I can't be bothered to be your princess today - maybe tomorrow.
Today I think I would rather exist as an idea.
Oriented this way, and that
to point directly at the centre of my own sun.
Present fluctuating
with the ebb and flow
of passion and disinterest.
A colorless, careless moon
one big eye glares
down on my escapades (or lack thereof)
disdainfully amused.

Look at the ants scurry -
watch those monkeys dance!
And her;
watch her feeling empty and inadequate,
fiery with pride,
giddy with laughter.
Why should it matter to me?

I am too far to reach,
too cold to carress.

I have seen the crowded space -
Stars vying for a chance to rub up against celestial bodies.
it's a matter of perspective.
And look! see the moons' precision;
watch it wax and wane.

Does it touch me?

why should I care.

everything has the potential to be ridiculous

- even your pain.

this you must accept

and then,

the terrible is only

ungainly and awkward,

a bad storyteller

in a squiggly dr. seuss adventure-scape,

full of ears and fascinated minds.

the buzz stays longer
in the moonlite,
you glow bizarre colors
extravagent gaiety
overcomes us while the crisp outlines blur
and the streetlights
swerve and duck
to our erratic pleasure.
This time,
I will remember our childhood
as we laugh,
I will see us as grandparents
playing in the sand again
with sweet-faced angels
And I will allow myself to exist today.

extinct.

in random acts of

trampled logic -
fierce and fiery senses.


clutch  

these memories of bliss and salt

- tears -

or sweat?
hazy and erratic


i will cling to them.


nurse them into a bright and

- sparkling! -

youth.

with no dull colors
and only dreams to eat.

i want to bury your roses

before they become too real

- before they realize that they have been
murdered

and begin to decay

untethered

and stinking of age

and loss

and grayness

i want to press your muzzy

sleep-warm kisses

in a cheesy paperback

- bodice ripper

so they cannot evaporate

into the commute

of my soul to yours

and only lie

innocent and wondering

at the juncture

of where we will meet

Whether the silent elation
exists in your day to day
is irrelevant
to your idle hands
and flickering gaze.
Whether happiness exists in the rustling leaves
or a primitive, driving beat -
Should matter,
but it shouldn't decide.
The sparkling realm,
the beautiful assertion
that you ARE.

and here is my body,

and my body is comfortable, dry, and warm.

and here is my flesh,

nourished with delicious foods, and clean waters

and here is my soul in turmoil

turning this way and that

to face today and tomorrow and yestereday's challenges

but i am strong, and will overcome my emotions

and here is music,

and sunshine,

and beauty,

and kindness.

and today i met a good person,

and tomorrow i will meet another.

why should i feel unhappy?

that is a temporary condition,

not me -

not my state.

i am free,

and i will soar.

If you think for a moment
that I don't care for your smile
Let me apologize.
My face doesn't always match my heart.

Selfish though I am
my thoughts tug me towards
a quiet glen
a sanctuary of lush greens and -
a profusion of exotic comforts
to enjoy with you.
Always with you.

Pre-emptively
grieving the moment,
I stand very still
one finger tracing the soft outline of my own, alien lips
the petals of an exotic lily,
the mystery of my own making
leaves me breathless and powerful in the dawn,
before the elation becomes regret
and my reasons are erased.

I disappeared today,
transparent ambitions
recreated with the gentle tickle of a paint brush
gliding over my skin.
Deft, sure strokes leave no room for argument.
This is you,
I have made you again.
A beatiful piece of art to hang
in some long, echoing hallway.
You may look, but you must never touch.

This.
this moment,
before the now gives over
to cobwebs and dusty pleasures.
This opportunity.
Presently unwrapped,
spirals wasted into the breathtaking dawn.
Now
with the hideous cawing
and honest sunshine
stand bare,
and tell me that you have no regrets.

******* -- beautiful art

there is no such thing

as anything other than

- beautiful art-

although i'm sure some one will try to tell somebody

that they just don't get it.

every single time that our

collection of

chemicals

and echoes of cell memories

build sums of bigger experiences

that must be expressed for

a higher reason than

reason.

where the drive is not

to conquer or accomplish

anything but understanding,

within our environment of fellow reactions

and cell memories

- any expression from our amazing collaboration

of chemicals, and natural laws

and faith

and trust

and pixie dust

is beautiful and unique

******* - beautiful art.

Wept,
a dark corner in the alien garden
the strong stone bench refuses our complete collapse
and the impersonal wind carries our last sob away,
lithe and playful
winding its way between ticklish aspens
Until we are empty
Purged of all we had coveted and hated
- and the dawn comes automatically.
Greeting the sun, birds sing (not because they are happy)
because they are birds.

immediate pleasure
- convince me otherwise
why should I recede into routine
when life bursts around me
- vibrant and chaotic
instants chasing eachother around and around
like pixies
a game of tag where everybody's it
and there are no home-frees.