I’ve written on a flyleaf: I hate you, mon amour
with hard working passion I hate you.
Ceci n’est pas une pipe, your father have told you.

you’ve been so busy to cut the day off from the night
-quite an old fashion-
and just when the silence evacuates  its void to be the great pretender
perhaps Magritte had dreams about annihilation to compensate a ******
but I was dreaming of you sleeping with lions

I’ve felt your cage – the splitting of now and then into so many suspicions –
unbearable waking hour -  I wake up in the dark and I can see that I love you

when the hour gently subsides to the moon
and I can find no comfort in haunting memories
I pray to the air to touch my lips with your gaze

The policeman strides the concrete,
some poisoned daffodil
in his stage boots of tread and leather
and fear of authority.

Troll-like he emerges over the sound
of the head-dressed busker,
her simple song, her trio of chords
singing under the shops,

who despise her art.

And I, against the tide of footfalls
and ‘aww’s’ at the latest range
of lipsticks and daily distractions,
I stop to watch as her will falls limp.

Her squeezebox is strangled of sound,
and the music dies at the order
of an order, the noise pollution
of the High Street’s mating call.

Chair folded, she evacuates through
the traffic fumes, ‘cross the road,
and with hope, with fingers crossed
and eyes wet, I hope this is a retreat

and not a surrender.

Once more he strides the concrete,
his fluorescent jaundice coat
a warning, a reminder, and I see
his eyes mouth the words:

‘Your license please,’ he says to her,
‘your paper proof of your right to play.
What profit plan do you have in place
and who approved your name?’

‘You can’t call yourself a busker’, he says,
‘much less an artist or work of art,
which talent show do you hope to enter,
to validate your part?’

‘Your part in this wholesome land,’ he says,
‘how you do your bit, your profits large,
because our economy is going asunder,
and so we have no time for art.’

‘So it’s with no due regret,’ he says,
‘that I’ll send you on your way.
And if with you goes the death of music,
well that’s just progress made.’

And so I walked away from this scene of
deflowered and purpled hope,
my stomach wrought with injustice
and no nicotine in tow.

And it is to this table I am sat,
with just one vocation upon my mind;
to reclaim her song, now sung in silence,
and steel her memory in time.

And it is to this table I am sat,
with everything on my mind,
to tell of what I’ve seen,
to indulge another rhyme:

Sing to me your sorrow,
sing unto the skies,
play to me your pleasantries
and please purge me of my lies.

Pay us with your sorry tune,
pay us with your life,
all your forsaken childhood dreams,
your faded hopes and strife.

And please,

bathe me in this sunlight,
and bathe me in time,
scour me with city streets
and allow me what is mine.

When i look into your eyes I see the infinite galaxy.
Its an Out of this world level of intimacy.
Its a Place where you, I and The most High live unity.
Its a place of stillness fill with serenity.
Where The Our Dreams Become interwined with reality.
Where Metaphysical Fantasy becomes A living valley.

In this place You make my brain stimulate
As the the words formulate
our brain cells become awake
and our thoughts began to penetrate
As We serve one another an essential  
subtance and Truth on a plate.
Raising Our engery as it Elevates.
Indulging in Our frequency as it Vibrates.
Staring slowly in yours eyes While we quietly meditate
And the pain subsizes and evacuates
Drowing the voices of the hurt that are drying as they suffocate.
Feeling one anothers embodiment as we soundlessly communicate.
Your bring out the beauty of this beast Everytime we conversate.
Its a sensational authenticity
We are wires that spark fires of Electricity.
A source of Power that drives,
Exuberantly Spirited and adernalized.
What a blessing it is to be Revived and Alive.

She prances the streets, a ballerina in heat snapping finger's in rhyme! Forget thy time, she telephathicly makes her own.

She lives alone, yet roomies become her attire, maiden of dires, dating site's not accommodating thy interest? Pinterest !

A pipe she keeps next to her bed, juicy lipstick, a prideful head,
Yet still her small green bag does not satisfy.. Queen so blind!

Smoke evacuates the old pried windows that are nailed, for ghosts do haunt her, within and outside..

Thoughts of suicide, as riddles she makes up to stay sane, her mascara pounds to thine rain that leaks into her basement sanctuary!!

Addict's she clings to, monsters she speaks to, as her cats keep good company, I know!!!!

An operetic show, a fatalist as me, yet still hoping for whats not there, unruly she dares!!!

Her street lies beyond the ghettos, 515 dover lane ..
On the east side of town where the bullets meet with trains!!

Factory's of grains that make your daily bread, where thy living and thou dead come in between two world's...

Lonesome young girl, no more chariots can you escape, for thou art blundered and unvaped to the cloud animals thou creates!

any two people  coming together can be a game/life changer
but without intimacy they are only like
a fish without water a bird without air
leaves without roots dreams without a dreamer
this dazzling carousel of constant stimuli
this attack of never-ending newness
that spins the world is the ******* of  void
I dissapear from thought I dissapear from heart
I am just a message an unresponded voice
a poor sign without the depth of symbol
an avoided truth an impossible commitment
there is no time there is no space for giving and receiving
the most precious substance, our deeply lonely selves
the tears are helpless, here it is, have some void
it evacuates itself in language, oh, language games
played with much innocence,  and eagerness
I contemplate the void in mesmerizing eyes voices words
taking responsibility for  illusions the hardest bit
the body knows first about the danger left behind
by a theoretical love
only by entering the void I can feel it, oh yes
the ******* of emptiness is inside me, too

Cry, cry sweet child
Let Sorrow rise.
Surrender
For faith will step in.
Release
What is not yours to own.
Give a voice to the secrets
Expose your fears.
Speak out now!
...and...
Honour your tears.
Accept how you minimize the anguish inside
...and...
STOP LISTENING to THEIR LIES!
Let every ounce of pain and suffering you’ve too long endured, EMERGE
It’s time for YOUR TRUTH to be told!
Hold space as it evacuates
Let go!
RISE, RISE UP sweet child
It’s the eleventh hour
Let LOVE grasp your hand
So you can TAKE BACK YOUR POWER!!

i know i should not let you love me
but i am far too selfish.
this wilted farce that masks my life
has left you dead and helpless
the wrenching torment that persists
like dark and violent fire
is evidence as this abyss ascends to my desire.
a sinking force with no remorse evacuates the sky
down it thrusts, thus crushing us:
           r     e  m
                        n  a     n  t 
                                                s           
        of    yo  u             and               i.
there you sit, you perfect thing
with just enough to cry
you slowly drag your broken wings
knowing they'll never fly.
like a bee that knowingly
stings its life goodbye
now post-attack cannot go back
but it was worth a try
it seems pointless leaving the nest
to risk your life for death
but close you'll bee
still showing me
you'll breath my poison breath.

when people talk about love and heartache
they use words like "spark" or "flame"
but they do not talk about the wildfire.

the feeling you get when you see them across the room
before the spark gets the chance to ignite
your forest of a heart glows with hope and infatuation
the feeling before a first date
time spent deciding on pair of shoes and which eyeshadow looks best
when the need to make them want to love you can't be contained
                 it gets worse and more widespread

the wildfire becomes a state of emergency
your mind evacuates its home, taking yourself with it
instead of water, you try to extinguish with a shot of jack
but naturally the flames get more rampant and passionate

but the fire goes out. after it destroys everything in its path.
time cannot be regained. we cannot be unburned.  
all we can do is
                                        try
                                                     to
                                                                rebuild

There is a time
and place
where the universe takes space
and evacuates the edges of my mind

I can see it
fall like sand
with a wave of my hand
there is a blanket of clear
and I dread the consciousness of  being

Only me and my
the thoughts in decline
I can let it go and be free

So leave me and us
There is nothing to discuss
I don't need the fuss
my mind is off for the evening

I tell myself every waking,
sleepless moment you're not here
yet each time you are near
again  my nervousness won't disappear
Creating an unstoppable ache in my chest
my restless blood pump evacuates
Pressure breaks each and every vessel
In anticipation, as if through ever breathtaking mountain air.
Gasping for a drink of the right words to ease the silence that keeps me gazing into the fog of two hazel encompassed pupils that are the door to the soul of the person I wish I could be.
With, In essence it is the ideal sorce of happiness
Truely inspiring my sence of understanding
Morphed mostly unto gratitude
Given the recent release of the knot
Which has held so tightly upon My throat of compassion.
Fear, no compultion alone.
By Extraordinarily exceptional lust
Portrayed by the people who I cared for the most
Has given me unreputible reluctance to trust those of the opposite fitting
But then again maybe it takes
An even more extraordinary creature to release my reluctance of relationship
And free me to the empathy that is unconditional love
Not nearly as Extraordinarily
That is. She is. Right here next to me

as distance evacuates

to the press of trees...

we have a fly's wing

caught in resin.

in turn naked--to the

observable eye.

quickly veiled by the

coming etymology of

green.

Vindicated words
hang
like chandeliers
from the
cracked and
aching
ceiling

it groans
in protest
as the heavy
glass
glimmers
with deep
and
gloating
insincerity

the words
feel like
the most gently
brush of
poisonous
knuckles
against the
curve
of her
jaw

her teeth ache
and she
thinks
the cause
is not
one to
investigate

the poison
gently
romances
its
way
down the
train tracks
of her
pores
through the tunnel
of bridge
down
into the enamel
of
fluttering
chin

it seeps
into the
teeth that
clench

not in pain.

they can't feel it
yet.

the gums
quiver
as the
smile
pulls chapped lips
like small shards
of hard glass
have been wedged
between the valleys
of soft and subtle
skin.

smile.

doesn't hurt
to smile

the voice
that asks her
is not one
that truly
cares whether
she agrees

it is a voice
that only wishes
to let out its
sails
and
swim
on its own chords
to let the rumble
in its chest
disperse
from thought to fact
from the desire to the tangible

its only longing
is to be corporeal
to feel
to exist there
to be palpable
to be the humidity
that squeezes
ever so tightly
on the bone
until the blood
evacuates and
all that is left
is bleached and

alone

exist,
its easy
its painless
there is no cost.

the lips
never
promised
that they
told the
truth

This wry smile
will soon be dazzling again.
When that happens,
I will see this hateful bitterness
evacuates my heart.
Tears of mine
will no longer suffocate me;
nonetheless, become strength
through art.

He doesn't know if you can hear him,
doesn't know if he wants to be heard.
Can you see him?
He's right there. Right there in the chasm that used to be a forest, now
-
a crater
-
what remains after something detonates.
He isn't an explosion.
He's the dust that comes after,
the left-overs after everything living
evacuates.

the Ashes no longer burning.
Don't look too close. He doesn't want to be seen.