I am now so old
I only remember things,
Whenever possible,
That please me
From days “back then”,
When my **** was where
It was supposed to be
Now it walks along behind me
Like a lady in waiting.

My **** is like bunting
And my hair is hunting
For new territory
Up my back and shoulders;
It happens when men get older.
The hair on top thins
The stuff below begins
To reupholster my anatomy.
It’s so irritating to me
This whole aging thing,
This “being a senior” stuff.

It’s really rough on someone like me
An eternal teen, new to the scene.
But now I have become
That eccentric old fellow
In plaid pants that looked dumb
In the seventies and before
And forever after.
But I can’t join the laughter.

Because it’s me, you see.
All I need now is to pull them up,
My pants, my belt
Right under my man *****
And I’ll be the guys on YouTube
In the video gag reels.
That’s how it feels.
But, it’s not funny to me.
It is, however, reality.
I will just have to make the best
Of the good and bad, the rest

I never knew how to
write poetry correctly.
It's not like it comes with an
instruction manual
that reads in italicized letters

"dig so deep into your head that if a brain aneurism were to spontaneously combust, you'd be the first to know about it"

No one told me that my emotions
would corkscrew like falling
meteorites every time I picked
up a pen.

No one told me that the thoughts
would sometimes dry up
and leave me searching like
a dog who buried a bone and
then developed a rare type
of amnesia.

No one told me that sometimes
it would be hard to get the words
onto the page without tears
falling like a liquid avalanche.

There was no instruction manual
or italicized letters. There was only me,
and a lot of lessons to learn.

Our opia
Was *****
On winter nights and
Beneath the summer sun
You looked at me
And fueled my addiction

Our love
Melancholy melody
Droned on
Through the seasons
A constant craving
Until finally I ran out of you

You left me
My addiction still raging full force
You left me
With no help through detox  
And that is why it killed me

I have yet
to truly find
a happy poet.

The day after he
dreamed
of swimming in
the endless ocean
of pain
as a one-eyed fish,
he wrote
to his lady love

~ I need
to be caught
in the net of
a gentle fisherman
and reach you
through
an affectionate
fish seller
at your dinner table
as your
favourite dish.

~ How will I
recognize you
from among
all the pieces
of fish?
She asked him
in her letter of reply.
On the day
the postal strike
was called off,
she received
a tattered letter
and in it was
given a sign.

~ What
the wide open
single eye stares at
will be you.

moist deep exploration
finding what
makes you smile, or understand.
near my ears the
same tongue
talks ******,
feeling around
my mind touching
my imaginations
sweet spots

’Twas noontide of summer,
  And midtime of night,
And stars, in their orbits,
  Shone pale, through the light
Of the brighter, cold moon.
  ’Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
  Her beam on the waves.

  I gazed awhile
  On her cold smile;
Too cold—too cold for me—
  There passed, as a shroud,
  A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
  Proud Evening Star,
  In thy glory afar
And dearer thy beam shall be;
  For joy to my heart
  Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
  And more I admire
  Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.