Clay.

Parch'd, coded in shades, o' desiccated conifer;

but flora withers, obtains an ancient monicker.

Just like us, it ebbs, gettin' stained in rust;

my verse then limps and loses its impetus.

In smithereens, like starch it now despairs,

an inch of her wrests, the rest begins to wear.

She waxes sullen, for manners make listen;

and it isn't too often that its all of a sudden. 

Its autumn compassion that makes us weak,

the fronds atrophy,  and trespass critique.

That does smarten, and ichor rushes ribbons,

with cold comfort, its often it so worsens.

Ah distress! Smirk at what coppice did me,

I stumbl'd and pined in forlorn harmony. 

She screamed, resonating with merriment;

our reverie compeer'd, still incoherent.

Its now gotten late, even the aspens 'ave dull

just as I have to go, an amour's seasonal.

I unearth'd her and disremember'd courtesy;

now I dig 'neath, beside those solitary trees.

(Bide) Unhurried.

"Welcome back, you domino

rubber soul and your stilettos. 

Mystery in these wintry sets

a pack of cards,  your silhouettes."

Unlost, he cast his mind,

as she evince'd and bespeak'd;

it chided, slapped a wrist,

astute and unwillingly weak.

Something had got to give,

a delicate him wouldn't allow;

inept and wan by all of this,

she stuck upon his eyebrows.

Overused, she mutely reckon'd -

truckloads of horrid caramel,

she unpack'd for a little bit,

a discouraged him did trouble.

Debris.

Her impatient, misspelt rhetoric

and the repose I never knew,

I'll straddle with purple prose,

of how I wish I still had you.

So subtly let these rhymes decide,

bickering almost never ceases,

I'll slowly make verse recite,

your whims and begone caprices.

 

The point at which you'd respond,

and that's when my blood'd thicken,

but this time, you carve unhurried,

an affection thats scattered in ruin.

Mire.

Thanks to your simple prose
within which I lay transfixed
upon meticulously crafted lines
and self inflicted tricks.

Forward march, and the hand
held by cumbersome ties,
placated by visual randomness,
and lifelessness inside.

Fragile strands of your writing
chits in unsung minutes of delay,
clamped to my saddened skin
those ribbon games we played.

'Its your wheel to make China'
and me, I'm the clay that hurt,
the leftover wet sand today,
lies stitched in dismal earth.

Therein, you unlost the dirt
believing you made ground,
songs which spelt haywire
bludgeoning their own sound.

So sit timid, atop your ferris wheel
screaming plots through wire,
I'll stay, twirling rhymes and
doing my best in sorrowed admire.

Tonight, we'll lose rationality, smitten within
minutes lost to wholesome wits,
And I'll melt away searching for
those sidestepped verses and chits.

Selfish.

I'll sleep over another, brown box of these,
an ignorant set, of caramel nobodies.
Now we'd be muted, mend olive grief,
turning bitter, my quiet, peppermint leaf.

But its her behavior, vinegar and vague yet
resplendent, she assays dispirited speak;
elegiac by intention, a lifeless form of me,
we hold it back, sterile, sedate and weak.

Cleav'd.

Betwixt fain and ruth, she'd getup and sip,
the vintage, you always wish one achieves;
prithee overrules sentiment, whilst now she,
sponges her face across my unclean sleeves.

Now that I, hang the polo neck out to dry,
I longingly stare, wooded in reminiscence;
to describe would take loquacious scripts,
and collars that straighten with eloquence.

This worn-out ruse seems like an era aroint,
along with expression, which seldom matters.
For prudence can make wry argument strife,
in ribbons my shirt, an amour in tatters...

Whimsical.

A discouraged cookie in a desperate room;
dicey dazzle, and dizziness in gloom.

A silent sort in a sullied mood;
steps on stairs, stressed and rude.

A jingle-jangle, she's jejune;
jaded with joy, he spoke too soon.

A negative night, her necklace;
nervous and naive, the look on his face.

A cliched calm, cynical pain;
caving in, my gift of selfish rain.

Frost.

As ever, the choler, shall be effaced,
and you will drop those little hints;
of how much you need to hold my hand,
while I make do, with your fingerprints.

As usual, you would change the topic,
hoping the previous would not arise;
and wishing you could wash my face,
while I take joy in your swollen eyes.

As always, because it's always been,
your way of crumbling these echoing sands;
you'd want to comfort my receding hair,
while I amuse myself, with your left over strands.

As it is, I killed it, before you ever spoke, about
literature, language, and your other friends;
and now you simply choose to ignore
while I sit here, yearning to make amends.

Manners.

I'll apply my ears to reverb,
slipping every fifth verb a noun;
to hear your final strains pull away,
there's darkness on the edge of town.

In reprisal, I'd then feel torn down,
sorrow in glimpses you arranged,
for I waited, witnessing revision,
harboring high hopes of revenge.

But you'd disremember consequence,
stabbing one right up these threads;
bethinking while sashaying out,
undressing their swiveling heads.

For one step small, snail's pace,
retracing - insouciant, muted speed;
rancor would seek recrimination soon,
scraping off the warmth you need.

Now, I can't keep from telling all,
similar whispers play hard to come;
but you broke those unwritten words,
unequal with the tunes you hummed.

Covet.

'Stop cribbing', she'd then scream,
I remember now in quiet evenings.
whereas previously, we had never been,
known to spoil and leave in between.

But then, despite overcast, it sometimes
dismisses, rejects the resting rains;
therein, we bit, bat, battered and feigned,
slowly succumbing with jejune preference.

For in caving in, lies little joy at times,
as one's cajoling discounts desire's price;
thus, lust makes endearment impolite,
easy indulgence and the death of appetite.

Pinch.

Courtesy her, this love with careless amour,
my enamor, and before I know, I'd stammer.
But stammer she allows, for I don't pretend,
whether ineligibly written or hard to comprehend.
Now she'd make a face, but I'll beat her to it,
unsympathetic and an untied shoe lace.
Wherein, what I can't disallow, somebody might;
slips, trips, cuts her lip, horribly impolite.
Hesitant, I unpack, leaving aside what she won't like;
and its in frames like these, that we thing alike.
For all that was, was run awash, stays bare in viewing;
it now swims in sand, and quickly dies in ruin.
Let me now, not fold and repack all in revelry,
that includes you, me, and these 14 lines of poetry.

Senesce.

She drew those sheets up the neck,
strained, those cinnamon toes, thus reveal'd,
For solace which appears from her knees,
has power to cajole, unfailingly mislead.

Then again, and this just may tempt,
began her daily orchestrated vent;
today's menu, an overdose in lament,
a tinge of salt with a hint of dissent.

Sunshine!
The tint plays bridge within my squint,
in times as these, one can't abandon, unsin'd;
as intimacy would cleave, let alone our schisms,
these foregone rhymes crowded with euphemisms.

Lacrimoso.

Presto! In careless tiptoe, she slips and strains,
For tempo kills rubato and her verse slays listlessness.
Adagio for my tune, rhymes could do the trick
she's vivace with talk, in humor - slapstick.

Now I'll wait, for agitation can help reconcile,
a moribund expression and a temporary smile;
thankfully the music ignores, hits crescendo
but life is grave and the prose strikes morendo.

And slowly, au mouvement she shrieks,
since she's lost the ability to think, clearly
and with me, the pretence comes wearily,
for its not my song which is dead, its her poetry.

Brick.

Sure 'bout the coiffure,
she swiveled and swerved,
just when she felt I saw her,
Hardly had another ever known.
Gift wrapped in expression,
sweating hands 'neath her wings,
for within the spiraling distance
neither was forthcoming.
Because ego states crashed,
much vermeil than looks I wore,
and so we slowly broke apart;
as she lay sanguine to the floor.

Vindication.

You wouldn't admit to having changed,
havin' dejunked, your cluttered mind again.
But I became to offend, less to assume,
whilst every line played a different tune.

You slept o'er this monologue in vanishing sand,
rather than putting forth, your's trembling hand.
And such is deemed fine for we are alone except
that conversation wanes in emotional depth.

Whoever felt talk could cloy, was much wrong,
as what vanity denied was needed all along.
For blemish fed the parched earth, it did hurt,
'tis rusting literature that is since untouched.

Imperfectly

Pensive, equally dispensed with,
off topic, she's easily emotive.
For her thinking makes love hectic,
able in tune, but difficult, livid.

On her own, she doesn't feel alone,
she gets sedate and love's unknown.
For in meddle, its her humbling echoes,
a delicate step with her frozen toes.

She's unwilling inasmuch as my hesitance,
for neither knows where to begin;
and alarmed, we take it from the top
cold marrow, and the brief bus stop.

Is Equal To.

A harbour of intense nudge
This touch means grudge
Palpable to thought
In this life we are caught

The river ceases to flow
In all its stagnation, it churns underneath
Restless, idle on the surface
It churns poison beneath

Insistence making lethargic
Imagination runs the ruin awash
Au bade in augur, irresistible craze
I won't play this song again.

Variety.

Her stunning shrill in muted anger,
and clamor in the ways it work;,
weather brings with it withdrawal,
whilst she sits alone and sulks.

For I cannot do much, other than,
sit and hear those songs you list;
making gestures at the mirror,
and wishing desire breaks with it.

In time, trouble locates despair,
ushers in a tray full with defeat;
while you pull away at your dress,
and unspeaking, you go to sleep.

'morrow, you can spell your silence
and in monologue, crack and dwell;
For I'll break affection in consequence
of endearment that I could never sell.

Shellac.

Sudden trickle, her whimsical drizzle;
with morning dew, it dampens little.
'Least the spirit isn't frigid; which harms,
now it thaws but its a smile that disarms.
In deliquesce, she swiftly swivels and swerves,
such is the inaction that it has no verve;
as words are best confined to sedate love,
for in sentences, they only further disturb.
The stupor is momentary; for in insensibility,
sleeps her quiet concern for slight sympathy;
'cause succinct rationale at times, can assist;
as when dew evaporates, it leaves behind mist.

Whilom.

Your feet fend off the unassuming parget,
and the wall seem'd to be sane again.
And I slept by a bouquet, so full,
of flowers that tast'd innocence.
The feet now were at distance from me,
with the sober, dark rum an inch away.
while you still made no more attempt,
to make happenings seem whole again.
But sometimes, things are unkind, like,
in mellow, gloom, sand, and sunshine.
For they further embrace life the way
its only done for hope we both did pine.
And in these finally tense seconds,
your terse throat regains style while,
the feet adjust, garrote rum to the floor
and only leave unparched, the marble tiles.

Downstairs.

Prose, when unborn, stiffens life;
and it quietly unfolds in hindsight.
For in motion, this ocean thats us;
parallel lives, an unbiased stimulus.
As its not spoken to only make sense;
haphazard and in impatient eloquence;
These, in retrospect, spell veneer,
and help remember as if you were still near.
For with these sentences, die all signs,
you, me, and all these stillborn lines.

Breakfast.

In paling gloom, dust filled skies,
when her lipstick beams like fireflies
heaviness glances across these times,
within words and hapless rhymes.
Truer lines havent been said since,
In which she hurts and I evince
for forth in affirming, attraction
harmless talks and then inaction.
Abandon all musings, sallow as your
shallow thoughts that ruminate;
for thoughts are solitary, dispirited,
and against her slow love, outwitted.

Miniature.

Much alike her best kept secret
and well within her sudden reach;
till she next wrecks herself again
on words that stammer into speech.

And it isn't much, I contend, alas
but some talk shall evermore, be futile;
as inebriation lives a stone's throw away
with common people that make one rile.

Pliant.

One discerned climate change,
whilst the other resolv'd to stay;
because when vacant and free,
you cease to exist, simultaneously.

Trees in swamps get quickly dated,
as wet mud steadily gets cultivated;
crustaceans go scared and supplicate,
for only does their venereal satiate.

For only does history speak
when theres need for sympathy
For poets which make verse of stories
less their macabre 'comes cacophony.

And at the end of a day
I'm not better than all I say;
doing unto them what's not right
sadistic pleasure, gratification, delight.
But even in archaic thoughts I select
they are aligned to not intersect, with Poe's.

For my subtle thoughts are congenial;
less profound, grotesque and unreal.
And in these thoughts lies her grudge
awash in slit and mire, lost in deluge.

Ribbon.

Quarter to five, early morn
as curtains debate cessation
And you'd reappear in lieu,
a figment of imagination.
Once cafard, you'd proceed, to
recite shades of glum poetry.
And I'd listen to it being read
that written for you by me.
As within these verses lies, what
would've otherwise been said
ideally, lust and ideally, love;
but its not an ideal world now, is it?

Wellaway.

O'er ze seas and far away,
archaic in sparsely clouded skies.
Whence parched oceans emerge,
athwart endlessly spread times.

Asked to move thither
stood alow. somedeal similar.
Us shalt eventually depart,
with thou upon clumsy feet.

The twain of us will not know
when left thole alone.
Mayhap us will soon realize,
with askance and thereon.

Constricted in this strait, thus
this sweven that leads us.

With this dit calculating dol
I shalt stretch, cometh pain.
Pretension to wisdom thee seek
in hist, you feign the fain.

Quietus.

A misnomer in reckoning, so subtly demeaning;
Architect to the tale, her story to regale.
Diction in introspection, to a miniscule section;
Willingly, she's unclear, in helpless insomnia.

Syntax filled with quotes, she shifts back and forth;
Tragedy loses the rest, she speaks with disinterest.
The anchor soon runs riot, lying pale in disquiet;
Placid at her own rate, disposition thats sedate.

She musters the strength, to discuss those events;
That mean not much to me, yet I'd listen quietly.
Her story is slow as chess, a damsel in distress;
My reaction to her scent, never was a consort so eloquent.

A bit efferent despite, what may numb delight;
I muster some sense, stalemate ends in offense.
Becomes bathed to rid, unsettled and insipid;
No novelty in telling, the story thats selling.

Prosaic and affably quaint, she tends to repeat again;
Nonchalance in vain, a sentient picture she paints.
My dutiful movement aside, she still lies beside;
Her speed appears to slows, as she clambers below.

Now, in defining sudden gasps, she speaks;
Sodden since evening, I stare in eerie disbelief.
Lifelessness I'll heave, of the conte she weaved;
Her lips dry and fade, faint in mutual disrespect.

I offer suggestion, deadpan with grim expression;
Moistening her purple chin, I intrude deeper within.
Last few words in fact, help slip wooden this final act;
Becoming finally innate, she whispers 'checkmate'.

Dissonance.

As simple as it could get in words
we never like what we are subject to.
An abject situation in essence
falter, fade in my dissonance.

Now those who had to walk, walked
in pale skies shrouded by talk.
And then those that stayed whispered
to those who had been bygones, again.
In this enchanting script of melancholy lies
why should we wait in tumultuous times?

Frantic diction prescribed in inscription
she knows I wont be coming home so soon.
And then those who had dressed and left
return because when they did try to revert,
their lips jeopardized every sentence,
while I scribble ardor in my dissonance.

The question that remains is such,
that it neglects all in sudden rush.
And those who did derive penance
are now glued in my dissonance.

Now, the rest is prelude to the next exit
when all love shall cease to exist.
Whence shall arise a need to leave
subdued in pain and certain harmony.
Polished tones in tune with life
a little drama, total nonchalance alright.

But it is true when it hits, shades of excess
to all that we have been unfortunate to witness.
Its that gloom which permeates through
but only if she had been better than you.

And those who did evoke a naked smile
are eroded in malevolent demise;
while those who did regain some sense
are further lost in my dissonance...

Since.

because it were the april skies
because we ran out of wine
because there was no mood
because we were declined.
because you stayed awake
because i could well aubade
because i don't remember you
because you've begun to fade.

Ebony.

This cynic, insect, an anti-septic;
dispirited, her glum perspective.
The face, she slowly turns indigo,
despondent, awash in snow.
And like immature, separated lovers,
fit inside wrappers and covers.
Idle without an intention to win;
inept in talk, sharing mutual chagrin.
Because some letters are sent
without a need for prior consent,
and in twilight, drizzle, and dew;
It's not just the ash, she's its residue

A Little Step.

When ardor spills over all,
things for which we cared and
you skip, simper, and coquet
as spoils willingly get shared.
A tinge of chariness, albeit
incomplete seconds of bliss
with a vague shade of cynicism
that stays too hard to miss.
Shamanistic, it blinds, fetters an
unsuccessful attempt to involve
what in efficacy became effete,
resolve hemmed in, an insect.

Alack.

Passive and intolerant in language,
in talk - succinct, quick, and terse
And my inquiry runs upstream
to the sound of submissive verse.
Betwixt unfallen emotion, for we
unfailingly fall aside, then run riot
in tune with bickering of little people.
Little people are seldom quiet.
This chagrin shall reap void when
placed, in stanzas emulating stage
and then shall toil erupt in medium
to strangulate amain, this page.

Veto.

Perhaps I'd ease up and place a
hand across, evince and unpack.
Then a sullen evening's weight falls,
embracing my uncivil knack.
I'll strike the ruler off, with
potential armor thats pure, vestal.
Charades become miserly, anonymous
smiling on their steadfast pedestal.
Uneasily slow, knock the door and I
shall not read you in pretense.
For now the knives are drawn out
and a dark room becomes tense.
So hit, dab, dagger, and quit
the chape in time, sings beneath
the scabbard tilts in discussion
she swims the bloodied sheets.

Early Morning Inflation.

My umbrella slipped over the arm
and all rain smelt like shoe polish.
Tip tap on my eye glasses, resonating,
perhaps only to scold and admonish.
For I found no rationale in existence
explained with perfection in diction.
Fixing another unsoaken roach,
sneezing within a spliff second.
Two-drag-pass or a complicated name
repulsive air and titled frames,
as broken are my manipulative eyes
for those I remember in hindsight.

Derision.

I cannot grudge you for these
minutes of complete riot.
of when I am to hold guilty,
I'll tell myself in pale disquiet.
After brushing anxiety off
those words that aren't a must,
of how all the layers that settle
get to be nicknamed dust.
In tune of all the other days
when I'd wish to captain ships
and you harbored bitterness
anchored into your sanguine lips...

Adept.

Thrice, or four times
imposed and coerced,
laden, naive and concealed
prevent, tempted in attempt;
an option to let go, in vain.
Stilled and pursued,
ions rush my head, reign.
Another night eclipsed
this is pervasive pain...

X-Y = Dialogue 2

Y
Tepid and little uncertain
abrupt, playful and terse
unwilling to move further
this submissive verse.
And now that poetry gets
mechanical in all rhyme
why should I suppress?
what is not sublime, mine.

X
This verse culminates
knowledge illuminates
the darkest recesses
something suppresses.
I search for anger, sadness or hope
really, any sign of life
some days are just polite

Y
Inundated, sedated
melancholia invades
vexes, expresses
the gloom pervades.
Now I sit back and
give this another try
metaphorical, still
an unsuitable reply.

X
The gloom pervades
yet hope permeates
the dissidence of logic
the diligence of faith.
They shall never be apart
caught in between life, when
shadows cast lights
first love last rites.

Y
Palpable gloom aside
this happiness I evade
and minutes wasted
explaining what I once said.
Because sometimes this
imagination makes tinge
as funny thoughts reside
of a hope that does cringe.

X
Hope is incessant
so, alas is fear
I try and yet I fail
its my cross to bear.
Attempts to pretend
are futile in the end
as the world spins
"this bottle of henny wins".

Y
They shant disregard
writing thats incense
and I shall appreciate it
in all its brilliance.
Because when in splendor
it achieves significance
making our lives grandeur
in all their magnificence.
And thus, I'd pen these out
like a child drives a kite
and alone, they may seem little
but when together, an erudite's.

X
This pretense is intense
with fog so dense
there's always turbulence,
and with a micro lens
we look for clues
and search meaning
where none exists
it just is what it is,
so submit to it
without hope or agenda
just commit to it.

Y
The abundance of these thoughts
the assiduity, perseverance
and now when submitted
you feign that arrogance.
Because ignorance is yet
acceptable, in mere essence
but it can be misleading if the
pretext speaks incoherence.

X
Arrogance, an instance
insensitive ignorance
a word spoken erroneously
sometimes even a glance.
An emotion which gained freedom
trust lost; askance
still we chug along
until next time, so long...

Y
What was completed long ago
as simple as chalk and cheese
and as someone once remarked
no poem is as beautiful as a tree.
Because when its unconnected
the stanzas start to accumulate
and in fullness we become chagrined
it stays, slips, and then culminates.
Done.

X-Y = Dialogue 1

X
A blue fatigue, raising insinuation
a colouless plight, forlorn with glory
the first spring of death
randomness.
Walking on the motionless street
eyes reticent but still elusive
who weeps for the ones gone
the sky creeps from the hiatus begone.
The lone star is now the cinder
cracked open with blistering stymie
i write sans an erudite melancholy
plausible yet, is the color of money.

Y
Obtrusive glances steal a glimpse
as he tries to starve himself
of know how and escapades profound
whose feat are yellow 'neat the ground.
Turn, moon kissing the skyline
dearth in this missing puzzle
plausible yet demeaning,
this attempt that arises to ridicule again.
Eclectia is becoming common
morbid fantasies strike enthusiasm
shall strive for the benign chase
doubt that owns my grimace.

X
A withering flower, receding but alive
striving for a whiff of yellow
the first prayer offered to God
of feelings harsh and mellow.
A caustic smile brooding over a lie
fills the edema, silently, but
the recesses of the flowing neurons
pulsating with an energy so raw
the second prayer offered to love
I raise the extremities above.

Y
Tantalized by vanishing sky lights,
this melee in hypnotized crisis
a skirmish to get rid of dilapidation
charred, cessation of sensation.
Cold thoughts run haywire
tepid taunts rummage ze mind
mildew in this satire of words
this unfair poetic incline.
Now zither to provide hapless life
to all that that swims underneath
soliciting language in haunted strokes
there is numbness in my feet.
Sleep

X
This unfair poetic incline
the emotion so denied
an attempt ridiculed
grotesque is the irony of life
Finishing sentences before thoughts
the disparate cluster sans flourish
a blemish, a flirtation
the platitudes of fortitude;
a secret guarded more than life
denied to a stranger in guise
cryogenics be the answer
in this comedy so divine.
Sleep.

Y
We break away from rightful sleep,
little by little; piece by piece.
caffeine kept away at bliss, these hours
how they hang in there with their righteous souls.
Halo comes off, bordering dust off the periphery
a coma, stranded in unfamiliar territory
strains of chords slip eons back
rivers rushing, gunning for my ears.
Arriving at this domain of pessimistic write,
self compromising tunes tonight, tonight.
diluted within this sky, erased by light
inaudible screams, audible cries.

(With due courtesy to T...)

Legit.

My life contrasts poetry
when I'm alone in the rain
inasmuch as what Neruda said
was sincere of a standing train...

Stubborn.

For when I'm modestly dim, inebriated
she haunts with unsettled prowess
and my mind sells itself numb
giving into her silken, ginger caress.

For I have not been brave enough
to rattle in her mind this time
and she keeps within check
all of these muted, frozen rhymes.

For then a ready reckoner comes with
the bed on which she dropped the rum
and told me of how love is stitched
but the love song never hummed.

Temper.

And finally your fingers clipped
trying their best to win
and your hand studied my face
from the forehead to the chin.

So today I cut my fingernails
and clutched by face when
I did my best to figure out
what you had learnt back then...

I Threw A Brick Through A Window/ Laden.

Three bars too slow, precipitation
frames slide off the shelf
moving alone in anticipation
shadow of her former self.

She puts on her slippers
wary of the spread silkworms,
taken aback in volume
feet dressed in germs.

The dub has rubbed her mind
pulsated, she believes it'll suffice
swooped by the monotone
memory dissolved in chalice.

She seems so out of reach
a liberal figure of speech,
her words are hard to miss
aegis of a bad first kiss.

Clothes she didn't believe in
people, she never cared
subject to minuscule greed
my atrophied need.

Nobody quite knows how to say,
posters spell a different speak
what she said I didnt much get
if it isn't her, it must be me.

Inaudible.

With breathless ego in stride
we climb above to hide
hair fastened, intertwines

For when melancholy pervades
even warmth takes effort
quiet she says, don't interrupt.

Whilst in mechanical tick tock
she abandons her silly glance
ignorant eyes, slow and entranced

Thick, half witted discourse
mute barren hands, she wins
and thus, we haven't spoken since..

Insignificance.

This cincture's overture
like rapture when she rues
shouts that scream at me
when she has no excuse.
And in time I'd disremember
those letters she sends
for when we need to talk
its only to make amends.
Now escorted by recent threads
this ardor becomes a rope
and I still keep staring
at those unopened envelopes.

Redolence.

Them baroque thoughts
with infinite disdain in play
and love lies close
a stone's throw away,
And words she did carve
in overwrought sentences
my crestfallen eyes fail
missing faint nuances.
For its the same bouquet
she first wore when
we met and now she says
it never did happen then.

Aubade,

A cosmetic touch as such,
such as much evades us.
Trying to make meet the ends
a bit conspicuous by absence.
The erudite shall collide in mist
days she plays too hard to resist.
The moment denizens take her name,
all encapsulated in freeze frame.

This Very Minute.

We discoursed of authors,
that hardly ever made sense.
and I noticed she shared,
an uncanny resemblance
with the gloom that resonated,
through the raining splinter.
and the melancholy prevailed,
through an aching winter.
Now that I write her down,
after reading those books she told.
and the last time I felt her,
seems a hundred summers old.
Well etched, I trace her face through
these pained distressed eyes.
as notions are all I have left
of you, my inamorata in guise.

Pique.

I remember the splatter when
your feet splashed into the pool
of dirty water on the street
sounding a discordant tune.
I can call back on an afternoon
when your hands clutched beer
and your fingers moved aimlessly
switching songs on the CD player.
I recollect your neck and your
head slowly losing its hair
while you made little secret
of how much you didn't care.
but I can't conjure up images which
evoke minutes of delay
and you clamped to my skin
endearing love like crumbling clay.

Adjectives.

And her name in my handwriting
misspelt to make it sound misleading
for when I find rationale in calm
its hard to get past anyone at all.

And now that its been eagerly stated
coveted sheets with vague ink traces
hopelessly sublime in hourly autumn
its not the tune you've been trying to hum.

And nothing is wrong of what i know
luring me with feet that fast become cold
I tumble over to find myself alone
an annoyed vision and shadows stoned.

And now I lie pale in distress and sweat
with a memory that refuses to dim
despite amnesia thats has the best of me
vividly screaming until my knees.

And when did I say what she said I did
peculiarly absent in a tale with twists
for what was then a once in a while
is now bludgeoning me in spiral screams.

And now those words which have been said
with due diligence and dutiful caress
in sentences formed from haplessness
obscured in cumbersome ginger stress.

And again resting in near comatose
serenaded in visuals of archaic prose
comes another quote from the sack
she knows im too wasted to fight back.

And this self fulfilling prophecy declines
a ream of endless possibilities in time
because no more am I what I came to be
of dreams that languish and die with poetry...