I love you
because the Earth turns round the sun
because the North wind blows north
sometimes
because the Pope is Catholic
and most Rabbis Jewish
because winters flow into spring
and the air clears after a storm
because only my love for you
despite the charms of gravity
keeps me from falling off the Earth
into another dimension
I love you
because it is the natural order of things
I love you
like the habit I picked up in college
of sleeping through lectures
or saying I’m sorry
when I get stopped for speeding
because I drink a glass of water
in the morning
and chain-smoke cigarettes
all through the day
because I take my coffee Black
and my milk with chocolate
because you keep my feet warm
through my life a mess
I love you
because I don’t want it
any other way
I am helpless
in m love for you
It makes me so happy
to hear you call my name
I am amazed you can resist
locking me in an echo chamber
where your voice reverberates
through the four walls
sending me into spasmatic ecstasy
I love you
because it’s been so good
for so long
that if I didn’t love you
I’d have to be born again
and that is not a theological statement
I am pitiful in my love for you
The Dells tell me Love
is so simple
the thought though of you
sends indescribably delicious multitudinous
thrills throughout and through-in my body
I love you
because no two snowflakes are alike
and it is possible if you stand tippy-toe
to walk between the raindrops
I love you
because I am afraid of the dark
and can’t sleep in the light
because I rub my eyes
when I wake up in the morning
and find you there
because you with all your magic powers were
determined that
I should love you
because there was nothing for you but that
I would love you
I love you
because you made me
want to love you
more than I love my privacy
my freedom my commitments
and responsibilities
I love you 'cause I changed my life
to love you
because you saw me one friday
afternoon and decided that I would
love you
I love you I love you I love you

When it flashes, I can't speak, except
   in      fra c tu
r   ed  gas p in
       g
(I should be able to withstand the shocks much better than I do)

The vibrations, the detachment lasts for several minute after
the power has been discharged and
I can't think.

Emergency situations call for
level-headed judgement,
but the jolting of the volts is difficult to disregard.

My heat resets itself somehow each time
even though the rhythm is interrupted
time and over again with every blast my power creates.

I want to pull within myself every time I use it,
embrace the sense of power, the sensation,
without reaching out.

Brain activity,
heart activity, muscle spasmatic ripples,
and I can't see past sporadic sparking up my face.

Victims, villains, friends of mine
and all your detailed instructions,
please survive in spite of me.

They say I'm strongest on the team
in strength, and that is hard to say.
I'll stay with you and fight but my mind
can't live on another day.

god... don't you just love
the ones with subtle ridicule reflexes
in speech?
   only half an hour ago
i was picking beer from
a supermarket open fridge,
testing it against my cheeck
for the proper temp.
when being asked by
   the shelf-stacker
        to pursue his venture
  into stacking: making the bottles,
by labels, aligned...
   well... i was actually dipping
my hand into the back of
the fridge that: upon pressing
against my cheek
    were, the proper temp.;
ah... the bottles...
   corona... mexican beer...
and i do wish i could carry
a knife, to then buy a lime,
   and shove it down the bottle neck,
like...
           the guy who died
from suffocating on an oyster...
drinking in public...
   you mean... england...
in an area where there was
a stabbing incident,
  on the pave that i walk...
and i'm alone...
walking the streets at night...
and i'm glug-glug-glug
halfway down a bottle a beer...
anti-social?!
        ****... lay-deez und grunts!
we've arrived at mars!
   you're welcome.
   if this doesn't sell, i already know
that i'm broke...
            but you can't exactly
call today, with this afternoon,
a normal day...
         my "cerberus" managed to find
a sparrow in the bushes...
   while cooking a prawn carbonara...
so i chased him to the end
of the garden and said: zostaw!
       maybe this writing is what it's
supposed to be...
          i can't manage to comprehend
what happened after...
it's not exactly chicken farming...
out of curiosity...
       ever held a dying sparrow
in your hand?
        ever tried the vain attempt of,
first: ensuring the cat dropped its
play-toy,
      secondly: ease a bathroom tap
and implore (unconsciously)
   for the bird to take a sip?
oh... i forgot... big people deal
     with watching old people die...
or maybe just the odd Cain
mad on introducing euthanasia laws...
because... did that *******
of a grandson ever listen to
his grandfather talk ******* for
an hour and hid a yawn?
       sure as ****, some of them made
it into safer hands than familial
ties would ever allow...
      death by a synthesis of ******...
or its equivalent...
          but did p'ooh bear nanny
ever get a visit fwom her
            p'ooh bear grandchild?
evidently post-mortem doesn't
allow "care" to be discussed in journalism...
see...
          i remember that
hamster i was fooled into dropping
believing it could fly...
   but this sparrow i held in
my hand...
           seeing it transition from
shock...
       closed eyes...
   to a momentary state of surprise...
eager to sip the water flowing down
the bathroom tap...
             come to think of it...
it might have drowned from
taking a sip...
       as you do...
               little into the lungs and...
****!
          but when i shouted the cat
to drop it...
                   a secondary excavation:
can't change that machine of
utility...
       no matter how much you feed
it... the natural impetus is still there...
yet in my hand... a dying creature...
  and it literally started a spasmatic
last-resort mechanisation of
its body...
               a choking effect is
probably the best way to describe it...
   it wasn't a mature sparrow,
god knows where the nest was
situated, but you could tell:
the beak... was still "fresh"...
      i.e. yellow...
          not bark stiff deep
brown mingling
                                         with grey...
the cat would have eaten it,
and i, oh so deperately wanted
to be a brooks hatlen...
    then i remembered the hanging...
ah yes... the pitiful life...
       plenty of them that are dead
who wouldn't think so...
       a sparrow dying in your hand
is no big thing...
       it's not an earthquake...
most certainly...
                  it's not even an attempt
to cry...
               it's unlike having petted
something that invokes
                 a loss of a part of you,
embedded in the animal...
      beside the sparrow...
                  and we seem to be on confessional
terms... sámāél...
     now i hold what you hold
in your right arm...
   the rite of passing: a birth, a life,
a marriage...
                            a death... and a wake...
albeit less within the constraints
for the care for man...
        but more: on the frivolous...
             jittery side of existential affairs...
sure as **** i burried the sparrow...
right next to where i burried
   my former night companion...
   having hacked off a piece of a tombstone,
having taken to use a shovel...
to actually invoke him
to set tone to a blooming plum tree...
   hard though...
holding such a trivial aspect of reality
in your hand...
        and watching it die...
     how does death even amount
to a conspiration, in such a microcosm
of a sparrow's body, beheld by a mere libra
of a hand...
                      with what i could hold
                                                    in my right?
i tended to,
        what expired...
          but upon seeing the agony:
i first wanted to see a quickened extinction
by crushing it with a stomp...
     but then i chanced an intimate
realisation of shared breath...
      no one really writes
poems about sparrows dying in their
hands...
                                   do they?
   apparently when death happens:
everyone is always elsewhere...
                        certainly those behind
typing desks.
   - because chickens i will eat
and i can ****...
              but sparrows?!
                            fowl eggs is one thing...
  but looking for sparrow eggs?!
             that's borderline sadism if
not, just that.
    - no!
        who has had
    a sparrow die in their hand?!

That time between evening and mourning,
it seems,
Is distantly focused,
like an unbalanced dream.

I love you,
I hate you,
Oh hell,
what to do?

My thoughts race,
my head hurts,
no need to worry,
just spasmatic touch thirsts.

Oh well,
A deep well,
at least the pain,
cannot swell.

Goodbye,
to no one,
a loving father,
and spoiled son.

I got waves of rage,
that burn the day
brighter than
an atomic ray.

When I see the face
of the human race
ran through the mud
in the name of
god and greed.

When they plant the seed
of corporate deceit,
getting folks on the street
when they should be
self-quarantined.

When made up
tv doctors say
that’s it okay
to risk the lives
of your children
and wives.

When you need help
but they bailout themselves
and the rest of the
behind the curtain
rich folks who ain’t hurting.

When I choke and spit
in spasmatic fits
because I can’t believe
that this ****
is happening.