Steps away from a heartbreak



If you see something as loving you, 

1.

Dont believe it. Grab at your misery and

your hair to curl up into a ball and stay

very still.talk to the next astrologer 

about the best time to start chanting the 

name of any everyday apocalypse to

2.

Glorify it. Get so bombed that you

rechristen yourself Hiroshima, wig in place

heart hidden beyond the mantle. Build 

your own new-age cyber pyramid & spend the

rest of your life's energy trying to

3.

Ignore it. Life goes on. Sits on a bench

and smokes, shags in its head and gets it

gooey as an excuse for not thinking straight. Life

also has a habit of lingering for which you must 

4.

Forgive it.another gust of wind

and its a different face, on a different

bench back at the end of the beat,  sounding

more like a pop each recurring time and 

It's saved itself a seat.At this point,
all you can do-

5.

Be hospitable and this will leave

too.

The writing of a poem (IF you wish to write a poem)

go to your father, tell him this 
is painful, you should leave, we should stay 
in the Mississippi- the fish get tired quicker
elsewhere.Write a letter to your first grade 
teacher, say i lied, i really did 


Steal from the girl
with two ponies and i'm 
glad i did and then let you 


Teach me about god. Its greater without another 
syllable but goddammit that was grief,and i respect you 
for your innocence. Write to your teenage self 


Stop babies ahead but no don't 
fuck around.When you want to write a poem
become a month of harvest instead.Write to yourself
for every letterbox you fruitlessly dissected in your teens,
for how you reached only bones each time organs 
missing as blood or bile.become a month 


Of overflowing trashcans from the binge 
eating acne menstrual 
problems break ups. drink a solution 
of explosives and apple juice,every Eve learning to explode, buy her own food
or eat out of her ovaries. Dont make any make nothing
but excuses or someone believe.Write




To yourself your metaphors are too far out.Your
life is at the stake with that punctuation left to another's will,
you are a bad liar with weak lungs,quit.When they
don't get the game, you're a bad player so quit, light
a candle, write another shopping list or
a travel guide- exit the valley with
the toy soldiers,telescopes,the 




Moments before each plane crash on your mantle
think about each face of the dead that you remember- with

the warts,ones with the skydiving gelidity,

the frequents at the Mountain Bike Forums 

With the juts and gashes, write them epitaphs.In

some mention the faces you wish you could

have seen, their brothers,the wet

hair from the last time you remember(ed) 

Having seen them,pet your peeves

and apologise for the lack of italics they could
do nothing without the lumberjacks.When you 
want to write a poem learn ride a zebra instead.Hold 


Your love affairs and sweet talk, make a speech on the
dying breed of rare sheep, their scientific
name stuck around the edges of your teeth.Do anything but


This, because nothing is scarier, more
pathetic and discarded than 
the writing of a poem in reverse cause 
otherwise it would begin in the woods,breathe 
heavy for a while and then drop 


There on the knees with the stopped antique
watches buried at different points you would 


never arrive upon.

Should've Made a Deal

If I've added my birds to your treasures of song,

The winds will blow too, whenever I'm gone.

But when the waltz whistles, nestles in your cochlear

Put your heart in place before I lend you the ear.

My instincts called me for a drink and then abandoned me.

In my head I was reading a manual on

How to make Texas feel like a water-balloon, but

that's not where I live. Some days,

 you wake up feeling like red meat, the salt burning

down into you. You strip yourself bare of what remains 

of your skin to make it go away and it returns on

a sledge, down your chimney, into your socks. You 

know then- feet failing, spine dissolving, head in your hands

like the seashore you once tried to snatch at and

store for later- that everything leaks. In my head, this isn't it, red meat is
rot so lets switch to green. We can move to another city,freshly 

brewed,all the splashing and its still not Texas.My myths fail to

pull me down or even take me to the 8th floor terrace

again, my myths are starving and 

soon they will let up.My fingers, my nerves,my art,ditto.Some days

you are the last hospital wing, housing too many, the stench

of some poisoning the rest.You're a Saturday smile before 

the wasting away,that's when you break. Some days you

know your next move and then you switch positions, unaware

of still being in the same skin that crawled back on anyway.

People say

look at it from this point of view. Your points of view.Ok, let us
begin.If I look at it from the 67 degrees north point of view, a range is missing, whatever happens to the Himalayas when we move to the Atlantic? From right there across the street, a firefly is missing.From yours, I lost my 3rd Grade story. And from yours, I lost my FB password. Tragedy is flowing from all points, we are all points under the same water but at varied depths. We're a part of a balloon. Everyone in this balloon has different points of view. My point of view looks at this as a balloon. From my point of view, I see something dying. In all our points of view combined, what is happening again? Where is the heavily dressed woman in her forties, where is that pet animal she stole. And then they flocked her; she played hide and seek on repeat and it was blue evenings, red meat, a fat thump when she moved. Every moment is that moment of what is happening. It is a good what is happening but

gravity is tugging harder as I say this.  People say, look at it from my
point of view. Like it's the same thing, you and I have the same
bloodgroup, the same jawline, or the same fear of water on
our feet.Look at it from my point of view, then. Look at it, pulling
at my feet, tentacles of a sea monster and I, the only point it could
grab from down there.

what is that bad picture

one of these days, though

 I'll walk you past these windows,

 

I'll walk you through the trees;

I'll walk you to wherever 

gets you weakest in the knees.

The Adventure of the Runaway Cauliflower.

So once there was a cauliflower

growing in a field

while growing it had realised

it didn't wanna be your meal.

The epiphany caused it to take

the causeway and escape

It walked many a hardened land

till it reached a far off cave.

Now just as it was thinking it had

found a safe refuge

along came a cave man-

he was hungry and was huge!

To save itself, the cauliflower

crawled behind a rock

while the caveman tried to hunt down

any birds that would come flock.

Right after he had left

came a cavalcade of men

who seemed in need of food to eat

before they reached their zen.

The cauliflower, by now,

had grown weary of its nook

so it found itself a cauldron,and

as safe it was mistook.

While it sat inside the vessel,

the men had disappeared;

And entering the scene, was

a witch all veggies feared.

Her cauldron she then spotted,

approaching it she cried-

'Atlas! I do have cheese, but

still no veggies to be fried!'

Then cautiously it peeped out,

little Cauli, from within-

The witch stared right into its eyes

and (now barely) off-white skin.

'Aha!' she said, 'now i can make

myself cauliflower cheese!'

But before she could say 'Fire!'

Something behind yelled 'Freeze!'

From within the cauldron, Cauli

thought aloud 'Oh jeez!'

'Its the leafy CBI officers

and they got guns to squeeze!'

The witch's wand and officers' guns

sprayed pesticides and spells

But then approached the Cauli Witch

to sound the vamp's death knell.

It snuck and made its way ahead

and bit hard at her leg

both witches shrieked one final shriek

and then the vamp- she fell!

The veggie-scarer, now, to a pale

cauliflower was reduced

while officers sprayed stuff to

keep her reflexes confused.

Climbing out the cauldron,

Cauli then proposed a feast

what was left of the vamp was to be

their own special treat!

They cooked her with cheese and cayenne

in the cauldron she once owned

Raised a toast to the end of the

witchy terror that they'd known.

Now, to hear the moral

of the story you must swarm-

'Daane Daane Pe Likha Hai

Khaane waale ka naam'.

-


be not harsh. written very quickly for a college assignment (which, btw, was to use at least 10 words out of a GIVEN pair of pages off the dictionary and making a story out of it and illustrating it in 12 panels {which, i have not done yet no im doomed indeed}. i just wrote it in verse because i think i was high and wanted to rhyme because i cant generally rhyme.my page had cauliflower, cauldron, causeway, CBI, etc etc. )

Last time i was drunk

i felt some bathroom hysteria bobble up in my chest.i felt
like a wind turbine with a broken teetering-hub, which stands
facing west. i felt seven daggers and 18 years of chipped
nails creep into my dreams one by one. i felt a lot of
terrible things. i also felt

your hands and your fingers as they grew rocky.Last time i was
drunk i tried writing letters to 3 people in heaven. the first
snorted, the second wouldn't acknowledge my existence. the third was
killing himself again.the third was telling me i need to
shove the words into a mortise.i felt like i needed to
keep a promise, or a secret, but all i have is cavities.i
felt like giving some strong advice.

like- When lachrymose,try weeping on someone's bleeding sweatshirt.
or Never ignore a roadkill, it might come to and eat your genitals.
or Turn into a crow. or a unicorn. or something that can escape
fatuous human faith.or Love your children, please love your children.Last

time i was drunk,i felt like polishing forks and honing my blades, like
it is the most tender act in the universe.i felt like being a handgun
hidden in a shrine,or the love hidden in a whore's crevice.i felt
like writing NEX all over my walls and painting them yellow.
like a gay,violent death in springtime, i wanted to scream and
dismember a heart, for once,not my own.

NOTAGAINAAAA.

indoors,i'm paling bonfires and verbing the nouns and
death is a metaphor.the room sighs with the afternoon
grief,the morning grief, the early summer grief saddling
nightfall. the grains in your coffeejar are a thousand
condensed nightmares imitating mine.the room sighs as

love is just a metaphor.in photographs,the eyes grow closer ,
but lighter with the loss of regard.your hands probing through
my ribs find filthy similes eating at a faint throb.the throb,
the paling bonfire, the room with no doormats, no sky,
just blood and disease- affect lunging into attempts to
hide.inside,warming up for spite, expecting
crisis in the hub,i lay out trump defenses- failing, failing,

falling.

---------------------------------------
SOMETHING after ages, and this bloody awful. i wanna shoot me.
butdoods. ive been outa touch for ages. no no shootmeanyway.

Prayer before Death(?)

today, with seven new clouds
in the sky of a wednesday,
i look first at the mirror
and then i look your way

i see the skies are stagnant
underneath the heavy weight
of empty grief accumulating
on the wrong side of wind breaks

today, with drooping treetops
today with still no rain,
like everyday- a promise
i must compulsively break

so with my geography book dying
psycho lying in my wait,
i pray - DO ME A FAVOUR GOD
AND HELP ME CONCENTRATE.

-
yes we ALL need somone to blame. agnosticity be damned.
do you see what this does to me? it makes me RHYME. that's something i havnt done in a year and a half.
or something.
BLAH.IN CASE I HAVNT MENTIONED IT, IM BLOODY DOOMED AND AM DOING ABSOLUTELY *NOTHING* TO BETTER THE SITUATION.

(still listening to badonkadonkey. \bornruffians/ INDIE FOREVAR!)

these things happen and they make me poetic.

im peeling the soles off my feet
but everything is still strange and absent and
imaginary when im walking all over it. these
things happen.my fingers are all blood and
loose cuticles.im telling you, these things
happen and they're are always watching you through
a peephole with the kind of eyeballs
that turn into a doorknob and lock you in before
you know it.this is irrelevant and it
makes me poetic.

*

this morning i was in
the toilet, singing and imagining that im
at a party with all your friends watching me.
none of them was taking pictures of me. no one
told me i remind them of someone famous.i was ugly
with tufts of hair missing and no one was getting me a
drink and they were staring as though im a tortured
polar bear and they're copious amounts
of greenhouse gases. these things happen and

*

they make me a little crazy, a little edgy and suicidal but
all of it it also makes me majorly poetic.like i start seeing
stars appear all over my body and the walls and the bedsheet and i
start trying to lick them off and i dont know what
the hell is going on so i decide to write about it.
but i cant, and it makes me feel like my heart
needs to piss. like i'm walking into a
new city with no wind, no sun, no plants and
nothing to grow into.

*

when you were talking about
edges and love and perfectness and love and flames
and love, i thanked you because you wouldnt have
me talking about it too. you dont care. im a huge big black
box of garbage and eagles swoop down to snip the last of
my words. this makes you happy and you leave.these

*

things happen and then we start
writing about how the world must be a peephole
into something huger,more sinister, with
more of a menstrual sense of humor.about how
large amounts of illegal drugs and some
amount of real death would really help. about how
being alone actually makes us stretch our limbs as far as
they'd go, and not just curl up and die. about how
nothing can be salvaged once we start doing this- we
start touching everything as though we're some dusty old
memory,the athlete's foot, or a shard of broken glass.

you say everything as though you mean it to break something

You do everything as though you are
helping a dying woman through childbirth.You say-
'If you're not the woman, you'll be the child'. You are doing this
to make the child survive a world of raptors on its own, crying,
wiping its face on its ass.'You cannot escape this',you
say. I swear, I dig my nails into you and yell
when I'm really just wishing I could sob and say 'I'm sorry, I'm
sorry, lets be ok.' You do everything as
though


you're doing everyone a favour, everyone
but you. You tell me that if my dead friend's book
gets to my bedroom, I'm going to be possessed by suicide
spirits. I burn the book and feed you the
ashes. You take your forgiving hands
out of the oven and do everything you can to
save the child.You say 'This is your next life, damn you, damn
you', bleed a little, and collapse with your God
stories lying next to you.


You know how it's all played out, you're writing
the script and you're chopping off all branches to punish the
roots. The fruits fall, the flowers fall, the
buds make no sound but weep. You look at me and
say 'You won't escape this, damn you,' trying to sound like a witch,
but failing. You try your exorcisms on yourself and
then on me but we've been exhausted. You take your
forgiving hands, pick me up and tell me that


nobody will love me because
I'm ugly with disfigured breasts that resemble the
withering humanity hanging out loosely from
something facing extinction. I try to kill you but my nails
come off. You take your bruises and compile
them into a catalogue of revolvers as though it could be
your prophesy or your handbook on


survival strategies for me. You call me a whore and
scream curses into the commode. You tell the dying
woman that the child is coming through. The steam doesn't
help her breathe. You talk about your failing
marriage your dying bones your psychopathic
tendencies your life and its lack of oases and the
saddest way to combat collapsing roofs. I say 'you can't escape
this, DAMN YOU!' and weep silently, wondering
if you'll ever notice their missing heartbeats
sticking to your bloody hands.


--
(image from google, manipulated by me)

Small ones.

You did not catch-
my eyes, burnt out
lamps- closing like a poem
saddened by love.

-

Plea
edges of these lips
fraying and weary- come by
to lend them pliancy.

To The People I Wish I Knew

Meet me at the outfall. Meet me near public toilets.

Meet me at the park hotel washroom,

barge in and say hello. Say- hello, I’m

not supposed to be here; and you'll be forgiven.

Say- hey! You look ugly but just a little and

that’s forgiven. You’re a fucked up kid even when you

smile at me and that’s forgiven. You eat up a piece of your day

everyday, do you want that forgiven? Ask me. Say, 

Hello! What were you thinking? The river always outfaces the ocean 

right before emptying itself into the latter, and the river is never a rapist, not even 

when it rushes- Meet me at the outfall as a river and be swift. Break

my stance on love affairs. To all the people that I’ve seen listening to 

their music with a smile, listening to their mother with a smile, looking at 

the world with a smile, looking their feet with

a smile looking at their feet whistling JESUS F. CHRIST DON’T WHISTLE.

Don’t whistle at the FEET- it makes ME feel worthless, and THAT is 

the red ribbon you cut at the entrance. Walk in, draw a chair, draw a 

breath and inhale my delusions of you. Bit by bit- not all at once like a 

shocking fall in the stock market, or the hair-fall issues making me bald 

and insecure, all at once. When you exhale, help me write a gist

of the mist that is your sadness, your pride, your disease. Make me sigh

and let it not return to me.

Today, I started writing you a poem and it read:

I wish you knew me and vice versa.

I wish you knew me and vice versa.

I wish you knew me and vice versa,

vice versa vice versa.

Today, I looked up the rules of writing to you-

spell out only synonyms of love, misspell them.

Never say fuck. Say 'this is not important',

mislead them. Work out your puzzles before

laying them out for others. Never make yourself the

subject, use vice versa vice versa

vice versa. And I swim through the dictionary looking

for words that don’t remind me of you. But I get

topsail, and I am Ship with mine pointing in your

direction. I get Macadamia, the nut of an Australian

tree that one of you is swallowing as I try

excreting your face out of my brain. I get quadriplegia

and I’ve already let it grow into me, settle in cozily,

helplessness et al. None of my other inconsistencies help me

get over this shizz so I give up trying to cover up, and

tell myself- well, this too is forgiven. Today, I hope to catch you

at that pathetic little corner of the street staring at

the madwoman like I do when my sighs return

to me. To you with eyes like anecdotes and antidotes

to reality, with the trench across your cheek changing

depth as you speak- meet me without your armors. Meet

me with your kitschy secrets. With your collarbones bare,

your shoulders just the way they are. Meet me near

the ruins and sit by me, wondering where we were

when it happened.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

i dreamt of you dying.they told me
love is dead so
i must bury you with it before you
metamorphose into ashes and nothing more, nothing

more.im picking words for love like you pick flowers
for the dead and and this is not my poem. if this is an almost madeup
poem, its not mine at all. this
is a postcard of bereavment to myself and each phrase is borrowed
like this sorrow i carry as my only child.

*

my skin feels like an essay on the Thar, palms like a madman's
prayer, limbs askew from the hunting of leeches,eyes swollen in
wait like the girls in my incomplete drawings,
incomplete because i fear if i carry on, they'll end up with a pool
before them and desert skin from too much semblance
to crazy, lonely postcard writers.my head feels like a snowball
and there seems to be a cardiac pause

whenever im trying to turn the commas in my heart into
semicolons- so that we are closely related independent
clauses and you can walk away but i'd still
mean something, though it never works
without the promise of a longer pause.

*

when i hear them saying Time makes love pass,
Time is nothing but sinister. but then they tell me
Time heals all wounds, and i try saying them together
and it only means wounds give you a reason to
return.

*

sometimes im shit scared of not getting
life's metaphors like the wind blowing sorrow
into my hair,sorrow thick and wild, failing to
get my heart back home.sometimes im shit
scared of what my mother might say next
and as she enters the room, she tells me that
it smells like

something just died.



--------------------------------------------------------------------------
its just writing. seriously.

wordlimit

in this heat
this is me using broomsticks instead of
running water.. grime over my lids, pine underneath
this is time and tide leaving me stranded in a pub reeking of
abandon and neglect , in this heat

this is more tideous than having to stare
at apostrophes to tell them apart- what you are and what you own
and what lies in the thiefs' closet
this sorrow eats my tongue and shits over my heart but
it's still watching- still and watching as

they say life's a road and fail to add how people walk over it just walk all

over it and then grow too weary to add it on epitaphs so you must figure out words of

wisdom that are always half-uttered. in this heat- life is a room with an all-out and no

windows and clustered pest-like confusion and an electricity bill due; life is

a watery verse with wordlimit and too many ways to exclaim
this is what it was.

----------------------------------------------------
this was suppossed to be a poetry challenge for me- set by LD on friday. because i was/am SO blocked. SO SO fucking blocked. she gave me three words [which are included in the poem i wont tell you which ones nananana guess guess if you guess right i'll know they seem out of place and that im a fucking faliure] and sentence limit, actually.
bah i hate this.

talk about foresight (at hindsight)

this is being written as i consider suicide.
the sleeping pills know the way to the garage and might
do me in before i begin to protest.
Letter to myself, from a week ago:

before ever attempting suicide:
read poetry or newspapers in the hope
that either will

change your life.try dancing again and fracture a toe/
sprain a ligament/bump into someone to
remind yourself of how it once changed your life.
cry over it,

get over it.be a black bird without mercy,
join a conspiracy,kill a
bitch and say im jealous of you.stop believing in
karma, put it in a tarot card and motion blur

the shit.give up trying to belong to
borrowed walls, know no safer
roofs than accumulated dreams.consider this: every
line drawing grows into a Venn diagram if not
left alone.give yourself 90 minutes in hell for a little

longer than this, and at a stretch.look at the
mirror, say FUCK i have nothing to do with this and
break it.walk in and walk out of being ok and do
it very fast do it like a firefighter against

ocean currents, his training futile,still 
wired to fighting for safety.write an email and know that
this is romance. the air you breathe in is a different
country and your face is a safety-pin(up).bless distance and
stretch it like a continent until it gives way to
your seas, bless plate tectonics for
teaching the world freedom.break free and
know:

this is romance.call shayo up and pray she
sings live forever.try saying yes.say, the pins sticking
out of my tongue need safe disposal, yes. say,
Im starved and lonely and I drew your face but
I was really just hoping it was a smoke and I haven't swallowed
yet I'm waiting,yes. I'm the person who'd find you like you
find her but you dont

come around. paint a pebble for one whole day.
paint a pebble for a little longer.
keep painting the pebble till your mother comes and
throws it away and get back to being
the absence of sense and delete the
last blog post and throw away the pills because
they're hers, really, who wants to use her stuff.this 
is getting tiring, sleep it

over and forget about it, you can't for the life of you
do it anyway.

This was there like a fishbone stuck in one's throat, but i can
only guess.I don't eat fish, they reek of premature
death and regrets. it was like the first day
of the knowledge of cancer,the last
method of redemption and its lost procedure guide.it
was there like hems around my lungs and i pulled it out,
wrapped up the pills in it, and realized that they didn't 
come with my expiry date anyway.

When you are broken

I don’t know if you're
broken when you can still open

your eyes to your nails and find
skin beneath them, body
stretched like a
sailboat
each bone in place each rib
like a promise your chest still

serving as sailcloth. You’re
home, even if you're obese, even if tired.
you can cry on the floor
in a hotel room and you'll still be obese,
still like hamburgers, still need sleep

and know it. But you have a closet
full of holocaust
victims to return to, a road running into the tummies of
all of Africa, most of the Mediterranean, and losing
its trail in vacuity Mexico isn't an

escape, neither is your house.
Cries of horns, women and
sighs of old men, haggard eyes ricocheting
exhaustion-alarms off your attic, fill the glass
no reason to drink re-fill

the sky, stay up, watch it empty itself
into your lachrymal glands. You stick to music
because you started, because you are
a humming bird with no better

purpose. You know what the postcards
will say and wish you had settled for
blood in the arm they had spared him then

and now you have a
man with a bullet in his back buried
in your backyard as cattle, vegetables
growing on the mound with none but

the dead to feed. When you make up
conversations in your head and save them
up for afternoons to come, hoping
that the earth explodes

before they do. You can’t ask
about your mother or for
photographs of when it was
different, because maybe that equals

never. When you hold his hand
and you're cold when love feels as
stagnating as being convinced, or being

miles from it. The world sets out
to set you free from your peace
of mind, and when you give them
a piece of your mind,

the undoing begins. You let them molest you,
asking to yourself 'will this keep me safe will this

keep me..' and the know-it-betters won’t have
a benchmark answer. You're broken when
you swallow silence every night silence like
a nasty hangover you can’t

shake off. When you have stories
to be thrown up, but no
words are worth a damn, you know
what to do. Break them up,
and become

the puzzle pieces.

Today

first hit me in the garb of an
early morning fart from
father and shot me out of bed
unawake, snatching at residues of
7 a.m. half dreams.

*

was another hatechain.
i wrote hatepoems inside my head
for someone, a chance break for mother,
(and guess what day it is)
and laughed at his childishness later,
hating myself for smiling about
people i choose to hate.

*

i discovered a bald patch and
wished all todays would do me a
favour and end,
but not yesterdays nor the idea of tommorows
and never
3-years-agos

*

i lied about God and wrote him
a note saying: "Dear God,
i don't think i would've liked you much if
you did exist."

*

i washed the heat off
my nape
and felt my wet hair drip
on my bare back
for a little longer than
a prostitute can
afford an orgasm.

*

i didnt nap for i was
afraid i'd cry
pools in my dream i'd
cry pools i thought silly me.

*

hasn't ended yet

*

i felt like an old man without his grand-daughter
though I'm still a teenager with
a need for brassieres , and have never wanted
a child of my own.

*


i realized that i've grown up a little
due to this city with its share
of madwomen at bus stands,
and lack of starlight or clarity.
making sense was never this easy

*

i didn't fall in love

*

was an empty box of crayons,
or an empty bowl of soup i
sat picking at the insides of, with nothing but digestive tablets
to indulge in, but after a while
i felt some greys crawl under my nails.
its never truely colour, or complete lack of it
greys always crawl in much closer.


*

i wished the sky would unhinge itself and
blow me a kiss or blow a spine into me or just simply
spit, goddammit.

*

i wrote another note
this one said: "Dear God,
i don't think
you would've liked me much if
you existed"
and hoped he cant read
thought-notes in this language.

*

i laughed at myself and refused to admit
that this shell is safer than not-quite-rights, for
a change.

*

i just made up stories or spat out strings of hackneyed
words trying to make up for the
waste it was, and look
this wound up as a waste too

*

is not an end either.

For Bukowski

i ran into you today, after school,
after an hour of embarrassed laughter in my head
about a bra-strap coming undone.
after a tear for humanity, lost after a stream of
blood rising to my brain because im
unimportant after saying to myself that its ok to
hate old people,its ok to
sleep while they leave for
a surgery after having the low down blues after all
this
my surgery, you gave me back
my veins.

and i love you already like a girl loves
a man she's never smelt, just read and felt and
built in her mind for centuries after he was dead anyway, though
she's unaware. like an unlettered girl loves a man she steals poetry
off, knowing it as her own.
im a bugger that way, a burglar, but goodness knows
its only been an hour
lets see how, if at all, this changes
from peach flavoured to wine
.



im sorry i couldnt do any better, but im not getting over him for a lifetime, not for another.