cold lights and hard eyes of post modern romance, gently finding sunday sins
  leaving
tannic spit mornings post the every-day-weekend.

you, always -
cradling sadness as the last honest god
crafting fictions in your bedroom you -

feed me earl grey tremors at 12pm, light leaking,
something pretty something quiet,
i think of still hours, departure words

The North African morning light is thin and ****** and
Walking men are rinsed in the dim blush, they
Walk with heads down and
Cradle, eyes bent, contemplating, gently sipping
Steaming densely syruped espresso from miniature paper cups,
Bought from the nearest cafe. Their
Spreading hands are wrapped
Delicately around those doll-size paper
Cups (sometimes glass ones)
And still they walk, tasting tannic liquid
Courage, holding, with tender precision,
Candied black strength. I
Drink too, though because homemade, not
As strong a cup -
And now we both, the walking men and I
Tip heads back and face the newly purged
Light, emboldened by borrowed audacity.

And now I'm thinking
with a wrinkle
in my response
deflected by chemistry
and calculation
and

It broke down
that bubble upton
tannic in my cheeks
setting teeth to grit
in the skin spasm

you can lead an ion
to a source
of left turns about
a vague unsatisfying
uncertain
moment

you wanted to come here
and i
given up
on arrivals
said no to leaving
and left

In this world of sorrow
Evidently, the wind blows,
away the tannic flames
And water dries up its flows
Whistles sound like whispers
While speeds jag and slows
Little breaths puff off
As to them, my prayer goes
Never experienced anger
That run from head to toes
Lagging behind in time
I am sure everyone knows
But a wish for a dream come true
That just this night, it snows
However, it turns a pity
We slim slot to pose
Happy like glass thin
Accepting a bunch of rose
Walking behind an old building
Whiping up my leaking nose
Sniffing on temptation
And in goes the dose
Mocking myself with lies
Yet, happy to be on toes
Rushing winds sing with delight
While the sunset aura glows...


©sim

Spastic barnacles of time
snap me into place roughly
competitively jerking my chain
good evening relative calm

Strangled superposition
fluoresce in wrinkled
cupcakes of listening
moments hard by your heart

I take a breath in the theatre
stars bend inward ignorant
they are slaves to our birth
if that happened at all now

Some deep bloom crimson
would have to be or violet
singes the flavor tannic
and surreptitiously sweet

Always almost catching me
right there red handed
drunk on being caught
a stone higher up the mount