You bought me metal sheets
bent in the shape of a heart.
after days of leaving me in the dark
wondering what I was going to eat

Sweet and bitter lumps I crush
between my hands
I eat my heart tonight
because maybe you’ll love me

You loved me enough to steal me
Under an unconditional facade
I forgave you every time
Hoping you’d hold me when I’m down.

But I will eat my heart gratefully
because you told me to
because that is all I can do
because that is all I am worth.

You can take nothing when it is left.
-Percy

There are buckets made of plastic
There are buckets made of wood
The former are fantastic
The latter not so good.

There are buckets made of metal
And canvas buckets too
But metal for durability
I'd choose if I were you.

There's a bucket on a digger
And buckets made of leather
The former are the bigger
And the latter not so clever.

There are buckets made of tin
And with a little ***** in hand
Kids can build sand castles
When playing on the sand.

There are buckets made of rubber
Or with a wringer for a mop
And some in white enamel
With a blue ring round the top.

There are so many buckets
And some I may have missed
But if anyone should ask me
That's my bucket list.

died of an enlarged heart
rode in on the wings of a Seraphim
to tell you it was actually broken
that it just grew a few too many sizes that day
and honey,
it burst into a quasar
a bouquet of sound like a tin balloon that
explodes inside a tunnel full of quiet winds.
but now here comes the rain
a holy baptism half past a broken heart.
we’ll sew it up together
with a quicksilver spindle of celestial threads.
golden yarn spun from the Oversoul inside my head
the seeds of my holy heart-mind
sewn beneath my lotus feet.
ceramic shards of a broken heart
woven whole again
showing only golden cracks and seams
below the clouds the sun is brighter than it seems.
inside this fire we laugh so loud
the tunnel full of silent raging winds
are giving birth to embers
and steaming into clouds.

hard hearts will expand with a smile
as we float along the wake
of the Prince of Wands -
bathing in the fire.

by jordan

Tin man, on the eve of tin,
your apology rings hollow.

I think that you
were only trying to

crack a window,
find a space to crawl back in,

attempt to
erase me some more.

Meanwhile, the police
are off investigating

crimes that happen in
real time. They like

to catch their perps
red-handed. Even with you

cast in the limelight,
confirming that what you did

to me was real,
it was my own nightmare.

I know, we fall into
that grey area.

In a garden of blooms
you walk freely,

inhaling and dreaming
of touching

those yet untouched
pink and yellow buds.

Gold shines just as brilliantly as silver or bronze
achievements for the greatest of them all
standing on podiums, they show-off their medals.
Well gold, silver, and bronze shine
just as much as tin or iron
even the cheapest of plastics can be made to reflect light.
Will your champion know what is really gold
or will they be distracted by how it glitters?
No, not all winners are fools.
But the best of them all can determine
the metal of their medals.

Stream of consciousness
traveling down tin cans and a string
going on about Romulus
and ramblings, vibrating in between
half a world away
keeping each other awake
thanks again
for the company

symbol of contemporary life
packaged, preserved,
instructions on the side.

simplicity of modern day,
pop stamped symmetrical;
hunter gatherer.

collect them into rows
italian chopped tomatoes
best before date, barcode.

tin can still bites,
like bramble thorns,
to repel against harvest.

boxed up comfortable living
adding edge to expectancy
countering convenience.

a tin sky
my love
dances
around
a garden

my eyes
roll
into
my skull