I am the cultivations of civilisations and cultures
pulled like skin over a drum across oceans and continents,
An amalgamation of nations,
a mosaic of traits and tricks of the trade and familiar faces and swirling DNA

I am a product of my time,
a member of the wasted youth, existing in the chasm between philosophy and mediocracy, democracy and demolition, truces and the truth

I am a night thinker and a daydreamer, I have flowers in my hair and demons in my heart,
I'm a chain smoker;
a broken individual at best

I'm a money chaser, a risk taker, a pretty little heart breaker, a liberal, a time waster, an anything but what I should be.

I am here and now,
gone by tomorrow,
a hedonist at heart,
rising and falling like a setting sun

To be pending is to be drunk or high 90% of the time,
Is to wish you weren't alive in the rest
Is to pray to any god who will listen
And then give in to another form of an addiction when they don't

To be pending is to live a life of sin, give no ***** and let anyone and no one in,
To drink not to get drunk but to die.
To be higher than heaven to be turnt till 11 the next morning when your belly is churning from the demons who wouldn't drown,
turning your belly into a fire pit,
purging you into the flower beds of suburbia

To be pending is to wish you were somewhere when you are nowhere, when you are nothing,
to face constant embarrassment, harassment,
to feel shame with every breath you take,
walking dead girl

To be pending is to wander directionless for a week
or a month
or a year,
living in the eerie grotesque comfort of a home which doesn't really seem like home anymore,
To pace the streets at four in the morning trying to detach memories tied to lampposts like ribbons...

Here is the first places we kissed,
here is where I noticed a heart shaped puddle,
here is where we shared our last spliff, here is when I cried
and here

and here

and here.

I write symphonies.
Not with a pen but a brush.
My words aren't spoken.
They are thrown.
They are splattered.
I feel each stroke as a note.
A cellist writing his greatest concerto.
A masterpiece.
And I'm writing for you.

You wrap your arms around your waist as if to silence the doubts and pains in your belly, screaming louder than the creation of the universe.

Your eyes, once alive with the galaxies of far away universes glinting in the blacks of your pupils, seem dulled as if your sun is dulling rapidly.

It seems the rivers of silver running down your arms and legs, cut short and interrupted, have leeked out all the life left in you

I want to take your sense by the scuff of it's neck and tell it to crumble. Crack. Explode.

Scream your sorrows to the skies, the stars will understand, they once too we're young nebulas who imploded but now they guide the wanderers and guard the secrets the night keeps,

So crumble, "this is not your destruction, it is your birth"

I will pick up every piece of you from the cold ground and fix you with molten gold and silver, make you're exterior as precious to me as your soul and mend you forever.

I will soothe you and make you feel as precious as you are to me my little star

50 years ago, you and I couldn't hold hands in the street
and here we are checking into hotels, leaving secrets between sheets.

I would be a mullato,
foreigner,
alien.
The mixing of worlds and tones.
I'd be scared to walk down the road at night, or to bat an eye or take a breath or look twice
at the wrong man

You would be strong and proud and from the gentry,
drinking away the demons who have learned to love your poison,
using women like tissues,
breaking them like eggs.

And yet here we are, a clashing of worlds clinking our glasses, our bodies aching for one another behind table cloth