When I was small
I walked on fairy dust and
my dreams were as tall
as skyscrapers towering
above the universe
inside of me, was the galaxy.
I was born of the cosmos,
full of light and love
passionate in my quest to
give this to others.
But as I grew my star began to fade,
stars need love and light to survive
and deprived of both my blazing fire
transformed into weak candlelight.
At school I had learnt it was easier
to hide your light
than to stand out as different
and be extinguished in an instant.
So I kept myself to myself
at the back of the class,
knowing the answers but not
shouting them out.
I daydreamed, and doodled
stars on the corners
of my books, all the while
I could hear the universe
calling out to me to trust,
that we are all born of this
cosmic stardust.

Watercolor raindrops
Feathery clouds doodled on the sky
Opened windows scared of accidental suicides
A melody of soap bubbles dancing in the wind
Lazy days stretching on forever
*Sometimes summer wins

It all began when someone left the window open.
The love bird cocked its bright green head at the shut door of Woodren’s third floor bedroom, perched on her bedpost. Its bright black eyes glittered, listening for the sounds of Woodren’s footsteps. None came. It ruffled its feathers impatiently; waiting for Woodren to come back with some water for its thirsty beak.
The love bird’s first memory was of Woodren: her clear gray eyes expressing her great happiness through them and not through the tiny curve of a smile on her thin pale lips. Her small white fingers pressed on the syringe gently, and a hot, mushy substance that tasted of apples and bananas went down its throat. The tiny black beak clattered against the plastic syringe greedily. “Aw, you poor baby. You’re hungry aren’t you, my Hoopsie-girl?” she murmured.
She then later taught her baby lovebird to fly with the patience of a mother. As soon as its wings started flapping feebly, she lifted Hoopsie up on the palm of her hand above her head and drew her hand away quickly, teaching the lovebird to fly and landing on Woodren’s soft bed. On cold nights, Woodren would wrap her favorite emerald green scarf around Hoopsie and place her behind the television where it was always warm and sellotape the electric sockets and wires so that Hoopsie was safe.
Woodren never even considered snipping the feathers of Hoopsie’s wings; she would never hurt her darling creature, and snip of its greatest glory. She would comb the feathers with a miniature pink Barbie brush, noticing how blue feathers had started to appear on Hoopsie’s wings and red ones slowly layered beneath the blue as time went by.
Showering Hoopsie was the hardest of all. Aunt and Uncle Palmer had no idea that Hoopsie even existed and revealing her presence would leave both Hoopsie and Woodren with no home. Late at night, Woodren would have to sneak out to the bathroom on the first floor (not on the second floor because that one was right next to Aunt and Uncle Palmer’s bedroom), down the stairs (taking care to step over the thirteenth stair that groaned so loudly), turn on the taps quietly and wash a sleepy Hoopsie with warm water.
Her two youngest cousins often made fun of her for the funny smell that stuck on her clothes sometimes. Linda and Lucy, her bratty twin cousins, asked in their scornful sing-song voices, “Why do you lock your room Woodren? Scared we’ll find all your old ***** clothes under the bed that you wouldn’t let Ma throw away?”
“No, maybe she’s scared we’ll find naughty magazines? If we do, we’ll tell Pa and you’ll have nowhere to stay ‘cause Pa says that type of behavior is sinful and he won’t tolerate it in his house!”
Woodren found it in her heart to look upon her silly cousins as childish entertainment. What did they know of the love she had for Hoopsie? “No, I’m scared you’ll find the monster under my bed and start crying for your Ma”
Linda narrowed her blue eyes, “I’m telling Ma you mentioned Lucy’s fear of the monster under the bed to her face! Besides, you don’t have anywhere else to go. You live on Pa’s charity. Ma said so.”
It was the lowest of insults based on a harsh truth. Woodren’s mother had died of cancer when Woodren was very young and her father followed her mother not a year after with heart grief. Her mother had asked her younger sister to take in Woodren; they were her only relatives and had stopped being fond of her once their own two twin daughters arrived and Mr. Palmer started to have to work harder to feed the six bellies at his dinner table. She just became another mouth to feed.
The only person Woodren got along well with in the household was her eldest cousin, Max. Max rarely spoke in anything but grunts, thought of his two little sisters as annoying brats, refused to say more than two sentences at a time to his simpering mother and loudly obnoxious father and often came and sat in Woodren’s room with his large feet against the wall, stroking Hoopsie’s head in silence. She really was fond of Max sometimes. He could be so thoughtful. Just two weeks before, for her birthday, Max had bought her maroon silk curtains with white birds imprinted upon them. He had even gone further than that and stitched in white thread, “Happy birthday. I love you” a red wonky heart followed and then “From Hoopsie.” Simply imagining him sitting there with a huge, thick curtain holding a tiny needle in his bear-like paws, cursing as he stabbed his rough fingertips and fumbling clumsily made her shout with laughter.
It was Max’s idea to buy Hoopsie a big metal cage and attach it to a branch on the big tree in their garden with a piece of shoelace, hidden among all the green leaves. That way, when Hoopsie sang Woodren wouldn’t have to blast her music and radio at the same time or pinch Hoopsie’s beaks shut when her Aunt or Uncle come to  yell at her if she was deaf or crazy or both. And that way, Woodren’s room wouldn’t have its twangy smell of bird **** and Woodren wouldn’t have to be paranoid all day long at school, wondering if nosy Aunt Palmer had broken into her room and found Hoopsie. And that way, she could leave her window open during the day, trying to rid her room off the nutty, sugary smell.
Max’s room was on the same floor as Woodren, the third floor. Every morning, bright and early before school, Woodren would run with a small lump in her sweater and the keys to her locked room jingling on her wrists to Max’s room. Max would barely acknowledge her as she ran across his room, opened his window and climbed out like a monkey to the branch that pushed against his window sill. She crawled along it with speed and sat there, with her legs hanging down and the branch between her legs, fumbled for the cage door above her head, made sure there was enough water and food to last Hoopsie for the day, popped Hoopsie inside with a quick kiss, arranged the fan-like fresh morning-smell leaves to cover the cage completely and skate back towards Max’s window.
Hoopsie mourned with a few high whistling notes. She hated being away from Woodren during the day- waiting for the moment when the sun was getting hot, and Hoopsie was tired of chatting to the birds in the nearby trees, when Woodren’s sharp little white face with its explosion of frizzy black hair would appear in between the leaves with her happy grey eyes and let her fly around the tree before calling, “Hoopsie” followed by her signature tilting whistle. But for now, and for every morning till noon, Hoopsie would have to wait.
“You don’t think they’ll find her do you?” Woodren would ask Max as she clambered back into his window. It was their daily morning ritual.
“No. Pa told Ma that it’s all about privacy now that I’m a growing-up boy. I’ll lock my door; promise.” He would reply back, completing their ritual.
“Are you still eating lunch with that Ed kid?” he asked, completely breaking their ritual this morning.
“Yes.” She was completely surprised. Not only was Max breaking a routine, Max of all people, he was doing so by asking her a question about her personal life.
Woodren eyed Max strangely. To her, Max was her huge cousin that somehow managed to communicate with a variety of different grunts and hated cutting his hair because of his fear of sharp objects; but to the rest of the school and neighborhood, she knew Max was the “strong and silent” handsome tall boy, every girl’s dream, with his shaggy blonde hair.
“Why?” her gray eyes grew rounder when suspicious instead of narrowing.  
“You don’t have many friends at school.”
“You know I don’t get along with any of them but Ed. I don’t like being friends with people unless I actually like them… unlike all the other girls at school.”
“I don’t like you staying around the Ed kid too much.”
Woodren felt a little glow of affection for Max in her heart. She understood why Max was worried. Ed was unstable with the rest of the world. He did what he wanted to, he said exactly what he wanted to and he wasn’t afraid of anything because he didn’t care what anyone said. He was the kid that the no parents wanted their children to stay near. There wasn’t anything Ed hadn’t done before.
Despite what everyone else thought, Woodren knew that his morals and sense of good and justice were strong in his heart. And when it came to Woodren he was always there for her since he moved to the neighborhood more than half a year ago. No matter how many offending remarks he made, she felt he had become the only stable thing in her life in spite of him being so apt to change. She had learned to depend on him.  
At the breakfast table, Woodren’s gray eyes slid over from Linda to Lucy to Aunt Palmer to Uncle Palmer and rested on Max the longest. Until she had come to look at Max, all four of them were identical in their attractive features and identical in their pinched-up, suspicious and petty expressions glazed over with a courteous mask. Max’s blue eyes, though the same shape as Aunt Palmer’s and the same color as Uncle Palmer’s, expressed a good heart and sincerity.
Her first subject of the day was an art lesson. All she had to do was sit comfortably, a palette with swirls of colors, paintbrushes, charcoals and pencils, a *** of water, and a fresh-smelling page. Usually she drew herself as a monster, or Linda as the devil- disturbing pictures that made people believe she was “talented”. But today, it came to her all of a sudden she’d never done a good, worthwhile painting of Hoopsie. Sure, her tables and notebooks were filled with carvings she’d doodled in class but never something she would want to keep.
She started to sketch Hoopsie on her bed post, eyeing the nuts Woodren had stolen from Aunt Palmer’s snack cupboard. She drew Hoopsie in the big tree and painted a metal cage around her. Somehow, the silver cage ruined the picture completely, making Woodren grimace. When the paint dried, she erased Hoopsie from inside the cage and drew her beside it, her small black feet gripping a twig.
Woodren remembered how elegant birds looked when she looked up into the sky, and saw them with their wings spread out and imagined feeling the wind rush through her feathers and ripple down her head and spine, with a heaven of azure blue surrounding her, shooting through clouds cold and refreshing like a sprinkler in the garden. Maybe that’s what freedom tasted like. She tried drawing Hoopsie soaring in the sky before she realized she’d never seen Hoopsie soar like other birds do, because Hoopsie had never done so.
Broodingly, she packed up when class was dismissed, slowly and thoughtfully. Somehow, that small beginning of a painting had darkened her frame of mind completely. Still ruminating, she headed down the hall way to eat lunch.
“Woody!” Hearing the sound of that voice, she momentarily forget her unease and Woodren’s thin, pale lips spread in a smile even before she turned around to him. Ed was the only one who ever called her that. His oval head was covered in small black bristles and one of his black eyebrows rose as he smirked with his pink lips curving down. The diamond earring in his ear glinted like his teeth did. He caught her eyes with his hazel ones; his eyes were warm and lively.  His mouth formed words that were witty and charming and could always make Woodren laugh.
Woodren put a look of amazement on her face. “You came to school today.”
“What are you talking about? I’ve been coming to school nearly all month.”
“That’s why I’m surprised.”
He hit her arm lightly. A few girls nearby turned around and giggled when they caught Ed’s eyes. Woodren remembered when Ed had first come to school. All the prettiest girls at school kept sidling over to him and batting their eyelashes. Ed had taken one look at the curves on their bodies; his eyes flickered over their face, a little bored, and continued his conversation with Woodren as if there had been no interruption.
It was a mark of their friendship three weeks later when she told him about her family. His hazel eyes had burnt hotly. When he was angry, his voice was quieter, but strained as if the passionate anger behind the words were being controlled with the greatest effort, “People who ruin other people’s happiness on purpose and with joy are just plain evil.” He told her that he hated the monsters that kidnapped children, crippled them, not only in body but mind too, and forced them to beg, far away from those that loved them. Here followed a stream of facts, all said in the same tone that both scared and impressed Woodren.
“How do you know so much about it?” she had once asked him.
He looked at her with an odd gleam in his eyes, “Because I care.”
Now he was looking at her without breaking his gaze, the same odd gleam in his eyes, searching her face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She had still been brooding over Hoopsie in a cage, and why the picture upset her so much.
“Woody, tell me what’s wrong.”
Every time Woodren mentioned Hoopsie, Ed would go silent or make an offending remark about the way that Woodren took care of Hoopsie. Over a very short time, Woodren had learned never to mention Hoopsie’s name and though it drove her crazy with frustration, she knew Ed would never tell her reason the why if she tried to pry it out of him. Knowing not to answer truthfully, “I told you, nothing”
“I can tell when you’re lying. Your eyes grow whopping and your mouth pouts to the right.”
“Shut up.”
He looked at her searchingly before giving up with an irritated sigh.
“Come with me.” The chair scraped as he pulled out and pushed the table away from him. His tall frame dwarfed her.
He brought her to the back of the school where teachers and students never went, leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette. “You want to try one?”
“I don’t smoke, Ed”
“Why won’t you even try it?” The tone he used when he was about to state something that began an argument leaked into his voice smoothly, like oil. Woodren opened her mouth to list the damaging things it did to your lungs and heart but his voice had begun in its rapid, silky tone:
“Because society has brain washed you so that if you smoke when you’re a child, you’re a horrible ungrateful creature that will never go far in life. But when an adult smokes, it’s okay. You don’t smoke because people and teachers tell you not to try it. Well I say, **** them. These are the best years of your life. Do what you want, try everything so you can make the choices of your life later with a rounded experience and knowledge. I’m not saying get addicted. You have to be strong if you’re gonna be a risk-taker…” he inhaled deeply and exhaled in a husky voice, “I just thought you always went on about how you were such a strong risk taker.” He blew a cloud of heavy smoke above her head. “Oh, and of course you won’t try it because Aunt and Uncle Palmer said it’d be sin, isn’t that right?” he asked with a tantalizing grin in a mocking tone. He watched her face contort with anger, his hazel eyes dancing with glee. He knew he had hit at the bull’s eyes. No one ever jeered at Woodren’s inner power and then put her on the same note as her Aunt and Uncle.
A sudden snarling sound flared from her. She didn’t have to listen to anything Aunt and Uncle Palmer said… they never did anything worthy intentionally. She knew that. He was just stupid. She swore at him and knocked the cigarette out of his hand with a smart slap before storming away. An amused laugh from behind her made her ears tingle pink.
As soon as school was over, she pushed pass Ed who was waiting for her and ran back home. Opening the front door of the house, she scurried up the stairs to the third-floor and knocked on Max’s door. When she opened it, Max was already holding Hoopsie in his big hands. Hoopsie sang with joy when she saw Woodren.
“Hoopsie-girl” Woodren whistled with a tilting note that Hoopsie identified instantly. Hoopsie flapped over and landed on her shoulder.
“By the way,” said Max, “she must have knocked over her water because it was wet on the bottom of the cage. She kept trying to drink it. She’s thirsty.”
“Oh you silly Hoopsie! Why did you knock over the water? You know I’m supposed to have 8 cups a day?” she pampered the lovebird with caresses and endearing words before hiding Hoopsie in her shirt and running back to her room.
Woodren placed Hoopsie gently down on the bed post

Hildegard of Bingen
the most musical abbess
of the year 1097 a.d.
met with Jung the unconscious detective
and Ginsberg the howling poet
for lattes at some Starbucks
in a vibrating city
on a shimmering afternoon.

Angelic minuets keep flowing,
effervescing through my chakras
like tonal champagne . . .
the glowing femme declared.
Beams of ethereal light infuse me,
tsumanis of energy tempt me
to dance right out of my habit.

Ignoring the possibility
of seeing a naked nun drink coffee in public,
Alan mused behind his hornrims . . .
I get what you mean
like I have felt the same perfusion of joy
watching cans of peas and ayahuasca
dance with talking bananas
at the A&P; Market near my pad in Brooklyn,
can you dig it?

Still suffering from his Freudian hangover,
Carl reframed them both . . .
Any conclusions or convictions
drawn from such experiences
may not self-verify because
your introspective identifications
attempt in vain
to concretize the amorphicity
of decentralized psychic sensations
which reach conscious awareness
only at the expense of extension.

What did he just say?
Hildegard asked Alan.
I have absolutely no idea,
the portly poet answered
as he doodled an intricate mandala
on his hemp napkin.

Art class was a given
A bird course as they say
But, our teacher had gone awol
You could say he flew away
They found him at a campsite
Cross legged on a mat
Naked, drinking cool aid
And talking to his cat
He snapped while teaching concepts
beyond the grasp of teenage kids
Who only wanted to pass time
and be on ebay making bids
He taught them about structure
about lines and Bernard Frize
and now he's in the forest
sitting naked with the trees
Pastels, crayons and chalk sticks
littered where he sat
sitting naked, drinking kool aid
and talking to his cat
the kids, they drove him crazy
never doing what he told
Instead they sat and doodled
while the teacher...well...unrolled
they didn't draw the things he asked
didn't study all the masters
instead they were more intent
on creating art disasters
he came to class equipped one day
to show them some van gogh
instead they all got up
And told him he could blow
he snapped and left the class room
never stopping at the door
he went to his apartment
and picked the cat up off the floor
he went down to the locker
he took his tent back to the car
he was going to go camping
he wasn't going to a bar
he drove up to the campsite
made his kool aid, grabbed his cat
took his clothes off and got naked
and sat down upon his mat
this is where they found him
seven days since he walked out
he's now painting in nice place
where there's lots of staff about
most days he sits in silence
in his jacket, sleeves behind
zonked out on medication
to help him find his mind
they give him lots of kool aid
but his cat he does not see
he just paints with all his fingers
making pictures of a tree
once he was a teacher
of a bird course teaching art
now he gets all his excitement
drinking kool aid from the cart
in his mind there are da vincis
claude monets and rembrandts too
but, on paper he paints tree limbs
in black and grey and blue...

I've doodled and drawn till my skin's
Smudged grey from graphite,
I've erased and erased till shavings
Covered my floor like a rug,
I've drawn and re-drawn till I think
maybe... maybe it's good enough,
Then I change it some more,
Shade a part again,
Stain my skin some more,
Re-trace lines again...
And I think this time it's just about right,
Not quite, but it's alright,
So I pick up my pencil and
Sign it

thirty eight days
twenty poems
and an embarrassing amount
of doodled hearts later,
the reality of you not being my one
has finally begun to set in

it’s been one week
of trying to get over you
and i still cried last night
and i will probably cry again
but not forever
because i know that i know that i know
that i deserve so much better

i deserve
someone who will think
my eyes shine like diamonds
and whose heart will always
ache to be next to me
and who will do whatever it takes
to have me, no matter what
someone who will overcome every obstacle
to ensure that i am forever his

and this will be
my last poem about you
and tomorrow will be day one
of erasing your name from my heart
and it’s going to sting
because i really was hoping
you’d stay

but no
i now see that you
are not my one
you are only one step
in the right direction

I'm getting tired of writing
things on a piece of paper
and having them thrown away
to places i know very little about
THIS IS NOT THE POEM I ORIGINALLY WROTE
THIS ONE IS WORSE..
GOOD WORSE Xd


Love and lust
you and me
different sides
of the same coins
if she loves you like a poet
and f's you like a h
never let her go
and just so you know
i can be both

oh boy, your ***** could act like gasoline
soak me in it
and let your kiss start a fire
And ignite my skin
wherever you touch

Get some movement down there
won't ya?
in and out
slow and fast
smoother and rougher
just satiate the thirst you yourself
have created
'cause you're the only one who can

So, won't you be my artist?
and paint on my surfaces slowly
Or
Wuld you liker it better
if i took control
and doodled on your body
wuth my tongue as a paintbrush
With your raw material
and my lovely strokes
you could be a mster-piece you already are
I'll always carry you with me
haVE a copy-right
or why not brand you
with my name upon your chest
My touch,
your nakedness
My palm
Your hard drive
My lips
your lips
My smile
your ouch
My hand
Your skinwarm and wet
My legs
your thighs
Me driving
Your vehicle
We can take turns
you could
mold me
squeeze me
caress me
feed on me
devour me
completely
savor me
every inch of me
Electrify me
Tear through
all my layers
kiss my lips
both of them

An original creation, that's what  you are
in vibrant colors nature carefully assembled,
as you sashayed through your time,till here
now all across the front page one can see you
arousing  pleasure that moves me deeply,
done in bold sweeps of a brush immersed in joy
making onlookers stand agape, thrilled
mumbling inanities as none has the grasp
of the quicksilver aesthetics that rules you.

And I, obscure , at the best like a crop circle
done in the secret hours after midnight,
or a cryptic mural on a dull wall, long past it's prime
doodled by an interplanetary traveler gone astray,
a drawing in grey fading slowly in to oblivion,
yet to be deciphered is the benediction,
it carries from light years far away,
it will be gone soon as the light from galaxies far
want to make it their own, little by little each night
Am I not transient  and  to be forgotten soon?

But you are steadfast and adamant
very rooted in your reasoning
sprung from a center devine, we both
claim together.
                         "Am I not a woman and lover first?"
Your eyes, gleam, exuding  a timelessness that speaks to me.
"I would only dream of lying naked under your
sweet heaving heaviness, to receive the nectar,
the transient ecstasy that gifts me the precious seed
that'd grow to heights immortal,on the bank of the milky way"

Mr. Golden sun casting long shadows
Salty breeze hitting across
Acres of sand lying beneath our feet
Ups and downs like craters on the moon
Crows cawing, horses galloping and dogs basking in the sun
A straight line of ocean doodled below the empty sky
Gigantic ships appear like miniatures farther away
Hushing sound of waves
Four feet amidst frothy tides creating footprints
Carrying back some rustic soil on the toes
A little dirt never hurt
A bag of sea shells
Small, big, coloured and white, all with a coat of sand
A bag full of sea shells
The sun sets down
The radiant moon creates a guiding path in the dark shore
Following us back home
After a long evening at the beach
With my dear son

Every time I went to the bar, I saw him sitting there.
It didn’t matter what day it was,
didn’t matter if it was early or late.
The same man was sitting in the same spot, alone.
Some days he was nursing a beer,
other days he’d be sipping coffee,
but every day he’d be sitting there, alone.
I never heard him speak a word,
the bartender would bring him a new drink
when his was empty, he’d pay and leave a tip,
all without speaking.
There were times I’d feel compelled to speak to him,
make small talk, try to draw him out of his shell.
But, somehow, I could never bring myself to.
Maybe it was because he never looked at people,
not even when the bar was crowded,
or when someone bumped into him.
Maybe it was the look on his face,
neither smiling nor frowning, utterly blank.
Even thought I could never speak to him
I looked for him every time I was there.
Eventually I noticed, he didn’t just sit,
he was writing in a notebook.
Not constantly, he’d sit, stare off into space for a while,
then pick up his pencil, write furiously for a moment,
then stare off into space again.
Once noticed, the notebook was as constant as he,
a thick, five subject notebook, looking battered and worn.
When I first noticed it, he was barely a fourth
of the way into it.
Watching him became kind of an obsession,
I felt drawn, compelled.
Sometimes I would walk past him,
try to see what he was writing,
I never could.
Some nights he’d only fill a page or two,
other nights, whatever muse inspired him
led him to fill a dozen or more.
As time went by I watched him progress,
slowly, but steadily through his notebook.
Halfway, three quarters,
until one night, he reached the end.
My curiosity was still burning,
maybe he had just finished
the next great American novel,
or maybe a screenplay
that I’d soon be paying to see.
Even more than that, I wondered,
now that his project was done,
would he become sociable?
He waved away the bartender, who was approaching,
a fresh drink in his hand.
He sat and stared for a moment,
then wrote a brief something
on the inside of the back cover.
With that, he closed the notebook,
placed his mechanical pencil on the top of it,
placed it gently, almost reverently, and stood.
I watched him walk out the door,
wondering if I’d see him the next time I came out,
perhaps with a new notebook.
When I looked back at this seat,
I saw that he had forgotten his notebook.
I grabbed it, rushed out the door,
hoping to catch him, to give it to him.
When I got out the door, he was nowhere to be seen.
I was about to head back inside, leave it at the bar.
I was sure he’d be back for it soon.
I paused with my hand on the door, battling with myself.
I wanted to look inside, see what he had written,
yet I knew it was private,
he had never shown it to anyone.
I ended up taking it home, unopened.
I figured I’d return the next night, give it to him.
I’d assure him that I didn’t read it, and then maybe,
maybe he’d tell me what it was.
But when I returned the next night, he wasn’t there.
I left my name and number with the bartender,
said to have him call me if he came looking for it.
A week went by, with no call.
I returned to the bar but he wasn’t there,
the bartender told me that he hadn’t been in
since that last time I had seen him there.
I couldn’t believe it,
I was sure that the notebook was very important to him,
and said as much to the bartender.
As I said this, there was a tap on my shoulder,
I turned to see a guy that I had seen at the bar before,
seen him, but had never spoken with him.
“You must be talking about Peter, always sat right there.”
He pointed to the writer’s usual spot, and I nodded.
“Sorry to tell you this, but he’s dead.
Hung himself about a week ago.”
He walked away and I left the bar,
unsure of how to feel.
I got home, picked up the notebook,
it seemed to weigh a hundred pounds.
I wondered if it was the loss of the notebook
that had driven him to suicide.
I disregarded that thought,
he hadn’t even come back that night,
to look for it.
I put the notebook down on my nightstand, still unopened.
I had trouble trying to sleep,
feeling more grief than was warranted,
after all, I had never spoken with him.
Mixed with the grief, was guilt,
maybe if I had spoken, had reached out...
Finally, I fell into a restless sleep,
riddled with half-formed nightmares.
I woke early the next morning, not rested,
the notebook sill on my nightstand
where I had left it.
I picked it up, considered throwing it away,
after all, it wasn’t mine.
But instead, I sat on my bed and opened it.
His penmanship was neat, precise,
almost too tiny to read.
The first page was simple, a list,
titled “The List of My Regrets”.
Nothing shocking in the list, no major sins or crimes.
Friends he didn’t believe,
people he never got to know better,
women he never asked out.
The next page he had doodled on,
a series of geometric shapes, some simple,
some complex, others placed just so,
to form a stark face.
I flipped through the pages, reading some,
skimming others, a third of the way in
I found a poem.
There was more raw emotion on this page
then I had felt in my entire life.
The poem was about love,
and all the expected images were there,
but somehow he had constructed it in such a way
that reading it saddened me nearly to the point of tears.
There were other poems, as I worked my way through the notebook,
even some short stories.
Some pages only had a few words written,
but even these sparse entries had a feeling of finality, of completeness.
Even though everything I had read gave the feeling
of rightness, some sort of unexplained symmetry,
the tone kept growing darker, more somber,
as I neared the end.
The last poem, on the last page, written on his last night alive,
made me weep with it’s simple purity.
“A life filled with loneliness warms nobodies soul.”
The last line of his last poem.
I felt more guilt now than ever, if I had tried,
maybe I could have made a difference.
Maybe I could have eased his loneliness,
warmed his soul,
saved his life.
Then I read what he had jotted down,
on the inside of the back cover,
the last thing he had ever written.
Just three lines.
“I know you’ll take this notebook
and I want you to know,
it’s not your fault.”

Love.
Of course, the great spirit said that word
when he set down the majesty of mountains
thus, spread curling softness through the seas,
sending little creatures wriggling, crawling, mewling, howling,
oh ye little fish and fowl, doodled up the dinosaurs,
a lumbering jurassic joke, then unleashed leviathan
from just a speck, and made some others walk *****.

Love.
That word we need to hear
and the word that hurts so much.
It comes crowned with garlands, glistening
with the dew of pleasure. And underneath, the horn thrusts up
Dionysius and Venus, processions of Priapus, frenzied satyriasis
blind Baccus, luscious Pan and Zeus.
Ah yes. The juice.

Love.
And who has not recklessly ignored this word
or squandered it on abandoned, neon nights
that paled before the coming of cold mornings,
and who has not held back this word
from loved ones,
cowards of commitment,
circumcelliate, averruncate and absquatulate?

Love.
That little, mighty word that dominates our lives.
But what can we require of life and how can we survive
indifference in the barren waste and stay alive outside
without its whisper, without its cry and shout? And how can we aspire
to ecstasy without the tumult and whirlwind of its desire,
without its warmth, without its fire? So, we must turn again
to love's softness and love's pain. Again. And yet again.

Love.
It's easy, really. So go on, say it.  
It's time. Why not?  It's for the mothers and the lovers,
the fathers, it's for all the children who blindly seek.
It's for the teenagers and trembling old and the outcast and the isolate.
Even the soldier with the gun. Especially. It's for everyone.
The grave is lonely, deep and cold. By giving love before it's too late
those soft wings of the dove of peace unfold.
Love is the playmate. Enjoy, reciprocate.
This is the message I communicate.

Cassie walked up the stairs and into her new room, her new roomate sitting on the bed and writing in her journal. her long black hair in a side braid, wearing a purple flannel jacket and ripped jeans. "guess who i just met? you're not gonna believe it." cassie said, almost singing. "who?" Emily rolled her eyes. "madison montgomery, she gave me her autography and everything." cassie joyfuly explained. "madison montgomery? isn't she like some grade d lifetime movie actress or something? what is she doing here?" Emily shook her head and rolled her eyes as she doodled a picture on the notepad. "that cuts me deeply that you would say that about madison, she's my friend you know." Cassie touched her cheast, as if she had been cut by this very deeply. "okay?" Emily shook her head "she is a witch like us and is most certainly NOT  a grade d actress." cassie explained.  "i really like it here, you know? i never really had friends at my old highschool.. everyone thought i was weird or annoying." Cassie sighed. "did they?" emily replied sarcasticly. "well yea, thats why i had to get rid of all of them. " cassie sighed once again, shaking her head and staring into space. " sometimes i lay awake and i can still hear them." Emilys eyes and mouth widened as she looked up from her notebook very slowly. "what do you mean, you got rid of them?" Emily asked. "ohhh nevermind..! it's a really long story and i come out looking pretty bad in it" Cassie giggled, making emilys stomache turn.  her eyes still wide and filled with fear.

Nothing to write, not today.. The words in my head just don't want to play,
And now my head is a wondering mess, with all the jumbled up **** that I posses,
Silence in my house is extremely rare you know? It's distractions and noise that are running this show!
Iv doodled some stick men and Iv yelled at the kids, who are currently shouting and raiding the fridge.
No fun to be had, not now any way.. Iv gotta clean up! It's all work and no play,
And now all I want is some chocolate and sleep! Or maybe some wine to ensure the release,
What I'm cooking the clan is next on the agender, something healthy and nice to keep us all slender?
****** that! Tonight it's beans on toast.. Nothing fancy not even a roast!
Mum's on strike, mum's not happy.. Going mad with each changed *****!
But I'll carry on, ya know? "as you do" reminiscing of days when alone I went to the loo!
If your a poet parent you will know this too,
Writing with distractions is all you can do! X

You’re like an ocean for you always look calm.
But I know behind it is a ******* fire in town.
A woman who is being idolized by everyone;
For you got your word voiced out even if it’s troublesome sometime.

Your personality is like your favorite seaweed.
Spicy yet it gives something to cherish.
You’re like your favorite ramen noodles.
Mind with worries feels like doodled.

You are the sweetness to my bitterness.
By just your wiggling eyebrows, it causes happiness.
You are the chili to every made kimchi.
Always looks fine even if it’s orangey.

Your mood somehow blends with your favorite colors;
You have adopted the calmness of the blue sky; the balancing aura of gray;
The peacefulness of white; brown’s friendliness in a simple way.
These interesting sides of yours will always be remembered.

You are the sour taste in a homemade sinigang.
The happiness I felt in every chocolate’s bite.
You are the coldness in my ice cream;
That balances the feeling that is in warm.

Your dramas are amazing just like your Korean films.
Those songs I love to hear whenever you start to hymn.
You’re proving enough that there is this thing called forever.
I would miss your cheerful smiles and long your crazy laughter.

© Quenniebells, 2015

i was about to start writing this up when i thought:
another whiskey Quincy? **** storm,
spilled the remains of the one i barely touched
before having to pour myself a:
puritan Scot in Cheltenham.

now, i heard people say any town in Essex
is a ****-hole...
                            fair enough...
but there are darker recesses of England you
must get to know before making that
assumption...
                  sure, London, proper London,
zones 1 - 4, E17 (post code, outer reaches,
Walthamstow, used to have a dog racing
track - played there once,
like a typical Paris catwalk, those hounds)
can skive off Greater London
                    like New York can laugh off
New Jersey, it's pretty much like that...
the only thing is: Londoners don't know what
exists outside this area: the buffer zone.
this is the buffer zone...
                 you experience England outside of
this very sensitive area of integration,
take for example a 3 hour coach trip to
a little town of Cheltenham in Gloustershire
not far from Oxford (a hub of learning)
and Bristol (Massive Attack, and that
bridge by Brunel - funny, engineers are above
architects, in that engineers build things
that *work, architects are like science-fiction
novelists rather than scientists -
do you know how many problems workers
experience, because an engineer
"forgot to mention" something essential in the plans?
at least an engineer gives you a read table,
all architects work for Ikea -
          ah, here's pieces a - z,
put it together yourself) - anyway...
              spilled my Quincy whiskey, now i'm a puritan
of scotch - unlike that damning quote from
1950s Hollywood: whiskey with a drop of water...
   ok ok... a little **** of ice floating about...
when will the nagging stop? no one says jack
about putting water into authentic absinthe...
      why? cos it goes cloudy green when you do!
(too much digression, news paragraph).

   i was leaving London on Friday,
murky the way i like it... Albert Bridge never seemed
so out of cinematographic urgency -
               but the west end with its grand buildings
appealed to me to start imagining
                    Oscar Wylde ghosts leaving these places
for promenades in top cats and tiaras for the ladies...
                     west London... the best way to see it
is in transit... preferably rather urgently...
                    and in a coach with other people not paying
attention...
                       the Thames receded into the estuary (
as it does), those housed in boats experienced a wake-up
call with a 10° ***** into the mud -
                                past the Chelsea pensioners' abode,
past many monuments to be exact...
   and then onto the open M4... past Windsor Castle
and the streak of aeroplanes about an aerial mile
apart landing at Heathrow -
                                  3 hours later, there i was,
in Cheltenham - chitty chitty bang bang,
apparently dubbed the hub of all English literary
endeavours - well, if you're going to host
a literature festival, wouldn't you claim to host
it with at least one patriotic son of the word?
did i see any statue of a famous poet or writer in
that little rugby stockpile of excess triceps?
nope.
           well, at first i thought it was cute...
                                a little Portobello, albeit
without the St. Petersburg paintwork on the houses,
houses as grey as the skies...
                                           got lost looking for
the b & b hotel i was supposed to be staying at for
the night, went into a gas station, asked,
i was apparently only adjacent lost -
                           old school, map printer and no
g.p.s. on foot -
                                  i once read a map and navigated
a car from an obscure Essex city,
to an even more obscure city in eastern Poland,
past the dreaded Penta Germania consisting of:
Düsseldorf, Duisburg, Essen, Wuppertal and
obviously Dortmund -
                                           i call it the whirlpool
of navigation...
                            anyway, so i found the abode,
what a nice little place it was, shied away from
all the traffic - a lovely garden,
a room fit for a journeying writer,
          actually, everything a writer could hope for
to lock himself away and write,
            tunic scenic - everything to ease the literary
constipation - the surroundings, the whole decor,
i even took a picture thinking: shame if no
Balzac were to not emerge from these rooms...
                           i sure didn't,
i dropped all the things, took a shower,
went into town to do the g.p.s. topographic of
the city so i wouldn't need a map in the future -
bought a bottle of whyte & mackay with a huh?!
apparently this brand isn't popular...
               went back to the room and found myself
drinking in front of the dreaded sight...
well... it was a room fit for a writer...
               but it had a double bed in it...
and a mirror at the desk...
                                    i downed one puritan glass
and looked in the mirror: i don't need your company.
looked away and found to my amazement the
truth of modern writing: the industrialisation
of writing... it emerged in the 20th century when everyone
did it by himself, with a typewriter -
        the industrialisation of writing on an individual
scale can be quiet debilitating when trying to
rekindle the quill... i didn't write anything, i doodled,
and those were bad doodles, it wasn't writing,
it was doodling... i drank a quarter of the bottle
and went out...
        went into the first bar, ordered a Guinness and
and sat down by a table with a
(later disclosed) Gloustershire University student,
a Canadian, jacking-off a script for some
B-short-movie in a public place: to catch the oozing
exfoliation of inspiration from crowded places -
if ever that worked, it might have ever worked
in a graveyard...
                             we were joined by his friend,
some peasant, we got chatting, boy, it was such a thrill
to exchange names... the Canadian's name
i did remember: Darcy...
                          he had that look about him that made
it worthwhile to remember his name,
ah, when names fit the image...
                         chubby, pig-blondish, hairy...
i'm guessing a native of Quebec...
                               but i could be wrong.
so a few hey hey, yeah yeahs later i asked if they
knew something about this gig on the festival slot
that was starting tomorrow, 5 p.m. and for free...
sure sure... got to eye the guide... so i asked:
so, maybe we could meet up at this place at this time
and go from there....
                                  Titanic looked more graceful
sinking than the reply...
                                                 i had to really check myself,
this isn't London psyche chess, this is:
we are small people from a small town,
we think a charming stranger is a serial-killer...
                    the Yorkshire ripper case scenario,
not last... first.
                              i might have been ******* a lemon
by then and pretending to be drunk squirming
a Buddha look - i pretended the polite noting down
the details: suddenly i didn't think like attending
this ****** venture that would start at 5 p.m., end
at 12 a.m. and according to my travel diary:
having to wait 2 hours to catch the 2 a.m. home.
so i went to the first instalment of the "literature"
festival... lemn sissay and salena godden -
and i have to admit, it was a corker - a true
a champagne cork popped and hit the crystal
chandelier and i laughed... and that's how i lost my
virginity to "spoken word",
                                         i wasn't listening to poets,
but i was thoroughly entertained, i swear that
at the end of her performance Salena pointed into
the dark (great tactic, how can they be nervous
if they can't see anyone? they stand on a pulpit of pure
light and see black ahead, where the nerves?)
and said: esp. to my friend over there...
                i might have involuntarily back-laughed /
snorted like a pig trying to catch enough lung volume
for a ha ha...
                          got chatting to this lovely middle-aged
couple: told them: i'm being ***** with gags.
                prior, i was watching the queue build up
into the room, with a god-awful grin on my face...
i couldn't take it off...
                         perhaps because i was looking at
the demographic and thinking: where are my peers?!
i spotted about three people in a close age proximity -
the rest were farts and soon-to-be-farts...
                             now Sissay freaked me out...
in a good way... i met the two after the show,
i brought two copies of my own printed work to give to
them... i had to ask their publicist if i was allowed
to touch the Aegean marbles... luckily i did,
but then i asked the stupid question to Sissay:
so who were you trying to imitate when your eyes
were bulging out nearly gauged out like a Pink Floyd
song video of: teacher! let these children go!
               i should have associated something African
freakish in mask, a strengthening - the sort
of look that New Zealander rugby players put on
to frighten people off when dancing the haka -
he really did talk like that...
                                       the little devil voice didn't help
either... but i only asked that "stupid" question
while mumbling something about how hard it was
getting published and how anyone aged nearing 40
forgot the free press of the internet emerging and
how he asked for a q & a after the performance...
and... hand on my heart:
                                   got asked one question...
          and answered... only one question...
                                        a complete and utter ******* meltdown...
   not: oh yeah, so who's your major influence...
                      a Samuel Beckett moment from not i.
later i standing outside and smoking, a grand English
dame of the west approached me,
chitty chatty kiss the hand later i got to say the most
famous line known to the current Englishman:
unfortunately... from Essex.
             honest. anyone asks you in Essex the question
they always ask: so where you're originally from?
                         anywhere else in England
they just ask you: whe

(my lover has doodled some strange prostrate cat
and it is my ambition to capture essence of that..)
it´s nature is of an aqua marine well kicked back
giving the aura of a feline on the beach is laugh!
it´s hind left has scored some thing but just what-
it´s eyes are as empty and smiled as sphinx pit
a pat..it´s cute proboscis   inverted t right height..
and the line as endless as life..if it could be it...
there is something endless and odd  happy light
it´s front paws should not really not be..but
as a whole and to hell ear fret a wood cut..might
have been a picasso if he did which so bright..
it is one great smile..and only one break past
and now with a tint of the future one and one..
i think i will put it on the wall or fridge something
to consider squared an questioned in blue time..

lots of bits and pieces here, bits of strings, pieces of cloth, laundry pegs, handles to god knows what, scattered coins from scattered lands, paperclips, brokendreams, rubberbands, scraps of life
on paper doodled, rolls of film, batteries alive and dead, scary thoughts from one's head, lego blocks, bits of wood, seashells from the seashore, keys from a life before, unknown things, important somehow, jigsaw pieces of a china dove, thumbtacks, nuts, screws and bolts, lists to do, that just did not, lids from old jamjars, spent pepperpots, bright neon plastic straws, words left unsaid, that may have started wars, little stone pebbles collected,
because, packets of seeds, vegatable and flower, the combo to the lock, of all the lost hours,  bits of the times, i often regret,  pieces of my heart, awaiting repair.....
but amongst all this
stuff i cannot find,
any leftover, clarity of mind.
rooting around in the junk drawer of life, always an adventure, not always kind.

So we were sitting around with some college dude
And talking about what we wanted to do later
And the pretty little girls wanted to be singers or artists
And the little blond boy wanted to be a movie director up in the golden city
They had star-studded dreams of art and passion
And this one guy says he wants to be in finance
And be a stock broker
And play with money
Because he likes money.
So I looked over and saw him there
Leaning far back in his chair with a purple penguin T-Shirt
And gloriously doodled notebooks
And I thought this kid
This kid
Is not afraid of losing his soul.
Perhaps he lost it years ago
And figures he's got nothing to lose.

I thought this kid
Is going places.
Perhaps not very moral places, perhaps not very clean places
But big places.

If I was a really good poet I would probably say many deep things about this kid so willing to be a Wall Street slave
But I'm also
Just a kid

Hindsight, hallowed be thy name.

All I've got is luggage... luggage!
My God! Turn around; find my comrades slumped under the weights strapped to their spine!
Limping, bearing, burdened by non-negotiables while the High Court of Good Karma takes collective sabbatical —
and this knapsack of shame, I've partial credit in filling.

Grey handkerchief, original sin:
one. single. suckerpunch. and my fists are raised forever,
begging for the chance to swing and prove my own strength
— supposing the opportunity never fell into my lap — I'd said "**** it," packed a

hundred grams of bushy brushed-out curls, stop-sign red
fifty grams of lips to match (uniform too, now I think about it)
fifty grams of raccoon eyelids and coloured-in brows
hundred grams of halls of mirrors, circus-attraction Alice
lose a hundred/gain a hundred/repeat til dizzy
hundred grams of ******-in stomach, eyes averted in changing rooms
wigs by the armful — that's three — nom-de-plumes thrown in gratis
(it's only a journey to the rest of my life anyway, I'll need them,
alternative being cinematic debut as Myself)
hundred performances to imaginary audiences, less-than-stellar reviews
hundred grams of overwhelming then underwhelming "on purpose"
hundred grams of laughing off any belief in potential
hundred grams of scratch-marks and verbal fountains of venom
hundred grams of giving almostneverquite as good as I got
hundred grams of group-work alone thank ****(?)
hundred biro-holes stabbed in martyred pencil cases
feral in broad daylight spoiling for a fight
kilo of aiming for 'scary' and landing on 'strange'
kilo of being third to make good company a crowd
kilo of taking sixteen years to find Her
— Shadowboxer Fiona, rhythms invisible, catharsis in art —
hundred doodled superstitious evil-eyes in the ruled margins
hundred laments over the inability to provide a better future

(removed one by one whenever I think the future's mutable)

that one glimpse of white lightning in a violet storm
one single minute's pause to look over my shoulder
scarce-to-zero progress made
endless miles to go
breathless body soaked to the bone
and this useless! *******! bag! of Everything and nothing of value!!
mansions worth of loathing yet there's nothing to lose
did I decide that because I can't change the world, I can change nothing at all
(instead throwing darts at reflections/emotional *****/kicking stray dogs as a full-time hobby)?

O clarity so saccharine that I cannot be angered by the wasted years
only because THERE ARE MORE TO COME
I take it
   off my shoulder,
the first kind action I have spared myself in time unguessable
empty
     the
        contents...
   really
    air it out...
and trudge on
    unaccompanied.
The world's enough of an uphill climb.

An explosive sizzle over the tarmac,
and through the cracks in the windscreen
(which spread like invisible spiders' webs),
the highway snakes through the hailstones,
and climbs yet another hill.

Townes’ voice sounds thirsty on the FM,
the eyes in the rearview lost, doodled-upon road maps
(clichéd with just a tad of Cabernet Sauvignon);
the driver leans over, pops the cubbyhole,
and yet another pink pill.

Telephone wires vibrate like ocean ripples
with the last cries of ravens that rose like a black tsunami,
‘parting the sea’ for the speeding hearse,
and casting cancer-shadows over the land
with each flap of their wings.

Time limits every single rainbow though
It's sweep binds the horizon end to end,
As the light slowly fads,this illusion dissolves,
And darkness stares the sky on it's starry eyes!

Each rainbow color is derived from the  sedate white!
If white can do this, what wouldn't be possible in colors!
But billowing darkness before long fulfills it's desire.
And the morning blush again will wash all darkness off.
Moving clouds pass  their messages to me aloud.
In cryptic script doodled  in light and rumbling sounds.
A wonderful display on the dark curtain of clouds!

Look at me, I am still here to make you see what
You have never seen before your curious eyes!
Clouds churn darkness and light to find what does emerge,
I do see specks of rainbows frothing in it's cauldron!

Life is a change continuous, like the days of torrential monsoon,
I am with the winds and water, in the chiaroscuro of clouds,
A rainbow with an illusory nearness, allowing you to touch,
As it happens it's gone, becomes one with light and darkness.

He sat on the rug and doodled a house
Using his brand new crayons.
Red for the roof, blue for the walls, green for the door.
He drew his mommy and his daddy and a smiling sun.
No one heard the door’s handle click open.
He never heard the screams, because when they began
He was already down, hugging the ground
Still holding his crayons.
Still smiling.
His parents would never see that smile
When in a week, he would have opened his red firetruck for Christmas.
It would remain in a box
In his parents' closet,
Never to be opened.

A face so lit
A smile so bright
I wonder why!

Something caught my eye
Two doodled stars on your arms
A reward for performing great

If a tree falls in the forest
and someone is there to chop it down,
did it really fall at all?
And is a tree only a tree when its roots are deep in the ground?
What then, when the man cuts it down?
Does it still exist?
It is dead when its roots are shriveled up.
When we die, we no longer exist.
Or do we?
Are our roots still extended?
Our connections remaining while we are gone, though not for good?
Are our souls still around,
to strut around the town?
Wait, does a tree have a soul?
Or is it really gone, when it's gone?
When it turns into paper in a factory,
has the tree disappeared, destroyed?
Or is all that paper still the tree, torn up and annoyed?

So what happens when we're gone?
Are we cut up in a factory and packaged up
to be sent to stores all through the town?
They call us ***** donors.
Are we written on and doodled upon
like a worthless piece of paper?
People talk, they gossip, hurt us with words,
label us with their judgments,
make us feel worthless.
No one should feel worthless!
Even a tree.

But isn't a tree just a thing?
It isn't a person, nor an animal.
But it is alive,
moving, trying to strive,
for recognition, just like the rest of us.
It reaches its branches higher, higher,
only to be sliced apart and turned into a flyer.
If I was chopped down,
and just as I was working my hardest,
I'd be sad, I'd be mad, I'd be crushed inside and out.
I don't want to be like paper, used,
crumbled into a ball, abused,
if asked, it would be refused,
"Can I cut you down?"
No.
Never.
Stop, stop, STOP!
A tree is never asked, "Is this okay?"
They're just cut down, there's no other way.
And we're the same, even today.
We cut down others, we go and say,
"You ******! You freak! No one likes you, go away!"
HEY!

These words are ugly,
not like the people they're aimed at.
No one deserves to be made fun of,
to be hurt,
stepped on,
chopped down like a tree.
And those bullies will see.
It'll come back and then they will be,
cut down and hurt, just like a tree.
If a person is cut down,
and no one hears them cry,
do they still exist?
Do they still matter?
Of course they do,
though they feel like they don't.

Everyone matters, even when they don't think they do,
even at their lowest low,
when they won't know where they should go,
there's a place, a safe haven,
out there somewhere.
In the arms of friends, family, neighbors.
No one is ever truly alone.
And do you know what?
Neither is a tree.
When if falls, someone will be there
and someone will care.
Everyone and everything matters,
everyone and everything has a purpose.
Even you and me,
and even a measly tree.

I doodled a mini solar system on my homework today
It made me think about your eyes.
I want to travel through space and never come home
Go to the moon and never worry about the absence of gravity because your mind pulls me in just the same.

i spent the back half of freshman year as a ghost, drifting through these halls without ever touching anything, haunting my own bones with nothing more under my skin than an echo, watery lungs and glassy eyes that couldn’t see past my own transparency. floating. i don’t like to talk about it.

i spent the start of sophomore year as a zombie, revived but not quite alive again, less like glass and more like porcelain, trailing my hands along the murals and trying to feel again. i existed, but i was still searching for existence. in january i found pieces of myself in a meteor, and in amethyst geodes and lunar eclipses i found that i was less undead and more E.T.
either way i didn’t feel quite human, like i was off by two shades, so i doodled UFOs into the corners of all my notes and wrote poems about people who smiled like stars in the halls, whose laughs made me feel like i was finally home.

i’ve spent all of junior year driving. nothing feels okay in the same way that leaving does. highways sing lullabyes with road signs, other late-night cruisers sending Morse code messages to the helicopters overhead. i don’t have to think.
i’ve spent all of junior year side-stepping every single pestering question about what i’m doing with the next ten years of my life, signing away my soul to banks for student loans, all for a degree that statistically i won’t even need down the road for anything past sharpening my job resumes, like “hey, look, i’ve got all this debt in the pursuit of a higher education, please hire me.”

i’ve spent my junior year catching up on breathing.
i’ve spent my junior year catching up on sleeping.
i spent the first two years of high school half-dead and fully awake, chugging along like a train destined for nowhere, nothing.

i want to spend my senior year moving.
i want to spend my senior year running.
i want to spend my senior year finding life through expelling the ghosts in my bones and burning the skeletons that always left dust on my conscious whenever i reached past them to get t-shirts out of my closet.
i want to spend my senior year shouting.
i want to spend my senior year knowing that i am already everything i ever will be combined with everything i already was.
i want to spend my senior year forming galaxies with my fingertips.
i want to end my high school career knowing that there is a universe of possibilities inside of me.

i spent freshman year as a ghost, but ghosts are best used as metaphors for memories,
and something i’m best at is forgetting.
there are days where i still feel like a zombie, but who doesn’t feel like that at least every single monday morning?

Christina walked home
from school
in a strop
she'd not seen

Benedict all day
not on the sports field
(too wet
the prefect said)

nor in the corridors
despite searching
wide eyed
high and low

and in double maths
she'd doodled his name
in the inside cover
of her exercise book

to feel close to him
at least in mind
he was there
his sister said

he was some place
or other
she'd said
in a classroom

or gym
(oh to be there
Christina mused
to be close to him)

and once home
she strode
through the house
(ignoring

her mother's complaints
of this being left undone
or unwashed linen
left on the floor

of her room)
and up the stairs
and into her room
shutting the door

on her mother's tirade
(in one of her
blue moods no doubt)
and putting a chair

against the door
to keep her mother out
she lay on her bed
and took out

the photo of him
from beneath her pillow
and lay it
on her breast

and let him rest
all day and not
one sight
not a glimpse

not a passing shadow
just the teachers
and their talk
and other girls

and their chat
and giggles of boys
or such
oh it was all too much

she mused
rubbing the photo
against her breast
(nearer to her heart

symbolically)
closing her eyes
imagining him there
kissing her lips

******* her hair
talking like he did
of this or that
of some book he liked

or some place
he'd been or liked
to go
but in her mind

at least
he was there
having placed
his clothes

on the chair
being quite bare
(as was she of course
in her mind's eye)

just he and she
laying alone
he saying yea
and she making moan

but disturbed
by her mother's knock
at the door
(the imagining dispersed

he but vapour
in her mind)
and her mother's voice
much calmer

just asking
about some tea and toast
(all sins forgiven)
yes OK

Christina said
tucking his photo
beneath the pillow
and rising

from the bed
carrying his image
and her dreaming
inside her head.

Encyclopedic mainframes
Lap-top heads
Power-boxes for multitudinous outlets, plugs, chargers
Conduits manipulating
Fiber-optic arteries
Artificial energy
ZAP
Pale lights
Computers aglow in dark cloistered bedrooms
Powered pacemakers stalling at microwaves
Electrocuted blood - cookied fantasies
Ads proclaiming everything free!
Pharmaceutical elixirs for limpness, lumpiness, loneliness
Snake-oil for suffering
Nigerian kings, Syrian refugees
*******, clever memes, whimsical gifs, shocking news, witty banter
Socio-politic-religous-diatribes
Spewing on every thread

Existential *****.
Aroma-less cuisines
Vacuumed vacations
Youtubed communions
Suicide selfies.


Crucifixdrones - pedolandia
Jdate.POF.AshleyMadison.Match. Eharmony.SpeedDate.OKcupid
CG. Missed encounters...
Serial killers,
Pixalated *******, vein-throbbed **** shots, cardboard gloryholes

Instagramed I
Inviolate I
Internet I

I    I     I

No sweaty arm pits, cottage cheese, gray nose hairs or belly fat
Computer [ScreenShot]
While behind, posters hang: The Doors, Tupac, NIN, The Smiths, Hendrix, Joy Division, Nirvana

HandshapedHeart.

2D souls
Text-dating
144 word manifestos
#revolutions
Archetype emoticons

Doodled centaurs
Caged in matrices

Transcendental notes
Need a hit
Of internet smack

A line, a pinch, a drag
A like, a comment, a kudos
A reply, a thumbs up, a share, a poke
One measly view
Baby, come on, give me a fix
Just one
Notification: ding-beep-buzzzz
I want to dissolve like alka-seltzer in tap water
Otherwise I'm a used-up toothpaste tube
Sitting in a dank medicine cabinet

If not, I am
A stick-figure created from matches
Drowning in a drum of gasoline

Not buried beneath pregnant soil
No. dumped into blue recycling bins.

[Ctrl +Alt+Delete]

A wicked wind rages at your window
while you sit in the dim staring
with your zombie eyes fixed on
faces and names taped to the wall.

Coffee stains your teeth,
but ***** stains your soul.
The infections in your ears
make it hard for you to hear, but it’s not
like anyone was going to try to talk to you.

Your chapped lips long for a kiss
from the boy whose name you
doodled with a pen over and over
until the letters stopped making sense.

Pile trash on your bed so the
sheets won’t touch your skin,
and the whispers won’t keep you
awake all night unless you let them.