It was back in those days, the elementary school days,
when we were all friends, characters to one anothers plays of nonsense.
When we reigned over puddles with galoshes or brightly coloured gumboots.
When we wore capes and knew all the sing along songs.
And yes, I do recall, fondly so, that big park.
We were all there, whether in soul or in spirit,we explored the butterfly gardens, our parents and teachers were there too,
a school trip of sorts?
Just a vivid  but fotgotten dream?
Who may answer these questions but ourselves by eventually succumbing to the universes natural way and forgetting the questions and finding and accepting the universes other answers.
The flowers of the light May day were in full bloom and that glass greenhouse, the one that intrigued me so, stood just like a castle.
After lunch, when the children were running throuhg green grass or wiping sticky hands from oranges upon the damper grass of the shade and while our parents and teachers sat on their coats dilly dallying, I stopped.
Stopped from my playing like a bunny caught in someones eyes. Was it a hand that grabbed mine or mine that reached out? Lead to a rivers edge, a little stream or pond. Ducking under willow and stepping over bushes and creeping through imagined dens of foxes or coyotes. My companion, my little friend, the face on the memory is blank, perhaps we had even more company.
We held hands.
We held hands like friends in our childhood innocence, before the concept of cooties, before the playground held terror. We sat hunched up by the pond poking sticks and reeds into the stream. Poking at the river flies and mud. Lost in a mystic realm of childhood unknowingness.
And then it caught me. A glimpse that magnified. The little water spider, gliding on the surface as though the surface were glass.
Oh water bug, from my bright eyes  and blurred warm memeory you stood out to me. Majestically skating in the reflection of my face. As though you were that man mentioned in grandfathers stories from the book he said he beleived in, that man himself, walking on water. Such grace and beauty in you're perfectly casual stride, a quality I later noticed and looked for in people. Oh water bug, slipping your little bug fingers through glassy streams like a figure skater on an ice pond.
Do you remember me little bug? I was the one, the one with the little hands reaching out. I tried to hold your magic in my hands.
I was the one that in awe
reached out
But like a snap dragon,
in a blink, you were gone.

Dont wait tommorow for what can be said today.
Ripples in the water.
Cast from stone so easily fade away.

The difference in a day plays apon your face.
Regret tangles the most simple questions.
All to often we mask the stubborn actions
and pass them off as fate.

How could I ever let you slip away.
Burns a heart only to freeze over.
The road is never a clear direction.
A cold night a lovers embrace like a
blanket gives a false a sense of protection.

Now I hold a memeory not a friend.
We cant mask the distance.
So how can we continue to pretend.

Old love letters a window to a moment in time.
Tears flow  freely  in the confines of my emptyness.
In the illusion when I knew you as mine.

Sweet kisses are wasted apon the bitter soul.
Times fragments  splintter to all but
vanish from sight.
It's a struggle to live in the moment when
you cant even get ast a single night.

Tommorow I wont let it repeat today.
No longer will I settle to simply exist.
Watching lines once strong as they fade away.

Sometimes the best canvas should stay blank.
Colored by hopes not strokes of pain.
More words are needed to exist with
my deepest emotions in silent reframe.

I close my eyes, against the bright light
and try to count the stars,
yes with my eyes shut tight
they flit away, my thoughts, like humming birds taking flight...

I try to latch onto it , only to fail
all the while whirling in a boat, trying to sail

I search for it , but in vain
and i'm left staring at the spot it'd lain.

It teases me and taunts me of the paradise, that exists,
just out of my reach, floating there it persists...

It stays there the memory of a time without taint,
and i follow the path that my tears now paint.

She stares at the phantom girl, her eyes open wide,
and feels the feelings crash into her, tide after tide.

she ventures unafraid into the dreary , cold foreboding dark
the cold does not bother her and she moves on guided by a spark.

just beyond the realm of darkness, where she sees an inviting spark,
the memory that taunts her, it lies just beyond the dark...


She wades in through the murk,
just out of her reach does the memory lurk.


Through and through, drenched with fear
as the doubts mount in numbers in the sidelines and leer.

She runs towards it rather than away,
facing the demon , unyielding to its sway.


Its stares at her, with dark dark eyes
taunting her yet again with promises, that are all lies.


She stares back at it, through all the shadows,
that lurk
all the fears and doubts and beyond all the despair in the murk.

The memeory rushes into her like a deep breath of fresh air,
to fill her with love and happiness and all the joy that she could bear

But suddenly, its blown away just as soon as it came
disappearing within seconds,with a passing gust of air,
she realizes nothing can ever be the same.


That life is but momentary,
and you don't live long enough to hear all the commentary

That all things
Love and Hate
Fear and Courage
Truth and Lies
exist side by side
and one thing has to die, for the other to survive
and this is the rule by which,
they all abide.

I open my eyes to the brightnes of the sun-rise
all the fear is washed away and so are the lies...

I never knew what loneliness was until I your cure for it
you detached me from identity
you dismissed me from a capaticy to feel and ignored that I ached for you
ached to love you with my faceless face
ached to love you with my body that you made mechanical
ached to love you with my soul that you denied, refused, dismissed, me of having
your intentions blurred me into nothing and you say that that was not your intent
but why do you take me like you mean to write me into poetry but then erase my essence off your pages
you are a black hole diminishing me into an abyss of your neglect, and rejection so I am ceaselessly falling into your darkness and not your love

to love you with all my exsistencne nonexsistently
I alway love with all my exsistence nonexsistently

I am alone in my accidental purpose and reasons and secrets and confessions and everything unspoken
i want to be silence to you
the silence that echos with words and feelings that exsist but remain nonexsistent
and i ache to love you with my voiceless voice but whats the use in emphasiszing my insanity by speaking aloud to myself?
so ill stay consumed in thinking to myself thoughts meant for you deprived of meaning by you

I've been alone in love every time I've loved
and alone I love more
but i've never felt such utter loneliness before as you keep a memeory but forget me within it
fade me into insignificance so my name is a word and not a meaning, not a nickname for my essence but remembered as just a presence
a witness to you breathing-dissolving myself into your inhale and vanishing as you expel me with your exhale

i look into your eyes like i look into a mirror
trying to see myself inside but being nothing more than a surface reflection

i never understood lonliness until i felt yours
the disconnect as our eyes connected
the detachement as our hands attached
the distance as our lips met

never have I felt so far when being so close
never have I craved so much an intamacy that will never be intimate
never have I felt love in being so unloved

before i was alone but did not feel the pain of solitude
before i was in solitdue but did not feel the hurt of being alone
now i'm in a lonely love for you
and i'm addicted to the nothingness you make me
but i wish you loved me into something
i wish you loved me

so she write this article, this amanda
foreman,
   a historian and with four girls
and one boy that's almost the fifth and
i'm wondering:
god, where has this headache come from
where is the man?
                life's too perfect to seem
to rhyme, or worth wasting your time
remembering some obscure Versailles verse
worth a shining ****'s worth of
a crown readied for a one-night stand...
**** me, a five+ female household,
i hope these muslim martyrs wishes what
they got themselves into...
   the true martyrs have three entry
points...
           mouth, vaginal, ****...
            if you can't spot the true martyrs
i'll tell you about asking the watermelon man,
or herbie hancocks, or in comparison
by ol' joe...
      treating his quasi-alzheimer stories
like your favourite jazz standards...
herr bitebonbon, dresden, auschwitz,
and some other memories:
  a drowning man will cling to a razor blade
to stay afloat, like any old man:
what bugs him now is not being sad,
but being foregetful...
he replays the rubric every day:
he says:
sure, i'm dead already:
but i want to remember myself dying!
   old people and their jazz standards of memory,
i am old, i feel old,
   oh ma'h feel'ah rob'eh m'on...
   patois or 'alf the pitied peshawar mamí son...
lumberjack my *** were 'ere bootleg
a stump of wood mamí sis...
  ya rite?
           *** we boss the 9,2,3,oh,5...
and call that a freq.,
  man that boy to a prrrrrristine:
shakin' m'ah timbers floating a-high...
man, sum tim' the talk ain't talk
it's called: scare-alley-cat-talk
feelin' a gush of **** talk-ji
  of an incubus toying with ya
little mums' crisp clear elijah of buttock
say in: **** as smooth as
a mouth slicking a rota of a hooplah...
talk cool: play the dumb infant...
next time you know:
   yo be talkin' to mama bear an
pleading for her Mississippi pancakes...
**** you not...
             she a one woman with
a five daughter brothel...
good lucky lucky luke if there's any
eager...
                last time i checked:
neither word, nor piano nor horn earned
****...
        just a nice ref. to: ooze...
  like washington's monologue in
fences didn't earned him oscar:
but a director's role none the less...
lady guesses to choose...
and her choice is always wrong
while her guess is always good...
          my, why a mighty site these days:
a man that stays at home becomes
a better cook than a woman,
who isn't all too eager to enter the outside world...
there's always the idea of a death by
a grizzly bear and i think of entering
a bear enclosure in the danzig zoo...
  and the little bear that ate my cardigan button...
and the bear mama...
      god, i love that memeory,
because it's so unreal that it's real because
it happened and my mind became
a ******* ******* trickster thinking
that my faculty of memory didn't dig
that far back...
         the child always remains with the man
that the child always was,
   but the child never became,
and the man who always imagined the child
becoming the man he is,
never said to the man un-becoming the child:
you were never this until "i" became you,
and "you" un-became me.
30+ hours wide awake and i'm still
trying to succumb to falling asleep
to fidgeting...
                        sure, nice trick, juggle three
oranges... then more into the iron league
of juggling three watermelons my
dear, common man.
         classical music acted upon the same
jerking off technique
     that excess rock did to solo guitarists...
chopin was a ****** on guitar...
he had no rhythm man...
            why do i know this?
the japanese, those wannabe white-ohs
pretend to be chopin...
they ******* ski-jump to boot!
                    chopin had no style because
he had no rhythm...
actually liszt ****** off the most,
smoked the most cigars and prematurely
******* with the most number of lovers...
    i really feel for that poet who cried himself
to sleep seeing him "perform"...
           you can solo the ******* want,
but the only rhythm on piano came with jazz...
i hate ******* for their lack of appreciation
of jazz... i hate to be a white guy telling them:
hey... jazz over class every day...
  you people, yes: YOU PEOPLE
ABANDONED JAZZ IN A MATTER OF
AN AMNESIAC TRYING TO REMEMBER
A DISTINGUISHING ASPECT BETWEEN
A T-REX AND MARC BOLAN!
how can you just give up rhythm piano,
the democratic soloing of each instrument
in a band in a matter of what,
20, 30, 40 years?
     LOSERS!
      rhapsody of the nincompoop...
hit the trends you ******, with your
nike airs and your shaaq attaq?
  canary in a colemine?
how 'bout a ****** smiling at me?
how about: pearly whites in a colemine?
talk kit-kat chunky pale white boy:
i start talking ivory...
                     hey: if the black guy ain't
the canvas of what i'm about to x-ray
i don't know why he shouldn't find his
root in the skin in the tongue in Swahili
so we can keep it neutral and not so,
******* lazy: english, keeping up with
post-colonialism Kardashians' shenanigans...
come on... they left sonny trashed nodding
at the piano: just one more note,
just one more note...
          boom... crescendo and the death's head
gravity pulled the gracious ***** down.
it's just a shame that they gave up
on jazz so quickly,
                   and turned to white *****
gloryhole ******* - which must imply:
Ethiopians in Japan...
              hey... you tell me:
last time i heard i heard the whale was
mammal, and that there was the Eskimo...
pop doesn't really bother me right now;
you left sonny clark nodding to his death
thinking he was falling asleep at the piano!
NOW... ******... BLEACH ME...
I ******* DARE YOU!
robert johnson didn't meet his fate
at the crossroads through a jealous middle
class white girl either...
given the times, being a white guy:
i guess that's also my fault...
oh look... there flies the cuckoo:
and here's the nest.

Most days its just me against the world...
Most days All i ever get is a cold response...
A cold shoulder.. Your high again.......
A cold house... I can make it warm.....
A cold supper... It was my fault....
But most days everyone asks me for a little extra....
At most the only thing they want will cause my discomfort....
Most days I just agree...        
Because its the same as everyday....
I control an army that is mostly expendable.....
With soldiers called Sanity... Hope... Health.....
They mean nothing to no one....
But every night i nurse the wounds...
Of soldiers who only serve the needs of others.....
And the days they dont have to fight....
They are told not to talk too much...
To never say that they are tired...
That they too are something..
They belong to someone.....
No they are simply a disposable front line...
In a battle they must win for the love of their homeland.....
Oh home... They are forgetting that place...
Sometimes they hide in bars.....
Or in plain sight shellshocked from a continued battle....
Nobody cares its what they signed up for...
When they leave there is no longer a girl.... A family... No that is not the goal....
They are just in trenches against odds not in their favor....
Where the enemy is always getting new weapons.....
They learnt how to hide... To strike and hurt innocents....
After all collaterall damage is part of war.....
But as they look n there wake only burnt bridges that led to hope....
Crying children... Maybe they lost their goal..... Sometimes they shake from fatigue... Fear.....
Then its time to get a jolt from chemical not suited for them....
But its viewed as a want.... Never a need.....
I wish there was another way....
Sometimes a soldier goes AWOL...
The others stand in... A force of maniacs....
They just do what it takes to cover the ones who left....
With little care for anyone but themselves....
I dont control that army...
They call themselves Anger, Pain, sadness....
All under a warlord who neither cares or remembers....
He calls himself Addiction....
My army is able to fight them...
Even tho they are outgunned and wounded....
They are strong and run towards certain death.....
Holding pictures of a better time..
A picture of the woman they loved...
She is now only a memeory.....
A song.... A tune everyone tells them is offensive...
A belief.... That once they are victorious....
They might be taken serious....
And promoted from corporals... To seargeants.....
To lead a peaceful rebellion...
They no longer want war...
They want a truce with an enemy...
They only want to go home if only for a short leave....
To tell the people they love...
They are still here.. Please dont forget them....
But each time the shells fall silent... The cities no longer burn...
A crisis.... an atomic bomb brings them back into battle....
I feel sorry for them.....
My stories of motivation are now tales...
I wouldnt believe me either...
This was always my war....
They are just old friends now...
Gray and weak.. we no longer laugh or visit....
They just do what they have learnt to do.....
A good soldier never questions...
To die for their country is just a fate.....
I can only hope as each one dies...
I can hold them for at least a moment...
To thank them.....
To let them know i remember them....
How glorious they once were...
We thought we would own the world.....
Now each day im writing letters to memories....
Im soory to inform you..... They will be greatly missed....
I am sad these were great soldiers... But at least I know as they are killed....
It wont be long till I go.....
If I lose to the other force.... Heavan help everyone I care for.....
They will destroy them...
But another morning... Another battle....
Maybe today is the day...
When they get to go home... They get to feel loved to be cared for...
But i dust off their helmets and they head back out to battle.....
I dont have the heart to tell them...
I know we are gonna lose...
Its never been a war I believed they could win.....

On and off a lot weighs on my heart
Heavy on my chest
don’t know where to start

I’ve gotten lots of paper cuts while writing my book
There’s chapters where it hurts to go back and look
Pages that are just too hard to read
Hard to understand...
like trigonometry

In school I never took that class
but it’s probably really difficult if you’re bad at math

Life is like math or kind of like an onion
They both have the potential to make you cry in a sudden
Like in the middle of the day when you shouldn’t be emotionally unstable but you are
cause that one chapter and it’s little sad ending left a huge fu king scar

And I don’t write this for anyone but myself
cause there’s feelings I wanna yell and emotions I wanna shout
To bury the shame and the doubt and regret
And pull the bullet out that’s gone straight through my head

Bullets are like onions and math I’d assume they all can make you cry
But pulling it out is harder, when your own fingers are digging inside
Or by the fingers of another person
Ripping apart your wounds
Is a scar ever really healed if it can still bruise

I’m not angry, just a little salty
Cause there’s things I don’t want to remember that tend to haunt my memeory

I’d rather have a nice lunch with my demons make them friends
Then share my **** with people who won’t understand
But how will I ever know if I don’t ever try
I think you ****** me up too much to even try

And I’m standing on the stage,
naked in a nightmare shaking and afraid
Cause we trip over our humanity just to be fake
wearing religion and hypocrisy to the big masquerade

And here I’m standing in front of the crowd called life
Imagining everyone in their underwear I heard that makes it seem alright
And I think it really does help if we tear down our walls
if we share our truth our raw emotion our biggest downfalls
Unite the solidarity I’m not the only one who’s ****** up
You won’t find me wallowing in my sadness often but it’s there
And I don’t make this **** up

Every now and then,
I come to weep
at the grave of a love
that was once so sweet,

I never realised it was poisoning us

How enthusiastically we took turns to stab it!
Once for each time we broke each others' hearts
When I looked at it one last time, I saw
You stabbed it way more than I did
But whenever I did, I did it with a rage so raw

It left me speechless

I didn't know the evil I could commit
Till you gifted me the dagger of unkept promises and lies
And asked me to take a hit


The night I gave it the final blow
I danced vulgarly over that lifeless love
I wouldn't have been so reckless
Had I known I'd mourn my loveless life
For days that now seem endless

The love we birthed after 20 years of lone labour
Had to be killed within 2 turns of seasons
Even though we claimed "it tried to **** us first"
I am still out of good enough reasons

I wish and pray
every day
I swear
For there to be trial for us
in a court
Of whose existence I'm uncertain
But where our love gets acquittal
And is declared pure and free of the pain
that we accused it of causing us
Whenever we couldn't nurture it well

For now, we mortal earthlings get all, but a moment of complete clarity
There is no redemption, yet
Just us, in our separate worlds
And the grave of love, under the memeory tree

So sometimes, when I find myself too heavy with tears
Under the umbrella of broken melodies, I take cover
And come to shed a few, by the grave of love
Which I created and destroyed with a lover