she put my heart in a jar.
wait here until i return, she said.
i waited two forevers for her to open it, my heart was suffocating.

i was drowning in her memories, her eyes danced like fireflies in the moonlight. timeless passion. she is my flower child.

flawless. my heart is in a cage, solitude sedates me. i recall memories we never had or maybe it was visions of a future we will have?

i sit down with a notepad and admire your movement. i pen down my studies, and try to understand your complexity. your face glows, your waist flows. like the beautiful Victoria Falls, African queen.

i digress, you still have my heart in a jar. open a few holes, my heart is suffocating.

hair like Rapunzel, fine spun gold, only love knows our connection. time is but a teardrop in our moments.

on my notepad, is stories of what i think you could be, yet my imagination is far from your real being.

your shadow is unique. i can see it dancing under the stars, it tells its own stories. faded, i am.

im loving, your heart. keep moving, beauty. i love you. stop arguing with your mind, you’re beautiful. every man knows.

o, to be young and feel love’s keen sting.

beauty.

je t’aime. belle âme, mon coeur appartient à vous.

why is it so hard to see you?
i crumble and i croak
hopeful words dance at the back of my throat
now i’m hopeless
now i’m in a mess
of you or her or him or me
it’s like moving to a new country
and getting the hang of their weird plastic currency
and why the **** is talking to you so hard?
i tumble and i frizzle
a glass smashed into shards
aggravation takes me over because
anxiety takes me over because
suppression takes me over because
i want ******* control over ******* everything
i want to ******* know what i’m ******* doing
what i’m ******* thinking
i tremble and i palpitate
the thirst never sedates
like a lion ******* blood or a needle weaving thread
so much to go around
too much to go around
i’m not sure how to go about
underwater is where i wish i was
underwater, everything is muted
everything is calmer and resentments are diluted
i long to feel less polluted
i long to feel less consumed by
that and this and all the ******* frolicking ****
it pulls and tears and rips in shears
still standing there
i am still standing there
why the **** am i still standing there
here
like a fish suffocating in air
like a statue stands with a smile it can’t wipe off
i sweat under smiles
i want to wipe it off
i want to turn it off
why won’t i just ******* take it off?
why is it so hard to know who you are?
seeing a glimpse of a break down is making me stick around for you
do you still want me to stick around for you?
i crush and i tamper
with anything i can get my hands all over
it really doesn’t matter
what or who or how hard i hit
cause nothing is good enough for this ******* *****

I do not like the feeling of
examination,
of eyes burning on my back
as if you are a small match
and I am the bushfire
you wish to light...
I do not like the feeling of
obssessive observation,
I do not like privacy violation,
I do not like the feeling of claustrophobia,
I do not like claustrophobia because
it doesn't cease to exist by simply
removing ten people from one room.
I do not like claustrophobia because
sometimes your own mind is enough
to provoke a certain type
of wanderlust,
the kind where you run away
and leave everyone to rot and rust.
I do not like claustrophobia
because when I am alone,
it can never be enough alone,
it feels like the walls of my room
are breathing on my neck;
they're laughing at me,
declaring this poet insane,
it is the most crowded type of alone
until somebody, something
sedates my brain
and you call me "suggestive anxiety"
it's all in your head,
you're a game of chance
and I'm taking a guess;
you know my face but
you know nothing about my name.

A quiet, calm, serene place,

contrast with my heart's pace.

Gently slipping into silence,

just like plush, soft and dense.


The smell of books my spirit sedates,

new or old, they are the gates

of my comfort castle, made of words,

where pages fly instead of birds.


Safe and warm, paper and pen,

I can write, this is my zen.

For paper puts up with a lot,

every line, curve and dot;

with each word I lay on the page,

I'm one step outside the cage;

Outside myself, this prison of mine,

the chaos spills into written line.


Away from problems, light and free,

peace at last, in the library.

listening to the radio is far less melancholy than you might think, sure, the adverts are there, and you can't skip them or hush them like you can on the internet and on-demand t.v., but it doesn't bother me, i sometimes like to take a break from being my own d.j., because as my own d.j. i tend to choose music that's perfect for writing, for honing in on the sizeable bite of verbiage, sometimes distinguished by a touch of a magician's wand. plus i surprises are better than presents - i stopped celebrating all the orthodox occasions in the calendar - i forgot my birthday, christmas = pyjamas and movies, Easter outside the Catholic / Orthodox realm is a bit silly... rabbit testicles... the greatest profanity, Protestantism has its weak spot... coupled with championing capitalism, Easter has no surprises, given the most celebrated act of the man who lived when Spartacus burped and Ben Hur farted... (cat just started his opera when i wrote this, just treat it as an odd thing, remembering the dead and still famous in cinema adaptation)... but you seriously can't imagine Easter in England... chocolate *****, Christianity has become a joke, it hasn't died out, it has just become a joke... what with Elijah becoming a saint rather than a prophet, what with the Archangel Michael also becoming a saint... you'd start thinking: this is getting ridiculous with hen parties and fairy wands, plastic wings and ******* in the alley... the disrespect people have for Easter and over-powering the celebration of Christmas just shows the weakness... a sly incursion into a penitence for the Inquisition... comfortable chairs in churches across America... like i said, a joke. Islam is heading the same way, the failings of these two monotheisms is bound to (as i mentioned already) the incorporation of a polytheistic concept of polytheism bound to the last book before the fiasco, Malachi's promise of a return of Elijah, to turn the son's heart unto his father's, antonym too with the women; well, i have to take this text seriously, i hate ridiculing them, the 20th century's antidote to explaining why the Holocaust wasn't averted by some big brother - i live in England, i'm used to c.c.t.v. voyeurism, i don't understand why a theological c.c.t.v. is so ****** complicated - usually argued by the person with his hand in a cookie jar... why should anyone else be worried? don't worry, i'm not digressing, there's a reason why i added an emphasis title to the first of a sequence of my experiment (where i stop being my own d.j.).

my father left for England when i was 4,
i do have a vague memory of 1990 -
most notably my mother waking up late
and in his words: wake the baroness,
lothar matthaus (1990 world cup) -
carrying a table for the kitchen with him -
meeting his grandmother that raised him
being the oddest experience -
(yeah, he was an unwanted child,
raised by his grandparents,
the shame stories of his drinking father living
near him but taking no interest,
his mother moving to Silesia) -
so from a presence aged 4 to being 8
he was simply a voice on the telephone
and a pack of presents once in a while -
my mother left to join him when i was 6 -
before she left she bought me a dog,
a doberman pinscher - called him Axel
(after Axl Rose) - after that i got a taste
of my father's childhood, i.e. being raised
by my grandparents - driving an industrial
buggy on the steel plant complex,
taking a shower in the bathrooms -
my grandfather was an alcoholic... now i'm
a post-stoner alcoholic... so i don't have any
horror story to name and shame someone,
it doesn't matter, once i walked my grandfather
from his mother's house on her birthday,
he got the woman's wrath from my grandmother
and my mother, but i sure as **** walked him home;
just stating the obvious, not all poets are
fluffy heart frail, some of us learn to live.
so when i arrived in England aged 8 at the Victoria
Coach Station i didn't quiet know what to do
hugging my father... a complete stranger
(early development is not the development of
adults used to the mundane hamster wheels
of countless Mondays and Fridays and nights out) -
my memory of learning English in primary school
from scratch? i can't tell you anything detailed -
what i can tell you is that Jurassic Park came out
that year and i really wanted to see it after
becoming a fan of the Japanese versions of Godzilla,
my favourite? *Ghidorah, the Three-Headed Monster.
and Lion King was out too... each day after coming
back from primary school (fond memories,
like taking pictures of Pamela Anderson from
a newsagent that were given out for free into
the schoolyard and distributing them, getting ratted
out given the shame-mantra by the headmaster:
what would you say if this was your mother?
Christianity is perfect by shaming you first, then
supposedly redeeming you, their own vice fruit
and that ******* crucifix. the game of bulldog
the meals, Ribena, choc cake with custard,
drawing Ophelia drowning for a school exhibition...
the devil mask bought at Warsaw and worn at
a dance ball, having it worn by all too eager friends
one by one... the list is endless - as ever, memory,
the best cinema in town) - so each day after coming
back from primary school i'd watch the Lion King
religiously... even my mother was bothered,
after two weeks if not more she complained to me
with concerns as if i were autistic or something -
why was i watching it? think about it... from the age
of 4 to the age of 8 i hadn't seen my father -
but you know that famous scene when Scar betrays
Mufasa and throws him to his death in the stampede?
pivotal moment for my psychic life to catch-up
with having a father - using the fear of loss in bright
colours kinda illuminated the dull realities around me -
intuitive masterminding what many people will take
for a standard family life - obviously i stopped the Lion
King after i saturated enough feeling for a person
i didn't develop around aged 4 till 8... which might
explain my resorting to alcoholism... but i'm not bothered,
i don't feel like starting a family, plus alcohol
sedates and makes writing more uninhibited (show me
a writer who didn't drink and i'll find you a bored
reader and unfinished books, that's the point of the
anti-haiku concept of ensō - i'm counting on it:
written without effort, should, technically be read without
effort), and never mind that ****** focal point in
my life that's not at all interesting aged 21 and thus
what happened after; that's me, automaton -
rebellious against being grilled down to:
an Englishman's house is his... cave... Darwinism take
on history will continue to be my pet peeve -
it just erases so many advances we've had down the centuries,
plus for every humanism alive... it must be kinda boring -
no... i'm not ensuring Darwinism is sparring in a boxing
ring with theology - from human to human -
that new program on channel 4 (naked attraction)
looks a bit like a trip to the butchers - and however you think
about it... the date after still looks ******* awkward,
so the ******* doesn't really help, the situation between
the pair is still like rubbing sandpaper on your face:
you're not showing a rouge of minor shame and inhibition...
you've just been basically *****-slapped silly.

just like the midnight lark I rise each midnightto listen in delight to the sound   that I have grown to love.
for her words have grown on me intertwined inside my memories.
every night I need her voice to set the moment right.
just like the lark I am a servant of the sky bound toroam across my dreams.Her song intones me.
I am stronger than the leaves.
in a stiff summer breeze.
sweet harmony be my guide and lead me to the other side.my passage has been paid by the dreams before I’ve laid.but do not be affright, I dreamt of you tonight.
so sing me lullabies from you perch up in the skyand I’ll dream a dream so true, and I’ll only dream of you.that I’ll wake amidst the nightwondering why you’re not by my side.then I’ll heave a heavy sigh as my ears have been trained to find,your fervent song that forever keeps me hanging onto the last few precious moments, of a night that creeps along.so,  sing me a song o’ black ruby of the night.draw your inspiration amongst the starlit night.for dreams do come true as dreamers often pray,but on an on another day.  good bird I do praythat God will bless your wings, for without your holy sound my life would come unwound.  o’ poet of the treesyour verse sedates my mind to a gentle ease.in mediation ‘tis true that all I hear is you.o’ poet of the skies and singer of lullabies,
I dream dreams so true of me and of you- .  allow me to be frankof hiker of the leaves,  and drifter of the trees,may you play for mea song so seldom sung to the silver sliver stuck above.I’ve fashioned a dream today of which I wish to playbut I have no melody to accompany my fantasy.so songbird of the night, sing me a song so rightand let your symphony surprise the stillness of the night. in these words I trust you’ll forever know my loveas strong as the rushing tide pulled from the silver disc above.black ruby of the night like a thief you stole my heart,ransom off my being but keep my soul intact, this is all I ask.first sound I fell in love with your evanescence glowthat radiates to me as roses attract bees.your bittersweet melody invigorates my being.wind comes to tear the leaves from ceiling treesbut the roots hold fast and the leaves survive and my soul has crossed the tide.to dream a dream so true as dreamers often liein bunks made of trees to slumber through the tide. in your song I am free to think,I am firm in my beliefs,I am stronger than the leaves.2005-

Sitting next to you
Feels like driving
On an easy path

Sitting in your shadow
Soothes my wounds
As an ******
Sedates life’s pains

I sit beside you
As you gather my
Responsibilities into
Your basket
And carry them for awhile

You help me understand
When to set blame aside
When to carry duty uphill
And when to let you grab
One of my hands
And pull me to your level

I sense a danger here
A bait as wispy and enchanting
As a fly fisherman's lure

I can't stop thinking about you still
Yet, i  know missing you is not the right thing to do
Not that i can help it, each time a thousand thoughts of you flock my consenting mind
But, my well nurtured hurt has become the antidote,
It sedates the uprising of memorable moments we once shared.

Now, each time I think of our happy moments,
Sadness thereby follows, and then, pain...

On the cloudy moon of
maroon ebb
I think about you
I think about all green
branches of unruly tree
that fails to stand still in
hope and unexplainable despair.'

Like the half eaten moon,
like the oozing blood of skin peeled lips,
my mind stagger on you,
on how to describe you.
And then you
come unannounced with
withered broken words and
nascent nervous grin.
(How can I describe you?)
Thick lips and eyes that
have ship like mystery. Yet dark halo
that surrounds your eyes are not
mysterious rather open
childish and blunt, just
like the love poem you
gave me once with quivering hands.

I love your hands
and how
they balance your
dangling silver chain watch
as it incorrigibly goes
south east and west.

On some nights, with
absolute pangs of naked flesh
when I detest
my own existence I see
you floating around me like
a fly,
humming
in your own noisy, boisterous sounds
lapping, overlapping on
my urgency to understand love
life and death. I ask questions
and you give answers of an active fool. I
who had have, once, travelled
door to door begging for answers
get tired, mad and stupidly excited on
the fecundity and confidence of your style.

You say, you love me
I say, *******.
How can I explain that
I am a mad jester
and God, Soul and Earth
guides me to madness
I see myself on a sea
standing on a wooden plank
gazing stars as
my dearest Cynthia
christens me and ignites
the madness in me.

Just like you meditate
my madness sedates me
into rolling pumpkin. At times
there is only sand in me
that slips, dissolves
and detests containment.
I burn at days and
on a very very jet black night
flicker like cigarette sparks.

I am thick as smoke
and I evaporates like roman candles
in the form of long veil of
frankincense that has driven
civilizations crazy. I know
my wits have burned in Byzantium
and in Arabia, between prosperity
and blood of gold quest
I have lingered in the veils
of blue- green eye
Arab women when they
inhale and exhale
vapour of dry sun and ‘itar’
of their heterogamous Arab Lord.

While I was riding on my
******* camel I have seen you, once,
crossing Nile with your entourage
of semi naked women
on your way to Medina. Later,
a century later, I realized how you
had have been fallen in love
with me and with others
of dark skin and oval large eyes

Once under shadow of an
imported willow tree
you have sworn on mountains
that there are temples,
in a holy land where Ganges streams,
which you made just for me.
On hearing this I called upon
Queens and Kings of salty ice kingdoms
and went on war on / with you. This war
lasted for twenty seven days
and forty seven nights. We fought
on planets, on stars, on clouds, on sands
on sea, on lands and
on nothing. I teased your wings
you teased my sail ,
until, one day
you woke me up from my office slumber
and just like this and that
we sat across each other
talking about monk and monkeys in a
smelly, ill-coloured cafeteria.

By M

Mr Milgram keeps the social animals at bay.
Experiments on them, sedates then lets them play.
For he knows all too well how violent they can get.
And he knows that he is their council, father and vet.
So he takes his job seriously- well you would have to.
Imagine all the ravaging these savage animals could do-
digging around in side each other for love, lies and food.  
They would surely turn on him too-
At least thats how its understood.  

So with his big sharp needle- he injects each ones neck.
Dressed Immaculately in a suit, they don’t refute but show respect.  
You see by now they have all became so heavily addicted.
That they long for his visits, without him they are afflicted.
The need for authority, to obey, is so inherent.  
These fatherless children are faithless and need a parent.  
But not the kind that loves and shows warm affection.
But the kind that would ****-
Even themselves for their protection.  

So in their toxic psychosis they wander oh so blissfully.
Each moment is a marvel, their reality a mystery.
But Mr Milgram looks uneasy, his brow always furrowed.
Maybe its because he knows how deep the thought has burrowed.
For he see’s the world exactly as it is.
They see a construction, a realised bliss.  
Imprisoned he wanders in but seven shades of light.
And when darkness comes, he understands that it is the night.

He knows it’s not long till he can take away their being.
Turn them into brute instruments, blindly led to their freeing.  
To be relinquished of all guilt, but still able to operate.
To carry out without question, any demands he might make.
For their are millions of nails that he needs them to hammer.  
And hammer doesn’t question,
It just agrees with the consensus of the clamour.  
Then Mr Milgram can return to his simple carpentry ways.
Knowing that the social animals have been safely led astray.

Time is a cool liquid that flows and resonates through my being
And as I sit here slaving away day by day on man made devices based on prehistoric theories, I feel the angels of death ripping my time out from underneath my feet.
I maybe young but I continue to fret about the bullets that ring in my head and the psychotics that numb my brain into pliable putty.
They try to mold me to fit the social standard and I continue to fight back with the will of a bull and the guilt of a sinner.
I can not continue to castrate my inner self even though it is that of the flames of hell which will never accept me.
I can not continue to wish for the pure white of the wings angels and the dazzling halos of the pure, neither, because I am stuck in my impending cycle of depression and gloom.
Miss Mary Jane only makes me loopy and ***** me up immensely while the nicotine never sedates the destructive curiosity.
I am a slave to my mind and to the pain that bleeds from the bruises and cuts.
I am a slave to the human heart which controls every reenactment of the mistakes my mother bled to hide me from
And for this I cry and plead the words
"I'm sorry!"
But this is never enough.
I will never be enough.
For I am a hopeless little teenage freak that will never learn.
And for this I am truly sorry.

“Antipathy of Abandonment”

I have been desolate like the dock at dawn.
You shall never know of my torment
The ghostly convolution in my head,
I will never be as well as another,

Now more distant than ever,
Neither ship nor upsurge can I ever survive,
Again more distant than ever,
Further than ever before have I been,
  
She has shown no regret for the infliction,
In the melancholy that’s ****** upon me,
As the black cruor drips within my heart,
Crevasse of detritus as I tried to swim to shore,

As the sea mingles its ornery abhor,
With each passing surge I await you,
In calm rivers hope to find thee before me,
Without in the end your being,

Of you coming suddenly would be exhilarating?
To know my life wildfire of roseate days,
Swishing brine of the ocean sedates to sand,
As my breath is unobtrusive to antipathy of abandonment,
By AG 03/2018 CR

I knew a woman
Trinket to little pieces
Puzzles making frowns and faces
She lay, lay down blankets and tablespoons
For a man who looked at her
With a quivering, ivory eye

She grew to him,
Shockingly a bud meeting rain
Thirsty for him
Leaving what she thought she was
Behind for a man like him
And she told me
She had no idea what he was
Behind closed garage doors

He bled a little every day, she said
Till there was nothing left
He burned away his wick
And hung, string-like from a beam
Swaying in a wind she never knew she blew
She left herself in his arms

Now she doesn't smile the same
I know, though I met her
Long after
Now she doesn't sleep, but sedates
Now she walks on blades of glass
But so kind
So good
She never fell like he did

I never think I knew her
Like she was
As what she was just cries
But what she built
Talks to me
Lets me know there are people who keep going
Through her smile
She lets me know

When i feel like im drowning, i feel like im home.
My fragile body, suspended animation, I swim like a stone.
Wobbling bubbles erupt from my mouth, conciousness dissolving in the sun.
Too quickly I'm loosing oxygen, the beauty sedates my urge to run.

A cold caress numbs me as the waves hold on to me tighter.
My thoughts stray from you, you'll drown with me, you blighter!
Fishes swim past, they carry the rainbow under scales that shimmer with stardust!
With an angels voice they sing a lullaby, slip into silent slumber I must!

Here we go again, my ball and chain pulling me away.
The ocean has swallowed the black sky, darkness calls to end my day.
Blurry faces scream above the water, Brushing fingers a grip they cant find.
There is no way back from this maze of mind!




Am i dreaming,  is this fantasy, this peaceful state wont fit my reality!

I was standing at my laptop, tripping, when the thought hit me: the reason we're so infatuated with technology is born of our yearning for control. What a lovely illusion to cherish, knowing does not detract from its merit; it sedates me wonderfully.

Ah but perhaps that's why Facebook is so addictive, as it lies in between ours and others spheres' of control. We push and pull, trying to hang on to these puppet personas. It's unendingly stimulating.

Virtuality offers us everything, and it's easily abused. So,
Here's something to always remember about the internet:

Once you put something online/out there it is no longer yours.

Yes, this applies to your words, you cannot control interpretations
nor can you prevent the theft of your world. Unlike reality,
Virtuality knows nothing of material scarcity,
The limit's the bandwidth and there be pirates aboard.
What am I if not begging for someone to come steal me? Take me away!

I don't have a name, all you can desecrate are these emotions I crave.
I'm writing these things because it stops me from killing somebody but
by all means, appropriate me, my work, my words, my world.

Maybe you'll add a bit of value to it, and god loves a data-*****.

On a final note, sometimes I am really afraid to be myself
because sometimes I think I'm a monster;
But I am getting better.


So there you go.

Somewhere between midnight and dawn, in  the middle of no where...

For miles there is just black, a faint star here and there. Or just  my imagination.

I was at the bar, now I’m not.
I am lost, not really. Not my mind, though I ought to be.

Maybe the jungle juice wasn't as potent, or did  the flirty woman stray its influence? The bartender shared my drinks, I'm sure.  

I remember the one handed guitarist took me to some magical place. His spin made it special. The stories too.

And the slurring words and easy smile didn't mask his once life, under the spotlight, with pains and pleasures of many curtain calls.

The balmy breeze caresses like that special someone, nonchalantly, almost teasingly flicking hair from my face. Carelessly, carefully.

Stillness and darkness, a strange duet.  Engulfing, cocoon-like. Draped in solitude. Tight. Yet so easy to breathe.

The trees murmur verses, the fields the chorus. A lullaby of sorts. Which sedates and awakens.

Healing. Transforming…

Look at the river and how it bends
It peaceful there
And beautiful too.
This green and pleasant place
Sedates me and I like it.

I could sit for hours and think quietly
Sometimes the sounds,
The thick urban screams
Are too much.
I prefer the quiet, the softness
Of the removed, the unreachable.

I need not travel to see the stars,
For they come to me.
They greet me lovingly
And I’m happy to see them.
I feel so small in their gaze,
Protected by my own
insignificance.  

Some people are like stars
But get too close and they burn.
That’s why I like the quiet places
Love on my own in empty spaces.

By. Gina H

Trying to create my own identity
So I can separate the world from me
I take it one day at a time
On step, one breathe, one goal, one dream
Making sure I don’t miss anything on my journey
I take the time to smell the roses
The sweet aroma sedates me into livelihood
Seeing the beauty withing the dark leery streets
The happiness behind the sandiness
The love behind the hate
I separate myself and find inner peace
Freeing myself from my demons
Overcoming my incapability’s
And praising my honor, worth, and beauty
Serenity is my heart, and doubt is my mind
I escape from my mind and live
My space, my life, my world

What is it like to know that someone truly cares?
What is it like to know your heart is safely theirs?*

Mutual affection is an eternal tease,
Intended to beguile a person to their knees.
Affection sedates a cold, agonizing end;
A bitter rejection which one cannot transcend.

Why must it be so difficult to find romance?
Why is the world so quick to deny one the chance?

The lonely ones zealously thirst for tomorrow,
Convinced that they can withstand the “fleeting” sorrow.
These spirits gallop to taste love’s succulent sip.
But shatter at the crack of reality’s whip.

How’d loneliness become a beast I could not tame?
How’d I become a victim of love’s vicious game?

A lingering heart can only dream for so long
Before it abandons its resolve to stay strong.
It withers while it drifts into acquiescence,
Lamenting over hope’s whispered evanescence

To live in this world
That perpetually suspects and inspects
To live in cycles
Once a rose
Soon a wilting flower, dregs, and left overs.

This is no place for woman
Woman
Of man, made from man’s ribs
Woman
Deficient in thought and temperament
I think of Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath
And the conjecture imposes itself
This is no place for  brilliant women

What at once should be resplendent  
Stunts and sedates
Because the climate
Cannot reconcile with woman.

For love
I have lost nothing at all

I've never felt what it was like
to want it all to be
only the thoughts that overtake
when seduction sedates

I long for nothing at all
It all seems fleeting
worthless
without a point

What does it even matter
why do I even try
I will never feel a thing
and even then
not the sadness of goodbye

I have searched
a thousand lives this time
but only in my mind
for then there's reality:
a long list of **** I can never find

When it's time to hear that sound
sung sweetly
majestically ringing in the air
perhaps it will be said to another
by one sweeter still
and maybe through that time
in due time I will find
one that was mine

I sometimes think it will never end
but then again
who's to say
what will be
and what then

My friend, it feels hard to breathe today

your open arms receive the burden of my pain

sharing more of me, the more of you I take away

this sunspot umbrella unfurls the evil on my brain

I'm writing to you like a journal, in solitary confidence

ignoble in my intrusion, with selfish insolence


Are you anymore a friend than the medicine that sedates me

calms and quiets my anxiety?

If I use you all the same?

Am I any less in need of help if my reputation predates me?

And I am both a label and a name?

I am choking on my misery today, lungs filled with lead

spread my disease, inhale the smoke of my fire and fill yourself with dread.

The power of the
face of a diamond, sedates
the unknown. You smile.

*

The spoken word had
no relevance. You wanted
the writing on lips.

*

How far you can swim
in the shallow water when
alligator dies?