The hardest thing to do is be ( Read more... )

I peered upon the ground below,
searched with fingers to and fro.
'till tips did touch a glassy lump -
A prize? A treasure? Or useless clump?

What I found was none of these.
As I knelt on aging knees
I seized up into my hand
an object I could scarcely understand

old love forever missed doubly
kept once, in hearts hidden
escapes now through blasted chests
leapt from depths unbidden
lays cold, and drips, upon bare breasts.
your laughter strikes my ears: full and bubbly

Hickory Dickory Cock

He was British -
Cheerio PipPip & all that -
he had David Bowie's persona but not too
much ziggy:
I told him the only rule was:
I didn't want to talk about tea all night.
Even though I was thinking
"I'd fuck his accent" if he asked me.
Yet, regardless, the minds of Parliament agreed
Big Ben rang loudest that night.

Thick woolen socks -
cocoons of the most industrious
silk worms - enveloped his feet
guards (strong willed and brainless)
against the ever-creeping cold.
Each foot covered in mold
that climbed the trunk of healthy
wood would not
could not be comforted by the socks.

The day we fucked
us became separate.
(my lungs caught fire)

We became closer than
ever
and us were farther
than never.
(have my loins shrunk?)

You were the first I
a last
was lost.
You were the second and my
last first?
(call me a liar?)

i miss clare....:-(

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