Let's talk about oh being an adult,
it's a ******* scam, a real insult,
they audit your soul and **** your account,
and you learn the value of money is goods, cars, hotels, and a mound,
a hovel, a home, a place for the sound,
of your empty, pitiless, soul gone 'round,
and round dreaming of Christmas, as a child bound,
by the lights and the wrappings and agnostic
witness the fate you will take, taking the rate,
of your depression gone by oh those halcyon days I innately
cannot help but feel oh that I've missed something lately,
a parallel me or something deep beneath me,
it claws and it itches at the corners of my mind discreetly,
Digressing my  transgressions up on my own altars, weepily,
not tearing not emoting, no, not nothing, as if the Upston
I was, was only a dreaming, faint long gone sound, echoing,
teetering, upon sand castles that a once proud being,
called John was making, that now fall, upon the waves of reality,
and oh my own lackings. Tide me back take me away,
oh the void is calling, if not childhood gain, then adulthood,
lost, oh if I cant own her anymore then I'll just be tossed,
Into the ocean, sinking, no need to swim, just flossed,
and cleaned out, to be recycled, next time, next life,
Maybe I'll learn,
Something.
Or maybe, just maybe, if you're listening closely,
I'm just simply.... Mumbling.

do not date a girl
who writes.
she will internalize
everything,
carve poems
into your eyelashes
instead of
kissing them,

she will analyze you,
calculate age
from the rings
your coffee cup
leaves
instead of refilling it.

she will memorize
the way your
lips curl around steam,
but not that you
take it
two sugars,
no cream.

she will read your
palm instead of
holding it
against her chest.

she will not
blink
when you leave,
because she is
already
romanticizing it.

Miss G walks
down the aisle
between desks

the Chopin
playing loud
from an old

gramophone
on her desk
Reynard sits

beside me
his eyes closed
pretending

he likes it
but really
in his head

he's thinking
of football
Yochana

sits at front
her dark hair
shoulder length

her elbows
on the desk
her thin hands

together
the fingers
counting time

such fingers
so stick like
I study

how they move
fingers tips
pacing time

her thin frame
her profile
as she turns

angelic
but too pale
and the cheek

which I kissed
some weeks back
seems to wait

(I presume)
for me to
kiss again

but slower
the next time
not a peck

but a big
hot smacker
of my lips

on her cheek
or soft lips
or neck or

wherever.

I get off the bus to Richmond
and Chaya's waiting for me.

She's dressed in red and white
and her blonde hair is free flowing.

How was the journey?

Long, but worth it.

Bit like life, then.

Sometimes.

She smiles
and we walk
through the park.

I know a café
we can go for a drink
and bite to eat,
she says.

That'd be good.

So she takes me
to this café
on the other side
of the park
and we sit down
and a young girl
takes our order
and walks away.

There's a new group
called the Rolling Stones
played here recently;
they’re good.

I'm an Elvis fan myself,
but I think my sister,
Alma, has a record of there's.

She takes out a cigarette
and offers me one;
we light up
and she puts
the packet away.

These guys play
bluesy rock;
the lead singer's
quite a character;
got his autograph.

Our coffees come
and we sip in silence
for awhile.

How's your work?
I ask.

Steady; I have a few
acting bits.

How's your work?

Boring, but it pays me ok
and keeps me
fed and watered.

What do you do
when you're not working?

I write.

Write what?

Plays and short stories.

Have to read them sometime;
especially the plays.

Not up to scratch, yet.

I look at her hair
and wish I could touch it;
run my fingers through it,
but I don't of course,
I just gaze at her.

Am I that interesting?
She asks

Yes, you are, pretty.

She laughs.

No one has called me
pretty before,
maybe pretty boring.

No, you are;
your lovely blonde hair,
those eyes of yours,
your figure.

She smiles.

Well if you say so, Baruch;
but my father says
not to get too
above myself,
but to be who I am.

We finish our smokes
and coffees
and walk on back
through the park
and lay on the grass
under the warm sunshine.

A brass band
is playing over the way.

People pass by;
kids calling,
laughing.

She lays on her back;
I lay beside her;
feel her next to me;
my body alive
to her presence.

I'm off next week
to Scotland;
got a part in a play.

I look at her.

That's good;
how long for?

As long as it runs;
it's only a small part,
but Daddy says
it all helps my craft;
I’ll write when
I’m back in Richmond.

I feel a sense of sadness,
buy joy for her,
mixed.

I want to kiss her,
but feel it might not
be the right time.

I lay there studying her
as she talks on
about the play;
I think I love her,
but cannot say.

Janice adjusts
the red beret
on her fair hair
and pulls at the hem
of her dress
as she sits
on the wooden seat
of the swing
in the park.

I sit on the swing
next to her,
ready to kick off,
my feet on the tarmac,
my eyes glued on her.

She winces.

Gran spanked me last night
for saying
that four letter word
you taught me.

You weren't supposed
to tell your gran.

You never said
not to tell;
I didn't know
what it meant.

Sorry,
I should have
told you.

(I didn't know,
but I don't tell her that).

She pushes off
with her feet
and she's air borne;
her sandalled feet
high in the air
as the swing goes backward
then forward.

I push off, too,
holding tight
to the steel links
on each side of the swing.

Maybe your gran
should have washed
your mouth out
with soap
instead of a spanking.

I wish she had, too.

My old man's aunt
swears like a trooper;
I used to go
to Sunday tea with her
and her husband
and my Nan used to say:
that's enough
of that language,
there's children present.

What did did she say?

They don't know
what it means,
she used to say;
but Nan'd say, no,
but they might repeat it
to people who do.

And did you?
Janice asks.

No, at least not
if my parents
were around.

I am swinging higher
than her now;
my feet seem to reach
the nearest clouds.

She tries to swing higher,
but I am still higher,
by swinging backward
and forward on the seat
and the holding tight
to steel links each side,
I am up there
with the gods.

Have you ever
been spanked?

I look at her.

Once when I peed
in my toy box
and my cousin
told my mum.

She pulls a face.

How ***** of you.

Yes, I guess;
Mum thought so.

I feel a breeze
in my hair and face
as I ride high,
swinging back and forth
on the swing.

She's beside me
trying hard to reach
as high as I am;
her feet reaching up,
her legs swinging madly;
her body going
backward and forward;
her red beret,
clinging on
for dear life
on her head.

I reach my maximum height;
my feet touching
Heaven's gates
or so seems,
my body going
back and forth
as much as it can.

She’s almost there,
smiling,
the wind riding
through her flowing
fair hair.

Yours was the bed
at the far end
of the ward.

Seems darker now;
the end of it all.

I walk that path
to your bed
in my dreams;
wanting to reach
you again;
wanting to be able
to hold you tight
night after night.

Dreams betray,
they never fulfil;
never bring up
what they promise.

I see you there
puffed up and breathless;
hear your words
fight through
a tightness of lungs
already closing down
(although
we didn't know).

I felt along your arm
and touched,
sensing the puffiness
of skin,
the tired look
in eyes,
the fight for words.

I asked you questions,
sought for an answer
as a father does,
looking for the purpose
of a hurting son.

I argued with the nurse,
pointed out
your fading state,
your puffed up
skin and frame,
how you could
hardly hold
the mug in hands,
barely talk
through hard to
catch breath.

Unknown
to us then:
the start of death.

i bought a pack of cigarettes tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
i sat on the stairs in the yard of the old house with its walls crumbling,
with its facade turned to dust.
the air was so cold it stung my fingers, frost licking my face,
turning my cheeks blood-red but nothing hurt
as much as you do.

i smoked a cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
the smoke filled me up and i feared
it would leak out of all the holes you punched in me.
it didn't. i choked and i coughed and it felt a little like drowning.
like your mouth on my mouth, like your teeth on my neck.
i choked and i coughed and it felt a little like you
so i liked it.
who cares i almost died.

i smoked a second cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
nicotine ran in my veins,
blue rivers along my pale skin and it felt, it really felt
a lot like love. a lot like you. a lot like us.
galaxies scattered across my skin, poison running in my blood,
yes, it felt a lot like us.
i didn't choke this time, but i think you would have laughed
at the way i ******
on the cigarette ****.

i smoked a third cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
i swallowed cancer like a drug and it stung
at the back of my throat, and it burned and it burned and it burned
as ash gathered at the burning end
and fell to the ground like snowflakes,
little flakes of ash on my sneakers
and it reminded me of your kisses a little, i didn't choke this time.
i laughed. a bitter laugh.
you hurt at the back of my mind as i put
the cigarette out and i thought about the way
you'd look at me, boldness in your eyes, hair a little all over
the place and your mouth
shaped in a little "o"
as you blew circles of smoke out.

i smoked a fourth cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
the cold stung but not as much as my lungs burnt and my brain burned
and you hurt.
i blew smoke out but never quite like you did,
and i thought it looked and was a little
ridiculous maybe
to burn the leaves of a plant wrapped in paper
and fill our fragile bodies with the exhausts
we breathe out smoke like broken steam engines,
ain't it funny, haha.
you'd laugh, harshly, you'd bite me, you were always
a little rough.

i smoked a fifth cigarette tonight, even though my lungs don't work quite right.
it's not half as venomous as you were, i decided.
i put it out.
cigarettes are so not worth the hype.
you were.
you are.

when you asked me about certainty
and if my mind was a tree
rooted in cement and truth
i was on my unaccustomed knees
blinking into a sunbeam's architecture when
the brilliant wind brought you to me
to cure me with the miracle touch
i was alone by a window dreaming through glass
you bent toward me in a mile wide sky
a butterfly with a skinny voice
or an adorable tomato in a retail uniform
before that i only knew the clouds
as bears wrapped in pastel baby-blankets
before i first kissed you in the street
i knew the sunset as a drop of fire
in a barrel of whiskey and
suddenly your eyes like a deep pool in a forest
seeking out my past with the molecular traces
of your fingers across my abdomen
mandalas blooming out of our palms
only touching at the fingers
as flames from mosquito torches filled
the round coral faces of my gauges
with apricot light

Miriam stands
by the camel

an Arab stands nearby
unimpressed
he holds a rope
tied to the camel

she smiles at me
with my camera

her red bikini
showing more legs
and arms
than the Arab guy
feels comfortable with

I aim
to get her central
her explosion
of red hair
matching that
of the bikini

she fiddles
with her shoulder strap

I wait
eyeing her
through the viewer
focusing
on her *******
as the centrepiece
everything else
to match around

avoiding to get
the Arab in the picture
but it's hard
as he seems to move
closer to her
as I aim once more
he says something
in Arabic
nods to her

I shrug my shoulders

she smiles at him

he moves in closer
his head leaning
to one side
as if someone
has broken his neck

she adjusts the bra
of the bikini
gets it comfortable

I look away from her
hold the camera
by my chest

when you're ready
I say

she does a twirl
in the sand
and back again
facing me

the sands hot
she says
burning my feet

well wear your slip-ons
I say

she goes to her bag
by the camel's back
and takes out
her slip-ons
and puts them on
the Arab watches her
with a dull eyed stare

she comes to the spot
on the sand
where she had been standing
and poses again

the camel seems bored
and looks
at the Arab
then at Miriam
then out to sea

I focus on her again
through the viewer
of the camera
she pouts her lips
puts her hands
on her hips  

I put the camera
by my chest

need to focus
no silly faces
or whorish gestures
I say

another Arab
a companion
to the other
passes by
gawking at Miriam
then stands by
the other Arab
then they both
look towards me

hope these to guys
don't want paying
she says

they usually do
I say
now settle
and pose

she poses her face
a weak smile
her eyes gazing
straight at me

where shall I put
my hands?
she asks

that's what you asked
last night
I say

she giggles
and stands
on one leg
the other trying
to balance her

pose now
I say

she puts both feet
on the sand
and becomes still
her hands in front
of her groin
as if she were praying

the Arab guys
were jabbering away
God knows what
they were saying.