there isn't a "sorry", there's simply an is.

and you better be a better autistic mathematician
worth's load of:
being the one to be championing
an amnesia in the case of memory -
if you can forget enough as much as it felt,
and keep it to a rigorous item by item
inspection of worthwhile attempts at
"normality" - perhaps i best keep it in
the safety of the inverted commas?
  
i'm one person for animal rights,
and another for human rights -

i'm sorry, but animals really do contest
your rights, however hypocritic it is
to eat them, and then pet them,
but that how distant you are from me
being your counterpart...
how less of a man i am,
gained by the woman you are to be...
or how, neither of us have lost
the begging idle,
that boring talk of an idle self...
        
i scratch my crotch and think very little
of you...

i start to think about oysters and
sea waves, and fish in general -
and then i think about a swarm a migrating
beehive from my childhood -
and then, i reach the crux -
    the lactose tolerance of my suckling lips...

and then i wonder, what if time was a space,
and what if space was a time -
and whether that is not the coercion of
making poetry to adapt to a heaven, or a hell...

if only i were to stage the perfect crescendo,
but i would:
once upon a time there was space
where two people, shared a bath,
and the time i lasted, lasted
the three cubic metres of bathroom's content;

the long lustre loss of love -
the high grove - and the rising buds
of late summer summarised in rose -
the shallows of both bouquet and
of grave,
              mint puckers -
and rosemary tears -
          a hollow for a tree-trunk -
and a hallowed holly resting upon the grave
of the clearly departed...
a kiss laid barren, due the bitterest of tastes.

i have your name confined
to my sorrow -
  and all worth of comic affection
becomes: the perfected loss of
the stooge's quest of affiliation;
and i have but a heart worth a molten
locket of chocky-heartache -
the persistent "saint" in me has
always championed the cliche...
and may my labour turn to plumbing,
or the devices of electricity -

i will always surrender to the quest
inclined by your heart;
ah, the devil's temptation comes
in the form of charm...
as woman be tempted by the fruit
of child,
so too the devil, be tempted by
the chores of charm.

   i get it... but come on...
  the chemistry between val kilmer (thinned)
and nicole kidman (saucy)...
   and the soundtrack? inc. seal's perfecto
comic killer by ed helms?
it's like watching a crocodile eat
    a gazelle while brushing its teeth!

saying that, **** me:
                      even i'm disorientated!
who said a snowman took to a surfboard
and didn't melt while tackling
the big dipper curve?!

I'm no real
thing

some flash of
magical realism
-the force but not
the subject-

existence in the
vibrations and singing
of mushi, but not exactly
becoming those
tufts of light fully