Mechanical love made
Breakfast consumed
In silence
Commute never commuted
To something tolerable
Suit creased
Like experienced skin
Tremor grasped
Into fist
And denied
Tired tired eyes
Hole in right shoe
MOT due
And years to go

With each passing day we grow.
In the garden my fingers graze the blades of grass
then down your face; stopping to tease a dimple.
You are fastidious as I, in turn, am a static stone.
Yet we hold each other in place,
like an anchor that has found it's way.
Even in the garden we cannot stop the clock.
And isn't that every one's wish?
To remain in time immemorial?
When He arrives time quickens
and we wish even greater to slow it's pace,
but for other reasons, better reasons.
The tyranny of time, how it's never in our favor;
or quite the contrary.
And in the garden we watch Him grow with the grass;
for we are no longer up in arms with time.

they set me out here
on this island
with a fork, a spoon and a book

there was also apparently
a manual. it was lost
in the crash. my guides assured me-

a beautiful island. a bit scrubby
some wild animals, but admired by other
countries.

smoke signals will be
fine
they might not work
but of course- that's
what the book is for

in event of tigers
just use the defensive
position
words will be
enough

and if they are not
legs will suffice for
running away

did we mention
the sharks.

in the water.
please be advised.

you'll be fine though
monsoon season is only
a few months long
and it'll be over

before
you
know
it.

My wrists are lined with wire,
I haven't slept for days.
My feet cemented to the ground,
I can't go another way.

There are petals in my rib cage,
a bird has flown for days.
There's vines laced on my finger tips,
I'm trapped and bound in rain.

Sirens sing and sting my ears,
I'll never be the same.
Secret scrolls and messages,
taint and change my brain.

My skin is chrystalizing,
my heart has turned to stone.
There can't be something left of me,
in my hardened silver throne.

They'll leave me here to fade away,
until my name is but a fragment,
and my eyes roll over grey.

An ode of me to society
a sacrifice they'll have to see.
They'll shrine my name, but
forget everything I'd ever be.

it completely staged was your throat
1/2 broken perhaps yowling by a
long mouth inching rapidly

in eager please to
tell a boy how much he did
your cherry knees to wobble
(the anger of his hands
and the thrusting of his bobble)

for 6months wearing
a back into his sheets
only your inch mouth long
saying to darling I
for  a 1/2 year didn't

really ever come