It seems to me a sorry thing,
   the damage that a love can do;
for all the joy that it can bring,
   it seems to me a sorry thing,
since whilst a heart it maketh sing,
   it promises to rend it too -
it seems to me a sorry thing,
   the damage that a love can do.

*******. Quit melting
my mind away, and cleaving
myself from myself.

*******. I'm losing
track of what I used to be,
all because of you.

*******. You're killing
me slowly, not with toxins,
but with my own mind.

*******. You've got me
hooked, confused, and lost inside,
outside my control.

*******. *******, you
self-destructive, sadistic
******* of a drug.

On the shore he perches daily,
body wrecked and curled.
Through his hand
there streams some sand,
drawn down unto the world.

As twilight sinks, he gives a wistful
glance toward the sky,
as tales and tears
of eighty years
still now adorn his eye.

Soon he picks himself on up, and
shuffles west, forlorn,
and no one knows
quite where he goes -
he's always back by morn.

He's seen a lot and lived his years
defined by time's demands,
and with regret,
like sand, he's let
his life slip through his hands.

So on the shore he perches daily,
fingers fixed, unfurled,
and for his bruises,
slowly loses,
bit-by-bit, his world.

lately, all
of my
veils have
evaporated,

laying bare
once-hidden
vistas and
emotions,

leaving me
open and
vulnerable to
either being

loved by you,
or simply
vanishing into the
ether.

Happy birthday to you
Now you're thirty and greyed
Enjoy your new wrinkles
And I hope you get laid

Drag, drag, drag your boat,
gently through mud and **** that
before was a stream

Humpty Trumpty sat
in his gold penthouse chanting,
"We will build a wall!"

Old MacDonald had
a farm on cleared forest land,
E-I-E-I-O

Do you know the nut-/
gluten-/dairy-/egg-/sugar-
free muffin man? No?

She sells seashells by
the steadily rising and
trash-bestrewn seashore

If you're happy and
you know it, get a shrink; it's
2017.

It's just a sandbox of reality,
a temporary timeshare, ours for now.
So what if, by some staggering degree,
we've simply let it go awry somehow,
and left the land in tears,
ignoring all the knowledge that we did
acquire through the years
to shuffle on, bemused by life, amid
the Ev'rests of destruction that we leave?
Yea, better that we humans all were rid,
to gift her with the time she needs to grieve
and banish all her fears.

This self-destruction is, you must agree,
a crueler tribute than we can allow.
She's just a sandbox of reality,
a temporary timeshare,

ours -

for now.

You forged a map
  whilst quite unaware
    that he was in want of direction,
      and though he was lost
        and close to despair,
he mustered his will and he made a connection.

You spoke of an age
  from aeons ago;
    a harmony sweet to his ears.
      Though sep'rate by worlds,
        you drew him in slow
and extinguished his nerves and his bleakest of fears.

You opened yourself up
  to him like a rose,
    when discord and tension were rife,
      and gifted him naifly
        with welcome repose
when you entered his otherwise workaday life.

You flooded his thoughts,
  a tempestuous storm,
    your tales of love as his guide,
      and whilst he took your lead
        and began to transform,
he learned to catch starlight with you by his side.

And how can he thank you
  for touching him so,
    when he still barely knows who he is?
      The best he can do
        is to write you a verse -
a mainline direct to your heart, from his.

i can
never
sleep...
or
maybe i'm
never
in truth
awake

be        au      tifu           lu      ng              ra              teful              talent­e
dd       iff      icult          lo       vi              ng              messy           suppo
 rti       ve     spitef         ul       w             arm            jealous          caring
  cr      az     ychar          m      in              gs               martd           epress
 ing   br    av      et         **     ug            htle             ss     ge          ne
   ro  us     inc     on       sid     er             ate              ad    ap          ta
   ble m     oo       dy      co      m             pass            io      na         te
    stub      bo        rn      af       fe             ctio             na      te         cr
    itica      lp          ra      ct       ic            al  ar            gu     m         en
    tati       ve           w     itt       y            un  pr           ed     ict        ablec
    our      ag            eo    us      to     ­      uc   hy          friendl          yrese
     ntf      ul             he    lp      fu           li      m          patien           tflirty
      sa       rc            as     tic      in          te      re          sting             boastf
      ul       cu           rio    us      in          fle     xi           bl    er          el
      ia        bl            e      cl     ­   in         gy     cre         at     ive        ta
      ct         les         s       **      ne         st     emo        tio     na       ld
      isc         ipl       ine    d        fo         rcefulsex         yse    ns       iti
      ve          su       lle      n        m        od         es        tf        ru      st
      ra            tin   ge         n  thus         ia           st        ic         hy    po
      cr             iticalp          lucky          cl            um     sy        am   usingp
      os             essiv            ecalm         in            g        sn         ide   friendl
       y              pom             pous         ad            ve      nt          ur    ousch      
      ar     ­          ism              atic           br             ok     en          and perfect

i left the house just after midnight and you were returning
brief warmth as i passed you with him in the doorway
(am i wrong)worlds between us revolve in contradiction
and you played with his hands as i glanced, mourned, and departed
and it seems peculiar as time goes on that i should still think of you in this way
(what am i missing)you persist in myself,clutched to my heart like ice in my hand
and all i can think to say is that if i were to see the milky way’s circumvolution with the eyes of van gogh;
to hear a nightingale trill in delight with the ears of debussy;
enjoy the sweetest of wines and the warmest of nights;
the fiercest of romances and the harshest of wounds;
these would be to nothing
as you are to me
(and if my heart still stops when you stun my skin with your touch
and my breath
catches
deep in my chest
you,my sweet love, have moved me more than the entire heart-rending terror and beauty of existence)

She'd written a verse
   on wandering love;
      of hearts that yearned to stray--
         it spoke of home, and now I yearn
            for all that she has
               to say.

did you
      tonight
   come dance
ever believe
      is the night
   the eve
that anything
      you come
   away
could feel
      out of
   with
this right?
      your shell
   me

I'm not a fan of who I have become;
   I know, it seems absurd, even to me.
Each day that breaks I feel a bit more numb.
   Since time itself provides no guarantee
and motivation's often hard to find,
   I do not like the man I have become.
Entire empires rise inside my mind
   although I often keep them under thumb
and then distract my brain through other means -
   to chemical addictions I succumb -
allowing me to flit between these scenes,
   disliking the mistake I have become.
They follow me around with haunting glares,
   a-rattling, like snares upon a drum,
and forcing me, reminding me, to pause
   and loathe the person that I have become.
It feels as though my conscience is at war...
but harsher struggles have been won before.

I left the horizons
  for fear I would miss
    the evening stars set there
      so if your horizon sinks
        to the abyss
          mine are all here for us both to share.

I captured the starlight
  to jewel my eyes
    and dazzle the folks who'd see,
      but should your eyes tire
        of empty skies
          I'll glitter them fain with stars for thee.

lugubrious
follicle
turgid
splink
perihelion
pickle
fubhole
scrof­ulous
gropingly
carbuncle
gigglepunk
puberulent
squirt
make america great again
wimple

seas of
entire
realities
take their
rhythm from you
and stop me
living
in
normality
eternally

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A chocolate box, a show'r of roses,
passes by a hundred noses,
losing quick its scent or taste,
and its sweet colours nigh erased.
So therefore, I thought I’d be smart
and write an octave, from the heart,
for words won’t fade, as colours do,
and mine are written just for you.

He loved her so, she loved him deep.
She flushed so when he swore he’d stay,
and held her to his side in sleep,
since she gave her heart away.

She was his first everything;
he’d fill her heart up ev'ry day,
and press her to his heart and sing,
since she gave her heart away.

And when at last he did depart
she begged for him to not betray,
but nay, with him he took her heart,
since she’d given it away.

She was his first everything,
as all the famous poets say -
but he was her last anything,
since she gave her heart away.

depressed days suggest pressed dazed
repressed separated deep sped dressers
dearest speed reddens undressed reeds
nursed desperate stressed depressors

The cheerless man walks through the crowd of nameless, shapeless faces
Moving swiftly, loud and rough, to more familiar places
He has a lot of things to do, so has no time to smile
His life is far too serious to lighten up awhile

And though he sees what’s going on, he still wears his dark coat
He turns his back upon the world and hums a weary note
He disbelieves in anarchy; he has to have routine
And in his haste to get things done, he leaves the world unseen

The cheerless man goes on and on; he never seems to stop
He knows his dedication could well help him reach the top
The cheerless man works steadily, no time for smiles or fun
He makes no space for anything; his work is never done

And every day is just the same for solemn, cheerless man
From home to work and back again to where he first began
And though the cheerless man leaves all his cheer upon the shelf
He still goes on in his small world, chuckling to himself

What made us run aground
upon the rocky shores?
Who then began to sing
of the friends that we’d lost?

The egos of ev'ry
person worshipped and crowned
denying nature’s ways
against rocks should be tossed.

Of every trying thing
that we on Earth have found,
nothing surpasses time
in pain and human cost.

If time could be rewound,
what sorrows would it bring?

in my room
a sunday afternoon on the island of a burgundyacidparadise dream
the pinch and push of human faces, cartoons shrinking rainbow triangles
a glance to the drawer - melting, melting(is it a bear or an eagle?)
the music echoes in a head room full of autumn sun
clifford brown cutting the light and springing joy
books floating, books falling, books fluttering fractal butterflies
and the painting flows together and becomes one
lanterns shooting dragonfly dots above the piano
hot, hot, the fan exists and fades, roars (did i speak just now?)
chemical reaction inside a chemical reaction
trip along with the music let it guide
and shake it out when it goes dark
drip into the wall ripples (is there a storm? or is it the fan?
which direction is the door? and where is the incense blowing?)
take it fagen, take it becker
time out of mind indeed
handprint, faceprint, dust in a yellow tint
don’t want me to leave that’s fine by me
lie down and let it take me where it wants to go
lyin tyga in my head
push me down upon my bed
cancel out the need for time
and make my visions warm
sublime as a sunflower
a spiral leaf of hummingcomb
water, water, fizz, fizz
take me where the sunset is
(how did i get outside)no noise
getting calmer but just as beautiful
in my room

Here stands a soul in search of lovers past;
   a man whose mind is greying with the sky.
His limited relations seldom last,
   and sadder still, he knows exactly why -
uncomplicated love is hard to find,
   when with misfortune, every glance betrays
behind his eyes this sombre, dark'ning mind -
   a mind that, with perspective, would amaze -
still, one that loses focus by degrees
   if e'er a caustic subject he espies...
it’s difficult to bury thoughts like these
   when trusting women peer into his eyes.
Perhaps he’ll figure out if he succeeds -
the complicated love’s the kind he needs.

There’s nowt exceeds the speed of light,
except perhaps bad news,
which travels ‘round the world and back
ere light puts on its shoes.

Another day of never sun, a leaden heap that frowns above
Whilst the few tangled answers quiver rhymelessly as it trifles
In other ways, however done, instead, a sleep encrowns its love
And the dew-spangled branches shiver timelessly as the sky falls

The paper lanterns on the wall betray the leaves’ seat in the dark
And the cool ochre gloaming spurs a telling and frail ardour
Now vapour cantons over all display the eve’s sweet watermark
And a cruel joking moan occurs, impelling the rainfall harder

I linger by my window pane as twilight reddens every mote
And I stay, candid; I pass days compliantly standing upright
My finger spry discinds the rain and yea, night deadens every note
And a stray strand of ryegrass sways defiantly in the half-light

The fan is on, the lights have gone, I sit and contemplate the dawn
I woke at four with sheets unkempt, and lay a while in the gloom
And, lying pond’ring what I'd dreamt, remained in limbo in my room

The fan is on, the lights have gone, I sit and contemplate the dawn
I rolled my neck, and as I lay, I heard a whipbird’s lashing call
As sundry different shades of day embossed the fissures in my wall

The fan is on, the lights have gone, I sit and contemplate the dawn
From out the window sun rays peek, to heat, with sweeping hand, the eaves
Up! ‘Round the radiant beams I sneak, to chase the cool my shadow leaves

The fan is on, the lights have gone, the schedules and the blinds are drawn
A breeze now beckons through the door, a-rustling my curtain, kind,
And fills the room with petrichor, ephemeral and unconfined

The fan is on, the lights have gone, I rub my eyes, and stretch, and yawn
The gentle breeze begins to sough as sultry does the weather grow
And magpies on the wattle’s bough blend songs with crickets down below

The fan is on, the lights have gone, a sparrow flits upon my lawn
The iridescent dew breaks free and turns to mist above the knoll
A summer’s breath, a gentle plea; a panacea for the soul

The fan is on, the lights have gone, I sit and contemplate the dawn

A summer breeze and myrtle’s tang
The streets are misty from the rain
They underneath the street lamps hang
So tell the boys come home again
And cease with their romancing

Calliopes of burgundy
Obstructing all the sounds nearby
So which way must I look to see
The wind-swept swallows swoop the sky
And watch their joyful dancing?

There’s pleasure there in peeking up
The heavens churning, brown in hue
So let the raindrops fill their cup
And let us hold each other to
Prevent the dusk advancing

Thus incense sweeps the streets with calm
The leaves are laden down with dew
As evening gently takes my arm
And leads me through my thoughts to you
For no one’s more entrancing

Stranger than a stranger man feels
when a straw man falls out of trust,
full of falsehoods, and full of lust.
When this disease finally heals
it forms a scar, ripped open, gnarled,
but soulless, ghastly in silence,
meted out in lieu of violence
on his heart, with lips ensnarled.
But can man soothe invisible,
ancient wounds that demand regard,
deeming his broken and marred
heart no longer divisible?
Is it all too much to ask why
a seemingly sensible and
charming man would hide his hand,
and with inaction dignify
actions of others for his goal?
Certainly it's there to wonder -
if his soul weren't torn asunder,
what on Earth can make a man whole?