it's like we are a family
of pressed flowers
slid between glass casings
or dried butterfly wings
pinned on a cork board.
something to be studied
observed
fragility that disperses
between finger and thumb
sorrowfully turning into dust that
coats the surfaces of tables or
writing desks.
i'll always love the colors
always love their hues
shaping me-
they made me the golden shadows
of things, like during sunsets.
but i feel blue
at the bottom
and it's because they are sad
and i know so much
about flowers
that are truly people
and nothing more//

Between the pages are the lies that rise up when you least expect and change the plot,
just, when you think you've got the gist
you find there's something that you missed and the story's back to front.

There's a party going on next door,which started about five before the hour of four and I am really cheesed off and sore that the neighbour (the little ****) didn't see fit to invite this boy so he could enjoy a jive or the twist or a tango,a slow dance,a chance for a whirl with a girl, so I shall complain,
if he doesn't invite me there'll be no parties again,he can do as I do and listen to BBC radio two.

Back to the book because that's all I've got and some cold beans with spinach which I left in the *** for my tea ,don't worry about me I'm on chapter three and there's eight more to go,
and what do you know,there's a knock on my door and my very nice neighbour says,
'there's a party going on, what are you waiting for?'
Now I feel dumb,the noise abatement society will come and it'll be all my fault,so I say thanks for the invite, decided to stay in for the night,close and bolt my door and with my head in my hands
progress to chapter four.

In the house which sits atop the hill where Jack lived when he married Jill a light burns on the window sill and shines out to the man below,who waits to go and get a ladder,steal Jill away so he can add her to his collection of fairy tales.

Born out of an unmarked grave
Molded from the dirt a slave
With eyes fumbling in the dark--

I feel

A sparrow trapped in my ribcage
My gifted little pressure gauge
Who though she pleads can't disembark

This vessel.

She pecks at my liver
convicts guilt while I shiver,
And ****** at my heart when I am numb.

I listen to her wings abeat
A flutter-***-drum so petite
It makes me wonder what I've become.

But a wimeywobbly found belief
I'm quite sure that time is brief
When unawares she'll break loose my chest

A treasure,

half a pretty penny for my soul,
Chamber unlocked, He paid the toll
Sparrow, my spirit...
                escape, you short-stayed guest

Standing on the corner

Of what I thought it was and never will be

Gazing off into the distance

Of nothing in front of me

As the forever taxi pulls up

To take me to nowhere I need to be

I gladly pay the fair

For a chance to see what comes next for me

Sharing secrets with a madman
Crunch Berries around the breakfast table
Pouring milk in jugs of nonsense
From cows in designer labels

Voices from the refrigerator
Offer cubes of sugar
Singing Carols in the springtime
Like it was Mid-December

The bacon interprets modern dance
Sizzling  in the frying pan
The lights flickering on and off in Morris code
Grocery prices in the Yucatan

As you talk about the weather
With the windows painted black
Talking in sideways motions
You wonder what's up with that

Sharing secrets with a mad man
Are the best secrets kept

Those who love will never find it.
Those who love will write odes to crisp fall mornings
And hear symphonies crunched out of the yellow leaves beneath their feet.
Those who love will smile, even though they know
it will give them away
They will offer themselves up as if they had never given the mirror a second glance,
Let themselves be beaten like drums,
And a drum is just a bucket of silence
until you beat something out of it,
Beat something out of it.


Those who love will find poetry in the steam of their coffee
And beauty in even the worst of times;
Leave names like kristallnacht in our history books because they know that broken glass looks like stars,
And when a person truly loves there is nothing, nothing that can stop them from hoping.
People are like buckets of silence
Until you make something out of them,
Make something beautiful.


People who love know that tears
are the same as rain, and they are ready for monsoons
Because loving is lonely,
and for every drop out of shining eye
there are hundreds more waiting in the sky
and the people who love will dance in the downpour,
Collect every drop they can hold where the silence once was because drums can hold tears too,
and they will still be silent until you splash
and make something out of it,
make something beautiful.

There is more of me that simply
cannot be touched, lips of those who have cursed
mine cannot tear away pieces to keep for
trophies.

This hand with its fingers is
not hard. She wants darkness through the
bones around which bright lights are shining.

I am home and hope, these little
words curl from the ink in her fingers.

When my eyes are closed, I am
nothing. Who can dare blaze these thoughts out
from the hollow sides, encased by barefleshed
skin, but wind?

All the little noises and the sounds, they are
like water rushing through a river of me. She stands on
edges too frightful for the fearful to bear being on.

How she longs for tilt, and jumping cords that
have a hold on the bases of her. God does not know
to let her die. Simple molecules, we all
know, nothing of material is ever lost. Only mourned, that

is the recomposition of us.


© May 21st 2013