Hand me the city, hand me
the breathing steel humming
I hear when I close my eyes.
Hand me everything I need.
Did you speak to me or slit my throat?
The time is now to jump from the window.
I look to the sky, daydream of floating.
The club closed early and the rain,
the rain melted the buildings,
so we lay on your bed and waited
for the lights to change but it was still
dark when our smoke climbed up and up.
Sleeping through the slate grey morning,
What's your game? Hey poet,
you **** out our eyes and spear our hearts.

Fragile the white poppy and frail are
The words we spoke, help we gave
Souls that scream in anguish
Swept by death's wave.

Pale and broken- yet strength
Is not a distant thought
For gentle eyes and gentle hearts
Never need be taught.

smiling though the lamps fade fast
smiling with white teeth against the night
to and fro they are dancing and
the dance is not wasted on us
white and silver marking your silhouette

touching though hands are pale
hums in rhythm to sad musicals or
distorted lullabies for grown ups
the necklace in your mouth is weeping
bleeding like my heart is now

dancing though the night's gone
the stars rock us away
he's rocking with his shirt undone
he's rocking quips and ego oh
it's a long way home from here

I wanted you in winter
But we never passed October rain
That splintered the icy fingers
That dared to cause you pain.
Open up my heart and see
The crack I cannot find
But stabs and shatters all my thoughts
I know I've been unkind.
Under Midas' touch
Even a snake turns to gold.
Glittering visions are different
When a story's retold.

It is the sky that’s complexion deceives.
It is the sun that heals and burns.
It’s the City that appears in daydreams, I run
Wild and free, without my shoes,
My invisible dance-
It is called loving you.

Happiness- in poetry, in heart-
Are both so radical?
Must dark words lodge themselves
Forever, painfully so- or-
Does my mind trip me up?
Is joy light as a feather?
Or careless dreaming
Of a fairyland that we claim?
This is a plea.
We can fill vast meadows with flowers
Or alone drink black coffee &
Talk serious & write "loneliness"-
Is this- this- happiness?

I

That idol, with black eyes and pixie-cut, with
aristocrats nobler than artists, holier than New York City
hipsters; his selfishness running through her veins,
purple and blue like blood, or tarnished by amphetamines
in waves of ferocious sadness and yearning.

At the border of her life- young hope twinkles, fades
and dulls out- the girl with chandelier earrings, deer
legs, dancing in silver reflections of tears gushing
from the aftermath of shattered dreams dressed up
as vivid illusions.

Ladies who stroll outside of society, girls
plucked from art school, with trust funds, superb luxury
wardrobes, jewels on show but riches hidden in the
ground of trusting valleys in burnt gardens- young and
broken with eyes full of flashing lights, sullen, princess
of costume and keeping hidden. Gently ignored and
choked, unhappy.

What boredom, without your "genius."

It is she, the little girl, dead before innocence-
The young artist, alive, does not stoop- his life
creeks but for a second. His inspiration empty
and studio up for sale. Her shutters pulled down
and the key to superstardom in the lock forever
because the soul is empty.

The city's silver fountains drowned and cried for her
fabulous elegance.

II

I am the life who mourns like blue summertime.

I am the academic who waves manuscripts on
elusive "culture" and "style."

I am the pedestrian who looks up to the sky then turns
to the ground. Smoggy greyness and dead black
concrete pleads me to keep searching.

I might well be the same child; lost and unhappy
and hungry. Dreaming of touching stars but miles
from Heaven.

I am the artist. Manipulative creator and selfishness
embedded into the sinews of my heart.

The lamp shines brightly on these happy photographs. I
keep falling for these stupid books. Edie, oh, Edie.
You have gone and the world is ending!