i really don't care,
                 as you sit here and tell me,
about the number votes,
        or when i keep thinking about,
                          the ache in my throat,
          when i think about how
   you leave me thousands of notes,
    telling me i'm your world,
and you love me and need me so dear,
                           i know you aren't lying,
that much is clear.
                but the words had no meaning,
even though i know that they should,
                    and you always tell me,
you'd marry me now if you could.
        and i feel like you mean it,
and it makes me sad,
        when you say i'm the best thing,
that you've ever had.
        you deserve so much more,
then me by your side,
                          but you stay here and hold me,
through all the rollings of the tide.
                      and that makes me wonder,
what's wrong with me?
                       you love me,
                  and need me,
that i can see.
        and i once read something,
that stung like a smack,
                     "you always love the person,
       who can't love you back."
and another thing,
        that runs through my mind like a train,
     goes:
    "the person who you love, and the person that loves you,
                       well,
                       they are never, ever, the same."
i do my best
     to love you,
            and give you my heart,
but i know in truth,
              you only hold
a small part.

Words were never spoken or exchanged.
"The GO Train is here."
The only five words anyone there ever thought they needed to hear
besides
they weren't words
they were mentality
the briefcases
purses
newspapers
click-a-clacks of heels
rustling of zippers and keys
scrapings of sandals
rollings of bags
sharp noses
blank eyes
all pointed at their exact target
click clack
click clack
a steady stream
of everyone and anyone
men with full black business suits
girls in Gouci and jeans
ladies in Reitmans
men in checkered shirts and khaki shorts
like ants they piled into the
green and white
snake
dreading the fatal announcement
"last call!  Last call!"
they accelerated
full grown men and women
whipping and thudding and click-a-clacking
the wind pushed them back to their cars
the ground screamed "Stop!"
but they didn't listen
a woman
all in blue
who could raise the dead
with her clacking
daintily ran as fast as she could
"DOORS SHUT!" the conductor's voice was muffled
and he followed through
in a spurt of perseverance
soundlessly
the doors closed
At least the adults knew one thing
no amount of noise could open them
so they didn't try
the blue-clad woman slowed to a stop
the GO train had gone
she slumped in the middle of the station
the wind urged her
but suddenly
the train came again
always there
always gone
CLICK CLACK
the heels revived
click clack
click
clack
clack

huffing cases float into the endless abyss
     taken away by the heavens
             sodden fingers bid adieu
                       waving off drips of gray fondness
           diving into heedless currents
                crystallizing with the past
amongst severed mountain heads
                rivers of lost marbles roll for rollings toll
           smelling of folly, fog dances with trees        
                   only shadows are left to breathe

Before...

Before I knew you my hands were rocks and appendages, taped on by meaningless tendons that had never been cleansed by the limestone of your body or soothed by the balm you call skin or held by the soft feathers you call hands. Boring globs, my hands were, before I had caressed your milky world of a body, or slid my hand along your rollings hills and curves only to stop at your speckled cheek to feel your sunset of a face, blushing without absence and nuzzling into my own longing for more, your eyes meeting my own.

Before...

Before I knew you my tongue was a sand dune of sadness, wallowing in it's dampened hills waiting to emerge and meet your own in a luscious sandstorm of lust and beauty and dance until water need course its way along our throats and hydrate us allowing our tango to continue its way through an invisible dance-room, stepping to an unheard beat, lapping along your own red room and protruding its way out and onto the nape of your silky neck.

Before...

Before I knew you my eyes were meaningless pools of mud, glancing for miles along empty shores and welling with nonexistent tears that need not flow along coarse cheeks. These irises had never perceived beauty such as yours at this time, only stared into meaningless faces and seen the truth of my personal planet; empty and filled with nothing. They had only stared into cloudless skies and seen grassless dirt, of which they attempted to blend, to become one with an unnecessary hovel of which I called home. My eyes had never conceived the idea of pondering such beauty. Only when doing so did they grow in size, until bursting became preferable, exploding in a wave of passion that would spread throughout my entire body leaving me with a feeling of unmet longing.

Before...

Before I knew you my body was a slab of dirt, muddled by the world which I've walked, crying out to be held and loved. How it longed to be caressed and scratched upon the surface by claws of beauty and hands of birds, flying along my own skin and moving through my wondrous sky without hesitance. Only to plummet down and have us fall into each-others bodies, meeting and colliding in a ying-yang and circling in a whirlwind of which no one can stop and catch a breath, gasping for air only to be greeted by the loving hold of a mouth upon each own, and to continue this dance, silk upon silk, cleaning the dirt of a muddled slab and allowing me to feel pure in your holiness.

Before..

Before I knew you my heart was a drum that had never been smacked with wooden sticks, awoken by the sound of a snare that echoes endlessly, only to be heard by you. That echo remained un-followed, waiting to be played once more and create a rhythm of which to follow. A beat that had never been played upon a winding track, full of hurdles of which I would breathlessly jump to reach you. Allowing the blood to pump through my veins and reach the coursing river that I swim with great speeds to reach you. Following along the shore, and sinking in this red river to become aware of your divine existence.

But that was before...

When I knew you we met in the middle and discussed our love through gorgeous pervasive actions that spread through our fingertips and creeped inside of us all the way to our hearts, leaving us boiling inside; cooking with anticipation; waiting for the continuance of such splendid actions. Our love is divine and flies like a dove amongst the godless stars who know no bounds, only knowledgeable of endless flame such as our own; burning brightly in our minds, firing of receptors, telling us to cling to the shirt and fabric of this love and never release. Advising us to search for the pool of our love and drown in it, never to return for air, and to find solace in the sand at the bottom of this well that grows ever deeper with our every encounter. Warning us to never emerge, and to endlessly baptize our minds amongst the audacious ocean of our hearts.

Before I knew you, I loved you. Now that I love you; I do.
There is no before. There is only more.

given the zeitgeist, well, what can you expect, bad punctuation, even worse grammar, and a complete of "raining from above" diacritical appropriation, can make anyone quasi-dyslexic, even if they are said to champion a high-level of proficiency in a native tongue; which always made me wonder: why did i turn into a speedy gonzales, outrunning the majority of natives in the tongue? i guess it came to a dedication to a craft, like any carpenter with a block of wood, english, represented by a block of:
                                               a b c d e f g
                                               h i j k l m n
                                               o p q r s t u
                                               v x w x y z.

sorry, i'm taking over, i've had enough,
enough of these poncy natives speaking
their native language as badly written
as a rap, or as naive as a *simon & garfunkel
song, i don't care for your little english degree,
i know your little scheme,
to ensure the H is mutilated, mainly bound
by promethean chains of surd -
only apparent in laughter...
that alphabet you see before you?
it's my version of sudoku -
i look at that "square" and get **** out -
i never write from the heart,
i write from the perspective of my *** -
**** it out, forget about it, move on,
move on...
            i rearrange what i see and don't see...
and yes: you learn from the best,
and the best being? the ones that allow
you to think, make-up your own little narrative,
you pepper the writing with nuance,
with ambiguity, with a: huh?
   along the the day you also channel in
a tarantula's bite of disorientation -
narrative has seized to be worth a linear
geometry -
  there's no point (a) through to point (b) -
we're talking literature in einsteinian terms,
not newtonian projectiles...
           any ******* idiot can draw a straight
line, this deformed kid i knew from being
a child: hugged the **** out of me,
could have made a brussels pâté out of me,
i liked the ******: his ****** ****** his
wife's sister, and, being a ******,
he supported the whole family with
the benefit cheques...
          couldn't say a word without a ******'s
grin... but i do remember his favourite
pastime - precision of a pair of scissors,
he would sit and tear up newspapers all
day long, sometimes walk the dog,
  but you couldn't cut paper the way he ripped
it in streaks like spaghetti...
       hell: nature abhors a vacuum;
ah, ol' robbie.
                but that's beside the point,
what i learned from my pict english teacher
was: digress... he always digressed,
i learned the art of english is via: digression -
he's the one who got me into jazz -
i can't say i listen to jazz all the time like
some pompous aragonite of catalonia -
       but when the mood is right,
and there's no woman, and there's no wine,
and there's only the identical twins
ms. & ms. pepsi & amber - and it's october,
and the wind is warm in the night,
and i feel like: these headphones are becoming
too claustrophobic, i put on some miles davis
and feel like: like a politician in davos...
   still, i don't believe in linearity of dialogue -
after all, the earth doesn't travel in a straight line...
so why bother with a "beginning, middle & end"
style of storytelling? why not tell a tale high
on a tarantula bite, completely disorientated?
the best english you're going to hear is:
via digression -
     and as i recall, up to the age of 16 -
the pict made us sit through about 2 / 3 hours
of curriculum, i.e. in english class that means
learning grammar...
     ****, we learned about 0's worth of grammar:
his motto was something like:
  hey, if you speak it grammatically,
there's no point learning any grammatically
grammatically grammar, written, or spoken.
fair point.
     so he taught us by digression -
and no one can teach you better english,
  than a glaswegian... hey, you want a great memory
of school, and not turn into some soppy
         morrissey? learn to build up an
affection with your teachers...
           ****, i even remember the teachers
in primary school, everyone feared mrs. hetherington;
she once told us a story of being shipped out
from london (due to the blitz) into
the countryside... the old "hag" is dead by now,
but, although the rumours: she was a gem;
school wasn't a problem, as long as you
didn't buy into this whole famous obscure,
weird yada yada yada, frozen prune on
a popsicle *******, you did fine...
                as long as you had respect and
some sort of weird admiration for a teacher,
or +2, the other kids just, seemingly, drifted
into the song of ambient music - akin
to refrigerator humming.
seriously - the best time of your life is
the time you have in school, esp. given the currency
is nothing more than brownie points / peanuts...
no, i know a teacher's pet when i see one -
but dabbing into the personal life of a teacher,
say, seer thomas! what's your jazz collection
like? and then you get a c.d. to burn
the next day jazz on a summer's day album,
with the opening track being
    art blakey's song moanin'...
but that's beside the point (once more) -
let's just say that solving the sudoku allows you
to clear through the claustrophobia of thinking,
notably, given that all mental illness is
a form of cognitive claustrophobia -
     well...
    there once came an argument against
the godfather of existentialism, JP sartre -
who said: existence comes prior to essence...
so we live a life (borrowing from kant's rigidity)
             vita est a priori
  subsequently esse est a posteriori -
  i need to degrade everything into cartesian
terms, with that eternal formula
that has reached a mathematical pinnacle
of 1 + 1 = 2, i.e. 1 (cogito) + (ergo) 1 (sum) = id,
no matter how much you'd like to shake
it off, you can't! everything in philosophy
zeniths and nadirs on the cartesian sly cat
of expression...
                 what are we though?
do we exist to think, or do we simply,
                           essentially think?
well, if we exist to think, we'd be nothing
more than a brain in a pickle jar...
and we wouldn't get up to moral transgressions
and general idiocy of making mistakes...
    and given the aura and the fauna of
our environment, and the number of sport
disciplines available for us to practice:
thinking is non-essential,
it's a byproduct of existence per se.
before writing this i was actually going to
channel an argument against sartre,
  but given the ongoing arithmetic of the end
product of this writing...
  i kinda agree with him...
       existence is a priori to essence,
as essence is a posteriori to existence -
   nice, look at 'em siamese twins, butter-rubbed
greasy and all...
                 could slide into a chimney
prior to santa (anagram of satan)
          prior to santa saying: bishquits und quackers
and a handful of rollie-pollies to add the
extra, crunch!
    thinking is essential, i admit,
       but it's not exactly an existential absolute
i.e. uniform in: the omni sphere of things,
plants don't think, parasites don't think...
    hence the antithesis of the cartesian
res cogitans is the res impetus -
   phototropism being the best example...
           shlime of a honeybee in the ear
of krampus...
                    how can essence come prior to
existence, given the cartesian reductionism of
pivoting the argument on thought?
  thought doesn't even enter the picture,
once the senses are fully formed,
  and that lesser celebrated cognitive faculty
of memory finally lodges itself on the hamster wheel...
first we memorise, then we imagine (so many
games in childhood) - and we start to think: lastly.
as the world around us suggests:
   thinking isn't exactly essential -
   it's existential...
      wait wait, too many O 0 O 0 O 0 O squashing
of doughnuts and rollings wheels...
                      essence comes prior to existence...
so, by saying that: i am to be born an
essentially good person?
              this is theologically speaking an
inversion of the protestant concept of
  predestination...
        now the spaghetti muddling revision...
       i had it! i swear, i had it!
                         essence can't "predate" existence
since existence has no universal analogue replica,
no uniform coercion of all given examples...
yes, in essence we should all be universally
well off, rich, beautiful, perfect skin etc.,
that would be the "utopian" essential component
in arguing: essence comes prior to existence...
but the reality is: existence comes prior to
the essence of things - given we experience
the odd bouts of daydreaming...
        essentially that, but existentially: this...
trouble with certain counter-arguments
      to doctrines is that they leave the argument
in the jaw of a chimera,
   and never bother with real-life examples of
counter,
          like in poetry,
            with its array of technique,
   philosophy has but one sunshine moment -
   take the abstract road up to a point,
and then ask that age old question:
give a man a fish and feed him for a day,
or teach a man how to fish?
               as any parasitic business model will
tell you: give the man a fish, make him
indebted, and then tell him to mine for diamonds
to make for the first, and subsequently
second fish you're going to give him;
as was my concern:
  if no idea, no concept, can't be made
infantile, or rather, to be reduced to a level assertive:
well, you know, that "serious" thinker was
also, once a kid... what's the point
of taking yourself seriously?