There are three versions of this poem. only one of them is available on the internet. This first version is from the New Yorker in a 1941 issue. It is the earliest version and the one that is quoted all over the internet.

To My Valentine

    by Ogden Nash (1902-1971)

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than gin rummy is a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you as much as a beggar needs a crutch,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As the High Court loathes perjurious oaths,
That's how you're loved by me.

The next version is the lyric of a song from the Broadway musical "One Touch of Venus" (1943) by Ogden Nash, J S Perelman and Kurt Weill. Nash wrote this lyric. It is not on the internet that I could find. I got it from the sheet music.

HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or the Axis hates the United States,
That's how much I love you.

As a sailor's sweetheart hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a wife detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than a hangnail hurts.
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a grapefruit squirts.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a bride would resent a blessed event,
That's how you are loved by me.

More than a waitress hates to wait ,
Or a lioness hates the zoo,
Or a batter dislikes those called third strikes,
That's how much I love you.

As much as a lifeguard hates to swim,
Or a writer hates to read,
As Hays office frowns on low cut gowns,
That's how much you I need.


I love you more than a hive can itch,
And more than a chilblain chills.
I yearn for you in an ivy clad igloo,
As a liver yearns for pills.

I swear to you by the stars above,
And below, if such there be,
As a dachshund abhors revolving doors,
That's how you are loved by me.

The third is from the book "Marriage Lines: notes of a student husband" It was published in 1964 and contains a revised version of the poem with a much different ending. This too is not on the internet. I got it from the book.

TO MY VALENTINE

More than a catbird hates a cat,
Or a criminal hates a clue,
Or an odalisque hates the Sultan's mates,
That's how much I love you.

I love you more than a duck can swim,
And more than a grapefruit squirts,
I love you more than commercials are a bore,
And more than a toothache hurts.

As a shipwrecked sailor hates the sea,
Or a juggler hates a shove,
As a hostess detests unexpected guests,
That's how much you I love.

I love you more than a wasp can sting,
And more than the subway jerks,
I love you truer than a toper loves a brewer,
And more than a hangnail irks.

I love you more than a bronco bucks,
Or a Yale man cheers the Blue.
Ask not what is this thing called love;
It's what I'm in with you.

Can't write poetry well,
haven't ever given it much thought,
really haven't been able to figure out my voice in it,
i guess it doesn't have to be for me,
still it irks me,

I'll still give it a shot,
Like I do with many hobbies in my life,
obviously I should settle on one,
very certain that I'm stretching myself too thin,
everyone has their strong points,

You are definitely mine,
often I find myself laughing to myself,
utterly aware of how lucky I am,
To have someone like you,
one who I can be myself with,
one that is truly a dingus (which is a-okay).

this is the problem, you see. i hate orange flavoured things, but don't mind the fruit or the colour itself. i despise chocolate flavoured items as well, but will never complain if a whole bar fell into my lap. i cannot decide if it is the simple idea of disliking the watered down version of the original thing that irks me the most, or if it is something more. perhaps it is the very thought of a half truth - an illusion, if you may - that disgusts me, because these things will never be as good as the real, original item to me. you are the same, i have realised; years of sporadic vanishing and reappearing have not wavered my feelings for you, and all the people i have tried to replace you with pale in comparison.

i might be capable of lying to everyone around me, but i cannot do it to myself or you. the funny thing is that you know this, as much as i know it too. for we are vulnerable as we are broken, and somehow deep down in the darkness where we sink we are guided by the same light, which always brings me back to you, and you to me.

-

"how have you been?"

i miss you in ways i cannot even begin to describe. i miss you the way sleep lingers in our eyes as the dawn breaks, and i miss you when our song comes on. i miss you the most when the storms arrive or when a joke is made and i turn around expecting to see your accompanying smile, but meet empty air.

the truth is, i'm lost. i miss you completely, terribly, unbelievably so, and it eats at me every single day.

"just fine."

i put on the biggest smile i can muster and walk away.

(A.H.Z)

My pain irks me,
Sends me flying into my bed.
Under the cover of darkness.

As I cry myself awake,
Unable to sleep.
I ask myself..
Why?

Why am I such a ***** up?
Why do I make mistakes,
Knowing my parents will be angry?

My tears intensify,
My claws take my skin,
Leaving ****** marks...

I scream in my head,
Rocking to the beat of my music,
That sings in my ear bud.

Evanescence,
Rascal Flatts.
Plumb.
Crossfade.

I cannot find peace..
All I feel is that pain.
That has ****** me over for,
Five years.

I'm only a teenager,
I only can take so much.
Until Its over.

I've already tried once...
What makes you think I'll try again?

Dad,
What makes you so ******?
Taking it out on me,
Because I don't listen?

Why can't you and my step mom,
Just realize..
That I'm only Seventeen..

And so it says,
My title will always stay.
Lone wolf forever..

I cant be perfect,
It's just not my style.

My life is so different,
I cry even harder.

Mistakes,
Promises broken.
Two faced liars..

God,
Why aren't you here?
I need you..
And I need you now..

As my pain intensifies,
All I see is the cascading shadows.
Watching my every move...

My music doesn't help anymore..

An open letter
to those poets
who align
to the center:

                                        When prose sits in the middle
                                         it resembles gift-card drivel.
                                             It cheapens your work;
                                              your use of italics irks.

Choose a side.
I don’t care if it’s
left or                                                       ­                                right,
                ­                                                                 ­ Or center-right
                                         ­                                                     or alt-right­
(whatever that is).

The indecisive
have a lot to answer for
us being                                                       ­                                                  divisive.

Did that centered
poem you wrote
distract you from
casting a vote?

Stop fence-sitting
                                                   ­         in-between
and enjoy a
splintered 2017,
                                            ­                                                   from one side.

It never ceases to amaze me, how every day, children die.

And here, we don't seem to mind.

It always irks me, when people look in the mirror and complain about their extra pounds, while babies starve before their first birthday.

Yet everyday, we throw away pounds and pounds of food.

Tell me a story that ends happy. Spin me a tale where everyone shares. Because no matter how naive it makes me, I believe we should live in a world where everyone has enough to live by. I believe that every night, a little boy or girl, should had something more than dirt to eat.

I guess I'm a dreamer, but why not be? Why not dream up the world as a place where people live in harmony. Everyone says that with enough effort, your dreams can come true.

So what surprises you? That there is child hunger in the world? Or that more people aren't trying to stop it?

Grief of a love lost, has no timeline sometimes its just you with yourself fighting to find solace between the raging momentary whisks of anger and pointless sedition of your soul that irks to find the once long lost peace, You wish it has an end and rebel against the never ending !

Your perpetual state of tired
Irks me, because I want you
To be better and happy.

Your inability to fall asleep
Weighs me down, just like
Your tiredness does to you.

Your jerking body, sleeping
Restlessly, makes me wish you
Were awake and away.

From your nightmares
Which have become
As much my enemies
As yours, by now,
But which I do not
Have to experience.

A never ending loop of either
Tired-and-nightmared, or
Day-haunted and hallucinating.  

You just want it to stop and
I do too, but I don't say a thing
'Cause you're having enough trouble

Sleeping, as it is.

Is that danger in the distance?
Or do my eyes deceive?

****.

Like dark clouds
gathering above mountains.
Like how the young see their futures.

(Though it's not like the world hasn't been ending
this entire time.

In billions of years the sun will explode.
In hundreds, our planet will be just dust and stone,
and the bones of industry.
And at my rate
I'll self-destruct by sixty years of age.

But) what is this thing that sticks and stings
and irks
like a mirage?

Not the flavor of fingers dipped in deliciousness.
Not the freshness of a newborn babe.
Not the scent of flowers.
Not feet in a hot bath.
Not fumbling a lovers face,
frolicking through foxglove fields,
flitting a fiery frevo,
finishing first.

No,
none of that.

It's not a thing,
but a feeling.

Fear
Fear
Fear

And it sticks and stings
and irks,
like a mirage.

-
by Aleksander Mielnikow | Alek the Poet

There's no one who bugs me, irks me and makes me mad.
There's no one who hounds me, pesters me and irritates me.
There's no one who angers me by forgetting special occasions,
or forgetting to call,
or gets unsalted butter rather than salted at the grocers.
Only You.

There's no one who makes me roll my eyes
with his twisted philosophy, illogical excuses and faked innocence.
There's no one who makes me purse my lips in disagreement,
when he comes home from so-called overtime work,
smelling of cigarette smoke and whiskey.
There's no one who makes me bare my teeth with exasperation,
when he doesn't talk when I want him to,
when he seems to not listen when I think he needs to.
Only You.

There's no one else who knows to buy me tulips,
when he's trying to ask for my forgiveness.
There's no one else who sings "Wonderful Tonight" off-key,
when he sees me in my most tattered pajamas,
with my hair standing on end
and my cheeks and neck crawling with rashes.
There's no one who cooks a meaner chicken soup,
when I'm sick and force-feeds it to me in bed.
Only You.

There's no one who kisses me in the sweetest,
most breath-taking way in the park,
in the rain while we're jogging.
There's no one who makes me laugh
with his spot-on impression of my favorite comedian,
while watching a home video on date night,
and sharing a big bowl of buttered popcorn.
There's no one who makes love to me in such a selfless,
most gentle way, making me feel like
I'm the most loved, most special girl in the world.
Only You.

There's nobody else who makes me love him,
who makes me want to keep loving him,
in all his perfection, all his imperfection,
all the things that make him a man.
There's nobody that I am most willing
to brave all the storms with,
nobody I desire to grow old with,
and give all of my self to...
Only You.

The Last Kiss

Since Nan died the black dog circles, the scent of grief in its nostrils, waiting, sensing my vulnerability.

Regret sits heavily on my shoulders, for words said and not said, for journeys not taken, for wasted opportunities, for unsaid goodbyes.

Denial prods me unexpectedly, the reality hard to accept, where is she?

Self pity nags at me, an indulgence not to be tolerated, but it creeps in.

Remorse visits me; could I have done more to ease her mental pain?

Loneliness engulfs me in the quiet times, the darker hours; activity and light loosen its hold.

Anger irks me; it arrives sporadically without real reason.

These emotions, relentless, unyielding, almost my constant companions, take turns to envelop me in a dark mantle called grief, which must be worn, sometimes pushed aside, but never removed, a reminder of the debt which is owed, and paid out of love, with copious tears, but hard to bear.

Life is not the same since Nan died, but she is embedded in my mind, where I go she goes, etched deeply is the memory of our last kiss as she lay still and cold.

'As like the Woman as you can'--
(Thus the New Adam was beguiled)--
'So shall you touch the Perfect Man'--
(God in the Garden heard and smiled).
'Your father perished with his day:
'A clot of passions fierce and blind,
'He fought, he hacked, he crushed his way:
'Your muscles, Child, must be of mind.

'The Brute that lurks and irks within,
'How, till you have him gagged and bound,
'Escape the foullest form of Sin?'
(God in the Garden laughed and frowned).
'So vile, so rank, the ******* mood
'In which the race is bid to be,
'It wrecks the Rarer Womanhood:
'Live, therefore, you, for Purity!

'Take for your mate no gallant croup,
'No girl all grace and natural will:
'To work her mission were to stoop,
'Maybe to lapse, from Well to Ill.
'Choose one of whom your grosser make'--
(God in the Garden laughed outright)--
'The true refining touch may take,
'Till both attain to Life's last height.

'There, equal, purged of soul and sense.
'Beneficent, high-thinking, just,
'Beyond the appeal of Violence,
'Incapable of common Lust,
'In mental Marriage still prevail'--
(God in the Garden hid His face)--
'Till you achieve that Female-Male
'In Which shall culminate the race.'

Oh how I understand the discretion policy of political views in professional environments.
I sit at the top of the lecture hall and become queasy.
I retch at the sarcasm spewing from his lips.
I try only to tune in on my notes and disregard his personal views
How difficult it is, when the person that irks you the most, is the person that will grade your term paper.
How pitiful it is, when a newly found acquaintance is gone after realizing there is no reasoning with him or her.
Oh how I now understand the discretion policy.

When your conscience's clear like crystal
You set them off-balance,
For when they see you, and try
ever so hard to find faults in you,
All they see is themselves.
Because you are clean fresh dew!
Pure like sunlight; you act as a mirror
for the soul of the onlooker,
And so, as they peer into you looking
for deceit and dirt,
their own face stares right back at them,
ugly truth gloriously unfurled.
Your open goodness
irks them, agitates them, provokes them
to claw at you, use their might, to
destroy you and all that's right,
but little do they know that you-
are Invincible. Beautiful. Resilient.
Birthed from struggle.
Tempered by truth.
Chiseled by principles.
Challenged by adversities galore,
haven't you always conquered them all?
So shine! Shine with all your brilliance,
and no one can break you,
for your conscience is your greatest wealth,
for your conscience is your Kohinoor.

M’lud
I stand before you
Contained within this dock
The night I was arrested
I can tell you
Was a shock!

Because? … I do NOT write in metaphors
Because?… I say it as it IS

This is the crime
I’m guilty of
By the …

Poetry Police

Another one that irks them so
Is because I write in rhyme
They think that they are clever
That extended is

Divine

I would like to

                        exercise

                                     my

                                           freedom

                        Wield

                                   my

                                           pen
                              
                          Just

                                  as

                                        I

                                            please


M’lud
Take pity
On this soul
Who pleads
On bended knees

For … there is much room in the pantry
For us all to get along
For … there is much room in the pantry
To sing our different songs

Songs of different cultures
Songs of unrequited love
Songs of just plain nonsense
Songs yet to be dreamed of

M’lud
I now beseech you
Appeal for your support
Pay credence to my musings
Throw this case
Straight out of court
For the greater man
Will walk alone
When his backs against the wall
The greater man
Will stand alone
In any port of call

For he has the inner knowledge
He has free rein of his mind
He understands complexities

Eyes       are       no       longer       blind

Blind to prepaid formulas
Rules they set in stone
Please protect poetic liberty

For … I will never be a clone



CASE WAS DISMISSED AND THE JUDGE SANCTIONED THAT ALL POETS FROM NOW ON WILL BE PROTECTED BY THE POETIC LIBERTY ACT 2010

who would i consider to be the greatest teachers on women?
Stendhal, Marquis de Sade, Ovid...
Flaubert: most certainly Flaubert... but now most certainly
Ovid too...
i might go as far as to drop Knausgaard into the equation
(oddly enough)...
how else would i have learned a little bit about women
if not men who learned about women and recorded
their findings... i might even whisper the name Nietzsche
to further my "question"...

it started with her showing me her leg...
   some ugly spider bit it in two places: she was so disgruntled
about it... she showed the bite: started to squeeze it:
if i could have guessed: if she could bend so far low
she would have probably tried biting that piece of flesh
out of her...
i told her a worthwhile remedy:
OCET SPIRITUSOWY (10%) you can go into and ******
delicatessen and buy it... rub it onto the bite mark...

but that still didn't lift the mood: i felt awkward...
i can sniff a lie from a mile away: women are the greatest
liars when they speak: unfortunately:
they're the worst liars when they don't speak...
you can lie by speaking lies...
but you can also lie by not telling the truth:
i.e. by not talking...
a burning thought oozes out on the body and the body
cannot lie...
there was some ill in the air...
the entire room was on fire... even she said:
why is it so hot in this room when outside it's cool?
the entire room was on fire...

i think she was furious with me...
i promised her that i would come on said day and i did:
perhaps i've become too predictable for her liking?
something ill was in the air...
it wasn't just the spider bite and her annoyance
with it: a woman can make the smallest irk
into a deluge of irks...
   the smallest thing can become the greatest discomfort
for a woman...
i could feel it: although she said nothing
when i asked her if she was o.k., whether she was tired...
something strange about her eyes...

ah... eye-lash extensions: i didn't compliment
on them... i noticed something different about them...
after a super-quick quickie:
i don't know... there's something potent about
the ******* position in front of two mirrors...
her kneeling on the bed me standing by the bed
thrusting... maybe i was too tired ergo too *****
i couldn't perform to her pleasure: only to my own...
thankfully my male pride wasn't hurt...
i always brush off under-performing by laughing
after the ******...
i'm not going to explain myself beyond:
not every woman climaxes every time during *******:
not every man can go on for an hour
without climaxing... i told her just that:
it depends what mindset i'm wearing...
  sometimes it takes me as much time as it might
take a woodland pigeon... enough time to only
balance on the female while flapping its wings...
sometimes in the ******* i'm peering
into the eyes of a mantis and hoping she will not
eat me afterwards: ergo: i try to not deposit any
albino tadpoles into her...

afterwards we lay ****-naked side by side
on the bed... then i noticed her elongated eyelashes...
we talked about them... how they're new
and are itching her eyes...
woman: natural born sadists and that sadism concerning
beauty to boot...
i said: you noticed the trend among black girls?
camel eyes: eye-lashes for thick and long they could
possibly brush their eye-brows...
and nails... my god... you can't do anything with nails
that long... and hair?! once upon a time black girls
adored their afro curls... now?
they're imitating white women's hair... Asian women's hair:
they even employ wigs to imitate that raven slickness...
i remember a time in high school when black girls
would use vaseline cream to smooth out their afros...
she agreed about the nails and eye-lashes:

come on! you can't make a ******* sandwich with nails
that long...
nails... i looked at her nails... she showed me that
she needed a manicure... she showed me some designs
from the internet that she'd like to have...
then she showed me her toenails...
that's another thing... i knew something was wrong...
she didn't take her socks off during *******...
that's a major sign that something is wrong...
seriously! who the hell ***** with their socks on?
it's like that Iron Maiden song: die with your boots
on...
something was seriously wrong...
maybe it was me: maybe it wasn't me...
it's too late for that...

once upon a time women were the greatest mysteries
of the literary world...
men would spend aeons contemplating
their mysteries: and if not mysterious per se...
then men would mystify them!
now? women are sabotaging themselves...
they're exposing themselves in ways so crude so...
sick... so... unappealing...
it's hard to mystify women these days...
me? hardly having lost touch with reality:
i've lost touch with an un-reality...
with romanticism...
              
Michaela, as a woman? not every man's cup of tea...
but then again i like large women...
not obese... when she lay back and feigned tiredness
putting her leg on top of mine...
chatting... i played her Le Trio Joubran's
Majaz... and told her the story about how i first
heard the song...
i was in Amsterdam with this Egyptian guy...
i was drinking beer, he was smoking ****...
then he gave me a drag of the ****
and told me to put his headphones on... he played
the song: and i showed her my reaction:
my JAW DROPPED... my eyes closed...
i was suspended in a "falling gravity"...
no... in a "whirling gravity" of my own empty canvas
presence... an implosion of Heidegger's dasein...
there was no "there"... there was either
sein or nichtsein and hier...

ha ha... i was talking to my father today in the car
as he helped me get my second bicycle
get driven the repair shop... finally!
i'll get my mountain bicycle up to speed...
i'll get off the roads and head into the wilderness...
£80... not a bad deal for the repairs needed...
and he mentioned that there's this Romanian
woman working the hoist on the construction
site... he said that the most difficult word in Romanian
is... 11...
unsprezece - uns... one... pre: before... zece...
i need diacritical markers for this one...
or? just employ Italian...
unsprezecce...              unsprezeče...
hell... with the expansion of the European Union...
of the Polacks that came in 2008... most have left...
only a few remain...
but the Romanians stuck to their guns...
after all: they can easily mingle with the hordes from
Asia... come to think of it:
England is starting to glisten with a demographic
akin to Brazil... i think i'm going to start calling
England Brazil no. 2... it's clearly post-racial
in what ecosystem we have...
black boys loving white girls...
white boys not really into any other race:
well... i have my exceptions... Turkish and Romanian...
but that's me...

but sort of woman in what sort of mood doesn't
take her socks off during ***?!
i find it most irritable: not ******* in the dim
lights with your socks on...
maybe the ill and the fire in the air
was my own self evaporating into their air...
irritated by this lack of aesthetic...
maybe it wasn't her: maybe it was me...
then again: she's was already thinking about going
back to Romania...

better than being a rock star...
what i wouldn't give: none of my books...
to become a blues-man... a Howlin' Wolf...
then again: i wouldn't do nothing: absolutely: nothing...
having spent 2 years of my 20s reading
up on Heidegger...
i'm good... if i get really thirsty: i'll just buy
half a watermelon and gorge on it like
it might be a woman's ******... i'll get my beard wet
and try not to bring either ****** or umbrella:
cheap *** ******* little questionable
little me...
i didn't say i'm a millionaire...
but i said i spent more money than a millionaire...
love those lyrics...
blues and ***... ******* becomes
distasteful after a while:
the while you realise those people are
actors... and *** is hardly acting:
*** comes around to you in its most authentic
claim of your self you can ever have...
while ******* disrupts all of that...

it's never going to be a pornographic flick
when real life hits the fan...
the **** can lie as a pile dragging itself to the status
of diamond among flies on
some random hill...

tube strikes... only start working from 8am...
of course i'll be late for my shift at Fulham...
but i'm still drinking...
enough of whiskey and enough of the blues
and enough of thinking about thinking about ***...
i'm not going back to the brothel
until Michaela ***** off to Romania on the 28th of this month...
i already have two girls in my sight...
deer-in-headlights... sitting pretty: sitting scared...

i need to become more unpredictable...
i need to ensure the girl takes her socks off...
Michaela is very much unlike Khadijah...
she doesn't wash herself after ***...
and she's the one asking me for extra pay
for unprotected ***...
at least Khadijah washed herself...
i washed her... she washed me after *******...
i like *** + hygiene...
must be a Turkish "thing"...

                        no... i'm not going to feel **** about
myself... there's no point:
i simply can't change other people by pretending
to change myself... i'lll wait until Michaela is out
of the picture... she put me off *** for a bit...
i can sink into a diet of sexless days...
but no... you don't get away with being sloppy...
you don't get to **** with your socks on!

she might have thought that i didn't notice that
she had eye-lash extension...
what's with the socks?!
  you forgot you were wearing shoes,
or something?!
******* while still having your socks on...
oh man oh man oh man...
that's why the room was on fire!
**** it!  start donning fishnet stockings!
i could manage that...
start donning long knee-teasing leather boots!
i could stomach that! but socks?!
i can't stomach that...
           i'm expected to put on a ******
while... a woman is not expected to take her socks off?!
throw rocks at me! throw 'em!

there are just aesthetic standards...
that's the last time i paid so much eye-candy on a woman
no prior man would pay her her dues...
me neither: i have skin like it's worth
grating a grand cheddar cheese on...
but... tender... i can: be...
she just felt bored... and i felt predicable:
onto the next...
maybe she flashed her phone before my eyes
to boot: showcasing her grand achievement
of a bambino outside of wedlock:
probably raised by her grandparents...

Darwinism is a scam in my cards...
either Poker or Blackjack...
i'm a sore loser with genes that ought to be replicated...
20-20 vision... pretty **** good hearing...
i've never broken a bone in my body...
if i get hurt and my bones are affect?
i create bone outgrowths... bulges of bone...
genetically? i'm not too bad...
but in terms of reality: i'm not a safe-bet...
and guess what? i like mediocre people...
shadow-grey-people...
i like them: they make good traffic obstacles...
they make me churn out a practice
in spatial awareness...
i can denote them to THINGS and rob them of
the status of NOUNS...
something... this thing... that thing...
whatever... no bother... i'm casual like that...

hey! like for like!
Michaela: the 28th of this month better come sooner
than you leaving for Romania! make sure you have
your socks on! all the time!
that ****** me off... a woman that keeps her socks
on during *** is like... is like... a woman eating a meal
without a knife when a knife and fork is required!
or a man... for that matter...
socks during *** is just a massive turn-off:
i best finish early... i'm ******* clocking-out...
no! not on a whim! i'm clocking out because aesthetics
and the blues and thinking about what *** is about...
Eden...
not talking... groaning and moaning...
onomatopoeias...
                        
hmm! that's why the room was on fire!
i finished early because? she was wearing socks...
that's why the air in the room felt ill!
because she never bothered to wash herself
after we had ***... Khadijah did...
each time... i showcased washing my genitals after every
genitals:
i might be a brute... but: in terms of hygiene:
i'm pretty exacting regarding what's appealing
                                               and what isn't...

i can't stand filthy people...
show me a rat...
             show me a bunch of rats...
i'll show you a pretty cheese chamber with plenty
of the right sort of gas...
i'm not joking...
   i wish... oh i wish i were joking...

                      by now... does it even matter?
by now i don't think it even matters...
should it matter shouldn't it?
it never really matter given enough time...
             time truly flies: regardless of whether you're
having fun or not...
by the drop, the drip, the drool or either blood
or water... or a sprinkle of salt or sand...
what's good is wasted over so much time...
while what's bad... wastes the mind over a time
best entrusted in keeping a memory of the good times...

my beard! my ******* violin!
i stroke it and imagine playing a sad sad... song;
but the cynic in me: laughs...
just like a dog looks up at his master when being walked on
a leash!

I thought of my desolate air fresheners, of all shapes, sizes and scents.

pick the little one shaped and scented like a rose.
the sweet, cloying smell that irks your sensitive nose.
nobody knows how it happened, but
your breakfast goes (out).

pick the green tree, the one that smells like pine.
maybe you should wash it down with some wine.
the sharp scent reminds you of grandma's house, and suddenly you taste brine on your face.

maybe you should take the one shaped like a lemon, with a whiff of zing.
suddenly I remember how you didn't even blink
with your acidic words when you said you were leaving.

nothing seems to be able to mask the sad, musty smell of loneliness;
but maybe with a gentle caress.....?

Birthday wish
As the candle was blown out the smoke created change to everything it touched somehow time was breached yet again as the time
Christ arose people who had passed were seen as common sites walking about the ribbon of time was subjected to a ripple this time
Love and a wish would be the cause of time becoming all a jumble for one solitary day only twenty four hours you could spend time
With one person what would you do?

Walk hand in hand along the shore be hugged ever so tightly all nightly sorrow evaporates clearest eyes to penetrate the unknown
The inner frown unmovable would begin to rise at the ends making a smile tears held behind sorrow’s dam would flow back in time
Happier climes footsteps and movements in life’s joy filled time, separation not yet known the sparkle their magic shows out blown
The growth steady at a continuous rhythm all was right no confusion it was immediate you could touch it physically it was real

Oh contraire hurting one your plight be the one who was asked to sacrifice stay while they soar and advance in a new world
Everything you held so dear and cherished is only being created in higher order replace sadness with what and how are they growing
How could they possibly be better or different that is your exercise assignment what joy to think of them happily they build new worlds
Each day they stare at the gate as they build structures uncommon they stare because one day they know you will be there

In this life time can seem as moments could it be that long ago the human aspect can he be that more handsome her lovelier
Impossible is the rarest word in heaven and wanting and longing are obsolete the gold standard is perfect look forward their perfect.
Saddens is a dishonest plant of the enemy you haven’t lost them they are royal airs that have taken their places and so much livelier
When you grow tired and weary is when the attacks come at that moment see them whirl by in greatest ease of motion it works

Look away at distant thunder that is your right and benefit the whole world is moving toward the great grand finally hurting is out
Your going to get a new body it will keep what you like and improve that which irks you I said everything is going to be perfect
What person wants to clunk around in an old model when what’s in store would cause this one to fail you’re to be a knockout
Wow that candle has some kind of smoke not anything compared to your future we can honor them with what they know glory!

Kiss the truth away one  more time
Torn footnotes in the wind
Your swift hand  cutting goodbye through the air
The world is dark again
I trip over your your love so readily
Eyes cast over the night hoping for light
No stars dare shine
No flowers bloom in colour
The moon drags the day over
The same sarcastic drawl
Silver sliver smile irks me
I never learn,
Draw the bullet again
It's love.
What the hell did you expect?

Byron loves to golf, but in the dead of winter, when he has his wood stove radiating heat, he likes to play darts. The board hangs on a door separating the main garage from his store heap of empty beer cans, crushed and bagged. Thousands of them. He also has a ****** stuck on a wall. The **** just flows out to the ground. He always warns us not to dump in his ******. The very thought irks me. Like golf, Byron threatens to “kick my ***” in darts. He has a predilection for my posterior in the most unthreatening way. In fact, he may be homophobic. He throws a dart like an Amazon pygmy. Fatal to success. However, golf is never far from his mind during the raging snows we get. Although I helped with the spelling and small stuff, Byron penned the following. I came up with the title.

Intimations of Fairway Play

I'd rather hit the links today,
Take an eight on five;
Blame the wind or shift of weight,
Than shovel out my drive.

I'd rather search under trees,
Twigs, leafs and water;
And curse the squirrel that thought my shot
Was food for winter fodder.

I'd rather have a downward lie
On pock-marked naked ground;
Than sit and watch Keegan Bradley
Get it up and down.

I'd rather have a green fringe putt
That lines up with goose droppings;
Or see a fine three footer lip
Than hear the snow plough coming.

I'd rather shoot a ninety-nine,
And pay for rounds of ale;
Than sit in front of my wood stove
During snow and sleet and hail.

I'd rather shank or stub my ****,
Yes, get a double bogie;
Or miss a hole-in-one by inches
And put up with Francie's stogie.

Francie can card seventy-two
And make an eagle putt;
It matters little what he does,
I know I'll kick his but.

Yet still I languish near my fire
And watch the Pros play golf;
At Pebble Beach or someplace warm
I wish they'd all *******.

If I see you
—walking down the street in the arms of another,
staring at them like they were the blessed mother,
holding them like fragile equipment—
I'll trod along, pretending to never have known you were there in the first place

My love, will you let me stay slave to loneliness,
will you continue to shun me in your desparate attempt to move on?

The thought of you in the care of someone else
irks my mind and pains my soul
It punctures my armor scathed
like the claws of a lion that fell itself

The very sight of your iridescent face
gleaming like a multifaceted gem
struck by light in a way it shows
life in glamorous technicolor burns my thoughts

The way your hands are clasped with theirs
Contrast to mine holding my own
together in prayer that you are mine alone
but what I wish differs from what I see

My love, will you let me stay slave to loneliness,
will you continue to shun me in your desparate attempt to move on?

If you see me
—strolling pass by you, trying to catch a glimpse of your face,
admiring you like you are a dancing sun,
trying to catch your image in my memories—
trodding by, just pretend you didn't so it wouldn't hurt any more than I have already hurt myself

I mean to apologize, wholeheartedly and from the pit of my being
There are a lot of things I've done here that lack real meaning
I know you can't see beyond the curse words and violent reactions
That's just the way I developed, using my past as dirt to bury the hatchet
Unacceptable, is the word that comes to mind
When I ponder our interactions that leave me lonelier each time
I don't get how we let things go so far south
How human beings can look at one another and let such hateful things seep out from their mouths
If I had one wish right before I died
It'd be that everyone here on earth could take a deeper look inside
And see that I want to help every single person I can
But the reality of life interferes with all my plans
And if I was better at handling my fate
I'd break with these selfish traditions and learn to escape
And finally set out to do the world some good
But you have to learn to love yourself like you should
And then you can pursue your dreams of saving the world
Though they look at me like I'm some foolish little girl
With dreams of unicorns and fairies floating in my head
When in reality I'd like to see all the world's children fed
I'd like to be there when we actually achieve peace
Instead of wondering if this $125 jacket would look better in fleece
Its trivial the way most of my peers exist
Is it wrong that it irks me and causes me to raise a fist
And say that I won't participate or adjust to the norms
Its not me! In any way, shape, or form.

I always stay safe within the law
Would really be worried if outside the law
But that which tyrannises*  and irks me most is this 'law'-
My mother-in-law.

;it irks me.*

Once you get used to it, you fall into a habit. You know it is hurting you but you have no will of stopping. It's like an adrenaline rush you get while speeding on the highway; the only difference is that every second you feel like your bones are crashing. And that is as though you are not a wreck, yet.

You never wanted to get a hold on anyone, or let anyone get a hold on you. This way, you'd never have to let go. Sometimes you wished you would lose your grip on the steering wheel- you were driving a hearse. Just as a carnival is not complete without a couple of thrills, a self-celebratory festival is not complete without a free fall down the cliff. There's something exhilarating about pain that keeps you awake, and somehow you thought that happiness takes your consciousness away. They say when you hit rock bottom, there's no way to go but up. Have you ever seen what's at the end, though? Just a pile of scrap metal, splinters, and broken bones. There is no difference between a dwelling built from wood and nails, from a coffin.

If they said you were a star, is that why anyone who gets too close to you ends up getting scorched? If they said you were an ocean, is that why people never cared if they drowned in love? If they said you were the sky; is that why you were always so out of touch, as if you were never one with the world?

May I regard you as an artist’s work?
You’re just as stark, yet just as inviting
It’s true that to most, your enigma irks
And yet, I sit over you deciding

In what way to decipher this and that
How to go about telling who you are
Putting myself where the artist once sat,
Capturing the mystery of a star

Day in and day out, I go in deeper
I, putting you together piece by piece
And day in and day out, you grow clearer
As a result, I gain pieces of me
Oh, a thing of beauty you’ll always be
Its immortality, a mystery

They said, people are strange,
When you're a stranger
They knew, and people get even
Even stranger once you dive into them
Once familiarity becomes so familiar, it irks
They pierce into your mind
Straws of trust, and leech out every bit of you
Your essence must evaporate
In the drought of love and kindness

People are strange
They crave for colour to fill up their lives
but never to seep into their skin
They want a rich friend, a poor one as much
A girl, a boy, transgender, gay, bisexual, asexual
But a lover, only as conditioning and the general tainted view of the world permits

People are strange
They say blood is thicker than water
But blood is poisoned and water
It needs distillation
They say they love when they don't
And nothing when they do
They say a lot of things
That only confuse

People are strange
All for love, no to hate
Until of course, higher motives surface
One heartbreak, all men are Gates of Defecation
One attack, entire fraternity blamed
One moment of broken trust,
A million of murdering reason

People are strange
No matter who you are
And yet, you fall in love
Because people are strange

From the day I met you
I knew you had something in you
That would make me smile
Without you doing anything

I never thought I would think about you this way
That I would care for you
That I would cry for you
That I would fall for you
That I would actually write about you
That I would dream about you and me

I fell hard
It made me both happy and sad
It hurt a lot, of course
You were there to catch me, but not to keep me

I couldn't complain
I couldn't demand anything from you
I couldn't ask for anything more than friendship
And it's alright, because that's where we could last longer

Just like what one poem said
"I know what we are, and I know what we're not"
And that's alright
Having you in my life is certainly more than enough

What makes it difficult for me is the fact that
I am the person who's always unsure of everything
But when it comes to you, I am more than sure that it is you
Whom I want to take the risk for
Whom I want to give all my efforts to
Whom I want to take care of
Whom I want to love without asking for anything in return

My friend,
It irks me how your impact in my life is very much intense
It agitates me how you can do nothing yet for me, it's more than everything
I hate how I get jealous over the little things when in fact I don't have the littlest right to be

I hate how I love you and how I am willing to do anything for you
Just to make you happy
And make you forget the burdens in your life

But this I promise you,
I will always be here
To listen to you and hug you so tight
Whenever you need me
I will be that friend you can always run to
I will be that friend you can always lean on

"And if you ever forget how much you really mean to me, every day I will remind you"

I don't want this to be a love poem

I don't want to tell you in ink what I can't say in words. I don't want to talk about him and my emotions or the hesitation that comes with uncertainty. I don't want to say anything about our mouths or how they're never close enough.

I don't want to talk about his hands

I don't want to tell you how I've looked at them and imagined, not simply them touching me like I've longed to be touched, not them belonging solely to me, but perhaps intertwining our fingers sometimes. I don't want to say that I have the strongest abhorrence to seeing those hands touch anything else. That isn't fair. He isn't mine.

I don't want to talk about his eyes

I don't want to tell you what color they are, how they shine. I don't want to give you metaphors and compare them to landscapes much bigger and things more consuming. I don't want to give you a road map to how I last got lost in them. I am not a starry eyed romantic, even if in the right light he looks like one.

I don't want to talk about his hair

I don't want to tell you about the others running their hands through it, or how it irks me. I won't tell you about how I look away or pretend to be busy. It isn't fair to be jealous of what I fold my hands in my lap not to touch. It isn't fair. I'm being fair.

I don't want to talk about his voice

I won't tell you how it's transcended music, that if he spoke for hours I would never be bored. How it is comforting enough to lull me to sleep... me! The most distrusting person in a room at any given time! How it pulls at me to respond with words I've never offered to another soul. It isn't fair. It isn't.

I don't want to talk about him

I won't tell you how he makes me want to paint walls with his likeness,  waste time and ink and memory to write and store poems that won't see the light of day. I want to keep this close. I don't want to share what I feel with anyone. I don't want to share him with anyone.

I don't want to tell him I love him

I don't want to lose him. I don't want to share what I feel but I don't want to share him with anyone. It's a Catch 22. A lose-lose scenario. There is no happy ending. The doubt I feel is realer than the hints he leaves, it makes the fear larger than the possibility of happiness. This is the cycle, this is the life I live.

I don't want this to be a love poem.

i.
Good intentions are
Not the same as having none
In your mind at all

ii.
I think you are mean
Your self-importance irks me
I melt at your touch

iii.
I wish you success
On whatever path you take
Egotistic ****.