you could drown me in
a sea of hungry sharks
or feed me to the menacing
crocs in the parks

you could smoke me like
your last cigarette
or down me like
your last alcohol bet

you could grind my bones
and play with the  shards
then mould them up again,
into clean white cards

with those white cards
you shuffle me away and tell me
"shoo"

but my heart will still,
no  matter what,
run back to you.

Love is tacky.
Love is cheap.
Love is scrolling through an endless amount of ****** online dating profiles
on a Saturday night.
Love is not subtle.
Love is two people bargaining,
lying to each other,
lying to themselves.
Love keeps track of every misstep
so as to hold it against their partner in an ongoing war of attrition
so that they get to pick what to watch on Net-Flix.
Love does not rejoice in itself,
but does so on Facebook,
so that you can rub it in the face of your ex,
and all those friends that just really want to watch you fail.
Love is cheap.
*** with a price tag marked to sell.
Love is dead.

I wouldn't consider myself suicidal but if someone was holding a gun to my head and threatening to pull the trigger,
I would pull it myself for the fear of not being in control of my own death is greater than the fear of death itself.

*-c.a.

inspired by out-dated dreams
lost over half-polished fancy things
collected
owned
sitting now in someone else's home

in a vault
somewhere in some cave
it was too dark
you lost your way

now broken somehow
dying, a plastic man waits
mounting bills to pay
people to ignore
people who simply don't go away
lie in bed and wonder

where do you move when where you're moving from is yourself

(This poem was brought to you by the letter...V!)
She vacuums the worn carpet
Her gaze on the surface vague and vacant
But when you lift the lid
She has been ****** into a vortex
Of whirling cosmic space dust.


She's entered a parallel universe
There her name is Vanessa
And her life's so diverse
By day she announces on
underground trains
  'mind the gap, next stop
Mornington crescent'
Her voice is sweet, virtuous,
clear and efficient
  But by evening her voice has
  more va va voom
She sings sultry jazz
in a smoky back room.
She looks almost the same
Voluptuous lines and a
red haired mane
But gone is any trace of mundane.  

Each verse of song she wraps in a sway of the hips side to side
and a ravishing smile
 And if the audience  try it on
or  become volatile
A valiant handsome trilby wearing
gentleman
Can warn them off  
With a choice few nouns
And vexing verbs
make them run a mile

And after the show
She and the gentleman
Vanish from view
And as their heated passion grows
 They sink down onto A velveteen couch
 exploring her peaks n valleys
With his keen mouth
And she traces his muscles
Vivid veins, v lines
She reaches his peak further south.



Back out of the vortex
And back in the room
She is breathless
And her heart is fast and keen
She has stopped the vacuum
Instead saught solace
In the vibrations of her washing machine