The energy of the sea has a body of her own.

Breathe her
and be a hundred miles strong.
Touch her
and know where you belong.

Many women are compared to her magnificence,
yet beauty belongs to her throughout all the ages,
and no man can comprehend the depth
of her furious love.

And when all have deserted us,
she still remains.

How long must I wait for a reply?

I sit
and watch
and wait
while my life slowly ebbs away-
and my eyes dry out-
and my skin
boils away from radiation from my screen
and
I slowly watch the flesh of my hand
bubble away to oblivion
and I eat it.

The broken mold lies screaming with hopelessness,
its purpose lost-
the clay has discarded the form the artist wanted to emulate.

The mistake,
the fault,
the glitch,
warped from the copy to become an original-
not as desired or required,
but having a will of its own.

To realise the dream,
is to satisfy the itch.

To wake from the dredge
is the Life on the edge.

The fault of finding freedom from frigidity.

Spectacular views are seen when you wake from the dream
and the colours scream like coffee and cream

Laugh at the imagery,
the cardboard cutout words strung together like sweet christmas decorations.
Fall in the pool
like a funny bunny cartoon.

Be the sad clown for one more noisy day-
and while you're at it:
brush a giraffes teeth.

Smile at the dreary monotony
and greet the ever grey sky
like a buzzy nook not.

Of time.
Inspiration.
Patience.

Flower only last a season,
and the season of this life is clicking by.
Time devours us so slow we dont even notice
how our changing faces fry.

Were suspended between moments gone by
that should have lasted forever-
and hopes for lying vanities
that will be consumed by I.

My cliches clutch like straws
to make some sense of why,
but in the end it doesnt matter
when were all gonna die.

I met with her again last night on the upper deck.

English tea shop surrounded by culture and interesting antiques.

She visits me often in places like these
to remind me to care for my child
and to live beautifully.

My life is infected by her colours,
her imagination,
her intricacy.

poor littow parsite,
wer have you beeny?
Ive gotten my nanny
to knit you a beanie.
Your sores on my skin
are going all cleany
Im sorry I squashed you,
Im such a meanie.

She's a hand me own girl-
she started off with dreams
and hopes of love
and romance
and ended up
used
and worn by men
who didn't give a ****
about what she's worth.

She begins her night on town
hard arsed and cynical
but after a few drinks-
loneliness shows
from her mask that hangs
akwardly
off her scarred pretty face.

I approach her from my own shy bruised seat and my loneliness finds hers.

When I was a dreamer
patience was easy,
but then again
maybe patience was my blindness.

Everything must happen now!
How do I play this game right?
Man I hate these games.

Cat and mouse,
cat and mouse,
cat eats mouse
and then cat gets poisoned by mouse
and dies infected with bitterness.

I've died a thousand times over
and I still die whenever I meet a beautiful woman.

I try to be suave and lighthearted-
to pretend to be a dream,
a hope,
but my heart explodes inside me
and I stand there naked ad exposed.

I never was a good liar.

Before long I see her
kissing a better liar than I am.

I know she was not my dream to begin with
but still anger burns inside me:
I cant get what I want and i cant settle for what i don't want.

Typical spoilt brat.

I go home alone thinking-
maybe I'm the hand me down girl.