Poetry Schmoetry!
These pretty words that rhyme
sometimes not even every time
creep into your heart...

Like water seeps into a rock -
deep into the smallest crevice,
these words seep into your heart
and find the small, dark spots
the unspoken hurt and yearning

like water that melts and freezes
can split a rock in two,
these words seep into your soul
and split our precious delusions
we so desperately try and conceal

like a rock split in two by water,
so our souls are rend open -
left exposed!
and the poet's words like warm sunlight
tempts your heart
maybe even *steal your soul

He sits next to me in the waiting room, his breath labored. He’s good looking, in his late twenties, wearing a red vest.
“Hi.” he says.
“Hello.”
His face is suntanned, but one electric white spark splits the colour of his forehead like a bolt of lightening. It confuses me for a moment, until I realise it’s a frown line that hasn’t tanned.
“Listen, mate...listen, mate. What’s your name?”
“Arthur…”
“Listen Arthur, can I call you Arthur?”
“Of course - Art if you like.”
“Listen Arthur – what are you in for?”
I put down my copy of ‘Perfect Home’ as the water dispenser blows a great gasping bubble.
“Bipolar.”
“Yeah? You being sectioned?”
“No, no. I’ve just come out of hospital. I’m having a review.”
“Right.” He chews his lip. “Do you reckon I’m gonna get sectioned then, or what?”
“Well - I don’t know. What are you here for?”
He sighs darting his eyes sideways, and his frown deepens.
“When I was sixteen I was at this party, right…”
“…Right…”
“And I was drinking. You know how it is. Few beers, bit of fun. You know how it is, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah, so I’m at this party. And I feel sick, ok? So I go to the toilet. Nice toilet, friend’s house, pink bath, air freshener, nice. And I’m sick all over the place. What do they call it? Project summat...”
“Projectile vomiting…?”
“Yeah yeah, projectile vomiting. And then I gotta take a ****.” He lowers his voice, leaning into me. “So I’m all beery and I feel kinda terrible y’know? And I unzip my jeans and go to pull the old fella out…”
“Uh huh…”
“But there’s nothing there.”
“What do you mean there’s nothing there?”
“Exactly what I ******* say. My **** is just…gone. And I realise, right, that someone at that party has chopped it off. One of my friends. One of my friends has chopped my old fella off.”
I lock eyes with him.
“Jesus.”
“I know. One of my ******* friends.”
“And this was…?”
“When I was sixteen. Anyway. To cut a long story short – I went to Thailand a few years ago and I took this drug over there, some party drug. And my **** grew back. Everything’s been fine since then. But on Monday, well, you can imagine can’t you? I wake up and my **** has been chopped off again. Again. God knows who did it, but I've got a good idea...”
“And that’s why you’re here.”
“I’m here because I want them to find out the name of that party drug, the drug I got in Thailand, the one that worked. It worked. It actually worked, mate.”
“Was it ******?”
“**** knows, but it worked.” He rubs his face with both hands, sighing. “So, what’dya reckon? Do you reckon they’re gonna section me?”
Of course they’re going to ******* section you.
“I don’t know, mate. But I thought that my neighbours were poisoning my cat, and they weren’t too pleased about that. Do you get what I’m saying?”
My psychiatrist interrupts to call my name, standing at the mouth of the waiting room with a smile. I shake the man's hand and wish him all the best.
I look over my shoulder as I go down the corridor, and he picks up my copy of ‘Perfect Home’.
He puts his hand down his jeans, adjusting something.

To find something that was not there before,
To stare at a telephone that will not ring,
With a tiredness of the eyes and a taint of the heart.
To notice that sometimes words are not enough.

To follow the dances of strange fingerprints,
To terrorize the etchings on the skin,
To burn last nights cigarettes into the lips.
To distract the longing of the heart.

To know a moment in many different ways,
To understand that it could not exist,
To wonder if it was ever there at all.
To find a sincerity in delusion.

To understand the power moonbeams,
How they mar the bones, in their fictions,
To know the subtle parallels of love and hate,

How they act as partners in crime.

To the devastating follies that transpired in the night.
So hauntingly lovely.
That one may not mind carrying them,
Like sad love letters, clinging to the loneliness of secret places.


It's the type of sadness you don’t really mind noticing.
-


*"I wish I could kiss you all night."
"Maybe you just might."

Let’s dream of a place,
In between spaces of space
In this whimsical hour
Watch how time devour,
Our lyrical tryst
Amidst the winter mist

Sharing dream amid the flowers
for a couple of hours
The dreams in which I'm dying
Or rather just denying
Deluding the petty mind
Of the worldly grind

It’s a beautiful day
So dazed, we just lay
Birds and bees won’t disturb us,
While our thoughts turn incongruous
We’ll forget that we are even real
It’ll all be too surreal.

You open your eyes to say
Out comes only a pray
Slowly the dusk beckons
Breaking your heart it’s gone;
Gasping desires
Dreams on a pyre.

delusions made me believe i was really living on a platform of some kind,





     now i'm one with nature like a leaf in the wind moving from place to place during autumn.

I hear ten… No, eleven.
Eleven different voices everyday.
I try to shut them up,
But it only gets worse.
They shut me up.
Until I can no longer hear my own voice,
Screaming, as I tell my friends about the man I see across the room
Holding a dagger, ******.
Smiling, with teeth stained with the flesh of all the people he hurt before me.

They tell me, "It’s all in your head."
But how can that be
When I feel it piercing through my skin,
Gnawing on my bones,
Eating up my brain?

Eleven.. No, six.
Six voices telling me I’m beautiful
In languages I was never taught.

They tell me to calm down.
"Breathe."
But what they don’t understand
is how I can never tell the difference
Between crazy and sane,
Reality and delusions

You held my hand one night,
And I knew for sure
*I was ******.

Perhaps we have no control
of our destinies
that all our choices
are preconceived
and if we are to
make the wrong
indecisions
they all lead to
similar conclusions
and choice is merely
a delusion