When you dress in black and cloak
your feelings with your tears,
Remember all that time you had,
the days, the weeks, the years.

Now is not the time to bring me
flowers in a bow,
That took so long amongst the weeds,
a journey bloom from sow.

When you sit up front and centre
and then go on to say your piece,
Do not think of all the times
you mentioned to me least.

Do not say I was a good, kind wife,
or a sweet and loving mum.
Think instead of the long list
of ways that I'll ruin our son.

Now is not the time to bring me
flowers in a bow.
Not now. Like this?
In front of everyone I know?

Instead just let me lie in peace
and slowly start to rot.
And just like now I can see out my days
as a girl that life forgot.

Couplets here, leak out of me
out of my very being,
unto the world in front of me
simultaneously seeing: that I'm made up of couplets,
no more & no less;
two lines of written words that arch balanced, they confess:

that first lines nothing without the second,
& alone the second lines meaningless at best

For it's in couplet's regularity, that confusion doth detest  
that there's always one then two, 2 reasons to write the rest.

A pitiful wretch inhabits my brain;
In a boiling cauldron he writhes in pain.
When I perceive beauty or feel desire,
On impulse the cognizance feeds the fire.

The prisoner screams, he blisters and burns;
He suffers and dies, and then he returns.
As long as I love, he'll never rest;
The hug of a child puts him to the test.

Nothing will comfort this inmate of life
But hunger and cold, aloneness and strife.
He'd pluck out my eyes, cut out my tongue,
And make me a bed out of thorns and dung.

Yet I’ve known those who were quite insane
Because no wretch lived in their brain.
I hope until the moment I die,
My head resounds with that sobering cry.

Someone said: ''they're like butterflies at day,
And slowly in the night they fly away.''

A time to bloom for them's the time of night,
When visiting, they do adorn the sight.

To where, to who and how – we do not know,
Except some, who are involved in their show.

With swaying moves and dancing fans they swing,
Accompanied by ancient songs they sing.

Their fan is blooming, fair as the summer-flowers,
Crafted in many dedicated hours.

He talks because of endless ignorance,
Not that he has knowledge of any sort.
And every time he thinks he's in the right,
When just getting a bit of dumb support.

I see decay and death in middle youth,
Remembering the shroud by each gray strand.

My heart is restless now, without an aim,
Because this is not what I once had planned.

I cannot speak the tongue I want to speak,
And cannot find a soul who'll understand.

I've been collecting words
for years- cataloguing

feral and oblivion, catharsis and
iridescence. I keep gusto

in the drawer beside my bed.
I put visceral next to the broken

mirror you left. I've hidden marrow
next to vastness as if they are mine

alone. See how they slip out of me
like a ****** nose at just the wrong time.

The mechanism of my body is ticking away the moments:
clinical seconds, dehydrated hours, years washed too clean.

The orbit of my ribs makes its rounds with momentous clicking
felt as a ripple- a forte into seizure.

There's something industrial in the alignment of these organs:
A factory of ventricles straining against the assembly line.

I'm a blood clock, tragic motor; I'm an organism
too mechanical to hold.

With a liver like a coal burner and lungs to expel the smoke,
how can I find a way back to being human.

What is this great fruit?
All of life's bounty, in this one root.

The apple of the earth;
From the dirt it doth birth.

Bake, roast, mash,
All else goes to the trash.

The potato's taste is so fine,
Its versatility? Just divine.

*****, fries, tossed in pies,
Potatoes are the best, no compromise.