To think about someone
Who doesn’t even aware of your footprints
Who gives more importance to ticking clock
Than your pauses

To dream about someone
Who prefers to read newspaper at coffee table
And left your eyes unread

But some guys don’t believe in gravity
They believe in Love,
And they think
There is no connection between empty pockets and wedding ring.

You call this illusion
They call it hope

I cried for you,
Yes i cried for you,
When you left me at the staircase,
Below the sky, blue,
when you left me down with torn tears,
With a torn dress and torn shoes..

Oh, I cried for you,
yes I cried for you,
when I remembered what you said last night,
How you left me unmoved,
how you threw my things around,
How you broke my glasses,
When you heard me saying,
When you got me nauseauous..

I cried for you,
Yes, I did cry for you,
seeing you leaving my doorstep,
Seeing you standing outside my window,
I cried I cried till I lost my breath,
Till you choked and choked me till death..
Finally I saw the pain in your eyes,
You too cried seeing me,
Watching me no longer smile,
I had my pills,
They no longer worked,
To bring me out of mayhem,
To make this work,
Atlast i remembered I told you,
Id die..

Fo r your love, for that time,
But then i saw its nothing,
what you felt,
For the love instead of me,
was already dead,

But then i no longer

I shouldn't have cried this hard but I did.
I shouldn't have kept this quiet but I did.
It shouldn't have hurt this much but it does.
I should've been stronger but I'm not.

Jane waited for you
by the narrow road
that led to Linch farm

the water tower visible
against the afternoon sky
of pale blue and white

cold clouds
she was dressed
in a grey coat

and her dark hair
was pinned back
with grips

you noticed
blueness
about her lips

the cold taking toll
wasn’t sure
if you would show

she said
the coldness
and such

I said I would
and I say
what I mean

you replied
once you were close to her
she took her hands

out of the coat pockets
and linked her arm
through yours

where shall we go?
she asked
you know it better

around here than I do
you choose
you said

let’s go up
the dust track
to the hollow tree

on the way up
to the Downs
she said

ok
you said
and so you walked along

and up the dust track
side by side
and she talked

of the wintery trees
and what birds
there were still about

and how she liked
spring best with the coming
of flowers and birds nesting

and you listened
looking at her
as she spoke

watching her lips move
how when she spoke
her white teeth showed

and now and then
her tongue would show
and it reminded you

of that kiss she gave you
up by Diddling church  
as you stood looking

at the grave stones
and she gazed at you
and then kissed

and her tongue
touched yours
and it was like heaven

as if someone
had opened up
your heart

and stuck
their tongue in there
and as you thought

about that kiss
she talked of some girl
of a cowman

who’d got pregnant
and how did that happen?  
she asked

and you said nothing
but listened on
and then you reached

the hollow tree
and climbed inside
and sat down

looking out
of the hole
in the side

and it felt cosy
in there
like a small home

and she leaned
in against you
and there was silence

and you looked at her
at her eyes
and hair

and how her lips
were parted
and her white teeth

showed and her tongue
waiting to speak
and you wondered

about that kiss again
and whether
it would happen this time

there in the hollow tree
out of sight
of others

and she showed you
tucked between
her small *******

a small locket
which used to be
her mother’s.

held up in gutterwork masterpieces,
half a shard of torn and ragged paper edged on,
where once it bore, proud and in eager definition,
a reminder of little importance or,
a note of sweet insincerity or,
the last refuge of an eviscerated mind;
and, lost to entropic freedom,
no-body would care to ever even want to begin deciphering those smears.
not that they could, anyway.

the death of parking lot culture,
they say,
is all down to the skin on the teeth,
of a couple earthquake-gowned security wardens,
and the irresistible clamour
of city lights:
"just gotta get away, get outta this place" you say,
when you haven't slept
a real night
in three or so months, at last count, in the best-case,
whereas the real tragedy
is the drizzle,
that you're sure
will never,
ever,
cease to fall,
inside of you,
even though you keep telling yourself,
it's still just a lie.
it's all just a storytime fabrication.
it's all just waiting to fall apart.

and you're just hoping it's sometime soon.

You know you must have a powerful affect.
When all the years friends, fans still reflect back.
In their presence I'm constantly reminded about you.

It's like the way Elvis or Marilyn still dominate the news.

You left an imprint that can't be eradicated.
Not that I'm trying.
I'm really enjoying it.

It's a compliment in many ways to the persona of you.
Even the bad controls the news.
But you controls my heart.

And that leads to all forms of love.
And in this situation.
It's ours.

Which I could speak about for hours at a time.
Cause you have this power affect to accomplish this

As the flames take my memory
I see beauty in its tyranny
I think about suicide
fire melting my skin
cooking my internals
cremating all my bones to dust
Until everything is dirt