Streetlights passing by reflected
In her storm of mixed
Emotions render her tears
Falling stars.

Makes a wish with every salty  
Drop on her lips.
Lips one man would touch briefly
With the tip of an adoring thumb, and

By that satisfaction alone
Die fulfilled,
While others see her as a tool, tossed
Back into the box when dull and

Exhausted.
Fit for a throne, yet only every odd evening
Finds her way to bed from the sofa
Before sleep finds her fading with fatigue.

Shoulders, neck, back, wrists, all
Aching in unison; a choir of
Discontentment, yet still driven by the
Love for her teenage

Kings.
I always hope she's laughing. I
Always hope she sleeps.
In my mind I rest a hand upon her

Belly when she dreams; the
Only way she'll accept a touch
Without shying away
With a faint, forced smile.

Beams of full moon finding their
Ways through bedroom curtains to her
Nearly closed eyes. She yawns a tear or
Three and turns towards the pale

Warmth; moonlight again rendering
Them falling stars.
No wishes for now.
Rest is her only lover.

I always hope she sleeps.

quandering, pondering
and whiskey has become
first and only desk liquor. now
digressing to the Blue Eyed
beauty writ of this the final
page of notebook. and now,
reflecting on this early hour.
an hour when the goat's
head stares thru to soul
with always lifeless eyes. stares
thru this soul with lack of
energy, with entire days'
lack of consumption. and with
ease this one has been long
and gone in falsified attraction
of angelfaced Blue Eyed
matriarch; this one patriarch.
thought entirely conceived. contrac-
epted by reality of situation. by
reality in general sense, yet words
spew unfiltered with lingering hope
behind slanted smile. shying stares,
all the while watching from eyes'
corners. voices of all but her's
fall deaf; vessels otherwise mute to
concerns not of the Blue Eye's. and
here this one finds self lost to rom-
anticized thoughts knowing they can
be found sterilized via logic.
contradicting always, yet
no brass holding finger locked to
joint. and realizations of actual
place spears forehead; spears fore-
brain. disrupting what is preconceived
concerning entangled souls. hair falling
aside temples. point of restraint, this
one must end before depression catches
hold; this one calling abrupt ending.

Colonial mansion, in an ocean of grass,
windows aglow as I walk past.
funeral service now used of verandah,
but I hear music, not mournful stanza.
french doors open to a reminisce,
with boyhood heart, of vitreous.

Footfalls on parquet floors,
tux and gown past crown moulded doors.
captured ambiance of a setting sun,
shown from chandeliers highly hung,
day I was born, born the day of prom,
I smiled cordially, and my date fawned.

Girls betrothed by corsage on wrist,
rare french curls--a lunar eclipse.
bedraggled boys now dapper and genteel,
vest and bow-tie, a knightly feel.
chapperesses smiling at maidenly gait,
happy drowse in  mansion estate.

Cuff-links, silk gloves, nail polish of gloss,
beheld tonics and sweets, carefully aloft.
opening cord, an arrow from cupid's bow,
striking coquettes to their tippy toes.
they sprang to dance,I stepped back,
invisible in shadow with tux of black.

Shoulders, lake ripples easing to shore,
hips, gentle waves, right before they pour.
boys stiff, as if waists beheld sabers,
legs, sweeping brooms of on shore waiters.
"your too handsome to stay here unseen,"
said rivaling chaperess, past semblance of queen.

"You should dance ,"said glittered lips of pink,
bent like sparrow wings, during teacup drink.
privy to why in shadow I hid my blush,
her class my crush, that crushed me so much.

She strained me, even the shadows she gave,
black silk, stretching,--convex and concave.
crude metal and wood classroom seat,
clasped her waist of slender physique.
she was guarded by a window in curtain mail,
and tended to by servants of light and gale.
light loved her skin of Mediterranean sand,
and wind enthralled by each and every brown strand.

Light penetrated strands, blondly hot,
wind would blow, cooling pony tail off.
her shadow curtsied under my desk,
long legs danced in irritableness.
mourning class is abuzz with scent of prom,
flower not frost, rules the school's dawn.

I gave my consent, to an earlier invite,
then on, suitor blinded me with light.
and Great Gatsy, and looming prom night,
subjects of sparrow wings pressed tight.
" show of hands, who do not have a date?"
slender wrist arises, from an arm curvate.

alone, she shown that no one asked her,
this stone of Rome amongst boys of plaster.
hand fell with boy of teachers match,
wind shrouded her,from the window sash
rays gave discomfort,to gaze her way,
but I looked through burning ray--

To see a trace of a tear,in eyes ovate,
a goddess unsought, with sadful face.
I, poor, fatherless, could not possibly go,
to prom with princess of arched portico?
I could not interweave my hands to dance,
or know where I could place my glance.

Wind blew a scrap from her desk, indiscreet,
it was pierced by light at my feet.
"will" and "with" were dotted with a heart,
"prom" and "me" before most painful part.
my name in her beautiful free hand,
the color red from hearts inkstand.

(Class bell rings) I travel over star lit lawn,
the music gets louder as I return to prom,
eyes turn to cotton, in shadow as I ponder,
as pain was forgotten, I came upon her.
invisible hands, lifted my chin to a red shape,
our eyes met, her's smiling, mine agape.

Only a glass-maker could imagine my sight,
seeing hot curves form in dance floor light.
only a wax-wing could have rivaled her eyes,
waves gently broke to gown down her thighs.
"will you dance with me,"she softly entreated,
" I don't know how,"a coward repeated.

A princess which tournaments were held,
for which every timber of mansion were felled.
not for Rome the mansion's Corinthian column--
--for her--from quarry prom did befall them.
I could not tarnish this feminine form,
with my lineage in crown she adorned.

I turned from beauty, to dark acres tread,
under willow, I play the last thing she said--
my name--as I shunned from last chance,
now back under willow, cane marks my stance.
I have preserved her forever, shying fate,
even if it was with my own heart-break.

I still see her--in the most beautiful prom poses--
--still--as lights flicker out and a coffin closes.

You strayed independent across my unlaid path
impressing me with a hideaway around the thistles
where inlay thigh flints spark like butterfly wings
fused to outstretched but still flimsy present glinting
loose eyes a smoky incense close to gleam igniting
potent tinder sax on a beneficent Burns' night portent
whispering wick lit slivers of be live next to me glen scent
fluttering and roaming through saliva kissed gloaming
a light shaved window opening a misty eyed gap
opportune as a mysterious space between maps

crossed with aye formations and melted highlands
I slide into a bonnie loch when you return my glance
smooth as a swan stroking shallow into deep meeters
the swirl of bagpipes barely rippling the surface meters

a proud union betwixt us found expression
unflagging love notes ** streamed passion
red into sky blue twitchy nerves lend fingers
fondling unfurled clouds into catchy dance rings
retracing steps into tempestuous hearts I rose
so dryads can black watch temptation intertwine
painted inside as I woad your Pictish tartan

only now the pedestal wobbles a little
but you don't fall to my arms
brave destiny's turn is fickle
and straight on without being toppled
you hesitate but give no nod to lead
no quick look behind you as I hoped
shying awry to continue walking
the hot moment runs past cold
safe as before inhibitions land
like icicles on my fanciful back

upstanding Meissen men often talk
of perfection showing no cracks
and chuckled as they left their mark
in crossed swords kilned with clay ores
giving a porcelain lion soft pause
for thought about a heart out clause
and about lifting any kilt or unstuck thought
to keep established ruling embarrassment
but is that parley risking nought?
the mane's trimmed short
too correct to tip the hat
to a potential welcome
down falls harassment
south of the borderline
sad that no one can put
that man lass
yes
moment together again
but ever slow drifting apart
the dream mist
goes on

A map guide clarifying the wrong place
Stoic expressions with implied purpose are no help
Busy streets bustling about this foreign land of no lights
High buildings sporting officiality block my view
Of the mountains and rivers now paved over by ideals of the future
A showcase of grey streets, walls, and skies; I am left hopeless.

No color, no contrast, just black and white: the architects are hopeless
All the intricate designs and patterns are of a different time and place
I cannot be trapped in the colorless cinema of the town; I search for a vibrant future
Native minds drear into the day, knowing not that they desperately need help
The neon lights and rain shower rainbows are not an element of the city's depressed view
It's as if the colorblind man blackened the city and closed his curtains to the light

The planes cannot find where to land because someone put out the runway lights
Auras only shine in black and white, the long since hopeful are now helplessly hopeless
I exhale my dissapointment towards the uninspired dead end view
And mournful rainbows melt out of the sky, defeated. Why did I come here in the first place?
Perhaps I am the prophecy, the ******, the angelic omen sent by God to help
Or perhaps that is conceited; one person alone cannot brighten this future.

No amount of psychic ability or math calculations could have predicted this future
Somebody shot down the angels, choked out all the lights
Malicious villains took over as citizens realized superman wasn't coming to help
Thus the people watched as the color drained out and faded away, oh, they are hopeless
Cacophonous chaos throws broken hearts, leaving shards all over the place
A kaleidoscope zoom reflects nothing but melancholy expressions into my view.

When was the last time the sunshine peeked through the window's view?
Did the sun burn out from uncertain predictions of the future?
I try to envision when only the bleakness of TV sets in the city were out of place
Because psychedelic intricacies ruled, shinning proud neon lights
But then the clouds greyed the sky once the colorblind man began to feel hopeless
His dimension of colors disagreed with the perception of others, shying him from help

Nobody could answer his message in a bottle, his SOS, his plea for help
So day after day darker walls constructed over his already restricted view
At points in our lives our faith finds nothing to battle the hopeless
But news of the blind man seeing purple mountains ignites faith in the future
Of the man of no color who painted the city grey and drained the neon lights
Because his color is not non-existent, but waiting to be found in his own secret place

So perhaps we can help transform this dystopia into a brighter future
We cannot let be a view that we know has the capability to glitter in the light
We will smolder the pollution cloud of hopeless energy and enlighten this place.

She bares her soul
to no one —
a façade for each mood
that infests her thoughts

like the plague;
reticence stalks her
every now and then,
as she tries shying away
from her darkest

secrets ripe as cherries
hanging from the bough…

a charade of whims
planted mysteriously
on her sealed lips.

As I call upon the night
To have a conversation
Darkness gives way
And night comes alive
Conscious mind at rest
Sub-conscious takes over
Memory box is brimming
So many anecdotes
Not afraid to emerge
Confident around the dark
Shying away from the day
Night has a life of its own
Feeling antsy and inundated
Quivering hands open the box
Full of pictures in sepia
A retrospective of events
Which were long buried
Sleep has abandoned me
Old memories keep me awake

and would i ever get embroil myself in a morning of: coffee,
croissant and a newspaper? i find it strange how newspapers
are printed for workers - sold in the morning,
and read in the hazy hours before the mind
catches up with the body at noon
lead to nothing but village sentimentalism -
and dupe sensationalism -
they really know when to baptise them:
a few weeks into their lives (most never
object to confirmation, i, for one, started inquiring
about the Gnostic cults, and said: nah, you'll
alright without me) -
baptism is a bit like newspapers:
i really didn't ask for it... sorry, i was in diapers,
i knew that i'd be wearing diapers
if i went to my confirmation by the Bishop
of Chelmsford - imagine what a cardinal
could do to me... but that's what newspapers
are, they are written in reasonable comfort,
i don't mean the sort of journalism
akin to all the president's men -
that's valiant... i mean the opinions sections,
i read a newspaper and think of only one thing:
****! i threw away something i actually
need in the recycling pile of garbage...
so you go back to the bag and sift through it...
which is what it's all about:
newspapers pulverise the half-awake readers
on the tube... making newspapers free is also
a tactic... i read newspapers, about this time,
nearing midnight... i've spent the entire day
occupying myself with colours, squares and clouds,
i leave my desire to see phonetic encoding a - z
till last, when i can relax, and actually recycle
all the opinions of the day...
shamefully, others pick up a newspaper,
early in the morning, and just nod, agree, nod, agree,
pigeon on parade... makes it easier to earn
a few more disciples when half of them (if not all)
are still trying to remember a dream at 7 a.m.,
all the opinions sections are fabulous!
mental health matters... like **** it does:
you're saying a box inside that storage room that's
your brain aches like broken arm...
you go to a doctor, and he replies: it's all in your head...
well, d'uh, metaphysical health was always clumsy
with what became spaghetti entanglement
for philosophers - the one never translates into
another as honing in on, and synonymous -
but that's life... but the two were never supposed to
be at odd, or, quiet simply: parallel -
after all, thinking, if a limb or an *****,
is more than what the automation of the brain is:
receptor to nervous stimuli - if there's an *****
such as a mind, and it's verb optimum is sick...
it's like seeing the desperation of someone doing
cartwheels on a tightrope, while deciding a next
chess move playing someone down below,
and smoking a pipe - thought, in the end,
is a dilemma where to many verbs are associated with it:
it's so spatial in that it tries to encompass a near
exponential number of ? / hmm hiccups -
                              as it does encompassing a near exponential
number of ! / eureka hiccups -
the German Chancellor and the fourth cottage -
and the opinion: nacktarschuzdeckenwunsch
(the desire to cover their own naked backsides) -
ah, newspapers and the morning,
whoever reads a newspaper in the morning is a sheep...
who doesn't even thinks that comics didn't slowly evolve
to be comics? they are pristine Geminis -
i wouldn't read a newspaper in the morning,
because i know most of these articles are written in
the afternoon, notably the opinion sections,
by people donning kimonos, drinking wine
and smoking Magritte's phrasing of: not a pipe.
i can't treat them as trash either... i call them
midnight literature... after i've spent the day not
looking at phonetic encoding symbols,
i finally zoom in, revise my eyes and ease into a crescendo
of appreciating newspapers, for whatever they're worth,
which, according to the Thursday's edition of the times:
£1.40 - but reading newspapers in the morning
is horrid - too much world, too much care,
too much moral acting - too much conversation...
the world is too big, and i'm too small...
so i do what the writers of these articles read:
although i have a stronger solvent to read their preaching
parody of Mt. Sinai - but what i found, apart from that,
well... couldn't poetry steal something from
the journalistic medium? in the way art is appreciated
without critics? shouldn't poetry be the only medium
of art where other art mediums are appreciated?
for example, i find that when i'm hearing the clicking
of the keyboard, and there's a record in the background
i have a full meal in front of me,
i forgot how good tubeway army's album replicas
is... as a second course meal... nothing of the top 30
canape charts of nibbles of artistic output...
poetry can congratulate over mediums of art,
it can steal from what journalism encompasses -
namely the critical pieces of the journalistic anatomy -
art, doesn't necessarily have to be a matthew arnold
moment of as soon as i returned home, i pulled off
my coat, flung myself on the sofa, and wept the
bitterest, sweetest tears: after coming back from
a Liszt concert... really?
i think that ballet is supreme sadism and Bach
had wax in his ears... fame and the adoration of women?
too lazy... like drinking too much, and listening
to what i like: without adverts selling me car insurance
and German shampoo.
yes, i am bothered, i'm seeing something in England
that's worrying, something akin to a Marx & Engels'
study of Victorian England - only this time it's
existentially tinged - not economically -
and yes, reading a newspaper at any "sensible" hour
of the day is rather pointless...
you can get very impressionable in the morning,
at around midnight, with a whiskey and a cigarette...
while everyone is already nodding off in Luna's
embrace - never understood reading newspapers
in the morning... or in the early afternoon -
it's better to digest the **** of the individual by the world
while everyone is asleep... less democratic constipation
of everyone having a go... or as Auden said:
all the ****** of the world write at night...
well, during the night: everything is apparently black
& white... the vacuum of the space, and the punctuation
of Zodiac are what this sort of writing best describes,
given that, we are the mediators of two opposing
chasms... to be honest... poets hate colour,
the whole spectrum of colour, from
red (λ nanometres 760 etc. and Herr Hertz, whatever)
to violet (λ nanometres 424 - 380) -
    so tiny, this puncture... equatable with
the size of the universe and that spec that's called earth -
to me? all of this is a massive accident -
as the gambling king said (god): oops... dunno.
but from what i can see... poets have colour -
hence the white page where all colours are entombed,
and better than scattering the white into the visible
spectrum, beginning as Newton with a needle hole
and a prism... no... we're probing it with something else,
intent on it being given to us in total,
a sum of all parts... or as they say: shying away from
the people in grey suits... virtually taking risks on meeting
the people in white coats - and how to slur and
window-lick our way into confined spaces
perfecting our skills in Paper Mâchés and Matisse-like
cut-outs.

/                                america, july 18th:
  and the utter media shambles -
like ****** and steroids
for the uninitiated -
     tongues without the rattlesnake
trill of an ᚨᚱ:
   numbed w'ah w'ah peddling
of woe to row the sinking boat:
maniac adult funfair
attempting a nostalgia
for the playground game
of bulldog...

                russia, 25th march:
the kemerovo fire (siberia) -
          children frying, screaming,
perhaps even hoping -
  a shying herod, the example
of: as moloch descended...
          prayers in the fire
                  by the innocents...

england, july 19th -
   alternative to rehydrating
using water...
    a generous 5 hour sleep -
******* on the remains
of last night's lemon
     used to infuse the subtle
smoky of bell's whiskey,
playlist:

- the jon spencer blues
  explosion (bellbottoms)
- britney spears (criminal)
- twenty one pilots (heathens)
- calvin harris (this is what you came for)
- camila cabello (habana)
- rihanna (disturbia)
- birdbrain (youth of america)
- ghost (ritual)
- focus (hocus pocus)
- edwyn collins (a girl like you)
- the guess who (american woman)
- the knack (my sharona)
- cronica (herr mannelig)

and then onto buckling in
4 beers and thinking
about black holes as the pin-head
of antimatter -
a dead sun...
     dead, but not dead...

   and the first, crude graphic
tomb raider game...

   rather than having completed
it...
     since only owning
a demo...

                 investigating
the possibility of 2D objects in
3D space...
       well: the universe isn't even
exactly 3D: it's hyper-3D...
    but in the tomb raider game
you could walk up to a minor
detail in the game, a fern,
and observe two-dimensionality
in a "three dimensional space"...

   namely: the ferns were all 2D,
and rotated within a "hyperbole"
of the eye -
   however you observed the "object"
it rotated round and round,
never allowing you to see
    its demoniac otherside -

i can only expect dead suns to
behave in such a manner -
   two dimensional objects in a three
dimensional subject matter -
almost paradoxical -

     rotating at immense speed...
invigorating a near but not quiet
a postportem of a death...

       and you really can see UV light
surface
staring at a glaring hot sun with
a naked eye -
   and see the same hyper-rotation -
it's almost like looking at
molten silver, but with a hint
of violet - i.e. akin phosphorescence:
but in the daytime...

and who said you need to
ingest hallucinogenics -
    and enter the labyrinth of a short,
short, history,
    of the chipmunk caveman?

i'm just drunk, you're probably
sober...
    but those guys doing
a timothy leary sermon?
   they're...
     gone.......................... gone -
     they hit the tangens curve.

You can go there.
It’s easy, really.
But once there, you
cannot tell anyone
what it was like.

An experience
must be felt in
order to be believed.
Otherwise it’s just
an idea in my head.

But like a horse
shying at shadows
some of us flee,
cantering away
when our time comes.

The setting sun
sings me to sleep,
the dark morning fog
welcomes a new day.
A new day to try.

And fail.

We cannot see it
without light, yet
the light itself casts
the fearful shadows.
So we hide from it.

What was it like?
You cannot tell me,
once you were there.
It’s easy, really.
Why can’t I do it?
Why can’t I?

The long breath before the plunge into the sand,
That which makes you want to not pick yourself up,
For once you know, you get ***** by the end of the month,
But the greens you can count on,
Makes it rather a fair deal, or does it?

The real question is, would you rather deceive yourself
and the rest of the world, for the denomination,
to only trade your fortune to be in the rut  that is called
the day to day life of the survivors,
Suffering from the plague that is called The Normal

Pieces of a woman
Gloom, glee, distance and intimacy
Attitude, gratitude, strength and vulnerability
Heartbreaks, Happiness, Longingness and poetry
Calmness, boldness and a bad *** stree.

Pieces of a woman
Stretch Marks, cellulite, miscarriages and then bossy
Shallow, Intense, blur and then some glossy
Cute, cheerful, lazy, sane and naughty
Benevolent, bizarre, shy and much hotty

Pieces of a woman
Family, friends, kin, acquaintances
Risk, safe and then out of the world chances
Society, sub-urb,rural and them glances
Some music, some writing, some shying and couple dances

Pieces of a woman
Marriage, adoption, career and grace
Clarity,focus,concentration and haze
Red,green, black, purple and beige
Independence, freedom, self-doubt and cage

All this and endless…..
And then some and then some
Nothing can totally define
The ultimate human
The beautiful, the wonderful
Pieces of a woman.

This has become more important.
Lost in my dreams, lost in my mind.
Blame onto me, I know the fault.

Faulty lines, different views. I miss you.
We are better apart, but only you know.
It beats on, it beats on.

Staring up, steaming, and breathing.
No tears, it’s not you.
It’s what you made me realize.

Realize that I am not human.
Shying away from what’s good, what’s right.
Cowering lifelessly, withholding, complacent.

Jellyfish, no brain. No soul.
I’m a star, bright and spectacular.
Only you, nocturnal and beautiful, stayed to see me.

Once the sunlight broke, I was gone.
Those nights, my brightness.
Now I simmer alone.

Slowly drifting 
Fading fading 
Sitting still with no rhyme or reason
Routine routine 
Yes sir yes ma’am 
Yes we’re very pleased 
Well I’m not 
But that doesn’t matter I suppose 
Call me melancholy 
Bringer of gloom and pessimism 
Never shying from reality and realistic tendencies 
Sitting sitting 
Waiting 
But for what?

We trailed through the moonlit road
As I wiped the tears that streamed my face—
Everything was calm, everything was serene
It felt like we were passing by a city
That had long fallen to deep slumber;
Where had once all the rushing cars had gone,
Back and forth, non-stop, as their engines rattled
With much desperation, pleading to rest.

Step by step, we slowed our pace, feeling the cool breeze shying from us
As we came to a halt.
The leaves ruffled, still, and the stars twinkled brighlty.
Everything seemed to come together in perfect harmony.
It all felt quite bizzare yet astounding;
quite frightening yet calming;
quite gloomy yet comforting.
It was unlike anything I've ever experienced before–
Perhaps my heart and mind had finally been at peace
And that the turmoil inside had faded into nonexistence.

• ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ •
Who knew that what a known-to-be ordinary walk
Could turn into a magnificent, almost magical cure-
A cure for the mind that's filled with cloudy thoughts,
And a cure for the heart filled with pain and faults.
But what had truly made things better was..
Having you by my side amidst the whole tranquility
The entire scenery might have felt mysteriously unreal to me
But your presence was my reminder that it was all reality.
• ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ • ~ •

The way her hair framed her face
was unlike anything I had ever seen.
It accentuated her character far too beautifully.
She often stayed shying away under it,
but when brushed away,
it revealed the most adorable face.
Her smile hidden behind hands.
She was fragile and amazing.
And as I gazed into her eyes,
I felt something I haven't in a long time.

Let's run away together.
Leave everything else.
And please, let me look into
those passionate eyes of
yours a little bit longer.

So many beautiful faces pass me by
Different every one
All too lovely not to catch my eye
But no-one sees me, none

See my eyes follow them
Admiring
Yet shying away at a glance
All this cowardice is tiring

To the soul
It breaks me down
Am I invisible to those I wish to see
Do I wear the crown?

For my head lies uneasy
Knowing I am unnoticed by those
I wish to love
To keep close

Unnoticed

I am but a speck of dust
"That other guy"
I am anonymous
Another sparkle in your eye

My fantasy remains
A shallow echo of what could be
A faint whisper
A part of me

I am unloved
I am unseen
I seek what I cannot find
No longer an innocent teen

I must find out what loneliness holds
I must become familiar with its solemn embrace
To shield my sorrow
To save face

I must protect my fragile heart
From ever feeling
What I can only imagine is worse
Than the loneliness I am wielding

Tinkerbell,
You should claim your love,
Your dust uplifts the imaginative,
Fancying the image your Pixie holds.
A tiny ring held your winged image,
I received the token from a dwarf,
Whom greedily devoured its bearer.
I washed clean its sweet carnage,
With your bare left hand in mind,
But when I placed the jest upon it,
The wedded finger held its ground,
An invisible band lay midst its place.
The pink blood on your cheeks spoke,
An enchantment had been yet laid,
The incantations of mine too late,
Replied the rosy blood on my cheeks.
We smiled in the twilight hence,
Reflecting the muted gore,
Shying from its shove.
You should claim your love,
Tinkerbell.

Bustling tall building
Height of success
I'd climb it if I could
With my young hands
But the topic will digress

And take up an idle way
With some ADD
On OCD, undeserved
Funny how things are no matter
******* and your life

When work's to be done
Here's shying from, shirking from
Working until done
We can overcome

Right after this segment
Oh shh, show is back on
....


What was it we were fighting for?
Oh well, I forget it

*** slave workers
Bent over stained beds
In forgotten brothels
Far from country and home
Have more joy than you
Or I.

Skeleton thin children
With skin stretched
Over illness bloated bellies
In poverty ridden streets
Under a relentless sun
And equally relentless culture
Kick a worn ball around
And feel more hope than you
Or I.

Flea ridden mutts
Runts of the brood
Feasting on garbage
Shying from the kicks
Of rotten teens
And sour drunks
Reciprocate more love
From the hand of a kind stranger
Than you
To I.

The passion infused plucking
like each note has a soul of its own

The high notes like pinpricks
Low notes like a loud heartbeat

The sound of content loneliness that taught me happiness

The tempo slows like water shying away from the shore

Peace born out of urgency
Love born out of technicality

The hours given to the tone, timing and tempo
The effort in perfectly letting go

Perfectly unique every time
just close enough to be the same

The beauty in form
The form in beauty

What was Kafka thinking? Felice Bauer-
blonde, in a homely sort of way- couldn't
think of him the same way after. He'd asked
her that question (hidden behind his obsession
with his own self-hatred, his surety that she hated him too).
Could you- might you- do you think you'd be able to bear it-
M a r r y i n g  m e?
History tells us they didn't tie the knot.
Kafka, probably, didn't mind a lot.
Franz Kafka: that hopeless man,
couldn't look in the mirror without shying from his own reflection.
Kafka, who'd balk at the slightest hint of romantic attention.
More story than man, really. Had more eloquence in his
smallest finger than ever came out of his mouth.

No wonder Felice had her doubts.

I see you,
You see me.
Eighteenth floor
Across the street.
Sometimes you dance.
Sometimes you read,
TV dinners, fall asleep.

Strangers in a dark room, laughing at jokes they didn't quite hear;
Frosted windowpanes and cheap champagne a face appears.
And anything could happen in these cathedrals we roam,
Where shadow people dance
and trade their glance and walk home alone,
In a lonely city.

Welcome to your life.
There's no turning back.
Even while we sleep
We will find you,
Acting on your best behavior,
Turning your back on mother nature.

We're talking away,
I don't know what
I'm to say, I'll say it anyway:
“Today's another day to find you
Shying away.
I'll be coming for your love, okay?”

So please, take me out tonight
Where there's music and there are people
And they're young and alive.

Driving in your car
I never, never want to go home.
It’s good times for a change.
See, the luck I've had
Can make a good man
Turn bad.

Still don't know what I was looking for
And my time was running wild,
A million dead-end streets.
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet.

She's staring out the window of the Roosevelt Hotel,
Shy kid, knees always bruised.
you pulled me close
Kissed my lips, it tasted like home.
Flashes of crosswords and chamomile,
The years pass like a Ferris Wheel.

They say we come from nothing and to nothing we'll return
And in between is gravity and bridges left to burn.

Oh, there is thunder in our hearts.
Is there so much hate for the ones we love?
Well tell me, we both matter, don't we?

Standing on a skyline, watching all the cars go.
Sleeping in the daylight, I was losing all control.

You bet I think I’m pretty dangerous,
Burning down the walls, breaking all the laws.

So needless to say
I'm odds and ends,
I'll be stumbling away
Slowly learning that life is OK.
Say after me
It's no better to be safe than sorry.

Oh, I Haven't had a dream in a long time.
See, the life I've had
Can make a good man bad.

It's my own design,
It's my own remorse.
Help me to decide,
Help me make the
Most of freedom and of choice.

Oh, the things that you say,
Is it love or
Just to play my worries away.
You're all the things I've got to remember.
You're shying away,
I'll be coming for you anyway.

You,
It's you and me,
It's you and me, you won't be unhappy.

We got a little place near the beach,
We watch the sailboats out at sea
And we ride along the Palisades.
Love is just a summer day,
Love is a four-letter word
That hurts.

What a hell of a feeling,
It is dark all day
But there is something in the sky that glows.
What a hell of a feeling
With such a brilliant light,
Can you feel your soul’s vocals in the air tonight?

What a hell of a day to embrace disorder
And there is something in your eyes that burns,
Light up, drag the river,
Can you see my soul’s vocals in the air tonight?

And if a double-decker bus
Crashes into us,
To die by your side
Is such a heavenly way to die.
And if a ten-ton truck
Kills the both of us,
To die by your side
Well, the pleasure, the privilege is mine.

We know, we grow, we fall, we crawl
to change proclaim,
for this we miss to breathe, deceive,
from fate to fate, exist, insist, we push, we lust.

There is a light that never goes out.
And there's a room where the light won't find you.
Holding hands while the walls come tumbling down.
When they do, I'll be right behind you.

I tried to laugh about it,
Cover it all up with lies.
I tried to laugh about it,
Hiding the tears in my eyes.
'Cause boys don't cry,
Boys don't cry.

Oh, come on baby,
Come on, darling.
Let me steal this moment from you now.
Come on, angel,
Come on, come on, darling.
Let's exchange the experience.

So sad, we almost made it.
So sad they had to fade it.

So, if I only could
I'd make a deal with God
And I'd get him to swap our places.
Be running up that road,
Be running up that hill,
With no problems (For the ones we love).

Who said that every wish
Would be heard and answered.
When wished on the morning star?
Somebody thought of that
And someone believed it,
Look what it's done so far.
What's so amazing that keeps us stargazing
And what do we think we might see?

Time may change me
But I can't trace time.
I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream,
Form impermanence.
So the days float through my eyes
But still, the days seem the same.

Should have known at the end of summer
The innocence fades and the weak become stronger.
Should have known at the end of the summer
I'd be lost without you.

Please hold me 'til I'm not lonely anymore.
Is it only the crashing of the ocean to the shore?

We were the rebels, lone survivors.
We were the cult of deep-sea divers.
We were young once then we grew old,
We were shining, we were fool's gold.

I was a lost boy when I met you.

It’s good times for a change.
See, the luck I've had
Can make a good man
Turn bad.

So for once in my life
Let me get what I want.
Lord knows it would be the first time.
Lord knows it would be the first time.

Have you ever seen a sunflower reaching out to the sun, following him wherever he goes?

Or an evening water lily shying away and blushing under her lovely pink at all times when the sun is in the sky?

Have you ever seen a dandelion break herself into countless little pieces and fly away to places unbeknownst, just to make herself full again?

Have you ever seen a rose, apprehensive of what might destroy him, guarding himself with numerous thorns, yet so beautiful that you can’t help but ignore his thorns?

Have you ever seen daisies growing through the cracks in the sidewalk, reminding you to look for beauty even when you can’t?

Have you ever seen flowers? Then you have seen love; for flowers are nothing, but love.

the moon burns brighter glaring at me
shamelessly shying away on your name

For the first time since I can remember I felt like I was graced with the same regality as those who sit on thrones built from bricks of solid self-esteem, sealed with the plaster of confidence.

Every sweet silver tongued sentence that dripped from their mouths like honey helped to sow the seeds of yet another flower on my crown, blooming with the promise of an ever elusive beauty I have never had the honour of meeting before, until my crown blossomed with the sweetest scent and the prettiest petals you had ever seen.

These buds would encourage this forbidden nectar to fill in the gaps, to flow around and in between every crack and crevice in my self-polluted soul, mending, often overflowing leaving distinct pale pink kisses on the apples of my cheeks, and the dreaded dimple that is so often hidden would emerge from the shadows the moment that sweet nectar touched it and it was no longer afraid of showing.

Then you, sir, with your eyes shying from stardust could only speed the process, equipped with nothing but a rusty toolbox consisting of rosebud lips and blistered hands I know would never dare break my fragile stem, but be the foundations for my desperate, clinging vines to grasp so maybe someday I could taste the sunlight coating my lips, and veiling my skin the same way it did that one time I actually felt beautiful.

My legs were solid and strong, making just the right contact with the earth for me to keep my balance, my stomach a valley with just the right kind of hills and dips for my weary eyes to travel on, and I was blessed with a head held high paired with piercing eyes that only said that I wore all my flowers proud upon my crown.

Even if seeds of doubt still plant themselves in the caverns of your mind telling you that they will probably wilt the next day, you still water them with the tears you have left because ******* they are prettier alive.

Suddenly the sweet sound of ‘thank you’s echoed from my mouth to replace the bitter, constant taste of denial, and loathing took the form of loving and I embraced every second of it.

When someone at long last sees the galaxies in their own eyes and the pure luminescence of their soul, why must it be cruelly crushed by comments determined to blow them off course when they finally know exactly where they want to drop anchor, what is wrong if I decide to start with myself because I am living with me for the rest of my life and I realised I had better get comfortable. Self-respect, self-esteem, self-confidence, it all begins and ends with you, you are not just a chapter, you are the whole freaking book, so allow kind words to embed themselves in your skin and etch their outlines on your bones and it’s a pretty good way to start the first paragraph.

So let me be an empress, let me be a queen, no longer the princess of low self-esteem, rip off the nametag that reads ‘handle with care’ because you’re not breathing right you are not even aware of how much you are worth, step into your skin, accept every beautiful inch of you because you’re not going to win a battle where you fight by beating yourself, your body is not a warzone, but darling if you breathe in all the dirt you can take you’ll be exhaling the prettiest of flowers.

I know that it’s hard, but trust me, honey, you will grow so tall, you will blossom my friend, even though you may fall once, or twice while you climb.. keep your eyes fixed on that sun, and you’ll be just fine.

I knew you
in an instant
when I saw you
pass by
like I've known you
my entire life.

We lived out
each other's lives
in one another's eyes
making love with
awkward glances
and shying smiles.

We shared the simple
yet meaningful conversations
that one has at  2 o'clock AM
all without saying a word.

It was very easy to love you
and spend my life with you,
even if it was only for an instant.

You poured the coffee
and I left the tip.

The difference between
in love
and love
is a dispute through every relationship I have had.

Poindexter says;
the greatest second you will
ever have on this earth is
the exact moment you fell
in love.

I remember, looking at your face
through a computer screen
and reminiscing on our moments
and I remember that moment;
you were laying on the bed
yellow wallpaper
orange mattress
faded sheets
bare back to me
freckle constellations
and I touched you
and fell in love.

and you said, "I love you"
and I pretended I couldn't hear you just so you would say it again
"******, of all the times to cut out, THIS is when it does?!"
I smiled.


I remember another moment
another human
laughing
bright smile
hair long and sheen
slender and poised
boots
leggings
eye contact
and I fell in love

and you said, "Do you love me?"
and I ran away.
Heated face.

On your bed, another human
you said the words
and I had already fallen
and been in that vulnerable state for weeks
already said I loved you in french
to which you said, "No, don't say that"
"Too soon"
And you were leaning against the wall
guitar in your lap
fingers strumming
staring at me tenderly
"I love you"
"What?" I said.
I ran again.
and now, empty handed

uncomfortable in my next encounters
shying away
even more venomous am I now.
Disgusted with love
and with being in love.
Wanting anything but.

you leaning over me
"Because, I love you."
and me saying carefully
"I'm in love with you."
discomfort in my body

Not wanting to waste precious words again
but I did anyway
throwing them about.
just like I threw others about
tearing up hearts
relentlessly.
tearing up lives
effortlessly.
tearing up people
nonchalantly.

a dangerous siren.
remembering each moment
she fell in love
and wondering;
was it real?

the moon burns brighter
glaring at me
shying away on your name

while I shamelessly
hide in my misery
of your poisoned
pillow talks  

but

                                                               ­                           the moon sees it all
                                                             ­                           even under my skin
                                                                ­                     even over my pretend
                                                         ­                                     truly wondering
                                                                ­                               how I am doing