Someone sane.
Who doesn't care too much
Or not enough.
And who is just insane enough
To still be interesting.
But will stay
And won't project
Or invert.
Someone sane
Who isn't depressed
Or anxious
All the time
And who doesn't mind
When I'm depressed
Or anxious
Sometimes.
Someone sane
Who doesn't hate their father
And won't pass undue judgement
On mine.
Someone sane
Who will be honest when I ask
But will have the sense
To share
With sensitivity.
Someone sane
Who can make me laugh
And whom I can make laugh
Someone sane
Who knows the difference
Between treating someone
Like they're important
And reducing them
To a monolith
They feel they cannot climb.
Someone sane
Who trusts and can be trusted.
Someone sane
Someone sane.

(dedicated to Ludwig van Beethoven, 1770-1827)

The inexpressible expressed
In the indefinable.

A reach undimmed by time, soaring,
Falling, twisting, rolling, tugging.
One moment skimming lightly, poised
In fragile marble, shattered by
Mere observation; then standing
Tall atop the world, imperious
Like the hero who betrayed you -
A monument to yourself.

Giving your life to the very
Joy in which you could not share.
The music that entered your head
In your youth never left it,
Reverberating through silence.

Your legacy is victory,
Only enriched by tragedy.
Your struggle echoes across time,
Connecting you with me, and all
Who seek to know and feel, through the
Universal language of the heart,
What it is to be truly human.

Don't ******* write about me
No, neither for me
Because there is nothing worse
Nothing so utterly despicable
Than the words
Of an infatuated man.

You are not Yeats,
I am not Gonne.
And I like to think
That Laura never died
But rather escaped
From Petrach's lines.

Do not treat what I tell you
As some great epiphany
As anything other
Than the words of a fellow idiot.

All I want
Is to rest
Without
Being called
A ******* muse
Some fuel
For your abhorrent
Creations

That is not me.
You are not Yeats.
But I am gone.

She is the ocean

               when I can't swim. The truth is

                                                     I'm fine with drowning

Fact is,
I can't be around you.
Forming words and/or sentences in your presence leaves me
senseless,
stammering,
stuttering,
defenceless
and petering into arbitrary points and references
facts
figures

And it figures that,
were you single to begin with
(which you are not)
And were I of a similar disposition
(which I am)
That facts would form bonds between the figures most infinite,
and timeless,
and primitive -
A joining of two.

Facts are, it doesn't matter
Because in my mind we've done
Worse and better
Richer, poorer
Sicker and sicker.
In my mind we've ****** to the cusp of boredom with each other's forms,
and figures...

Figures that you'd be inaccessible
Unavailable
No one ever really is, are they?
I know for a fact that you love a girl
Who forms her name from words borrowed elsewhere.
I figure you thought her intriguing once,
Fascinating, maybe.
Perhaps you still do.
Maybe it's an envy
Maybe I'm stepping a line but were you mine
There would be no pretense in name or otherwise
I'd be I
You, you...
...I figure.

To be frank and state a fact,
I've dreamt of you often and carved you from a rib in some form or other,
But the fact is
You're a distraction.
And nothing more.

Go figure.

I have all my best ideas
In the shower.
Perhaps I should just stay there
All day long.

I belong to a fractured consciousness
Whose needle skips and leaps
Relentlessly
Over the cracks.

In any instance,
I can see you
And her
Lithe and writhing
In all her voluptuous vapidness.

Drive on, drive on!
Rock, and reel, and repent.
Repeat.

He's not you
But he's here.
And he lays me down
And says that I'm pretty.
For now, that's enough.