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I didn't go searching for them, I fell into your lovely lips
I want to drink up your beauty, in ten thousand tiny sips
I need to taste the thrilled confusion of a fleet of sinking ships
I do what I must to steal what I can of it, your beauty's not for sale.
I double over with the pleasure of it. This neverending bliss cannot fail.
I never had a chance after that first serendipitous kiss, you blessed me with.
You always make magnets of my eyes, and graceful dancers of my fingertips.
You are all I need to survive, I could thrive in any climate, nothing else matters, except
You there, beside me, your beauty always with me,
sparing sweet sips from your serendipitous lips.
This is the only thing that can quench my thirst.
Loveliness like yours, only comes along once in a long while.
To me you are the closest thing, to perfection I know.
Then again...what do I know?



A Burns, 2012
I am no expert,
no expert at all

But when I am compelled
to write a poem
the compulsion comes
from a pure wish
to distil a thought,
to communicate,
to ride language *******
across the open spaces
of my brain

But you would lasso me,
corral me,
shut the barn doors on me
and the lowing, braying herd
for some self appointed *****
to cast judgement

So that the best possible outcome
is that I step on the faces of others
on my way to institutionalised,
establishment-approved freedom

Well,
*******
and the horse
you wish you could have ridden in on.
I've been tempted to enter poetry competitions in the past, but I am delighted to say that I no longer have the slightest inclination to do so.  I'm sure most are genuine attempts to give poetry a higher profile, but what kind of profile is it when it makes art competitive?  If you don't win, you lose, by definition - but if you've managed to craft a poem to your own satisfaction, in what sense can you possibly have lost?
Tanya had not seen
the thing from that
angle, she’d only seen

it from her own narrow
gauge of looking, and
of course there was

the blindness, caused
by hate, and he had
after all gone off with

that skinny ****, and
after all the effort she’d
taken to loose weight,

and oh yes, he had gone
and taken her favourite
dress the red one she’d

out grown, and the one
she’d once much favoured,
although she’d only worn

it the once, and now that
thin bean of a girl had it
on, oh how could he, she

spat out, while lounging
in the bath, the water
almost to the rim, and she

there looking at her pink
plumpness, and how her
**** could almost swim, oh

come back, do not leave me
here, she moaned although
there was none to hear her,

except the guy in the flat next
door, but he was kind of queer,
oh where is love when you need

it? and where is some god to protect?
Oh, she said, all my plans are wrecked.
What do you do about someone who is speaking publicly of you?

...beneath the ill and secretly in the shadows there
are the parts that reveal truth of which no one knows...

what do you do about people who once mattered no longer mattering?...
what do you matter?, to those of you who chose to....
what do you do about them talking about you...
what do you do when all they do is lie of you...
what do you do when they no longer matter
what do you do when I no longer matter to you?

what do you do?
when you are pale blue...

What do YOU do when-
no one loves YOU!
I am against finding fault
with the Mongolians,
for feeling incongruously-
partial to pangolins.
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