I guess it is a relief to see you
Again, my old friend. Cloaked, your head of blue,
You wander among the graves like fireflies,
Absolute darkness, jittering night skies.  
It never seems to fail to startle my
Child-like sensation of life passing by.
Orderly rows, rigid cartridge paper,
Ink and tax reports, functions to cater.
Misanthropic, naïve, idealistic
Degenerative and narcissistic,
Paranoid, poisonous, parasitic
Fear giver. Fear receiver. Entropic
Skeleton, dancing in caustic acid,
Looking on. A quiet, forlorn Aphid.

delicate folds into endless
creases, the wrinkles
in mother's hands. asking for
more, taking
& creating new faces
when you think the last of you is gone.

& though the world may
    tuck away your
    flaws &
    pleat you into
    origami stars,
take to the earth,
uproot the trees.

stand tall as your last in-
carnation,
become the called bluff
& bloom in the space
between   sky
                   &
              ground.

                     before you hit the earth,
                     become the bird that you
                     are & perch on
                     opportunity.

I cup a paper likeness in my hand
A flower, you say, but it's dusted
In prussian blue that stings my eyes
The colour of the end of movies, twilight
Mirrored in the smoky Thames

How can it be a flower? It doesn't breathe
I call it an onion

It spreads its biting petals out in agreement
A reminder of what it is to cry
Halfway through a song even though
I've only just finished laughing
Alcohol will do that

You name it "flower"
After your mother's smile, perhaps,
Or the gentle drift of lightning
In a summer storm, but to me
It is only a vegetable, round, familiar,
Painful with nostalgia, not saccharine
With some aesthetic pinterest sentiment

I grab a stranger's cigarette ****
Litter the paper creation with ashes, watch
The silky tissue wither
Like blind marble turning grey with age

This is what I think of your flower

How can you be happy, hang it on your wall
It's so thin, so bitter and dead
Where is the romance? Confusion rises with the fire
How can you be happy when this is fake

The warmth ****** my fingertips
I stamp it out just in time on the street
Look, the paper
It's crumpled
This is what I think of your flower
This is what I think of your happiness.

will you do me a favor,
a crease and a fold.
turn me into roses and hearts
for the dear one you hold.
turn me into a thousand cranes
and your wishes are sold.
turn me into envelopes
for the letters in the drawer gone cold.
turn me sideways, over and upside down.
turn me into something i can never become.

sometimes i think of paper
and i ask it a favor
show me what to do
i don't have a clue
a simple piece of paper
more reflective than a mirror
they ask me how i cope
i just show them my notes
paper is my mind
floating over time
jumping between rhymes
sometimes i'd lie
and say that i'm fine
but never to paper
it never says later
always in the now
that's what it's about

When it's fire writing the story,
Papers are ought to get burnt.