I found thee again this morning
Wand'ring peacefully through the drops
As I walked down by the bus stops
Next to the farm full of green crops

Thy naivety, and stares of love-
were like the flopping birds above!
How thy questioned my weary face-ah!
With signs as clear as thy blue eyes.

Alexander, Alexander
How thy eyes still wicked with wonder
Pity but I love thee no more
Nor as much as I did before

As now I'm painfully certain
That I'm in love with another
Yet our first meeting shalt remain-
strong, untouched and never alter.

How I gasped as our eyes met;
how thou rubbed thy hair when I greeted!
Ah! Thy golden hair-shone light and fair,
as I sat next to thy blue chair.

Alexander, Alexander
Let me show thee how cries can smile
and how sad tears can be joyful.
Let me teach thee that love is vile
and openness can be spiteful.

And when thou understand this then;
be glad and shed thy tears away.
For thee wilt come that joyous day-
the one our hearts might not know when.

Alexander, Alexander
Let me cherish thy remembrance
As I write here 'twixt the brown furze.
Let us cheer nature's prominence
With our stories' shifts and curves.

Forgive and forget, dear lover
as I turn right in yon corner.
For 'nother soul, is there for thee-
whilst my dream prince, there waits for me.

Katie Price
Had a collection
Of last season's
Brassieres
Which she indexed
With the help
Of a sincere
Bilingual reindeer
Dressed in spandex
Who for some reason
Was single.

Taxonomy
Is so important to me
Said Katie.

So they were labelled
And kept in taxis
At disused angle grinder factories
Near the Tower of Babel
So posterity
Would be able
To analyse
The finer points
Of her physiognomy.

Quite an unusual praxis
And something of an anomaly
For someone like me
Wouldn't you agree?

Cross my heart
And hope to die
I agree.

You exist in a moment
when we sat on the edge of the concrete when it meets the lake
in the night at the end of Chicago.
Our legs were in the water seated on stone.
The lapping of the waves.
The lapping of the cars.
Warmed by the city light.
We were, you and I, in the darkness of the water.
Cracking our heels against the solid stone.

For me you exist in that middle space.
What I thought I was and what I could be.
So when I feel the fog against my legs at night as they pound heavy on the pavement
how can I not be sent back into a thought of your arms.
Alexander, My Great.

Before that, though,
how we sat in Michigan underneath summer stars.
Where we shared voices in a hushed darkness defied.
On the soft sand near the large rocks
watching the expanse between the lights
and the sweet invasion from Chicago’s night.

That expanse, I love
when it melted into your chest and the small stars became your birth marks.
I was born under you.
The stretches of black.
Your stretches of gold.
I still feel the trees behind us
and our friends on the beach and the beer in our hands
and the stars on your chest.

Subjectivity seems like a curse near the rocks in the water.
A name is a thing with stars on its chest
that melts Chicago with coursing waters.
If my truth is objective and you call it love
then my beauty becomes fact in that moment.
Every stone in broken sand we sat on.
The exact color of the fog.
Every lapping of the cars has meaning in it.
Or none of it does and I go back.

Leave the beaches and leave the moment.
Leave with me.
I no longer am satisfied with Michigan waters and Chicago stone.
I want the space we saw.
The blackness punctured by heaven
punctured by you.
I need the space or the planets contained in dark to be with you.
No mixtures, no negotiations, no more breaking waves.
I will sit with and feel the weight of your existence.
Just you.

Our pursuits are to express into the world,
to be able with steady heart and clear breath to say something to you.
I should block out the lapping of the cars and give something to you.
But I am always stuck in these moments with you.
Trapped in the cold of the cans and the silk of the sand.

In his monochrome home
Postman Pat
Has a black and white television
To colour co-ordinate
With his black and white cat.

As well as
Secret love children
Who also match.

He christened them all Foam.

As befits an autodictat
With a comprehensive
Collection of
Black and white combs

This is a terrible romantic
and sadomasochistic narrative.

The artist's mind is clothed in fabrics.
Fashion is his vocabulary.

Grim-tales are often told with foreboding,
exacted further through sharp, perceiving lenses.

Collections of sharp silhouettes speak of
a masterful and sensitive touch.

A turbulence of emotions exploded in
delicate and mesmerising theatricals.

Taking delight in challenging popular notions,
Alexander left audience continually in a
lingering aftertaste of shock mixed with wonder.

Sat on a sedan
Spiderman took her hand.

Went down on one knee
And said
Will you marry me?

I cannot face
The rest of eternity
With each generation's
Take on modernity.

It's old fashioned values
I look for and see -

Your confidence,
Common sense,
Your honesty,
Sincerity,
Your quirkiness
And peacableness.

But most of all
Your peerless take on life
Is what does it for me.

Will you be my wife?

Spiderman, Spiderman,
How you do woo!
And you have such qualities
That draw me to you -

Your patience,
Respect,
Your considerable intellect,
Your gentleness,
Strength of mind -

I could go on at length and find
You could  be my cobweb?
I could  be your fly?

Could you  be the man for me
Until the day I die?

What more can I say than
You may have concurred
That I do things my own way.

So can you guess?

Little Miss Muffet Said Yes!

And do you know what?

As they lay there
On that Le Corbusier chair
Without a care in the world -

And you know it's not novel
To be graphic -

They were not afraid at all.