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Sinking so low it hurts to just be,

unreachable surface not only for me.

Looking for methods to quicken the plot,

night of it all make sure the door’s locked.

I’ve heard this death hurts but it can't be that bad.

As long as it works and solves this I’m glad.

Not that the agent is present post act.

But nothingness welcomes you after the fact. 

Empty and husked some body lies there, 

sinking and stinking.

Deepening darkened light seeps in the cracks.

Damning all hope wish it never came back.

Let it all end, just set me free.

Let it just end, I cant do this for me.

Death like a wish,

I’d trade you for me.

Just let it end, I can’t bear to see.

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Sparks

A lust so hot it could melt steel beams, dreaming of scenes atop of bed springs. We merge into one as our bodies intwine, hands fumbling hands, no measure of time.

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Corner rooms

Things that I’ll say, and things that I wont. Things I regret, and things that I don’t. Things that are missed, like a morning’s first kiss, things that are not, like the tied anxious knots.

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Pajero

Taboo oppressive, catalogued desires, shameful depiction, motions required.

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What is the alphabet but a set of...

I search for the words every time that I’m home. The hope that I might have left some unturned stone. I search in the nooks and the dark secret places, but only relics inhabit these spaces. Relics of old, a few older than words, relics, like trophies, adorning top draws. And I come to conclude that the words are somewhere, but I mustn’t be ready to read again what they share.

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Lament for the Rohirrim

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing? Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing? Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing? They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow; The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow. Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning, Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

J. R. R. Tolkien

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Reallocation.

The time to reallocate can sometimes drag on. Reluctance to move, is sometimes too strong.

A worry you might remember the good, and end up once more,  a floating driftwood.

But you go anyway, hoping that feelings change. The hope that an old place can reallocate, rearrange.

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How to Make Sad Pancakes.

Ingredients:

 -2 egg.  -1/2 Cup of milk.  -1/2 Cup of flour.  -Self-pity.

Directions.

 1. Beat the eggs in a bowl until you find that the rhythm reminds you of a song, which in turn reminds you of a past relationship.

 2. Add milk.

 3. Sift in flour whilst stirring, stir until fully mixed, or whatever.

 4. Cook in medium-hot pan with butter until cooked either side.

 5. Add self-pity as needed.

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Just another rhyming poem, nothing new to see. Easy to write, once you know em’, rhyming is the key. See these words, they are for you, you’re eyes do not deceive. See the childish thing I’ve done, ashes fall on leaves. I needed something to rhyme that line, these words do not flow free. E I’m trying to say I still think of you, my words the only key.

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Wittgenstein

A writing as dense as brush, slowly my brain turns to mush, the words on this page, an essay days late, in need of a tertiary crutch.

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The grand French breakfast Sustenance of smoke and bean A body run down.

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Achilles

It’s nobody’s fault but mine. The narcissistic mite inside that corrupts all it consumes. I have brought you back to that place we know so well. The damage done is irreparable, your soft skin scarred by my monsters. “I only wish the best”, if only the best came true. The message here’s it’s me, not you.

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Jabberwock gypsy.

Beware the gypsy woman son, beware the gypsy one.

Beware her gypsy mousetrap heart, once you’re caught you’re done.

Those gypsy eyes will steal your soul, her lips are poison too, her teeth that bite will eat you whole and that’s not all she’ll do.

Beware the gypsy one my son, she’s coming for you too.

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Old dog, new tricks.

Cigarette armchairs a frame to spend the day in is this a haiku?

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Seneca.

I wonder if you think of me in the quiet. Are the wee small hours associated with another lover? From a different time, a different place?

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Poetry.

light hands, heavy body.

A heart-space hurt, deep and dimensionless. The waiver in my voice would be,  apparent,  if there were an ear that it might fall on.