dust motes in the heart

the cut in my gold bangle
reflects the sunlight
while I watch the dust motes
admiring their movements
the games they play
randomly settling

I wish to dislodge
that indescribable something
within my heart
displacing it with yours
those flying dust motes
make it easier for me to decide

"without losing any moment
I let myself migrate into you
and feel your life force in me"

ah, those wee hours

I play with my pens
again I read that letter
I wrote to you in gothic script
I know that you won't get it, the irony-
you only understand the obvious
yet I give you benefit of doubt

I get up, pick a book of poetry
randomly read a poem
something hits me hard
I sit down again to write another letter
now in a normal tone
the poet in me guides me

I don't talk of desire or love
I am more mundane-
I send you my heartfelt thanks
for leaving me
to face the untruth
that is you. only you.

"I play with my pens"

ode to remnants of love

sitting well after midnight
I call you on the telephone
trying to save you from yourself

you are sick and do not answer
the waste of my love hits me hard
I have always wondered about the remnants

in that vacuumed state
my heart aches,
and a drousy numbness pains my senses

I watch the red coals, burning,
flashing and dying-
sitting well after midnight

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"My heart aches, and a drousy numbness pains my senses" is the opening line of John Keats ‘Ode to a Nightingale’

creative knot

carefully he circled it
the rope in his hands
a burden for him
that tree felt so like home

he chose the second lowest branch
flung the rope over it-
checked if it would hold
sat down to have a smoke

he had made neat packets
kissing each one tenderly
placed those under the tree
save for one, which went back

into the pocket of his coat
having no second thoughts
he held that rope again
and tied a precise knot

a work of beauty-
his last creative work,
and his last thoughts before
life was snucked from him

perfectly plastered

plethora of prickly,
pompous people
prevaricate

procastination
psyches me out

porous plaster
pedantically pours over
parallel lines

I push the plate of peas
placing it primly on paper

purple nail paint
prominantly displayed
on pampered fingers

ship-wrecked

I put on the absurd flip-flip
I am having to do this
there is a ladder.
hanging obscenely

I go down-.
the oxygen immerses me
my flip-flops cripple me,
I crawl like an insect

I am blacking out and yet
I have to learn alone
to turn my body without force
in the deep element.

the thing I came for:
the ribs of the accident
curving their assertion
among the loyal hunters.

this is the place.
and I am here,
amongst the half-destroyed instruments
that once held to a course

the water-eaten log
the fouled compass
speak of a love
which is now gone forever

time and time again

on that endless highway
I stop at one of the food joints,
sit on that plastic chair
biting at that giant burger

people look at my weird beard
examine my highland kilt
you in your elegant attire
squeeze my hand reassuringly

I look around the place
scattered with wilted flowers
newspapers too flap
in that mild winds

I know I will have to die again
and you will have to follow me soon
to be reborn in which century
or which place in the vast universe

"we know not where/why yet we both do know
some kind of oracle works for us-
death does us apart, it brings us back together"