I'm the Most Self-Absorbed Person I Know

I usually fall short; to frustration, 
to desperation,
to fucking years of this.

And I guess that's why
sometimes the sadness wins
and I forget to smile for an hour or three.

I've had to put my faith in mortality,
and know that I'm not quite infinite,
and that seems to ease my tender papercuts.

Often my only defense against your A4 edges 
is a forty-nine cent ballpoint that roars a response
to your blank, emotionless apathy.

As much as this pen on paper does its piece,
As much as I find solace behind my half-price sword,
When my only inspiration is my limited mortality;

I just put down the pen,
and stop.

Creationism

Suddenly

we weren't.

Not that we ceased to be -

Inherently existing, being

nothing in particular, just becoming

the negative;

the inverse;

the pure.

Impacts; spinning

the earth beneath our feet

as we together cease

to be.

Every instant, we

both are and are not -

returning to existence with

pounding of five-feathered

wings on pavement.

Large hands slow and

small hands stop

as we divide ourselves between

the rubber sole of the being

and the soundless void of the not.

Suddenly.

I.

Souvenirs D'été

She's my summer girl, with

pools of green gently pushing at

blue, pulling me into their depths.

Lips so gentle and sweet,

with kisses from the north 

warming my cheek

and making me hold to the day.

Fingers and hands, smooth but brittle -

Shyly intertwining with mine as I build

these futile homes for us;

from her flesh come the walls;

my hands are simply a vessel for her being.

They won't last the night, these homes.

Her mood swings see to that.

Foreseeable unpredictability

trade my labours for a clean slate.

Morning will come again, back to the start.

She won't remember me - she'll be her own.

Every evening, I'll hold her close

But she'll never last the night.

The Middle Finger of the Cumulonimbus

It was as if

the roof over us 

was painted;

and we were expecting a son.

Royal hues of the navy's blue,

That lasted till quarter to one.

Soon brushed us indoors onto 

cool concrete floors,

and snuffed out

our last hope

of fun.

Christmas Bells Are Ringing

Bells line the street.

The trees that are

in season for two weeks

fill every shopping mall,

every arcade, every restaurant.

It’s all the same.

They are nothing more than

Incandescent tributes to the time of year

when the meek are lost in a world

of consumerism and egotistic wrath

People pass me on the street

The hear my words but not my message

I do not preach

I do not intrude

I merely ask that they participate

In the joy of the season they so love

My lack of

Jolly lard and a coat covered

In red food colouring

Means that at this time of year,

No one will hear me above the bells.

The child stops, pauses

But the guiding hand of his mother

Leads him on. He was listening –

Listening in vain to my voice

Listening To a broken and cold

“hallelujah”, lost among the bells.

Damn the bells. 

The Queen's Pawn

A whirlwind romance

Bourne of tumultuous

Connections and concoctions

New lovers,

Old friends.

The first pawn was

Hesitant, one square,

Black to white – hopeful

Confirmation!

The same pawn

Soon found his queen

Pokerfaced beginnings,

Flushed at discovery,

The two join hands together,

Their own full house,

Mr and Mrs Usher.

She the queen

leads the charge;

towards life, love,

and cliché.

Across boards of black and white

divisions designed to be broken

the grass appeared not greener, 

but sickly to him.

She, ta'en from his embrace;

the game his true love,

a cruel mistress indeed.

Lovers parted;

Star-cross’d;

In a world filled with vipers

And faulty elevators.

One roll of the dice away

From bliss, completion,

And togetherness

But for now

The levels, rows, columns,

Group the heroes

With the villains

Whittling away

The false pretences

Rhetoric, a simple

“Do you have a…”

Until one remains, victorious

The twentieth question,

The twentieth year,

Brings them back together

And once again, the ones

around them feel the

whirlwind romance,

straddling worlds,

boards and bets of risk;

colours clashing and merging

allegiances broken

ill repaired,

fragmented house

no longer a home to those

who rest within the mausoleum doors

Old lovers,

New friends.

Bathroom Philosophy

The next time we meet, friend;
I’ll apologize for all the things I’ve done
The agony, the angst, my selfish being
I’ll do my best to admit my flaws;
And you’ll smile and point out more

But the heart of the issue
“Where lies the blame?”
My enemies?
My friends...
Even myself...

But was I every truly
Even close to perfect?

We meet again, friend,
And just like I promised,
As I apologize for everything
You interrupt
with confrontations of your own
the same words, lips, sounds...

A smooth surface separates us,
My only friend from me
You, the one I trust,
The one who knows me better than I know myself,
Lives in another world
of opposites and fleeting glances
And corrected imprfections imperfections

These are the tangled thoughts
of the bathroom philosophy
beliefs formed under a steady stream
of steamy criticism and 
passion-scented dispute
Only to be forgotten to the world
As I drip
slowly, slowly,
back to reality

And away from the bathroom philosophy.