The end of last year, and the beginning of this
Spell something like suspense, a familiar kiss
Upon both my frostbitten cheeks, Hello.
These are chaste waves now, at your window:
Barren is the land of my hand, I write nothing,
And I hope for nothing, still carrying
A foreign slogan by my heart for one
I dedicated my deeds to, who's gone
With my writing, since my girlhood arrived
And said she was here to stay, contrived
To do so until we thaw, until limbo
Passes over, until someone says, Hello,
And I answer. Because I don't want anything
Except, maybe, just not to want anything.

brush it aside,
like a strand of golden hair,
hanging as pleaded panel
curtains covering her

eyes. She'll face it head on,
square. She’ll not allow it
to sit, like dust coating the
furniture. She'll give it

a swift kick, let it fall
like a ton of bricks. She'll not
let it blow, like smoke from frying
steak in the pan in her kitchen,

out the window, in a black
colored band. She’ll not lock it
in the closet with all her
skeletons. She’ll mix it

up with the gelatin. Blood
orange and mint. Plate it
for dessert. Wash it down with
gin and tonic, all this hurt.

I put up an advertisement
"WANTED: A handsome man
To play the villain of the tale."
I was in earnest in this wail -
My play is falling as it can
Apart, in disestablishment.
I didn't think you'd laugh or like
My addition - "I don't need one
Personally." Well, I don't, no,
I don't need one, but if you'd show
A wish for consideration,
I'd love a hero on a fixed-gear bike.

Someone burns their vision of the world
In Western leaves some factory somewhere curled
And leaves the stump to burn upon the green
Where ducks and frogs make their domain,
And drops the package, too, still cellophaned,
Venom for the worms, a note to the society who brained
You - I see your disaffection's ribbon in the grass
And know I feel it, too, and yet, alas,
By all the powers that be, I know,
That I must be the change I want to show.

I became Holmes, past knowing true:
In every sense, I'd seek for you.

Now, taking the cobbles consciously,
Sick, mad, of the essence of this construct,
Dismantling the ancien régime to see
That I am all your stains in concert -

I am made up of every last touch -
Originality's a lie, save in
The combination that you see - as such
It is unique, but I still cave in

At the dawn that nothing is my own,
And much like as if you were a coffee
I'd downed: I could not, for my life, disown
The five million senses cutting me

For the time, for every conscious cup
I'd take and take again: Why should I dull
And cut myself this way, a life made-up
Of such a tannin-full ideal?

My way as a writer is to fall
In love, in my eyes, in yours, in raptures,
In despair, in tough crowds, on God, to call
On my muse and survive the ruptures

Of worlds and heavens, both real and made,
And feel the rain upon my face, but Lord,
How often do I feel, and feel the raid,
Engaged by scent, blush, needle, salt, word?

All too much makes nothing, and I can't flee
To seek another cup: I must seek me.

No markings to paper
Merely a personal choice
Unravelling rhythm guitar
And shore and off-shore voice;
Alice said, Alice said, Alice said,
And my mind opened, and I
Walked home thinking, why
Do I live by what the cradle read,
In extremes, and why do I
Not deserve to do better?
Why don't I burn every last letter
For every time I didn't cry?
All this holding, holding back,
When the "baby" twists and coils
To bite what some consider spoils
And I look at myself wearing black,
And red, and a man's coat,
So I can forget who forgot.