I’m Imagining a place where we make sense - the hot-chocolate
safe-house where we’ll tongue wrestle, watch Gossip Girl reruns
and cuddle - sustained by love and Cinnamon Life cereal.

This dark, coffin-like clock in the corner whirrs, mechanically.
Suddenly a little yellow-clock-bird bursts, jumping-jack-like,
through a tiny door on a blue, tongue-suppressor diving board.

“Cuckoo!” it shrieks, to mock me. “Shut up!” I say defensively
but it repeats, “Cuckoo!” like an oracle - an unfeeling instrument
of adult logic.

Oracle please tell
me, (free of charge) about the
future that will be.

Show me the bright secrets
of love - be a mystic guide
for my bored heart’s relief.

What kisses may be played
on sweet, future nights with no
tentative whispers please.

Help me conquer the
confusing compresence of
desire and unease.

Some may say our future lies
in our stars.
Connect the dots;
and you will get a summary
of your future days.
But these echoes of light
Were hardly there to see it.

Unreachable oracles.
Maybe they laugh at us
when we open up our horoscopes.
Maybe we should watch the
Satellites instead.

Yet despite all this,
I love their stubbornness;
Holding up the dark like pins.
They keep on shining
Even when the party ended
Thousands of light years ago.


They are the lively ones at the bar,
singing and dancing...
Even when the music has stopped
and they're turning off the lights.