I made a blog that no-one wants to see.
I might as well have stripped and posted ****.
I should’ve baked a chocolate cake for tea.

I twittered, face-booked, tumblred, endlessly,
but still it languishes in quietude.
I made a blog that no-one wants to see.

I promised video with poetry;
no cliché, hackneyed rhyme or platitudes.
I should’ve baked a chocolate cake for tea.

My blog is but a trickle in the sea
A place of literary solitude.
I made a blog that no-one wants to see.

I treasured all my followers, all three;
and yet, with heavy heart, I must conclude
I made a blog that no-one wants to see.
I should’ve baked a chocolate cake for tea.

(After the poem by Shinji Moon)

Lucy’s smoking spliffs out the window
and I keep thinking about how I’ll probably
always love you
a little bit.
We haven’t spoken in months,
but tonight New York is sleeping under 24 inches of snow,
and the last time I was in a blizzard
I was 16,
and in Chicago,
and the softness of it made me think of you.
Everyday I pass by this flower shop in Brooklyn
and I steal a tulip to pluck
like I’m forgetting you in petals.
Photosynthesis is another word for heartbreak.
The truth is I think of you often.
Sometimes I make eye contact with strangers
and wish they’d look at me the way you used to,
or say my name like they were tasting a truffle,
like the Italian word Rimembrare,
or a drag of a cigarette.
I’m trying to stop smoking.
I wanted to tell you
that I’m not afraid of the wind anymore,
and in the past 2 years
I’ve drifted through so many places but keep finding synonyms for you
in every map
or language guide.
And I guess only you know why that would hurt.
I remember almost nothing about you already
except that you loved the story
about the seagull who taught himself to fly,
and the way you laughed,
like you were imitating
oceans.

somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience,your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near

your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose

or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully ,suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;

nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility:whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing

(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens;only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands

And in these dreary dreadful
Days of January
I often fear that
Whatever fire or passion
That possessed me to write in the preceding months
Is leaving me
I know not how or why
But with everyday that passes it feels as if the fire is burning itself out

But my friends,
Blame it on the weather!
Blame it on the damp and dark and freezing chill
Blame it on the on the news of deaths and the presence of tears
But if you want something to believe, believe in this:
That **** fire won't burn out

Save your Phoenix symbolisms for another day
A Phoenix is born again from its own ashes
And in my heart there will be no ashes
Because this **** fire won't burn out

It's fine to stop singing when your voice cracks and your throat burns but that's no excuse to lose the tune
So when your voice is healed stand your ground and belt out your song
For that fire won't burn out

Then embrace the weather
Embrace the damp the dark and the freezing chill
Embrace the dreary dreadful
Days of January
Where you fear the fire inside flickers and fades
There is nothing controlling that fire but you
And if you have the patience to think and the paper to write
Your fire won't go out

Strange things can happen when the night winds blow.
They can take you to places and people you know.
They blow into your dreams and play into your mind
Sometimes they blow cruel Sometimes they blow kind

The night wind is whistling as it blows through the trees
Deep in my slumber My Love whispers my name
Come back to me my lover hold me once again
I fly from my body into the wild rain

Over the treetops and down to the sea
I follow the pathway to a church steeple I see
The moon is a candle the storm is my light
I see my sweet angel ahead in the night

She floats into my spirit and we become one
Above the wild foam we embrace and soar
I hold onto my angel I am alone no more
The storm it crescendos the gods shout and roar

She reaches for me and touches my tears
The winds blow away all the lost years
Come with my lover come with me back home
I reach to kiss her but touch granite stone

Her name is engraved  in letters of gold
My angel has gone no more to grow old.
Strange things they happen when the night winds blow
They bring you to places and people you know.
They play with your dreams and enter your mind.
Sometimes they blow cruel and not kind