you wrote me
78 letters in the months of
october and november;
i didnt realize just how
powerful
your hand could become
when it was faced with
unimaginable distance
and a lack of
touches like strawberries and bananas

you wrote me
a single letter
in the month of december;
i didnt realize just how
lost
you could become
when you were faced with
a cold right side
of a queen sized bed
and a mind
that said you werent enough
without me by your side

you wrote me
a single note
in the month of april;
i didnt realize just how
impactful
i could become
when i was faced with
the decision to either
write you back
or toss the letters,
the latter of which i did without consideration

you wrote me
no letters
after those months;
i didnt realize just how
enjoyable
those letters could become
until after you
took up your wrists
and slit them end to end
so you could no longer be tempted
to write to a girl who seemed to no longer care for you

take me away
to the fields and moors
where the fog never parts
from the ground
(like i will never part from you)
and the dew licks at my bare ankles
in the most endearing way

take me away
to the city skyline
where the movement of bodies
pushes us even closer
(how i would like to remain forever)
and the lights never dim
so we will never have to sleep

take me away
to the oceans shore
where the waves caress the shore
like you my face
(keep doing this please i need this)
and the gulls cry to the clouds
and nest in the grasses on the dunes

take me away
from the world we both know
of gray and dull matter
to a place of fairytales and adventure
(i love you dearly so)
dont forget to lock the door
when you leave

14th Feb 2014

They are all around us, 
within, without, above, behind and before us;
Fanning the flames of the famous, the wealthy and fortunate
with secret agendas and infamous fame of their own.

I throw a stone
send it crashing through houses of glass; I see their
comings and goings in the Grove of Bohemia;
drinkers and liars; role-playing fraternity fools.

There are rules.
It takes more than just peeing at trees to be properly manly;
secrecy more than life is at stake when the fodder is human,
throw off your cares to the punitive furnace of hate.

Such ill-fate
that begets our world leaders, hatched out of a tangible darkness;
parasitic, calamitous, venomous world-gobbling evil
Mammon, devourer of souls, will preside at the feast.

And the Beast,
Fourth Beast of Daniel, squats at the head of the table,
fabled for pitiless torture of souls in transgression,
slavers and gloats over innocence lost and despoiled.

An enormous
tragedy of grief  

sits on
the old man's

bent shoulders
his young son's

sudden demise
is always before

his weary eyes
it rises up

before him
with the dreary dawn

greets him
in the ticking

slow hours
of the dull day

(grief is like that
they say)

then sits with him
until the night owl

hoots him
to uneasy sleep

(his son's soul
to keep)

each time
he sits

to write
his worn words

his son watches
over

his bent shoulder
(or so he wishes

or hopes)
seeing his father's

fingers press
the keys

to conjure words
to soothe

the hurt
(they fail

but help
in one

untidy mess)
and maybe

his son's
ghostly hand

will touch
the shoulder's

ache of grief
(bringing in

the old man's
aged belief)

and maybe more
his whispered words

(with hint
of Mutley laugh

for sure)
to cheer or lift

his father's lowly
spirit high

saying although
the body's dead

the spirit's here
it does not die

and although
an enormous tragedy

of grief sits
on the old mans'

bent shoulders
it seems to sit

less heavy now
(although

deep hurting still)
somehow.