It's been a year and the streets are a little brighter, and daybreaks are a little colder, and everyone seems a little happier. But forgetting has become way harder and longer, darling, and Novembers still feel like losing you.

"Oh November, Oh November! Death, Hath In Cold Crimpson's Knashed!"..."Sweet, Sweet, November! Dressed, Hath Your Sons In Robed Black!"

"Your Wondrous Tales, Of My Moment Seemed, Thwarted!"..."Your Solemn Heat, Of The Summer Did Bring, Lament!"

"Of No Goose, Of No Goose, Flee, Shall Of Your Fogless Cloud Be Found!"..."Of No Grave, Of No Grave, Leech, Would Of Your Sanctuary Lay Ground!"

"And Somber Somber Days, Hath Us, Oh, Of Darker Times And No Brighter Rays, To See!"

the wind is taking more drags off my cigarette than I am. that's buffalo;
wind&concrete;&cold.;
I won't let you crawl into the gutters,
and die in the snow.
in the alleys of these long lost streets,
we keep trying to revive.

and I ask myself
if you'd let me fall asleep out in the cold,
six shots down & I don't want to know.
I'm still walking on my own,
against the cold, and keeping warm.

I'm taking good care of myself,
now that I know you won't do it for me.

A whole new light means
your spectrum rests indeterminate
silence alone  cannot  disguise
the sense of foreboding,
darkness parades,
platitudes never vivid
a plinth to past  glories
shorn whose rueful  possibilities
shuns new growth.

kissing away the spice of fall
i can’t help but want to remember
the way you glow brighter
with every passing moment.
sunrise starts the day
like a golden peach luminescense,
but the tenderness i feel
is no where near
to the love you give,
it is not that of the sun,
but from the warmth
of your beating heart next to mine,
burying in the sweetness of you,
like i am enraptured in quick sand
soaking novembers stroll,
it's rays caress me,
deeply planted on to my chest
my veins turn to roots of lilac vines
so i let you plant a kiss on my lips
and wish me a better tomorrow
cause your smile begins
to melt from my thought
and your greenhouse effect
affects me not

To November,
Thanks a bunch
for reminding us,
that the letting go
is the only way to make roads
for new blooms!

Every November I felt something new. November is full of change, nothing remains the same as before!

Acceptance: Somewhere in the month of November, I met a new person who changed me inside out..!! Embraced me with love, gave the warmth in those chilly days. We spent moments with happiness and shared our fears in the night sky, witnessing clouds uncovering the moon. Dreamt of good things, peace, and a bucket full of love. And November turned out as a happy month to me! No matter how much I tried but memories kept coming back, making me blush every single time..!!

Togetherness: Time passed really very fast, Again November came! I remember, spending days like never, contemplating each other’s hearts. Aimless drives, messed up schedules, movie marathons, street foods, and open bottles of beers. I found a home in him, a home of love with no limits and no worries. We promised to step together, holding hands in November, and to hang out till the November dissolves! And yesss we did...few Happy Novembers!

Separation: And then a few years later a day in November came with lots of new feelings..! Feeling of abandonment and betrayal just like dull and dark days. Crying in freezing night under that large yellow full moon but this time all alone! It felt cold, even the stars were extra cold to me; lights were so dim that paths were invisible. My heart was aching, and my trust was dissolved. I was miserable and pitiful! Always lost and struggling in the memories of past and present!

Learning: And now it’s again November I see blooming flowers and sometimes butterflies..! Red, Pale, Blue, Pink and White flowers. And it doesn’t feel like cold/dry or happy month to me!  and as I see he got engaged so, probably a month for him too!  Now I see November as the month of change and new hopes. This November taught me no matter how dry the weather is but you have to keep blooming, And I have realized that not everything is worthy of you! If something feels like a burden to you, just remove them and make some space for new dreams. And that’s the only way!!

It is in Septembers, Octobers, and Novembers
That Autumn dresses up,
Adorned in warm, golden tones of color,
And waltzes with her prince, The Fall Wind.
But when the clock strikes twelve,
Winter comes along with her December and January Winds,
Snatching up Autumn’s bright apparel
And clothing her in nothing but somber tatters.
Autumn keeps quiet, until the first rays
Of Spring’s long awaited sunshine
Touches the depths of Winter’s dark dungeon.
Autumn is showered with Spring’s rain,
And is coaxed into fashioning a new dress
With the same warm, golden tones of color,
But, this time, in a different pattern.
It is Summer’s sunshine, now, that assists Autumn,
With an occasional July thunderstorm to help form the new dress.
August passes by to give his opinion, and Autumn is finally ready.
For it is in Septembers, Octobers, and Novembers
That Autumn dresses up,
Adorned in warm, golden tones of color,
to waltz with her prince, The Fall Wind.

rykł gwałtu: czy śmiercí... sie boície?!*

the 1st world belongs
to western europe,
as is the poppy emblem...
but the 2nd world war?
you have no right
upon this platitude of
nostalgia...
you have no right here...
you don't belong here,
go **** yourselves,
and settle the flatlands
of belgium...
you, take you *******,
and your other colonial
subordinates from these
pages of reminder!
no, you don't belong
here, on the ukranian plains
of the flat-fields...
     you are not
commonwealth sorts...
i don't want you here...
  you are on your way home...
and no...
none of the commonwealth
bits & pieces ever worked
the construction site,
like the irish or eastern europeans
did...
         q a few sikhs...
but that's about it...
pakis make great
           mustafas of the "work"
invoked by the designation of
    a prior toward the
      authorirty of an imam...
                  i too never knew i
knew how to read...
   must be a literate donkey
                somewhere!
i'm trying to love the brits,
but given they're really into
their p.c.s.d. (post-colonial
stress disorder), i'll my stretching
it with nazis...
   please call me that...
please, please, please call me a ****!
it will make me remember
my great-grandmother affected
by nazis, all the better,
for your **** journalistic
***...
          please!
i'm begging you! call me a ****!
call me what my grandfather
called the ss-mann:
   herr-bite-bonbon...
   call me a **** you **** swine!
call it! call it!!!
             i dare you,
i want you to call it!
    i, ******* dare you to call it!
call it!
          speak your little jihad!
speak your little spell!
                            say it!
are you aware that i was the one
who liked the idea of collecting swords?
oh yeah...
   i own a hussar blade...
over 50 centimetres...
curved and all...
                    if i inserted the blade
via your ***, it would come out of your
mouth as a tongue;
say it... i want to hear it...
   why are my hands and the fingers
extending off of them, becoming
so itchy?
    i have a heart for a guillotine,
but no more, for a bed-fellow
in the form of a woman;
   how desirable does death become,
the least you account
for fearing it... how welcoming
the jest of recounting:
                novembers & septembers.

Nobody remembers but he won't forget
so many Novembers that he can't regret
and the few Decembers that  they managed to get
to light burning embers ,fond memories till date

Camping as only two members, night fires till late
Watching stars twinkle, eyes travelling interstellar
the great fables and love stories he used to tell her
drunk from sweet wines he coveted for his dream cellar
when he narrated inspirationals of guys like Rockefeller
and she convinced him he'd someday write a bestseller

The daily stroll especially in twilight
crazy dances right in the moonlight
the color and florets during any date night
the mourns of pleasure after star gazing till midnight
the promises of for better and for plight*

Nobody remembers but he won't forget
so many Novembers that he can't regret
and the few Decembers that  they managed to get
to light burning embers, fond memories till date

[Life]

I
A man with no shoes
walks by with a limp.

His arms -
covered
in tattoos
and scars -
are lethargic
by choice.

The biting
winter sun
delivers respite
from late December
northerlies.

He reeks of Franzia.
Redolent, it shadows
him, haunts
him like what he drinks
to forget.

His unkempt white beard
is stained yellow
around the mouth
from years of cigarettes
and no-shave Novembers.

He dons a jacket
- faded glory -
that is two sizes too small
and his pants stay together
like a couple for their kids.

Too proud to join
the Salvation Army
on Christmas Eve,
he finds his bench,
lies down

and survives
one
more
night.

II
A man in a suit
drives home in an Audi.

His collar
is stained
with cheap lipstick
and Chateau Lagrange
from last night's
late night meetings.

Angie, his wife,
waits anxiously
at the door
of their four bedroom,
three and a half bath
Victorian.

Her eyes -
still puffy
and red -
fixated up Swann St.
She is not blinking
and barely breathing.

The kids
have been sent to Grandma's
for the night.

They watch TV -
SpongeBob SquarePants.

The Audi
drives by a man on a bench
He looks asleep -
possibly dead.

The suit inside thinks to himself:
“That poor man.”

November dazzles
In its mundanity.
The month between the
Russet autumn and blue winter.
Skeletal leaves
on the lyre are strung
In azure frosts
in emerald forests
and encrusted with rubies.
Novembers reclines in its throne.
In a minute,
a minute or so
It will slip to salt
and December's long
bequeathed chorus will begin
And so I will savour
these few shining seconds
a little longer.

Narcotic
Overdose
Vicious
Extremity
Mastered
Bewildered
Eccentric
Retrospective

My Birth
My Autumn
My Death

Number Nine
Novembers Night
Never Nepotism
Nocturnal Neatness
No Negligence
Neptune's Near

My Fall
My Existence
My Anatomy
My Reincarnation

They blaze in Novembers shinning
with their fizz, crackle and pops
they jump with joyous rapture
all over this misty smoke filled land

It starts with bonfires lite
children huddle around it
with mother and father figures
and sparklers to guide them

Then pretty lights in the sky
the busting of colours
the wondrous display
on this Novembers day

This is a day of celebration
but what celebration is this
the death of a catholic
that wanted to blow up
blow up
the houses of parliament


By Christos Andreas Kourtis aka NeonSolaris

I'm heaving prose at you and you don't even know it. Like fish jumping into a boat that's empty. Having risen before, being brave would seem easier, lighter maybe. Like great fluff or a fugue of an earthy red wine. My tear ducts are hollow drums, if I could I'd give you a metaphor about weeping, but I'm wept out and worn out. I'm not tired or worn down. I'm an obelisk, or a saber perhaps. I'm good coffee from a specialty roaster, but I come in a to go cup. Coffee should never be consumed from a to go cup.

You're one of those pennies people pay one dollar and one cent for, stretched out with new print on them. At the zoo they can be bought. At places where the middle class can be classless they can be bought.

You were once a starlet. A golden and imperfect deity. I'm still worshipping you. You're my startling ******, but the rigging is busted. Now I'm onto acid washes and back on ivory. Maybe you didn't mean to leave cue cards and question marks like keepsake memories under our bedroom duvet.

I'm only asking for you.

While I **** around each new city in the jargon of a Calder sculpture. I've punched door mice and killed rattle snakes with the heel of my foot. Step on with the right and bring your fingers to your lips. I've been calling good luck for decades now. Julys Septembers and Novembers too.

Just a regular guy with a big ******* rooster.

Some girl said we're swimming for each other in the dark, but I know your eyes have adjusted to the light. Don't compensate for ordinary experiences. Realize what I realize and taste the snow.

You are
The first delicate ray of sunshine
On a dreary Novembers’ day

You are
The pounding rush of adrenaline
Felt at a concert barrier

You are
The reassuring smile
Treasured in the midst of calamity

You are
The warm woollen blanket
Wrapped round my shoulders at night

You are
The butterflies found inside me
At the peak of a roller coaster

You are
The first birdsong
At the end of a sleepless night

You are
Every beauty in this world
To me.

.i still can't get over the genius of W. H. Caruthers, the man who found polyesters, esters were usually used to make the prime composite of perfumes, when their application took off in the realm of clothing? ****... that's when their actual property exfoliated...

early Winter, in England...
ugh...
   wet... you know the harrowing
aspect of when the cold
mingles with wetness?
ugly... i can't say it better...
it's like... stroking an Irish
wolfhound, which just came back
from a run, all muddy,
cold, wet and... somehow sulky...
jeez!
            give me a teddy-bear,
real quick...
  i can appreciate the continental
cold...
   it's dry... there's frost...
sometimes the snow, an insulator,
and when it's really cold,
and there's frost,
whatever remains of
the water, turns into a glittering
expose of a metaphor for
a red carpet... tilt your head
to the left, tilt your head
to the right...
oh look! the paparazzi are taking
pictures!
the frost... my god...
it just glitters!
only when the winters
are dry, but they rarely are,
in England...
i hate England during the winter...
the rain just ****** me off...
i can do a dry minus 10...
but a minus 1 with the rain?
you have to be kidding me...
****'s sake!
    cold & wet don't work...
cold & dry?
  after a while you build up
an immunity,
there are invisible ***** in the air,
pinching your face as you walk
to the local supermarket
for the groceries...
i have to admit...
this is the first time i'm actually
anticipating leaving England...
****! i need a holiday!
the current state-of-affairs
is bugging me...
i want to turn this *******
time-bomb off...
even  the alt. media has succumbed
to the legacy media
sensationalism...
just give me over a month...
a grandfather with dementia,
a grandmother with neuroticism
humming some unknown song
in between staying silent
while drinking coffee and solving
crossword puzzles,
and then... a ******* thistle flute
jamming her imaginary
didgeridoo...
   wait till she hears my
mouthpiece...
**** it... throw me into
the monolith...
i'm tired of these tirades
of language anchoring in England...
there were three partitions
of Poland... how many,
are there of England...
too many to draw a geometric...
i can't watch this...
i need a break...
within the confines of a logic...
why would you go to somewhere
where it's warmer than where
you left from?
i'm going to a place that's
colder from where i came...
so?

well... the genius of polyester
clothing...
   i anticipating to cut my internet use
to a minimum this time...
i have the massive task
of reading potop by Sienkiewicz...
winter... it's either chess
or it's reading...
the second chapter of the trilogy...
the Swedish deluge of
the Polish-Lithuanian commonwealth...

oh... now i remember why i wanted
to block that fella...
he started to sound, a bit too much
like my "friend"...
you know... that Anglophone
overlord...
who could have said:
you're not properly integrated
if you still speak your language
of birth... ******... THEN LEARN
FRENCH! OR SPANISH!
your pick... i hate people that
begin to sound like the friends
i had in high-school...
i hated all of them...
now i hate them even more...
like i'm responsible for him...
having a ******* apartment
provided by his father...
the fact that his mother and father
filed a divorce,
that he has a ******* younger
sister he might have to take
care of...
               my fault?!
what am i, god? i fake the rules
of the existential roulette?!

no, i need a break from speaking
this tongue,
what i will need is some Polish
radio,
some Polish t.v., and forgetting
this language, momentarily,
when i return, in situ,
while reading a book in Polish...
about the Swedish deluge,
when the democratic monarchism
model failed, when a king
of the Vasa stock was enthroned
on the "rule of thumb"...

generation prior, to mine?
***** off to Costa Rica...
to the beach...
i? i ******* to a place much colder
than, this here England...
winters in England would
have been just fine...
but i need a release from
this... island claustrophobia...
i need the continent about
2 times a years...
ha... funny...
the two times i tend to ****...
are... with the Bulgar women
in the Goodmayes brothel...

once after Christmas,
and once after Easter...
which makes me practically
the ugly twin of Jesus...

but you know what i learned
about home-grown terrorists,
that i learned about immigration
in Australia...
the concept of... heritage...
watching Australia's Master-Chef
i've learned how
Australians acknowledge the concept
of... heritage...
in England? you know why England
has home-grown terrorists?
the concept of heritage
is... completely... missing!

who are you, without a past,
but only a future, and a present?
i know i'm a psychological
mongrel...
but do you know...
you're a mongrel, through and through...
no... you're worse...
what they have done to you,
with enforced assimilation
by your parents...
you know what i said to my parents
when they suggested
that we only speak English
in private, at home?
******* - well...
it was more a subtle: NIET!

- and how do you respect a foreign
culture?
by respecting your own...
you can't have one, without the other,
otherwise the mimic subversion
of yourself will not work...
please, tier the cake...
there's more depth to a migrant
than merely talking the *******
tongue of the natives...

yes, i will speak English among the English...
that much is requested of me...
but... to... do... what prior migrants
did... and ****-up, ****-***,
****-**** of the natives?
how about the natives learn a second
language?
and not come out as the tourists
that can, truly be, sedated by foreign
cultures of H'america,
or Australia...
       being the... "tropic fruit"...
the... "exotica of diacritics"...
while, forgetting...
you go anywhere else...
guess what?
     what?
                   what?!
                           intimidation;
yeah yeah, some anglophiles in those
places...
   but guess what, tourist...
i speak yours, i don't expect you to speak
mine;  
  the moment you "ask" me to
translate speaking yours into
thinking "yours"... guess what...
i, have, mine!

- i still can't get over the genius of how
polyester clothing interacts with
the cold... i feel the cold... but i don't feel cold...
ingenious!
W. H. Caruthers... Michael Faraday...
my "new" two favorite people.

Do you feel it
Its the feeling
That you get
When there's nothing left

No distractions
No messages to check
No cigarettes
Real self is glaring back

Hi hey its me
Do you like what you see
If not change direction
Find what you need
The path can get rocky and dark
But every breath
Can be a fresh start
To begin again
Ego deleting
Humans, misleading,
Is there a way out of
Escaping
Waiting
Playing
Im Breaking
The soul is aching
Knowing i cant keep replacing

Delaying
ancestral healing
Generation after generation
Running from the University of
feeling.
But dna remembers
The embers
burned from those cold
Novembers


Flown away
from ash to dust
What's done is done
But do everything with love,
And dont forget the ones up abovee
As we are one

Blessed be the
Music makers
The creators
The soul achers
Shedding their layers,

bleed in
Bleed out
Returning the energy to origin
No doubt
Breathe in
Breathe out
No time to scream and shout

The Stagnant air can get left there,
On the page that i wrote,
Bc of the way that you spoke.
Its not the first bad note,
Here comes another ****.

the ones that can let go of their pain
The ones that can cry out their rain
Transmuting,
Not always soothing
It stings, its saddening
But beautifully shedding
From All that's been
embedded
And kept in my head

Bleed it out
Work it out

Soul healing
Will set you free from the shackles
Of your lineages chain.
Cycles
Will not repeat again.
The wise one,
Puts the stop here.
If not you,
Then who?
If not now,
When?
Waiting isnt wise,
Youll get left behind

A step essential to take,
To not have trauma stored in the skin
Embedded in the dna
Let go of the heartbreak
The envy, and the i wish it could bes.
Break the cycle of holding
You must heal all thats been shoved down
And replaced with a drug you found.

Choose you
Choose now
Write it
Yell it
Paint it
Feel it
And let it go.

Step into the clear air
You did it
You repaired

Breathe in the fresh air
Remember how you got here
---------- -- ---- -- ---- -- --- -- --

The fan is on, the constant hushing sound adding rhythm to the room
I can hear the hum of cars passing by outside my window
a added sense that I am not alone even though I am here by myself
Novembers cooling touch has crept in
nipping at my toes, drying my already dry pale skin
my favorite time of year when life seems to slow down, putting a glow on the usually bland days
here in my bed under the warmth of my flannel blankets all is right with my world
but my brain still finds something to bring the anxiety out
I thought if I started writing down my thoughts on paper it would lessen the night time stress
but then I stress about not writing on the nights I forget
the streetlight outside my window flashes a constant shadow on my wall
and I find comfort in that
something about the added light on my wall is friendly, familiar
when my brain finally shuts off I fall into dreams of my past
of people I haven't seen in years, all the stories blend into one
repeating like a rerun
at least I still have dreams
even if they're only in my sleep

After this November will be the most dreaded month
not because it was when I lost you
but when I knew it was coming,
looming, and this time lightening wasn’t dancing
in the distance it was creating it.

Collecting moments of you
like storing food in a bomb shelter
for when I’m at war with your new
hand watch for not letting us work.

Every time the hand ticks
it is moving me closer to a time without you
and everyday is watching the hourglass of us run out.

Despite this, if I could live with you
in a calendar filled with Novembers, I would.  

But I can’t so before you go,
will you watch 44 sunsets with me?

She is so orange!
Her skin is pale,
And her hair is an off-white blonde,
But she...
Oh man, is she orange.
I smell the falling leaves through her smile,
And I can feel the carving tools sawing through pumpkin rinds,
Drawing Autumn sketches,
Doing what artists will do at this point in the year,
As If they were my own hands.

She will shout from the rooftops
With her yellow words
About her seasonal excitement,
Ending each proclamation with red exclamation marks.

She will shower me in plans
For Octobers and Novembers to come.
Walking me through festivals and unmade memories
With each new idea.

She is orange,
And for the next few months
Orange is my favorite colour.

She left with the leaves,
blown away by the October wind;
She left on a warm night with the full moon.

Days before, she stood at the door, silently, silhouetted against the bright sun;
   saying goodbye to the light, goodbye to the world.

What about the visits not made, the places not seen?
        - no matter;
No more winters to endure;
No more Novembers to wait through.

She left with October,  before the cold winds blew the world gray;
She left with the yellow leaves,  free to fly away.

she likes a little bitterness in her food
a little hunger in her kisses
a little sweetness in her tears
a little irony in her wishes

give her flowers in the street
and post Novembers on her walls
write her playlists to sleep to
and run with her when rain falls

walk the long road with her
as cruel as it may be
she will warm you to her very last--
if you would share her story.

Do you ever get a sadness// that weighs down on your soul;
a prodigious burden that makes bright eyes dark and dull?
It yanks up on your heartstrings//  and slices at your heels
When you pray for something, anything/ /that will really make you feel.

I get the feeling often// and wait for it to pass,
but it's in the cargo of this ship and I’m clawing up the mast.
It can feel like an ocean// and I’m stranded on a raft,
These planes fly high above me// but my hope's deflating fast.

Lord, give me strength and courage// to make it through this year
Be the loving Father// that dries my bitter tears
Spare me some of your forgiveness// for my sinful frame of mind
Spare the key to perseverance// I've desperately failed to find

Oh, that I could see you! and feel your knowing eyes.
Oh, if I could just hear you// I’d set my other gods to fire.
For I’ve seen twenty long Novembers// but none as dark as this
So many times I glimpsed the mark// but shot and always missed.

Rejoice upon the subtle murmurations -
of angelic voices , gaggles of blackbirds performing
within naked hardwoods , Whitetail companions
dwell o'er living , wetted pasture , wintered neighborhoods
Novembers invisible strength racking evergreens ,
cold cover mingles with tall Pine canopies  
Fall turned , brown sugar fields with calling Herefords ,
bound for eventide shelters* ....

I need to clothe this manic obsession
for acceptance and digital affection.
The mornings turn to midnight
before I have started my day,
and the wind is blowing reminders of Newcastle;
the lack of warmth becoming prominent
in the absence of loving flesh.

There must be a better life somewhere,
beyond uncertainty and marketed freedoms.
Beyond where only question marks
punctuate endless months
of Novembers and displacement;
the chasm between who I am in the doorway,
and who I really mean to be.

I hear you are carving a living
out of the ways you almost died in the past.
You are signing forms for others,
you are making tea for trembling hands,
all the while wondering how it came to be you
sat on the right side of the table,
and away from the wrong side of the bar.

You told me an operator will find me,
a receptive ear to put me through
to someone who will know how to help.
In the meantime, you said, I should love music,
for when the shop-fronts have closed
and friends grow fat and indifferent,
Tom will sing Hold On until I can find sleep,

or at least a viable dream.

At the playground little girls whisper , point and giggle
Boys would reach for the top of the slide , form clicks
according to muscle , tenacity and determination
Shooters and aggies , jackstones , hopscotch
Open coats in Novembers breeze , bright leaves in a
whirlwind , the squealing merry-go-round , balancing on the
roots of Live Oak trees with ***** knees , trading lollipops
for gum , whimsical erasers for big number two pencils
Watching from a railroad tie sand lot border , writing rhyme
in white sand , singing a new song to myself , playing the cello
in my imaginary band , waiting for the white confusion of recess
to come to a quick end* ....

Slipping away from my fingertips once again.
Beautifully breaking.
Fantastically falling apart.

Days spent pacing with your shallow heart racing just praying for an embracing.
The seasons will keep changing.
Waves will crumble to ashes.
Snow will melt into lungs, indirectly letting us inhale the wintry, frigid weather.
Flowers will be reborn once again and embody scent into our minds once more.
Dreaming of a day when I could rest in the canopy of dogwood and sweet honeysuckle.
Earth is where I'll remain, one with the howling winds and piercing air.
Flowery Aprils and Brutal Novembers.
Burt me regarding the sacred time of my last breath, be it in leaves of maples petals of tulip, crisps of December frost or maybe even crunchy sand in between my toes as told by the trodden beaches of Bora Bora in July.

She wore death as crown
And balanced the cosmos on her fingertips
She could ****** June with a stare
But preferred the slow anticipation of Novembers rain
She created the illusion of god
And slept with the devil
She gave birth to sin
And made sin a pleasure
Nothing bloomed without
The touch of blood
Dripping down
From between her thighs
She drained the colors from her right eye
To paint the night
And morning sky
Then planted its corpse deep within the earth
A tree grew of myth and legend
The leaves turned into dragons
Fallen branches turned into flame
She sits beneath its shade
With one eye left
To weave fate and time
You will met her at your end
Queen of the blind

You're petite while you get your chores done
You've got a palindrome for a name and a smile that knocks me out
You're the subject of my quick fantasies
Where do you go, muse behind the counter?
When you're not making coffee for customers
Do you harbor refugees and protect them?
Do you vote for fascists in Novembers?
Does your heart break like mine does for American colonies?
Do you ever dream of the people behind other coffee counters?
This account of the muse behind the counter is best left untouched
Untainted
While you're those thousands of centimeters away from me, that's where you'll stay, in dreamland.
I notice your beauty involuntarily
It clamors at me
You spread one message about yourself throughout the world

"I am beautiful"

"I am human"

I hope you believe it too

I have no other option but to agree with your smile
Which demands my surrender and I succumb

Muse behind the counter, do you love yourself?
Do you admire the beauty which is so evident to me right now?
Do you hold up high hopes of the future,
And pray for justice to come?

But the truth is, I do not see you in my fantasies
I see reflections of my desires
I see expressions of expectations
And they happen as involuntarily as my admiration of your beautiful bun
How it reaches taller than you ever could!
How you don't know I'm writing about you right now, as you put another pastry in the oven.

Dear reader,

I've not addressed you for quite a while.
You see, I've closed myself off.
Completely. I've handed myself over
to the crooks of television and the dealers
that pass by the street on occasion.

I'm living a sort of hybrid life,
melodramas in my spaced-out mind,
whilst inactivity spreads like algae
across the pond of ***** laundry
and cigarette papers, to the curtained window;
all sunlight extinguished.

This is no excuse to disregard others,
but life gets polluted as I'm sure you know,
and in the vanity of my own displeasure
I have recently conceded to hibernation;
thawing out my near-frozen, cynical heart.

To you, with all my perishable inexpertise,
I offer this:

That to your eyes, I falter - dying for attraction.
To the rhythm of moving lips over words,
I fall. To the plague of tomorrow, I stutter,
but in companionship of readership, I survive.

Oh reader, in your cerebral mist,
please hear this, my heady call:

Of bleak and miserable Novembers,
the threat of life impaired,
of times when all love is but sorrow,
of times when you're barely there.

Please, still sweeten at the sunlight,
rejoice in your daily waking bloom,
for, in you lies my love of a lifetime,
for, in you is the writing on my tomb.

All my love,
Someone Or Other