Even if I loved thee a thousand times, still thou'd never be real.
But still, in t'ese dark miseries and dreams of th' night-
ah, just like t'is silent night of ours
And t'ose fierce fairy tales of young hours
Thou'd still be shaken off my realms
As soon as morn comes-and unveils anew, my charms.
O, death, how lush and inviting thou art,
even though at t'is early age thou might
still be asleep and thus soundeth really far.
Thou art but as naughty as t'ose abundant peeping stars,
brimming with locks of divine warmth and wealth
T'ey shalt again, tease up my mind
Whilst capture my rude, hating heart;
and once more shall t'is gruesome life turn into a solitude
Beside promises t'at canst harm souls' benign attitude.
But as soon as thou art gone; thou might just be no longer safe
And to my conscience thy threat is no more than a slave
Thy delicacy is but servile and uninviting
In t'ose choruses of blood and suffering
For which our senses should nay be proud;
but only of our genuine voices and gravity
T'at though sometimes seem virtual,
but still, are crafted within reality.

And yes, my painting, behind thy soul was ever born thy art,
Locked safely within thy summer foliage and forests
But shall I, for your goodwill ever be sketched?
Ah, one swiftly done, and miraculously correct-
yes, one only, my love, for th' very sake of single jests!
For in thy eyes hovers my triumph,
and in t'ose bogs beneath-
yes, th' ones idling about thy feet,
are cuddled-just here like my little heart, my love.
A sacred love t'at is thrown about
But to which my thirst canst never shout.
Ah, as if my voice is hoarse, and not loud-
and soon I step into whose soils, shall be sanely caught.
Caught and swung around thy idyll-though against my will;
amongst heaven's sandy shoals, and t'eir creepy windowsill.
Oh, and be defected with t'ose blades of thy swords, how evil!
Bereft of my sanity, prudence and sometimes too-bitter delicacy
As I dance around to those lands of hurtful mockery.
Be my soul's delighted worry, and mouth-oh, but mouth of blasphemy!
Ah, how of which I'm now devilishly tired!
Though you might be my eternal sire,
and beside whom my virginal soul shall forever feel so sure
As if my pride shall never ever retire,
everything shall altogether be wounded and obscure
But comely and true, just like t'at shimmering white-lipped dew
With breaths so smooth, like one from my feelings for you.

Ah, my prince! T'is craze for thee is an arrogant little devil;
and its longing for thee which gradually eats away my soul
and at times ****** and tells me harshly what to feel.
Just like t'ose ill-hearted fruits of people's minds
For which t'eir villains wouldst even in death bleakly whine
I am but forever bound to thee;
just like thou art already inside of me;
For in majestic times of our days
Thou shall hungrily partake
my fruity; but eager soul, soul away
and marvel about th' visages of my purity
I shall always but love thee once more;
no matter how boastful thou art,
and detestable virginal pain might be!
For thou art always to me as pure,
though unconvincingly art forever in vain-
For t'ose loveless satisfactions thou hath procured-
and premature pain thou hath delightfully endured.
But healthily t'ese senses shall always love thee
And with such tragedies and tears
canst t'ey but forgive thee only
Because, regardless of how untrue thou art;
You lifted my soul when I was down
And cheered me up 'twixt yon last wound
Dark was th' night t'at day, ye' tender was the moon
As both would pass and dusk would fade away soon
And into my blood thou injected th' real meaning of virtue
Whenst I was all wasted and coldly blue
Whilst my thoughts had not even a clue.

Ah, painting, but still, our love is incorrect as a tragedy-
for t'is world is too exhaustive and greedy
And at times elusive whenst but not necessary-
to grant our love th' chance we needst best!
Oh, but hark; hark once more, my love!
Over t'ere are bursts and chants of a heartbroken violin,
Though spurned by heretic hanging clouds,
slandered by boastful chirping winds.
But, no matter; no matter how hard it might seem
Thou art still to me an indescribable story;
and in thy red cheeks lies my stranded vitality
Signs of virtuous tenderness and curtained loyalty
As though thou art but still with no sin;
No sin; and ah! No stain, no stain at all-of
neither viable crossness nor madness
Though thy cleverness is at times no more to be seen
As once thou said, t'at for thee t'ere might just be
no any further happiness.

Ah! And trapped shall I be, within poisonous vileness
Should I not be granted thee
For thou art th' only soul I love, and idolise
Through whom my life was once formed, and characterised.
For love, to me is like a whole pattern;
and thus needst to be complete;
Thereby in t'is sense-loving him is but like denying
my own merit-merit t'at I am part of, and sure of-
for it is not love, though he might; as fate might say;
just as reliable and handsome and sweet.
But still, he is not thee!
And by no chance, is being not thee is but the same,
as being thee!
How fraudulent, and gross-t'is comparison all be!
Ah! And so thou knoweth, t'at he is, too me-
more even not than a stunning evening doll
Like those ones I hath seen so often
strutting about posh malls
Whilst with heartlessness welcoming
and sneering at innocent cold falls
With faces too stern, yellow, and sometimes bold;
Too bold to be true, much less sincere
And wholly unlike thine-amongst those sins;
t'at for thou honestly admit; look still sparkling and keen;
thus so astoundingly charming my veins and curdling my blood
Until thy unread shadows but reach my heart;
With such braveness and th' frankness of a gentleman
Like at that moment-whenst we told each other's life stories, back then.

Ah, and lure, lure my heart, my love!
And play with it soon as we sit 'mongst th' groves;
I would like to lay again about thy breast,
as I whisper once more to thy chest;
t'at it is truly thee that my soul loves;
and invites to love from t'is moment to end.
Ah, but t'is love started I knew not when,
though never have I thought thou art just my friend.
And lie, just lie to me no more,
t'at thou, just like me-but needst me to thy very core,
with a love t'at seems impatient,
but is born still, from pure virtue and resilience.
Oh! How valuable thou art to me, darling!
Thou who art to me such a mindful; soulful treasure,
and betwixt thy impurity thou remaineth but pure;
Thou are a smiling cloud to my blinding sun;
but sunlight to my rain as soon as it is done.

And thick and tough just as yon bough may seem,
thou shall forever be to me more t'an him!
I shall do and always want thee,
it is thy picture t'at I keepest within and about me.
Ah! And to t'is world, I promise, I shall not bluntly surrender
as how my wailing heart it shall never disrupt!
For thee I shall swear with a thousand loves greater,
t'at from actualising thee, I shall never be stopped!

Then please, please me, o my love-once more,
and talk to me and look at me sweetly as just never before.
For I love thee brightly and gently, as how air loves breath;
and so shall I love thee purely and greatly, as how life loves death.

In an oasis
where gentle families go
a cafe where modern life is overhead,
an American Father unconvincingly tells
his youngsters this is a gender neutral country
his missus is silent.
A lady is on her laptop
whilst deftly handling a mobile.
This talks of  marketing
making a niche.
Her fortune assured, sitting amongst
the yummy mothers
a mini boom of sorts

people have a funny way of showing they care:
i wake up on the right side of bed and wonder
where you really are. the left side is untouched
and misses you, sheets wrinkled because during
the bad nights i reach out for a ghost.

months are passing by,
as they’re meant to.
thinking of you hurts.
thinking of you is killing me.

though all is forgiven;
i know you’ll find the way
to our bed eventually.

we played catch-up
a few weeks back
over cooling coffee
in my old-to-me/
new-to-you
apartment.

"sorry it’s been so long."
you muttered into
the mug, steam clawing
upwards between us. we avoided
eye contact at all costs and allowed
ourselves to pretend we were
elsewhere.

i almost hated you.

winter is here and in my
heart, with only
you to blame for
bringing this *******
apparition into my home.

the season you left in
has a certain chill
that won’t ebb under
today’s sun.

"it’s fine." i smiled
unconvincingly and
placed my coffee to
the side. hands sliding
across the kitchen
table and over your own.

a subtle shiver ran down my spine
as your hands turned around to grip mine
lightly. they were colder than the outisde
snow storm.

i acknowledged my fluttering
chest with a small nod of the head that
made your lips turn up crookedly.
i loved you like that.

eventually,
i took you
to my bed
and we
stayed there
for hours
almost like
lovers.

everything
felt warmer
that way.

morning
threw
itself
between
us;

and that’s when
you found there
were no coffee
grinds left.

"i’ll go to the store." you reassured
me in a deep voice, forgetting to smile
down at my small form. despite
the easygoing grin, i knew you
wouldn’t come home. so i watched
as you tromped down the apartment
stairs and into the waking world
without saying goodbye.

days passed
and there was still no sign of you.
i wasn’t surprised.
living under a roof that lacked
all forms of coffee proved harder
than i thought. and of course,
it was your fault.

days got slower and turned into
fading snapshots i can barely remember now.
i was stuck with a vision of you in my mind
on replay through those insufferable days
and nights. smiling at me like the rest of the
world couldn’t possibly matter.

at one point,
i’d left you a series
angry voicemails.
all i wanted was
to hear you
say my name
again.

that was the day
your mother called
me to let me know
that you’d been hit
right off of 32nd street.

on
the way back
from grocery shopping.

all they could find at the scene:
a body,
torn clothing,
and
two bags of expensive coffee.

now i’m still in our bed.
looking to your side
and wondering
where all that
faith had gone.

and it still hurts.

Sir Michael sat on the riverbank, quietly,
sure beyond question that he wasn’t there.
Feverishly he searched the running water;
There it was, his jumbled reflection, blurred,
he couldn’t trust his eyes anyway.

Michael perfumed his hands with the soft wet mud,
deeply inhaling the earth’s pungency, and there were his fingers, his palms—
faintly, unconvincingly, incarnate.

The odor pulsed with Michael’s breathing,
hands fading with each expulsion of air,
reappearing with the intensity of their scent.
Sound.

Pursing his mouth, Michael whistled loudly, and
basked in the physicality of his atonal cry.
Ah, he inhaled again, there were his hands;
exhaled through tightly sealed lips, there were his ears,
outlines in a coloring book, filled lightly for a moment with
a vibrancy, a shrill whistle.

Sliding closer to the edge now, peering into the quivering
canvas of hazy mirrors—this was not enough;
he held his breath, and let go.
Touch.

The icy water ravaged every crevice of skin,
each pore suddenly illuminated, existing.
Air! But there was none; Michael’s lungs
filled with his own reflection.
Air! But there was nowhere for it to go, Michael’s body
began in the water, and would end if he surfaced.

Sir Michael fell to the bottom of the riverbank, quiet as death,
sure beyond question that he was there.
Here I am, he thought.

Taste the time
Between each
Tick
To waste
Away
The waiting
Hours
Before birds
Begin
To strip
Night's darkness
Down
To imminent
Dawn

Touch
The space
Between skin
And bone
With tenderness
We are
Broken still
Not yet
Revealed by
The unkind
Rising sun
In silhouettes
Of shattered
Souls

Shiver
For the
Salty sins
Of lovers
Lending sugar
To the sour
Lives of
One another
Under covers
Woven out of
Cosmic whispers
That murmur
The word
Of morning

Kiss the thoughts
That chase
That smile
To the corners
Of your
Senseless lips
Numbed by bitter
Narcissism
Bit back
Before the harsh
Light of
The sun showed
The lies told
And heard

Wander through
The passing
Winds
Weaving words
Of silent
Sounds
A sussurus
Of unlit streets
Telling tales
Of your small
Bare feet
Leaving little
Footprints on the
First light's breeze

Smell the desire
Caught in
Dewdrop sentiments
The madness
In the dampened
Minds of men
****** to be
Unsatisfied with
The cold moon's
Movements across
Unforgiving skies
Towards an
Unconvincingly
Carved horizon

Crawl at last
Into the light
And rest  
The remainder
Of your
Sweet sanity
That has tasted time
Untouched by shivers
Or kisses that wander
The breezes that
Smell like
Insomnia or a
Fear of the
Unknown

Mornings born on a
      bowl of confidence,
or grain-flavored pellets
      that stick to the back of my conscience.
The day will end with a decision,
      a jury and court weighing the outcome.

Easily influenced by the surroundings,
      silk and cotton drapes,
one for the table and the other for
      obstructing neighbor’s view.
“Why is he not married? Is he even religious?”

It’s funny how their opinion wavers
      on a wafer in a building
made of the same materials as this
      kitchen. Did I leave the stove on
on accident or intentionally to burn in Hell?

I never thought it was true
      that we poke fun at the
things we fear most. I haven’t poked
      or prodded in my lifetime,
but my neighbors sure do.
      “No, Mrs. Smith, I embrace this loneliness.”

It’s almost as if they think I run
      a ***** house, or
have the most questionable of sexualities.
      I am as plain and inconclusive
as the toast I burnt – dry and unbuttered;
      it goes down unconvincingly.

I will sit in this chair, hiding from the houses,
      eating my dry meals
in the morning, under the beaming lights,
      possibly reviewing this day
in tomorrow’s morning.

It'll be another one of those conversations
where neither of you really say anything
in all the words that spill from your lips.
Half of you wants to cut them off
Press the knife of your lips to their sentence
and tell warm stories until you cease being a storyteller
without even a word

But half of you wants to just scream to them
that all you're screaming
is poisonous nonsense to validate them
To validate yourself
To insist feebly and unconvincingly
That the time you burned together
wasn't a waste
of the only thing more precious than time:
Them.

his whiskey arms
unconvincingly,  your lungs are not composed of broken glass and tissue paper
there are no "i love you's" in whiskey and coke flavored lips,
strong hands,
the back of his truck
and there never was
someday, somebody will love your feeble insides
it's all in a matters time.

(20 minute poetry)


It's a Groundhog Day
and it's bound to be
as it's bound to me

trussed up and cussed at
accused of this
innocent and that
is my stance.

today's an expanse if expanse is the word
stretched out before me
like an old man on the rack,
going back takes me back
to the same place
there is no moving on

this is groundhog for
the underdog,
an uppercut

there but for the pleasure of her majesty and the grace of Sinbad or some God
go you

but I do this to pass go and sometimes I pass time as time passes sometimes by me
slow and unconvincingly reminding me of virginal smiles up on 42nd street.

It all replays
groundhog days are
yesterday's
with fancy names,

just
designer games.

Storms coming
Wouldn't know it if you looked outside
The day was was warm and clear
Men out washing cars and kids running
The old man steps onto his porch

That was the signal
Close up shop and take shelter
Hold your loved ones tightly until its over
He never said how or much at all really
But he always knew

A gentle breeze kicks in with a light drizzle
The streets clear as the day once was
Most people hide safely in thier basements
The old man slowly lights a cigar
Calmly waiting and watching

Mothers hold their children with flashlights
Sirens fearsomly wail in the distance
Reporters unconvincingly warn not to panic
Its too late to run so prepare for the worst
An act of gods will has come

The sky rips open with cracks and flashes
Rain freezes over and slams the rooftops
Unfettered by threats he blows smoke in the air
Staring the storm in its eye
Challenging.. begging it to bring its best

Sharp winds tug at his clothing
Sign posts electrify as bolts scatter
Ever vigilant he gives not an inch
Trees fall and crash into houses
This man is devoid of all sense

The storm passes after hours of terror
People pour out to tally the damage
The old man sits in his chair
I ask him "do you ever get afraid?"
He put out his cigar and looked at me
Of course son, that's the only way to be brave

That lasted forever
she said quite unconvincingly
convincing me
that I could be her lover.

~this is not an apology, although i owe you many. this is just a story, that will one day be little more than a fragment of a memory.~*

i heard heartbeats under water, and found myself fishing. there was light on a horizon, unmade. stifling change. you, on unimagined shorelines. there was wind through trees, boughs shaking: i, reflected in leaves tumbling. our paws, through leaf-litter and pure chance, met. we were ghosts, hopeless and beautiful.

     the waterline obliges & breathes, though. the walls are
       pristine, and all is coffee-stained and content.

so, an agonist's thoughts, the hands of fate's implausible existence, some ideal named virtue, laid out in beds of unsent letters, touched our lives for one turning moment. there, we were left to swim until we sank, and i drank cold water and thought of you and the sky, and how sometimes our hands are made to feel smaller when both the sun and the moon hang, on tiny strings, intersecting every six months or so.

                or how i could feel nothing had changed, or stayed the same.

     and my hands feel smaller by the day, as
       i watch shadows across the fractions
           of the moon; and guess at how you may
             feel the same, or if you look at all, or
                 what generates these soft mechanisms of hurt.

thus, we set out to measure the earth, one palm's-length at a time, and laugh and ache all the same. and once, you'd said, gently, that i was beautiful, and i got so frightened that i choked. i was so convinced that i'd hurt you. i was so convinced that i was worth so little, and that you'd figure it out. and maybe i did. and maybe you did.

       we sing songs in our heads all the time, though,
       recite one another's words in slow light. and i
       feel less like a ghost, as my shells shrink back
       onto me; but, there are still bits missing that
       branches tore away and sent to you, on the wind.
       we walk right-turning paths, and, as much as
       i try not to tie my footprints up, they remain
       cycles, dirt-trodden through patches of brush; and
       my soles stay as cut-up as my thoughts, and,
       out on endless concrete, i smile unconvincingly and
       squint, as to make out where or what to be.

                                               in dreams, i meet you out on the backfield.
                                        we sit on the fergusson intermediate driveway
                                          and exchange silences, eloquently. in dreams,
                                      we dance and kiss in the hallway and i stop and
                                            remember how nobody's wanted to kiss me
                                         for three years. in dreams, you are gone, out to
                                 sea, and i wonder if i thought this all up and wake,
                               to a dream, where my father is ill but won't admit it,
                                   and has cleaned the walls of the washroom. there,
                   i hide and feel hollow, so sure that nobody will notice; and
                                 realise that my father is always fine and maybe i'm
                                    the one that's ill. i hear your voice, through doors
                                     and halls and continents, and consider that there
                                       are unmeasurable aspects to our shorelines and
                                                             ­                                    psyches and
                                               how i managed to turn out to love you.
                             in dreams, i see my best friend, now not in quotation
                                       marks, and wake and feel stabbing pains in my
                                                chest; a star in the sky for each time i have
                                   crafted abandonment, until the night fills up with
                                        blinding light and, finally, i am clean and pure
                                                   and know nothing, save the warm lap of
                                                        dawn's­ reprieve at the window. i stay
                                                         in place, reeling and absurd
                                               motionless realities playing out on the end
                                                of each fingertip, with your blink-patterns
                                               sin­ging morse through my haze; the entire
                                                          ­ world, folding down to a cascade of
                                                   hurried cries from a small bird, losing its
                                                        nest in the glow. it spreads wings and
                                           claws out from my ribs, and heads north; this
                                                   small bird, called hope, cartwheeling out

                            *to the ends of the earth, where heaven is just
                         a sequence of your most beautiful memories, and
                                   there's you, angel on the oceanside,
                                      dancing within my last breath.

Childhood is often seen in
Experiences
Like observations second hand
Snapshots
From inside circus photobooths
Selfies
All day
Way, No way!
Convince ourselves to smile
Unconvincingly
Grin.

When someone is in a race and they run out of their drugs and its the same as when an alcoholic runs out of a drink or when someone else is told that they are running out of their love

And have no more time to live

Life isn't the same

With your cancer

You died before my eyes

But I never thought of you as gone

I always thought of you as you are here right with me

Unless I'm wrong then you have somewhere else better to be

But I know you don't

You're with all eternity

And I know they don't know forever

If we all die today

We might as well die forever

Because honestly

Who else is going to ever remember everything we ever did?

If people never gave a **** about humanity by being humans then wouldn't they be ever forget what humanity ever did?

But it's a lot of fun.

Unconvincingly I nod my head.