boys are tricky ones
always creative and fun
but get nothing done

Forehead sore, striving to hold my irises unstrained
I see through the rays, red, blue, and white snapping in the wind
Casting flickering shadows upon the women in frocks of lighter pinks and turquoise
Just like that of the channel waters through which my bow cuts cleanly
Rudders portside, ropes knotted on hand
My lady and I dock, a gentleman all in black ready to oblige her graceful hand
Two cheeks dampened with a kiss’ moment later
A glance welcomes the uniform balconies which wrap around curved corners,
Double windows, and modest roofs that mirror extravagant ceilings
Onward we stride to our night time lodging where the dormant flares shall ignite
We celebrate our ought’ve been loss of virtues
And gain of not one golden band, but two

each smile met with confusion and questions
every compliment of mine is weighed
scrutinzed blindly in dim reflection
for each wears the crooked mask I portray
Dumb-***, Loser, Idiot, Try-Hard, ****!
these are few among many antonyms
of which I cruelly throw and you permit
for what? god knows, be this love a phantom?
one that is so dear I should love dearly.
but as it stands my vice is in my speech
each hot dagger cuts our ties severely
I am sorry to kindle this love's breach
Day One I asked if you would be okay
Day One you knew not how fiercely words slay

Sat by the windows tall
Grey clouded light hazes through to illuminate the wonders
The irreplaceable structures, swatches, and swiping, scraping of a tireless hand
Surrounded by the obvious subject, yet unlike those who amble, I choose to see  
Paint pots and brushes of many men perch upon easels so used, a coins thickness of murky product builds its height, topped with splashes of clear reds, browns, and whites                        
Yet no art is to be fashioned from what has been once made, made again    
And so, my back in the dark of the pristine portraits and angels flying high, I see      
And what I see becomes my obsession
Frantic strokes upon a canvas rush to convey a fleeting moment of beauty
Colours so alive they cannot be restrained by careful handiwork, feelings so joyous they demand to be felt, untainted
And so I work as to appease them  
And though I live like the sky
Light flirting in and out, captivating my soul, only to hide recluse  behind the clouds and southern hemisphere  
I hope my labour keeps the skies of some souls clear
And that will be enough

creep, creep up along the carpal
brush, sweep, like a chinook in passing
tempt, taunt, the heart begs for more
collapse, give in, finally at home

when one removes oneself from stillness
undoes the smooth, glossed over wake
and in a sense cannon-***** backwards; out
returning to an unknown, though more known than not
with a queer sort of deja vu; uncertainty
uncertainty in every sense
of intelligence, of humanity, of self
to be stripped of ones right to engage
or better said,
to strip oneself; for what?
why endure such purgatory
only to relearn something otherwise perfected
to expand? to give? to learn a slight suffering?
or perhaps not so slight
as losing ones voice is arguably worse than ones limb
you have a spare arm, as well, two legs
but one soul to share
or is it to grow, to remould oneself
retrofitted to suit the now
a more capable, attentive being
who, upon the next disturbance of the surface,
will choke on fewer salty drops,
will tense her muscles somewhat less,
will not be afraid to open her eyes
to the new,
to the scary,
to the unknown,
to herself