I've built a bomb shelter type crawl space for us to hunker down in when the world blows up.  If that isn't the ultimate proof of my love I don't know what is.

     Sure you'll end up pooping in a bucket and washing in recycled *** but **** it woman, you will be alive.

     You know how they say a person could get so hungry they would eat dog food. Well I left us mostly dog food. That way we can skip right to that sort of situation and experience it first hand.  If that isn't the ultimate act of love I don't know what is.

     You Know how you said you wouldn't have *** with me if I was the last man on earth? With only you and me in the bomb shelter, we'll have a chance to test that theory.  Besides, it might be up to us to repopulate the world so that's going to mean making babies which requires lots of ***. Sacrifices must be made. It's our duty. Count me in.

     I'll have to extract a pint of blood a week from you to feed the crickets. Later to grind them up as cricket meat. Cricket burgers, cricket burritos. We'll mix it with the dog food for a unique pate'.  Toss them in your mouth when snacking, like popcorn. And yes, crickets make noise but so did Beethoven.

     Plus it will be cold down there in the bomb shelter but blankets take up so much room there won't be many. We'll have to spoon at night to share our body heat. It only makes sense. To share our body heat. Spoon at night. Body heat...Oh yeah...

    Anyway, where was I? Oh right. So I dug you a bomb shelter to survive in, just in case the world goes kablooey. Maybe I'll even be the one who blows up the earth so we can be together. Now if that isn't the ultimate act of love I don't know what is.

WHEN BLOOD WAS RED

Old pictures in black and white
where mud was thick and grey
men scrambling over
makeshift walls
shot to bits and lying dead

when blood was red

grainy videos with no colours
cannons roar with white flash
shrapnel tearing flesh
severing limbs
men in fear run facing led

when blood was red

fields of poppies sway in grey
never blue skies in these days
no sunshine only fog
or swirling mist
living every day in dread

when blood was red

I want to move you like a day
well remembered
from afar

Short and sweet
your heart to shift
your eyes to reach for another star

My hope is always in 'suchaways'
presented so as not to find
or be guilty of wanting less

I express and play
with the vision just beyond my own

To show you, see you
move enact
such is my desire today

As I want to move you not so far away

I trick myself
More often than most
That the time before me will feel better
(somehow)
Than the air which I now breathe most close

It won't

Time is time
Just as a perception is a vision of the mortal mind
Most unknown
Heck, I
Need to learn how to live for the moment of most

It's time

A poet is a tailor
that fits words into
lines. Instead of seams
they use rhymes.

A poet is a chef
that cooks up thoughts
with their mind. They use
punctuation for leavening. And
the spice is their imagination.

A poet is a photographer
that prints images on paper. Instead
of a camera they use a pen. They’re
eyes are the lens.

A poet is a mother
that nurses her pages and
watches them grow, spends many
nights walking the floor. And wouldn’t
miss it for the world.

A poet is a hungry man
that fills his time looking
for scraps. And hoping they can
feed him.