Put it all behind you,
Brody said, but she
Couldn’t, it remained

Like a stain seeping into
The cloth of her being.
Brody’d not been *****

Or left to die or left with
The big question: why?
She needed to be outside

Breathing fresh air, on her
Balcony, not out in the street
Or park awaiting another

Attacker, some one about
To creep up on her and place
A smelly hand over mouth

And nose. Move on, Brody
Said, things happen, that’s
How it goes. She moves only

From room to room, from inside
To outside the balcony, to take
In the sun, moon, or stars, feel

The air, the breeze, smell flowers,
See trees. **** was more than
*** without permission, more

Than hurt or contusions like
Bruised fruit, more than deep
Humiliation, it was loss of her

Freedom, of choice, of dignity,
The breaking in and up and out
And leaving the fragility behind,

To bring her nightmares haunting
To nerves and mind. Brody had
His doubts; wondered if she’d

Fought hard enough, screamed
Loud or whimpered. Or was she
Just up for it, he thought maybe,

But never said, just the look he
Gave, the sign in eyes, the tone
Of voice, the whole language of

Body, she thought on judging
Brody. For all his words and
Suggestions, Brody never slept

With her after that, he slept with
Some other and she with the cat.

The pale petals rest
in Yiska's palm.

She blows on them,
brings them
a shadow of life.

I smell her perfume.

My heart dances
in my chest
at her approach.

Now the petals
fold and die
in her ageing palm.

She tips them away.

My heart beats slow
at her departure.

Her eyes are closed,
her hair is grey.

We camped outside Kiel
and Dalya was not
at all happy
sharing her tent
with the leather wearing
Yank girl
who joined us in Hamburg

I was in the base canteen
drinking coffee and smoking
Dalya sat opposite me
having bought
a bowl of cereals and coffee

that's all I need
on this holiday
a Yank who never stops talking
she said

what's she talk about?
I asked

men and men
and who she's seen
and who she's
had in bed and how
and most of the time
chewing gun

I inhaled
and thought of how
she looked quite pretty
when angry
it seemed
to brighten her up
maybe she'll grow on you

I don't want her
to grow on me
I want her to go
elsewhere
why can't she share
with the girl from Yorkshire
she has a big mouth too
they’d be good together
Dalya moaned

I looked at her
tight curled dark hair
her dark blue eyes
the way her  mouth moved
as she spoke
I sipped coffee

plus she makes
the mini-bus
more crowded
10 of us
squashed together

I didn't mind
too much
as I was next to Dalya
and she was closer
her perfume almost
oozing on to me
as we drove along
through Germany

chill out
I said
enjoy the holiday

she pouted her lips
and took a cigarette
I offered and lit it
with my red cigarette lighter

all right for you
sharing with the Aussie
bet he doesn't
talk about ***
all the time
or who with

no mostly
about beer and rugby
I said
(he did talk about girls
but I never told her
about that)

typical
she said
wished I never came

what about me?
don't you like me either?

she exhaled
you're all right
she said
but I don't share at tent
with you

no shame
I said

she said nothing
but sipped her coffee
and inhaled her cigarette

I looked at her
sitting there
with her dark
blue eyes
and tight dark
curly hair.

The troubadour planted his last name between
a she-vegan's legs in San Marcos;
rambled north to that country of love, Oklahoma City,
where he took hits of windowsill acid every three hours
for a week straight.

To escape, to begin.

He spent his nights in the St. Cloud Hotel, trying to
sleep on a carpeted floor. He saw a color between
lavender and orange, nameless and impossible to
recreate. He knew all, including he'd forget all.
He shared a room with two high fashion,
burgundy-lipped lesbians, Viv and Jean, and
one night, the last night the troubadour, our troubadour,
was allowed to stay, Jean went out for some fresh air,
code for a cigarette.

"She never smokes just one," Viv said, little Oprahs reflected in her eyes from the plasma screen. She lay on her stomach on the bed,
atop a jungle green comforter. For your discretion and for the discretion of those before you.

Viv brought him between her legs.

"Gentle. Gentle," she said.

The troubadour thought of those Pepsi Challenge commercials as he tongued her ****. A lesbian has an edge when it comes to oral pleasure. Across the nation more people prefer Pepsi. She's got the same parts, sure, but as the troubadour wordlessly recited the alphabet with his tongue to her, he felt confident Jean hadn't put in this kind of effort, not lately anyways. And so what if he's Coke? The troubadour preferred Coke. Viv snagged a handful of his hair, "Don't stop," she said. "Don't stop."

And it all ended, as drug-addled, hetero-on-**** escapades always do: abruptly and with an "I think you should leave before she comes back," a "But sweetheart, this, us, I think this means something," an "I like girls," a "But," an "I just needed an edge," and later that night as he marveled at the  brilliance of the common streetlight, tripping his *** off on his last hit of LSD, he empathized.

What if the sky isn't blue?
What if the grass isn't green too?
What if the sea isn't wet?
What if we never felt the sharp sting of regret?
What if morning never came?
What if there was no sunshine after the rain?
What if the leaves they didn't dance?
What if love didn't involve romance?
What if humanity ceases to exist?
What if time, was all but a myth?
What if the suns rays didn't shine?
What if poetry didn't rhyme?
What if the breeze never blew?
What if birds never flew?
What if colours existed in shades we'd never imagined?
What if no one could recall, terrible things that have happened?
What if there was no such thing as war?
What if no one closed or opened a door?
What if no one died?
What if no one ever lied?
What if humanity wasn't corrupted?
What if this world we live in, wasn't distructed.
What if global warming was just a scare?
What if all parties involved chose to play fair?
What if life didn't end in dying?
What if we were all satisified, just because we were trying?

Why is it so hard
for us to accept ourselves as we are,
and yet so easy to pick out our
imperfections and scars
and allow them to taint and tar,
combine and define
the picture we paint
The person we are,
and the person we believe we should be.
The staged presentation
we allow others to see.

The master asked the disciple for a fish,
but he didn't like the idea of casting a net (has his reasons)
he stole a river altogether and brought to the master's abode, cool,
but not found him there and learned he was taking bath in the same river.
"My thought took a wrong route, another lesson from the Guru to be simple"
He promised the Guru to be spontaneous, the next time   (the usual excuse)
but what really happened, where and why, you need to contemplate.

There
Is philosophy
In the hives.
The snakes
Hiss to throw
Their rage
Over the
Soft soils.
They said
Not more than
seven hundred
On gallows
This time.
There
Is philosophy
In their verdict.
A scheme to
Spread massacre
Of brotherhood
peace and harmony
There
Is philosophy
To chew bones
Of their own.