We may give them all of us,
                          but they are cheap,
                             ******* around like were
worth 5 cents and not the diamond that we gave them.

But they end up broke,
                                broke up,
                 broke as there on the street.

Clothes on the pavement.
And we were richer without them, no ******* around,
                          begging like were paupers.

But were prosperous without them,
                            there begging on the street.
The only thing they get is middle fingers,
             and your trash your love isn't even worth


the 2 cents to recycle...

i beg my lungs not to let go
as they hold in the million scents that make up
you

i wish your smell was like muscle memory
always coming back to the tips of my fingers

like those songs i still know how to play on the violin

The pendulum is a bull shark.
The hour of the savior is a pregnant bride's swan dive into the water.
The mighty mile is a figure 8 in the scoot of
non slop socks across the bare linoleum.
Blood and bright are the redness of the blanket.
divine terror at one hart beat per hour.
Finger nails green and black against a back drop
of the brightest, bluest eyes you've ever seen;
deep pools of liquid light that will shine when least expected.
And the obligation isn't one at all,
for when i breath in,
you breath out.
And when I gave consent 1000 years ago times 10-
you performed the exorcism under the shroud of my amnesia
and the spotted light from a crystal disco ball.
Shards of light moved upon the face of all the space between the stars.
My heart was in the highlands but now its in your hands.

poetry is stupid
oh so dumb
I like to finger cats with my thumb
once i did it after  I played my drums

pleas do call me Shane
I just like to finger its plane
I was all consensual
I also did it with a pencil

but the court date is soon
I not  really over the moon
Caron  I'm pleading let  me see my son
I  only finger my cat with my thumb

I have not seen him in years
but  yet I am not in tears
because  I have  my cat
and I wish I could see my son Matt

Like a switchblade my ******* flashed out
Angry, self righteous, without any doubt.

A weapon or protest stabs innocent air,
skewering injustice and all things unfair.

Well oiled and oft used it stands at the ready,
Resolute, on point and ever so steady.

It leaps forth with such speed I could swear the air sang
with defiant rebellion and an audible twang.

It appears on the seen without much provocation,
except for my own insecure invocation.

Ah those were the days with scalpel like ease
and Errol Flynn skill I’d carve all that I please.

A happily buoyant juvenile revolution,
which had much to do with my evolution.

But now quiet and still in its scabbard it sits.
Tired, wrinkled and dull like my wits

Slightly arthritic and just a tad slower,
My weapon of choice now a disdainful glower.

Are there simply less things that annoy me enough
to expose prodigious digit with a great huff?

Do things matter less with the passing of time?
My insurgent uprisings reduced to sad rhyme.

Has peace come at last to this humble shell?
Tranquility now no more raising of hell?

My memories defiant and still fresh, they do linger.
But now it’s unlikely that I’d lift a finger.

© Copyright 2017 Robert C. Leung

You are the cover of my favorite book.
& when you open up I am at peace
There isn't a spot of you that I won't
Explore.
From your open arms to your open legs.
We are spontaneous.
In the places we travel.
My fingers but a mark to hold the page.
From my eyes to my hands
I always have time for you.
We are spontaneous
No matter where we are.
No matter who is around
From your open arms to your open legs.
You are the cover of my favorite book.
Your spine stretched against my hands

Hey little fiddle
I drink too much
You smoke too little

I met your mom
And your dad
Your little sister is EMOtional
Groundhogs day sad

I talk without reason
Left a bad man
For his treason

Let go of obscurity
To find the one thing I gotta be

Me

So hey little fiddle
Your moods swing from
Happy
Sad
Mad
American Rag-Tag
Glad

So play your notes
Take your tallies
I'll count votes

Hey little fiddle
Check out this finger
For you, right here
In the middle

The Moving Finger writes;
and, having writ
Moves on:
nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to
cancel half a line
Nor all thy tears
wash out a word of it.