I always feel
where there are many people
love can easily happen
every meeting of eyes
will touch the soul
it makes you tremble
on the day of Valentine's day
the city is ecstatic and
in a kind of turmoil
the bars are full
coffee shops are out of seats
cheesy hotels are out of beds
the night is charged with sensuality
lovers embracing on a street corner
moist lips inhaling cheap love
the draft of it is
bouquets of fake roses
love codes sent out by cell phones
illusory lovers on the network
obsessively typing those exciting words
tapping and clicking and fiddling with
incredible flirtation
love was initially innocent and lovely
but then came the flowers
the chocolates
the money and power
fairy tales and fables
even a wolf can fall for a sheep
love has changed its tone
soul has changed its note
lips have changed colors
before the gold of the player
the voice of some crooner
is floating in the sound store
the same cry is heard
from thousands of hearts
"Baby please come back to me"
every minute and every second
becomes a burning thirst
middle aged lady on the last train
carefully holding her gift
holding with a certain devotion
smile on the corner of her mouth
seems to be telling a story of
romance that has not grown old
yet.

I suspect a cow

in the meadow at night, there --


the black spots that move.

she said
that i manage
to reduce
the nicest moments
into their
most negative
aspects
my eyes wandered
as she spoke
falling upon
an extravagant
burst of
the sun's rays
exploding through
the rolls
of pearly cloud
colouring the sky
with blooming petals
of pinks
and oranges
haloed by yellows
and creams
a sight
to marvel at
perhaps
but without
the imperfection
of that
darkened shroud
this light
would not
be mixed
into such
artistic palettes
and
the magnificence
of the scene
would go
unnoticed

Being objective

is easy, less scary as --


being subjective.

It's raining

cold water hogged the streets

people rain watching

watching the same script

rain washing the frontage

revealing long-lost clarity

dazzling colors of the wall

rise from the ground.

enduring the urban winter

daring the day uncovered
            by way of a chaos of crows
                                  pulling on the weather
   breaking from their perches
crooking their feathered hinges
and 'carring' up the first subtle wash of light
     
they lift and clump to make a short migration
            from the city to...? [shrug]
their flight pattern seems more of a 'wit' or a 'prank'
  than a '******'
the sun machines to complete its horizon
              tugged by the last departing birds

returning in the afternoon
with the full light provided
          and messy winds to charge them
like malicious children from the playground gate
       fed and joy fighting at their hierarchy
              whilst in an unbattened flight
                      back into the city

in summer it will be the gulls