Burning down buildings,
with the fire in their eyes.
It's not about beauty,
nor about size.
It's the unspoken passion,
how easily they lie.
Being kind and charming,
but still making boys cry.
Some love sports,
and others- hair bows.
Both are still lovely
from their head to their toes.
Each one so different,
but all of them smart.
3 billion exist,
this Earth's full of art.

He can't afford a sacrifice,
the priests do not work cheap;
he's standing on the lip of Hell
considering a leap.
Will you walk beside him now
to the edge of the abyss,
and stay that final footstep,
preserve him with a kiss?
The money's gone, the game is up,
he's missed the gleaming prize;
there's cold within his lonely bones,
there's sorrow in his eyes.
He needs to know there's still a chance
to feel the brush of grace,
the lost caress of hopefulness
upon his aging face.
Throw the Tarot, toss the coins,
hear what the spirits say;
he needs a resurrection
on this January day.
So will you walk beside him now
to the edge of the abyss,
and stay that final footstep,
preserve him with a kiss?
For the world is gray and barren,
the land is deep in snow;
he's standing on the lip of Hell
with nowhere left to go.
  - mce

Just like the way that parts of the 'Indian' Ocean
May once
Have fallen from 'my' umbrella spokes
So we are never landlords
For 'our' planet
Only rivers
Breaking and carving and realigning
The narrow seams
We touch

They become names
Like the rims of baked-bean tins
That have to be handled with care

They are a bunch of flowers
Tied to a lamppost
Or a bench with words carved in

They are a Wikipedia page
Or a library shelf
Or a nothing
A nobody

They swell into memories
Wilted and swimming like wax
They seem to be stood there
When the sunlight blusters
Over dust
Because dust is just dead cells
That we all inhale
Exhale
Like we’ll choke them back into existence

They reside in half-empty
Boxes of tissues
Cigarette packets
The bubbles in lemonade

They become a mantelpiece of photographs
And sympathy cards
Broken toys
Empty T-shirts that you’ll try to turn into puppets
Sat in their wardrobe

They fall into certain songs
Certain car journeys
Occasionally they borrow your tongue
To continue voicing certain phrases
Certain people
Certain places
Certain rooms
Certain tastes
Certain seasons
Certain sunsets

Or maybe they just toss and turn
Beneath the church built of handkerchiefs
Like commuters coffined into underground trains
Wondering whether they can still believe
In tunnels
And golden lights.

She’s yours for a song
So little to ask
She’ll offer you smiles made
Of paper and glass
She’s yours for a song
Too perfect to miss
All she is charging is
Two bars of one kiss

he weeps in that subtle way
whereby the crumbs of grief
shaken from his eyelids
are caught by his thumbs
and his head shakes
like a kite chewed by a tree
he's all trembles and tremors
and he quakes
like his body breaks
when tectonic plates collide
he surveys the carpet and the shoelaces
the way that all librarians know their places
the books return to their stands and their spaces and
he keeps his fear in the crook of his tongue
and eyes hook him like bait
that's there for the taking
he pulls with veined hands
at the ashen strands of his afro
they've seen more years evaporate
than they've seen tears
because his eyes and sacked and
the corners of his cornered collar
escape his clasp as he cracks
among the shelves
like dropped eggs
and window panes
and dancers' legs
and weather vanes spun too hard
he gets a should touch like
a stroke through the wire of a rabbit hutch
and he sits beside closed ears
that pretend to listen to the clutch of his fingers
on his forehead

he leaves and they rearrange the chairs
remove the water glass
and erase the marks
of where his heart has passed