I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

it made him feel old
     beyond even the years
          he was managing to carry
as he judged the children
storming the carriage
raucous in hi-vis
ever-ebullient despite
their chaperon's plea
to showcase successfully
their inimitable behaviour
only to be scuppered by
a locomotive
     lack of momentum
which did nothing to quell
their impatient effervescence

as the stationary train
     held by an unexplained
          flashing of red signals
awaited its onward journey
through yet another
outbound rush hour
not one single person
elected to sit next to
or even near by
that solitary man
wrapped tightly in coat
bedecked in hood and hat
hands deeply pocketed
and eyes half-closed
blind against his fatigue
and the low-slung sun

unseen by the children
until after their calming
the man appeared to them
     as one of those adults
          not to be disturbed
like their grandpas
deeply snoring on
those rainy Sundays
or their parents
finally at peace
after one of those
     wanton days
steering clear of limbs
and personal space
they are careful to avoid
any proximity to this
slumbering stranger
fearful of the wrath
of such an awakening

appreciating their caution
     unnecessary as it may be
through his squinted
obstructing view
unexpectant and unexpected
he found himself smiling
     at what he could see
     at what he remembered
and stirred playfully
settling deeper into
his feigned slumber
careful to avoid
confounding
any of those
childish preconceptions

.i did write about rooney mara once, didn't i? porcelain beauty... eh... not mandible beauty, the sort of beauty parallel to the Mona Lisa... the sort of beauty that's not mandible like the beauty of a fat *******'s beauty of stretch marks and extra flab... ******* a beached whale... you know... a mechanic's type of fetish for a broken down car engine... rooney mara? ms. porcelain doll beauty? that **** you just paint, you don't **** it... thinking to yourself: if i **** it, will it break?!

                       is... is...
this guy known as
yungblud...
singing the song
california...
dyslexic or something?
no, wait, wait...
he's hiding a lisp?
**** it... i'll just do
the camp *******
of reading the sunday times
style supplement
magazine, interviewing
cheryl tweedy...
****!
who the hell put on
van morrison's
brown eyed girl on?!
   yum-yum-sloppy-seconds
thank-you-very much...
like... a face that allows
you decentralize your
phallus from orientating
it around cow Martian
testicles and...
those floral patterns
in a ******...
   kinda like... joey fisher...
see... i'm under the
polygraph of a liter of
ms. amber...
     who the ****... ha ha...
lies when drunk / drinking?
she's about a liter tall...
(insert snigger)...
and she has a Havana ***
girth...
all that's missing is
pickled onions...
and some raw cherry
tomatoes...
ah ha ha ha!
god... i love reading these
articles...
i love women in general...
not unlike those glory days
when women found
*** easy...
with the likes of...
oh **** me... there's a list,
which implies a colon:
tony curtis...
   shhhhh... it...
  i can only think of tony curtis...
charlton heston doesn't
really fill the bill...
ooh ooh!
  **** jagger!
**** it... let's leave it at two...
in the meantime,
the bite of reality:
        
*****... what you gonna do
when your favorite
sugar-grandpa is kicking
the bucket?
   fix it up with the types
of losers of my generation...
lament of the first world war...
the missing men...
or the Haj route to the Kaaba
of a Saudi Sheik's harem?
me?
   i'm a father every time i ****
off...
   daddy in a tissue...
both father... and genocidal
maniac... i killed more "people"
than ******...
hey...   appetites are appetites...
but it's not as bad as if i was
given the incentive of
a circumcision...
   now... you have your dress of genitals...
and i have my *******'s worth
of tux, white **** and bow-tie...
we're even...

and to even think...
when we were leaving high-school,
i wrote down my ambitions
in the leaving book my two prime
ambitions...
either living a bohemian lifestyle
of an artist in some European
capital (Paris... god, please, Paris),
or becoming a priest...
   well... i'm doing both...
a covert monk...
          there's the god's **** of beer,
there's ms. amber,
the marquees de bourbon...
               and...
                usually a newspaper and
a blank space in pixel paper...

poor boy gotta laugh...
poor girl gotta fish, tame or hunt...
rich boy gotta party...
rich girl gotta dream about
a fling -
some variant of an indie
romantic comedy.

I am not a ****

It’s a shame

If that’s what you see

When you look at me

I’m not a gangster

Or a rapper

I’m not the images

Plastered all over T.V.

I’m respectful to women

I was taught this

By my mother

I’m willing to fight

If the cause is right

But mostly I’m a lover

…A good book

Despite

If you like

It’s cover

Compassionate

Thoughtful

And considerate

Of others

I’m not lazy

I'm not a thief

I'm not a criminal

Who runs the streets

I work at least

60 hrs. per week

And don’t be surprised

When you realize

I’m very articulate

When I speak

I’d rather read a book

Than shoot hoops

On a basketball court

Music is my passion

And I write poetry for sport

Love is my drug

And I put it

Into everything I do

It’s pure

Strong

And addictive too

I bet you won’t see that

On the news!

I am not a ****

So please don’t assume

You could be missing out

On a good friend

Don't let your preconceptions

Resume

Don’t keep your mind closed

Open up

…Make room



I'm not a ****

I am a MAN

Try to get to know me

Then you'll find out

Who I Am

when you are three you will bring home your first tracks of mud from the garden when you sneak out of the door to play. i will wash the grass stains off your socks and tell you to wait for mummy to come out next time too.

when you are four you will bring home your first macaroni necklace from nursery school and try to eat it raw. i will put it around your neck and we will make pasta together, minus the glue.

when you are five you will bring home tears and your first bleeding knee after falling off your tricycle. i will clean up the wound with antiseptic, put on a smiley face band aid and tell you it is okay to cry.

when you are six you will bring home your first finger painting from kindergarten and a white tee shirt that is streaked with a myriad of colour. i will place it on the laundry pile and we will stain canvas with paint coated fingers for the rest of the afternoon.

when you are seven you will bring home your first report card and babble excitedly about the A you got in art class. i will tell you i knew your teacher would love the tiger you drew that had too many teeth.

when you are eight you will bring home your first best friend and you will ask if you can have a sleepover. i will bake you cookies and put up a tent in the backyard so you can fall asleep under the blanket of stars.

when you are nine you will bring home your first 100 on a test and ask me if perfect is a good score. i will hug you and say that no score can be more perfect than you are.

when you are ten you will bring home your first girl guide badge and tell me you need it sewn on your uniform. i will teach you how to use a needle and thread and see your pride at accomplishing the task on your own.  

when you are eleven you will bring home your first medal from a junior fencing competition and tell me you love the foil but you are scared of the older ones who use epees and sabres (even though one day you will be one of them, too). i will hang the medal on your bedpost and show you my rusting sabre in the storeroom and tell you my stories.

when you are twelve you will bring home your first case of chickenpox from the girl who sits next to you in class. i will make you chicken soup and we will make bad puns about poultry for the next two weeks of quarantine.

when you are thirteen you will bring home your first failure on a test paper. i will sit with you in your room and go through your mistakes and we will learn together, because you are more than a number and i never want you to forget that

when you are fourteen you will bring home your first questions about why the girls in school giggle about boys when the name you doodle in your jotter book is the one of your hauntingly beautiful social studies teacher. i will tell you that love is whatever you believe it to be and who you love is less important than why you love them.

when you are fifteen you will bring home your first can of beer in an effort of rebellion and try to hide it in your room. i will get out the wine and we will share it and i will teach you all there is to know about alcohol and being careful around it, and regale you with stories about the fact that i am a happy drunk.

when you are sixteen you will bring home your first attempts at a resumé and tell me you want to find an internship. i will watch you with pride as you make your own way as part of the working crowd for the very first time and learn more than i could ever teach you on my own.

when you are seventeen you will bring home your first girlfriend and introduce her to me, blushing and stammering. i will smile and ask her if she wants any orange juice from the fridge, and watch you give me a grateful grin.

when you are eighteen you will bring home your first college application and all the relevant documents. we will sit down over the kitchen table and discuss the pros and cons of local and international schools.

when you are nineteen you will bring home a suitcase and some assignments when you come back home during break. i will watch you tuck in to local fare ravenously and listen to you dreamily talk about the girl you share your dormitory with.

when you are twenty you will bring home your first paycheck from a part-time job you’re holding while studying for your degree. i will joke with you on what blue chip stocks to invest it in and we will go out for dinner at a swanky restaurant together.

when you are twenty one you will bring home an engagement ring and ask me if it is too young to ask your dormmate turned lover forever. i will remind you that love has no age and preconceptions have no place in devotion.

when you are twenty two you will bring home everything you need to propose to the love of your life. i will watch her stare at you in shock and fall into your arms and cry, and i will smile at the way your breath leaves your lungs, and you cry along with her.

when you are twenty three you will bring home your first pre-wedding jitters and be fretting about tomorrow’s ceremony. i will reassure you that everything will be perfect- even if it isn’t.

when you are twenty four you will bring home your first spare key to your new place and entrust it to me. i will bring over the dishes you and your wife love every sunday and we will have dinner together, talking, teasing, and laughing till we cry.

when you are twenty five you will bring home your first daughter you have adopted from the orphanage.

and daughter, i hope you will tell her the things i have told you.

Sometimes you have to reconcile love
To really love yourself
To truly know yourself
To let go of your preconceptions
Of what love might be
And find yourself again

After the inception of the new, high speed way,
luck beheld a continuation that increased
velocity even more.  Stores, beginning through
optimistic (sails, sales) filled with industrious
wind currents, began to perish, because the dust

crept in to forget and never start again.  Trade
was offered from one to another, likely to achieve

practical results, but the consequence was a loss
of heritage.  All that had gone before stumbled
out the door into darkness and surcease.  Absence
was abandoned as the light walked away into
the desolate remains which, in only a few days,
left the city, and commerce, stalled with people,
everywhere, standing quietly like burlap dolls.
The sound was pouring light outward from its
eyesight to remember something other than that

which had been lost, inserted and devoid; the
former ideas drifted to become a trace of the new

prestige.  Communication overwhelmed the hope
though hope endured.  A collection of machines
was learning to live together, and to attend night
clubs with astonished amounts of stress arguing
against the comprehension which insisted that
importance was captivating the subjects of change.

Always, they were slinking into the circuits,
coloring the programs with a steady pace that
receded to neglect functionality.  Those tired of
hearing about the clocks winding down were not
escaping the clever snares set for their awkward

feet and kept among delicate fossils of brilliance.
It might have been a global fever, or perhaps
everything just ceased to operate.  Some strike by
electrons offered them the predicament, and
the opportunity, returning them to a simple form

of human sentiment, so that smaller gatherings

arrived at the significance of a tale while burning
things on sticks above the campfires flickering
along the coast and seen inland at the base of
distant mountains.  Simple arts included using
furniture and hot air balloons driven by stainless
steel burners.  Talking too often, and to a point of
foolish interruption, demonstrated the frailty of
coordination where zeros and ones meant,
essentially, that a point had been made and lost,
although fighting confusion was denied by context.
Some of this was mistaken by preconceptions that
created impractical situations, and other things
were long walks glued to comfortable boots or

reliable shoes.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Infinity's Mirror by Nat Lipstadt

Two mirrors, set in opposition observe created notional blending,
a reflecting pool of bonding's of unglued, contrary compositions.
Mirror to mirror, his imagery, fuses to Sylvia's images, hers,
faintly recollected, now living face, face to face, with his past insurrections, alters his future visions.

From cold water lake she's drawn, impaled by refracting regrets,
retrieved, drawing her words upon him, an awakening slap to drink,
beloved, tragic magic, infinitely captive.  But this old man's tiddlywinks, land-locked words, blunted instruments, needy for release & salvation, are neither silvered or exacting, just stains on a dulled, tarnished brass spittoon, except for the brunt'd bunting of lines across his roughened terrain'd face, black and white, pen and ink etched illustration of howling agitation.

His words worn down, hardened, red faced, purloined speckled pellets, damp to roll on down her rutted, almost ancient, tear streak paths, disbelieved superstitions, sacrificed for one of her living morsels of words.

Man, here to her, pledges allegiance, audaciously defiling her poetic sanctity, a visage endless repeated, delivers her shiny poem-poised countenance, even though no forgiveness from time can a mirror afford for either, from her words,  confession born, terrible truths beyond, beyond the finite.

                                                
~~~~~~~­~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Mirror by Sylvia Plath

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
What ever you see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful---
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is a part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

"I love you."
My fingers froze:
dark eyes on a list
as long nails clacked
on gray keys which
stuck with age and use.
I dreamed of love,
sweet hordes of
doves escorting me
to my desire of
love, love, love.
Such dreaming flags
floated in my mind,
wishing to be a hot ***,
body made of rag,
a delicious mess
of hearty gags.
I wanted promiscuity,
in all its forms,
shed of all its innuendo
and flimsy disguises.
I wanted hard action,
man on man,
cheap rides and
cheaper thrills.
I wanted to be a little
pornographic princess,
a tiny-dicked seductress,
big ***** conductress
of all his passions.
My flag flew up as a
hormonal reaction,
attraction,
smooth bodied and
tight lipped action
running up and down
my jaded cadaver.
He wanted a **** *****,
a promiscuous witch,
casting love spells and
**** glances to make him
itch.
He entered my love nest,
the back seat of a car,
to destroy my frame,
to rid me of my childishness.
My folly melted away
in sexyhot sways
of my hips as
my lips would say
lust filled nothings
that would be filled by
empty sighs and
****** filled
"I love you's."
My fingers froze:
as brown turned to white,
my body turned to snow
and rained down around
his swollen flagpole.
He was incompetent,
inept at the deed
and unable to satisfy,
but it was my ego that needed
this gratification, not my
libido.
I laid in the aftermath of the attack,
calm,
demure,
sad but
ultimately relieved
Finally,
I am ravaged.
I have soiled my nation
and salted my own fields,
laying waste to my youth,
my innocence.
I wanted to be conquered
and so did I receive,
being taken and
yet somewhat untaken.
I remember his voice,
that dumb accent.
I remember his preconceptions
of what this was supposed to be.
"I love you."
My fingers froze:
as lungs filled with air,
and brain filled with contempt,
my jaded body grew
to desire--
God, I really wish I had a cigarette.
I remember how he thought
I cared,
how he though that
anybody did.
I remember how,
I thought I had, too.
"I love you."**
No, you don't.