A rainy dreary Halloween from 2006.
Candlelit late night
bedroom phone calls.
Your dream about a train ride and mushroom farmers.
My dream about hidden cities.

"I want to feed you ****** and a muscle relaxer and **** the **** out of you"

How long has it been Now?
Too long maybe, some lines are stretched too thin, through waiting and longing, love and lust and the once closest of friendships,
Stretched like Taffy till nearly gossamer strands wound meandering miles of complex life events and other unshared memories.
A too familiar voice.
Echoes of "I want you to have the perfect *******"
Spaces in conversations that would have been empty  if not for the most contagious laugh I've ever heard.
One not matched before or since.

Can you live in the past and long for the future? Is it greedy to desire more of something that was already so sweet? I don't tell anyone about my dreams now. Candles sit on.the shelf primarily unlit.

There are no more secret cities.
No mushroom farmers or train rides
But there are still threads
Stretched like Taffy but woven like a tapestry.
Across time and distance.
Made of memories.
All you'd have to do Is tug on a thread.

I
a flicker of warm light
and your face is all that I see.
Thunderclouds are silenced,
burned away and
my chest is left open to
our place under the opal sky.
The light is our soft romance
and our candlelit meal for two...

II
'Spiritui Sancto'
A Benedictine Monk
alone in
cold stone chambers sees
an ascending soul,
holy company,
a solitary light in all the
emptiness.
'Sed libera nos a malo'

III
Scorch-marks
drip
love - bites
drip
but please don't stop...
drip
In his lust,
Mould moments of my skin
and keep them
forever.

V
'Waxy fingertips!'
'Put that down,
PUT THAT DOWN!'
Mum told us
If you play with fire
you're going to get burned.

V
30 miles
they say
is the mathematical distance
you can see a flame in the dark

VI
This is the symbol of our nation.
'Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit'
This nine branched lamp symbolizes that our Israel.
has courage, those may be their Qassam rockets,
but those are our sirens.
and that humming you hear is our drones
over their heads.

VII
buuuuzzzzzzzzzz
What enchanting light...
zzzzzzzzz
what God are you? Oh
zzzzzzzzzzzz
wondrous beauty
zzzzz
what magic do you hold, what glory...
zzzzzzzzzz
come closer str.....

VIII
What died so I could read?
The tallow is a pig
the squealing embers
fat pig.

IX
here comes the candle to light you to bed,
And I curled, vulnerable to the shapes in the window
with my feet creeping further under the duvet.
The shadows were melted, cut, distorted on
my bedroom walls.
A primal evil will danced by the light of the flame
until I shut my eyes so tight,
that I slept it away.
here comes the chopper to chop off your head.

X
'No Jennifer, I just feel candlelight just adds a certain

ambiancé

to a room

No?'

XI
'Quickly, before it turns septic.'
'This wont hurt boy'
'The fire, pass the fire'
'Quarterise it quick or he won't last long'
'bite down hard my lad, bite down hard'
'AHHHHHRRRGGGGHHHH'

XII
Children hurtle down,
a Bombay slum to hear that.
'King Rama has returned,
light his path!'
The open sewers adorned in Ghee lamps
find such intense beauty as each quivering flame,
although so fragile, breathes the story
of the power of human spirit
unshakable against overwhelming odds.
*'The King of Ayodhya
Has Returned
Show his path for the Festival of Light!'

Electric sun twirls its lava skirt.
Slammed woks.
Peanuts, chilli, limes and oil
Feeding him its lunch.
Shelter to chilli cheeks and peppercorn faces.
The air can't move its obese body to the rivers for a dip.

Darkness is hard with sturdy edges.
Curtains made of invisible beads and threads hang over the night in silence.
They spill against the concrete under rough hooves and feet
For the night falls like tight heavy lids.
Dusk is a bruised tunnel of vision.

Candlelit giants blinking rapidly.
You don't speak
For the night is never empty
The silence never lonely
Stampede of restlessness surrounding
Grinning from squint to squint
Raising embraces and chance encounters
They scream loudly to frighten the dawn.

Two people both alike in character
Of the opposite sexes
Sit across a candlelit dinner
In a lovely, fancy restaurant

The room is incandescently lit
With a dimness that balances between ever so bright and ever so dark
Allowing for a gold tinge to envelop the restaurant
But not gold enough to take away notice of the lit candle set upon the White table cloth

The waiter appears and asks the couple
What they would like for dinner
The couple order the food and drink
Much to the waiter's delight the food and drink is expensive

The waiter returns shortly
With a bottle of their finest Pinto Noir
And pours the blood-red wine slowly
Into each of the couple's glasses
And leaves the couple to sip upon their sweet sin delicately

The food is laid out
Triumphant in its debut
A vast smorgasbord of entries
Including frog legs, crab, and delicious ****** steak

The couple prepare their silverware for the battle that is eating

The man stabs his knife into the ****** steak
Cutting it open and spilling the juices all over his plate
He stabs the meat with the fork and guides it toward his mouth
And slowly but surely chomps upon it with the strength of his fine jaw
And swallows the meat into the unexposed mystery that is his stomach

The woman begins to mutilate the frog legs with her knife
Cutting into the once moveable limbs
And stabs the limbs with her fork and brings it to her mouth
And delicately bites the limbs and politely chews
And swallows it into her fine and precious insides

The couple then split the crab legs
Using their bear hands they split the shells open
And remove the meat or **** it right out of the shell
They swallow it whole and do nothing with the shell
Leaving the shell aside to be as still as a carcass

The waiter arrives and asks how the food was
The couple obliged him with their satisfaction
The bill is handed to them and the couple pay it
Leaving a hefty tip
They then leave the lovingly dimly lit restaurant
To enjoy the night that is ahead of them

i am
monday nights filled with
candlelit journal entries
and sipping hot tea while
watching rain bounce off
the roof and open windows
in autumn and messy hand-
written letters and white
tees and cuffed jeans and
pb&j; with the crust cut
off and folded origami
cranes and watching the
sun rise while everyone
else is tucked away in
their beds and midnight
car rides and candid smiles
and lists written in blue
ink and wildflowers and
mountains and birds singing
and books and movies that
make you cry and nicknames
and flannels in the winter
and soft music and loud
music and moments recorded
only by memory and pumpkin
pie and forever stamps
i am all the little things
and if you don’t make an
effort to understand why i
love all the things i love
you will never understand
me

Like an onion, I had layers.
And you peeled me away, one at a time.

One layer off.
You saw my favorites.
The food and drinks I crave for.
The wall paint I wanted for my room.
The perky dresses, nail polish, knee-high boots.
And the spot I always prefer to be- on the front seat.

One layer off.
You saw my hobbies.
The words I stitched together.
The stars that formed our zodiac sign.
The wallclimbing, badminton, volleyball.
And the guitar strings that strum our lullaby.

One layer off.
You saw my dreams.
The plane ticket to Paris.
The thrill of a bungee jump.
The candlelit dinner, fireworks, dancing fountain.
And the license as a medical physician.

One layer off.
You saw my strengths.
The smile behind the false judgements.
The tears I fought back with pride.
The temperance, confidence, adjustments.
And the self-love I have strongly magnified.

One layer off.
You saw my insecurities.
The missing dimple on my left cheek.
The pimples on my forehead.
The bitchface, fierce stare, strict walk.
And this prominently thin-but-tall body figure.

One layer off.
You saw my regrets.
The kisses I could have refused.
The friends I thought were true.
The false assumptions, unmet expectations.
And the trust I gave to the wrong person.

One layer off.
You saw my secrets.
The punches I had to take.
The bruises I covered with my sleeves.
The lies, frustrations, disappointments.
And the brokenness suppressed in my memory.

The last layer, off.
You saw through me.
The anxiousness escalating slowly.
The exposure feeling uneasy.
I felt stripped, explored, unguarded.
And in my nakedness - you had to choose:

To love or to leave me,
For who I really am.

Ah Consuela! Invoking vast vistas for visions of green Spanish eyes,
I discern them again where she left me back then,
                 as we kissed when she parted, my friend.
Through those ruins I tread towards the footlights, now dead,
                 where I’ll muse as her shadows ascend.

                  .
                          .
Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she teases the mirror with green Spanish eyes;
her serape entangles her brooches and bangles
                 like lace on the sorcerer’s looms,
and her cape of the night, she drapes tight to excite,
                 and her fan is embellished with plumes.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching as spectators savour her green Spanish eyes;
taming wild concertinas, the dark ballerina
                 performs on the music hall stage,
but she shies from the sound of ovation unbound
                 like a timorous bird in a cage.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she quickens the pit with her green Spanish eyes;
as the cymbals shake, clashing, the floodlights wake, flashing,
                 igniting the wild fireflies,
and the piccolo piper’s inviting the vipers
                 to coil neath the cold caldron skies.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the shimmering shadows in green Spanish eyes
as I rise from my chair and proceed to the stair
                 with a hesitant sip of my wine.
Though she doesn’t deny me, she wanders right by me
                 with neither a look nor a sign.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she looks to the stage with her green Spanish eyes,
(for her senses scoff, scorning the biblical warning
                 of kisses of Judas that sting,
with her pierced ears defeating the echoes repeating)
                 and smiles at the magpie that sings.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching faint embers a’ stir in her green Spanish eyes,
for a soft spoken stranger enveloping danger
                 has captured the rhyme in the room
as he slips into sight through a crack in the night
                 midst the breath of her heavy perfume.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she gauges his guise through her green Spanish eyes
– from his gypsy-like mane, to his diamond stud cane,
                 to the raven engraved on his vest –
for a faraway form, a tempestuous storm,
                 lurks and heaves neath the cleav’e of her *******.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the caravels cruising her green Spanish eyes;
with the castanets clacking like ancient masts cracking
                 he whips ’round his cloak with a ****
and without sacrificing, at mien so enticing,
                 she floats with her face facing his.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the vertigo veiling her green Spanish eyes,
while the drumbeat pounds, droning, the rhythm sounds, moaning,
                 of jungles Jamaican entwined
in the valleys concealing the vineyards revealing
                 the vaults in the caves of her mind.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching life’s carnivals call to her green Spanish eyes,
and with paused palpitations the tom-tom temptations
                 come taunting her tremulous feet
with her toe tips a’ tingle while jute boxes jingle
                 for jesters that jive on the street.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she rides ocean tides in her green Spanish eyes,
and her silhouette’s travelling on ripples unravelling
                 and shaking the shipwracking shores,
as she strides from the light to the black cauldron night
                 through the candlelit cabaret doors.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she dances till dawn flashing green Spanish eyes,
with her movements adorning a trickle of morning
                 as sipped by the mouth of the moon,
while her tresses twirl, shaming the filaments flaming
                 that flow from the sun’s oval spoon.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she masks for a moment her green Spanish eyes.
Then the magpie that sings ceases preening her wings
                 and descends as a lean bird of prey –
as she flutters her ’lashes and laughs in broad splashes,
                 his narrowing eyes start to stray.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching fey carousels spin in her green Spanish eyes,
and the porcelain ponies and leprechaun cronies
                 race, reaching for gold and such things,
even being reminded that only the blinded
                 are fooled by the brass in the rings.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she shepherds the shadows with green Spanish eyes,
but as evening sinks, ebbing, the skyline climbs, webbing,
                 and weaves through the temples of stone,
while the nightingales sing of a kiss on the wing
                 in the depths of the dunes all alone.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the music and magic in green Spanish eyes,
as she dances enchanted, while firmly implanted
                 in tugs of his turbulent arms,
till he cuts through the strings, tames the magpie that sings,
                 and seduces once more with his charms.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, the citadel steams in her green Spanish eyes,
but behind the dark curtain the savants seem certain
                 that nothing and no one exists,
and though vapours look vacant, the vagabond vagrants
                 remain within mythical mists.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching as lightning at midnight in green Spanish eyes
kindles cracks within crystals like flashes from pistols
                 residing inside of the gloom
as it hovers above us betraying a dove as
                 she flees from the fountain of doom.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, distilling despair in her green Spanish eyes,
and the bitterness stings like the snap of the strings
                 when a mystical  mandolin sighs
as the vampire shades **** the life from charades
                 neath the resinous residue skies.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she looks to the ledge with her green Spanish eyes,
for the terrace hangs high and she’s thinking to fly
                 and abandon fate’s merry-go-round.
At the edge I perceive her and rush to retrieve her –
                 she stumbles, falls far to the ground.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching the sparkles a’ spilling from green Spanish eyes.
As I peer from the railing, with evening exhaling,
                 I cry out a lover’s lament –
there she lies midst the crowd with her spirit unbowed,
                 but her body’s all broken and bent.

Ah Consuela! I’m watching, she beckons me hither with green Spanish eyes,
and I’m slightly amazed being snared in her gaze
                 and a’ swirl in a hurricane way,
but the seconds are slipping, my courage is dripping,
                 the moment is bleeding away.

Ah Consuela! I touch her - she weeps tender tears from her green Spanish eyes;
as the breezes cease blowing, her essence leaves, flowing,
                 in streams neath the ambient light,
and the droplets drip swarming, so silent, yet warming,
                 like rain in a midsummer night.

Ah Consuela! I hold her, am hushed by the hints in her green Spanish eyes,
while her whispers are breathing the breaths of the seething
                 electrical skeletal winds,
and the words paint the poems that rivers a’ slowin’
                 reveal where the waterfall ends.

Ah Consuela! I’m fading in fires a’ flicker in green Spanish eyes,
as she plays back the past, she abandons and casts
                 away matters that no longer mend.
           .
                  .
And she reached out instead, as she lifted her head,
                 and we kissed as she parted, my friend.
           .
                  .
                          .
Ah Consuela! I’m tangled, entombed, trapped in tales of your green Spanish eyes,
in forsaken cantinas beyond the arenas
                 where night-time illusions once flowed,
for the ash neath my shoulder still throbs as it smoulders
                 some place near the end of the road.

Connecting,
tribes on the cusp--
the lost family...
merging thought patterns
of old & new paradigms
into a geometric shipibo song
singing in moonlit sky,
smoke gray mauve clouds
are painted into the frozen lake background.

We paint
a new paradise--
together
at the table
on a sacred indigo candlelit map map
for people to set sail
on their journey through the seas of skies of their minds
guiding familiar souls
to speak their treasure light again.

We are the Indigo Pilgrims,
soul brothers reunited
after the frozen season thaws,
pushing on toward the place
where mind-flowers commence their bloom
as herb and sage slowly burns throughout the day
as the smoke dotes across the landscape
like dancing hieroglyphic clouds.

Its length is known as “one year” by realists,
Also referred to as “anniversary” by idealists,
But “four seasons” is how I would like to call it
As with the passing of time I learn him bit by bit.

We met in front of Record Hall
On a rainy night and boy did I fall
For this one man named Timothy
Who approached me differently.

We first found each other online
But he was unlike the other swine
Looking for a body and easy ***,
Trying to buy me with their checks.

Plus, he did not follow the ordinary formula
Like “coffee sometime?” which is just so blah;
Rather, he proved that he had read my profile
Attentively, so I imagined he must not be vile.

He did not mention or imply anything ******,
So I started to credit him some trust accrual;
He opened us up by relating to my stories
And spoke smoothly with sarcastic ease.

I fell for his chivalry and charm
As well as his unstinted smarm,
His passion for engines and parts,
Never giving up until it all starts.

He won me over with his corny memes,
Matching weirdness, and future schemes;
His unfaltering boldness and fearlessness,
Manliness, and, in due course, closeness.

A spontaneous boy who does puzzles with me,
A romantic gentleman who invites me to the sea,
A free-spirited dude who is a spirits connoisseur,
An audacious chap who is a cooking amateur –

He has a nerdy side as he likes to figure things out.
He has a masculine side as he enjoys working out.
He has a brave side as he goes off-roading in his Jeep.
He has a sweet side as he pulls me closer in his sleep.

He slyly squeezes out my personal info
From myself and makes me go “Woah,”
As he discreetly plans adventurous trips
Which makes me want to ****** his lips.  

He is not afraid or disinclined to reveal his worries.
He is not abashed to update me on his **** stories.
He was not nervous about exposing his cover letter.
He was not anxious about taking me to his mother.

Weight? He does not ask me to gain any or lose.
Change? He needs not fix or loosen my screws.
He takes me as I am, not as a mechanical robot.
He finds sufficiency in all that I do and have got.

He does not care that I wear makeup or look like a dude.
He does not complain that I take long to finish my food.
He disregards that I do not adhere to societal standards.
He discounts that I occasionally think and act backwards.

He makes me relax and loosen up in his presence;
He emits a homely atmosphere and is my defense.  
Hell, we even start doing ***** lovey-dovey acts
Such as calling each other’s names in several packs.

He uses his witty senses to title my works,
Which, to other people, may stir up smirks,
But he does not give two ***** about them;
As long as we represent to each other, a gem.

We are compatible and agree in many manners;
We are avid Android users, not iOS supporters,
We take pleasure in dallying under the covers,
We enjoy mysteries and psychological thrillers.

We follow a handful of seasonal anime together
And we tend to swiftly marathon them altogether.
We even have our own convenient organization
In times when we watch anime together in elation.

He asks, “wanna watch” when there is an update
And picks a title; I agree and say “ready” and wait;
He says “go,” I thumb him, we watch simultaneously;
Then, whoever finishes first sends a thumb amiably.

He tries to pass time with me after work so demanding
So he sometimes falls asleep and leaves me hanging.
However, he impresses me in still choosing to be dutiful
All the while exhibiting humanness, which is beautiful.

I am pleased that we have similar likes and interests,
Glad that both tally with “real love will stand any tests,”
Blessed that both are open to expressing affection,
Thankful that we are looking in the same direction.

Even apart, I admire his strong patience,
Extending over many hours and nations!
Oh, I almost forgot – he is also tall and fit;
The more I think, he has it all – you name it!

The list of what I love about him keeps growing,
With things to cherish constantly overflowing;
I cannot expect more or imagine anyone better,
So I find myself dedicating to him this love letter.

Gosh, how I miss our sessions of wine and cheese,
Cinematic baths and interlacing, candlelit bodies,
Our woolgathering moaning and perspiring mess,
Many nameless moments and silent togetherness!

April 6, 2015, on OkCupid, he gave me a look;
April 11, 2015, he “friended” me on Facebook;
April 15, 2015, he suggested meeting up to study;
April 18, 2015, he dated me and became cuddly.

All this from last year… one year forward, today,
We are still together and have not gone astray –
As long-term and long-distance partners, we are
In the hardest, yet happiest, relationship by far!

The wick is fading, and I have no matches left
In this dark abyss where I sit depressed
My valiant heart has become a perch for crows
Smile shaped in stone
Each embrace stiff and cold from my marbled soul
My arms depict a grasping hand
Reaching for a world these etched eyes will never know
Trapped in the heart of a withered artist
His mad dealings mold and make me
A victim of his musings
Crafted in a candlelit madness
Delicate delusions and vague allusions
To courage in the many veiled faces of death
Carved and set at the base of the steps
Statuesque

The full moon caught a glimpse
where the billowed clouds parted
Saucer size Dogwood blossoms
echoed an urging reflection
through wide open window ;
the diffused moonlight reached in
touching the open palms
enduring in an empty void
lay down beside

Softly burnished reflections
lighten blanched flesh petals
swaying in the wakened
     spring cadence
Rhinestone memories
tethered from somewhere above ;
as if manipulating puppet strings
dangling down through
the seesaw cloud gap ―
scattering candlelit sequins
like unmapped constellations
brushed by the moonlight
in the dale of your leafless *******

The fragrant breeze
of your memory
gathers a sweetest taste,
teasing wishful thirsty lips
into a gentle smile ...
Tracing unbounded memories
with wandering fingertips 
upon your intimate
canvas oasis in my mind

Fallen petals floating gently
across still waters
induced by whispered breeze ;
quiet reminders that ripple
the mesmerizing silence
with the lonely breath
an unheard evanescent sigh
 
The open window
let the moonlight in,
illuminating lingering
shadows of the past ...

you feel the waft
of spring breathe ...
but you just can't help
where the wind blows


Jesse e. Stillwater

Somewhere,
out in the middle of nowhere,
there is a space,
where bare bones performance's
are nightly taking place,
like theatre at its best,
thrilling energy
a chill in the air,
you are creating
unique worlds on a stage
& I hear it's all the rage
a modest audience,
captivating you are
so utterly charming and memorable,
I can get lost in your woods
in that beautifully familiar rural spot,
harvesting &
catching hay fever,
running through the barns
in empty old bays
of long vacant farms,
while the cattle graze placidly,
my usung heroes beckon,
along split rail fences,
haunting..
along the old railroad beds,
down unknown highways
& on little know by ways
& drifting in skyways
through the years & the tears
as the last of the Summer flowers,
bloom and bow their head,
in the rain & the pain,
and the words you gently hear
whispered softly in your ear,
spoke clearly to the sky
as they sadly say goodbye
& promised I wouldn't cry,
I listen to exactly what they said
as they are applauded for their stamina,
& bravery, as the chlorophyll,
chokes out the beauty
in everything else,
a way to take in the natural beauty,
**** a big breath in
& waiting to exhale,
I'm hiking home, ...
to my poetic theater,
with tables scattered  about,
& mushroom stools,
a wonderland of  creatures
around weaving arts,
threads spun in gold,
of my everyday life
again it  is told,
like in a romantic candlelit
dinner date,
we sit beneath an glowing
incandescent Moon,
we are a rare & lucid,
sighting, two stars
two colors merged
from a Gods crayon box,
or a well thought out picnic
with a very special friend
farm to table wonders
delicious in every way,
you close your eyes to dream,
& all you ever need,
is an element of trust,
a sense of adventure,
appreciating the sacrifices
the pleasure fills the air
I'm traveling past,
as is if without a care
swimming in the frigid clean
& cold waters,
rolling mountains protect me on every side
come along for the ride,
down grey gravel roads,
with the heaviest load,
where trees still have some color,
as the pines & ever-greens brag,  
& envious poison ivy,
climbs the silo
in burning fiery furnace red,
golden amber browns
& deep golden mustards
crunch beneath tires
as wood is drying out
& is readied for the fires,
beyond ****** meadows
& the bog where the Moose hide
that mysterious house,
perched pretty on the hill
weathered perfectly,
seasoned & mature,
looking wise & reminiscent,
of a different era,
and a show like this
would only cost 55 cents...
World War 2
in the Pacific just after it...
you moved to Vermont
and live like a hippie,
smoking our chimney
sitting silently
in classic melodious splendor,
a tune is playing
as wheat is swaying,
a fiddle, out in the middle
of my favorite fields
counting the bounty yield,
admiring the tractors parked
for the year
some think,
your just a farce
though I know the fear,
you're not a a travesty,
in shambles
your multi tone shingles
craving a dose of stain,
your old rocking chair
never earning the critical acclaim
you deserve & desire,
  so lovely in your period costume,
as you sit there,
with ease and comfort,
awaiting patrons,
with your zany characters,
with open doors & cracking windows,
a sadness radiating,
from a broken style,
looking out at everything
glad with a frozen smile,
waving at yesterday's poets,

Getting ready for another show
and time is now, for another snow,
your solid pane's,
cheering others on saying
"way to go"...
and if...

If you ever find this place,
you don't know exactly,
what all the fuss is about,

ignoring the change of weather
pulling out that old red sweater
coming to this wonderful,
magical time
a little homestead theater
generationally strong
and melodramatic
with perfect comic timing
a delight
in the night,
I'll happily play the housemaid
delivering a tray of tea
with honey and cream
answering the doorbell
inviting you in
have a seat
giving you something to eat
and this is my treat,
I'll gladly greet the guests
make them comfortable
at our beautiful little venue
our ***** little nest
as the curtains open and close
for the shows,
730 it comes and goes
in the center of my universe
caught in a time warp,
so much good fun and laughter
inspired moments in a perfect ensemble
cast by my ancestors,

I had no idea it would taste,
so amazing,
this bittersweetness,
and so very delicious
my feet ache...
worn,
tired, relieved at last
I am,
coming home to you,
at last I hear,
you say,
welcome back.

Cherie Nolan© 2016

An Open Letter To The New Boyfriend....

A few things you should know before dating me.
1. The first time I realised I was infinite,
I was staring down the mouth
of an alcohol bottle,
my head swimming, laughter bubbling
from my lips,
it was also the first time I realised
I am guilty of living for fleeting moments.
Something inside me is screaming
that we are a fleeting moment.
2. My life is a whirlwind of
passing daydreams, photographs,
ex boyfriends, and re-used poetry lines,
that's something you're gonna have to get used to
because sometimes, I just don't know
when to shut up
and it'll annoy the crap out of you.
3. I'll tell you about things
you don't want to hear about,
ties between my exes and my illnesses
and everything in between
and it'll depress the crap out of you.
4. Trust that I'll love you
more than my own self destruction,
which, let me tell you,
never ******* stops,
trust that I'll love you more
than the razors across my skin
spilling out my regrets
and the nights I spend heaving
over toilet bowls
the burn of whiskey down my throat
that numbs my thoughts,
trust that I'll love you
more than I hate myself,
trust that I'll love you more than I romanticise
my own death.
5. My memory is crap.
Please don't get angry
when I don't remember your favourite pasttimes
or the songs we dance to
when the dates you take me on fade
into the back of my brain,
peeling off the walls of my brain
like paper
and falling to the floor of my mind
memories that you'll never forget,
I like long walks on the beach,
romantic candlelit dinners,
dancing under the stars....
Now, wait for me to break down into tears
because "Dancing Under The Stars" was the name
of a song the man I **** near sent to jail
wrote for me.
6. I live in metaphors.
My realities consist of my own broken promises
and I pen my feelings in suicide notes
but I still insist that happiness
is just a trip to the stars away
I insist on inhaling the stardust
and exhaling the twilight
and tranquility
of my peers,
I still see their faces etched
into the corners of my night skies...
When I said I lived in metaphors,
I wasn't kidding.
3. I'll tell you about things
you don't want to hear about
and the idea of that terrifies me so much
that I hide away in my room
because if I don't say anything,
I can't say the wrong thing.
7. I bet you expected this poem to be happy,
or funny.
8. This poem is not happy, or funny,
this poem is my truth
and my truth is that I don't know how to live
without some semblance of destruction
inside of me
and it's ruined every relationship I've ever had.
8. This poem is not happy or funny,
this poem is me,
and while I am not happy or funny...
I do find happiness and laughter
in those fleeting moments.
Fleeting to me, of course,
because I never ******* remember them.
9. I never remember anything
10. but I'll always remember how I feel about you.
Even if we don't work out,
because I first met you 3 and a half years ago
we stopped talking for two and a half of those years
and I didn't even recognise you when I saw you
but as soon as I heard your name
I broke down in tears
because you were somebody that I never truly forgot.
10. I'll always remember you.
0. I remember everybody
and that's something I'll never shut up about
10. I'll always remember you
and the way you make me smile
and the way you make all of the things I've talked about
fade into the background.

two rather large glasses down,
one heart crumbled the other thriving.
Leave the shattered pieces on the ground
find the light
find the happiness and the warmth
that linger within
after layer after layer of singed love.
a fire that was lit and never put out
burned me to my core
leaving no light
no happiness within
no warmth for me to bathe and bask in.

Regardless of our state of mind.
Regardless of religion.
Regardless of race.
We all love and have lost.

Sometimes, we love while losing.
For others, we must love while
being apart, while fearing the unknown,
yet knowing we can't go there.  

It doesn't matter the story,
the pain is the same.
The wait is agonizing.
The mere fact that we know
we'll see them again
keeps us warm in the coldest of nights.

Being the one who was left,
we replay those last minutes,
or even seconds. We avoid
romantic comedies, walks
through the parks, or candlelit dinners.

As the weeks turn to months,
we simply re-learn how to stand.
We take one step. And another.
We learn to live alone.

Romantic comedies are turned on.
Walks in the parks aren't so cold.
Candlelit dinners still seem corny.
And my memories serve as a blanket.

I don’t find myself being happy,
My taste in men is rather lacking.
They’re like the whiskey in my mouth I taste when I’m hungover.
Feels good at the time but I’m always sorry when it’s over.
I don’t feel good enough in my current relationship,
The man I’m with .. makes me feel like a *******.
He doesn’t look at me the way he looks at other woman,
and he tells me clothes don’t do me justice and that I look better naked.
and the lies are too hard to ignore anymore,
When I have to fight for his attention and he treats me like I’m his chore.
He said he was on his way home to go to to bed, but he did me real *****,
he already told me earlier he got invited to go out drinking at 10:30,
But why would he lie?
Because the last time we went out drinking together he did things that really hurt me.
This relationship is toxic because I already knew what would happen after that lie.
He’d ignore all my texts and “forget to reply”
The way it works is he will apologize and feel bad the next day,
Because I’m such a nice girl and he sees his mistake,
But it’s not enough to say I forgive him or pretend it’s okay,
Hes breaking my trust every lie, each day.
I’ve tried so hard to get him to realize how much I care,
But he doesn’t seem to understand what he’s doing isn’t fair.
From the candlelit dinners to the mixed CDs and “Bang Me” valentines cake, i now realized were a waste of time and my own **** mistakes.
The nights I spent running my fingers through his hair ...which was he favorite thing
will just have to be memories that he’ll have to bear.


Because I’m not enough to get him to change,
It’s not enough to be me.
I haven’t any choice anymore
Hes forcing me to leave

Learn to love the fall,
to disappear like a radical ghost
shaking chains as a forgotten name.

Make your nests in piles of broken mirror glass,
court heartbreak like a 19th century candlelit lover.

Smile at the No,
bring it into your chest,
breathe it in warm.

Collapse the roof,
blow out the window,
cradle your shattered legs and kiss them like sleeping children
when they try to drag your broken body from the burning building.

And get your blood all over everything.

we had lunch today
popeye's isn't very romantic
but there was candles lit
in every breath you took
the lobby abounding with carnivorous service member
yet we were alone together
laughing at the lynched television in the restaurants corner

His days are filled with books and a beautiful view.
He reads all day, then watches the sunset, every day from his room.
All kinds of books that penetrates him to another world,
for as kind as he is; at school he tries to go unnoticed. Find a corner and curl.

Nobody knows this boy who has so much to offer.
He doesn't get a chance, 'cause the cool kids like to see him suffer.
He slowly peeks around the corner, to see if they're around.
He has to get to English, the bell just rang the final sound.

Almost there he see's the door,
picking up the pace he trips to the floor.
He hears laughing and see's them pointing at his falling body.
It's the same everyday. Is there someone real he thinks. anybody?

Late that evening just finishing his latest book,
he goes to his view just to take his evening look.
Something was different, there was beauty he couldn't see.
Definitely something different, there was odd colors' behind his red oak tree.

Adjusting his view to perhaps get a better peek,
he saw a beauty he couldn't explain. He tried to holler down, but couldn't speak.
She came out from behind the tree,
Who was she he thought, for he could not see.

Cautiously he walked outside,
usually reserved he didn't know why.
He saw her just staring like a woman with so much on her mind.
He wanted to speak to her: what would he say? Just be kind.

"Hello", he said, as he took a step closer.
She turned around, and it was over.
The boy never knew something so beautiful could be so close.
For after a romance novel, from his dreams they arose.

After her initial shock she said "Hi, you must be my new neighbor."
"I just moved here from Florida, I'm not use to the chill."
The boy mesmerized thought he took one too many pills.
He tried to talk, but it just wouldn't flow, and as she stared at him
he saw her face contort, and she started to go.

He said "wait don't leave. I'm just not use to people talking to me."
He was actually a handsome boy if they would take the time to see.
He said, "my name is Cole and I live in the white house just there."
He pointed to it and noticed she didn't look. Instead at him she stared.

Her gaze made him uncomfortable, for he thought it a prank,
but the more he looked the deeper he sank.
She said, "Cole, I like that name,
mine is Lila." Lila Verame."

He saw her shiver and recalled her comment about the chill,
so he took off his jacket, and placed in around her hoping the warmth she would feel.
"Thank you" she said as she looked in his eyes.
Cole said "your welcome, this should keep you dry."

Lila giggled and said, "what do you mean?"
"There is a storm coming. I can smell it. After awhile you sense things that don't have to be seen.
She never heard a boy talk like this,
she said "so after awhile living here, there'll be things I can sense?"

Cole puzzled, said "sorry if I talk a little strange."
Lila smiled and said "no I like it, from where I'm from it's a nice change."
In Florida it's all about how good one looks in bikini's.
It's nice down here to have you talk about the scenery.

Her green eyes sparkled as he talked like never before.
Lila laughed, smiled, and even seemed interesting all the more.
So many thoughts were exchanged before the first rain drop fell,
and as Cole walked Lila home, she knew there was more to him than anyone could tell.

Back in his room he pondered the day and thought; just wait til school.
I'll be a ghost; just made a made up fool.

Cole didn't sleep as he thought what would transpire.
It was a small school and she surely would burn like a candlelit fire.
Being new and so beautiful,
It was going to be interesting for sure. Very eventful.

Anxiously and nervous he looked in the mirror,
no matter what he did, he knew he would be inferior.

The steps leading inside came faster than he ever could remember,
God why couldn't we have had a huge snow storm like it does in December?

He stepped inside and sure enough,
there stood Lila with the boys who thought they were so tough.
He avoided contact hoping not to be seen.
especially from Lila. Lila Varame.

The day went on and not one class did he have with her.
Although sad, at least she wouldn't see all the trouble the cool guys stirred.

Finally at lunch, walking outside,
He found his spot. His spot to hide.
Today seemed different for more guys sat at the cool spot.
Then he saw why. Lila, they swarmed to her like flies do to the rot.

She seemed confused and not liking all the racket,
and then his eyes lit up, as he saw her with his jacket.
No it couldn't be. If only she knew how Cole got treated.
He wouldn't fight, for everyday he went home defeated.

Finding courage he never knew within,
he strolled the cool kids way confident and with a grin.
Lila saw him for the first time that day,
and the smile on her face couldn't be contained.

He stopped as he noticed her smile,
their eyes never leaving each other all the while.
No, no, no, this can't be.
I'm just Cole. Why would she be looking at me.

But she was looking at him and walking all the same,
and then he heard the cool kids laughing saying his name.
It's over he thought, now she will see,
here they come to humiliate me.

A fire started to burn deep inside,
no more he thought not this time.
As they made their way,
he stared in her eyes feeling something. No matter what he was going to stay.

They teased and goofed trying to make him feel alone,
but with Lila looking he stood like a marble stone.

Through all the jokes he stood staring at her.
"I've been looking for you," she said. "Please get me away from them nerds."

For the first time in his life Cole didn't go home and read a book,
he spent it with Lila, and in her hands his she took.

The boy, the nerd, got the most beautiful girl in school,
and deep down she was so kind too.
Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months.
Cole was the new man in school. He was even blunt.

What if I told you that Cole and Lila found what some don't believe.
What if I told you they were soul mates. Is that something you could conceive?
Well in this book Cole found love and not through they eyes of a character in a book.
In the moment of opportunity. The opportunity he took.

He could have kept to his novels and his evening sunsets,
but he saw beauty and he took that chance.
Who would have know their love would have reacted.
who would have known, he'd find love by sharing his jacket.

Some people never get the chance,
to show their is more to them than what you think.
Just take the time open your ears,
or you could miss out on something special....faster than a blink...

How to cook a gourmet (whatever the hell that means) dinner:

Step 1: Send your boyfriend a text inviting him over for a romantic, candlelit home-cooked gourmet dinner.

Step 2: Remember that you are forever alone and don’t have a boyfriend.

Step 3: Go buy mass amounts of chocolate and cry about it.

Step 4: Get over it and invite over your grandmother instead.

Step 5: Preheat the oven to 975 degrees

Step 6: Freak out about the fire in your oven and turn it off.

Step 7: Open all your doors to let the smoke out.

Step 8: Get out all the ingredients you need for the recipe you are
following.

Step 9: End up eating most of the ingredients before you even get to
use them.

Step 10: Spill oil and wine all over your recipe book (umm pffft the
wine is TOTALLY one of the ingredients, that’s why you had it out… heh heh… yeah…)

Step 11: Panic and try to dry it off by taking the book outside and waving it around.

Step 12: Watch in horror as all the pages in your book tear and fly off
into the wind.

Step 13: Chase hopelessly after the pages down the block screaming
swear words and having a heart attack.

Step 14: Politely smile and wave awkwardly at your neighbour who
hates you.

Step 15: Yell an apology across the street to that other neighbour who
REALLY doesn’t like you with the little five year old daughter who is
now repeating all of your colorful vocabulary words you just yelled.

Step 16: Reluctantly accept the fact that your recipes are gone. And also
that you have just contributed to the global problem of littering the
streets.

Step 17: Walk back to your smoke-scented house in shame.

Step 18: Look through pictures of scrumptious-looking meals on
Pinterest.

Step 19: Get inspired and decide to put your brilliant idea of creating your own recipe into action.

Step 20: Get out your frying pan and throw a bunch of random ingredients in.

Step 21: Put out yet another fire and realize that marshmallows, sprinkles, raisins, baking soda, orange peels and liquid gasoline probably wouldn’t have tasted very good together anyway.

Step 22: Wonder what the hell is wrong with you.

Step 23: Get distracted by the television for half an hour.

Step 24: Try to microwave 2 week old mac and cheese you forgot to
throw out.

Step 25: Watch as your microwave malfunctions and spontaneously
combusts.

Step 26: Decide to clean it up later because you just cannot even deal
with it right now.

Step 27: Fill a *** with water to make pasta and try to boil the water.

Step 28: Somehow manage to burn the water.

Step 29: Wonder how that even happened?!!!!

Step 30: Give up and call the pizza delivery guy.

Step 31: When you grandmother arrives have her take a seat in the
kitchen.

Step 32: Call an ambulance when she has a heart attack seeing the mess
in your kitchen.

Step 33: Get ready to leave and drive after the ambulance to the
hospital with your grandmother once the pizza arrives so you can
bring it with you. Get a call from the pizza place.

Step 34: Listen to the manager explain that your pizza spontaneously
burst into flames in the oven and they are terribly sorry there will be a
delay in the delivery due to this.

Step 35: Pass out.

"i'm Rookie"

maybe i'll say it someday when I'm driving
naked skin burning on a sun kissed motorcycle seat
past old fruit stands,
toward some shadowed, dehydrated strangers arms,
in the texas heat.
i'll show them my homemade tattoos,
and recite some poetry to them.

i'll be wearing nothing but a feather headband,
and thigh high socks,
with a flask of throat burning
fire
trapped to the side of my leg.
i'll have nothing, and i'll need nothing,

but the open road,
and strangers hands caressing my candlelit skin,
when you can softly hear the rain at night,
like warm sweat of the
desert sky.

This tough front,
This altogether unlikeable first impression,
This mean, crude obnoxious scumbag,
This despicable misogynist,
This cynical misanthropic madman,
“Wassup wit dat?”
Enquiring fans of poetry want to know.
Simply stated, 'tis my oldest modus operandi,
Self-protective, learned street behavior;
My don’t-****-with–me first line of defense.
Surely some form of survival mechanism;
Meant in the narrow psychological sense.
Evidence of mental health or illness,
My cloaking device and shield,
Gift from Jove, my goombah father.
Dad: a powerful force in any child’s universe—
Be the patriarch dead, absent, retired on the job,
Out of the picture, just plain missing--or insane,
The latter, something you may not
Want to know about your gene pool.

So I’m really just a *****.
Forgive the expression, Germaine Greer.
A pussycat and big old teddy bear,
Mr. Sensitivity:
Wiping a warm washcloth between your legs.
Across puffed & pouted lips, gently.
After shooting a load of *** into you.
Or on your face: Spumante!

No, strike that last part.
Let’s start again.
I am a kind soul, a precious man.
The sort who likes animals;
Puppies, especially, and kittens too.
Savoring sunsets and flowers,
I serve you sweet gelato & Asti.
Sometimes I’ll spumante you with original love poetry.
My Muse: your gorgeous body delights me,
Your brilliant mind & noble spirit inspires.
Each night of the week I surprise you,
Prepare for you an exquisite home-cooked gourmet meal.
Served with your favorite Pinot Noir,
Brought to your elegant, candlelit dining room table,
By yours truly, wearing only a scarlet bow tie
And black silk jockstrap.
(Starting to get into this, Maureen Dowd?)
Later I’ll run you a relaxing bath,
So you’ll have something to do,
While I wash the dishes, scrub the pots,
Do a load of whites, clean your bidet,
And Swiffer®  (www.swiffer.com) the entire house.

By then, you are ready for your nightly spa treatment,
A 15-minute, deep tissue massage,
Followed by a hot oil treatment.
Next up is 30 nonstop delirious minutes,
Me, going down on you, without
Seeking any ****** gratification for myself.
In the morning I’ll make macadamia nut pancakes,
Your favorite, and brew you a fabulous cup of coffee,
From freshly ground beans, very rare beans
Salvaged from Karen Blixen’s last crop, before the fire
Completely destroyed her plantation in Kenya.
"I had a farm in Africa, Babaloo!

You can go shopping from dawn to dusk
With Ruth Madoff, while I go out & lose my soul,
Selling Dominican Republic timeshares all day and all night . . .  
(Cue West Indies Calypso: “All Day, All Night, Mary Ann!”)
Calypso-Harry Belafonte Songs, Reviews, Credits,
Awards www.allmusic.com/album/calypso. 1956.)
I’ll still find the time to open up for you
A line of credit at your favorite nail salon.
I’ll pay for weekly bikini waxes, hair and Botox treatments,
And the odd cosmetic surgery you may require.
I’ll pay your cell phone bill; I’ll pay off your college loans.
I’ll send money to your extended family in the Ukraine.
Yeah, that’s the kind of guy I am.
Your life with me will be every woman’s dream.

And, if you believe that,
You soulless Ukrainian ****,
Then monkeys will fly out of my Wayne’s World ****,
You stupid capital C for ****-*******,
Capital B for *****.
THIS JUST IN:
“Arms and the Woman,”
An article in Time Magazine, conveys a statistic:
Some 20 million women in the U.S. own guns.
As the NRA instructs:
Guns don’t **** people.
Women with Glocks **** people.

Why are you appealing to me-

Stimulating my ****** desire
tending to arouse evil with inside

Me- You

Us
Identical-

Suggestively I've laid out
flowery perfumed petal

trailing to the bedroom

I've characterized you

by obscenity's & indecency's
you've already let me get away with

**** vivacious recipient-
eluding the lubricious

embraces of
my prurient thought.

Thigh high boots

Whips Creme & chains

Swing chair done up tight to the ceiling,

Lubrications lotions & potions,

Candlelit flickers

as

Our
silhouette's merge into

Identical
mirrored image

You-  Me

Mingling

Melting- the little death

becomes

Us!

Identical........

Always me Ayeshah

Flesh on flesh. Eyes watch eyes
Following fingers round curvatures. Caressing skin.
Skin on skin. Flesh in flesh.
A gin-sung-dream –
Silent utterances from the dark-side of a candlestick.

An unsung overture to Nature’s greatest gift
And Nature’s perfect curse.

Lips pursed open, speechless. Breathless.
Wide-white eyes scream STOP. blink. GO ON.
Glances flash between the flickers of candlelight ,
Meeting unknown looks in the black. Bodies
Embrace, writing words that have their own
Music. Heard only by its two composers.

Everywhere the other wishes to be –
Vivacity. Revelling in promiscuity.
Obscurity. Strangers share a warmth
As old as the ages.
A wafer-thin knife-edge of meaning.
Gin-song dreaming. An opaque tonic
For loneliness.
Hands in hands, heart fleeting.
The perfect curse of Man
In the stroking of skin.

Later, a vague sound of water, a towel
A drawer closing – a door latch clicks.

The world floods back.
Through the curtains,
Through the drainpipes
Your fleeting heart sheepishly returns,
Aching like a hangover.
Too much gin.
The momentary tonic wears off.

Heart in hand,
Hand to head.
Candlelit premonitions return.
Heated flesh. Arching backs.
Fingers through hair…

Salty fingers through oily hair and
Blood-red-wine lipstick smudges and
A singeing waxy smell makes you reel
To the window for air.
And there you are again,
In the middle of a city that knows you
More than your Alcoholic Lover,
A Melancholic Mother to all your needs,
Except the one you tried to soothe
A few hours back.
The one you pine for.
The one you lack.

Oh, this Humdrum City
Rushing you, with your heart in your hand, off your feet.
And your heart in the street
And the gin in your glass
Whenever you meet
Whoever it is that might
Make you complete…

A vague sound of water, a towel,
A candle extinguished, a door hinge creeks.

Wafer-thin. Flesh on flesh.

A belt buckle rings, a zip
A drawer closing, a door latch clicks.

The door latch clicks.
The door latch clicks.