HER

She was beautiful,
a figurine.
Intricate and elegant.
A piece of hand written music,
play her on a harp,
maybe a harpsichord.
She is a perfect poem .
written by a perfect gentleman,
to the lady of his dreams.
She is the silver,
in the poor man's purse.
The honey to the bee,
The mead to lace the drinker's jar.
She is a perfect kiss to share,
as the sky plays a part in getting dark.
She is a crystal that carries a spark.
She opens the eyes of the man who is wise.
She is the lady who carried the chalice,
Unto the crusade,
in which many men died.
She is the one,
who made many men cry.
She is the one,
the only one,
the one great man,
he made her cry.
And to this day she's still crying inside.
(c) Livvi

I still care.
Sitting behind the net curtain,
I burn incense to cover the smell
of cigarettes and watch the street
fill up each morning. I may have grown
old and fat and short of sight, but you know
I remained as half a person with a childhood mind.

The bodies come.
Mass graves as far as the eye
can see, and yet still I think of you
and how you patterned your hairstyle
to the changing of your moods. I wonder
how you are looking today, how you are feeling.
Though I am finding grey in my whiskers, I still care.

I paint now.
Nothing special, just irises
from the neighbours garden.
I grew tired of writing  once I found
that there was nothing to show for it.
I am too lazy to tend to a garden that
creeps up around me, I have given up on

trying to out-run the world.
I still care. Somewhere beyond
cynicism and charcoal, I still care.

Foreigners are people somewhere else,
Natives are people at home;
If the place you’re at
Is your habitat,
You’re a foreigner, say in Rome.
But the scales of Justice balance true,
And *** leads into tat,
So the man who’s at home
When he stays in Rome
Is abroad when he’s where you’re at.

When we leave the limits of the land in which
Our birth certificates sat us,
It does not mean
Just a change of scene,
But also a change of status.
The Frenchman with his fetching beard,
The Scot with his kilt and sporran,
One moment he
May a native be,
And the next may find him foreign.

There’s many a difference quickly found
Between the different races,
But the only essential
Differential
Is living different places.
Yet such is the pride of prideful man,
From Austrians to Australians,
That wherever he is,
He regards as his,
And the natives there, as aliens.

Oh, I’ll be friends if you’ll be friends,
The foreigner tells the native,
And we’ll work together for our common ends
Like a preposition and a dative.
If our common ends seem mostly mine,
Why not, you ignorant foreigner?
And the native replies
Contrariwise;
And hence, my dears, the coroner.

So mind your manners when a native, please,
And doubly when you visit
And between us all
A rapport may fall
Ecstatically exquisite.
One simple thought, if you have it pat,
Will eliminate the coroner:
You may be a native in your habitat,
But to foreigners you’re just a foreigner.

I catch myself thinking about your lips, again.
And one particular smile; I find it mesmerising.
Wryness and sadness and resolute strength,
That gentle smile, that almost smile, that 'shall I...?' smile.
There's a no-surrender steel to your stare, a hardness
In the set of your shoulders, the tension in your neck,
But your lips are all softness and so, so sweet
I imagine them to be; a piquant sweetness,
Mixed spice, vanilla and burnt sugar.
I catch myself thinking about your lips, again,
And wishing I could taste them.
My fingers to my own, I gently ****,
And lose myself in a cinnamon dream.

Loves' hopeless season,
A fall of yellow colours—
  .  .  .  All is tarnished gold.

I shower alone.
The water I waste
The dreams that drain
The body I crave -
All swirl down
In foam & bubbles...
I.
Shower.
Alone.

Listen
Don't say a thing
don't even whisper
can you listen to
What my heart says.  
Everytime it beats...
listen...
Don't you move
Don't even try to run
Can you be responsible
With what my heart says
just listen... Listen... Listen...