I watch the blanket breathe,
hope it will never stop.

white, cellular, keeping warm,
the one I love, so vehemently.

scares me, this intensity of feeling,
that never stops,

and continues when the blanket lays quiet……

sbm.

You would have loved
Edinburgh Ole
another place
you never got to see

you wanted to go
I know
I could have been
your guide

I know the place
like the back
of my proverbial hand
could have taken you

along Princes Street
taken you up
Scott's Monument
up the narrow stairs

to the top
or in the gardens below
with flowers
and seats

the bushes
or up
the Royal Mile
with all its history

and sights
we could have gone
into the Castle
and viewed

each historical inch
(you would have
dug that all
that silent history

waiting
to be ****** in)
the one 0' clock gun
the view from the top

over all the city
but I can see you now
making your own
way there

(in spirit)
in your own
good time
walking in

your own casual pace
in your Doors tee-shirt
and blue jeans
the dark shades

the hair fresh cropped
short maybe
showing the scars
your smile(great smile)

taking in
a few bars
on the way
breathing in

the smell of beer
and scotch a
small taster
in your silver case

in your back pocket
you standing
on Arthur's Seat
having walked

to the top
(maybe breathless)
and seeing
the horizon

beyond the City's touch
enjoy Ole
make it
when you can

miss you
my son
my Ole
my man.

i am laying outside on crunchy leaves and all i can think about is you you you

it's pretty nice out for winter

like 40-something degrees

people in my house have the stomach flu and i am deathly afraid of vomiting

so instead i'm out here getting lung cancer

isn't it funny how things play out

i joke about getting lung cancer a lot but i probably shouldn't because i'm probably going to end up with it

anyway now i hear something in the distance

it sounds like children playing

laughing and jumping and running

or maybe it's geese


but something inside me hopes that it's kids

It was dark and it was wet.
A barrage of raindrops pelted my innocent umbrella.
Woe is me.
Woe is he.
Woe is she.
Woe is everyone.
Who am I to complain?
I looked around.
No one in sight.
So I held me breath.
I closed my eyes.
Blood rushed to my head,
as I slowly turned blue.
It felt good,
then I exploded.
Tiny chunks of raw flesh rained everywhere.

skin covers
my bones
my organs
maybe my soul
maybe my mind

it covers me
yet it is always
searching
for more skin

skin to
touch
rub
feel

always searching
always finding

maybe never
the right skin
but
it finds something
someone

and then
if you're lucky
your skin
and their skin
become one
somewhere.

When the knife hits the skin
Oh the pain within
The moans aren't alone
They're comforted with raindrops of red
They're puddling onto the floor
Each drop an echoing tap
There's a rhythm now
It has a pulse
Each collective drop , a beat
The sound of death awaiting

The skin we are in

is first formed
then stretched
then dried and shrivelled
then decomposed
and eaten by worms.

Lasting beauty is a legacy,
not a face.