Talk to me about flowers and fires.
The orchids
of our collected youths
are bleeding into rose water
and being smashed into books.
For a little look
like a picture stretched under a slide
hiding, elfin to run back away from us.

In the hearth of us we wonder
what the charcoal will draw next.
Sticks on the banks of the styx
In it’s flicking midst
I can almost see
the little beat-less heart
in the center of the cherry.
It’s like it’s still held still in pursed lips.

In a falling little flame
accidently spilling it.

Out in Saturday mornings.
Out of school
so sliding in our nose rings.
Skiving by lying
with fist rubbed eyeballs.
The swell,
Then the classic sweetness
of the re-sleep.

Marker pen graffiti.
Feeling like elitists
because we don’t like elitists.
Defeatist is in right now, love's yet a fable.
(Planets are *****) on physics tables,
and writings on my hands,
but **** it man,
I won’t remember them, anyway.

Blurry nameless kisses
tasting like French lager,
or is that me?
Bellybutton shots.
Love at a coin toss
or against a brick wall was at it's best.
But there’s room for two
in this tent full of burn-holes.

Iron maiden.
never paid but
in microphone coldness
on the lips.
Lifted on the fix.
Giving the week in a night
and taking the night for a week,
with velocity.

Headbanger’s neck on
the pen-bottle ****, being used,
being used up.
Swimming against the river.
Golden Virginia,
Sobranies in the bus shelter.
And as the day's screen goes over
we still kept the bonfire
running in the rain.

That's what talks to me.
I'm laying back,
but moving forwards,
involuntarily.

The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1,
is over 20 billion km away from Earth.
On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold,
containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth,
A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark.
On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence
I have ever read
TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC
ALL TIMES
ALL WORLDS
a time capsule, a gift, from us
To anywhere and everywhere
A hundred years from now or a thousand
Our belief that no matter what time
Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate.
On the cover
Are figures, explaining how to operate this record
Hieroglyphics from what by then
Would be ancient history
Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s
Our position in the universe marked by our distances
from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home,
the creators of this message
There's beauty in this marriage of math and art
Code and music
As a way to communicate with the universe.
Some of the images on the record are
the most beautifully simple ones,
Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing,
of animals, nature, food and architecture.
Then there are images of our scientific observations,
mathematical calculations, our discoveries,
Like a child showing off
Look, look what I can do!
Black and white and in colour,
Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved.
The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart
to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night.
But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition
if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough
to comprehend what it means.
But that's the thing, everybody knows,
That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard,
and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter!
We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet,
no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE.
WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED.  
And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us,
our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone.
Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best,
Explore.

These grey walls

That lost their souls

Are soon to be resurrected

By a new kind of art that’s been neglected.



Bring in the color,

Let’s have fun

Change the mural,

Make is shine!



Many might be against it,

Call it fake,

Or even junk,

But for me guys,

This is… art.

1.
I am sitting at a coffee shop but I am too nervous to go in.
It is the same coffee shop you were in a week ago,
before you skipped town with your new girlfriend
who has a brand new nose as part of her graduation gift.

The very same coffee shop in which you told everyone
you wanted to take a crowbar to my knees
and knock out my teeth.

You wanted to **** me
and cut me up
and throw me in a landfill.

Oh honey, you never were very articulate or imaginative.

2.
It's strange, human interaction, you know?
While you were wishing ill on me,
I was with another man by the river who is over twice my age
and he was touching me in a way that he shouldn't have been.

That's life for me now,
there are no other ways to it anymore.

We all know I have a desire for what is taboo,
you made certain everyone knew about my little indiscretions,
and that's no secret.

3.
In truth,
I still think about the sun dappled curtains
that hung over our bed in early spring.
Still too cold out to enjoy ourselves,
but warm enough when we wore heavy jackets
and kissed in the community rose gardens.
Just cold enough that lattes and card games in coffee shops
such as the one where you swore you would **** me at
were still something we could enjoy.
But..alas,
I find myself to be the worst type of romantic.
I have a hard time letting go.

4.
And there's this woman outside the coffee shop
talking on her phone in eloquent Spanish
and chain smoking cigarettes in a way that makes them seem beautiful.
Her hair is obviously very deeply chocolate colored,
it is coming through on her blonde roots.

And there's this old man who limped up
and felt the need to stand behind me
and stare either at my computer screen,
or the seedy men day drinking on the job,
laying asphalt in the early summer heat.
It is hot, loud, sticky work to do,
but I guess this is their life and someone has to live it.

5.
There is a big green heart spray painted
onto the white brick wall downtown
and it has large initials sprawled across it in vibrant colors.
I do not remember a time when this heart was not there.
I want that.
I want a love so interesting even the city will not paint over it.
A love so daring I will have my initials plastered,
glaring over the city with a finalized permanence that says..

"I win."

Because that's what we all really want.. to win.

All the world is a stage of course.

6.
I feel that I push people away without trying to.
But, what is it about me that makes middle aged men look at me
and say "**** girl"?
What is it about me that takes their compliments
without a batted eye and makes me smile,
reveling in the fact for at least just a few moments..
I was deemed attractive enough to make a comment,
no matter how simple or degrading?

I find myself in a mans car who takes me to an abandoned house
and talks to me about hallucinating
and how women OBVIOUSLY do not enjoy *** as much as men,
and I sat in quiet, smug, disbelief
and watched him talk about what he does not know about.
All while fantasizing about him bending me over.

They forget all the world is a stage.

7.
I am a very good actress.

Perception of the reality you show me breeds only distrust

On this rainy day
I just want to cry
Not like some others
Who wish they would die

On this rainy day
Just want it to end
*** somehow I thought
He was a Godsend.

On this rainy day
I wish I could weep
And all my troubles
Could roll down my cheeks

On this rainy day
I just want the tears
And just to erase
All the past years

On this rainy day
My emotions scream
And boy do I wish
This was all a dream

On this rainy day
Want someone to hold
Someone who'll love me
Even when I'm old

On this rainy day
A painting's my heart
He graffitid it
And made it his art

On this rainy day
Breath seems like torture
A thing of unknown
Like a new culture

On this rainy day
I just want to cry
But oh pity me
My tear ducts are dry

On this rainy day
I just want to choke
On my wet tears, but
My tear ducts are broke.

New words in old styles

Tracked on a canvas of brick

By a precocious kid

Sneaking on the lines;

The little *****.

My morning art show

Laid out in illiterate words,

Scribbled by artists

Who failed art at school,

Then shat on by birds.

An exhibition of names

Written worryingly wrong,

Evident to the system

That failed before they

Even joined the throng.

We pause at one piece

Daubed in indelible paint,

White streaked on black,

A chaotic sprawl of letters,

"**** al saintz".

I've been there before;

A nice school I thought,

Catholic of course;

I doubt the child gave

The saints a spare thought.

And what about Al?

Does he care at all?

Does he pause here,

On his way to work,

And dream their downfall.

It drives me up the wall

To see tracks filled with art,

But are they to blame?

We let them loose

And they play their part.

If these walls could speak,
They'd tell you all about Art;
Whispers from spray cans.*

- (A.F)

Floating, drifting,
Slowly it passed from his hand
To the cold, hard sidewalk.
It once was a pretty flower,
With petals bright and cheerful
And a stem green and healthy.
Johnny’s night had not been great,
As was anticipated by his mom.
“You’ll have fun!” she said.
“But what about…” he trailed off,
Remembering the hulking ex-boyfriend
Of Lily, the girl he thought he loved.
“Just have fun,” she soothed.
Walking- no scuffling -down the street,
He remembered those last words she had said.
Even though this hadn’t been the night of his life,
He could still have a good time, right?
Five minutes later,
Johnny exited the nearby hardware store.
Four cans of spray paint in hand,
He drifted into the community center downtown.
All Johnny needed was a blank canvas
And about an hour before they closed for the night.
I thought I was going to get my first kiss.
I could have sworn she was going to be my girlfriend this time.
If only I wasn’t such a dork,
Then maybe she would be interested in me.
I hate everyone and everything!
The paint sprayed and splattered onto the canvas.
Johnny was breathing hard now.
Now he was ready, he was energized.
Ready to take on the world.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With a cover over the painting,
Johnny headed back to the dance.
He hadn’t even entered the building before,
Which meant he still had his ticket.
Johnny threw his ticket to the usher
And made his way over to the DJ.
“Turn off the music for like five minutes. Please.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ll give you three dollars
And whatever else is in my pocket.”
“Fine. Five minutes. No more.”
“Thanks.” Johnny smiled.
As soon as the music was off,
Johnny dashed over to Lily
And her giant boyfriend.
He set the painting on the floor
And grabbed her in his arms.
Johnny then kissed her
As passionately as he knew how.
Lily, stunned and confused,
Teetered back onto a chair.
Then, just when the huge brute was about to punch him,
Johnny swiftly clutched the picture and ripped off its cover.
The boyfriend gazed, along with the rest of the crowd,
At the beautiful ******* the canvas.
“You painted this?”
“Yeah.”
“You really love Lily, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“Then you need to kiss her again.”
The ex-boyfriend smiled at Johnny and Johnny smiled back.
He looked over at Lily.
He handed his painting to the ex-boyfriend.
Johnny reached for Lily’s hand,
Wrapped his arms around her.
“Will you, Lily, be my girlfriend?”
Lily gazed into Johnny’s eyes,
Leaned in,
And whispered in his ear,
“Yes.”