You're so addicting
You're like a drug
And *******,
Am I ever hooked.

And I'm stuck.
Not necessarily in a place
That is bad- just inescapable.

I'm lost in you.
It's quite lovely
to be lost in you.
So I'm okay with being stuck.

Her mind is like a universe.
She's a soul,
but still a human first.
To be whole,
she must grow from birth.
Till her last day,
she's here to learn.
Here to earn,
and not return.
The bad, she's had.
The goods in turn.
Her heart could burn,
and shouldn't work.
I’ll spark the flame,
it couldn’t hurt.
The stars don't fall,
they shoot at earth.
I'm the future of what’s new to her.
Beauty oozes from her humor,
but she’s a rebel just like Lucifer.
She’s the Devil, level nuclear.
Her presence, omnipresent.

*Represented by a ruler fueling
love* like it’s a weapon.

Save no tears when I depart
let flow a flood of a broken heart
The eve is long we may embrace
for many hours more.

Before we face the eventual
let us grow flowers with all the spoils,
smile,  like the sun to
bloom before the call.

Let us try to climb together that tower
we find so tall ,
reach the top and shed a shower,
let loose those cleansing drops.

Like we did in that field
underneath the weeping willow
making love in the sweet
spring rains.

My successor lives a life of taught 
asceticism,
corrupted by nothing,
but a heart and a mind, his own drum
and band
 and beat. Worries escape
his unlocked hell. Possessing the same
antique key, molded
in our old hurried erstwhile
intimate flame.
She once left me to burn. 


Oh how I long for this emancipation,

unaffected freedom and thought,
turned to open a heart’s beating lock. 

But still I feel a pull towards her
and an arrow shot from her being,

stabbed and wounded, 

the speed unbearable.
Dark red ****,
a flooding river,
flowing from the hole,
drowned out our pyre,
poured down a love’s last lung.  

Her existence, vitality, 

and sharpened breathing clock
opened wide my ocean. 


Why does your effect,

still burn, infect,
still 
keep my innards
 wanting, longing, 

for further cooling plaster
and my retired
matron master.
Oh sew and needle me.

Jealousy and need 
and human lust
and self 
absorption never stung so deep.
I miss this arrow’s fire,
and blazing tip,
cutting at heart’s fibers,
probing at psyche’s delicate despair,
replaced now, by another,
a latest fair haired heir
to my sweet woeful blunder.

Yet you’re my only bygone brunette.
And the marks left from a glowing brand
remain scorched,
internal.
Still I cherish
a pain-past impression
and your heirloom flames
used as sacred protection.

I hate the fact
that I can relate
with every broken hearted
post
on this gosh **** site

There are bare-breasted women
lounging in the unmade bed
of my mind.
They teach me chords on the piano,
and how to stay grateful
in the face of time;
how it lingers between seconds,
but years go by unannounced.

We don't make love. We ****,
taking back each wasted Sunday
spent talking to G-d,
or waiting for political truth.
They run their fingers over my back,
send me to a sleep
of dried sweat and loving violence.
They send me sunflower seeds and ****

in the post,
so I can bloom by the open window
and feel warmth through winter.
There are powerful women
laying down the law by the clock tower.
They stand up for Syria
and challenge the authority
I had conjured in my mind.

I didn't have anything nice to say,
But my lips kept moving anyway.

I am not a violent person,
But I will verbally punch you in the throat.

We are all animals of a baser kind
elementary creatures, reveling in our complexity
an assembly of simple machines, each playing part
in an inseparable chorus of flesh and ego

Boastful beings, claiming we are contrived by gods
fashioned from particles, or the dust of dead giants
though truly, we are merely creations of vanity and chance
the eyes of a universe looking back upon itself in awe

How grand and vain, this cosmic mirror!
****** upon eyes that only stare in wonder

Keep breaking my heart,
it'll only make my writing
better

I still care.
Sitting behind the net curtain,
I burn incense to cover the smell
of cigarettes and watch the street
fill up each morning. I may have grown
old and fat and short of sight, but you know
I remained as half a person with a childhood mind.

The bodies come.
Mass graves as far as the eye
can see, and yet still I think of you
and how you patterned your hairstyle
to the changing of your moods. I wonder
how you are looking today, how you are feeling.
Though I am finding grey in my whiskers, I still care.

I paint now.
Nothing special, just irises
from the neighbours garden.
I grew tired of writing  once I found
that there was nothing to show for it.
I am too lazy to tend to a garden that
creeps up around me, I have given up on

trying to out-run the world.
I still care. Somewhere beyond
cynicism and charcoal, I still care.

she wrings the morning
from her paint soaked dress, dreaming
dragonflies hover
becoming sunlight dancing
vast, her fields of flowers bloom