Nothing can stop
the hot searing burn,
the shock of jumping into freezing water.
but worse,
instead of water, ice appears
and I hit it hard,
unexpectedly, everything cracks.
Surprise becomes hysteria,
and hysteria becomes aching,
aching regret for being
on the losing side of the contract.

The knit comes undone,
and I,
grasp onto these
remaining lose threads,
cant seem to get a hold of them,
I tangle them
and leave them under the bed
with other lost objects.
Little things to remind myself
of you.
A pin on a map
or smudges on the wall.

And when the loss
becomes unbearable,
I become unreachable.
Water can try to wash everything,
but the stain of tears,
the sensation of drowning,
never goes away.
Alone, and scared,
of losing contact,
and of losing remembrance
of the clear glass,
un-crackable
and untouched,
by anyone.

When fierce conflicting passions urge
The breast, where love is wont to glow,
What mind can stem the stormy surge
Which rolls the tide of human woe?
The hope of praise, the dread of shame,
Can rouse the tortur’d breast no more;
The wild desire, the guilty flame,
Absorbs each wish it felt before.

But if affection gently thrills
The soul, by purer dreams possest,
The pleasing balm of mortal ills
In love can soothe the aching breast:
If thus thou comest in disguise,
Fair Venus! from thy native heaven,
What heart, unfeeling, would despise
The sweetest boon the Gods have given?

But, never from thy golden bow,
May I beneath the shaft expire!
Whose creeping venom, sure and slow,
Awakes an all-consuming fire:
Ye racking doubts! ye jealous fears!
With others wage internal war;
Repentance! source of future tears,
From me be ever distant far!

May no distracting thoughts destroy
The holy calm of sacred love!
May all the hours be winged with joy,
Which hover faithful hearts above!
Fair Venus! on thy myrtle shrine
May I with some fond lover sigh!
Whose heart may mingle pure with mine,
With me to live, with me to die!

My native soil! belov’d before,
Now dearer, as my peaceful home,
Ne’er may I quit thy rocky shore,
A hapless banish’d wretch to roam!
This very day, this very hour,
May I resign this fleeting breath!
Nor quit my silent humble bower;
A doom, to me, far worse than death.

Have I not heard the exile’s sigh,
And seen the exile’s silent tear,
Through distant climes condemn’d to fly,
A pensive, weary wanderer here?
Ah! hapless dame! no sire bewails,
No friend thy wretched fate deplores,
No kindred voice with rapture hails
Thy steps within a stranger’s doors.

Perish the fiend! whose iron heart
To fair affection’s truth unknown,
Bids her he fondly lov’d depart,
Unpitied, helpless, and alone;
Who ne’er unlocks with silver key,
The milder treasures of his soul;
May such a friend be far from me,
And Ocean’s storms between us roll!

Love or lust?
Truth or trust?
Rain or rust?

We stand side by side
on the corner of
the road.
I watch you smoke
your cigarette-- you
**** in and blow.
It begins to rain; I
check the time on
my phone,
And I say to you,
"Matty, I want to go home."
You ask, "Why, babe? Did I
make you upset?"
I reply, "No, but I am
getting wet."
You give me a smile,
take off and hand me
your jacket.
"Matty, don't you need this?"
"Nah, baby. Have it."
So we stand side by side
at the end of the
street,
With my head on your shoulder
and your arm
around me.

Hvor bliver ordene af når vi har sagt dem
falder de bare ned og rammer asfalten
eller sætter de sig fast inde i en andens hoved
eller noget helt tredje ?

Spending your love on something and it goes unnoticed
You're pushed to the edge and then start to lose focus
You don't know where things might have gone wrong
Because all along you thought you were strong
You try your hardest, you do your best
But all you're left with is pure unrest
You begin to feel worthless
You are ridden with stress
Love seems lost now
So take back your vow
It doesn't mean anything anymore

Once fully liberated, she rides her antique, three-speed bike down the small hill from her campsite to the:  RESTROOMS – SHOWERS – PAYING CAMPERS ONLY. She dismounts and goes into the well-kept, recreational facilities and takes a hot, 50-cent, seven-minute shower, arching her soapy back against the white tiles, rubbing her soapy front in the same spot, up and down and up, and then, rinsed, she stands, dripping wet in front of the first full-length mirror she's seen in weeks, gyrating her hips, mocking pin-up poses to herself and all god's good-looking men with a sense of the absurd, then she wraps her towel around, tying the knot between her *******. She stands outside in the sweet, Santa Vidian air, finger-drying her hair and imagining, unabashedly imagining, guys in the campsite above, eating fresh-cooked meat and ogling her. Then she takes off down the road, pale green nightgown fluttering against the rear spokes, past Bonnie's trailer where from sundown till 11pm you can hear the best country music: Randi Travis, Willie Nelson, Hank Williams Sr. She pulls up to her sweet “Bleu Belle,” shushes the dogs reflexively, hops off the bicycle, and turns, eyes closed, face upraised into a rare shaft of redwood forest sun.