god made beauty sing
when he painted myriad
designs on butterfly wings

delicate and so sublime
they float on by
graffitti artists of the sky

over teacup...fine porcelain..
delicately chipped....coniving eyes....scrutinised...tallying..gulliblity..naivete..desire...
wi­zened fingers...talonlike..
tattoo.....mesmerizing......
rhythms..
....­...crystal ball... occluded....
fee exchanged..... hand......
presented....lifeline..short.....
love line....broken...tarot...
offered....indecsion..
..crystal....
..­..still cloudy...gap toothed...
..contortion...cards on....
table....impaired cognative function..accedes....
fee transferred....
.....cards..shuffle..pirroette.........inverted..­.laydown misere....
palaver..delivered....twocups... happy but sad.....prince of....
.....two sheets to wind....done
in....teacup rattles......
....session.........ended..crystal ball..sphere of silence....
.......future..still..shrouded..
...wallet..lighter..­. sozzled.....
laughter...all the.......
.............fun of the fair.........

open greedy mawed
thing
you follow,  berating me,

demanding more, maw, more.

can you not cease and desist?
can you not see i am trying?
can you not please be still?

demanding maw, more, maw.

your endless whining
is,
shredding my soul.
your bottomless wanting
is,
wrecking my life.
your  pitiless harrasment
is,
killing me with slow, determined intent.

demanding more, maw, more.

when will i be rid of you?
when will you  begone?
when will you fly from this
haggard nest?

demanding maw, more, maw.

i wonder,
are these the thoughts of a
magpie mother,
as she feeds a rapacious chick.

In my big old double bed this fine Saturday morning.....
...one husband ....still blissfully snoring...
...one small child starfish....
...one cat kneading and pawing....
one paperback..... in want of restoring.....
one small wet patch.... we are all ignoring...
one headache slowly brewing.....regret for the loss of an early morning lay... frustrated desire at aforementioned lay.... physical evidence the big boy was ready to play....
chips crumbs..from a midnight snack......
...furtive guilt..at the thoughts .....i'm harbouring of.... running away ..just for the day
...a pair of jocks.. just one sock a small dinosuar ....and the picture book he's reading.......
for god's sakes cat stop your kneading.. i will feed you soon
a mental list..... way too long of things in need of doing........
years of love and family building......
....one early middle aged mother
.... one starfish child....
.... one husband blissfully snoring ...
....one little grey cat still kneading and pawing ......

the alluvial terra firma
appreciates
the pluvial troposphere
of the lunar differentiate

siphoning all
in a parched gluttony
leaving behind a viscous
residue
and few glassine portals
into a reflective world

forming the letters
of the words
that describe
my love
for you
is beyond
my mental
mettle tonight
so i lean over
and kiss your
sleeping brow
and  leave love
and salt tears
on your warm skin

watching the rain,
river flood,
down the steamy,
windows.
my mind jumps back...
...back to those sweet
and careless days,
of a country chilhood.

when we made boats.
of  halved walnut shells,
with toothpick masts
and fantail sails,
then sailed them
in kerbside regattas.

when marbles were worlds.
fought for,
in hand drawn,
colleseum-like circles
on  dusty driveways and paths.

when we folded and flew,
the news of the day,
on strings,
high, to the sky and beyond.

when we made castles.
of sand and mud,
we were, then,
childish royalty,
the back yard our kingdom.

as the water sheets,
down the window panes.
i hope,
these creative joys and victories,
will not be lost to my son.

in this age of technology,
where, leapads and xbox'
kindles and webgames,
tempt them,
to play in a world,
of pre-created splendour.

looking through the water,
i am reassured this will not
be the case, by the sight,
of father and son,
in yellow macs,
stomping puddles,
for the splash.

gem scones
and ginger loaf bread,
slathered with farmfresh butter.

washed down with
oh so **** cold home made
lemonade ices.

little pots of salmon rillettes
and tiny potted prawns
eaten on crisp potato wafers.
crustless finger sandwiches
of cucumber and tomato,
grown twenty feet to the left
of where we sit.

in the shade of the radiata pine tree.
minted gingerale punch.
sunshine dappled light,
playing on fine glassware.

the aromas of ovenlove
mint, pine, ginger, citrus
and salt,
mingle with old spice and
lavender water, of the grands, dozing,
as they sit baking, basking,
in the afternoon heat.

high tea,
at the homestead farm.
on the windswept coastal
plain.

once every couple of months,
awaited with much, anticipation.
remembered with much
fondness
a feast of food, family
and  much love.

there is a softness
to this,
the third day
the sibilant rain drifts
down,
to blur the world's
definition,
and soften the crust
to a malleable mire.

i sit outside on,
the front verandah ,
in woolen jumper
and watch the horizon
dissapate and the waves
become tired and grey.
after three days,
there is, no fury,
left in them.

the steam, arising from
my cup,
mingles with humid,
misty bretheren
and the birds cry
mournful.

plate, the treefrog,
revels in the rain.
his bass profundo
decrying the need for
waterlove.

all else looks for shelter
in the soft indistinct frame
of three days of rain.

how is it?
that,
after all these years.
your lips
still taste of
that scrumptious
gingered pear panacotte,
the dessert we shared
on our first date.

how is it ?
after all this time.
your eyes still,
shimmer and shine
with the reflection
of the turquoise sea,
that we first swam
in together on our
second date.

how is it?
after years,
have come and gone,
you still maintain
that wonderful.... facsination,
you have with the
hollowed dimple
behind my left ear.

how is it?
that now,
as we get older in years.
you have become so
much more than
handsome.

that now, your voice
spoken to my skin,
can set my heart a trembling.

no my lover,
you do not
misconstrue
my meaning,
my desire.
but then,
my love
our secret is
that you never have.

how is it,
after all
these years.
you still love me
so.....
it is the same reason
that i love you?

that when,
we first began,
we knew,
that our days
of  searching...
had just ended.
that we,
had found a love
worth spending,
a lifetime,
crafting and sculpting it
into true and lasting
happiness.

that is how...
with that,
unwavering belief,
we remain together.
not bound,
but free of will
and full of love....
together.

being held ransom
by,
incapabilty to form
rational thoughts.

please send help.....

apathy rising,
hope hiding behind
fear.

please send help .....soon

leave thoughts with,
drifting mind, dozing,
on the park bench.

for pick up by random person.

in the moist dank
hours, of this
rainy night.
the shadow
cat-blue,
has sought, the
high planes of
the house
and can now be
found, only
by glaring
lantern eyes.
we search
and find
him, nestled,
on the second, to
uppermost stay,
of the third
bookshelf,
in the study.
he has filed
himself,
between,
ogden nash
and proust
and it is there,
he plans to stay.

shouldn't complain,
my life is good,
what's little rain !

but these little trials
of today, have me complaining anyway.

spilt coffee on my favourite shirt,
on the upside coffee
stone- cold no one hurt.

lost ten thousand word report, computer glitch
on the upside,
someone in Nepal
will have insight into dramatic synergy in isben's plays.

some dude stole my lunch, leftover chicken *** pie,
on the upside,
i'm fairly sure my two year old sneezed in it.

broke a heel in the carpark. no upside,
they were my favourites.

got home my mum,
who has come to live
with us,
has re-organised the kitchen. still looking
for the upside.

burnt dinner, no wine looking for the carkeys,
to go and find upside,
probably in the next city over.

car won't start,
upside,
no one can hear you,
scream in locked car!

downside,
they can see you....

...........shouldn't complain

grey is the day,
bleak is the heart,
rough winds bellow
and sadness stirs.

the little blue cat,
burrows
under the doona,
rejecting the light.

i turn and leave,
for work
wishing i was,
a little blue housecat.

if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day
but
social convention dictates,
that while taking the minutes,
of the meeting for
the arts faculty directorate,
thats NOT okay.

if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day.
but my boss says,
it might be
difficult to tell a phd student NO to a grant application,
in a bath robe festooned with purple hippos drinking tea.

if it were up to me,
i'd wear pyjamas all day.
but
my husband tells me, POLITELY,
that jeggings,
are not best suited to my ruebenesque frame.

if it were up to me ....
but
apperently it's not.
.....so black pants cream shirt and vest it's to be

the dog, strains against
the leash, tied to the
no parking sign.

all, quivering white
and caramel fur
docked tail, ears up,
eyes bright and
searching, searching,
for his alpha love.

water bowl, full,
next to him,
ignored.
eyes firmly set,
to the grocery store
door,
quivering, wriggling,
animated, anticipation.

every time, the door
swooshes open,
a double yap.
"i am here.""i am here."

doggy devotion,
denied by food health regulations, master inside,
but i am  here waiting,
still.

here i am...
nailed to the cross....
of elephant hide.... memories
.....walking the slack rope
balanced..... between
if ..and ....why..
used to be...... watering
a ducks back .....was making
....a water feather slide
but now....... it just *****
up my equalibruimal tide......
making sense now?....
...........not ****** likely..
spinning words....
..on empty tequila shot glasses
  .....while student one
and student fourteen .....are
making moons with they *****
......so the mouse squeaks
memory roars......been here b4
time to climb.............down....
........off the cross.....jump on... .......off the wire
..let it go ......was just.... teenage .........angst v desire

walk away  now...get some water.....
..go home get to bed ....or the morning will be simply .....hangover.....
.....slaughter..... city .. rimed
with lime ...and salt.. and   tequila .....worm-fed fears...
so....listen ...well  ....to the squeek of the mouse......

................truth..
once..... set free,
.....can cry,
joy ....or havoc
or the reams
......of the thesaurus
........in...between...

the choice.....
is in ..
...the hand of ....the scribe
and ......the heart from
which... the ink ......begins
it's.... souful journey..
...spritual....intellectual,
....intertwined....
set free...
to
touch...
another mind....

i am a cork, set upon
the rapids today.
a storm, rising in
the darjeeling tea.
lightning, in the sugar jar
all bitterred up and jittery.

i am a feather, caught up
in a whirlwind,
on the edge of a cyclone.

running laps incessant, on the
hamster wheel,
of insomulance, that's me.


frenzied, fury, frenetic energy.
revved up, to beyond the max,
caught... ******* in a box with
bright,binding string.

claustrophobically, confined,
ready to explode,
my brain confetti, tizzy-fied.


why you ask?
            what's the go?

that's the ****** problem..

i don't know............

wandering the almost deserted beach
linen slacks turned up to
the knees and a flowing
shirt that flags out behind her.
hat in hand she stoops and rifles through the firm tideline sand and deftly flicks her treasure into a plastic blue bucket.  her feet shift to accomodate the salt water wavelets that play tag
with her manicured toes.
she glances sideways at the sea
judging time and tide
as she gathers her bucket
of pipis
destined for the dinner table.

bewildered,
confused,
where did it go?
alienated,
dogday tired,
just all gone, gone, gone.
confounded,
out of place,
it was here, i left it right here.
muddled, jumbled, befuddled,
jumble thoughted,
stumble stepped,
tangle, tousled,
perturbed, perplexed,
just downright baffled,
snarled up, sixways, sideways
why is'nt it where i left it, dumbfounded, disconnected, dazed,
so discombobulated,
i am about to be,
bedlamized...
i could swear,
i left my youth right there,
on the hall table,
next to the car keys....
but now it is gone...
........and i am left bereft.

you are,

my beauty to behold,
my strength to grow old,
my youth blessed, de-messed,
clean clarity, clear faced best.

you are,

my light in dark stairwells,
my long lingering farewell,
my langishing sighs
and final goodbyes,
rueful, regretful, redfaced rest.

you are,

my trial and tribulation,
my awkard salutations,
my pause in transmission,
stupid, careless intermission,
flayed, flensing, flesh rending test.

you are,

my hope for brighter,
my hearts renewing delight,
my compass' new bearing,
fresh, freedoms flight
upward, ever upward
from dark nights behest.

you are,

my inside, outside, beside,

you are,

my internal, eternal guide,
my passion, my power, my pride.

you are,

looking  back at me,
from the mirrors' inside.

walked across the dunes
to the light house to
clear my thoughts.

the windsailors were
riding the sky,
my son calls them  the teabag people.
but to me they are like those  seed pods that coast upon the
wind in search of something
beyond.

the grass soughs and if you sit
quietly enough,
you can hear the hungry cry of
the little tern chicks.
hidden in the dunes nearby.

the sand trickles through twining, grasping, tenuous grass roots,
single grains multi-hued,
flow like minature snowboarders down the dunes,
steep slippery slide.
little metallic black ants have the herculean task,
of working this ***** for
seeds and other oddments of food.
i watch one stumble,stomp past, sherpa-like, precariously balancing a potato crisp's crumb.
while scaling the acute angle of sliding sand.

the pittering of the sandy ground indicates the presence
of giant skinks, sleek glassine skinned lizards that are at home in the area.
their track patterns, remind me of those old teach yourself
to dance charts seen in black and white films,
you would now find them mostly in antique stores.

the tide is in recess
and the terns are hunting,
mottled little sand *****
in some killer, crazy
game of tig or redrover.
where to lose is to looose!

the windsailor above is surpassed by
the big old seahawk
as he stretches his wings.
it is a comparison of true mastership,
over a poor and gaudy parody.
the hawk with practised disdain, dives,
through the breakers emerging,
with his fish dinner.

as i turn toward home.
i wonder,
was it the fandango the lizards, were trying to master?

chlorophyll green,
verdent, colour me trees
freeze dry to
amber, yellow, cardinal red liquid gold, titian, xanthous, carmine, deepwine burgandy, magenta, saffron, orange, rubicant, henna, bronze and copper burnished, cracked terracotta
and then finally...
bittersweet crumpled brown
what a pallette of cold night air painting daubed on wooded canvas'
life portrayed in leaf-ed glory
all before our autumnal eyes

doopth..doopth..doopth..
the intonation of a gavel
upon a felted block

order, orrrder,

i now call to order this
washday gathering
of the
metaphysical
analytical
socks
drawer # 1793

all rise and come to toetip
for the grand entry of
the great thrice darned heel

kazoos squeak  the intro
to the ode to joy
an old grey golf sock is
ushered in to sit slouched
on the top of the washer/dryer.
he observes the following proceedings.

now to business

the agenda for the day

1. groove and the toe socks
table their report on the
systematic eradication of toejam.

2.the tradditionalists continue
the open discussion on,
wool versus synthetic,
for winterwear.

3.we have a vote scheduled
on the referedum matter:
do we allow sandals and thongs
guest status in this drawer.

4.the metaphysicists update
us on the age old conundrum;
"where do the odd socks go?"
at present they are devling
into the posibilities of
superposition of states,
as presented by
the schrodinger's cat theory.

5. the analytical group are meanwhile, surveying the remaining
evenless socks;
to obtain data on the pairless state of being

6. and finally, we welcome a deposition from the natralists;
with regard to use of bamboo
and hemp to allow for the wicking
of footwater, for a longer lasting
freshness of the base arch construction.

please feel free to attend one or
more of these discussions, contributions and /or questions
will be taken after the presentations.

i am also asked to inform you, that
the metatarsals group has a table of goods for sale, at the leftside of the wash basket.
items include:
new elastics and darning equipment.
books on special this meet are;
the ever popular
"how not to become a sock puppet"
and the tragic
"my life as a duster"
then there is the new offering of
"sox and jox:
the art of underwear
diplomacy."
and one last item of note:
a reminder that membership fees,
(of one clean toe clipping) are due
before next months gathering
go now,
enjoy the gathering.

and may the foot be with you

bright ....butterfly.......talent
.....flicking tongues
of ......allitrative illustratation
unsure..... of present improv
packaging.....puckers lips to pout and preen....
........grunge moth in hoodie
comes to sauce the play....
tounge twister fandango
...... paperlace lizards ...dreaming...days streamin by....
all the mouths....... of ritual making.......
fourth wall breaking. ..
.....accummulate the method
scribe..... to the write
........formulate the figure...
linguate the lyrical....
left..... to the pintered flighted sighs.....
.....shake the speare this night
with finger drumming colour rhythms..... reveal the reasoned might ........of the fledgling dramaturg.....
foot stomping . ...posse blighted ....... brainstorms
.  .burn limelight bright burn...
throw your fleeting..... searing glow....on these little dramatic vacations from lifes realities.....
freezeframe ......moments.....
......of luducrosity..... and. . humming allocentricity ......
....egos pay homage to floor
door and wall...
drink..... the life ....the love ........the fear
pinprick and bucket dance it ......come one ..... come all.
learn the art of the comic pratfall ...... here at the home
of drama 171 improv
. ....by the pants of your seat
and other mellowed..... dramatic.......completes

got caught up in blue ink
fever last night,
reading h.p. pops and wrestling
with the words.
only to find the new day at hand

so now i am sitting in a meeting of great importance.

(eyes drooping, day  dreaming,
sheep visiting- NO, don't count the ****** things, YOU FOOL!)

discusing matters of teaching and reaching decision on text,

(cotton pillows with smiles on their dials, beckon me over the fence to play with bo peeps sheep DO NOT COUNT THOSE SHEEP.)

books and performance scripts for the following  year, now is when

(sheep are such fluffy little things, you could just put your head down on their little tummies. LEAVE THE SHEEP ALONE HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU)

you make a case for new works
and differing the standard

(and there is just so many of the fuzzy little deweds, DON'T EWE DARE.  IF I HAVE TO COME OVER THERE  EWE'LL KNOW ABOUT IT!!!!!)

teaching formats

(one little sheepy, two  sheepy sleep, three little sleepy sheepy,,,,,,four llilĺlte sleeeepppyshee RIGHT!!pppy
NOW YOU HAVE DONE IT!!!! TIME FOR THE BIG GUNS)

Bo, are you with us, I know this isn't the most exciting  discusion,
but it would be helpful if you could refrain from snoring.

(TOLD EWE!!)

stretch and crack
unkink your morning back
bend and sway
blood rush to your head today
rise and stretch
showing way to much flesh
and pivot,and pivot,and pivot
those hips
and shut, and shut, and shut,
those lips
star jumps.... ground shakes
push ups.... heart aches
burpees .... desire to ***
and bend and bend and bend
please end, please end, oh god, please end

feel the burn
gotta be someone elses turn
match the beat
c'mon i am out on my feet
no pain no gain
gain i am trying to lose
lets work to beat the clock
lets work not to beat the ****
with a sweaty coin filled sock

okay time to warm down
fall down best thing i have
heard all morning  trainer ****

to be a speciman in a jar
inspected from all angles
not freedom,
no hopeful view
inspected for your shape,
your feelings, your i.q.

to tip and tap scream and
yell for help to free oneself,

to pace cyclically while the beat of
your innerclock ticks your
precious time away.

to watch the watchers,

hear them whispering,
gossiping, laughing,
pointing at you,

curled feotally, as far as
possible from the incessant
view.

to want one thing,
but have another.

to desire,
to emire oneself
in a,
crooked point of
view.

to be confused, restrained
by sundered synapse,
or
fixated on rythmn, numbers,
rhymes in order to get through.

to be  black ink stickmen,
in
an ink black room,
with a black dog,
chasing you....
growling out doom.

to be living a hell private
and encompassing while,
working  in uniform
oh so neat.

we are one and all,
the specimans,
incomplete.

the glass jar is there,
for
all who stumble in defeat.

....to be a speciman
in a jar
judged for ....



is a living death,
a soundless living hell

a far cry from heaven,
more an automated shell
walking, moving, talking,
exsisting.....
             in a jar...
                        ..... on a shelf.

what was nothing

becomes reality

it happens momentarily

a thought creates an action

which sets the heart alight.

then reason takes flight

on wings of  purported glory

we skim the stratosphere

oblivious to gravity

we soar in graceless ecstasy


until .....        until....       until..................

in a xebec,
we sail...
seas,
of turqoise, teal
and cerulean blues...
with horses white and alabaster,
galloping in wavelets,
beside,
the creaking mahogany,
hand caulked hull.
the brass once shining bright
is now speckled,
by the salt of posiedon's
briny brow

above the masts.
one two and three,  
hold the lanteen sails,
set free, in a flurry
of canvas hysteria.
full and billowing,
now,
they propel us,
gently onward.

you and i recline,
undecorously,
on a plethora,
of bright morrocan cushions.
like bees,
busily rummaging,
among the flower petals.

as the sun sings the days
lullaby,
in the east,
in notes of tangerine and  buttercup yellow.

life.
four
letters,
but an
awfully
big
word.

love.
even
bigger,
a word
both
gigantic
and
minute.

live.
being
the
biggest,
broadest,
open to
enterpretation.
but
still
a looming,
largeness
to
behold.


live,
love,
life.


together,
a
mantra
for
a way
to be
large
among
the
small.

tallest
of the
tall.

broad
and
encompassing,
of one
and all.

live,
love,
life,

we all
fall,
sprawl.
but
rise up.

stand
and
fall,
learn,
to
learn,
from
it all.

love,
life.
live,
life.
live,
love.

colour me blue
                     ........now,
                             ..not ***** or lewd or suggestive.

colour me blue
                  ...... now
                                ...not glum
or gloomy or...  
                        woebegone.

colour me blue
                   .....now
                          ... not cerulean or beryl ...
                         or cobalt...
                              ... not indigo or ultra marine or azure

colour me blue
                       ....now
                                ..... agave tequila blue     ....now

                  please bartender....

colour me  blue.

She stood,
at serene attention,
her frailty forgotten.
face made alien,
to most, by the nature
of the disease.

Oh! but the smile,
beamed lighthouse bright.
as she brought forth her
frail hand,
to recieve the parchment
paper. Her Doctorate.
The soft hat glowed,
velvet, indigo blue,
in the autumn sunlight.

The crowd that had, expanded to twice it's normal size,
for just this special person.

Stood in a wave of love.
and the graduation day,
became,

The Day of Sue.

As we whooped and hollered and stamped and clapped,
the tattoo, of our loving respect.
As tears streamed, unchecked,
down one thousand faces.
She beamed and bowed
and left the stage.
One last time.

i am,
the spoon left in
the icecream bowl.
i am,
the towel on the
bathroom floor.
i am,
the toys in the cupboard
and more.
i am,
the vase with bright flowers.
i am,
the left over lasange
in the fridge.
i am,
the dinosaur doona
that snuggles your boy.
i am,
the bedhead that
watches you sleep.
i am,
the old clock
on the mantle,
wonky time i do keep.
i am,
cotton and lace knickers,
jocks and striped socks,
jumbled up in a cedar drawer.
i am,
toothbrushes and bathplugs.
i am,
the tattered, striped hall rug.
i am,
pictures of two, then three.
i am,
the couch, the oversized tv.
i am
the desk and the books.
i am
the mirror that looks
old and faded.
i am,
art projects, created
and afixed on the wall.
i am,
coffee table
and
featherstone chair,
none too stable.
i am,
walls of teak
and roof of
colourbond steel.

i am
house and home
and if i could speak,
well, it would be
downright surreal.

i am,
comfort and warmth.
i am,
refuge and rest.
i am,
old and creaking.
i am,
heaven blest.

i am,
haven,
from lifes storms.

and i am  more,
you made me
this way,
with love,
you and yours.

have i mentioned lately,
that my myocardial musculature,
pulses pure luminousity,
cause you are the incandescant
asterism in my biosphere.

no, well you are baby,
you are my hearts pure light,
it beats for you,
you are my stars and moon
my whole world.

i love you.

radiant is thy smile,
smallboy love, exudes
from you,
like a flower god's nectar,
bestowed,
with negligent love,
upon a mother's world.
i will drink my fill,
everyday, whilst i can,
for far to soon will you
grow up.

precipitate pontilism
art by small raindrops
painting the world a
cleaner shade of gray
this marled and stormy
afternoon.

neverfull,
mama,
neverfull.
quoth the raven chick....



with a gentle nod to mr poe

i did not dance
until i met you

it is a though
you held the key
to the music box
in my heart

now i dance with
abandon
wild and free

for the release from
that cage of inhabition

i am ever grateful

disparate thoughts


                     clash

  with butterfly brillance


     resulting in


neonic cymbal synapsual
           clarity

reverberating
          reverberating
                  ­ reverberating
      in my brain

the outcome
                 this inkstain

there was a time
in my life,
when my view was,
monochromaticaly blue.

the deepest darkest blue.
verging on, but not quite
black.

it was not a comforting
or calming shade.
in fact it was jagged glass
in my eyes.

it shred, rendered
my mind into shards of
bitter and hate,
it unraveled a deep, dark blue twine
and  wrapped it about my heart.
marking, marring
and restraining my hope of
remembering other shades
or hues.

i sat inside my deepest darkest blue,
with my confetti blue mind
and snippets of blue blue twine.

waiting for the deep dark
bluetide to rise and wash
away what little i had left...


instead you came,
with artists easel and brush
and painted my world
polychromatic.

with strokes of purple orange.
green, yellow and blue,
you gave me the colours to see,
deep, dark blue was only the
smallest part of my view.

******! dali,
the clock's
sliding off
the wall...
again.

piccasso,
you *******
you blest
me with
three *******...
but nothing to
hold it all

van gogh,
whose
going to
clean up
all that straw
and blood.

and
munch,
do you
wonder
that
i
scream!!!

there is something so lovely
about the ignorance of one's youth

the time when bliss is your
paramour,
and age your best friend.
when life is a promise to be
fufilled,
with all things,
wonderfully crystalized and distilled.
that brief shining era,
when all is gold
and you keep forever,
what you behold.
when indeterminate of color or creed,
you make friends with
curious ease.

it is the time before,
you learn how,
to bleed,
to mourn,
to grieve,

the time before,
the era of discovery,
that within you
and all others,
there is an ocean of tears,
a hurtling freight train of fears,
an everest of desire,
a krakatoa of rage,

it is the time before,
you are forced to turn the page,
on stories half written,
on dreams denied,
the time before,
you can translate the trillion meanings of sighs,  
the time when, regrets begin to collect you,
the time when, worries begin to tatter and rent
the fabric of your soul.

youth, it is the vibrantly
hued years.
after the warm fuzziness of childhood cuddles.
and before the comfortable grace of adulthood.
it is passion and fumbling and finding and fueding and ecstasy of knowing,
it is mistakes and victories, woes and triumphs,
it is needing and it is bliss.
it is horrible angst and it is loveless loneliness,
it is what cow!
it is is'nt he lovely!
it is standing out in a crowd.
it is standing alone in a crowd.
it is  knowing everything,
needing no more lessons.
and it is ignorance,
blind with no descretion
it is hating your mum,
it is wanting your mum.

there is something quite lovely
about the ignorance of one's
youth...

             .......when the world
is there to be  conquered....

this is the aftermath
here
sitting in my
dinghy of fools
three passengers
only.
me, myself and i
surrounded by
useless f#cked up
baggage
rowing furiously
in circles
on a sea
of stupid.

all cause
my words
in anger
cast
you
overboard
to swim with your
personal sharks.


would it help
if i threw you
a rope made
of heartfelt
apologies.

could you then
find your way back
sorry regret by sorry
regret.

so we can row together
toward  the coast of
mutual understanding....

can we get to there,
please?