I'm longing to find a home
In your arms
Because its 1:53 am
And I'm lying here all alone

Wondering whose name is floating
Through your mind
And if the cigarette
Hanging from your lips
Is for her or your demons

i:
how is that garden
i planted on/in your chest doing

ii:
in the morning, i like to write
in the morning, i like to drink coffee

the mug goes between my feet
so i don't need socks
and my hands give birth to my words
is that okay is that okay is it

odd

iii:
speaking of coffee,
we work so well with it. i am milk i am
made to be spoiled

and you are just sweet enough
to go perfectly
in me
(cinnamon)

iv:
sunburn would be okay if
it left your handprint forever pale
on my ***

v:
if you ever leave me again,
i will be so sad

my body will become strawberry milk and
you may not recognize me
for the color of
my blood

vi:
is it the sunset or the moonrise

you know that feeling where you don't want to get out of bed
you don't want to open up your blinds and see the world pour in through the sun's rays
because you know deep down it wouldn't make you happy anyway
you have nothing to look forward to
nothing to smile for

that is how i feel every day these days
and i wonder when it will go away

everywhere i turn
i am disgusted
my life seems to but nothing more than
a collection of disappointment and lies
soon enough it will drive me
off the edge
and i know i will go crazy
there-is-no-turning-back crazy
just like esther in the bell jar
that's what i think
that's why i sympathize and empathize with her
she is just like me
a person muffled and choked
by customs and expectations

given the choice I would
spend every night with
my hand on your neck
and yours on my stomach.
the sound of you
sleeping is the best noise
I've come to know.

it's one of those nights
when everything hurts
everything hurts so **** much
and i know you aren't mine to miss
and i know you're slowly forgetting
my voice and
the way we talked
replacing me with a better memory than i could ever be
but all i want right now
all i need
is you
to just
be here with me

say
my name.

as the poems go into the thousands you
realize that you've created very
little.
it comes down to the rain, the sunlight,
the traffic, the nights and the days of the
years, the faces.
leaving this will be easier than living
it, typing one more line now as
a man plays a piano through the radio,
the best writers have said very
little
and the worst,
far too much.
from ONTHEBUS - 1992