Fell heal over heads
          in love with a poet,
  he's mostly a rhyme schemer
       likes Poe and his dark Raven,
  in actuality,  I'd fancy him more if
    he were like Pablo Neruda, but I digress
I'm much accurately fashioned after Emily Dickinson
        chasing heaven's June bugs toing and froing,
we'd meet at a perfectly superfluous coffee shop
    he'll be murmuring elegiac pentameter
I'm simply looking to devour precious words,
    we'd argue about abstract destinations,  
            straight forward persuasions and
               premonitions of wayward ink allusions,
some days I want to claw mine own eyes out
               amid all that nonsensical alliteration
  others, I want to rip out embellishments
                   of his black heart's magnification,
he mutters tumult under his breath,
     states he's abundantly sickly tired of all my
         fanatical froufroutant  flourished fantasies,
albeit, we're mild mannered artistes
         of overstatement and simplification
               thus, we continue laying it on thickly
I, with my hyperbolic cuppa tea and honey,
       he's all brass tacks, no nonsense black coffee
ultimately, we reservedly seek gratification,
      envisioning who functionally makes it first
to a finished line of manifestations's publication,
           in eternity's poetic intentions and beyond

I WANT YOU TO LAUGH LIKE YOU USED TO AT THOSE CAT VIDEOS AFTER I MADE YOU WATCH A HORROR MOVIE. I WANT YOU TO LAUGH LIKE YOU WERE WATCHING YOUR OLDER BROTHER FALL OFF HIS BIKE. I WANT YOU TO LAUGH AT ME BECAUSE IT DIDN'T HURT AS MUCH AS IT SHOULD HAVE. I WANT YOU TO LAUGH LIKE YOU FORGOT WHAT WE WERE LAUGHING ABOUT. I WANT YOU TO LAUGH LIKE YOU WERE LIVING IN A WORLD WHERE THE ONLY TIME YOUR MOTHER WENT TO THE HOSPITAL WAS TO HAVE YOU. I WANT YOU TO LAUGH LIKE YOU FORGOT YOU DON'T TALK TO ME ANYMORE. I WANT YOU TO LAUGH. I WANT YOU. I WANT. I—

They say James Heron has a daughter now.
He has done for a couple of years. Last time I saw him
we were drunk in the day, and the time before that,
we were eleven.
I spent that last fragment of innocence
sleeping in a thin duvet case,
hoping it would pass as a sleeping bag: it didn't.
Since then I have slept rough in softer places,
and he has been on harder stuff
than I could ever sustain.

They say Faye owns a green grocer's now.
She put green in her hair and became a vegan.
They say she's never bought a McDonald's
and avoids Palm Oil like crowded places.
When she was twelve,
she'd punch me on the arm just to prove
that she could make a mark.
Now, she treads so gently across the ground,
the sprawl of the supermarkets;
imminent in swallowing her whole,
and still she'll go quietly, quietly,
so as not to cause a fuss.

They say Rhys Campbell has a missing father
who left town and changed his gender;
now a mother of two refugee children
and in love for the first time in her life.
Rhys Campbell couldn't get past his tough-man image,
and so his mother lost a son
when regaining her life.
Now ol' Rhys lives in a high-rise
and descends to the pub,
gives into the drug, and batters his wife.
Thought I saw him once
but my eyes were a blur:
I was drinking through my unemployment,
whilst he had given up on work.

They say Amy Thompson lost her wedding ring
and by the time she found it, she had left him.
She fell in love with the idea of the sea,
how it nurtures her
through the breath of a baby.
Now she lives alone and dines out for one,
treating herself after years of divorce
from who she was,
who she had to be,
and the remnants of her teenage self,
hanging limp from a cemetery tree.

They say Jessica Reynolds stays inside,
determined to one day, move things with her mind.
She collects crystals and panflutes,
Tibetan bowls and scented candles;
braiding wallets for the hipster crowds
just to pay her way through art school.
She communes with the dead
as she talked to the flowers, aged eight;
always fairing better in silent conversation,
and those long vigils in the shower,
reciting words she would instantly forget
when shown a human face.

They say Jessica Reynolds is crazy.
They say Jessica Reynolds believes in fairies.
They say Jessica Reynolds is a closet lesbian.

Now I don't know much about anyone,
amongst the faders and my inattention;
my lack of memory for names and accents.
All I can do now is to keep track of the tracks
that I have parted from.
Our common unity;
our communal drum.

Were I a schoolboy,
summer'd pass me by.
All day I'd sleep,
content without the Sun.
But I am grown, and
must live until I die.

I shall name the birds
crossing through the sky.
I shall not rest until
the deed is done.
Were I a schoolboy,
summer'd pass me by.

There's work to do,
and little time, I sigh.
My hands are sore,
I've only just begun.
But I am grown, and
must live until I die.

My lover waits, and
to her arms I'll fly.
Though not just yet,
I cannot cut and run.
Were I a schoolboy,
summer'd pass me by.

So she calls my name,
her smile is not shy.
If I could, I would
sprint, like I'd heard the gun.
But I am grown, and
must live until I die.

I lament my youth,
lived in vain, I cry.
But I'm awake,
I'll rejoice in work and fun.
Were I a schoolboy,
summer'd pass me by.
But I am grown, and
must live until I die.

Do you take the path of least resistance to get through the day?
Do all those leaflets make zero sense to you, too?
So you take a beeline route to avoid
anyone that is trying to sell you something;
the missionaries by the charity shop,
old lovers in the beer garden-
do you take worn paths only to lament
the lack of changing scenery?

Do you get ****** up just to calm down?
Do the seasons creep up on you, too?
In one moment, are you walking through the autumn leaves,
only to find yourself buried in snow?
Buried in the hue of the darkest blue,
where only melodies can reach you beneath the soil,
a tone-deaf beat that gives cause
for you to wait out the winter,
until something starts to give,
until something comes to change,
until the old warehouse of memories
is finally rearranged.

Do you miss the moments that matter
only after they do not matter anymore?
Do you always hope for friends
only after you have locked every single door?

Rest. You did well
Today.
Smiled when you didn't have
To. Worked when you
Didn't want to.
Rest. You

Left nothing for the next day  
That was truly
Critical.
You've earned

All the trust that tomorrow
Requests;  
The hopes you have for it seen as
Solid matter.

Listen to the wind moving
The branches of the Tree of Time.
It sings of you.
It sings of how good you are
At Life.

Listen.
Listen and
Rest. Rest
Knowing you can do it.  
You already are.

Time flies like a love fuelled poet
Leaping through multiple dimensions
Of the universe of heart and language,

Firing metaphors into the night;
Stabbing wildly at the dark world
Blind souls percieve, with

The intent of a god, angry, then
Un-angry, then furiously,  
Calmly creating,

Sleeping only to recharge-
Letting pen cool down from the
Friction.

For one year and a day, I have
Posted. Greeted poetry
Hello, and danced.

Feet in love with the floor, I
Sit down only to watch the
Others.

Some swirl with veteran steps,
Others try on moves in unsure rhythms
And new, uncomfortable shoes.

One leads the other; challenges,
Encourages. I lean back and take in
The words and lines of breathing poets

That all come together, as
One perfect
Poem.

i’ve had too much to drink tonight.
please excuse me if i stumble.

have you ever been to a bar where you want to **** in the sink?
not in any, “**** this place” sort of way,
just,
on principle.

this is the sort of place
where patrons
**** in the sink.
the sort of tavern,
where the sink ******* are;
where you thank god for grime;
where it’s not just atlanta *****;
where,
should you **** in that sink,
you are not just sullying the reputation of one befouled public house,
but are continuing in a proud tradition,
of most noble and illustrious drinkers.

We are bound by the sins of our fathers,
forever seeking a pair of scissors.