Seven

Somewhere in his smile he knows that I don't need no other lover.

For you. For us.

As the years stretch across the skyline,
Words are whispered in the night and scratched across pages
Bound together and rustling in the wind.
Our tale continues in front - at our feet,
While the street sweepers brush away the lonely nights from
The path left behind.

I can't remember a me without you.

Lines of lost and forgotten love poems run across my mind
Longing to make them mine and ours.
All of it is fluff and stuffing.
I could lengthen this dedication: pluck images of
Angels and roses and jewels and stars and moons and suns and silks
From the lips of the dead.
When what I have to say is simple and concise.

I love you.

And I love you still.

Barbarella

Strong and tough
no one messes with us.

Soft and beautiful
no one sees the danger within you.

Barbarella -
Barbarella.

I can't help but shake my hips to you
from side to side
and raise my hands straight up
above my head


in the centre - all eyes starring
I am the star.
The hero.

The saviour.

As I sway onto a star
Barbarella Barbarella
I can hear the wind afar
Barbarella Barbarella
whisper your name on par
Barbarella Barbarella.

Strong and tough
no one messes with us.

Soft and beautiful
no one sees the danger within you.

Strong and tough
no one messes with us.

strange compulsions

She sits in the room alone and traces the fake grains in her artificial hard-wood floor.
She picks out one slab and her eyes rest on a single line and follow it from start to end. Her pupils move onto the next line and slowly follow its twists and curves until it reaches the wall. Her eyes focus on every minute detail of the line as she scans the tile. Thousands of phony wood grains fall under her scrutiny as she examines every inch of fraudulent flooring. Looking for solutions amongst the pseudo-wood panels, she continues her task until she traces every line. But it provides her no answers - not this time. For now, the silent mock wood flooring refuses to confess its secrets. at least to her.

She loses interest in the simulated wood floor.

perhaps the walls are more willing to yield

Her eyes glance at the faux-wood wall in front of her. She starts with the left-most line engraved in the fabricated wood. Top to bottom her eyes trace over every line upon the wall. With each completion of a line, she is more assured that the next line will be the one to falter and relent its knowledge to her ever-yearning mind. But each successor, as with its predecessor, is fruitless and she reaches the end of the wall with no more information than when she began. But she is confident the next wall will confide in her.

a brief extended interlude

and all the irony of it.

a wet dry season.
a loud whisper.
dry ice. my favourite.

enough of this non sensical jabber.

it was meant to be a short breath, but soon turned into a lengthy inhale.
if anyone still reads this besides me, i promise to try to keeps these breaks to a minimal length.

all small today.
disconnectanddisjointthoughtsslipthroughthefingersofconfusinglysquishedwor
dsrefusetowritecompletethoughtstodaythisdaynotthesametodayonthisdaysepa
rateanddisparateideasjumbletogetherinavatofsolitarynothingsensehasleftther
oomquietlyclosethedoorbehindher
the importance of space . . .
and pauses.