thick laughter and full bellied countries
and oceans between us, but messages
in bottles helped alleviate the tetchy loneliness
white gold wine, paul mitchell shampoo
velvet scented, beguiling homesickness
in this neon sadness the february rain dumps
victim of starry angel teeth, sinking into my skin
dirt is flower rust, love is southern gothic
miles are scars along the wires and satellites
creeping treacle blues.

I’m not as loved as you think I am
I am just someone who thinks of love
share it at times but
I never got to have it.

Just minding my own business
Standing in a line
With a basket full of shopping
In a headspace that was mine
When suddenly a voice piped up

'What you cooking love?!'

And being kind
I turned around
And stood gazing from above ....

Upon a short & greasy man
Who's eyes were firmly fixed
To the swelling of my *****
He really was transfixed!
I cleared my throat and said 'hello'
In an attempt to raise
That shiny head with thinning hair
From it's penetrating gaze

'Well I'm cooking chicken'
I said without a beat

'That's a shame' came his reply
'coz I don't really eat meat'

'This is for my family'
My response was firm & clear

'So you're not inviting me then?'
He said - without raising an ear

'Well no not really'I replied
Turning my back again
And then tap tap upon my arm
Hard enough to cause some pain
And so being well bought up
I turned again to face
This strange companion in my wait
To get out of this place

'I think you're very pretty'
He said - not raising up his head

'Ummm Thank you' I returned
Whilst fiddling with my bread

'So you know what really bugs me?'
He spat with quite some venom
'This thing that girls have got
Wearing double denim...'
'And all of these tattoos they have
Do they really think
That men find it attractive?'

Well - I didn't stop to think

I slowly turned my back again
And quietly pulled down a sleeve
And removed my arms one by one
Not wishing to deceive
And revealed in all its glory
The ink across my back
And glanced across my shoulder
To watch his fast backtrack...

I wear my self expression
Emblazoned on my skin
I am inked & I am proud
I'm not going to keep it hidden
So my advice to you is this my friends
If a date is what you seek
Talk to my face
Don't be rash
And don't call me a freak!!

(C) Pixievic 2016

Doors*  *in the empty Twilight.
I am just a single step away,
Yet never finding the courage
               to just open one of them.

Possibilities…

*A thousand sighs as I wait.
I stood still, as I hold into the moments,
Looking, looking, & still looking…

All I wanted is a flickering sign
For me to barge in
without any hesitation
and bleed in accord to whatever
    outcomes that lays within.

I've got my own life to live,
I'm gonna be the one to die,
When its time to die,
So let me live my own life.

It seemed so much as no new and uncommon thing
   that what passes on as only a disappearance,
   is but a temporary postponement of something
   long withheld in feelingfulness, in treason of one’s
  desire or simply, a hand which is there, or kept in a pocket
   scouring for loose change, a hand which, somewhere,
    is known in accurate proprioception: refusing to be held;

  I swim against the current not
     for the water behind your river
     that dreams of fish

   I wake not underneath the bowl
      of moon slated by sensorial howl,
     whose wounds are white like
      a face once held in between palms

  and sleep almost endlessly, together
    with everything that twitches, slewing
  to avoid collision, alliterates to blur meaning,
     sways fervently to addle meeting

until we let loose a sigh, and unfasten ourselves,
   dropping pace and both our eyes meet.

Nothing held onto,
nothing remains
only You, Lord,
only Your claims

Frogs vociferous
as night rain leaves—the loudest
must be tortoise-big!