You know, my love, that the worlds we have each created for ourselves
are galaxies apart.
Our language games are mutually untranslatable.

We never had a chance, my love. Even I know that.

We would never have been able to achieve an understanding of each other
deep enough
to overcome our fear of the unknown, (and utterly unknowable),
that we symbolize for each other.

The logical, brutally rational part of me knows that we could never have made each other happy.

So why must I, though you have been gone now for quite some time,
keep my mind on you all the time?

Why do I still feel this way, thinking about you every day?
And I don’t even know you.

I write this not to try to change anything.

I have lived long enough not to hold out for what cannot be.

Despite my unwanted, embarrassingly unrealistic romantic dreams from Hell,
well, not exactly Hell,
say, from the dark cave out of which fly the blind bats of activated archetypes,
inevitably,
we still would have had to face eternity, or the lack thereof, alone.

You are still looking forward to an eternal life with God and, I realize now that, ridiculously,
I still can’t stop dreaming of an earthly paradise with you.

Nasty business, my love, that we are each in love with an illusion.

What if we lived in a world in which our longed for illusions
were not just desperate self-delusion but pointed at some kind of Truth?

Do you think that would make us happy?

Isn’t it pretty to think so, my love? Isn’t it pretty to think so?

an open wound,
infected flesh,
from the bite of an angel,
your white wings cover your black heart,
as your disease sickens mine,
my pain is the only happiness i have left,
faux compassion has trapped my mind,
and my cage is yet unopened,
a singing bird,
dreaming of the freedom known as ignorance,
from the love i once cherished,

Some things in life are free, some things will take a banana from your chest drawers.
However many miles a road is that men walk down must,
at the end I hope there is a crew of construction workers
that all they really need is ice cream with chocolate syrup, all they’ve ever needed.  
They realize the waves of sound in the air are made out of ice cream
and the swinging of their arm splays out chocolate syrup like rainbows.  
This would happen in the latent way that apples happen, sprouting slowly from the root
and the secret’s on the inside blooming with a star
but meanwhile forming a hide that’s either crisp or chewy.

Biting down on air is a maddening sensation
and the upper and lower jaw blame each other;
contact every time is a betrayal.
They have no one else to blame but whom they meet on the other side of the empty room.
My jaw speaks and clicks in jerks. I do not understand but it is ok.
I like to be a woman of mystery.
I like to be a woman of mystery even when I can’t understand myself;
it is ok.

Sunday was visiting day
the day when briefly
as the visitors arrived

the locked ward
was unlocked
nurses on edge

eyes on the doors
patients on beds
or in chair

in the lounge
drugged up
or not so

depending on mood
or demons or how
far down

the deep pit
they’d gone
you can’t recall

Christine’s visitors
can’t remember
anyone there

but your mother
came through
the unlocked doors

carry smiles
and pinned in concerns
soft voice

smelling of perfume
or fresh air coming in
standing there

then sitting in the chair
by the bed
handing over sweets

or books or wash stuff
conversations
of how are you?

and what’s the food like?
are you feeling better?
were noted

and exchanged
your mother worried
lines on her face

in her eyes
swan deep concern
you saw Christine

over the way
standing by the window
looking out

then by the doors
waiting
arms folded

her nightgown
held tight
about her

her slipped feet touching
then the visitation over
the visitors gone home

the doors locked
the ward quiet
the patients subdued

staring into space
or at each other
gazing

into eyes
as blank as each others
depression deeper

nurses doing rounds
giving out drugs
listening acutely

to souls in torment
with their sad
silent sounds.

I miss the cold nights
Laying in the vacant bed
Of *** stained sheets
Staring at the moon through the window
I miss the way I slept
In every part of my room
Like a rock in the desert
Falling off the side of the sand dune blankets
I miss the rants of my insanity
The psychotic lullaby of the moon
Calling down onto me
To hunt a victim of purity
Plague them with the emptiness of insanity
I MISS ME
The old me
Of no heart and soul
No regret from anything he did
But now I have me
The man I wish I never was
Because I have nothing to offer her
And I know I love her
I know she loves me
But what am I to do
When I have nothing left of even me
I miss me
He always knew what to do
Oh well she fell in love with me
Not the old me
And I will do whatever it takes
To give her what she truly deserves
I miss me...because the I'm incomplete
Without her next to me

flickering
flittering
thoughts like butterflies
tinkering
tampering
with my mental state
shimmering
slithering
serpentine dreams of
tippety
tapping
words on the page
like beautiful
bubbles of
thoughtful babble
rattle
rant
but I can't
thoughts are butterflies
and they fly
they defy
me
when I try
to catch them