Birds of a feather,
Not unlike me,
Love fine weather
(When it’s pouring tea).
Manners, wine and dining, too.
Mantis, llama, kangaroo.

Overmade, they do make over.
Things so brittle like the rover
Sent to Mars, the Milky Way,
Bounty, sneaky in its way.

Inbetwixt the words they utter,
They choose bread over the butter.
Frying French and grilling Jerry,
Jamming jars of juicy berry.

Duty-bound, they bound off duty.
Flock together! Fly, my beauties!
Plumes all owned. And not one borrowed.
Standing still amidst the horror…

Jokes aside, and folly ousted,
Peace preferred to putrid bloodshed,
They, like me, are hard to find…
Seems, at last, I’ve lost my mind!

I feel the steady beat of my pulse in my head,

and imagine I can feel yours as my fingers briefly dance across the back of your hand.

A bitter-sweet inbetwixt:



I blink back sour tears,

crimson trickle eased out of palms by clenched fist-and-nail.



My mind runs wild with thoughts of you,

a long-forgotten smile stretching from ear to ear.



Your taste fills my mouth and her acridity is gone,

a moment that will always last forever.



I am dismissed and distressed,

and as I hear her close the door behind her for the last time I loose a low growl,

the start of a tri-month darkness and a half-year struggle.



I feel a resonance that I once sought to abandon,

the strumming of strings in my heart.

Eyes lock and soundlessly whisper the passionate trinity:



"I loved you."

*"I love you."

It breaks like waves against the cranium
Again and again the syncopated beat of my heart
Is it magic? Is it a miracle?
Is there madness behind such a glowing word?
Ramblings of a madman, I'd rather me insane than comprehending extreme sanity.
What sanity is there in a world that holds no bounds?
What gods can there be when man in turn becomes his own god?
I have no answers, I am all but questions.

Urgent and bursting, it is a sweet fruit that ripens until juice trickles out,
Turgid and thick, quivering and throbbing like breath itself,
Not solid or liquid but a state inbetwixt.

Maybe this is mania, maybe this is something above what I am?
Who am I if not for my breath and my breaking?
It is the gaps that make the solid thing whole.

Light bounces off your mind
making pictures appear.
A world view in motion
the inbetwixt lines
of your poetry. Staring
blankly from your eyes
the television keeps talking.