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paper boats Aug 2018
"And there is no cure for solitude?"
There are worse things than solitude.
"Like what?"
Company, for one.
"The cure?"
No, the affliction.
"Quite sure?"
Quite sure.
paper boats Aug 2018
Draw the curtains, blow out the candles,
We are shy things, harmless shy things,
Who live in quiet, quiet places,
Like the sleeping pages of a dog eared book,
Or floating in an old lover’s new perfume.
But don’t go now, listen first,
Don’t you want to know where you’ll go?
Listen, listen, listen close.

The sound of drizzle on Monday mornings,
Is the soul of a bearded man who died alone,
Waiting in a hospitable bed near the window.
And the careful drops falling from your leaky faucet,
Are elfin souls of children born too soon.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.

Every wrinkle on the hands of an arthritic woman,
Is the soul of a struggling artist
Who left without a penny to his name.
And when the sunlight filters through the leaves,
On an especially windy afternoon,
You can hear the snores of a resting Kamakazi,
Who died during some World War many decades ago.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.

In the shuffle of sheets strewn across an abandoned desk,
You might find strange numbers and words,
Scribbled down by an absent-minded professor,
Who shot himself during an experiment.
In the tiny sting of an unexpected paper cut,
You might find the letters of every forgotten word,
Like the souls of the great Greek heroes
Who lost their way to Elysium.
But that isn’t where you’ll go,
Listen, listen, listen close.

Near the restless moon on a drowsy summer night,
Before you go to bed with the blankets by your side,
You’ll hear the ‘click, click, click’ of a busy keyboard,
And in the ‘click, click, click’ you’ll find,
The coffee-drenched soul of a writer you didn’t know.
So listen, listen, listen close.
paper boats Jan 2018
Within me is a gremlin,
Stunted and gnawed.
He fancies himself an anarchist,
Or a comedian; in the din of the night.
Within me is a gremlin,
Without is a corpse.
Know thyself
paper boats Sep 2015
Be inspired by blinding lights,
Followed by empty roads,
Let dotted images linger behind your eyelids,
As roaring traffic competes with stale music and smoke.
The lost crickets find solace in illuminated screens,
And my youthful insomniacs wonder where the poetry went?
Some remain, holding onto their pillows,
Others are gone,
But there sobs were lost among our silence.
carpe diem
paper boats Sep 2015
Through beauty, you have spoiled me
And I run from life and death,
Hiding from foreign love.
Lest I pay for my sins,
******* in your bed,
Begging for the ropes to to cut through my acne - spotted skin.
Then in my bed,
With no arousal left to stain the sheets,
I let spill the tears,
From naive memories of the hands which touched me then.

Sonnets are post-modern confessional poetry,
And my love the subject of them all.
Like a sun,
Forgetting to light half of the moon,
Your unbuttoned shirt often slips my mind,
Slips into my mind during languid afternoons,
When I haven't quite digested my lunch,
Or your smile.

Can I leave?
But I am trapped,
The key in my pocket,
paper boats Aug 2015
Hush my love
Under beds, under beds
The dust bunnies see
Through the rugs.

The cigarette sky
Of smoke and red
Like whiskey kisses
During evening naps,
Interrupted by prose
And denial.

Until the storm ends
Your bed is warm
But my breath wont carry words
The stairs know
They let me go
And I tiptoe out of the dark.
  May 2015 paper boats
For just a moment, i felt like a boy again,
stood on her doorstep, waiting
just for that moment, i believed in love again
thats when i saw the broken apples in her garden,
the broken arrows at her door.
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