--
is a ***** liar
  that insists things were
  better than they  seemed.
--

When I die of this love
Come ... carve “fool”
On my grey stone

I walk a coward’s path
I am only beautiful
When I am alone

I know now there is a cure
That God does not possess
It is him! And not me!
Whom should step forward and confess

Though I never told you a lie
My reward was not the truth
Because our love got lost and so
At middle age I am finally sick of youth,

The outline of my soul is missing
You left me behind without
Letting go of my hand.

And now what is the order of the day?
For I am flying in the disorder of the night
A bird that knows not where to land.

when one door closes...
then it can also be locked
an unintentional specialty of mine

some close of their own volition
others require a little nudging
leaving those that need be kicked

i've walked through them all
beneath their porticos of promise
over their thresholds of dreams

spaces beyond so warm and inviting
or ominously dark and foreboding
but entry is inevitably mandatory

a lament in keyhole retrospective
reduced in scope and visibility
incomprehensibly limiting foresight

begrudgingly resigned to redesign
wishes trapped beyond mortal reach
accessible only with a skeleton key

The morning was
a mountain

that had to be
climbed because

it was there.

She wasn't going to let
the mountain conquer her.

The whiskey helped.

She sat through endless
early morning TV.

She wondered if one could die
of endless early morning TV.

The gone cold fried eggs
with the subbed out cigarette

in its centre
like a flying saucer

invaded her
sense of self

"Is this what I've
come to...?"

she asked a mirror.

The mirror kept shtum .

The plate smashed to smithereens
on the cinnamon coloured wall

leaving a satisfying stain
resembling Argentina

trailing down like a Rorschach test
of how she was

feeling.

Another whiskey wouldn't
hurt...would it?