Infatuation;
   the science of arresting human intelligence long enough to get blood from it.

Here come the long dark nights.
Absent neighbours' outdoor motion
Sensor light illuminates the same
Wet washing on the sagging line.
Our dog stares up with haunted eyes,
He watches shadows hang beyond
Damp spider webs and chewed-up
Pegs, spat beneath the fallen leaves.
A goods train on the Goblin line,
Feint sparks, will-o'-the-wisp, from
White flashes on the heavy track.
Soon the days of Saints and Souls,
Will sweep the ghouls away again
To covens steeped in wickedness.

Here come the dead.
Close your eyes and listen
To their slowly beating drum.

Smell the air turn
Marble black as day tuns
Dark as night. Moonlight is their

Master now, they
Have no need for love or
Feelings that they care to share.

Don't be fooled by
Pity me or stories
Of their troubled days on earth.

The dead are dead
Forever more;
Nothing you can say or do

Will ever be
Enough.

My notes are filled with little snippets of thought a scribble of letters, genuine but unrefined it seems that when I feel passion I lack the motivation yet when I sit down with a glass of lemonade laptop in hand and cool breeze running through my hair my mind suddenly seems to lack a single coherent thought discouragement turns the pink sugar water to mud I question how I can declare poetry my love when I have not showered it with affection in months maybe I try too hard to turn pretty what's meant to be misshapen maybe each word doesn't have to flow like a steady stream divulging the meaning of this world or the secrets in my heart maybe it's alright if a poem feels more like treading over rocks than drifting to sleep on a giant fluffy cloud maybe this is enough