cupid’s arrow aimed at my frontal—
cortex,

cupid’s arrow aimed for my brain, not my—
chest,

i did not see it coming (too fast for the eye can see)
trembling— with cupid’s bow in my hands:

"Am I the really real me?"

feeling my cerebral fluids leaking—
i’m seeking—
the truth,

"But what is the cost?"

your life you will lose.

A sunflower from me to you
It is not much, but
I am sure it will do.

This is a bit corny
And a little cliche, but
This is what I do when I express my feelings.

When a certain person feels a different way.
They get a single flower not a whole bouquet.
This is to tell the other person that:
‘To the world they may be one, but
To them they are one big world.’

Cupid is blind, yes we know.
And he surprises people when he plays around with his bow and arrow.
You may never know whom you might fall for.
All you know is that you got struck by an abstract called love.

So you get a single sunflower,
And without expecting anything at all
You say to that person…

“Anodiwa shamwari, iri ruva kubva kwandiri kwauri, nekuti ... ini ndaida kuti iwe uzive kuti ndinokuda iwe kupfuura zvaunoziva.”

So this shouldn't change anything,
Especially how you see me.
I am still the same person as I was yesterday.

I do not wish to be with you.
We are not right for each other.

I just wanted to give you what grew in my garden.
This sunflower is to not be watered, but
Left to die.
Discard it if you must.
It is just a sunflower… nothing special.

- My-Girl

You already own
the route to my heart
so why not use it.
You already know
how I feel about you
open my hardened shutters.

Take an ax and smash the lock
into hundred thousand pieces.
You only own that power,
another will not succeed.

Nobody keeps watch
no dog still guarding here.
Leave Cupid's arrows out of sight,
you have already touched my heart.

Out of a **** he made Great Art
It was no ordinary **** no!
It was straight from the heart, that
   ****
It had lain too long in the dark
Now was it's time to start
To make its bid for freedom... and for stardom.

It flew like a dart that **** from the
   heart
Like an arrow strung from Cupids
   bow
Little did it know how luminous it'd
   glow
Becoming one of the Greats in the
   Farting Canon.

It was probably the greatest **** poem
   ever written
In my own humble opinion
It was very daring and it smelt of
   onion
It was certainly the fairest fartiest
   poem I ever seen
If it was one of the three Musketeers
It would have to have been
   D'artagoine.

It inflated like a balloon, blew up like
   a great glass bubble
Then it popped and headed off
   toward England
Flying further afield than any ****
   had ever flown
It touched people's hearts, bewitched
   every nation
Resounded around the world
Yea! was heard in every Kingdom.

It flew long, it rounded the Horn
Like a Lark, that ****, it soared and
   sung
It was no boring old ****
It was far fartier and fruiter than that
It was a King of Farts
Way above the fartiest of farters and
   all the farting Arthurs
It was the real King Arthur
The King Arthur of all farts and
   Farters.

A real Belter was that **** that came
   from the heart
That had all the Angels singing in
   their cloisters,
A real work of Art just like Mozart
Or remember... remember your
   Shakespeare
"Hark! A ****, a ****! Whereforth art ?
    Thou ****"
It played its part, that ****, yea! it
   wielded its Excalibur.

O! there's nothing I'd rather do than lie here blowing sweet bubbles next
   to you
You! on your little flutey flute flute and
   Me! on my big Bass Trombone.

Life is a delusion of meaning,
We seek direction without seeing.
Death is deceived as the end,
For none accept it is meant.
The people will forever live a lie,
We're not meant to live, but die.

Infinite possibilities of history,
But one day it won't be me.
Ineffable beauty we all desire,
Nefarious cruelty we all will acquire.

The only greatness we will find,
Is that destiny is very unkind.
Cupid is ****** and love's a lie,
Another arrow, and I will die.

Let me feel love again,
To leave this world in pain.
I'm not a poet anymore,
But maybe I never were.

The words here, I have said,
Are the memories I have bled.
Heal me, but never take my scars,
Feel me, for I'll be amongst the stars.
For death is darkness right?
In space, there is no ligh.
Forever, I'll float into the abyss,
And maybe find something to miss.

shielding emotion with every arrow that slips through my chest
i would rather pull it from its fletching,
ripping through my arteries and ventricles,
as my blood waters the seeds you tried to plant for us,
before i lose control again
and trust me, i'm dying inside
but my face holds a smile as cherry red trickles from my mouth
because at least i didn't fall in love with you

©L.F.

Pointed Art
by Michael R. Burch

The point of art is that
there is no point.
(A grinning, quick-dissolving cat
from Cheshire
must have told you that.)

The point of art is this—
the hiss
of Cupid’s bright bolt, should it miss,
is bliss
compared to Truth’s neurotic kiss.

Keywords: art, Cheshire, cat, grin, vanishing, dissolving, Cupid, arrow, truth, kiss, bliss