The terrible thing about poets is we're all sadistic masochists.
We all want to read about heartache, and we all want to write about the demons that haunt us in our worst hours.
We never talk about our happiness, our productive days and nights where we slept enough.
We drown in each other's depression so nicely, a swimming pool of lonely writers, ink pooling around us each because we always carry pens in our pockets.
No one wants to know how happy we are. How our boring mundane human life of doing dishes and vacuuming the carpet went.
We all want to stick the knives in a little deeper, to draw out a little more of each other's blood. Because honestly, our poetry has always been written in blood, sweat, and tears.
That's the thing about poets. We'd rather be miserable and have something to write about than be happy and have nothing to write about.

How could I ever understand
what it is you choose
to call existence
and how could I ever
tell you what it means to me?

A solitary dot stained
on the canvas
of the expanding universe,
I sense a primal shiver
whenever, 'stranger'
cries out from a page
or whispers in the aether.

*February, 2008

"Loads of guys talk to Rhi"
On a day such statements and possible insinuations don't **** me off
they actually entertain me.

What do people think of me?
What do they really see?
Used to be a source of teenage paranoia
Now I'm more intrigued

It's 6 am,
After party at Mag's house!
Everyone's sleepy
Sun's coming up
Smokers coming in and out from the balcony
Sliding doors
Dawn chorus
Sat in the darkest corner
On a wicker chair
Tryin to go unseen
Feelin I look a state
Makeup has started to fade
No longer hiding me
No one in this room
Would know though
About that insecurity
Had me Avoidin mirrors
When out since the age of 15
That's a long time to not be
able to face yourself

But now this young guys facing me
I've sparked an interest you see
Half cut Johny who I shared the car journey
Back with has been spreading the word
That I do carpentry
And he's intrigued
So he's crouched down beside me
Eyes wide open,
Probing me, testing my knowledge
Rollin off his story of going off the rails
And joining the army
But how carpentry gives him some peace
I smile, I listen, I speak
Shake his hand
As he introduces himself as Steve
Asks if he's steppin on anyone's toes
Cause he believes the Dj
That's followed us back
For the after party
Is my boyfriend
Cause we were talkin
And he was stood next to me
I laugh at how fast
Assumptions are made
In the dark
It's kinda funny
He feels awkward now
Says it's nice to meet me
Leaves
Sigh of relief

Why do loads of guys talk to Rhi?
The banter most probably

Hear Dj taking the Micky
(Turns out to be his name ironically)
As he walks back in
Tryin to set up his sound system
Steve says get some Scart leads
We're cracking up
I say something off the cuff, witty
He Spuds me
I'm a "bro" after all right

What do you do?
I dance
But you was stood behind me all night!
Ha! No, just for a bit,
I was watching what you was doin
He starts telling me about beats per minute
I ask him bout the Djing
How I'm interested in doin it
We Banter about how he'd teach me
How I'd be his prodigy
I think he means it

Says we got him in trouble with the club
For changing up his set
Cause we were goin in
We were feelin it
Asks me to guess where he's from
I say You look mixed race
But I bet your Cypriot
Says he's Half Turk, half Greek
That's why things didn't work out
between Mummy and Daddy
Chuckles softly

He's a Barber during the week
Cut Rita Oras hair the other day
Shows me the tweet
He's likable, pretty sweet
Says he's glad I'm there
Cause he doesn't know anyone here
And he'd have no one to talk to
A shy dj
Looks like Drake
Kind of a giveaway
His Nose is running
I say
what have you been sniffing
Grinning teeth
Smiles and shakes his head
How can you say that
To Someone you've just met?!
You're cheeky!
Asks if I smoke or do drugs
When I reply no
He jokingly asks to marry me
I say where's the ring?
He gets out his keys
Puts it on my finger we laugh
Who knew getting a wife
would be that easy?
Calm down sunshine!
my games more stealthy

But I reiterate
"loads of guys talk to Rhi"

What do they mean?
I'm a guys girl
Always have always will be
If this night has confirmed anything
It's that
Certain females just don't warm to me
Give them a compliment
They're ******* me
Make a joke
They're ******* me
Dance by one
Accidentally knock her phone
Out her hand she sits down immediately
Face of thunder
I Say sorry,
Skulk off awkwardly
Beat myself up about it momentarily
Then get annoyed and think **** it
Head back to where I'm meant to be
Just the dance floor and me
Where I get smiles and laughs and looks
I can't quite decipher
"White gyal skanker!"
Mutter out apologies as I stand on
Some guys toes
Tells me no worries I'm a dancer

Hell I'm a flirt too!
I speak to guys cause
it's what I know how to do
It's easy conversation
It's fun
But I know that when this nights over
it's all said and done
No need to mention
I have no true intention
Of speaking to or seeing these people again
Maybe I should
Maybe that's how I'll make connections
But for now I'm tired but it's a good tired
I feel at peace
There's something wonderfully dreamy
About the after party
People slowly waking up from the make believe of the night
As they're fighting off sleep
DJ Micky making his way out the door
Shoutin back
Make sure you message me!

I won't

For now It's time to head home
I take my leave
As I exit
Wave bye to Steve

Thinkin Why is it guys talk to me?

For the same reasons anyone would really
I listen
I guess maybe I put them at ease

When will you realise that its time to stop?
To stop loving,
To stop caring,
To stop chasing.

Its actually a question that you cant answer.
A story that has no ending.
A belief that has no basis.
A joke that has no sense.

You feel the need to stop but you wont,
Because it makes you feel the love,
It makes you feel the warmth,
It makes you feel the joy.

It is a never ending chase of stopping and going ahead.
It is an unreasonable excuse to stop pushing and pulling back.
It is a joke that you put on yourself,
Yet somehow, sometime, somewhere, you need to stop

To stop the pain,
The questions,
The doubts,
Even the love and joy.

After all, every joke has a punchline...
Right?

Seeking the words with which to convey
all of things that I've wanted to say
high on a mountain or out on the beach
wrestling as they remain just out of reach

I can hear the nurses over the din
That is my blood in my ears,
Coursing through these veins as if on fire.

I can hear them say "He's struck dumb,
Poor man, gave the boys all he had,
All that's left, of course, is a wordless bag of bones,
And broken heart".

I can hear them frivolously care for the others I cannot see,
Whose names, are to me, little anchors that weigh me
To reality, like a nail in the ground holds a kite down
To keep it from breaking free.

I am silent, struck dumb

Why can't the thoughts that swirl in my mind like mist
Materialize into words and sentences so that a living eye can read them,
So that a living ear can hear them, as they flow from my mouth
In little indeterminate streams,
That can remind me that the world exists beyond what I have seen.

☺☻☺☻

When painters who paint about painting
meet writers who write about writing,
self-conscious redundancy
bordering lunacy
ends in esthetic in-fighting.

These modernists, right about nothing
(mostly nihilists mad about something)
are so lost in the process
they vent all their excess
in metacognition: dull writing.

You poets who muse about musing –
unaware you are reader-abusing,
provide a terrific
verbose soporific,
yet not of the hearer’s own choosing…

I long for some righteous verbosity –
but I’m stifled by all the pomposity.
This dull erudition,
“sub-metacognition”,
is but an artistic atrocity.

You thinkers who think about thinking
drag my spirit far lower than sinking.
What we want is a Word
which we haven’t yet heard –
so till then I’ll just drink about drinking.

Let it be known~
        Beyond the mere musings of tool bearing monkeys
               Lies an ineffable essence which deflects archaic labeling.
                      
This is the direct experience of non-discriminatory equalization
        Of conceived notions.
               All which may be considered good and true
                       Vaporizes in the blinding eye of this clarity.

Language is the battleground of ignorance and illiteracy
        Of what begs not be named~

we live in the morning between smoking rooms
hanging underneath blankets
 soaked in glue

   we always climb that ladder           
       towards a higher value
     or maybe a better purpose

     sometimes we will laugh along
      and break down in the same week                    
        flashing everyone cracks hiding
           in private places

we've told you before
i'll say it again                  
the
  sun
    will
      not
      guide
         you.