be homesick but only houses exist.
Homes are a myth.

This poem was witten by my godfather Hilair Beloc 1870-1953

When I am living in the midlands
That are sodden and unkind
I light my lamp in the evening
My work is left behind
And the great hills of the South Country
Come back into my mind

The great hills of the South Country
They stand along the sea
And its there walking in the high woods
That I could wish to be
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Walking along with me

The men that live in North England
I saw them for a day
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells
Their skies are fast and grey
From their castle walls a man may see
The mountains far away

The men that live in West England
They see the Severn strong
A rolling on rough water brown
Light aspen leaves along
The have the secret of the rocks
And the oldest kind of song

But the men that live in the South Country
Are the kindest and most wise
They get their laughter from the loud surf
And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our sister the spring
When over the sea she flies
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet
She blesses us with surprise

I never get between the pines
But I smell the Sussex air
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
But my home is there
And along the skyline of the Downs
So noble and so bare

A lost thing I could never find
Nor a broken thing mend
And I fear I shall be all alone
When I get towards the end
Who will be there to comfort me
Or who will be my friend

I will gather and carefully make my friends
Of the men of the Sussex Weald
They watch the stars from the silent folds
They stiffly plough the fields
By them and the God of the South Country
My poor soul shall be healed

If ever I become a rich man
Or if ever I grow to be old
I will build a house with a deep thatch
To shelter me from the cold
And there shall the Sussex songs  be sung
And the story of Sussex told

I will hold my house in the high woods
Within a walk of the sea
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
Shall sit and drink with me

whipped back across the line
in harsh tones of childhood trauma
vile acidic tongue
lapped and corroded the biodome,
which maintains the constructs
of who I am needed to be
white smoke fills the black space
changing gray as it wafts through
ever so slowly

Patch the chemical burn!
Patch it NOW!

before it compromises emotion
before it spreads and corrupts
the foundation of all
the slightest justification
can stop the seepage
Lies, Lies, Lies, Lies
honesty isn't truth
when used as a weapon

watching the dome slowly fail
smoke seeping through pinholes
waiting for the death of hope
frozen in place by hateful expressions
of those who claim not to care