I am a poet.
I am an artist.
A lover of words, a shaper of thoughts, a master of feelings;
A player of emotions, a speaker of charms, a thinker of minds.
A giver of taste-and at times, a succulent creator of madness.
Madness outside such lines of timid regularity;
The rules of the common, and the inane believers of sanity.
For to me, sanity is as easy as insanity itself-
On which my life feedeth, and boldly moveth on;
And without insanity, t'ere shan't be either joy-or ecstasy;
As how ecstasy itself, in my mind, is defined by averted uneasiness,
And t'at easiness, reader, is not by any means part of;
And forever detached from, the haunting deities of contemporaneity.
Thus easily, artistry consumeth and spilleth my blood-and my whole entity;
Words floweth in my lungs, mastereth my mind, shapeth my own breath.
And sometimes, I breathest within those words themselves;
And declareth my purity within which, feeleth rejection at whose loss;
Like a princess storming about hysterically at the failure of her roses.
Ah! Poetry! The second lover of my life; the delicacy of my veins.
And I loveth, I doth love-sacredly, intensely, and expressively, all of which;
I loveth poetry as I desire my own breath, and how I loveth the muchness of my fellow nature;
Whose crazes sometimes surroundeth us like our dear lake nearby;
With its souls roaming about with water, t'at chokes and gurgles-
As stray winds collapseth around and strikest a war with which.
And most of the year-I am a star, to my own skies;
But by whose side a moon, to my rainless nights;
On the whole, I am an umbrella to my soul;
So t'at it groweth bitter not, even when t'ere is no imminent rain;
And be its savior, when all is unsaved, and everything else writhest in pain.

Thus I loveth poetry as well as I loveth my dreams;
I am a painter of such scenic phrases, whose miracles bloometh
Next to thunderstorms, and yon subsequent spirited moonbeam.
And t'eir fate is awesome and elegant within my hands;
They oft' sleep placidly against my thumbs;
Asking me, with soft-and decorous breath;
To be stroked by my enigmatic fingers;
And to calm t'eir underestimated literariness, by such ungodly beings, out t'ere.
Ah, poor-poor creatures-what a fiend wouldst but do t'is to aggravate 'em!
As above all, I feeleth but extremely eager about miracles themselves;
and duly witness, my reader-t'at t'is very eagerness shall never be corrupted;
Just as how I am a pure enthusiast of love;
And in my enthusiasm, I shareth love of both men and nature;
And dark sorrows and tears t'at oft' shadowest t'eir decent composures.
When I thirstest for touches, I simply writest 'em down;
When I am hungry for caresses, I tendeth to think them out;
I detailest everything auspiciously, until my surprised conscience cannot help but feeling tired;
But still, the love of thee, poetry, shall outwit me, and despise me deeply-
Should I find not the root, within myself, to challenge and accomplish it, accordingly.
I shall be my own jealousy, and my own failure;
Who to whose private breath feeleth even unsure.
I shall feel scarce, and altogether empty;
I shall have no more essence to be admired;
For everything shall wither within me, and leave me to no energy;
And with my conscience betrayed, I shall face my demise with a heart so despaired.
Ah, my poetry is but my everything!
'Tis my undying wave; and the casual, though perhaps unnatural;
the brother of my own soul, on whose shoulders I placeth my longings;
And on whose mouths I lieth my long-lost kisses!
Ah, how I loveth poetry hideously, but awesomely, thereof!
I loveth poetry greatly-within and outside of my own roof;
And I carest not for others' mock idyll, and adamant reproof;
For I loveth poetry as how as I respectest, and idoliseth love itself;
And when I idoliseth affection, perhaps I shall grow, briefly, into a normal human being-
A real, real human being with curdling weights of unpoetic feelings;
I shall whisper into my ears every intractable falsehood, but the customary normalcy-of creation;
And brash, brash emptiness whom my creative brains canst no longer bear!
Ah, dearest, loveliest poetry, but shall I love him?
Ah-the one whose sighs and shortcomings oft' startlest my dreams;
The one whom I oft' pictureth, and craftest like an insolent statue-
Within my morning colours, and about my petulant midnight hue?
Or, poetry, and tellest me, tellest me-whether needst I to love him more-
The one whose vice was my past-but now wishes to be my virtue,
And t'is time an amiably sober virtue-with eyes so blue and sparkling smiles so true?
Ah, poetry, tellest me, tellest me here-without delay!
In my oneness, thou shalt be my triumph, and everlasting astonishment;
Worthy of my praise and established tightness of endorsement;
But in any doubleness of my life-thou shalt be my saviour, and prompt avidity-
When all but strugglest against their trances, or even falleth silent.
Ah, poetry, thou art the symbol of my virtue thyself;
And thy little soul is my tongue;
A midnight read I hath been composing dearly all along;
My morn play, anecdote, and yet my most captivating song.

I thirstest for thee regularly, and longeth for thee every single day;
I am dead when I hath not words, nor any glittering odes in my mouth to say.
Thou art my immensity, in which everything is gullible, but truth;
And all remarks are bright-though with multiple souls, and roots;
Ah, poetry, in every summer, thou art the adored timeless foliage;
With humorous beauty, and a most intensive sacrifice no other trees canst take!
O poetry, and thy absence-I shall be dead like those others;
I shall be robbed, I shall be like a walking ghost;
I hath no more cores, nor cheers-within me, and shall wander about aimlessly, and feel lost;
Everything shall be blackened, and seen with malicious degrees of absurdity;
I shall be like those who, as days pass, bloometh with no advanced profusion,
And entertaineth their sad souls with no abundant intention!
How precarious, and notorious-shall I look, indeed!
For I shall hath no gravity-nor any sense of, or taste-for glory;
My mind shall be its own corpse, and look but grey;
Grey as if paled seriously by the passage of time;
Grey as if turned mercilessly so-by nothing sublime;
Ah, but in truth-grey over its stolen life, over its stolen breath!
I shall become such greyness, o poetry, over the loss of thee;
And treadeth around like them, whose minds are blocked-by monetary thickness;
A desire for meaningless muchness, and pretentious satire exchanged '**** 'emselves;
I shall be like 'em-who are blind to even t'eir own brutal longings!
Ah, t'ose, whose paths are threatened by avid seriousness;
And adverse tides of ambition, and incomprehensible austerity;
Ah, for to me glory is not eternal, glory is not superb;
For eternity is what matterest most, and t'at relieth not within any absence of serenity.
Ah, but sadly they realiseth, realiseth it not!
For they are never alive themselves, nor prone-to any living realisation;
And termed only by the solemnity of desire, wealthiness, and hovering accusations;
For they breathe within their private-ye' voluptuous, malice, and unabashed prejudice,
For they hath no comprehension; as they hath not even the most barren bliss!
And I wantest not to be any of them, for being such is entirely gruesome;
And I shall die of loneliness, I shall die of feasting on no mindly outcome;
For nothing more shall be fragrant within my torpid soul;
And hath courage not shall I, to fight against any fishy and foul.
My fate is tranquil, and 'tis, indeed-to be a poet;
A poet whenst society is mute, I shall speak out loud;
And whenst humanity is asleep, I wake 't with my shouts;
Ah, poetry! Thy ****** little soul is but everything to me;
And even in my future wifery, I shall still care for, and recur to thee;
And I shall devote myself to thee, and cherish thee more;
Thou hath captured me with love; and such a love is, indeed, like never before.

But too I loveth him still, as every day rises-
When the sun reappeareth, and hazy clouds are again woken so they canst praise the skies.
I loveth him, as sunrays alight our country suburbs;
With a love so wondrous; a love but at times-too ardent and superb.
Ah, and thus tellest me-tellest me once more!
To whose heart shall I benignly succumb, and trust my maidenhood?
To whose soul shall I courteously bow, and be tied-at th' end of my womanhood?
Ah, poetry, I am but now clueless, and thoroughly speechless-about my own love!
Ah, dearest-t'is time but be friendly to me, and award to me a clue!
Lendeth to me thy very genial comprehension, and merit;
Openeth my heart with thy grace, and unmistakable wit!
Drowneth me once more into thy reveries of dreams;
And finally, just finally-burstest my eyes now open, maketh me with clarity see him!

Ah, poetry, t'ose rainbows of thine-are definitely too remarkable;
As how t'ose red lips of thine adore me, and termeth me kindly, as reliable;
And thus I shall rely all my reality on thy very shoulder;
Bless me with the holiness confidentiality, and untamed ****** intelligence;
Maketh me enliven my words with love, and the healthiest, and loveliest, of allegiance.
Bless me with the flavoured showers of thy heart;
So everything foreign canst but be comely-and familiar;
And from whose verdure, and growth-I shall ne'er be apart!
And as t'is happens, holdest my hand tightly-and clutchest at my heart dearly;
Keepest me but safe here, and reachest my breath, securely!
Ah, poetry-be with me, be with me always!
Maketh me even lovelier, and loyal-to my religion;
In my daily taste-and hastes, and all these supreme oddities and evenness of life;
Maketh me but thoughtful, cheerful, and naive;
And in silence maketh me stay civil-but for my years to come;
and similarly helpeth my devotion, taste, and creativity, remain alive.

Ah, poetry, thus I shall be awake in both thy daylight, and slumbers;
And as thou shineth, I knoweth that my dreams shall never fade away;
Once more, I might have gone mad, but still-all the way better;
And whenst I am once more conscious; thou shalt be my darling;
who firmly and genuinely beggeth me t' keep writing, and in the end, beggeth me t' stay.
Leave me not, even whenst days grew dark-and lighted were only my abyss;
Invite my joy, and devour every bit of it-as one thou should neither ignore, or miss.

the poem her belly marched through me as
one army.   From her nostrils to her feet

she smelled of silence.   The inspired cleat

of her glad leg pulled into a sole mass
my separate lusts
                            her hair was like a gas
evil to feel.   Unwieldy….

                                        the bloodbeat
in her fierce laziness tried to repeat
a trick of syncopation Europe has

—. One day i felt a mountain touch me where
I stood (maybe nine miles off).   It was spring

sun-stirring.   sweetly to the mangling air
muchness of buds mattered.   a valley spilled
its tickling river in my eyes,
                                              the killed

world wriggled like a twitched string.

I am the master of my own mind
I beset my tears, I conquer my sadness
I am devoted to this world
To this very world in which I dwell
and to which my soul is admitted
Sometimes I hear my words
Fly around and again
within t'ese violent shades
about my head: as I walk by curious moonlight,
sunbeams, in 'ose solitary moods and emblems
of t'is silent quiet of th' night.
How can I be so lonely-and bathed in distress-
in t'is lovely yet calamitous winter?
How can I be so destitute and untouchable-
unlovable-unaffectionate, indeed!-without my very own
admired thee?
My soul is dejected; condemned and cursed
by th' entirety of destiny-oh, how I am accustomed to
t'is pain, and its inflamed tongue, burning mercilessly
in t'ose succulent perambulations throughout
th' volatile streets-yes, upon and across th' bridge-
what a vile remembrance, where but t'is poem
is my only vivid 'muchness'-and consolation. If only a wren
could be deemed my messenger, let her but decoy t'is
dubious fate-and bring me to slip into her arms-
thin and steep but with a fond predilection for my desires-
with consideration for our feelings-and carry within her wings
a letter from these longings, beneath
the cradling hands of the moon-yes, t'at hectic,
vivacious moon-who is lurking behind me
like a moronic shadow. Its chaotic abode-aye,
chaotic as it once was, is now unamused-and plastered
into th' surly noon, it is despaired-utterly despaired,
and deprived of love-look at how t'at wealth of serene eyes
swim around thirst, in such unwonted lullabies, and its
famished shrine! What a dejected old
sanctuary it must be-infamous and credulous to oddity, but again
fuels my anger on, amidst th' moonbeam t'at is now gone.
But I still can't find thee, querida.

Tell me, then, how shalt I spend t'is azure night without thee?
Without thee, querida, my soul is but solemn and vain;
as though I've lost my brain-and my shell's 'bout to drain-
yes, 'tis t'at no delight, but worries-in me.
And no shield is to protect t'at,
as thou, my love, art in a dream, but far, far away.
I am only consoled by t'ese remnants, o, of my infatuation-
of t'is incarcerated, forbidden love-for thee!
My very thee, who should be curling up comfortably-
like a childish moist in my arms-
in my simpering abyss, and therefore sends it into
flickers, and doesth it die-hence, forces its dread, and stubbornness
to obey! O thee, th' fixated spirit to my wondrous imagination-
and th' anxious bits of my sublime inspiration-truthfully, indeed!
How in this quieted recluse
I long for but one piece of shine-yes, just
one piece of which-to be my guiding star,
and the torch of my robbed path.
My stolen state-and luminous gravity, as dim as the mocked
aspiration, is but never to shower again-
t'at earth with smiling rain-and th'  invigorating soil 'neath
my feet-upon which I trample in deadly haste.
But my hands are scanty-and my heart is dry; that is
but admiringly undeniable;
I am indulged by my own fear, abhorrence,
and dangerous imagination. I am but without my lover-
o, thee, o my solitary prince, doth thou heareth of my
wail? I scream and scream in t'is unforgiving agony,
but thou hath not been here, lost in th' middle of nowhere
like an unnamed being-but belonging to some other's
charms, I know! But still I crave for thee-just thy eyes,
yes-those dripping blackness whose temptation is like
a cave, an invitation to deep, deeper soliloquy down its
poisonous hole. How I am shrinking into this dream again-
a wild, wild dream of seclusion, which I look upon
in frustrated reproof; thou art the symbol of its daintiness-
and thorns of delicacy-but t'at someone else! Some other
dame whose heart dearly belongs to thee-and o, how enviable t'is
object of endurance might be. How deserving of my remorse-unwilling
as my being might be, to give it. Still , out of even the shallowest comprehension-
when the sun glows over me, I will long for but thee-over the morning dews
of the river, far from insanity, will I stand there anew,
and in freshness glint at thy stateliness
in unpardonable profusion.

On t'is very still do I sit, with t'at grumpy book in my lap-
words carved nearly are as picturesque as th' beautiful heaven.
I hope but thou could heareth me-thou whose voice is like a
hint of lavender-painted in th' ballads of my heart forever.
My song, my song! Undergone a faithful revision-
towards a masculine spring of reason,
and demands a sudden but mature completion.
How I still sing for thee!
Like a bee who chases a loveless but unbending sunflower,
sipping all its empowering delight-that is but how I shall wait for thee-
in t'is passion and strong conviction for truth-
that thou wilt embrace me, as thy own queen of ardour
beneath t'is forthcoming spring, o, my knight-
and all t'is love, and love indeed-as th' very endlessness
of thy splendor.

Gold is dust, and silver sand:
Money made via vices is silly,
For it will by and by fly away surely.
Some people get riches by contraband,
Ruining others just for them to live
In luxury, like bees in a cosy hive.

Debauchery and lechery are a woe:
Girls chasing is many a man's hobby,
Running daily the full course of adultery
Or fornication. Some are soaked to sorrow
Drown in *****. A married woman, besides her
Hubby and God, may have another "helper."

Yet, the beloved apostle Paul in the Book
Of books, saith: "Godliness with contentment
Great gain is." Every earthly enjoyment
And achievement lacking holiness is a fluke.
Unless the flesh to the Spirit becomes a slave,
Worldly pleasures will the body often crave.

Greatness is not in the muchness of things,
But is rather in possessing the fulness of God.
Many whom this vain world doth highly laud
Are mostly before heaven very low beings.
They are the richest in life that have Jesus
As Lord and Saviour, who chose to be righteous.

Eat till you're sick
Just as a big ******* to this *****
This ***** inside my head
Who won't stop until I'm dead
She puts tape over my mouth
And a scale under my feet
Then the worst part is, she'll make you believe without a doubt
That she's doing you a good deed
Like she's doing this for you
But what she really does in fact
Is take your whole life and refuse to give it back
And just when you think you have a reprieve
Like you've actually escaped her spiny clutches
She yell at you that she'll never leave
And about how you've lost your muchness
Then you'll eat a little something
Just to show her who's boss
But then something turns to nothing
And you're obsessed by how much you've lost
This ***** will whisper snide comments at you all throughout the day
Pounding away at your self confidence so all that's left is self-hate
A high residual between who you are and who you ought to be and how the only thing standing in your way is all these ******* calories
She'll make you turn on things you once loved
Till food becomes the enemy and she turns you into something that only she loves
She'll tell you lots of things to get you seeing bones
But what she won't tell you is that her methods are never condoned
What she won't tell you is how she paints on your mirror at night
That way you see what she wants and not what's right
What she won't tell you is that she's just a scared little *****
Who's not even real
No, that ***** won't tell you that it's okay to have a meal

I've always loved Alice in Wonderland
Ever since I was little.
I was never quite sure why,
but then I realized,
I was jealous.
Jealous of Alice.
I wanted a Wonderland of my own.
I wanted to have tea with the Madhatter
and my very own Un-birthday party.
I wanted to hold hand with Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum,
and walk through that beautiful place,
While they showed me around.
Now that I've grown up I have different desires.
I want to smoke hookah with the Caterpillar,
and talk about life with the Cheshire Cat.
I want to dethrone the Red Queen
and free all her guards.
I want to escape my world
and go there.
I like this life, at times.
But it's just not for me.
I want to be free.
I want to follow the White Rabbit around,
to see what he does all day.
I want to paint all the red roses my very own blue, and purple.
I want to go to a place where it's always tea time.
I want to explore.
Just like Alice,
I'm a different person today,
than I was yesterday.
And the day before that,
and the day before that.
I want to go mad,
and not receive society's judgments for it.
I want to go to a place,
where I'll be accepted as I am.
Where all it takes to get there is
just a simple seemingly long fall down a rabbit hole.
Where the plants sing,
and the animals talk.
I want to go to that place,
I get scared sometimes
that I'm losing my muchness.
I get scared that my thoughts are making sense,
I don't want them to make sense.
I want to be at that place
where non-sense is accepted.
And they'll all love me for who I am.
I've come to realize what I really want is a Wonderland,
not a reality.

Prelude
Seeing thee again is indeed invigorating-look at how my thoughts are now brimming-with t'eir lost souls! T'ose souls who faded away-as I was severely bereft of my muchness. But now I am glowing with it again, whenever I remembereth our chilly encounter t'is afternoon; thou wandering at lightning pace-in thy fond childishness! But furthermore thou in t'ose fond eyes-and t'eir depth, o! Thinking of thee makes my heart shimmer-and credulous to thy gentle love. And I shall but never go wrong again-as our fates, I assume; are but inevitably, and so dearly, bound to each other, my dear, my dear.

O, and but today wasth I chanced to see my lover;
shining bright and tender like a glade in a bower.
Storming out in gladness out of his chamber;
and as we talked his face grew fonder!

O, lovelier and keener didst he become, through th' more
subservient seconds-as though truly adorned with passion,
Entranced by such courage and fated determination.
I listened carefully to his fond elaboration;
and confined myself to my meek walls of admiration.

My thee, o, my thee!
T'is as if everything hath been our fierce destiny
And shall our paths but cross again-
of which I'm certain, under yon strumming daylight-
when t'at weeping moon waivers.
And all t'at wailing bark shall ever come to an end-as our
luminous, but fair melody lingers.

My moon-and th' following morning, it
shan't any longer be weeping.
To th' despondent grass wilt it start singing-bestowing
th' delayed merit whilst bent is 'tis body-and dancing:
Every other fault shalt come back
from t'eir mistake!
And th' latent dangers shalt be put well
at a steep stake.

And t'ose rings-o, rings of love, as t'ey are, by t'is wan light silver
A light whose abyss shan't ever again last forever.
And protected as we are-chained by our ripe love-
Shall we proceed into serene joy, and resides there-
within th' grand layers of our hearts, and splendid flames
of t'is wondrous eternity.

Largeness
It’s a mighty fine word
        Until today, that is
That is, today as in society (nowadays)
We are
        “encouraged”
To be small.
        Small waist
        Small nose
        Small arms
        Tiny brain
They can’t handle this muchness
This lushness
They’re afraid of our size
The history of our hills
And mountains of skin
Lofty mountains
A landscape to make an artist sing.

But as they shove us into our
        Small shirts
        Skinny jeans
        Tiny shoes
They forget that this size, this extra-largeness
        Cannot be contained.

We’re busting out of here.
We’re claiming our space with our
        Large feet
        Large *******
        Huge hips
        Our love handles and our lard

Fear our stature
   Our sweetness
   Our ****** wiles
   Our swagger

We are deep people


Large women.

Cats eyes line the meanders, drifting off right, wondering left.
Clutching fog lamps, casting back a luminous dot to dot;
morse code decorated trenches: cracks in the trails ahead.

White noise peters in as waves crack the shore,
salt water droplets - tortoise and hare; that game

you played as a kid willing the underdog to win.

The dogs on his back in the backseat, legs in the air.

Underneath him the blanket you wore the first time

we jumped from the pier to the sea, a pair of young fools

romantically free, not strung to the walls of marital tension,

mortgage loans, pensions pressing the wind out your lungs

and life out your heart; the bond we shared has drifted apart.

Crash on the land, the pounding waves;
gush of the tides shivers down your braids.
One hand on the wheel, one hand on yours


you take it away as we brush past the moors.
Rumble over rubble, our suspension knocks
wooden slats creek as we speed past the docks.

Turn to me teary eyed nostalgia, I swerve between the bench
and the toll booth, two dodgy dogs notice running and flailing,

as the last fence approaches. The tiniest movement, a twitch

of the wrist could take a toll on our carriage of bliss.

The carnage we left, lit from the west
your glistening pupils and rain soaked vest

tinted gold from the sunlight and pink



from the sky. The clouds above part as prepared,
those adulterous pedigrees, tore our peace treaty
your cuffed hand reaches over muffled screeches

that beloved mut in-the-back, most bedraggled
of creatures howls as you pull the hand break
twist the wheel our tires carve etches.

At the end of the structure, we howl with the dog,
and the tyre with all the punctualness rendered

functionless with two deep punctures
hisses and sinks with much of a muchness.

I’m searching for my muchness,
As the mad hatter always said,
I’m looking for the lively part
Of me inside that’s dead.
Scrambling after my Integrity
That crashed against the floor
Wondering about cohesiveness
Between who I am and was before.
Bits and pieces scatter an awful kind of mess

Still that bottle of adhesive
nimble hands and held breaths
Still add up to time spent on things
You can’t fix.
They all call me their rock,
I think im more of a brick.
I say I’m a bad *****,
But they all call me a ****.
And when the ground slips and mask crumbles
When I lose my grip on my cover
And I sob like a kid, no one will love me
Like I always thought that they did.
So back to the puzzle
Hand me the crazy glue.
I need a few eons and patience
an I’ll be good as new.
Given for contingency
I’ll be as good as you.

maybe i’ll never be able to pin down why
this feels so different from all the others
but there isn’t such a sense of doom
as there was with the rest.
perhaps it’s me - my heart is no longer
the dilapidated instrument i used to consider
a metronome - back then it possessed no concrete purpose
except to keep time to imaginary songs that reminded me i exist.
having abandoned my expectations to be completed,
i know now that that which feels forever is in fact
perpetually transitory, and though this has always been
among my most profound of fears, leaving its
teeth marks in every place of every part i’ve ever been touched -
it is also one of the most exquisite - a placeholder among other things
one may deem irrational, like the fear of success or love or happiness.
in a world where fingerprints can leave scars
and kisses can leave question marks,
you don’t see me as a collection of calamities that
you are burdened to undo.
i am not born from your rib, i do not bleed to watch you burn.
you do know this, you do.
i do not know what it is about you but there is something
inside your heart that mirrors my own and you can
deem a myth a prayer or a truth because
some people find each other and know right away
that they belong together.
and even if you tire of my muchness (as you surely will),
i will not dim myself down - i will not be ashamed
of the wingspan of my love.
but the thing is, i know yours is just as wide
and perhaps that’s what it comes down to, really.
for the first time in my life i feel
like i am made of more
than just
wax.

I love you in the morning light when the sun is in your hair
and I love you in the evening when the night is somewhere way out there,beyond the scope and did I not hope to find this?
in the melting furnace of your kiss,the shiver of your touch and I love you oh so very,
such is the muchness of my day that I can watch the light play on your skin,
If being in a heaven sent is where I went and where I want to be
then this life that you have given
is the only life for me.

I'm not empty inside
I'm full of gumballs or some sh it
What? You think you know everything about my anatomy huh
Dissect me then if it pleases you
You'll see I'm full of too many muchness
There's no space between my brain and my heart
I'm bursting at the seams
What matters is what's on the inside, they say
Well I'm full of dreams
There's no room for anything else
Not even reality
Why would I make room for that
I'd have to replace my heart
And we've grown quite fond of each other
Everything I do is rooted in love
Some love for you, and I'm saving some for me
Just like the Halloween candy that lasted till February
I'm full of gumballs and dreams I said
You chew me up and spit me out
I'm full to the brim so I have no doubt
That I'll once again be devoured without a swallow
I'm still full but something feels hollow
I'm perfect for a sweet tooth
But I'm no satisfying meal
That's what I tell myself as I fail to heal
But I'm not empty inside
I'm full of something that's for sure
And I might just have to make room for more

Archipelago of fire
Beautiful muchness high admire
Mediterranean sunset, Silvery moon
shallow drift of a blue lagoon

biblical , roman citadel
Rabat rabbit , Mdina befell
allied ally , friend nay foe
Britannia forevermore

Africa, europe nearer unsure
Divided ocean's fight it's land
a Country much sought after
beaches of many laughter

Pleasure crafts, weekend a saunter
line up deep blue still
for Malta's high nightlife
St Julian's hip paceville

Little Malta's big on me
three islands ,three cities more
Sunshine eternal burn
'til adventurers return

Martyn Grindrod

Would this tale afflict thee O children of the bedevilled rock

Yonder afflictions of substances unknown in cold pits

With tremulous fingers and tempestous lips the body reacts to the invisible

While the blooming radius of the ancient arch is magnified by the moonlight

Through the weary portals of the ages lie unravished and unanswered heartbeats

Across the thin glaced places where the bell tolls for ****** wonder

Where the graces of undying wisdom fain to alight their ancient favor

I, a ravaged  rapscallion, trace all the hidden moments of my vain heart

With insticts that lay in the ***** of the undying  muses

Strange moments hidden amidst galaxies and battered bodies

Then the feasting begins when nocturnal flavors ****** unperturbed lips

The general substance of furies unknown and muchness unnerved

Tasked with obsolete oaths and unmade promises, the warrior breathes his last

By Rowan Moses

In a way I
Want to let you go.

I will build a headstone
With the salt from the tears
I've cried.

I've flowered enough blood
To give you as many bouquets as you like

You've given me plenty,
So I'd like to give some back.

Gratitude is making me teary
Or is that the knowledge of the nothing

That will follow all this muchness?

This is a weak kind of mourning.
I will never see you again.
Please, stupid girl, believe it.

Oh...

That is it.
You are gone.

Breathing, you walk out the door,

Dead to me.

I have been dragged through drama
swimming between problems
floating over ups
and tip toeing over downs

I have been here and there
walking with lovers
picking up broken pieces
holding hands with friends
forgiving enemies
moving on gracefully

I have been brought up
in the country
living in the city
dodging reality
loving fantasy
falling for stupidity
climbing back up, rationally
falling again and again
and still
my legs stand tall
holding a head full of wants
and a heart
bursting with desire
for so much
muchness

The window creates a square on the red carpet. This is the sun.
It is not in space. It is not even alive. My eye is though,
breathing heartlessly, it attends to each as bean-sprout
splitting earth. As the young ways we were taught to grow
in science classes. The dying of it when I watered it
too much. There is too-muchness everywhere. With you
my watering magiked a desert. The sky
is good today, so good that it has even created its own
on a carpet. The teacher's foot steps there.

Of the 364 un-birthdays, best occupied by your craziest , unthoughtful and refillable teaports, who rather like to celebrate year round with you, though uninvited, it would be wise you decline hosting the party too.

"Well, why not? What's wrong with a Thinking party everyday?" 
 
I hear you asking.  Is what they do best by default afterall -- one is naturally invited whether one likes it or not.  

My reply would be "Mad Unthinking does not a party make!"  

Unless you like going on hater shooting rampage.  Otherwise, battling the twinkle little tea trays hovering in your delusional sky is rather, shall I say, a pointless endeavor.  Far better you meditate on that.

Luckily too, the only day they wont be celebrating is that one day on your special birth date.   Since it's the single time of year you're more than likeliest the happiest by design, among friends and families!  

But why just limit it to a day in the entire calendar year?   You should "happily uncelebrate bad-everything " or "celebrate happily good-nothing" for the 364 days in your mind.  And all should be well.  

Just remember, lift the tall hat and check under the hood, you may discover mad party always get you plenty of room.   But they merely recycle as a visage.  Chances are, you'd love to gate-crash and bring your best butter and bread knife to spread it all over time.  There's no "while" as they "mean", so to speak.   Especially when you are hangry and you had "nothing" yet, taking less is far healthier than filling up a buffet of nutrionless bad food.    Like clouds in the sky, let them go.

About that Raven too.  They are just cryptic messenger going backward and forward with unintelligible riddles that will spin your too clever head to a nevar resting point.  The codename is analysis paralysis.  

Akin to a kite in the sky, you can break the thread.  

Otherwise, you may end up like Alice to steal time, beat time, pass time and may get lost in a treacle well with much surgarcoating and sentimentality. Only to wake up 2 hrs later than you should have, to reality around you.  

So let it be known, and shed light into, the unknown parts of the 364 unbirthdays.  If you manage to go out, have some social bake and cake among humans now and then, you'll soon forget to uncelebrate them and lose all the over-muchness anyway.  

That's my wish for you !

Exhausted because I know
that whichever wind does blow
It will *******
away.

Below stairs where my bones creak like the old chairs and Molly makes the mood that makes the house.

Stirring her tea
she stirs something in me, but
I am the gramophone that needs winding up and in the winding I find there's a treasure of pleasure, a measure of muchness for me.  

The winter arrives and surviving another family get together
I tether my teeth to the roof of my mouth and head south for the sun and yet togetherness tidies the mess that we make as bones start to creak and hearts start to ache,
age on every yellowing page runs through the story of a life.

Molly
sits with her face to the wall, but she's got eyes in the back of her head.


Forestry.

The bough may break before dawn, but the child will be born,
will be raised
will spend its days
planting trees.

I am glad you sat down and thought about it
because I did too, and I know that
things happen and slip out accidentally and people grow up
and mistakes are made and forgiven and forgotten
and the sun hasn't shone in three days, and I know you are more than that
but I think I wanted you to realize how much you are
and how much you are worth- so that neither of us lose our muchness.
I think we're both growing up very quickly and with every day
and we both see the depths and breaking waves in each other
so I am very glad, very glad indeed, that things happen how they do
and things are said how they are, even if they are wrong,
mistaken- I am glad we can look at our mistakes and move on, and
because of the flaws, see that we are far greater than here and now
and our fallen understanding of the world- glad that you know
you are not just sentences and I could remind you of that, that
some things people say can prompt a self-analysis that reminds us
that we're good and healthy and strong and worthy- that we are,
quite literally, more than enough; that someone's words that begin
making you feel not enough can teach you to stand up, and say "No!"
That we know ourselves well enough to deny and refute the things
assumed about us, that we take it to heart and at last don't get hurt
because we know who we are too well for that. That we can
rise and overcome and grow with every moment. Together.
Thank you. And I'm glad I have you.

the muchness of people only starts to bother me when I don’t feel like enough
And I wish I could honestly say it was all your fault the way I sometimes act like it is
but I know my agression and annoyance is only a response to the emptiness
A need to feel something and it comes out as attacking and I belittle you and make you feel small knowing it won’t make me feel bigger or better only more bitter at the way
that you love.
The way that you look at me through soft eyes when I’m ******* you
The way you feed me when I take and take and purge it all back up and say it’s not good enough to appease me
Your patience when I’ve pushed you away with rolled eyes and locked jaws
I can hear you silently standing up for yourself
Knowing you deserve better
Kinder
Softer

I know my soul does too

These clenched teeth have snarled and growled
I hope I’ve never bitten you
But your hands are so giving
and so forgiving
So long and gracious and always outstretched towards my cheek
as you turn the other one
away from me

The sweet Venus fly trap of life

in these words I hope you find wings
or tenderness
I would open my jaws and set you free if you ever asked
but you are the sweet flypaper in my life and if the roles were reversed,
I wouldn’t have a reason for leaving

for so long
time felt long
the world felt smaller
and continuously getting smaller
scarier
tinier
to the point where under a microscope we were non-existent
all of us
our intricate lives
layed out on a map
unvarying and predictable
shapes and blocks
moving around
perpetually abiding by a broken system
a broken record
spinning
repeating the same words
same stories
differences and nuances blurred
things are only what they seem
lenses turned only to one dial
afraid to look further
in fear that its only imagination
or fear that imagination
is a waste of time even

after a lifetime
of passion
of poetry
the world became passionless
dull
and i believed
that is how it was
and how it ought to be
if we were going to
"get anything done"

now i see
or am starting to
that life isn't about doing things
it's about the feelings
the little nuances
the little notes
the little faces
the little smiles

i forgot to smile at strangers
or i tried
but i couldn't
it all seemed so pointless
drowning in the world's sorrow
is a serious endeavor
one that requires another type of imagination
one that imagines
the pain in everyones life
and in every ****** expression
detecting scorn and contempt

could not to love too much
unable to be enthusiastic
the world seemed
too sad
my heart
had no energy for beautiful things

i cant deny that i saw those beautiful gems
in people helping each other
in an animals' eyes
in a book or a speech
in a person's kindness
but all the muchness was gone

and for every sadness
i couldn't be the change
i didn't believe that i could
that i was powerful
even if i wanted to
believe that i was beautiful
or that i was important
or that anything was

and maybe i will never know
based on a scientific proof
or spiritual realization
but i will know some truth
from somewhere deep inside me

so i will keep on searching
in the world that is now expanding
opening up to me like a flower
spreading it's arms open wide to a big hug
taking off its layers for me so i can see the blossoms inside
the intricate details of life
my lens is shifting and changes are coming
changes
i am looking for the changes

Where to even start, I don’t know
Maybe with your wholeness.
With your completeness.

Sometimes maybe it feels that there is too much,
Such a great muchness in you,
It’s not too much.
It’s exactly as much as you are.
And it’s a blessing and a beauty and a bounty
That you will always overflow and you will never run dry.

Just the shine in your eyes could make the whole sea glimmer.
Just the zeal in your laugh could contest with all the lemons in the world in zest
Just the shimmer of your hair!
It could send rockets to the moon.

The point is
That you,
You,
You,
You,
You are the point.

thank you for the soap on my plates
thank you for the soap on my plates
i am retracing my origins
no one
please follow me

i imagine a soft picture
and lay down on that sweet pillow
this could be a woman and this could be a man
or this could be a woman and a woman
or this could be a man and man
or they could be nothing
keep walking further from home
with the city resounding in their ears

they might be nearly untouching
not knowing what lies ahead of their feet
in the winter eve and at the halt of nature

or they might be one person
that does not know how completeness manifests itself
instead looks for muchness

thank you for the stumbling in my living room
thank you for the stumbling in my living room
next time i will travel a lot further
cold water the feelings warm on my wrist

I finally hit Broadway
not the Broadway,
but one in Stratford,

The Olympic gateway
and my way out.

On to Bow, the bell
and the roundabout,
beware
you cyclists
this is East London's
very own hell.

This is much of a muchness
such as it be
the traffic's quite light
at a quarter to three,
the night folk have left their
yesterday behind
and the 'Blind Beggar'
on the corner
Is closed.

The Belisha,
a beacon of hope we
don't get run over
winks
and we cross anyway.

The pigeons do well on
their tidbits of bread,
but
it always appears
that they're ready
for bed.

Market stalls and
hawkers calls
'Four for a pound
fresh in today'
the aroma of coffee
the roasting of beans
scenes of the day
unfold.

I'm getting old and
seem to notice lots more,
a timely reflection
before
time catches me napping.

mapping my way off Broadway.

This time Alice is searching
for the Mad Hatter and has
all the muchness she could
Ever dream of.

Its just that he left
Wonderland without
saying goodbye...

Or rather she was forgotten
there, left to watch it all
fall down around her
as she stands so completely

Alone.

Cheshire erased everything
except me. He took the queen
all her heads and hearts,
Even the real story that
belongs in this book
trapping me within blank pages.

And if you find this
I am sure you will

Understand.

Its just that I thought you
should know I am
going to use these pages
for something new
with very different
characters and a world
you will never see.

And someday when this
becomes a classic you
will remember how you had
your chance, but you chose
to walk away without leaving

Anything.

Welcome to Wonderland
my Mad Hatter, I'm so
displeased to announce
that none of it ever existed