The distant park
Was a graveyard of dead stars.
Each streetlight a system of worlds,
So many lives between each mote of light,
Indistinguishable in their unique love,
Bespoke hate, and the drama of the modern age.

Drunk laughter behind transparent
Double doors. Another hotel balcony,
Another cloud behind the canopy
Of marijuana eyes
To unsettle me from the crowd.

She points out, when you look closely
You can see the disorder
Amongst all constellations
Of life and love and litter;
Of discarded Coke cans
And temporary highs.

She says this is not a scene
To imbue the ****** of a present mind,
More to baulk at the incompletion
Of one thousand to-do lists;
A million reasons why
You should just stay inside.

She says you can see the human swell
Of ignorance, our city lights
Blotting out the stars
In a black ocean of broken politic
And irretrievable fault lines-
Divisions between us all.
Lives twisted with professional smiles
And eyes lit with stunning indifference.

Still, I have felt charity and warmth
On the doorstep of lunatics and fascists.
I have read the love of life
In faces of those who gave up.
I have recounted countless artists
Who saw beauty
In moments that precisely lacked it.

I have spent too many nights
In anaesthesia,
Fleeing each instance of feeling
And terror; all the tremors
That tell me I am still alive.

Continued to stare at the lights
Long after her voice
And the laughter inside had gone.

Heard waves in the traffic.
A world so large, so expansive,
It can never truly sleep.
Every broken heart,
Every war-torn land,
Every promotion,
Every one-night stand.

I wonder what would happen
If we all stood still.
If we all took one moment
To observe the motion
That unfolds beneath
Our static windowsill.

If we all took one moment
To recover our loss.
The wars that we won,
The feelings, forgot.
The hell we retain;
Our paradise, lost.

Ah, Nikolaas, my love for him is not the same, as my love for thee;
My love for thee was once, and may still be, sweeter, purer, more elegant, and free;
But still, how unfortunate! imprisoned in mockery, and liberated not-by destiny;
It still hath to come and go; it cannot stay cheerfully-about thee forever, and within my company.

And but tonight-shall Amsterdam still be cold?
But to cold temper thou shalt remain unheeded; thou shalt be tough, and bold;
Sadly I am definite about having another nightmare, meanwhile, here;
For thy voice and longings shall be too far; with presumptions and poems, I cannot hear.

Sleep, my loveliest, sleep; for unlike thine, none other temper, or love-is in some ways too fragrant, and sweet;
All of which shall neither tempt me to flirt, nor hasten me to meet;
My love for thee is still undoubted, defined, and unhesitant;
Like all t'is summer weather around; 'tis both imminent, and pleasant.

My love for thee, back then, was but one youthful-and reeking of temporal vitality;
But now 'tis different-for fathom I now-the distinction between sincerity, and affectation.
Ah, Nikolaas, how once we strolled about roads, and nearby spheres-in living vivacity;
With sweets amongst our tongues-wouldst we attend every song, and laugh at an excessively pretentious lamentation.

Again-we wouldst stop in front of every farm of lavender;
As though they wanted to know, and couldst but contribute their breaths, and make our love better.
We were both in blooming youth, and still prevailed on-to keep our chastity;
And t'is we obeyed gladly, and by each ot'er, days passed and every second went even lovelier.

But in one minute thou wert but all gone away;
Leaving me astray; leaving me to utter dismay.
I had no more felicity in me-for all was but, in my mind, a dream of thee;
And every step was thus felt like an irretrievable path of agony.

Ah, yon agony I loathe! The very agony I wanted but to slaughter, to redeem-and to bury!
For at t'at time I had known not the beauty of souls, and poetry;
I thought but the world was wholly insipid and arrogant;
T'at was so far as I had seen, so far as I was concerned.

I hath now, seen thy image-from more a lawful angle-and lucidity;
And duly seen more of which-and all start to fall into place-and more indolent, clarity;
All is fair now, though nothing was once as fair;
And now with peace, I want to be friends; I want to be paired.

Perhaps thou couldst once more be part of my tale;
But beforehand, I entreat thee to see, and listen to it;
A tale t'at once sent into my heart great distrust and sadness, and made it pale;
But from which now my heart hath found a way out, and even satisfactorily flirted with it,

For every tale, the more I approach it, is as genuine as thee;
And in t'is way-and t'is way only, I want thee to witness me, I want thee to see me.
I still twitch with tender madness at every figure, and image-I hath privately, of thine;
They are still so captivatingly clear-and a most fabulous treasure to my mind.

My love for thee might hath now ended; and shall from now on-be dead forever;
It hath been buried as a piece of unimportance, and a dear old, obsolete wonder;
And thus worry not, for in my mind it hath become a shadow, and ceased to exist;
I hath made thee resign, I hath made thee drift rapidly away, and desist.

Ah, but again, I shall deny everything I hath said-'fore betraying myself once more;
Or leading myself into the winds of painful gravity, or dismissive cold tremor;
For nothing couldst stray me so well as having thee not by my side;
An image of having thee just faraway-amidst the fierceness of morns, and the very tightness of nights.

And for seconds-t'ese pains shall want to bury me away, want to make me shout;
And shout thy very name indeed; thy very own aggravated silence, and sins out loud;
Ah, for all t'ese shadows about are too vehement-but eagerly eerie;
Like bursts of outspread vigilance, misunderstood but lasting forever, like eternity.

'Twas thy own mistake-and thus thou ought'a blame anyone not;
Thou wert the one to storm away; thou wert the one who cut our story short.
Thou wert the one who took whole leave, of the kind entity-of my precious time and space;
And for nothingness thou obediently set out; leaving all we had built, to abundant waste.

Thou disappeared all too quickly-and wert never seen again;
Thou disappeared like a column of smoke, to whom t'is virtual world is partial;
And none of thy story, since when-hath stayed nor thoughtfully remained;
Nor any threads of thy voice were left behind, to stir and ring, about yon hall.

Thou gaily sailed back into thy proud former motherland;
Ah, and the stirring noises of thy meticulous Amsterdam;
Invariably as a man of royalty, in thy old arduous way back again;
Amongst the holiness of thy mortality; 'twixt the demure hesitations, of thy royal charms.

And thou art strange! For once thou mocked and regarded royalty as *******;
But again, to which itself, as credulous, and soulless victim, thou couldst serenely fall;
Thus thou hath perpetually been loyal not, to thy own pride, and neatly sworn words;
Thou art forever divided in his dilemma; and the unforgiving sweat, of thy frightening two worlds.

Indeed thy godlike eyes once pierced me-and touched my very fleshly happiness;
But with a glory in which I couldst not rejoice; at which I couldst not blush with tenderness.
Thy charms, although didst once burn and throttle me with a ripe vitality;
Still wert not smooth-and ever offered to cuddle me more gallantly; nor kiss my boiling lips, more softly.

Every one of t'ese remembrances shall make me hate thee more;
But thou thyself hath made more forgiving, and excellent-like never before;
'Ah, sweet,' thou wouldst again protested-last night, 'Who in t'is very life wouldst make no sin?'
'Forgiveth every sinned soul thereof; for 'tis unfaithful, for 'tis all inherently mean.'

'Aye, aye,' and thou wouldst assent to my subsequent query,
'I hath changed forever-not for nothingness, but for eternitie.'
'To me love o' gold is now but nothing as succulent',
'I shall offer elegantly myself to not be of any more torment, but as a loyal friend.'

'I shall calleth my former self mad; and be endued with nothing but truths, of rifles and hate;'
'But now I shall attempt to be obedient; and naughty not-towards my fate.'
'Ah, let me amendst thereof-my initial nights, my impetuous mistakes,'
'Let me amendst what was once not dignified; what was once said as false, and fake.'

'So t'at whenst autumn once more findeth its lapse, and in its very grandness arrive,'
'I hopeth thy wealth of love shall hath been restored, and all shall be alive,'
'For nothing hath I attempted to achieve, and for nothing else I hath struggled to strive;'
'But only to propose for thy affection; and thy willingness to be my saluted wife.'

And t'is small confession didst, didst tear my dear heart into pieces!
But canst I say-it was ceremoniously established once more-into settlements of wishes;
I was soon enlivened, and no longer blurred by tumult, nor discourteous-hesitation;
Ah, thee, so sweetly thou hath consoled, and removed from me-the sanctity of any livid strands of my dejection.

For in vain I thought-had I struggled, to solicit merely affection-and genuinity from thee;
For in vain I deemed-thou couldst neither appreciate me-nor thy coral-like eyes, couldst see;
And t'is peril I perched myself in was indeed dangerous to my night and day;
For it robbed me of my mirth; and shrank insolently my pride and conscience, stuffing my wholeness into dismay.

But thou hath now released me from any further embarkation of mineth sorrow;
Thou who hath pleased me yesterday; and shall no more be distant-tomorrow;
Thou who couldst brighten my hours by jokes so fine-and at times, ridiculous;
Thou who canst but, from now on, as satisfactory, irredeemable, and virtuous.

Ah, Nikolaas, farther I shall be no more to calleth thee mad; or render thee insidious;
Thou shall urge me to forget everything, as hating souls is not right, and perilous;
Thou remindeth me of forgiving's glorious, and profound elegance;
And again 'tis the holiest deed we ought to do; the most blessed, and by God-most desired contrivance.

Oh, my sweet, perhaps thou hath sinned about; but amongst the blessed, thou might still be the most blessed;
For nothing else but gratitude and innocence are now seen-in thy chest;
Even when I chastised thee-and called thee but an impediment;
Thou still forgave me, and turned myself back again into elastic merriment.

Thou art now pure-and not by any means meek, but cruel-like thy old self is;
For unlike 'tis now, it couldst never be satisfied, nor satiated, nor pleased;
'Twas far too immersed in his pursuit of bloodied silver, and gold;
And to love it had grown blind, and its greedy woes, healthily too bold.

And just like its bloodied silver-it might be but the evil blood itself;
For it valued, and still doth-every piece with madness, and insatiable hunger;
Its works taint his senses, and hastened thee to want more-of what thou couldst procure-and have,
But it realised not that as time passed by, it made thee but grew worse-and in the most virtuous of truth, no better.

But thou bore it like a piece of godlike, stainless ivory;
Thou showered, and endured it with love; and blessed it with well-established vanity.
Now it hath been purified, and subdued-and any more teaches thee not-how to be impatient, nor imprudent;
As how it prattled only, over crude, limitless delights; and the want of reckless impediments.

Thou nurtured it, and exhorted it to discover love-all day and night;
And now love in whose soul hath been accordingly sought, and found;
And led thee to absorb life like a delicate butterfly-and raiseth thy light;
The light thou hath now secured and refined within me; and duly left me safe, and sound.

Thou hath restored me fully, and made me feel but all charmed, awesome, and way more heavenly;
Thou hath toughened my pride and love; and whispered the loving words he hath never spoken to me.
Ah, I hope thou art now blessed and safely pampered in thy cold, mischievous Amsterdam;
Amsterdam which as thou hath professed-is as windy, and oft' makes thy fingers grow wildly numb.

Amsterdam which is sick with superior lamentations, and fame;
But never adorned with exact, or at least-honest means of scrutiny;
For in every home exists nothing but bursts of madness, and flames;
And in which thereof, lives 'twixt nothing-but meaningless grandeur, and a poorest harmony.

Amsterdam which once placed thee in pallid, dire, and terrible horror;
Amsterdam which gave thy spines thrills of disgust, and infamous tremor;
But from which thou wert once failed, fatefully, neither to flee, nor escape;
Nor out of whose stupor, been able to worm thy way out, or put which, into shape.

But I am sure out of which thou art now delightful-and irresistibly fine;
For t'ere is no more suspicion in thy chest-and all of which hath gone safely to rest;
All in thy very own peace-and the courteous abode of our finest poetry;
Which lulls thee always to sleep-and confer on thee forever, degrees of a warmest, pleasantry.

Ah, Nikolaas-as thou hath always been, a child of night, but born within daylight;
Poor-poor child as well, of the moon, whose life hath been betrayed but by dullness, and fright.
Ah, Nikolaas-but should hath it been otherwise-wouldst thou be able to see thine light?
And be my son of gladness, be my prince of all the more peaceful days; and ratified nights.

And should it be like which-couldst I be the one; the very one idyll-to restore thy grandeur?
As thou art now, everything might be too blasphemous, and in every way obscure;
But perhaps-I couldst turn every of thine nightmare away, and maketh thee secure;
Perhaps I couldst make thee safe and glad and sleep soundly; perfectly ensured.

Ah, Nikolaas! For thy delight is pure-and exceptionally pure, pure, and pure!
And thy innocence is why I shall craft thee again in my mind, and adore thee;
For thy absurdity is as shy, and the same as thy purity;
But in thy hands royalty is unstained, flawless, and just too sure.

For in tales of eternal kingdoms-thou shalt be the dignified king himself;
Thou shalt be blessed with all godly finery, and jewels-which thou thyself deserve;
And not any other tyrant in t'ese worlds-who mock ot'er souls and pretend to be brave;
But trapped within t'eir own discordant souls, and wonders of deceit and curses of reserve.

Oh, sweet-sweet Nikolaas! Please then, help my poetry-and define t'is heart of me!
Listen to its heartbeat-and tellest me, if it might still love thee;
Like how it wants to stretch about, and perhaps touch the moonlight;
The moonlight that does look and seem to far, but means still as much-to our very night.

Ah! Look, my darling-as the moonlight shall smile again, to our resumed story;
If our story is, in unseen future, ever truly resumed-and thus shall cure everything;
As well t'is unperturbed, and still adorably-longing feeling;
The feeling that once grew into remorse-as soon as thou stomped about, and faraway left me.

Again love shall be, in thy purest heart-reincarnated,
For 'tis the only single being t'at is wondrous-and inexhaustible,
To our souls, 'tis but the only salvation-and which is utterly edible,
To console and praise our desperate beings-t'at were once left adrift, and unheartily, infuriated.

Love shall be the cure to all due breathlessness, and trepidations;
Love shall be infallible, and on top of all, indefatigable;
And love shall be our new invite-to the recklessness of our exhausted temptations;
Once more, shall love be our merit, which is sacred and unalterable; and thus unresentful, and infallible.

Love shall fill us once more to the brim-and make our souls eloquent;
Love be the key to a life so full-and lakes of passion so ardent;
Enabling our souls to flit about and lay united hands on every possible distinction;
Which to society is perhaps not free; and barrier as they be, to the gaiety of our destination.

Thus on the rings of union again-shall our dainty hearts feast;
As though the entire world hath torn into a beast;
But above all, they shan't have any more regrets, nor hate;
Or even frets, for every fit of satisfaction hath been reached; and all thus, hath been repaid.

Thus t'is might be thee; t'at after all-shall be worthy of my every single respect;
As once thou once opened my eyes-and show me everything t'at t'is very world might lack.
Whilst thou wert striving to be admirable and strong; t'is world was but too prone and weak;
And whilst have thy words and poetry; everyone was just perhaps too innocent-and had no clue, about what to utter, what to speak.

Thou might just be the very merit I hath prayed for, and always loved;
Thou might hath lifted, and relieved me prettily; like the stars very well doth the moon above.
And among your lips, lie your sweet kisses t'at made me live;
A miracle he still possesses not; a specialty he might be predestined not-to give.

Thou might be the song I hath always wanted to written;
But sadly torn in one day of storm; and thus be secretly left forgotten;
Ah, Nikolaas, but who is to say t'at love is not at all virile, easily deceived, and languid?
For any soul saying t'at might be too delirious, or perhaps very much customary, and insipid.

And in such darkness of death; thou shalt always be the tongue to whom I promise;
One with whom I shall entrust the very care of my poetry; and ot'er words of mouth;
One I shall remember, one I once so frightfully adored, and desired to kiss;
One whose name I wouldst celebrate; as I still shall-and pronounce every day, triumphantly and aggressively, out loud.

For thy name still rings within me with craze, but patterned accusation, of enjoyment;
For thy art still fits me into bliss, and hopeful expectations of one bewitching kiss;
Ah, having thee in my imagination canst turn me idle, and my cordial soul-indolent;
A picture so naughty it snares my whole mind-more than everything, even more than his.

Oh, Nikolaas, and perhaps so thereafter, I shall love, and praise thee once more-like I doth my poetry;
For as how my poetry is, thou art rooted in me already; and thus breathe within me.
Thou art somehow a vein in my blood, and although fictitious still-in my everyday bliss;
Thou art worth more than any other lov

A smile fell in the grass.
Irretrievable!

And how will your night dances
Lose themselves. In mathematics?

Such pure leaps and spirals ----
Surely they travel

The world forever, I shall not entirely
Sit emptied of beauties, the gift

Of your small breath, the drenched grass
Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies.

Their flesh bears no relation.
Cold folds of ego, the calla,

And the tiger, embellishing itself ----
Spots, and a spread of hot petals.

The comets
Have such a space to cross,

Such coldness, forgetfulness.
So your gestures flake off ----

Warm and human, then their pink light
Bleeding and peeling

Through the black amnesias of heaven.
Why am I given

These lamps, these planets
Falling like blessings, like flakes

Six sided, white
On my eyes, my lips, my hair

Touching and melting.
Nowhere.

If I finally lost myself,
and the pieces of my mind and soul
were as scattered as my thoughts,
would you find them for me
and help piece me back together?

If these nightmares finally come true,
and my fears and my worries
begin ripping me apart at my seams,
would you fight them off
and stitch together my heart?

If I believed what I saw in the mirror
and what my mind was whispering in my ear, and began my slow descent into the abyss of self loathing,
Would you tell me how you love me?

Your words of comfort and consolation are the remedy to the sickness of my mind, an antidote to these poisonous thoughts. I wish they were a vaccine but my mind requires the occasional reassurance.

I regret these thoughts and the weight they share in both our hearts, I don't wish to impose this noxious state of mind upon you. But even when my mind is burning,

even when I wake, gasping, in the middle of the night, when Pandora's Box is wrenched from my hands and forced open, and Hope flies out,

I swear. I swear that I'll love you. I'll love you with my rough hands, with these tired eyes. I'll love you with every last shred of my being, even in the deepest pit of self-hate.

Because you're the bottom of that pit. You don't let me fall deeper into my hate. You lift me up and you give me hope. You give me a reason to smile again.

When my life flashes before my eyes,  it's a boring movie for a while, but then your image comes into the frame and everything becomes brighter and livelier.

I love you in the most irretrievable and unconditional way. I've signed off my soul and heart off to you, I have your name and your smile branded into my brain.

Everything I have and everything I am, everything I will ever be and that I will ever have, is yours. I surrender myself entirely to you, a flawed being with good intentions.

I would lay upon the very ground you walk on and be your bridge when all of them have burned down. I would carry you on my back when your legs give out from underneath you.

I would swim across oceans and fight currents to pull you closer to me, I would take a blade or a bullet or both, to prevent any harm from coming to you.

I know it may seem overwhelming to you my dear but I won't apologize for the way I've fallen for you. I'm in love with you, and there's no use in denying the truth.

So for as long as you choose to deal with my thoughts and my fears, I promise to love you and listen to you and kiss you with all of my heart and every bit of me I can.

I love my very own pen
a pen easy to push
a pen for truth
lies out-cast!

I love my pen
the way it goes along
with my helical head
the way it goes swift
with my roguish paper
the way it writes blank prose
delighted? Not me, it's them
or you.

non-sense fonts, they say
I beg for disgrace
for they are the power
of my visions thing
they are the power of my dark ink
freedom sharpened, inked
I scribbled its wisdom

Thoughts once ooze out
ideas irretrievable
impressions? I don't need
exactly its ballpoint's labor of thoughts
desires for precession and
harmony
of ideas never pirate.

What is missing seems inevitably never existed...
As it is not to be felt irretrievable...

Winter snow, crispy leaves in fall
It's you it's him but none are my business

Love , hate and remorse
Weeks, months and years
Irretrievable moments we own

The syllables in my throat
The words dangling by my lips

Wind of fall, twirling leaves
The thoughts dancing as we stroll down the road

Spring blossom, lingering cold and chunky coat
Remnant snow, rosy glow and kids on the Mall

You are my most ridiculous romance

Love, hate and remorse .

I would feed you crepes
while the city sleeps,
every night,
until I die
or until my whisking arm
gives out.

When I gasp with adrenaline
as you corner the road,
does it drive you crazy,
as you drive me
mad
to buy doughnut holes
at 3 A.M. ?

We share an addiction to lazy behavior,
but differ in our love
for coke,
for coffee.
For what?

When we broke years worth of tension
I thought it would be
more like
snapping a dried, autumn twig,
the crack of a whip
or dropping
a florescent tube light-bulb.

Instead it was that of morphine;
warm and gradual,
if at all.
I'm sorry I made such delusions,
held you high as perfection:
an irretrievable beast.

I thought myself shallow
in thinking
I was finally better than you
at something.

Now I think myself shallow
in thinking
I could do without you
because of your behavior
or lack there of.

I was wrong.
I thought I found
the disappointment
enough to
quench my lust.
But I'm yearning
just as ever,
even knowing what I'm missing.

So I'll sit here,
knowing we crave
the same basics
and differ
in specifics.

I'll sit here writing
as I watch you sleep.
I'll wait
as our ****** tension
slowly grows back,
like a forgotten
perennial ,
once again
making itself evident
and waiting for the
shing
of the garden shears
to snip its stalk
like a taught thread.

when i was small
i let go of my balloon
and it floated away
into the rafters of my ceiling
and i cried until my father rescued it.

losing you is much the same
i watch you floating away
but i am powerless to stop it
nobody can reach you now
there is no ceiling to prevent you from flying
up through the clouds
and away from me.

I often cry when writing my love poems


this secret, yet-not-so-secret, for the words become
blurry birthed by the amniotic fluid of encasing tears,
and when I write, wearing my emotions on my sleeves,
for wiping my cheeks, nose leaking, because I write of
sorrow supreme, that has no solution, pain repetition-dulled,
yet, provoking each time for the words bubble up, of-course,
it is love, in its thousands of reincarnations, coming to haunt,
the lost, the unfound, thinking of
my parents,
my children,
my lovers,
come, gone and
those who stay…

I bemuse myself thinking, each tear a lost poem, removed
by sleeve or tissue, wiped away, lost, irretrievable forever…
but these yellowed memories forever and ever refreshed
by sea spray and wind, my face absorbs their unique nutrients,
and love and pain rebirthed as if it was the happenstance of
today, and the poem water tank just goes on and on being refilled…

Winter's unsteady weather
cold, cold, hot desert
on this walkabout with severe angles of sun
icy mornings drip into the sweat of day
the impasse of giant stones the gods have laid
to stop or climb another way
egos travel irretrievable, sink into what is real
here we scale thorny towers of denial
revealed, peeled in layers - to cry, to smile
meanwhile awakened, shaken
from the sleep of our amnesia.

I see a solid object, in my mind,
Grasped by a phantom human hand,
Explored to distract, or pass the time,
Every day carry to a distant land.
Fidget, spin, or brass fitting held,
A soothing reminder, dense and cool.
Carried with me,
Compulsively,
In the pockets of a child,
Or maybe,
A fool.


It escapes,
Irretrievable,
                                   Time.

But not on a shell, she starts,
Archaic, for the sea.
But on the first-found ****
She scuds the glitters,
Noiselessly, like one more wave.

She too is discontent
And would have purple stuff upon her arms,
Tired of the salty harbors,
Eager for the brine and bellowing
Of the high interiors of the sea.

The wind speeds her,
Blowing upon her hands
And watery back.
She touches the clouds, where she goes
In the circle of her traverse of the sea.

Yet this is meagre play
In the scurry and water-shine,
As her heels foam--
Not as when the goldener ****
Of a later day

Will go, like the center of sea-green pomp,
In an intenser calm,
Scullion of fate,
Across the ***** torrent, ceaselessly,
Upon her irretrievable way.

I have been singing for forgotten things,
beer bottles hidden in the hedgerows.
The opera singer, the strangled vibrato,
ash-filled cokes cans; the afterparty sunrise.

This recovery has been long, fickle.
Reckless optimism and the science of failure
collide into the colour
of a Daniel Johnston cartoon,
or a songwriter's sense of humour.

Disused pencils stand as monuments
to old dreams of grass-roots art,
the fragility of neurotic *******
drawn with innumerable straight lines
that composite a woman's naked body.

I have been drawing on memories
and hoping for a brand-new image;
dissolution of old borders - a strangled voice
in a room full of opened tongues.

The Hawaiian shirt made light of depression
in darkened hours and wax smiles.
Plastic cocktails, the pending brides;
desperate men - the post-work demise.
I have learned a lie ever since.

This recovery has been imperfect, a fraud.
Swollen truths to satisfy the concerned,
only myself left to fool.
I have found the early morning
but cannot reach a sober conclusion.

Redundant habits mildew my mind
with the backwater of yesterday,
familiar street names to mourn
those who became strangers,
the negative bias of my mind's eye.

I have been writing words of action
from the safety of my desk;
all that the desk-lamp can illuminate,
all of which words can make sense.

This half-lived recovery is bunk, irretrievable.
Working poverty and untied knots
are co-morbid in meaninglessness;
chains to hold me in Plato's Cave
whilst her skin freckles in the sun.

Disused and living outside of love,
morning curtains open to a sheet of light
that obliterates loneliness
in the presence of shared heat,
only for it to return again, come night.

Cold, wet footprints of drowned ghosts
     leading you towards nowhere, a heat-blurred unreachable zenith.
Unlit candles, china white on a china plate,
     shots of *****, shots of bleach.
Ambling along dusty corridors,
     hallways with loose floorboards and memories you're not sure you ever had.
Desert haze, his brooding gaze,
     conversational Russian 101 and irretrievable moments
alone in bed together while Sean Connery distracts you from the press of his fingers.

You make me lighten.
I am going back to the woods.
Life has beaten me in absence.

My eyes belonged to you.
Night descends slowly to check
my life in my poems.

An accident of the lips.
I salute the crystals of no love.
At last I breathe poison.

an old, well known, thought lost, and irretrievable sensation
runs through my soul infecting my body and mind
reaffirming my original slogan, "go big or go home"

fresh 18 year old feeling, but with a touch of maturity
less ambition and exciting-fear
have no idea what i am doing, but this time i know that it is ok not to know

soft yearnings and
brooding mistakes.

drop that sack of coal
and burn it in
the warm hearth
of your new home

Your cold print is
Solidified in ink.
Black or blue?

Indelible, your death-
Grip upon me paralyses my pen.
Irretrievable, unreliable us.

Numbness blots out positivity and
My uncertainty dries bright.

a lot of people ask who I write for

and mainly it’s really for my girlfriend

I’ve always said that she’s the kind of girl

that makes you write poetry.

it’s to express the endless love

the irretrievable gratitude

and the unconditional happiness I feel.

but it’s also for the broken ones

who desperately want to believe in hope

who have Pandora’s box

wrenched from their hands.

for the crying ones

who need solidarity and a warm cup of tea

overwhelmed and wrapped in a blanket.

it’s also for the 9-to-5’s

who drink when they come home

for those who are simply fed up

and want an escape from it all.

I write to help heal.

for the people out there

who just need to know someone understands.

I write because it’s 4am and

I’m listening to Keaton Henson

and these raw feelings

won’t leave my brain

and won’t let me sleep

so really,

I write

to save myself.

Like this morning for instance
Hot February and dry cracked
skin of my shadow
which sometimes seems
to look at me
and move w/out me
and I, w/out it.

Sometimes I see the flicker
of a dark soul jeer; a savage dance,
right in front of me,
or in the corner of my eye
when my head is tilted.

The other day at my friend’s
I felt like I was, briefly,
in the sunflower courtyard
of this ol’ dark
underwater museum
full of mirrors
that float adrift.
Angles that perpetually
gyrate and shift…..

I hear the sound of a whale
submerged in a highway
crying with striving despair
at night

and I'm sad
because his lovers reply
sounds so distant
and it sounds as if it comes
from a cavern w/in an ocean
below a sun

I hope he finds her
and dies happy
in the warmth of her flippers....

I miss the panther-warm wine & cream
Was it worth it
Is this worth it

Cold violet city
vacant warm lobbies at night
desolate allies and dogs in such deep slumber
they cant even wake to bark at impending footsteps
The musty brown cars
whose aura of mothballs and pipe smoke
reminds you of a childhood irretrievable  

I smiled back at the rocks that snickered
Beside the fence
which stood firm
In caring vigilance

Cold verdure within
Misery mixed with
Getting bored w/ absorbing it

There’s a strange saloon w/ hotel attached
at the center of Melancholy
where flames are lit music is played
bodies are slowly denuded
and silver knives are thrown

I can show you…

(Long ago it seems
I bit and kissed and became
aquatinted w/ the bark of
the root of delirium

Recently even I’ve spoken
to the heart of delirium itself
from within
w/ no reply
but I can remember
all my memories were hallucinations)

Winter is coming and I'm panicked.
I'm scared of the nostalgia it might bring
when I see the first snowflakes fall
for the first time without you.

You're warm and cozy, probably,
enjoying it all too well.
And I know the only way I'll survive this winter
is to have a heart colder than the air around my cloudy breath,
and the shoulder of you - a stranger -
someone I once knew like the back of my hand.
I'll pretend when I close my eyes
it's not you I'm seeing.

The temperature is dropping, and the leaves are dying
one by one.
I'm hiding away my feelings,
burying them until spring.
But maybe by then, they will have slept beside you too long.
They'll be dead, and kept by you,
Irretrievable - too far gone.

I'm not grieving just for you, anymore.
I'm grieving for myself,
and the cold-hearted ***** I have come to be.

I'm pacing the corridor,
that desperate zone
between insomnia and insanity,
sanctuary of  eccentrics
and junkies
chasing a word, a fix,
a revelation,
an allegorical mix
of purple haze, logic and similes...

It's a race of attrition,
of addicts incurring
meteoric costs of opportunity
irretrievable,
surreal,
euphoric,
and misunderstood...

like mania

this corridor precedes time
and space

it is the beginning
of faith and exploration

and revelation....

dead poets live here...

~ P (Pablo)
(7/31/2013)

All it takes is an approach,
And memories begin to sing to me.
Their melodies are darling, lush,
If puzzling in their tempo.

And if ever it moves further,
I am brushed over by joyous calm.
I wish to stretch out everything
And bleed each sweetness dry.

The precious things are mine now;
I've kept them all, breast pocketed.
I thought that if I didn't,
They would wind up in the sea...

... Irretrievable, devoid of lovers' touch.
You'd have cast them,
But I've seen to it
They're not 'disposable as me.

She took a part of me that I can't retrieve,
How in the hell could I be so naive,
Maybe cause she put my feeble mind at ease,
In the end it was just one great ol' tease,
I was lost in the feeling of feeling pleased,
I never thought that such events would cease,
Like walking through green meadows feeling the breeze,
Like kissing me while she's on her knees,
Every day going home depressed and crying,
This stuff sounds fake but I am not lying,
They say, "Do Better", they can't see I'm trying,
Whatever the setting, I feel like dying,
Recently she has been occupying,
My mind that has been solidifying,
Into something quite unsatisfying,
A ball of depression that doesn't stop supplying,
She took me in and then pushed me away,
What's the problem, did she think I was gay,
Does she think that love is just a game you play,
Till' you ruin a man and watch him decay,
*****, love is not a ******* buffet,
Pick a meal, put it on your plate and stay,
Right now it's in your best interest to obey,
Because I won't let you be lead astray,
Even though you already got ****** up,
And I know you're slowly becoming corrupt,
I love you so I might as well give up,
Continuing life normally until I erupt,
I'm ending this now, this is my last verse,
So I'll take my bow and accept my curse,
It would never allow me to take first,
So I say ciao, now it's time to disperse.

Take my hand and let me take you back to a time when
Time did not matter, when one second was replaceable with the next-
Easter Sunday, making mud pies in our little Purple dresses,
back to making junk into something fictional
And believing in everything make believe.
We climbed castles, discovered bigfoot, found our prince
All in a matter of seconds- and we never ran out of time.

Time- a matter of perception
Quick sand, sleep, death.
There are many things to slow down this barrier to living,
But nothing to make it go, to make it tangible.

If we were to place time on a scale it would measure into
A timeline of dinosaurs and hieroglyphics, of disasters and
The great discoveries of the ocean's depths- however, I am
Speaking of time as an emotional blip.

To measure time as we do our emotions takes away from
Our perception of that blip- of irretrievable time unaccounted for.
We must make time our foundation to understand it will always be there.
It is what you make of that time, how you allow that
Blip to affect you, that makes moments into concrete memories

They took down the eaves
after all shelter was destroyed.
Left a pay packet
and the desolation of ailments
that sang long after
the contract was done.

Fed the blade across my bicep,
irretrievable fault lines
from everyone I had called a friend.
Every message in a bottle
was a disturbance to still water,
the peace I gathered alone
but could not sustain
with two hands, one mind.

Stole the salt from my hunger,
the youth from my face:

I would not let them take the music.

Filled every cup to feign optimism,
clouded eyes that had seen too much.
Every plateau I took to,
they steeped the gradient,
each flower, they reminded me,
came from death.

They took down the saints of kindness.
Cut each nerve ending
as I slept on broken glass.
Left a pay packet
and a phantom of good will
once I finally loosened the strings,
sailed away at a snail's pace,

my boat savaged by the tempest,
my sails torn and weary,
my flag falls low, at half mast.

morning contradictories: mourning our poems, falling stars


awaken to a sunshiny Saturday,
the lazys, their coverlet of flowers,
inhibit our movements, now, as it nears
high noon, we have yet from our bed stir

August has be-come, the grass pockets
of gray and green, swaths of sunburn brown,
reveal how far along the North American
summer has poetry passed, irretrievable

reading your messages and notes from
world over, lazy licking you poems so many,
delighting, ponderous and oft heroic, as well,
weeping as too many become fallen stars

each grass blade, from earth born and returned,
the nutrients preserved in our sandy soil, intended
to nurture next summer’s poesy new birthrights,
green+browned, weep+smile, mutual contradictories

these poem best friends, passing by each other at lifecycle’s
multi-paths, metaphors for our too many morning stirrings,
most to be falling like stars that, though in motion, need not
come to rest ever, their movement attracts a one…lasting look

it nears noon, it nears this poem’s timely finishing touch,
straighten its tie, smooth its skirted pleats, a forehead
implant kiss goodbye, sent on its way to find its own weight,
no parent ere admit, it leaves, with tear-burst showers falling…

August 1
2020

noon

Minty fragrance of the gently
stirring morning breeze
buzzed something in my ears
I have a vague memory that
it carries deeper echoes, than one hears
but what exactly,how to decipher?

Musky scent from a wild orchid wafting
had an intimate thing
to remind me from a day distant
but still melting my heart at times.

Do I hear that sound,
flipping of a slip
while youthful shapely legs
does a spirited jig, spreading verve
making me sit up mesmerized,

The sultry breath of someone
still too real and couldn't erase
from the memory tapes, do I feel
behind my neck sowing goosebumps?
What is this, time travel, I can't believe
from here, I slip in to a time warp, irretrievable.

I'm
So
****
Disoriented
In between
Lines
And irretrievable
Touching

Paroxysm
Creaking
Me awake
For hours
On end

I'm
Tight - lipped
Tongue - tied
Dumb struck

Still

Ever since
Your slam
Of the
Door
That point
Of entry
That
Could
Have
Lead
Us

Nothing
Never

Now it's
Nowhere

And
You're
Never
No where
Now you're

Nothing

At all

True love
A star in a vast constellation
Moon casting pearlescent light
Why this star?
Why me?
You chose my light every single time
In every singularity
Not space-time but love-hate
Love for the way I hang on every grace of your crescent lips on my terrestrial body
Hate for the way I yearn for your warmth like the earth needs the sun
Not to survive but to thrive
Luminescence of our feelings mix like gases in a nebula
Creating an array of magnificent colours
Beautiful, precious but irretrievable
Just like you cannot see atoms, you could not possibly perceive the depth of love
Spanning the galaxy
Stretching across the universe
Electrical energy buzzing around its nuclear attraction
Neutral entities palpable but non effectual
I'm inside you and you are inside me
****** into nowhere:
A black hole swallowing gas, atoms, planets, stars
Your love engulfs me like you engulf everything
Comets move towards you
The Milky Way deserves you
The stars are clustered around you
Desperate to absorb your light
You engulf all
Always,
We do this forever
Just as atoms have been around since all time
And the stars will shine for billions of years
We are past and future
But your love is always present

                                                        ­                      -k.g