Father-craft has been passed down from father to father,
losing and gaining at each slow bequeathing.
Less heavy-handed there, more soft-hearted here
at each generation’s rejection of the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder what's left of the original art
and what we've lost and what we've gained.

This is my food for thought as I feed my daughter
crumbled digestive with mashed banana -
(Perhaps a favourite of mine and my father's.)
- while she grins and chortles, blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles with absolute child-delight.

Food for thought and thanks as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek and laugh along, prolonging
the choice perfection of this fathering moment.

So perfect on the outside
Unblemished
Façades
That's how we survive

I draw a banana on my leg
Every day
Just so that
Something is constant

Newly birthed
Green
Like everything around it
As it matures
It wants to
Stick out
Yellow
But quickly realizes
Its brethren did much the same
All are
Yellow
Now
Saddened, it turns
Black
Moody
Then
Dies

Into an abyss
Into a deep hole of ripples
or

a formality of our imagination

Floating in the imagery of a shadow
or
in forms of light

The good or the bad
One can lose sense of self and mobility
When returned from such abyss
Shivering
Hungry
Grieving
No fault of our own
No regret

realizing to only fall for ourselves into the abyss.

Endless self love.

Cheeks aching
Thighs shaking

Am I alive?
Are you real?
I like how this feel     s

Will you be my Valentines?
                                                                                                                 No.


Oh, okay.

You rip my heart out of my chest,
Pink ruffles and all,
And crumble it up.

You swish swish swish it into the trash,
You feel so powerful.

It lays there,
Bottom of the barrel,
Crumpled and beat black and blue.

The pink ruffles are now zig zag bright red.
It wheezes out in desperation.

I scramble to the bin,
Trying to scavenge the leftover pieces.

I pick through the trash,
I look ridiculous,
But I can fix this.

My fingers run over broken glass,
Paper, and even banana peels.

I find it,
The last remnants of my beating heart.

It’s still crumbled up,
But this can work.

I start from image.

I steam press it,
Whisper it sweet nothings,
And kiss it back to life.

It beats.
It beats,
It’s beating.

My heart is alive once more.

Will you be my Valentines?

Yes, heart, I will.

Monkey banana,
Climbing trees and smoking canna
bis, it's bliss, over the abyss.
Monkey banana,
No pants, just bandanna,
Screaming "ooh ooh aah aah"
from inside my cabana.

On banana flower's *******
Three avaricious bats suckle.
Above, few still circle.