#1
I laughed with shadows wearing your face,
shared my secrets in what felt like safe space.
Your voice was warm, your hand felt true,
but the light in you was never for me and you.
You clapped when I fell, called it a joke,
vanished when my world went up in smoke.
Sweet words like sugar, melting in rain,
gone the moment I spoke of my pain.
I kept the door open, polished the floor,
invited you in for more and more.
But friendship needs weight, not just a grin,
and yours was a mask I let walk in.
Now I walk alone, and it feels okay,
better the silence than the betrayal each day.
For a fake friend’s love is a winter sun—
bright on the skin, but it warms no one.
If you want, I can write a shorter, punchier version you could use as a caption too.
May 22
May 22, 2026 at 10:19 AM UTC
hey!
you
there
in the dark
come into the light
i cannot see you
is that you
baring your teeth at me
or are you grinning
at my
unknowingness
that's it
don't be shy
it's just the glare
cascading off the reflection
of the wading pool
shining back
at you
at me
at us
together
in this
darkness
but
if we come into the light
we can dance
ripple the water
& change the tide
until it
no longer knows
where you begin
& i end
May 19
May 19, 2026 at 11:57 AM UTC
Mask yourself though you don't no your face, hide yourself though your unsure why, fear of being seen, fear of being open, fear of my face being out in the light, no protection for my skin, my cracks appear overnight.
May 18
May 18, 2026 at 6:09 PM UTC
Heart racing,
breathless-
slick, the salt-sweet of us.
Hastily dressed
and feeling delicious.
Your fingers slipping
in, hard perfect rhythm-
Quick circles pressed
to the heel of your
hand. Whispered good-bye
forgotten, unheard-
Licked clean of
intent between
you and I.
Jul 28, 2020
Jul 28, 2020 at 1:42 PM UTC
I wasn't broken. I was carefully unwoven, in a middle-class family home with beige carpet and central heating. He didn't ask. He was gentle. Kept me clean and didn’t let me touch. He said I was beautiful. He said I was trouble. The muffled sounds that came from his room after, convinced me.
I was healed in the greyed-fabric passenger seat of an old car; and against a rough, wet red-brick-wall in a pub carpark. He was beautiful. He paused to ask if I was sure. He said I was ******* amazing. With my thighs still slippy and him keeping-on looking over and grinning, I believed it.
Apr 23
Apr 23, 2026 at 4:59 AM UTC
I jumped on a train - away.
Sat at the bar. Started with Pepsi and ice, moved on to white wine and no one checked my age so I ordered a Malibu.
Watched him -
the muscles in his forearms. Wiry, solid.
A wolf’s grin,
and I had wounds needed licking - so that worked for me.
No clue that watching a guy spark up would turn me on but, leant against the alley wall, breathing deep the beachy air laced with cigarette smoke - I fell in on myself.
We were both beautiful,
both delicious.
After, when there was blood on the passenger seat of his car - he apologised
because,
had he known, he said, it would’ve been special.
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 10:18 AM UTC
I watch you spark up. A small frown grows deep, then disappears when you inhale. Whole moments pass, and you hold that new smoke in your lungs. You are shuttered, you are gone. I like that you return to me first. Even before your eyes are fully open you find me; warm and backlit through lids, a ghost through dark lashes.
You reach for me, run a finger under my vest strap. I like that you switch the cigarette to your left hand and don’t seem to notice. The ember-glow dances and sways. Smoke spills up in a silver ribbon when you exhale.
Feb 28, 2021
Feb 28, 2021 at 3:01 PM UTC
I’m in filthy jeans and vest, muddy boots tucked under a bar stool. I'm sun-sore across my shoulders and neck, with dirt-dust clung to me, all over. My hair’s graded real short because men like it long, and I’m so done with them. I wonder briefly, through this haze of hormones and bo-ze, if maybe there's a woman for me. I’ve stayed too late. Workwear’s gone home, showered, got changed. I’m alone. I’m the wrecked remains of Monday-through-Friday in this sparkling sea. I ache. I really ache. I should leave, but he buys me one more drink and I stay.
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 3:38 PM UTC
We talk, and the cigarette burns in small moments of waiting. You move your finger from my vest strap to my collarbone. My breath catches, slides into a warm pool of want. I slip my own finger in circles at its edge, and you take a step closer.
Mar 1, 2021
Mar 1, 2021 at 4:19 PM UTC
Lips and fingers, shuttered glance -
click, quick lick extinguished.
(I’m sure it’s wrong to view this as impending beauty)
He turns - avoids tide-salt breeze made
fast by alleyway and dark.
Again - click, quick lick. Hand’s a shield,
spark’s hidden, can still feel it.
(Behind closed-door words fly; heard and unheard)
We're here, lost and found inside his ritual.
Feb 27, 2021
Feb 27, 2021 at 6:13 AM UTC
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Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 6:32 AM UTC
Sometimes
I wonder
Why
Such frenzied activity
But mostly
Even that's
(sigh . . )
. . . quite enough of that
Often
I see them
Running
As if . . (what a tasty leaf)
. . juste comme
il faut
another
et puis dodo)*
(* fr. sleep time)
Fingers
Bed me down
Hang
Hairy bag of flesh in air
My fur
Grows damp mods
Home
And food , for flighty moths
Jungle
Grows through me
Tree
Sky cannot fall, Earth not fly
Warm rain
Cooling wind
Sun
Greening leaves, opening eyes
Another
Nicely slow
Day
Wake up fingers , time to move.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 9:50 AM UTC
Sometimes
I wonder
Why
Such frenzied activity
But mostly
Even that's
(sigh . . )
. . . quite enough of that
Often
I see them
Running
As if . . (what a tasty leaf)
. . juste comme
il faut
another
et puis dodo)*
(* fr. sleep time)
Fingers
Bed me down
Hang
Hairy bag of flesh in air
My fur
Grows damp mods
Home
And food , for flighty moths
Jungle
Grows through me
Tree
Sky cannot fall, Earth not fly
Warm rain
Cooling wind
Sun
Greening leaves, opening eyes
Another
Nicely slow
Day
Wake up fingers , time to move.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 9:50 AM UTC
It’s been 5 years since I last checked in
Do you ever feel tired?
It’s been 5 years since I truly cried, do you ever feel overwhelmed?
I’ve always been in the shadow, building walls
Not just for myself, but for everyone.
I never truly understood what emotions were
I cry and I laugh, I sighed and I smiled
just as the actor on stage did.
I watch everything in my life happen just like I watched the red one.
Never in control, never truly owning it.
When I try, I always back away from the silent wars he carries.
Some battles are fought by sword and some by tinted wine
I often ponder how it all came to this.
I guessed I would never know, I never was in control.
Jan 8
Jan 8, 2026 at 5:14 PM UTC
My Wife is Black
And I love her
But
Im Racist
Black People Rob Me...
My Family Member is Gay
And I love them
But
God is homophobic...
Homos can't reproduce
Women Have Rights
And I protect them
But
Women cook clean an **** ****
Yet why? They Get Half?
If a woman ***** she can't stay in my crib
Its unholy and goes for all...
If a *** hit on me
Ill k.o. them...
I have no friends **** all colors
***** **** in the shower...
**** Jail
Lazy **** *****
Hairy bush...
Shave...
Some poo ******* L
Squeezing cheeks...
I love everyone..
But
I hate everyone
And everyone hates me equally...
Don't lie
You hate everyone too!!!
I cured my disease did you?
Im proper nice an neat
Caring and loving here for you
Youre A-Born-2-B-Hater
....
Aug 4, 2025
Aug 4, 2025 at 12:02 AM UTC
But I am here, wrestling with this dredging operation, digging up
tons of sand that require dumping, and I ask, inquire, beg:
Who will take this detritus off my hands, once more, now uncovered,
now recovered, the soil is already soaked and can absorb no more,
the soul is already soaked and can absorb no more, the weakened
heart, damaged and occluded, suffer cannot bear twice the
outrageous misfortune
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 3:01 AM UTC
She is a ten
The boys stare and want
I am a one
The boys pass me by
She is a ten
She is popular, loved
I am a one
I am like wallpaper
She is a ten
She doesn’t have a care in the world
I am a one
My brain clogs with too many thoughts
She is a ten
She is perfect
She is happy
Or is she?
Jun 9, 2025
Jun 9, 2025 at 4:52 PM UTC
The devil is sitting at a table
make sure to provide top service,
and if you are somehow able,
hide that his aggression makes you nervous.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
it might be time for us Canucks to pull a 1814.
How can someone do absolutely nothing right?
and think what will be a nightmare will help revive an American dream?
The devil is sitting at the desk,
and he’s got yes men to shine and kiss his shoes.
It was finally time for him to fail a test
but his misguided cultists refused to let him lose.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
even if the occupant is known to be orange.
He’s shutting the gates just too tight,
rushing Capitol instead of tearing his door hinge.
The devil is sitting at a table
he’s got the finest cutlery set,
and the legs of it aren’t stable
with each wobble he places his next bet.
When the White House is just a smidge too white,
I think it needs to be stripped and gain a new coat.
Why is a symbol of oppression dressed up so bright,
when it’s walls protect one and strangle every other throat?
He “did everything right” and they indicted him;
and now we fight eachother when we should be fighting him.
These people have forgot how the world turns,
infact they believe it’s stationery and around them.
So they anticipate heat when they make the world burn,
and await a rose after they rooted and snapped each stem.
Isn’t it absolutely insane
how the free can unknowingly live in a prison?
Didn’t anyone tell you even a Hurricane
can’t cleanse American Capitalism?
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 11:07 AM UTC
when a peace of mind overtakes
——————————————-
it’s a bit of a shock, a sneaky surprise,
not unlike the first, no second day of
summer morning sunrise warming
caffeinated heating lungs surprising,
though the sun, it ups from behind,
as I gaze over our even tempered waters,
it always succeeds in taking me unsuspecting with its matching wide grinning if “you pale human, oh ah ha, We gotcha!”
yeah. the water is morning sleepy,
no energy to slap waves needlessly,
so the quiet is felt, even better than
unheard
course, the birds flit back n’ forth,
like madmen and their madder wives,
annoyed for letting the kids oversleep,
and not doing their morning calisthenics,
but it is barely a tremor on the silent
Richter Scale of my mind’s shock and
awe, at the unexpected stun-sun-gun shot
bringing me to being so shockingly
at peace
I dream of this summer’s day imaginary breastwork plating, for it’s January and
the year ahead looms ominous, worries
of Wrack Wreck & Wruin, are the mourning
news, the ancient guilts of the unforgiving,
will come soon enough, god, I hope the phone
don’t ring, it only and always means
troubles bubbling up, consternation
and concerns, troubles, a trip back to
the city, where the mail piles up
unread, unanswered and the few checks
that do come, go uncashed
nothing here that’s wild, nor crazy,
but promised myself I’ll do better
to avoid my self-inflicted
Wrack Wreck & Wruin
WNCP
Feb 1, 2025
Feb 1, 2025 at 6:34 AM UTC
this accidental status, we are all very busy
to be on the lookout for, the odds are not
terrible compared to the lottery, a modest
1 in 300 million, but it’s an easy buy and bust, just a two dollar bill, two lousy singles,
for a legal purchased fantasy that’s
cheaper than a cup of coffee
but finding love is miserable murderous
murmuring mess, can be very expensive, and
exhausting too, physically and mentally,you’re swimming in shallow waters tween razor rocky coral, begging for a slice of your double sized portion of anguish
And yet,
can’t be that hard,
it is a mega billion busyness,
with no cure or satisfactory vaccine,
and the randomness can drive you
mad, make panting to-pack it in,
until your spidey sensnses tingling,
a ketchup and bitter herbs mixture,
and you’re sweating, and it’s 100% anticipation of the well known (!)
unknown risks, this easy
walkway~path in the woods,
leads you on, with marvelous views,
even babbling brooks, till you find
you’ve climbed halfway way up a mountain and to make it to the top,
it’s a rocky boulder strewn,
ankle and heart twisting road that
takes you to the grandest place and plan
oh but, boy,
where the view of the worldscape is only
fantastico, but the only way back down involves throwing yourself into a
quarry pit, full of dangerous chemicals,
that burn scars into your inside parts, invisible wounds so untreatedbly unspeakably bad and incurable
again and again,
and you say stupid things like
I can’t help myself,
what’s a matter daddy,
just want some sugar in my bowl,
and when your neck gets broke,
and it’ll take incredible processing
to just get you to walk again,
and yet
the single
odiferous scent, that amuse bouche on
your lips, and you’ll do it all again for
once monte carlo throw of the dice,
because the odds ain’t that bad,
everbody lives somebody
and given the billions of opportunities walking in just this planet,
even one in a million sounds
pretty good,
even,
very…fair
Nov 2, 2024
Nov 2, 2024 at 1:05 PM UTC
“***What does baking require of us?
It requires patience, thoughtfulness, an eye to your surroundings, otherwise known as
simply paying attention and responding accordingly.***”
more gourmand than gourmet,
who believes like the firmament above
that the transportation of
the human soul is enlightened,
enlivened
by the aroma of scent of
an endless freshly baked loaf of bread
need to confess,
never held
a rolling pin,
nor had a mustache white
made of flour
upon my face,
and if ere the toaster oven
had not been
installed invested or even invented
in a kitchen,
the only thing
I would ever have
preheated is the body
of a woman who truly
was loved
complete and insane
daily for
sixteen
years
but the perfume of a
newly baked brioche
can bring me to
tears
just as a newly unearthed,
the child of a poem
writhing within me
emerging, even surging
from the soiled placenta
of my
souled~soiled mind&heart,
borne and born
yeah,
even
bre(a)d
so I read an article about
a baker from France,
reading the words above
and wonder
what did I miss,
forfeit,
after a lifetime liftoff of
a badly chosen careered life
that i did trust love
or so I thot!
“***wondering why bakers are the way
they are. There is a quietness, and a kindness, to their lives that veers into almost monastic behavior. Perhaps it is simply the ancientness of being a fire maker — tending a hearth really brings something out in a person.***”
how I glowed and flowed
with recognition of the
esprit de corps
(borrowed identically
from French to our
Anglais lexicon)
in all acts of creation,
a fabulous trade,
a new conception
eye spied on the streets of
My Manhattan
understood the mesmerizing
heat of a crackling fire
for children of all ages
and the why~when
the birth canal opens,
I must be alone with
the quietude that
tries and fails
to hold the raging
heated hot juices inside,
kept nope, not in check,
so formatting them into
a disc shape,
lest they spill unseeded floored,
a pour of ooze,
crisping the lost flesh
of flames eradicating
from
the plenitude distractions of
short term, this modern life
<>
Sunday,
in my America is a holy day,
a sabbatical
marked by rituals sacred,
brunch, football games
or maschostically
even two on a
Josephian
coat of
many colored channels
all this followed by
with a desert tray of
patisserie,
PBS (1) ****** mystery tv shows
of British origin
for a somewhat lessened
yet still violent contested cultural
amuse bouche
In between,
the ladies squeeze in
a Great British Baking Show,
which says when suggested
you’ve been bested
and
‘Yo Boy,
time to **** Nat
them deserts make you fatter,
by mere visual osmosis’
and contemptible contemplation
and that contested kitchened
atmosphere
antithetical to introspective
inspection
which life ingested in you
overly oveyly
aplenty
in placed,
so now I wonder
if this,
a career chosen
by youthful me,
the maledom masculine shouting of the
traditional trading room,
where ego was nourished
within a veneer of analytics,
rationed rationales reasoned,
was down to the nearest $ sign,
was it
the right place for me,
and how it sponsored within me,
a need ultimately
to sit
in ancien worn
by fig & vine
in uncomfortable Adirondack thrones,
a bright need
to sit by the
saluting salutation waves of
a constant lapping bay,
and the conversation of
a current thrusting empowered
tidal basin rivers
waters both
lightly salted fresh water
in piety poetic
combination,
all fed by genteel
small mountain streams,
all flowing, by gravity sent,
to assemble ingredients
of
verbs, noun words in
an adjectival temple,
unkempt kept simple,
in different voices
well hid **** deep
beneath his skin, his bone,
for to simply order up;
a bake off up,
a meringue of
poems
and to better understand what
our well definable,
oh so human
l i f e
***requires,
even demands
without surcease,
of us***?
all the while
we
twogether
areexpelling the rap we
breathe
and the scented heaven
of holy wine and
unlimited
loaves of
yup,
b r e a d
nmlipstadt
Oct 15, 2024
Oct 15, 2024 at 1:01 PM UTC