These nights have a beautiful tune about them,
Soft, chaotic, random... sometimes even with an abandoned note.
Disturbed...
Off keys are important, someone tells me now;
They break away from the pattern,
Which is a good thing, apparently.
Like the dead flower on my otherwise organised headboard,
Empty, disintegrated;
Or the worm lizard on my white plastered walls,
Cold blooded, throbbing and to be honest, quite ******.
Like the bristles I have under my feet,
That don't really show, but hurt as I walk...
I cherish them all secretly.
They kind of make me feel better, elemental.
In touch with reality...
What's wrong in a little more death and decay than is 'usual'!
I know you must be disgusted when the fecund dog litters in your garage.
And you wince at the sight of naked, destitute street children,
As they knock at your rolled up cold window.
They break your pattern of the usual goodness...
You know, the taste of your Turkish coffee,
The love song in your Burkin purse!
They seem like a madness,
And you want to take a shower.
Fist clenched, listening to the water  wash the floor,
Its symphony making you quieter.

And sleep comes finally to me;
As I wonder who I will be tomorrow

Natalie!
at present I am present on a small isle,
which is so green genteel
to the eyes and the ayes,
you might include it
among yet unmastered possibilities,
living here forever.

indeed, the crescent beach so welcoming that
francais et l'anglais des anglaise is spoken here,
but actuality
has a way of intruding,
like
Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Bleu,
saying I know you,
even if it doesn’t

this breeze bearing load suggests your name
as a candidate for future, honours, an MBE,
a practiced curtsy for a queen,
whatever is he babbling about?

why I am presenting an outline for a screenplay that
will make you a little rich and somewhat fameuse
so you buy a house on the water,
party all night,
write in the miracle wonder of the late afternoon
on a summery isle,
modestly hungover

say!

where is this isle so sheltered,
where nooks are set aside for poets and drunks
to pub crawl, to stand on tables and Irish sing of
those things that poets endlessly babble?

so add :

come here and let us listen to all your possibilities
and cross just this one,
your presence here,
off the list

Not every spark ignites a fire
sometimes that fire is put out by tears