Woolgather.

come muster some heart
this september night
for hearts too
slowly grow old
they were used
to fend off
inarticulate crusts
though now
they contest alone.

some succumb
half minded
some
evading merriment
since most
confront felicity when thrust
hence
they linger on
besides
discarded sympathy
cosseted
and overindulged.

thus we are left
with aught
an unhinged heart
for hearts can
amass entire spunk
moreover pebbles
such smatter stones
generously winding them
versus aspersions
that should have been left alone.

Propinquity

Post meridian
it's an evocative day
where a table of thought
has studied me unkempt,
can makes me misrepresent.
For in blinking excuses
chuffed eyes are must
my festival of musing
hasn't barely caught up.
So for now, its deceiving,
its sunshine screaming through,
through tinted glass hinting
on an ephemeral afternoon.
And its blazing red light
includes striking sun rays
peacefully lilting
heart beating and dancing
fetching this pen's grasp.
This moment shan't fleet
it'll obey and cash on
a woebegone evening, now furtive in ask.
And the festival will flower
gently setting up canopies,
a picnic of rhymes or a
fleeting fair of propinquity?

Integer.

She sways, strays
comes along and stays
touching my weakest nerve
my bones merge
calculating feign integers.

One is dispossessed
much soaked in malady
for loneliness
can sap
can diminish one's apathy.
Tonight is meant for the lonely
and I have my wine.

Wine makes me stumble
cover up and hurry up
fall down, stay flustered up.
It makes remember
of what one's become
an evocative tune to memories
your chest when undone.

For when grazing bits are roast
smoke becomes sand dunes
to resplendent wins and
scant victories in thin margins.
unattended, not tuned.

These margins
within which I write
are acute in hindsight
they stumble us more than memory
silently sashaying
a revert milked with jealousy.

The wine has purchased me
it now stifles
bargains at ease
and then when I give in
it barters a squeeze to peace
I am unable to speak.

But you say one
should write maturely now
though
you really don't read.
So show courage and cheek
bite and sweep
eat my tender nose
for sore means
the enemy within
shall tonight sleep alone.
Alone.

Moiety.

An afternoon bathed in hearth
bodies browsed by incandescence
can stymie a stack of whims
a Delhi dipped in chatoyance.

For ardor carries on unabridged
when argued with, it ravels thin
like red ants that inch to trick
a fetching mirage filled with summer sins.

Their they're seized by providence
a colony unclasped, high on confidence
furtively abandons pattern, retreats
perhaps addled,
perhaps a lack of discipline.

On their little toes, they menace
forked, diverging, increasingly tense
a reluctant pool of swimming ants,
lying naked, inaminated on the circumfence

Thunderclap.

This heart, a beat full on vacancy
has warmth stuck in fissure;
the hardest thing for me to do.

This intention, an atom pledged
a curtain shy of helplessness;
the silliest thing for me to do.

This moment, a metaphor made of leaves
is bearing down on me
the firmest thing for me to do.

But these hands, their diffidence
in defiance to lavish attempt,
are scrambling uneasy since weeks;
untethered to make amend
with troubled verses that scream
rhymes, assorted tentatively.

Maybe therefore,
those curtains are drawn apart,
impaired by
flickering sunshine
that baked coquetry;
for this pixiliated heart's undeserving,
an absurd
Sunday afternoon
astounded by poetry.

Bellicose.

A strike strike strike

come trickle, slide down

this time time time

feather the missing sound;

tame, persuade an 

etched crestfallen her,

subdue, don't hammer

home anger;

if only just

to prepare and provoke,

to evoke

to elicit and choke,

to clasp, gazump and extort

hours - withering though mine;

for days which pine

full clocks of corpses

starch'd souls and stage signs;

or is one to beget..

deceive a wooden bench

that's left to smother, 

to temper the chagrin

wasted in debt,

semi borrowed in mire;

laden with fury are

memories riddled 

with latitudes of grief

of inherited jealousy

maliciously crumbling

on our knees.

Its tonight,

an aching evening 

self appointed in acrimony. 

Monopoly

How nervous when those fingers met

and secrets which a 'came vignettes

How easy have since been sorrowful nights

mine be soaked jealous with helpless pride

How could you not have stopped me then

hands dipped in stray indifference

How tactful are those lingering marks

crimson 'nough to rekindle scars.

With providence we'd come prepared

my hands on your back, yours everywhere

And violence caved in doubtful deems

woe worth this lonely moment seems

In solitude we seldom stacked up means

campanionless frames of could have beens.

How we came on when everybody left  

with drunken ferocity we'd eclipse

How nervous when those fingers met

secrets that would cease to exist.

Stampede.

..it quivers in equal stride

melding might now

quite delight, unlike

music ensnaring our broken night.

weren't we strangers to strains entrancing

as us patented dependancies

i figured olive branches

she itched cinnamon leaves.

..along then, rain ranked faltering

whilst fallen for tunes

with melancholy joshing

an otherwise ebbing endearment;

for its her pastl'd involvement

i was after most

thrusting rum on carpets

stocked on gratitude.

..however funny

your attempt at entangling be weak;

wasn't disinterest, i gathered

twas haphazard need to retreat

stems coiled, soiled on disbelief,

not once she gave in

for i didn't give up

we sundering a floor

moist, defiled in deluge.

..some venturing thereafter

one'd make way, undone;

passive neutral at argument

occasionally atrophied off neglect.

who was deficit

in that monsoon full of debt?

aching knees

or our coveted debate?

so tonight

i'm reluctant, impaired

of the distillery and

eager to admit.

tonight, i'm not sour

though despair

polishes off the soul

making kosher to announce

i lost;

those evenings we both

caved in and chose.

but when now alone

i'm forced to host

dark rum on the carpet

as its our askew'd floor

that melts me most.

Bicker.

November waves sheet this wind
cold carpets of stumbling feet
whilst a piquant, faltering moon
renders loneliness obsolete.
measures can't be left ashore
with borrowed counts of three
lightning strikes only once
subtle shadows swim beneath.
are i to succumb in bliss
or statue sufficient blithe tonight?
for this fucking moor be much drunken
pale comparison to befallen blithe.
harboring a guess could lead awash
bleeding lips of greed
a misjudged whim assured of
your mildew silent teeth
grudging - coerced and stowed by
hands smoldering in retreat.

Urge.

How tempted was she

then it was different.

An occasional choke 'for wither

efferent, abatement.

That winter

wasn't any less enticed

perhaps sliced through

an irrationality in her eyes,

conducting a glance,

riddled

in woebegone moonlight.

Its those weekends,

rainbow'd grim,

carving attempts

in dismay

whilst we wasted 'way;

overwhelmed in gin

and unworn attire,

an ire token, taking

unspoken words

in a fake empire.

Now I'm frayed

shuffling too,

a virescent

asserting upon

dusted drawers

spray painted

in November chill,

though its not until

its left me coveting,

would she be tempted still?

Middle.

She was compassed, once

aimless and undefined,

culled with a dash

of gratitude

best viewed that spring.

Don't read in disdain

it'll simmer

that broken bone;

of how often

us yearned the moon

stirring anxious rum.

It provoked

uneasy whims

trimming an impression clean;

sunglassing yesterday

a pocket full of leaves.

In natter, precipitating,

forgiving your

sipping concerns;

now as inaudible

as a song in Autumn

penciled to our tune,

to a tune of ice cubes

smacking enraged glass;

each sentence stammering

each question unasked.

Trace.

Its a red ant

and an ivory sheet

itching to wrestle ashen needs;

wavering steps

listless feet

one in a million, beating retreat.

Im dictated

to indulge,

serving the helping thrice;

as a slice of tension

toughens the version

all of what is rust,

pales in comparison

I'm equally stressed

lest defeat be impulsive

as that insect

scoops a round,

I play to my strength

which when spelt correct

did once benefit.

A need to win,

lave 'gainst megrim

to squash distaste.

and therefore,

I'm willing,

to make amends as versed,

Whereas its within

celebration,

inaudible claps;

the ant slips away,

dethroned,

my hands are clasped

fingers still stoned.

Candles.

She's a drunken toast when
drunken most,
a satiable insect commingled in comatose,
who arose when wresting wicken wine
carpenting the wound,
clasping my eyes.
She knows to take
less than what gives,
setlling easily her forlorn smile,
charring, unharmed to wear.
Condesing to wood,
a humbling love affair,
might an eclair bake,
dipped in endless despair.

How things 'ave changed,
can we call it quits?
And then retire
to an earlier drill..
when you didn't
detest every morning's gin,
therewith proceeding,
elimating every pending need.
Your need to silence the beer,
mine to settle the receipts.
Not to say there was
any concern,
as back then, I for one
was comfortable with
your borrowed interest;
its only now that its wavering,
our stems soil with unrest.

Concoction.

Think I'll step a walk outside,
run 'round circles, sleep off our borrowed nights.
A slight respite sung to a tune unkind,
me inching progress, you changing your mind.

1:34 AM, marvelling if consequence is suspect?
I'd expect diffidence, lest it proceeds to alter the sheets.
And neither've you lost 'neath a Madras canopy,
nor 'ave I won, trespassing now reddened knees.

Good Evenin', do we call it quits already?
A battle half won, is a misnomer unsteady..
par the wary have discerned intention,
tired soldiers, shoulders craving attention.

Lets make mountains out of impulse, staple a dapper chin;
chewing notes, where whims have replaced vapid synonyms.
A summer stick of rhyme, she's uninclined,
were we to pine again, rain'd eclipse sunshine;
then shudder, for the dampened parts are stood,
should then we ever need to contain, we apparently would..

Decimals.

Good evening, you daily binge,

I'm toasted, roasting your fellow synonyms,

chewing skin off naked limbs,

sufficient whims commingled with nutrients.

Regarding me, won't you indulge?

Prithee! go dissolve a wicked gin,

for rum wouldn't fit your argument..

howbeit could, peradventure circumvent.

Now history methinks, is an unnecessary swagger,

its a dagger that matters too well in whisper,

perhaps a spear might rustle mire fine,

ifsoever, whistling these sentences aside.

Aye, she overwhelms naive speech,

therewithal, our clueless words are terse,

its their verse which nurses a degree,

me - swigging usquebauch,

she rustling, in one cups' merry.

Collar.

Pepper pigeons, 'cross the windowsill

'neath the shallow cries, of cigarettes,

of playful synonyms.

Them, the wind scolds,

she reprimands impatience,

murdering writer's delight,

in wisdom - its seldom vengeance.

Her tiptoe to their temper, teasing;

deriding these wicked rhymes,

acute in perspective, conscience slaying mine.

Have they soared away?

In diffidence, they always did,

mocking gratis admiration,

in a way these hands have bled.

Strain.

Would you take me by surprise?

any morning, alongside sunrise.

Or would you rather wither, like conifer

stepping on my toes, your moniker.

I'm unable yet, you know,

a cactus in making, slow and marrow,

for morose is drunken delight,

biscuits in maple syrup - an erudite.

Now aren't I dipped in melancholy too?

As animation, meant to be construed,

we eschew upon these frozen foods,

each for the taking, equally subdued.

Slowly, we'll melt - in chorus, misspelt;

painting viscous with gratitude,

as impatience begs to please your whims,

winter beckons - rude, equally grim.

Therefore, we simmer away,

weathering the armor - subtly pique'd,

with rain sashaying away at my sleeves,

your bones submitting, us naive.

Visage.

Fingers fiddle, huddled in slow drizzle,
selfish rain! muffled in frozen frames;
the hands, overcoming cognizance,
with a mackerel sky, subdued in dampen.

For raindrops are testimony to these eyes,
of what would've been a beaming sun;
retreating par the eagle's nest
weakened, amenable to unlearn.

It isn't deluge that stops us short,
serving volleys, which often disagree.
Its an indignant weight, a parrot's bait
while those digits immersed - evaporate.

Stairs.

The tint's pale, every morning's drill;

inasmuch as she's concerned?

Ruing hands 'ave killed, day-spring's thrill,

what's left to be unlearnt?

Lots! Teach this naive rat nice,

don't let spill the poison;

for in tepid summers, it eats weather thin,

slicing within her hamstring.

Now he won't relent, her will to win,

broken in their vacuous themes;

a means to wither hopeless clutter,

its her efficacious whims, screaming.

Evening disquiet, disarray climbs us down,

canvassing the miserable watercolor gray.

A frame still lays, unequally smeared in skin,

and charcoal slaying mutual chagrin.

Aver.

You're improperly dressed for tonight,

while those appropriate, are blessed,

leaving an unclean palm to cerise this throat,

blue mornings, in ribbons of pink sunset.

Aren't they're helpless too, when running down?

Our pride, ego of a semi dead clown;

an efficacious whim, to bury within -

Hello, Aunt Sally, did you stop listenin'?

Their tone isn't resilient, it couldn't be - oh not tonight,

for wicked isn't an opinion,

its certainly a sense, of humor at best,

or the usual mule - a dissenting minion.

They claim our 'coterie', if I may be allowed,

is vacuous, at best cretinous,

but the plate's are thin, content within,

as the ichor quietly pales - avers and diminishes.

We were bits, and shall stay wisps,

confined to a floor of broken glass;

while the thick shall win, make merry the weekend,

and we shall crumble, revering their sentiment.

Nor to wish they'd railroad,

funnily, neither do we soak in peace.

Come ballot day, a tissue inside might die a week,

and when they revel, this dismal,

we'll concede.

Gin.

Circus, as we nurse ourselves nice,

arising early sun, quarter past five,

perhaps sliced to be precise,

nigh to opulence, an inch to her thighs.

Here resides a suddenness to disconcert,

skin pales, flesh rustles in flirt.

Chaste! effort scuttles - a somber, troubling grin,

ameliorating ache, crumbling within.

Wherein death warms the trade first,

truckin' misgivings and trafficking thirst,

tinting penchant for ridiculing his snare,

a caramels' delight frost amongst smug eclairs.

Seldom.

That iota of unsung joy, her philippic try of diatribe,

she escalates the tirade, its intolerable cries,

still ringing mire in disremembered comprise.

Alas, its compromise thats decides,

chides in mourning, in romance - she susurrates;

but murmurs in desperation,  her eyes.

Ah weakness! Of threats and what else?

In withdrawal, helpless and piqued;

with lacerated lust, we'd misinterpret.

Love, go lave, sluice your mien, wear that expression

that spruces you unclean.

And return, skirting that wicked satire,

of fallen amour in our fake empire.

Trick.

Create.

Alongside warmth, draws contempt,

as sometimes, indulgence is disregard;

n' then rede does absolve parcel,

my indifference's will to get charred.

Partake.

Ah love, savor my mistake,

eft, its dust which makes the sand;

in smithereens, I endear,

but now you've the upper hand.

Dissolve.

Your card isn't played as yet,

as that move shall issue giveaway;

much as I've known you far too long,

too chance upon and be outplayed.

Kite.

Someone's ichor reckons flow, 

a damask laden, bathed in echo

n' as summer's intrigue begins to choke, 

your vanishing voice brings helpless sorrow.

For I'm equally incapable,

whittled in pickled merriment,

the cigarettes reek mire thin, 

simmering films with charred confidence.

Aren't you adept? Wouldn't you help?

Or construct ire, soaked in skin.

In thin misprint, evoking carious squint,  

now slain within this abandoned hint.

Cede.

Chide, don't side with them;

a broken bone, stress rustling thin.

But you slide against the wind,

incurious, woebegone within.

For they ascertain, in disquietude,

a prelude, as you'd be left to rue.

Now lets simmer away, all choler and ire,

an entire mire  inculpating them.

Even then, isn't to err only human?

Aren't we betoken to railroad and win?

Or do we delicately surrender?

To them, for them to make the most of it...

Muffle.

Hello inspiration! Where'd you melt away?

In a fleeting second, with callow innocence;

your redolence swaying, slaying these verses tense,  

and tacit lines wrapped - rapt in unfinished sentences.

Wilt.

She'd talk herself out, unassertive in sleep,

stammering across - a reverie in stampede,

to recede defeat in muted strains that ache,

only to drift away, leaving me awake.

Compos mentis, I'm found to acquaint restraint,

a tinge o' despair impairing already slippery paint;

the tone is moist, misty in sedate disquiet,

for 'neath the subdued pastel, dies our forgotten riot.

A parallel frame, which we dyed commotion,

stirring colloquy with withdrawn emotion.

But doesn't it hurt more when there is unrest?

As fracas slays only to conquer and arrest...

In smithereens, each caress makes sentence;

a broken bone, your smear on self confidence,

and with it, shallow imprudence makes you wince,

for when I need to overwhelm, its easier to convince...

Resent.

Effort, dirt on fragmented thirst,

she lets assert, and the hurt equals comfort.

But you don't skirt there checking math, 

one can heat the cake, and melt the mud exact.

So you subtract skin, deliquescing to react,

for slowly I'll sink away, too bothered to distract.

What makes enact - is an anxiousness in attempt,

for distress is fragile, when taken in contempt.

 

And that leaves me muted, frosted with intent,

vexed in slow disquiet, and disarmingly foment. 

That might scotch the riddle, buried thin in clutter,

as despite a sweet taste in the mouth, you're still left bitter.

Rapt.

...And the sheets bridge the shelf,

gathering dust and whispering tense;

gift wrapped in soft susurrate,

solemnly sailing in coincidence.

And the whiskey spills the floor,

soiling film and stifling foment;

belittling each need to sullen,

rubbing wrong that argument.

And the ardor stocks my thoughts,

your lips meanwhile lock patience;

wrecking thin and wearing faint,

the idea of an ideal conversation.

But all these whims which are create,

innate, slain within desolate sections; 

a woebegone chin that smiled displeased,

and eyes swimming red with intention.

Yield.

Hello, you, not you, why don't you encourage me?

Instead, you detest, unfailingly protest,

allowing me to succumb wearily.

But I'll address myself this dais,

a recreation that won't veneer;

lest it break the bone to design,

unless that sooner interfere.

So why don't you bring along prudence?

Sagacity might do you some good,

I'll stifle the ache, you echo a retort,

and sing the songs that I would.

That guilt is you blotch on self confidence,

discoloration wrapped in deep lament,

a sip to slip, and the song has changed,

while we regret our haplessness.

Egos shall then strive 'neath, delicate?

contours swerving across the vapid floor;

you adore, easily amid my weakness

to charily cave in, craving an encore.

Pepper.

Its the weather 'gain, selfish rain,

while you're content to hopelessly swim;

for a sinking feelings' worth the win,

my analogies, your clueless synonyms.

Its within these little things, I'd apprise,

no surprise for the size of your eyes;

just a broken grin or twenty winks,

us blinking through sorrowed ink.

Slowly the ink pales, creases desert,

hurting worse than simmering dirt;

if only it weren't the whimsical smirks - 

of polished nails on my unclean shirt.

And once soaked, you've left me out to dry,

disguised to revise the fainting sunrise;

for 'neath the whistling winds, a rustle's rye,

your aching toes on otherwise tired thighs.

Uproar.

There, my hapless harbinger,
in vain, you rationalize with me;
over sips of honest Darjeeling,
toasting obvious mediocrity.

So tonight, lets join the gathering,
thats where we're expected least;
for riot will assume confidence,
leaving precedence to patently cease.

But you, for one, are unannounced,
much receding from all worries;
a sip from me and the vase is dry,
with you playing the galleries.

Stammer, but don't hum along,
my discontent isn't disquiet,
its not as if I'm second fiddle;
murmuring selfless, this satire.

Let clamor settle before the waltz,
an inch within pin drop,
for you will grab unspoken envy,
in revelry - take it from the top.

I'm much pickled too, you know,
such melee can make pretend;
and violence wearily stagnates,
three sheets to the rustling wind.

Ah, those forgotten salad days,
another muddled, hackneyed excuse;
but tonight, they'll have none of it,
or of our few eccentric views.

And that is what we always were,
a dusting case study on disarray;
and they'd criticize, all spineless,
such was the order of that day,

Margins.

Truth serum, she'll lose momentum,
I'm afraid to say it doesn't work;
but naivete can become empty handed,
while innocence kills the isolated verb.

So how does one make it alluring,
does the pot call back the kettle?
or do we bathe in evaporating water,
ignorant of all trouble?

Where have you heard this before?
Why didn't you already think of this?
but you have this silly habit,
as I burn my consciousness

Now, your actions request reaction,
and sans that, they're incomplete,
for we've evermore been stoppin' short
courtesy your cold hands, my cold feet.

Valleys.

At foothills, tension builds,
somewhat grey,
sudden displeasure, as her hands sashay.
They break within, therein, they hide,
and as I'd guide, she would step aside.
Inside, her blood would thicken,
and I'd hardly take note, let alone listen,
as once thriven, we assume the conifer lifeless,
immune to tunes, a rubber ball of stress.
A landslide! we run down the narrow lanes,
streets of fortitude, inexplicable delays,
for tumultuous minutes deride ignorance,
the vacuum gets buried, borrowed innocence;
now the climb gets harsh, unpleasant,
of what I could and she wouldn't.

So we muster strength, pretending to make it through,
unaware, disremembering each n' every excuse.
It hurts, and the soldiers slowly leave,
she spins around, caressing my sleeves;
now that's all left when ardor quiets, at last,
we'd riot it out, eschewing upon the past.
In time, ascension regains stride,
and we deride,
to only succumb again.

In vain, triumph pales
as these dying hills disregard
inch by inch and yard by...

Cardamom.

I wander as desultory, browsing until kingdom come,
abandoning the emerald castle; with it, her anthem.
I still have my speech, nestled in prose and stammer,
din in anxious clamor, her knight in shining armor?

"Sublime in silent sensation, you'd easily settle down, 
a tantrum awaiting dew, every sixth activity a noun;
then resound, with equal measure in stride,
like a bird in wintry clime, 'neath the shawl it hides."

What am I to make of that? in smithereens, I write,
shallow weaknesses, and a lack of erratic appetite.

"Now I'll clap you pretty, the wrinkles evince defeat,
her feet smother my skin, the rest of her entreats.
then a forgotten rendition, resonates through aching walls,
crumbling in caramel, and cemented in withdrawal."

The armies now fight the throne, an empire gets tense
swords lacerate the jewels, even ants in utter irrelevance;
for the quiet soul shall espy providence, in solitude, serenade,
red wine, cheese, and orchestra, therein a selfish parade.

So let simmer down, disembark, its a long ride to the South,
a battle's won, but the war has left, a bitter taste in her mouth.

Each.

I captured, a bundle of nerves, 

in this disused, abandoned city;

Sensitive in bicker, senseless in spar,

morning tea with a flurry of activity.

Neither is unkind nor unwelcome,

no longer is each verb a simple noun,

for I won't swallow every phrase, thats as amiss

as reconciliation in this wooden town.

Soon fireworks illuminate the skies, 

merry as those dancing people, I exclaim;

for we'll vamoose before day break,

minus denizens on the harlequin frame

Flake.

She dresses, ribbons of carious grey,

humid in equal rays of mellow sun-set.

And today, splendid, yet resplendent, 

vignettes we made up to foment;

We vent in relent, and now it sinks,

a minute's hand, she lets them think. 

Decorations emerge, contours of naked wear,

they despair, glances of hopeless stare.

The vestige is still anoint, placed level,

with fortitude, she dazzled and swiveled. 

Herein, the drivel was inappropriate,

it dictated as we stretched, as sedate.

Soon, her penchant for me will softly clear,

as when I scribble these lines, the intention disappears.

Stretch.

Your ankle's neat perfection,

and the sections I don't mention,

as without intention, its just the toes;

what have I done to fall so hard?

I get up, knowing you'd stay frozen,

as I'd dash towards the aspen;

my toes - dull, slowly waxed and shunned,

singing another acoustic version.

A knock in disremembered rhymes,

frosted egos in echo-less times;

an equal pretense gets waste

you moribund, paste my brief distaste.

These fluid strides result in quarrel,

while I panic, you gather and jangle;

and entangled, you travel away,

I pinned in my carrel, a horrid day.

Litter.

An army of quiet red ants slips,

slithering through this arid torn;

in twelve harmless beatific minutes,

slaying a day already woebegone. 

These ants are as glad as a clam,

promenading across the marble floor;

spoiling my inebriated claptrap,

for now I can't pretend to ignore.

As they sink 'neath the stills, witless,

in movement - sedate and wintry;

my chary reasoning is nonchalant,

whistle-stopping 'em out of misery.

Flood.

I'll drift off, quietly immersed, 

sour as a lone paper machete;

rainy mornings ebb and wane,

as damp tenor deteriorates.

Hesitating, I weather, bicker

only to later make amends;

for I rescind her for happiness,

and with it, the sweeping winds.

She's at sea, but simmer'd down, 

nonplussed, in keeping, unexcited;

pleated skin at its capricious best,

her whims equally short sighted.

Now I'm untroubled in monsoon,

dusting megrims 'neath the windowsill;

as we eschew from cribbing much,

the zephyr that died at standstill.

Acute.

The face - blithe, typically tickled pink,

she sinks, in ink, a bit out of sync.

Untrusting, she's next on my pepper stage,

titillates, thrills in merry language.

So much for those salad days wherein,

when satiated, we lay elated, 

immaculately poised, flooded and outdated,

drafted in sentences, solemnly tempted.

But back then, an overdose of punctuation did delight,

as you disliked this silly exercise and,

when we'd slowly recite, it got impolite. 

so stop bicker, quieten, as now I alone rewrite.

I scrawl every verse that hit a crestfallen note,

each woebegone quote, that you'd connote.

A melancholic display, relentlessly piquant,

as you'd foment, every surprise element. 

Crease.

Just the woebegone me, silently;

tracing you cerise, in scornful melancholy.

Within such clamor, canvas won't matter,

the ink dries grey, amidst dismal chatter.

A listless self - crestfallen, a bit crisscrossed, 

I accost myself, rattled and lost.

This harmless watercolor, equally piquant;

with corrupt expression, I make confront.

Herein she runs riot, unhurriedly slaying herself;

her wilting frame, barren against my caramel shelf.

Arrant.

The worn forlorn, looks have cried,

allure aside, it slips and hides.

Foment, chide, and let it ease,

she asks nothing, I stagger and freeze.

A broken bone, excitement will drip,

stumbling lips and lost courtship.

Running my fingers through her wrists,

I fold across, her fortress like fist,

she's submissive, for I won't resist;

now caving in, she insists we persist.

 

Agony, severely anoint with shades

and paints we should've dispel have fell,

within which she's as spoilt for choice, 

as vacant walls with venerable pastel.

So pipe down, drown someplace afar,

undo your coat, love steadily chars.

It scars, while its carcass mutely ruins,

wanes, ebbs, and scuttles as her skin,

which avers of how she wins, unrest's,

lest she suggests it bests my protest.

Skid and slide, as this melancholy shall

ribbon hope, in sotto-voce, make away,

into the delay which held us close,

wherein I yearn for you to stay.

Nerves! You submit into despair,

as scattered words make verbs rare;

and you remit in helplessness,

a forlorn pulchritude you wear...

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...