You are my star in the cloudy night,

My hope in every pain,

My beauty in every flaws,

My map when I am lost,

My strength in every struggle,

My words in every poetry,

You are my everything

*But what was I to you?

oh you
the you shining brighter
then any sun
you must take this day
in memory
recall it
one day
long hence
for you have innocence
it is  not so bright
come September
unless on a
whim you can call it up
with that snap
of your fingers
red  paint lasts
what a day or two --
even the sky
ages into
horizons--
without
chipping?

do we know
we are only short stories
author and hero we

how did you start
how can you finishes

You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.

I have a black look I do not
like. It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
sits on my lips and defecates.
It is old. It is also a pauper.
I have tried to keep it on a diet.
I give it no unction.

There is a good look that I wear
like a blood clot. I have
sewn it over my left breast.
I have made a vocation of it.
Lust has taken plant in it
and I have placed you and your
child at its milk tip.

Oh the blackness is murderous
and the milk tip is brimming
and each machine is working
and I will kiss you when
I cut up one dozen new men
and you will die somewhat,
again and again.

blame can be apportioned
on the landlord's back
a cladding of inferior quality
wrapped his building's stack

flames quickly engulfed
all the floor levels
tenants were trapped on
such unsafe bevels

what chance did they stand
in getting out of the tower
a cheap Chinese covering  
encasing their bower

deaths were assured
by faulty material
much loved ones lives
seemingly immaterial

construction standards
perished with the smoke
slack council regulations
a legislative choke