It dropped down on my forehead
I saw crimson red.
Red like the roses that burned back then.

I couldn't fathom the reason why
Why she didn't say goodbye
I could only scream and cry.

I sat there unmoved
Like the books in the library unused
Decades unbruised.

I felt like I was forever frozen
In a silence unbroken
Why was there no commotion?

I only heard a ringing
Like I heard back at the beginning
It was nothing but chilling.

Her eyes were dead and gone
Like the daffodils that whithered at dawn
Why did she have to whither alone?

I do recall sensing pain in her voice
There was no rejoyce
Why was this her only choice?

As the timeless seconds pass by
I saw a light that could only amplify
I heard a familiar ringing,I could only comply.

I woke up with tears in my eyes.
I realize as I slowly rise:
It was, again, the dream that never dies.

The dream haunted me as far as I recall
On every night with rainfall,
I only want it to stop once and for all.

I don't care about it's wrenched meaning!
Since it started leaking,
My sanity took quite the beating.

Playing with my crimson red hair,
I start reluctantly prepare
Time to start the day I declare.

my mother, dedicated to flowers.
and by dedicated I mean she despises flowers with a passion,
a fiery repulsion so strong
that friends and family alike slowly started to mistake it for love
her marriage to my father.
my mother hates my father just as much as she hates his flowers,
she says they are the worst flowers she could ever wish for
and god do I hope those flowers will not make it,
wilting away in the palest beam of sunlight
it is the worst torture that could ever be bestowed upon such beautiful creatures
to live and to grow and to blossom
cut away from their roots
dried and whithered and frail
but my mother, my mother, she grows her flowers with uncanny care
fuelled by voluptuous rage and blind regret
some people still say it’s love
as the flowers shrink away into their own seeds.
so the flowers will surely survive
they’ll survive and they will live to see another day
day by day, night by night
in a place that is so loveless
one might mistake it for lovefull.

my sister, dedicated to flowers.
my sister, a lovely florist
a full-blown head in the clouds heart on her sleeves florist
and by florist I mean my sister values all her flowers so much
she sells them away to whoever might pay back just enough
for them not to feel as worthless as her father’s flowers
which her mother always reminds her about
so she just sells them to whoever.
she tells me her flowers are cute when they treat her to dinner
beautiful when they mend for her tremendous rent, you know?
life is never easy
but her flowers are only majestic, she says, when they are made into presents
cut and pressed and shriveled into tiny scattered pieces so sublime
they attract all kinds of unwanted attention
which reminds her a bit of herself, she says
gifted only to those who will never know how to properly care for something so broken
one might mistake it for whole.

my grandmother, dedicated to flowers.
except she never truly was
willing to take care of something that is fated to wilt away, that is.
my grandmother didn’t despise her flowers like my mother does
she understood them – felt them even
and therefore knew not how to take pity
with thorns of self-loathing
she molded herself into becoming one of her flowers
the only way she knew how to love herself.
my grandma knew how to make wondrous dresses out of petals and leaves
a disguise so colorful and blinding
one might just forget to look at all the right places
you’d have found nothing but pesticide.
grandma’s flowers were the most stubborn
born on a desert island of broken promises and scraped knees
where they were buried too
when the time to hide away the corpses left in her wake finally came.
sometimes I wish she had not left her son’s flowers to rot
coloring them so violent
one - such as his daughters - might mistake it for gentle.

I, dedicated to flowers.
I, anxiety ridden daughter of all flooded fields
blooming in the crevices and rocks dandelion -
I learned to resent the flowers that were  entrusted to me at birth
the detested gift of lifetimes of pain
as if that could ever be just enough to mend
for the moths and worms that made a home out of my belly
I was born with no flowers of my own
no illusion as to what i 'd have to expect from life
my mother’s, my sister’s, my grandmother’s
and my father’s too
my garden is the fullest
and the most painful to care for
kneeling on the seeds with sand in my eyes
no gloves to fend away the thorns
the pesticide fills my lungs
nobody cared enough to ask me
but I never liked gardening.

Night's willow, guard me well,
Else the candle is out and I'm back again.
Little birdie, sing me a song,
While you pluck the stars, one by one.
Sky's clear, from there to here,
Hummingbird's safe in all the worlds we share.

Day's wail, there you are again,
The birdie's flown, I hope to see it again.
Willow's whithered, wax is dun.
The song is done, I can't think myself back.
The Sun is up, also the moon,
A remnant of night, less sung about in daylight.
It's real, I think at least,
The birdie's somewhere, woken as same.

We rage
like hormones
like hyenas in heat
and ruin homes
(not on purpose, just on Fridays)
So grown up,
we're so grown up
with our mature parties
and relationship problems.
Look! I'm pregnant!
I'm oh so grown up!
We puke up jello shooters
and mama's meatloaf,
wipe the whithered corners of pale mouths,
smile
giggle
hazy glazy eyes
in smokey basements and tree houses.
Oh no,
I do not promote it
I only smoke it.
But what can we do?
I must be thin to be ****,
drunk to be interesting,
naked to be loved.
We need the skin contact
because God knows we can't communicate by words,
either by tweets
or  haphazard ******* in back seats.
We are so grown up
because we accept the filth,
the naughty,
the concepts that un-rad corporate burn outs can't comprehend.
Wisdom in destruction,
life in suicide.
So allow me to fill my nose with shaymen's powders,
so that I may regress
to the days that I was Daddy's ballerina,
and school yard games lacked dark ****** undertones.

Oh.....sugar, I say to myself,
How on earth could I forget that?!
I know that sometimes everyone can forget,
But not something as important as this!
As now I stare at the clock, waiting for 5,
Then I can leave,
Leave before it's too late.....

.....Too late, the door opens, slam!
To stand too small or tall is an understatement,
As the wish to vanish becomes near impossible.
"Come with me", the cry says, towerings over all,
I follow, in silence, too small to say anything at all.
Through the door of doom they call it, or the office.
"How dare you think of this", the cry says,
"Ask to leave early on Valentines Day?"
What could I do, the flowers were whithered,
I didnt want to stay, nor to come hither.

So to you I give these flowers,
Old and whithered, you hate?
I'm so sorry, but lets forget that,
As you are still my mate.

When no wind whirled,
Without whistles in the sky,
They fell down,
silently on the ground,
the withered leaves.

Just like promises,
Greenery fades away,
priorities shift,
and they still lay.

He loves me
He loves me not

The rose is dead
All the petals have been plucked

Careless with love
Just as with the rose
Its no surprise it whithered and died
It was picked
Plucked
Thrown to the ground

As for the rose tho....
Well you know how the story goes

He loves me
He loves me not

Out by the handle
Into the cold

In with a candle
Brave and bold

Out by the handle
Battered and sold

In with a scandal
Whithered and scold

Out by the handle
A little bit old

In with dirt sandles
Covered with mould

Out by the handle
To the door he hold

In with a hand drill
A true story is told

The hinges ******* off
love handles I hold

The noise oh the noise there's something in my ears
Or maybe it's in my eyes hiding behind these tears
Your words rip through me like a blade to fresh skin
And nothing I do can stop them they just keep setting in.

The noise oh the noise, there it finally stopped
I just had to drink enough. And there's not a pop
I cannot stand now, but who needs to go when you're finally free
There's Nothing left to listen to, nothing left but sleep

This floor will be enough I suppose, not much else around
But I just can't seem to get comfortable upon this hardened ground.
I hear your footsteps still far away but close enough to fear.
My heart skips a few I need to be sober for when you're near

It's too late as you turn the **** and open up the door
To find me whithered and broken, lying on the floor
You should be calm and pick me up, carry me off to bed
But you never have been calm my dear, instead your ears turn red

The noise oh the noise it's all the  ringing in my ears
The blood and pain of course bringing back the tears
I can stop it with a scream but I won't give you that pleasure
I just hold it all in as you pound me to your leisure

I can go about my day and lie about the bruises
Fearing going home to you with your boozes
Your words are fearful enough bringing me to my knees
And your fists finish me off, completing the defeat

I'm not sure how much I can take day after day
There comes a point in life when it's all you can take
So I run now as far as I can 2,000 miles away
And leave you with no words nothing left to say

The noise oh the noise the constant ringing of this phone
Your simple texts and messages. Where the hell have you gone
I'm done, I'm out, another beep on the line
I'm sorry, I love you, but this is good bye.

I found a strand of hair in the sand
from yesterday or maybe the day before
or before that, it's hard to remember anymore
the days suffocated by the rememberance of the waves
ourselves buried in the sand

Oh, the endless grains of sand!
of this chilly lonely Mexican beach
it's hard to un-remember what we built
what has now whithered in the autumn gusts
the castles have crumbled

we built them from sand, from scratch, from hand
added sweat-salt-water to strengthen the palaces
placed them near the shore or else it was no fun
let waves ride the moats and brush against the walls
prayed the castles would last the night

as we danced through the smokey fog
bathed in crimson candlelight
and sang until our harmony
resonated with the crash of the waves
and the constant being of the beach

we slept to remember and woke to forget
buried our regrets in the sand
and washed our hands in the water
and then ran to our castles
and prayed they had lasted the night

and sometimes they had, and sometimes they crashed
but now I see it didn't matter in the end
because none of them lasted forever
and no one remembered anything anyway
and beaches are only for vacations

though I am not a man who forgets ecstasy
or sees any need in leaving the beach
or likes the way the leaves look during autumn
or wonders what else there is but the sun
or needs to love the way most people love

so I lie on this beach, alone, sand to my knees
watching the waves graze over castle graves
finding seventy degrees to be too cold
carving my name in the shore
and watching the ocean erase what I've made

as I wrap this blondish strand around my finger
and try to remember who you might have been
and who you might be now
and if I met you in the sand
and if we will ever meet again

though, surely, we will not
because of course I am not still in the sand
a man needs to feed his family doesn't he?
as he wonders if he'll ever come back
or if the castle walls will last

it's too easy to daydream these days
office walls cloud ambition
and coffee cups burn my tongue
and early mornings swallow all my beliefs
they don't let me sleep, but I still dream

of a time when only waves tell time
as they curl in and out, but stay in the same place
so that we never age and only dance
make castles of sand with our fragile hands
watch them last, watch them crash

burn our memories in bonfire pits
but know that since time does not exist
each moment can be lived just like the sand
endless and amorphous and warm
and our harmonies will match the sound of the waves

and love everything but need only the sun
and sleep to dream and wake to love
and pray the castles last the night
but care not if they do
because there will always be another day

as I bang my claws into the walls
of this ******* cubicle, my head
aching from all this ******* coffee
my chest in a butterfly knot
my skull in a maze

it's hard to breathe here
the air isn't as fresh
and my lungs don't want to much
and my heart doesn't want to pump
my blood, which has gone stale now too

as I clench my fists, squeeze out my rage
knowing this is it
un-remembering the waves
praying the castle walls will last the night
but knowing my place

because beaches are only for vacations
and after all, it was only sand
and after all, these are only hands
and after all, I am only man
and after all, I am only sand

We are going to die
Whether you cried out your goodbyes
Or not
Whether you admitted to all your lies
Or not

We are going to die.

One breath a long way ahead
Or just the one in a second or two
Will be our last.

One angry scream a long way ahead
Or yesterday due
Will be our last.

We are going to die.
Whether you had time to reflect on your past
Or not...
Whether your heart whithered too fast
Or not..

We are going to die.

And you could have loved
Or you could have been running away
from love
All your tedious life

And you could have hated
And hated all that you ever had
All your pitiful life

You're going to die

I will be kept a dreamer,
With the thoughts of you, like the midnight stars,
Sail along to the city sounds,
And as the light of your smile rises,
Like the sun upon the horizon,
My inhibitions will be blinded,

Lust and love meet with kind greeting,
A kiss to each cheek with coffee and mint breath,
Longing is the mist upon the lake that is my heart,
Full of early morning thoughts and dried up tears,
Salt as ocean waves, from dreams forgoten,
You poison me with a heart beat that is the city night,

I am what whithered trees talk about in passing,
Of what they have seen and adore to see,
A kiss of bitter sweetness, graceful as my lips bleed adoration,
In the fairest of my thoughts, you dance upon my words,
And if my hands were not so far away, my mind in a shallow pool,
They would be showing what I wish the doves I send could show,

My voice but faulty strings, that pray you listen kindly,
If you stayed so close, so I may hear your breath,
Your thorns would be nothing but gracious reminders,
Of beauty akin to scarllett roses,
I would tell upon those lips,
These million dreams in nightmares shaking hand.

Day after day
Late mornings
to midday tears
and late nights fears
nothing has changed.
The tree remains a whithered sapling.
It has been so long...
Why will you not grow?
When will you rise far above the dirt that chokes you?
When will you be green again,
When will you be happy again?
When will you bloom and bear the good fruit
that is good to eat?
WHEN WILL YOU BE A TREE?!

So it has come to this.
Have I gotten so lost?
Have I gone mad?
It's a tree.
I am talking to a tree.

You cannot tell a tree when to grow.
You cannot ask a tree questions
and expect answers.

A tree does not speak,
and it does not comprehend
my language.

For the scarred
and whithered Tree
quietly I hum the tune.
Gone in flames
to console those homeless two;
thus unveiling its true beauty
and all the sadness
of this world.

For the selfish and the shallow,
for my
Every
Human
Fellow
quietly I say a prayer.

tied by a rock her heart sunk to the bottom of the seabed.
it decayed for a time and it whithered amongst reflections what lingered in the waters.
one morning she cut loose
but no longer could float.

You tell me that I am special,
Yet you treat me as lesser.
You recite words that "reflect my beauty"
But I've heard you recite such sweet nothings to others.
You demand to know my feelings
Only to cast yours in disguise.
You praise the "wonders" of my mind
Though when I speak you never listen.
You describe having me as your "greatest decision" and "luckiest find" - you had the gall to tell me I was your rare gem stone, one of a kind.
However I know I am nothing more than option.

Your sweet words and charming romance
May fool your other rare gems,
But my heart is beat and whithered.
Actions speak louder than words Darling -
Your words so full
Your actions scream silence.

The look of the face
Of a man I want to end

Let your energy ascend

Yelling at your wife
Questioning my ability
Not one gentle bone
Lies behind your whithered skin

You're a fool
To be so bitter

I await the day you leave

with no real reference to u2: i still haven't found
what i'm looking for -
which is music in a nutshell...

            hell... with all those guitar virtuosos...
to name a few... joe satriani...
                           john petrucci or steve vai...
but it wasn't what i was looking for...

   working backwards... something on the lines
of tom verlain...
      something: more laid back - guitar music:
sometimes lyrics are... bothersome -
              
           well... and the virtuoso music is simply:
a mood killer...
then the youtube algorithm starts
to glitch and fond memories of the jukebox
pop up like phosporescent moles...

            tommy guerrero...
                              no mans land...
                     a real shame to be writing anything
while this is playing in the background...
i'd settle for a wasp's nest of a head -
busy body me with both hands tied -
sipping a ms. amber in a corset and stockings
(bourbon) with some pepsi through
a straw...

                      i did think i was looking for
this something with egberto gismonti's solo...
apparently not...

   and for all its worth: the cut-off point...
i.e. what was once a calm revelation
of a lake...
becomes a frothing waterfall:

sometimes words are like bones anc concrete...
but me, being lazy...
                 teasing dyslexia or...
whatever...
                       you can say all you want
about... kevin spacey...
i'm not going to play the devil's advocate...
but...
                drift off... drifting off...
the required amount of prescriptive sleep...
no dreams...
i so too thought: i thought so too...
we wouldn't be buying sleep and dreams
over the counter...
big pharma excavations....

lester burnham...
and of course... kaiser sow'z'eh...
          sure... otherwise a kim novak /
     james stewart...

                      proper immigration:
send us your women... your ukranian... women...
and the brain-drain:
the best folk...
blah blah blah... blah blah...
what a load of...
glued to the concept of island:
easy to spot a border...
i guess...
                   it's always the carte blanches:
of a cate blanchetts and neurosurgeons
that make it...

no wonder... rewards in ***...
hmm... how about a genocide worth of *****
into a tissue... flushed...
gets the blood boiling...
Paris pre and during and "sort of"
after lockdown...
spike in female depression... no no...
this that and the other...

    so much more with... ****** and ***** banks...
i feel truly sorry for... women...
that will have to give birth to...
worker ants... construction workers...
not those pretty battersea shelter for
"stray" cats and dogs "nurses"...
i will  feel really sorry for the women
who will have to "forget"...
what's that term... hyper-... no...
  gyro- no... hyperbolic... no no nein!

hypergamy! yeah... and some women will
clearly not... up and up and more up...
if only i were a milkman's son...
a tiny little enclave... a stage...
the sea... the cliffs: i the next...
fisherman... the next trucker...

women of the world unite!
but this article... rage...
women don't need men:
of the same class - of the same dada venture...
the same dandies the same:
throws out a perfectly good electrical appliance...
because... "forgot" to check the plug fuse...
same ****... different cover...
all stereotypes... slavs are good workers...
all the plumbers and electricians
circa 2004 - 2018 were polacks...

everyone's a ******* poet over in:
englishland...
and a journalist...
and a whitney houston diva!
        well... no mistake there...
since all the n.h.s. nurses are dancing tiktok...
and...
i once thought it was: slavery...
unless: but i was... wrong...
about that well explained aspect of:
not a slave... but... rather...
being... conscientious...

          well... if you say it like that...
the ex-patriates who had tea with mussolini...
they weren't immigrants or:
high price of culture...
nor that anywhere west of the river Oder
experienced the cultural enrichment
of: that one-time-hit of mongolia and
the golden **** horde...
or that... some pakistanis still have a name:
muhammad... and a surname: khan...

it could be worse... it could be... much worse...
i could be... circumcised...

hell... have children: teach them how to ride
a bicycle: have them listen to mylo's
sunworshipper -
or stick around aging people...
walk up and down creaking wooden stairs...
and hear them snore...
while the bed lamp is still on...

with children and the fear of the dark...
with aging people and the fear
of death... and that's the middle ground
of focus...

royskopp - so easy - elevator music...
horror movie soundtrack:
nostalgia for the 1950s / 1960s
of the 20th century...
now... i can almost understand...
nostalgia for... circa:
the three muskateers...
         vikings...
                            but this sort of
nostalgia: "early on"... em...
the graveyard is the new musuem
with the added splash of al fresco artistry:
the wind, the shine, the peckish sparrows...
the rain...
the hot the cold...

'french single women were supposed
to be miserable on their own...
      thrilled from the pressure to hook
up' - adam sage...
          sage my st. augustine's sololoqui
burnt and smothered in sand-paper...
***...
            
   the world of *** toys and ***** banks...
and... casual joe says:
tables and chairs... brick walls...
buildings... magically popping up...
thin again! thinning air...

oh... i'm not *******... the french ladies
the english ladies don't really care much
for: women of the world unite...
press the war button...
otherwise an invasion is riddled
without bullets of rifles...
written on a postcard: wish?!
i'm coming over...

                     who's paying for the viewcount
of / and credibility?
heidegger and blue boy: remember me:
i'm asking... me standing before
the mirror - in half of adam's attire...
whithered: en vogue...

                  musik for the jilted generation...
heated debated looking for alternatives...

*** toys and ***** banks...
       white knights and... placebo hearts...
how i sometimes wish...
this was an abortion of a beethoven
and this was the medium of the grave...

i would much have better not been sold:
the child, the boy...
whatever that was circa up to the age of 21...
dress me up... in stilletos...
and horse reins and claps...
and tell me: plough this 'ere field...
better that... than the myth of the child of man...
that man is ever a child...
beside the lie in waiting...
tugged and pulled along...
    constipated / claustrophobic language:
that much i can understand...

i wish for having pristine:
leather like skin...
but since my skin: isn't doing my bidding:
that i am doing its (bidding)...
fur... living fur... cats for cuddles...
there's one sleeping in my bed...
right now: and i know that if i pick her
up... one of those bath floating ducks
playthings of a box of music of meows...

sensations: regarded as bone thinning...
and via tooth-loss inspired:
fwench kissing...

- junk-box of suprises - as random as a kandinsky
canvas or a burrough's paragraph...
better this kid achieved maturity
within the confines of an abortion...
than... this... one sure short: missing ******:
insert - ***** and ditto...
the constipated and less so:
islamic harem of the martyrs...
when three holes are given the liberal
shakedown...

to be shamed by *******:
when one isn't conscripted into
               circumcision: that flake
of living skin: the new niqab...
is like: the old, the new, the old...
moral compass of mommy kiss your cherubs
goodnight... **** daddy's **** prior...

wunderbar!
                    learn from spewing stewart...
learn a ditto: at least...
learn:
|
|
|
|  this is how you get a marker and decide
on how a paragraph begins...
cooking a slice of tender beef: aside...
into the beauty of a mid-western...
half baked cookies...
cookie dough jam: the ice-cream...
the crucifixions of no new tomorrow -
the same old... replica of constipation...
and... orthodox jews learning the violin...
like it's a slaughterhosue for horses -
and by miracle of the ching-chang-wall'ah...
prunes! prunes of the squirm!
lemon meets Paris...
meets... lemon meets...
a wine connoisseur... mr. lemon has
a busy schedule... all of asia... "practically"...
mr. lemon arrives in beijing...
                  suddenly the concept of batman
spawns... a centipede torso of...
availability of movement...

cul de sac protests! of course...
bag a cockerely and interrogate him in...
finnish!
it's as if... "they" almost forgot... to...
circumcise and castrate...
and have a 1UP on us... for that...,
much desired... quack!
choir of castrated oink voltaires:
no... those we call...

                    Sardinian...
                                 and tenors...
and: purple ******* sacks of a culmination
of a beard / stubble...
all bishop: all kosher... the voice!
the crescendo: better: unlike rain on
copper roof plating... tulips in goth...
goth: some would call...
strawberries: looking plump...
as juicy... and edible...
             come the cushions of a december
plough...
                  
            i much agree for the concerns
of the: seasonal dietitians...
root veg through winter...
the rest will follow: choir imperatives...
            
             tap tap... drum-roll: more chaotic...
and all the right: lost precisions...
akin to the enigma of:
the ballett of soft teasing snow...
come night and the toll of moon...
                  
            striding to find accents of heaven...
with worded: brush strokes of
the easily irritated fathomability:
bulk prize - it's still... a ******* square...
leaning tower of Pisa or cubism...
Picasso or no... Picasso...

all are waiting, the encore,
the alphabet... the encyclopedic entries...
suggesting: no banter for a worth if a wriggling
seance worth of shrapnel...
or that... arachnophobia:
and the scuttling spiders...
or the ones you touch... coin-flip...
limps stressed: tense... folded...
preteding to... play dead is all they ever do...

tommy the satire gun: ownership contra
worship... like... something from
a ***** universe...
before the sober judge...
before the sobering jury...
the drinking... "aristocrat" of accusations...
i drink... i drink...
because that's when i tend to scubadive...
skydive... i tend to spew: stew...
tell the truth... that drinking and listening
to music is one of those hazard free
"side-projects"...

        i find my heart among the sparrows...
such is their love for life...
i find my tongue among the crows
and magpies:
such is their critique of life: per se...
i find my feet in that magic carpet ride
of the widow swan:
a fate near impossible... nay...
completely: not near: impossible!
petting a dog for its worth of thick
cranium...
   circles galore! circles and circles...
this is not me stroking a leash...
or.. being fidget genius
over a muzzle...

        thumbs up: the ****...
                   more sparkle?
more colour? more dehydrated shrimp
paste? shrimp *****
and mr. lemon serves up:
an experience of tourism from beijing,..
mongolian squint eye:
squiggly noon ugh... sun...

warsaw the parade of ghosts and echoes...
esp. the underground
when the trains roll in from Kiev
and further east...
karma-alcoholic & cinderella "ulterior"
opt outs...
            by best decipher for ads...
i.e. counter... oculus per oculus:
eye for an eye...  shylock and i agree...
a violin for a violin...
a horse's mane for a bow...

                             better than: the end...
             ditto...
                            lady justice gave both her
eyes up... to pressure
a box into abiding by rules
of the guillotine...
  like hell: will this supposed soul...
this branch of learning:
psychology and the logic of non-existence...
ever...
because of how asthma and irregular
breathing... mr. itsy-witsy
and mr. boogie rain-man..

                             **** up and **** with
the readily available...
i'll watch...        a best canape of voyeurism...
is akin to: faking a pose of
atlas... when... performing the banality
of the metaphor of sisyphus.

I want no surer ***** than your arms
You shared my happiness
The rose in my garden whithered,
But your love stayed strong.

The only beauty that is forever
Your angelic coming into my life
The only day of sunshine,
Yet never blinding.

I promise to love you compassionately
You're my forever
In your heart, I promise to stay forever
I promise to keep our candle burning

Seeing you in the crowd
Noticing your flowery smile
I picked a bright rose
A rose that keeps my heart alive

Our special day
The joining of us
Our vows from the heart
Moments I'll always hold dearly

You have become mine
I have become yours
I promise you,
Patience, understanding and tolerance.

I promise you sunshine,
I promise you little rain,
But I promise calmness for all storms,
Giving my hearts deepest devotion.

You're my best friend
I promise to give you the best of myself
Come rain
Come sunshine

Our love shall be stronger than hate
Our hearts shall beat as one
Our love,
A great sum than two in love.

I'll love you all my life
Meeting you,
I was touched by an angel,
Ending the bitterness of my heart.

Your love has me sure
Your love has brought purity to my heart
You make my sing
The angels in heaven sing hallelujah to our love

I stand at this altar,
Pouring my heart,
Telling my beloved,
The desired of my heart to our everlasting love.

I shall carry our love with me
I shall carry your heart with me
I love you
I shall say it at least once a day

I searched for good and beautiful
I found you
I searched for peace
I found you

Your heart
Where I'll always be
All I want is us,
Together forever.

Written Tosan Oluwakemi Thompson

The rose blushed at her prime
With brilliant colors like chimes
Petals burst with poised beauty
Spreading fragrance as duty
Spring luxuriated its admiring gazes
Rose petal with curling edges
Were all ready to fall as whithered
As the chill breeze blowed
Rose was disappointed at her rim of petals

Heartache.
It's worse than
the knives,
the broken bones,
the bullet holes.

The pain
drives you insane,
eating you alive,
consuming
your brain.

The aching shows
you're close
to breaking -
whithered away,
weak.

The idea of anyone else
causes you
to push everyone away,
until it is only
yourself.

The only thing worse
than a headache
is the ache
that started it -
the heartache.

The directon of where I face blows cold
Eroding away my face and the days

Wrinkles

Cracked and whithered away
My flesh scratches and scrapes
Into the dust of the first day

Created to waste
Age takes a toll

I haven't the money to pay

Yet
      I owe

My garden
It's whithered
But death brings new life
It's blacked
But there is beauty it's darkness
It's falling apart
But only I know how to put it back together
Many have tried to plant there
But each ones plants have died
And I have pushed them all out

I try to exspess how I feel,
but now I realize those feeling are no longer real.
You're starting to annoy me,
now I feel set free.
Thanks to the poetry you've read,
this love is now dead.
I'm no longer confused,
I'm happy poetry was the proper tool used.
But I still long for you,
yes it's true.
But oh well, it's over now,
and this is how:
we were together,
then we whithered,
I shed a few tears,
but now there's no more fears,
I fought for you,
I stared to loose half way through,
but now I realize the simple truth,
these are only the feelings felt in silly youth.
No more feeling blue,
because now I'm over you.

I cannot express how much I have

LONGED for your embrace,
OUR relationship as whithered as reaper himself.
VOCAL mischief cackling through our matching
EVERGREEN headsets... haha.

YOU had me at first sight, but I
OVERWHELMED myself and broke our spark;
UNLESS you see me sometime later, goodbye. And I'm sorry.

the last wind of November
lashing the trees,
unseen rain racing the tiles
the wind rises and echoes
the clouds
the old trees and whithered
with dark branches
gnarled, bent over like an old woman
clutching a rosary at evening mass.
the rain whispers to the sodden silence
as clouds race the half-moon
and the sea is unknown.
is rain falling on the last place on Earth?

better than drinking and listening
to music...
i forgot: "forgot" to become a...
music nerd... a needle-drop:
ant(h)ony fantano...
       a... john peel...
          linguo nerd:
                   the tetragrammaton
is like a bulging ego phallus...
with moloch the... elephant's ******
depth of... the mariana trench...
like landing on the ******* moon!
yet to happen!
i love music... but... apparently...
not enough...
the budget was ah... ha ha...
stash of old records... some jazz...
some *******... shotakovich...
some...
               ah... no wonder...
i turn on the radio and i'm freed from
having collected... personal
preferences...
    because... i stopped...
demdyke stair...
the soft moon...
            :wumpscut...
   the wooden shjips...
        bohren & der club of gore...
  gjeilo: the northern lights...
   christopher young: the hellraiser hellbound
sountrack...
   peter gabriel... contra john debney...
joshue redman...
        jazz... not... a thing for the internet's
busiest musical nerd...
   yeah... rap was never...
on the cards...
                        musical "nostalgia"...
knocking on marble: will the elgin ever...
                                sing?!
at least a song of:
who they... belong to...
because... who does... the rosetta stone...
belong to? the party... most invested
in deciphering it? perhaps?!

so much for not being a musical nerd...
anthony... that's....
me toying with nerding:
          ανθoνɛ̄....

                   or.... αντoνɛ̄... serve me up a diet
or radio... and i'll give-away my eclectic stash
of... non-review...
wardruna? heilung?!      
   again...
                    that's like... no concern / alarm...
for the tetragrammaton "not being"
an imitation - idea - that sort of behaves like...
a fungus... a telepathic magic mushroom...

sings the praises to god: allah...
jesus christ: hope it's not me...
schadenfreude civility thoroughly brought
forward...
but... hides... the four letters...
in a tetragrammaton: in ha-shem...
     and... yet the sparrows sing...
the crows peck and croack...
and there can be... some... sanctity in
the affairs of man...
a potency / a cognitive stimulus...
because... what bogus story what myth
is to be arrived at with a hebrew god
that moved everywhere...
and wasn't... this rock-hardened...
odin presence... etc.

       better than listening to music
and drinking and smoking the ration
of two cigarettes per day...
the lionel nation podcast...
talk radio...
you have to... at some point...
expand pop music... beyond and...
therefore expand beyond classical music...
jazz... retain a love for...
people freely talking...
and the drinking and the rationed smoking
of cigarettes...
i too have my freedom...
but... i don't have an audience...
in writing? in death-scribbling?
i have eyes... i don't have ears...

           i might conjure: a darting ogling:
whithered eye "conudrum:
roulette with eyes: the first one to blink
gets a shot in the dark:
or at a gambling shadow...

    because it didn't really matter that
i was standing in a cue
to buy some Leffe brews at the supermarket
today...
and that there was a single white...
blonde girl two metres before me...
a single white solo mother and grandmother...

and a black couple... trouble...
i was the size of the woman...
and the man was... a chin in height:
above / ahead of me...
what a lovely sight...
   there was no racial antagonism:
a black man was replicating "black":
he was ******* a black woman
and... hey presto! a black baby!
what... a *******! lovely... sight!
two black people well equipped
with the proper translation
of a hindu manuscript of the kama sutra!

it's good to know that tigers will only
**** tigers... lions will only **** lions...
that cheetahs will only **** cheetahs...
i was creeping silent with:
the black woman is the size of me...
how did the colonial buggers size
up their "intelligence" with that basic:
******: physical renown of superiority:
and simply, "simply" catch these:
because the experience
of the slavs and the mongols:
shrimp **** extraordinaire: typos...

it was just pristine...
to see a black and a black woman
and a black child...
not me though...
i have to come back
to this masochism with a... ahem...
"future" bride...
the bride the mother-in-law towing
a... ******* crucifix and an umbilical
chord... wildened ivy keeping
to bear hug the suffocation...

the goat blood and choke...
i'm very happy for the "orcs" to have
their status invoked...
lost germanic peoples... somewhat celt...
velsh...
orc: from: out of africa...
while the slavs surmouted the stereotype:
ask the mongol...
plenty of assumptions:
race is a h'american "thing"...
next thing you know...

is it so bad seeing a black man be in love
with a black woman with a
black child? can i take anything
from a woodland pigeon *******
a woodland pigeon: a fox ******* a fox?
cocktails galore! halfwits and
nuanced *******:
                who's this?
woodland elf...
            ottoman dwarf: pseudo-turk?
the high-brow... merovingian...
the danupe snippet: the rhine order?
they were the ones...
who discovered h'america...
and... somehow... "by chance" also...
rediscovered europe!
h'americans re-discovered europe!

race baiting...
the mongrel crude follow: suite...
all are arabs! all are offered
the stature of rajastan: afghanistan!
copper-skinned: globalist...
cinnamon... cumin / coriander
skinned powder atooms...

all this life assured...
      all this life preserved...
then some artifact from this realm
of the crustacean-caucasian...
not a cocky-asian in sight...
a different mind-boggling...
                  intro... duct.... ion...
                
beside this or that frankenstein:
shtein or a lack: thereof...
                 good for me that i'm not in
the business of replicating an argument...
or having... shaved open to not question...
blank canvases of d.n.a. paint
of a child... it's a good thing i don't have a child
at my disposal: i wouldn't want it
to ingest the... poison i've come
to inherit from the world...
and that's best: when raising children...
to leave them lacking:
in a wordly experience...
             but i'd come out as a psychopath
psychoanalyst gimmick of jung / freud...
         an r. d. laing looking at some
edvard hopper...
    
                              the russian solo project...
the french: where is france...
the duchy of warsaw and... the PRL?
            it's not so much playing the victim...
but when...
it took... as much time...
to conquer poland...
   at the advent of world war II...
by both **** germany and soviet russia...
it took more time to conquer poland
at the advent of world war II
than it took to conquer france...
         says as much as: it doesn't say any more:
than the least!
colonial power: powdered high tier:
trade-offs of... hair-gimmicks...
bulletins of wigs...

                     this has been enough...
i'm the former soviet satellite: east german...
retardo phillipo prima perfecto...
of: what argument one shouldn't have...
this was an "argument"?
                and the west: is still the best!
it's that... lesson in rhetoric...
                it's that lesson of:
the general populace is guided by the peacock
square loot of: pretending to fathom
the godhead of civility:
where... everyone... every... one...
is wearing... the... crown!
                        
who's being lectured... and who's...
the protected "class" of citizentry?
                      who's the token and who's
to be made an example of?
                 well... at such times... at such parodies
of humour...
the world does burn...
  but i'm not... going to succumb to a voice...
that echoes: the populist poets of
sycophancy...
somehow! "they" now have a voice!
yes... drunk from an ad hoc / post hoc populism!
they have a voice, now...
        i don't like populist poetics...
either neither right nor left leaning
politico-poetics...
   riddling the ride of sycophancy...
                  
              and that i have drunk and...
written this: square sober...
      that's my affair of conscience...
                 here's some broken glass...
here's a broken mirror...
and here's xerxes... extinguishing his mind...
asking for the sea to be whipped...
the sea! if he asked for the lake
to be whipped... genesis mirror... exegesis...
sea... how can you whip something
into submission... when a said thing
only submits to chaos?
putting a stick into a river...
and asking it to turn around...
                 the change the current...
             and somehow people still cite...
and laugh at... nebuchadnezzar II...
when... laughing at Xerxes is almost reserved for
people with the audacity to usher a said:
reference to the hebrew god:
wet with tongue and saliva and...
the gnashing of teeth: as if... taking a bite...
of lamb sinew!