No I will not fall in love with you
I will not wake in nights and days thrumming the elastic pulse of your flesh
I will not make crusades to cry in the crux and crucible of your moist longing
I will not stammer at your bedside begging or taking
I will not break your heart
I will not make small prayers in rosary threads of vigil
I will not embarrass your family with the noises of my body
I will not bend, fold, mutilate or spindle the punch card of your soul
I will not lust crushed and broken on the stone beneath your window
I will not hide in shadows to see other men tapping to your doorway
I will not utter cries in ecstasy, fear or isolation
I will not stumble in your dark kitchen
I will not bribe your friends for secret knowledge
I will not watch you sleeping
I will not pander to your whimpering sighs
I will not be cast a drift in your aching moans to find the height and apex of that perfect storm
I will not give you gullible lies or fractured truths
I will not fall floating in the chasm of your eyes
I will not bring you tea

I will regret these things
Regret them forever.

I am a parody, of a parody, of myself.
I packed myself into a little box,
And once I was done with that box,
I packed myself into an even smaller one.
Scared that if anyone were to discover me,
They would turn away in disgust.

But what have I become, for all my sins?
Just a parody, of a parody, of myself.
Living in a box too small to contain me.
With disgust I confess - I am no more.

As a child I always thought
My mother suffered from brain rot.
She told me I was making plots
to eat her up when I was not.
CONCLUSION...
Mirror, mirror on the wall
I ate my mother bones and all.

you are the hottest summer day

it is your tie that makes you sweat in May

They say it is too hot in here

But for me it’s moderate

You said you love William Blake

But that’s too hard for me to understand

And you could sing me a serenade

But you could never love me back.

His brows spread like hawked in Sierra

His eyes streams like river

He glows like sun in Arizona

Sorry for my poor metaphor

What if I could write for you

The sweetest poems you’ve ever read

It won’t make any big difference

Sorry for my sad attempt

Now that you have made up your mind

You tell me that I’m unteachable

And I could recite you William Blake

But you could never love me back

The Strides, The Laugh,
The smile on his face.

Laughter, His Purpose,
A fool on the stage.

To Dance, To Juggle, To please the Crowd.
After Applause, Away with a Bow

There lies a face that few have seen,
A face that hides behind the scene

Behind the Mask, Behind the Smile,
Behind the fancy clothes, Behind the Veil

The Tears he Cry, the Eyes so Sore,
The Heart that Bleeds, The Mouth that Roars

Pulling His Hair, That Orange Wig.
Lies a Man, Broken & Weak.

No Laugh, No Smiles Behind The Stage,
Just Tears, Just Pain. An Empty Embrace.

The Joy He Seeks, End with frowns.
This is the Parody of the Clown