My words have been stolen
as I put my heart upon the shelf
quivering in it's sudden new position
cold and vulnerable
outside of it's bone prison
which gave airs of security, protection
what a mistake, that.
The daggers ****** between
proving the weak points of the
flesh to be real
and not phantoms.
After a long talk
we both decided it would
be safer on the altar.
It seems my argument
made sense
since my heart agreed
wholly and without reservation.
In the night we have long
conversations
my heart and I
calling to me from it's new
residence
asking when it can come home again
weary of the cold
and trembling when a stranger
walks too closely by
I reassure - even when they peer
closely at the jumble around you
you remain invisible
my voodoo is that strong
It agrees with a wet, thumping sigh
wistful and nostalgic
for the incessant whispering
of the Siamese twins
named, unoriginally, the Lungs.
It wonders what treasures
the gurgling idiot stomach
is dissolving today without judgment
(unless, of course, the stomach is throwing a tantrum
and decides to toss everything back out.)
I understand
these are the musings of an *****
misplaced
who misses home and forgets
the pain which drove it away.
If only my brain would forget
that old library
huge and dusty as a mausoleum
never throws anything out
just shelves it and adds it's placement
in the card catalogue
(If only it would upgrade - cross-referencing and rediscovery
would be easier.)
However, the librarian holds grudges
when the heart has been
played with too roughly
and keeps the pain files on her desk
constantly rifled through and
shuffled, reshuffled, shuffled again
"One day I'll have enough to write a book"
she mumbles over the complaints
of my heart as it bleats and moans
about it's new home
She doesn't hear it - it's too far away
from the Central Nervous System
for the message to be transmitted
in the proper form.
When she remembers
that ole librarian of my brain
where the heart has gone
she stops to listen
and in anger over it's pathetic pleas
she cries
"We have not learned
So you cannot return
If I did as you request
We would take back up the quest
And we all know...
He -
He -
He... "
She breaks down in literary sobs
reminding the heart of
the nature of it's exile
and why
it's truly
for
the best.

Eyes have been following me all day long
So many different shades, uncountable pairs-
But so few variations of the looks given
Some haunting, some giving companionship
But unoriginally, both provoking emotion the same.

I was blessed by just a mere few individuals
Who caught my eye momentarily in unnoticed secrecy
Gesturing appreciation for what I loudly stand for
And continuing my flow of happiness for others to share
But some currents were stopped.

The waters halted in tracks dried up
By desertion of carriers unwilling and uncaring
They pushed the shared joys out to dry land and their imagined flames
And waded to the company of criminals targeting me, and me alone
Latching their imagined fangs to the very passage used in good intention.

I caught a thief in the act
Though she didn't care about concealing her hateful crime
Nor the enjoyment benefitted from reactions provoked
In fact, she reveled in feigning attempt to hide her malice
And went so far as to turn away to sneer.

She drained me today, and drains me still tonight
But, I'm still winning this game I don't play
Knowing that when she turns to marvel at stolen goods
Her lifeless eyes will be met by a familiar pitiful failure experienced earlier today
When my smile, although quivering, remained unturned.

What was leeched out by this parasite of a woman, is not what was sought
I am well learnt in the tastes of beings undeservingly living
And remained lifetimes ahead of her worthless scheme
My dear, I live with the devil who's art you mimic quite insultingly
And tonight, differences aside, we turn together to sneer.

O how sanguine your author was, that
After so many bitter heartbreaks
On the rocky road to Love
(sweet Nirvana shared with a special kindred soul),
This would be the Big One,
The dawning of my joyous future,
A future to be enjoyed in togetherness
With the he-man of my dreams,
A charming full-kilted Highland laddie.

I smiled in innocent anticipation
Of what might transpire
As I waited to meet my bonnie Angus
That lovely Scots summer evening
In the beauteous Pass o' Killicrankie -
His selection of such an inconvenient,
Yet spectacularly gorgeous spot,
Reflected what I had come to appreciate
Of his romantic nature, thus boding well
For our first physical encounter.

Although we had not hitherto met
In the full flesh, so to speak,
I felt I knew the dear laddie well,
Having exchanged increasingly amorous emails
On an exclusive dating website
http://brokenhearts-renewed-by-love.co.uk
And the semi-draped digital photo
Made my heart go pit-a-pit-a-pat
And made my knickers drenched,
To put it mildly, dear reader.

And so I waited, heart in my mouth,
By the bridge o'er the Pass o' Killicrankie,
That warm evening last year
And the birds sang a gentle little song:
Tweet-tweet-tweety-tweet
They chirrupped, somewhat unoriginally,
And how my heart was gladdened
By their artless warbling, och aye,
But I knew not what tragedy lay
Just around the proverbial corner.

And then I saw him coming down the path,
Limping gently (I recalled he had mentioned
early on in our electronic correspondence
that one leg was slightly shorter than the other
thanks to an incident involving a rabid Rottweiler)
And, O dear Lord, he was indeed a fine specimen,
Truly a very tasty number indeed
(although at least ten inches shorter
than I had fondly imagined theretofore),
And I knew my prayers had been answered
(yet perhaps not one hundred percent ideally).

We embraced shyly as he rested his shrunken limb
On a conveniently sited large round stone,
As we stood by the bridge looking out o'er
The spectacular Pass o' Killicrankie,
With its tumbling burn in the mighty ravine far below,
And he reached up on tippie-toe
So as to bring his lips up my mine
In order to seal our love, to plight our troth;
Och how my poor wee heart pounded
Like a steam-hammer at full throttle.

But Fate, cruel Fate intervened brutally
And Angus's surgical boot slipped on the aforesaid stone;
Then he fell against the ill-maintained fence
Which inevitably snapped asunder
And my bonnie lad toppled over into the terrible depths
Of the famous Pass o' Killiecrankie,
His arms flailing like semaphore.
O, but I shall ne'er forget his doomed shrieks
As he bounced gaily o'er the granite rocks,
Landing with a fatal plop in the rippling stream
As it ran urgently in the crannies at the bottom
Of the legendary Pass o' Killicrankie.

There's aye a silver lining to this tale
As poor Angus's man-bag still lay on the path
And I quick perusal therein
Suggested I could go for a tasty supper
At the nearest hostelry and have plenty left over
To subscribe to a more explicit dating website
(perhaps one where only the physically perfect
would be allowed to register)
In the hope of better luck next time round;
But the memory of his dying gurgles
In the icy waters of the babbling brook
Coursing through the Pass o' Killiecrankie
Will live with me for all eternity
(well, a week or two at a rough guess anyway).

One of the most beautiful of all Barry Hodges' "Memories" poems, and one in which a sad death occurs

O how sanguine your author was, that
After so many bitter heartbreaks
On the rocky road to Love
(sweet Nirvana shared with a special kindred soul),
This would be the Big One,
The dawning of my joyous future,
A future to be enjoyed in togetherness
With the woman of my dreams,
A charming full-breasted Highland lassie.

I smiled in innocent anticipation
Of what might transpire
As I waited to meet my wee Aileen
That lovely Scots summer evening
In the bonnie Pass o' Killicrankie -
Her selection of such an inconvenient,
Yet spectacularly gorgeous spot,
Reflected what I had come to appreciate
Of her romantic nature, thus boding well
For our first physical encounter.

Although we had not hitherto met
In the full flesh, so to speak,
I felt I knew the dear girl well,
Having exchanged increasingly amorous emails
On an exclusive dating website
http://brokenhearts-renewed-by-hotspunk.co.uk*
And the semi-draped digital photo
Made my heart go pit-a-pit-a-pat
And made my sporran twitch,
To put it mildly, dear reader.

And so I waited, bouquet in hand,
By the bridge o'er the Pass o' Killicrankie,
That warm evening last year
And the birds sang a gentle little song:
Tweet-tweet-tweety-tweet
They chirrupped, somewhat unoriginally,
And how my heart was gladdened
By their artless warbling, och aye,
But I knew not what tragedy lay
Just around the proverbial corner.

And then I saw her coming down the path,
Limping gently (I recalled she had mentioned
early on in our electronic correspondence
that one leg was slightly shorter than the other
thanks to an incident involving a rabid Rottweiler)
And, O dear Lord, she was indeed a beauty,
Truly a very tasty number indeed
(although at least ten inches shorter
than I had fondly imagined theretofore),
And I knew my prayers had been answered
(yet perhaps not one hundred percent ideally).

We embraced shyly as she rested her lesser limb
On a conveniently sited large round stone,
As we stood by the bridge looking out o'er
The spectacular Pass o' Killicrankie,
With its tumbling burn in the mighty ravine far below,
And she reached up on tippie-toe
So as to bring her lips up my mine
In order to seal our love, to plight our troth;
Och how my poor wee heart pounded
Like a steam-hammer at full throttle.

But Fate, cruel Fate intervened brutally
And her surgical boot slipped on the aforesaid stone;
Then she fell against the ill-maintained fence
Which inevitably snapped asunder
And my Aileen toppled over into the terrible depths
Of the famous Pass o' Killiecrankie,
Her arms flailing like semaphore.
O, but I shall ne'er forget her doomed shrieks
As she bounced over the granite rocks,
Landing with a fatal plop in the rippling stream
As it ran urgently in the crannies at the bottom
Of the legendary Pass o' Killicrankie.

There's aye a silver lining to this tale
As poor Aileen's handbag still lay on the path
And I quick perusal therein
Suggested I could go for a tasty supper
At the nearest hostelry and have plenty left over
To subscribe to a more explicit dating website
(perhaps one where only the physically perfect
would be allowed to register)
In the hope of better luck next time round;
But the memory of her dying gurgles
In the icy waters of the babbling brook
Coursing through the Pass o' Killiecrankie
Will live with me for all eternity
(well, a week or two at a rough guess anyway).

Doubtfully, unoriginally unsure on the cliché subject of originality itself. Like music you’ve heard on the radio too much. Like the thing your lovers have cherished and you’re sick, sick, sick of it because it’s so **** old and un-fresh. Like aged socks.
Accept the illusory nature of your being and be a dingy ****. Nobody will like you! Feint non-belief. Beastly ignorance. Ignorance is ignorance. Oh blissful ignorance. The happiness of brutes or of the happy? No victory, but is there failure? A fundamental losing out? In any case don’t take it too seriously.
To Strain your brain,
Strain your brain,
Strain your brain.
It’s all in good fun. Nature of the game.  It goes on and on. The journey that counts.
Play for fun, fun fun.
Threes are there but who really cares?
Certainly not me.
Certainly not unoriginal.
It can’t all stem from the pool. Randomness is real and not and both. It’s inside us.
Do my words hold meaning? Give meaning? Does your brain? Or my brain? Them together?
Something else?
Coming to an end.
Don’t get too distracted.
Love is important. Because I said.
Love’s important. Unoriginal. Un-special. Nonetheless Grand.

The difference isn’t. Askew,
it’s a greasy stain.
To be hidden
and scrubbed clean, they bid me.
I’m staying.
The same, it’s true,
I’ve had the same complaints.
Here or there, they’re buzzing
by me like flies. It’s plain
but comfortable up in this attic’s stew.
The flies are actually staying
below. They won’t go
near me, if there’s no
prize for not sinning, not even
originally. Time’s sly.
Like the flies, It won’t go by
me, not when my having it’s been
done. Long ago. A fly can’t sin
not even unoriginally, and I can’t
tell the difference. Not now. I can’t.

A notch on the car seat is digging into my bare back. We never had *** in a car, in all the two years that we dated. This was our first time, which is funny, so much is over with. It is unoriginally steamy, but this makes the moon look even more muted, and I think about myself as the moon, and you as the sun, as we have always been and always will be in my head. I am intensely serene. I have just given the world’s greatest *******, and you are still kind of panting excitedly next to me. Your *** is still in my mouth. My *** has stained the seats. I am lying a little lower than you, due to the previous positioning of head to *****, and in this moment I am completely unconcerned with you at all. I am having a very silent and extremely imperative one-on-one dialogue with the moon.

And it is very strange, in one second I am looking up and the next I am looking down, it is years and years later, I am looking down at a table, I bought the table off Craigslist from some old lady in Vancouver who promised the leg only rattled occasionally. It didn’t. It rattled all the time.

I am looking down and some guy is standing above me, leaning against the wall. I remember choosing the paint of that wall, it is a light taupe. I remember feeling like my mom. I remember thinking that only a mom would look at the fascinatingly bright rainbow world of Home Depot paint swatches, and choose taupe. I had bought the table because I thought it matched the wall but I was somehow just now realizing that the colors didn't really go together at all.

He leans against the wall, and he looks familiar although I am simultaneously making him up. He has a little mustache, a shade of a beard. His hair is long, and just the right amount of messy, he is exactly what people would call ‘just that kind of guy.’ He is wearing a nice shirt, like he had just come home from work at a job that would pay enough for my parents to be happy. He has tired eyes. He has a kind smile. He looks like he would be a good father. He leans against the wall and I have an intense desire for him to sit down beside me.

I am about to ask him to when he makes this abrupt little laugh-chuckle sound that people in movies make when they’re about to give a particularly awful scripted line. “God, I dated some real airheads in high school.” He really does say the word ‘airhead,’ in my mind. He is that kind of guy. “What about you, babe?” he asks. He rubs his nose with his hand. “Did you have any hot high school lovers?”

And I am back in the car filled with provocative moonlight and innocent, angelic love that drips with that honeyed smell of ***. You have stopped panting. You have scooted your body down beside me so that it fits in a special space that over time has come to feel like an extension of my own body, where it had always been for so many sweet, pivotal, intimate moments of my life. I have a wider mouth now, and bigger eyes, but you still recognize me. I have a little extra skin around my waist too, but you don't seem to mind. Your hand rests humbly on my hip, and you look up at the moon with me. We are quiet for a while, and I cannot help but think that if the guy in the taupe room with the rattling table were there instead of you, he would have said something stupid.

I cannot thank you enough for letting us be simply who we were, in that unambitious and unassuming moment of time. And for bringing yourself to me when I wanted you to but didn't know how to ask, for never trying to be like the movies, and for not using stupid words like ‘airhead,’ for being both transient and infinite, equally and honestly, and for being the hottest ******* high school lover I could have ever asked for.