Lovers come and lovers go
I am dissatisfied with my toes;
I ponder too often about the unknown,
and spend little time on my own.

My Fridays are scheduled,
My Thursdays, too
I wonder when I'll have time for you
This weekend or next?
I do not know,
Some coffee, some tea? A midnight show?

My bed groans as I settle in,
A single sardine in a lonesome tin.
I read of romances, dramas, and more -
Sometimes, I feel my life is a bore.

I dream of adventures across the world
With someone special to hold;
When nights become chilly and the news become old,
I don't want to be alone in the cold.

There exists a place
you barely remember
where all the children go

A land of sweets,
imagination
sculpted landscape of words

And every child
spends hours there
thinking of things never thought before

But as we grow
inevitably
children forget the candy-powder path

And that wondrous land
is lost in the bittersweet
tide of time, pain

But some adults,
as they blunder though
find their way back to that land

They sink in the candy
cloud meadows, and giggle
at the sugar-spun dragonflies

But some children
as they grow
refuse to leave the peppermint forest

And others see them
thinking, “How strange,
the air around them is sweet.”

I wander there
floating on
lady fingers across coffee seas


And someday I know
you’ll wander back
stumble into the gumdrop farm

I’ll spy you with
my sugar-spy glass
and turn black-licorice sails to shore

And we’ll chase twizzler deer
and marzi-foxes, and
play like we used to

Until that day,
I’ll plan adventures in spearmint fields
until the day you

Remember Me.

I just got a letter from my old Uncle Bert
and I'd like to share its tragic contents
with you here today;
but I'll edit out the ***** bits
just in case you are shocked
that an old man could still
have thoughts along those lines
or so as you don't throw up on your cornflakes
when you read them over breakfast.

"Dear Edna (he wrote to me)
It's not all that bad in the twilight nursing home
if you can bear the stale smells and moanings
of the other ****** inhabitants
and their bad breath fumes
plus the mashed food which all is pulped up
into something not unadjacent to catfood
for the sake of the toothless ones
who **** it up via a plastic tube
provided for that purpose.

"At least I take a bath once a fortnight
even though I don't like sharing it
with that Pakistani fellow Mr Ali
who always reeks of curry
and lets off stinky air from his back end
in our bath causing brownish bubbles
with a touch of follow-through vengeance.

"That reminds me of what happened
only last week when the ministry
sent some ****** health inspector round
who might have been a homosexualist
from his mincing walk I thought
and he came into our ward
you could see his beaky nose wrinkle
in distaste which was tactless we thought.

"He asked what the toiletty smell was
not knowing it's what we have to put up with day in day out
(and I know say you can't really afford
to pay extra for a clean private room for me
and not many of the others families bother either
its not as though they're the ones who suffer is it,
so let me suffer here after all I'm only your uncle
and you aren't in my last will and testament
as I never liked your mother much
fat stuck-up ***** from what I remember).

"The male nurse on duty that day
(he's the one we call Old *******
because he's so ******* bossy
and full of his ******* self)
asked all of us who had let the side down
and wet himself (or herself, it's a mixed ward
which I dont approve of as I don't want
to see anything disgusting anymore).

"Well no one owned up so Old *******
went round sniffing at everyone's rears
until he came to Mrs Jones squatting in the corner
and the he said why the **** hadn't she owned up
that she had done one in her pants today
and Mrs Jones said it had happened yesterday
or it may even have been the day before that
she couldn't really remember.

"You know, Edna, I still love miss my dear Linda
I even wish she was here
in this hellhole of a place
waiting for death's release
and not mouldering in her grave
but at least she avoids the squidgy mashed up food
which goes in one end and out the other
barely stopping for a rest halfway down."

You know, I couldn't stop laughing
for a full five minutes after I read this
as I knew, just knew, the old *******
had cut me out of his will -
well, let him rot is what I say
and that ******* about objecting
to sharing a bath with Mr Ali:
Bert's problem has always been
that he's allergic to soap and water
how well I remember the miasma
following him around his old house
before we had the **** certified.

Most of the time you say
silly, fun, loveable things
in a sing-song voice
meant to convey whimsy.
But sometimes,
when we're just lying there
under the covers
or riding along in your car,
you get more serious.
You'll speak words that carry
heavier meanings,
and your voice deepens
so that I know I'm hearing
things meant only for me.
In those moments,
****, I can't break my gaze
away from your eyes.
You capture my full attention
with that special tone,
your own secret
communication straight
through to my heart.

Reading
Is like floating
On a
Word cloud.

Words wrap
Around you,
Like an angel's
Hug.

It can be
Thick,
With words that
Confuse you.

Or.

Your cloud
Can be
Thin,
With words that
You comprehend
Easily.

A book
Is a word
Cloud.

And I am
Floating.

the cool wind in my hair
as you and I glide across
the cement jungle.

You make my life tolerable
in this crazy urban landscape,
my trusty metal steed that
helps me duck and weave in
stand still traffic of the Nation's capital.

nothing like flying through the city on you, my bicycle,
on this beautiful spring day.  I know you can't speak,
but if you could, you would also say "wheeeeee" with glee.