I felt your allure, I'd go to war.

But i'm not sure now,
You love me anymore

You look at me, like you seen it all before,

I'm not sure,
You love me anymore.

I drag my feet, across the floor.

I'm not sure,
You love me anymore

I no longer, hold the door,

I'm not sure,
You love me anymore.

I feel alone, when your by my side,

I'm not sure,
you love me anymore.

You are the one that adore.

But I'm sure that
you don't love me anymore.

Carpet burns,
Multicoloured neck in a beautiful bruise,
Red raw knees,
My beautiful muse.
Caught up in your eyes,
The war is over.
Not about the price oil anymore,
Just baby oil all over your body and floor,
As we slip inside the eyes of our minds,
Sweat drips in couplets.
Shower time,
Your body sublime,
entwined in the fuckeries,
You been ducking me lately,
And I seen you in day dreams,
****.

one last prose
for the road,
shrouded
with
Rosebush regrets,
compunction and shame,
of
anguish and pain,
knowing things can never,
quite
be the same as they were,
yesterday.
In prickly heat,
sweaty, sweet, benediction.
My demuric affliction,
masks and veils addiction.
Stifled in harbours
of
resentments first tooth.

Who knew,
the crow flew in a
beeline.
Stinging' it’s way amongst the vagaries.
The geodesic distance,
hides in the light,
but
the road,
      bends,
  and
     throws those
curveballs
       I swerved,
around them all,
as,
I’m not ready to fall for you;
petal.
With my foot on the metal,
I took the road for granted.
Granted,
I should of known better than a
kiss from a rose.

One script a day keeps the evil away

One day Dostoyevsk talked to me in dreams.
In my early teens, way before the time of my life.
A stripling adolescent,
misspent juvenile youth.
I sat on the roof of the bakery,
reading The Devils.
Over and over again,
until it started to make sense.

Before Kierkegaard,
I found life hard,
no meaning, no dreams came true.
Quantified in my mind,
applied to doctrinal differences I found within,
authenticating the delusions and disorientation of this absurd world we live in.

It all Sartre(d) with being and nothingness.
A cultural movement brought to public providence.
Ominously before I was born,
but I was still torn between being,
and nothingness,
like everyone else.
Distinguishing secular humanism,
rejecting pseudoscience,
apparently.

Now the Blade run’s across my skin.
Married to the cause,
with the force like Harrison,
can you appreciate the retort of
my existential crisis.
We could get lost in the Matrix,
in the “necessary absurdity of the human condition and the horror war”
Like Kubrick.

There’s beautiful new tricks I use to wake up each morning and go about my personal piece of silver screen.

Teardrop

Your not the one one to stay awake until the anxiety goes away,

Those teardrops fall like raindrops down the side of your contoured face.

Out of this world so vividly,
Watching the rain become the sea.

Opinions divided like rivers estuary,
That's where we meet,
And leave our legacy.

Sometimes it easier to let go and breath,
Than to carry on and bleed
Out.

But those tears
still
fall
like
snowflakes,
Melting my heart and changing the landscape of our lives.

Contours, contours,
Mountains divide us,
The sheer drop petrified me,
But I still want more than those tears,
A range of emotion and silent devotion,
To you and you alone.

At my highest peak
Teardrop.
Another drop of tears fall down your cheeks,
That's for your fears my dear.

Or maybe,
Just maybe,
it's just me.