Reflected apparent.
A tilted eye shows long
Stupefied sadness.
And the nose, swollen where it oughtn’t to be
Squats bulbous and surrounded by age.
Coated in a fine craquelure
That won’t be restored any time.
Somehow the working of a smile forces
Furrows deeper.
There is no wisdom in the life you forfeited.
And the pain is reflected in my own record.
My image made weaker in your likeness.

Giving up is easy
excuses are easier
hard is to stay
and make them work is harder

Our archives were
Hardworker
who invested as
Co-worker
and results weren't flying along colours
and so discarded

Appreciation lies in their patience
Compassionate was their love
Beautiful was their compatibility
Love was theirs
and lovers were they

Options were lame
they wanted long answer type questions
luck wasn't in their list
but she was his destiny

All that never goes
that is preserved prestigious
in our small boxes of memories
that we would never allow to flee
these boxes are ours
and our heart soul all inherited
from him......

As we got older, it became clear
that we wouldn’t have the luxuries

of drink without worry,
of sleep without restlessness,

of raising children
without fear for their survival.

It became clear
that we would never garner

the respect of our elders
no matter how dearly we pined for it,

and that the world itself
would smolder

while those responsible
rested comfortably in their graves,

and those of us to whom
our forebears’ sins were bequeathed

would be left to choke on the smoke
and ashes

of a promise to posterity
allowed to burn instead.

What inheritance

do we receive as children? –


Only the future.

I have two full boxes of mail
and a drawer with old stuff
an autumn leaf from 1989
the wings mama put on me
to see what I had to be

and a few scraps of her voice
from the stealthily moments
when I held my breath
to hear the secrets
she discussed downstairs

Again, I smell what I wished for
her love all day long
and she being happy accordingly
but I should have been an angel
to accomplish it

Only these items have remained
moved over and over with me
to a new version of myself
Sometimes I sniff it, read answers
from then and find questions for now

DNA and genetics strummed,
Note by Note,
with memories of how you
Danced them, the chosen ones,
through childhood,
on their own
stages
of grief and joy.
In a cinematic style,
for the soundtrack was intended to heighten the
emotion,
but ended up framing it as well as any photograph.

They are now stuck on the stage
of so-called postmodernism,
despite the dreams being the same as yesteryears.
A free festival of colours:
Psychedelic, Acidic, Neon and
Corporate non-prolific,
NEVERLAND, TAKE US!
they beg.

The courts' reading of this DNA,
will grind chords to cash.
Are you the parent that hits their child
For dancing the steps they themselves had laid out?

I' AM INNOCENT
The thief proclaims.
For notes belong to no one,
or the birds would be plucked feather by feather
and the whales carved in an Eastern market.
A child will copy it's parent.
As do the pub stage hopefuls reach for your hands.