Senseless beauty,

Indulge every chance you get.
In that galactic heart of yours,
Where stars are dense as wild flowers
Covering the dark ranges of space.
Where the greatest lessons are distilled
In your subtle flavours and delicate
complexities of your new sensorium.
Eat your guilt, and do not look at your tortured mate.

*The lesson is pleasure not pride.

Your world is coming apart
By design,
structure
Remember you agreed?

Did you really think you could preserve
The comfort of your outgrown shell?

How many degrees
of confusion
can you bear in your mirror world?

you have them now* -
hands through which the star wine
can occasionally pour offerings

so pure
as to be invisible.
*use them, use them, use them.

How can a body bear such longing?
Borne on fulfilment,
even atoms enclosed in their vast spaces
Hide from nothing.

I wish for you here
Because the air
won't turn black
this time

The air
will be the chariot of certainty
Crushing the physical
structure of the confused
So when you leave finally
Because of
destructions of ambiguity.

Know my tears
They are nourishment,
Softening the ground.

I desire your well being
for the reasons that

your palms may bestow
the unknowable depth for the good.

And if I continue any longer
I'll take leave of all my
senses.

I am tired of series of unfinished poems that scream for my return.
I am tired of internal, trenching,
desperate calls
for pen and paper.
I am tired of empty pages,
and pens being put down.
I am tired of the fragmentary
*******-business I have with my declaration of expression.
I want to write about rough ****** efforts
and soft
aching feelings.
I want to write about Coca Cola freezies
(because they don’t even exist, why?).
I am tired of looking at everyone else’s work,
admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, criticising it, admiring it, crying, loving it.
I want to be 60 and look at what I wrote When I was 19,
And sob.