the lurk of unsaid notions
twisting of knots and drum of fingers
a sullen parenthesis left to fill
the abbreviated thoughts spinning, floating
scattered by a breath's work
a moment passing
like glimmering water whispering by
the split cast of bridged resolutions
a blink of an eye
a quick catch, fast breath
the linger of touch
and warmth seeping through
folds of linen, woven
like entanglements racing pulses
and heat of cheek bones
and clashing knuckles
the sweetened gaze
brimming in the things left unsaid
a parenthesis left to fill
wonder where our feet
will follow

I read a stream of musings
Of amber autumn leafs
Thunderstorms rising
Blue oceans and ravines

And turned to look outside
Hoping to find my own
But saw dying grass for miles
Beneath a blinding sun

Perhaps I'll drive a while
And find myself upon
An undiscovered sight
With nature's gentle song

«You always write the weirdest things»,
she says with a java jive smile.
The sun burns red among the living.

I lay down with my thoughts,
what a marvelous sight:
you and the river.

I guess you are unique
in a world of colors,
so paint at your will.

And if my colors should fail
and jeopardize the painting,
I'll know what to do.

I'll **** every morning,
waste every sun.

I'd rather stay on the shore
and watch you happen
than to live with half a smile.

When the lights went out
and you were left to your own devices
what part of the bars did you hold onto
in the name of sudden compromise

this city spoke in a voice that whispered at just you
you were always a fast talker who had nothing left to lose
the paints we played with to write on walls
were colored by blood and the skid of your shoes

Left behind and held back
by the same pane of glass
that broke into a thousand pieces
when the ceiling finally cracked

Now may these fond memories
hold truth upon your life's beaten down path
so I can pretend that in that moment
you knew to you that you were on the right track.

you

Don't cry baby.
Your daddies gone off hunting.
He wants to get a trophy.
Just so you can see.
What a clever boy he's been!

Introduction to a child of everything that's  mean.
Daddy tell your little kid.
Of all the vile things you did.
Bet you can't, bet feel ashamed.
Of taking part in cruel sport and labelling it a game.

"Son, daddy fox is called a dog.
Mummy fox a *****.
Baby foxes little cubs soppy as a kitten"
A spot of education..
Hell  hounds have a job to do, apparently.
Together, language of us common folk will paint the sky bright blue.
"Jackanory".
***** story.
Written by the Tories.
For fox sake keep the ban.
Speak out loud while we still can!
(c)Livvi