Dear diary,
Today I was inspired
See, for me they'd conspired
I've finally got the attention I'd desired!
And it's from that particularly dashingly gorgeously fabulous man!

I'd felt so alone
All I could do was moan
Even though I had a mirror-like clone
See, we weren't all that close except in physicality and proximity.

But now I could scream!
- with joy, I mean.
Oh I've been covered in cream!
Such beautiful, fabulous, marvellous and wonderful involvement as this!

His friends they remark
"Oh, what a lark!"
As we frollick in the park
And I haven't figured it all out, the why, the what,
It's not as if it bothers me one jot,
It's just,... well,
That dashingly gorgeously fabulous man,
They like to call him '******* Stan'.

Have you ever looked into someone's eye?
Some come as dashingly blue as a clear days sky
Others as green as the leaf on the mighty tree
Even some as dark as blindness seems to me
But did you know that every eye tells a story?
Some of happiness, others of sadness and worry
Throughout time people will pass by
But to say they know anyone would be a lie
Unless you really spent time and looked into their eye

I was breathing in the beauty of  Scala dei Turchi,
as I sat atop pure white marlstone crescendo,
etched by the winds and the rains of time;
the view emphatically embracing the coast of Agrigento.

‘Twas along those balbutient banks of the Mediterranean sea
I saw him silently standing there,
his hands resting in white linen pockets,
the salt wind blowing through his peppery hair.
Serenely somber in quiescent stillness,
he was dashingly debonair,
his form earnestly beseeching, a wish
delicately wrapped in the guise of a prayer.

He peeled his stare away from crystal waters clear,
I was transfixed by eyes that gallantly gazed at  me;
eyes that emerged from pools of a deep sorrow,
eyes as transparent as the turquoise blue sea.

Deftly ascending those limestone cliffs,
he was reminiscent of Saracen pirates penetrating;
with such determination of gait and surety of purpose,
he approached me with palpable power emanating.

His drawing near sent my heart swiftly a-pounding,
a halo of light behind his sun-kissed face –
I imagined I saw a  shadowed smile emerge
as he nonchalantly quickened his pace.

He took his place beside me
atop the pure white marlstone crescendo;
and we waited for the sun to descend,
against the skies of beautiful Agrigento.

Our saving grace
now leaves me with a perplexing taste of hiraeth in my mouth
In our moment of need, we clung to it
although simple
and dashingly ordinary
we wouldn't be here without it
but now that it inches toward its inevitable end
I am filled with bitter nostalgia
one of empty promises
for even when our season was ending
I cared for you nonetheless
I clung to your ruminating sweet taste
for even when your newfound thorns engulfed me
I held on
watering jug in hand
and laid my eyes on your grand opulent tree
just as fondly as before

Now we are back in season
but my hands have grown rough and weary from the thorns of yesterday
your once dulcet taste
repulses me
for the taste of my blood is surprisingly pungent.

Why would I?
Why should I?
Why could I?
Why would I crawl back into that thorn bush?
Why should I travel back in time to have it hurt again?
Why could I be a superhero?

Well, because that thorn bush has roses.
And traveling back in time and experiencing that pain would be better than the pain of today.
And well, because, I'd look **** good in a cape.

But why would there be roses on a thorn bush?
And why should I still have to go through pain?
And why could I pull of a cape so dashingly?

Well, because there's beauty in beasts.
Pain is never-ending.
And well, I've been my own superhero for quite sometime.

Would I show it?
Should I show it?
Could I show it?

No.

And it's better that way.

Green crash,
suddenly center signal
on strange, distant announcement squiggle.
Scenery dashingly
simple, single.

Wave shape,
hungering scented cower.
On top, beady dispassioned shower,
shaving or scraping a
wooden tower.

Stale grid,
static or sounding static.
Appear, pointedly under attic,
wailing forbidden, not
automatic.

Big screen
messaging: starlight scatter.
The end. Something but antimatter.
Trigger between, in the
ribbing: flatter.

Soft board,
terribly outer terror
perceives singular, stringent error.
Coughing accordingly
code propeller.

Navigating his way past screeching taxis,
Unperturbed pedestrians,
And vibrant street performers in the city,
A young boy scurries down the street,
Smiling ear to ear.
He extends his arms perpendicularly to his body,
Propelling his body left and right,
Pretending to be a jet plane.

He is meeting a girl today.
And not just any girl;
An angel.
At least that’s how he sees it.

In his left hand, the boy carries a rose.
Grown from love, it’s dashingly large;
A symbol of his exuberant feelings,
It’s a gift for the girl,
And an invitation to a first date.

In his pocket, the boy carries an iPod shuffle.
Giddy with optimism and bliss,
The boy’s heart skips to a romantic pop song.
He proudly waves his rose through the air as he moves.
Holding it like a microphone,
And not bothered by judgement,
He sings the lyrics to the song aloud.
He’s in love,
And he wants the whole world to know.

As he scuttles ever closer to their arranged meeting place,
The boy grips the rose tighter now,
Guarding it with his life.
He sinks into a daydream,
Thinking about her:
The way the sun amplified her splendid complexion,
The satisfying fluidity with which she would say his name,
And how she giggled as he pushed her back and forth on the swings.

Nearly out of breath, the boy arrives at the street corner.
He spots the girl immediately,
And a thrilling tension condenses in his chest.
The girl bestows him a smile,
But she looks agitated and in a hurry.
Unable to contain himself much longer,
The boy extends the rose out her,
Revealing to her not only the gift, but also his feelings.

“No thank you,” she says lucidly.

The boy’s smile fades and his cheeks turns pallid.
Though in a state of disbelief,
He accepts her verdict with civility.
The girl offers genuine condolences, but shows no signs of regret.
Covertly, the boy holds back his emotions and bids her farewell.
But as he walks away, he’s overcome by an unfamiliar, rankling feeling,
And his heart plummets like a raindrop falling from the sky.

As he wrestles with his grief,
The boy begins to weep and loses grasp of the rose.
It tumbles out of his hand,
Only to be violently stolen by the wind,
Sullied by the filth of the sidewalk,
And trampled by people passing by.

Fondled by the temptation of an autumn sunset
***** stands a woman in the cradle of such potent winds
Quite dashingly contributing colour to the scene
Her silky, black dress enveloping her ever so tightly
Composing the shape of an inviting taboo
Whilst refraining all comely sounds of vernacular
How her lips whisper things of which previously I knew not
Sign o’ the times

Ravishingly relevant, don't give a **** about being elegant. Thanks for the sentiment, but I will not give you any dividends. To me you are no more than excrement, can't you see that I am benevolent. Dashingly skilled, got a strong will, shoot to ****, run of the mill, if you join me I will never treat you Ill. Shockingly built, not going to bear any guilt, for if I do I will wilt. Establishing my mark on this earth, destined for greatness ever since my momma gave birth. Developed moral codes that one could not break, never tried to play it safe, you can bet that I will not give in and just be another phony fake. For heavens sake, no pun intended; don't give a **** if you’re offended, my friends are all colourly blended. So what if I'm not politically correct, you **** heads don't always have to be so *****. So elect me for president or prime minister or whatever, how could it get worse when politics is full of bad weather. Canadian born, but my name isn’t Aubrey, that guy who is worn out yet he thinks himself as godly. Funny, narcissistic sloppy rich boy sell out, Mr. ****** ****** get out, or you will be taken out. Classy J will you show you how it’s done, I do this **** for fun, never claimed to be number one. I am definitely not the goat, but I stay afloat, to devote my time to finding the truth instead of finding a scapegoat. Real deal, making people like you my next meal, you will be no more than a third wheel. Sure I can't free style, sure I rant about how it is to be a Cree, but when it comes to original verses I surpass you by a mile. I will never reconcile, I will keep on being a clever juvenile. They will file this rap beef as a no contest, no need to weigh in against a crap invested slugfest. But back to my rap, not about to waste my time rhyming about rappers that slack, it is like I am rapping against scrap. Anyways, these days, people have become dazed, it's like we living life sideways. Don't be succumbed, look towards that sequel, don't lower yourself and stay hazed for if you do you'll stay dammed. Not here to have you condemned, but if you hook up with the wrong crowd you will end up harmed. Stay esteemed, never **** your dreams, anything taken away can be reclaimed.

I was sitting in the waiting room at my GP surgery and noted that there was a distinct lack of reading material provided. Just a couple of leaflets about ****** and a few old Mills & Boon paperbacks.

Mills & Boon, a very strange corner of fiction indeed. A strange corner in which the sight of a ladies bare ankle can cause a dashingly handsome cavalry officer to positively swoon with desire. A strange corner where the mere use of the word 'hosepipe' can cause a nun to blush. A strange corner in which the heaving ***** of an 80 year old great aunt causes palpitations and sweat gland problems for her even older gardener.

Mills & Boon is a very strange corner of fiction indeed. A strange corner that makes Austen and the Bronte sisters  look like purveyors of ****** ****.

I reach for the leaflets, and wait.

There once was a little princess who loved a little knight
She thought him strong and handsome; a dashingly good sight
He did his best to love her and she thought it so sincere
Her gentleness coaxed him open, revealing a great fear
He was the victim of a witch; so wicked and so cruel
He never shared his struggle though, else he be labeled “fool”
True it was he subjected himself to her twisted delight
Nothing but a sad weak man; he rarely put up much a fight
The princess had wondered about his strange departs
“Where would he go and what is this, a distance in our hearts?”
He was to scared; as always was the case of the poor man
He thought he could defeat the witch, a pathetic little plan
“Or maybe” he started off as he would sit and ponder
“In to the forest I will go but only for a wander!
“For I can parade nearby her place and still avoid her spell!”
It never worked, it never would, he suffered just as well
The princess knew of the witch with which the poor knight struggled on
But she had not the faintest clue of the duration how tragically far gone
She sat and wept, and he wept too, he was not fond of his sin
For it was torment, wretched pain, and still he let it in

To wherever you go
Get ready good folk
It will be nice
The ride of your life
Ensure the Luv and the Work are both steady

To wherever you go : take note
Have the imperative ~ a standing invitation
To let everyone know
Make it a dog and pony show
A big fuss over a lifetime, corner booth reservation
Welcome them. Let them stop and dine
Then listen as they spin adventure stories and spend some time

To wherever you go : be aware
The first to appear all over the place
Is the dashingly refined intertwined pair
Enter ~ Style & Grace
Light it up for the other well-heeled oggling and goggling eyes
The entourage will be a reasonable size

To wherever you go : head’s up
This note is to suggest preparing to receive
It will happen fast so be alert ~ on the ‘ qui vive ’
Effort to feel their pain
If they get lost in driving rain
While a heavy foot forces the edge in their new hot rod two seater
Save a sniffer of brandy or a spot of sherry
If a chilly day, save a close comfortable place by the heater

To wherever you go
Generally writing as opposed to speaking
The tail of this tale is amping and peaking
The reason I was told
Of why they were so cold
Is what you’d expect from a couple of flop ups
The **** fools will be driving without the top up