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I can no longer be a poet,
For I feel no anguish deep in my soul.
There is no two timing lover,
Nor bruises marring my heart.

And there is nothing here to startle you,
I offer no sting to make you feel alive.
There is no vicarious pleasure to be had in these words.

I cannot lament missing voicemails,
Or rage against machinations,
There is no more fodder for my word press.


Now I only sigh over ***** dishes,
Or anticipate primetime television.
My heart flutters for clean sheets.

So I cannot help you cry,
Because I fell in love
And so I must retire.
Turn on the moon
and I will dance for you.
"--you know, I've either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place and
the time to
create."
no baby, if you're going to create
you're going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you're on
welfare,
you're going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you're going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquakes, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don't create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.
the women of the past keep
phoning.
there was another yesterday
arrived from out of
state.
she wanted to see
me.
I told her
"no."

I don't want to see
them,
I won't see them.
it would be
awkward
gruesome and
useless.

I know some people who can
watch the same movie
more than
once.

not me.
once I know the
plot
once I know the
ending
whether it's happy or
unhappy or
just plain
dumb,
then

for me
that movie is
finished
forever
and that's why
I refuse
to let
any of my
old movies play
over and over again
for
years.
lay beside me on
a golden autumn morn,
your hair entangled
in my hair
your  hands entangled
in my hands.

though we never shared a lovers dance
my cheek was home with yours.
though we never  owned a moments grace
our ship may sail its course.

all tomorrows suffer
from beauty's faltered aim
whence we lay betwixt
things without a name.

sing me dearly
sing me sweet
sing me things
to cause retreat
and I will know
that its concrete
when sunlight hits
the street

but do not light a fire
on the face of winter
and do not burn
the masterpiece
or hide the ashes
in your urn

nor cause your hands a moments
idle
or burn your hair upon this old
candle

upon a golden
autumn morn
i watch you wake
with softened sleep,
upon a golden
autumn morn
with hands entangled
in my hair
an hair entangled
in your hands.
Dwelling is a razor
regret, drip-fed poison
guilt, a creaking chain as it tightens around my neck.

Stockholm syndrome has me
in that
        lovelifedeath
grip.

And as my own jailer
I rail against myself
Caught in a purgatory-
safe
drawing blood
then consoling.                                

I can't see........
My corneas tear in the wind
there's some metaphysical connection, I know it
I don't want to look at my life as it is
The guilt twists my guts
I'm pathetic in my failures
and grasping at a fading light.

Ah perfectionism,  my abusive lover;
you endow me such power, then beat me senseless
I'm goddess, then mortal-
panicking
      frail
with nowhere but elusive horizons to go.

Phosphenes
those  bright spots of colour
as I rub my eyes-
Once again I wake too early
and that too-familiar cyanide starts to leak through my veins
and anxiety grips me
How'll I ever get it right
             make it out
             fix it all
             come out from under
             breathesucceedrelaxenjoybeworthsomething
  in short

has my bright patch of colour had its day?

I can't
face it.
Her ***** burned
for him
the flames of passion
heating away
all her doubts and inhabitions
the heat from his body
seared her own
branding open hearts
upon her flesh
with his kiss
sweat became steam
as in the afterglow of his naked touch
she smoked...

inhaling
the scent of ***
with
hot lungs
You poor darling,
You simply don't see yourself, do you?
Acrid- tang cigarette
(irresistible; your doing)
will leach from my hair, to swirl down the drain.

The scent of me, never we could place a finger on
that curled in your nostrils and tilted your head
quickened your heartbeat and stirred your longing
perhaps I  replace it now, blindfolded alchemy
as I wash night away for the bright day ahead.

......but oh, in that morning, turning my head to my own shoulder
in sleep-half awareness of lying alone
the smell of you impermeated
in my naked skin?
Smiling as honey-deep memories surfaced
I was saddened by normal, sweet touch of warm water-
I'd wanted to inhale you all of the day.

You poor darling
Heart fragile, unwittingly bidden laid bare
this lepitopterology
your pain pulled forth, in my chest, in my empathy
-I now know the difference between mine and yours.

You don't see yourself, do you?
Oh, how I know your suffering
as it was mine, and mine again, too many days and nights to count
all the good, great, and magical I had and created
came forth from the luminous creature I was
but blinded by taunts, and wicked occlusion
I saw my self lacking; sorely so, truly broken
and a painful un-fit, in the world I was in.

But darling, my vision of heart has expanded
of spirit, and eyes that saw lack and disgust
Love has saved me! Inklings a half-decade prior
have furled forth from seedling to sapling to tree
and the grand love of Self that is true nature, birthright
is flowering forth for its beauty to see
Blooms of confidence, surety, clear blessed vision
of gifts that are mine, honour-bound to set free.

I recall that pure sadness and loss on your aura
as the light kissed you, curled in repose on the chair
that had held us in passion. Self- same cigarette
that you scrambled for madly to calm tides of longing
(frustrated, so not to abet floods of tears)
seems to both speed and slow your heartbeat and loathing
that gap in your eyes, uniqueness unfair.

And I know many years you may have of this, sharply
Repudiation, inadequacy, loneliness, grief
Inflicted to pin down the Ulysses you are
but I tell you, and one day I know you will know this
Glorious you are and resplendent you'll be.

I'm still on my way but my light is emerging
(you being one instrument to bring this from me)
Think perhaps of the Monarch, that you wondered if whether
We were blessed to set eyes on, on our fair shores
It knows not its beauty, and in liquid torment
it writhed for what felt like intolerable years
in primordial soup, a knife-edge to oblivion
but emerged as magnificent, free from its fears.

So my darling, I know you don't see yourself clearly
But I do, and oh what a true gem you are
There is so much inside you and through your perspectives
The world is enlightened, and so you must learn
That your blessings to all of us lie in the All
of the mad, rapturous, deep, bright, tulmutuous heart
of the Artist-
the treasure the world needs to turn!-
And although you may fall into self-flagellation
and feel our kind too far and few between,
remember my heart, dear; allow me to light you
and once again let your magnificence burn.
You stole my breath...

and replaced it
with
your own
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