Not he/she/they but "the borderline"
The borderline imagines this elaborate fantasy to be necessary
the borderline turns to clinginess
the borderline may exhibit narcissistic symptoms
the borderline the borderline the borderline

the borderline-
a chalk marking on the sidewalk

the borderline-
trees separating territories

the borderline-
a sign stating do not cross

not me
I am human

but since I'm a 'borderline'
you wouldn't know that

would you?

He fell in love with the way she slightly parted her lips when she was almost asleep
But not quite
He fell in love with the way she wore large glasses for fun
And how she would bite her pinkie to hold in a laugh
The laugh in which he loved
He loved that she had three freckles in a triangle below her left eye
And the way she tilted her head when she was thinking about very important things
He fell in love with her eyes and the way they longed for him
He loved being wanted
He fell in love with the pitter-patter of her feet on their bedroom floor
Because that meant she was thinking too much and he could hold her
And make her fell okay for just a night
He loved being wanted

He loved her for everything she was and everything she was not

He was falling out of love with the drool on her pillow
He thought it was silly she wore large glasses for no reason
And how she always had bite marks on her pinkies
He began to find her laugh very loud  too loud and always ringing in his ears
He was falling out of love with the three freckles beneath her left eye
Or was it her right eye?
And he defiantly did not love the way her head was cocked when trying to decide between one ply or two
Or the way she always was looking at him
He hated her clinginess
He fell out of love with the noise she made at night
He never woke up anymore
He hated her desperation

He did not love the little things about her anymore and he was not in love
*-(e.h)

An ever-growing list of things that I can't fix
a set of scribbles on a blank lined page
a lifetime of regretful (in)decisions
a stack of unstamped postcards that I swear I meant to send
my clinginess, my neediness
a drawer full of unused paper clips
two eyes that work too well to see what lies beneath the skin
a mouth that I may never learn to tame
two ears that someday soon will cease to hear
a cluttered, clumsy, cumbersome soul
two hands with scars and calloused fingertips
a mind that only ever thinks of you
two legs that don't know where the hell to go
and
a heart that's only satisfied when beating next to yours...

And this is all I have to give to you.

When we find ourselves
bewitched
by the once-again
betwixt a barest bare
season (of not-there)
and the rock-hard
reason (for there-is), let’s

Place the lemon-sour wedge,
where it can be tasted
with expectantly peppered
peeks and the snowy soft pines
for a gifted we we’ve been
too white-elephant
wary to unwrap.

There’s a transplant
future. We pretended
it (to-be
forever sutured to our bristly back-
then), and it meets the it
it was beneath a scrub-brush
Christmas tree we’ve stowed

Carelessly in the cramped space
where our sameness
lets crawl the other. Tinseled,
pre-assembled, past-
their-prime-time specialty
brands of static
clinginess have diminished,

But not-enough,
as the persistence of any-man
attraction shows,
would if it could bring
Whitman’s samplers
of sentimentality
to cuddly bear on a leftover

Choice (What’s-next,
warmed over and over). We
will stick to it,
fuzzy ornaments
on the crackly loud, paper-
thin present. We didn’t give
up but we did give away

Boxed-up angels
in exchange for one red-ribbon
day, its frilly bow tying us
so tightly to
the pressed-down rule
of our highest of highly
evolved thumbs.

Slipping between
Boredom and obsession
Love and clinginess
But I have a confession--
Without you I'm bored
Right out of my mind
You are my muse
And that's hard to find
Yes, I adore you
Always wanting to hang out
Just to be in your presence
That's what I'm all about
Don't be afraid
For I'm sure you have seen
This, I confess
Is what I'm slipping between

and how does one,
become an orc...
from being labelled
          a troll,
when...
   not buying
          a **** of
butter, a pint of milk,
a dozen's shack
of carrots,
   a dozen of eggs...
and three irish ciders
in a supermarket?
oh... right...
****'s sake!
  wake up!
   own a pet tarantula
you *******
*****!
   cats are so
autistic,
and 20th century!
and women friendly!
blaaaaaaaah!
and then...
"funny"...
    suddenly died;
me?
  oh i was waiting
for that to happen,
hence my clinginess
attitude...
i kept telling them:
i'm about to revise
the blank page
   i'm about to revise
the blank page
   i'm about to revise
the blank page...
    they listen?
  nope...
     orc bypassed
the troll,
bypassing the goblin...
and...
      oh ****,
no hey, but hey presto!
              i'm not even trying...
i hate trying...
   trying is...
trying...
          when it arrives
from an authenticity
of, competent
reactionary...
something, or other...
   yeah...
  i'm really gagging
for the marching orders...
a dog barking in
the night tells me:
crock-****...
              why would
i decide to understand
dog barking...
as, being...
   more informative
to... whatever spew
is about to arrive from
the attention seeking
******?
  the dog is barking again...
i'll put my faith
in that...
  i've lost any ability
to trust my fellow man...
sorry...
   no...
no: is the new now...
        can't do it...
let's revise...
  keep up with the graffiti...
there are...
internet trolls...
which are...
the extended...
    interaction with
internet goblins...
me? oh... sure sure,
internet identity politics...
moi?
       internet orc...
what's that?
   dunno...
  a casual variant of
the sort of societal
formality,
without any uninhibited
   & depersonalized
internet interaction
to mimic societal
                        standards?

i made a spelling mistake!
****! i know i 'ave!

obviously the meme:
internet orc would
prevail over the already
exhausted
   cultural spew /
                 slur...
  designating a troll...

     an internet orc...
is a new breed...
                       die edelbarbar...
far from superior...
i just, "forgot"
to leave any comments.

Contract;

In order for this business relationship to be beneficial to both parties, here is what to expect, and what I'll expect in return.

I expect you to give me attention, especially when I plead that I don't need it. I expect sweet messages sent at random that don't hold any relevancy to what we're experiencing. I expect truth, loyalty, and respect. I expect your time.

In return, you can expect being loved until you wish you had never met me in the first place, being attentively looked after but not to the point of clinginess. You'll be privy to poems, songs, and ideas penned about you frequently, and you'll never be alone. Your heart will be mine to guard and to keep not as my own but as ours. And know this; I will never leave.

Terms for this agreement are thus; time will be made for the other party. I will not have to experience a breakup over the phone because you won't make time to see me after six months of what I thought was love. We won't have to make excuses about how we're still hanging in there; if things don't work, they don't work.

And finally, we must agree to be mutually exclusive.

Under these conditions- which are for the most part immobile but are open to suggestion- and these conditions only will this business agreement be not only agreed upon but maintained. Any breach of this contract will result in...well.

Term to end: hopefully, never.

Just sign the dotted line, here.

____________X

I remember the most beautiful moment of my life.
I couldn't have been 4.

Everybody was gathered in the park,
a gathering to watch the sunset
and there was music playing.

This was a single moment lost in the 90s fever:
The singer had just died,
and I think we were celebrating his poetry
or his clinginess to life.

But at the same time, nobody was talking about it.
There was just silence and the sunset -
a meaningless collection of sensations
to all but a childish mind.

I've since tried to talk to some of the people I reckon were there,
but none of them recall any of it happening.

They would have me believe
the best moment of my life
was a dream.

Currently there isn't a price on all the things That I love.
Depending on the situation I still check my pockets.
The places I go I am not use to exiting without pulling out my wallet.
Though it's not much, the minimum amount of your time provides the same thrill.
It's hard to disagree with a good heart.
Our opinions may be different but it's decent.
Our life evolving into deep quotations.
The revolution against cash registers everywhere has begun.
The clinginess of change and dollar bills.
Slices of our time stuffed and slid into the opening of each others mouth.
The trouble with that is we choose to label everything with price.
Ignoring common sense for cents.
I ignore my pockets whenever you are around as nothing of value can be found there.
I tread softly as more of your time creates more currency.
And I can't jeopardize losing that.
There isn't a career that can fill my wallet like you fill my heart.
No time clock anywhere that could justify.
Come tax time you are my greatest asset.
Come payday you are the currency I seek

Forgive me my love, for I always want you
All I expect is for you to want me that much too
Be afraid when I’m about to leave, clinginess and everything else
At times, I might be stubborn, but not to forget till my hair is no auburn,
I will love you, ‘till my dying day
By your side I will always lay
If your happiness would need me without
I love you so much, I would gladly walk out
For that will give mein liebing joy,
I have no say, just for you to enjoy,
Mostly, I could be stupid, yes I know
But I feel bad when I give you sorrow
Answer my questions, I’ll keep on asking ‘till there’s no tomorrow
Be patient with me, don’t be cold as snow,
Please stop being snappy,
That doesn’t make me happy,
All I want every time is to see you smile,
Even if that would send me off a mile.

Hey.
I hope you, I mean I, don't have to read this.

Ever.

But here we go.

*Dear self,
Why would you want him again?

I know he is the most perfect person you have ever met
but know this,
he isn't.

He has long nose hairs that always poke out of his nose
He laughs in a weird way, like a choking person
He eats A LOT ((you wouldn't want a fat husband don't you))
His mom isn't really fond of you
His brother is a huge *******

He also doesn't stand being patient when you are angry
He told you that you annoyed him with your clinginess
He doesn't miss you like you do everyday
He never really want to go out with you and be happy with it
He doesn't have the effort to reach out to you
He doesn't care what you're feeling and why
He doesn't look at you like the best thing he has ever seen anymore

I should stop. You would cry if I write more. I know you, me.

I know you miss him like crazy
But bear with it, okay?
You will get over it.

Always stay strong for yourself, please.

or what should have been titled: product endorsement by vloggers with the following introduction, lost in terms of original content, that will have to be necessarily rewritten in a lessened heaving of the breast as proclaiming original ease of composition... but since this is not the first instance of such a blunder, it is actually a joy to see: to see the lack of clinginess to one particular instance, over all others - not here, not here the one-hit wonder of pop culture that's rampant... you might find this siding with the mediocre but it's due to the fact that it wasn't said many times and cannot be desirably uprooted from such a perception, and entombed in sacred marble of "forever cherished"; thus said, few writers realise that their works are like fresh fruit and vegetables... they too have their b.b.d. (best before date) and their u.b.d. (use by date) - i believe that no one alive can claim a b.b.d. for their work and still be alive... period. the u.b.d. simply states: before you, the reader, actually dies... but then again, that's a bit overly pressure laden with the writer's presumptions: nonetheless it's there... poems and books like fruits and vegetables, the writer ought to be a refrigerator, the reader the oven... i guess it just means: keep your cool, while others turn to populist hysterics if something looks counter to their norms... that's how it is, any poem's or book's b.b.d. (best before date)? when the author is dead.*

that famous saying:
an apple a day keeps
the doctor away...
i suppose there's another
one of kindred invocation:
a poem a day
keeps the psychiatrist
at bay - alter?
writing poetry is a bit like
watching a psychiatrist
try to wriggle his way
out of a straitjacket -
they're not called
the thought-police for no reason...
and my my: i thought
that was only in the Soviet Union?

In a room where the lights are turned off...a city away and I'm still reminded of the place the right I did the wrong I commit the love I shared the hate that I abolished tormenting fragments of sadness is here but somehow lol low gladness laying here as baggage across the threaded african American.
Holding my pillow like it was you with a "sorry for my clinginess note"..but seeing you do with another is like a show that I use to be apart of. I'm done with the hype
I'm donw with the hurt
I'm done wig when I see you we act like we're not hurtin...
The times I wanted to make it right
But if I reach out it's like I'm the one that's walking backwards

Sent. Delivered. Seen.
My intentions are Clean
Your cold Replies
I just hope no Lies

Every time we talk
I feel this knock
Beats in my heart
You're my sweetheart

I know I am Annoying
Sometimes Clinging
For you, Busy or Not
I'd Reply Fast, I ought

Bored?, Just Fine
Bitter as Wine
Please open up
Your sadness you can't cover up

Bored with me
Leaving? feel free..
I never expected
for this day to to be created

The day you leave
Is the day I grieve
Good bye
Just.. Why

Seen, Typing, Received.
Oh why'd i Believed
Your simple Sweetness
Made Bitter Endless

I've been feeling something for you
Hell This feeling I can't get used to
But you're fading..
You're leaving..

'How am i?'
I am Fine
But I cry
As you drew the Line

Goodbye it is
No more Reply
'Convo Ended' it says
Bang Bulls Eye

Thank you for hanging
with My Silliness
My Annoyingness
My Clinginess

Just know this
You were my Happiest Hello
And my Saddest Goodbye
At least now i know, You'd leave
with that warm smile

I remember the day I came to meet you for the first time in early August,
I remember being invited back at least once every week for two and a half months,
I remember the special look you gave me and what it meant,
I remember how you sought human contact around me and how you acted henceforth,
I remember the awkward sliding beneath my legs and how it became a norm,
I remember the unrelenting clinginess that I so desired,
I remember you grabbing me by the arm and taking me somewhere nobody could find us,
I remember the moistness of your lips against mine,
I remember the full weight of your body on mine as you nestled against me,
I remember the regret you felt,
I remember the regret i felt once I perceived your shame,
I remember the persistent, yet subtle avoidance,
And I still come across your circumvention resulting in mass amounts of pain to this day.

and what of the other tree, that bore fruits of truth
and falsehood,
by now we should have summed up: realised
that of the tree that smothered us with
a supposed confusion of not being able
to differentiate good from evil and evil from good:
we could attest with the good evil
and the evil good: in algebra the equivalent
to: a quadratic equation...
in a world where the established binary order
has become binomial... all because of ***-strangulation
akin to how the fusion of swan-monogamy
and chimpanzee polygamy - arab harems still
legal... just like slavery was still legal
for those camel jockeys as far as 1970s "officially":
yet still unofficially: the Bangladeshi slaves
of Qatar...
surely the supposed bonum ultimatum ex deus
suggests: a deity without a rigorous campfire
storytime, not plucking of the eye no hardship
of an Odin... not accountability of man
retracting, netting his existence with that dreaded
omni- prefix attached to some Prof Xavier (ex saviour)
type dynamic demagogue (gnostic gnomes
understood this, only recently i honed in
on the pronunciation of the word: yacht...
it's apparently YAT... not yαχτ -
the ch is a surd compound... unlike CHange...
unlike CHasm... no wait: Napoleon, wait...
             that's Kasm... Charon? or Haron?
i.e. Xaron? no, not kss kss... not QW QW off of a C or K...
i'm getting flashbacks from reading
James Joyce's Finnegans Wake...
     which in a time where only Orwell's 1984 is cited
with mass recognition like it's some dodo
retraction from reading the Bib'le to the dot
almost blindly... eh... m'eh...
            so i was watching this Tucker Carlson
interview with Vlad the Putt -
and... i switched off from the history lesson up
to the point where Vladie ol' Boy (he's getting old...
he's becoming irrelevant, sorry, but the guy ought
to take a Pope Emeritus stance... too much John Paul II /
Elizabeth II imitations... those ******* would cling
to the throne and sceptre and cross
all drooling, slobbering their clinginess to power...
respect for Pope Emeritus I - Ratzinger Ratz...
i switched off when he mentioned how the Polacks
collaborated with the Nazis... sure sure...
and the Soviets didn't invade Poland from the east?
right? they didn't... 123 years... ABC timespan
of "lost property"...
         bullies... ganging up... oh never mention
the ******* Swedes and the Turks have a stab...
1772, 1793, 1795 - oh and 1939...
altogether: perfect... 4 partitions of Poland...
we collaborated... we should be thankful for Joe Stalin
taking away our pride of lions: Lviv...
for what? Posen? we already established that town...
Breslau then... thankful?
thankful as in: the Katyn massacre of our intellectuals
service men of the army that the ******* Cossacks
blamed on the Nazis?!
to be frank... war = education... and let me tell you:
the Nazis were by far the better educators
to that ******* lump of red of Siberia:
those KACAPY... kaptur (hood): kacapy?
hoodlums...
                            the Nazis were by far the better
educators than the Soviets...
i'm just wondering... were we seriously on the NEXT
list should the Holocaust have been completed?
we sort of were:
    i do feel a grudge thinking that "my" people were
used as slave labour to build those futile camps...
but there's no knowing that logic went into
speaking about establishing a tausend jahr *****
and negating as a downfall joke: arbeit macht frei:
what work?! the working up to slaughter?
that's what happens when sophists come into power...
talk daisies all day long but end up
skewering potato *******...
          it's almost fascinating though: how eastern
rulers are historically conscious
while western rulers are: out to lunch when it comes
to any historical reference(s)...
living a journalistic insomnia of day-to-day...
i'll give Putin that much credit: he speaks history...
can an American president do the same?
unlikely... Russia is old... and the worst thing you
can do to a Russian is gang up on him...
bear and rat... corner a rat: say goodbye to your
artery in your neck...
you can't isolate a Russian: esp in this fair game
fair for all spirit of the Olympics...
strip a Russian of a flag, allegiance?
                    i'm defending an enemy because:
i have respect for him...
      only recently i was speaking to Charlie the Cypriot
and we were both like:
conscripted into the English army...
and fight for what? what?!
gay marriage, pronouns of transgender... what?!
what continuity of life, what existential integrity
are we... ******* talking about?
fight for a ******* dead-end? cul de sac existentialism?
i'd probably switch to the Russian side
if push: and it's being pushed: now comes the shove...
or... is there something not masculine about
me whereby: "daddy" comes in and says: look...
with that grin so diabolical it can allow him
to use 6 human bollards to control a rough estimate
of 10,000 people... dictating traffic into a tube station...

so we know that there's good evil and that there's
evil good... because there is no good good
there is no evil evil... there is no purity dynamic:
good contaminates evil and evil contaminates good...
oddly enough...
salt water and fresh water...
can't drink the sea...
but isn't fresh water easily contaminated by
parasites? eh eh?!

cite Oliver Moody: Poland doubles size of army
to counter Russia...
heroic victory over the Red Army in 1920
known as the Miracle of the Vistula...
doubled from 95,000 to 200,000...
        ultimate condition for feeling safe:
300,000 personnel...
                   1,600 tanks... more than Britain,
France, Germany, Spain and Italy... COMBINED...
fringe master 3D chess (3D chess?
that's when you know how to orientate people:
i can't exactly say: tell people what to do...
but then again people behave differently
in a crowd, there is no individualism...
the only individualism is of those idiots that argue
that waiting in a queue in an egress situation
of a stadium is their rights being taken
while gladly queuing in a supermarket with
their groceries... the singlefile allure of "reason"
*****...)
he's right though: delinquents of NATO...
so happy that they don't know the stench of
a Mongolian horde... or the Ottoman **** slurp...
just stick to your ******* garden variety life
of an islander and be content with:
oh, only the Norman invasion, how many civil wars
did we wage (is that only two?
the war of the roses and that other one with Ollie
Crommie; only two?)
and that fun side project of Jane Austen,
cricket, football or rugby...
                            now that's the life... sitcoms and
Monty ******* Python wits...
have to start calling them the wits versus the wigs...

but what of that other tree?
we established that there is good evil and there's evil good...
Erwin James just died:
convicted murderer with a troubled past who used
his sentence to shed light on life behind bars
through a column for the Guardian (2016 memoir,
Redeemable)... hmm... algebra:
                           (a + b)² = a² + 2ab + b²
now: was "i" telling a lie when "he" said that you
will know the difference between good and evil?
he said that i don't so...
another pronoun game?! IT and NOTHING are also
pronouns... they doesn't concern me...
you can be it or nothing: you's noose a bit, loose?
you snooze: you lose.
oh i can address myself in third person...
only today i woke trying to rework Jungian psychology
with the "crudeness" of the Cartesian:
res cogitans, res extensa... with my neo-Cartesian
instigation of res vanus into the whole dynamic:
basically: as much as i'd like to think that i'm a thinking
thing... i'm not actually thinking all the time...
my thinking is not a ******* AC/DC momentum:
i switch off... by switching off i invite the dynamic
of res vanus... an empty vessel...
which allows me to drift into res extensa and
re-orientate my consciousness by sometimes
catching myself thinking: passively...
should the dynamic of res cogitans be kept integrally:
well then... no wonder i studied madness
throughout my 20s... res cogitans: over-thinking
creates a schizophrenic res extensa dynamic of
hallucinating audio... vox ultra...
why think you can control thinking to subsequently
wonder why the ego has been isolated and
is seemingly beyond our control to then couple it
with all that self- *******?
by now elaborating and nice language is not on
the cards!

what of that other tree, the easier one to manage:
we ate two fruits, i think...
or at least i ate from the fruit of truths and falsehoods...
that's easier to stomach...
you can tell a truth from a lie...
can't you?                good was always going to be
conflated with evil...
because this life is a paradox...
       a paradox with clear indicators of logical steps...
gravity for one but then
we found:
                       m₁m₂
           F = G. --------
                           r²

what am i alluding to? what Fall of Man?
to me God fell... after all: how come we came into
contact with words, encoding sounds
to subsequently elaborate what we meant by X?
the Rise of Man... coupled with the Fall of God...

maybe i'm just put off by Cyrillic thinking that
it's a cheap knock off of Greek: which it is...
no one is going to convince me that
Cyrillic is half baked half arsed wholly drunk
when it comes to ensuring there is no Latin influence
protruding with some of the letters...

Аа contra Αα     see... half baked...
Ее contra Εε        again... half baked...
Зз contra Ζζ       half baked
Мм              Μμ half baked...
obviously i'll be more influenced by the Germanic
strand of what's the expected European...
history lesson Putin?
how about you align yourself to that shared
conflict with the northern crusades
after the death of Barbarossa
when the disillusioned Germans were still
eager for some crusade and if not the Muzzies
then the Lithuanian pagans...
how about the Battle of Grunwald 1410
and 1242 Battle on the Ice...
because isn't that how the northern crusades
started, from the disillusioned Germans
coming back with limp ***** after their great
Barbarossa drowned in a ******* puddle?
            hey hey: meet you halfway?!
because like i already mentioned: sooner the Slavic
people start a war against themselves
than succumb to this current western miasma...
myopia... m'eh to life...
have some ***** and a vitality: some life...
war is education...
and i do want a Russian for an enemy than a friend...
i tried having a Russian girlfriend
well obviously that backfired...
but St. Petersburg back in 2007 was such a welcoming
place...
Moscow too...
but i will not invoke Cyrillic... it's aesthetically unappealing
for me to erode whatever's left of my brain
cells on that: when i can have the beautiful Greek!

chem. soup brain... or Brian...
no song of no more new to come,
no new song of all that's to come,
no bride of either westminster
or wandsworth or walthamstow...
not within the confines
of the ****- burnings of the dolphin
skins of the yorkie-pies
of the ol' shire... coal-mined veins
from no, to no lesser Silesia...
among the Picts... dear widow
of London that's the current spirit
of lemon-suckling brine?!
oh my dear, what no aloof...
shying from the haggis, from the neeps!
the tatties!
and the myth of the deep frier
marzipan...
the fidget of the fudge explorers
of the Rhine of Yer **** Messieurs!
come to think of it...
i came to england as a fleabag of
eastern europe with a nietzschean moustashe
i borrowed and burrowed from and into
my father dear...
but when in SCOTland...
i arrived as a Dane...
this beyond past comparison arrival
willing to... **** a lass beside her senses
and her geography...
and in that... all was made sane...
because i see no reason to believe
these metropolitan daughters and sons
of fairies...
should they still exalt the ghost
of shakespeare...
and his art a mode of transcendence...
when all his works require!
actors!
the gob and goblet with my tongue
pickled in it like
the body of frederick barbarossa
arriving at Jerusalem...
London: the Salem of my Trials...
will ever and forver old Burns make
a speech: to later sigh...
because the English girls from Leicester
and Norwich arriving in Loon'don
will make it plain and far...
we from the foreign lands:
from the countrtyside will but and but
and but some more!
dear starlings pure... please! recite me some
of your love of Shakespeare:
as long as it rhymes... it's poetics;
ticks... those lesser tapeworms off...
here's a better terminology concerning
a cow-bell... roy orbison will never be allowed
to reign over the status of a black sabbath riff...
but...
he has the rest... nazareth and...
flea of the dog...
royal scots dragoons: this unison of
a non-continental aspect of land...
these isles...
and the english swans these english girls
will have to return,
cite their sonnets and never lend themselves
to "anecdotes" from the plays...
what did i say?
it is worth as much a misnomer
as it is worth a metaphor...
because for all of Shakespeare's worth...
he too would gladly rest,
his final sentiment via Bach's rolling technique...
should it be, when it is already well known...
no one recites a sonnet by a Shakespeare
when old Hogmanay is over...
when St. Sylvester's is celebrated...
and never this, very english... cold-ce
firecracker fore-warning the:
part and parcle of Guy Fawkes' night
of toy-terror...

what words and what words aren't...
and then those words better sung?
of never have,
of never heave...
of never baron over: of never "steve"
(stephen's claim and rite)...

so much for Shakespeare's sonnets...
when come new year's eve
and all that resounds...
is auld lang syne...
and all sing to embrace...
and none sign to what's...
nonetheless later sung...

was man ever to fathom being
so disillusioned to early...
to early as to catch a prosper from
the scent of thyme?
i can't stomach the recitations
of Shakespeare...
they sound to me like a clogged toilet...
i do not require a new recitation...
i require the proper reincarnation
plumber for this gobshite blockage
of what doesn't require to be ******* out:
re- again re- again re- again
and once more until another ted hughes
calls it: an "event at Wimbledon"...

**** it... yes... it was Primrose Hill...
unlucky for me... the Prussians never made it
into the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...
nor was there a deluge to recount
on the canvas of a Bayeux Tapestry....
but sure as Sherlock ******* Holmes knows
his Watson...
cite and recite all the Shakespeare pedagogy
all you want...
the man would prefer rotten cabbages
to be thrown at the stage than having to endure
the immortality of a Bach...
esp. when... the words of a scotman are
sung come the eve of a new year's day...

by abide the Roud Folk Song Index...
this poo'em will too, not disappear as frequently
as the next to "new" viral video...

if only i wandered as far among
the Welsh... perhaps...
among the Richards of Little Ireland
and all the clever deargfriochta!

what's there to compensate with?
Southend... Colchester... Clapham Junction...
Prince Irvine of Clemence & Chelmsford...
epilogue of Epping -
as glutton Loon'don and...
fair well... bride Bethlem...

a song to not having parted...
a song to not heaved a last farewell...
a song for yesterday...
a song for: everyday!
a song for the domesticated dog...
and never the abides of a lost
leash that also calls itself a dog in horse-ridden
stirrups!
a song to bypass Leicester,
Doncaster, Newcastle, Carisle and...
the lesser domains of Hadrian's scare...
those BIG in domine dominos of history...

my putrid lot to have to remind...
it's not Shakespeare that's sung...
come the advent of anewed...
bubonic Edinburgh...
or how the first skyscrapers were born...
how the first bridges were raised
over no river or any manner
of a body of water...
how i came across my first
scottish "witch" and even if she was
the 2nd or 3rd Fiona...
i didn't fall in love with her...

old clinginess of a mythological Kiev...
somewhere between
Warsaw and Moscow...
yet again... it would have been
better that i return to the squalor of...
forget me to remember:
London 20th century 90s and 80s.

Dear future husband
I thought I knew who you were
Silly naïve me huh?
I thought I knew that your smile was the one I wanted to smile back at forever.
I thought that your arms were the ones that would pick me back up after every tumble in life.
I thought your soft brown hair would be the hair I ran my fingers through until I can’t.
I thought that I would get to stare into those deep brown eyes until I go blind from the brightness of your personality.
But instead
Your smile turned into a snarl and tore me apart
Your arms were the ones that pulled away from me if we ever disagreed on a topic crossing angrily in front of you.
Your soft luscious brown hair became off limits because you thought that I was too clingy.
Your deep brown eyes are now so full of hatred.
But instead
I didn’t blame you.
I blamed myself for every problem we ever had.
I blamed my clinginess for why your grades were slipping.
I blamed myself for the house being a mess from you sitting there all day.
I blamed myself for your car breaking down because I told you to go have fun.
I blamed myself for your anger because I am always to blame.
So instead
I broke.
And you threw those shards into the trash.

On a usual Sunday,

Dad sits alone in front of the television.

The loud noise of which,

douses mom's voice, making her

repeat her question for the third time.

Little does she know, that the noise

douses the voices in his head as well.

On a usual outing,

as Dad starts chatting with a stranger,

as if they were old chums,

mom shakes her head in exasperation.

Little does she know, that extroversion

is just a mask, which hides his real self.

In a usual gathering,

Dad starts debating on a recent event,

Which has little to do with him.

I always thought him to be eloquent.

Little did I know, that that is the only way,

he evades talking about himself.

On a usual day,  Dad says that

he will go to the market with us,

even if it means taking a leave from office.

Mom gets a little frustrated at his clinginess.

Little does she know, that he feels all alone,

and is afraid to lose us too.

On a usual evening,

Dad tries, but can't call his own mom.

He wants her affection as his brother gets,

Only to be blamed on each call,

for the things he didn't do.

Little does he know, that I've seen him

on those days, holding his tears,

and cracking his old jokes.

On usual days, Dad stays at home.

When prodded to go out,

He says, he has nowhere to go.

So he sits and scrolls through his phone,

Little does he know, that even today,

He is searching for a warm home.

I miss you. I miss the scent of your body. I miss inhaling your fragrance. I miss cuddling with you. I miss your clinginess. I miss when you wrap your legs around me. I miss when you check my phone. I miss your surprise visits. I miss your soft voice. I miss your gentle nature. I miss holding your hand when we go out. I miss our conversations. I am missing you deeply.