The part of my heart that you'd have taken

I know it still there hanging around with your vein

You're the first guy who queened me in numbered days

O God, is this feeling not supposed to be felt?

Maybe you don't remember me again

And live happily overthere absenting my name

But in my universe, you're immortal

But forget me if it makes you better

When the time comes, we will delete each other

As we did for someone came earlier

Have a nice day, my lover



A damp heart in a damp room, 2017. 07:33.

-edited in Aug 2018-

well the left is dead, and the left turned into tartan, i guess the islanders
are gearing up to a male patriarch where ***** go free with jealousy
rather than queened freely;
i know the left died, but to have it third day resurrect
in scotland, i'd never think the tories flavoured
outside of plum plucked blue;
only when a politics is unappealing to quote no vote,
is a change of monarch at hand,
and then why such the left disappear almost completely?
it's one thing for tyranny to leave a listening airy cleft
where once thought reigned tyrannically un-dialectical,
but it's another cased scenario to suddenly
lever a man to contort into a female face on either
photograph or coin, so we leave the wonders of chillingly
easy rhymes of song from the 1960s to the 21st complex,
and we leave the reign almost feeding a reprimand
for the multi-cultural having no artistic endeavour
in a counter. multi-cultural will not provide a counter-culture,
given the scenario of tyranny to aggregate all into taxable citizens,
perhaps that's rome shrunk into the vatican for the alphabet to survive,
perhaps why latin is "dead" and perhaps why poetry is dead,
because the only walky talkies are women in retirement;
forget dialectics even, remind yourself of dialogue first!
in the end, like the pre-socratics, i'll be a snippet of words
to bruise myself on fame post-mortem;
of course i live in readied tyranny, no one votes
and the left of politics was taken my northern nationalists...
in the end, thank **** at least that happened!
the king wears a kilt!
and? better my youth be a foolery in the realm of vocabulary
than prancing in tutu and bra on a table in ibiza;
yes, i'll be courteously french while i age in the silent winery:
that place where you won't even hear a corkscrew.*

the politics is long, i'd rather live on nn the faroe islands,
but it reminded me of a charles in henry's nursery rhyme:
charles the first survived, slow motion:
beheaded, in ****, later did some philanthropy;
conspiracy almost ******, gaffed choking on a peanut peel, never married -
entered the nunnery via public opinion that'd never allow a scandal or a ****** birth.

intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's leave it to the pigs
or play dead among the dogs,
or levy it with questions in gushing recurrence;
intelligence is uncomfortable,
let's utilise it with someone saying:
i rather speak to someone 100 prior or 100 years after.

or as later proved: among the citizens an uncomfortable censor
was a woman, that's the thing:
misogyny and homosexuality are almost alike:
gays love to talk to women but loath to butter up a sour bread dough,
misogynists loath to talk to women but love to **** 'em;
where's the middle way buddha? where's the middle way?
socrates turning into a misogynist disguised in homosexual accents
in old age? the old man got away with acceptable norms in old age,
almost, they figured out his **** pure and minded his cranium crucible divergence
from: young boys readied for pedophiles spoke more flowers
than my wife while cooking compost of fruits!

ah! i live in a spicy tomorrow, gearing up to charles the third's
reign with talk of the amputated left limp either side of the diaphragm
equator, hence the scot nationalists,
whereby we have beauty anorexic strutting eager for a faint in a cabbage patch,
and we best test tube in pigmenting alkali,
writing songs about life, not poetry of that ideal: "from the cosmos"
of autobiographic detail of metaphysics to exclude evil from a humming choir;
or as i took to my father in sepia:
beauty in anorexia, language in bad grammar and even more a terrible spelling
that never experienced the lines of detention to conform,
and then all the moral freedoms to not think about
and when thought about, quickly attached to **** smear
girly literature;
but do i go around talking of my easily-read literature?
so why this italian pole girl ruining my diary of saved orientated ordination?
she jealous or just illiterate the she-troll of all?

misogynists are like homosexuals, although the prior have no politico thumb,
we love ******* the brains out, we hate being boyfriends
from magazines or the psychology sections of saturday newspapers editions;
plus we like our own company, which is hard to grasp;
i mean, we love women within the membrane of ****** temperatures twinning,
but that's hardly the right temperature for conversation akin to vishnu and lakshmi.

You were, for a moment, my favorite read
Even believed, that, for a moment you were my personal creed
I gave good advise, if you only had listened to my heed
No amount of meed
Can pay back everything and succeed
But my heart it feeds
On nothing it ever needs
These feelings that breed
Nothing I want to feel indeed
Numb my anxiety with all this ****
I can't wait to pass the deed
I'm sweating bullets in constant beads
For my moment in the lead
My beautiful brilliance will be keyed
And my emotions can be freed
I can't wait for that special someone who'll have me queened

Can you hear me right now?
My heart is racing but there's surely no sound.
I'm always here but I'm never around.
I'm finally on my feet & you're knocking me down.
Lord not right now, not right now.
Can you trust me right now?
I've Queened you but I forgot your crown.
You're an ocean, I don't want to drown.
My standards are high, you're above the crowd.
Your pictures are screaming, why are you so loud?
Jumping while looking down.
Tried to slide in safe but you're calling me out.
Apology letters from the ones that miss me right now.
Smiles behind frowns, night doubts.

A daughter dies, and she is found,
in the cerulean movements of birds.
Not a hawk. Mother Sky
says those are for boy’s souls.

The father sees mockingbirds
building a nest of pine twigs
in the corner frieze of the portico
and imagines a flash of her smile
in there frequent swoops to his shoulders
as he dares to fetch the mail.

This is not a defensive attack, he thinks,
not really harpies.
Maybe a hello?  
Maybe her just checking in?
It made sense.  
She was always hiding in high places.

She once was found sleeping in a crag
of Old Wauhatchie Pike on one joint climb.
She often danced on the roof,
sketch pad in hand, until she found
the perfect angle to stencil
either the setting or rising sun.

The mockingbirds screeches
waking him in the morning
were an act of love, maybe,
turning a casual belief
into a hopeful faith.

It was silly for him to think
that the mockingbirds were
his daughter’s soul.

But then the father
thought of Icarus
every time the mockingbirds
would rise and soar high in the drafts
until there glint vanished into the sun.
He rebelled at the thought that Mother Sky
would reserve waxen wings for a foolish boy.

His daughter had made herself silken wings.
He knew that, had harnessed them  to her back,
leaving this butterfly in the babysitter’s care
while they went to attend the opera.

After the tuck in she scrambled onto the roof
determined to sketch the rise of the moon,
and knowing that anything was possible,
she closed her eyes and leapt.

He remembered the babysitter’s
frantic call to come home, NOW!
Then, there  was just the echo
of his daughter’s laughter. Maybe?

He could see her flying high in the day sky
even though the night, the real night,
had queened her kingdom to the existence
of her swaying silently between pine and earth,
her feet never touching the ground.

He wanted to tell her to come down.
TO COME DOWN NOW.  
But he could not.
She was too high up,
lost in the promise of flight.
And he was too small.

He let her go.
Let her fly away from him
on silken wings
that never melted.  
Proud to see her fly
so high, even in his dark.

Doing anything, late in life, is for the moment.

No duty remains, all shirked, all left undone, long
ago passed down to the next hero's attempt.

Daily reminders from old mail lists, so and so died.

Yeah. So she did, so shall we all. I understand.

Each of us has a while, as each star has a while,
burning out from self's centermost being, shining

distant, single star, single mote lit for my looking,
first star wish, wished, and wished, and wished,

in vain,
at Venus.

-------------------

With myself, alone, listening,
hearing a human ****** interpret a novel,
a told tale of plottable inter-essential new

points of views, from within the author's mind,

seen and said, seen. Look
see the worth of such words, an authority

describing the scene, bringing life from words.

Telling thought shared as if,
if itself, the if in all we must imagine, saying

this is plenty, genug enough, this in us state,
as an awesome thing of many minds, elohimish,

in this atmosphere we breathe in harmony,
as each breath extends the reach of each word…

wouldn't we willingly want wishing work, word
work, daily dues to pay, waking, wishing, will
would
you join the dance?

Did you laugh? Life is all game.

----------------

Slow knowing, seeing guns,

thinking game plotted paths,
rewarding reality with possibilities,

triumphant miniature thrill of victory…

essence of history, we won, we won, we won.

And then, the new formed governing mind,
the officially united, naturally selfish mind

representing those whose national will,
continues to revere the pioneer, pawn

queened, by no more noble cause than,
following the rules used to progress,

across the board, each step a stage
in the game, scaled to seem relatable

to royal rules uses made of lower worth
pieces in the arsenal of this one, black,
against that one, white…

clearly… contrasting points at the edge
of the grayscale, light's own, none to all,

whoa,
look, in broad day light, light
alone, lacks any gray but  
in reflection, none
from our sun.

----------------------

Some axiom from our Hallmarked past,
tells us to hang in there… hold the line,

only find time to filter for wisdom, enough

to imagine making up a mind from nothing,
Helen Keller had touch, imagine a spirit's mind,
intangible,
made up
from mere words as metaphors, holding
thoughts, thoughts called feelings, but not,

thoughts, states of patient grace, thoughts, if

we both think, between each letter, those thoughts

in the realm between us, in the medium of thoughts…

no eyes or ears or fingers, even so, imagine
knowing all the time redeemed for now,
is being used to make us useful, hmmm,

as om, oh my, ahh-ooom, mmmhmmm, soon….

Makes no difference,
we think as if difference is essential,

day by day, difference referring to load,

how worth thinking is a line of reason?

-----------
Behold the happy thought,
hooking hope where no hope was imagined.

What harm? None done, none intended,
none available for take away.