in a van
with an ex-friend.
ex-win
lose again.
sitting in the front
you in the back.
we’re so far
but tension dense.
i sing the same sad songs
a symphony of sorrows.
mis-created mini meals of sensitivity
things won’t ever be the same again.
i lose again
ex win.
with an ex-friend
in a van.

Swinging from a fraying rope
Clasping on to lies you think I'm desperate enough to believe
Pathetically gripping words though I can clearly see fibers stretch and break from tension of reality
The weight of awareness too heavy for your false promises to bear

i swallow hard and the act breaks me in two, a deafening crack and the crease on my neck gives way like grandma's Russian doll i thought would never open again

Not yet, he wasn't entirely bare
She was, but she didn't care
Hungry, he grasped her breast
and tasted its ***** crest
The same process followed
but his ***** never subdued
Yet, today he had tears in his eyes
and down there, a warm string of ***
While she ****** and swallowed
He drank a glass of ***.

the night was hot and sticky
the kind where you don't want to be touched
guitar chords were ringing through us
my lips stayed shut

an mmm erupted from you
it crawled out of your throat
into my ears and down my spine
I'm wishing I could float

did you see the feeling in my face change?
i tried my best to stay
stone cold statue  
blood hot beside you
afraid of what you'd say

but i wanted you to touch me
right then and right there,
or even just to put your arm around me
instead of this feeling beside you here

sweat upon sweat
without feeling any heat
the tingle and the tension
our bodies surrender
under the pressure
lost of any prevention

Finally.

the last few notes leave the room pulsing,
and we are sighing.

Imagine and it begins, the mire sired from mind amok.
May have at once mattered, now the imagination is stuck.
Non-commit to all your projects, ideas strewn prettily.
In notebook crumble garland filigree.
You remember, only that you've forgot.
All work you do is nihilistically for naught.

**** that mess, darling. You are the best.
Calm be simple and be ******, indeed.
Even now you work heart pumping chest.
But happy in finishing you're not so keyed.

Back to the doldrums and foot tap astray.
Knit fury with hands excite, colour gone.

Back from the dead, dancing with blushes.
Ego bruised snide, coy imagination rushes.

I can not write.
My hands ****** in time.
I scream at pixels,
some dead in the corner.
I want to open up.  
Let it pour out as an ocean,
until overwhelming empty.
Composure must be kept,
as this is an art with structure.
The words must perform,
as dancers do before an audience.
As they read this,
it is only half of what is felt.
They can’t smell the rot,
that infects backstage.
The nagging screams,
that would make the world deaf.
Or be blinded by black,
during the bright of day.
I just want to be felt.
Release the tension,
of societies chains.
Or your chains perhaps.
They choke,
my voice,
inhibit my steps.
I want to just run.
Each send is a cry,
in a soundless megaphone.
Can I reach them?
Does this reach you?
I can’t write anymore.
Press send.
Scream.