I am tired of writing love songs about you

Because they do not work
Because I cannot bring myself to summarise the hurt
When it's greater than just words

I traced your lips with my fingertips
As you held my neck and drowned me

I tried to keep the bubbles in my hands
For the day you'd come drown me again
Funny how a heart so small
Could wreck such treacherous trouble

Will you hold me closer?

When you say 'sing me a song'
And I think it's because you love it

But you were right all along
You were in love with my need
A need for something more than greed
And I could not play along

So the songs sounded the same
Because all we had was a blank page
Blander than a desert tongue
Will you hold me closer?

And still I begged
Because it is all I know to do
I crashed walls through
Just to get to you
A fool a fool a fool
I played for you

I turned tipsy as the world went spinning round and round in psychedelic swabs
Liquor after liquor
Anesthesia
Only brings out pain
I gave in
Because it is all I know to do
In a dark place full of wastrels waiting for love

Will you hold me closer?

I came here
Ready to regret
A little revelry to rock the bland away

Yet how far could I run with your clutches round my neck?

I tore up the pieces of paper
That I wasted all on you
Happier times
Haughtier lies
I tore up all the words I gave to you

No more poetry for the first time your lips touched mine
Or how you playfully pushed me by the seaside
The days before you showed your wicked side

No more circles with endless lines
Here I'm staring at the blank page right before my eyes
Ready to rewrite

What was life like
Before you?

Your eyes meet mine amd smile

One last time
Will you hold me closer?

“I miss you”* is an understatement
Because when I say “I miss you” what I’m really saying is that
Every day I go without your laughter
Without your smile
Without your voice
Without your intoxicating presence
Is a day wasted
It’s a day the sun is a bit duller
Food a bit blander
And oxygen less satisfying
Suffice it to say
“I miss you” is an understatement

Yes, in Oz they've called an election,
PR on media heading in our direction,
Bland and blander for our selection,
Do they sell their souls for superannuation?
Politicians are deemed to be public servants,
By the plebs, for the plebs, now observant,
For the benefit of the plebs, in Australia,'
Is being forced to vote a failure?
No such thing as a Western Liberal Democracy,
Prepare for BS for you and me,
Largely unfundable policies,
Today is day one of Garbology!

writing poetry can be rather humbling,
you have to bow before the traffic wardens,
pat the backs of bus drivers,
it is a humbling art,
               there's no real canvas,
and in the digital age: there's not much ink.
you have to humble yourself
             in ****** terms: great if you're a woman...
oh ****... if you're a man...
            and you can't seem to ever become
"the artist" -
                           poetry on the side is
acceptable, but poetry written with the aghast
missing: but i'm also a plumber - is
   another conundrum -
                so yes, poetry is a bit like
telling Picasso he can sit among the 5 year old's
  exhibition of their crayon masterpieces -
it's truly humbling...
                              sexually it's like
being impotent or at the very least: castration,
and never mind you actually obtaining
a castrato voice for the Vatican choir...
                truly is: a humbling experience.
  the philosophers attacked, then the psychiatrists,
and the novelists just wrote a paragraph
            and that was that:
the hand moves, the clock ticks...
                       poets are leeches, the end, and a happily
ever after.
                   it truly is a cenobite affair -
or as one says it: a tad bit monkish -
                                 now, plot a monk in
society: what do you get? oh sure, fervently wanking
myself to sleep, been doing it since the age of 8
before i could produce the *****:
         it's subliminally muscular orientated -
nothing about the ****, let alone the jazz...
   you bothered? i'm not bothered... you bothered?
    i'm not bothered...
                       and where (if not in poetry)
would you find no characters and an uninhibited
narrator who said: well... **** David Copperfield
and Jane Eyre - i'm going solo...
                    and i know, i have my little
soppy story... who doesn't?
                     but the choke / joke of the matter is...
being exposed to solely happy stories doesn't
make you happier -
                                according to Nietzsche i
have no shame because i exploit my experiences -
that too... why keep a private life sacred when
it's burdened not by the shadow of a tree of
knowledge... but a crucifix?
                          also a tree... oh look! he's waving
a hello! god knows how he did that!
that trick is better than that walk on water...
i'm all beetroot flustered with my cheeks grin-pink.
           sarcasm... or, the way to write
the less humbling sort of poetry... or to escape
musicology (namely rhyme, or the one note song
by Tenacious D) using a rickety raft that
poetry is... get the humours in,
   **** the furies,
           **** the fates...
                               ensemble: F... is a holy letter...
now the chance to hypnotise someone...
             and whoever said fairies gets a bonus...
   but it is, truly, humbling...
   sexually it's like this motion toward the trans
movement - chop my ***** off insert a pseudo-****
and job done... inject the right amount of hormones...
grow a beard... and Thomas' your uncle...
   of Bob... or Sinjit... or whoever taught you
the joke in mathematics class when describing
infinitesimal calculus (Herr Crickmore,
former trader / broker)                                      -
(oops, left the hyphen wide)                   never mind,
but the thing is... even though poetry
is a humbling experience...         i find novelists a bit
like lumberjacks...    they're hacking a tree,
and they're hacking and hacking a tree...
                 and they keep hacking the ****** tree
until a tree becomes a five-hundred page bestseller
   and about 1000 boxes of toothpicks
   and 2000 boxes of matchsticks (roughly, jokingly,
because it's probably more) -
                well sure...
                     i don't write poetry to entertain,
or to: "voice my concerns" -
                         i have very little care for the former,
and even less care for the latter -
            i have no idea why there's so much
patting-on-the-back for essayists and novelists -
       one clue gives it away:
                   they write so much... because they
could speak for so long without enough lubricants
akin to whiskey or water...
           silence? well... that's an altogether different
lubricant...as it is: i hate character constructs -
   and i hate an even blander narrator -
poetry is a humbling experience: after all, they treat
poets as if they're ******* when "serious" trades
provide for society -
                                    and you know why the mentally
ill sometimes **** people? the same reason as the above
stated... the populist medical pyramid is there...
i walked past a pyramid today, well, a scrap of it:
raising money for cancer patients...
                    reality? 19 pence drugs to preserve life
are scraped because *** drugs are more necessary...
never seen people have more fun...
          but all other ailments?
  too weird... too science-fiction... don't exist.
        well... ain't that nice... cancer gets the priority
and all the glamour of advertisement and
oh god... all that running the mile for charity in pink...
   with Stephen Hawking levitating waving
a telekinetic chequered flag at the finish...
            but the rest of humanity's ailment?
imaginary - or at least that's what it feels like.
if there was ever a pyramidal indentation in
humanity's perception, there's one now -
a hierarchy - as with cocktail parties and the glamour
of the *******-in-a-monkey-wrench literati dinner parties -
             well, those pyramids are well and truly
    ingrained in our minds...
                  and i thought that the point of hierarchy
was bound to how many holidays you took
   and what sort of television you owned...
guess not...                            but always, always!
    always that need to reach for a hierarchy...
                 and who were the first to voice their
concerns? the melancholic -
   5 in 1, 5 in 1 year asphyxiated at York University...
    and this is not the Homeric kinds...
                      all the time i'm
turning the huh? of the perplexity of existence
           (because, to be honest,
i don't know what life is: not thinking and cocktail parties?)
              d'ah ****?
                                   sure, the old testament
said enough about the voice in the wilderness...
well... try finding a wilderness i'll find you
a nursery rhyme: Ol' McDonald had a farm...
        time to see where that voice once found
in the wilderness went... oh look...
                                     it's no longer a voice...
and it's not in the wilderness: or the farmyard...
              it looks like it turned into
a thought                                                  in the abyss.

It’s often of a christmas time
When words will dance to relish rhyme
To tell the story of demander
Sharp of dress – the proper gander

His monocle peers down at you
An eye for flight and finesse too
He flutters out about your heart
You want him but he’s so apart

Put your treasures at his Tod’s
His feathers flutter and he nods
But you’re so crass, so undefined
Your love for him is leagues behind

While you chase with mollycoddles
He’s dancing with the supermodels
A candle dinner, just for two
He’s sharing with Chanel, not you

Leave him be, for the common we
Are odious to one like he
The proper gander often finds
He’s chased for love by lesser minds

He once brushed his Boglioli
And told me that for Christmas Cindy
Would meet him neath the mistletoe
I should not call him, hard I know

So let this poem serve as warning
Do not follow your heart’s calling
When you see the great demander
Sharp of dress – the proper gander

And now that you are out the way
I’ll wait until that special day
For within the wrapping and the ribbon
I’m hiding ‘till I’m duly given

The postie will deliver me
To his doorstep and we’ll see
I’ll burst forth from the wrapping paper
For Christmas we will be together

He’ll choose me over other women
He’ll show a side he still has hidden
The other girls may chase romance
But faced with me they have no chance

For my ship has one commander
My love’s the world, he’s Alexander
Without him life would be much blander
How I want the proper gander.

If I had a choice, to communicate,
I'd choose to write in prose,
For in speech, I am just a blander rose.

The first time
I lost my mind,
The world seemed a destitute place.

The first time
I took it by force.
Left to fend with fiends

Furrowing through time,
Clawing at the day,
Dragging myself against the pull.

Life,
The introduction to
Something dark and true.

The second time!
I could stand no more
Of what I found before

Did not mean to come back,
Sometimes I think I didn’t,
Mulling in a mood grey and grave

The blue sky,
Once bubbly
Now looks blander

Circle of red.
Head of lead.
Lying in my bed.

The third
barely touched
Just scraped at chalk.

After that, I went away…
Opted out.
Nothing mattered.

There I sat in limbo.
Soured.
Dissasociated

Like an old car,
I sputtered,
Bore sitting and rusting.

Consumed.
Floating
Dead-eyed.

And how I laugh,
To say
That I am less

How I laugh-
To say that I am dying
To think that I am sloth

Sloth?
I am greed.
I am pride.

I am failure,
I am afraid-
Of everything.

I died some time ago,
Left company
Alone

So now I am back in the game.
And enigmatic.
Do I scare you?

Because I should.
I am terrifying
And cant be intimidated

I do not fear death,
I do not fear reprobation
But honestly?

I scare my self
And I am afraid of you too,
Fear is my super power.

Depression is my identity,
Something personal to me,
So-

So Welcome death,
Welcome fear!
Welcome Might.

You can’t comprehend me,
What it is to be free,
You have never died

Never writhed,
In fire,
You circuit.

I shan’t come out tonight,
Or any other
Night

But stand afront,
With twisted mind, bald and blunt
And I shall eat you…

That look-
Look down
Disgust

Divert your eyes,
But stand in my way,
And I shall eat you

Your eyes-
Coal,
Fresh grass

Red light
Yellow filter
Green eyes

Pain defies
Lies
Anguish flies

Panic stricken,
Anxiety driven
Rapture.

Quick- Look down now,
Holding back the wrath of Jessu,
This mouse will ******* eat you!

To sleep
or not to sleep,
that is the quandary.
A wink or two stolen
is sweetest when
one's blander isn't swollen.

Just try to understand the contact of eyes
No words are needed to express that how much I love
In your absence do you feel much my heart cries
Every second without you seems like years
But heart can't tolerate such tears
Love teaches new standards
Without it every sweet dish seems blander
Love is the religion
but now love is smidgen
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
But you can still find true love in me... For my cute Angel

It's over,
I'm ready,
My head is getting heavy,
Release me, I'll sleep
My last lights are fading
And.
With cander,
I'm looking back in anger
I'll take the first exist while the world's getting blander