I am fascinated with your body
The way your hips sway with mine, and how they line up perfectly
Like the feeling of getting the last puzzle pieces to fit
Your hands hold mine like a newborn baby; so fragile, so soft, so breathtaking
You remind me of a painted sunset with wind dancing across the sky as I lean in to kiss your lips that taste like paint and late nights
You know artists never sleep
and thats why you stay up late, wandering through the streets with me
I know you think a lot, and I hope 90% of it is about me
But I get this feeling like I'm suffocating with my own air, and I can't breathe, because the thought of loosing you, is like the earth without the sun
and I just can't let go
You're my tidal wave of madness, and my sunshine wrapped into one
And I just hope that all of our pieces fit, and that the late nights are spent with me
Putting our puzzle together

As so often
I find myself telling the same story
Of a reckless young man
Who skated on thin ice
With every move and decision
A gamble
A spin of the wheel
Risking sanity, soul and life
Spin and spin again
Add passion to the grinding day
Add colour to the morbid grey
Oh, foolish young man
Now that he's old and damaged
Boredom raises it's dull-eyed head
As he practises being dead
Spin and spin again

                                  By Phil Roberts

The things we say to one another:
we could
choose
to make them mean something.

I could tell you that I love you,
even though we've never
really met. You could
tell me that you're dying
and it scares you.
We could talk about the rise and fall
of injection-moulded empires,
the rise and fall of your
mother's chest, as she
took her last breath.
We could vow to behead tyrants together.
We could promise
that we'd never fall victim
to that same sickness. We could
compare our hurts and find a
connection
in our mutual pain. We
could try to share our loneliness,
and maybe the world
would be less lonely.

Or at least we could
speak,
like you're a person
and I'm a person, like we're both
made of the same
beautiful, doomed matter,
only separated
by social convention and
accidental skin;
we could say something worth saying.

Instead: plastic bag tax, The Match,
weight loss and where to buy
the best factory-seconds shoes,
the televised finals of something or other,
the rising cost of corned beef, the
obligatory conversation piece
about the weather.

Can't we talk
just a little bit
bigger than this?

twirling around her own shadows
in the light raining around
the leaves of trees tall and straggling
brisk undulating jungle breaths  
cruising

love is like a fungus
beautiful like an umbrella mushroom
and sticky like mould on bread
and nefarious mad like psilobycin
and scary like an aluminium cage .conditions apply.